ArchivedLogs:Bite-Bite

Bite-Bite
Warning: violence!
Dramatis Personae Peter, Sebastian, Shane, Trib
In Absentia	2013-05-09 Shane got his deck of cards :D (Part of Thunderdome.)
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. Breakfast is a routine affair. Buzzer sounds, enter with food, do a room check, open cages. Pick up trays of food, sit and eat. For the twins this is done with in short order. They have picked the meagre portion of sausage off their plate and made it vanish in a blink, as well as the somewhat bigger portion of eggs. Potatoes and oats have, as usual, been traded away for More Protein. And now the twins are /restless/. Sort of restless. At least, Shane is pacing, alongside the table closest to the wide-open area, watching one young man attempting to teach a somewhat older woman how to perform a chokehold. From him there is a repetitive fluttering sound. He holds a deck of playing cards, standard red Bicycle pack. Flutter. Flutter. "The ten of diamonds is missing," he says eventually. He is looking rather the worse for wear, skin peeling-dry, a faint milky tint to his pupilless black eyes that was not there before, clear inner eyelids slowly turning more opaque. He ducks into a nearby empty cage and scoops up a handful of water, patting it onto his gills, pressing it into his eyes. His clothing is steadily growing grubbier, but his vest is neatly cinched and his bowtie tied impeccably. Bastian isn't pacing. He's just sitting. At the same table, back turned to the rest of the lunchroom, eyes focused on the practice demonstration. His legs are pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his thin shins. The hem of his flower-printed skirt is fraying badly. This is likely because he is /picking/ at it, claws tearing tiny nicks in the fabric in a twitchy repetitive motion. Peter is - quick-as-a-flick to escape from his cage, and just as quick to try and gather - /snausages/. As many as he can negotiate for. His are forked over to the twins' right off, but getting more - is tricky. He's haggling with as many people as he can - as /quickly/ as he can. Maybe there are vegetarians in the cafeteria? If so, they are probably very /unhappy/ vegetarians. Peter spends a bit with the Morlocks; he spends a bit with Jim; he spends a bit with /everyone/ he can find. By the time he's coming back to the twins' table, he has - well, /lots/ of eggs on his tray. A whole frigging pile of eggs. Probably more eggs than anyone would /ever/ want to eat. And, some extra servings of sausages - but not quite a pile. Peter shoves it down on the table with a *CLAP* in front of the twins, /frowning/ as he does. "Are you guys --" he starts, but then thinks better of it, before adding: "Maybe -- we can ask for a fight. Um. Would it be dangerous. To fight you guys right now." He sounds like he already knows the answer to that question. And then there is Trib. He's been around all along, naturally, only today, he seems MORE around. Like a dark cloud of annoyance that hovers on the perimeter of the group. His annoyance is manifested in his own tray of too-much food; most of it strong-armed from those closest to him when he sat down. It's not too far away from where Peter and the twins sit, and /they/ have the big man's undivided, glowery attention. His golden eyes are narrowed in peevish thought as he slowly jams one sausage after another into his mask, chewing audibly. Shane splashes more water on his gills, and then picks up the mostly-empty bucket to bring it over to Sebastian. Sebastian doesn't move. Twitchtwitch. Fidgetfidget. Shane sets the bucket down on the table, scooping handfuls here, too. Patpatpat; he's carefully applying water in scooped handfuls -- webbed fingers are quite useful for /this/ -- to gills. To face. To eyes. Bastian hardly seems to notice. Twitchtwitch. What he /does/ notice is the arrival of food. He doesn't say thank you. He turns quick and jerky back towards the table, a low whinegrowl in his throat as he reaches for the food, cramming handfuls of egg into his face with little regard for decorum. "Thank you," Shane does say, though he's not much /behind/ his brother in this. Between bites: "We -- did