ArchivedLogs:Two Grumps and a Peter-Shaped Lump

Two Grumps and a Peter-Shaped Lump
Dramatis Personae Peter, Masque, Jim
In Absentia	2013-05-11 WORLDS COLLIDE.
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. DING DING DING BREAKFAST. Peter is out like a race-horse; /dart/ for a tray - snatch, scuttle, to the table. A few things have notably changed about him over the past few days - for starters, he no longer has any patches of pink skin splattered across him like freckles; he is, now - to all appearances - /entirely/ covered in that chitinous, black carapace with its metallic-blue sheen - just a /hint/ of prismatic coloration to it; like oil reflecting water. In addition, he's no longer wearing his shirt - instead, he's just got on - dirty, dirty dress slacks and a mop of semi-greasy brown hair that's in desperate need of a cut. Peter's actually kind of buff under that shirt; he isn't - some sort of /body-builder/, but there's a vicious leanness to him - a /hardness/ to his physique that doesn't /quite/ belong on a teenager. On top of that, the boy's got. Scars. One on his back, just behind his left shoulder; a puckered puncture mark. One across the side of his rib-cage, having just finished healing - and another on his forearm - actually, that one's /still/ stitched, but the stitches are hard to make out on his chitinous carapace, being - just as dark as his /skin/, now. He thwacks the tray down somewhere and - okay, /now/ he's going about scavenging meats, eggs - going through the daily process of haggling for as much as he can from various fellow captives who are probably getting quite tired of having the chittery teenager trying to negotiate them out of their meats. Among some of the less enthusiastic people ambling out of their cells is Masque. He's generally avoided the more energetic types since he got here, /especially/ around mealtimes, failing to see the appeal of fighting to get to the food when everyone gets a turn /anyway/. There's also the fact that even thouh it's been several days since he was escorted out of the room for his first fight, he's still a little roughed up lookin'. Bruises across his face and under what remains of his torn wifebeater have mostly reached their sickish greenish yellow stage. The lacerations across his chest and arm still have their stitches, but have been healing slowly. Once he's got his tray, he doesn't even really look where he's going, moving silently over to take a spot opposite Peter. One arm draped around his food as he hunches over it, one hand stab a fork at an egg to stuff it in his mouth. Finally, his eyes rise, coming to land on Peter's face as he chews. And chews. And does not speak. In some demented way, this is like high school all over again. There's probably the Cool Jock table where all the veteran prize fighters possibly allow one or two rookie potentials sit at the end to soak up stories. There's the artsy table, where a lot of the smaller, spoonier /speedier/ but considerably less trained huddle together in a semi-hopeful bravado, all testing each other's reflexes, practicing the quick-draw on their mutational abilities (there's the ever present 'bzzrt!' if they seem to be too aggressive towards one another about it), making it by far one of the more active areas. There's also that table over there - that's the loser table. Sadly, the loser table is kind of the Table of the Doomed. Weak low-level possibly accidental mutants captured mostly through moments of opportunity than specific desire. But. You shouldn't bother really marking /them/, the rotate through pretty quickly as bait dogs. And have the haunted faces that all to clearly says they /know/ it. Not that there aren't Misc. variety tables in between. Jim tends to sit amongst a lot of tables, murmuring in low conversations, asking questions, muttering comments. He's probably gone a few rounds sparring, to test the elasticity to which he can move with his skin partially barked over. His wilting has gotten more advanced, his hair far grayer now, the lines around his mouth and eyes /deep/ and dry and sandpapery. But now? Well he eventually heads away from sparing (leaving flaky bits of treebark dirt on the ground behind him). Seeks out food. 