Sons of Scotland

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satoru_icon.gif django_icon.gif

Scene Title Sons of Scotland
Synopsis Satoru meets the most recent addition to the Moab family.
Date March 15, 2009

Moab Federal Penitentiary


Midafternoon, probably the day after Django was brought in, or so. The prison yard is a little warmer than it has been, with the seasons gradually shifting away from winter, though the scenery doesn't change - still barren desert as far as anyone can see. But at least it's warm.

The new prisoner's arrival hasn't gone unnoticed by the general population, as, what with how few prisoners are here in the first place, any new face is a welcome distraction from the otherwise dull drudgery of each passing day. The fact that he came in visibly injured is also one to draw attention; probably not too unusual, but enough to get people wondering. You have to have something to talk about, after all, or else things get dull pretty fast.

Satoru, of course, is fully aware that there's a new guy in town. Hasn't gone seeking him out, yet, though he maintains some general intent to. Today, however, he is lying against one of the walls of the prison - back on the ground, and legs folded crosswise against the wall, as if sitting. His jumpsuit is unzipped partially down his chest, white undershirt underneath it, and arms idly splayed out on either side of his head. Eyes half-closed. Taking in the sun like a lizard; nobody seems to care enough to bother him, and he's got the area to himself, for the most part.

It's a dreary, miserable place. Anyone that would argue with that needs to have their head examined. Django certainly isn't one of them. The new guy has been in for almost twenty-four hours now and hasn't said a word to anybody. He keeps his head down, walks everywhere like he's going to his own god damn funeral. Not much entertainment to be had there.

On this fine, warm day out in the yard, the Russky, with his hair a mess and his head wrapped in bandages, sits alone to one side of the yard, head in his hands, staring past the fence into the distance. Nobody approaches him yet, but a few of the other inmates here and there gesture at him and mutter to each other, his presence stirring up at least a little interest, but he doesn't seem to notice. He just keeps staring silently at those mountains.

If not for the fact that he does eventually move, one may wonder if Toru has up and died on the ground there. But eventually he yawns, turning over a bit to look over at the newcomer. Rolls partially onto his side, props his head up on his hand, and watches the man for a minute. "You oughtta be more careful, homes," he calls over; not too far away from him, but enough that he has to raise his voice a bit. "Whatchu do, fall down a flight of stairs? Walk into a door by mistake, huh?" He speaks slowly, in what would almost be a Southern-style drawl if not for his pronounced New York accent.

He pushes himself up to sit up properly, then, though he doesn't make any move to head any closer over to Django, instead just turning to face him while sitting upright. "Those mountains don't get no closer either, pretty much alla us already tried that." A bit of a smirk, there. "What you in for, bro?"

For a long moment, it seems as if the younger inmate's words have gone unnoticed, the silent Russky maintaining his vigil on the horizon. Then, finally, he turns mournful, sunken eyes to Satoru, over his shoulder, looking at the half-breed as if he might just be a hallucination or something. "Never seen mountains before," he replies, almost too quiet to be heard from such a distance. "Got no idea what they might be up to." He, like the asian fellow, bears the accent of a born-and-bred New Yorker, though tinged with a hint of something Eastern European. Probably Russian, from the looks of him. "Dunno if I can talk to you, kid." With a sigh, Django pivots on his seat to face Satoru properly, resting elbows on knees. "Your dumb voice might make me homesick."

Those haunted eyes stray towards the horizon again, then he scrubs at them thumb and forefinger and heaves a deep sigh. "Not two fuckin' days ago, I was in New York. Get jumped by a bunch'a pigs what beat me unconscious, and I wake up here in the McCarthy Suite with the fuckin' Hitler Youth breathin' down my damn neck about terrorists and shit." Another sigh, and he buries his face in his hands. "Can't fuckin' believe it. God damned nightmare."

An eyebrow is raised at this explanation, and Satoru waves a hand idly. "Man, I wasn't askin' for yer life story." He shakes his head, though, and tones the accent down; he'd been exaggerating a bit, before. "Assaulting an officer, huh?" He whistles. "Nice." A pause. "Same thing as me only it was a couple months ago now and I quit while I was ahead." He shrugs, waves that hand again. "I think pretty much most of the guys here is from New York," slipping back into that exaggerated accent again, "all the shit been goin' down there, right? S'where all the fun is. Fuckin' Disneyland, you know?"

