ArchivedLogs:Meat

Meat
Dramatis Personae Trib, Peter
In Absentia	2013-05-06 '
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. Ohmygod training. It's one of the few times Peter gets out of that cage; thank /goodness/, too, because when he's not sleeping (or getting shocked), he's bouncing off the goddamn walls. After mealtime, Peter settles down on one of the tables and watches a group of mutants sparring in the time they're given before it's back to the cages. The boy's clad in his black tattered hoodie, dress slacks, and two-toed socks; those blotches all over his face have gotten a little /bigger/ since Trib last saw them. Peter's currently frowning, occasionally - very gingerly - tugging at his collar. Knees up, hands dangling down. Perched like a frog. Trib is very much at home, in this little gladiator gulag. He prowls along the perimeter of the training area, watching as two newer arrivals circle each other uncertainly. It's hard to tell what he's thinking about the face-off, with the muzzle covering the lower half of his face, but he does not look pleased. But then, he rarely looks /pleased/. His golden eyes snap up, suddenly, landing on the perched superhero, and there's a thoughtful narrowing before he walks /across/ the sparring area, shoving the two mutants apart and ignoring the pulse of electricity it earns him beyond a pause, and a tightening of the muscles in his neck. The shocking does not seem to have improved his disposition, and he lands in front of the kid, leaning down and giving him a hard LOOK. "Keep fucking with that thing, and they'll cap your ass." It /might/ be advice. Or prophecy. Peter -- hops back. Several times. In rapid progression. /Really/ fast. Just, hop hop hop, and suddenly he's on the /opposite/ end of that table, peering at Trib from a looooong way down. The hands do immediately drop away from his collar, though. Peter mutters: "Yeah I - figure. Just, um. It itches," he complains, rather mildly, frowning at Trib as he closes in. Teetering on that edge, now. The kid's like a little bouncy rubber ball. Trib's expression darkens as Peter hops away, and there's a sound of teeth grinding. An actual sound. Like a rock tumbler on a slow spin. Then he begins following the kid, in a slow advance. "Kid," is pitched low and dangerous-sounding. "Don't fuckin' run from me." Closer and closer. "I ain't gonna /hurt/ ya." A small snort. "Not 'til they tell me to, anyway." Peter pauses, still teetering on that edge. When Trib comes toward him, he /doesn't/ jump away; he just - rocks. Back and forth. His hands now shift to /grip/ the table beneath him; his eyebrows crumble down into a sharp, perplexed 'V'. "...okay," Peter says, followed by: "...have you ever killed anybody here." BAM. Straight shot, lay it right out there. Maybe he's going to ask him if he knows how to make a shiv, next. Trib watches the kid rock, and his eyes narrow tightly at the question. "Yes." He tilts his head to one side, and watches Peter appraisingly. "You ever fought for your life?" He might be asking if he's ever gone roller-blading, the query is so casual. "Yeah," Peter mumbles, but he doesn't sound /proud/ of it. Then, he promptly goes right back on what he said and corrects himself: "No, I've /run/ for my life. I mean - I've never - actually knocked anyone /out/. I've gotten stabbed like three times, though. I caught a knife, once," Peter adds, just an edge of excitement there. "Like, this dude threw a knife at me? And I was like - NOPE!" Peter swats his hand in the air, as if to mimic this gesture. Trib listens, and it's hard to tell what he thinks of the stories. His eyes remain bland and uninvested. "You've never been in an actual fight." It's almost flat, except there's a bit of dumbfoundedness around the edges. "There ain't no place to run in that ring, kid." His gaze turns speculative, and skips off to one side. "Heard you talkin' to some of the new meat, earlier." "Dude, I--" Peter /sounds/ like he's charging up to give Trib a bit of the business, but - then - he doesn't. Does he realize Trib is right? Or...? "...yeah," Peter says, in response to Trib's question, making a big stink about suddenly staring /away/ from him. That 'V' on his brow still very strongly pronounced. "So?" "You're a fucking moron, kid." This is a fact. You