ArchivedLogs:Good Night

Good Night
Dramatis Personae Peter, Sloan
In Absentia	2013-05-07 Post fight, Peter returns to his cage.
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’s later in the night - long after light’s out - when Peter and the others are sent back to their cell. The ones who don’t look they’re on the verge of bleeding to death, at least. Peter’s among them - though the boy’s black hoodie is now gone (torn to shreds; may it rest in pieces), he’s still got a t-shirt on - it’s his old ‘TEACH THE CONTROVERSY’ t-shirt, with an image of the Devil burying fossils. Except it’s cut in several spots - stained with blood and sweat. He’s otherwise - okay. A set of exposed butterfly stitches over his left brow; enough to shove the wound roughly closed - but it’s probably going to leave a noticeable scar. He’s walking with a limp, but he’s /walking/; he looks haggard, but /alive/, and - relatively - healthy. As soon as they shove him in the cell, he very calmly crawls forward for the bed-pan, and - much like a cat calmly yurking up a hairball - proceeds to have himself a series of (mostly) dry, painful heaves. Yurk. Yurk. At the end, all he has to show for it is a bit of spittle and bile. It was not fight night for Sloan, which means she’s passed it relatively peacefully. Dinner, her usual workout, a nap, more push-ups, some sit-ups, some pull-ups, every sort of -up she can think of to wear the body out in order to lead the mind into a sleeping place. This is in fact what she is doing when their captors haul the cage door open and rouse the woman from dreaming. She remains still until the door is slammed shut and footsteps can be heard leaving. Then she swings herself up to a seated position, head ducked down to avoid smacking against the upper bunk and elbows settling comfortably on her knees. It is unlikely Peter can feel the weight of her mismatched gaze on him, however heavy it is. Sloan waits until the worst of the retching has passed. “Better out than in.” Peter responds with a throaty groan, followed by several sputtering coughs - a bit more phlegm. But then, he’s wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand - and crawling toward his bunk - on all fours. Again, like a cat attempting to retain his dignity after hacking up whatever’s left of a dead mouse on the rug. When he reaches the wall... he gets up onto his feet, slowly. And then - hand, *STICK*, hand, *STICK* - he begins to clamber. Slooooowly. He hasn’t actually /looked/ at Sloan, yet. But once he’s showing signs of getting atop of that bunk, she can hear him mumbling down to her: “I’m not very good at this.” Followed by: “I had to fight Anole. He’s okay, I think. I punched him hard. I hope I didn’t punch him /too/ hard.” And finally, with a weak sort of surrender, almost offhandedly: “I think I turned sixteen today.” So attractive. Sloan remains impassive through it all and when Peter finishes, to begin climbing the wall, she eases herself back onto the bunk. It complains. She ignores the groans and folds her hands behind her head. They make a better pillow than what the inmates have been provided. Unseen, she is working her teeth together. Not /quite/ grinding them but close enough to make the muscles in her jaw tense and relax, tense and relax... “Came out of it walking,” she rumbles, as low as her gruff voice allows. “S’pretty good.” She pauses for a beat. “Happy birthday. Hell of a party, innit it?” “They didn’t give me anything for the stitches,” Peter mumbles, as if this were some sort of /betrayal/. “They just - man it /hurts/. When Doc--when I got stitches before, he’d--they’d always give me something for the pain. Like, a needle or something.” He’s still wheezing; his voice has a certain quaver to it - but as he talks more, that quaver begins to fade. The hammer of his heart is quieting as he comes to grips with how the worst of it is now over. For now. “...all those people in there, you know, I kept thinking, ‘man somebody in here’s just gonna shout ‘wait, stop, they’re just kids!’’. But,” Peter says, breathily, “nobody did that, they just kept - I didn’t know people could /be/ like this. Uh,” and now there’s shifting on the bunk over Sloan, a steady creak, and - oho. Peter’s head dangles over the edge - /peering/ down at her - very careful about his still-throbbing side, where the stitches have been torn and re-done. “...do you have anybody - back home - like - do you think anybody /misses/ you?” Talk of the lack of medical attention earns a low grunt from Sloan. She knows. She is probably not impressed either. But... “If it hurts, means you’re alive.” Ahh, such earthy wisdoms. She must be so very popular at parties. When Peter’s head pops over the edge of the bunk, she flicks a look at him. In the low light filtering in from the hall, her eyes have a certain inhuman gleam. They probably turn into lasers in pictures. “You’re gonna get yourself shocked.” Pause. “Me too.” And yet, rather than turn her back to him or wave him away, she sighs a sigh and looks at the bottom of the bunk above her. “You’re not a kid anymore. Kid. Won’t work out if you are,” she says quietly. “When you can’t fight, they’ll dump you. When you cost too much, don’t bring enough in, they’ll dump you. If people start sniffing around, looking for you...” Her eyes flick back towards him and her ears perk up. Capiche? Peter’s eyes widen at this last bit. Something deeply /fearful/ flickers across his face - and suddenly, his head darts back up into the bunk. There’s the sound of shuffling, of tossing and turning, of bouncing springs - and then, for a long while, just silence. It stretches out... for a minute, maybe. Maybe leaving Sloan to figure the kid’s going to sleep. But then, so soft it’s nary more than a whisper - so soft that Peter /himself/ can barely hear - he starts talking: “The people doing this... I don’t think they’re really /smart/. This can’t last,” he mumbles into his pillow. “It /won’t/. But... but I’m scared because, when this breaks down - I don’t think I can find a way to make sure /nobody/ ends up dead.” Then, just as soft: “Please don’t end up dead.” In the interim, Sloan’s eyes close. Being able to sleep anywhere, at any time, is practically a mutation in and of itself--and she is one of those so blessed! On the verge of dozing off in spite of all of the bouncing around going on up there...she sighs again. It is not a pained sigh, at least? More of an ‘I was afraid of that’ brand of sigh. “I don’t plan on it.” That’s all he gets for a while. Maybe...thirty seconds? A lifetime, in Peter minutes. Then the bunk is creaking and groaning again as Sloan shifts to her side. There is a whumph. Her tail just hit the wall. “Shouldn’t try to solve this, kid. Not much to be done for it.” “It’ll be - okay,” Peter says, now a bit sleepily; he sounds like he’s trying to /comfort/ Sloan, which would be a heck of a thing for a sixteen year old newcomer to do to an old-timer like /her/. “Just, don’t be dead, and everything’ll be okay.” And then - a bit more groggily: “G’night, m’love you.” That... probably wasn’t meant for Sloan. More of a reflex from saying it so many times to - a parent, probably? Either way, Peter doesn’t seem to realize the mistake; in just a few more minutes, he’s asleep - occasionally making a rather obnoxious /snoring/ sound. Peter, also, has the sleep-anywhere mutation; he’s also got the ‘prevent-anyone-else-from-sleeping’ variant. Right then. Sloan proves she is the strong and silent type by /not/ responding to this endearment. She does however sigh her way to her feet several minutes after Peter has conked out. Uncurling to full height, she’s able to look right up onto the bunk he’s claimed. It isn’t creepy, or isn’t /meant/ to be, the way she studies him for a moment. Then she tugs the rough blanket up around his shoulders--flinching when the telltale ZZZTP! runs through her collar--and retreats back onto her own mattress. “Kids,” she mutters, curling up on her side again to fall asleep.