january 2020. welcome to the void.

[modblob]

Who: Everyone in Anchor.
What: Seventh Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of January 2020
Where: Around and outside the city.
Warnings: Please add any warnings in the subject lines.

Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.

Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.

a. champagne supernova.

Normally, the changes in the sky are subtle, happening between glances or over the course of days.

That's not the case now, when the bright sky with its three suns is wiped away in an explosion of blue light, right at sunrise on the morning of January 1st. The light pulses across the sky in uneven blazes, sending out lattices of what might be lightning or something worse. There's no moon. No brightness. Just this lightning-storm brilliance in space, shedding little light on the world below.

And the suns don't come back on. As the day wears on, the supernova brightness in the sky starts to fade out and no new light appears. The sky is static and black, with no stars, no moons, no suns. The mild rolling blackouts that started with the opening of the relaxation room intensify with the sudden loss of solar power, as the backup systems try to compensate for the increased use of power.

For a moment, power goes out in Anchor entirely, leaving the place plunged into darkness.

The darkness doesn't last. Thanks to those generators everyone worked so hard to sort out, the backup systems struggle back to life, keeping the lights on and the bar, kitchen, and agricultural supports open, but there are some things that the limited power just can't cover.

b. tower of babelfish.

The first, and perhaps the most noticeable system to start failing, are the auto-translation programs. While not affecting every area in Anchor equally, communication between those who speak different languages is going to be a lot more difficult. The effects are spotty, coming and going, sometimes completely failing, leaving only people's naturally-spoken languages available. Sometimes it just struggles, making conversations sound a lot more like babelfish translations than recognizable speech. People themselves seem to be affected differently by the translation struggles, depending on who and where they are. There's no rhyme or reason to when and how it fails. But the problem persists through most of the month.

c. the hidden passage.

The second system failure is harder to spot.

At the end of what seemed to be a maintenance hallway, a set of doors have appeared from behind what used to be a shielded hologram of a dead end. The doors stick out from their surroundings: thick metal, barred heavily from the outside. A clear attempt to keep something locked away inside, not to keep people from entering.

For those adventurous enough, or foolish enough, to wrestle the locks open, a problem will reveal itself. A short flight of stairs, leading down into an area flooded by murky water. It's hard to see more than branching halls down below.

Those who choose to brave the water will find a hallway lined with bulkheads and sealed doorways, all guarding rooms that could be accessed with the right combination of smarts and brute force. It's the question of what would be ruined by the water if the doors are opened that might give people pause. What kind of secrets could be wiped out or destroyed if the doors are forced and the water passes through the bulkheads? Can the water be drained? How?

But there is one room open, or mostly open, where the bulkhead doors didn't quite manage to seal when the area flooded. It'll be a squeeze, for bigger characters, but the flooded room beyond contains artifacts preserved behind glass - strange medallions, strings of glowing beads, broken sceptres, arrows fletched with feathers from creatures no one has ever seen before.

Only one object isn't sealed away. It's a handful of small orbs, with shifting colors, held in place by a shield array that still seems to function, for the most part. They can be touched, can even be removed from the stand with the right know-how or a willingness to smash stuff.

But once an orb is touched, the colors start to spin more rapidly. The more it's handled, the brighter and faster the colors shift. Whether it takes hold immediately or not is up to you, but those who handled the orb will find the bright colors start to glow under the surface of their skin, in the shape of veins, glowing bright for a few minutes before fading. And those people bring a different kind of contagion back with them to the surface. Memory loss, communicated from one person to the next via contact. It can be partial or complete, or not happen to your character at all - they can be an unwitting "carrier" of the effects, passing it on without experiencing the losses themselves. The loss can last from hours to weeks, with carriers being "infected" for the duration of that time.

It also leaves behind magical traces, ones that don't fade after memories return. The cleverest might start to wonder if it wasn't a kind of inoculation, though against what, it remains to be seen.

Navigation.

Comments

[hypothermic]

"If I did, it wouldn't be any of your business." The truth is, Len is looking for food he can eat on the literal run. No preparation. No plates. No utensils. He doesn't have the luxury of using the kitchen to heat food up, or keep it from spoiling.

Chronos is a scary bastard, but beneath the armor, he's still Mick, and there's no place Mick loves more than a kitchen. Furnace aside. The man eats for an army.

He glances back over his shoulder, gloved hand on one denim-clad hip. Easy access to his weapon should the need arise. Prepared not to give a singular fuck about the douchebag raining on his buffet. To ignore them, or properly intimidate the shit out of them. He could use an outlet for his anger, not to mention his hanger.

