Hooked On A Feeling


satoru_icon.gif django_icon.gif

Scene Title Hooked on a Feeling
Synopsis Lunchtime at Moab leads to fighting amongst the inmates.
Date April 2, 2009

Moab Federal Penetentiary, Cafeteria

Another day, another dollar. That is, another million dollars of federal tax money wasted on this shithole concentration camp they call a prison. Such a happy thought, right? Just how much does it cost the American Citizen to keep two hundred super-powered freaks locked up for no reason other than their genetic heritage? You can bet the government won't tell you.

Django sits at the usual table, apart from the majority of the rest of the inmates currently inhabiting the dining hall, setting to his prison-glop lunch with the usual alacrity, wishing, as always, for a damn bottle of ketchup or something. "Not even three fuckin' weeks. I been in this shithole for nineteen god damn days," he grumbles alloud between mouthfuls, "and it feels like fuckin' months. Jesus christ. I mean, not that I got much to complain about compared to you, but you know what I mean, right?"

Satoru just kind of shrugs, stabbing at his food idly. Scoops up the occasional forkful, but mostly just stabbing out of frustration. "You ain't gonna last in the long haul, brotha," he notes, raising an eyebrow with a bit of a smirk as he shovels some food into his mouth. At least he's got the whole 'pretending it's something else' thing down pat. Today, we are dining on grilled cod with a side of yellow rice.

…At least, when he does eat. Lots of stabbing going on. Bad night, maybe. "They did this back in World War 2, y'know," he notes, idly. Pausing in his food-stabbing, he props his chin up on an elbow, looking off to the distance for a moment. "Rounded up all the Japanese folks in goddamn California or whatever, tossed 'em in cages. Didn't work out good for 'em that time neither." He shakes his head, grumbles, rubs the heel of his palm against an eye. Resumes stabbing at food. "Never goddamn works but they keep doin' it anyway."

"Nah, man, I'll be cool. I just bitch a lot. My way of blowin' off steam." Where Satoru seems more intent on doing violence to his food, Django's appetite remains healthy in the face of less-than-appealing fare, his tray already half cleared. He hasn't quite picked up Toru's little solipsist trick, but even bad food is better than starving, and he's starved before. It's not a pretty thing.

"I hear ya. They never fuckin' learn. Same shit happens every couple'a decades with a different group of people. Always ends badly. But there's always casualties along the way, and damned if I'm gonna be one. So I'll complain a lot, but I'm keepin' my fuckin' head down. Like Lena said, let 'em think they've got you." He really doesn't have much more than that, but he figures it makes him sound like he knows something important.

He's going to eat it eventually! He just … has to make sure it's dead first, apparently. "Right, right," he ultimately replies, with a certain level of detached interest. Munching on a few forkfuls of his food, he resumes looking off into the distance again, blinking slowly a few times and not really realizing he's zoned out until he almost misses his mouth with one scoop of 'rice'.

"…er, anyway." He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair. It's gotten shaggier than usual by now. Could use a haircut, probably. "The amenities otherwise to your liking, yo? Enjoying your, uh.." He waves a hand idly. "Your daily regimen? Everything keepin' you all nice and docile and whatnot?" An eyebrow is lifted. "I mean, I know you been here a while but we gotta make periodical checks on this shit."

Django seems rather pleased with himself when Satoru doesn't come back with some kind of cutting remark, as he would expect from the younger inmate, and he quickly finishes the rest of his 'meal', pushing the empty tray aside. But then it occurs to him that something seems a little off, and he watches the boy for a moment, searchingly, as Toru zones out for a moment and nearly makes a fool of himself. When the boy snaps back to this realm of existence, the Russky narrows his eyes at him and leans forward over steepled fingers.

"Yeah, nevermind about me. You doin' aight, kid? Don't quite seem like your usual, witty self today. It's kinda freakin' me out." Since Django's arrival here, Satoru's biting wit has been a constant in… well, in a world of constants. Not much changes around here. But now something is out of place, and it's a little disconcerting. "You have a fight with your girlfriend or somethin'?"

Toru shakes his head again, rubbing his eye once more with the heel of his palm. He sets about to eating a bit more consistently, satisfied that his prey is thoroughly deceased. He barely even notices that Django said 'girlfriend' and not 'boyfriend', really. Ultimately, though, he does respond with some measure of wit; a bit of a smirk and, "You still ain't givin' up on flirting with me, huh? Flattery'll getchu nowhere, homes."

Aaaand he shakes his head again. "I just can't fuggin' sleep lately. I'm starting to turn into that damn retarded Russian." Sigh, and he slumps forward, pushing his tray aside. Pause. "The other retarded Russian, I mean," he adds, lifting an arm to gesture vaguely in some direction; not necessarily towards where Boxer is sitting. "I'll get a nap at recess or something, just as long as they remembered to bring out some binkies for us, y'know?"

"Yeah, gee, thanks," Django retorts, sardonically, pursing his lips. Other retarded Russian indeed. "I ain't flirtin' with you, dumbass. If I was, it'd be a lot less subtle. You'd fuckin' know you'd been flirted. With," he adds. No one ever said that language was his strong suit. "Once I turn on the charm, even you would be all over me. Which is exactly," he points at the asian youth for emphasis, "why I don't do it. 'Cause I ain't down with that. You might look kinda like a girl, but as long as you're on this side of the fence, I know you're swingin' a sword beneath the belt."

