ArchivedLogs:Trading Favors

Trading Favors
WARNING: Possibly upsetting/disturbing dialogue!
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane, Sebastian, Trib	2013-05-08 (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 morning (or whenever) begins pretty much the same: the cages slide open with a large bang, and the occupants emerge in the common area to move towards the food station. Some are moving slowly, showing evidence of hard fights, others are moving slowly as they try and adjust to this sudden change in their life and status. Everyone who moves too slowly receives a nice shock from their collar to remind them that dawdling is a thing not to be tolerated. Trib is not moving slowly or quickly. He moves at his own, panther-like pace, his metal-and-plastic muzzle doing little to hide the divot of flesh that's missing just below his right eye. It looks healed over, despite the slight bruising that rings it. Other than that, he's still his same, grungy self in the same clothes as yesterday and the day before. He moves into line, taking his tray with eggs, boiled potatoes, and -- fun -- a big wad of paste-like oatmeal with what he hopes to God are raisins sprinkled liberally through it, and moving towards the tables. Finding a spot along the wall, he claims it with a clatter of metal, GLARING at anyone who gives him the stink-eye over it. Peter is - a little slower to emerge today. No /darting/ about frivolously for him; the boy's face sports a few fresh bruises now - his lip, which had been on its way to healing, has been busted open again (and scabbed over during the night) - and that limp of his has returned full-force. His black hoodie is gone, too; now, he's left with a 'TEACH THE CONTROVERSY' t-shirt, torn and stained with sweat - and /blood/ - along with his dress slacks and two-toed socks. The black splotches have gotten to the point where they're no longer splotches at all; they're connecting to one another now, making it look like his /skintone/ are the splotches - rapidly shrinking ones at that. Once Peter retrieves his food, he limps toward a table - not far from Trib's. Just thumping down with a clatter at one of the tables, mumbling to himself, stirring his food with a plastic fork. Swaying a little. By the look of it, he's had his first fight; also, he's not dead. But he doesn't look /happy/ about it. When Peter moves into Trib's view (which isn't hard, the way the man watches the other detainees), the big man studies him for a long moment. Then he stands, and picks up his tray so that he can move to Peter's table. He drops in across from the kid, peering at his face, and furrowing his brow lightly. There's a small grunt which might be a greeting, and then the big man leans over his tray, picking up bits of egg and poking them through the bars of his mask. "You both came back." It might be some sort of reassurance, but Trib sounds more like he's ACCUSING Peter of something. Blandly. "Ah," Peter says, kind-of-shocked, kind-of-scared, kind-of-exhausted; like he's /trying/ to be frightened, but like he doesn't quite have the energy for it. It comes off as a half-hearted expression of apprehension. "...um, yeah." And then Peter's just, scratching at his face - notably, no longer at the chitinous mass, but at the bits that are still pink. Slowly but surely, those are the bits that are starting to feel weird; he's actually getting /used/ to the smoother stuff, now. "Yeah we're - we didn't get hurt too badly," Peter confesses, although it's not much of a confession, seeing how Anole is probably still - around, being all skittery and lizardy. Trib doesn't seem overly interested in scaring Peter, today. Oddly, he's focused more on his meal, occasionally looking up at the teenager. "This time," he grunts, rolling a shoulder. "You got lucky." He continues poking food through his muzzle, notably ignoring the wad of oatmeal-raisin(please god let it be raisin) stuff for now. "Betcha don't feel like no fuckin' superhero now." Peter blinks. Just - /peering/ at Trib. For several long moments. Before managing to throw on a grin. And then throwing that grin down to the food, which he proceeds to - ever so reluctantly - eat. "...actually, I kinda - do. Nobody got seriously hurt. Nobody got /dead/. I managed to... but," and then the grin fades a little, replaced with something - more hesitant. "...I had to /punch/ him. And I think - I know - it freaked him