ArchivedLogs:Takes All Kinds

Takes All Kinds
Dramatis Personae Kyle, Sloan
In Absentia	2013-04-29 '
Location FIGHT CLUB
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. One day here is a lot like another. The rules have been made quite clear to all involved and in honesty they're really fairly simple, boiling down to: Act up and you will die. It's a rule their captors have made good on, very visibly -- during a fight when a lean scarred ex-Army vet refused to kill the (bigger, burlier, more /powerful/ in count of his mutation but far less experienced in terms of actual violence) teenager he was matched against and was summarily executed to corpsehood. During a meal when one young telekinetic tried to drown one of the guards in his water bucket when his cage was opened and -- was also summarily electrified. Smaller acts of insurrection -- trying to take the heavy-thick collars OFF, refusing to leave the cage at fight time, slinging feces out of the cage at one of the guards -- have been met with smaller acts of pain, the collars delivering still painful but not /lethal/ jolts to discourage further acting out. As such it's actually fairly subdued -- some people even look almost (allllmost) eager, when the by-now familiar bell sounds. One looong ring is fight-time, that never makes anyone eager. Two short rings, that signals /meals/ and a few people even look hopeful. The heavy door clangs and scrapes and clangs again before being dragged open, a cart pushed into the room. It smells like -- well, food, really, to most people; more discerning noses can even pick it out! It smells like meat, like chicken and like garlic and like real butter, like potatoes and like peas. One man is wheeling the large cart over across the wide expanse of space towards a table. His face is familiar, young, handsome in a kind of plain whitebread all-American way. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Another is just standing, for now, looking around the myriad cages with a frown. But he's usually wearing a frown, that doesn't mean much by way of good or ill. Much bulkier than his counterpart, he has his blonde hair cropped short, which does nothing to lessen the severity of his hard-edged face. He has a device in his hands, currently tucked against the crook of his arms, and as yet the cages are staying closed. He's just watching. One of the longer tenants is Sloan. It is the curse of being so very visible and so very well trained. She hasn't made trouble. True, she was no easy takedown, but once collared and slung in a cage, the woman went from violent to watchful and she has remained that way. It has not been a /comfortable/ confinement, already the thickest patches of fur on her body have become matted and dirty from lack of grooming facilities and tools, and she's lost some weight--an early attempt to refuse meals taught her the capabilities of the collars--but otherwise she looks just as she is: a large, quiet and capable woman who is still trying to wrap her mind around having ended up here. Her scent of smell is sharp but even the noseless would recognize the richness of the scents on the air, after the double-bell rings. Rolling off of the lower bunk, the fuzzy woman pads to the bars of her cage. One hand absently scratches at her flank beneath the loose cotton shorts she wears. The other runs a finger restlessly beneath her collar, pulling fur from beneath it and resettling it against her throat. Her mismatched eyes skip over the foodbearer to the man observing the service, while she folds her arms against the cage and leans. A low, subtle sniff picks his scent from the air, lurking beneath the others. There's another to follow the first two, a shorter man, salt-and-pepper beard, shorter stockier frame than Kyle. Kyle is slow about his circuit of the room, glancing into the cages, taking stock of the inhabitants. Many of them step back slightly from the bars when he passes, some lean against them, eying the food more than eying him (though hardly any actually really every stop paying /attention/ to his movements.) Eventually he has finished, up one row of cages and down the next, and he uncrosses his arms so that he can tap at the screen of the remote he is holding. Cage doors click unlocked, swing slightly open, but nobody emerges. One very new arrival, dragged in yesterday, takes a step towards the open door, but his cellmate puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs him back. Kyle still wanders. He stops in front of Sloan's cell, and lifts his hand, fingers curling like -- come. Around