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]

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.

[kaballin]

"Oh should I be entertaining you right now?" Kabal would snark with his executioner in the electric chair if it came to that, it's so ingrained in his being that he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Especially with how he's wheezing a bit now. Is it a good idea to keep right on talking while his lungs scream for decent air? No, no it is not. Will he keep right on doing it? Absolutely.

"Why?" The ice cream question hadn't distracted him at all, but that sure does. Immediately he's wary, telling someone how what's basically his life support system works puts him in an incredibly vulnerable position.

Though he's currently naked without his respirator, and the skin of his arm floating away from the rest of him.

"A few hours. And I don't have asthma, asshole. I was set on fire." Which he figures is pretty obvious from his extra crispy exterior. Though most people probably aren't familiar with burns of this severity up close, yet there's something about Len not reacting to it that makes him think he's probably seen worse somehow.

Mercifully he shuts up for a bit, so enjoy the silence while he looks at his arm that he's keeping in the water like a good patient, and then the jacket Len is holding. Kabal is not real smart, but he can put two and two together that there's more to this defrosting process than water, and if it is actually bad enough for him to start screaming he's going to be in trouble.

"This next part involve peeling bits of my skin off? Because I've been there before." And he hadn't enjoyed it much then even though he'd been hopped up on some extreme tranquilizers. Passing out from lack of oxygen might be a blessing, but then he also might not wake back up.

Hngh.

"That'd probably work. Assuming I don't rip them out." He doesn't like this one bit and his tone says it, sulking a little that he needs to be taken care of. "Grab me a beer first. Or several of them."

[hypothermic]

Len doesn't bat an eyelash at the mention of being set on fire. He knows what burn scars look like. Intimately. Thirty years of partnership with a pyromaniac is desensitizing in more ways than one. The last time Len flinched away from a flame was when Mick tried to immolate himself and anyone who tried to stop him.

Mick has burned him too many times to count. Physically, emotionally, and mentally.

"Did you deserve it?" A droll response, distracted with jury-rigging the respirator. When Len sets out to accomplish something, he doesn't stop until he succeeds. The fact he's helping Kabal is secondary to his own ego.

When he leaves the bed-side to look for a beer, or painkillers, anything to stop the man from looking so damn miserable, it's to spare himself.

Len comes back with two shots of whiskey. One for Kabal, one for himself.

"That's all you're getting. Alcohol is inflammatory." So says the man throwing his own shot back like it's water. Len could drink like a fish if he wanted to, which is exactly why he doesn't. Nothing is uglier than an alcoholic.

"Peeling is one word for it." At least Kabal knows what he's in for, and knows Len isn't sloughing his arm off for the fun of it.

He wets the softest of the towels while Kabal finishes his drink, mentally preparing himself for what comes next. It's a job. That's all it is. Repayment for the kindness he never asked for. Len doesn't want to owe Kabal shit. After this, they'll be square. Free to fight another day without holding anything back.

"No crying, remember?" That's all the warning Kabal gets as Len starts rubbing the deadened flesh away, revealing the raw, healthy flesh beneath. Purple and black giving way to pink and red. It's enough to make Len's stomach do a flip-flop, and that's saying something.

[kaballin]

Reaching up he hooks his thumbs behind the mask, pulling it free of his face and rubbing his eyes. With his face exposed he can finally glare at Len and have it be seen, his eyes narrowing, "Not at the time I sure as fuck didn't. Hadn't even done anything, just wrong place, wrong time and suddenly I'm barbecue."

For being immolated and having to wear a respirator for the rest of his life, he took it pretty well. Which is why he hasn't really gone into shock or started punching Len for the whole freezing thing. He's adept at rolling with the punches.

One shot of whiskey isn't really going to do much, but it's better than nothing and he knocks it back before latching the mask back on and getting situated with this whole tubing situation. Immediately he's breathing a little easier, which he assumes will be beneficial for what's about to come.

"Yeah, I've been tortured before, think I can handle it." He says it lightly, but he's actually not sure. The thing about being tortured is that he could focus on the fact that he hates the people doing it to him, distract himself by thinking about what he'd do in revenge. And he doesn't have that here - he doesn't hate Len, he barely knows him, and there's nothing much for him to focus on other than the fact his arm is going to rot away if they don't do this.

Already he's a bit lightheaded from thawing, the feeling as if his blood was full of crushed glass as it tried to flow through veins and arteries that were dying. And now he knows this is going to be awful. He's a big, tough, Black Dragon enforcer, but he's still human, and he still very much feels pain.

At first he's able to clench his fist and grit his teeth, nothing but hissed panting breath (and he's very grateful for his respirator back) as he struggles to not make any sound. But that doesn't last, it can't. He manages to hold his arm steady for Len and what feels like someone taking a cheese grater to his skin, while the rest of him writhes around in pain.

