ArchivedLogs:One Day

One Day
Dramatis Personae Jim, Sloan, Trib
In Absentia	2013-05-18 People have dreams. (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. It is afternoon. Which, in the cells, means that it's past the second meal of the day and some time before the last one. Some of the captured mutants are sparring; others are resting (as much as the guards will allow, anyway). A few are washing up, either uncaring about others watching or innured to such indignities by now. It would be almost peaceful, if everyone here wasn't a prisoner. Trib isn't sparring; his sparring partners have paired off with others today, and his chosen substitute is off to see if his hand is actually broken from running it into Trib's muzzle. Now the big man is squatting on his haunches outside of his cage, his lower back braced against the bars and supporting most of his weight. He's bare-chested, and in his usual tattered jeans, which are starting to get a bit immodest. Not that he seems to care. Instead, he watches the sparring, golden eyes flickering between the various duos as if gauging them as potential opponents. Sloan hasn't been sparring but she's lingered near that area. Her purpose is twofold: offer advice when requested and offer advice when /not/ requested but it's seen as necessary. She's looking a little dingy herself, though less from fighting--the advantages to being both cooperative and an instructor means fewer matches--and more from the facilities being insufficient unto the purpose of cleaning...well...a dog's fur. Sponges and buckets aren't cutting it, leaving her once snowy coat matted and dull grey-yellow. But she carries herself as per usual--tail high, shoulders square and mismatched eyes sharp. When it becomes obvious that her services aren't needed as much for those tussling, she ambles back towards the cells. Maybe a nap, or a round of push-ups, or... She's scratching her ribs, broken nails scraping through her cotton tank and a sweat-lumpy clump of fur, when she spies Trib. His cell is beside hers and it requires passing by to get there. So, on her way, she greets him with a curled lip, a flicking glance. "...yo." Maybe Trib sees Sloan approaching, but he keeps watching the people sparring until the woman gets near him. Then his gaze shifts to track her, and he nods at her curled lip greeting. "Hey," he grunts, and shifts his weight to stand up. Maybe his legs are sore, or maybe he needs to exert his size over the person who defeated him. Then he's leaning back against the bars, rolling his neck against the collar. "They threw those kids in together," he notes. He doesn't mention which kids. Maybe he figures Sloan will just /know/. "Told 'em that would happen." She might have carried on by him but when he stands, Sloan comes to a stop. She's not a short woman but she does have to tilt her head back to be conversational--or maybe just to keep an eye on him. Her ears prick, stirring the hair around them, when the man imparts his news. Rather than surprise, it brings a brief glance in the direction of /that/ cell. "You say I told you so yet?" she inquires as she swings back around to look at him again. This time, her teeth flash in a grin. "Didn't think gloating was your style." The stare that comment gets over the rim of Trib's mask is flat and hard amber. "You know better'n that. I tried to keep 'em out of that one." His gaze shifts to note the cage, and the shift of bruised muscle around his nose indicates a frown is happening behind that muzzle. "Guess they had to learn, though." His rumble is rough and mildly pained. Then he's shifting his attention to Sloan again, and his gaze is still flat. Or it could be bored-looking. "How much longer, you figure, until they get bored of us?" And there's the question every mutant who's been here longer than a couple of weeks probably asks themselves in the dead of night. Now it's actually /out there/. "Least they're around to learn." Proving that yes, Sloan had heard. Now her hand wanders up to scratch behind her ear, where the fur grows silky soft and is of course extra matted as a result. She picks at the knots, returning Trib's flat gaze with a level one of her own. Maybe she doesn't buy the bored--her lips are tugged by a small smile that doesn't bare teeth this time. "The old hands? Not long. Unless you come up with something else to keep them entertained." Her glance towards the sparring ring is telling--so long as new meat is brought in, /she/ should have a place. Probably. Maybe. Then her gaze shifts to the nearest camera bubble. "You got any ideas for that?" "For now." Trib glances at the cage again, and then rolls his neck. At Sloan's assessment, he exhales something that could be a sigh, and shakes his head. "That's what I figure, too," he says. He, too, looks at the camera bubble, only he's got more of a GLARE for it. Which earns him a short zzap that sparks against his skin and forces a squint to his blackened eyes. "I guess I'm gonna have to chew through another sad fuck," is his idea. It's his only idea for /winning/, when the mask's off. "Unless they get me first." He's silent for a stretch of time after that, and his brow furrows. "You still think about gettin' out of here?" His voice is soft, barely a rattle of gravel in his chest. "One day?" It's reflex, the way Sloan slides a finger under her collar when Trib's is heard sparking. She shifts her stance, lets her shoulder fetch up against the bars and folds