the room, people start to walk out (slink out, in one extremely bruised-battered woman's case who won -- barely -- her fight the night before, stumble-hobble out) and take seats at the table. The other man is laying out trays of food, cups of water, in front of everyone who sits. "You hungry?" Kyle addresses this to Sloan, sort of gruff. But he's always sort of gruff. Today he sounds somewhat bored. Another of Sloan's disadvantages is her tail. When she was taken, so were the straps that kept it secured to her leg. However much she might try to lie, it gives away both mood and thoughts. The smell of the food was enough to make it swing back and forth a few times, hopeful. The men? Well, when Kyle comes close enough to prove that he's about to spare her some specific attention, it lowers. Not beneath her legs, cowed, but held low. If her ears were visible beneath the floof, they'd no doubt be pinned back too. She stands until he beckons to her--too way to do otherwise--and then lumbers forward with head held low and nostrils flaring. Her eyes briefly towards the direly injured woman before locking back on Kyle. "Always hungry," she rumbles, voice lower than most women. "Around here." "Mmmh." Kyle offers a noncommital grunt to this, eying the way the others fall on their food -- some ravenously, some picking with little appetite but too wary to hold off eating altogether. "Well. You can have seconds," he says this almost magnanimously, "got some work for you when food's done. Picked up a new --" He waves across the room, towards the boy who had almost-not-quite left his cage before permitted. "Tough. Does some weird-ass spike thing. Doesn't know how to fight for shit, though. You might be able to fix that." Damn her tail--it wags again at the mention of seconds, stilling only through an immense expenditure of will. Sloan rolls her shoulders back, rising to her full height, and turns her head to study the boy. Her jaw works side to side, though the effect is difficult to tell with her ruff pushed high by the collar. Her nostrils flare again and then she huffs out in an almost-sneeze, head shaking. "I could," she says as her focus shifts back to Kyle. "Some holds, some escapes. Be easier if he were fed up." She pauses. "He should get that second portion. Too skinny." "Mmmh," again, as Kyle looks over the kid. "Yeah, maybe. He could stand to bulk up some." His arms cross against his chest, once more, and he leans back against the bars of the cage, studying the crowd of eating mutants. "Well. You can both get one, then. Think you can turn him into anything?" He sounds a little skeptical. He's looking at the kid -- teenager? Early 20s? It's hard to tell, right now he mostly just looks wary and skittish -- with a very dubious expression. Brow furrowed, thick arms curling tighter. "Honestly, some of these catches I don't know what they're fucking thinking." This is grumbled more to himself than to Sloan. "Necessity breeds ability." Sloan shifts her weight from one foot to the other. As she studies Kyle's scrutiny of the boy, her hand lifts to the back of her neck in a gesture that seems idle. Smoothing down her hackles. "He looks like he could be quick. Spikes sound dangerous." Her eyes flick to Kyle's arms, his hands, and her head drops a little more. "It's worth a shot. Give him half a chance, make for a better fight. They must have seen something in him," she rumbles, folding her arms to consciously mimic the man's posture. More peer than captive? One of Kyle's fingers is tapping, restless-quick, absent, against the controller in his hand. Hopefully it is LOCKED or something because it is the same one he uses to zap misbehaving combatants. Nobody is getting zapped, though. He's just continuing to frown. Eventually he expels a sharp breath that sounds almost amused. "Dangerous, shit, yeah. What the fuck's /not/ dangerous, here?" He's eying a tired-looking woman with faint flickers of flame ghosting along her arms and then sputtering out as she eats. "Guess they see something in everyone but fuck." He shrugs, and straightens as Sloan folds her arms. "When's your next round, not for a couple." Couple hours? Couple days? Hopefully the latter. "Should be good. Keep you active in the meantime." Sloan's tail twitches with each tap. Twitch twitch twitch. She can't help but look at the controller, ears cocked and listening for the inevitable scream of pain--or sizzle through her own nerves. The stress of expectation sends a hand fleeing to the back of her neck again. This time she just traps the prickling mane hard beneath