Then he sees him.

Tall. Masked. Burned.

Len reacts on auto-pilot. Faster than he can think to stop himself. In one smooth movement he whips his gun out of its holster, spins on his heel, and takes a shot at the person embodying his fear, anxiety, and regret. Lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl.

The ice comes fast, and it comes cold, freezing everything in its path. Taking a full-body hit means certain death for most people. A partial is serious frostbite, hypothermia, and the potential for shattering limbs.

How his trigger-discipline held strong through animal survival instinct, so the blast is only at half-power instead of full, is something only his black little heart could explain.

[kaballin]

Oh that was unexpected. Almost no one here had guns, so he'd nearly forgotten that was something he should be watching out for, though as it turns out it wouldn't have helped. Because what comes out of that is definitely not a bullet.

The stream of ice catches him in the upper arm, grazing against the side of his jacket, tendrils of ice creeping across his clothing and seeping through the scar tissue of his skin and deeper into the muscle. Two things are immediately apparent:

1. This fucking hurts and he can't move his left arm. (Well he probably could but he's seen Sub-Zero shatter people, so he knows better.)
2. He finally found someone to kill.

So while one of those things isn't ideal, behind the mask he is grinning.

"So that's how it's gonna be huh?" Before he gets blasted in the chest or worse, he reaches up with his good hand to pull one of the hookswords off his back and dashes forward. Only a few feet into his charge and he promptly seems to disappear in a burst of purple energy, reappearing behind Len and bringing a boot to his backside.

Decapitating him will end this battle before it really begins, but when you have a signature move, sometimes it's just gotta be done.

[hypothermic]

Len takes another shot, and this time he isn't so lucky. His target disappears, and one of the microwaves becomes an ice-box in its place.

"Sonuva--"

That's some ol' ninja bullshit right there. He hates ninjas. Especially right here, right now.

Because Mick loves them, and he'd love this ninja more for kicking his literal ass.

Len doesn't go to his knees for just anyone. He drops to the ground in front of his one-armed ninja opponent, rolls onto his back, and kicks up between his legs. Combat boot on its way to a VIP greeting with those sneaky ninja balls.

Then he starts grabbing the tupperware off the floor and throwing it at him. With both hands, as he digs his heels into the ground in hopes of putting some space between them.

Enough for Len to turn him into an icicle without freezing off his own legs, or run.

So there it goes. Someone's breakfast/lunch/dinner.

Soup. Stew. Casserole. Some kind of waffle. A frozen sausage. If the ninja slash bad Mick cosplayer wasn't wearing that stupid mask, he could've taken it right in the eye.

[kaballin]

In terms of people who've been on their knees for Kabal, this guy is definitely at the lower end of the score card. Teeth are fine, but feet have never been one of his fetishes. Especially when they're being painfully crunched into areas that feet really shouldn't be.

So he reels back, managing to resist dropping to the ground himself and bracing against the wall, because all his focus at the moment is on not puking in his mask. He's still never done that in twenty years and that's a record he would like to keep going for the foreseeable future.

The first few hit him and bounce off, while his poor sneaky ninja balls recover from that less than pleasant greeting. Wow, that's gonna be a few hours of soreness, thanks for that. He doesn't even have someone soft and pleasant to rub it all better. This sucks.

But with a grunt he hits one of the food filled projectiles with his hooksword like a baseball bat aiming to send that container of macaroni right back at Len. So much for his easy kill.

"Oh fuck off. Only I'm allowed to fight dirty you fucking cheater."

[hypothermic]

"Bite me." A pause, holding what can only be described as a torpedo of tuna surprise over his head in a menacing fashion, looking to take a chunk out of that ugly plastic mug.

"Oh wait, you can't, not with that headgear, does baby have asthma?" A vicious smirk twists the corners of his mouth, and he is ready to talk so much more shit-- at least until the container smacks Len in between the shoulders, explodes, and macaroni shrapnel begins flying every which way. The first unlucky soul who comes in for breakfast will be walking into the cheddary aftermath of the pasta-ocalypse.

Hopefully they aren't lactose-intolerant.

Len ducks behind the closest cabinet, and has a change in strategy with the tuna surprise. He whips it at Kabal's feet, hard enough the container shatters, covering the floor in a slick coating of mayo and questionably fresh seafood. As slippery as it is stinky.

Whatever ninja bullshit he's pulling and how, Len would kill to see him slip on his ass at super-sonic speed.

Would kill him after he slips, too.

He leans out from behind the safe-zone of the pantry with his gun at the ready, "Keep coming after me, and you'll be swimming with the fishes instead of standing in them."