out. Having to punch me. All the blood, and stuff. But it's okay, I'll talk to him. We'll - practice. Punching harder, taking punches, and stuff. But, /dude/," and now Peter just /levels/ a look at Trib, like 'LISTEN': "I /am/ a superhero, just, /getover/ it." Trib makes a noise that blows a bit of potato out of his mask. Unbothered, he plucks up the discarded bit and pushes it back into his mouth. "You're pretty fuckin' stubborn," he notes after a long moment. He sounds almost admiring of this trait, except his eyes are a little sad. "Better let someone else deal with the kid," he rumbles, looking in the direction of the green-skinned kid's cage. "Unless you /want/ to be in there with him again, for the /big/ show." His eyebrows lift meaningfully, and he scoops up some egg to begin poking /that/ into his mask. The LISTEN look is given a bored expression in return. "If you was a superhero, you wouldn't /be/ here," he points out. "Or you'd have got us all out of he---nngh." His eyes squinch shut and his muscles tighten as the zzzp of the collar goes on for a full thirty seconds. Then he relaxes with a shuddering breath, and GLARES at Peter. Like it's /his/ fault he got zapped. "You ain't no fuckin' superhero," Trib repeats, muttering it low and to his tray. "/You/ get over it." "He is the superheroi/est/," Shane is saying this to Trib as he PLUNKS a tray down beside Peter. PLUNK. HI. "Pretty much. He took /all/ the ranks in superheroing at chargen." Sebastian is -- looking a good deal /better/ than when he came in, /far/ better than he should after only a few short days of recovery. There is still mottled-patchy discolouration through his skin but it's not /quite/ swollen, his eye nearly in good working order again. Smile still a little holey, teeth slowly pushing forward to replace the missing ones. He's taking up a spot on Peter's other side. They're both thinner, though. Both /flakier/, skin a little cracked, a little peeling. "So, I heard," Shane's tone is caaaasual but he's looking over Peter with a /deeply/ scrutinizing gaze, "that for your birthday you got a fucking beatdown by a scrawnyass lizard. Good job." He -- actually /does/ sound proud rather than snarky as he says this. Like he is genuinely congratulating Peter. Which he very possibly might be. "But, look," Sebastian gently nudges an elbow at Peter's arm, "that's kind of a sucky present, you know?" "/I/ was gonna get you a /steak/ but it turns out?" Shane is WIDE-EYED: who KNEW these ridiculous rules, "that they frown on slicing each other up outside the ring? So, um." He pushes his tray forward. Nudgenudge. There is on it -- um. Well. It's glob of oatmeal. But it's kind of shaped to look like a cupcake? And it even is decorated on top! Who knows who they cajoled or bullied or -- hey, it's Shane, probably /blew/ -- to collect an amalgam of the paultry number of raisins scattered through the oatmeal but! They have collected raisins and they are fashioned on the top into the number sixteen. "S'no candles to blow," Sebastian says apologetically; Shane /smirks/: "Hey, if you're in the mood for --" But this cuts off with a dagger-glare from his twin. Peter opens his mouth to respond to Trib - something angry, something /frustrated/ - but suddenly he is getting twinned, and both eyebrows /shoot/ up as he is - SURROUNDED BY SHARKS OHGOD HELP. But for someone who is being circled by sharks, he seems rather happy about the development; his eyes /pop/ open when he sees the cupcake made out of oatmeal. With /raisin/ candles. "...ohmyGod, youguys, that is--" and now Peter reaches out an arm to touch either of their shoulders and /squeeze/. "--both the worst /and/ best birthday present I have ever gotten." He even sounds /excited/ about this. Though, the last bit Shane says has him turning a /bright/ shade of red. But, after a moment, his shoulder-grippy gets a little pat-pat-patty, and Peter's frowning, noticing the skin is - dryer, /scrapier/ than the other day, and even a bit flakey. Sebastian looks better, but--"You two--need--mmmf there isn't enough /water/ in there, is there," Peter says, glancing at the cage that's been set aside for bathing. "...maybe we can... talk to them... about. I mean. They -- you're not useful to them if you're -- we /need/ to get you both more water," Peter finishes, but then he's also moving to seize up a plastic spoon for BIRTHDAY OATMEAL cake, even as he splits his eggs between Sebastian