her palm. An awkward pose but far preferable to bristling at the man with the button. "Yeah." The response is a little strangled, more a chuff of voice. When she clears her throat, it sounds like a growl. "You want me to go eat now? Could talk to him." "Huh?" Kyle's eyes swivel sideways, a little puzzled by this question apparently -- or maybe he's just forgotten that there's an actual /conversation/ going on. "Oh, right, yeah." He waves his hand towards the trestle tables, permissive or dismissive or both. "Right, sure. Find out what he knows. You'll both get a second helping of --" This just breaks off. Of whatever. "Eat quick, though. Work to do." He tips his head towards the tables, and then pulls away from the cage, sauntering over to the man with the food. Murmuring quietly, indicating Sloan and the new recruit. Both of them earn looks from some of the others -- concerned? Envious? The difference likely depends on who is close enough to overhear Kyle and who just sees the gesturing and /assumes/ they are slated for something terrible. Instead of seconds. It is the curse of this place--get any sort of special attention and there are /looks/. Some concerned...but it is the less concerned glances that are troubling. Sloan keeps her head down and her tail clamped as close to her ass as she can manage. It still curls up at the end though. Damn thing. She has to kick it out of the way as she moves to take her place beside the kid on the bench--sitting on it /hurts/. She reaches immediately for the cup of water, fitting it carefully to her lips--the curve isn't meant for doggy faces--in order to drink. All of it. In one go. Negotiating with the enemy is /thirsty work/. Then she ignores the meat course in favor of forking up potatoes into her mouth. At first it seems she's ignoring the boy but through the floof, her eyes can be seen turned to the side, sizing him up. "What's your name?" The boy -- wiry, not scrawny but ropey-lean, hands calloused-rough, arms peppered with scars, his shock of dark hair fluffy around his olive-dark face -- tenses as the seat beside him is taken. He leans over his tray of food, flicking a glance sideways to Sloan. He looks at her with a slight widening of eyes, and then looks at the guards standing around, too. And back to his food. His chicken is gone, he devoured it first thing and is now pushing the peas into the mashed potatoes almost like he's trying to hide them. "-- Adam," he eventually answers, low and reluctant. It takes another moment before he reciprocates: "You?" "Sloan. You better eat all of that. You're getting seconds too. You need it, you're going to be burning a lot." Her smile is an open-mouthed affair. There's no helping it, much as she might dislike showing all. Of those. Teeth. At least an attempt is made to minimize the effect by keeping her head down. The fork stays busy. She'd been told to eat quickly and she intends to do so. "They want me to run you through your paces, see if you're worth keeping around," she rumbles low low low between bites, eyes flicking towards the guards as well. "You /want/ to be worth keeping. You ever do any real fighting, Adam? Even in a strip mall dojo?" "-- I'm getting seconds? But I haven't --" Adam's shoulders hunch in further at the /looks/ at this comment earns him, and he eats hastily, shoveling potatoes and peas into his mouth. "N -- no," he says, a little discomfited. "I, uh. I'm in /art/ school." He says this with a sort of bashful self-consciousness, squinting up one eye as he looks down at his food. "We don't get into a lot of." Shrug. His eyes are a little more fixed on his food with Sloan's smile, perhaps disconcerted, perhaps trying not to stare. "Are you. Do you. Um. I mean /obviously/ you fight but I." He stabs at a wayward pea. "...art school." Two words /usually/ never uttered with dread and yet, there they are. If Sloan weren't being a good little soldier by stuffing her face, she might well be tempted to put the fork down and cover said face with both hands. /Art school/. "All right," she says after a few minutes of thought, brow rumpled in velvety magnificence, "all right. Art school. That's not so good, but...you keep your head down, do what they say, it should be all right. I can show you some moves. Simple stuff but it looks good, keeps you on your feet longer. They said you do something with spikes?" She tilts her head, one floppy ear becoming visible with the movement, and directs her attention to the scars dappled over his arms. "Yeah I -- Adam finishes the last of his food, setting down his fork to