savetheearth | [closed] oh shit son 2: electric boogaloo

"I hear you tried to escape," is Daniel's greeting as he makes his way down the stairs of the basement. Once again, he's alone, the capo having waved him in with nothing more than a brief sentence explaining Reagan's 'stupidity.'

As requested, he's indeed brought more candy ~~oh my god this feels so wrong to type~~. It's currently inside of his medical briefcase. That, of course, had been questioned by the mafia, but ultimately approved on the grounds of 'it ain't gonna hurt nothin' ' and the fact that the (perceived) neutral relationship between 'patient' and 'doctor' could eventually work in their favor.

If he expected to see the exact same thing as last time, there are a few surprises waiting for him. Reagan is seated and secured tightly to the chair the same as usual, but his head doesn't come up as far on the back rest as before. The straps are tightened until it cuts into the straightjacket. Reagan's hair is a vivid shade of violet, and his eyes are crimson even when they're not glowing. Overall, he looks years younger, and his stature has changed to reflect that. He hasn't been able to see himself since there's no mirror in the room, but it's certainly a surprise.

There's a slight sigh and complaining groan behind the mask as he nods a little. He was warned, of course. The only visible distress on his skin now is recent, inflicted since his change. There are some scratches on his face and visible signs of bruising, a telltale beating for his obvious attempt at escape. Getting him back into the chair wasn't an experience he wants to go through again. The worst of it is hidden or strapped out of sight.

Maybe Daniel will be able to make out his mumbled sentence, even with it suffocated behind the mask, "I think they broke my ankle."

"You ought to be glad that's the only thing they broke," is his retort, though whatever he's about to say after that dies on his tongue when he gets close enough to notice the physical changes in Reagan.

His hair color, for starters. The smaller body frame comes second-- has Daniel second-guessing his memory of their last encounter. His brows furrow in thought.

He undoes the mask with no more grace than the first time and sets it on the edge of the backrest. Warily, he asks, "What happened to you?"

He isn't talking about the injuries.

Like the last time, Reagan tries to reacquaint himself with his face, moving his jaw up and down. There are bruises down one side of his face. His cheek was smashed into the floor in an effort to subdue him. He hasn't seen his own reflection since Wise Snake, and it's been dim enough in this room lately that the faint curl of purple near his eyes has been played off as a trick of the light and exhaustion. Denial in its purist form.

Oddly enough, he's growing used to Daniel's fumbling over subjects, so he makes the assumption that he's talking about being beaten into submission. "You already know," Reagan begins, "I was able to slip out of.." Mid-sentence he realizes from the expression that he's been stared at and the sentence dies as alarm sets in anew.

Reagan can't lift his own hand to tug a few chunks of his hair forward and inspect it after he follows Daniel's gaze to his hair. His eyes widen in recognition, pupils dilating.

That's what that feeling was after reviewing the broadcast.

"The broadcast. How bad is it?" Reagan has frozen stiff in the confines of his chair. "How bad does it look. What changed?"

"Purple hair, red eyes," he says flatly, wasting neither time or breath on politeness. "You're smaller, too."

"Son of a—" Reagan jerks forward the mere millimeters he can adjust until the resistance of the straps stop him from moving any further. "Purple hair?!" He cries out, swallowing dryly when the words catch. "Smaller?" His fingers clench in the fabric as he takes deep breaths to steady himself. Stay calm.

"That makes sense, then, on how I got out of the straight jacket." He releases the tension in his jaw, stops grinding his teeth. There's nothing he can do about it right now. Maybe they can reverse it when he gets out.

"I don't have headaches anymore." Reagan admits quietly, "What did they send you in here for?" It'd be optimistic to think they wanted to check his ankle, but realistically, it's probably something else. They didn't seem very concerned breaking it.

He sets the briefcase down. With both hands free, he can remove Reagan from his bonds.

Keyword: can.

"Your physical state," he says, though there's a tinge of sardonicism in his tone. "They hadn't seen it fit to tell me what exactly to look for."

He flashes Reagan a tight-lipped smile.

"Aside from the ankle. Do I have your word you'll not try to escape again?"

