ArchivedLogs:Buddy Captives

Buddy Captives
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jim, Masque, Doom	2013-07-24 Jim and Masque come to not as Morlocks, but as captives on the way to lands unknown. Post Morlock Raid.
Location On the Road
There is not a great deal to see out of the cells that are inhabited by the captives. Perhaps the easiest things to keep track of is, first and foremost, the thick glass wall that keeps the would-be captives contained. The cells themselves aren't spacious, just large enough for three averagely built men to stand abreast. The walls and the ceiling are reinforced steel by the looks of things, while there is something peculiar about the floor. It appears to be glass, but there is some manner of contraption beneath. The glass wall has some air holes in them, as well as a message that strictly warns the inmates to not use their ability or resist incarceration, unless they desire to acquaint themselves with the pacification measures. Masque's cell is right across Jim's. Between them, standing firmly on the metal walkway, is the very /thing/ that is responsible for successfully detaining the two Morlocks. Still dressed in the very same armour, the only piece of attire it presently lacks is the badly damaged helmet, instead revealing a vaguely humanoid visage, but the kind that is most definitely steel, lifeless and belonging to a machine. No glowing eyes, although it does have two rows of blunt ridges that sort of represent teeth. It is currently not wielding any weaponry, and instead just standing still, looking toward the exit of the vehicle, its sides facing both cells. The truck itself feels as though it is in motion. The captives will find that they have been stripped of their clothing, wearing nothing but their underwear. Their hands are equipped with an elaborate pair of cuffs, a single steel bubble encasing hands that are bound together. If either of them feel particularly curious, they may spot the 'Made in Latveria' imprint on them. Their feet are bound with a set of thick steel cuffs that are connected via a two-piece bar that can expand and shrink on their command; granted, it limits their agility somewhat awful. At least this equipment is padded by rubber, so it's not /too/ uncomfortable. Jim's mind is getting a prodding. It's a sort of uncomfortable pokepoke that comes every so often. CRANKILY. There are no words to accompany it but if there /were/ it'd probably be Hey. Hey asshole. Wake up. Not fully awake yet, Jim shoves /back/ at the prodding. Fuck off, inclination to wake up. He's propped against the corner of his cell like it's been a bad Saturday night bender, head dropped down and to the side with dirty iron-gray hair dropped partly over his face. His body has equalized to 'semi-planty', a rough flakiness on skin, some medium-intensity body hair and no evidence of bruises from his brawl - save a remarkable black singe-blossom centered in his forehead like a third eye. Externally, the transition to wakefulness isn't major - simply, his eyes open, pupils contracting from the light. Internally - a flood of ice and black instant understanding. << -this is really happening, shit, this is really fucking happening. >> A second later, << ...okay. easy, Jimmy, let's go. >> He slowly lifts his head, loose hair falling partly off his cheek - some of it remains caught in his eyebrow. He grinds the side of his mouth on a shoulder to wipe off a string of drool as he takes his first bleary look around. There haven't been very many moments in his life that Masque looked comfortable. But hey, being unwillingly unconscious? Is a good time to start. Some time during this trip, the bony elbows-and-knees mass that is Masque has flopped sideways across the floor, sort of half curled up with his bound hands in front of him and his eyes shut below greasy streaks of hair. He's facing away from Jim, giving the other man a good view of a multitude of little bruises along his spine and pokey ribcage, courtesy of rubber pellets, and where the disfiguration that's taken over half of his face spills over a shoulder. What's not visible from that angle is the mark the taser left right in the middle of his chest. But that, too, is small. He's fine and he's breathing. But unlike Jim, he doesn't seem too keen on waking up. If anyone's used to sleeping on hard surfaces, it's gotta be this guy. Occasionally, the vehicle can be felt slowly arriving to a stop, although overall it doesn't look like their environment will see many changes until they reach their intended destination. Should Hive decide to take a peek, he will not detect any human presence within the vehicle. The singular android - if there is indeed only one of /it/ around - is not keen on moving. Jim might also ultimately notice that he illumination in his cell is not ordinary. It's actually provided by sun lamps. How considerate. Perhaps they could have provided proper bedding, too, but at least one of the captives isn't bothered by that