Participants:
| Scene Title | Is This The Real Life |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After narrowly avoiding a fight in the yard, Boxer manages to pretend to be confused until Satoru actually becomes confused. |
| Date | March 03, 2009 |
Moab
Recess. Boxer is pacing the fence perimeter at speeds that would be unimpressive if the fence was underwater. Hands tucked deep into his prison-issue overall pockets against the cold raking down off of the surrounding mountains, he keeps his head down and his shoulders sloped. Some people have board games. There are a few decks of cards. Books. That sort of thing. He is not interested.
The fact that the big Russian does seem to be interested in the way the wind stirs red dirt to life ahead of his trudging feet might be odd. He isn't talking to anyone, as he sometimes has a way of doing (whether they like it or not) and he doesn't lift his head when another prisoner calls his name out for whatever reason. Off in his own world.
Satoru, on the other hand, is fairly quiet today. Though that's how it usually starts. Calm for a time, but eventually he manages to find someone to pick a fight with. He sits with his legs folded up, arms draped over the knees, head dipped down between his shoulders. Really, he almost looks too young to be there - not even old enough to drink yet, this one - but nonetheless there he is.
Sitting somewhere near Boxer's general path, though not directly in it, he lifts his head to watch the Russian for a minute or so. Eventually, though, something bothers him enough to speak up; could be anything, really, and probably wasn't anything conscious on Boxer's part, but ultimately he says, loud enough to be heard, "What the hell you lookin' at, anyway?" Accent is exaggerated angry-New-Yorker.
The improbable and overly exuberant bristle of Boxer's head does not have to lift for him to find Satoru in its sights. He registers the movement of the younger man's mouth before the words that come with it are heard, and having gone a little dull-eyed, he drags to a stop to look over his shoulder. What is who looking at? There is nobody back there, though, so he must be the you.
"I am looking at nothing." Simple questions get simple answers. Having no reason to lie or particularly care, he hefts his shoulders into half a shrug once he's turned back to Satoru. "What are you looking at, Chinaman?"
With an audible scuffle of feet on dirt, Satoru pushes himself up to his feet and breaches the distance between himself and Boxer in short order; he gets within a few inches of the other man, angry face on, hands balled into fists. He's also quite a bit shorter, but that doesn't seem to matter much to the boy.
"What the fuck did you just call me, shithead?" He doesn't make any physical contact just yet, but he stands there shaking with anger and restraint. "You want to go? I'll take your ass on right now, you just say the word."
Ops. Boxer's hands fall reflexively from his pockets when Satoru scuffles up onto his feet, open at his sides by the time they are face to face. Or face to neck. He does not seem surprised. Maybe somewhat put off, now that there is a small angry person in the way of a perfectly good walk around the yard staring at nothing. People in prison do not have manners at all.
"You are unhappy," he surmises, Moab's resident master of observation. One hand is lifted to square itself at Satoru's shoulder without actually touching — a staying sort of gesture. He may be full of joy himself, but he is mellow. "I do not know what the word is, but I think maybe you should sit down again or they will put me back with the man who talks in his sleep again okay?"
"Unhappy don't begin to touch it, yo!" Satoru shakes his head, but sort of hesitantly backs off - more out of not really being sure what to do. Usually when he does this, the other guy responds in kind. He isn't really sure what to do with a guy who isn't fighting back. He steps back a few paces, fists still clenched, but he looks up at Boxer now with a slightly less pissed expression.
"Fucking.. I ain't no damn Chankoro, Ivan. What the hell I got to be happy about here? I'm in goddamn prison. You're in goddamn prison, you telling me you're happy? You're fucking crazy if that's it."
"I am not touching anything." Boxer's lifted hand splays open further, drawn back into more of a mild 'nothing, see?' than 'maybe you should take a chill pill.' Sleepless shadows darkened in around his eyes are not in themselves suggestive of mental instability, but there is maybe a touch of weirdness in the black of wide, inquisitive pupils while he peers at this self-declared not-Chankoro.
"Everybody here is 'fucking crazy.'" His accent hangs long at the u and exaggerates the ensuing r, voice as lax as his posture now that the imminent threat of trouble seems to have passed. "Including you, okay? Open your eyes." There is a pause, his eyes flicker away, green reflecting reddish brown at a neutral blend of hazel while the volume about him falls to a more private and distracted mutter. "Look up to the skies and — no, wait, that is not what I was going to say."
Satoru finally shoves his hands into his pockets, with some irritation, his posture.. is pretty awful, really. He slouches, naturally, and thrusts his head forward. Thuggish looking. Playing tough. "I didn't say I'm not, I said you are. And you ain't changin' my mind much, neither." Shaking his head, he removes one hand from a pocket, runs it through his hair, and lets out a long breath.
"You are crazy," he repeats. "You're always walkin' around staring. How come you didn't hit me? You suicidal or somethin'?" Curiosity is almost genuine.
Easy come, easy go. Boxer's eyes take their time in returning to Satoru. He seems a little surprised to find that he's been talking while his mind was busy trying to figure out what in the hell — but now here he is with only half of this part of the conversation and he's being told he is crazy. His brows lower, resentful of the label when applied by someone other than himself, but again, there is no real physical threat to back it. He doesn't care that much.
"You get into a fight, they drag you down into the cells without windows. Electrocution — all of that. I like having a window."
A shrug. "That's why you chill out before they get to you. Oh man that guy started it, I was just mindin' my own business." Nonetheless, though, Satoru looks down at the ground for a moment. "I mean, you get beat on a little." Another shrug there. "What the fuck ever."
