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]

"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?"

[kaballin]

"A wins a win. Thought you knew something about fighting dirty." They both seem to be on the same page about that at least. Though there's definitely something telling about the fact Kabal hadn't just sliced his head off and been done with it once Len passed out. He may fight dirty, but he wants an actual fight.

"That one," He jerks his thumb to a closet against one of the walls, "Enjoy swimming in my pants."

The closet has a few pairs of pants stuffed into shelves, underwear, socks, a pile of leather harnesses, another respirator, and the only item actually hanging off a hanger is a different mask, one that's only half as big and inset with sharp, too large teeth. Everything is going to be huge when compared to Len's much smaller frame, but there is a belt in there (also likely too big), that has some knives hanging off it. There's not a single shirt to be found in his whole room.

Well there was one he wore when it was actually cold enough to freeze what's left of his nips off, but he hated it and tossed it who knows where after he got back in his room. Kabal has always run hot, ironic for someone who ended up getting set on fire, but the cold never bothered him, and shirts always seemed pointless.

As for the rest of the room, if Len wants to poke around while Kabal lays on the bed and tries to fight a losing battle with himself over getting up and pretending he's fine, there's plenty for him to play with. The cupboards are mostly empty, just whatever was in there when he claimed this room as his own: dishes, cups, some cooking device he couldn't use if his life depended on it (it's a rice cooker), and some bags of chips and crackers and junk that he salvaged from the Whole Foods a while ago.

The fridge is beer and alcohol and random bits of food from things Cho makes during the day. Convenient that someone has taken it upon themselves to feed him, because otherwise he would be making life in the dining hall absolute hell.

Other closets have a rack that is obviously meant for his swords, some sharpeners, oil and maintenance things for his weapons, along with a small toolkit for his respirator and mask. Len's gun is in there, stashed for safe keeping.

But the good shit is just all over the place: there's jewelry from presents he'd opened in a pile on the counter, some very high tech looking tablets sitting next to what looks like a flashlight barrel without the light part, knives, gun parts, computer chips, more alcohol.

If it wasn't nailed down and it looked at all valuable, Kabal took it. And after being here half a year he still hasn't quite realized that he can't actually sell any of this stuff, and that there's no currency anyway. Old habits die hard.

[hypothermic]

It's an impressive collection, but Len isn't interested in Kabal's shit. Right now, all he wants is something clean to wear. Taking a shower isn't an option until Kabal is stable, and the room doesn't spin when Len stands. If he slips in the tub, Kabal won't be there to keep him from drowning in two inches of tuna-infused water a second time.

The best he can do is grab a clean towel, run the sink and take what his father tenderly referred to as a 'whore bath', wiping himself down while he sits on the toilet. Sexy. At least he finds a shaving kit to buzz the silver-stubble down to his preferred length. Because it makes him feel in control of something, and this is the first opportunity Len's had to breathe and do something for himself since he arrived.

He finishes in the bathroom feeling almost human, and struts back into the bedroom wearing only an air of confidence, clean, pale, impressively scarred skin, and black lacy underwear. Silk, expensive, and entirely impractical.

Len dresses for himself, and no one else. He wears what makes him feel powerful in the moment. Sometimes that means leather, combat boots, and fur. Other times it means leather, combat boots, and a skirt.

Rules are meant to be broken.

He goes to the closet, pulling open the doors to reveal a wardrobe that's exactly as ridiculous/kinky as the get-up Kabal was wearing when they met. All leather, buckles, and spikes. Your kinks are showing Kabal. Cute on him, but definitely not comfortable. Especially for a man half his size to float around inside.

Len flips through his extremely limited options, one hand perched on his cocked hip. A glance back over his shoulder as he thumbs over the teeth of that fanged mask. Faded lash-marks criss-cross his back.

"Would it kill you to cover up your ta-ta's once in a while?" More to check in on Kabal and make sure he's conscious than start a conversation.

And maybe to catch him looking.

[kaballin]

Meanwhile Kabal has managed to sit up, which is a feat on par with the time he cold clocked Kano and dragged him through a few dimensions to leave him in the Netherrealm. He's lightheaded, his arm is throbbing, he feels weak and frustrated and --

And...

And everything else he was thinking immediately evaporates as Len practically saunters out of the bathroom to the closet in only something lacy. The kind of item that's designed to look as good on someone's body as it does in a ball on the bedroom floor. Well that answers the question about blue or black.

"What happened to you not enjoying torturing me?" He's looking. He is definitely looking and the mask sure as fuck isn't hiding it. Sweeping his eyes over those scars, down to how his ass looks all cutely canted to the side, and back up to those eyes that are looking oh so alluring right now.

