=XF= Laundry Room - Residences - Chemekata Military Base
This is a laundry room. They are not coin operated, which is AMAZING, but the dispenser for different kinds of soaps and fabric softeners is. That sucks. There is wireless, a TV, and a lounge area in addition to a folding table. Yup. That's sure a laundry room.


Laundry is totally a normal thing to do after wiping someone's memory, right? Apparently it is for Jake. Satisfaction from earlier enjoyments of the day is somewhat tempered by a pinched sense of exhaustion, and the hard candy she is sucking on might hint as to why. She's sitting on one of the washers not currently in use with her laptop in her lap (where it belongs), futzing around with something that is surely trivial and inconsequential. Laundry is slow.

Basket at his hip, Jean-Paul checks himself a moment at the door on spotting Jake. He grimaces, and then moves in regardless. He's a hard knot of tension against her shields, but at least he no longer floats in a miasma of queasy-hued hangover bleh. (He must've run out of vodka, or else given up and just poured the rest of it out. ...probably the latter.) He nods to her, just slightly, before moving to the washer next to her. He's brought his own detergent rather than dealing with the dispensers down here, and his laptop is tucked in the side of his basket.

Jake lifts her eyebrows at the sight of him, some knowing quality to the look. A smirk cuts sharply across her features at his grimace. "Oh hi," she says sweetly. "I had a question for you." She tracks him as he moves closer, watching him with lazy interest. She reaches for the bottle of juice next to her, uncapping it and taking a quick swig. (That must taste awesome with her butterscotch candy.)

Maybe she should've had fruit-flavored candy. Just sayin'. Sharpness answering that knowing smirkiness, Jean-Paul flips up the lid, dumps in detergent, and tosses in his whites. Of COURSE he separates. "What?" he asks, leaning to put the basket down near her feet.

"Do you need some valium or something?" Jake asks, actually half-serious. "Cause I haven't been on anything in a while, but I'm plenty experienced at finding dealers." She sets the bottle down, cap in the opposite hand, and taps her gripped fingers on it. "And you are just like one giant ball of miserable."

Straightening /sharply/, Jean-Paul snaps a venomous look at Jake. With exaggerated, precise care, gently he lowers the lid on the washer. Gently he chooses hot water. Sharply he thumbs start. He snaps something rude in French.

"Touchy." Jake takes another sip of juice. "I'll be very imaginative and creative, making up a translation for that. And take that as a no. You know, valium's pretty awesome."

"You know what else is pretty awesome?" Jean-Paul asks, hands braced on the edge of the washer as he leans in toward Jake. His eyes glitter, mindscape all edges.

Jake's eyes narrow, sensing the danger and rising to it. She leans in in response. "What?"

Self-control loosening to allow a tide of emotion to rise and batter her shields, Jean-Paul lifts his hand to curl his fingers beneath her chin, tipping it. Touch enhances a flatscans version of an empathic, telepathic shout: "Minding your own fucking business."

"That's funny," Jake says, unsmiling as she firms her shields against his touch. "If someone's having a fight next door and I tell them to shut up, I don't think it counts as not minding my own business." She uncurls her hand from her juice bottle to try and remove his touch with a firm grip.

The flick of his hand as he turns it away is contemptuous. Jean-Paul looks away from Jake with a curl of disgust at his lip, and shivers as he draws self-control over again, and jams emotions back down into their little box. He leans to pick up his basket and laptop, saying only a quiet, "That's funny. Not quite the same."

"Maybe not for you," Jake says, heartless in her bristle of irritation. She snaps her laptop shut and slides off the washer. Unfortunately, in doing so she knocks her open bottle of juice over, and its contents spill happily...onto Jean-Paul. Oops.

Swear sharp and Quebecois, Jean-Paul pulls his (white) shirt away from his (pale) body and slants a somewhat suspicious look up at Jake. Did you do that on purpose.

"Sorry." Her apology is mild and suggests that, even if she didn't do it on purpose, she doesn't care overmuch that it happened on accident. Jake rights the bottle, letting the final remnant inch settle in the bottom, and looks around for some sort of paper towels. Um. "Can I have your shirt?"

"What are you going to do, lick it off?" Jean-Paul asks, peeling it away with irritation crackling through his voice. He yanks it off, careful not to smear it any further over his face or hair. The muscles of his shoulders and chest move with lean strength beneath the pale skin as he flings his shirt damply toward her.