'Splut' - that's the sound of his eggs getting dumped on Peter's collection plate. A few dirty little sausages follow. Thmp-thmp. He must surely know Masque is there, but he's not rushing to shout out his mornings. Give him a second, he's still catching his breath from the exercise. Peter /blinks/, briefly - owlishly - at Masque. As he arrives and seems to - /hug/ his food in front of him. Peter opens his mouth, then - apparently to ask him if he really /needs/ those eggs - but he's suddenly and promptly interrupted by the arrival of TreeJim, who spluts eggs and sausages on his plate. Peter's oily reflective coating goes from blue to violet, complete with swirly little fringes of pinkish red; he mutters a thank-you down into his plate, then - looking to Jim's obviously - /graying/ features with a worried frown. "...do you - /have/ you been eating - anything?" Peter asks, then. "/Do/ you eat - like you are... plant-y? Do you need --" Peter looks up to the ceiling. As if this is just occurring to him /now/. "...ohcrap, you need /sunlight/ don't you -- oh man, oh man," and now Peter's hands are in his hair, /scratching/ at that greasy mop. "Oh man I have /no/ idea how to -- they'll never bring us /sunlamps/ down here--" Masque's attention shifts easily from Peter to Jim, as soon as the latter comes within view. It's almost a strangely quick, alert sort of zipping of his half-lidded eyes, considering his otherwise slow movements. Even his chewing is sluggish, exploring the very /limits/ to exactly how contemplative you can look while simply masticating. He breathes out a huff of a breath when Peter's puzzle pieces verbally fall into place. "Izzat right." Less of a voice and more of a dry, unattractive and unsurprised /croak/ of two words between chews. Another stab, another piece of egg disappears down his throat. The sausages are demonstratively pushed with the tip of his fork, next, prodded away ever so carefully. Then back toward him again. Mm. Peter. Oh, Peter. Jim could just hold your face down in your eggs until you DROWNED. Though he's not looking at Peter - his eyes are set on Masque, heavy as a sack of cement, "Wouldn't we /all/ like some fucking sun in here. The hell is with you and your hero complex, anyway." It's hard to tell if Jim is a man being critical or curious. He asks because he -Cares? -Judges? CUDGES? There are a few limp flowerettes of broccoli on his tray, and /these/ he shovels in, as well as the two wedges of peaches-from-the-can. DRINKS the syrup they come in. Mm. Chloroplasts and fructose. Tinyamounts. He chews in rapid-rushed cyclic chawing. "Oh--oh," Peter says, looking at Masque's sausages, now - watching him /shove/ them around on that plate - with raw, unfettered fascination. "Are you gonna - um, um. The sharks - they need, um. Meat. Could I, would you mind, um." The violet sheen to his skin gets, uh - /violeter/ - seemingly spreading down his shoulders and chest. "...I could, give you, um. If you like sugared peaches - you could have mine? Or..." Peter's eyes flicker back over to Jim. Blinking, a moment. /Thinking/. "...does soil help, maybe? Maybe I could get - talk to someone about bringing down /dirt/. Have you ever tried - drinking nutrients out of soil, maybe? Or maybe," and now Peter is watching Jim eat the broccoli, very /intently/. "Maybe /plants/ help like if you eat them they have chloroplast in them maybe--" On /instinct/, Peter is already grabbing his brocoli and shoveling it over to Jim. Like HERE QUICK EAT THESE THEY'LL MAKE YOU BETTER. He waffles on the peaches, though, giving a glance over to Masque - clearly /conflicted/. As to 'hero complexes', Peter just - frowns. "Hero complex? I don't have any - what's /complex/ about it I'm a /superhero/." Masque's interest in anyone's food but his own is hard to gauge, but his interest in this conversation-- that's all too clear. He leans back an inch, away from his food though his arm stays protectively where it is, to shoot Peter a look that is both incredulous and amused at the same time. The kind of amusement that you couldn't keep from wangling your lips into curling even if you /tried/. "Did..." He clears his throat, preparing for more talking than he had initially planned to do at this table, before aiming his gaze back at Jim again, yellowed teeth bared at the man in a crooked grin that makes it all too obvious which side of his face is the lesser functional one. "Hey. Jim. Pup just told you to eat dirt." Then, back to Peter again. His sausages get another little /pull/ from under the curve of his fork, which stays there. Like Peter's just going to up and TAKE them if he moves the utensil. "I don't /know/ these sharks." ... Dubious, but more likely translates to: 'I haven't spoken to them'. "Tell me about them." "'Today, I am dirty'," Jim is answering presumably Masque, though it sounds like he's quoting to /himself/, at a low smoker's-raspy utter "'tomorrow, just dirt.'" He's shoveling over something vaguely hashbrown-like to at least /compensate/ Peter food-for-food while he takes his broccoli, "Speaking of, kid, you know there's no such thing as a goddamn superhero, right? It's a shitty expectation to put on /anyone/. Right now, you're more a reeking hot-fucking-MESS than anything else. Don't answer that." That /question/ Masque is asking. "Not unless he wants," he leans over and /props/ a chin on his fist? Batting his eyes frankly/ at Masque? "to reciprocate?" Peter's eyes are on Masque's sausages. Wait what. /YES/. Watching them, as if hypnotized, as he shoves them around. "Pffffft I'm /fine/," Peter tells Jim, not looking at him, just. Staring at those sausages. Snausages. "I'm just, just - I'm /fine/," Peter says, snapping his attention away from those sausages long enough to /stare/ at Jim, as if this staring was, in fact, enough to demonstrate that Peter is TOTALLY FINE. "...just stressed a little okay a /lot/, um. People are -" He gives a furtive glance to one of the tables. One of the ones that seems to have a revolving door of - new people replacing people who are now gone. "...people are dying I can't help them." "Pffft," Peter then adds to Jim's comment about the sharks. About not /telling/ them, that is. "Who cares BIG SECRET they're sharks and they're carnivores and they need /meat/ so, um. Could I have--" He peers at Masque, now, finally /breaking/ eye-contact with those sausages to launch puppy-dog eyes at him. "--if they don't get meat they might /die/." Gimmegimme. There's a twitch of one of Masque's eyebrows. Jim the Spoilsport gets a look only at that /very/ last word. A heavy sort of look that, while his grin is not completely gone yet, emphasises just how much his eyes are /not/ taking part in this show of entertainment. His voice lowers, taking on a cardboard-dry scratchiness. "Sounds unpleasant." But with Peter seemingly disinterested in said /reciprocation/, he turns his attention to the boy again. Squish. That'd be the sound of a sausage being speared by some fork tines. It rises with a slow angling of his wrist, but only just. Certainly not enough to tell whether its destination is his mouth... or somewhere /else/. Masque just... stares at it. He runs his tongue along crooked teeth in apparent indecision. "There anything else they've been having trouble with?" He asks, out of the kindness of his heart. Maybe. Jim is following Peter's attention, with considerable more blank hardness, to look at the table of mutants this place has been cycling through like toilet paper. They huddle, small or weak or, in the case of a few, wounded and wild-eyed, trying to whisper-share desperate cobbled possible techniques to survive their next fateful match. "-yeah. People're dying." He certainly doesn't sound like it's glorifying; somehow, it has the air of a gruff acquiescence. Which he transforms into a blunt parry, "Torturing yourself's just gonna give you weak spot, though. You got a hell of a soft underbelly, kid. And your god damn desperation is broadcasting where people can fucking kick you." "Ksh." He levels a far /less/ advising stare on Masque - it's likes breaching water into a different more adult level, where the assholes alone dwell. As he chews a hunk of Peter's broccoli off his spork, it's already turning instantly a notable gray-brown as he SUCKS the tiny bit of life out of it. No words. Just /looking/ at him. "...nngh. N--" Peter's response to Jim's assessment consists of a few unusual noises, like he's verbally scrambling to find a /weakness/ in the tree-man's theory. But after a bit of this, he just - jams his fist into his eyesocket and scrubs. "I can't. Just /stop/ caring," Peter says, and it's almost - trembly. Like he would, at the moment, like nothing /else/ but to do this thing. "I gotta -- I'm concentrating on what I can do. The twins -- I can help them --" A flicker, back to Masque, as he /toys/ with that sausage, like he didn't even want it. Peter makes a /whining/ sound, as if he himself were the one starving for MEAT. "...water. They need - plastic tubs, we can fill with water for them. They like to sleep underwater -- are you gonna /eat/ that, or--or--" There isn't much visible effect on Masque in response to Jim's stare. In fact, he just kind of hovers that sausage closer to his mouth, /while/ Peter speaks. Like the boy's whine is better sustenance to him than the food itself might promise to be. "... Oh, really." Though they are words of interest, his posture and tone implies the exact opposite. He's got Peter exactly where he wants and he /knows/ it, not even bothering to look the boy in the eyes ans he speaks. And he could push further, still. Or he could be really cruel and just /eat/ that sausage... which is actually exactly what he does next. All for naught! ... Or maybe not all for /naught/, exactly. Masque's other arm uncurls from around his food to reach his bony fingers for the second sausage, before humourlessly tossing it halfway over the table, toward Peter, reminiscent of how one might throw a treat to a pet. Plonk, roll. G'boy. Jim sits with his jaw propped on his fist still, chewing with his cheek pouched out and a /dreary/ frown. It's like