ArchivedLogs:Pre-Fight Pep-Talk

Pre-Fight Pep-Talk
Dramatis Personae Aiden, Peter, Trib	2013-05-04 Peter receives a pre-fight pepta--OHGOD THIS IS NOT GOING TO END WELL. (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location Thunderdome
It's a basement, somewhere, that much is clear from the slightly musty-cool feel, the lack of windows, the stark-bare cement decor. What purpose this place originally served is hard to discern; something industrial, judging by the heavy reinforced eyelet hooks still set into the ceiling, now devoid of any loads to bear. Of late the place has been repurposed, though. Around two parallel edges of the room, sturdy cells have been constructed, heavy reinforced metal segmenting off large cage-like cells. The enclosures are largely identical: two sets of bunk beds with pillows, thin sheets, identical grey wool blankets. A pair of large covered bedpans, a bucket usually filled with fresh-ish water. The center of the room is divided in two. One half is large and open, a spacious expanse of cement floor and emptiness. The other half holds long trestle-tables, long benches, both riveted into the cement floor. The ceiling -- of the room, of the cages -- hold very noticeable dark security-camera bubbles. There is one door leading out of here, heavy steel that is securely chained and barred from the outside. Peter is not a happy mutant. As one of the new arrivals, the boy's been rather sullen since his arrival; he walked out of the cage with a limp - and proceeded, during feeding time, to the farthest, loneliest corner with his tray. Clad in a tattered black hoodie, dress slacks, tabi socks - and a buttload of bruises - he looks rather ragged for wear. His eye is still black; he's got a badly split lip, a number of cuts, and seems to favor his right side. On top of that, his face is covered with dark, jet-black splotches - splotches that have a metallic blue sheen. They seem to have gotten /bigger/ since yesterday. They're actually starting to crowd out his face; it's getting to the point where there are more splotches than /skin/. Peter uses the fork to mash his potatoes into his peas, stirring them together like some sort of rich, alchemical lather; it's only with great reluctance - but also, with great /hunger/ - that he starts to eat. Scoop, scoop, scoop. Peering around the room between chomps, to see if anyone else might be watching. There is one watching. One of the bigger men in the room wearing a shock collar and...a muzzle. Trib saw the kid when they brought him in, although he didn't pay any attention to him. Now, in the middle of the sullen meal, under the sharp eyes of their jailers, he takes a long time to watch the teenager. Of course, it takes him a long time to eat, in most instances. His fingers (five on one hand, three on the other) tear at his meat, shredding it methodically as he WATCHES the kid. When he stands and moves in Peter's direction, it's apparent that he has been here a while. His massive bulk carries scars along his torso, most hidden by the dirty tank top he wears. His jeans are old and beginning to fray in places /not/ strategically located by the designer, and his feet are bare. When he stops in front of Peter, his bulk can't help but cast a shadow over the boy. "The fuck them fruity socks made of?" His accent is Jersey-thick, and slightly muffled through the bars of the muzzle. He sounds like he should be down the shore, somewhere. "...wool," Peter responds, a little weakly. /Peering/ up at Trib. Apparently shrinking back behind that half-finished tray, sinking closer to the shadows. His toes proceed to curl; fingers /squeeze/ the tray in front of him protectively. Then, a little more quietly: "...are you - do you /bite/ people." Very tiny voice. "Sometimes," is the emotionless reply as the big man continues to eyeball Peter. Maybe he's thinking of biting him /now/. Suddenly, he squats with a pull of his own tray into his gut, and LEANS into the teenager's personal space, narrowing his eyes at the splotches on his skin. "What's that shit?" "...I. What? What's what--" Peter is /leaning/ way back, now; as the big man invades his space, Peter rapidly gives up ground and allows him to take more space for himself - until he's almost bending back over himself in an attempt to escape, his upper torso almost /dangling/ as he arcs away. "What are you talking about--?!" Peter has still not gotten used to people asking him about his face. Trib's eyes roll, and he reaches out