Sean stumbled in behind the others, red hair mussed and bruises on his face. He'd been at work when they'd grabbed him, minding his own business and making a fresh pot of coffee when soldiers had stormed in, guns drawn and pointed in his direction. Never having been one to use his power on regular humans, Sean had given himself up quickly. The last thing he remembered was being hit on the back of the head and falling into blackness.
He moved quickly amongst the others milling around, both hoping and dreading seeing a familiar face. He moved among the cells, trying to find one in even a small bit better repair than the rest.
"Watch yourself kid." The low rumble of a mutter almost sounded like it was emitted form his chest, the little human was bloody-- smelled it too-- got roughed up-- like they all had. Frost hadn't stayed damaged for long; healing with that inhuman ability-- that is till they managed to clamp the fucking lash around his neck. Everything had stopped, the hunger was still there but he wasn't able to bite into flesh, not able to use those same predatory senses. He'd been enraged-- and then he had been unconscious.
Shuffling in behind some ginger brat he tried to snap the chains so tightly bound from wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle-- but he was rendered less-- rendered human. The most disgusting thing of all.
Sean rolled his eyes without looking back. Without knowing how bad he was injured, getting into a fight was the last thing he should do. Every comment that came to mind in response to the person's growl sounded sarcastic even in his head so he shrugged and glanced behind him. "Sure."
He was surprised at the shortness of the brunette behind him, but after a second of consideration, Sean decided that this was not someone to mess with, regardless of height. There was just a look in the blue eyes that Sean was not keen to.
Killing was easy, human or vampire, but Frost wasn't a fool-- he had no desire to kill any of the prisoners here-- not now anyway. They were a means to an end for him, a route to escape. He would be allowed freedom from imprisonment with others-- had to rely on others no matter how much he hated it, for the simple fact he didn't doubt every one of them was something different, stuck as a human, thanks to those fucking collars.
As soon as Chad was shoved into the common area, he found a bench to sit at--sideways so he didn't have to come in contact with the filthy table it was attached to.
He hadn't killed anyone. He said it over and over as the guards manhandled him. He didn't kill Patrick, he didn't kill himself. He would never do what had been done to Patrick; never. Not to anyone, and especially not to the love of his life.
It didn't matter to them, though. He demanded a lawyer and a trial until his voice was hoarse, but like characters from some Kafka-and-wine induced nightmare, they ignored him.
There wasn't anyone to argue with anymore. Just other prisoners who he was too afraid to look in the face. Had he been thrown into a room with a bunch of murderers? He touched his collar gingerly, and laughed a shaky, frightened laugh. Maybe Patrick would've liked him like this.
The laugh caught his attention, and for a moment he stares, wondering how anyone could find amusement in a situation like this-- it isn't till he sees the expression that accompanies it that he realizes it isn't really humor that brought forth the reaction but something else entirely. Rubbing a thumb along his brow he shuffles toward the table, gingerly taking a seat on the same bench though he allowed a good half-foot of space between them in order to avoid riling trouble. One never knew what sort of person to expect in a situation like this, not to mention how people would react to this kind of situation.
"Are you alright?" He has the sense to acknowledge how stupid the question seems in light of things, but he honestly doesn't know what else to ask. What does one say to someone else who was possibly imprisoned in the same way he had been; brutally and for no reason. It was hard to tell, really and the silence in his head did him no favors.
Chad blinked up at the man who'd sat with him. He... didn't look like a murderer, but maybe Chad had just always been a sucker for blue eyes. He swallowed thickly and took a deep, shuddering breath. He needed to get it together. He wasn't generally the sort of person who fell apart at the drop of a hat, but everything here was so filthy, so out of his control.
"I'm fine. Great. Perfect. Best day ever." Chad ran his fingers through his hair. It was already a mess, and there was nothing he could do about it. "I didn't even know I could leave the house. Maybe this is Hell. But I didn't do anything wrong." He looked at the other man, suddenly intense. "Are you dead too? If you're not... I probably just sounded pretty crazy, but I'm not, I..." He frowned, looking away. "I'm not crazy."
Charles opened his mouth to answer, but the other man's words kept coming and suddenly he found himself unsure of what to say. Pursing his lips again he fell into a uneasy silence, at least while he thought his words over. They sounded a bit mad, if he were to be honest, but so did the idea of bending metal with ones mind or reading someone's. "No, I'm not dead, I can tell you that much." He pauses, giving a long look around the room before back to the other he's acquainted himself with, however faintly. "Though it does look like a good substitute for hell." Not that he believes in that sort of thing, or fancies himself the kind of person who would go there regardless-- he's decently sure he's been arrested, not sent to hell
( ... )
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
( ... )
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."
Of all the things he could be craving right now, a cigarette hadn't been the expected one. Hands lifted, still clasped together on a short chain, one thumb scrubbing his chin as he inspected her. He wasn't above a slow, long, look because really a woman that looked that prim was practically inviting stares. Nail scratching the faintest remains of stubble as he settled himself onto one of the tables, feet propped up on the benches.
"Don't bother starting a fight," He muttered around a split lip, the distinctly human sensation was annoying. Tasting his own blood was annoying.
"Didn't have the chance, not really." They came during the day, in some sort of fucking raid, ripped his entire bed off the wall. Locked it down with chains and then threw the collar in. Threatened to open the fucking thing up if he didn't put it on. He was tempted to let them try, but the first flash of sunlight had changed his mind-- this fucking thing, tempered whatever virus made him who he was-- left him human. He hated it.
