All things considered, Darkwing had been handling the changes pretty well. He definitely wasn't a stranger to being put into other forms against his will, so he had been dealing with this human form as best as he could.
But showering? Even on his own, it would have been weird - because he was a duck, not a human. He had feathers, not skin! He had no problem with water (he rather liked it, in fact), but...
What really made it unbearable was that he was going to be tossed in with a group of other patients. Being around so many humans when he was the only duck had been uncomfortable enough when they were clothed, but this was just too much!
For the first time since he'd been here, he'd struggled. He'd done all he could to stop the nurses from taking him into the shower room, but then a very large orderly literally picked him up and hauled him inside. And when he was threatened with a very large, pointy needle? Yeah, fine, he would shower.
Of course, he still looked like a fish out of water when he walked in, making wary glances around but mostly keeping his face to the floor as he took awkward steps forward. There were enough people inside already that there wasn't really any area that could called secluded at this point. He was just going to have to get himself cleaned and out of there as quickly as possible.
He chose a shower head near two people who seemed intent on being quiet and keeping to themselves, figuring that was for the best. Darkwing almost wanted to say something just to break the tension, but it was probably better not to attract attention to himself.
((Ack, sorry! I totally forgot it was my turn with the posting order. xD; ))
Was this one of the patients who'd expressed interest on the bulletin board? Brock racked his memory quickly. He did remember someone saying they were blond, something about red eyes (and probably just from lack of sleep, but real red), and being tall. Glancing at the man who'd spoken, it occurred to him that this was probably him: he did have the right hair color and even in the rising steam and spray of water from the showerheads, Brock thought he could see red eyes.
"Yeah," Brock said. It wasn't really a big secret he was a reporter (or used to be, at any rate), but he thought that trying to interview someone while you both showering seemed to be a bit of a professional stretch. "My name's Eddie Brock."
The right thing to do was shake hands, do some small talk, but Brock just couldn't see how any of that would be appropriate when both interviewer and interviewee were both ass naked. The newcommer seemed to share the same thoughts, judging by the nervous, uncomfortable look on his face. Brock knew that it was pointless to feel like this, considering logically he knew it was just more of what every human male had, but it wasn't easy to shrug off almost thirty years of social indoctrination.
Useless indoctrination, his Other added. Give it a few more months in our bonding and they will not be a problem.
That sounded both encouraging and a bit frightening. Brock opted to just focus on the here and now, glancing from the new guy to Red Eyes.
While Darkwing hadn't enjoyed the idea that a conversation was getting started (he'd pinned these two as being quiet types!), at least they seemed to be talking about something that actually concerned him. Or he thought that was what they were talking about, anyway.
Now that he was tuned in, it wasn't long before he had his suspicions confirmed. This was the guy who wanted to do interviews!
Darkwing yanked his gaze away from the wall he'd diligently been staring at to make contact with Eddie, though he made sure to look only at his face. "You're Eddie?" The question was redundant, but as he looked at the man, he realized that the description fit.
"I wrote to you on there, too!" This was sort of a weird coincidence, actually, but the enthusiasm he had expressed through written words on the board were reflected on his expression now.
Well, they were until the awkwardness of the situation hit him again and he had to look away.
Well, this wasn’t the most…dignified way to meet someone. Recluse was uncomfortable here, but not because of any societal pressures or morals (the man didn’t have any morals at all). Even when at his full strength, he was never without his armor. Here, weakened and with all the lights attacking his eyes, he felt…uneasy like this.
He nodded slightly when Brock spoke. “Stefan Richter,” he replied curtly. He would never have contacted the reporter, had he not read something that had made him interested. The was little chance of the man being from the same dimension as himself, but he had seen something almost familiar.
Some soap had managed to work through the bandages on his leg. That, or something with a lot of teeth had found its way in there. It hurt. He gritted his teeth slightly, letting out a small growl of annoyance as a little blood began to run from beneath the already red-stained cloth.
Brock couldn't help raising an eyebrow. Wasn't he getting popular today? What were the odds of running into not one, but two people he'd talked to on the bulletin board?
He had Red Eye's name - Richter, was it? Or did he prefer plain Stefan? - but he didn't have the newcomer's. He was about to ask when Richter suddenly looked down, wearing a pained expression in the haze of steam. Brock followed his eyes and saw that the other man was bandaged on the leg, and that the wound itself was bleeding now, a spot of red seeping through. Probably another prize from night shift, although there was no telling exactly what caused the injury, Brock thought. Could be those crazy cats, which were big fuckers to begin with, or whatever else Landels had in their sick freakshow.
