ArchivedLogs:Never Alone

Never Alone
Dramatis Personae Shane, Sebastian, Peter, Trib
In Absentia	2013-05-06 '
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. Where there is food, there is bound to be a hungry Peter; he slips out of his cage once it's opened - and quickly moves toward the smell of breakfast. The boy's bruises are still on the way to healing - his lip has scabbed over, at least - but he's still got a face full of /weird/, covered in steadily-enlargening blotches of black with an oilish blue sheen. He's clad in his tattered black hoodie, dress slacks, and two-toed socks - all on their way to stinking thanks to lack of cleaning. His hair has gotten matted and greasy over the past few days; it's /probably/ only going to get worse. New arrivals have been trickling in and out, not steadily but frequently enough it is not that unusual of an occurence. The opening and closing of the door some time in the middle of the night (probably; at least the lights were dimmer and it had been hours since the dinner meal though sans windows or clocks telling time in here is /hard/) came with no special excitement. There is no special excitement now, either. Just one cage which has two occupants who are not following the others to the food. Shane is dressed oddly dapper for cage-fighting, pale (and somewhat dirt-speckled) linen trousers, pale short-sleeved dress shirt, dark vest neatly cinced to his diminutive frame. Bow tie, which he is /retying/ (it got crooked!) as he watches the others filter out of their respective cages. The bow tie does not match his collar, sadly. Dress socks but no shoes. Sebastian is more /colorful/ than his brother, a swishy black skirt batik-printed with pastel flowers, a pink t-shirt with a large monarch butterfly on it. A black hoodie that says 'HERBIVORE' in a yellow cross over the breast. Pink fishnets. Care Bears socks. Also no shoes. He isn't getting up -- is likely the /cause/ of Shane's Not Leaving, because /he/ is curled barely-moving onto one of the lower bunks in his cage. His already blue skin is puffy-swollen, dappled darker purplish-black with bruising that seems to cover more of him than not. His nostrils flare, at the smell of food, but he doesn't get up. And with him not getting up, Shane doesn't /leave/. He walks to his brother's side, fingers tracing lightly against what gills he can reach against Bastian's collar. "{There's food,}" he murmurs in soft Vietnamese, "{Should I --}" But then he stops. Sniffing. Sniffing something not-food. Or, well, not /designated/ as food. His eyes dart outwards. He pokes his brother in the shoulder. Sebastian sniffs, to. With one eye swollen shut it takes him longer to rivet onto what Shane has located but his /nose/ is not having difficulties and after another sniff he just /snorts/. It's -- oddly almost amused. "Yeah," Shane says. "Fucking /figures/ we'd find him here." When the cages open, Trib moves readily enough, although his movement is more of a saunter than the defeated meanderings of most of the other captured mutants. Dressed in a dingy white tank top and jeans that are becoming more and more tattered, what stands out most about the man (apart from his size) is the metal-and-plastic muzzle that wraps around the lower half of his face, bars in front of his mouth providing for easy speech. The new arrivals are barely given a glance as he passes their cage, but he does pause there for the merest of moments before continuing. There's a small triumphant look as his stride pulls him in behind Peter in the line for food. He doesn't speak, but rather allows himself to LOOM over the teenager as he waits patiently for his tray to be filled. When Peter catches sight of the looming on his peripheral vision, he responds by muttering something under his breath - something decisively uncheerful. Something in Russian: "{Butt face.