Idly leaning back, Satoru tilts his head up to look at the sky for a moment. He squints, lifting a hand to shield them, then finally lowers his head again. "Y'know, I ain't been in prison before but I dunno that this thing with the drugs is really legal. I mean I get their reasonin' and all but I can't really fuckin' agree with it.." Looking up again as he says this, Toru shrugs, once again looking down at Django again. "And I figured there'd be more rape. If you don't like the dumb voice «I could speak in a different dumb voice for ya.»" That last part spoken in Japanese.

With a snort, Django shakes his head and slowly lifts it to face Satoru again, eyes red and lips drawn into a thin line. "Been in the clink once before, no rape then. Least, not for me." He takes a deep breath, lets it out real slow, and clasps his hands together where they hang in front of him. "Disneyland my ass," he spits. "Only a matter of damn time 'fore they build a wall around it and pitch us back in like that fuckin' movie. It's already a literal shithole."

"You said they give you the injections, too?" he asks after a moment of contemplation. "So that means you got powers, yeah? Is everyone in this place a damn freak like us?" What a lovely thought, locked in a box with a bunch of criminals with superhero powers. Even with the drugs everyone's dosed with regularly, the idea of it is still disconcerting. "You'd think with this many of us," he pitches his voice low, "we'd be able to do somethin' about it. Make a break, you know? We got people what can fly and shit, oughta be a way around the fuckin' drugs."

Toru nods, shakes his head, nods along with Django's observations. "They say the drugs last two days. So if we got away somehow they'd have time to find us. Y'know?" Shrug. "Yeah, everyone here, man. I mean you kinda figure after you see the system they got set up it pretty much has to be just for the friggin' 'Evolved'." Audible air-quotes as he says the word. "What I seen so far, you try to escape, you get tossed downstairs and you keep 'em from givin' you your shot, you get tossed downstairs. They got enough guys to handle you when you're on the drugs."

Shaking his head, Satoru looks around a minute, and shifts into a sprawling position, lying on his side with his head propped up on one hand. "Christ, I mean with them doin' the drug thing we may as well be a bunch of," and he almost shudders as he says the phrase, "normal people. And there's a lot less of us in here than there are in a regular prison, prob'ly. We try to do somethin' they'd get us down pretty quick." Frowning, there, he pauses for a minute, and finally concludes, by way of explanation, "I been here since the end of January, we all pretty much already thought anything you're gonna come up with, dude."

With his scowling gaining in intensity, Django slowly, as if he's stiff and sore, rises from his seat and paces over towards Satoru. "Suppose I'll take your word on that," he mutters, carefully lying down on the ground next to the kid, "since you seem to be the expert." On his back, fingers laced behind his head, he squints up at the sky as a few sparse clouds skitter by overhead. "Guess we're in it for the long run, then."

There's a pregnant silence from the man for a long moment. "You got family in the city, kid? Anyone to write a letter to, folks what'll be missin' you?" He turns his head to look at the other inmate, squinting his skyward eye shut against the sun. "Maybe a girlfriend or three. You seem like the type."

Satoru rolls over onto his back as well - more comfortable, and no point looking at someone who isn't looking at you - and shrugs. "My family sitchiation ain't what you'd call satisfyin'. Ma's coverin' my apartment for me while I'm here and they talkin' about gettin' me a cushy lawyer 'cause she doesn't wanna lose another kid and they figure I ain't done wrong enough to get sent out here." He lays one hand idly over his chest, the other over his eyes to shield them from the sun. Casual-like; kind of like he's forgotten that he's in a prison yard and not on some grassy lawn.

"Ain't got a girlfriend," he adds, with a yawn. "I'm not gay." And this he says rather sternly; not quite shouting, but somewhat overly-defensively. Nobody accused him, after all. He even looks over at Django with a bit of a glare as if to make sure his point got across. "I just ain't into that shit. Probably not gonna have my goddamn job when I get back, neither. Delivery," he adds, to forestall the question. "I figure eventually some liberal group'll be up their asses and get us all pardoned eventually." His tone approaches, but does not quite meet, complete sarcasm.

