ArchivedLogs:The Show Must Go On
| The Show Must Go On | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-05-20 (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. Night-time. -Ish. Peter is sleeping, rather stiffly, in his bunk; on his back, his arms curled over his chest. Drifting on and off. Occasionally making little unhappy noises, but otherwise quiet; there is a bit of /drool/ on his pillow, because - he is definitely a night-time drooler. Also, he occasionally makes a loud, obnoxious SNKRRRT sound. The twins are sleeping, too. Curled up together in a kind of /damp/ bunk, tucked in close against each other in a tangled ball of bruised blue skin. Less bruised than it has been in recent days. They've even shed their bandages -- all but the one on Sebastian's neck, their recent wealth of claw and toothmarks faded down to thin stripes of raw red healing against the blue. The loud rattle of heavy chain, the scrape of the door, the clanging open of the cage door, these are all quite routine sounds. Right now, even, perhaps /pleasant/ ones given that this time two mutants were taken and two are being returned. Bloody, for sure -- /really/ bloody in the case of the lean man with blood-armor and a host of new puncture wounds -- but largely whole. Anole is limping, is bruised, but is walking back into the cage under his own power. He sinks back down onto the edge of a bunk once the door is shut and locked behind him -- probably the twins’ bunk, perched on its edge, kind of a little hunched over. Elbows propped on knees. Shoulders tense. Peter bristles in his bed at the sound. Another snnnrkt, a little twitch-spasm of his arms and fingers. When the cage closes, his eyes flutter open, just barely slitted; groggily, he tries to make out the dark silhouettes in the room. A fist jams into his eye-socket, rubbing. When at last he makes out the figure of Anole, he goes quiet. Maybe a tiny breath of relief. And just, well, then, he just watches. The twins are awake pretty much the moment the door opens. They don't move, much. Shane nuzzles in against Sebastian's chest. Sebastian tightens his arms around Shane. Maybe if they're veeery quiet nobody will notice them? LOOK it works! Or, just, you know, they're not due for a fight for a while. But either way once the door has closed again they're uncurling. Unrolling. /Sniffing/ at the air. "You alright?" This is Sebastian, quietly looking over Anole. "Looks alright. Other guy smelled bloodier." Shane is still sniffing. "You /win/?" “I won,” Anole agrees, kind of heavily. He doesn’t sound pleased about it. Just tired. “Other guy’s okay. It was that -- the one with the cuts, he -- gave me his oranges.” He sounds a little awkward, about this. “At breakfast.” His voice is very quiet. Maybe because of the microphones but probably just to not elicit a round of shushing from the sleeping mutants around them. “There were others waiting,” he tells them. “My -- Nox --” His voice is a little shaky on this. “And your -- your last -- cage -- person. The --” In the dark, his blushing is less visible. To most eyes, anyway. Perhaps not the twins’. “The pretty one. Are you awake?” He whispers this even softer, looking over to Peter. “Mmmn,” Peter makes a sound, more like a rush of breath. And then - he moves. In the dark, he’s hard to make out; particularly when he is slow and careful. There is a faint - /blob/ of darkness, now. It overshadows the bunk Peter’s on as he sits up. And - very slowly - slides his injured leg around, back to the floor. Peter moves, then, toward them. It is - very slow, and somewhat awkward. He’s found a way to support his weight on his injured leg without crumpling in pain, but it involves quite a bit of clumsy hopping. Once he arrives - he immediately produces a little hiss, grabbing the upper bunk for support - and then lowers himself, down on the floor. Sitting at Anole’s feet, besides the twins. Turning to prop his back up against the bed. He reaches out his hand to touch Anole’s knee. "Good." It's hard to tell which one of the twins this comes from. Just a tired exhalation as they shift on the mattress. Sebastian flops over onto his belly, wiggling towards the edge of the mattress to tuck his chin against it. Peering down at Peter, resting his cheek against Anole's leg. Shane curls around, tucking himself in a neat little curl against Sebastian's side. His hand drops absently, fingers resting against Peter's shoulder. "Oh --" Just oh. "You both came back." He doesn't extrapolate this to the other two still missing, though. He just counts it for what it is. Anole is hesitant, when the twins approach, but only for a moment. He lifts his hand from his lap, carefully smoothing at Sebastian’s spiky mess of hair. “We both came back,” he agrees. Smooth. Smooth smooth pat. He moves from Sebastian’s hair to Peter’s, in a moment. Strokestrokesmoothpat. “Sorry. I didn’t. Mean to wake everyone up.” Under the pressure of Shane’s fingers on his shoulder - and the hairstroke from Anole (Peter’s