}" Ivan has taught him a few /other/ Russian insults, but this one will have to do. It also benefits from coming off as gibberish. He shuffles up to the trays, receiving a plate full of - scrambled eggs. Potato hash. And boiled carrots. He looks at the latter with his nose wrinkled, but doesn't complain - shuffling out of line, /glaring/ at Trib on his way. Oblivious to the fact that his scent has been spotted. Along with his scent are small details - he's still got a shallow razor-stroke on his left flank, stitched and heeling. On top of that, Peter's smell has an unusual undercurrent to it; his skin smells - 'off'. Not quite spoiled, but like there's something unusual going on with it. All in all, though, it's the same Petersmell that wafts into their cage as Peter thumps down on a table with his tray, arms himself with a plastic fork, and starts /shoveling/ food into his face. Morosely. "Alright. I'll bring you a --" This is as far as Shane gets before someone decides the twins have been dawdling long enough; two sharp jolts are evident in the by-now familiar zzzp of collars. Bastian hisses through his teeth and Shane does not respond past a sudden /clench/ of muscles but no sound. He starts to head towards the door when Bastian's collar zzzps all on its own; a muttered, "-- are you fucking /serious/?" precedes him heading back inside. "Alright. Come on. We'll move slow." His arm loops beneath Sebastian's, and his brother is slow to get to his feet, slow to hobble-limp out towards the tables. He aims them towards Peter, sweeping the rest of the room and its occupants with a cataloguing gaze but mostly just heading to get Bastian into a seat. His size is nooooot made for LOOMing and so as they come up beside the other teenager's table he just leans in. /Sniffs/. And then deposits Sebastian carefully down in the next seat. "You're hurt." "Everyone's been wondering where you went." Sebastian's voice is a little mumbled, a little thick, puffy split lip and a few missing /teeth/ roughening his words. "Fuck's up with your face?" Shane's peering. His tone is casual. This might as well be the Xavier's cafeteria for all the bland ease there. Trib smirks when Peter glares at him, and offers a wink that is in no way playful. He watches as the kid heads to the table, and turns back to accept his tray. Holding it in his left hand, he follows in Peter's wake, although slowly enough to not be technically following him. When the twins join the kid, Trib's eyes narrow, and he picks up the pace, beelining for the trio and dropping heavily onto the bench across from Peter with a clatter of tray. He doesn't look at any of the younger mutants as he begins to pick bits of egg up in his half-hand and poke them in between the bars of his mask and into his mouth. It is neither pretty nor pleasant-sounding. When sharktwins arrive - when Shane leans in and sniffs - when they sit down and start /talking/ - Peter, for a moment, looks like he's in the process of having a happy-induced /seizure/. His eyes widen - hands gripping the table edge so far it begins to /creeeeeak/ under his palms. "OhGod you guys you're - oh /God/ I'm so glad to see--" IF PETER HAD A TAIL. But just as fast as it begins, the happiness ends - Sebastian's bruises. The way he's hobbling. Missing teeth. Realizing what both of them being here actually /means/. Happiness trades places with dread and worry. Suddenly, Peter is intently interested in his potatoes, mashing them around with his fork. "...I got cut up really bad and they tazed me in an alleyway," Peter tells them. "My face was doing this for a few weeks. Some sort of secondary mutation. I don't know what. Is - is everyone else okay? Sebastian you're..." Pursed lips, Peter looks back at Sebastian a moment. But then... Oh, /that/ guy. When Trib drops across from Peter, Peter's eyes narrow. Before mumbling: "Dude right now is /not/ a good time for you to be... be..." Peter waffles. "...a /jerk/ to me okay I mean I might punch you /even if/ they shock me for it." Uh oh Peter's gonna go PUNCH CRAZY watchout. "Tazed you in an alleyway," Shane echoes this wryly. "Shit, sounds familiar." His hands absently rubs against his chest, but then smooths his vest back into place. "Everyone's fine. Worried." Sebastian doesn't sound quite as casual as Shane, but if anything he sounds more tired than frightened or angry or anything else he might possibly be expected to be feeling right now. His one good eye slowly lifts to flick to Trib. Then back to Peter. Questioning. Shane does not