particular oversight. << Yeah. Really is. >> Hive's voice in Jim's head is dry and bland. A little remote, like the telepath is trying rather hard to segment himself /off/ from Jim -- per/haps/ to keep at bay the tight-corded anxiety that lurks somewhere past that distance. There's another cautious poke. << You're really making getting kidnapped a hobby. Christ. >> << Cute. Tell me again how long you spent locked up with immigration? >> Jim snarks reflexively, unthinking, irritability a thin distracting film over deeper, uglier depths he's in no fucking mood to deal with. He looks up at the sunlamps, feeling his treacherous body warm and flourish in it, adding bitterly, << ...Christ. This is a fucking trip to the Hamptons next to the last outfit I ended up in. >> His eyes have landed on Masque twice now, not seeming to really internalize what significance his bare row of bony vertebrae play in his situation. "Masque," he rasps. Then lifts a foot - and STOMPS against the glass, repeatedly, HARD, his hair jumping with the impact, "/Hey/, ASSHOLE." Predictably, there is no response to Masque's name being rasped out. The STOMPs are infinitely more effective, causing the older of the two Morlocks to unfurl in a movement that could almost only be accurately called a /spasm/. What the fucking hell WHAT. He rises to his feet with the exact opposite of grace, swaying heavy from one side to the next, like a disoriented farm animal. Clunk, goes the steel ball holding both his hands, against the walls. When he finally does stop, hunched over and bleary, he hisses out a none-too-pleased "Whh- GhhFUCK." Only THEN does he look at Jim, through bits of hair sticking to his face as it contracts into what appear to be at least four different ways of sneering, twitchily and uneven and gap-toothed. /Fuck/. "The fuck do you want." The harsh kicking the acrylic glass is exposed to may not bestow any amount of noteworthy damage to it, but it is undeniably noisy. Not only does it manages to draw a reaction from Masque, but it also manages to attract the attention of their guard. It would take no more than two pronounced stomps against the glass for the machine to swiftly crane its neck and turn its motionless, void-black eyes - if they could be called that - towards Jim. It doesn't act or reprimand the captive, however. Not /yet/. << If you're lucky, they'll give you water and fertilizer, too. >> Hive's mind prickles against Jim's, thorny-sharp as it curls inward into a tighter knot. << But yeah. You're moving on up in the world. Even your cops, >> with a small twitch of indication of the robot guard, << got themselves a fucking upgrade. >> Jim is no way in shock that the glass withstands his kicks. That doesn't mean he sees any reason to stop, "What. The FUCK." Kick-methodical-KICK, "are YOU doing here? Christ, why didn't you get outta there?" He is refusing to acknowledge the ominous turn of the android's head. With Masque facing him, he can see the tell-tale chest wound on the guy's front, and Hive's bristling and prickling is with in a mind that is deeply rooted, yet, weighted down under a solid earth - but these roots are thorned and unpleasant, clenching tight in rhythm. Like a heart beat. << So how's this gonna go, Hivey. >> Masque, meanwhile, loses interest in Jim as soon as he is asked a question, the answer to which he doesn't seem overly invested in. His head lifts, comparitively thin neck craning to catch sight of every single corner of his personal little cell, up, down, left, right, behind him, over at the third person-shaped thing in view... and back to Jim. "Little something got in the way." He answers, right before bracing himself with a grimace and all of the wiry, tight-on-the-bones muscles he's got, and SWINGING his hand-encasing steel bubble from over his scrawny shoulder at HIS side of the see-through wall. A CLANK to go with the STOMPS. And then two more, each harder than the next. Because WHY NOT. Might as well test the place out. "Two little somethings. But one now." If the android can become as irritated by overwhelming audio input as any human being, it certainly does not show it. Its demeanour and position is as stalwart as the moment it fought Jim in the sewers. However, it /does/ turn its head to regard the other inmate when it deems the clanks to be continuous. And then it speaks. Its speech is as lifeless and electronic as in the sewers, although this time it flows a touch more fluidly than before. "Curious. If one were to separate two ape mates, a similar reaction could be observed. Find it in your abnormally deficient intellect to consider your next action in the extremely unlikely scenario of your successful escape. Would you like to try again?" A pause lingers almost long enough for a reply, but the resounding voice would interrupt any response. "When the two soldiers and this unit entered the chamber, there was psychic presence. To whom did it belong?" << I don't know, >> comes Hive's answer, quieter and