ArchivedLogs:Change of Plans

Change of Plans
Dramatis Personae Shane, Peter
In Absentia	2013-05-08 '
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 isn't long after the breakfast break is concluding when Peter emerges - on the ceiling. Having scampered, rather quickly, out of sight; he clambors, then - along the walls - very /quietly/. Very /sneakily/. And very /reluctantly/. At the moment, he's still clad in the same 'TEACH THE CONTROVERSY' t-shirt he's been wearing; stained with blood, sweat, and with multiple rips; along with that, he has his semi-torn dress-slacks on - his two-toed socks - and his hair is dirty and grungy, by this point. He has /yet/ to take a sponge-bath since he has arrived here; it /might/ be starting to make him - stink. Just a little bit. He clambors, ever so slowly, along the wall outside of Trib's cell - scuttling like a spider. Scuttle, scuttle. He has an -- apprehensive -- look on his face. Occasionally glancing this way and that to see if anyone's noticed. It takes a while, really, before someone notices. But eventually someone /does/. This is evident from the sudden -- strong -- zzzzzzzp that buzzes at Peter's collar. ZAP. "NGH." That is. Yes. Peter forgot. They do not like. Peter /crawling/ on the walls. He sometimes forgets. Which is why, now, Peter is proceeding to /drop/ down to the ground, briefly - resisting the urge to /grab/ at his collar, biting down sharply and locking his teeth, squeezing at the wall. Okay. No /wall-crawling/. So, instead, he just - slumps his shoulders and /walks/ to the cell. Maybe it was the zap maybe the ngh, who knows, but someone /else's/ attention has been attracted by Peter's shenanigans. /This/ is evident because there is a tiny blue /shark/ not so much creeping as sauntering up behind Peter. To clap a hand on his shoulder. It's not a hard squeeze, but it's a squeeze. "I heard," he says to Peter, "that the mattresses in that cell are all lumpy and uncomfortable. Plus, the dude who lives here? /Shitty/ table manners. You belong somewhere with more class." Peter's shoulder stiffens underneath Shane's hand; Peter goes rigid, before - sliding back into a slump. He turns his head, then, looking back to Shane - frowning. /Flushing/. There are - many different emotions there, all mingling into a soupy pot of /confused/, all struggling with one another for dominance. Fear mixed with worry are finally what manage to bubble out: "...Shane, if you two... I couldn't -- if you die what am I going to tell him?" Peter doesn't say who 'him' is, at least. But for a moment, he came precariously close - his lips threatening to form a 'J' before they switched to an 'H'. "I won't /survive/ in here -- if you guys don't. I -- don't care. About anything, besides..." His throat constricts. He /isn't/ taking any more steps toward the cell, though. It's pretty obvious he doesn't want to. "Worse things than dying," Shane says, and his hand doesn't move. Gently kind of tugging back, as his head jerks over across the room towards the cell /he's/ been in. There's a zzzzp, and his grip stiffens -- doesn't drop, though. "C'mere." He speaks through his teeth, likely because of that zap, but his voice is oddly soft for him, shed of its base-level harsh to leave it just quiet. Peter just kind of - gives up. There isn't really much fight in him to /begin/ with; Shane tugging on him - that zzap he gets - the tone of his voice - it's enough to break Peter in a way this place /hasn't/, yet. He turns away, just swaying a little. Eyes wet. A hand on Shane's shoulder. "M'sorry," he says, followed by: "I'll -- think of -- I'll find some way. We'll find some way. I'm sor--" zzzzp. "Nngh. Sorry." Slump, follow. Shane drops his hand, from Peter's shoulder to wrist to tug. Tug! But then he just walks, heading -- not actually to the cell he came from, just the first empty bunk he finds on the other side of the room. "Look, this is -- comesit. I gotta tell you something, OK? And don't, like, get /sad/ face or freak out or cry or anything cuz it's not that kind of story." "...okay," Peter agrees, and - he seems to actually perk /up/ a little; like - is this story time? But he's also - steadily pulling himself back together. Jamming a fist in his eye, dropping down to sit on the bunker. Rubbing. Mumbling a little as he tries to put himself back together. "Okay," he repeats, managing to fortify himself. Shane takes a seat on the bunk, too; not right next to Peter but close enough, turning to face him with one leg tucked up onto the mattress. He watches this pulling-together