"Might want to get that looked at," Brock said, nodding at the leg. "How'd you get it?"
Taking note of the Stefan's name (he wasn't sure if the guy was actually all that important as far as his own goals went, but it would be pretty embarrassing if they ran into each other again and he didn't remember), he realized that it was his turn to introduce himself. "Darkwing..."
He paused and cut it off there. He really needed to kick the habit of almost saying the second part of his name every time he introduced himself.
When his attention was drawn to the way Stefan was bleeding, Darkwing glanced down at his own bandaged leg. He'd been angling himself so that the water wouldn't soak the bandages and bother the stitches... It had been working so far, so he hoped the wound continued to behave instead of following Stefan's example. As for his wrist, that had only been a small nip in the first place, so there were just a few scratches there that weren't as bad as they looked.
Upon hearing Eddie's question, he cracked a strained smile. "Rabid dogs, maybe?"
“Not dogs, although you look like you had a bad run-in with some,” he said, eyeing Darkwing’s own injuries.
“Gunshot wound, from a brainwashed prisoner.” He still was furious with himself for letting himself get distracted last night. “It’s nothing worse than what I’ve had before.” One look at him would be enough to confirm that- scars from bullet wounds and shrapnel he had gotten back in WWI shared space with others of less easily determined origin.
Brock perked up. Brainwashed prisoner? That sounded like what had happened with Luffy - pull in a patient, do whatever their voodoo shit was needed to get them to do whatever Landels wanted, then cart them out in the halls with their powers back to normal or whatever gear they had before the capture.
"Brainwashed prisoner? You serious?" Brock asked. He didn't want to appear too eager for information. Funny thing, information. It was only valuabe when someone else had it and you didn't. In his line of work, the more you looked like you wanted something, the more the other person was willing to withhold it.
Better to just focus on washing the suds from his body, his face set in what Jameson called his bullshit face, but what Brock had always thought of as his reporter face. It did tend to get the information he wanted, looking politely interested, and without having to crawl on proverbial hands on knees to get it. Or having to bargain (much).
"They can do that?" Darkwing hadn't planned on carrying out an entire conversation in the shower. (He was making sure to get himself clean at the same time, though. Considering he was a duck, the idea of splashing in the water was a good one once he got over how absolutely awkward it all was.) Still, this was important information, and Eddie seemed just as intrigued as he was.
"How did he get a gun?" Oh, what Darkwing would do to get his Gas Gun back... Not that he was going to let anyone brainwash him into attacking people! He didn't like the idea that it was all or nothing, but life was not often fair.
“Yes.” That sort of question always seemed so stupid. “A telepath, stationed in the sun room.” Recluse wasn’t feeling exactly verbose at the moment. Once he had some gods damn clothes on and new bandages, maybe he’d be more talkative.
“From what I’ve heard, they receive their belongings to use against the other prisoners once they’ve been brainwashed.” He was curious as to whether they’d be able to reattach his missing limbs if he was selected for that. He'd be unhappy if they could subdue him that much at all, but he always enjoyed a slaughter. After all of the desk work he had to do running a whole government, he had always prized the times he could get out and destroy those naïve 'heroes' himself.
What would a telepath need a gun for? Brock wondered. Now he wasn't exactly the most versed person on mutants and their weirdass mutant powers (though being around so many in Landels was giving him a crash course), he couldn't help but think that a gun seemed like a waste for a telepath. Couldn't they use, like, mind bullets or something?
So the brainwashees got their gear back for the night. That definitely got Brock's attention. While it would be risky trying to take these people on - considering he was now mostly human and not exactly bullet-proof - there was a chance they could score somethings that could make up for his human defiencies. Body armor, weapons, guns (like the telepath who couldn't shoot mind bullets), and probably some stuff he couldn't think of. Very valuable information.
Brock gave his wet hair a quick run through with his fingers, and stepped back, glancing at Richter and...Darkwing? Weird name, but he supposed if he was another mutant, then it probably made sense to come up with some kind of hokey superhero name.
"Thanks for the info," Brock said. He paused, before turning to leave. "If you guys did want to have those interviews, just hunt me down. You know what I look like."
That was so completely unfair. Darkwing's lips (it was so weird, he had lips) pulled down into a frown. So the only time they could get their equipment back was when they weren't in control of themselves, anyway. What a letdown.
Though that meant that all of his stuff was in the building somewhere. Unfortunately, Darkwing had no idea how large the institute was or where to even start looking. Still, he was determined to find his Gas Gun, at the very least. Though if they had his uniform...
