There's Always Hope

Participants:

django_icon.gif helena_icon.gif satoru_icon.gif

Scene Title There's Always Hope
Synopsis More antics from the yard at Moab.
Date March 19, 2009

Moab Federal Penitentiary - Yard


Almost a week and still no rape. Things are looking pretty good. You know, other than the fact that it's prison. Small details. Today, Django is one of the first out into the yard, eager to be under the sun and out of his private little cement box, as cozy as it is. He makes his way to the fence, has a seat in the dust, back pressed to the chainlink, and like Helena, starts to sing while he waits for familiar faces to appear.

Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowing, time stood still
An eagle flew out of the night

Unlike the last time he sang in the yard, he keeps his volume down this time, and eyes open, watching the yard, just in case. Even with the strict no-violence rules in this place, you never know who might try to start something.

He was something to observe
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing, stretching every nerve
I had to listen, had no choice

The women are released. That statement alone is somewhat frightning and full of possibility. But the spread out in their usual combinations, and as can be expected, a small blonde is already winding her way through the crowd, headed for her bench. She lets her fingers glide against the fence until she comes to her favored spot, and though she smiles when she sees Django, her eyes are constantly searching for others she hopes may appear, and hoping some faces she will never see.

Toru shows up eventually himself, though not nearly as enthusiastically as Django had headed out. He didn't have lunch with the Russian today, although this time it wasn't so much out of an effort to be rude as it was his own - usual - desire to be alone. He really isn't the social type.

But that lack of desire for interaction apparently doesn't extend to the playground, as when he spots Django, he's willing enough to make his way over towards the man. Doesn't quite make a bee-line - he already figures people probably think they're dating or something, after what happened yesterday - but does sort of amble on that way in a roundabout sort of fashion. Once he does get to the fence, he slumps down a few feet away from the man and grumbles, "Yo." Not angry, just … surly. Such is his way.

Feeling the touch on the fence behind him, Django looks up to see who it is, and is quite pleased to see exactly the face he was expecting. Smiling brightly at the woman, he finishes the verse of his song.

I did not believe the information
Just had to trust imagination
My heart was going boom, boom, boom
Son, he said, grab your things, I've come to take you home

The Russky puts his palm to the fence above his head, in their agreed-upon greeting, then casts his gaze astray at the second impact on the fence, eyes landing on Toru. "Oi. So nice of you to join us," he calls, perhaps a little louder than necessary, and his tone oddly saccharine. "Enjoy your lunch? You'd think they could at least afford to put a bottle of A1 on the table or something."

Helena lets her own gaze drift to Toru. Her grin is rather sly for some reason, perhaps because Django's own town is so cavalier. "You two aren't going to get into a fight today, right?" she presses them. "I don't think I'd like to see either of you go down to Red."

Idly stretching his arms over his head, Toru straightens his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and leans against the fence. He sits on his hands once he's done stretching, tilts his head up to look at Helena and shrugs. "I ain't a telepath, babe. Even if I was, I'd be too drugged-up to be able to answer anyways."

And dramatically he turns to look over at Django. "Man, I don't even know what you're talkin' about. For one thing, even if it was steak today, I ain't one of those guys who likes adding crap to his meat. All naturale, know what I'm sayin'?" He shakes his head in disgust. "But for thing two, steak sauce don't go on fish, yo." After a while it gets to the point where you have to pretend you're eating something else.

Hooking fingers through the fence, Django leaves his hand there, hanging over his head. Satoru's little rant makes him snort and shake his head, but he lets the boy get through it, wry smirk on his face. "Man, you don't know what you're talking about. A1 goes on god damn everything. I could practically put it in my coffee. Little steak sauce, little mayonnaise, that'd be a damn fine cup'a joe. Mmmhmm." It's hard to keep from laughing, delivering a line like that, but the Russky manages it, licking his lips afterwards and nodding slowly.

