Logs:Faith No More
| Faith No More | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2023-05-29 I mean, bless your freaky hearts. |
| Location | |
The sign on the door to this rec room hasn't been vandalized, but it is in fact far more frequently wrecked than the (w)rec(k) room on the other side of the wing. The layout is similar save for the lack of a television, though there is a bracket on the wall where one was presumably at some point mounted. The furniture is older, or perhaps just more heavily abused, strained and scarred and wobbly if not outright broken. The main recreational activity here consists of card games, mostly thought not exclusively poker. Unlike in the other rec room, there is extensive and not particularly discreet gambling here, which in turn lead to extensive and not particularly discreet fighting. It's rumored there's betting on the fights, as well, and that the guards have been bribed to look the other way, but it's probably best not to interrogate such rumors too closely. No fights have broken out just yet, but today's poker game has been devolving fast into a shouting match -- Roscoe, one of the younger players at the table just now, is turtling into his shoulders and trying to surreptitiously collect his (already meager) winnings before the game devolves any further -- fortunately, most of his opponents have rounded on a possibly-cheating recent transfer and are ignoring him even as he pilfers a cigarette from the skinhead next to him. He makes his way as casually as possible across the room and plops himself on the stained, drooping sofa next to Beau, looking nervously over his shoulder before stuffing his handful into his sock. Someone in the back of the room bangs the table violently -- Roscoe scoots, very casually, closer to Beau -- "You mind?" Beau shifts his gaze down from the ongoing commotion to Roscoe when he sits down, “Nah, go for it. Thing won’t hold my weight anyway.” He pushes up from his lean and straightens his spine out, seeming to enjoy the audible pop it results in. “Can’t really tell from here but I don’t think he was cheating, then again I know fuck all a about cards.” A slight pause, “Play a mean game of backgammon though.” "...aw, hell." The voice that speaks is severely quiet; the utterance coming from a stocky, broad-shouldered kid somewhere just short of 5 foot 7 -- dark tan skin with his head buzzed down to just short of being fuzz (but still dense enough to cover his whole scalp with dark charcoal-black hair) in tan-gold scrubs. Max had been (somewhat unwisely) watching the game out of curiosity inbetween flipping through the pages of a slim, tattered paperback (Collected Stories of Edgar Allan Poe). Once tensions start to mount, he's slipping up and giving it a wide berth. A berth that brings him over to the only face he immediately recognizes... Roscoe. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that Roscoe's sitting next to Bigfoot, over here. Though... Max is still putting Roscoe between him and Beau. He gives a spurious glance toward the escalating conflict, then, to Roscoe -- just a mumble, eyes briefly glancing up at Beau, before returning to the much shorter kid: "...hey." "It's sturdier than it looks," Roscoe is assuring Beau, with the confidence of one who doesn't weigh enough to have ever broken a piece of furniture, even furniture as battered and creaky as the chairs and sofas in the Rec Room. He adjusts his loot in his sock, trying to get it to sit comfortably against his ankle bone, and then drops the leg of his grey scrubs back over it. "Most of 'em are cheating," he says conspiratorially, "They're just not getting caught." He looks sideways when they're approached, but Max is here on his own, and didn't come from the poker game, so Roscoe's posture relaxes slightly. "'Sup." “And here I was thinking about going to Vegas when I turn eighteen.” Beau jokes dryly. “I was tempted to buy in, but if they’re just going to play dirty and get pissy I’ll stick to watching.” He waggles his fingers at the new arrival and offers a cheery “Howdy.” The book Max is carrying is tucked behind him; his eyes dart back toward the escalating argument over who cheated who. "...that's how my gramps used to play. Whole game was just about not getting caught." His voice is soft, low; almost self-depreciating, in a way. Roscoe glances sideways and then up at Beau, his brow furrowing -- "When you turn eighteen? Shoot, I've been thinking you're like, thirty. Huh." He ponders this for about three seconds, before apparently deciding not to ask, and turning his attention to Max -- "Yeah, you get it," he says appreciatively. "It's basically part of the game. You get away with cheating, then, sure. You played, you won." “Oh I get it, my dad’s a lawyer.” Beau rolls his eyes and slumps back down against the wall, arms crossing against his chest. He nods down towards Roscoe, “I get that a lot, was buying liquor when I was a freshman. Shit was useless when the universe opened up and swallowed me though, so I started bringing supplies in my bag instead.” He raises an arm to gesture around the room before crossing it once more, “That shit turned out to be useless too.” Max does a double-take at Roscoe's comment about Beau's age. Apparently, he misheard him the first time: "...the hell? You're...?" His eyebrows scrunch together, peering at Beau. His posture relaxes; the idea that he's not sitting next to some 30 year old giant -- but rather, some teenager that looks like a 30 year old giant -- puts him more at ease. "...damn. That, uh... that sucks. That's the mutant stuff, right? Like... it ain't some glandular thing, I'm guessin'." Judging by the way he asks, he's guessed wrong before. Roscoe is less interested in the mechanics of Beau's mutation. "The universe did what now?" he says, then adds with a skeptical squint, "Is that a metaphor for something?" “Yeah, it’s mutant stuff.” Beau confirms. “Apparently my bones and muscles are super dense, probably weigh twice what I look.” He takes a deep breath before starting, “Back in 2020 some… rifts? Portals? opened to an alternate dimension. One of them opened up on us at school, dropped us off in a version of