"Shirts just get in the way." Of what? He's not saying, but he's also not exactly thinking right now.

Kabal does not make good decisions, that's more than obvious. And right now his really good idea is something along the lines of standing up and getting significantly closer to the guy who was scrubbing off his skin not twenty minutes ago.

Fortunately for his idiot brain that would ooze out of his skull when he fell and cracked it open on the floor, he's far too weak to do anything beyond sitting up.

And he is absolutely furious about it.

Gnashing his teeth he keeps right on staring, because at least he's got a good view in case he dies in the night from his arm getting infected. That's probably not how infections work but he's not a doctor, he doesn't know.

"So new plan is to kill me so you don't have to change this bandage later?"

[hypothermic]

"I never said I don't enjoy torturing you." Blithely, with a strategic flit of his eyelashes. Just because Len hadn't enjoyed defrosting Kabal doesn't mean he isn't sadistic. It means he's sadistic with standards. There's nothing interesting about a half-dead man writhing around in pain, helpless to put up a proper fight.

He slams the door to Kabal's closet, finding absolutely nothing worth wearing. It's going to be a long night, and he's not going to be sitting around wearing a harness and pants so big he could get lost in them. He would rather walk around in panties than look like a kinky clown.

A slow turn, leaning against the closet. Len knows his angles. A professional uses every asset they have at their disposal. Eyes, ears, and fingers are the obvious choices for a thief, but there's something be said for the distracting power of lips, legs, and ass. Magicians don't own the monopoly on misdirection.

Sometimes the best tool in a criminal's belt is a smile.

His lips curve up at the corners, but the real amusement is in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The way they glitter beneath his eyelashes, equal parts steel and sapphire. Overcast when he's in a bad mood, and bright when he's up to no good.

This kind of torture is more his speed. Kabal glaring at him from behind his mask, oh so frustrated, and powerless to do anything about it. If he has enough blood left in his body to split between both heads, there's a good chance Kabal will make it through the night.

"Don't be silly. I'm expecting a return on my investment. When I kill you, I'm going to take my time. Make it nice n' slow. Until you're begging for mercy. Or screaming my name."

Murder. Len's definitely talking about murder. Not something else similarly sinful, satisfying, and intimate. No double entendres here.

"So everyone knows who took down the biggest bastard in this prison."

[kaballin]

"Yeah, no shit you're enjoying it now."

He's sitting up, a little hunched forward, and inadvertently has all the covers bunched up in his lap and around his sides so Len is just going to have to use his imagination to determine how that bloodflow is doing.

There's a low sound in Kabal's chest, nearly a growl as he watches Len turn around, taking in every curve, the way his hipbones frame his stomach and how good the man looks in lace. Though he'd look far better out of it with the lace in pieces on the floor. Not only is Kabal seven levels of aroused right now, a nice distraction from the pain, but there's a part of him that's really curious about how those silky panties would feel if Len was in his lap.

He frequents bars and underground fighting arenas and anywhere seedy enough that fucking completely naked will probably net you some horrible disease. So he's never actually touched fancy lingerie before. It looks soft and smooth, good for sliding hands over, what he imagines satin sheets would feel like, though he's never encountered those either.

"Wouldn't peg you for the kind that's into the slow and drawn out sort of thing. Seem a little more like back against a wall and clawing gouges in someone else while screaming." For the murder that they're both talking about it. Murder.

"Oh flattery. I like it," his voice drops a bit before continuing, the tone he'd have if he was currently cornering Len into said wall and about to make him claw his back all up, "Do it again."

[hypothermic]

Len doesn't correct Kabal, and maybe saying nothing says it all.

He pushes away from the closet, gliding across the room, through the loot, trash, and sharp objects, as if he owns the place. Right now, while Kabal is incapacitated, Len does. He stops at the foot of the bed, looking down his nose at the other man with sharp, predatory eyes.

"Don't tell me what to do." In the same tone as if Kabal were backing him into said imaginary wall. A low, dangerous purr. Claws out and ready to scratch, if necessary.

"That's a good way to get yourself pegged." Len can give as good as he takes. Punch for punch. Kick for kick. Fuck for fuck. A look somewhere between promising and menacing, and he turns away from Kabal just to make the man watch him go.

Len grabs the nearby bottle of whiskey, drinks straight from the bottle, adam's apple bobbing within his pale throat, and wipes his mouth with the back of one scarred forearm.

"I'm hungry. What's a guy gotta do to get a decent meal in this dump? Save another idiot?" He stretches one long leg out to toe open the mini fridge, appraising Kabal's stash of pillaged food. More of the same from the community fridge, but better because he's stealing it in front of a captive audience.

