ArchivedLogs:Tending To in Turns

Tending To in Turns
Dramatis Personae Masque, Nox
In Absentia	2013-05-07 (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 late. The matches are always held late at night, to better suit larger audiences, which means that for the most part the block is silent--or near-silent, as prisoners will always find a way to sneak conversations when they can. Occasionally the buzz of an activated collar tells of someone who's been caught at it. Otherwise, it is as peaceful as it gets here--peaceful, or quietly desolate. Despair and depression are probably the exact color of dark grey that gathers in each cell between the bunks. In one of these, Nox sitting on her bunk. Upright for once, she is cross-legged, with Masque's heavy red coat gathered around her shoulders and clutched before her. She's arranged the collar in such a way that it's beneath the thick fabric, so none of its light touches her face. With her head above that line of illumination, she's looking slightly more alert. Slightly. There are marks of pain gathered in tension around her eyes, and her head remains hairless. But she's here, not wherever she'd gone to in her mind. As she sits and waits, she is looking at Masque's bunk. It's empty. She's been staring at it for some time. There's a long stretch of silence before the doors to the room open again, and three people emerge. Two upright, one... not so much, moving with a stiffness that betrays misbehaving muscles and an inability to navigate without being physically steered in the right direction. The cage Nox resides in is opened shortly afterwards, and Masque is shoved toward her. He's looked... not... exactly /better/, but he's looked healthier. In fact, without the coat, he's hardly recognisable at all. His face looks like hell on both sides, for once-- the fact that he's received medical attention is clear by the fact that his nose looks like it was broken not too long ago but has since been pushed back into place, and gashes across one upper arm and most of his chest have been stitched up, but were allowed to bleed quite profusely onto his clothing prior. The front of the filthy wifebeater he wears is more bloody shreds than fabric now, and the beginnings of bruises show along his face, jaw, clavicle, and both arms. Skin around the collar is red-- the fact that he barely seems to be able to hold his head up should say enough. For a moment, it looks like he's about to crash right into Nox. Tonight it's his turn to be... absent. His boots /drag/ over the floor, but he manages to find his own bunk, deathly slow. No attempt at grace is made. Once he's close enough, he just falls, gravity dropping him onto his back as a hand covered in his own, dried blood smacks, palm up, over his face with a wince. Hello again, new home. With his face covered--hell, with the pain he's in--he might miss the sound of movement after he's on the bunk. But Nox is moving. She was motionless until the door closed and then she slides off of her mattress. Watching, clutching the jacket around her. The signs of violence smeared all over him cause her brows to knit slowly together. Then she turns and kneels beside the water bucket. With his coat hanging from her shoulders like a cloak, she pulls her tank top off of her head--modesty has never been one of her strong suits, though the exposure of her collar causes a soft hiss of pain--and begins to pull at it. The fabric, thin as it is, tears easily into makeshift rags. These are dipped in the bucket, wrung out, and then she's beside his bunk. The light from her bracelets fall over his ruined face as Nox drapes the first cool, wet cloth along the reddened skin at his throat. Just leaving it there to soothe while she fetches another and begins to dab at the blood crusting his hand. Silently and gently she works, saying nothing. Upon the touch of the cloth, muscles in Masque's throat contract of their own accord, before... he very slowly swallows underneath. Probably equal amounts of blood to saliva. His eyes, half lidded, stay focused on nothing in particular, until his brain suddenly seems to catch up on the fact that his hand is touched, quite a bit later than the dabbing actually /starts/. With a sharp exhale and a widening of his eyes, that hand reflexively lifts off of his face and /closes/, trapping whatever may be within his grasp. That would be Nox's wrist and the bracelet that circles it. She goes very still when his hand locks around that joint. Not even her fingers tremble, though water collected in the cloth she still holds drips onto his chest. Drip. Drip. Drip. It is possible she might not realize /quite/ the danger that she's in--there's otherwise very little reaction. No panic, no startling, no trying to twist free. Just staring down at him with her browridges still beetled together with a frown. "...Masque," she whispers after a moment. "Masque, it is Nox. They will shock you. If you do not let go." Something in Nox's words only seem to cause Masque's grip to curl tighter. His fingers, on the other hand, are trembling. The effort of even keeping the limb up is enough to cause it. But it's only a grip. And not long after, it loosens, the fingers sliding off of the darker wrist to let the hand drop onto his chest. His eyes find Nox's, now, sliding halfway closed again. Much more comfortable under the threat of swelling. Finally, he breathes in again. The act is accompanied by a wave of pain that makes it easily to his face, and starts a weak scowl in the other Morlock's direction. But he says nothing. Nox's own eyes close when he releases her. Partly relief, though she's careful to hide it. But partly because that bracelet is free to shine on her again. /This/ time her fingers do tremble, and the drip of water becomes a steady patter before she jerks her arms to the side. The cloth is redipped and she's able to look at him again just in time to catch sight of that scowl. A wan smile is offered in response. "Call me a fool tomorrow," she advises in that same whisper. She presses a finger through the cloth and returns to dabbing at the worst of the crusted blood, clearing it away. "...your opponent?" He'll call her a fool any day, that much is made clear by the fact that the scowl sticks around, fading away only very slowly. But... what is also clear is that he's not in any state to stop her. His eyes roll to the ceiling again before they close entirely, and he swallows again, slow and painful, before managing in more of a broken croak than a voice, "Gone." The wet cloth traces over his temple. Lightly, so very lightly. Nox will not risk hurting him further. This still, quiet Masque is too still, and too quiet, to be disturbed with fresh pain. She pauses only to bend to the side and refresh the cloth, the bucket soon taking on a rusty tint. There'll be no drinking from that until fresh is provided tomorrow. "And you?" she asks as she resumes working. The last few days seem to have been thematically centered around the uncommon, for some. Nox and Masque, certainly. Not only does he lie still as he is tended to, but he breaks one of his own, unspoken rules by readily answering, unhelpfully and with some difficulty both in the physical and mental realms, "Fortunately. Still here." "Good." A harsh thing to say but Nox has never been especially skilled at dissembling. Either she doesn't speak at all or... "I am glad you are still here. Now rest," she bids him. Then she dampens the cloth again and begins to tend to the worst stains, those that mar arm and chest around the rough stitches tugging his skin together. She seems intent on taking advantage of this moment of clarity while it lasts, expression gone dark and focused. Masque is given little choice in the matter. Not only by Nox, but his own strength fails him to the point of where he doesn't even wince, not once. The only indication of pain is his breathing occasionally growing more controlled, more laboured. But eventually even that slips into a more regular pattern. It's entirely possible, at this point, that he's fallen asleep.