to catch the kid's shirt and haul him back. "Don't fuckin' run from me," he growls in a sotto voice. "I'm askin' about your fuckin' /face/." He sets his tray down so he can raise a finger on his half-hand to poke at the biggest of the splotches. He grinds out the words slowly. "What. Is. This. Shit." Peter is hauled. /Bug/-eyed and fearful, he's actually a pretty easy kid to pluck up and pull around. His hands snap to clutch at Trib's wrist as he hauls him up toward him; Peter /squirms/ a bit in his chair, swallowing. When he gets poked, he /yelps/, squeaky and high-pitched. "It's -- I don't know it started a few weeks ago I don't /know/ what it is please letmegoIthinkit'schitin--" "Fuckin' /relax/," Trib says, and he gives Peter a little shake. "Pull it the fuck together, kid." He releases the boy, then, and reclaims his tray, plucking the shreds of meat from it and jamming them through the bars in front of his mouth. The smacking and swallowing noises are probably not very reassuring, particularly as he continues talking. "You keep freaking the fuck out, they're gonna use you as fucking /meat/." As if to illustrate his point, he takes a long time to eat another fingerful of shredded meat, making a disconcerting sucking noise as he pulls the food into his mouth. "The fuck is kai-tin?" "Chitin," Peter repeats, swallowing; he doesn't look any less wide-eyed, but once released - he proceeds to /scramble/ back off his chair, onto the floor - rolling over himself. Continuing his backward movement /away/ from Trib, until there's - wall behind him. Only then does he seem to relax - palms flattened against the surface, breathing slowing down. Heart-beat going ba-dump, ba-dump. "It's - uh - it's a type of glucose derivative - like keratin - um -" /Bright/ red blush. "-like the stuff in your fingernails? Or rhinocerous horns?" he offers, helpfully, lifting one hand to wiggle his fingers at Trib. "...but, um, not /exactly/ I mean it's actually /specifically/ the stuff you find - in the exoskeletons of crustaceans or different types of bugs..." If Trib lets Peter go on, he will proceed to nervously /natter/ about this. Trib stares at Peter for a long moment, poking his fingers through his muzzle to lick the tips clean. He rolls his neck as he pokes a tongue into his teeth, and narrows his eyes. "You got black fingernails growing on your face?" he verifies, and his brow furrows. "What the fuck kind of mutant power is /that/?" He leans forward AGAIN. "You ain't fuckin' /bait/, are you?" "...bait no what is bait wait I don't know what?" Peter remains plastered against the wall, eyebrows collapsing together in a look of concern. /Is/ he bait? He doesn't seem to know. His hands slide out to grip the wall again, as if embracing it for some form of support. "...I. Can I go back to - is it okay if I - eat while you ask me - questions um, I am /really/ hungry and they might not let me - finish in my cell." "Am I fuckin' stoppin' ya?" Trib falls back, and picks up a load of peas with the fingers of his right hand. Then he slowly pokes /them/ through the muzzle, into his mouth. "Bait," he clarifies. "Some punk-ass spot-on-the-wall brought in for us to beat on until he's used up." He says this without emotion, eyeing the potatoes on his tray with a deep furrow of his brow. "Bait." "Arent we all?" The low, gutteral voice emanated from the corner of the eating area, it's hoarse tone echoing towards the duo. The source of which, a grimy looking man of large stature, his matted black hair falling over his eyes, slight blackened and reddened burn marks around the collar that wrapped around his neck. "Aren't we all just pieces of meat, in this hellhole?" he elaborates, using his fork to pick at his meal, which has remained untouched since they were let out of their cells. "We're nobody to them. We have no power here. We are instantly replacable. Havent you noticed how many of us are brought in every day?" He straightens up, keeping his eyes on both men as they bicker amongst themselves. "You're a fool if you think you're any better than bait..." "...you - does that happen?" Peter asks Trib, and when he does, he sounds /horrified/; like this is the worst thing he could possibly imagine. He is crawling forward, though, back toward his tray. Little by little. Scoot, scoot, shuffle. Until he's /sitting/ in front of the food, picking back up the plastic fork, and - stab, stab, back to eating. Very quickly. /Very/ quickly. So fast you might think it was a magic