can tell by the way the big man folds his arms across his chest, clearly unintimidated by teenager puffing-ups. "You're gonna get one of the bunch of you killed." "What. What?" Peter /blinks/. Frowning. And /perking/, suddenly. He looks - worried. Afraid, even. As he leans toward Trib, his interest spiking into the stratosphere. "What did I--what are you talking about did I tell them something that's going to get them /killed/?!" "Kid, where do you think you /are/?" Trib's brow furrows, now, in an echo of Peter's V. "You don't want to have /friends/, here. You start actin' chummy with someone, these sick fucks will put the two of you in a ring with only one of you comin' out." He grunts. "You think the bitch Sloan is your friend just 'cause she don't scare you the way I do?" He leans forward, lifting his eyebrows as he PUSHES his muzzle at Peter's face. It does not smell nice. Like the metal has somehow spoiled. "She'll tear your throat out in two minutes flat, if the guys holding the leash tell her to. Just like me. Just like that fuckin' pansy, Aiden...ain't nobody here tryin' to be your friend." He straightens back up, raising a hand in a peace sign for the cameras. "Sooner you learn that, the easier it'll be when the time comes." When Trib shoves his face toward Peter's, Peter backs off - his squeeze on the edge of that table intensifying. There is, perhaps, the faintest sound of something /creaking/ underneath his fingers... as his body /archs/ back. So far back that the kid honestly should probably be tumbling down - but he doesn't. As if his hands were magnetically /sealed/ to the table beneath him. Eyes wide; shoulders tense. Body rigid. OhGod. "...your breath stinks," Peter informs him, quietly - /after/ he's done explaining the situation to him. But then: "I know. That - I mean, I know that you would... that /she/ would..." Peter /squirms/; despite Trib's proximity, he refuses to make eye contact - his eyebrows mash together in a pained expression. Dropping to the floor. "...that doesn't mean... I'm - not gonna stop trying to - you aren't the /bad/ guys," Peter finally manages, his voice verging on a squeak. "I'll put a toothbrush on my fuckin' grocery list," Trib says, rolling his eyes. Then there's something sad that flickers through that intent stare. "There ain't no bad /or/ good guys in these cages, kid. Only meat." "Not meat," and /there's/ that squeak that Peter was on the verge of, now. "I don't - look I know it's terrible in here and you might /kill/ me or something but, but, I don't hate you, and you're not - meat and I'm not - meat and - and this whole thing is terrible," and now one of Peter's hands leave the table - and yet he remains arched back, supporting himself just on one arm - as he gestures toward the camera, "but when you say we're /meat/ yousoundlike/them/." That last bit rushed out all in one breath. Trib is quiet a long moment after Peter's breath runs out, his brow lowered over his eyes in either thought or anger. "Kid, you got a lot of heart." This does not sound like a compliment. He reaches up to rub a finger under a muzzle strap, and pulls at the skin under one eye. "They're gonna break you /hard/." Then he's leaning forward again. Or maybe it's more. "And I might sound like those bastards, but at least I ain't foolin' myself." He JABS a finger at Peter's chest. "Meat." Then at his own. "Meat." Then picking out mutants in the sparring area, one by one. "Meat, meat, meat. We all get out of here the same way. You start seein' /people/, you'll never be able to do what you gotta." Peter /drops/. His hand releases the table; his head goes down - for a second, it looks like he's going to get seriously hurt. But within that tightly confined space, he /rolls/ - legs flipping over his head in a blur before socks /smack/ on top of the floor. And then he hops out of the crouch he's landed in, back on his feet. Just, frowning at Trib. "You're wrong." Lacking a more elegant retort, Peter instead just... stares at his socks. And turns, heading back to his cell. Trib watches him go, one eyebrow raised slightly. He's silent as he watches the defeated-looking teen walk away, his eyes crinkling briefly. "Huh," he chuffs, and shakes his head. Then he's wandering back to the sparring, glancing back at Peter only once.