Django listens to his fellow inmate's answer, nodding his head slowly, wincing once when he moves wrong and disturbs the wound on the back of his skull. The sharp comment regarding his sexuality earns him a sidelong glance from the Russky, which is met by the boy's glare and quickly turned skyward again, though not without a barely-suppressed snort and a faint smirk. He sketches something like a shrug and crosses his ankles. "Least you got someone. My family broke up years ago. Mom left when I was a kid, I left my dad when I was a teenager. Ain't talked to either one of 'em in probably five, six years, easy. Don't got a lotta friends, either. People always let you down, ya know?"

"Got no job, got no place to go back to now. I guess…" That scowl creeps back in, and he chews on his lip for a moment in contemplation. "I guess I might not be in such a bad place, after all. I mean. Got somewhere to sleep, they feed us, no bills to pay, and nobody cares that I'm a crook and a freak. 'Course, when I'm tearing my damn hair out, goin' stir-crazy in a month, I'll probably change my tune. Or the first time some dicksmurf wants to play top dog and tries to feed me my fuckin' teeth. But there ain't shit I can do about it."

"Ain't shit I can do."

"Ain't shit anyone can do," Satoru notes, with his own shrug. "But no bills.. pff, like I said, I got my ma coverin' my ass so I don't lose my place before I can get home. I mean, I figure if it takes a while she'll probably get my shit moved back in with her and her husband, but I gotta worry about that and whatever other bills I got goin'. Cell phone, all that shit." He tilts his head back a bit, letting out a long breath. "I mean, I guess she ain't usually let me down, but that's the whole Japanese son worship shit going on there." A smirk.

"I don't think anyone they got up in gen pop is anyone who cares enough to start anything. Pretty much everyone ain't underground is smart enough or sheep enough to keep to themselves, you dig? Probably half the people here at least ain't even criminals. Probably just showed off their trick to the wrong person at the wrong time." He takes in a breath, there, and allows a long pause before finally thinking to ask, "You got a record?"

Another long silence punctuated by timely nods from Django, who chews idly on his lower lip. "That's good to know, I s'pose," he responds with a thoughtful scowl. "I mean, it don't necessarily make things better, but least I don't have to watch my back all the time." He will anyway, of course, out of an enhanced sense of self-preservation. No reason to take unnecessary risks. As far as his record goes, "Yeah. Since I was a kid. Just always been a bad seed or some shit like that."

An attempt to clear his throat turns into a brief coughing fit, and he sits up a little to put the back of a hand to his mouth. "Ugh, fuck. Fuckers dried me out yesterday, still feel like shit." This time he succeeds in clearing his throat, then lies back down. "Ain't the first time I been in prison. 'Course, the last time, promised myself I'd never go back. Lot of fuckin' good that did. Landed my ass right in it again, and I can't just walk out of this one if I get bored."
Django has partially disconnected.

Toru removes his arm from his eyes, looking over at Django after that fit of coughs. "Drugs probably ain't helpin' either. I don't really remember for sure but I think I felt gross for a couple days." It may have been psychological, if he's even remembering correctly in the first place. "You should probs get better at not getting caught, I think," he adds. "Bad seed's just a bullshit excuse for people not putting the blame right on the person. 'Oh, it isn't his fault, he was just born bad'. People don't like thinkin' people can just choose to be jerks." Shrug.

He pushes himself up a bit, lifting himself up onto his forearms and looking over at Deej for a minute. "So what, walkin' through walls your thing?" Head tilted with some measure of curiosity. "Isn't that kinda a little cliché?"

The little punk's observation regarding the injections earns a snort from Django. "Probably give us all cancer or somethin'. Bet they know it, too. Assholes." Then he shrugs, still staring skyward. "Maybe some folks don't choose to be bad, they just are from the start. I mean, sure, some guys like bein' assholes 'cause it's fun. But guys don't choose to be gay, right? It just happens." This statement is punctuated by a discreet sidelong glance at the younger inmate, and the slight arching of an eyebrow. It doesn't last long, and again his brown eyes are fixed on the wild blue yonder.