ask. For a fight. /Want/ a fight. Like maybe they'll feed us if we have to fight?" This is a little too optimistic perhaps. "Fuck are you staring at, Hannibal?" he finally answers Trib's silent glowering when he slows down to try and /foist/ some sausages off on Sebastian. Sebastian answers Peter's question with a quick upward glance, his teeth bared. His tongue pokes out to slurp egg off his lips. "Don't fight us," he manages, and this is a tiny hoarse /whisper/ because he is Fairly Sure if the guards overhear this they /will/ be fighting Peter. Peter /squeaks/ when Sebastian goes for the food, followed by Shane; he hops back, but does not retreat. Watching them as they /descend/ upon the helpless pile of eggs and sausages like it was a wounded animal. "Okay," Peter says, first, just to Shane, but then - when Sebastian whispers - Peter's eyes briefly widen as he /steps/ back, just a little farther. Feeling that familiar tingle. "...okay," he repeats, a little softer, nervously. Then, he steps closer - and starts to /pace/, scratching his fingers into his hair, agitated. "There's gotta be a way to - /nnghf/ how much do you guys /need/ -- crap crap why aren't the guards just --" Peter turns, then, waving his arms at one of the cameras. "Hey! Give them /something/! I'll -- beat up like /three/ dudes just /come on/--" Probably gets /zzzapped/. Trib's gaze doesn't waver under Shane's sudden question, and he picks up some egg to push it into his mask. "I see two little bitches, and a kid that's hurtin'," he growls. His gaze shifts slightly, to track Peter, and the shake of his head is so slight that the disappointment can almost been /seen/ rolling off of it. "Who are just /itchin'/ to get themselves into the big show." "I've heard a lot of dumb things here, but so far what you just said is the dumbest," is Shane's assessment of Trib. And then he ignores the big man. "Shhhh," he says to Peter instead. "Peter, it's -- it's okay, just, shh. Don't -- please don't --" "Yeah, don't --" Sebastian swallows. "It's okay. Don't, they'll hurt you if --" He looks down at the tray. The twins have made the food vanish in record time. His hands still shake. He curls his knees up towards his chest again, curling his arms around them tight. His eyes scrunch shut. Shane closes his eyes, but less tight. Tired. And then he returns to scooping out water to carefully continue dampening Sebastian's skin. It's a slow process; he's trying to waste as little water with dripping as possible. "Thanks," he says to Peter quietly, through his teeth. "For the food. Please don't get yourself hurt on our behalf." "Shut /up/!" This is directed at Trib; it's impressively loud (for Peter, at least), and rings throughout the entire room. It's also accompanied by - another ZZZZAP. Peter twitches; he sinks down to the table where the twins are at, his head dropping into his hands. Squeezing. Trying to /think/ his way through the problem with very little to no success. "You guys just have to, hold on, for a little while they /must/ know, I mean, they /have/ to know this is -- going to kill you, they wouldn't -- they /must/ know you're worth way more to them alive than dead..." It's all just, mumbled -- with more zealous hope than anything else. Trib's laughter is a harsh, choked sound at the bluster from the teenagers, and he flips a sausage at Shane lazily. It may or may not be aimed at the teenager's head. "They know. They don't fuckin' /care/." His gaze slips to Peter, and he rolls a shoulder. "Maybe they'll feed /you/ to 'em, since you're actin' all stupid about it. Then you can be their best friend /ever/." "Oh my god can we make that muzzle a /gag/?" Shane is still dampening Sebastian's skin carefully, rolling up his butterfly t-shirt to get the gills on his side. "They've gotta know. I mean. They /want/ us to fight, don't they?" His expression creases into a deep frown at this. He reacts to the sausage more on reflex than anything else, mouth /snapping/ forward to /chomp/ it out of the air, lightning-quick. Sebastian's reaction is lightning-quick, too. Maybe to the words. Maybe to the flesh flying towards them. Who knows. There is very little warning before the boy