With only a hint of evil, he bends over in front of the fridge, fingers pressed to his cheek in deep consideration of the choices. So they can both get a better look at the goods.

"Ooh. Chilly." Was that a shiver, or a wiggle?

[kaballin]

That guttural purr goes right to Kabal's dick. (Turns out blood flow is just fine.)

"Oh you fucking bastard." Every single thing that Len is doing is arousing: walking around without a care while completely naked, drinking straight from the bottle, and then flaunting the goods right in Kabal's face.

His arm is all but forgotten, sure it still hurts, but he can ignore it when in the face, or ass as it were, of something he wants a hell of a lot more. There's two options open to him, reach his good hand between his legs and enjoy a little more than just the view. Or something very stupid.

This is Kabal.

He chooses the stupid one.

The mask is attached to the respirator which is currently all wrapped up around the bed to keep him from tangling up the lines. So Kabal in all his infinite wisdom pulls the mask off so he can stand up, promptly falls back onto the sheets, rolls over to the end of the bed and makes a swipe at Len's middle to try and tug him down onto the mattress.

It's a rather uncoordinated effort born of frustration and desperation, but he is definitely willing to sacrifice his own well being for the sake of his dick.

[hypothermic]

Kabal's arm catches him around his waist, and Len stumbles backwards and onto the mattress with a bounce that shakes the entire bed.

He twists around in the other man's grip, snarling, and breaks away. As vicious and impossible to hold onto as a pissed-off cat. His gut reaction is to lash out. Fist raised and ready to strike before his brain catches up with his body. Chest heaving.

The switch from animal instinct to rational mind is immediate. Wild eyes turned cool with a hard blink. Len's shoulders lower, the fight leaving his body. He sits back and away from Kabal. Breathes in deep through his nose. Exhales. Silently fighting down the uncomfortable slurry of emotions in his belly as violently as any physical opponent.

"You're an idiot." Len rolls his eyes, leaning back on one hand. Cool. Like nothing happened. In spite of his burning face and throat.

He isn't used to being caught off-guard, and it's been a while since anyone's touched him without the intent to maim or kill. Len hasn't been laid in months. Saving the world doesn't leave much time for fooling around, and even if it did, the type of people (heroes) who dedicate their lives to saving the world aren't interested in slumming it with a criminal. They shack up with each other. Len couldn't hold onto his singular friend, never mind bag a lover.

For all his teasing, Len didn't expect Kabal would actually want him. Never mind risk pain for pleasure so soon after going through hell. Forgot he could be that kind of desirable to anyone anymore.

Len reaches over to adjust the respirator, re-aligning the tubes into a viable position above Kabal's head.

"I should let you suffocate. So you can claim the Darwin award with your name on it."

[kaballin]

There's a reason that Kabal is an enforcer and not the brains of the Black Dragon, because when he plans for things they aren't more than five minutes into the future. What would he have done if that had worked? If Len had flopped onto the bed all coy and alluring? He'd be in exactly the same situation he's in now which is grabbing for his mask and sliding it back into place while flopping down onto the bed because he doesn't have the stamina to even stand up let alone thrust someone into the mattress.

Also he almost got a fist to the face right then which would be a little bit of a mood killer. But not much since he was raring to go one handed and unable to sit up for more than a few minutes.

Someday Kabal will learn to think with other parts than his dick. Today is not that day.

"Then all that scrubbing you just did would be for nothing." he's wheezing, it's super attractive. "We had a bargain."

The one where if he didn't cry maybe Leonard would potentially think about something. But now here he is prancing around in silky panties and somehow he expected that Kabal wouldn't act on that?

His joking demeanor and total confidence belies the fact that he's incredibly self aware of who and what he is. And especially what he looks like. It's not so much that he cares, because really he doesn't, but being a walking husk of beef jerky does tend to turn people off. Or to make jokes about what else might have burned off.

So now he's got someone sassily waggling their bits around and he more than wants it. He's been here for over half a year and got laid once and he's suffering. Too bad he's far too weak to act on it.

He stretches out, taking up the whole bed and leaning up on his elbows to stare at Len on the other end of the mattress. "You're the one who has to deal with my corpse if I die and start smelling up the place."

[hypothermic]

"And if I fucked you right now, all that scrubbing would still be for nothing. Because you'd croak before you came." Len reaches from where he's sitting to grab the bottle back, and take another drink. Getting drunk would be stupid, but he'll need a buzz to lay here beside this man and not smother him before morning comes.

