Logs:Not That Terrifying

Not That Terrifying
Dramatis Personae Anole, Bruce
In Absentia	2019-05-29 "Getting home is going to be /interesting/."
Location MOR - Welcome to the Freakshow
Wider and more spacious than many of the surrounding nooks and niches, this chill cavern is the central hub of the Morlock's underground network. With tunnels branching off in many directions, it takes a while to learn to /navigate/ from here to where you want to go, but there's generally plenty of more experienced people around to teach newcomers the ins and outs of the pathways. Here, though, is a safe place to come and relax, for what value of relaxation can be found among moss-covered walls and the occasional stagnant puddles on the floor. There's been furniture brought in, a mismatched assortment of crates, mattresses with busted springs, a few broken and subsequently repaired chairs, a folding table in a corner. Shelves along a wall hold entertainment; books, a smattering of board and card games, sometimes snacks. There's even electricity, wiring none too safe and visible in places where the wall has been broken open; the naked light bulbs flicker often and the lone outlet has had so many power strips attached it is undoubtedly a fire hazard. It's mid-day, and many of the tunnels' usual denizens are out and about, enjoying the lovely spring weather in New York Above. Two of the larger mattresses in this expansive space have been pushed together in a corner as a luxurious bed for...evidently a heap of cardboard and blankets? A heap of cardboard and blankets that, upon closer observation, breathes deep and slow. At least, it had been doing so, until a sudden jolt of movement shudders through it and a cry of alarm issues from within, followed by shuffling and scrambling and other noises indicating terror and confusion. There's a skittering movement against the wall at the cry of alarm. It's indistinct, hard to make out, a strange shifting blur against the dingy damp grey stone. Eventually, part of the wall blinks wide stony eyes. Then speaks. "... are you hurt?" The shuffling beneath the cardboard stills for a moment. "H-hello?" a soft baritone voice calls out, brimming with barely contained fear. "I don't know." But then, after a pause. "I--don't /think/ so?" Finally, whoever is under the heap manages to struggle out from beneath the complicated covers. The middle-aged white man looks fairly fit and fairly unharmed as he squints into the gloom, naked from the waist up, at least--below he is still mostly buried in cardboard and tattered cloth. "Where am I? Where are /you?/" He's starting to sound panicked all over again. "Oh no, oh no, did I /hurt/ someone? What happened?" "Uh, nope. Taylor says you helped him out with some racist jerkfaces who were trying to punch him?" the wall sounds /kind/ of skeptical of this. Skitter skitter. The stone shifts again, large grey-rock eyes coming just a little closer. Dubiously. "Buuut he also said you were green so /I/ don't know how much I trust Taylor's judgment right now. He does pretty good punching all on his own and I don't know why he'd need /you/ to help him. You don't /look/ green." "'Helped' him? Did /I/ punch them?" The man sounds quite horrified by this. "Did they /survive? Oh, no..." He buries his face in his hands and deliberately slows his breathing. "Sorry, I'm sorry, this is just--" Another deep breath, in and out. "I don't really remember. When that happens to me. Would you mind coming where I can see you?" This requested timidly, as he looks around. "I don't know. I wasn't there. But honestly, it sounds like they /really/ deserved punching anyway, they were trying to beat him up. They /didn't/ beat him up, though. Which is good, Taylor's /basically/ the best person. I mean, except for maybe Marrow, or Nick, or Shane, or B, or Peter, or Mr. Jax, or --" Anole catches himself here -- peels away from the wall to flip neatly out and away. Over Bruce's heap, turning an evidently effortless somersault in the air to land in a crouch on the other side of the mattresses. The rocky grey colour slowly melts away, leaving a very green reptilian youth, barefoot in tattered once-black now-grey cutoff jean shorts and a faded blue Cookie Monster t-shirt (Me Hungry! Cookie Monster is proclaiming.) "Can you turn green again?" Anole is peering curiously toward Bruce. "It's a pretty good color, I think." "I...vaguely remember them, I think?" He drops his hand away from his face. "Taylor is the um...very dark skinned young man? With the uh...pseudopodia?" His brows scrunch together tight. "Th--they /did/ hurt him. His blood was blue..." One of his hands goes back to his face, scrubs against the coarse dark stubble on his cheek. When Anole appears he yelps and scrambles back, gathering scraps of blanket to his naked torso as his breathing speeds up. "No! I mean--yes. I /can/, but it's not--I don't--" He tries to regulate his breath again, with great difficulty. "You don't want that. I might try to hurt you. I might hurt you by /accident!