Then he looks up to Helena again and shrugs. "Nah, everything's cool between us. We kissed and made up, all that silly boy stuff. I'll spare you the details. But me an'…" He looks surprised for a moment, turns back to the asian, and frowns. "Dude, what the hell is your name, anyway?"

"That was fish?" Helena asks, reflexively, and can't help but lift her brows as her eyes flit back and forth between them. "Au naturale. Right, got it." A hand presses to her mouth to stop her giggle. She's starting to learn that her environment doesn't necessarily dictate her behavior. She's in prison, and she can still have moments when she doesn't have to be a prisoner.

"It was fish if I goddamn say it was fish, aight!" Satoru almost snaps. Looks like someone's mom forgot to pack a pudding pop with lunch today. But he shakes his head, grumbling unintelligibly for a moment, and looks up at Django. Weirdo. "Damn, dude, remind me to stay the hell away from Russia. You guys is messed up."

As for the question of name, it seems for a moment that he isn't going to answer, but ultimately he tugs at the corner of his jumpsuit upon which is stitched his serial number. Pulls it forward at an angle so that Django can see. 0000012. "Twelve works."

Putting on his best dour, squinty-eyed face (which is pretty good, he's had a lot of practice), Django affects that almost unintelligible Russian accent again. "In Motherland, only thing have value is peace of mind. So you make all neighbours disturb, take away peace of mind, now you richest man in town." With a firm nod, he folds his hands behind his head and leans heavily into the fence, but has to look over again when Satoru displays his number.

The Russky whistles and shakes his head. "Shit, son, you been in here for a while." Sitting up slightly, he tugs at his own jumpsuit to show off his serial number. 0000177. "You got seniority like whoa, brah. That get you any special privelages? Get a one-time pass when it's your turn to drop to soap or somethin'?"

"Forget your morning Ritalin?" Helena asks, completely undaunted by Satoru's snapping over their latest meal du jour. "Excuse me. But if we have that rule, then," she flips her hair back away from her shoulder and reveals: Dean, Helena - 0000002.

Toru raises an eyebrow, looking back at Helena. "Wasn't startin' no pissing contest." He shrugs, then unzips his jumpsuit a little, so as to fold over some of the lapel and obscure his nametag a bit. Awkward little motions. "I just don't like it when people get my name wrong."

He lifts a fist, clearing his throat nervously, then finally runs a hand through his hair and shoots glare up at Django. … But he's just joking, surely. Let's start another fight, why not. "Yeah, well… … so's your mother." Very clever, today.

Django's attention is diverted almost entirely from Satoru when Helena flashes her serial number, which he had never bothered to notice before now. "Daaaayum, sweetheart. You're practically a celebrity or somethin'. You know who number one is?" That last comment from the asian boy, though, draws a sidelong glance from the Russian, who almost looks like he's about to say something unpleasant, then snorts. "That was classy, man. How old are you, twelve? But, no worries." A long, casual stretch, then, "Big Brother Django's here to teach you a thing or two. I'll make a man out of you for sure."

"I do," Helena says, and starts to say more, when Django says what he does, and then she just shakes her head. "You two. You remind me so much of two guys I know. If you're going to go make out, do it behind the basketball net or something, will you? I mean, can the two of you actually have a conversation with anyone where you're both present and not have it turn into this?"

To his credit, Toru doesn't actually rise to anything Django says this time. Instead he just leans against the fence again, closing his eyes and smirking. "You come up with that number all by yourself, brah?" He did just give it as an alias, after all. "Big brother my ass, who was begging who for advice yesterday, yo?"

…And that credit is almost taken away when Helena makes her comment, but he does manage to just grit his teeth and clench his fists a bit. Then again, that's what happened not too long before 'the incident' the other day, too. "Baby, you know he's the one gunning for me. I got eyes only for the ladies. If he wouldn't keep goin' for me I wouldn't have to keep showin' him how things are, right?"

