ArchivedLogs:Monsters

Monsters
WARNING: Graphic violence.
Dramatis Personae Masque
In Absentia	2013-05-07 Masque's first fight does not go well. For anyone. (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location Thunderdome
It's a warehouse, or something like it; at least it's spacious, and was probably once industrial; at the moment it's largely just empty. There are tracks in the floor from long-since disused equipment and the construction of walls and high exposed-beam ceilings is sturdy. The center of the room has been excavated, since this place was in actual daily use. In the middle a pit has been gashed out of the concrete; it's not /deep/ and it serves more as a foundation than anything else; around its wide circular perimeter a cage has been erected. Nearly reaching up to ceiling-height, it is constructed of thick sturdy metal bars wrapped in a thinner wire mesh. Surrounding the cage there is a lot of empty space. Some nights, though, when fights are in session, the room is filled; with people, with cameras (though no outsiders' cameras are allowed in), with paper betting slips and folding chairs. The spotlights in the ceiling are bright-bright-bright, the better to illuminate the fighters within the centerpiece cage. The sound of the crowd is, at first, deafening; so little sound in the cages - all of it subdued, afraid, tentative - and suddenly, you are thrust into the blinding hot lights of a club - of people, laughing and talking and hooting and hollering - people drinking beers, placing bets - people yelling for blood - even people watching with just a hint of moral disdain. But nobody, absolutely /nobody/, is stepping forward to help. That's what Masque is shoved forward into - via a combination of batons, shocks, and growling /commands/, he is prodded forward toward the cage, step by step. Perhaps, to the benefit of his captors, no one's actually gotten within /arms'/ reach of him yet; they've certainly taken some swings at him from a distance, though. Ahead, he can smell the (perhaps familiar) stench of stale booze, blood, and even urine; the last fight ended messily. One of the poor mutants is being carted away, stomach and chest covered in /deep/ slashes, his torso drenched with blood and sweat - the other is limping out of the cage, back into the kennels. Meanwhile, up ahead, Masque's opponent is being ushered into the cage. He's a youngin'. Maybe Anole's age; 14? 15? He's bare-chested, just a scrap of a thing, clad in torn jeans and nothing else - messy, greasy hair has been chopped in a blonde crew-cut, with pale, freckled skin. He looks absolutely terrified to be here. And as the cage doors slam with a clunk, Masque can hear the announcer above, rumbling out his pitch: "Uh oh - looks like we've got dinner served up for MONGREL - the MUTANT-EATER!" Masque's entrance into the cage is certainly not one brimming with intimidation /nor/ enthusiasm. He's still without his coat and carries himself lower than usual, barely turning his head to look to either side at the slightest movement. Utterly alert and yet seemingly unwilling to show the full extent of his unease. Plenty slips through the cracks, though, as he is urged forward with the posture of someone ready to /dodge/ the swinging of batons and whatever else may come his way. There's still a slight limp but, pretty typical for a newcomer, bears no visible bruises or scrapes. There's something so suppressed about him, so /calculated/ and aware. Even as he's left to watch the aftermath of the previous match, his expression stays largely neutral save for his lower jaw sliding forward over gritted teeth. Contemplative more than anything else. He comes to a stop when he feels comfortable enough to do so, straightening just slightly as he bears his crooked teeth in... either disgust or uncertainty. Maybe both. Only then does he squint at the lights, the lines on his face drawing deeper as he tries to look /beyond/ the bars. The announcement does very little to make his face gentler, instead causing the opposite as words crawl gravelly slow and ugly from his throat. "... What's your name, kid." "...I - Thomas," the kid babbles, briefly. "My name's--" ZZZZAP. The shock hits both of them at once; Masque /and/ the kid. The latter goes down, groaning; something seems to be happening to him in /response/ to the shock. His torso is... writhing. /Spasming/. The skin is swelling