[ you can always tell when a new batch come in from the lost, confused-looking submissives on the train platform in their paper gowns, ready for their first ride to the down and their shitty new housing. the ones that fight get drugged into cooperation, and some of them handle the drugs better than others.

quentin is not handling the drugs well at all. his powers are coming back by degrees, but he's too hot and confused, and time keeps skipping past him in fits and starts. one moment he's screaming at the staff, the next he's here, crouched on the platform with his head against his knees, struggling to breathe through the pain in his head and the panic trying to send bile up into his throat. his control hasn't been this shitty in years, and everything's so fucking loud.

stop it! his telepathic 'voice' fizzes in and out like a bad radio station, unintentional, dangerous if he can't sort himself out. stop it, stop it! stop thinking so loud! ]

[ arrival had been fraught enough that quentin is.. quiet through orientation. not meek, never that, but thoughtful and observant. these people can fuck up his powers that badly with one stupid shot, make him biddable. and he's seen the difference here between the down and the up, knows he needs to at least pretend to be cowed until he can figure out a course of action.

by the time orientation is out and they're paired up for his trip back to the down, he looks angry again, mouth a thin line in his face, eyes narrowed behind the round pink lenses of his glasses. dressed in skinny jeans, boots, and a loose, light sweater that may have arrived with him or may have been 'obtained' off someone, he certainly doesn't look like much of a threat, anyway. ]

So, what? The first time we get nothing, but after we're officially 'people'-- [ with the requisite air quotes. ] --suddenly they care about whether I get home safely? [ he clicks his tongue. ] Classy.

[ the great thing about being an omega-level mutant of his particular mutation is that he's really good at multitasking. so while he's been forced into this stupid high school fundraiser porno parody activity, no one's said he can't do it his way.

he's perched in the air in swim-shorts, ankles crossed and a popsicle melting over his fingers, attention only idly on the two cars he's washing simultaneously. he's not being particularly careful with where the soap or the water goes, though, so people may be getting splashed with one or both now and then. oops? ]

honestly, apocalypse would be embarrassed to claim this post-apocalyptic porno-dystopia. too many humans, for one thing.

how often can i be expected to be drugged here?