Logs:Powers Suck

Powers Suck
CN: imprisonment, referenced non-consensual medical research
Dramatis Personae Naomi, Roscoe	2023-05-04 "Any chance they do takeout in here?"
Location <PRO> Naomi and ????’s Cell - Lassiter Research Facility - Ohio
The staff calls them "rooms", but this is like any of the other cells here. It is small, though not claustrophobic, and the door with its single reinforced glass window locks from the outside. The two cheap cots are permanently attached to the floor, as is the stainless steel sink/toilet combo in the center of the far wall. The inset overhead lights are institutional fluorescent tubes, their light sickly, sometimes flickery, and liable to emit a certain high-pitched hum. The air conditioning is always set too high and the heat set too low. The cell door is open, the other occupant clearly already absconded to Dinner and not bothering to shut the heavy door on their way out. This leaves behind their new cellmate, curled on her side on one cot and looking Fairly Unwell. Naomi’s trying, now, to sit up, breathing deeply as she does so — and then back onto her side, face a little paler than it was before, her grimace of pain a little more pronounced. Roscoe looks very healthy by comparison – the testing he originally had scheduled today was pushed back in light of recent events. His gait still drags and dawdles as he heads to dinner, but in a nonchalant way that suggests he's doing it to annoy any guards he passes. He slows when he comes to Naomi's cell, stops entirely when she gives up on getting out of bed. "You don't wanna go eat?" he says, his eyebrows pulling together. “I wanna eat,” Naomi says, the tiniest indignation creeping into her hoarse voice. “I jus’….” Her eyes, a natural and almost dull-looking green in this light, washed out under the jet black scales on her forehead and temples, go wide as she swallows, hard. “Jus’ been having trouble with, uh, standing up. I got it though.” And maybe she does! On this next attempt she does manage to get to sitting, though the movement makes her wince. “Any chance they do takeout in here?” Roscoe glances down the hallway, gauging how long it is, and then back at Naomi. "Someone might help, if you need it," he says, slightly over her insistence that she's got it, but he doesn't sound like he wants to call someone anyway. He shrugs with one shoulder. "No," he says, and cracks a small smile. "They barely do food. But if they wanna run tests with you tomorrow, you'll be glad you ate." “Shit, boy, you think they gon’ want me?” Naomi’s fingers curl into the edge of the cot, swinging her legs over the side. “I ain’t gonna have powers tomorrow, got a dartful o’ serum in here.” She flicks one nail against her scaled temple. Frowns immediately after making contact. “Ohshit. Maybe they gon’ try to pull these out.” She sounds a bit perturbed by the notion, but not scared, exactly. "Ohhh, you got powers," says Roscoe, like this possibility didn't occur to him at all. "I thought you might just be, like, snakey." He sticks his tongue out briefly, but flinches slightly at the click of her nail on her forehead. "Ew," is his first response, but, "Yeah, I guess they might. I'unno. If your power's interesting enough they'll prob'ly focus on that." Naomi has no eyebrows to raise but there is the distinct sense she is raising them, the ridges of her scales heightening and narrowing. “You meet a lot o’ just-snake-folks in here?” She sounds skeptical of this, but by the end of the question there is genuine curiosity. “I ain’t met any but my brother. What,” and there is a slight worry here, “kinda powers are interesting ‘round here?” Roscoe's mouth twitches slightly, though he doesn't commit to a smile – "Shoot, so many folks come through Lassiter…" it's unclear if he's just trailing off or if he didn't actually have something to add to this; his gaze is wandering wistfully back down the hall. He pulls it back to her, brow creasing again. "Metamutants," he says at once. His next guesses are less confident, like he had to think about it. "Telepaths and healers too. They get a lot of military money, so, you do the math." “Oh,” says Naomi, thoughtfully, then more alarmed, “Oh.” She winces as she stands up, taller than Roscoe at her full height. “We — brung a couple of those kinda folks with us I should go find ‘em. Warn ‘em if you think they gonna get pulled right away.” She steps forward — sways — grits her teeth and keeps walking to join Roscoe at the door. Leans against the metal heavily, concern clear in her expression. “Not metas, I mean. Telepaths an’ healers.” Roscoe looks relieved when Naomi gets to her feet, but this is immediately overruled by concern. "You okay?" he asks, then – almost immediately – "Dumb question, sorry. Just meant – can you walk okay? We better move it, they won't hold it for us forever." He is already backing down the hall – he has a bit of a bounce in his step, which he represses hastily once he looks over his shoulder and remembers Naomi's suppression-dart-sickness. "That sucks," he says conversationally. "Really it's other muties they have to watch out for. Nobody wants to be the sucker they have to cut up to watch the healers do their healing thing and you know the doctors aren't volunteering for that. You met any of the doctors