ArchivedLogs:Likable Guys

Likable Guys
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Masque	2013-07-27 So likable.
Location Undisclosed
The process of extracting the known mutant terrorists -- who may or /may/ not possess telepathic ability -- is a tricky one. But Malthus is taking no chances. The truck is brought into a facility; telepathic shielding immediately descends on all sides of the truck with a low *CHUNK*. And then, one by one, the glass compartments are mechanically 'unlatched' -- and withdrawn -- dropped atop of massive steel gurneys and /wheeled/, within their telepathic shielding, to temporary holding positions. At no point in this process does Masque nor Jim even /encounter/ another living face. That doesn't come till later. Somewhere inside of the temporary facility, Masque has been deposited -- still within his glass room! -- in a niche. A niche that is surrounded by steel plates that give a gentle hum; one of these plates is made of a narrow strip of glass, allowing him to see -- a small interrogation room! Sterile, neat, organized, with even a nice little tree sitting on the side. The glass panel has a shelf, which connects with Masque's own glass cell, allowing for the passage of objects -- food, in this case -- to Masque. The food is -- perhaps surprisingly good! A delicious /steak/, actually. With potatoes and corn. And a bottle of water on the side. Masque gets a plastic knife and fork to eat it with. Whether or not he actually dines, approximately thirty minutes later, a man arrives at the glass doorway. The man is six foot and change. Dressed in all black. With a scar tracing its way down his right eye, through to his lip, splitting it open to expose a sliver of white teeth. His hands folded behind his back. Kind of a sinister John Malkovich. Masque probably doesn't know who that is. "Good evening," Malthus says. "My name is Malthus Rogers; if you like, you can call me Captain Rogers. May I ask /your/ name?" Throughout the process of him being /delivered/ to this place, Masque has hardly moved. Like an old, carsick dog on its way to the vet, all of the involved movement prompted him to sit down in a corner of his little glass cube, hunched over with posture atrocious enough to make some physicians weep. Just a bony collection of scars and limbs and grey hair hanging down atop a mangled head. And he hasn't much moved since. Sitting on the floor of his little cell, facing the glass, elbows on his knees and hands dangling between. He hasn't touched the food, and when Malthus arrives, he's still glaring down and just ahead of him. At his scarred up foot and missing toes and fingers? At the ground? At nothing at all? He doesn't actually look UP at the man until he's greeted, eyes snapping toward the man's face as his own cocks slightly to the side. He doesn't return the greeting, not even in gesture, mouth twitching stiffly toward the more... roadkillesque side of his face. He clicks his tongue, his own teeth yellowed and crooked, some broken - at least the approximately two thirds that have remained. Then, simply and with the smoothness of a good bottle of whiskey smashed violently against the most exquisite of heroin needle-covered bits of pavement, he says, "/Masque/." Without pause, lifting a single finger from his lighter hand to point to the untouched food nearby, he continues with, "This have anything in or on it I ain't seein'?" "It has," Malthus announces -- with, perhaps, an unusual sense of calm! "Salt. Pepper. Canola oil for the steak; garlic for the potatoes. Do you have particular dietary needs I should be aware of?" And then, as if the thought has just occurred to him; the scarred side of his mouth twitching, perhaps in amusement. "Or -- ah. You're concerned we might be drugging you. I assure you, if I wanted you drugged, I wouldn't bother using your /food/." "Masque," Malthus repeats, as if he finds the name somehow distasteful. He's not addressing this word to Masque; he's just addressing it to the space above Masque's head. His lone functioning eye soon slings down to regard Masque yet again: "I presume that is merely what they /called/ you. I would like your birthname, if it would not be too much trouble. At least a first name -- or a last name, if you would find that more preferable." "That's not what I said." This comes quickly, after the mention of /drugging/, low and scraped from the back of Masque's throat, but with no immediate concern behind it. The question about dietary needs is left woefully unanswered. If trust has been gained from the answer he's received about the food, it does not show yet - the food, by now cold, remains unattended. "'Called'." This is his next word, said much more promptly and loudly than the previous few, the corners of his mouth curling up unpleasantly even though his eyes do nothing to reflect amusement. If anything, they do the opposite. And-- that's apparently all he has to say, his eyes flitting from one side of Malthus' face to the other while his fingers idly curl inward. And back out. And back in. Restless, eager? Perhaps both. "I apologize. Perhaps I misunderstood," Malthus replies, to Masque's initial statement. "It would be my /preference/ that your stay at my facility -- as repugnant as you may find it -- be comfortable for you. If you have particular preferences in regard to your meals, I am willing to work with you to meet them. Or," Malthus adds, "you can refuse to eat." There is a certain polite indifference that clouds around this last statement -- as if Malthus would /also/ find this to be an agreeable solution. "'Called'," Malthus repeats, firmly. His eyes narrow at Masque; the lonely blue one seems to focus on the grotesque injury on the other man's face -- but for just a moment. "--mmn. As you prefer; I will refer to you as your numerical designation. 