Kabal won't ever admit that he screamed, not even under threat of this happening again. In fact he's not really sure he is screaming because everything is agony and his thoughts can't focus. He's trying to not do anything to make it worse like pull his arm away or knock Len off the bed, but other than that he's a complete mess.

When Len pauses to re-wet the towel, Kabal manages to force himself under control for just a little bit, "Quasi-sadistic spa my ass."

[hypothermic]

Len wasn't expecting the face beneath the mask to be anything but horrific. When he's looking into the eyes of a flesh-and-blood man instead of cold metal, skin twisted with scars, and no less human than for it? He's thrown.

That makes everything more real. Realer than he wants it to be, given the circumstances. Len is criminal, thief, and murderer. He craves power and dominance as much as the next man or woman, and would do just about anything to win, but he's always punched up. Attacks the rich, the strong, and the arrogant. There's no fun in stealing candy from babies, or food from the mouths of the poor.

He likes a challenge. Kicking people when they're already down is boring.

Looking down at the raw meat of Kabal's arm, the pain on his face, and how much farther they have to go...

This isn't a challenge, it's torture, and he wants it over ASAP. If he didn't have to stay sober to provide adequate care, he would be hitting that scotch a lot harder

The screaming gets to him. He wishes Kabal would pass the fuck out, so he could work in peace and quiet. Len doesn't react. Continues on like he never heard it, eyes on the bloody prize. No pity, no sympathy, no comfort, and it's not because he's cold. Because that's what he would want. For his weakness and vulnerability to go unnoticed, or at least without remark.

When he breaks to re-wet the towel, it's for both of them. Picking chunks of dead skin away from the towel is an unpleasant task, but it's better than sand-papering it off.

"You're lucky I'm not into this." A hard look down at the other man, blue eyes sharp. Len could make this so much worse. He could scrub harder, faster, and not pay attention to the signs of Kabal's distress. Ignore everything and steamroll ahead so he can get this done, wash his hands, and screw off.

Len hates everything about this. It reminds him of bad times. The shit he does his best to forget ever happened.

"Stop whining. You've lived through worse." That's as close as Kabal is getting to a pep-talk before Len goes back in on him, working faster, harder, just to get this shit done.

But no less careful.

[kaballin]

The feeling is mutual. On some level, even now as he's basically being tortured, there's the macho part of him that wants to tough it out simply to prove he can. But the more human part of him would be grateful if he could just not deal with it even if it was weak as hell to pass out.

Unfortunately for the both of them he doesn't. Later, much much later, Kabal will appreciate the fact that Len straight up ignored his screaming and writhing. Because if it's not commented on they can pretend it didn't happen. The last thing Kabal wants is to be babied, asked if he's okay as if he's too weak to continue. No, he wants to be treated with the same gruffness he reciprocates.

He is weakening though, bloodloss, pain, the energy needed to scream and thrash while mentally being aware enough to not rip his arm out of Len's grasp, he can't maintain that forever. Kabal has never been more thankful for the mask so that Len can't actually see him panting and wide-eyed with pain. They can both pretend it's not happening when Kabal all but collapses as Len eventually releases his arm, tilting it so he can see the bloody pulp of his arm, skin glistening pink and absolutely disgusting.

The important thing is that his arm in agony means it's not rotting off and, ultimately more important: he didn't cry. Though he might have felt better if he had.

"Let's never do that again." He sounds utterly spent, like if he has to do any more screaming he might wither away. "What are you into?"

Distract him from the throbbing mess of his arm so he can think of literally anything else.

[hypothermic]

"You're right. Next time we scrap, I'll shoot to kill." Len sags with relief when there's no skin left to rub, the bucket, towel, and sleeves of his borrowed robe dyed a muddy pink with blood and body fluid. The same clear stuff that's oozing out of Kabal's arm right now, keeping the live tissue moist.

Temporarily. What comes next won't be pleasant or pretty for either of them. The distraction isn't unwelcome.

He arches a brow at Kabal, making of show of pondering while digging around inside the first aid kit. Looking at small bottles and tubes until he finds an alien burn salve, promisingly green like aloe vera.

"I like Strength. Muscle. Leather." A pause, squeezing a glop into his palm, "Lace. I ain't into anyone who can't hold their own in a fight. Who wants a toy that breaks easy?" Len begins sliding his salve-slicked hands up Kabal's arm, which likely feels as bad as it does good. The contact hurts, but the cooling properties are soothing, and will keep his skin from drying out and cracking.

"I work smart and play hard."

[kaballin]

"We had a bargain, I gotta ask." He feels weirdly heavy, like he's melting into the mattress and his limbs are too numb to move anymore. Weakness is such a foreign concept to him that he figures he must be dying and that's just the first step. He's not upset about it, more pissed that if he dies after all this fucking pain it'll have not even been worth it.

Maybe he'll stay alive out of sheer spite.

"Leather and lace huh?" He's not in a good state of mind to try and imagine what Len would look like in either, but he files that away to ponder later.