perhaps have a lot of respect for /personal space/ because he's lifting a hand, thumb reaching with an aim to lightly /brush/ against one of those spots. "Nice," he judges. "I mean, the colours are -- s'pretty gorgeous." He's leaning an arm against the table, beside Peter, knuckles curled into a loose fist to prop his small weight against. Trib earns a /squint/. "'sup with the muzzle, you don't /look/ --" His words are cut off by another zzzp, and he straightens abruptly. Oh. Right. /Food/. He is just as casual about his saunter over to pick up a pair of trays. "It is pretty," Sebastian eventually decides, quiet as he studies Peter's face. "It's like oil. Like -- rainbows. Like art." His posture is a little slumped, arms crossing on the table as he leans down to pillow his bruised face in them. "Hi," he says, to Trib. Trib snorts something like a laugh at Peter's mumbling, lifting his eyes to regard the teenager with a flat sort of look. "Your funeral," he rumbles, picking a carrot from his tray and poking it through his muzzle (not so) carefully. His accent is Jersey -- thick Jersey. "Only, y'know, without the fancy service." His tone is bland, and uninvested in Peter's warnings. He smacks his lips a bit, and shifts his attention to Sebastian when he speaks, grunting in response. "Wouldn't do that too long. You'll get another jolt." Peter is visibly relieved when Sebastian tells him that everyone's fine. Though he looks relatively healthy through the bruises, his eyes are haggard and his posture stooped; it's clear that being here is wearing down on him. He is not /used/ to cages. He is /used/ to wide open spaces, running like a maniac, and jumping from rooftop to rooftop. He has also grown accustom to being surrounded by friends, not fellow captives. When Shane talks about the color, Peter blushes a /furious/ shade of red; he instinctively shys a bit back from contact, but - so long as there's no tingle of that danger sense - there's otherwise no fear. The skin is smooth, almost /glossy/; it feels slightly harder than skin - but it gives under pressure. When Shane gets zapped, Peter gives a start, eyes flashing with panic and worry. The worry diminishes when Shane seems to take it in stride, though. Then, with Sebastian, the blush returns, full-force - he glances after Shane as he goes for the trays, muttering something about 'thanks', before adding: "It's -- chitin, like -- insect carapace I think I might be turning into a bug." Then, a glance to his own tray, followed by a frown: "You guys... you guys don't eat /vegetables/, right? Um. We can - trade off a little if we have to, I'll give you my meats and you can gimme your greens, or..." At Trib's comment, Peter /glares/, but soon adds, softer and with a hint of sad: "...he might be right, these guys. They will shock you for really dumb - things. You shouldn't, say anything, they're - listening to us. Sometimes." "If they're going to zap me for /sitting here quietly/," Sebastian says, "they're going to zap me for basically anything and there's not much use trying to guess what." Which doesn't stop the absently thoughtful expression his puffy-bruised face is gaining, single eye drifting over the captives nearby them. Hmmhmm. Shane returns in short order, setting down a tray of food in front of Sebastian and taking a seat with the other. "Cool," he says, of the chitin, and then amends to: "-- uh, or shitty, I guess. Now that you're joining the freak squad. Sorry." He inspects the spots again. "Can you get rid of them?" Sebastian's mouth twitches, a puffylipped brokentoothed smile. "Probably not here," he says with some amusement, "don't think there's doctors here." Shane's eyes widen. He /grins/. "Don't think there are," he agrees. He pushes at his potatoes and carrots with a fork. "-- you want these?" He might be offering Peter, or Trib, or -- anyone, really. "No fucking meat /on/ this plate." But he does shovel eggs into his mouth hungrily. "They'll zap you just to watch you jump," Trib says blandly, poking potatoes into his muzzle as he talks. "Assholes." He pokes fingers through the bars to clean them, sucking a bit noisily before extracting them and wiping them on his pants. Shane's