is unfurling himself, /launching/ himself with a sudden very much not-human speed across the table towards Trib. Dagger-sharp claws extended long, his teeth bared, and for all his small stature and current malnutrition the /strength/ behind his arms is kind of alarming. Shane's hands jerk away -- there's slitted cuts sliced down his palms where they /had/ been rested against Sebastian's gills, their sharp edges leaving thin stripes of red with the sudden jerk of movement. No doubt his reflexes are every bit as sharp as his brothers and -- yet. He doesn't react at first. He draws in a slow breath. "-- Don't," he says, at a delay; it's not very /forceful/. Peter /hisses/ something at Trib; it almost sounds - /chittery/. But then, before he can say anything else, Sebastian is airborn - and Peter's eyes are the size of saucers. For at least a full second, he doesn't react - but then, he's /flying/, kicking off of the seat and leaping /after/ Sebastian - trying to tackle him from behind, pull him back, /shove/ him to the floor, /pin/ him - all the while shouting: "Stop! No! They'll--" Peter himself has been taking great pains to hold his strength back; when he throws himself for Sebastian - it /all/ releases, like a rubber band. Knowing full well there aren't any bones in Sebastian's body to /break/. Whoa. Oh shit. Trib isn't expecting /Sebastian/ to be the one flying at him, and the second it takes him to parse that factoid is enough for Sebastian to be upon him. The big man gets an arm up, hissing as talons sink into the meat of his forearm before Peter intercedes. "Oh, you fuckin' little cocksucker," he growls, and his half-hand closes on his tray, food scattering as he lifts it and brings it down /hard/ on the teenager's rib cage as Peter tries to drag him off. Right in the vicinity of those dry and hurting gills. Both his and Peter's efforts cost him, though, and the wounds in his arm open just a bit with the effort, blood eking down his forearm. "Let it go, kid," he grinds out. "Before we're both --- NGGGHH." The zzzap of the shock collar this time is more of a ZZZZAP!, and the big man's words go garbled as his body goes rigid. Sebastian's claws do not let /go/, once sunk. They clench in hard, arms pulling forward as his mouth /lunges/ for that forearm. His collar zaps, too. A tray connects with his side. /Peter/ connects with him heavily. And all these things -- combined, no doubt, with the scent of blood -- turn Bastian's expression from sheer desperate hunger to blind fury. His teeth gnash and he is not /particular/ about where they come down. Trib's arm, Peter's arm, wherever. The animal growl of pain that sounds from him is sharp and /keening/, his muscles clenching against all of this. His posture /crumpling/ inwards, shuddering-shaking, though the electric-jolt clench of muscle does nothing to /loosen/ his grip or stop the hard /snap/ of jaws. It's only the /pained/ noises coming from Sebastian that pull Shane into action. "/Fuck/Bastian/stop/ --" Though there's a growl to his voice, too, the smell of blood sharp in the air. He clambers more than launches over the table, and he's -- trying to tug /Peter/ off of Sebastian. "They'll kill /all/ of you fucking /stop/." "/Sebastian/," Peter shouts, and - a claw /rakes/ across the length of Peter's forearm, splitting the black-oil chitin, exposing a streak of red that /glitters/ in the room's dim light, flashing against that oil-like surface - but when Peter feels Shane grabbing him, pulling him, he releases Sebastian - stumbling back, even as he starts /shouting/: "Sebastian STOP they'll KILL you we'll get you meat--PLEASE!" Trib's howl when Sebastian's teeth close on his elbow is a roar that manages to still the rest of the room, momentarily. Not that they weren't already stunned into silence by the sudden display. The tray comes up, despite the shocking, in a wide swing that will likely hit anyone close to Sebastian's head. Or just Sebastian, maybe. "Get the fuck /off/," he hisses, his voice coated with the pain of wounding and the shock of the electricity that is almost steady now as the guards try to get control. There's an audible noise as he grinds his teeth together. "I