New York where being a mutant was illegal. Eventually got captured and stuck in a facility like this. That earths version of Leonid Concepcion showed up and liquified the guards. I just hope when we’re rescued this time we don’t have to wade through blood to the exit.” "Nah, man, he's just talkin' about getting snatched up and put in this--" Max starts, but he's promptly cut off as Beau proceeds to explain how it is not a metaphor. For the entire remainder of this explanation, Max is absolutely dead silent -- staring at Beau like he just told him that he's made of edible underwear and is slated to explode in under 20 seconds. "...uh... right," Max replies, before exchanging a glance with Roscoe. As if to silently confirm whether or not that's just some wild shit this man said, right there. Roscoe looks less fazed, maybe, by Beau's explanation, but he still returns the OMG look Max sends him. "Ew," he says. Maybe this is the only thing he can say. Perhaps he really doesn't want it confirmed that this wading-through-blood thing isn't a metaphor either. He waits a moment before he adds, a trace of bitterness in his voice now, "Who you think is coming to rescue you? There hasn't been a raid in years. Nobody else is dumb enough to try raid Lassiter." “If it was just me you’d be right,” Beau acknowledges with a slight nod, “but they got Jackson Holland’s son. It’s not a matter of if, but when they figure out where we are.” His brows furrows and tongue clicks, “I wish I brought my phone since I was stupid enough to try and raid Lassiter, or at the very least left a note back in New York.” There is suddenly quite a lot to process. Max's eyebrows scrunch together at the mention of 'Jackson Holland's son'; there is clear recognition in his face. When Beau mentions raiding Lassiter, his posture subtly tenses; he doesn't freak out, but his eyes do a quick pan around the room, as if looking to see if any guards are in immediate view. "You're with that kid? I heard about that. Surprised they didn't just..." His tone is very level, like he's just discussing the weather -- but there's a tension lurking under the surface. "Y'all tried to... I mean, bless your freaky hearts, I guess... but the hell were you thinking?" He doesn't sound reproachful; if anything, there's a note of bitter amusement to his voice. Then, after briefly eyeing Beau up, his nose wrinkles -- like he's trying to get a read on him: "...if y'all know it's just a matter of time, they know that, too. You gotta be careful. Lotsa folks are probably watching you, looking for an excuse -- you especially." Roscoe, too, darts a quick look at the door, but the guards supposedly on duty in the Rec Room are still mysteriously otherwise occupied. Even so, his laugh at Max's 'bless your freaky hearts' is a little strained. He isn't looking at either of the others at first, but he tilts his head back to regard Beau as Max continues speaking, his face pulling into a long frown. "Yeah, just a matter of time," he scoffs. "Where you think you are? They put pictures of mutie kids in cages on fuckin' PBS for the whole country to see and nothing happened, but you got a hundred-percent guarantee rescue team coming for you? Okay, Sleeping Beauty." He's out of breath; when he breathes in, it's sharp, almost a gasp. His voice lowers: "People die in here. You already lost one your friends." “And they’ve already beaten some of my others.” Beau says, his nonchalant mask falling for a moment to reveal the festering rage he’s actually feeling for a moment before it’s quickly replaced. It’s his turn to lower his voice, “Have faith. It won’t be immediate, but they’ll come or one of us will get out. The suppression doesn’t work on me but I know just lashing out will fuck all of us, so we all have to be patient. I promise I won’t leave any of you behind though, even if I have to do some shit I’ll never forgive myself for. ” It's clear from his expression that Max doesn't have faith; you can read the skepticism in his eyebrows. But Roscoe's mention of 'losing a friend' dulls whatever cynical edge is building on his tongue -- and Beau's promise all but kills it. For a second, his gaze returns to the argument brewing over poker; it's turned into a fight. Someone looks to be putting down bets on how long the new kid will last. Suddenly, Max just looks tired. Like he hasn't had a proper night's sleep in weeks... maybe years. He shoves a fist into his eyesocket and grinds. "Look, it's -- I appreciate it. Really, I do. But... look after yours, first. It's like triage, y'know? That fucked up thing where medics have to decide who they're gonna save? You don't make it through that shit by tryin to save everyone." Then, softer: "... sorry about your friend." At first Roscoe's derisive scowl only deepens when Beau replies, but his face slackens slowly at Beau's promise, until there's barely a trace of emotion at all. "Most of us in here," he agrees mildly, "should know how to look after ourselves by now, huh?" He's looking back at Max with a wry look that isn't quite amusement, and then over at the fight breaking out. Then back at Beau with a strange contemplation, like he's sizing him up. Maybe re-sizing him up. "Have faith," he repeats flatly. "Hmph. Have faith in yourselves." “We have to stand together, so there ose it’s every man for himself.” Beau gestures towards the fight, “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He takes a deep breath and fully rights himself, it becoming obvious he’s taken pains to make himself look as small as possible. His shoulders roll back and broaden, his spine rolls back into place, and his chest puffs out as his lungs fill to capacity with air. After a few steps forward he bellows, “KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF BEFORE I GET INVOLVED.” Max's eyebrows shoot up into the stratosphere; there's something bright and panicked in his expression as Beau swells up, his muttered 'hey waitasec what are you--' drowned out by the sheer volume of Beau's bellowing shout. He flinches, both hands lunging up to his ears -- a moment later and he's giving Roscoe an unmistakable 1000-yard stare that silently conveys just one word: 'aaaayup'. | |
