Logs:One for the Road
| One for the Road | |
|---|---|
CNs: Prison guard abuse & violence, discussion of death | |
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2023-05-26 "Sometimes a riot's all the eulogy you get." |
| 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). This Friday afternoon at Lassiter has been humming with a lowkey but energetic urgency, everyone trying to get in their last tortures before the holiday weekend starts. All day there has been a lot of talk of barbecues and picnics. The (w)rec(k) room is emptier than usual, though the handful of inmates watching a miserably boring baseball game on TV have been raucous enough that the guard by the door is clearly no longer doing his sudoku. Roscoe is sitting the wrong way in a chair -- arms folded over the backrest, cheek resting against his arms -- at his preferred (minimally wobbling) card table with his preferred (minimally mismatched) chess set. Has been for a while, probably; for whatever reason, nobody he's spent the past few weeks befriending seems to be available right now, so he's playing chess by himself. Roscoe is losing pretty badly; he made a crucial error five minutes ago. He's also winning pretty easily; he spotted the error at once and now about half of the white pieces have been captured. For a while he just stares at the predicament he's put himself into, one hand wavering indecisively between the white queen and her rook. Joshua's stints of Losing At Chess have been getting much more sporadic. It's been a minute since he's been seen around here at all, but today he's slouching into the room like he was never gone. Scowling at the baseball game, scowling at the guards. His scowl is slightly diminished when he looks over to Roscoe. He invites himself over to the chess game -- or at least, wanders over and dumps himself heavily into a chair opposite the teenager. He's sitting the right way in the chair, though whether out of preference or necessity, it's hard to tell -- there's a noticeable teetering slump to his posture that suggests he might spill out of the seat again if not for leaning carefully up against its back. His scowl has gotten a bit longer, his skin a bit sallower. He doesn't say hi -- just studies the board with a scrutinizing expression, as if he actually knows what is going on. Probably he doesn't know what's going on, but he reaches out to move the white rook anyway, totally callous of how he has decided Roscoe (and his opponent)'s fate. Though Roscoe doesn't sit up when Joshua joins him at his card table, he does at least tilt his head closer to vertical, the drowsy boredom written on his face pulling into a sharper, piqued frown, hand pulling away from the chessboard as he regards his new companion. "You look terrible," he says. He looks like he's about to say something else when his attention is pulled back to the game, and his eyes widen with dismay -- "Noooo," he says, in a low lament, but he can't resist immediately capturing the rook, and lining it up with its fellow prisoners. "Never been good at science." Joshua is staring at the board very intently, still. Looking at the empty space where the rook just was. He lifts a hand, chewing on the edge of one thumbnail. "Did we win?" He looks up from the board to study Roscoe instead. "When can I tip the queen over?" That's definitely a thing, right? Right. At this point, one side is almost definitely going to win, and it's probably not the side with the rook Joshua moved. Roscoe says, anyway, "We're still in the game," and -- perhaps to demonstrate this -- slides the white queen down a diagonal, then folds his arms again. "You tip the king when you resign." His gaze flickers up again, his mouth pulling down. "They're keeping you real busy," he observes. "Resign? Shit, we're still in the game." Joshua's heavy brows have pulled in deeper at this explanation. He's frowning at the black queen, now, like he is still giving earnest consideration to toppling it anyway. "Mnh. Lateral fucking promotion, though. Extra hours, no raise." He slumps forward against the table (with only a minimum of wobbling in its slightly-uneven legs), pillowing his cheek against his palm. "Shitfucks here don't believe in senioritis. On your way out, s'the time to pile on extra homework." Roscoe probably doesn't understand the term 'lateral promotion', if his expression is anything to go by, but he nods seriously anyway, then tucks his chin back over his arms. "Sucks," he says; probably this is just the expression of sympathy he defaults to, and he says it very gravely. He reaches unnecessarily to steady the table when Joshua leans against it, pressing one palm flat onto the surface. "Which lab are they sending you?" he says, studying the chessboard again. "Sucks," Joshua agrees, "pretty much nails it." He's back to chewing on his nail, against, teeth worrying at one side although the thumbnail is already worn down short and ragged. "Virchow, probably." He doesn't sound too fussed about the possibility of Transferring To The Forensic Pathology Lab In The Sky. "Probably got enough time to actually learn the difference between the bishop and the tower first, though." Though his gaze is just kind of drifting off, nebulously unfocused toward the line of captured pieces at the side of the board. "Maybe start one last riot. For the road. How long's it been since there's been a good one here?" Roscoe lifts his head again sharply -- "Virchow," he repeats disbelievingly, eyes widening. "I thought they had a guy…" His expression of shock is slowly pinching back into a frown, though, the more he thinks about it -- he looks over Joshua's sickly face, then over at the guard glaring from beside the door, then settles his head back on his arms, staring