"Uh, if I was going to lick it off, I wouldn't need something to wipe it up with," Jake points out in a tone that distinctly ends her sentence with 'you stupid idiot.' She moreso blocks the shirt than catches it, but at least she doesn't drop it. Setting her laptop down on a safe, unjuiced surface, she uses his shirt to sop up the juice from the surface of the washer and the floor.

Jean-Paul watches Jake sop ... incredulously. INCREDULOUSLY. His hands tighten at his sides, muscles cording clearly in his arms.

Hot. When Jake straightens back up, she has the audacity to look mildly surprised by his incredulity. "It's not like it didn't already have juice on it," she points out. "And look!" She turns to his washer, which has barely started, after all. "A load of whites!" She opens the washer and tosses in the shirt.

"It has /juice all over it/," Jean-Paul says, snatching the shirt before it can hit the water with reflexes battle-honed now laundry-applied. "{Christ,} you weren't dropped on your head, you were thrown on it, over and over."

"That's why you /put it in the wash/," Jake snaps, rolling her eyes as he snatches the shirt back but not fighting it. She throws up her hands. "Fine. If you don't have faith in the power of bleach, there's nothing I can do for you."

Jean-Paul takes his detergent, takes his shirt, and goes over to the sink to rinse and pre-treat it. God, Jake. "Should've mopped the rest up with your face." He is so witty I can't even say.

"Wow," Jake says blandly. "You are so witty. My /face/."

Teeth snapping shut on anything else he might say, Jean-Paul rubs at the stains from the inside, and then washes his hands.

It is now Jake's turn to look incredulous, though hers is a much muted form. "I mean...are you really serious? You're that paranoid about your /white t-shirt/?"

Maybe it's a shirt he really loves, Jake. Maybe it's an old shirt, with a lot of meaning to him. Maybe Brent gave it to him. Maybe Jeanne-Marie gave it to him. MAYBE IT SMELLED LIKE BRENT. AND NOW HE HAS TO WASH IT. Or maybe he's just cranky. "Fuck off," Jean-Paul snaps, taking his shirt and throwing it in with a fluid, violent motion.

"No thanks," Jake says, though she him with a certain superficial appreciation for his bare torso. "Well, probably. If you swung that way."

"No." Clang. Jean-Paul leans against the washer, juice drying on his skin, with dark denim clinging to shadow his hips and ass. Too bad, huh? Oh well, she just got laid. "Why are you so unpleasant?"

"Why are you so high-strung?" Jake counters.

"Pain in the ass neighbors," Jean-Paul snipes.

"Yeah, I know how that is," Jake deadpans. "Go get laid."

"Is that how you solve everything, then?" Jean-Paul asks her, turning to give Jake a sharp glance. "Kill someone, go get laid? Ruin someone's mind, go get laid? Ruin someone's /life/, go get laid?"

"I'm waiting for the part that I have to solve," Jake says in a very even voice that drapes over a certain tension underneath. "I haven't done any of those things to anyone who didn't deserve it."

Jean-Paul shakes his head, drawing back just slightly. "That's sick," he says.

"Really?" Jake says, voice quieting. "I have a hard time believing that there isn't some part of you that wishes it could have done what I did to the men on that island."

Eyes narrowing, Jean-Paul looks back at Jake, meeting the implied challenge with an absolute coolness. "There is nothing in me that wishes I were as callous and as cavalier as you."

Jake narrows her eyes in response, moving closer to him. "What did they deserve, then," she wonders, "for helping to kidnap people -- mutants -- and hunt them down for sport? A slap on the wrist? Make sure they promise to be good?"

Jean-Paul says, "Justice." He straightens, without drawing away. He squares his shoulders, and lifts his chin. "A public accounting."

Jake snorts a quiet, almost disgusted breath. "Yeah," she says, sarcasm eating away at her words. "I'm sure the rich white guys will get the full sentencing they deserve."

Her sarcasm stinging mostly for its truth, Jean-Paul blinks, before his eyes narrow. "And now they die quietly, with no one knowing, and no truth for their victims. Vengeance isn't the same."

"Hey," Jake says, smile sharpening across her laugh, "at least I didn't shoot Adams, right?" Twisted amusement is brittle in her gaze. "He'll be able to go through his sham of a trial or whatever it is that'll happen to him."

