Participants:
| Scene Title | So Mature |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Lunchtime at Moab. Elle and Django hit on(???) each other, Alexander is an amnesiac, and Doyle is BOUNCING WITH JOY TO SEE AN OLD FRIEND except not really. See title for details. |
| Date | April 6, 2009 |
Moab Federal Penitentiary - Cafeteria
You haul sixteen tons, and whaddaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt.
Django sings softly to himself in his clear, high voice as he waits in line along the wall of the cafeteria. Lunch time again. Another reminder of his situation, as his mind tries to remember what real food tastes like, souring his stomach and parching his throat in dread of the glop he'll be choking down in a few moments' time. Maybe one of these days he'll figure out Satoru's trick for pretending he's eating something else, but he just can't manage it yet.
The man behind the glass splatter guard shoves a tray across the counter to Django, laden with the day's nutrition regimine, and the Russky accepts it a little reluctantly. Then he turns and heads for his usual area of the cafeteria, where he sits every day with Satoru. But the recollection of their little tussle the other day gives him cause to hesitate, and he casts his gaze around the room, looking for somewhere else to eat his lunch, somewhere with a little less… tension.
I owe my soul to the company store, he finishes as he sits down across from Alexander. "Yo, ginger. What's the haps? Mind if I sit here?" Even if the other man says no, he probably won't move.
Al's been eyeing his food with increasing dubiousness, only taking a bite now and then. He looks up from his contemplation of the completely unappetizing mass on his plate, to gaze at Django with no little suspicion. "I don't mind," he says, finally, not willing to argue the point. He looks vague, period. Like what Verse did is increasingly corrosive, rather than healing.
There aren't many men, or women for that matter, that could be referred to as 'overweight' in the prison; the guards and staff generally have to keep in shape against the risk of being overpowered, and as for the prisoners, well. The glop that's being slopped onto their plates isn't exactly the sort that encourages them to go back for seconds, and thirds. An exception exists in the form of the man that walks in, garbed in the drab colours and garments of the rest of the prisoners…
…aside from the fluffy grey 'fur' of the slippers upon his feet, tiny rabbit ears poking up above beaded black eyes. It's across the room that he walks at an unhurried shuffle of slipper'd feet, one hand raising up to mold the thick flesh about his neck and jawline to rub against his chin, turning a thoughtful and heavy-lidded gaze across the cafeteria as if searching for something in particular, mouth half-open as if about to say something. To himself, apparently.
It's with a hint of nervousness about them that the guards watch Eric Doyle, and watch him they do, like a hawk. They may have reason to.
The table that the two prisoners are seated around is located, coincidentally, not far from the radius of where Elle has been pacing. Against the filthy gray backdrop and jumpsuited prisoners of Moab's cafeteria, her dark professional clothing— blazer, low-cut shirt, and jeans— as well as her neatly arranged blonde hair, clearly stand out as 'official' in label. The agent doesn't belong here, and doesn't look like she ever has. If the guards are watching Doyle like a hawk, then the woman's own gaze is just as careful and predatory, roving here and there in search of something that only she really knows.
Her watchfulness is soon rewarded. Her eyes promptly narrow when they spot the aging, heavily-built puppeteer at the edge of her vision — and it isn't long before her own conservative stride has stopped short, and she has turned to face his direction. "You," she can't stop herself from observing aloud. Right over the heads of Alex and Django, whose table she is now nearly right beside.
Picking up his spoon, Django begins the usual routine of poking desultorily at what, for lack of a better term, we shall refer to as his "food". The lackadaisical grin he wore for his first couple of weeks in the facility has since faded, replaced by a sort of weariness. He just seems tired, now. Not physically, no, he gets plenty of sleep, but his spirit grows tired of the confines of this place. "Not a very talkative chap, are ya?" he says to Alexander, watching the redhead with half-lidded eyes. "How long you been in here, man? They really got you down, huh?"
The first bite finds its way into his mouth, causing him to scowl faintly, and he chews grudgingly. His eyes remain cast downwards, in the general vicinity of the table and occasionally up to Alexander's face, but he's not especially interested in paying much heed to the rest of his surroundings. It's depressing enough just knowing it's there without having to look at it.