[kaballin]

"You'd like that wouldn't you?"

Someone's hard work making that cheesy goodness is now oozing under the cabinets and coating both their legs.

"Wow. Cute." Behind that mask is the worlds most dramatic eyeroll, but it's cut off as he immediately backpedals because whatever the hell just got thrown at him is disgusting. Both in smell and what it looks like.

"Shit, what the fuck is that?" He's an idiot, but he's at least aware enough to know that his super speed shennaigans aren't going to work real well if he's sliding all over the place in someones seafood abomination.

Crouching down behind a prep-counter puts him way more within range of smelling the nastiness that is tuna surprise, but protects his head from getting frozen by whatever it is Len has over there.

"Alright, brief time-out here. How long til this shit thaws? And secondly, I think whatever the fuck you found in the fridge is sentient and is about to attack on its own."

[hypothermic]

"Do I look like a scientist?" They can both agree on one thing. Whatever fishy concoction was in the container he threw at Kabal is closer to a biological weapon than dinner.

Len would never admit it, but he's grateful for the time out. The room stinks so bad he has to pull his goggles up over his eyes to keep them from watering, and he didn't come to the kitchen to fight-- not that he'd ever back down from a challenge. Even if he should.

Case in point: His sore ass, and the destroyed kitchen around them.

He's tired and hungry. More tired after scrambling around trying to make a human popsicle out of this masked asshole. His back slides down the metal casing of the pantry so he can sit on his haunches instead of stand.

"Your arm will rot off before that ice thaws. If you want to keep your fingers, you'll have to see a doctor. This gun isn't a toy. I play for keeps." Len isn't lying. Kabal could be a rich tourist stranded on Everest for how screwed his arm is. Without medical attention, he can say goodbye to hand and everything attached.

"Whoever put that in there is trying to kill someone. I call shade." All Len wanted was to put something in his stomach, and instead he's wearing it on the outside. Covered in cheese, noodles, and worse from almost head to toe. Orange, pink, and black leather really don't go.

"Screw off now, and I'll let you go without freezing the rest of you. Stay, and Anchor will have a new ice sculpture to display at their next shindig."

Len's sneering, catty tone is loud enough to carry every inch of that immense attitude, but his growling stomach is... louder. It practically echoes in the room.

So much for playing it cool. At least Kabal can't see his cheeks flush.

[kaballin]

"Really? That's actually kind of impressive." He looks down at his frozen arm, wondering if Len is telling the truth or not. He can't feel most of his arm at this point, and it's hard to tell if his fingers are turning purple through the mess of scar tissue that is his skin, but things are definitely not looking good for the future of duel wielding swords. "If I put warm water on it will it shatter? Because that would be super awesome, if it wasn't happening to me."

He can appreciate a cool death when he sees one. There's a tiny shred of fanboy in there that's pretty impressed by Scorpion's teleporting get over here nonsense that he does. Sure a freezy gun isn't quite the same because anyone could just pick that up and shoot it, but still.

"I think we've been sabotaged. Someone didn't want us fighting. I blame Cho." Because if anyone was going to use food as a deterrent to keep Kabal from doing something, it's definitely her.

"Uh-huh. Sure. I'll just get up and walk away and trust you to not turn me into a popsicle. Because you've endeared yourself to me so much with this fishtastrophe that's all over everything. Fuck.. I think it got in my boots."

Oh. Oh he heard that. He chuckles. "Need to clock out for a lunch break? The smell of rotten fish get you going?"

[hypothermic]

"Why don't you hit something and find out?" Len rolls his eyes. This guy has more than a few screws loose. Most men would be panicking at the prospect of losing their arm, or shrieking in pain. That Kabal can appreciate his weapon while suffering the damages is something else.

A lot crazy, a little charming. It reminds Len of... No, he can't go there. Least of all right now.

If Len could freeze his heart and smash it, he would.

"Impressive? Yes. Shatter? No. Because I wasn't using full-power. If I wanted to turn you into the world's most irritating ice-cube, I could. Consider yourself lucky." The freezy gun can't be used by just anyone. Len's taken it apart and put it back together a hundred times. It's hardly the same gun he jacked from a weapons dealer what feels like too many years ago. It's locked to his fingerprints. He can control its power, range, and can set the energy core to explode as soon as his finger leaves the trigger.

"I don't care about you, whoever the hell Cho is, or your after-school Anchor special bullshit. I came here looking for a meal, you're the one who interrupted me. Stick your nose in someone else's business and you'll get exactly what you deserve." In this case, World War Tuna.