with a slight furrow of his brow, but then! Maybe it is storytime. Shane's not really /good/ at story time, though, so it's kind of bland and kind of brusque: "Bastian and I, we've been like this since we were born, you know? And our folks -- our /blood/ ones -- they freaked the fuck out and pretty much just shut us in cages till they could sell us. To /more/ cages. Kinda grew up thinking that was normal, y'know? Sometimes people beat you. Sometimes they tell you to hurt someone just to see how bad you /can/. Sometimes they cut /you/ open just to see what happens." It's totally CHEERY STORYTIME apparently. "It was shitty and we didn't even know it was shitty cuz that's just how you treat things like us. Except. Then. Pa showed up. And the others. And they were like man, woah, this is shitty." That may not be a /direct/ Jackson quote. "And they broke us the fuck /out/." Here there's a buzz. Zzzzp. Shane's fingers curl against his knee. "And they'll break us the (zzzp) fuck out again because these assholes? (zzzp) We're stronger than them. And it's not (zzzzzzzzp) because you climb walls or I can take a chunk out of them with my teeth. It's because they're /fucking stupid enough/ to treat us like we're /animals/." Shane quiets, here. Possibly because of a last lingering zzzzzzzzzzp that stiffens him, sends him curling kind of forward to hunch over on himself, rest his forehead on the mattress by Peter's thigh. The buzzing stops. He uncurls to just lie there -- kind of absurdly with a /grin/ on his face, sharp and bright. Peter listens. And when Shane gets to the part about breaking out - Peter /brightens/. And when Shane gets /shocked/, Peter /stiffens/. And then he goes on, and Peter /brightens/; and then he gets shocked, and Peter /stiffens/. But, eventually, the brightness wins out; even when Shane goes down - because Peter is reaching down to /grab/ him, try and pull him over and /hug/ him (zzzzp) for a moment, whispering with sudden /fierceness/ - barely audible - and barely restrained: "I know, Shane. I know they're coming I /know/ I knew it when I first saw you both I just, we just, need to keep everyone /alive/ till then and I haven't told /anyone/ I didn't even want to say it aloud because what if they can /hear/ this but it doesn't matter even if they /can/ hear this it won't /stop them/ from coming /nothing/ will." Zzzzp. Zzzzp. Zzzzp. This time, the zaps probably aren't for talking, but because of the /hugging/; Peter releases, pained and /twitching/ a little, but - not /sad/. Pained, but happy. "I will - meat. We'll - I'll talk to the others. If they give us treats," he whispers, now, "we'll ask for meat, and--" Zzzzp. RRRRGH. Peter pulls back, /glaring/ at the camera a moment - but then, settling. Who knows what the zaps are for. Zaps are erraticzaps at the discretion of the zapper. Sometimes talking. Sometimes hugging. Sometimes neither. Shane doesn't seem to care, much, curling his arms around Peter in return and squeezing him tight, zaps and all. He doesn't really pull /back/ when Peter lets go; he waits (twitchily) for the pain to subdue and then returns to lying. With his head kind of /on/ Peter's lap this time rather than beside it. "This doesn't make it better," he says, not whispering, just talking now; no zaps are forthcoming, perhaps he is not being subversive /enough/: "But people can live through a whole fucking lot. Can /get/ through a whole fucking lot." It might /be/ the not whispering that is helping with the Not Zapping; despite the closeness Shane's voice (and hands) are /monitorable/. Also the not-talking-of-escape. Just: "And you'll -- we'll -- get through this, yeah?" Post-zap-orgy, Peter's left - a little hollow, a little frenetic, with a sort of dazed, manic happiness. When Shane lays his head on Peter's lap, Peter - hesitantly, at first! - reaches to touch spikey hairs. When - if! - he finds them not bristling, he tries to stroke them - running his fingers across them, as if attempting to comb them back. "Yeah," Peter responds, with that tired, smokey /huff/, as if his insides have been burnt to a pleasant crisp. "We - yes. We'll... get through." "Good." Shane's eyes close. His head turns, slightly, pressing just a little bit up into that touch. His hairs are -- kind of almost plasticky in feel, a little hard, a little poky; they smooth back when combed but immediately afterwards return to their spikey mess. Despite his words his eyes are kind of a little too-bright, glistening when he opens them again. "And you won't go near that guy?" He doesn't say which guy, but