her arms across her chest after. Pointedly /not/ looking at the cameras. Nothing to see here, folks, move along, move along. "Naw," she intones with rich New Jersey flare. "Been here too long. Weeks and weeks now. They're bringing in bigger guns. Bigger powers. Only so much a wrestler like me can do." It's difficult for her to achieve a crooked smile--her face is too long, her teeth too...toothy. But she tries. "One of these days...you?" Trib rolls a shoulder at the assessment. "Yeah. Those shark kids..." he rubs his elbow thoughtfully, where a slight divot pockets in the flesh there. "I probably got two, maybe three in me before one of these new guys takes me out." It's a bleak assessment, but Trib delivers it in a matter-of-fact tone. "So I ain't really plannin' on what happens if I get out of here." He wrinkles his nose painfully, and hawks a wad of bloody-looking phlegm out into the sparring ring. "The kids say it's 'cause I ain't got no friends in here." This seems almost cautious, as if it might be a question of some sort. "Hell, some places, I hear dog is a delicacy," Sloan muses with another glance at the cell housing the bluesome twosome. "Land versus sea, man's faithful friend against his biggest fear. /Fuck/ the ocean, right?" It might well be the most she's said at one time in here, not counting grappling instructions. All threaded through with mild humor, mild /acceptance/. She is not one to rattle bars--which may be why she's yet to suffer too many scorchmarks around her throat. Trib's last remark earns him a curious look. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't. You think they're right?" "They'll make it quick," Trib says with a small crinkle of his eyes. "If you're lucky. They did Squids pretty good, the way the guards were talkin'." His gaze shifts to the woman, and he studies her face for a long time. Trib's allegedly rattled many bars, since he got here, and his neck shows it when he stretches it past the collar briefly. "I don't know," is his honest response. "I mean, it's a nice /thought/, but then." He lifts a hand towards the teenagers' cage pointedly, then drops to his side. "I don't want to be put in /that/ show again." "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Sloan reiterates with a small, chuffy sigh. She stands with Trib near the cages, conversing. Lunch is long past, it's hours yet 'til dinner, and the enclosure is as quiet as it gets. A few hopefuls are tussling in the sparring area but many of the captives have retreated to their bunks for rest or recuperation. The two old hands remain, however, engaged in quiet conversation. "Heard they ate half of him, before they could drag them out," she says of the twins. "Heard they were still eating parts of him, when they were brought back. I always thought I'd die in Jersey. Trib snorts. "Yeah. Those kids were hurtin' for meat. Luckily, Squids had plenty to spare." Gallows humor, to be sure. "Most of it in that dumbass head of his." He shifts his weight, and puts his hands behind his rump, coiling his fingers around the bars. He stares out over the sparring area for a long moment, and then rolls a shoulder. "I knew I'd probably die in the ring," he admits. "I just figured it'd be with gloves on my hand, and in a high-end bout, with a fat purse at the end of it." His brow lowers, and he exhales that sound again. "Maybe in Vegas." It sounds almost wistful. It's a likely enough common thing, to see combatants emergent in cycles; shuffling the floors until their next fight comes, then remaining a day or two in their cages during the healing process before exiting once again to repeat the cycle. Jim has undergone some changes since his last fight; fuck /shirts/, they're not a thing he worries about any more. The slight planty crust he'd been wearing like a thin shell has taken over wildly, and the general /humanity/ of his shape has waned. Deep chasms in his tree bark have filled up with a green mossiness, the flow of natural divots and treeflakes fit a fiber over his torso that might pantomime the sinew of a human body, but there is no mistaking - the /depth/ of him is not mammal now. There is nothing in his dented chest that is breathing. In the midst of it all, two faded-blue eyes gaze out, utterly sane and kind of... bored, actually. He ambles in Sloan and Trib's general direction, with head turned to watch a few of the remaining stragglers still enjoying a change to stretch their legs - and then when he reaches them, he asks a frank question entirely with his /eyes/. Holds his hands at about the 5-foot height? Brow-furrow?? And then jerks his head towards Peter and Shane's cell. "Tit deep in showgirls and blow?" Sloan's just trying to clarify the daydream here--it's a better one than dying in /Jersey/. "We need better agents." Maybe the guards are bored, it being a quiet period, but that little comment earns her the first ZZZP she's felt in a while. The sound she makes is more dog's whine than grunt and she narrows her eyes, pins her ears back and lets her lips peel back from her teeth--briefly. Then, with tail held lower, she sinks against the bars again and refolds her arm. Jim's appearance draws a glance. Not interested but not disinterested either; she checks him out in the detached way of someone sizing up an eventual roadblock. No pressing concern now... "Still in there. I think I counted three." "Somethin' like that, only without the blow." The big man might be smiling, but