watching a rangy old ally cat torment a little bird. Ripping out its feathers, punching it around to make it hop-flap lopsidedly. Peter cheeps satisfactorily and - well. Plonk. There goes a sausage. This gets, not a look of surprise but something speculative, eyeing Masque from the corner of his eye. His head is turned though to Peter now, "How much water are we talking about. A kiddie pool?" His thumb is tapping against the side of his jaw on some... /thought/. "Not a lot," Peter says, SNATCHING that sausage right up and adding it to the pile. A little - mountain of sausage. Okay, not a /lot/, but certainly more than one serving, at this point. And eggs! And - now he's working on the other bits. The bits he /hasn't/ traded away. Which consists of... potatoes. A few potatoes. He eats them /greedily/, but - he will probably end up getting the twins' potatoes, so. All is well! "They're - no bones, right? Squishy," Peter explains. "So, maybe - the size of what you'd wash your clothes in? Can ask for one of those - to wash our clothes. Maybe two. And the twins, they can - one at a time, maybe - we can /SQUISH/ 'em in there," and this statement is accompanied by, a downward /scoop/ of the spoon, Peter narrowing one eye and popping open the other - maybe imagining this squishing process a bit more /violently/ than you might expect. "Squish, squish. Anyway I'm gonna ask them for two to wash our clothes in, and the twins can - breathe in there for a while." Lips pursed. "...though I guess not when. We're washing clothes in there. But - it's better than /nothing/ right?" Masque keeps himself busy with the food he's got left, which apparently no one but him will get will get /any/ of. He's given away enough food for one morning. He may well be sitting alone at the table now, for all the attention he's giving to eating, less chew and more unmannered /stuffing/, now. Awfully still, awfully quiet. A trained or particularly attentive eye may be able to catch the muscles underneath greasy grey strands of hair on one side of his face and neck twitching in a wince when he leans forward to hunch over what's left of his breakfast. Something Peter says makes him exhale sharply through the nose, but he keeps his head down. Jim looks SLIGHTLY OFF HIS FEED at the crazy poit-eyed expression on Peter's face as he sharksmashes his 'tatos. Kid. /Kid/. "Could work," he eventually extends his spork to /nudge/ Peter's utensils off their violent course. Shh, /eyes over here/, "More versatile a use is, the more likely they'd be to go with it." He's got that 'gruntled face that suggests he's - not surprised but /filing/ information away, studying Peter now as he had Masque not long ago. Huh. It really isn't a bad plan... Why does Jim look at /Masque/ when Peter says 'squish?' You better believe he notices that little muscletwitch. He notices it /intensely/. EATING up every little movement on that twisted face. "Yeah um, I'm hoping... hoping if they give me - when they give me a fight - s'gonna be something I'm gonna - bug them for," Peter says, not resisting as his utensils are intercepted and /shoved/ away from the now violently mashed taters. "Cuz you know, I -- can fight. Just, mmmf. Hope I don't have to fight -" A little glance, then, toward the distant table full of SADS. Or maybe it's hopeful. Peter's probably among the /least/ likely person here to do anyone any serious harm. "...we'll see," Peter mumbles, dejectedly. Then: "Gotta feed 'em, um." He's getting up, gathering his tray, preparing to run off and FEED THE SHARKS. Once again, Masque offers very little that isn't shoveling food down his gullet. Even once that's done, and the tray is shoved forward to let him prop his elbows up and over the surface before him, his interest finds other subjects than those near him. Briefly, the mangled-faced mutant's attention lands on the saddest of all tables, but /other/ tables get far longer glances while one of his hands reaches to try and pick something out from between his teeth with his nails. Agh. When Peter rises, he dips his head and grates distractedly in a direction that is decidedly /not/ Peter, "Tell 'em I said hi." The prospect of /hoping/ for a fight from this kid... Tss. Jim chews hard on his spork again, all he has LEFT without his smokes. "Tell 'em Jim says to hang tight," Jim says on top of Masque's last statement, like he's CUTTING IN LINE. Rubbing his face. "And --." He looks up at the ceiling, the cameras. And shakes his head slowly - no, best to say as little as possible out loud. "Get going. But you /get/ them to talk to you, tell them I got a thing they might wanna hear, yeah?" And, assuming Peter walks away, Jim mutters once he's gone, presumably to Masque but not looking at him... "Like shooting fish in a god damn barrel." Peter blinks