his face screws up into a Not Pleased expression. "He won't -- you shouldn't -- I mean, that's a /shitty/ way to lose -- you should be with --" His eyes close again, a brief tight squeeze. "People are /shitty/. I don't want them being shitty at /you/." Peter continues combing, fingers carefully avoiding the pokiest spots - but even when he doesn't, there's just a sharp, pleasant little scrape - scarcely able to penetrate his smooth, splotched fingers. He drags his fingers deeper - as deep as he can go - trying to reach the scalp, risking the sharp edges against his palm. At the mention of 'that guy', Peter's skin flushes with heat, faint little spots of pink rising up beneath a sprawling network of glazed black and metallic blue. "N-no," Peter agrees, meekly. Then: "I will. I... just kind of... panicked. I -- we have some time, before it gets... /really/ bad, right? We have a day or two to find other ways - to get you what you need. You... um, probably. Stopped me from doing something really stu--thank you," he just finishes with that, breathless and wheezy. The squeeze of Shane's eyes relaxes, at this combing; they don't open again but his expression eases from scrunch into calm. Idly, his hand lifts, finding Peter's other hand and just -- resting there, fingers tracing lightly against soft pink skin and harder blue-black chitin. "We have --" He hesitates, gills -- kind of fluttering. Not really. Kind of just /quivering/ but not managing, quite, to open. "We'll work it out. Bastian and I have lived through a whole lot. And it's -- I'll --" Another pause, with a slow swallow. His eyes open. His hand moves again, this time to the side of Peter's face. He stays well away from the collar, he has learned at least /that/ much. "Just don't do anything you'll regret, OK? I have exactly zero plans of dying here. And /less/ than zero of letting anything happen to you or Bastian, either." Peter's hand clenches and unclenches under Shane's; when he moves that hand to Peter's face, he presses his cheek against it, scraping chitin and skin intermittently; smooth and hard, then smooth and soft, then smooth and hard. Peter's other hand reaches to touch the back of Shane's wrist, pressing it there - still flushed with color. "Okay," Peter agrees, his opposite hand continuing to flex - dragging - /scraping/ Shane's scalp with his fingertips. "I... um. Shane I..." Almost out of reflex, Peter's head bobs down, suddenly - lips just /pecking/ at Shane's cheek. "Ishouldgo," Peter whispers in the next instant, /squeezing/ Shane's hand at his cheek, as if bewildered at what he just did. "TalktoSloan. About. About. Treats." Shane's fingers press, light against skin and a little more firmly against chitin. His eyes widen, slightly, at the peck, his posture curling inwards, a little bit more towards Peter. He doesn't move his hand, when it's squeezed, just resting still against Peter's cheek. "Okay," when he says this first it's in a very soft voice, quiet and a little shaky, a little rough. It's louder, steadier, after he draws in another breath. "Okay." His thumb brushes once more, resting over smooth-hard metallic-sheeny black. His quick smile is a little crooked. "Really is pretty -- pretty, you know." He is slow to push himself upright, so that Peter can have his /lap/ back. When Shane rises off of his lap - when he continues to stroke his thumb across that sheen of oil-like black -- Peter's blush /refuses/ to disappear; when Shane mentions that it is -- pretty pretty -- something flickers into Peter's eyes. And then: "I... nngh," and suddenly he does it /again/ -- this time aiming for Shane's lips -- less brief, but still /quick/, scarcely more than a peck -- before producing a strangled, confused sound and -- stumbling up to his feet. "Ineedtogo," he repeats, breathing heavily, flustered, and: "Willtalktoyoulater/please/don'tdie." And then - Peter is /darting/, very quickly, out of the room. Back to Sloan's room. Looking like he may very well /die/ of embarassment. It's small, and quick, and Shane's hand doesn't move through it, freezing in place cupped against Peter's face. When Peter gets to his feet, Shane's hand drops to the mattress, and if the other boy looks embarassed he just looks -- a little wide-eyed, a faint flush creeping up his neck. But there's a smile on his face, small and warm. "-- See you at lunch." It's all he says. For a moment his (kind of chapped) knuckles press to (kind of chapped) lips, and then, with another glance at Peter, he slips back into his own cage before they're all locked in once more.