And so he's a little startled to hear Elle speak almost directly above him, and turns to look up at her, meal forgotten for the moment. Upon a cursory examination of her, his brows raise and his lips purse in plain approval. Turning a bit in his chair, he drapes an arm over the back and leans casually on it. "Afternoon, ma'am," he intones politely to the Agent. "You're a nice change of scenery. Your wardrobe's a little nonstandard for a guard. What brings you to our fine establishment today?"
"I don't know," Al says, flatly, glancing up again, before he lowers his gaze to his food. It hasn't improved upon inspection, so he pushes away the plate with a lazy gesture. "I don't remember." As Elle speaks, he turns to look at her. There's no sign of recognition, nevermind that nearly a quarter of his body wears her marks, even now. She is, at least, something unusual, so he regards her thoughtfully for a little while. And then his gaze follows hers to Doyle. Doyle's also someone without any meaning for him, just yet.
You? You who? Yoo hoo! The startled expulsion of words, or perhaps a voice recognized somewhere within his mind, brings Eric's head in a slight turn towards the single female presence in the room. The hand at his chin falls, both hands reaching out in a slight angle to either side, those heavy-lidded eyes widening and mouth gaping open a moment in surprise — a smile then twisting to them in a smirking little curve that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Those dark windows watch her with a certain flatness that's a contrast to his outward manner when he speaks.
"Hello, Sparky," he drawls out in almost bored tones, shifting his weight into movement in a slow, shuffling stalk in her direction, "Been awhile, hasn't it?" The others get a glance, brief notation of them, particularly the one talking to Elle, before he looks back to her.
Elle hadn't been expecting to be addressed in such a specific way by a prisoner (though suggestive sounds? Lewd glances? She's used to those.) However, her surprise soon melts into nonchalance as she flickers her attention to those right below her. "That's because I'm not a guard," she affirms sweetly, reaching one hand downwards to delicately cup her fingertips along the curve of Django's cheek before letting them go. Her pointer finger gives that cheek a light bap right afterwards. "And I've been here for over a week, Mr. Observant. Don't worry. I'll get to your cell soon."
Though Alexander receives the beginning of a hard, slow stare, her image of him trying to come to terms with her memory, it isn't long before Doyle has recaptured the center of her focus. "What're you doing here?" she says in tones far sharper than the one she had just used with Django. "Your name isn't on the list of prisoners." And…he's wearing rabbit slippers. Her eyes dip down, then back up. What the hell.
Such direct, intimate attention from the beautiful lady that has found her way into their midst gives Django a little surge of elation, a bright spot in the grim tedium of his sentence. He smiles, sincerely, one of the few honest smiles he's worn since his arrival, and casts a sidelong glance at Alexander, expression smug. Yeah, that's right. Even in prison, I can work it.
"This place must be making me go loopy. No other reason I can think of why I'd miss such a beautiful lady in our company. I suppose I should work harder on keeping my eyes open, no telling what other nice things I might see." He cocks a brow rakishly at the Agent, one corner of his mouth pulling up into a self-assured smirk. Obviously, he thinks he's being smooth.
At least, until her attention is diverted by the man that almost looks like he belongs. Grin slipping from his features, Django turns to look over his shoulder at Doyle, and his brows knit. There's something odd going on here.
"Maybe you should double-check your paperwork," Doyle suggests in a half-bored, half-amused sort of offhanded fashion at the sharp questions from the blonde. Another step, and then the girthsome puppeteer drops down to sit upon the bench at Django and Alexander's table with neither invitation nor request, leaning in to fold his arms together for a comfortable lean against them. The man cranes his neck — what of it there is — and looks at the pair's dinner. Or lunch. Time can be so hard to determine in here, sometimes.
He doesn't even glance back at Elle, apparently having dismissed her. Likely just to annoy her.
Little does Django know that he isn't receiving special attention. Not really. Almost by rote, Elle goes through the routine with the majority of eligible young males she meets. The impression that she is offhandedly radiating pleasure towards Django stays, though when she notices his facial expression, she puts out her finger once more to give his ear a ~zap~ in a sudden transfer of visible electricity. It's a small, cute action, but also one intended to keep the man's cockiness from growing too much.