skim his fingers against his forearms. "Actually, those are just burns," he admits, also a little self-conscious. But where his fingers skim they leave something behind, glistening almost wetly. Shiny. A thin veneer of coating that solidifies into something hard. His arm tenses, and the shiny-hard shell grows -- just a few tiny poky nubs of sharp-spiky points before he looks nervously at the man coming over to set down two more trays of food in front of them. The points do not grow any further. "What do you do --" He frowns, head ducking, "-- /did/ you do -- I mean. Outside." The process is closely watched and earns him a low grunt of approval, another smile. This time Sloan doesn't hide the smile--it's meant to encourage? Not bad, kid? "Good. That's good. Harder to hold onto you. They want a good show," she confides. Her head lowers when the seconds arrive and she's silent until the man withdraws, tearing apart the chicken and chowing down. It is a messy process. She does what she can to stay tidy but it is a losing battle. Grease is gathering in her fur. "Taught," she rumblewhispers after a few minutes. "Boxing. Brazilian jiu-jitsu...the stuff you see in MMA matches. If you ever watched them. It's going to be okay, Adam. We'll get you up to speed. Just remember to keep your head down, yeah?" "They get bigger but I --" Shrug. Adam's eyes widen, slightly, at Sloan's answer. He starts to eat, a little slower than his first plate, uncomfortably curling an arm around his tray as if this will somehow hide it from everyone else's notice. "... You /taught/ fighting? You must've been a --" His head shakes. "Sorry. That's. Rough. Have you. Been here. Long?" "Long enough. They don't fuck around, here." Sloan tries to hold his eyes as if to impress upon him how /important/ this statement is. Then she looks back at her tray, licking her lips to try to clean some of the shine from them. "What I did before was nothing compared to this. Before doesn't matter anymore. Here's the deal...you don't do what you're told, they kill you," she continues in an undertone. It just so happens that as she shares this tidbit, she is separating a drumstick from a thigh. The joint cracks and tears apart. "No one's going to stop them. I can only do so much. So...after I teach you what I can, you have to stand on your own two feet. Can you do that?" Adam swaaaallows. Hard. His hand freezes, halting food on its way to his mouth. "But -- do -- do you leave? Maybe if you -- win enough --" Someone beside him just /laughs/. It's not a pleasant laugh. Adam's jaw tightens. His next mouthful of chicken is chomped a little angrily. He gulps at his water to wash it down. "Yeah," he answers, though. "Yeah. I've been standing on my own two feet for -- well not like this but --" His lips press together. "... fuck." He shovels the rest of the food into his mouth hurriedly. "I guess we should get to -- teaching, then." Sloan makes a sound deep in her chest, like distant thunder. It's for the person who laughed. But she doesn't really offer up anything reassuring either: "You win enough, they just get more creative." All she can offer him--after checking the attention of the men near the door--is a warm-rough hand closing on his shoulder. Squeezing, briefly, and leaving a smear of grease. "They want a good show. Figure out how to give them that and..." She trails off there. Maybe it will be okay? But probably not. She ends the meal by downing the rest of her water, then wiping her hands off on the sides of her tank top. "Right. Teaching." "... who's /watching/ these?" It might be a rhetorical question; Adam just sounds kind of incredulous at the mention of giving them a good show. "I mean, who would --" His jaw clenches. He finishes the rest of his water, licks his fingers clean, and stands. He's keeping an eye on the guys by the door, too, as his hands slide up his arms again. This time, leaving them encased in shiny-clear /something/, hard and rigid up to the elbows, though he's smoothed the spikes away. "Right. Teaching." Might be rhetorical, might not, but Sloan has no answer for him. Or at least she keeps whatever answer she does possess to herself. She stands, keeping her spine relaxed and her shoulders slumped to minimize her height, and steps free of the bench. The movement smacks him in the hip with her tail, something for which she mutters an apology. "Takes all kinds." Softly said, eyes on their wardens under her floof. "Takes all fucking kinds. Come on." And so she leads him off under many, many and more watchful eyes--not all of them friendly.