ArchivedLogs:Old Dog, New Trick

Old Dog, New Trick
Dramatis Personae Peter, Sloan	2013-05-03 Peter arrives at camp MUTANT FITE. (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. The caged door to one of the cells is opened with a low, menacing creak; a new freak is shoveled into the fray. This one's dressed in a black hoodie (ripped and frayed in several spots - exposing the t-shirt underneath), blue jeans, black tabi socks, and fresh bandages. The smell of antiseptic clings tightly to him - along with the familiar odor of fresh blood. Peter is heavily bruised; his left eye has gone dark, his scabbed lip is still healing - and there are... unusual blotch marks covering his face. Some the size of a pencil point; some the size of a quarter. The blotches don't look like /normal/ bruising - they're dark, midnight black, with an unusual metallic blue /sheen/ to them - almost like oil glittering in sunlight. Predictably, the teenager also looks terrified out of his /wits/. No sooner is he shoved in the room then is he on the floor, yelping and clutching at his flank. And no sooner has he done /this/ then is he suddenly clamboring - wild-eyed and frantic - up the nearest wall. Like his hands and feet were covered in adhesive - he /scuttles/ up to the ceiling, occupying the shadow-iest corner he can find. Sloan has been living the high life, given their conditions. Mainly, she has been without a roommate for awhile now, since the last went...missing. This means no one is there to disturb with her personal workouts. When the guards make for her cage, the fluffy woman is on her knuckles on the hard hard concrete floor doing push-ups. Not girlie pushups either but the real sort and given the shortness of breath, the grunts that escape with her each successful "up", she's been doing a /lot/ of them. Of course, she's not fool enough to be working out when the door is opened. Sloan rises up to a crouch and reaches for the scrap of towel on her bunk, eyeing the door and those who appear in it. Probably /not/ the prettiest thing to be greeted with--an out of breath and very toothy dog-woman breathing heavily, wearing just a soiled tank top and an old pair of grey sweat shorts. Her hair shifts when Peter stumbles in, lifting on her canine ears as they prick forward. Her mismatched eyes track him up to the corner and then blink once. "...okay," she rumbles in the silence that follows the door closing. The towel is lifted, dabbed around her face. The fur around it stand up in sweat-spiky drifts. "I see why they grabbed you." Peter, up in the corner, /peers/ down at Sloan. His hands are out on either side - /gripping/ the two walls. Flattened out. His toes are squeezing down near where the two walls intersect; his back is cradled up against the point where the walls and ceiling meet. He is - well, /looks/ like he has been crying, but he doesn't look like he is going to be crying anymore. "...where - you're a dog." Then: "...I'm, um, sorry that's - rude you're not..." Swallow. "...are they going to /dissect/ us?" "I am a dog," Sloan corrects, unruffled. Her ears have disappeared beneath the floof again but her eyes remain fixed on him. She is still except for the slight back and forth of the tail that's escaped the back of her shorts. "The biggest bitch you've probably ever seen." Her grin is sudden. And full of teeth. She /means/ it to reassure. "No, they're not going to dissect us. Come on down here, kid. You're killing my neck and it's already sore with this damn collar." One large white hand reaches up to tweak at the circle of leather around her throat. "O-okay." For whatever reason, the sight of teeth does not seem to alarm Peter as much as it maybe /should/; it might have to do with the fact that his danger sense - which has been screaming at him all night - is /finally/ starting to calm the hell down. He ever-so-carefully begins to make his way down from the ceiling - it's tough, because he's clearly hurting, and obviously exhausted - but, bit by bit, he picks his way off the walls and to the floor. Where he pretty much just... collapses. Into a pile of Peter. "Oh - collar - right they..." His hand thoughtlessly moves up to tug at his /own/ collar, as if only just now realizing it's there. "...are they going to /kill/ us?" Also, dejectedly: "They... they took away my mask." Uh oh. He sounds like he's about to sniffle, just a little. "They're not going to kill us." There's a 'but' lurking in there somewhere. Sloan doesn't voice it though, considering how she's faced now with a puddle o' teenager. She stares down at him there on the floor, then gives a low chuff--her cheeks billow out with this breath--and lumbers up to her feet. The towel is tossed aside before she reaches down to haul him up. Not into a hug, or to gently rest him