A heavy sigh, and he offers the bottle to Kabal. Shifting on the bed to be almost beside him. So he can stretch his legs out, and attempt to relax before shit can hit the fan.

"I'd freeze you before you could start rotting, and chip pieces off when I needed ice in my drink."

Len's eyes are on Kabal again, scanning over his arm before tracking up towards his face. The bandages are still intact, thankfully. He'll change them over when they start to look too wet.

"Like I said. Live through the night, and I'll think about it. Until then? Go the hell to sleep, or shut up and watch Diehard 2 with me. That's the only action you'll be getting." And on VHS no less. How nostalgic.

He leans back on one elbow, hand supporting the back of his neck, and flicks on the TV.

"I'm allllllll about that icicle scene." A smirk.

[kaballin]

"At least I'd die happy. Assuming you live up to what you look like." An idle quip, with the way Len talks he's pretty sure the man knows what he's doing. All the more reason Kabal would very much like to be plowing him into the mattress right now. But for all his frustration and seething lust, he does sort of realize that's not very practical. Under duress he might admit he's not up to it.

Possibly.

Grabbing the bottle he tilts the mask up to take a few swallows before handing it back. He doesn't wanna get shitfaced when he's already making amazingly bad decisions while stone-cold sober. With his luck he'll end up on the floor choking to death ten inches away from his respirator because he doesn't have the strength to get up and then he'll never see what that silky little number looks like on the floor.

Fine, he'll be a good patient, closing his eyes and falling asleep next to a hot piece of ass with the soothing sounds of Diehard 2 in the background. It's almost a little romantic.

It's a few hours later when he slowly wakes up, feeling even worse than he had before. Even though he's under all his blankets and sheets he's absolutely freezing. Is Captain Icebox over here actually cold to the touch? It's hard to see from only the light of a tv that's showing a black screen, but Len is next to him asleep. Cute.

And it's right about then that Kabal realizes something must be wrong with him, because he isn't even trying to get a better view of all Len's good parts, he just wants to get warmed up.

Shifting over to his side he wraps an arm around Len's middle, wanting to drag him against his chest. He's cold, Len is probably warm, and none of Kabal's thought processes are currently centered below the waist.

Clearly he's dying.

Or he's feverish, because while he feels like he's sleeping in a New York doorway in January, he's actually burning up. His whole body is radiating heat to the point it's probably uncomfortable for Len to be next to him. On the plus side: he doesn't sweat. On the negative side, because of that he doesn't thermoregulate so he'll keep on getting hotter until his brain melts out his ears.

[hypothermic]

Kabal was out like a light before the credits rolled. Len crept out of bed, carefully, to eat something, grab a shower, and wash his disgusting clothes in the tub.

He washes Kabal's dirty pants and leather jacket too. Only because they're reeking up the place, and the tub was already full. Len would bite off his own tongue before admitting he takes comfort in mundane domestic tasks, or that focusing on laundry instead of survival is almost enough to take the edge off.

After all the hiding, stealing, and fighting for his life, living like a person for a few hours instead of mouse on the run from a particularly large, aggressive cat feels... good. Len knows it can't or won't last, but he would be stupid not to take advantage of the situation while he can.

In the morning, Kabal will wake up (or not), they'll screw (or not), and then Len's ass is getting kicked to the curb unless he gives the man a reason otherwise.

There's a part of Len that wants to flip this to his favor. Keep on seducing and screwing Kabal in exchange for a safe place to sleep, eat, and bathe, but... that would make him a whore, and hooking is the one crime you'll never see on Len's rap sheet. He's better than that.

More than pride, it's his father's voice that stops him. How fucking smug he would look knowing Len fell that far without him, like he always said he would. Because he's too weak to cut it on his own.

Len stews for a while, picks up the trash from all over, pours the sloshing, soggy-skin water down the toilet, and wipes everything down. He's not spending the night in a petri dish of bacteria.

At some point he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, closes his eyes, and the next thing he remembers is burning. Mick's eyes on fire as he brands something into his back. Hotter than hell. The smell of plasma and raw tissue thick in the air. He gasps in his sleep, clawing at the bed-sheets trying to pry himself away from the heat, but there are strong, burning arms wrapped around him. Holding him claustrophobically tight.

Len's eyes snap open. All at once he knows where he is, who he's with, and what's happening.

"Kabal, wake up." He pinches his good arm, twisting in his embrace to glare back at him "Wake up, and let go of me. We need to move. Now."

He reaches for a cup of water on the bed-side table, and dumps it over his shoulder onto the other man's face/head. Len needs him awake. There's no way in hell he can drag Kabal's ass to the tub without the other man putting in some leg-work.