ArchivedLogs:Blood or Mercy

Blood or Mercy
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Murphy, Nox, Merit
In Absentia	2013-05-19 Immediately after Front Row Seats; during Straylight Run.
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. Nox needs only the minimum of prodding--the pokes and smacks that they all receive so their guards feel security in their authority are received without protest. Not trusting the "kindness" of those same guards, she has opted to leave Masque's coat behind and approaches the cage in only a pair of dingy sweatpants, her torso left bare. The sight of a topless woman would no doubt ordinarily draw /more/ cheering but this one is showing the wear and tear of captivity--her skin a dull grey, her head completely bald, and her body criss-crossed with streaks of white remaining from her last fight. She looks small, and she looks vulnerable. But some of that vulnerability goes when her collar and bracelets are removed. Something more like focus returns to her eyes, she stands with shoulders squared and looks through the wire mesh circling the bars with heightened attention. Where she can, she meets eyes in the audience with a steady, melancholy gaze. If they choose to reflect on the exact expression she wears, they will discover a gentle recrimination there. Fortunately--for them, for her--the lights go down. She has yet to study her opponent. When darkness rolls in, Nox vanishes. The ring fills with an almost inaudible hum. When Murphy sees who’s coming into the cage next - the image of Nox, battered, worn thin, bald-headed and bare-chested - Lucien might catch a certain tightness in the brutish man. A slow, indrawn hiss, followed by - once again - a mangled attempt at whispered French. “{Fuck.}” But otherwise, he does not respond. Still dressed in his black coat, white shirt; the cup of beer is now empty, long since disposed of. Lucien might catch it -- or he might not, because when Nox his brought in, his gaze /rivets/ onto the cage. His beer is mostly empty, and this is a good thing because his fingers are tightening. They cease their tightening when the cup starts to crinkle. His breathing has perhaps stopped -- at least, it is noticeable when it /starts/ again, slow through his teeth. But his voice is intensely calm when he echoes: "{Fuck.}" For a while, Murphy does nothing but /watch/ Nox as she emerges on stage. And her opponent - the electrified Merit. When the mutant proceeds to crackle with electricity in the now-dark cage... Murphy produces a low, harsh hiss. But then those hard eyes are sweeping over. Settling on Lucien. /Staring/ at him. And then - quite suddenly - his hand is on Lucien’s wrist, rough and calloused, /squeezing/. “...need to use the pisser,” he grunts, as an excuse for anyone who’s listening. before adding: “Leg’s not working. Gimme a hand to the bathroom.” And then Murphy’s pulling, hard and long, as if he’s not going to take no for an answer. “{You are not watching this.}” The contact to Lucien's wrist comes with a much clearer /flood/ of feeling than is betrayed in his expression. It wrenches, sickened and sinking, something that grabs Murphy's stomach and twists it into a hard clenched knot. And /anger/, a hot sharp spike of it that stabs louder as the crowd grows louder. "{You have a cane,}" he answers with eyes still glued on the cage, the French more automatic than deliberate. But then he turns, very slowly, as the deluge of sickangry feeling doesn't so much subside as it is harshly cut /off/, a wall slammed down in the connection that leaks Lucien's mental state to Murphy. And vice versa; the cutting-off comes with a slight easing of muscles that had tightened as soon as Murphy took his wrist. "You should not have drunk so much," he says instead in apparent griping, turning to offer his arm en route to the bathroom. But his eyes flick ceaselessly back to the cage. “Nnngh,” is Murphy’s immediate response to that sickening anger, but - other than a moment of shock, a flash of surprise in his eyes, a tenseness in his shoulders - he doesn’t falter. Murphy is /used/ to anger. And he knows how to make it work for /him/. His pull grows harder - more insistent - in response to that sickness. Indeed; it’s when the wall comes slamming down that Murphy seems more affected - as if he is suddenly, momentarily lost his focus. “Puh,” he responds, sliding his arm into the crook of Lucien’s. And proceeding to hobble with that cane. “{Stop looking,}” Murphy tells him, pulling him /faster/, away from the sudden roar of interest that surround them. He sounds like he’s chiding a disobedient child. But there’s an edge of desperation there, too. He’s moving as quickly as he can for the bathroom - elbowing through the crowd roughly. On the outside, it looks, perhaps, like Lucien is helping a sick man to the toilet. Considering the violence that goes on here, it is probably not an altogether unfamiliar sight. “{You can do nothing for her.