2010-02-19: Mattie And Cogburn

Starring:

Daphne_V4icon.pngJack_V4icon.png

Date: February 19th, 2010

Summary:

Daphne isn't a lady; neither is Jack.


"Mattie and Cogburn"

Building 27 - Prisoner Barracks

The barracks is another prison; it just happens to be one slightly larger than the tiny individual cells or the general oblivion of being one unconscious person on a slab in a room of many others. Notably, all the windows are covered up, creating a timeless and sunless atmosphere like being stuck in a bomb shelter underground, wondering if anyone else above is alive.

… or, you know, a prison.

These details are all periphery at the moment, however, to one young woman within these walls. Her hair's longer, but its usual electrified mess, and she has no regard for the dress they deign to giving the inmates. Over this, Daphne's draped a blanket onto legs that are tucked up and off to her side. Nestled up against one side of the couch, her eyes are glued to the TV screen out of sheer spite — like, somehow, looking around will let them win.

At least, this is one possibility. Or maybe she just feels really, really intently about informercials. Because that's what on, with no remote in sight.

Bad lighting. Crappy food. Uncomfortable beds. This reminds Jack far too much of a place he'd like to forget. As much as he'd like to fly off the handle and fisticuff his way out of here armed with nothing but self-righteous fury, he knows that won't work. He's tried it, and he has the bruises to prove it. His bad eye and the cheek below are a mass of swelling and purple bruises, and he shields his ribs instinctively as he limps from the private quarters to the common area. His good eye darts to and fro, taking in every possible shred of information and filing it away for some later use, most likely in fantasy.

Couch good. TV good. Jack limps toward them and settles down gingerly next to Daphne. "Hey," he greets her. "Anything good?"

It'd be considered common manners to move over or make eye-contact with your new company; Daphne does neither. As the man's weight redistributes the couch's mass, those blanketed legs just ride with the slight change. She doesn't draw them in closer to her politely, or even defensively. Gaze never flickering away from the harsh glow of the screen that's extolling on the virtues of ShamWow, she just kneads bored fingers into the fabric of her cover, tugging it higher up on her body without exposing her feet. It seems, at first, like she might also let his greeting go answered but, eventually, her head tilts and displaces all that messy hair. With clear sarcasm— because it's so artfully put on, "Think they'd give me a phone to order these things? This guy has got me so convinced."

Between worrying about Trina and his urgent need for a cigarette, Jack has been having a hard time keeping his cool. He's been attempting to bide his time, but patience is not always his strong suit. Something about settling in front of the familiar, artificial glow of a television soothes him. It doesn't help that even the smallest luxury seems fantastic after days of being confined.

"Pardon?" Jack replies distractedly. He, too, has been sucked in by the televangelistic hawking of unnecessary products. "Oh," he continues after mentally reviewing the last few seconds. He chucks a thumb toward his bruised face, pointing but not touching. "I wouldn't risk it. When I asked if I could order a pizza, the guard gave me this."

His indication in words is enough to get Daphne's eyes to stray from the television for the first time in a while. After a second to access what he means, her head also follows the gaze, letting her get an even better examination of those injuries. "Seems a bit extreme over a pizza," she opines on the tail of this study. "What'd you do, say you were gonna share it with his mom?" Then it's back to the tv, easy as that. Bruises only hold so much interest.

In fact, except the energy spent to make something sound sarcastic, she doesn't seem to have all that much drive. Running on empty. Take sitting here and not even twitching— no, wait, there's some sudden movement from underneath the blanket, but its spastic nature, and her fleeting grimace, suggest it was involuntary.

Jack looks, but he doesn't stare. He has the courtesy and presence of mind not to ask, either. Instead, he grunts a vague reply and lets his mind wander as the ShamWow performs miracle after miracle. When he does speak up he changes the topic back to TV. He nods his head toward the set and cocks an eyebrow curiously. "Nothing but infomercials on? Does that mean it's nighttime?"

"Or else they're also controlling the television to take that extra hit on morale." Because, you know, morale is so high in this place right now. Daphne thumps her back against the couch, letting herself sink some into the lumpy cushioning. "Nah, there was some doofus animation on before. I've got, like, noooo idea what it was or who decided this channel was a good idea in the first place. So, sure, it's nighttime. Actually, that means there's some really tragic lifetime movie on. I bet if you change it quick, we'll still get to see the part where Sally cries tears of joy when the neighborhood bans together to fix her house." Do not mistake that eager nodding for sincerity; once again, every word has been soaked in a sugary sweet perkiness that even reflects in her widened eyes, but not that thin, angry mouth.

Equal parts intrigued and amused, Jack drops all pretense of casual conversation. "You're more bitter about this than I am," he remarks, his tone light and cheerful despite the seriousness of his words. He looks down at the tiny, furious young woman sitting next to him and crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm impressed. Anyway, we're not likely to get lucky if it's nighttime."

Scoffing; "What are you talking about, I'm a ray of freakin' sunshine." Daphne's furtive darting gaze pins an accusatory stare right at those boarded up windows before she's instantly back on the glare of the television. Even as the bitter mood rises, it falls, dashed upon the rocks of morbid acceptance. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, does it. We did what we did, and it got us here."

"You did what you did, maybe," Jack replies, a bit skeptical. "I didn't do anything that should land me in secret prison with a colar around my damn neck." Though he's inwardly seething, he's outwardly calm. He's not tearing at his neckpiece, at least. No telling if it'll explode or sound an alarm or something equally unpleasant. He pulls in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then lets it out slowly.

Daphne's eyes make an attempt at the back of her head before she fixes them once more upon their last-night entertainment. "Everybody's done something," she expresses with that skeptical press and jut out of the lips, a dismissive tone in general, "Trust me, I've seen plenty of 'em. And if they haven't then… well, then they're too good to be true." For the first time, her expression really just falls. Fingers delay in their tugging at the blanket until there's just stilled knuckles buried in the warm but somehow not comforting fabric.