… And as Doyle likely already knows, it doesn't take much to annoy Elle. "Are you saying you should be locked up?" she asks icily. Alone of the group of three men, she remains standing, though her height alone doesn't make for much of a threatening presence. "And if not— tell me what you're doing here." She is p-retty positive that she hadn't seen his name anywhere on the records. Period.
Having been paying more attention at this point to the exchange between Elle and Doyle than Elle herself, the little jolt to his lobe startles Django enough that he jumps a little in his seat. Concern, maybe even worry, is plain on his face for a moment as he rubs at his ear, looking up at Elle, but it slips away again when he sees that her demeanor towards him doesn't seem to have changed. "So, uh… You two know each other?" he asks, making a faltering grab for some sort of in on the conversation.
Looking between the beautiful woman and the less-than-handsome man across the table, Django happens to notice Doyle's lingering gaze on his tray, and quickly reaches out to pull it protectively towards him, shooting a warning glare at the puppeteer. The food may be foul, but he still gets hungry just like anyone else.
That little jolt of electricity is enough to make Al shy like a startled horse. He's apparently had enough of the whole thing, because he rises, grabs his tray, and turns his back on all of them to head for the window where dirty dishes are taken. Memory's a desperately fickle thing, and while he may not consciously remember Elle, an electrokinetic given free rein in here….that's enough to make him nervous.
As the tray of food is pulled away, Doyle's contemplative expression melts into one of almost wounded disappointment, lips pursing as he looks to Django for a moment — and then the blonde speaks once more, and where she can't see it he's rolling his eyes rather noticably. One hand lifts, fingers coming together above thumb in the 'yak yak yak' gesture of one imitating a sock puppet for a moment, a smirk flickering about the edges of his expression.
"Just — sit your cute ass down, Sparky, you're making the animals nervous," he observes with a hint of irritation, then, his hand lifting with its back in her direction, and then his fingers folding forward in a sharp gesture. An abrupt fold forward, and Elle'll find her muscles moving to do just that to claim a seat at the table. Fortunately, once she's seated, he releases control, leaning in a bit closer to Django and raising his brows hopefully, "You gonna eat all that?"
Sure enough, Elle finds herself moving through the motions of sitting down, though all through Doyle's physical display of control her eyes shine with a dark, completely startled fury. As soon as he lets her go, her hand shoots out to clamp the top of the puppeteer's— and her other hand, which she resettles onto the tabletop palm-up not far away, begins glowing with a small, sizzling core of blue light. "Don't. Do that again, lardgut."
Surely, he remembers that she doesn't need to move to use her power.
It's the second negative experience she's had with a puppeteer in almost as many weeks, though Doyle can't know that. Django receives no response, at least for the moment. Now that she has verified with her own eyes that Eric's power is unsuppressed, she is as puzzled as ever, though it shows only in the grim press of her lips. Really. What's going on?
And it is at this point that Django begins to get very uncomfortable with the situation he has found himself in. Here he is, powerless, trapped between two unsupressed Evolved with what appear to be pretty vicious abilities, and some very obvious tension between them. These circumstances do not bode well for him, and an intelligent man would get up and walk away. However, this woman seems to have some degree of authority, if she knows the prison's records and can walk around freely like this. So he sees in this an opportunity to try and glean a little information. And if anything that Helena has said to him over the past couple of weeks is true, then they're going to need all the information they can get.
So he discretely takes his tray (shooting another glare at Doyle) and slides a little way down the bench from the two of them, hopefully far enough away that they'll forget about him for a while, but close enough that he can still eavesdrop. Detective Django is on the scene.
As that hand clamps atop his own, the puppeteer's fingers twitch briefly beneath it—those heavy lids falling further to narrow his eyes upon her, giving the lie to the smile that blossoms oh so warm upon his lips. "Oh, now, Sparky, you don't really want to do that, I don't think," he murmurs, his light voice tainted with a twist of dark amusement as he leans in closer, meeting her gaze steadily, "I might have to ask them what identification you used to get in, after all." It's a low, nearly purred voice that doesn't carry far. But it carries far enough for Django to hear.