How is it possible to be so hungry and so thoroughly disgusted at the same time? Now nothing looks or smells appetizing. Len's best bet is to grab what he can and bring it back to his hidey-hole in the ventilation system. He hasn't eaten in days.

Sooner or later, his already low standards will hit rock bottom.

The chuckle is what spurs him to come out of hiding, gun charged and glowing with power, pointed in Kabal's direction. Someone doesn't like being laughed at, and his name starts with L.

"How about you clock out before I punch your ticket. Permanently." He fires a warning shot at the prep counter, a layer of ice forming around Kabal's cover. The difference in power between 'playing around' and 'serious business' is palpable. The ice is colder, quicker, and the air around the strike drops below freezing like an instantaneous cold snap.

Len hopes Kabal's dick shrinks.

[kaballin]

The best way to deal with excruciating pain is to make jokes about it. Worked when he was set on fire, no reason it shouldn't work now when his arm is frozen and apparently rotting off. This is all fine. A healthy coping mechanism.

"You shot first Han, so this is ultimately your fault." Kabal was innocently standing there when he was suddenly being freeze blasted like a tv dinner and he doesn't think he deserved that.

He doesn't deserve the new iceburg in the middle of the kitchen either. And fuck, that's cold. That's exceptionally cold and Kabal scrambles away in case it's going to spread, not to mention how difficult it is to breathe air that has dropped to zero. Still, he can't help but reach out to smack the prep counter with a nearby spatula to see if it'll shatter.

"I'm used to this coming with stupid ice puns, you're failing me a little." He does realize now that he's the one in a bad position here (status of his dick notwithstanding). Len has a gun that freezes things, and Kabal is primarily a melee fighter who's best trait is speed which will likely send him skidding into a wall and then face first into the cheese and seafood sundae covering the floor. "Though you do have a better outfit, so you're up there. I'd give the full effect about a six out of ten. Needs improvement, but a solid first attempt."

He has his back to a rolling kitchen cart, and he peers through it briefly trying to see where Len is before he abruptly kicks it, hoping this asshole takes it in the gut and goes down.

[hypothermic]

Finally, Kabal gets to see something shatter. The corner of the table crumbles into metal and ice on impact. Now he can properly imagine what would happen to him if he catches the next blast.

"I'd call you Boba Fett, but you talk too much." Len is enjoying the turn of these frozen tables. He advances on Kabal with a vicious grin, gun at the ready, unsure if he wants to kill him, scare him, or impress him. Every option sounds good right now. Satisfying, in a way he hasn't been satisfied for too long.

It's been a minute since he's thrown down with someone as crazy as he is. Len's been missing chaos. Missing fighting, stealing, and breaking rules just because he can, and for no other reason than the fact he enjoys it.

If this wasn't the only kitchen in the facility, he would turn it into an igloo just to watch the other man shiver his ass off and try to run away on ice.

"Make that Budget Fett. Couldn't afford the rest of the armor, huh?" He cocks his head to the side, grinning as he shoots another microwave just beside Kabal (sorry Cho).

"I almost feel sorry for you. Stand still, and with the push of a button I can make you cooler than you've ever been." There's your cold pun, Kabal. Len doesn't bust those out for just anyone anymore. Ever since Captain Cold and Heatwave's very public, very messy break-up, he hasn't felt truly inspired to ham it up.

...Where was he again? Right. Terrorizing someone with his gun. Not exactly the time to reminisce.

The kitchen cart catches him by surprise. His reaction is gut instinct. He shoots the cart, enveloping it in ice. Which only makes it faster, and heavier, as it rolls towards him. Len moves to jump out of the way, slips on the floor like a deer on ice (et tu, tuna surprise?), and takes a full-contact hit from the cart, sending him flying halfway across the room.

Len hits the floor hard, the wind knocked out of him, his already busted up ribs, courtesy of the other asshole in a helmet with scars, spasm.

Now Len's mad.

He climbs to his feet, shaking with anger, panting heavily, murder in his eyes, and-- passes out cold.

[kaballin]

Kabal is all about leaving his partners satisfied, so he'll count this as another win in his little black book.

There's some childlike delight watching that table shatter into little pieces as if it wasn't a heavy metal contraption that even he would have struggled to pick up. Sure that doesn't bode well for the state of his arm because if it can do that to a metal thing, it's probably eating his skin off and turning his blood into icicles. Great, he has to go see the lady in the Medbay again who is probably still annoyed with him after the whole 'good idea touching a generator with his bare hands' thing.