/" Anole's eyes open wider when Bruce /spooks/, and for a moment he skitters back against the corner wall. Starts to fade into grey again. But just a moment. He settles down shortly after, sitting back in a crouch, back against the wall and his skin shifting back to green. "Hey. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? And /no/, Taylor has like a /million/ arms and they're /excellent/. He has these /wicked/ great tentacles they're about a million feet long but --" Anole scowls at the ground, briefly. "Someone blew him up so he doesn't have them right /now/. But they're not /psuedo/ they're just -- hurt. Growing. /Re/growing. They'll be arms again. It's just tough for him right now. Especially when people try to punch him while he's --" He waves a hand in the air. "Unarmed. Why would you hurt me?" Anole's matter-of-fact assurance actually seems to calm Bruce a bit. "/Arms?/" he echoes, looking rather pole-axed. "Really? I'm having a difficult time...imagining how they connect..." He shakes his head. "I-I'm sorry for calling them the wrong name, they just looked--" Breaking off, he stares at Anole. "Someone /blew him up/? That--that's awful." His head shakes /again/, more emphatically. "I wouldn't hurt you on purpose, but when I turn green like that, and big? I black out, and behave very impulsively, and cannot...control my reactions. It's awful, and /dangerous./" He shudders, drawing the tattered blankets close. "I'm glad I didn't hurt /Taylor/." "I guess with tendons like most muscles do?" Anole shrugs, flexing his own arm in thoughtful demonstration. "I haven't -- tried dissecting him to check or anything." Frown. "And yeah it's /totally/ awful. You know Ryan Black? Taylor was dancing like. At his show! And someone blew the whole /thing/ up it was /terrifying/. And he lost all his arms. I'm just glad he didn't die." He curls one arm around his knees, resting his chin atop them. "Taylor didn't seem scared of you. When you were green I mean. He just brought you home and put you to sleep and said you helped him and you were sleeping and if you woke up I should -- oh! Oh do you need food? I'm supposed to get you food /sorry/! He had to go to work. Like a real /job/ work kind of work." "Well--yes, but what about the /bones/? And they grow /back!/" Bruce still sounds rather bewilderd. "Not that you--or he--owe me any explanations about how his body works. I have no idea /at all/ how I can turn into a giant green...person." He's trying to wrap the chewed up blanket around his waist without dislodging the cardboard currently responsible for maintaining his modesty. But then stops. "Ryan Black? Yes, I--the Met Gala bombing. Taylor is one of the survivors, then. That--that must have been terrifying. Worse than terrifying." He shudders. "I'm...glad I didn't hurt him." Right on cue, his stomach gurgles loudly, and he winces. "Oh, yes, I um...should probably. Eat. Should probably go back--my friend will be very worried." Frown. "...When he /notices/ I'm gone." "No, no bones, they're tentacles. I still don't know why you're so stuck on hurting him, you just helped him. And then came back here and you didn't hurt /anyone/ here. You could've hurt any of us but you didn't. I think you're being kind of hard on yourself." Anole gets up -- not /exactly/ getting to his feet, just sort of backing up the wall, scooting alongside it somewhere around what /would/ be his standing head-height to clamber over to the adjacent wall. "Like getting blown up by terrorists when he just wanted to dance, that was probably terrifying! Lots of times I go out around people and they try to hurt me when I'm just /living/, that's terrifying! You just tried to stop him from getting hurt, then come down here and sleep and chill with us? Not really terrifying! Come on, let's get you -- uhh, did you want a shirt? Maybe we have a shirt. Anyway, where /do/ you live? I'll have to show you the way out. And a food. I have some chips and slim jims /and/," Anole is confiding this like it's a /special/ treat, "/twinkies/." Bruce opens his mouth, but seems to come up short. "Huh," he says. "I--well." He cocks his head, brows knitted. "I guess...I hadn't really thought of it that way." He rubs his palm over his stubbly chin. "I suppose it feels terrifying to /me/...because of the blacking out, mainly." He studies Anole as the boy moves back to the wall. "Possibly also because most /other/ people find giant green men terrifying and uh...that doesn't go anywhere good, generally. But. Obviously not /all/ other people." He finally secures the torn blanket around his waist and dares to stand up. "I would very much appreciate a shirt, if you can spare one. And chips--are great!" The /comment/ sounds rather forced, but his smile is real--likewise the continued gurgling of his stomach. "I live in Midtown East..." He trails off, looks down at his attire, if it can even be dignified with that term. "Getting home is going to be /interesting/."