head-hair is notably less spiky and plastic; out of the four of them, he has the /least/ unusual hair!), Peter produces an involuntary chitter, swelling up underneath the contact. Then, he lays his head back, the side of his face close to Sebastian’s, throat exposed, eyes closed. “S’okay. Bad dreams,” Peter mumbles, before turning his head to face Shane’s - notably away from the cameras. The next words Peter speaks are scarcely more than a whisper - but have a certain terrified sharpness to them that seems to heighten their volume: “I think they’re going to eventually kill us. We -- I’ve been thinking. Of what to do.” "Yeah. They probably are. We're kind of a pain." Sebastian's voice is very soft, too. He closes his eyes at the petting, head nuzzling up into it. His cheek rubs against Anole's leg, scratchy against pants-fabric. "What could you possibly have to give you nightmares, dude, I was dreaming about fucking Disneyworld." Shane's voice manages even in a low whisper to be kind of harsh. His touch is contrastingly gentle -- his fingers skim against Peter's shoulder. Against his collarbone. Against his neck. Just soft light tracing. "I did beat him pretty badly in Go Fish," Sebastian answers Shane very seriously. But then a quiet, and then: "Yeah?" Anole strokes at Peter’s hair a moment longer. His hand drops back to his lap, his shoulders hunching in on themselves. “... kill them first?” It’s a tiiiiny whisper. He looks kind of horrified that he’s even said it. Peter’s head leans further back under the collarbone stroking; his head shifts to nose-bump the side of Shane’s cheek at mention of Disneyworld. A little, tiny /snkrt/ at the mention of Go Fish. At Anole’s suggestion, Peter visibly shifts - surprised, a slight tensing - but relaxes a moment later. /Squeezing/, again, at Anole’s knee. “Been looking at your collar,” Peter murmurs, and now his nose dips down slightly - toward Shane’s collar. “They’re not - they’re just modified - I’m pretty positive,” he whispers, maybe just - nibbling on his lip. “That if we take them off at the same time, whoever’s watching won’t be fast enough to /kill/ us.” "They're locked on pretty --" Shane is starting, but Sebastian just reaches down, runs a finger gently along the back of Peter's neck. Tracing it agains the edge of the collar, finding the small nick at the side where he /bit/ it on his first day here. "They're just leather. Some wires inside, probably. Any of us could take them." "Yeah," Shane says, "but if we do we're still in a cage." His head tilts, slightly, when Peter's dips. Stretching his neck, giving better access to the collar -- which, admittedly, is mostly tucked beneath his bowtie, right now. But the collar is thicker than the tie is. /Possibly/ also just giving better access to his /neck/. "Cages can be broken," Sebastian says thoughtfully. “Yeah, but you’d have to be strong enough to --” Anole quiets. He looks down at Peter for a long time. “... they’d shoot us,” he whispers. “Are -- you faster than a /bullet/?” Little hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand on end when Sebastian touches that old nick-mark; it isn’t unpleasant, but it’s sensitive - particularly considering the shocks he’s received. For a moment, Peter just hovers over Shane’s exposed neck, before - as if on impulse - he kisses it. A tint of violet scarcely visible in the dimness of the room. “No,” Peter admits to Anole, the hand on his knee briefly dipping, as if in reluctant submission. But then it lifts back up - just under the knee - giving his calf a tiny /squeeze/. “But I can--” He struggles, a moment, trying to think how to explain this. “I know they’re shooting /before/ they shoot,” he just relents, struggling to keep his voice below-a-whisper. “If you clinged to my back -- you could -- you camo’d me before --” Peter suddenly silences himself with another, much more tiny and quick peck at Shane’s neck. “When you two -- came for me -- you were working /together/,” he tells them, sounding a little breathlessly awed. “Even feral. Do you think -- if you concentrated on meat /outside/ the cage -- is it possible you could... work together to get out?” Shane exhales softly at that tiny kiss; its quiet, but edged faintly with a tiny moan at this contact. There's a small quiver of his gills, pressing up against the thick strap of collar. "Oh --" It's soft. But a /happy/ kind of 'oh'. Sebastian's fingers shift, from Peter's neck to Shane's, around on the other side than Peter. His light tracing against Shane's gills is careful, always /down/ and never back /up/ against their sharp edges. Shane melts further. "How do you know?" he finally manages to whisper, when he is adjusted to just being melty. "I mean, how do you know they're -- you're a /precog/?" "Oh my gosh, psychic spider." Sebastian sounds /so excited/ by this. "We can work together. It's -- kind of --" Shane struggles with this, too, for a moment, before just: "He's my other half. /Not/ working with him takes more thought." "You can