Tate had thought it was another vision -- a vivid hallucination at best, when he had been taken. It was disgusting, the way they treated him. He had been almost content with himself at home, but now? Now he was taken to a prison that he deserved to be in. He wandered aimlessly around the room, searching for something, anything to tell him that he had a way out.
Pointless.
Even he was beginning to think there was really no escape. He couldn't do things he could normally do. He was stuck. Stuck with no way out. Tate had no idea if people had found out about him, about what he did to the others. It was horrible, and he hated it. The one time he was trying to be good he couldn't. It didn't stop, that feeling was always there, churning inside him. Swallowing, he sits himself down at a table, staring around him, thoughts darting in an out of his head as he tried to put the pieces together. It was reality, wasn't it? He knows he's hurt. He knows there are butterfly bruises around his ribs and faces. Maybe even some on his neck, but pain wasn't to be thought of, at least not now. He looks like he got jumped by a gang of people, jumpsuit crinkled in odd places, but just seemed out of place. Like he wasn't even thinking about it.
Luke wasn't exactly new to correctional institutions; this was just the first time he'd been in one for adults. And the first time he'd been in one that stopped him from using his ability somehow. He kept staring at his hands, trying to force out a little heat, and nothing came.
He hadn't felt this helpless in a long time.
The blond kid looked about his age, and definitely worse for the wear than he was. Something about him just... intrigued Luke. He sat next to him. "So, you fought 'em, huh?"
Tate's eyes glance over at the boy who sits down at his table. As soon as he mentioned fighting, he starts to feel it -- the soreness of everything. He had been tensing his whole body, lost in thought. He was still tense, but the pain was definitely a wake-up call.
He didn't remember fighting until the boy brought it up. He was a good fighter. He can take on grown men -- but this was different. Very different.
"Yeah." His answer isn't immediate, but it's short and strong. He doesn't like the feeling of being weak.
"Cool," Luke says with a sly grin. He'd tried to fight too, but once he wasn't able to use his ability, there wasn't really much fighting he could do. Man, he hated being so scrawny.
"So, what'd you do to end up here? Not that they told me why I'm here, but I have a few guesses." Luke glances around. "Wherever here is. Doesn't look like any prison I've been in. Mom sent me to some bullshit scared straight thing a couple years ago, and it was way cleaner. And not so empty."
Tate is honestly not interested in talking about himself. Never was, probably never will be. He didn't know who this person was and why he was even bothering with him. He didn't know how he got into the prison, or why he was there -- but he had a few guesses. It was like reality decided to give him a big smack in the face.
"What did you do?" He wasn't even going to ask about the place he got sent to.
Well, that's okay, because Luke likes talking about himself.
"Killed a few guys. Burned them from the inside out. It's actually really cool; the skin kind of splits like a hotdog." Luke grins at the memory, looking down at his now useless hands. "And I helped an escaped serial killer. We're really good friends, and these people are going to be so fucked when he shows up to get me out of here. He can do pretty much anything. If you're nice, I could probably convince him to help you get out too." Oops, he started lying at some point there, didn't he? Oh well.
Tate looks at Luke like he's crazy. There may even be a bit of disgust showing on his features. He didn't like what he had to do sometimes, he wanted to be better, and the way Luke described it -- well. He's not even going to ask.
"I don't want help from either of you." Because that's just fucked up.
Luke snorts. He likes getting a rise out of people, but he expected it to be a little harder in this place. "Yeah, well, I'll probably be around when you change your mind. Not going anywhere yet." He raises his eyebrows at Tate. "You didn't say what you did."
It's not so much a rise that Luke is getting out of Tate than it is just general disgust and a bit of shock. Besides, that was Tate's job. He usually got a rise out of people. People didn't get a rise out of him. The fact that he even assumes that he'll change his mind is a little strange, and he hates it when people just assume things about him.
"Why would I?" Because honestly. He's not going to.
Pointless.
Even he was beginning to think there was really no escape. He couldn't do things he could normally do. He was stuck. Stuck with no way out. Tate had no idea if people had found out about him, about what he did to the others. It was horrible, and he hated it. The one time he was trying to be good he couldn't. It didn't stop, that feeling was always there, churning inside him. Swallowing, he sits himself down at a table, staring around him, thoughts darting in an out of his head as he tried to put the pieces together. It was reality, wasn't it? He knows he's hurt. He knows there are butterfly bruises around his ribs and faces. Maybe even some on his neck, but pain wasn't to be thought of, at least not now. He looks like he got jumped by a gang of people, jumpsuit crinkled in odd places, but just seemed out of place. Like he wasn't even thinking about it.
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He hadn't felt this helpless in a long time.
The blond kid looked about his age, and definitely worse for the wear than he was. Something about him just... intrigued Luke. He sat next to him. "So, you fought 'em, huh?"
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He didn't remember fighting until the boy brought it up. He was a good fighter. He can take on grown men -- but this was different. Very different.
"Yeah." His answer isn't immediate, but it's short and strong. He doesn't like the feeling of being weak.
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"So, what'd you do to end up here? Not that they told me why I'm here, but I have a few guesses." Luke glances around. "Wherever here is. Doesn't look like any prison I've been in. Mom sent me to some bullshit scared straight thing a couple years ago, and it was way cleaner. And not so empty."
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"What did you do?" He wasn't even going to ask about the place he got sent to.
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"Killed a few guys. Burned them from the inside out. It's actually really cool; the skin kind of splits like a hotdog." Luke grins at the memory, looking down at his now useless hands. "And I helped an escaped serial killer. We're really good friends, and these people are going to be so fucked when he shows up to get me out of here. He can do pretty much anything. If you're nice, I could probably convince him to help you get out too." Oops, he started lying at some point there, didn't he? Oh well.
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"I don't want help from either of you." Because that's just fucked up.
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"Why would I?" Because honestly. He's not going to.
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