Logs:Sore Losers

Sore Losers
Dramatis Personae Budi, Ion
In Absentia	2024-09-06 "Some cage they a lot-lot tougher than others but I ain't found none yet can't be broke."
Location <MOJ> Champion's Circle - Mojoverse
Originally this was intended as a place for the games participants to relax and hang out in between events, but that idea quickly fell by the wayside when their initial participants were all too dead and/or traumatized to do any hanging out. Still. in preparation for hosting a bunch of Earthlings they've taken their best stab at what Earthers might enjoy for a little R&R, which has led to this... place. It's looks like it was kind of a bar, once. There are tables to sit at, though half of them come pre-knocked-over; there are several broken bottles and broken pool cues lying around (no pool tables in evidence.) There are numerous guns. Several of the bottles behind the bar are filled with bullets, a couple more with gasoline; some do have alcohol but none of it is drinking grade. There is also a game of darts. If there ever were any employees there are not anymore, but a very large number of cats are in residence here. The building doesn't end so much as just truncate like it's some kind of movie set. The open back of the "bar" opens up onto, a road that for some reason has a large ramp leading to nowhere. There are a variety of vehicles out there with keys in the ignition and though it's usually hard to tell this from a look, they have the indefinable air of cars that will explode at the slightest provocation. Maybe it's the unnecessary racing stripes. It feels like it's well into nighttime now, maybe early morning -- who can tell, in the Mojoverse, but certainly the screen-sky has darkened in the aftermath of today's (exciting!) (all-star!) (crossover event!) games, the steady coming and going of X-Men and Brothers swapping supplies and first aid and booze now at a trickle as, presumably, most of them have gone back to their respective houses to recuperate, the shadows cast by neon BEER! signs long and eerie. Until tomorrow, worthy contestants! In spite of both teams' numbers (and both teams' relative caloric needs) there's still a fair bit of their dubious feast -- courtesy of Team X, tonight -- left scattered over the tables and bar with the booze, but there is nobody in the Champion's Circle but the cats wending their ways through neatly-stacked tins and cans and microwaveable pouches in search of the meals Mojo's own employees, presumably, have been providing them. No, scratch that -- somebody is here, poking his head up above the bar, his eyes an eerie silver gleam in the dim, then climbing ve-e-e-ery delicately on the shelves to swing over the countertop and landing ve-e-e-ery delicately to creep, almost silently, out to the nearest table, poking ve-e-e-ery delicately at a pouch of Ben's Original Ready Rice (Whole Grain Brown!) like it might be booby-trapped. Maybe here, this is a totally reasonable fear. He's hairy and short -- the bar table comes up to his chest -- wearing a too-long I ♥️ I ♥️ NY shirt, too-long cargo shorts (original color sort of indiscernable past its very suspicious and splotchy staining), and incongruously baby-blue flip-flops. He flips his Ben's Original Ready Rice over like he's totally about to start reading the ingredients and instructions on the back, but then just rips it open to scoop rice into his mouth with his fingers. For a short while, this somebody is left alone to his feast of Ben's Original Ready Rice. Just a short while, though, and then he's got company. In contrast this company is not silent or delicate at all, stumbling in with a clatter of cans and broken bottles and then almost immediately apologizing about it profusely: "{Oh fuck, fuck, shit, little cat I'm so sorry were eat that I'm get you another -- fuck.}" Ion is looking deeply chagrined over having stumbled into a table and knocking over the tin of -- is it some kind of fish product, maybe, he cannot read English, it's anyone's guess why he thinks he can read the Japanese that is printed on the tin but he's frowning at it intently anyway and then very delicately placing it back in front of the cat in question just in case there are salvageable juices still to lick. He's resting a hand against the edge of the toppled table -- for balance, evidently, he's looking none too steady on his feet, sporting a number of new bandages and a number of new bruises, hook-hand nowhere in evidence though the stump of his arm is swathed in fresh dressing. "Hoshit." It's only here that he's blinking, startled, over at the I ♥️ I ♥️ NY shirt and then, a little perplexed, at the person wearing it. Maybe he has other questions, but the first one that comes out is, "You need some food go on that rice?" Budi takes a hasty step away from the table at this interruption, as if to make a big show of not stealing food unfortunately belied by the pouch of rice he still hasn't put down, hair rising on its end in an almost cartoonish poof. For a moment he just stares back, wide-eyed, maybe he is trying to determine whether 'hoshit' is a greeting and in what language it was. He looks down at the rice, then back up at Ion. "Rice is food, thank you sir," he hedges. "You --" his