and Shane's plates. The twins' appearance and input only earns a deep furrow of Trib's brow, and he narrows his eyes. "I don't even know what that means," he says to Sebastian, and sniffs before turning back to his breakfast. The oatmeal cake is eyed, and the look that the big man flicks at Peter is unreadable, but hangs there, particularly when the boy blushes. "They'll give you a bucket," he says of the need for water, poking a finger through his muzzle to lick it clean and possibly loosen something in his teeth. "At bathing time. The water ain't exactly the cleanest, though. /And/ it's cold." The twins have subtly differing reactions to squeezing; Sebastian smiles, small and shy down at his tray of food, but tenses faintly beneath Peter's hand. Shane chuffs out a breath that sounds irritable, but leans slightly into it, head dipping for a moment to touch cheek lightly to the backs of Peter's knuckles. "We have the buckets --" Sebastian shrugs, glancing back at their cage and the prooobably empty bucket of water inside it, "but it's just not, mmm." He shrugs. "Need like a fucking pool," Shane grumbles. "At least a gorram shower. But. Been saving it as well as we can." Read: well enough not to die. Not well enough to live /comfortably/. "Kinda less concerned about that and more about the food." Sebastian is not, it might be noted, eying other people's breakfast's hungrily. He is eying other /people/ hungrily, though. "Did you know," Shane is starting this out like a /secret/ at least in phrasing but his conversational tone is not at all clandestine, "that they don't zap you -- don't seem to give a fuck if you and your cagemates --" He changes his mind as he looks around the stark open room, the barred cages, the -- /complete/ lack of privacy: "Shit, nevermind, of /course/ you knew. Who're you sleeping with right now?" He's eying Trib at this. "Um, he means, roomed with, not, um," Sebastian blushes, gills fluttering slightly. "Look, if they don't want us to entertain /ourselves/ they can give me a fucking deck of cards." Shane stabs his plastic fork into his eggs. CHOMP. "I'm just saying, Peter. /Sixteenth/ birthday that needs a fucking celebration. Hey, did you see that chick with the --" He's gesturing towards his hair? Maybe/ Kind of spikily? He might be referring to a teen-ish girl with a jagged /crop/ of slim metallic spikes for hair. "Kinda pretty, eh?" "Oh my god," says Sebastian. Blushing more. The twins are, clearly, totally taking this imprisonment Very Seriously. "Oh my /God/," Peter says, mirroring Sebastian; his face is /burning/ red, both of his hands briefly retreating to /engulf/ his face, sinking his expression into them. But beneath his palms, he /might/ be smiling. Just a little. "You are -- I am /not/ -- I don't even know -- oh my /God/, you are -- with people here -- /ohmyGod/. I will get you a deck of cards," Peter tells Shane, "/somehow/, okay?" But, also. Hand reachy. Shoulder-pets. Again. On both twins. Squeeze. And then, tired-but-strong smile, and back to that OATMEAL CUPCAKE. Which Peter is actually beginning to eat, scoop by scoop. To Trib, in-between bites: "Yeah, they need - more water. Um. And more meat," Peter says, frowning as he thinks about this. "...um, actually, /crap/ you guys how long can... you know, I think - one of the others here - with Anole - she doesn't need to eat a lot either, I can probably ask if you can have that meat too - um, also," and herein, Peter /blushes/ yet again, as if the subject were - lurid! "About Anole... he's - not very /punchy/. I mean, I'm not either, but I /can/ be if I have to - I'm worried - he - if they put him up against... he needs help being /violent/," Peter asserts, like this is something - the twins are /good/ at. Yes, you two. Know how to do the /bitings/. "I know what he means." Trib answers Sebastian first, and the look that Shane gets over the muzzle at his choice of conversational topics is definitely amused, a hard crinkle at the edges of Trib's eyes. The big man pulls his finger from his mask with a sucking *pop* noise, and uses it to dig around in his oatmeal. "My cagemate's no fun," he answers. "Cries a lot." His gaze slides over to Peter, then, and his flaming face. "Might be gettin' a new one, next time they shift us around." A glob of oatmeal is raised on his finger, and jammed through the bars. "Maybe the next one will be more fun." Peter's suggestions for the twins' comfort