ArchivedLogs:Prison-side Chat

Prison-side Chat
Dramatis Personae Peter, Jim
In Absentia	2013-05-09 (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location Thunderdome
It's a basement, somewhere, that much is clear from the slightly musty-cool feel, the lack of windows, the stark-bare cement decor. What purpose this place originally served is hard to discern; something industrial, judging by the heavy reinforced eyelet hooks still set into the ceiling, now devoid of any loads to bear. Of late the place has been repurposed, though. Around two parallel edges of the room, sturdy cells have been constructed, heavy reinforced metal segmenting off large cage-like cells. The enclosures are largely identical: two sets of bunk beds with pillows, thin sheets, identical grey wool blankets. A pair of large covered bedpans, a bucket usually filled with fresh-ish water. The center of the room is divided in two. One half is large and open, a spacious expanse of cement floor and emptiness. The other half holds long trestle-tables, long benches, both riveted into the cement floor. The ceiling -- of the room, of the cages -- hold very noticeable dark security-camera bubbles. There is one door leading out of here, heavy steel that is securely chained and barred from the outside. Jim Morgan has been looking for Peter Parker. Well, it's lunchtime here at MUTANT-MURDER-HOUSE CENTRAL, and here he comes: Dropping right in front of Jim's seat with a sudden /THWUMP/ - flopping like some dead fish on the table, arms in front of him, head dropping into it. ARE YOU HAPPY, JIM?! Peter's - a little different than he's looked in the pictures. Jim's probably seen him a few times, now. Peter /may/ have even convinced him to give him all of his sausages and eggs this morning! But this is the first time Peter's just - dropped down in front of him. The boy's pink skin is pretty much long gone; there are only a few remaining 'freckles' of white on a /sea/ of black - gleaming chitin that /shimmers/ with a metallic blue sheen, its coloration changing in response to the angle that light hits it. Like - dragonfly wings, except /opaque/. And then - as if to Jim, or maybe just speaking to himself - Peter mumbles from beneath that pile of floppy arms: "I think I'm gonna kill somebody." He doesn't sound very happy about it. In fact! He sounds pretty /sad/. SPLUT. Jim had a plate of powder-flake made mashed potatoes, some gravy, a PALE fleshy and highly NAKED chicken breast just lying there, all of which he'd been introducing to one another at KNIFEpoint. Well no probably no knives, maybe a fork. Or a spork. I say 'had' because now he has a PETER instead, possibly /wearing/ some of his mashed potatoes. WHICH ARE HIS. He'll take them back /with/ his spork, ssssscraaape. It's like Peter's first shaving lesson! You don't want a man going near you with a utensil in hand and face of such /narrow/-eyed, riveted concentration. Jim isn't looking his most healthy, there is no SUN, no PLANTS to eat, no DIRT, so he's wilting and frowning and his hair is gone lank like little shriveled grass - it's also going kind of... gray. Though a withered Jim-gone-gray makes him look more /boot-leather/ rough than fragile. He'd been looking for this asshole alright. MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW, PETER. And his first question now that he has the boy in the flesh(or... chitin) is: "The fuck is wrong with your face." Peter's response to this is to - just /snatch/ Jim's naked chicken breast off of his plate, shove it on his own plate - as if he intends to keep it, as if he's /scavenging/ for naked chicken breasts (look he's a teenager, okay, he'll take what he can get), and... just start mumbling, after that. Even as he wipes at his own face, right after Jim does, sloughing off the mashed potatoes: "It's chitin. Bug-face. I'm turning into a bug," Peter mumbles. Then, as if to explain why he has stolen Jim's chickenbreast: "I need the meat. I need - all the meat. For the twins. Shane. They're - /sharks/. They need meat. They'll die without meat." Peter's other hand just kind of roughly /thrusts/ into his eyesocket, rolling around to see what he can find. "I keep thinking, maybe I can - feed them a finger. Is there a finger you don't need. They make finger prosthetics, right? Maybe would be just as good as the real thing." "I'm a plant," Jim informs Peter DEADPAN. "Not sure I'm really /meat/ on me at all. Not a lot of meat on any fingers. You'd need a fattier cut. Tits. Ass. Thigh. -- Take it." Jim's /breast/, he shoves his plate at Peter. He grinds his teeth ON his spork, just biting on it like he wants to tear a bite off - who hasn't had a smoke in twenty four hours? THIS GUY, "They haven't talked to anyone yet? Or are the losers running this show still too stupid to - argh." Yes, he /says/ argh; bracing against the little bzzt and the ssssizzle of wet-wood smell smoke that curls up under his collar. CARRYING ON through his teeth, "You're Peter. /Christ/." "They're hoping to get into a fight. Maybe get some meat. Maybe they'll feed them before the fight. Maybe they'll..." These words trail off. Peter looks toward the ground, off to his right, suddenly - very /sad/ looking. "...Sebastian got dragged off. For attacking one of the - I haven't seen him. I don't even know if he's /alive/." Then, Peter's head is back into his hands, elbow on the table. When Jim gets shocked, Peter doesn't look up - he just makes a chittery-noise. Wait, what? Yes he sounds like he just /chittered/. "Yeah. I'm -- trying to -- have to keep them alive, but." This is, apparently, Peter's confession to a /complete/ stranger. He probably doesn't even recognize Jim from the rooftop. They only met briefly. Peter was -- less chitinous, then. /Much/ less chitinous. "But this isn't gonna