"That's a good question," replies Django, looking mock-contemplative. "Who was begging you for advice yesterday? It certainly wasn't me, I just need someone to distract me from this BULLSHIT," he yells across the yard, because, you know, everyone needs to hear this, "that we have to put up with every day. You're a decent guy, dig? Fun chattin' with ya."

He climbs to his feet and props an elbow on the fence, looking down at Satoru, then at Helena. "And I hate to disappoint, but between you and the blonde bombshell on the other side of this fence? I gotta go with her. She's got better legs." And, well, she's female, but that's pretty obvious. Smiling at her, he gives her a little wink and makes the universal "call me" sign with his free hand.

Helena can't help herself. "You're both so macho, I could faint." she offers, and waggles her fingers at Django, her smile gone rueful as she watches the two bucks lock horns with each other. Well, it is spring. "Do we get to have a conversation, or is this what I can expect as to daily entertainment?"

"You ain't disappointin' nobody, but I did see her first," Toru notes. Not that he's really all that interested in her. Because she's not his type. Of lady. … He's not gay. But he ultimately shrugs, shaking his head, and turns to look at Hel again. "Anyway, Lena-chan," his voice lilts a bit when he says her name. Caught it off the name tag, and all. "Like I said, get on this guy's case if you wanna get on someone's case for gettin' on my case. You wanna talk, go ahead and talk, nobody's stoppin' ya."

Django's full attention is on Helena, now, eyes bright and smile at least semi-genuine. He scuffles his feet in the dirt a little, adjusting posture so his knees won't start complaining at him, and stuff his free hand in his pocket. "Sorry, darlin'. I interrupted you earlier, when you were tryin' to say something. Shame on me, my momma taught me better'n that." She didn't, actually, but he'll pretend for now. "So, who is number one? He a friend of yours or somethin'?"

Helena blinks a little bit, really having not expected to re-visit the earlier topic. "His name is Peter Petrelli." You know, Petrelli like President Petrelli? "He's my - " Helena pauses, brow furrowing a little. "I…I really don't know what he is to me, anymore." She draws her knees up, close to her chest, but still regards the two men levelly. "He's in Red."

The name does make Toru tilt his head, idly, but he doesn't ask about it. He's never heard of Peter, and beyond being the president, Petrelli sounds like any other Italian name to him. Could be Smith, for all he knows or cares. "Well at least if he's down there he ain't gettin' the crap beaten out of 'im up here." He shrugs. "Might be boring, but it's prison. Wherever you're at it's gonna suck balls." Satoru, of course, has not had a teaparty with Verse.

Django knits his brows at mention of the name, and thinks about it for a moment, but he's momentarily derailed by Satoru's commentary. "Hey, man, I think I'd rather be beat on than locked in solitary permanently-like. I mean, shit, least pain is somethin'. Down there, ain't nothin' but you, alone with your thoughts. And you start thinkin' some nasty business, lemme tell you. I was in solitary once for a while, pitched in for fightin'. Not something I wanna repeat any time soon." He coughs, adjusts his collar, and returns to Helena. "So, this Petrelli. Any relation to the president?"

"His younger brother." Helena says succinctly. Yeah, that's right - the President has seen fit to allow his own brother to rot here in Moab, in the most contained, highest security level where he is garunteed to never see the light of day.

"Be worth it not ta' hafta look at yer ugly mug all day," Toru notes to Django. He's… probably joking. But he runs a hand through his hair again, gradually sliding down the fence to come to a lying-down position on the ground. Seems the guys in this group do a lot of that. "Wait, the president's kid brother's in here?" He blinks, voice raised a bit with incredulity. "Does he know? That's.. something is seriously messed up if they got him in here and he knows or if they got him in here and he don't know. How do you get away with that?"