ain't dyin' on account of /your/ flaky punk ass." Sebastian's teeth are built for tearing flesh and this is what they /do/, ripping off a mouthful of whatever he can manage. But. But, between the swing of the tray and the constant zzzping of his collar, he finally lets go. And slumps, whimpering, to the floor. The other collars stop buzzing. Sebastian's does not. "Bastian --" Shane is dropping to his knees at Sebastian's side, but this is curtailed when two guards come over -- wielding batons rather /liberally/ at Sebastian and, equally, anyone else who comes near. Shane /yelps/ at the first strike, but it takes another before he'll move away from his brother. Sebastian doesn't move. Just twitch-jerks quick and stiff; it's hard to tell if he notices the baton strikes or not, over the constant jolting. "/Stop/ it oh god stop he /stopped/ please stop --" Shane's claws are extending, teeth baring again as he looks at the guards. "Nnngh," Peter manages, wide-eyed, horrified - bleeding - stepping back, watching as the guards approach Sebastian and Shane. And for a moment, it looks like - he's going to -- /launch/ himself toward Sebastian, or one of the guards, with a look of bald-faced fear. But in the end - it's /Shane/ he throws himself at, trying to wrap his arms about him and /tacklehug/ him, /pull/ him back and away. As if to pre-emptively stop him from going after the guards. "Don't," he whispers to Shane, and then: "Pleasedon't, he'll live, just--they'll kill you /both/ if you--" Drag. Drag. Toward the nearest cell, the nearest corner, the nearest /anything/. Away from the guards and Sebastian. Trib immediately goes slack when Sebastian lets go, slapping his hands palm-down on the table in spite of the chunk of flesh missing out of his left elbow and the blood that pools under his palm. He knows enough not to give the guards a reason to kill him outright, and he leads by example. Sort of. He GLOWERS at the teenager over the edge of his mask, and there's a low noise coming from him that might be a growl. His fury is reserved for Sebastian alone, as the boy continues to get 'corrected'. He pops his eyebrows at Peter, if he should look his way, before slowly -- painfully! -- pushing his way to his feet and slowly -- slowly! -- heading towards the area where 'medical help' is offered. "Fuckin' punks," he mutters before he's out of earshot. "Jesus. I fuckin' hate teenagers." Peter's restraint is prooobably a good thing; Shane is /fighting it/, struggling in Peter's hold; it's probably a good thing he's underfed, though, this struggling isn't as strong as it /should/ be. The buzzing is continuing. It doesn't stop until Sebastian goes still. One of the guards curls an arm around Sebastian's arm to drag him away. As small as the sharkboy is, it doesn't even take much effort. Shane goes limp, as the door clangs shut behind them. It's a shaky-quivery sort of limp. He doesn't look at Trib leaving. He doesn't look at Peter either, though he /slumps/ back against him. "Oh --" his voice is very small. "-- oh." Peter squeezes. Hard. Hard enough that it's /painful/; it's also probably a good thing that Shane doesn't have any bones, because if he did, they'd be pressed together /sharply/ right now. But when Shane goes limp -- Peter's squeezing loosens -- and he just /pulls/ him, up against a wall, half-sitting with him, his head pressed to his shoulder. "Shhh," he tells him, softly. "Just -- shhh. He'll be -- okay." Peter does his best to sound convinced of this. Almost cradling Shane against him. Shane doesn't, perhaps, entirely notice the pain. Or maybe he /does/ and it is just /paling/ in comparison to watching Bastian's body get hauled away. His breathing hitches unsteadily, less because of crying and more because of the jittery flutter of his gills. He curls in against Peter, his head thunking down to rest against the other boy. He doesn't speak. Sans pupils it's hard to really tell what his eyes are focusing on, blankly staring ahead. He -- might not have any intention of moving for a while. "Shhh," Peter whispers, throat constricted, voice uneven. He just... rocks Shane in his arms for as long as he can -- as long as they'll /let/ him.