return is given a long look, and he tips his jaw up in silent greeting as his eyes slide between the two as they chat with Peter, There's a moment of sadness in his eyes, but then his hand is moving like lightning at Shane's offer, slapping down on the potatoes and hauling them onto his own tray before anyone can change their mind. Then there more potatoes going into the bars. "Thanks." "Doctor... the doctors talked about, removing them, but that was back when it was just on my leg," Peter says, tone soft. "I guess - no chance of that happening now. Not here." He scratches at one of the splotches, as if testing its smoothness for himself. "Eggs are - kind of... meat-ish. Not really, but..." He's eaten half of his eggs already; still, he manages to shove what's left off his plate, toward Shane. Either all for him or trusting him to dispense to Sebastian. Then, he is - very slowly! - reaching for Shane's carrots, only once the potatoes have disappeared. Making a little >:/ expression. Peter /hates/ boiled carrots. But boiled carrots are better than nothing. "...they're making us fight, you know," Peter says, glancing at the twins fretfully, now. "...um. You, um. You know I'm still learning how to - I mean, you two aren't - you guys are really /good/ at this sort of stuff. Um. Maybe you could - help... me. Learn some - I don't want to /die/," he finishes, sounding a little. Flabbergasted. Also, Peter pauses a moment to gesture at Trib, then back to Shane and Sebastian. "...this is Trib by the way, um. Shane, Sebastian. Trib is - he's a jerk. Trib, these are - they're sharks don't mess with them they'll bite your face off." "Right," says Sebastian, "so there's not much point in --" He shrugs. "They told me rules. I'm following those rules. Past that it's kind of stupid to try and guess --" His head sinks down further against his arms, but he unfolds one arm to tip his tray, scoop his potatoes and carrots over to Peter. Then his eyes close. "We'll help," he agrees quietly. "Sure," Shane affirms. "And yeah, our, um. Cagemate. He told us. That we're fighting. Weird as fuck, huh?" He chuffs out a kind of amused breath. Those silly humans. What will they think of next. He shovels off eggs onto Sebastian's plate -- not just /all/ the ones Peter gave him but a good chunk of the ones he started with, too. "How long've you been here?" Sebastian is asking Trib this, as he tips his head up slightly. He scoops up eggs with his fingers, slurping them into his mouth. "You fight anyone yet?" /This/ is to Peter, from Shane. Thoughtful. His eyes are sweeping the room again. Trib tips greasy fingers on his half-hand in salute when Peter introduces him, although there's a furrow in his brow as the kids knows his name. He glances over his shoulder, picking out a feminine form and /glaring/ at her oblivious back before he turns back to hunker over his tray. Sebastian's question catches him off-guard, and he slides that golden stare in his direction. "Dunno," he says with a half-shrug. "One, maybe two months. What's the date?" "He ain't fought /shit/," the big man answers for Peter with a rude noise that blows a bit of egg out of his muzzle. "If he'll stop pissing himself an' mopin', he might /learn/ somethin' about it." Peter /devours/ the potatoes, first. The plastic fork just /flying/ as he scoop scoop poke poke scoops. Om nom nom nom. Then, he's picking at the boiled carrots, somewhat disapprovingly - but still eating them at a steady pace. "...thanks," he tells Sebastian, again with the flush, his tone a little quiet inbetween bites. "...and no," he responds to Shane, though his voice is probably drowned out by Trib's explanation. Peter /glares/ at him again, before adding, quieter, to the twins: "I don't - I've /fought/ dudes but I usually just ran away, I've never had to - really - /hurt/ someone before." Tentative, and /more/ than a little afraid. "...you guys seem really - calm. I guess," Peter adds, a little meekly, eyes scanning the room, "...you've seen, uh -- worse." "Running away's the best way to fight," Shane admits with a thin sharp smile. "'less you're in a cage and can't," Sebastian tacks on. He's slurping at his eggs without bothering to chew