eyes are dropping a little obviously down to the bandaged stump of Ion's arm, then back up -- "look you need it more." Ion is blinking rapidly at this poof of hair, and looking down from Budi to the cat as if the cat could verify for him whether or not he is Seeing Things. The cat, no help at all, has returned to licking out the tin. It leaves Ion to drag himself a little closer to the food counter, slouching against it heavily. This gives him a better vantage point to squint at Budi, for one, but also gives him a better place to scrounge himself up a bottle of rum. "Shit, eating ain't gonna make me. Un... blowed... up. We got plenty, you good, fam." He's tucking the rum bottle beneath his handless arm, squeezing it as tightly against his side as his injuries will allow so that he can grit his teeth and unscrew it with his other hand. "Too much only-rice get you some scurvy. Where you crop up from, huh? These slug fuckers mess you up too?" "You got plenty tonight," says Budi, "it goes fast," but he nevertheless takes a cautious step back to the stacks of food, frowning down at the selection, then frowning over at Ion again. "I could unscrew it," he says, "if you want. But don't worry. I never get scurvy. Not even with the pirates." This makes him laugh, a very loud whooping laugh that splits his face into a very wide and very toothy smile, then -- in answer and also in explanation -- "I am from Madripoor. I am not actually a pirate." "Nah nah someone come cast a whole spell on this shit. Food last forever now. You hungry you eat, yeah?" Ion has been still twisting somewhat optimistically at the stubborn top of the rum bottle but his bruised face lights up at Budi's offer -- then tilts in some vague startlement at the sudden whooping laugh. There's a brief skitter of sparks that ripple off of him, and a moment later he's shaking his head, laughing too, though his is a little hoarser, a little more exhausted. "Madripoor? Fuck, you for real? Shit. They drag you up here to be the first weirdos? Planet earth weirdos? We been wondering what the fuck happened you guys." He holds the rum bottle out toward Budi now, hopeful. "Fuck, after the shit they spring today I figure you all fucking dead. Glad you still kicking. Our food's your food, man." Budi's hair rises again in a much smaller fluff of returned startlement at the flying sparks, but he closes the distance, setting his rice pouch back down to take the rum and twist the cap off. He offers the bottle back rather politely with both hands. "Yes. Volume one. But only some of us are dead," he says. "The rest of them they work for Mojo now, there is no prize for the games. I think nobody on Earth noticed we were gone, so." He puts another pinch of rice in his mouth to mull this over before adding, "We were very unsporting. Maybe you will do better." "Thanks, bro." Ion takes the bottle back, lifting it in a grateful salute. "These slugs ain't fucking sporting, that fucker want to get in the ring, I go a damn round with him. You drink?" He's waggling the bottle in Budi's direction again, brows lifted. "Someone notice, shit." Now it's his turn to laugh -- brighter, wider, his teeth bared broad, though he catches himself soon enough with a wince. "Some my friends here they gone chase after some pirate in Madripoor. Gone look for some missing freaks. Guess that be you weirdos." He sucks his tongue against his teeth, hard. "So we got die or be slug-king slave? I'on like those much, how you manage to pick door three?" "No thank you sir," Budi is eyeing the rum sort of suspiciously, though then he is grinning too, less wide and toothy but not by much. "Wow. {No good deed goes unpunished.} Ha-ha-ha." In contrast to his earlier, more genuine laugh, he just says ha-ha-ha. "Door three is hide forever eating cat food," he says. "But really, I took door one. I just never die." "Tch." Ion takes a large slug of the rum, his head shaking. "Not sure I cut out for that one, fuck." He rolls his head slow and stiff back along his neck, looking over the eclectic food options there now. "Some more option now but sooner or later I think. These games catch up on all us. Maybe then your food run out." His fingers are starting to tap, restless, against the side of the bottle. "You got any idea where your other weirdos got to? Maybe we put our brains all together we can find some better door." For a second Budi's grin widens before he scoops another pinch of rice into it. "Yeah. It tastes bad," he says. "My food runs out maybe I will die. Or I get hungry and give up and go into slug slavery. There are no doors here. Everyone who came with me, still in the village." He tilts his head, indicatively, out the door of the bar. "Or dead. Like, real dead." "I been locked up a lotta places." Ion gulps at the rum again, then sets it down on the bar. "Some cage they a lot-lot tougher than others but I ain't found none yet can't be broke. If this the one, well. Guess we all go some time." He shrugs, slices a sharp grin toward Budi. "'cept you, maybe. Damn. You gotta be real damn sick of cat food by now. No doors then we blow some fucking doors. Think we ready to start improvising." Budi smiles again, slow and spreading -- "Very sporting," he deems this.