Jean-Paul shakes his head, just slightly, and presses his knuckles against the metal of the washer's lid. "Yes," he says. "At least you didn't shoot him."

"But at least I made his questioning awful unpleasant," Jake says, smiling a bit wider.

"{Jesus Christ,}" Jean-Paul says, revulsion crawling across his features as he turns away, breaking eye contact. His shiver is unfeigned.

Jake laughs then, easy and brightly amused. "God, you scare easy."

"Yeah? And were you haha, just kidding?" Jean-Paul asks, pulling away with a sharp tension wired through his body, cording along the muscles of his back.

"Not like I did anything /permanent/," Jake scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Really, I only had to /threaten/ to do bad stuff."

"Forget it." Words bitten off sharp, Jean-Paul straightens. "Just -- forget it."

"I make you nervous?" Jake asks, rather unpleasantly, though at least she doesn't smile at him.

"Do I look like an idiot?" Jean-Paul counters.

"Depends what expression you're making," Jake says helpfully.

Jean-Paul smiles, tightly, and pulls his laptop out to flip it open. "You're a telepath. And you have some seriously questionable ethics. Do the math."

"Oh, Jean-Paul," Jake sighs out, quite innocent. "Like you'd ever do anything that would warrant it."

No one should be quite this casual about the laundry room. Madrox strides in, half-sidles in, really (can you stride a sidle? Perhaps), pulling off his shirt as he goes. He's even whistling. And he's beelining to the washer with such idle single-mindedness that he doesn't seem to notice he's not alone until he's laid his shirt on top of an unoccupied washer, pivot-- "Oh. Hey guys."

"Oh, Jake," Jean-Paul sighs back, "like whether or not it really matters whether or not someone /warrants/ it. Get to that point and you start finding /excuses/--." He breaks off when Madrox whistle-slides in, tension radiating from the lines of his posture. His fingers curl to form a fist, and he ticks an eyebrow upward as Madrox yanks his shirt off, gaze sweeping over. What is this, shirtless day? JEEZ.

Should Jake take hers off, too? She sets her back to the washer and leans up against it, watching with raised brows as Madrox comes in. And starts stripping. She looks pleased by the fact. "Should I get out some stripper singles?"

Madrox glances from the tense Jean-Paul to the perky Jake. Contrast. And contrast. "I don't like wearing wet shirts," he clarifies, as far as he's likely to clarify. What.

Jean-Paul bites a sharp smile in Jake's direction. "Not taking anything else off," he says to her, and then looks back at Madrox. What.

"Too bad," Jake says, sounding perfectly indifferent. Madrox has most of her attention now. "Hey Jamie," she says. "I make you nervous?"

Madrox flips the washer open, blithe as you please, and slides down the line of appliances a bit to retrieve detergent. "You?" Madrox angles his head over his shoulder. "Why? Do you want me to be nervous?"

Jean-Paul types out an aggressively aggravated email, dooming people to getting punched by kangaroos. TAP TAP TAP TAP. He gives Jake a narrow look at her question of Madrox, and then glances over to watch the exchange between the pair.

"I make Jean-Paul nervous," Jake explains easily. "Apparently I have 'seriously questionable ethics.'"

"Oh. Well!" Madrox flashes a grin as he flips open the detergent box. Flippety flip. "So do I. But I'm harmless."

SEND. Jean-Paul slips the lid of his computer closed again with the touch of a single finger. All of his frustration and agitation smooshed down, he strangles any urge for a larger slam and stomp and tableflip. "Listen to yourself," he says in a low, flat voice, with a glance that slants toward Madrox. "You, I think, would not so easily dismiss killing someone and go 'they had it coming'. Even as a flippancy."

"Oh my /God/, Jean-Paul." Jake lets out a real laugh that's truly incredulous. "They were /trying to kill us/. Do you just forget about those parts?"

"That depends entirely on who you talk to." Madrox weighs out a half-cup, then dumps most of it back in. "Prime is duly tormented about everything, but still pulls the trigger. In every metaphorical iteration of the word." Full dump, try again. "And some iterations would rather die than bend. Or so they say. Me? Hmm." Just a touch of detergent, then, cradled in the plastic.