"You know perfectly well who sent me," is Elle's cold reply, displeased by his refusal to show any semblance of being intimidated. And unfortunately for Django, she's not about to get much more informative than that. Her fingernails dig into Doyle's flesh, just a fraction. They're not long, but the tension makes the experience similar to a bird tightening claws into one's hand for support. "Don't worry about me. I'm here legit. I still have no idea about you, though. What are you, a guard?"
"Something like that," Doyle's lips purse a touch as her nails dig in slightly, and he lifts his hand — sharply — to brush it away, "Don't— " Oops, that was a litle loud, his eyes flashing as he glares at her sullenly, "— don't push me, Sparky. Why don't you just scuttle yourself on back to Primatech like a good girl and tell Daddy everything's going just fine. Hm?" The 'scuttle' is accompanied by his other hand finger-walking through the air to illustrate.
"I can't leave until I have the authority to leave." Elle's voice becomes more snide, her eyes narrower yet. "And guess what? That authority doesn't come from you." Her talon-like grip finally releases itself off his hand, but she remains glaring daggers, her lower jaw tense. In an attempt to calm herself, she does settle back after a moment, eyes darting sullenly to the retreating back of Alexander. Where had she seen him before? Had she?
"You've no right to be here." Much less to tell her what to do. "You should still be rotting in a little metal hole, underground."
As her fingers release his hand, Doyle brings it up with a grimace, regarding the marks dig into his skin before he glares a dark, sullen look of black hatred in return to her — a broad smirk curving to his lips. "Who says? You? Daddy?" The latter twisted into mocking by the tone in his voice, "Obviously, I have just as might right to be here as you, Sparky." A raise of both brows, "And I'll bet I'm more useful, too. Mm. Fancy that."
"Quit calling him that." Elle presses her lips together harshly, her hostile gaze already settled evenly again on Doyle's face. Bob is daddy only to Elle, thank you very much. The derogatory nature of Doyle's use of the title is not appreciated. "And quit calling me that. I have no idea what you're doing here, but I can check— and if it gives you the illusion of being needed, for once in your life, go ahead and believe it."
A single brow arches upwards upon Doyle's features, his expression turning rather cold as the obvious anger is brushed away; the tips of his fingers briefly drumming to the table's surface, before stilling there. "Then go check," he says ever so softly, leaning forward just a bit as if to offer in conspiratorial threat, "Because otherwise, Sparky, I'm going to have to remind you that I'm not sitting in my cell anymore. And your Daddy's a very, very long way away from here."
"Maybe I will. But I'm not wasting a single minute more of my life sitting with you." Elle does lean forward to roughly stand up, at that, her hair swinging off her shoulders at the sudden shift in momentum. Still, nothing but a glare in her expression. "And maybe—" She bends forward while placing one hand before her, bringing her pale face close to Doyle's much older and worn one — "Maybe you should watch your step, lardgut. If the people who matter find you've overstepped yourself, you can easily go right back into your cell. Especially if you keep threatening me."
As she leans down to exert that threat, Doyle leans up towards her; a smug expression upon his older, tired-looking face, bags shadowing beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. A smirk curls to his lips above both chins, and he leans in just a little closer as she makes those pointed statements. Then he feints a lunge even closer, expelling a single syllable. "Boo."
A drop back, and he grins broadly, one hand lifting to wriggle his fingers after her, "Bye bye. Don't forget to hit the gift shop."
Just as expected, perhaps, Elle involuntarily jumps a little. Hmmmph. Then, a frown and one parting, lingering, frosty stare - as well as a sudden and maliciously aimed jolt of electricity that'll burn a tiny, but painful hole in the fabric covering Doyle's shoulder as she departs.
Some people.
A low chuckle rumbles up from Doyle's gut, one that's cut short at the flicker-arc of electricity that burns into his shoulder, eliciting a grimace and a rub against it. "Oh, you'll get yours, Sparky," he promises himself in a low mutter, watching her go with narrowed eyes, "You'll get yours…"
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