trick. When Aiden speaks, Peter perks up briefly - and again, those eyebrows collapse together in an expression of /discontent/. In between bites, and swallows, Peter states - rather suddenly: "/I/ know I'm better than bait I mean I am basically - awesome - you know I'm, like, uh," and then he's looking between Aiden, Trib, and the others. As if the fact that informing everyone here just how /awesome/ he is suddenly strikes him as a Wrong Move. At which point, he shuts up and sticks his head /lower/, shoveling food into his mouth. Nom nom nom. "Yeah." It's the only answer Trib gives to the question, having figured out he can scoop mashed potatoes onto a finger to eat them. He grunts when Aiden chimes in, rolling his neck to give the other man a bored look. "Figures you'd say somethin' like that," he says apathetically. "But I ain't plannin' on dyin' any fucking time soon. Start thinkin' your way, I might as well go up and fuck with the guards right now, and get it over with." He points a potato-and-saliva coated finger at Peter. "But he ain't wrong. Save that 'I'm awesome' shit for the ring." Aiden chortles slightly, though his face remains a morose mask. "You wanna live? You do what you're told. You keep your head down, you keep your mouth /shut/" He emphasizes the last word with a glare towards peter, before turning his attention back to Trib. "I dont know what you're planning for outside these walls, or why...Not one person has been able to make it past those doors. Your lives are about the ring now. Nothing more..." He continues to pick around with his food, licking his lips slightly, as if fighting the urge to chow down... Between another shove of mashed potatoes intermingled with peas and chicken and everything else that Peter is shoving in his mouth - Peter blinks /owlishly/ at Trib. All the food on his tray is almost gone; one might expect that he'll soon be licking the /plate/ they gave it to him on. "But I /am/ awesome," Peter corrects, eyebrows once more crumpling. "I mean - I am basically - just /awesome/." Peter seems quite insistent on this. He then peers at Aiden, and oh how Peter /frowns/. It isn't a 'you're a jerk' frown; it's a 'man that's sad' kinda frown. "Dude. /Dude/ my life is about /so/ much stuff you don't even /know/. My life is - look I don't know what, like, you've all been through so I guess I can't argue with you if /you/ wanna be like that, but /dude/ I am not just gonna be some meat to get pounded I mean /screw/ that, I'm gonna get out of here and -- keep being /awesome/ -- because that's just what superheroes /do/." Then, slightly lower, the frown softening - he glances to one of the cameras. "...what is wrong with these people, /seriously/ it is like, maybe they did not get enough /hugs/ or something growing up I mean /holy crap/ they are putting us in /cages/." Peter mumbles this in the /vague/ direction of the camera. "/Superhero?/" The bark of laughter that erupts from Trib's chest is harshly bitter, and his ruined nose crumples in what might be a scrunching motion. "You're a fucking dead man," he informs Peter blandly, as if this is a definite fact. "You're gonna show your ass, and won't even make it to the ring." He smiles beneath his muzzle, the motion of his cheeks indicating the expression that doesn't reach his eyes. "I ain't plannin' on gettin' out of here any time soon," he informs Aiden. "But I still know the difference between a contender and /meat/." "Get over it, kid," is his grunted advice for Peter. "Just the way life shakes out, for the freaks." A full plate of food slides across the table in Peter's direction. "REALLY gotta curb that 'awesome' attitude, kid," the man grunts softly. "He's right, gotta save that kinda shit for the ring." He stays silent for a moment, twirling the fork in his hand between his fingers...Until Trib speaks towards him again, to which he smiles slightly. "You know, that's what a lot of people were saying about you, when you first came in here...Look atchya now...Who's to say this kid doesnt deserve a fighting chance?" Peter suddenly /glares/ at Trib. It is... well, Trib doesn't know Peter; so he's probably got no basis by which to judge the rarity of Peter glaring. But it is a pretty /rare/ event for him to look /angry/ with someone. Nevertheless, there you have it; a kid with a face full of bruises and splotch marks all over his skin is /glaring/ at him like he just insulted his mother. "/Nobody's/ gonna be dead," Peter tells him. "Not if /I/ have