"There are /alternatives/," Jean-Paul snaps to Jake. "It's not just kill or be killed. What the hell. Law of the Jungle? Really? Are we animals?"

"I'm sorry, were you on the same island I was?" Jake asks with obnoxious sarcasm. Apparently both of them are ignoring poor Madrox. "Because they kind've /set it up/ that way."

"Oh, is that what this is about?" Madrox slides on down, dumping the thread of detergent, and mashing buttons and knobs to make the washer go. He seems untroubled by being ignored. "Tranqs versus bullets. You know? Whatever's practical. We do get deployed against the scum of the earth, but we aren't a punisher squad." He tosses the shirt in. "It's not personal." The grin goes a-jag.

"And we aren't /them/." Jean-Paul braces on the table, muscles defined sharply by the tension through his shoulders and torso as he leans. "It's not tranqs versus bullets. It's vengeance versus justice. It's making sure it /isn't/ personal," he says with a sharp jerk of his chin toward Madrox.

"It a comfy ride up on those high horses of yours?" Jake asks, the barest hint of an unpleasant, unhumorous smile touching her lips.

"Oh tch. I have no high horse." Madrox closes the washer with a slight bang. "I don't even know the context. The way I figure it, ethics isn't about what you do when someone's shooting at you. It's about what you do when you've got them helpless. And do you know what I do?"

Glancing away from Jake, Jean-Paul looks to Madrox with a slight tip of his head. Silently, he asks, 'What?'

"Send a dupe to die?" Jake guesses.

"I certainly don't. Do I look like Prime to you? I'm not kvetching enough." Madrox splays his hand against the top. "I kill the bastard." That slanty grin. "Takes all types, folks. Balance's somewhere in the middle."

Jean-Paul gives Madrox a hard look, and between Jake and Jamie, starts to look rather discomforted. Where's the nice squad, you guys?

Jake just opens a hand to Jamie in an indicative gesture, palm-up, as she looks at Jean-Paul. Her eyebrows lift as if to say, 'See?'

The grin slashes wider. "Of course, I have 'brothers' who'd be siding just as happily with Jean-Paul. Doesn't change what we've done. We sacrifice, we spare, we kill, all in about equal measure." Madrox cants his head. "Give or take a measure, maybe. That said. Fact is, you lose objectivity, you're no longer thinking tactically. And that's a problem."

Passing a hand along his face, dragging his knuckles along his jaw, Jean-Paul looks down with a slight shake of his head. His lips thin, compressing to a flat line. "There's something to that," he says, slowly. "But objectivity, tactics -- I think that they typically argue in favor of mercy."

"Guy who's dead isn't going to kill you or anybody else," Jake offers with a sense of moral -- or pragmatic --finality.

"Depends." Madrox middles (for someone who is calling himself ruthless). "Objectivity means you don't have a default. Like killing Carmen? Maybe she deserved it, but that's tactically sheer stupid. Killing a guy who's swearing vengeance on all your kin once he gets out of this cast? Maybe practical." He hitches a shoulder. The washer churns under his hand. "Killing someone because you're blind with hurt and rage? Not objective. Saving someone who'll be able to easily strike back at you later? Chancy."

Jean-Paul glances to Jake, sharply, but swallows his immediate response when Madrox puts his argument forth, instead. His lips twist slightly, there being a few points there which he would /counter/, and he says, "A criminal who is dead can't answer for his crimes, can't give closure to the victims, can't answer publicly for what he has done," he says. Glancing to Jake, he adds, "You can incapacitate without killing. You, of all people."

"So you think giving some closure and public answers is worth the chance of them slipping off on their merry way and doing the exact same thing to someone else?" Jake asks, twisting her neck briefly until a soft pop of a cracked joint is heard. "I'd rather not have more victims."

"What public answers?" Madrox asks with a sharper cant of his head. "The type of people we drag back end up in cold storage. Sometimes in drugged cold storage. Is that really kinder?"

"Great. I think Mantis has a cape you can borrow if you want to go get your vigilante on," Jean-Paul snaps in Jake's direction, before giving Madrox a glance, and a shake of his head. "Sometimes. Not always. But if we kill them, yes, then it really /is/ cold storage."

"Sounds stylish," Jake says, smiling blithely at Jean-Paul's annoyance.