turn other people, too?" This makes Sebastian more interested, glancing over at Anole. Curiously, he rests a hand against Anole's knee, just over Peter's. "Bad-ass. I mean, I can't make a lot of -- promises about -- it's hard to fucking /think/ when my organs are /eating/ themselves but I --" Shane's teeth scrape gently against his lower lip. "We could do it." Sebastian is far less hesitant. "... think they'd put us all, um, in a. Fight. /Together/." "Nah," Shane says, "they just put us with Peter cuz I've been -- wait." His eyes widen like he's had a /brilliant/ idea. "/Maybe/. If. We all. Had an /orgy/." Now Sebastian is bright purple. His hand clamps down against Shane's gills. “/Are/ you psychic?” Anole is kind of awed by this. He looks down at Sebastian’s hand, Peter’s hand, against his leg, and -- flushes, dark. But then his legs shift, fading into the dull grey of the scratchy wool blankets on the bed. The colour creeps into both their hands soon after, tinting them grey as well. The grey spreads abruptly -- through his whole body and up half the other boys’ arms -- at Shane’s statement. He /squeaks/, which earns him an irritable shhhhhhing from the cage next door. “Ohgosh,” his voice drops into a smaller whisper. “That’s not -- are you -- you’re not /really/ -- I mean maybe if I just -- /hug/ you more -- you can’t --” His eyes are wiiiiide. “Kind of, more like--” Peter /thinks/, eyebrows furrowing. “...precog /pain/. Hurts before happens. Like a warning,” he whispers, before adding: “Danger sense.” Peter thinks a moment at Sebastian’s words, brows still furrowed. He’s about to say something when Shane mentions the o-word, and Peter’s eyes go wide like Anole’s; the violet tint risks going indigo. But instead of squeaking, he just -- /bites/ Shane, maybe-hard, on the neck. It might just be to muffle a snkrt. “If we all practice together,” Peter whispers, “make it look awesome on cameras? Pretty sure they’ll put us together. Um, hugging would work too, maybe,” he offers Anole, still tinted indigo, eyes flickering down briefly to watch as Anole’s color spreads to Peter’s hand. “You’d have to bend the bars enough to fit through,” he murmurs to the twins. “Then, we’d have to -- ngh. Anole and I could stay safe, but you two would be...” His throat clenches. He bites Shane’s throat again, a little /harder/. Almost possessively. “Couldn’t leave. Without you two.” "Woah," Sebastian is soft and awed at the shift of color. "That is neat. That is -- if you can do that to -- that would be --" Quieter: "Helpful." Shane isn't saying anything. His breath is catching, at the bites; a soft-sharp gasp that would easily be mistaken for distress if not for the way he is melting bonelessly in against Sebastian, his head dropping to nuzzle down against Peter's shoulder. "We can make it look awesome. We can give them a /good/ show. Cuz," Sebastian says this a little more amused, "we /are/ House Awesome." Shane is -- shivering. At the second bite. His hand drops down, from Peter's collarbone to chest, lightly scuffing against dark chitin. "... I think he might be ready for that orgy already," Sebastian sounds a little amused. His fingers trace against Shane's gills again. "... notleavingwithoutanyofyou," Shane finally manages, soft and breathy. "We're fast. We're tough. -- I'll take," he adds to Anole, "more hugs." “You can have all the hugs,” Anole promises. The look he gives the biting, the melting, the hand against Peter’s chest, is hard to read. It lingers a long while, though, his cheeks flushed. “... yeah. We’re. Not leaving without.” He swallows. “We should spar more. I don’t think I’m interesting enough to keep up with -- you guys.” His hand falls to rest -- sort of splayed over Peter’s and Sebastian’s both. Grey on grey. “It /hurts/ you when there’s danger, I don’t know if that’s -- awesome or horrible.” Peter is /trying/ not to be terrible but something about the way Shane melts seems to make him even /more/ bitey. There’s one more bite - not as hard as the last one, but harder than the first one - as Shane’s hand drifts over his chitin-clad sternum, drawing in a breath with a hiss, rising up into his palm. But then, still shaded a dark indigo, he murmurs - in response to Sebastian: “Ohgod.” And with looooots of reluctance, pulls his mouth back just a little from Shane’s neck, just. Nicely nose-nuzzling instead. “You’re, /really/ fast,” Peter whispers, turning his head - again, with lots of reluctance - away from Shane. Peter’s hand bumps up underneath Anole’s, knuckles bending just a little. “The tongue thing, too, you could. Yank a gun from someone. The camo will be -- /really/ helpful, in all the chaos, they...” Peter’s chitin was shifting back to a more natural blue, but at Anole’s mention of the pain, it flashes back up to violet again. “...yeah it -- it’s -- okay, but. Is like, little prickly brain spikes. Hurts. Mmmnyou can, you /will/,” Peter cuts himself off, voice rising just a /mite/ higher than it maybe should, head leaning up. “Keep