up, as if something underneath it were trying to escape; the best way to describe it is as if a crowd of worms had suddenly descended to rush up along his shoulders and spine, all at once fumbling over each other. The boy screams out in pain - his body making a series of rigid, perverse /cracks/. The crowd starts to scream - a mixture of panic /and/ giggling, euphoric pleasure - at the display. They're eating it up. "You gotta... r-run!" the kid babbles, helplessly, and then there's more shocks - this time, just to the kid - apparently to push him up into a rage. His face - it's cracking, /twisting/, his jaw seemingly - coming unhinged. And then he's screaming, /roaring/, his throat producing this twisted, deep-throated snarl - his body swelling into... some hulkish, lopsided /thing/. He's bulked up to nearly twice his previous size - one shoulder freakishly larger than the others - fingers twisted into mishapen claws - his dislocated jaw 're-aligning', shoving outward into a grotesquely distorted underbite. He almost looks like... some sort of /orc/. And his eyes - now glazed - are locked on Masque. /Lumbering/ forward. Thwunk, thwunk, thwunk. Even as more tiny zaps seem to build him up into a vicious, frothing-mouthed rage. Masque's response to the shock is easy to see- he stiffens and struggles to steady himself enough to keep from falling over. It does do its job, though, bringing his attention back to his... opponent, his brow furrowing. He gives the boy a look one might give to a burnt pizza, rather than a /threat/. "... Know anywhere to run /to/?" He doesn't move. In fact... he sort of looks like he's... relaxing a little, glancing from the monstrosity to beyond the bars again, that one less-functional side of his face assisting him in looking /extra/ unimpressed. The one thing he does make sure to do, however, is make sure to time his glances right, making sure to slide that unassuming gaze at Thomas before he fully manages to close the gap between them. As though to say, simply, 'yes, what can I do you for?' "FROARRRGH. FRAAOGH!" Tusks. Thomas has - /TUSKS/. The crowd is jeering, screaming - someone's hollering 'EAT HIS FACE OFF!' - and now Thomas' lumbering thwumps become a half-charge - his body isn't /made/ for fast movements, not anymore - his legs are so little, still those scrawny teen legs, but his upper body is now some freakish, monstrously built /thing/ - and he's reaching out for Masque with one of those talon-like hands, reaching to /clasp/ his skull in his fist - with a palm that could easily cup his skull - even as that unhinged jaw begins to open, wider and wider, a maw filled with jagged teeth exposed, as hot fetid breath washes down over Masque's face... yep, it looks like Mongrel the Mutant-Eater's nomenclature /is/, in fact, accurate. /Lovely/. Though Masque almost looks like he's just going to let himself be eaten right then and there, his reflexes beg to differ. He allows his head to be grasped but then starts to /fight/ it halfway through, pulling back once the realisation of what's happening properly hits him. But it's too late, and by the time that breath waves across him, he's trapped. Only then do his hands come up, shoulders twitching back as he /grabs back/, one hand moving to try and find purchase on whatever he can find of that reaching arm, and one swiping for something less specific. The source of that breath-- teeth, face, lower jaw, anything. Should either of his hands hit flesh, teeth, bone or all of the above-- he aims to work quickly. Liquefying and tearing through to stretch or /break/, painlessly but rendering the affected hopefully largely useless in function. The crowd's thunderous roar is quite promptly silenced. And with good reason - no sooner has Masque reached up for that arm and /squeezed/ - then does 'Thomas' jerk back, with surprise - those enraged eyes flashing with confusion. Because the arm that /was/ gripping Masque's skull is now dangling, limply - having just had its mid-arm /squeezed/ down, into a narrow channel that fits in the space Masque's fist allows - causing it to just... flop. Like it's been broken, but somehow /worse/. The other hand slips through that opening mouth's cheek - splurting through skin, as if it were /cutting/ - more like clay than flesh. A tusk is neatly pressed, /melted/ aside; his tongue is briefly felt - before muscle and sinew just twist and slide