"Wow you talk a lot. More than me and that's saying something." Alive or dead, Kabal is someone who has never shut up even when it was good for him. He has some more witty banter but instead he's peering out from behind his hiding place to watch that cart send this dickbag right down into the floor soup. That's going to take a few showers to get out. And he's about to say something along those lines when Len drops to the floor again.

"Uhm. So about those threats. Are those happening?" He chances actually standing up, ready to dive for cover if that gun is aimed at him, but his sparring buddy doesn't seem to be moving. "Raincheck then."

Walking up to him he prods him with the end of his sword, and then with his foot. Welp, so much for that fight. He sighs heavily and tilts his head up to the ceiling.

"Guess we'll finish this later." He reaches down, grabbing Len's shirt and hauling him up one handed, dumping him in a pile on the counter. "This would be a hell of a lot easier if I had two hands you know. Also you fucking reek."

The gun goes on his back, hanging off with his sword, and Len goes under his arm, leaving a delightful drippy trail of tuna surprise from the kitchen and down the hall. Once back in his room he secures the door, hides the gun, and fills the tub with water before unceremoniously dumping Len in it.

"Wakey wakey."

[hypothermic]

Len is out like a light. He doesn't hear what Kabal says. He doesn't feel being hauled up off the ground, or carried. Dead to the world, or... actually dead. Maybe Kabal ran him through with his sword, stomped on his head, or simply watched him drown in last week's leftovers.

Dark is dark, and darkness is all Len knows until he hits the water.

It's cold, and not in the cute way Len likes. A chill in the air, frost glittering on glass and windows, streets slippery with ice, while Len is perfectly warm and toasty inside his parka, while making everyone else's lives and icy hell. Their fault for not dressing appropriately for the season. It's always winter when Captain Cold is in town.

No, this ice bath is not cute, and he snaps back to consciousness with a gasp. For a moment, Len is more cat-in-bathtub than man. Scrabbling helplessly at the sides of the tub with wet hands in a desperate attempt to escape, splashing water all over the floor, blue eyes wide as they can possibly go.

Cold, shocked, and afraid because what the fuck, but mostly shocked.

Then he sees that ninja bastard, and his shock gives way to anger. He lunges up out of the bath-tub, reaching for him with claw-like fingers, and promptly falls back in again. His clothes are slippery, and he's dizzy.

"What did you do to me?" A snarl twisting his lips momentarily, before the next surge of panic. Len quickly yanks up the bottom of his shirt, one hand feeling over his flat belly to make sure neither of his kidneys are missing.

[kaballin]

Eugh, don't splash that mayo and tuna water all over the place. Then Kabal has to clean it and if there's one thing he doesn't want to do it's clean anything. He watches Len try to make his great escape impassively, standing against the sink with his arms crossed. Kinda. More holding his injured arm with his good one. In all honestly he's a little afraid to move his other in case Len is bullshitting him and his whole arm is about to shatter and fall to pieces.

"Me? You're the one the froze the cart like an idiot and then let it hit you." Clearly this is Len's fault and Kabal is innocent of all crimes. If he thought this place had an organ black market things might be different, "Oh please, you're a pretty little twink but you're not that impressive, all your parts and clothes are still there."

He rolls his eyes, wondering why he even bothered saving this guy in the first place.

"You passed out. And you reek."

[hypothermic]

"A twink? I'm six-foot-two, forty-three, and you were this close to becoming a frozen dinner. I eat twinks for breakfast." Len is used to being the tallest and baddest wherever he goes. Waking up in a bathtub after passing out in front of another guy (taller than him) isn't anywhere close to his worst nightmare, but it sure as hell isn't a fantasy.

"I didn't pass out. You knocked me out." Hissed. He narrows his eyes, lips pulled into a scowl (pout), daring Kabal to imply he is the kind of man who 'faints'. Like some kind of goat. A winter goat. Because even as a goat, Len would be on Captain Cold brand.

He tries to sit up again, and moving slowly, gripping onto the sides of the tub with both hands, he manages to sit up. His head is throbbing, the room refusing to stop spinning. Mouth dry.

All that, and he's still--

Hungry.

And Hangry>

Len passed out because he was hungry. He claps a hand to his face, groaning.

"I haven't eaten in a while. Might've... crashed. Not that it's any of your goddamn business." That's as close to an apology as Kabal is going to get.

[kaballin]

"Yeah? Well I'm six-foot-four, forty-six and I just carried you in here with one hand." When you're the biggest guy around your perception gets a little skewed. And it wasn't like it was easy to do that one-handed, but seeing as his other one is a little out of commission right now, he did his best.