at the messages he is supposed to deliver - but quickly nods. And SCURRIES off, leaving the two grumps to their grumping! "Mh. You fought yet?" There's waiting nor subtlety to Masque's question, posed immediately after Peter's departure. The hand previously /picking/ at things in his mouth now lingers in front of his own face as he studies it. Back of his palm first, where there's only a small spot of lighter flesh disrupting his skin, then the other side - where there's more scarring, healed up sort of ugly due to lack of care when it was still a wound. A little wave of his fingers suggests the inner workings are just fine, however, and they return to /picking/ at something in his teeth again soon after. Thumb nail hooked into molars, stretching the corner of his mouth on the bad side of his face out like crumpled rubber. Enngh git outta there. It's probably some piece of nasty gristle or cartilage. The sausages were not likely /quality/ purchases. Jim's own cheek is pouched out on one side where he's jamming his tongue into it. Like he's counting the teeth in his head. Or rooting around for any last scrap of peach with tonguetip. Mmm, "Not yet." He doesn't sound particularly concerned with hit, distracted, watching Masque's scarred hand with one eye more narrowed than the other. It's a slow, absent-minded motion. Hovering one hand over his tray, poking at the thin residue of sauce remaining there. Poke. Nudge. The angle of his hand shields it from the camera - not Masque, but he is sauce-scrawling a series of ... letters. 'dsnt wrk on yself does it'. The one angle it /isn't/ shielded from, incidentally, is Masques. He goes back to chewing on is spork - the plastic all bent out of shape and sticking out of his mouth like a cigar, head turned to watch the Table of the Damned. What a sorry bunch. Masque looks like he's /just/ on the brink of getting whatever's bothering him out of his teeth when--the poking comes to his attention. He abandons his task to peer at the saucemessage. Nothing too obvious. Like he's turned to eye Jim's tray for more /food/. Unfortunately he's not quite so subtle with his answer, though he does lower his voice at least a little - "Now wouldn't /that/ be an interesting fucking turn'a events. Then again, ain't life a bitch." His tone is still largely unassuming and flat, but there's something about the way his hand, now on the table, curls its fingers inward, fingers trailing this way and that on their inch's worth of trip over the surface before being tucked back under his palm. His own attention switches to yet another table, where someone's just gotten a little warning zzap of the collar. It receives what may have been a chuckle had Masque put more effort into it. "Can't help yourself, can you. Pickin' at things." "Who d'you think you're asking," Jim answers dryly, swooping up the remaining sauce on his tray with a thumb and licking it clean - the digit-grooming makes a little /squeaky/ suck-sound. SLURP. "You're one t'talk. You milked that kid like a prize cow." Oh, there's sauce on the outside of his palm as well. Laalgh. Cleaned. "Kid was makin' a mess. All /I/ did was kick a bucket under it." Masque stretches out his legs, leaning back a little stiffly, before lifting a hand to pull the shred of his clothing away from his chest to /peer/ downward at his stitches. They get a bit of a glower as he breathes aall the way in, far as his abused lungs'll go, ribs poking out the sides of all the scrawn. "He better hope he dies soon." "Don't think living is turning up to be all that appealing anyway," Jim tosses down his shredded spork like he's DONE with this nonsense. His tone hasn't actually gone bitter though, just casualFriday, watching Masque. He's right there. It's as close as you're going to get to TV. "How long they give people t'recover before they toss 'em out again?" "/Tch/--" This sound is the lovebaby of a scoff and a chuckle, unwanted and tossed out of by the side of the road through the scowl that takes over Masque's face a second later, "I ain't been here long enough to find out." A pause, as his lungs are sighed mostly empty again. "Think they'd toss me out like this?" His fingers slip off of the fabric so as to allow him to gesture toward himself with both hands, expression only /just/ this side of wryly amused as his attention lands on Jim. And stays there, studying the other man in return for a moment. "Dunno," Jim is looking over the MESS of injuries that is Masque's physique. And... the MESS that is Masque's physique. "Depends on if they want you t'be able to walk out of it a second time." There's no kids around from which to pull punches. Jim scratches at his jaw and - a lot more bark and rough wood crumples off than really should fall from a human body. "Saw the shadowlady