heavier. << My guys are out cold. There's no fucking /humans/ on this truck with you. S'just fucking /robots/ all the way down, when did we start living in gorram science fic -- >> This complaint cuts off, when the robot speaks. << Hngh, >> comes next, together with a mental /tensing/, coiling harder and /smaller/ than before as if the robot itself could see him. Still fucking sitting slouched back in his cell, mouth-breathing with one eye narrowed more than the other, Jim turns his head a few increments to favor the android with a look that requires him to raise his eyebrows to even clear the vantage from the floor. With his hands still loose in his lap, he lifts his foot again - /WHAM/. And kicks it against the glass where the robot's KNEE would be. His dead-pan face is so flat it looks sort of neanderthal. Have an ANSWER. << Jesus. I just got insulted by the world's most expensive fucking can opener. >> He rolls back his head to look down (up?) his nose at Masque, and smiles bizarrely. A Masque. Pretty Masque. "You get /artistic/, Masquers?" Inwardly, he can't even tell if he's amused. That might also be some weighted form of hysteria talking. Ah hah hah. << Maybe it's a blessing they're out. ...do they got ways of detecting you in here? >> If Hive is recoiling, Jim is knitting strange plant-mind roots tighter around him. Masque /does/ stop banging his hands-- steel bubble-- both-- on the wall. But only so he can prop them up them against the see-through surface and draaaaag over as close to the android as he can get, to lean his face in close next to where his hands would be. Like looking through a shop window. Only with a lot more wrinkling of the nose and glaring involved. Directly back at that THING. "Riddle me fucking this." Masque starts, leaning so close to the glass that his mouth disappears behind a thin layer of foggy condensation. "If it was either of us, would we be fucking /talking/ to each other?" Suddenly, though, his focus shifts. Slow enough for it to possibly be mistaken for a questioning glance, cluelessness - though his eyes sliding sloowly toward Jim is the very opposite. It's suspicion and slow, bubbling disgust manifesting through a slight narrowing of the eyes alone. Perhaps Masque has actually devised a logical paradox that has broken the machine, because the guard becomes completely still and silent, burrowing the camera-borne gaze into the gaunt captive. A paranoid mind might think it's examining Masque. The mind of the steel contraption is not human, and therefore difficult to read. Doubly so because it also happens to lack facial expressions of its own. Yet silent it remains. << Who fucking knows, >> Hive says, somewhat testily. << Fucking Oscorp and their telepathy tech -- news didn't /say/ they could detect telepaths but who knows what the shit they aren't telling. >> The uncomfortable knotting-up eases, somewhat, with those tightening roots; not quite relaxing altogether but relaxing /into/ the confines they provide. << -- We'll figure this shit out, >> comes -- admittedly just as testily. << Once we're done with the goddamn toasters and around some real fucking people again. >> "What. /That/ shut it up?" Jim drags up humor with as much delicacy as moving a litter of kittens with a garden rake. He kicks the glass again. "Hey Robo-cock. Where we headed? I gotta piss." Masque looking his way gets a look back, brows jumping up like '/yes/?' << - damn, the old guy's sharp. S'not impossible he'd sell you out before they get a chance to. >> Now that he's had a few moments awake, the precarious teetering of panic is faded. He's looking around the parameters of his cell more pragmatically. Down, into the strange glass floor, the mooring that connects the glass together. Anything that lays beyond. The robot's face, as well - it's scrutinized for every detail. << ...you seeing this? >> Masque's deadish grey eyes flick back to the android with a /thunk/ of the steel ball against the wall, as if he was attracting the attention of a puppy or a small child. Look over here, you dumb fucking thing. It's only then that he notices-- the imprint on the steel, awkwardly bending 'round himself a little to try and read it. "... Latveria. The fuck is Latveria?" Huff. The machine carries on effectively ignoring both of the captives. Both Masque's pet-like query for attention and Jim's bladder-related troubles are not responded to. In fact, the guardian turns its neck to turn away its camera-eyes away from Masque, its motion slow this time around. Its attention continues to face forward, just as before. When Masque vocalises his bemusement, the machine once again emits its dead voice. "The womb that carries the seed of Change and the proprietor of technology that will help cease criminal mutant activity." Now that it's facing what's in front of it again, Jim will get a better look at its metallic visage, mostly from a sideways view. Who could have known real-life androids would /not/ have glowing eyes. << -- Fucking