"Maybe eat something instead of throwing it all over the place then." He eyes him, soaking wet in cold water, clothes clinging to him. "Jeez do you paint those pants on every morning? How are you not chafing?"

Apparently he's done trying to murder him for the time being because he strides forward and goes to offer his good hand to help him out of the tub, "Come on, out of there before you drown or freeze to death. That'll ruin that whole Mister Freeze thing you've got going on. Very off-brand."

[hypothermic]

Another day, another place, and Len might have found that particular factoid hot. Right now? It's just annoying.

"Don't ask me about my pants, and I won't ask you about your situation." He means the mask. Face protector. Respirator. Thing. Whatever the hell it is. Len can't tell if it's practical, or a fashion statement.

Len's eyes flick from Kabal's hand to his face and back again. Uncertain if he's being played.

"Mister Freeze? Please. I'm Captain Cold. Much cuter." Finally, he takes Kabal's hand, if only because he's freezing his ass off and shivering so hard his teeth are starting to hurt. Len is careful as he climbs out of the bath, because he's wet, weak, and desperate not to fall in front of the other man.

Len doesn't fall so much as slip into the other man, gripping onto his jacket to keep himself upright. Putting himself face to face with that mask, too similar to Chronos' not to shake him.

Just when he thought this couldn't get any worse.

[kaballin]

"Is that for later when we're on a first name basis? Do I get to call you Captain?" Visions of the Captain Morgan stance dancing in his head, he actually helps him out of the tub because he doesn't really want to have him fall and crack his skull open on his bathroom floor. Then he can't fight him later.

Of course Len slips, and Kabal instinctively goes to catch him (he's not a monster after all), hissing and curling forward a bit, because his arm fucking hurts and he very much shouldn't have moved it right then. His other hand has a firm grip on Len's jacket though, keeping him from sliding into a heap. They nearly pull each other to the ground, the only thing keeping them upright is Kabal's immovable stance and hulking presence where it takes a whole hell of a lot to down him.

They may be face to face but behind that mask Kabal isn't paying any attention to him, wincing and clenching his teeth because the pain in his arm he's been ignoring, and able to push to the side when he wasn't moving it, is suddenly an ever present force shooting all down his shoulder and disappearing into fingers he can no longer feel.

"Alright, let's... Let's not be in here since we're both gonna slip and spill our brains all over the tile floor. I blame you tossing around seafood." He backs up, pulling Len with him into the marginally warmer actual bedroom.

[hypothermic]

"Captain. Cold. Leonard. Len. Whatever." Standing is easier when they're walking on dry floor, and with Kabal's bulk to support him until there's somewhere for him to sit.

Well, the floor was dry. Len's soaking wet. Puddles following him wherever he goes.

At least most of the tuna came off in the bathtub? Not that Len smells much better for it. He's going to need a real shower at some point. They both will. It's not like Kabal is smelling much sweeter than he is.

"And who the hell are you?" They're still close, but Len isn't looking at Kabal's face. He's staring at his arm. Already in the early stages of frostbite beneath the ice. Red, black, and purple. He wasn't lying when he said Kabal would need medical attention. He's frozen enough people to know exactly what his gun can do.

When people can be saved with a little TLC, and when they're as screwed as John Franklin and company.

Kabal isn't 'Terror' levels of screwed just yet, but he will be. His arm will rot right off the bone. Until Kabal's only options are to amputate, or die.

"Give me something to eat, and I'll keep your arm attached to your body." His eyes flick up to Kabal's eyes, or... the mask where his eyes would be, and hates that he can't read him. Len doesn't like being more naked in that way. More visible, more vulnerable, because he can't hide the purple smudges beneath his eyes or the way his gloved hand shakes when he tests the rigidity of Kabal's bicep with a less-than-gentle prod.

"Some warm water, a little exfoliation, and you can save the stuff beneath the top layer of skin. It'll grow back." His brow lifts, the corner of his mouth quirking.

"Smoother, maybe. I should offer face lifts."

[kaballin]

"Kabal." He escorts his soggy new friend to the couch ignoring the fact they both smell terrible, there's probably seafood bits in their hair and who knows where else, and that they had just been trying to messily murder each other. That's not what's important here. What's important is that Kabal was all set to kill this guy and then he so rudely passed out and while he wouldn't hesitate to kill someone unconscious, he was all amped up for a fight and he still is.

Maybe a little less so now that his arm is a whole lot of colors it shouldn't be.

