redshiftrp | video; un: shuckitall

[It's obvious that, at least at first, the boy being filmed has no clue about it, nor that it's being sent anywhere else for anyone else to see. It would seem someone left the device somewhere, discarded and ignored.

There isn't much to be seen, the room he's in is mostly empty, besides a bed to sleep on and the like, mostly decked in chrome everywhere the eye could see. The angle is tilted, but the boy can be seen in nearly every area of the room that he paces around like an angry cat. He bangs on the door, demands to be let out, to no avail. Mutters to himself, nonsensical things--

"Kill me! I trusted you."
"Shut up! Just do it!"

"Kill me or I kill you!"
"Do it before I become one of them!"

All the while, he's clawing at his arms, fisting his hands in his hair, punching the wall until his knuckles bleed, but he doesn't seemed phased by any of it at all.

The feed stretches on for a good hour or so, maybe closer to two, before he takes notice of the device again. The camera gives a far-too-close shot of his face as he mutters intelligibly to himself, fussing with the-- well, he doesn't know what it is, but he's sure that flickery-man he'd seen earlier said he could talk on it, somehow. Not that he remembers any of the instructions. Or were there any instructions at all? He can't remember. There were rarely instructions when WICKED was involved, and if there were, they were hardly useful.

"Shuckin' thing... Dunno what'm s'posed to..."

He blinks as he inspects the screen a little closer, eyes squinted in concentration. Everything is hard to process still. They said they cured him-- or something. He doesn't buy it, he's still too jacked in the head to be all right. But... he thinks he's getting clearer, maybe. Or maybe he just wants it to be true.

He pulls the device away from his face and taps a finger on the screen. The young, dirty-blonde boy looks a bit worse for wear, a few scrapes and scratches littering the tops of his hands, one cut in particular on his cheek.

But most noticeable, any time he moves his hands in the right angle in the shot of the camera, are the thick, black veins that run across his arms and peek up from the collar of his shirt, running up his neck and toward his face. When he speaks, it's with a distinct accent.]

Oi, this thing on? Anyone out there? If WICKED is listenin', hear me out, yeah: I don't buy your klunk about a cure. It's never existed, an' I don't reckon it ever will. You're all a bunch of nasty buggers who need to sod right the shuck off, al'right? Every last one'a ya.

[He throws an offensive hand gesture toward the camera and there's a beat after that before he adds:] And let me outta this bloody metal box- cage- thing you lot've shoved me in!

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Yeah, just got ushered over after the decontamination. It's right 'round the corner, really. Was told I'd be killed if I didn't quarantine. [There's a beat and a small, sad smile tries to turn up one corner of his mouth, but doesn't quite make it.] Maybe I should've just let 'em. Wouldn't be anybody's problem then, would I? Wouldn't lose whatever's left of me to this thing. [He taps a finger against his temple.]

[this fucking dude needs a HUG, like godDAMN.]

No, no. That wouldn't have solved anything, and I don't think they would have bothered quarantining you if there wasn't some way to manage your condition.

[He's really not positive about that, but he definitely wants to believe that it's true. True in the "there's a chance that you'll be totally fine" way, not in the "robots will totally murder you if you're a friggen bio-hazard" way.]

Did they- did they do anything else? Take any blood samples or do any weird tests or anything?

Edited 2019-08-16 00:45 (UTC)

It would have solved everything. I'mma bloody threat to you lot just for existing, for- for breathing the same air as you, practically. You clearly don't know anything about this bloody disease. It's a death sentence. Worse, really. I don't want to lose who I am, that's what I was trying to get Tommy to understand, I don't wanna be a Crank, I'd rather be dead first!

I don't think so... I didn't notice anything else besides the injection, anyway.

Okay, okay, you- you're right. We don't know anything about your disease, but there's a chance that the robots do. There's a lot going on here that none of us understand, so- so I'll make you a deal, okay? Wait a few days, like, like a week. Just wait and see if the injection they gave you makes any difference. If... if it doesn't, or if you start to get worse, then, uh. Then we'll handle this your way. Does that sound fair?

[He's banking on the the space robots from the future knowing what they're doing. WOW he really hopes they know what they're doing because he pretty much just offered to off this dude if he asks for it. INSTANT REGRET.]

[He stares at the screen for a too-long, uncomfortable moment as he takes in the idea. Weird, isn't it? He'd begged Thomas. Pleaded with him, shouted at him, demanded it... he'd fought him every second, until the last one. This bloke doesn't even know him and he's so ready to do this Newt's way if it all goes horribly wrong. There's something about that, that almost seems... he's not sure the word he's looking for. Right isn't it, neither is trustworthy. But... it fits, somehow, into the comfort parts of his head. He accepts it, and the process it took to get there is almost obvious on his face-- from the consideration to suspicion to acceptance.]

All right. Fine. But I'm gonna hold you to it.

[For the record, Peter already 100% regrets making this offer. He hates this and he hates when his idiot mouth goes off before his brain has a chance to make him not say the dumb thing. The smart thing to do would be to just backpedal his ass off and be like "nah man, actually, maybe no murder", but this is Peter Parker and he doesn't always do the smart thing. Also this guy seems somehow weirdly... comforted?? kind of??? by this creepy little agreement they've made, sooooo.]

Deal.

Just. Keep me updated.

[He nods a bit.]

Good that.

Edited 2019-08-20 01:44 (UTC)

video; un: shuckitall

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