ArchivedLogs:Friendly Warnings
| Friendly Warnings | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-05-09 D: D: D: (Part of Thunderdome.) |
| Location | |
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 an hour or so later, and the atmosphere in the caged area still seems subdued, after the events of the morning. The sparring seems less enthusiastic, and there's more zzp noises as the twitchy guards lean towards over-correction. All in all, a gloomy place is a lot gloomier, right now. Trib is not sparring, or watching the sparring. Oddly, the big man is in his open cage, laying on his bunk with his right arm thrown over his eyes, and one leg cocked up. His left arm is laid gingerly over his torso, a remarkable lack of blood under the bandage on his elbow or the one on his forearm. His skin on that arm has a rubbery cast, like his skin was made of pencil eraser. When Peter arrives at the entrance to Trib's cage, it's not with slumped shoulders and a meek stare; it's with /anger/. But it's not the jaw-clenching, red-faced /snarl/ of adrenaline-fueled rage; no, this is just -- eyebrows /clenched/. Eyes /narrowed/ Hands /curled/. A sort of determined, rhythmatic CLOP, CLOP, CLOP to his step. As he stops - just at the entryway. A hand reaching out, slowly, to grip one of the bars of the cage. Squeezing around it. Until his knuckles are white. As if to /steady/ himself, there. Trib doesn't miss the approach to his cell. His elbow rocks up just enough for him to peer over his mask at Peter, raking his gaze along the boy without expression before he lowers his arm again. "Little late, ain't it?" he says in a weary-sounding sort of voice. "Seems last night I heard your little fishy friend talk you /out/ of movin' in." Peter's /other/ arm reaches up, then. Grabbing the bar on the /other/ side of him. Squeezing. Now, stretched across the entrance, gripping - either side of it. If you listen very closely, you might hear the sound of Peter's teeth. /Grinding/. There's a huffing noise from the bunk, and Trib's voice rumbles almost in amusement. "You gonna stand there bein' all dramatic, or you got some big superhero speech you wanna make?" He removes his arm, and uses it to push himself upright. "That's what superheroes do, right? Tell the bad guy how they fucked up, and the hero's gonna make 'em pay?" His eyes narrow, and his smile evidences itself in the crinkle at the corners. "That it? If somethin' happens to Bubbles, you're gonna make me /pay/ for it?" In reply, Peter's body tenses. Shoulders - hitch up. Arms /clench/. Hands /squeeze/. For a few seconds, it looks like he's just - seizing up. A convulsion? Maybe. But then there's a sound - a low, dark, metallic, rhythmatic 'thnk-thnk-thnk' - echoing around Peter's head. And then it becomes clear just what he's doing: He's /pulling/. And worse still: The bars are /giving/. When Peter finally releases - about three seconds after starting - while the bars don't look /twisted/, they are clearly - warped. /Bent/. Inward, where his fists had been gripping them. ZZZZAP. Peter clenches; grimaces. But then, his voice comes, dry and husky and nearly a /snarl/: "If you ever go near either of them again, I will /rip/ your fucking head off." "No, you won't." Trib seems unbothered by either the show of strength or the threat. He pushes to his feet in a slow rise that helps to illustrate the physical differences between the two. "You won't do that, 'cause you know, /deep down/, that I ain't the bad guy in all of this." He begins to walk forward, his steps oddly slow and small in the cramped confines. "You're a scared kid, who's in a serious /fuckload/ of trouble, an' I'm an easy guy to hate." When he reaches Peter, he leans down a bit, half-whispering. "But I ain't the bad guy, and you know it. An' it fuckin' kills you." He straightens before the zzap can catch him, and puts his hands in the warped places. "Don't it." "You think," Peter hisses, "I care about /any/ of that?" And then - it comes. Both hands /launch/ for Trib's chest; it's not an attack - so much as a /shove/. As hard as Peter can muster. And... Peter could probably shove a dude all the way to the other side of this /room/. This is, of course, not without consequence. Particularly not considering /who's/ doing this and the fight he was involved with earlier. Regardless of Trib's reaction - regardless of whether or not Peter's shove /hits/ - the shocks start coming. One after the other. ZZZZP. ZZZZP. ZZZZP. Until Peter's - dropping toward the floor, in a crouch, writhing, /convulsing/. His voice, just a hiss. ZZZZP. ZZZZZP. "Will kill you," Peter wheezes. "If you." Zzzzp. "Go near." Zzzzp. "Them. Don't--care." And now he's just - basically /crawling/ out of the room, through the shocks. Getting away. Trib takes the shove with an audible wince, and only his grip on the bars keeps him from flying backwards. Instead, his grip is merely broken, and he steps back with a grunt. The big man watches the teenager's convulsions impassively, rubbing his chest gently. "I didn't go near 'em /this/ fuckin' time, you stupid little shit," he hisses, stepping forward to swing a kick at Peter's tailbone. He doesn't hold back, it's a solid boot of bare foot to chitin-covered (one presumes) backside. He garbles a bit as the shock collar is immediately engaged. "Get your fuckin' head out of your ass, before someone /else/ gets killed." He raises his voice after the crawling teen. "An' you can pass /that/ little tip to your smurf fish friend. Maybe one of /you/ will last a fuckin' /week/." He'd hawk a wad of spit, but is muzzled, so settles for a very dog-like huff as he turns and moves back to his bunk. Fucking /teenagers/. | |