are ignored, although there's a small roll of his eyes for youthful idealism. Shane's eyes sweep Trib, appraisingly. "-- You want a new one?" he offers, casual-easy. "More fun?" The breath that Sebastian lets out is more hiss than laughter. He looks up too, though, eying Trib with -- probably even more hunger than his brother. A slow tick of gaze that sweeps the bigger man and then looks /sharply/ away with another deep blush that turns his blue skin nearly purple. He lifts his fork, tipping his potatoes onto Peter's plate. His eggs are long since gone. They probably vanished just about as soon as Peter gave them to him. "If you want us to teach Anole to throw down we will /so/ teach him to throw down," Shane nods at this, glancing around the room until his gaze has located a small slip of GREEN. "You join in," Sebastian says, quieter, to Peter. "You need to learn, too. I mean what if -- what would you do if your fight was --" His lips press together. "The death kind," Shane says helpfully. "Bastian would eat the /shit/ out of a motherfucker. You need biting practice. Or punching. Whatever." Bastian blushes at this description of him. But he looks up again, a quick shy uptick of gaze that settles on Trib again. And then looks away. "I don't know, I've never -- unnngh," Peter says, /scratching/ at his skin, now - notably, the bits that are still pink are the bits he seems more interested in scratching at, as if the chitinous bits are no longer itching; as if it's the /regular/ bits that bug him now. "Ungh. I've never. /Had/ to. I -- yeahokay," he finally relents, maybe a bit quicker than he has in days past. "Will -- yeah." Peter eyes their plates, now, completely empty, and seems to be fretting. He feels a faint, familiar tingle at the back of his head - and looks to Trib - then to Sebastian - and then, he frowns a bit /more/. "...maybe we can -- if -- maybe..." Peter's voice trails off, before settling on something: "Maybe if, um, some of us... do more fights, we can get more meat. Just, like, I don't know, /anything/--" He looks back to Trib, then. "...can you, like -- is there a way for us to ask for things? In exchange for -- fights?" "Maybe," Trib answers Shane, his gaze lingering on Peter overlong before he's scooping up more oatmeal. "Have to be the right one, though." He gives each of the twins the same, flat look of appraisal, and his brow twitches at Sebastian's blush, and his eyes crinkle again. Whatever the look is about, he doesn't seem overly bothered by the close scrutiny, sucking oatmeal from his finger noisily. Peter's confession pauses the sucking, and there's a new sort of look in his eyes. Well, kind of new. It's still predatory. "That right, superhero? You're all chaste an' untouched?" The question gets a wide smile that's mostly teeth behind the bars, and one of Trib's eyebrows slide upwards. "I might could ask for you," he says, and it sounds SO generous, lazily delivered though it be. Then that gaze lands on the teenagers. "But. I ain't Santa Claus, or Saint Mother Fucking Theresa, neither." "I would blow someone for a fucking smoke," Shane says, "and I'd blow the whole fucking /room/ for a steak." This time Sebastian doesn't really blush. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and his quick glance around is -- maybe assessing. The ripple of his gills is slow and hitchy. They're starting to crust closed. Shane reaches over, absently touching Peter's hand -- stilling it, maybe? -- to examine the skin he scratches at. "S'that, mm? The human starting to bother you now?" This seems to amuse him. "Do they tell you?" Sebastian wants to know, gaze firmly fixed now on his empty tray. "Before you have a fight? Do they let you know when?" Peter blushes on Sebastian's behalf - but it seems more reflexive than genuine. He is still fretting, frowning a little as he peers at Sebastian's gills - when Shane touches his hand, Peter stops scratching; the skin-bits have gotten more flakey - putting up their last fight - almost looking /unhealthy/, now. The humanskin is outnumbered by the bugskin; before, it looked like blotches of chitin on flesh - now, it looks like blotches of flesh on chitin. But the chitin itself - has a healthy, gleaming shine. It's all across Peter's hand - his face, his neck - apparently, it's been busily spreading /everywhere/. "...just, itchy," he tells Shane, embarassed. Then, Peter tells Sebastian: "...they didn't tell