ArchivedLogs:Taking Care

Taking Care
Dramatis Personae Peter, Sebastian, Shane, Trib	2013-05-16 (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. It's 'morning' in the Cells, which means the lights have come on, and mutants are being driven out of their cells with not-so-subtle zzaps of their collars. Like every day, they shuffle out of their cages, some yawning and blinking, others looking as if they haven't slept since being dropped into this hell hole. All of them turn their attention towards the area where the food is being handed out. Either someone's feeling generous today, or someone's complained about the lack of energy in some of the combatants, because there's bacon /and/ sausage on the trays being passed out, along with the standard issue powdered eggs and greasy boiled potatoes. Some of the frailer-looking mutants even find a slice of orange on their trays. Perhaps to ward off scurvy or rickets. Trib's expression on seeing the sumptuous (for this place) breakfast is hard to read. Harder still, given the bruising around his eyes and nose above the muzzle. His tank top is gone, revealing a /colossal/ bruise along his ribcage that has spread in healing to touch the waist of his tattered jeans. The big man falls into line, taking his tray and grunting something at the guard before turning and moving to find a table where he can sit with his back to the wall. Shane is dragging himself out of bed kind of /reluctantly/. Mostly because he has been enjoying SNUGGLES in it. Illicit snuggles? Who knows. The guards have not seen fit to zap him out of sleep anyway so he has taken to collecting them where he /can/. MAYBE FROM PETER almost certainly from Bastian he's not really picky. Though they do get triggerhappy with the zapping when it's clear he's /awake/ and still in Dangerously Close Proximity to others. "Yeahfuckwhatever fine I'm coming." The sharkboy doesn't look /great/, really, but he doesn't look as terrible as he has been, either. They've apparently been getting better rations -- not nearly as much as they /should/ but enough they are not just wasting away, either. His skin is still sandpapery-dry, thin cracks showing in a few places, but he mitigates this with a quick dampening at his bucket. He is retying his bow tie as he heads out of the cage; its anachronistically neat in constrast to his /heavily/ bloodstained clothing, dirty and very torn. Bastian is going through a similar process. Straighten clothing, dampen skin. "{Oh my god, eggs /and/ bacon /and/ sausage. It's pretty much like Christmas today.}" "{You don't celebrate Christmas,}" Shane grumbles back at him, in Vietnamese as well. "{I'm starting. Right now!}" Sebastian gives one of his sausages to Shane as they collect trays and move to find a table. "{Merry Christmas.}" Shane snorts. That's all. He's leading them to -- Trib's table! And /plunking/ himself down at it a few seats away from the older man on the opposite side of the table to start eating. Like he belongs there. Sebastian is more hesitant about this, but he follows after Shane, sitting himself on Shane's other side, just that much farther from Trib. He is slower about this, having to mash his food, too, through the steel grate of muzzle that he wears. When the twins approach his table, Trib's battered gaze lifts to regard them studiously. When they land there, there's a small hardening of his gaze, and he flicks it around the room, perhaps searching for Peter. Thick fingers scoop up egg, and push it through the bars as his stare returns to the twins. He watches Sebastian in his muzzle, and the big man's eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. If the muzzled boy looks his direction, there might be a slow wink. Or maybe it's just an eye twitch. His eyes /are/ awfully bruised. When he finally speaks, his Jersey accent is muffled, like he has a cold. "Nice look." The twins are preeeetty badly bruised, themselves, though they wear it less colourfully, fading to just mottle their already-blue skin in -- more shades of blue. Shane hisses, at Trib's words, a short sharp breath that -- actually might be a laugh from the upward tip of his lips. It's hard to tell. Sebastian's shoulders hunch inward, slightly. He tears off a small piece of bacon to shove it through the bars into his sharp teeth. "Looks better on him," Shane says, after an apparently careful inspection of both masks. His fingers flick towards Trib's eyes. "Who did for you?" "Give it time," is Trib's answer for Who Wears It Better, and he blows a pained-sounding snort at the question. "The fuckin' pansy," he says, his gaze flicking to find Aiden's bulk among those in line. Then his attention shifts back to the table. "Saw you took care of Squiddly-Diddly," he grunts, acknowledging the twin's last opponent and noting their appearance with an upward tick of his eyebrows. He sounds almost pleased by this fact, and he actually slides his tray towards the duo, his sausage and bacon untouched. It might be an offer, or maybe he's just teasing them with the promise of extra food. Without a full facial expression, it's hard to tell. All he seems to be doing is WATCHING. Teasing or not teasing, the boys are /fast/. Shane's sharpclawed hand shoots out towards