yet?" “I can walk,” comes out with — nothing, really, save an insistent tone and a brief constriction of Naomi’s pupils that quickly rights itself. She looks paler than before when she falls in step with Roscoe, though whether that’s because of the serum or his imagery is unclear. “Shit, do they really, please say you’re fooling cuz I’m new. I been here five minutes I met like, you, my roommate, some white man Troy during intake. Spence been doing all the meeting and greeting.” "Spence is that tall white boy?" says Roscoe. "Shoot, there's a lot of you." He keeps walking, and for a moment it seems this is all he's going to say, before he adds abruptly, "None o' youse will have to worry about that yet, they're gonna keep you busy 'cause you're new. Gotta see what you can do so they don't accidentally ruin a perfectly good national asset." After a pause: "...what can you do?" “We got four white boys, one of ‘em freak tall, you gotta be more specific. Spencer Holland is just normal kind o’ tall.” There’s a small emphasis on Spencer Holland, a lean on the full name. Roscoe’s reassurance does not seem to calm Naomi. “Guess some o’ us will keep ‘em guessing for a minute, then.” There’s a longer pause after Roscoe’s question, the sidelong glance she gives him nervous and considering. “…Shedding.” Another beat, then, softer, “And mind control. Got one o’ them traitor guards to dart himself last night.” A little pride there, underneath the hesitation. Roscoe could be either grimacing or smiling – it's not clear which. "There's so many of you." He is not looking at Naomi now, but he does when she lowers her voice, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Oh, that sucks," he says. "Labcoats for sure will be interested in that. Shoot, see you in two weeks when they need a test dummy." He does not seem overly bothered by this prospect – after another moment he adds, "Do you really shed? Can you unhinge your jaw?" Naomi is not smiling, counting under her breath. “… now we got Gaé an’ Spence back, there’s seventeen? of us?” Her face darkens when she corrects — “Oh. Sixteen. Weren’t nearly enough, I guess.” Roscoe’s next question startles her, her eyes doing the Half Constricting Thing again when she replies, “My jaw? Shit I ain’t heard that one in a minute. Maybe I’ll get a secondary mutation, show you in testing. What you do to get test dummy duty?” She raises on hand to the bottom file of scales on her cheeks. “Just these, I think— though if I can’t find some damn lotion ‘round here maybe my skin, too.” "Jeez," says Roscoe, managing to sound both impressed and disheartened by these numbers; for a moment he just walks in duly solemn silence before saying, "You stick around this place long enough without contributing anything to science and they start getting real antsy to give you something to do. You probably don't have to worry 'bout it but if any of your friends have really stupid powers… or, I'unno, if your limbs grow back, like lizards, keep that one to yourself." He follows her hand up to the scales on her cheeks and wrinkles his nose – "They sell lotion in the commissary but it's, like, way overpriced." “I ain’t a lizard.” Naomi is quiet after this, her hand dropping from the side of her face. Just before the silence is uncomfortable — “How long have you been here?” "Here, Lassiter? Little more'n a year," says Roscoe. "Here, Prometheus, I'unno, like a year and a half." His tone has yet to approach glumness, in the entire time he's been talking to Naomi, but perhaps this is the closest it's gotten. He gets to the end of the hallway first, and swings himself around the corner with one hand on the wall. "They'll prob'ly move youse to another lab soon. This is just, like, Grand Central Mutant Jail Station." Naomi sucks in her cheeks. “You ain’t been moved, though.” Not really a question. “In a year.” A faint fear in her voice that she is not successfully suppressing creeps in, even in the otherwise confident — “Well, you gonna have to come with us when we bust out.” "'Cause my power sucks." They can hear the chatter and clatter of cafeteria trays and conversation now as they draw nearer to the refectory. Maybe this is why Roscoe sends a shifty look first at Naomi, then over his shoulder, then back at Naomi. There's a very doubtful, unencouraged set to his eyebrows. "Don't let the guards hear you talking jailbreak," he advises her, rather than accept or decline this invitation. “To them it sucks… okay. So we just gotta seem useless and they won’t move us?” Naomi is giving this strategy some consideration as they approach the refectory. “Thanks for the tip.” Naomi looks over her shoulder, scales glinting under the harsh light of the hall, then back forward. “Aight. We won’t let ‘em hear.” Brighter, as the doors come into view — “You wanna sit with us? Ohshit I ain’t minding my manners — I’m Naomi.” Roscoe shakes his head, his lips pressing into a half-suppressed smile. "I'unno, I think since youse tried to break into Lassiter, you're a li'l past seeming useless." The bounce is returning to his step – he practically does a skip and a hop to get the door, though it's so heavy he has to put most of his weight into pulling it open. Despite this apparent enthusiasm, his voice is still – somehow – nonchalant: "Sure, okay. I'm Roscoe."