ArchivedLogs:Bad Interview

Bad Interview
Dramatis Personae Masque, Trib
In Absentia	2013-05-07 Trib meets an unlikely reporter. (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. Sparring occurs frequently, here in the basement annex that houses the trapped mutants. Whether learning in an attempt to stay alive, forced into it by the zzp of the collars, or simply alleviating the tension of caged animals, after meals any number of the detainees can be found in the small cleared-away area. Most fight in silence, with a few offered comments to their partner on their form. There are only a handful of people that Trib will actually spar with; mostly those who have been here as long as he has, or have proven themselves in the ring. Today is no different, and since his regular sparring partners have paired off, the big man circles the sparring ring, his eyes dull and watchful above the metal-and-plastic muzzle that wraps around the lower portion of his face. Dressed in a dingy tank top and tattered jeans, he walks the perimeter with the casual grace of a jungle cat, occasionally pausing to watch a pairing before moving on. Eventually, he’s apparently seen all he needs to see, and he squats on his heels against the bars of an empty cage. His fingers -- all eight of them -- twist together as he continues to watch the other fighters. Maybe he’s praying for them. Someone here doesn't belong. Someone not looking to fight, someone who hasn't ever shown /interest/ in fighting and has thus far escaped being forced to, but someone who is here nonetheless. Like Trib, Masque has chosen to adopt the role of spectator, standing upright with his back pressed against the empty cage behind him. He's without the easily spotted red coat he'd been wearing when he came in several days ago, and... to be frank, what can be seen past the filthy wifebeater he's wearing doesn't exactly /look/ like a fighter's body, all wiry and thin and perfectly /still/ as he watches the others. Even most of the younger contestants look more impressive. His expression is as level as it gets, split down the middle with half just an old man while the other is like a poorly wrought /thing/, the lines of his skin and muscles sitting uncomfortably around his eyes and mouth in particular, pulling them slightly out of shape. Occasionally his head tilts slightly to the side, his focus sharpening just marginally as upon someone ahead of him falls, lands a hit or pulls an unexpected move. When the muzzled man comes into earshot beside him, he glances over with what looks to be an expression of both curiosity and passive hostility all at once, arms folding across his chest with bony hands folded underneath. Like he's trying to call something to memory, refusing to look away until he does. Trib has been in a cage long enough to be able to feel when someone is eyeballing him, and his shoulders tense slightly. He doesn’t look in the direction of the wiry guy first. His attention falls on another form, his brow furrowing deeply as he watches. Then, suddenly, his gaze slides sideways. “--the /fuck/ you staring at?” "I'm staring at you." Masque replies, in earnest, his casual tone a contrast to how rough the voice his throat actually manages to produce is. The worse side of his face pulls back slightly further still, around his mouth, in what looks to be an unimpressed sneer. His head starts to turn back toward two sparring partners some time before his eyes cease to linger on Trib's face and change their focus as well. He tilts his head upward toward the others, rolling a pointy shoulderblade around for a moment where it sticks out on his back. Maybe it's bothering him. "What about you. What do you find to look at, here?" Trib makes a noise, which could be a snort or it could be a laugh. “See somethin’ you like?” He asks, his expression turning lazy at the sneer. Like it has BORED him. When the gaze breaks, he shifts his own attention to the ring. The question gets another snort. “Mostly sad mother fuckers who are gonna get carried out of here,” he says. “Not much else /to/ look at.” That first question does very little indeed to pull a response out of Masque, verbal or visual. Masque's own expression settles back into one of idle observation. "Is that what you see." A rhetorical question if there ever was one, his mouth twitching briefly to one side. One of his arms unhooks from the other so he can snake a finger underneath the collar around his neck, trailing a path along it as he watches someone narrowly avoid a kick to the head. His voice is still gravelly as before, but his tone... rises slightly. Like he's privy to something Trib is not, and it's /oh so interesting/. "I always wondered." “‘Always,’” Trib echoes, and his brow falls to shadow his eyes. “Didn’t you just fucking /get/ here?” He cranes his neck around to turn that furrowed brow on Masque, and reaches up to rub a finger under a muzzle strap. “How the fuck can you ‘always’ wonder about somethin’ you just found out about?” His gaze narrows, sharply. “Or /are/ you just findin’ out about it?” Again, an unanswered question. The sigh that escapes Masque, then, is slow. Illustratively so. He turns his head once more to peer in Trib's direction, eyes trailing lazily from the other man's face, to that muzzle, to his torso, and back up to the face again. "I ain't talkin' about you. I'm talkin' about you, /plural/. Part of it all." He gestures that raised hand lazily forward and toward the sparring matches, before it drops back across his chest again. "Might be stuck here but my guess is you'd be part of it anyway." “Not like this,” Trib grunts, his eyes narrowing at the other man. “I work so I don’t end up like the rest of these sorry bastards, but I wouldn’t do /this/.” His gaze slides back to the other man. “You ever fought for your life before?” The narrowing of eyes is met with Masque's eyes opening slightly further, like he's just /learned/ something. The moment passes quickly, though, and a grunt of pain from somewhere else draws his attention back to some of the more actively engaged individuals in the room. Something about them manages to keep his attention more easily. His head dips just slightly, strands of greasy, grey hair slipping past his face. "You look like you have." With his face spasming into another grimace, his words could easily be considered to be ones of criticism. Yet his tone stays monotonous, low and scraping along his throat, like he'd rather not talk at all. "You bite, or did they just get tired of that half'a your face." “You’re one to talk,” Trib replies blandly, looking back out over the sparring pairs. He’s quiet until the question, and then the look he turns on the other man clearly says ‘what do you think?’ The clack of teeth beyond the bars is far too loud for regular teeth-clacking. There’s a long stretch of silence, then, before the big man speaks again. “You ever /answer/ a fuckin’ question, or are you workin’ on a piece for the Bugle?” "It's gonna be an interesting one." Masque replies flatly, and now there is a hint of a grin. It's unpleasant and sits on his face like a sore. His hands are held out not far in front of him, bony thumb and index finger extended. When he speaks again, it's a little more cheerful. Sickeningly forced, and his expression does not participate in the action, providing a stark contrast. "Mutant Kidnappings Result in Disaster, Who Would have Thought?" “Yeah,” is dull and mildly bitter. “Who would have thought?” There’s a shifting of body, then, as Trib stands and stretches his back. The vertebrae pop audibly. “You gonna send me a copy, when it hits the presses?,” he asks, shifting his gaze sideways to regard the other man. “For my fuckin’ scrapbook?” "You'll be in the honourable mentions." Almost as if to do the opposite of Trib, Masque now bends slightly forward, hunched back more obvious. The rest of the fake cheer drains from his voice, now, and he twists halfway around to look behind him, through the empty cage, then back around again in front of him. Maybe he is looking for someone specific. When he continues again, he sounds a little distracted, "Or you would be, if I thought you could read." Trib turns crinkled eyes on the other man, and he makes a snort of amusement. “Now I see that reporter wit,” he drawls, leaning a shoulder against the cage and folding his arms across his chest. He holds up his half-hand to inspect a fingernail critically. “That keen observational insight should serve you well, when someone’s beatin’ the ugly into the other side of your face.” "That'll happen all too fucking soon, I'm sure." Again, Masque looks around. Maybe the someone he's looking for is missing, but either it or Trib manages coil his expression further into annoyance. Hrgh. /People/. It flows easily over into his voice, cranking up the passive hostility of it. "Excuse me while I go write the first fucking draft of that article." He leans forward again, this time to start walking toward one of the empty cages. That annoying one, where the lights are /always on/, even at night. Every other step of his is a little less stable than the last, a limp that he's since learned to adjust his gait to, unlikely to be a recent injury. “You reporters are all the same,” Trib says, raising his voice to carry after the limping man, his eyes zeroing in on /that/ little tidbit of information on his physical condition. “You can dish out the critique, but you can’t take it worth a shit.” He huffs another laugh-like sound before he pushes off the bars, and moves in the other direction without looking back.