"Mutation and vigilantism do seem to go hand in hand," Madrox says neutrally before he drops an odd certainty, "The dead don't suffer." Another shoulder hitch. "I haven't killed so many. Can count it on one hand. One before X-Factor," he adds with the slightly sly tone of a dupe breaking a rule. "Part of the point of law, after all, is not to protect the murderers and slavers, but protect ourselves from what we might do to them. You could say. A safety net for the soul." A beat. "Think we talked to Tom about that."

Jean-Paul gives Madrox a look, thrown off by this little confession. What.

Because she has little of tact in her, Jake simply asks, "Who'd you kill?"

"The guy who'd killed me, oh, I don't know. Seven, ten, something times." Madrox flicks something invisible on the washer. "Ever seen Anatomy of a Murder? Irresistible impulse."

Jean-Paul looks down, knuckles folding under as his fist curls on the table. He shakes his head, subsides, and sits back. He folds his arms over his chest. Gee. It'd be nice if he had a shirt.

"Sounds like he deserved it," Jake comments.

"Rather." Madrox bangs on the washer. Once, twice. "But to throw a coin on the other side, it was tactically idiotic." The washer stops, perhaps quelled by the bang. Madrox shoves up the lid. "Not a jury would've convicted me. Unless they hated mutants. Still, I suspect in my case, you wouldn't have done it." Directed over shoulder to Jean-Paul. "That's a special kind of steel."

Bang. Or more like ...bang. In small text. Jean-Paul thumps the heel of his fist so gently on the table and then looks up at Jake, sharp, before glancing away again. Because you know, Madrox -- or a Madrox -- is standing right there. "Oh, I don't know. I've never died."

"Steel," Jake echoes. It's half-scoffed, have disbelief. She shakes her head and lets out a quiet breath.

"It's nothing special." Madrox fetches out his shirt, flips open a dryer, dumps it in. Fiddles with knobs. "Way I figure it. If you can weather all the ugliness of the world and still have principles, then you get to keep them." The dryer starts bumping. "If you can't, you don't, maybe. I mean, I could be making all this up. Hardly out of character." He pushes his hands on the top of a new appliance. "But there's nothing wrong with leaning toward mercy. Plenty commendable. If plenty understandable leaning the other direction."

"It's /smarter/. It's not being ruled by some stupid animal rage," Jean-Paul says with a pointed look at Jake.

"You seem to think there was some big emotional response that made me totally lose control and shoot people," Jake says, looking unimpressed by Jean-Paul's pointed look. "I was in complete control. They were all tactical decisions." She lifts her chin.

"Rage is stupid," Madrox owns, done speeching. "Killing isn't always. If they're shooting at you and you're protecting teammates as well as yourself."

"You--." Jean-Paul snaps his mouth shut on his next argument, looking toward the washer. Wash, wash, wash. "Jake's already made up her mind, I'm not even sure what /your/ mind is. Why am I arguing?"

"Well, doesn't he have like infinite minds or something?" Jake asks, squinting at Madrox.

"Close enough," Madrox half-mutters at Jake as the dryer keeps a-drying. He sustains a pause. Thinking pause. "Well, Jean-Paul. I gotta say. I don't really got any interest in converting you to my way of thinking. Because it kind of sucks, and someone's gotta stay morally intact. But I can't quite be where you are."

Jean-Paul tips his hand to Jake. Exactly. The look he gives Madrox is a little sharp, and he moves to grab his basket and put his laptop back in it, prickled for whatever reason.

"Anyways. Let's pick out the people in the room who /aren't/ in crap moods." Jake draws a finger between herself and Madrox. "Coincidence?"

"I'm not sure I count," Madrox says with his smile as he watches Jean-Paul a little narrowly (over-shoulder again). "I mean, I just tried to drop a Tom conversational bomb."

"Well done," Jean-Paul snarls at Madrox, turning to face him with fists loosely curled at his side. "Any particular reason you're being an asshole?"

Jake lifts her eyebrows, glancing from Madrox to Jean-Paul. She clearly missed something.

Madrox lifts his eyebrows as well - maybe because he missed something, maybe because it's better to look like he missed something. In any case, "Asshole is my usual setting." He turns, settling elbows backward against the ever-churn of the dryer. "Or perhaps you deserve a little honesty. Since Prime can never manage that." He tilts his head, and self-asides. "Can I? I never remember." And back. "Do you really think I've been insulting you?"