013." Malthus pronounces each number separately, as if it were a title; 'Oh, One, Three'. Masque's expression deepens - is it a smile? It's probably something like that. Although occasionally it appears to dangle dangerously close to the precipice of becoming a snarl instead. But not yet. From the way his ribcage appears to cave in for a moment, it might be gathered that if he'd put any kind of effort into expressing himself at the moment, he may have chuckled at the number he's been assigned. But no, just a breath. There is no answer, this time. Just his hands and his ten-minus-two fingers, curling into his palms a little more keenly now. Relax, /tense/. Relax, /tense/. And his grey, dead eyes still directly locked onto Malthus' face. "Mmn," is Malthus' only response. Watching. His expression is serene; a sea of neutrality that Masque's bitterness seems to /wash/ across with little visible effect -- on the surface, at least. "First, 013, I wish to clarify: Your current treatment here is not an attempt to inspire you into cooperation. I will attempt to make you comfortable /regardless/ of the level of your cooperation. That being said." Malthus... disappears. For just a moment. He's retrieving a chair; he brings it up to the glass window, sets it down -- and sits. Cross-legged; fingers steepled in his lap. Peering at Masque. "You mutilated two of my soldiers. I would like you to /undo/ that." "I fuckin' bet you would." Masque's feigned amusement leaves him as though it'd never been on his features to begin with, a subtle narrowing of his eyes replacing it. "'N in return, lucky number thirteen will get... more comfort?" He leans back, kicking out one leg while both hands get planted beside him, fingertips and palms pressed down perhaps slightly harder than basic support requires. "No," is Malthus' immediate response. "I already intend to make you as reasonably comfortable as possible, 013." Again, Malthus pronounces it -- Oh, One, Three. "You will be provided whatever you ask for; again, within reason." Malthus leans back in his chair; the chair /creaks/ beneath his weight. His eyelid drifts, slightly lower. "No, 013, if you fail to undo the mutilation of my soldiers, I'm just going to torture you." Again, something changes in Masque's face. Muscles in his jaw pull strangely at each other, teeth grit and- his breath catches briefly while his hands press yet further down. When he finally speaks again, it's slow, methodical, and the hatred's so thick that if one were quick enough, they could walk on it. "I don't want your fucking comfort." His head dips, his attention steadily trailing off and to the side, somewhere. "You have 'em ready?" One leg is pulled slightly closer, like he's preparing to rise in case he receives an affirmative answer. "Mmn. Yes," comes Malthus' immediate response. Before: "I should warn you, 013. If you merely proceed to do /additional/ damage to my soldiers, I will simply kill you, and rely on surgery to undo the damage you have wrought. But--" A faint twitch of Malthus' mouth. "--otherwise, we can begin. Immediately." Masque rises. That is to say... he uneasily and stiffly lifts himself up and off the ground, some of his movements more akin to a puppet being pulled up by its strings than a human being moving of his own accord. "Gotta ask yourself a question, cap'n." His face lifts again, broken and mismatched as it is, now closer to Malthus, shoulders rolling back individually with a crrk of scraping bone and worn down joints. "You're gonna keep me here for the rest of my life. Stands to fucking reason it ain't gonna be long, and it ain't gonna be pretty. And you're giving me a chance to end it doin' what I do love most." Now, he grins. Properly, amused, entertained and patronising all at once, and it doesn't sit right on his face at /all/, in at least a dozen different ways. If his tone is any sort of indication, his curiosity in the next words is genuine, if morbid, "Pray fucking tell, why shouldn't I take it." And so it is that Masque receives the rarest of Malthus' expressions -- a full on smile. Extending from one corner to the other; tugging that scar into a horrible grimace, a /snarl/ that exposes those white, straight teeth -- gleaming in the light of the cell. "Because, 013," Malthus replies, "if you die today, you might miss the chance to see me make a /mistake/." "I /don't care/," comes the reply from the other side of the glass, guttural but... gleeful? Something like it, sickeningly so. His grin stays plastered, an ugly thing of age, decay and /rot/ in front of those shiny whites. "You ain't that interesting." "--mmn." That smile quickly fades from Malthus' face, at this announcement; something harder, colder -- more clinical -- intrudes. "--that is to say. It is possible -- very unlikely, but possible. You will one day escape this facility. Really? You aren't interested in, mmn. Mutilating my face?" A hand drifts to his unscarred cheek, as if touching it to make /sure/ it's unscarred. Has Masque managed to hurt Malthus' feelings? "I don't give a fuck about your face." Masque states, his /wrong/ grin widening for just a moment before something quite like a laugh escapes him. Just a single, scrapey dry 'hah', like the smile disappearing from Malthus' face is considered a personal victory. He turns away from the window, then, spinning around as though he's about to pace - regardless of cell size. But instead, "... Hmh." And around he turns /again/, this time to face the other man with a certain kind of hunger in his eyes. An energetic sort, even if the joy has gone completely. "I'll fix your peons." Simply said, disgust ringing through into the next sentences, "But, as they say. An eye for an eye. How familiar are you with the guest list of a certain mutant fighting ring." "--hn. You want the names of the people who watched you struggle in that cage," Malthus states -- with! What seems to be actual /fascination/. As if this request was something he did not expect; as if it was a request he was genuinely considering...! "Just on the off-chance you might escape from this facility. So you can exact a terrible revenge." "...mmn," Malthus says. "That's -- actually very interesting." Then, shortly after: "I'll consider your offer, and make a decision tomorrow." Then, as Malthus rises from the chair: "--I do find /you/ interesting. I actually think I quite like you, 013." "What can I say," Masque straightens -- just a little, his fingers tightening inward once before... finally... ceasing their little twitchy flex fest. If only so he can reach for his cold meal and bottled drink, and slowly lower himself back down to set it beside him. To pick at with his /fingers/, apparently. Just before unceremoniously shoving a potato into his mouth, he leans back and proclaims humourlessly upward at the man on the other side, "I'm a likable guy."