Logs:Good Trouble
| Good Trouble | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-04-20 "It’s boring winning all the time." |
| Location | |
The sign by the door says "Rec Room", but someone with a permanent marker bookended the first word with "W" and "k" at some point, and the subsequent effort to undo the vandalism was lackluster. Inside it looks little different from dozens of other rec rooms in the complex, solidly furnished and in good repair, rarely an actual wreck, though it might be more interesting if it were. A large flatscreen television mounted on the wall dominates the space, with rows of folding chairs arrayed before it and many more stowed in the closet except on movie nights. The rest of the space is divided about evenly between reading and "activity" areas. A long sectional sofa brackets off the former, leaving the wallspace free for tall shelves, largely stocked with supermarket checkout paperbacks (about half James Patterson by volume, with Danielle Steel heavily represented). The latter plays host to several sagging card tables ringed with yet more folding chairs, supplied by tall shelves of games (mostly playing cards, chess, and Monopoly, variously missing pieces) and art supplies (a lot of crayons and pencils and markers, with some dried out paints and crunchy brushes). Roscoe is sitting protectively hunched over the most complete chess set available, which is augmented with pieces from some of the games not in use; with his index finger he is moving the black king in front of him in a wobbling, tilting little spin. He is in the middle of a game, but his opponent (himself) is distracted watching an early-seasons episode of Barefoot Contessa on the TV, trying slowly to read the Spanish subtitles on the bottom of the screen. His attention only turns when somebody passes him on their way into the rec room – he sits up straighter and says, “Hey, do you want to play chess with me?” with the air of a street missionary. The smattering of other transient Lassiter residents don't take too much notice of the new arrival -- there's so very many of them, around here -- but the previously-kind-of-bored guards certainly do, sharper postures, keener alertness in their eyes; one in the corner even gripping his (still holstered, thankfully) sidearm rather than playing Wordle like he had been. The new inmate who has garnered this attention certainly does not look all that threatening, making no particular fuss as he slouches his way into the very much power-suppressed-anyway room. Average height, lean, not bothering to look at the guards who are still not taking their eyes off him, a sallow cast to his tan skin, definite slump to his shoulders, deep shadows under his eyes, a slight wobbly falter to his steps. Just a bit more wobbly as he stops by Roscoe's table; there's something in the jowly droop of his expression that does not altogether suggest he would Like To Play Chess. His hands drop to rest on the chair opposite as he turns what might be a scowl down at the board. "... you're already winning." Or losing, depending which way you look. Roscoe has to look up from his seat, letting the king totter back onto its base, to meet the other inmate’s eyes; though Roscoe doesn’t look especially encouraged by his expression, or by the generally unfortunate air the other man is giving off, he is more heartened by the fact that he is responding at all. He follows the glance down to the chessboard, then up to Joshua’s hands on the back of the chair, then back up the rest of the way, only for a moment before returning to a more comfortable middle distance. “You can just sit down if you rather,” he says, gesturing fitfully at the chair opposite him. “I just wanted to ask. It’s boring winning all the time.” Joshua's hands tighten on the chair as Roscoe talks, although this seems more for balance than out of any sudden fit of emotion. He meets Roscoe's eyes steadily when the boy looks up; looks down at the chessboard, when Roscoe looks away. "Could switch it up. Beat yourself at checkers. Scrabble." His eyes are skimming away with an idle curiosity, dropping back too soon to have bothered to actually search much for any answer. "...they still got Mastermind here? Guess that'd be a gimme." He's slow to drag the chair out. Slow, too, to drag himself away from where he leans on it. When he does sit, though, it's all in a whump, dumping himself in a heap into the seat. "Gonna keep boring you, though. M'shit at chess." He starts setting his side of the board back up, though. Unhurried. Roscoe grins at the suggestions Joshua offers, his head tilting one way, then the other, in consideration, but “Maybe,” is all he says. He is not staring too obviously, his head dipped and his eyes fixed mostly on the chair, but he takes in Joshua’s decidedly unhurried sitting-down regiment with a slight frown, chewing on his chapped lips. He sits up straighter when Joshua