Logs:We Could Be Heroes
| We Could Be Heroes | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2023-07-24 You wanted to be a hero. |
| Location
<PRO> Leonidas and | |
The staff calls them "rooms", but they're prison cells. This used to be a standard one, small though not claustrophobic, and the door with its single narrow reinforced glass window locks from the outside. Two of the walls are off-white and the floor is the same multi-gray linoleum that plagues the rest of the facility, at least the parts the subjects get to see -- the third is a crumbling, very dangerous-looking concrete-and-rebar mess exposing the cell next door, and the fourth has a very nice window punched out of it, with a lovely view of the ugly hallways. There are four small desks with attached shelves, four twin XL beds, and two stainless steel sink/toilet combos. The inset overhead lights are cool white LEDs that make everything look kind of sterile and washed out, and are controlled by the staff from outside. Perfect for sleepovers. There have been a lot of changes at Lassiter in the last thirty-six hours, but the one Roscoe is mourning the most is probably still being moved out of his old cell with all his old contraband -- he's flopped facedown on Leonidas is sat on his bed, the mattress drooping much more than it looks like it should under the weight of the slender teen. After a few moments he clears his throat and awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck. “So.” A few more moments pass before he continues, “Sorry about cradling you like that, didn’t want Rainy to take a swing and clip you.” He blows air from his nose. “Not like it worked out.” Sriyani could totally be in their own bed, but they are not. They are perched on the edge of the bed that used to be shared with their cellmate, but with Miami gone they are instead poking a hand -- caaautiously, like they're expecting to get bitten -- into a slit in the mattress. They pull their hand back out, frowning uncertainly at the harmonica they have evidently unearthed and tucking it back where they got it. "What," they say, just a little irritably -- probably the first thing they have said to Beau since they got stuck in here together -- "are you talking about." Roscoe pushes himself up on the bed, making a face -- the uncapped Sharpie leaves a black-ink splotch on the bedsheet. "You mean during the riot?" he says, his voice almost wavering with confusion. "That's okay. I also didn't want Rainy to hit me." He sits up, very slowly, and puts the cap back on the Sharpie, looking across at Sriyani, then at the mattress. He doesn't comment, though his eyes narrow with amusement and a little bit of mental calculation as he assesses it. “Ah, yeah, that.” Leonidas says with a nod to Sriyani. “Kinda wanted to hit him, but figured Queen Bee had it handled.” He pushes up to his feet and stretches, hands raising up over his head and fingers interlocking. “So what, think we have like another week or so? There’s no way they aren’t coming back.” "What," says Sriyani again, and it's not sharp anymore but it's still lost; this explanation is evidently helping Zero Bits with their confusion. They're cautiously poking back into the mattress, and there's just the slightest plastic-crinkle against their fingers; their eyes go wide and when they pull their hand out it is empty, the plastic baggie Roscoe could no doubt see them touching left exactly where it is, next to -- who knows. Several other things Sriyani has yet to poke at. They fold their hands in their lap, shoes scuffing against the floor as their legs swing. "What," they say again, but more tired, now, "is wrong with you. Did you see anything that happened? Half of them are probably dead." "Coming back?" Roscoe's voice is still just mildly inquisitive, his eyes darting from the mattress to fix Leonidas in a squint. He settles criss-cross-applesauce against the wall and closes his eyes, but his head still tilts at Leonidas like he's looking at him. "Most of them are still right here." “Oh, no. They’re coming back.” Leonidas seems certain, but he isn’t actively looking at either of the others, instead looking into the hall. “We might’ve been playing heroes, but they’ve got experience. Professor Xavier might have a lot of short comings, but he’s rich.” He does spare them a glance now, voice lowering, “I don’t know if the others said anything, but I’m sure there’s a place for both of you there when we get out. I’m about to graduate but I’ve been going there for a long time.” "Oh my god." Sriyani is flopping backwards onto the bed, scrubbing at their face with both their palms. "Yeah. Great. Right. I'm sure that after getting disappeared probably into another dimension, they're charging right back here. That bat guy was a heap on the floor getting filled with bullets, everyone who came for us vanished, but, definitely they'll be back in a week." Roscoe's eyes open again, but now he's clearly not looking at either of his new cellies, his gaze very far away. "I think the bat guy is dead," is all he says. "He's not in a cell." “I wouldn’t count on it.” Leonidas shakes his head slightly. “If they can’t handle getting shot or can avoid it, they aren’t gonna be on the raid team. At least not leading any charges. The fact that there are any of us left here means they didn’t bring out the big guns, so best bets are that the force that hit was more likely a strike force. Kind of like a recon team. Lassiter’s is well defended, and we made it harder on them by attempting an escape before they showed up. But now they know what the forces here are like, a better idea of the grid setup, and can prepare for reinforcements. As prepared as they thought they were there’s no way they can handle three attacks in this short of a time while also receiving national coverage, so don’t get too comfortable here.” "Shut up, shut up, shut up." Sriyani sits back up rapidly. Their eyes have narrowed on Leonidas, and their voice is now a sharp hiss of fury. "What the hell is wrong with you. Are you sick? Are you brain damaged? Are you just evil? Do you not get that people have died for us? Died because of us? Do you not care? We did stupid shit and now they are in prison here to get tortured too, or they are dead, or they are --" Their palms press hard to their eyes. "Just. Just shut up and pretend you can get thoughts about other people through your brick skull." Roscoe's response is just as quick, but he only says, "Dude." He is looking at Sriyani now, his eyes wide, but he bites his lip and looks away when they cover their eyes. “I know.” Leonidas’ response is barely a whisper, his expression faltering for a moment. “People keep dying around me, and I can’t fucking stop it. I haven’t had a full nights sleep since the slaughter at the last facility I was in.” His fists clench, knuckles going white. “But if we just curl up and accept it then what the fuck did any of them die for?” "Most people don't die for anything," Sriyani replies, bitterly. "Most people just die." "What do you mean, what did they die for?" Roscoe's criss-cross-applesauce is beginning to unravel -- he no longer looks very Zen. "Your friends got out! That's what they died for -- they just didn't die for you because sometimes your life is just unfair and sometimes you do have to curl up and accept it. Okay?" “They died because they knew that all of this was fucked up. They knew the risks, and they still charged in here to save us and everyone else.” Leonidas relaxes his grip and looks pointedly at Sriyani now. “You wanted to be a hero. You made us believe we could be heroes. It might’ve been an impulse decision on all our parts, except Roscoe, but we’re in the shit now. Despite the suffering and trauma we’re gonna pull through this, because that’s what heroes do. There will be plenty of time for therapy when we’re free.” "Shut," Sriyani is gritting this through their teeth, behind the still-hard press of their palms to their eyes, "up. This isn't some story. You're not a hero. I'm not a hero. We're just stupid kids who got other people dead trying to fix our mistakes." Roscoe's eyes are very wide, but -- for once -- he has absolutely nothing to say. “Fine.” Leonidas goes back over to his bed and falls into it, causing it to groan in protest. Sriyani only drops their hands when Leonidas quiets, cheeks wet and eyes red behind them. They drop down to their bed, too, one arm clutched tight around their thin pillow and face turned steadily toward the wall. How much experience has Roscoe had, in two years, with cellies crying? Probably too much. Probably there's never a good way to respond. He, too, is lying back down, folding his hands neatly over his stomach, staring up at the ceiling, or far away again. | |