"Wouldn't mind taking a rain check on the idea. You just look ready for a fight."
Charles hadn't put up much of a fight, didn't have the chance to even if he had wanted; the barrage of people flooding the Xavier home had come as a surprise to him. Guns drawn words yelled; Charles hadn't even grasped what was happening till he found his face slammed into the desk and his hands cuffed. What had they done? He had asked time and time again-- first for himself, but then for the others, they were all being hauled out of the house, shoved in unmarked vans and he had never gotten a real answer till he'd been half way into the prison.
'We're rounding up all the abominations.Charles chest swelled with an unfamiliar pain at the words, worry for those he knew and even more so for those he didn't. The idea that a simple, small, difference would bring him here-- a peaceful, learned, well off man-- reminded him how cruel people could be at times. Told him that no one would be spared such injustice. Still staggering from the humiliation of the search he twisted his wrists in unfamiliar cuffs, listened to the painful echo of
( ... )
When the familiar dark hair had caught his eye, Sean had immediately pushed his way off the wall and started towards him. The sight of Charles warmed his heart at the same time it broke it. This was one of the outcomes he had feared when he'd been knocked out, that the others would end up here as well or worse in a lab somewhere. "Charles!" Sean weaved between people on his way towards the shorter man, trying to avoid running into anyone.
When Sean reached him it was all he could do not to throw his arms around the man, but he refrained, instead reaching out to put a hand on Charles' shoulder. "Are you alright?! Did they get everyone?"
He directs his attention to the floor for a oment, composing himself at the sight of the yougner man-- he had hoped that Sean would be exempt. Not in their home at the time, not under his watch-- but still the young man was here, chained like the rest. "I don't know." He wishes he could lie and say they got away, but he's got no idea. He'd been knocked out, gassed so quickly he had barely a moment to fight back and woke up lacking any of his telepathic abilities. At first he had suspected some sort of brain damage till he had felt the collar, got a half-arsed look in a rear view when they loaded him onto the bus.
"I hope not, for our sake, but one can't be too sure." He wants to say he's glad to see Sean, but under the circumstances, he really isn't.
Out of everyone he had thought might end up here, Charles had been the one he'd really had hoped would get away. Mostly because he had the capabilities of mounting an effective rescue that a lot of the others didn't have. Sean spared a brief moment to pray for the safety of the youngsters he knew inhabited the mansion, but he knew the outcome wasn't bright. "I hope they got away." He could hold out hope for them.
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He moved quickly amongst the others milling around, both hoping and dreading seeing a familiar face. He moved among the cells, trying to find one in even a small bit better repair than the rest.
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Shuffling in behind some ginger brat he tried to snap the chains so tightly bound from wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle-- but he was rendered less-- rendered human. The most disgusting thing of all.
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He was surprised at the shortness of the brunette behind him, but after a second of consideration, Sean decided that this was not someone to mess with, regardless of height. There was just a look in the blue eyes that Sean was not keen to.
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"Guards look feisty."
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He hadn't killed anyone. He said it over and over as the guards manhandled him. He didn't kill Patrick, he didn't kill himself. He would never do what had been done to Patrick; never. Not to anyone, and especially not to the love of his life.
It didn't matter to them, though. He demanded a lawyer and a trial until his voice was hoarse, but like characters from some Kafka-and-wine induced nightmare, they ignored him.
There wasn't anyone to argue with anymore. Just other prisoners who he was too afraid to look in the face. Had he been thrown into a room with a bunch of murderers? He touched his collar gingerly, and laughed a shaky, frightened laugh. Maybe Patrick would've liked him like this.
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"Are you alright?" He has the sense to acknowledge how stupid the question seems in light of things, but he honestly doesn't know what else to ask. What does one say to someone else who was possibly imprisoned in the same way he had been; brutally and for no reason. It was hard to tell, really and the silence in his head did him no favors.
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"I'm fine. Great. Perfect. Best day ever." Chad ran his fingers through his hair. It was already a mess, and there was nothing he could do about it. "I didn't even know I could leave the house. Maybe this is Hell. But I didn't do anything wrong." He looked at the other man, suddenly intense. "Are you dead too? If you're not... I probably just sounded pretty crazy, but I'm not, I..." He frowned, looking away. "I'm not crazy."
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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 ( ... )
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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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"Don't bother starting a fight," He muttered around a split lip, the distinctly human sensation was annoying. Tasting his own blood was annoying.
He liked blonds, at least.
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"Wouldn't mind taking a rain check on the idea. You just look ready for a fight."
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'We're rounding up all the abominations.Charles chest swelled with an unfamiliar pain at the words, worry for those he knew and even more so for those he didn't. The idea that a simple, small, difference would bring him here-- a peaceful, learned, well off man-- reminded him how cruel people could be at times. Told him that no one would be spared such injustice. Still staggering from the humiliation of the search he twisted his wrists in unfamiliar cuffs, listened to the painful echo of ( ... )
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When Sean reached him it was all he could do not to throw his arms around the man, but he refrained, instead reaching out to put a hand on Charles' shoulder. "Are you alright?! Did they get everyone?"
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"I hope not, for our sake, but one can't be too sure." He wants to say he's glad to see Sean, but under the circumstances, he really isn't.
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