up with us. You have survived. Mutant murder club. When you get out of here, you will be. /So/ badass,” Peter insists. Peter might be being Good but Shane is still Shane, and so even when Peter switches from biting to nuzzling his hand stays pressed against Peter's chest, running against the smooth chitin slow and gentle. His head dips; he does not bite, because ow. Even nips from him are unpleasant. He does gently brush his lips against Peter's cheek, and then his neck. His collarbone. He miiiight be distracted. Until Bastian baps him gently on the back of the head -- pay attention! "Tongue thing?" he hasn't seen this yet, apparently. "No, yeah, I think -- you're a lot more badass than you give yourself credit for." "Won your fight," Shane murmurs absently, and -- more importantly, it seems -- "still alive. You know, when we get out of here, we don't have to /stop/ being badass. /This/ place is shitty but learning how to handle yourself isn't a bad thing." "... stress relief isn't a bad thing," Bastian says quietly. "I'd do this happily. If it wasn't for people to laugh at. If it wasn't with /death/." "We could bend the bars," Shane is saying this wistfully. "Between the lot of us --" He exhales, soft and heavy against Peter's shoulder. Anole is blushing kind of furiously as he watches the others. "...you really think I'm," he starts, but then just stops to consider. "I guess I am kind of. Do kind of. Maybe I /could/ actually keep up with." He takes in a deep breath, and nods to himself: "I /will/ actually keep up with you guys. If we -- /when/ we." He smiles a little brighter at Sebastian's question. "I have, um, my tongue is kind of. Long. I can --" In lieu of explanation he demonstrates: thwp! Something looooong shoots out to snap against the upper bunk opposite, curling for a moment against its upper railing but then withdrawing. "Ghh that tastes like so much gross," he says with a tiny laugh. Peter gets a little squirmy when Shane strokes his chest and nuzzles at his throat; his torso lifts, arching, head drifting back, suddenly - biting sharp on his bottom lip. Briefly tensing; his hand on Anole’s leg might suddenly /squeeze/ a lot harder than he intends. Not hard enough to bruise, but - close. Barely muffling a low, wheezy, groan. When Bastian delivers the bap, Peter relaxes, drawing in a ragged breath - settling back down to the floor, his grip on Anole’s leg slackening. The hand with broken fingers scoops up, then, to wrap up and under Shane’s throat, up around his head. Careful, with the still-braced fingers. Bandages scratching across rough skin. “You are,” Peter agrees with Anole and Sebastian, a little lazily, still maybe a bit tense - when the tongue snaps out - Peter’s seen it before, but his eyes still get a bit wide. He - manages to choke back a snicker when Anole comments on the taste. “...oh man, we should--”Peter suddenly looks thoughtful. “...how strong is your tongue?” "Holy cow," Sebastian says, as Shane says "Holy shit." "That," says Bastian, "is awesome. Can you hold /on/ to things with that can you pick stuff up with it?" "That," Shane is saying, "is /hot/, can you /imagine/ if he put --" This is cut off by another sharper bap from Sebastian. Peter delivers a bap /simultaneously/. More gently, because. Broken fingers. Shane snorts, at these twin baps. But he quiets. His fingers skim more slowly against Peter's chest, nuzzling into his neck. ".../is/ it strong?" he asks eventually. Anole squeaks quietly when Peter's fingers tighten on his leg. "Notsohard," he whispers, but his hand rests over Peter's. Still grey. Fingers brushing Peter's lightly. And then it's /his/ turn to squeeze, with a considerably smaller amount of force, when Shane doesn't ask that question. "...ohgosh." But then: "...um." This is tentative, shyer, "... you really think it's, I mean, most people think it's /gross/." He shrugs at the actual questions. "I don't know. Strong. Sometimes it's, I use it. To hold on to things, yeah. It's strong enough to --" his brow furrows. "Swing from?" Peter’s energy goes back to slooowly draining as Shane returns to chest-stroking and neck-nuzzling, eyelids drifting back down sleepily as he leans back. His hand lifts a bit underneath Anole’s contact, giving him an apologetic frown: “Sorry,” he whispers, but then, he listens, and. Flush. “Izznotgross,” Peter counters, before saying: “I mean. You probably don’t want to taste the things you use it on, but - is cool,” Peter finishes, very /assertively/ (albeit quietly!). But when Anole mentions that last bit - Peter is suddenly grinning. Very widely. Perhaps even a little /scarily/. “Swing,” he repeats, and then: “If it’s okay. In morning. Might ask you to help me,” Peter bites his lip, trying not to let his grin get /too/ large. “/Experiment/ with something.” "Oh my god," Shane says in answer to this, amused, "you can't be serious." "Thwp," says Bastian. Very seriously. "Guys," Shane sounds really earnest about this, "we're going to give them a /great/ show." | |