}” Lucien doesn't listen to this advice, immediately. He's watching the lightning dance in the cage, watching the shadowcreature fight. His arm is flexed hard in Murphy's grip. "{If we cut the lights --}" he starts, but quiets as the apprach the toilet. His breath hisses out through his teeth. There's someone there waiting already for the row of closed restroom doors and he doesn't /care/, muscling them out of the way when the next one opens. "{I know that man, too.}" But this is quieter, an idle consideration as he practically shoves Murphy inside, locks the door behind them. "{... there aren't many of us, are there? They take a handful and I do not know anyone who does not know one of the missing.}" It’s probably a good thing Lucien muscled the next fellow out of the way; if he didn’t, Murphy might have just /shoved/ him. Once they’re alone in the bathroom - the door locked - Murphy slams his back to the door, as if to brace it shut. And proceeds to reach upward with one hand, squeezing at the bridge of his nose. “{So she’s the one,}” Murphy comments, his tone soft, despite the exhausted, hard expression he wears. “{She helped me. Once. No. Not many of us. Fewer every day.}” His French is stilted; quick, hammering sentences. The intricacies of grammar were not something he was introduced to. “{You can’t help her.}” Murphy repeats, watching him... closely. The way Murphy’s standing in front of that door - Lucien might get the sense that he’s guarding it, now. That an attempt to get through might be met with, well. Considerable resistance. “{If she lives. Save her. If she dies. Avenge her.}” There is a straightforward calmness with which he relates this assessment. Lucien is quiet. Pacing. There's a /shake/ to his hands that is all the more noticeable for his previous steady-even calm. He stops in front of the sink, turning on the cold water to splash some onto his face. He pats his face dry with a paper towel, and leans against the sink. His fingers brush through his hair, carefully re-tousling it. "{If she dies,}" he says, with a renewal of his steady calm, "{I will kill them all.}" Murphy continues to watch. Calmly. Cane braced to the floor; back braced to the door. As Lucien paces, Murphy’s scowl does not flicker; when Lucien speaks those next words though - with that dreadful calm - his eyes narrow. “{Can you?}” Murphy asks. It doesn’t sound like a challenge; it sounds more like a genuine question. He quickly follows it up: “{With your power. Things like.}” Pause. The book he read had no translation for the following words: “Aneurism. Stroke. Cancer.” Then, back to French: “{If you took your time. Did it carefully. Could disguise it.}” Another pause, as Murphy thinks. Adding: “{Maybe even if she lives.}” Some people might tell Lucien vengeance isn’t the answer. Regrettably, none of those people are Murphy Law. "{I can}," is calm and assured. Lucien's arms fold against his chest, and slowly there is an easing of his posture, an unclenching of his muscles. "{Turning off a brain is a /far/ easier task than fixing one.}" His teeth are no longer clenched. He draws in slow breaths, steady, quiet. "{The police.}" It is steady, too, thoughtful. "{You will remember. All their faces.}" It isn't a question. Murphy draws in a long, slow breath as Lucien recovers - the unclenching of those muscles, the calmness settling over him - is witnessed with a steadily intensifying scowl. When Lucien makes that final statement, Murphy releases the breath - heavy. Exhausted. He closes his eyes, leaning back until his head hits the door. “Yes,” he responds, in English. “{But if some have family. Children--}” A hand rises, back to the ridge of his nose. /Squeezing/. “{So do we,}” he replies, apparently answering his own complaint. But, as his hand falls back to his side, he levels a glare at Lucien. “{Only if. She dies. If she lives--you give her--}” The language, here, seems to fail Murphy. He gestures, frustratedly, at Lucien. “Whatever /she/ wants. Blood or mercy. Her call.” "{She,}" Lucien says this like it is a serious /failing/, "{is a good person.}" His hand lifts, its heel digging hard against his eye. From outside there are screams, no longer eager but horrified. Lucien drops his hand, breathing in deep. "{Let's go,} we wouldn’t want to miss the grand finale,” he finishes in glib English. Murphy turns, slow and reluctant. Weight shifting down on his cane. “{Maybe she’ll surprise you.}” Reaching for the lock. “{Green one. Victor Borkowski. One of hers. Putting her children in cages. Killing them. For sport.}” He snaps it open, shoving the door. A rush of screams come into the room. Murphy’s eyes narrow. He adds the next bit in English: “You might have to hold her back.”