anything to say about it." And then, a slow sling toward the cameras. The glare softens into something - worried. It's a similar expression. And then there's another plate of /food/ in front of him and Peter just /blinks/ at Aiden, like buh--buh?! But a second later and he's eating it like some sort of ravenous /beast/. Like he has to make up for how slowly he ate before (he did not eat very slowly before). Plastic fork /jamming/ chicken into his mouth OM NOM NOM. "They said that until I bit that guy's fingers off," Trib says blandly, lifting a middle finger in Aiden's direction lazily. "They're sayin' other shit now, ain't they, though?" He scoops up more mashed potatoes, shoving his finger into his muzzle. Peter's comment gets another harsh bark of laughter, although the big man doesn't look at the kid. "Don't worry. You don't." "That's my point," Aiden replies with a slight smile. "Who knows...maybe your next deathmatch will be against the kid...REALLY wanna underestimate him like Alberto did with you?" He stands up, shaking his head at the rude gesture, before walking over to peter as he eats, ravenousley. As he passes, he pats the kid on the shoulder gently, "Same goes to you too, kid...don't underestimate just how /awesome/ everyone else is here..." he finishes, before making his way slowly towards his cell... "Ah--" Peter actually /flinches/ as Aiden pats him on the shoulder - but not too badly. The kid's hurting all over, still. But also, he blushes a little bit. He's pretty much - 3/4ths through the meal when Trib mentions biting that guy's fingers off - and Aiden counters by mentioning Peter in a deathmatch against Trib. At once, all the bravado seems to drain out of him; his shoulders slump, his appetite vanishes - and he looks like he might be a little sick. Suddenly, he's stirring his mashed potatoes instead of eating them. "...oh man I'm just - I mean I'm - I can't, like --" "...Igottausethebathroom." For all that 'I'M A SUPERHERO' junk, it doesn't seem to take much to break Peter down. All at once, he's getting up on his feet, his eyes a little wet - almost /scurrying/ for the nearest cage. Not wanting to get a serious case of the /sniffles/ in front of Mr. Bite-Your-Fingers-Off. Trib looks vaguely triumphant when Peter stands, suddenly, and the pop of his eyebrows in Aiden's direction definitely carries an 'I told you so' cant to it. He watches as the kid flees, and reaches over to nab the remainder of the kid's food. "He's gonna be fun." Later -- much, much later. The fights and 'training' are done for the day, and the basement annex is dark, save for the security lights that illuminate the doors and the blinking red lights of the cameras. From out of the darkness, Trib's voice floats out in a hoarse whisper near Peter's cage. "Kid." There's a small pause, and then, just in case there was any question who he's speaking to. "Hey, /super/hero." "Nnghhawh... /what/." Peter's voice is cracky and low, emerging from somewhere - up. Up high, in Peter's cage. Either he's got the top bunk... or he's... sleeping on the ceiling. The sound is accompanied by the distinct sound of someone /jamming/ a fist into an eye and /rubbing/. SQUIKT, SQUIKT, SQUIKT. "You ever see that movie?" Trib's voice sounds genuinely curious. "The one with the kid being told the story by his grandfather? Whatsit....The Princess Bride?" "...uhm." There is a very long, stagnant pause. As if Trib just asked Peter for a detailed invoice on what he's wearing. When the answer comes, it's very meek - almost below the threshold of hearing: "...yes?" There's a long silence. "You remember the part where the pretty blonde guy is tellin' his chick about bein' a prisoner of the pirates? What he said that Dead Pirate Roberto would tell him every night, before they went to sleep?" Trib's voice is still coolly casual, despite the hoarse whispering. As if they were at /camp/, rather than in cages. "...I. I /think/ so," Peter's voice responds. Very tentatively. "Um. I think he said - uh... oh. Oh," Peter says again, as if realization was slowly dawning upon him. It does not sound like a very happy 'Oh'. "Say it." It's not a request. "I'll most likely kill you in the morning." Peter pauses, before adding: "Um..." "Yeah." Trib sounds pleased, and a bit sleepy, now. "That was it." There's the sound of a body adjusting. "Good night, superhero," sounds almost pleasant. Again, like it was a sleepover. "I'll most likely kill you in the morning." A pause. "If you're lucky."