"Anyway." Diverting from the subject of his sexuality before it's called into question yet again. "Maybe you oughta try exercising or something. Wear yourself out so's you can't stay awake all night. Or, you said Boxer can get stuff from outside? See if the "other retarded Russian" can hook you up with some sleeping pills. Or fuckin' benadryl. Tell him you'll paint a rainbow for him or someshit, he'd probably like that."

Satoru… almost jumps to the bait. Does actually start to push himself up, before settling down again. Not worth a potentially sleepless night in Red~ That and the more Django talks, the more Satoru just looks at him with an expression of complete uncomprehending. Totally. Weird. "—-Dammit, bitch, if I say you're flirtin' with me then obviously I know I been flirted with. Y'ain't as subtle as you think you are, yo."

He shakes his head, sighs in a long-suffering sort of way. "Hel said Boxer can get stuff from outside," he notes, shrugging. Pauses. "I think it was her. Anyway, I ain't gonna take no drugs he'd gimme, they'd probably be made outta rocks or something. And there ain't nothin' I can really give him other'n rainbow paintings and makeouts and I know I ain't into that second thing. He might be." Another pause there. "Fuckin' weird guy."

Django scowls at the youth, rising halfway out of his seat, and puts his palms on the table in the typical "them's fightin' words" posture, but the next few words out of his mouth are definitely non-threatening, thus spoiling the effect. "Bitch! You wanna be flirted with? I'll fuckin' flirt with you!" Moment: ruined. "Your eyes are particularly radiant in the moonlight, my dear," he says, tone brusque, still scowling. "Your lips are like plump, red cherries, ripe for the taking." Yeah, that's right. You been told.

Satisfied that his point has been made, he pushes back from the table, leans back in his chair, and folds his arms. "Man, the more I hear about Boxer, the more I think I should talk to him, just 'cause he sounds like a hoot. But knowing my damn luck, he'd probably flip out and try to eat my spleen or someshit. I just can't catch a fuckin' break. I oughta start making offerings to every god I can find or somethin' just to see if maybe I can make up to the one I pissed off."

Toru pushes himself up out of his chair. Slowly-like. He doesn't really pay attention to what Django says about Boxer - in one ear, out the other, all that jazz. He's oddly composed for someone as irritated as he is, though he does punch one palm with the opposing fist. Slowly. Firmly. Building up to a reaction that most people would probably have thought through as a bad idea by now, but Toru is, indeed, not most people.

He walks around the table and at that point, however, he speeds up a bit. To make sure Django doesn't get away, y'know? "You want fucking flirting?" he asks, his tone low so as to keep anyone who hasn't already noticed him standing from noticing him shouting. And then he dives onto the Russian, hands going for the neck, face going for … the face. Lips going for lips. What the hell is going on here? Eyes closed, presumably to block out the absurdity of what he decided would be a good idea, Toru aims to plant a rough kiss on Django's lips whilst simultaneously choking the hell out of him.

As Toru rises from his seat and begins his posturing, Django just smirks. They've done this dance once before, a couple of weeks ago, and the asian was lucky he didn't get the guards all over his ass that time. He wouldn't try it again, that would just be dumb. So the Russky looks smug and sits back with his arms folded over his chest. Until, y'know, the kid actually comes around the table and rushes him. Oh fuck.

Having not given himself nearly enough time to eact, what starts out as an attempt to stand up and get out of the way ends up dumping Django backwards out of his chair, ultimately resulting in the two of them lying on the ground, Satoru on top. Django goes on the defensive, trying to shield himself from the inevitable beating, and is thus completely disarmed when the asian kisses him, eyes going wide. WHAT.

The utter shock of this absurdity is only enough to hold him still for a second or two, though, as he's not only being kissed by a guy but also being strangled. Honestly, he prefered the punching. He starts to try and shout a protest, then decides that opening his mouth would probably be a bad idea, so instead just does his best to push Toru away. This shouldn't be too much of a problem, being quite a bit larger than the younger inmate, although there is the issue of the hands around his throat. That could be problematic.

If this played out under different circumstances - that is to say, Not In Prison - Toru might have eventually started liking this whole angry makeout thing. … Despite not being gay. However, with Django struggling with him and the whole guards approaching thing, this isn't exactly a good moment for romance and/or self-discovery. He's pushed off easily enough, though it takes a moment for him to be convinced to take the hands off—-

—-and by that time he's being yanked off by a couple of guards. Daw, shit. He struggles against them, shouts, "Dammit, he started it, I ain't doin' nothin'!" Points at Django angrily while he's pulled away, other inmates no doubt watching him make a fool of himself. "You need to fucking stop fucking… fucking around!! I ever see you outside-a here I'm gonna fuck you up!"

As Satoru is pulled away from him by the guards, Django takes a deep, gasping breath and crab-scuttles backwards a few feet to put as much distance as possible between himself and the asian before trying to stand. "Jesus- You're fuckin' psycho, dude," he observes, just loud enough to be heard at this distance, though likely drowned out by Toru's own irate ranting. Like last time, he stares at the younger fellow, somewhat incredulous, and rubs at his reddened throat.

He turns to one of the lingering guard, eyes still slightly wide and brows knitted, and thumbs over his shoulder at the angry Japanese boy. "That dude's fuckin' whacko." Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and heads for the big double doors that lead out to the yard, not bothering to look back over his shoulder. "Fuckin'… give a guy a compliment. Christ."

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