much, wincing with every bite he takes bit eating them hungrily anyway. Shane's eating, too, less ravenous, just slowly-steadily making his way through the small portion of eggs he's kept for himself. "Cinco de Mayo," he tells Trib, "or I guess it /was/." One shoulder hitches up in a quick shrug. "Well --" Sebastian glances around the cages, the concrete room, the rudimentary shock collars everyone wears. He shrugs, too. "Should we panic? I mean I did when they stole us, but that was when I was afraid this was -- something serious." Trib is almost done with his food, making oddly short work of it. It probably helps that nothing needed shredding, this meal. "Shit." He blinks at Shane when the boy offers the date, and he furrows his brow. "Feels like it's been longer than that." He uses his finger to swipe up the bits of food that cling to the metal of his tray, and snorts when Sebastian offers his thoughts. "'S fucking serious," he grunts as he pushes to his feet. "'Bout as fuckin' serious as it gets." He LEANS across the table at Peter. "How come you ain't asked for lessons from /me/?" He'd sound almost hurt, if it weren't for the predatory narrowing of his eyes. "I can teach ya all /kinds/ of things." He straightening, then, but not before there's the ZZPT of the collar, and the muscles in his torso tighten briefly. "Yeah, yeah," he says, holding his hands up to one of the camera bubbles. "I'm going." He picks up his tray, then, and uses it to wave at the trio. "See you around." Was that a joke? Hard to tell, since Trib is walking away, at this point, tossing his tray into the plastic bin before heading for the sparring area. "...oh, man, I just remembered it's my /birthday/ tomorrow," Peter mutters, and now he's rubbing at his face, having just finished the last of those boiled carrots. "They're gonna be /so/ worried." His eyes peek out from between his fingers as Sebastian mentions that this isn't serious - and, actually, Peter looks - relieved! Again. "...oh. Okay you know - when they first caught me - I thought it was the /terrorist/ thing, but then the cages - I thought, maybe, it was - I thought maybe it was the thing you guys went through, I was /so/ scared, like holy crap - but, yeah, this is..." He tugs at the collar. /Very/ gently. "...these are like /dog/ collars, I think." Trib's mention about this being serious merits a blank-face from Peter; when he leans forward and asks Peter why he hasn't asked /him/ for any lessons - Peter is stoney-faced and silent. But once Trib has started moving away, he immediately turns back toward the twins - /frowning/. "...he is /such/ a jerk," Peter tells them. "...I'm really glad - I mean I'm not /glad/ you are here, but. Um. I am --" He makes ever-so-slight grabby hands at Shane and Sebastian. As if he wants to just /hug/ them. But, then he spares a worried glance at Sebastian's bruises - and the cameras. "...I'm glad I'm not /alone/," he finishes. "Fitting," Shane says lightly, "since we're animals." Sebastian /hisses/ at this, a sharp ksssh of sound that comes with a narrowing of his eyes. But his tone evens out to quiet as he muses: "-- You think they'd bring you a cake?" Hmmhmm. He even sounds like he might be seriously pondering this question. "A cake made out of what, boiled carrots?" Shane snorts, his head shaking. "You know," he's looking after Trib thoughtfully, "I don't think places like this really /encourage/ the best in people." "Worried is good," Sebastian adds, glancing up -- more at Peter's collar than his face. "Worried means someone's looking for you." "Serious," Shane says, "is when this isn't collars and cages but chips in your fucking /brain/, this shit is amateur, I bet --" Whatever he bets doesn't get spoken, cutting off with a /clench/ of teeth, tightening of muscles, quiet-familiar zzzp. He exhales, slowly. "Probably not a /chocolate/ cake. Maybe a carrot cake. Who's won the most fights here?" Sebastian is looking around again. His fork taptaptaps against his plate. Shane creeeps closer. Sneaks his arms around Peter. It's a tentative hug because though he can smell healing injury he has no idea where it /is/ so -- gentle. The brush of his cheek against Peter's is