This doesn't hurt as bad as the wood chipper to his arm that was happening earlier, but it sure as hell doesn't feel pleasant. It stings and there's stuff exposed in his arm that shouldn't be exposed to air at all and his poor stressed nerve endings are letting him know it.

"If you do freeze me to death make sure I shatter in a way that it's really fucking inconvenient for everyone else. Make it worth it."

[hypothermic]

"Got a problem with that?" Len's being testy for the hell of it. Because it feels good to be something other than grimly focused on the task in front of him. They're almost out of the woods.

"Let me guess, you're into temperature play." He pulls his sticky hands away from Kabal's arm, wiping them clean with a disinfectant cloth. Making sure to get between every finger and beneath his nails. As thorough with this job as any other.

The bandages come next. Wrapping him up will hurt, but in comparison to everything else he's been through tonight? The finishing touches will be a walk in the park.

Len has to get closer for this, bare knee braced on the edge of the bed so he can get in and around Kabal's bicep. This much Len could do with his eyes closed. He has forty-some-odd years of experience.

"Hm. I know. I'll put what's left of you in the ice-machine. For added flavour." A wicked smirk up at the other man as he coils the bandage around his arm, controlled and methodical in his movement. He ties it off neat and tight. It's a perfect dressing.

[kaballin]

"Nah, trying to imagine it. Black? Or are you all about being thematic and going with blue?" He can see either, black is classic, but blue would really make those eyes stand out.

Hmm. More things to think on later because he couldn't get aroused right now if his life depended on it. If there's one thing he's most assuredly not into its pain.

"Good, I can be food for all those little dragons. Then they grow up and eat everyone. Circle of life."

He doesn't move, letting Len bandage him up and wanting nothing more than to sleep for a week and have this magically heal up in the next hour. But he's been injured enough times to know that it hurts now, its gonna go numb soon, and then it'll start throbbing once it starts to heal. It sucks that even his body repairing itself is going to hurt.

"You're real good at that. Do this a lot?"

[hypothermic]

"Live through the night and you might just find out." An overt flutter of his eyelashes. The wicked smirk stays.

At least until Kabal compliments his skill as someone who heals instead of hurts. Len pulls back immediately, emotionally and physically. Goes cold. Silently wipes his hands off on the more-pink-than-white robe he'll have to burn after this, because it's a terrycloth bio-hazard.

"Only when I have to." Not a lie. Once upon a time, before Mick, before he could stand on his own two feet, before he ran away from home and left it all behind, patching himself up was all Len could do.

"I hurt people. They don't hurt me." Len is too tired for this shit, and his night is far from over. Kabal can pass out when he chooses, but someone needs to stay up and make sure he doesn't show signs of fever or infection. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.

"Do you get your ass kicked a lot?"

[kaballin]

Kabal has accidentally said a lot of dumb shit to kill the mood, but he's honestly not sure what he did here. Not that there was a mood to kill, but he can see the abrupt shift in Len's face to something emotionless and cold when he'd been almost a bit flirty before.

Any other time and he'd press it, try and figure out what part of bandaging someone is somehow worse than all the shit they just got done with. And why saying that was getting this reaction. But right now Kabal doesn't have the strength to protest. He's weak and tired and frustrated that someone is taking care of him.

He hates that.

"I don't back down from fights," his voice is a little different, more insistent as there's something he's not saying there. Because as loathe as he is to admit it, he's lost his fair share of fights being too proud to back down and starting shit with the wrong people.

"And this doesn't count as getting my ass kicked because I won that little scuffle. You're the one that got dragged away all unconscious and floppy." He forces himself to shut up before he antagonizes him into punching him in the arm or worse. Plus the guy had just seen him writhing around in pain. He could stand to be marginally nice to him. Maybe.

Fuck he hates this.

"So now what? You walk of shame home in that bloody robe?"

[hypothermic]

Defensive knows defensive, and Kabal is looking more than a little familiar.

"Only because I passed out. That was low blood-sugar, not skill." Len rolls his eyes, still pissed off at his traitor body. He can't afford to be weak right now. Not with Chronos gunning for him.

As for what comes next, at least Len has an excuse that's as convenient as it is inconvenient. He doesn't want to play nanny, but he's safer in here than he is out there. Chronos will be looking for him everywhere but here. An occupied room with a long-term tenant.

"No. I stay here and make sure you don't go septic and die before I can kill you properly." Len moves the bloodied bucket and dirty equipment off to the side, to be sterilized later. He doesn't have it in him right now. Lack of sleep and nutrition is already biting at his heels.

Now to clean himself. A glance around the room. It's a pig-sty, which he's used to, Mick being a pig, but Len is meticulous about organizing their particular chaos. He knows where everything is at all times.

Kabal's mess is just... messy. Len doesn't know where to start.

"I need something to wear. Where do you keep the rest of your Burning Man wardrobe?"