the meat at lightning speed. Sebastian doesn't look very pleased, though. Just: "Yeah." It's quiet, not excited, not angry, not sad, not anything. "Started feeding us more after." "Heard a rumour we have another tonight." Shane doesn't /really/ look particularly pleased about this, either. "Hopefully not more seafood." "They /wanted/ us to --" This /does/ have an edge to it, as Sebastian starts speaking, but he cuts this off with a sort of rasping bark of laughter. It's not very amused. "No, they --" "-- wanted /him/ to," Shane finishes this softer. "Man there's a lotta pansies here you're gonna have to be more specific. I mean /I/ suck so much cock you have no /idea/, I don't know what the fuck that has to do with /fighting/." Peter's been scurrying about since the /instant/ the cages were opened, doing his - well, 'thing'. Which consists of scavenging - negotiating - and /collecting/ - all the meats he possibly can. And today? Is a meat-based SMORGASBOARD. When he heads toward the twins, he's got /triple/ servings of bacon and sausage for them; that's on top of Peter's own portions. There's also the eggs! "Ohmygosh /guys/," Peter announces as he just - kind of plunges down besides Shane, the tray *PLUNKING* on the table, pushing its way over in front of both of them. Turning a shade of violet at. Shane's last comment. Having missed the rest of it. "There is so much /meat/ guys I think - I think they finally are giving you - um actually," and Peter looks at the bacon just a /little/ guiltily, before adding: "Um, is it okay if I, um." His hand starts sneaking toward it. Sneak, sneak. "...I mean if you need it /all/ I understand, just. There aren't. Potatoes today." It's only a moment after he plops down that Peter seems to notice where Trib is. He /bristles/. But doesn't quite hiss. He looks like he /might/ kinda want to, though. He's wearing - just his slacks, now, his hair looking a /little/ cleaner than it has recently. Having finally decided to go ahead and wash it with some water and soap; it's slicked back, getting kind of shaggy. The stitches in his forearm are out, now, leaving an interesting scar-line - like the metallic blue carapace has been recently soldered. "Good," Trib says, sliding his tray back once the meat is snatched away. "Guy was a fuckwad. Guards would've done him soon, anyway." He doesn't elaborate on that; instead pushing at his eggs, and frowning. Shane's comment gets a snort. "Suckin' cock don't make you a pansy, kid. Neither does takin' it up the ass." He levels a finger in the other man's direction, singling him out. "It's havin' a fuckin' bleedin' heart in this goddamned place, like that sad fuck." He tenses, awaiting the shock, but it doesn't come. Maybe /everyone/ is sleepy this morning. Except for Peter. His arrival gets a small crinkle of the big man's eyes, and he watches the interchange. When Peter mentions the lack of potatoes, he grabs a handful of eggs and /shoves/ his tray (still with plenty of potatoes on it) to smack into the kid's. "Here. Jesus. Quit your whining." "I think they'd've just left it if we'd lost our first fight," Sebastian says quietly. "But it's dumber to let us die if we're interesting." He reaches over to nudge at Peter's hand, encouraging it towards the bacon. "Keep it," Shane affirms this physical permission, "I mean, we have -- we're not dying. Anymore. Thank you." He is handing over the sausages and bacon that he snatched from Trib to his brother, but he tears one of the bacon slices in half. Keeps one of himself. Gives the extra to Peter. "Good cuz I'd be the pansi/est/." He looks a little /smug/ about this. Sebastian's lips curl up behind his mask into a slight smile. He lifts his eyes to study Trib, for a minute. Then study the tray he just shoved to Peter. "-- Yeah," he says quietly. So very mildly. "Kinda stupid having a bleeding heart in this place, isn't it?" Shane snorts. "Fuck that shit." His hand is moving to Peter's arm, tracing over the healed scar with more /curiosity/ than simple affection. Though there's some of that too. His touch is light. "You can not want to die and still not stop /giving/ a shit about people." Peter peers at the offered tray from Trib as if he was trying to decide if it was /poison/. But, nnngh. Hunger wins out. He seizes it with one hand, drawing it toward him, and - shovels potatoes up into his mouth with a hungry snnrrrkt. Followed by. Bacon. Bacon and potatoes. OhmyGOD so good. Peter has not had bacon in what feels like /years/. As Peter eats, he listens - and flushes underneath the tip of Shane's exploring finger, along that jagged scar-mark. It is - slightly upraised, and lighter than the chitin that surrounds it; it also doesn't quite have the same reflective glimmer. He keeps his arm still underneath the contact, apparently - quite okay! With letting Shane investigate it. "...can't really survive without, um. Friends," Peter mumbles, inbetween bites, having this discussion with his /food/ more than the rest of the table. Trib's gaze is studious as Peter tears into the potatoes, dropping to gauge Shane's inspection of the scar impassively. "There's plenty of bleedin' hearts around here," he says, eyes lifting to Peter's face pointedly. "Most of 'em wind up