wearing your coat. Y'not gonna tell me she nicked it off you while you were bleeding out." Masque's nose wrinkles, and his brow furrows, his eyes steadily aimed towards Jim as that wood comes crumbling down, following it with his eyes. His jaw clenches, easily visible the way his muscles lie almost /directly/ under his skin. But he pulls his legs back in and his face goes awfully /blank/, when Nox is brought up. Something quite /caught off guard/, even if he tries to fight showing its signs, still manages to swat some of the deeper drawn lines off of his face. Yet... by the time that later sentence hits, he's already looking at Jim's face again, part expectant, part annoyed. The shrug he offers is barely even /visible/, as if he can't even be bothered to care enough to show he /doesn't care/. "'Snooze, you lose." He watches Jim's eyes, though. Very closely, this time. No studying the rest of his face, just. Right in there. Jim has impeccable timing for Not Being Helpful. When Masque looks hardest for eye contact, the P.I. is no longer even looking /interested/ in studying the older man. He's got his head dropped back, mouth dropped open stupidly, eyes closed like he's fallen asleep in his seat. And he breathes out, "-we've /all/ been fucking snoozing. I'd trade my left /nut/ for a cigarette right now." Masque's eyes stay right where they are. He's patient. He'll /wait/ for that look back, Jim. He'll wait. It's not a /hard/ sort of look but he'll be damned if he gives it up now, apparently. And with Jim not looking, he's bound to miss the suspiciously out of place /held/ bit of breath, before it's exhaled and continues as normal. "... Think I'd trade both." Boredly, from the sounds of it, with a click of his tongue. 'Here's two nuts, where's my cancer stick.' "Not even been here a week, either." Okay, Masque. Let's play it out like a bad romance movie, then. Jim, head dropped back, his solid neck rough, the tree bark singed-black and dry and looking surface-layer /dead/ under his collar, shakes out his dirty hair - not as dirty as it could be; he's washed it once or twice after a bout of light scrummish boxing - and the tosses his head to keep it from landing across his face, his eye contact finally returning to Masque with the steely weight of a /vapor/ lock, showing possibly at least some of what on his mind with an abrupt, "They do it on film, or in front of an audience?" Finally, someone is asking the right questions. Masque is not a hard person to get information out of, truly, you just gotta ask the questions he /wants/ you to ask. He shifts his weight and pressed a hand against his eye socket where the black eye had been, finding only a painful bruise now that does /not/ get treated very gently. Prod. Jim's eye-lock is returned without pause. "Saw a camera or two, but plenty'a people, lookin' ready for a show. They got a business runnin' this thing and it's runnin' fucking smoothly." He doesn't sound too upset about this. Maybe even a little impressed. "And they got at least two cops out on dog catcher duty," Jim says it with a slight question mark (more than two?) and drums his fingers on the table, fixed on that single cyclopean eye Masque isn't in the process of brutalizing. "So even if anyone's reported missing, they could just take the slip, say they'll get /right/ on that and go have a fucking donu-t-th." Zzp. Someone in the world must be TIRED of hearing donut jokes today. Jim doesn't -- actually flinch terribly hard from it. Maybe all the steady frying of bark has killed off some of the nerve endings. That or he's just racking up electricity hitpoints and has been rolling well to soak. He has a strange, intensely... communicative look about him when he says, blankly, "And s'not like I got anyone that'd come looking for /my/ ass. Not in my field." Though the collar's shock comes to no surprise to Masque, it seems, it doesn't even garner /any/ response. Maybe he's quick to get used to a shitty situation. But... his fingers stop tracing his bruises, in the midst of searching them for /extra/ painful spots, when Jim finishes speaking. And his hand just drops, back onto the table with a dull thud of bony knuckles on hard surface. "Yeah, why ain't I surprised." Then, he rises, if only to look down at Jim for a moment. "I gotta tend to some more /cows/." "Little vaseline goes a long way with the udders," Jim says, rapping his knuckles on the table like he's invoking some sort of offhand good-luck/farewell for Masque's departure. Once Masque stands, he's out of Jim's world - or maybe Jim is just acting like he is. Cupping a hand around his mouth, he falls into - silence. THINKING. One of the few things people can do freely in this shithole. "I'll share my milk, you share yours." Is he saying this to.. his empty tray?