"I don't walk through walls. Nothin' near so flashy or cinematic. Though that would be kinda cool, make my job a lot easier. No, I just break shit. Make stuff fall apart in my hands, like. Crush a steel pipe, crumble concrete. Even came up with this little trick where I can drill out a lock with my finger." As if to demonstrate, he holds up one hand with the index finger extended. "Normal prison couldn't hold me, so long as I steer clear of the guards and shit."

That 'gay' comment sets the younger fellow to clenching his fists; he drops himself back to the ground, taking in a slow breath and silently letting it out after a long moment. Toru calmly listens to the rest of the explanation before replying, "Normal prison couldn't hold me, neither, 'cept as how I'd probably end up with even more charges." He does not offer any extended explanation. "That's cool, though, that's cool. Useful, right?" A nod. "I mean, shit, just get through the cuffs before you even get as far as prison, yo."

He lays there thoughtfully for a few minutes, finally deciding to cross one leg over the other, folding his arms under his head. All cozy-like. "Or through the cop car or whatever. Though I guess you could do that if you could walk through walls and it wouldn't be as messy." A brief pause. "And if you call me gay again I'll rip out your eyes and shit on your brain."

Django's eyebrows go up in feigned surprise, and he manages to stifle a grin, trying to look innocent. "Hey, kid, I didn't call you nothin'. All I said was that some people got a… what's the word, predisposition towards certain things. Like, it's in their DNA. Kinda like some people got powers, and others don't. Get me? It's just natural. Happens sometimes."

"So, yeah." Insert polite cough to cue topic change. "My power's been pretty handy. Leastwise up til now. Only reason I didn't get away 'fore they got me here was they knocked me the fuck out 'fore they cuffed me and kept me drugged up til I got here." His expression devolves into an irritable scowl, brows furrowed, and his tone grows sour as he goes on. "Not fuckin' fair, you ask me. But that's life for ya." Turning his head, he looks at his conversation partner properly, trying to dismiss the expression on his features. "And what do you do? Shoot origami outta your eyes?"

With an abrupt shuffle of dirt, Satoru pushes himself up onto his feet, brushing himself off. He zips his jumpsuit back up properly, and spits on the ground off to his side. "That's right," he replies, not hiding irritation in his tone. "I'm Wirriam fucking Warrace. I'm seven feet tall and I shoot fried rice out my eyes and origami out my ass." Shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to walk away, adding, as an aside, "Fuck you. You a damned Russian or something?" Glancing off over to the side, he finds Boxer sitting by himself somewhere, talking to a bench or something. "You and that guy'd get along real nice."

He shakes his head again as he starts to saunter off with a fairly thuggish gait, wandering over towards one of the prison gates. Stopping not too far off, he turns and adds, "Maybe when I get outta here I go look your mom up, huh?!" Ohhhhhhhhh!

The sudden motion from his fellow inmate causes to Django to recoil back and prepare to defend himself, assuming the worst, but when the asian doesn't take a swing or dive for him, he sits up, watching the boy. "Matter of fact, I am," he mutters in reply as the only person he's talked to since he got here walks away. "Half, anyway." His gaze strays towards Boxer, curiously, but returns to Satoru seconds later.

"If you find her, lemme know," he calls after the boy as he, too, gets to his feet and dusts his jumpsuit off. "Bitch ran out on us when I was a kid. She fuckin' owes me a damn childhood." Staring after the kid, he shrugs, and turns back towards the mountains he was studying so intently only a few minutes ago. A last thought occurs to him, and he casts a look over his shoulder to find Satoru again, raising a hand to the side of his face with thumb and pinky extended. "Name's Django!" he hollers. "Call me!"

As he still remains turned to face Django, Satoru spits off to the side again and shrugs. "I can't really say I give a damn 'bout your family situation. Someone told me I should make friends so's to keep from gettin' enemies but I ain't gonna waste my time, yo. Hang out with the tall dude, he doesn't know what the fuck."

He lifts the collar of his jumpsuit up to cover the back of his neck and turns again, continuing to stroll off in that gait of his. As Django calls out his name, Toru lifts his own hand to wave an acknowledgement back at the Russian, thumb and middle finger extended as he strolls off.


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<March 14th>: Welcome Home
Previously in this storyline…
The New Girl in Town

Next in this storyline…
Making New Friends

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<March 16th>: Making New Friends
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