on a bunk, or even to just support him standing. No, she lifts him up--ever so easily, as if he weighed as much a pup--and then almost drops him onto his feet. Only the substantial grip of her hands over his shoulders offers balance after that. They squeeze. Mind her, that gesture says. "Don't you fall apart. Stop sniffling. This isn't the place for it," she rumbles at him. "O-okay," Peter states. He does not resist being pulled up to his feet; once he's there, he even manages to get his legs to straighten out and support /himself/, albeit with just a /bit/ of a wobble. And if he's still about to sniffle - well, now he's taking pains to hide it. A fist /shoves/ into his eyesocket, rolling around, as if digging for gold. "Okay. I just - I've never - oh, man. I've /heard/ about this stuff but I never - oh, man," he continues, and now he sounds a bit wheezy, and his legs are wobbling again and for a moment it seems like he /is/ going to fall apart, but - he leans forward, /into/ Sloan's grip, as if drawing strength just from the /presence/ of her hands - and /breathes/. "Okay. I'm okay." His hand drops down beside him. "So, not dissecting, not killing. My name's Peter." Sloan might not be in the comforting business but she keeps her hands on his shoulders until it's clear he can maintain his own sense of balance. When his hands drop, so too do hers. "Peter. How old are you, Peter?" There's a growl lurking in that question, almost too soft to make out. Curiously, it is timed towards a brief glance at the ceiling. "I'm Sloan. Been here awhile. Long enough to know the ins and outs. Here. You want top or bottom?" Questions are good because questions force a person to think. She turns, tail swinging with her, and indicates the two empty bunks on the right. "/Almost/ sixteen," Peter answers, almost /too/ quickly; apparently, this is a sore point for him. Sixteen can't get here /soon/ enough, dammit! Then he remembers where he is and, um. Wobble. But, still standing! "T-top. If that's okay. I - do better high up. I /like/ high places," he adds, his head darting toward the ceiling - as if reconsidering his decision to come down from it. Then, his eyes immediately stray toward Sloan's tail, and, for a few moments, he is clearly distracted from his plight by the fact that - she has a /tail/, oh my /god/ that is adorable. Peter sucks in a breath and stiffens himself: "...if they're not dissecting us, and they're not killing us, then what...?" "Almost sixteen," Sloan repeats--clearly she is highly trained--then turns to sit on her own bunk. It protests with a creak but holds her weight as she scrubs both hands over her face. There may or may not be muttering under that scrubbascrubba but it is difficult to make out. After a moment, with slightly more clarity, she says, "Of course you like high places. You climb walls. They're grabbing kids now, what the hell." She pins him with a dubious look. "Fighting, kid. We're here to fight for them. Like pit bulls, or cock fights. They bet on the matches." That dubious look does, in fact, manage to pin Peter. Right to the wall behind him - his shoulders make contact as he /slides/ down, knees bending, toes wiggling in those socks. Frowning. If Sloan is expecting fear - horror - or even agitation at the mention of having to fight in matches, she doesn't get it. Peter might actually look - well, not relieved. But /less/ stressed. "So, like - okay. Like wrestling," he says. "Except - not... fake." Then, he centers a look on Sloan - wide-eyed. "...I'm not - I'm not going to have to /kill/ anyone, am I?" The only answer he gets is a sigh. It's strong enough that it leaves her all floofed and bristling. Sloan stands and turns away from him, padding to the bucket of water in the corner. "You do what they tell you," she advises, "or they zap you through that collar. Or worse. You do what you're told and you'll be fine." The bucket is lifted up in both hands and used like a cup so she can drink deeply. Her tank top is glued to her back, which is not smooth and muscley beneath the fabric but bumpy and uneven courtesy of the matted fur back there. There are other mats in her tail and scruff as well, hanging like dull grey berries in all of that white. She's been here awhile. It shows...or she's just careless of hygiene. Suddenly, Peter is... sneaking closer. Scoot. Scoot. Scoot. This might be the most /clumsy/ attempt at sneaking up on Sloan she's ever encountered; nevermind the fact that he is doing it /right/ in front of her, using the drink of water as a distraction. When the bucket descends - Peter's /peering/ at her. It's a funny look; eyes rimmed with red, bruised and busted, splotchy skin - looking like an absolute mess - yet peering at her with what is clearly curiousity intermingled with concern mapped on