work unless we get them more meat and a big plastic tub, maybe, something to fill." He closes his eyes. "I'm sorry I just. Barely holding it together." Something in Jim's face /congeals/ somehow at the news of Sebastian, his head turning up to look directly at one of the cameras (with spork sticking out of the side of his teeth), barking abruptly, "You people risk life and god-forsaken /limb/ for this shit and - nrk! - just /waste/ it? How LAZY are - rgh." Okay, switching tactics. This kid is freaking the fuck out. "Kid." Jim snaps his fingers in Peter's /face/, "/Kid/. Hey. Look at me. Here." Right at his BEAK. He's pointing at it. It's extra treebarky, his skin kind of... dry and withery. Yeah, he'll stare openly at the chitinous layer. Because that shit is new. Peter looks. /Glumly/. Staring at Jim's beak/barky nose. Before muttering: "It's fine. I'm - fine. Just, nngh. Everybody might die. You look like an ent. Like Treebeard, from Lord of the Rings." That gets a little smile out of him, albeit a crooked one. "Hobbits all - climbing up on you. Fightin' orcs. For Fangorn. Attackin' Isengard." Peter sucks in a ragged breath, then, and: "I need to think of something. To get more meat. And that plastic - tub. Big enough for one of the twins to squeeze into. They won't need - a lot of space. They're - squishy. Soft. Can squeeze into tiny spaces. But, they need meat and they need to be /submerged/." He rubs at his cheeks, now, elbows still up on the table. Has this kid eaten? /Does/ he eat? "Treebeard." Jim says it almost like this one single geeky reference bridges the generational gap, and he /sighs/. And closes up one eye -- his thick graying stubble quivers, pushes outwards. Thickens. Greens. And sprouts out into a /beard/. It's such a small distraction, this one moment of harmless concentration, his eyes angled downward to watch it form. Then he looks /flat/ at Peter and offers, "HOOM, right?" Amazingly, he /doesn't/ get shocked for this. Maybe some evil cop somewhere grew up also reading Lord of the Rings. "-listen, listen, /listen/, I /know/." BLINK. "- /did you just chitter/? Erugh. Look. I'm worried, too. But you're losing your shit and it's gonna /freak/ me out." He doesn't look freaked out. He looks haggard and /mad/. He points at the chair next to him. "Sit the fuck down. Eat some of this shit, it's got /face/ on it and it ain't gonna be doing me a damn bit of good." The mashed potatoes. "And - I dunno. Tell me a thing. How long you been here." Peter actually /laughs/ when Jim sprouts that green furry leafbeard. It's actually not that far away from a giggle. There's almost a little something - manic? to it. But it sounds a bit better than the chittering, at least. "Oh man you can totally... mmmnn. Potatoes. I guess - um." The spoon he's equipped with proceeds to /mash/ said mashed potatoes, stirring them up. He - very slowly - spoons himself up a taste. Smacking his lips a little dramatically, as if to emphasize - yes look he's /eating/, okay? Then Peter's sitting down with a thunk, on the chair, with a bit of a sway. And proceeding to /eat/. Spoon by spoon. A bit more slowly than he has in recent days, but. Still eating. "...five days, I think. I turned - sixteen - um - two days ago? Sharktwins made me an oatmeal raisin cake." Sniffle. Then: "Maybe six days. I dunno. It's getting hard to -- tell." Eat the potatoes, Peter. HAVE some starch. Jim watches him do it like the whole process disgusts him, hardwood features gritted down under his... leafy alfalfa sprout beard. The pale green tips aren't the vibrant spring green new shoots tend to be; pale. Sunless. He raises is eyes to the cement walls, something just slightly - tense around the crow's feet around his eyes. "--yeah." Hard to tell. That. With the lack of sunlight. We're not talking about that. What else-- He shouldn't laugh, but he does. It's not a skittish giggle, it's a low shallow sound like throwing a few handfuls of mud at a cement wall, and says with negative levels of humor, "/Happy fucking birthday/, kid. Jesus. I heard you were getting some perv all up on your business." Side-eye. "Nnngh..." Shovel, scoop, shovel. Like it's some sort of /chore/. But yes, Peter eats; and soon, he's pushing Jim's tray aside - pulling his own tray over. C'mere. The potatoes, that is. The two chicken breasts - he doesn't /touch/ those. Those are sharkfood. "Shane's not--he's /cool/, I mean he's not a /perv/ he's just--really, um--/direct/ about--" There was a time when Peter's face would have flushed bright, blood-red; that time has passed. Instead, what Jim gets is -- infinitely /weirder/. Peter is flushing an unusual shade of /violet/ -- the metallic blue sheen of his chitin darkening like some bizarre mood ring. But then, Peter's posture stiffens; the flush fades -- settling back to that previous shade of metallic gunmetal blue. Still with a hint of violet, though. "...oh, you mean, um --" Softer. A glance toward Trib's cell, instinctive and thoughtless. Now Peter's frowning. "Who told you -- about that." Almost a little. Indignant. Hah. Bingo. /Jim/ follows Peter's eyes to Trib's cell as well. It is MARKED, with one eye squinting up. "- who d'you think told me. I know the twins. Not a lotta freaks don't know their dad." Not that he's naming NAMES. He's speaking in a low undertone like a convict, with lips barely moving and eyes still fixed on That CELL. He pushes down on the table to stand up, "I gotta get on." He might notice that bizarre moodring darkening, but his only response is to drop a hand on Peter's shoulder and give him a mindless shake (bzzt), "Keep it together." He then stalks off. If he had a Batman cape, he'd SWISH it behind him. But he doesn't. So it's just a kind of stiff /bristled/ march with his head hunkered low. Like an animal in a cage.