He goes to the clearly unused kitchenette against one wall and pulls open the fridge. That at least is fairly well stocked because he's lazy and trips to the kitchen take away from his precious 'doing anything else' time. The counter is covered in junk he's stolen of various quality from tech gadgets to jewelry to cartons of cigarettes. Most of the fridge is bottles of beer and alcohol, but he does have some actual food, including a sandwich he'd been saving for later, but is now going to offer to this asshole out of the goodness of his heart and with hope for a potential fight in the future.

"Here. Eat and don't pass out. I don't know CPR." He tosses the plastic-wrapped croissant with ham and cheese to Len as he returns to the couch, plopping down next to him and inspecting his arm.

"Yeah shockingly, my skin isn't real fond of growing back in any way that makes me look like something other than beef jerky." That prodding is not appreciated and he swats at Len, clearly a warning that he could punch his face in if he wanted to, but isn't right now.

[hypothermic]

"Could you give it to me if you did?" Len lounges back on the couch like it belongs to him, one long leg crossed over the other. Poised in spite of the flakes of tuna around the collar of his sweater and constant vertigo.

"Please, no tuna."

Len catches the sandwich in one hand, peels back the cling-wrap almost delicately, and admires the almost-fresh content. It's been days since he's eaten anything, the kitchen was a bust, and if never sees another Tupperware for the rest of his life it'll be too soon.

He could say something witty. Posture. Pretend like he isn't half as hungry as he is, and part of him is tempted to play it cool. He doesn't. Len tears into the sandwich with the ferocity of a starving lion descending on a wounded antelope.

No words until he's finished, and the sandwich has disappeared without a trace. In spite of his hunger and the fact he's already a disgusting mess, there are no crumbs. Len's particular like that. You'd be hard-pressed to find a single strand of DNA at any one of his 'purported' crime scenes.

He dabs at the corners of his mouth, shifts to the edge of the couch, and stares down Kabal.

"Don't be a baby. I was seeing how deep the damage goes. If I wanted to hurt you, I'd hurt you. So take off your village-people jacket like a good boy, and let me see what kinda freeze-dried beef we're working with."

Len starts pulling off his gloves with his teeth, finger by finger.

"Just an FYI, this is going to be ugly. So get ready for it."

[kaballin]

"Would you like me to?" Oh that is one lecherous grin he has behind that mask, might even be audible in the tone of his voice. But for now the mask is staying firmly in place. Arm first, imagining what this soggy wet disaster looks like peeled out of his pants will come later.

But alright, he'll be a good boy, for now, and slide out of his jacket. It's slightly difficult when he's trying to not move his arm much, but he manages to get out of his very stylish fur and leather jacket thank you very much. Those little metal hooks aren't really there to be used as handholds to tug it off when his arms not working but hey, added bonus.

Along with the jacket comes the respirator, connected to the mask with two thick flexible tubes that he reaches up to disconnect. There's a brief purplish wisp of steam when he does so, and he grunts under his breath. He can survive for a few hours without the respirator, much longer than without the mask, but that doesn't mean that time is going to be much fun.

"Worse than it is already? I'm not a doctor but I'm pretty sure my arm is not supposed to be that color. And I've been dead so that's saying something." He hunches over shirtless, muscles in his arm flexing as he prods at it to test the damage. His fingers he can't feel at all, but the upper part of his arm is nothing but a constant sharp shooting pain. The sensation of circulation returning after your foot has fallen asleep only about a thousand times worse.

[hypothermic]

An arch of his brow. Len isn't so easily flustered. He looks Kabal up and down coolly like a piece of live-stock, shameless in his appraisal.

The face, or lack thereof, leaves something to be desired, but Len can't say he has any complaints about the rest when the jacket comes off. He's a big man. Solid in the way Len likes, because Len doesn't run with weaklings. He'd rather lose another arm than become attached to someone with 'victim' stapled to their forehead.

"Hmmmm." A low hum/purr of consideration, eyes tracking over the tubes, scars, and considerable amount of muscle beneath them. More impressive is Kabal's resilience in the face of his injury. The average person would go straight into shock with that kind of damage. Half the time it isn't the ice itself that kills you, but the hypothermia that usually follows, if you're too paralyzed by fear to keep the blood moving.

"Make it through this alive, without tears, and I'll think about it." A tall order. Len doesn't know who he's trying to motivate to make it through this. Kabal, or himself. Len isn't a care-taker. It's easier to kill people than keep them alive.

He turns Kabal's arm over in his hands, not rough, but not particularly gentle. As if he were examining a prime cut of beef (not inaccurate), inspecting frozen muscle and stiff tissue in his head, taking note of areas that are blacker with blood than others.