speaks – “That’s okay,” he says. “More boring when it’s just me.” He is initially moving far faster than Joshua is, resetting the board, but after a glance across the table he slows down. He still finishes his pieces first, but seems hesitant to reach across and start doing the other side. Instead, he says, “So, you’ve been here before?” Joshua does not rush even when Roscoe finishes much faster, evidently not much self-conscious about his slower process in setting up the board. He doesn't answer the question, either, at least not until his pieces are all in place. "Yep." A very exciting reply. Similarly excitingly, he moves a very predictable pawn. Frowns across the board at his opponent as if he is trying to read something in Roscoe's face. It's probably not his next chess move. "You been here long." His tone is kind of flat -- but then, to be fair, it's been kind of flat all this while. Probably this was meant to be a question, in someone with a wider range of vocal affect than "central Kansas" to "central Illinois". "Boring Mutant Transfer Station or Mad Scientist Disneyworld." Though Roscoe hasn’t yet smoothed out his own tiny frown, which pulls all his features to the center of his face with a slight puckering effect, he looks otherwise unbothered by the way Joshua is looking at him, or by how slowly this chess match is proceeding. He must be confused whether Joshua is asking a question or stating a fact, as he decides the best way to respond is with his own possibly-a-question: “A year? Maybe?” After a moment, he shakes his head and looks back down at the chessboard. Moves a pawn, somewhat cursorily. “I think they forgot I’m still here,” he adds, but when he folds his arms on the table his thumb goes automatically to rub the adhesive bandage from Dr. Allred’s blood draw, and his face – which had unwrinkled itself slightly at ‘Mad Scientist Disneyworld’ – falls back into the frown. Joshua looks to the bandage, too. The lengthening of his frown just adds to his overall resemblance to a basset hound. It eases as he moves another pawn. "They count on people forgetting. Or not caring. Buncha criminals." His shoulder lifts in a small shrug. "Not real high priority for -- most. Still some people out there who do care, though." For the first time since he slouched his way into the room he looks over towards one of the guards (who hasn't, yet, taken his eyes off of Joshua, nor his hand off his sidearm). His hand drops to his side, fingers twirling into the knotted tassels that dangle from beneath his scrub shirt, definitely not part of their Standard Issue Clothing. "You got people? Outside?" Roscoe does not seem heartened by Joshua’s words. Less heartened, even, by the shrug. He follows his gaze sideways to the guard, taking in his hand on his weapon and the unfaltering glare coming in their direction, and when he drags his eyes back to the chess board it is with obvious reluctance, like he would rather keep looking. “Yeah, my folks,” he says. “I don’t know. Once I’m finished, like, paying my debt to society and making amends –” he rattles this off like he’s heard it a lot – “then we’ll see, I guess. They used to call me when I was at the other lab, but then I lost phone privileges.” He moves another pawn too. “What about you?” Joshua's lips twitch, a motion that entirely fails to lighten his expression. "Got a few." He casts a quicker -- slightly more hopeful -- look to Roscoe. "You're actually getting out." His flat tone has lifted, just slightly slightly, head dipping in a small nod -- though after this his brows scrunch inward. "... how the fuck much debt could you have." This is gruffer. "They feed you that line? Sounds bullshit, you're just..." He moves his next piece more decisively. Probably not particularly more strategically, but more decisively. "You don't deserve to be here." “Cool,” says Roscoe, when it’s clear that Joshua is not going to elaborate on his people. He furrows his brow – “You’re not? Shoot, what you do?” – but he doesn’t seem too dismayed by the idea of playing chess with a lifer – plenty of lifers come through Lassiter. He chews on his lip again, the skin catching in his braces; his brow furls as he listens to Joshua, but he doesn’t seem to know whether he’s listening insolently or intently. He barely waits for Joshua to let go of his chess piece before he makes his own move, getting his bishop out past the pawns he cleared. “I don’t know where I do deserve to be,” he says. “I was making too much trouble at home.” "Nobody's in here for what we did." Joshua is sinking a little lower in his chair. He struggles to push himself back upright, and leans forward to prop his elbows on the table. His cheek pouches up against his palm as he rests his head on one hand before reaching out to nudge his next piece forward with a calloused finger. "Nobody deserves to be in a cage. 