sandpaper-scratchy. It's a /quick/ hug, though, and all he says during it is: "Pfft. You're never really alone." "...no I guess they -- don't," Peter agrees with Shane, reluctantly. "And, yeah," he says, in response to Sebastian's comment about worry, about people /looking/ for him -- focusing on the twins a moment. About to say something else, but -- he thinks better of it. Instead: "Yeah. Oh, probably--" Peter glances over his shoulder, scanning the room. "Sloan, maybe? I don't know -- she's my -- roommate, for /now/. She's, um, kind of shaggy -- looks like a dog -- her arms are /huge/. She, um, might help me and Anole with fighting. Along with--!!" When Shane creeps up on Peter with a sneak-hug, Peter responds almost instantly - almost /hungrily/ - just flinging arms around him and /squeezing/. There's a flash of pain, but Peter ignores it; the chitin helps with the sand-papery scrape -- smooth against coarse -- and Peter's skin was always slow to cut. When Shane quickly releases, so does Peter, albeit reluctantly. He looks -- some mix between worried, sad, and /happy/. "...thank you," Peter mumbles, down to the floor, breathlessly happy, eyes blurry. "...both of you, um, thankyou, just. I think, with you guys here? It will probably be -- okay." Because, sharktwins. But also, because -- Peter suspects that with both him /and/ sharktwins missing -- it won't be long before the /cavalry/ arrives. "Dog. Anole?" The name isn't familiar but the /word/ is and Sebastian furrows his ridged brow. "Spider -- they have a /thing/ for animals here, don't they." "Our cageperson's not animally but oh my /god/ is he /pretty/." Yes, even when tossed into DEATHMATCH this is high on Shane's priority list. "There's not /rules/ against banging each other is there?" "Um." Blink. Blink? Sebastian considers this a long moment with his teeth scraping against his lip. "They didn't -- /say/ there were." He's finishing his eggs up hungrily, as quick as brokenteeth mouthpain will allow. "We used to have to -- we've done a lot of fighting. I can't really -- right /now/, um --" He looks down at one very bruised arm, "-- maybe. Soon. But Shane can teach you. I'm --" /He's slipping over, too. His hug is ginger because there is not much on him that /isn't/ currently hurting. "It'll be okay." Possibly given the exchange about screwing fellow inmates, it isn't very reassuring that he is kind of /nuzzling/ up against Peter's neck. Maybe kissing? There's the sliiightest tug on Peter's collar, though, just a faint shift of pressure before Sebastian jerks back with a zzzptwitch. "... It'll be okay," he repeats, with a small twitch of smile despite the zapping. "Oh yeah /Anole/," Peter says, suddenly, as if remembering: "You'll like him, he's - cool. He can do - a thwippy thing? With his /tongue/ it's awesome. Um you'll know him right away he's - kind of lizardy. And green." The mention of whether or not banging is allowed - Peter is so red beneath all those splotch-marks he looks like he's ready to /blister/. "...um, I - um. Uh. Hm. Uh." Sebastian rescues Peter from thinking about this for too long with /more/ hugs, though. Peter's lightning-fast - wrapping arms around him, as if just /one/ hug wasn't enough, as if he's /ravenous/ for /all/ the hugs. But, with Sebastian, he's much more gentle - careful not to squeeze. The nuzzle/kiss doesn't bother Peter; if anything, he's /returning/ it, brushing his cheeks and nose and mouth against the side of Sebastian's temple with a fierce possessiveness - as if /desperate/ for contact. But then -- there's that zzz, and Peter makes a sound, pulling back with frustration. But, he's also smiling, just a /bit/, even as he shoves a hand into one of his sockets and thumps back into his chair. Scratching at his eye. Scratch, scratch. "MmnnnI'm... man this is the first time I've felt really /good/ since... thankyou. I feel like -- I can totally -- handle this, now." At this, the twins exchange a look. And then /grin/; for once Sebastian's matches Shane's for width even if it's not quite /mirrored/ with his broken and missing teeth. "C'mon," Shane is squeezing Peter lightly on the shoulder as he stands. "Let's practice. Punching makes /everything/ better."