in the Big Show, like old Squids did." He leans forward, then, to pick egg from his cupped hand and poke it through his mask. "Not for me. I've been up twice, and that's plenty." Comments about friends gets a hoarse rasp of laughter that /might/ sound a little spooky, from behind the mask. "I've done all right." "No you haven't," Shane says with a shake of his head, still tracing his fingertips against the scar. "I'm not talking about just /continuing to exist/, anyone can manage /that/." Though this comment makes him fidget uncomfortably with some of the bloodstained fabric of his shirt. "... well. Maybe not anyone, but." His gills flutter. His hand moves from Peter's arm to his food and he takes another bite of eggs, hungrily. "I don't know if this is really the time for --" Sebastian's words come choppily in between small mouthfuls of food, "-- philosophizing on the merits of surviving versus /living/." "Of /course/ it's time, this is like the /perfect/ fucking time, I mean. What the shit else are we gonna do? Play another shitty hand of poker?" Shane still has that deck of cards. It's still missing its ten of diamonds. Sebastian huffs out a quiet laugh. "Are you," he asks Trib, /very/ seriously, "happy?" Peter makes an mmmning sound through food and Shane's scar-tracing; his eyes get a little distant, apparently enjoying the contact. When Shane draws his hand away, Peter meekly retracts his arm. "My Aunt would do that," he comments, distractedly. "In the morning, when I ate breakfast, she'd - tickle my forearm--" Peter snaps back to attention. And looks at Trib. There's a lot of discomfort there; he's not really sure what to think of him now. The other day Peter was /fuming/; now - they're eating together? Peter just pokes at his potatoes self-consciously and resumes eating. "...m'could be happier," Peter comments - very /softly/ - to Sebastian's question. Despite not being the one who was asked. "A lot happier. But, um. You guys are doing better, now. And I have..." Stab. Munch. The half-strip Shane pushed to him earlier gets eaten. "...bacon." CRNCH. Trib continues picking egg from his hand. "I'm alive," he says to Shane. "And I plan on stayin' that way." He shoves his finger through the bars and into his mouth, as if dislodging something in his teeth. "Thinkin' about anything else is just creatin' misery for yourself." He pulls his finger free from his mouth with a sucking noise, and inspects it critically. Peter's look is met evenly, although it's Sebastian who gets answered. "Look around, kid. You think anyone is /happy/, bein' here?" He lifts his half-hand, and gestures, which earns him a mild jolt from the collar that causes the muscles in his raised arm to jump. "There's just fuckin' less miserable." Now the trays are indicated. "Like today." His gaze turns thoughtful for a second, and he exhales noisily. "I don't even think I remember what happy /feels/ like." "That's the saddest fucking thing I've heard in a while." Shane spears a sausage on one sharp claw. "I think people have a remarkable capacity to find happiness anywhere," Sebastian says. "I think that's a strength, so long as it doesn't make you /complacent/. And I think that this is far from the worst place we've lived in." "I think he just called you weak," Shane offers lightly. Sebastian elbows him in the side. "/I/ think everyone needs friends. I think finding them is the difference between /surviving/ this kind of place and not." "I also think," Shane says, "that for all your tough-guy act, /we/ have a lot more experience living through this type of prison than you do. And I think he's --" His fingers flick to his brother. Then drop, to rest lightly against Peter's arm again. "Right," says Sebastian. "Cuz it isn't enough to stay /alive/. Not if you let them beat the happy out of you." Shane tips his head over, pressing a soft kiss to Peter's temple. "You'll be happier again. When we're home." This earns him a zzzzp but he ignores it, save for his hand tightening against Peter's arm. Peter goes violet-ish when Shane touches his arm; when he kisses Peter's temple, he goes full-on violet. Squirming in his seat. Just a little. But it seems like a /happy/ squirm. Peter eats two more scoops of potatoes before reaching to brush his fingertips against Shane's knuckles. "...I don't, um. /Like/ you very much," Peter informs Trib, as if this were some big deal. "But -- Sebastian's right. I mean this is probably the worst /worst/ /WORST/ place I have ever been -- but, they've --" A brief, hesitant glance toward Sebastian and Shane. The brush of Peter's fingers might turn into a slight /squeeze/. "--seen /so/ much worse than this. And they got through it. That means I can. That means you can. You need -- /peeps/." Trib watches the three teenagers with a hard sort of look to his eyes. There's a visible closing-off that happens, and his eyes darken to an amber color. "I had a friend here, once," he says after a long moment. "When I first got here. They made me chew his throat out." He silent for a long while after that, ruminatively picking bits of egg from his palm and poking his finger through his bar to lick them away. Peter and Shane get a sad sort of look, and then he's standing up almost