beneath his fingers. Now, the enraged beast is no longer struggling to bite Masque's head off - no, with Masque gripping one of its arms, his hand tearing through half of its face, it's flailing with it's remaining arm in mortal /terror/, desperately trying to get the fuck /away/. Swinging blindly, viciously at Masque's chest, at his gripping arm, even as it begins to gurgle useless obscenities with its splurting, grotesquely deformed tongue. Once more released, Masque hisses out a noise of agitation, suddenly marginally more concerned with his own well-being than before; What's left of the arm he grabbed is released so he can push back in an unsteady stumble as he draws in a sharp breath, teeth bared in a sneer, disgust clear on his face. But he hasn't retreated quite far enough, and one of the swipes tears the fabric on his chest to shreds, almost instantly sending little trickles of red to gather against the broken white. His head snaps down to it to check the damage, just as another blow hits from the other side on its way back- this time more heavily into his side, clawing into his arm before it throws him to the side, landing unceremoniously in a pile of pointy limbs and growled complaints. "Naaarh, NYAARRhh," the Mongrel gurgles, its new, partially split tongue flopping ineffectually in it's partially ruined mouth; it stumbles away from Masque, flailing that now-useless arm - dangling by a mere tender thread of unbroken flesh and sinew, even as its other arm claws at its mouth. Gurgle, gurgle. Back, back AWAY from Masque - there might not be an excruciating amount of pain with the gesture, but - clearly, the Mongrel is in /shock/. This is something - it has never encountered before. The crowd... they're still dead cold silent. This is something /they/ haven't seen before, either. But a moment later, and - the announcer rumbles: "...ladies and gentlemen, /what/ an upset - the Mongrel has gotten - apparently, he has been dealt a savage blow by - the FLESHMANCER." And now the crowd is starting to /cheer/, hooting and hollering, screaming out encouragement to Masque - 'KILL HIM KILL HIM' - 'HOLY SHIT LOOK AT ITS /ARM/' - 'TEAR ITS FACE OFF OH DUDE OH DUDE LOOK AT THAT' - 'OH FUCK FUCK I'M GONNA PU-PLUEERRRGH' "Nnnhhn." This is the only sound that comes from Masque for a time, save for a /crackle/ of joints as he drags himself up onto his side to peer back toward the center of the cage. His torn up arm proves to be functional still, clamped to his stomach and pressing fabric closer to the wounds there. Before long, he's back on his feet, swiping that hand across his face in a gesture of exasperation, pressing hard against the side as he rises to his usual hunched over stance. Leaving him with a streak of red across both halves of his features when he first turns his attention to 'Thomas', then... /swivels around/ aprubtly to aim elsewhere. For a moment it looks like he's going to take the boy's advice anyway and run away. But he does not look for an exit, instead calmly making his way over to the bars to grab onto them, loosely, squinting past lights to try and catch some faces in the crowd, as if trying to familiarise himself with how /far/ they are, how many. Perhaps even what kind. "... This is what you want." It's an admission so much moreso than a question, spat out in a voice that reaches hardly further than the cage itself. His head dips, jaw clenching as he /peers/. There are - a lot of faces. So many. Just a /sea/ of them; most pretty, some rough - none of them /mutant/. Some of them looking on with ecstasy; some of them, in disgust - some of them, in horror - a few, perhaps, even in disapproval and disdain; as if the whole preceding was /beneath/ them. But no one is looking on at this show with any expression of empathy or concern. It's just - an /ocean/ of revelry, one way or another. No electric zaps come to Masque's collar. Not yet. It could be the people in charge are still reeling from the fact that he just /twisted/ one of their mutants around like he were a doughy pretzel; the announcer is trying to go with it, though - babbling away as the Mongrel continues to crawl, his feet - the only part of him that hasn't been grotesquely distorted - kicking and pushing himself to the far side of the cage. Making wheezing, whimpering sounds. Like he's /pleading/. 