"Strip down and get into bed. Under the covers. We need to keep your body temperature up." An icy glare down at Kabal if there's a barest hint of resistance, once he's complied. Len doesn't take shit from anyone, but he sure as hell won't take it from a 'patient'.

"Don't even think of moving. I'll know." With that, Len goes to the bathroom. Strips out of his own clothing, because he's a walking, albeit fashionable, bio-hazard, and the last thing he needs is his new frozen-meal ticket dying of infection. Washes his hands. Splashes his face.

Some rummaging around the bathroom finds him a fluffy white bathrobe, towels, basin, and first-aid kit beneath the bathroom counter. Hopefully untainted by the rest of the mess in this place, which feels so comfortably familiar Len can't help but relax. Nothing says home like barely organized chaos and empty beer bottles.

He fills the basin with warm water and returns to the bedroom, carrying it against his hip.

"Think of this as a quasi-sadistic day at the spa. Sit back, relax, and try not to scream."

The first step in this whole procedure is soaking Kabal's iced arm in the warm water mixed with antiseptic, which will feel a lot like straight-up acid against his frozen skin. Len sits on the edge of the mattress, scooping up handfuls of water to better bathe any skin above the water line.

"So, what's your favourite flavour of ice-cream? I'm partial to mint chocolate-chip."

[kaballin]

Hmm maybe imagining what this soggy wet disaster looks like peeled out of his pants will come now. And Kabal likes what he imagines.

"I can hold to that bargain." Famous last words because he has no idea just how much this is going to suck. After all he was completely immolated, how much worse could this be?

As it turns out a hell of a lot worse, because being set on fire burnt most of his nerves off to the point that it was a dull, numb sort of pain. Not like now where holy shit that is fucking acid against his arm and he narrowly holds back from punching Len right in the kidneys.

He had all kinds of witty things to say about being naked and Len being in only a robe, but weirdly he doesn't feel like saying them anymore. Instead he launches into a whole host of curses aimed directly at Len and his shitty stupid gun. Fortunately for both of their ears, Kabal can't talk for fifteen minutes straight when he's not hooked up to his respirator feeding him decent oxygen his toasted lungs can process. So Len is spared finding out that Kabal can curse up a storm in several languages without ever repeating himself. Instead he starts panting, his arm in agony and his lungs pissed that they're not getting enough air.

"If the ice cream thing is supposed to be distracting, it's not fucking working."

It's only because he realizes that Len is helping that he doesn't straight up snap his neck right now.

[hypothermic]

"Sure thing, big-boy. I'll bust the pom-poms out when my hands aren't covered in your goop." A near-indulgent smile as he scoops the next handful of water over Kabal's gradually softening arm, dead, bloated flesh already bubbling away from deeper layers of untouched dermis. Len isn't going to argue. Give the man some hope, so he doesn't break sooner than later and make Len's job that much harder. He would take a tough-guy act over sobbing and hysteria any day of the week.

The thawing process is bad, but what's after is worse. Len isn't threatened by the constant stream of curses and threats. Kabal is more bark than bite. If he wasn't, Len would be lying face-down on the kitchen floor surrounded by broken Tupperware and rotting food. Dead by Kabal's hand, or drowned in 2" of tuna-surprise.

"Distract you? No, I'm distracting me. This is tres boring. Like waiting for your windshield to defrost." Len needs to stay cool and in control. 'Helping' doesn't come naturally to Len. It's too much risk and responsibility for too little reward. Whether he promises to see someone through to the other side or not, Len doesn't start jobs he can't finish. As a matter of principle, and no small amount of pride.

If only people were as easy to take apart and put back together as safes or security systems.

Relationships are the most dangerous and unpredictable jobs of all.

Looking over Kabal, his equipment, and his increasingly laboured breathing, the risks keep adding up. He picks up the jacket, inspecting the attached respiratory system. Len has an eye for engineering, but this thing is hardly intuitively designed. Wearing it must be a pain in the ass. Relying on it for survival, knowing it could be sabotaged, or destroyed, has to be terrifying on some level.

"How long can you breathe without this thing? I'm not working up a sweat playing nurse for you to kick the bucket from an asthma attack." His fingers follow the length of tubing, gears turning behind his eyes as designs and redesigns different set-ups. A system is a system. Wires aren't so different from pipes. They have beginnings and ends. Power and supply.

"What if I attached it to the headboard, so the tubes are staying vertical, and you can't screw it up flailing around." Len isn't going to tell Kabal what's happening next in any specific words, but he can probably guess it ain't a walk in the park.