He had collapsed into bed without even changing the night he'd been brought here, hadn't he? So they probably had it! Oh, what he wouldn't do for his mask, hat, and cape...
It looked like Eddie was heading off. Darkwing waved and nodded. He was definitely going to track the man down for an interview. If there was one thing Darkwing loved, it was talking about himself.
And judging from how withdrawn Stefan had been for the duration of the conversation, he doubted the man would mind if they continued their showering in silence. Normally he never kept his mouth shut, but when everyone was naked it was just too weird. So he returned his attention to washing himself and left things at that.
Recluse really wondered how Brock (a reporter, even) could have been using the message board and not noticed the posts about nightly brainwashing. That was how he had first come across the concept before he met it up close last night.
Brock left, and the other man didn't seem to be too eager to talk. Good. It wasn't quiet (not even close, with yet another fight breaking out), but at least no one expected him to talk to them. His view was that until he addressed someone, they had better bloody well keep their mouth shut.
But showering? Even on his own, it would have been weird - because he was a duck, not a human. He had feathers, not skin! He had no problem with water (he rather liked it, in fact), but...
What really made it unbearable was that he was going to be tossed in with a group of other patients. Being around so many humans when he was the only duck had been uncomfortable enough when they were clothed, but this was just too much!
For the first time since he'd been here, he'd struggled. He'd done all he could to stop the nurses from taking him into the shower room, but then a very large orderly literally picked him up and hauled him inside. And when he was threatened with a very large, pointy needle? Yeah, fine, he would shower.
Of course, he still looked like a fish out of water when he walked in, making wary glances around but mostly keeping his face to the floor as he took awkward steps forward. There were enough people inside already that there wasn't really any area that could called secluded at this point. He was just going to have to get himself cleaned and out of there as quickly as possible.
He chose a shower head near two people who seemed intent on being quiet and keeping to themselves, figuring that was for the best. Darkwing almost wanted to say something just to break the tension, but it was probably better not to attract attention to himself.
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Two people had now taken showers near to Recluse. 'Jubilation.' There went any semblance of privacy.
He glanced over at the intruder next to him out of the corner of his eye. 'Ah.' The shorter man fit the description he had read on the message board.
"You're the reporter." No hint of a question went into the statement.
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Was this one of the patients who'd expressed interest on the bulletin board? Brock racked his memory quickly. He did remember someone saying they were blond, something about red eyes (and probably just from lack of sleep, but real red), and being tall. Glancing at the man who'd spoken, it occurred to him that this was probably him: he did have the right hair color and even in the rising steam and spray of water from the showerheads, Brock thought he could see red eyes.
"Yeah," Brock said. It wasn't really a big secret he was a reporter (or used to be, at any rate), but he thought that trying to interview someone while you both showering seemed to be a bit of a professional stretch. "My name's Eddie Brock."
The right thing to do was shake hands, do some small talk, but Brock just couldn't see how any of that would be appropriate when both interviewer and interviewee were both ass naked. The newcommer seemed to share the same thoughts, judging by the nervous, uncomfortable look on his face. Brock knew that it was pointless to feel like this, considering logically he knew it was just more of what every human male had, but it wasn't easy to shrug off almost thirty years of social indoctrination.
Useless indoctrination, his Other added. Give it a few more months in our bonding and they will not be a problem.
That sounded both encouraging and a bit frightening. Brock opted to just focus on the here and now, glancing from the new guy to Red Eyes.
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While Darkwing hadn't enjoyed the idea that a conversation was getting started (he'd pinned these two as being quiet types!), at least they seemed to be talking about something that actually concerned him. Or he thought that was what they were talking about, anyway.
Now that he was tuned in, it wasn't long before he had his suspicions confirmed. This was the guy who wanted to do interviews!
Darkwing yanked his gaze away from the wall he'd diligently been staring at to make contact with Eddie, though he made sure to look only at his face. "You're Eddie?" The question was redundant, but as he looked at the man, he realized that the description fit.
"I wrote to you on there, too!" This was sort of a weird coincidence, actually, but the enthusiasm he had expressed through written words on the board were reflected on his expression now.
Well, they were until the awkwardness of the situation hit him again and he had to look away.
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He nodded slightly when Brock spoke. “Stefan Richter,” he replied curtly. He would never have contacted the reporter, had he not read something that had made him interested. The was little chance of the man being from the same dimension as himself, but he had seen something almost familiar.