'KILL HIM!' a voice cries; 'RIP HIS ARM OFF!' - 'FUCKING THING IS--' - 'Gotta be some sort of /trick/ holy shit what a freak--' If Masque doesn't move away from the bars - or, worse still, if Masque makes a show of reaching /past/ those bars - then, and only then, the collar would purr to life, delivering a quick, disciplining *ZZZAP*. Masque may well be in his own little world, because neither what he can see past those bars nor the announcer's prattling on seems to change the look on his face. Which is one of focus, of study and of memorising of whatever he can catch. But though the ZZZAP from his collar doesn't catch him off-guard, it's enough to cause him to lean heavily into the bars in front of him, forearms pressing into the metal. But still, he doesn't move away. Gradually, muscles tensing from the warning shock and in anticipation of more, he /stays/, and stares, expression giving way to hatred more with every passing second. They're got their goals, but so does he. They don't seem to overlap much, and 'Thomas' is left to his own devices. ZAPZAPZAPZAP. Soon, they're giving Masque /multiple/ shocks, as if they find his decision to lean against those bars somehow /offensive/; the shocks begin to ratchet their way up, too - going from painful to /excruciating/ in a rapid series of strokes. Either way, though, the fight looks to be over; poor Mongrel is whimpering in the corner - his form slowly trying to - reform back into whatever he was before the fight. Except, it's not quite working out for him; the crack of bone and retreating sinew is - not /functioning/ correctly, now that his body has been fundamentally changed. His jaw, as it dislocates, seems to /snap/; his arm, as it shrinks - clenches and twists. Before, when he transformed, he screamed with a familiar pain - but now, this is a /new/ sort of screaming. The screaming of someone who's body is trying to reshape itself around unfamiliar, new obstacles. And it isn't... quite working. Men with batons and cattle-prods are approaching the entrance, now. Pointing at Masque. The prods /crackling/. Men telling him, roughly, in no few words: "GET DOWN. HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. /NOW/." ZAPZAPZAP. Even though this, even with blood trickling down his chest and his arm, with his scowl slowly turning into an expression that quite visibly reflects his pain, even after two-- three- four consequitive shocks coursing through his system, Masque's still /standing/. As thin and frail and unintimidating as he looks, at the very least he's proving to have the willpower to fight in a /different way/. Every sinewy muscle visible on his lean form is tensed and strains with the jolts, but the bars have one advantage- they don't fold under pressure. They keep him up... right up to the point of where his hands, too, disobey him in spasms. Even then, when he's on his knees, one shoulder pressing hard against metal, he attempts to peer past the lights, past the jeering, past the screaming behind him. Even if he catches just one more face, it'll be worth it. Ultimately, his disobedience comes to an end. Using the last drop of ability to move of his own accord, he finally sinks in a partially uncontrolled movement down onto the ground. Hands on his head. Done. In come the rough men with rough sticks - several of them not even /bothering/ to make sure Masque is compliant. WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP - down come the savage blows, just - /beating/ him. To doubly make sure. Someone even manages to /spit/ on him, the sound of their hoarse shouts ringing over his head - 'Fucking /freak/' - 'holy shit, don't let him touch you' - 'STAY THE FUCK DOWN' - WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP. Finally, someone - very carefully, very /roughly/ - is shoving a foot against his back, arms yanking his shoulders - not his HANDS, jesuschrist not his HANDS - and shoving them together. A plastic hoop shoved over them, TIGHTENING. And then - up, up. Back to your cage, FREAK. Until we figure out what to do with you. The Mongrel... well, he's back to Thomas. Still screaming with pain. Because... well, we'll leave that up to your imagination. Point being, whatever trivial medical services they have at their disposal are probably /not/ going to be able to put him back in the ring again. Which means... he ain't going back to his cell. No, instead - the men who go after /him/ are just intent on finishing the job Masque started.