Reagan scowls from the chair. His physical state. Of course. Honestly, it's amazing they didn't decide to take blood samples or tissue or any number of other horrible ideas. Of course there's any number of unaccounted for days where he's pretty sure he fell asleep and can't recall what happened afterward. But now his best chance for getting information to get out is asking for his word. Well,...

"I won't try to escape on my own again." Reagan promises, tone flat, grumbling miserably under his breath. His attempt to get information about the location of this room failed miserably in every way.

"Did you bring chocolate?"

On my own.

Daniel chooses to pretend he hadn't heard that. Instead, he steps forward and starts to free Reagan from the chair. Despite their truce, he still doesn't trust Reagan completely, and some of the discomfort that stems from that distrust and their proximity can be seen in his body language and actions if one is perceptive enough.

In contrast, his tone lightens. "Yes. You're lucky; there was a bag of mini Reese's left after Easter. Peanut M&M's, too."

Once Reagan is freed, Daniel steps back and kneels down to open his briefcase. "Which would you like first?"

If Daniel releases the straps from Reagan's ankles, he'll notice that his right ankle is swollen and bruised until the straps left an indentation in his skin. His trousers are torn at what used to be a well tailored hem. It's not a clean break by any means, but no bone protrudes from the skin. Just touching around that area will make him jerk.

"Peanuts," He mumbles scornfully. Peanut M&Ms would not be his first choice, but both options are packed with the nut and it's completely unavoidable right now. His stomach is growling just thinking about it. "You look like a candy drug dealer." He adds, "Opening your case like that."

"Reese's."

Once he's free to reach up, he does pull bit of his hair forward to examine it where he can see it clearly in the light. It's too saturated and bright to be mistaken for another color. Reagan can't even picture himself with purple hair, let alone the eyes. Now that he can see his hands again, his skin does look different: smoother and younger. "Great, I look like a bag of Skittles." Not really an advantage.

"Have they asked you to ask me anything or look for something specific?"

His response to the drug dealer quip is a conversational, "There are worse things."

He holds up the plastic yellow package full of pastel-foiled mini Reese's and then gets to examining Reagan's ankle.

"Purple always was my favorite," he says absently. Propping his elbow perpendicular to his thigh, he sighs. "I can't say anything is or isn't broken without radiographs. I doubt they'll allow it. No."

He leans backwards an inch, the hint of a disdainful frown on his lips. He glances up at Reagan's face. "What prompted your change?"

He hadn't understood the connection between the Echo and Reagan mentioning 'the broadcast.'

As Reagan is pouring a few Reese's into his hand and going through the frustrating task of unwrapping each one, he watches the doctor move about. 'Physical state' is as vague as it gets. They were probably more concerned about the fact he got out of his confines and looked different. The ankle is just icing at this point, but Reagan does note that it's the first thing Daniel sees to.

He's able to catch himself before he admits that he knows nothing medical or about broken bones, though it's been apparent since the beginning. Reagan can only look down toward his ankle with a displeased click of his tongue. That's going to hurt like hell, and he's visibly worried that he won't be able to walk correctly if it doesn't heal right.

The mention of a change prompts Reagan to meet Daniel's eyes. If this room were monitored closer, they would have caught Reagan out of his chair sooner than they did. Their mistake.

"I watched the broadcast of Geoff Benwick. I didn't realize what changed when I felt the pulse, just that it wasn't a memory or a file from Veda this time."

Reagan reaches up with one hand to pull at his hair, grabbing a Reese's cup with his other to pop it into his mouth. "...should have known."

After finishing his visit with Reagan, Daniel leaves the room with a slightly lighter briefcase. As he turns to close the door behind him, he catches sight of the screen on which the guard is killing time with.

It's the Network.

For a moment, all he does is stare, his grip on the door knob white-knuckled.

He's scrolling through whatever recent posts were put on the network on his smartphone, the text moving up seemingly on its own, due to him not actually using any of his fingers to drag the material up. It's only when he notices that this guy, whoever he is, is still standing at the door, that he looks up. What, is he supposed to do something for this guy before he can leave?