his face. "Do you... do you ever comb your - um, fur?" The last word is asked as if it were - well, a dirty word. Red-faced and everything. That...what not what she expected him to ask next. Plans for escape, maybe, or information about their captors. But does she ever comb her fur? Her throat works as she lowers the bucket, water rolling down her chin. Sloan blinks at him. Then, without really thinking about it, she tries to crane a look over her shoulder at her tail--and ends up turning in a slow half-circle. "Has it gotten that bad?" Gruff her voice might be, but not so gruff that the rueful can't be heard. "Kinda I mean - I don't know what it /used/ to look like, but..." And then, suddenly, Peter is--/whoa/rightnexttoher. Still on the floor, but now just to her left, peering up at her. The kid moves /fast/. Blink, and she could have missed it. "Um, would it be weird if--I mean I am sorry this is probably /really/ weird, but. Could I. Uh." And his hand lifts, as if to make - little scritchy motions. Toward the top of her head. Is he... is he /serious/? That is a long way to peer. Sloan startles, hackles rising and lips peeling briefly back from her teeth--definitely not a grin this time--but once her surprise ebbs, she regards him with more bemusement than aggression. "You. Just got the shit beat out of you. And you want to pet me?" Just so they're clear, here. She's making certain she has this right. "...right. Almost sixteen. Of course you do." Maybe not as weird as he thought, then? Maybe she gets that a lot! After another sigh comes pouring out of her chest, the woman bends to set the bucket down with a clang. Then she remains bent over to give him easy access to ruff fluff. "Knock yourself out." And at once, Peter is /there/, on top of the bed - feet bouncing up, BOUNCE - and his fingers are immediately in that scruff - combing, /grooming/, scritching with nails that are a few shades shy of needing clipping. He digs deep into that scruff, fingers dragging down into the fur and /pulling/, combing as hard as he can - short of, say, scraping her scalp off. As he does, his head bobs close to her neck... as if to lean it there for comfort. But then, there is his voice - so utterly whisper-soft that he can scarcely hear it himself: "...um. Wag your tail twice for no...?" Peter is not a /commanding/ sort. It definitely comes off as a request. "...can they hear us talking?" Wait, what? Sloan might have been indulging a childish whim out of courtesy for a kid who's been through a rough time. However, once the scratching /begins/, oh god, she can't help herself. For a very large woman, she is capable of an extreme sort of melting that leaves her to whumph lean against the side of the bed. And there is so /much/ fur to dig down into, piles and piles of it before her scalp can be reached, with ears hidden under there and everything. Her tail begins to swing back and forth, mindless with its own desire to express /happy/. That's so goooooood oh god arf ...wut? "...unh?" Oh. Shit. Sloan jerks herself to her full height and steps away, a growl clotting in her throat. "Sorry," Peter immediately says, both hands snapping up and back, /away/ and over his head. At once, he hops back from her, as if worried about getting bitten. He /is/ staring at her tail, though, as it flips out endearingly. Watching it. Wag, back and forth. Back and forth. But then, much softer: "Sorry." Maybe it looks like he hit a tangle or something. "Yes." It's a grunt, a growl, both in one. Is Sloan accepting the apology? Maybe. Orrr... "Too much of that. They shock you," she rumbles, folding her arms across her chest. The biceps are shaggy but still bulge impressively as she settles them. Mismatched eyes have narrowed but she isn't looking at Peter with any sense of aggression. No tension, no preparing to leap. The tail comes to a slow halt, held low and closer to the ground. "You could die here, kid. Maybe you won't have to kill anyone but you could /definitely/ die if you're not careful." Peter's eyes move from that tail to those arms. Peering at them. Part fascination, part /awe/; ohmyGOD where did she get arms like that. "...okay," he repeats, before - slowly, but steadily - moving to crawl up the wall. Toward the upper bunk. Crawl, crawl. *Sproing*. "I understand," Peter repeats, and now he is peering down at Sloan from above, eyes wide, head just /barely/ poking out from the top bunk. "I'm - going to try to not die," he tells her, quite /firmly/, like this is something Peter is going to work very hard on doing. Then, a little softer: "I liked petting your scruff. Um. I mean. It wasn't - I really /did/ want to pet you." And then he is curling around in that upper bunk. If you hear any sniffling, that's just a trick of your mind; superheroes do not sniffle.