me. Before the fight. But, I don't know, I think - sometimes they tell you? Sometimes they don't." Trib's comment gets him red-faced /again/; he looks away. But he mumbles, in response to the last bit: "Whatever. I -- don't care. I'll do whatever you want. I can -- they need /meat/," he tells Trib. "Maybe a tub. A plastic tub, with water in it. They can just. Lay in." "You could do that," Trib tells Shane, eyebrows hitching. "There's a blonde guy on sometimes who likes a bit of freak lovin'. Gives out treats." He glances at the camera bubble, and rolls a shoulder. "There's a couple others, too. None of 'em hand out anythin' big." He drops a hand, then, and stares at Peter for a long moment. There's something satisfied in his eyes at the teenager's submission before he drops his gaze to his tray as he pushes a finger around for the last few bits. "You're in my cage, now." It's not directed at anyone, but he knows the superhero hears him. Then he's standing, and picking up his tray. "Happy Birthday." And then he's moving away, tossing his tray into the plastic tub before heading for the sparring area. Shane's claws trace against where Peter was scratching, but it's light -- probably at best only a /tingle/ of danger sense tied to the sharkboy's underlying hunger. But no actual intention to hurt, just kind of -- hmmm. They trace against a chitin-patch next, thoughtful. "Be good," he decides in the end. "I think it's tougher. Than the pink skin. Not /much/ protection but every little bit counts, yeah?" Given the gentleness of his touch it is rather abrupt how suddenly he pulls back, frowning quickly at -- nothing. He exhales heavily, teeth clenching. "Hey," Sebastian says quietly, "don't -- I mean, don't worry about -- we've been through worse," he says this with a crooked sort of smile. "You shouldn't have to --" "Yeah, fuck that noise." Shane's gaze is fixed steadily on his tray. "We'll live. Or uh not. Whatever." He looks up at Trib -- but quickly, and then back down at his empty tray. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. "Which one?" he asks, and then, "-- maybe could hook us up with water." "/Shane/." This /actually/ seems to alarm Sebastian in a way the earlier banter didn't. "You can't -- for -- you shouldn't --" Shane chuffs; maybe it's a laugh. "Dude, we're going to kill people in here. How is that /worse/?" Sebastian falls silent. Then not silent, as he watches Trib retreat. His hand reaches for Peter's. "/You/ can't -- Peter, /don't/ --" "Yeah, fuck that dude," Shane says. "Or. Uh. /Don't/ fuck that dude, OK? That's some bullshit right there." Even if perhaps he was just discussing the very same with one of the guards. "He probably can't get shit for you any --" "-- It doesn't matter if he /can/. You take care of yourself, OK?" Sebastian /actually/ sounds worried, here, in a way he really hasn't through most of the rest of his days here. Peter doesn't say anything for a while; his hand just - clenches and unclenches beneath Sebastian's, his face burning bright - teeth locked together, /squeezing/ as he stares down at what remains of his food. Then, as if on impulse, his head darts up - /kissing/ Sebastian - briefly, chastely - on his temple, just below spike-hairs. The gesture's soon followed up by another - perhaps shyer, and slower! - quick-kiss toward Shane's temple. "It's fine," Peter tells them both, standing up. "It'll be - /fine/. Guys just - stay /alive/, okay? I'll take care of myself," Peter adds, smiling thinly, /shoving/ his knuckle into one of his eyes. Rub rub rub. "I'll be fine. Just, try not to, like, /eat/ anybody, okay? I mean -- don't make them hurt you. /Kill/ you." Peter heads off, rather awkwardly, leaving his tray behind - only about half-devoured. Sebastian's fingers -- dryer than usual, warmer than usual, rougher than usual -- curl around Peter's through that clenching, squeezing in a slow steady pressure. He blushes at the kiss, eyes widening and then a small smile curling onto his lips. Briefly. Shane doesn't smile at his, instead drawing in a shaky breath as his eyes squeeze closed. "Peter --" He actually sounds serious, too, for once. There's a distinct slump to his shoulders as he opens his eyes. His hand lifts, reaches out, brushes fingertips lightly against Peter's hand. Against chitin, not skin. And then falls back to his lap. He watches as Peter walks off, swallowing hard and then just scooting closer to his brother.