Oh. He's staring at the phone. The...phone that has the network open on it. Chuck tenses, the screen going black by itself (damn, he probably should've turned that off manually, why didn't he think about that) as he shoves the device into his sweater pocket.

"What?" He's trying to sound menacing, but he ends up sounding more nervous than anything else.

Is it possible for him to grip the door knob any tighter? If it were a living animal, Daniel would have squeezed the life out of it by now.

Releasing the door knob, he says, "Interesting trick. Who taught it to you?"

Through years of experience, he manages to keep his voice level.

Chuck does not have nearly as many years of experience, so even though he pauses to calm himself and try to get his nerves under control, his voice is still significantly less calm when he speaks. He doesn't want to get found out and get caught or put in prison or whatever like that one kidnapped person on the network he spoke with.

"I don't--I don't know what you're talking about."

His eyes flick past them, down the room. "Is anyone else nearby?" he asks, volume low.

Daniel may look calm, but he is most certainly not. His stomach is twisting with unease.

"What?"

He checks, glancing around to make sure no one is approaching them from any direction. Looks like they're in the clear for now.

"No." His voice is a tad quieter, but not by much. He doesn't know what this guy wants and he's pretty sure nothing good is going to come out of this conversation, so he has no intentions of 'playing along' as if the two of them are working together or something.

(Even though they technically are, since they're. Both working on stuff related to whatever's inside this room, obviously.)

Now his eyes flick towards the door before focusing on Chuck again. One by one, his fingers stretch in agitation around the handle of his briefcase. This could be a mistake. This is a mistake. He should have never said anything to anyone.

But a Blood Key is a Numbered, and it's a Blood Key who's guarding the imprisonment of another Numbered. What are the fucking chances?

"You're like him. You have one."

The glance back to the door goes unnoticed. Right now, Chuck is too concerned with whatever this guy's planning on doing, or saying.

"What? Have one what?" He's got his wits about him a bit more now, so he sounds more guarded than freaked.

He's a twig. Chuck could probably snap him in half, no sweat.

His fingers curl in a vice-like grip around the briefcase's handle. "A Number."

PLEASE DON'T PUNCH HIM.

It's not so much whether this guy could punch Chuck's lights out or not, it's more a matter of what this guy could do with this sort of information. Already one person's been kidnapped for being a network person--a network person with the same skills as him, even. And as he confirms Chuck's suspicions, he feels the pit of dread in his stomach grow larger.

If he were better at controlling his emotions and responses, he would pretend he has no idea what this person's talking about. But he's not.

"Y-you...how do you know about that?"

His lips part to speak, but his response is delayed.

"I saw it. The..." Unconsciously, his free hand has begun to tap against the side of his leg. "...on your phone."

He could be less unhelpfully vague and flat out say he's a Numbered, too, but he still has qualms about voicing that fact aloud.

At first, his instinct is to berate himself. How stupid could he have been, browsing the network right there where people could see him? But that's when he remembers that the only reason he did that in the first place is because no one who isn't on the network is supposed to be able to see it at all--he should have been safe.

But if this guy can see it...then that means...

"You're...you too?" He relaxes a little, knowing he's found, at the very least, an ally.

A brief, shallow nod. That's the only method of confirmation Daniel's comfortable expressing here.

"I imagine you're not in this position by choice."

It's a statement and a question.

Chuck shakes his head a little. "Not really."

He's glad he doesn't have to mug people any more, he felt really bad about doing that, but at least it gave him a chance to hang out with the other Keys, to do something. Standing in front of a room all day is just boring.

"...are you?"

"No."

His hand has stopped moving.

"Are you aware of what you're guarding?"

Edited 2014-04-26 06:08 (UTC)

Chuck freezes momentarily, caught off-guard ~~(haha get it)~~ by the question. It had honestly never occurred to him to ask. They told him to guard the room and only let in certain authorized people, and that had been enough for him. He had no reason to question it.

But now he finds himself curious. Not like he's willing to admit it.

"I know enough." He tries to sound confident and assured, but it doesn't entirely work.

[closed] oh shit son 2: electric boogaloo

[ Reagan ]

( with that icon, it's definitely wrong).

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[ Chuck ]

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