'specially not for who they are. World that does this shit deserves a little trouble." Roscoe is also sinking in his chair, more sulkily; his thumb presses harder against the bandage in the crook of his elbow, discoloring the bruised skin around it. “Yeah,” he says, in a rote agreeing-with-an-adult tone. As bland as this response is, the tilt of his head suggests he is still thinking about it; he puts his chin in his hand, too, subconsciously mirroring Joshua. Though he looks at the board for a while, when he finally moves another piece the movement is alarmed and hasty, like he’s only just remembered it’s his turn. “I wish I didn’t get caught, but yeah.” The second ‘yeah’ is a little firmer, like he’s decided he actually agrees. "Well --" Joshua starts, but then catches himself. Shakes his head, letting out a wry huff of breath as he rolls his head, looks around their oh-so-cheerful rec room surroundings. "Yeah," sounds a little resigned, in lieu of whatever he might have been about to say. "Guess most people here..." He trails off, staring fixedly at the board. His next move comes more abrupt than the last. His brows quirk upward. "S'it good trouble, at least?" Roscoe shrugs, still not looking up at his chess partner. “It was a lot of trouble,” he says, but his mouth is curling up in a way that suggests that he does, in fact, think of it as good trouble. “Me and my friends just, I don’t know, we were trying to get back at people we were mad at. Mess with their cars and stuff.” He gestures to the board – “They call me Chess Club, ‘cause I was in the chess club before we met.” He sucks his lip between his teeth contemplatively – “None of them got caught, though,” he adds. Joshua doesn't smile, still, but a touch of amusement softens the jowly droop of his face. "Mmm. So lotta practice for this beatdown." He doesn't sound at all that upset about being outmatched in chess skill, though, not really. "...guess I also. Tried. Paying back some bastards." His cheeks puff out, he slouches down a little slower. "D'you need better friends? Or --" His mouth twists to the side, considering. "-- better enemies?" Roscoe grins, just briefly – “You’re not losing by that much,” he says, but this is belied slightly when his next move is to capture one of Joshua’s pawns. “I play way more chess here than I did in chess club anyway.” He wobbles Joshua’s pawn on its base, not not gloatingly. Shakes his head and grins again, a little more broadly. “I don’t think I want your enemies, shoot.” The grin fades into an uneasy grimace; he stops messing with the pawn. Now, for the first time, a very small smile twitches at Joshua's haggard expression. "Worked hard for my enemies. Who says I'm sharing." He watches Roscoe toy with his pawn, giving a small shake of his head before bringing out a knight. "Feel like the thing is --" He's studying the board, finger twisting up again at the knotted tassel dangling beneath his scrubs. "If I'm gonna sit in a cage anyway. Wanna make the world a little better on my way in, y'know?" He looks back up, brows lifting, curious. "Got a plan for when you get out?" “Yeah,” says Roscoe, lapsing into his rote agreeable tone – not like he privately disagrees but, maybe, like he’s not sure what he’s agreeing with. He glances back at the board and lifts a piece out of the knight’s striking zone, but his fingers linger on it for a second or two before he commits to the move. He adds, then, “That’s brave of you.” When he looks back up, his grimace is more pronounced. “Naw, not really. School, I guess. Bet they hold me back a grade.” He gnaws on his lower lip – “What would you do? If you got out.” "... probably they might, yeah. That's mutant privilege right there." Swift, this time, if perhaps not particularly strategic, Joshua moves again to threaten the piece Roscoe has just moved to safety. "They'll let you back, though? In school? You don't explode or melt brains or..." He shrugs. His brows lift at Roscoe's question, like perhaps it has surprised him. He pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek, considers. When he answers it's kind of dry, kind of amused. "...make trouble." Roscoe captures Joshua’s knight. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t think of that. They might not. I stole the vice principal’s tires.” He rolls his eyes, like this is such a cringe fail thing to admit, but then he grins again, like he’s not not pleased with himself. His grin widens slightly at Joshua’s answer, and his response is almost immediate: “Good trouble?” Joshua's short huff of breath at the mention of the tires is definitely a laugh. "I -- got questions." He doesn't ask them, though. Just shakes his head again, eyes flicking up to Roscoe's grin and back down to the board. After a small consideration he (at last!) moves a pawn forward to flick one of Roscoe's pieces off its square, and though Roscoe's question does not get an answer out loud, a slow smile is lightening his heavy expression. | |