Some soap had managed to work through the bandages on his leg. That, or something with a lot of teeth had found its way in there. It hurt. He gritted his teeth slightly, letting out a small growl of annoyance as a little blood began to run from beneath the already red-stained cloth.
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He had Red Eye's name - Richter, was it? Or did he prefer plain Stefan? - but he didn't have the newcomer's. He was about to ask when Richter suddenly looked down, wearing a pained expression in the haze of steam. Brock followed his eyes and saw that the other man was bandaged on the leg, and that the wound itself was bleeding now, a spot of red seeping through. Probably another prize from night shift, although there was no telling exactly what caused the injury, Brock thought. Could be those crazy cats, which were big fuckers to begin with, or whatever else Landels had in their sick freakshow.
"Might want to get that looked at," Brock said, nodding at the leg. "How'd you get it?"
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He paused and cut it off there. He really needed to kick the habit of almost saying the second part of his name every time he introduced himself.
When his attention was drawn to the way Stefan was bleeding, Darkwing glanced down at his own bandaged leg. He'd been angling himself so that the water wouldn't soak the bandages and bother the stitches... It had been working so far, so he hoped the wound continued to behave instead of following Stefan's example. As for his wrist, that had only been a small nip in the first place, so there were just a few scratches there that weren't as bad as they looked.
Upon hearing Eddie's question, he cracked a strained smile. "Rabid dogs, maybe?"
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“Gunshot wound, from a brainwashed prisoner.” He still was furious with himself for letting himself get distracted last night. “It’s nothing worse than what I’ve had before.” One look at him would be enough to confirm that- scars from bullet wounds and shrapnel he had gotten back in WWI shared space with others of less easily determined origin.
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"Brainwashed prisoner? You serious?" Brock asked. He didn't want to appear too eager for information. Funny thing, information. It was only valuabe when someone else had it and you didn't. In his line of work, the more you looked like you wanted something, the more the other person was willing to withhold it.
Better to just focus on washing the suds from his body, his face set in what Jameson called his bullshit face, but what Brock had always thought of as his reporter face. It did tend to get the information he wanted, looking politely interested, and without having to crawl on proverbial hands on knees to get it. Or having to bargain (much).
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"How did he get a gun?" Oh, what Darkwing would do to get his Gas Gun back... Not that he was going to let anyone brainwash him into attacking people! He didn't like the idea that it was all or nothing, but life was not often fair.
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“From what I’ve heard, they receive their belongings to use against the other prisoners once they’ve been brainwashed.” He was curious as to whether they’d be able to reattach his missing limbs if he was selected for that. He'd be unhappy if they could subdue him that much at all, but he always enjoyed a slaughter. After all of the desk work he had to do running a whole government, he had always prized the times he could get out and destroy those naïve 'heroes' himself.
Reply
So the brainwashees got their gear back for the night. That definitely got Brock's attention. While it would be risky trying to take these people on - considering he was now mostly human and not exactly bullet-proof - there was a chance they could score somethings that could make up for his human defiencies. Body armor, weapons, guns (like the telepath who couldn't shoot mind bullets), and probably some stuff he couldn't think of. Very valuable information.
Brock gave his wet hair a quick run through with his fingers, and stepped back, glancing at Richter and...Darkwing? Weird name, but he supposed if he was another mutant, then it probably made sense to come up with some kind of hokey superhero name.
"Thanks for the info," Brock said. He paused, before turning to leave. "If you guys did want to have those interviews, just hunt me down. You know what I look like."
With that said, he turned and left.
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Though that meant that all of his stuff was in the building somewhere. Unfortunately, Darkwing had no idea how large the institute was or where to even start looking. Still, he was determined to find his Gas Gun, at the very least. Though if they had his uniform...
He had collapsed into bed without even changing the night he'd been brought here, hadn't he? So they probably had it! Oh, what he wouldn't do for his mask, hat, and cape...
It looked like Eddie was heading off. Darkwing waved and nodded. He was definitely going to track the man down for an interview. If there was one thing Darkwing loved, it was talking about himself.
And judging from how withdrawn Stefan had been for the duration of the conversation, he doubted the man would mind if they continued their showering in silence. Normally he never kept his mouth shut, but when everyone was naked it was just too weird. So he returned his attention to washing himself and left things at that.
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Brock left, and the other man didn't seem to be too eager to talk. Good. It wasn't quiet (not even close, with yet another fight breaking out), but at least no one expected him to talk to them. His view was that until he addressed someone, they had better bloody well keep their mouth shut.
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