Lifting his hand, Jean-Paul makes a slight gesture. Composure all ragged, he goes to brood at his laundry and regather his self-control as he transfers it from washer to dryer. Fuck you guys, his posture says.

"I honestly have no idea what just happened," Jake says flatly, squinting at Jean-Paul. What is wrong with you, JP?

Madrox watches Jean-Paul, if a bit more obliquely. "Because I have been expressing /admiration/ for you. Not for the first time." What. "If I own I am not very good at it. I am a lesser iteration." What.

Jean-Paul flings his socks in the dryer. FLING. When he gets to the shirt that Jake used to MOP UP HER JUICE, he holds it up to inspect it for residual signs of stain. Is bleach that amazing? He is doubtful. And yet--. The snap and snarl of anger fades, if only because he holds to silence, and the curled tension of his fists falls away into something more composed and controlled in the lines of his shoulders and back.

"Whatever. He's been a leaky ball of misery for days now," Jake tells Madrox, rolling her eyes at Jean-Paul's display. Her own dryer goes off, and she moves over to it to shift the basket off the top and begin filling it with warm clothes.

Madrox's nearly empty dryer also indicates it would like to be emptied, and Madrox returns, if not without a last long glance at Jean-Paul. "I think I'll have Prime reabsorb me. Terribly frustrating. Infinite variations, and I think I'm a misbegotten mix of three." He fetches his shirt. "Ah well. One day, Prime will tell him, I'm sure. The submerged becomes latent becomes overt."

Ignoring Jake is really super mature, Jean-Paul. Way to prove all your points about handling things like a reasonable, rational adult. Bundling the last of his clothing into the dryer, Jean-Paul thumbs in a sheet of fabric softener before setting the whole thing tumbling, and steps back. He leans against the air-warmed metal, and folds his arms over his chest. Head tipping back, he closes his eyes. "Always entertaining, these little talks," he says, low and mild -- very like off-hand.

"If there are just infinite variations, how are you a mix of three and not just your own thing?" Jake asks, mildly curious as she pulls clothes into her basket. She can ignore you too, Jean-Paul. "Tell him what?"

"Because I feel strained, stretched, wrapped around extremes. I could leap in any direction. It's entirely unsafe," Madrox rattles, briefly muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head. "Mmm, anyway, it's a secret." The words are light, the tone suddenly serious. Madrox's head re-emerges up the top. "We should really stop bothering you," he asides to Jean-Paul. Pronoun ambiguous.

"Oh, that feeling. I've felt that way all week," Jean-Paul says, head tipped to the side as he glances over at Madrox, watching the tug of fabric back down over top. He arches an eyebrow at the aside, and relents enough to say, "For all that I may have started the conversation, I think I'm a little tired of the discussion of relative honest, morality, and so forth, and so on." His tone is even! His tone is cool! But the tension remains, there to be read without fabric to hide behind (thanks, Jake). "Wasn't your fault." With a pointed hesitation, and a deep summoning of willpower, he adds, "Or yours, particularly," in a Jake-ish direction.

"Wow. Are you seriously apologizing to /me/?" Jake asks, entirely insensitive to the great effort it must have taken Jean-Paul. "Wow," she repeats. She sets her laptop in with her newly-cleaned laundry.

Madrox tugs the edge of his shirt down. "In periods of uncertainty, there is little more maddening than going over morality over and over again." A beat. That abbreviated, almost manic beat. "Then why the hell we're always talking about it, I don't know. Sorry for pressing. Poking, rather."

Okay, Jake, we're going back to ignoring you again. Lips curving without a reciprocal brightness to his eyes, Jean-Paul tips his head. "It has been one of the few certainties I've had. We do seem to linger on it."

"You need to get laid," Jake says, repeating her sentiment from earlier as she hoists her basket on one hip and heads for the exit. Doot doot doot.

"We linger because we wish we had your certainty. Didn't have--" Madrox lets it drop off. "Envy, I suppose. We'll let it be."

Jean-Paul lifts a hand and turns it in a slight, vague gesture. "Find your own certainty," he suggests like the VERIEST of fortune cookies.

"Of course. Only fair." Madrox tugs the shirt once more (frenetic, tight at once) and turns to leave. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Jean-Paul says, and all alone waits for his clothes to dry.
Shirtless men (and one beshirtted woman) discuss morality.