violently. Maybe he's going to HIT someone. "This is fuckin' hippie bullshit," he growls, and SLAPS his hand down on his tray to reclaim it. He slides it back towards himself with a screech of metal on metal, and picks it up. "Later." With that, he's moving away, shaking his head darkly. "I think that was supposed to be dramatic," Shane sort of whispers to Sebastian, "was that supposed to be dramatic?" Sebastian nods, seriously. "It was a Big Reveal. We're," he pokes through his muzzle a bite out of his last piece of bacon but then splits it into two, dropping a piece on Shane's tray and a piece on Peter's, "supposed to learn from that how heartless they are. And," now he's scooping up eggs, mashing the last of /them/ through his mask, too. "-- the futility of hope?" This comes with another kiss to Peter's temple. From Shane. "The futility of /love/." Sebastian stands and -- he can't dispense kisses. The muzzle doesn't let him. But he does bonk his forehead lightly against Shane's, and then rest it against the top of Peter's head. His hands squeeze down, one at both of their shoulders. "I am steeling myself right the fuck now," Shane promises Sebastian. (Albeit with more kisses. Peter's temple. Bastian's arm.) "I will be a lean mean no-hope machine before you know it." "Well." Bastian shrugs. "The lean part's true enough you are skinny as /hell/ since coming here." ".../man/ he is," Peter responds to Shane and Sebastian, "kind of a jerk. I mean. Um. I guess I feel bad - he had to..." A flicker of eyes follow Trib as he leaves, before looking back toward the twins. Still a shade of violet. A hand /darting/ out to take the bacon Sebastian drops on his plate and CRNCH, CRNCH, CRNCH. Peter has been on a protein free diet for /way/ too long. Shane's temple-kisses - along with Sebastian's muzzle-bonk and shoulder squeeze - soon have Peter going /deeper/ violet, until he's hovering around the threshold of indigo; he mumbles something happy - a hand reaching out to /squeeze/ Bastian's as it descends upon his shoulder - the other hand still squeezing Shane's. Head bopping up against Sebastian's mask. "...I might have, um. Threatened him. A little. The other day. I -- probably shouldn't have done that," Peter admits to them both, rather contritely. He scoot-scoots a little closer to Shane as he confesses this. "I was -- really angry with him -- after, the attack thing?" "He's an asshole. But. I'm an asshole. I think shitty situations -- maybe they don't /make/ assholes but they make it come /out/ more." Shane shrugs. He's still nibbling at his food, his eggs nearly gone -- he's maybe trying to pace himself a little. He also sneeeeaks a bit of sausage over onto Peter's plate when he sees how /fast/ Peter snatches up the bacon. "Probably shouldn't have," Sebastian agrees, "but, um. I /bit/ him I can't really talk." He glances after Trib. "He's -- hurting." "You were starving." Shane shrugs. "People do dumbass shit when they're starving." Sebastian's head drops further. Kind of nuzzling his forehead into Peter's hair. "Mngh," is his answer to this. "We should -- spar. If I don't /move/ before they lock us back up I might eat someone /again/." Hopefully this isn't serious? It is Sebastian. It's hard to tell. "You are an aah... jerk," Peter agrees with Shane, though it is with a /smile/; the sausage is. CHOMP. Peter is a very fast eater. Maybe not as /toothy/ as Shane and Sebastian, but - /whoa/ fast. "But, um. I dunno. You act -- much more jerky /outside/ than here. You've been... you've both been. Kind of --" He looks around, like he is about to say something /bad/. "...really /sweet/. I mean, uh, besides the -- you've been acting /better/ than most of the people here." Peter's eyes flicker off in the direction Trib has disappeared in, and. "...yeah I know, I just. Nngh. I -- /should/ be better. But -- I can't, not now. We..." An arm slings around Sebastian as he nuzzles. APPARENTLY, Peter is not worried by the possibility that Sebastian is just /sniffing/ him for more meats. He squeezes, arm and fingers compressing against his shoulders - using him as /leverage/. To pull himself up. Also giving a tug-tug at Shane's wrist, to follow. "...triage," Peter mumbles. His uncle was an army doctor; he'd tell him stories, sometimes. About the grim business of having to make hard medical decisions. Who to give care to. Who not to. "Okay. Let's spar. Before. You eat somebody." "I'll tell you a secret," Sebastian says this into Peter's hair, in the moments before Peter stands, "he's /always/ sweet. Most people just don't look hard enough to notice." /This/ makes Shane blush, cheeks darkening and his gills fluttering. He stands, too, stretching one shoulder and then the other. "Really, though," Sebastian considers this as he gives their shoulders one last squeeze, and starts to head off towards the open space, "we're not that great. You want a /good/ person, ask my pa some time how he lost his eye. /We're/ just --" "-- just been through this before. We just like living," Shane says, with a slight curl of lips. He tips his head, following that flicker of eyes off towards Trib. "Yeah. Can't save 'em all. But." "-- but we do what we can." Sebastian stretches, too. And then jogs off. To /fight/.