ArchivedLogs:Thorns

Thorns
Dramatis Personae Daken, Regan
In Absentia	2015-05-08 (Set shortly after garden scene.)
Location <BOM> Training Center - Main Lodge - Ascension Island
Down a short flight of stairs off of the common room, this room is a departure from the homier stone and wood upstairs. Its bare concrete walls are clearly basementy in feel, though its floor has been refurbished in gleaming synthetic flooring marked out like a basketball court. This spacious gymnasium includes a variety of punching bags -- of several compositions (for normal strength mutants or mutants on the high end of the spectrum) -- a boxing ring, a wall for climbing, several lengths of rope, and many, many training dummies for people to practice their powers on. Someone's dressed up one of the training dummies as a police officer, and scrawled a dopey smiley face on it; the sign on his chest declares him to be 'OFFICER SHITS-HIS-PANTS'. Officer Shits-His-Pants has seen better days; by the look of him, he's been set on fire and lost at least one of his limbs. In the back room is more training equipment -- everything from boxing gloves, medical tape, sports equipment, and even some unusual customized equipment for the more 'physical' mutants. The infirmary door stands near the stairway leading back up. It hasn't been too long since Daken was dropped on his head, the blood has been cleaned off of his face and arm and he's found a seat on one of the weight benches. He's lost his shirt somewhere between the upstairs bathroom and here, as well as all the hair from his head. Regan's wedge sandals clack on the stairs as she trots down them, quickly. She is not dressed for training -- summery, in strappy sandals, strappy tank top, a gauzy-light red skirt. She heads over near the weight benches, stopping a few feet shy of Daken's bench with hands clasping behind her back. "You shaved your head." Perhaps a question. Perhaps just an observation. "I did." Daken confirms, pressing his hands into his face. "Suppose I'm in trouble for getting attacked." he asks, brow raising as his hands lower. A small twitch pulls at the corner of Regan's mouth. "And you were perfectly innocent, I'm sure, yes? Just standing by calmly and there was no possible reason whatsoever for anyone to be upset?" "I mentioned getting yelled at by somebody I didn't even know they knew." Daken explains. "And then they thought I was stalking a student, just like the person that yelled at me did. Because I've made that impression already, when the actuality of the situation is I mentioned speaking to that student to both people. Not stalking him, paid him off. And now it's safe to assume that he's been contacted, told to steer clear of me, and I lost a two-hundred dollar investment." "Have you considered the possibility," Regan wonders mildly, "that when every single person around you consistently -- ah, /misinterprets/ you, the problem is not with all of their interpretations." "Never said it was their fault. I've made an ass of myself more times than I can count here. It's hard adjusting from being on my own to having a family. And even harder when you make yourself the black sheep right away." Daken lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I was taking care of the birds, big enough to eat now. My birthday is Monday, was asking if they were free so I could throw them a party. Ended up with a broken mod, a chunk taken out of my arm, and being dropped on my head. If I didn't have my healing factor, I'd be dead now." He finally focuses on Regan. "Why you're here, right? I'm a thorn in the flowerbed. And thorns need to be cut out." "Dropped on your head? The way Dusk tells it, he went up to try and make sure you /didn't/ get dropped and you punched him in the face. I can forgive the reflex." Regan's voice is somewhat dry, here. "Do you do much gardening? You don't prune the thorns. Only the weeds." There are climbing vines starting to creep up over the weight bench, sharp and thorny but full of brilliant richly coloured blooms. Regan steps closer, fingertips curling outward to cup one of the flowers. "It /is/ hard, learning to be part of a family. But we all have to do it. The thorns are here to protect the blossoms, not shred them. Maybe that's the part you still need to learn." "Forgive me for not knowing that's what he was there to do. Damn near fractured my wrist. And no, I don't do much gardening. It's usually my job to remove the flowers." Daken exhales through his nose, "I figure before you make your choice, you should know my name. Akihiro. I suppose you can't pick my brain, or I'd offer you a look. Words only convey so much." "My choice? What choice do you imagine that is?" The vines are twining closer