the crinkle of his eyes turns hard when Sloan's collar zaps her, and he looks away. He watches Jim's approach with a studious narrowing of his eyes over the rim of his mask, tipping his head slightly to one side when the man posits his question. "There was three when I passed 'em earlier," he offers after Sloan, and stares at the other man before something undefinable glints in his eyes. "What do you care about him?" Jim jerks a chin - thanks at Sloan for the answer, glancing towards their cell a second time and just short of turning to head back to his cage and /all/ that precious dirt. At least he was, until Trib draws back his attention. Jim makes the rotation /expansive/, whole body and all it's offshoot twigs and leaves all turning slowly to give Trib the most /dreary/ of impatient looks. And hikes up his brows, throwing open his (rough approximation of) hands. What. Oh boy. /Boys/. Sloan's nostrils flare as she snorts softly at their interaction. "Cool it," she advises the pair, tilting a semi-interested look down at Jim's feet. "They don't give us enough water for hosing down the testosterone." Then, she tilts her head towards the lunch tables. It's a place to sit until the guards get zappy again and she leads the way, curling one leg up on the bench and reaching back to push her tail to the inside, under the table. "What? I'm just askin' a question." Trib's expression is all innocence behind his battered nose and bruised eyes. Well, almost innocent. There's definitely some sort of amusement he's having in this. Still, he follows Sloan to the tables, dropping onto the bench and stretching /his/ legs out in front of him. Maybe he's dropping the subject. "I just want to know what the kid is to him. Other than someone who's ass he kicked." Okay. Maybe not. Jim stares at Trib with his eyes squinted up. And from there he looks at... /Sloan/. As though expecting /her/ to answer for him. Nevermind he's never talked to her before, DETAILS. He gestures at Trib, brows crumpling hard in /inquiry/? "Man can't talk," Sloan clarifies. Sometimes it takes a canine aptitude for body language to /really/ be able to translate. Even when one is translating for a tree. "Smart. No lungs, no heart. Have to whittle you down to sawdust." She cradles her curled foot between her hands, inspecting the sole and then digging her thumbs into the arch. It must feel good because her tail quivers, her ears lie back again and she sighs. Trib looks disappointed when Sloan explains, and he rolls his shoulders. "I could do it," he notes, and clacks his teeth together audibly. "Wood tastes good. Like fresh-baked bread." His eyes crinkle at Jim, and he tilts his head. "Although, I ain't never had no wood that moved, before." He looks thoughtful, then, and scratches a hand across his scarred chest. Yes/No questions seem to be the way to go, here. "You know the kid before? He your superhero sidekick?" Clever woman. Jim raps his knuckles against his chest; it makes only a hollow thump. But THEN. Oh ho, Both hands! Up! Out! And Jim proceeds to gesture with great flourish - towards his /groin/. Trib is welcome to his living wood any god damn day. He cocks his head to the side to look down at Sloan's foot, her tail, his response to Trib is a SHRUG and an eyeroll. Apparently he doesn't do /slapstick/. Though he does generously invite Trib to answer the same question back with an open hand extended towards him? Sloan gives a bark of laughter. "He'd win at charades," she tells Trib before bending over her work again. Her toenails are a ragged mess, broken black claws that could use a Dremel. Once she's finished rubbing one foot, the other is swapped in. "Can't we all agree that it's fucked up to be taking kids and we all want to--" ZZZZP. Oh, they were a little slow on that one. She grits her teeth, a snarl clotting in her throat. "He's pretty good," Trib admits in a rumble, and jerks a hand in Jim's direction. "Whip it out, Woody, an' we'll see if I can pick my teeth with it." He remains in his lounged position, reaching up to scratch under the strap of his muzzle with a wince when Sloan gets zapped. "They'll make those kids kill each other, next time," he says darkly. "If they don't, the guards will do it for 'em." He tenses for a moment, as if waiting for the zap, but apparently, this is information that is safe to relay. "So yeah. It's fu -- " ZZZZZZAP. /There/ it is, and Trib's is long enough that it locks the big man's muscles, and his teeth grind together with a noise like shifting stone. "—-ngh/fuck/." Want to know what the least helpful thing to do would be right now? Because Jim's going there. He is silently /laughing/ as the two veterans get zapped, his smile /utterly/ joyless. There is no breath in the laugh, just an expression, a constriction in the fibrous surface of his abdomen and a hard just... /understanding/ in his eyes. He shakes his head and drops both hands in a /bah/ like gesture. And then, he turns to leave. Yeah, that does it for Sloan as well. Two shocks in a day? It's a new record for the hound. She chuffs and swings her foot to the ground. Her tail is /down/. "..." she somehow vocalizes at the males, before padding towards her cell. Trib just watches as the others leave, his eyes clouded with the after-effects of the shock. He'll probably sit there until dinner, occasionally looking off at the cells where the teenagers are recuperating. Unless the collar drives him somewhere else. Fucked is right.