This is startling news for Django, and his face shows it. "No shit? That is harsh. Man, Pres's kid brother, rottin' in prison. Talk about dirt." Fingers comb through his hair, another commonality between the male parties typically involved in this gathering, and looks out over the yard, picking out random faces to examine a little closer. "President Petrelli's brother, a famous rapper… Who the fuck else is in this place? Elton John? Maybe Lance Armstrong? They'll just throw anyone in jail, these days."

"He knows." Helena says. Maybe she doesn't know precisely, but she's certain enough to be sure. "This place is where people to disappear to when they're Evolved and break the law…or are a threat to the government. You think this is new? They've been disappearing people for a while. This is not just a jail. Everyone here is Evolved."

"Yeah, I already figured that one out, sis." Looks like Hel entered the friendzone somewhere along the line. "Everyone's got the mark, yo. Be a nice story to tell your kids. Everyone always thinks this is a great idea, y'know? Wrangle up the people you don't like and lock 'em up. Fuggin'… it always bites you in the ass every goddamn time." Satoru shakes his head, tangles a hand in his hair, sighs. "Whatever, it's like I been tellin' Deej there, eventually the ACLU or somethin'll come in and get this bullshit worked out."

Satoru's little nickname earns a raised eyebrow from Django, and just a hint of wry grin, but it quickly fades in the face of their predicament. And not just them, but almost two hundred other Evolved who may or may not have even done anything wrong. Not to mention all of the others like them still out there, hiding who they are for fear of dire consequences. He scoffs at Toru's insistence that everything will be okay, shaking his head.

"You really believe that? You honestly think anybody in the fuckin' government is gonna do a damn thing to help us? They can't get an innocent black man out of jail, what makes you think they can get some dude that can throw fireballs back on the streets? Ain't nobody gonna help us but us." Soulfist.

Helena says nothing to this. Django is doing exactly what he should - give all the visible presentation that he is resigned to his fate. If he bothers to look her way, he'll catch a glimmer of approval in her eyes. And whatever Helena's plans are moving forward, she's seen fit thus far not to include Satoru on her list of confidants. Not yet. She simply watches the two of them go back and forth about it, her expression almost sympathetic in Satoru's direction - poor, poor fool. She knows help will come from the outside, but her thoughts echo Django's words.

Toru shrugs, raises an eyebrow. "ACLU ain't government, holmes, they a buncha bleedin' hearts that poke their nose into way too many pies." Mixed metaphors, anyone? "Anyway, whatsit matter if I really think that? Better thinkin' that way than figurin' we're gonna be stuck in here forever. Be a little hopeful or somethin', why don'tcha, right?" He shakes his head, shrugs again, and folds his arms up under his head.

"Anyway, I figure mosta the dudes here can't really do much without their magic tricks so it ain't like we can go against a buncha guards with guns."

"Fuck if I know from unions and charities and shit. I been spendin' my life lookin' out for number one, never had time for much else." Django's eyes drift out towards the distant peaks of the mountains on the horizon, and his tone grows mournful for a moment. "Course, now I got all the time in the world, and ain't shit I can do with it. But anyway, I ain't sayin' to give up hope, just think you've put it on the wrong people. We'll be outta here eventually, and it's gonna be the other people like us what does it, dig?"

He stretches, reaching up over his head, stifles a yawn, and then sits down heavily next to Satoru, kicking up a little cloud of dust. "The normals are too afraid of us to let us out, even if they bitch and moan about how badly we're treated in here and whatever. So we just gotta wait for the so-called Evolved on the outside to get fuckin' organized and strong-arm the bastards into seein' it our way. Either that, or some other country's gonna start chuckin' bombs at us like we did the Nazis. Either way, we'll be outta here when it happens. Patience, young padowan. Or do you prefer grasshopper?"

"Other countries have their own problems." Helena murmurs. Her eyes flick to Django, and this time, her gaze is cautioning. But perhaps to lay some off-track on that direction of thought, she appears to agree tenatively, "There's always hope."


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Arbeit Macht Frei

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Minutes Over and In Moab

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