along the bench, creeping nearer to Daken. "I certainly could pick your brain. If I chose." Regan looks up from the flower, and over to Daken. "But most people cannot. So I suggest you learn to use your words more judiciously. You're alienating a lot of people with them. People who /should/ be your family." Daken offers a flourish then half bow. "Then feel free to. If you're going to kill me, I want you to know why I am the way I am." He simply crosses his arms over his chest, making no move to resist or argue his point further. "This is where you're misunderstanding me." The vines climb up over Daken's limbs, now, sharp thorns digging into flesh as they wrap tightly around to bind him to the bench. "Every last person on this island has their shit to deal with, Daken. And every last one of us /deals/ with it enough to work together and have each other's backs." The thorns on the illusionary vine have turned sharper, serrated, hooking in like claws. "I couldn't care less why you are the way you are. What I care about is that you stop looking to your past for excuses and start /behaving/ like a member of this family." For all this, silently, Regan's mind /is/ prying into Dakens, slipping in even as she speaks to poke into his thoughts. But aloud what she says is: "Are you understanding me?" "What I was trying today. It's not easy, you know? Going from thinking you have everything understood, to realizing you don't." Daken winces a bit, starting to bleed from his pores where the thorns have found their way inside him. His thoughts are erratic, almost like his life is flashing before his eyes. Children tormenting him for not being completely Japanese, eavesdropping on his adoptive mother reveal her revulsion towards him, smothering her child, then accidentally killing her and watching his adoptive father commit suicide. Things speed up noticeably from there, daily training and beatings. Killing the people he was training with, the instructor almost killing him before intervention from another feral looking mutant, then more training and beatings. "But, I understand. It's different here, I'm not just looking out for myself anymore." Regan's cool blue eyes meet Daken's steadily. Kind of impassive as the thorns dig into him; kind of impassive as her mind flits over the memories she sees in his. "It's different here," she finally agrees, quietly. "You're not just looking out for yourself anymore." Slowly the vines start to pull back -- and this is where the illusion shows through more clearly, wounds that /should/ be healing over in an instant continuing to seep blood even after the thorny plants have pulled back. "Which goes both ways, you know. You likely aren't used to having other people to look out for. Or -- having other people looking out for you." "I'm not. For a while it was just kill and wait. And I fear it'll be that way again when the Master returns." Daken frowns a bit, sharp canine worrying his bottom lip as he studies his injuries. Regan's head tilts to one side. "The Master?" "The one that took me to my adoptive parents after my mother was killed, and then took me in after they died. Ensured I was trained, and kept a roof over my head." Daken explains quietly, almost fearfully. "He's like Logan and Victor, but different. Older, more powerful. He may as well ride the white horse, because he is death." "And you think he would come here?" Regan's brows lift. "Has he followed you before?" One of her hands turns up, slightly. "Do you think if he /did/ follow you here, he would be able to take on all of us?" "He wouldn't come alone. But I doubt we have to worry about him, his hands are in operations spanning from Russia to Canada. I'm not important enough for him to come calling yet." Daken assures Regan. "And, he has no need to follow me. If he summons me, I'll answer. I know what happens if I don't." "Mmm." The illusion drops, the myriad cuts on Daken's skin not so much /healing/ up as simply vanishing, never there to begin with. "I suppose it is good to know where your loyalties lie." There's not much tone to Regan's voice past a low pensiveness. "I still suggest you worry less about your past and more about keeping the trust of the family you have here now. If other entanglements do come calling -- we can deal with those when they happen." Daken kind of grunts, sending an image Regan's way. It's simply a man strung up, being whipped with a rope soaked in gasoline. "Don't think I haven't tried to get away from it. I have, he always ensures I make it back in the end. Less painful for everyone involved that way." With that he heads for the stairs, "I need to clean the blood off of me. Again. Take care." Regan just nods, quiet as she watches Daken depart.