creepyass robo-king, >> Hive grumbles, at the mention of Latveria. << Jesus Christ tell me they're not -- >> This doesn't finish, not in words, but a shared mental connection makes the sinking clench of dismay at the prospect of Jim being shipped off to Latveria notable all the same. << Oh, he'd sell me out in a motherfucking heartbeat even if it meant rotting in Latverian jail the rest of /his/ life. Don't think, >> is pensive, << he knows enough about me to do it /properly/. >> Though that might be equal parts musing and /hope/. << Seeing it all. Will see what the others make of it. Jax'll -- >> Another hesitation, before, << -- Dump it in /Murphy's/ fucking brain, if anyone can fit pieces together it's that bastard. >> << If you can get him to stop picking at Lucien's scabs long enough to listen. >> Jim mutters. Aw, he might still be sore about nearly getting his throat torn out defending the other PI's crusade. Aloud he adds right on top of the android's answer, "It's some podunk wanna-be country in the Balkans. Hey. Cogsworth. Remind me. What criminal activity're you stopping me from again? Or'd they not tell you that in the fuckin /womb of Change/. Your country's a /cunt/." << ...I think they got Nox, too. Dunno how many of the others. >> Masque's eyes land on the android with a dry sort of disbelief. Womb of-- right. "Right." Whether or not he's playing dumb in regards to Latveria remains to be seen. But what does not is the fact that he's tired of this machine, pulling away from it in all of his almost-naked glory to turn around and sink down against the glass, in a corner, bruised skin and spine pressed up against it. His elbows get propped up onto his knees and his forehead thunks dully against where his hands would usually be. Steel ball makes for a good pillow. "If we're going to fucking Latveria, I'll be bashing my /head/ against the glass next." He pauses, but only for a second. "Wake me up when we get there, will ya." The android /or/ its pilot - if there is one - do not budge in the face of goading, insults or any type of questions. This is not a man who might feel empathetic towards the captives, a guard who is just 'doing his job'. On the dimly bright side, neither is it an abusive asshole who will exploit tools available to him to punish the captured individuals for their insolence. No, instead Jim and Masque are treated to a near-insulting dose of being unanswered. "Information withheld will be extracted through alternative methods," the voice warns. And then comes the slightly differently spoken addendum: "Approaching. set destination. Preparing for extraction of. targets." The manner of the machine's speech changes again, this time more stiff and lifeless (as hard as that is accomplish) than before. A gloved hand moves behind to retrieve the electric baton that pacified both of the mutants before. The glass walls do not open just yet, but if the android's announcement is of any indication, it's not too long before they will. << Lucien's -- >> This comes with a further tightening, something uncomfortable (uncomfortably /worried/) stirring that Hive tamps back down in favour of focusing on one last through-Jim's-eyes /examination/ of their surroundings. << The boys were visiting that lizard-kid when Jax went to make his delivery. I can -- >> It's quick and tight, too. << Check with all them. Maybe the kid'll know who's safe. >> The tightening unfurls, slightly, as the android moves. Watching. Curiously. << If I have to come to a fucking shithole like Latveria to pick you up, you owe me a /good/ gorram dinner. >> << Psh, you'd do it for cheap Chinese takeout and a handjob. >> Jim grunts back, snorting at the android, "Hey, great. If our 'withheld information' is anything like the 'crimes' we committed, we're gonna have us all a fucking /party/." His hands are trapped, so you can't /see/ him making air quotes - good thing he has a sneer that makes them unnecessary. He thumps back his head and opts to ignore all of the things. Periodically thumping his heel on the wall. << ...lemme know who else. >> He comments, letting Hive examine the room through his eyes in that soft line where either of their intentions are simultaneous, so it matters little which of them is ultimately doing it. << Mean time. I'll find out what /extraction/ means. Do me a favor, huh, Hivey? >> <<...tune out. Whenever you can. >> It's callous-hard, as he braces down for the time to come. << You gotta sleep sometime. >> Oh for fuck's-- Masque just wants some more sleep. Why won't anyone let him sleep. "I'm assuming arriving fashionably late to this party's not an option." He sort of boredly states, before shifting his weight away from the glass, to get back up. And to smack a hand onto his face, and rub it with the exasperation of a man standing near-naked, in who knows what, going who knows where for who knows how long. And all he's got to say to that? "Do me a favour, tin man. Tell whoever's so fond of that womb'a yours to stick it."