Now it's Jack's turn to roll his eyes and cross his arms over his chest. "I never said I was innocent. Just that I didn't do anything that should land me in here. And if I had, I definitely didn't get caught doing it." He glances over at the woman beside him. The sight of her youthful and forlorn face pulls a small sigh out of him. Abruptly, he realizes that he has no idea who she is. "Don't worry, kiddo," he offers comfortingly. "We'll get out of here. I always get out. My name's Jack. What's yours?"

There's a definite snort at the 'kiddo' part before Daphne's deigning to look over at him once more. "Daphne," she supplies after a moment of really examining that bruised face all over again. "And I'm not getting out. I belong here." Then back to the TV. It's incessant noise is doing less and less to distract her, however, at the bleating of the spokesman over pictures of whatever-it-is doing whatever-it-does only makes what was an eerily blank expression into a vaguely more sour one.

"Tell me you're not one of those woe-is-me-I-deserve-my-punishment bints," Jack fairly begs. "That 'I belong here' crap is… crap." He looks Daphne over with his good eye while his milky blind one tracks a half-second behind it. "And don't make that face. You look like you just ate a warm spoonful of poo."

"Not really feeling like I have to tell you anything, actually, Jack," is all Daphne replies with a flavoring of 'whatever'. Besides raising eyebrows that can be easily interpreted as how crazy she thinks he is, she goes on making such faces as she feels like. Mostly they track unhappiness and death by boredom so that, several seconds later, when this particular informercial continues to cling to life, she utters, "Fine! I can't take this anymore." The to-self proclamation is followed by her planting her hands down, one on the arm of the couch and one on the edge. She makes sure to get an absolutely steady grip because she then uses a strong push off from the couch to move her body forward.

Her legs follow, in their own sort of odd, disjointed way. They look kind of like they're asleep, all rubbery and refusing to take their share of the weight. As the blanket falls away, she transfers the hand from the edge of the couch to the edge of the coffee table in front of it. Her feet are planted on the floor by this point, but it's a very loose translation of the word. Clearly, her arms are doing most of the work… and, clearly, she means to make it this way the distance to the television.

"How about I get the channel this time?" Jack is already halfway to the television. He doesn't offer to help Daphne back to her seat, nor does he afford her condition more than a glance. He doesn't apologize for his insensitive words, either. Anything he said now would only call more attention to his unintentional douchebaggery.

Fiddling with the channels produces dismal results. More infomercials. A lot more. A John Wayne western on AMC. Jack pauses there, then glances back at Daphne and keeps going. Eventually, he finds an episode of CSI. "That's as good as we're going to get, I think," he remarks. "I can watch Gil Grissom talk about bugs if you can."

The first seconds make it seem like Daphne might protest, already propped up like she means to take a pommel horse by storm. But then, carefully, she back-tracks the left hand and eases in a sort of ragged fashion into her spot. The blanket keeps its spot pooled on the floor as she goes through the process of picking up one leg by its baggy prison wear and planting it onto the couch, then the other.

By the time he's finalized his choice of channel, she's looking like the normal bored girl in front of the television. Well, as normal as collars and prisons get. Her arms stretch out to either side, wrapping about the back of the couch as she affects half of a cowboy stance — her curled up legs sort of break the mystique, but she's doing what she can here. "Are you kidding?" Is bleated out, more easy-going than guarded if only for the subject matter, "You want to pass up 'True Grit' for this?"

Jack grins crookedly. The expression takes ten years off of his haggard face. "I think we're going to get along, Daphne," he rumbles pleasantly as he changes the TV back to AMC. On his way back to his seat, he stoops down to scoop up the loose blanket. With a flick of his wrist, he shakes it out and lets it drift down breezily over Daphne's legs.

When he's finished, he settles down onto the couch again and wiggles his bottom in search of a less lumpy angle. "If you need anything, let me know," he offers without shifting his eyes away from the TV. "It's a fair distance to the mess hall."

"Well, I do have impeccable taste," informs the young woman, warm with the brief pleasure of the quality programming returning. Daphne's satisfaction is short-lived, and quickly buried, however, and she's returned to that effective letting her eyes get sucked into the screen deal when Jack comes around. The only acknowledgment of his movement of the blanket comes from the swallow that protrudes her throat briefly.

"Thanks but no thanks," is her breezy disregard for the offer, not entirely rude but yet with a put-on attitude — maybe just to cover the sting. "Not when I've got me this snazzy ride." Reaching over the other side of the couch, the one far from Jack, she gets a grip and tugs forward. Into view rolls the front of a standard medical wheelchair. She's also staring at the TV.

"Sweet," Jack replies.

And that's that. He's content to pass time watching old westerns, and even happier to have someone else around who properly appreciates them. There's still one thing missing, though.

"Who do I have to blow to get a smoke?" Jack whines under his breath. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest huffily. "That's normally not my thing, but I'd take a shot in the mouth for a Marlboro right now."

It's good, the movie; it'd better be, since its star actor won an Oscar for his performance. Daphne is content to let this reality take over for the several minutes before her companion speaks up again.

Eyes dart in that direction. "We could never know each other well enough for me to want to know that about you," she remarks straight-up. "I mean, I don't care about the cigarettes, whatever, it's your deal and all, but… come on. There are just some things that should never come out of a mouth, no matter what you put in it first."

Jack ponders that for a few moments, but isn't able to puzzle it out in the end. Come on. Come out. Put in. "That's dirty," he says, jabbing a finger decisively in Daphne's direction. "You should try and be more ladylike."

Daphne only snorts again. "Yeah, well, you first."

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