at the board, worrying at his lip, digging his fingers into his arms. He does so for a long moment before he comes up with, "That really sucks." It takes him a while to will himself back into the conversation. "There's fights all the time," he says. "I think nobody wants to riot at Lassiter. It's just, like, save it for your actual lab." Joshua's head tilts slightly to one side, but his quizzical look is short lived. A small huff follows his comprehension, eyes just slightly wider: "-- that guy Tony Hawk? Wonder what he's up to, these days." His scowl has lessened by at least a hair. The heel of his hand presses harder at his cheek. "Sometimes, Lassiter's the only chance you get. After how many of us they've taken, only seems right to give them hell when we can." Now Roscoe looks confused. "Landry told me he was back," he says, with a hint of exasperation that Joshua could joke about this. "Some kinda Jesus-level healer." What could have been awe at this description, filtered through Roscoe's scrunched expression, comes across more like fear. He's still staring intently at the chessboard, but he's listening, nodding slightly. At last he moves one of the white pawns. Is it white's turn? Maybe white can have a freebie just this once. "What would they -- do to us, though." This is barely a question -- the tension on Roscoe's face suggests that he has already begun to imagine some very unencouraging possibilities. "Mnh," is Joshua's first grunted response, at the Jesus comment. "He get back, I'unno, third week of April?" One of his eyes has been squished almost closed by the moosh of his hand against his face, but the other studies the movement of the white pieces appreciatively. Probably he's still waiting for his chance to dramatically topple a piece. "Well." This comes out a little flatter, as he considers. "Make too much trouble, sometimes they kill you." His teeth are dragging against his lower lip, worrying at an edge of chapped skin. "Don't make any trouble, sometimes they kill you. Maybe your thing's less interesting than seeing if someone can mind control you into killing yourself. Maybe your cellie just needs an incentive to cooperate. Maybe one of those asshats --" His eyes flick towards a guard over in the corner, "-- just bored today. Maybe the paperwork's easier than inventing some explanation for holding kids who should never have been here in the first place. I only see the ones worth enough to them to wake back up. The rest --" His fingers scrunch hard into his hair, then relax. "Sometimes a riot's all the eulogy you get." Roscoe is very quiet and very still, just letting Joshua talk, his head bowed and his posture tense. He only really reacts once, looking sharply at Joshua when he finally catches on. "You…" he says slowly. Whatever he's looking for, when he searches Joshua's face, he doesn't seem to find it; he drops his gaze again. "I never think about dying in here," he admits. "Like if I don't think about it, it doesn't have to be my problem. Like… what do they do with my stuff, what do they tell my parents, what do they do with…" He twists his mouth. "I don't want to die." "B'ezrat Hashem you'll get back to your parents safely and it'll never have to be your problem." Joshua's voice is low, but there's a deeply uncharacteristic vehemence of emotion in it. He glances at Roscoe, brief, and then back down at the board. His tone evens back out to its typical monotone. "Like to think we're all each other's problem, though. At least a little." It's common enough for the guards to be paying Joshua Extra Attention -- no matter what state the man is in they seem to think he is probably on the verge of a one-man riot at any moment. Today is no different; across the room Mouse has been looking over from his mostly-abandoned sudoku frequently with a narrowing of eyes that, by his standards, is practically Anxious Staring. It's not Mouse who is heading this way, though -- his partner Ansel, clearly just back from a snack run judging by the bag of potato chips in his hand, is just tromping his way back into the W(rec)k Room, the tables getting a small jangle with each of his far-too-heavy footsteps. The chips are forgotten when he sees Joshua at Roscoe's table, though -- he lowers his hand, fingers crumpling the bag hard in one fist. With a clomp, clomp, clomp he's heading their way. The thud of his hand against Joshua's shoulder feels like a bruising weight; the jerk with which he yanks the exhausted mimic out of his seat and to the floor is hard enough to send the chair toppling to the ground, also. "Who the fuck let you out of your cage, anyway?" This is gruff, as is the jerk of his chin in greeting to Roscoe, but his voice has less bite in it when he addresses the teenager. "Not doing yourself any favors hanging around with this one. You've got a future. Don't throw it away on his trash." He doesn't bother to pick Joshua back up to his feet -- his hand just crunches down hard against the other man's shoulder as he drags Joshua toward the door. Roscoe's face scrunches up against the sudden emotion in Joshua's voice, but all he manages to say is, "Yeah," before Ansel comes in and spots them. He opens his mouth -- he clearly doesn't expect Ansel to be here for Joshua, he's looking at the potato chips -- and then shuts it fast, shoving back from the table with alarm. He looks down at Joshua on the floor, then back at Ansel. "We're just playing chess," he protests thinly, but then he looks back at Joshua, and doesn't say anything else in their defense. He doesn't watch Ansel drag Joshua out; he just stares at the chess pieces, scattered and toppled over the table when he jostled the board, before pulling himself back together and setting up a new game. | |