He stands up straight, all of a sudden, pulls hands out of pockets and folds his arms behind his head. Casual-like. "So what're you in for, Uncle Vanya? I look at you, I figure either…" He hmms, closing one eye in thought. Tip of tongue sticks out of mouth slightly. "Yeah, I'm guessin' either 'failure to report a crime' or 'grand theft pierogie'."
"Oh. Is that how disciplinary action goes here?" Boxer's curiosity becomes mildly exaggerated, just right…there on the barest edge of mockery, though an overall lack of expression makes the existence of that edge difficult to define. "It is a lucky thing I ran into you, Chinaboy. Otherwise I would be lost." He could be sincere. At least. It's possible. He certainly looks stupid enough, all unshaven, slack-jawed staring and hair that is exploring new ways to defy gravity and cold wind alike.
"I am here for unpaid parking tickets. I did not know they keep a copy for themselves. Very tricky, American police officers." On the inside, he is rolling his eyes. On the outside, he continues to look like the sort of person that could use a sign to remind themselves to breathe. "What about you? Noise complaint? Skateboarding on public property?"
See, there's that word again. "I ain't fuckin' Chinese!" Satoru actually bares his teeth for a minute, before backing off again. Hands once more in fists, though he relaxes sooner this time. "I'm just tryin' to have a civil fucking conversation, I guess you just walk around like an idiot 'cause nobody can stand talkin' to you."
"And I am here for being in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time. They figure I'm a terrist 'cause I broke curfew and got into a fight with the cops and now I'm here and I don't ride a goddamn skateboard." He starts to turn away, but stops once he's in profile. Shoves his hands back into his pockets. "Stop calling me Chinese and I stop making Russia jokes. How the hell does unpaid parking tickets lead to them figuring you're Evolved?"
"Who is making jokes?" It's an earnest question, made more earnest by a slightly baffled knit at Boxer's brow, as if he fears he might have missed something. Conveniently, the Chinese thing doesn't seem to have found purchase within the narrow band of his attention span. It bounces off the dome of his forehead so thoroughly that Satoru may well literally see it falling by the wayside if he pays attention.
"I have been in prisons before, sometimes having classes on good work skills and civility. Mmmaybe you should ask for a seminar here — you are very bad at it." Brows tilted up now, Boxer dispenses helpful advice with the vaguest measure of pity in the squint of one eye. "How does unpaid parking tickets lead to Moab? I don't know. You tell me."
Satoru looks completely perplexed. "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you. And I'm being plenty civil. See?" He gestures with his arms to show that his hands are still in his pockets, looks down at himself. "I ain't threatenin' you, am I? Nice chat." Here, though, he does remove his hands from the jumpsuit - but only to crouch down, legs bent, arms draped over his knees. Not quite his earlier posture - he isn't sitting - but close enough.
He looks up at Boxer curiously for a minute, then finally shakes his head. "You are a goddamn weird dude, you know that?" Hand is combed through hair, and then he pauses a moment, struck with a sudden thought. "…Do you actually speak English?"
"Not at the moment. No." But. Given that this was a different story some five or six minutes ago, it seems likely that the promise of violence and windowless rooms could return at any second. Boxer manages to appear somewhat suspicious accordingly, almost as if attempting to discern whether or not it was a trick question. Past a tip of his head to follow Satoru down with his crouch and accompanying shift of his weight from one foot to the other, he doesn't move much. His piece of ground is much the same as all of the surrounding ones.
"I am speaking English right now. I am sorry I do not speak Korean. Kon-ni-chi-wa. That is something, I think." He tells as much to the fence nearby, eyes lifting to follow it up, and up, and up to razor wire snarled far above.
Long pause. If there were any around, crickets would probably be heard, but instead in the silence, Satoru stares at Boxer for a long moment. "Dude, you seriously sound like you're flipping pages in a phrasebook and just repeating back shit that has words I'm using. 'Ah, he said English, here is a phrase that has the word English in it'. I could read phrases out of a Russian book, wouldn't mean I knew what I was saying."
He slumps down onto his ass with that, sitting proper-like, if somewhat withdrawn into himself. "And I'm Japanese. Konnichiwa is a goddamn Japanese word. Where the hell are you getting Korean from, are you retarded? You're some kind of like… retarded guy who pretends he can speak English."
Boxer listens. If not intently, then with enough silence to constitute respect. Or thoughtfulness. Then again, neither of those possibilities actually seems all that likely within the context of this conversation so far, especially once his eyeline begins to wander elsewhere. There is a little bird perched precariously on the wire some ways down the fence, all jerky, restless motion contained within a more singular stillness until the wind sways at its perch, and it bustles off to find somewhere else to sit.
"You talk a lot, is what I think. Too much maybe for your own good."
"Yeah, that's what they tell me, homes." Satoru shrugs, pushes himself back to his feet. He looks Boxer up and down, makes brief sneery gesture, shrugs. "Whatever, I could take you down. On the outside, definitely, in here.. as long as there ain't any guards around to stop me." He shrugs again, then brushes at the bottom of his chin with his fingers, in an outward motion.
"I ain't gonna start nothin' cause I feel bad for ya but if you gonna be threatenin' you best know you playin' with fire." He flickers his fingers for a moment, with a whistle that sounds like a spaceship, then turns to wander off.
"I see. Thank you. You are more benevolent than I deserve." Ho, boy. Boxer lifts a hand to scrub it flatly over his head while Satoru departs.
What is worse? The kids who are desperate to prove that they can stay afloat or the other adults who have no idea what they are doing here and sit around frowning at each other all the time?
A brow lifted after the whistle, he turns his back to the yard and squints out through the fence, both hands shoved deep down into his pockets once more. Lots of red dirt. No more birds today.
 March 3rd: There's No Place Like Home |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 March 3rd: Chunky Salsa |