ArchivedLogs:Along Came A Spider (And A Pizza)

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Along Came A Spider (And A Pizza)
Dramatis Personae

Doug, Jackson, Peter


(Part of Prometheus TP.)


<NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village

This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within.

Evening is wearing on till night -- after dinner-hour, at least, though not quite late, yet. It's late /enough/ that Jackson is changing, though, out of work clothes and into -- well, work clothes. Shedding jeans and t-shirt in favour of, uh, tighter jeans, black and embroidered up their sides with red flames, and a black fishnet shirt, long-sleeved, the shirt he pulls on over top a metallic silver-dusted black sleeveless one. His makeup is red, glittering on lips and fingernails and eye, and his jet-black hair is tipped in red, too. No, silver, now. Okay, red again. He frowns into the mirror, grimacing at his reflection. The makeup vanishes altogether.

You know there is something wrong with your new 'friend' when he *insists* on entering only through the fire-escape window.

There is a gentle a-rap-rap-rapping which interrupts Jackson's decisions concerning evening ware; it comes from the hallway facing the fire escape--and continues, rather insistently, only getting louder and louder. Should he decide to check and see its source, he'll soon discover a familiar face--or lack of one, anyway. The kid with the red ski-mask and red hoodie and jeans. Except now he's got big yellow-tinted goggles that give him a bug-eyed look. He's waving his arms frantically, clearly desperate to get in.

Doug exits the elevator in the hall, a pizza box held balanced on one hand as he makes his way to 303. He's dressed not for work, but for something a little more casual. A blue thermal shirt over loose jeans and battered Converse sneakers with numbers written on them in Sharpie. He pauses in front of the door, smoothing a hand through his hair before lifting a hand to knock. KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK. It's a hard, fast rapping. Almost a nervous staccato. "Jax, you home?"

"Uh --" Jackson's eye is widening, and a moment later his makeup reappears; slightly less glittery but doing a good job at adding a healthy look to the pallor of his skin. He darts out of the bathroom, blinking first at the door and then at the window in confusion, and before he answers /either/ of these he slips /back/ to the bathroom to grab his sunglasses, large and mirrored. Only once these are on does he apparently feel comfortable answering -- "Uh, yeah, I -- one sec --" He turns to the window first, because he can /see/ it. "Why -- are you -- you know there's a front door, right?" he says, once he unlocks the fire escape window and opens it. And then he's darting away towards the door, to unlock that, too. "Is there a party? Did I not get the invite?" He seems a little frazzled.

"Idon'tknow," Peter responds, promptly *leaping* in past Jackson, landing in a crouch, and quirking his head at the sound of a rapidly knocking door. "OhGod that isn't the police, is it?!" And Peter pauses--apparently content to let Jackson get that door and stay right *here*, thank you, ready to spring out the window directly behind him just in case it *is* the police.

"A party?" Doug seems confused by the greeting, and holds up the pizza box. "I guess, if one person can be a party, it is." He grins, and nods. "I was hungry for pizza, and I thought you might be hungry, too, so I got an eggplant and tomato pizza with soy cheese and a gluten-free crust." He wrinkles his nose at the box. "I've never had eggplant pizza, but the guy at Nino's said this was the one his vegan customers love." He brightens, a hopeful expression on his face. "So, are you hungry?" Apparently, bug-eyed intruders haven't made his radar, yet.

"No, uh, there's --" Jackson steps back, waving Doug in -- and waving to Peter, too. "It's not police, it's pizza," he tells the younger teen, though he still seems a little bemused by even this. "I -- I love eggplant," he finally tells Doug. "I mean, wow. Um. Thanks. I -- why were you at my window?" he adds to Peter, scuffing his fingers through his hair. "Are the police after you? Because they'll probably look here we've got a habit of, uh -- nevermind. Pizza. Right." It all comes out kind of in a hasty spill of words, jumping from one topic to the next without much pause for breath.

At the realization that the police are not at Jackson's front door, Peter shows quite a bit of relief--but he doesn't get up from his crouch. Instead, he just hops forward, landing atop of the nearest chair--balancing atop of it, fishing inside of his jacket pocket, now in plain sight of Doug.

He pulls out an iPhone. Bright red. A little scuffed, looks slightly cracked. A moment after he flicks it on, it displays the contents of a file-folder-- entitled 'TOP SECRET BAD GUY FILES'.

"I think I know where your friends are. And, uh, yes, I think they *are*." Peter sounds... very nervous.

"Excellent," Doug says, moving into the apartment behind Jackson. "I wasn't sure if eggplant was your thing or -- hey! It's that kid!" Because Doug is a student of the obvious. He frowns as he moves past the perched Peter, and drops the pizza box on the kitchen counter before returning. "I've been leaving messages on your freaking YouTube videos for a week," he says, heading in Peter's direction. "Don't you /read/ those?" He stops, blinking at the phone. "Wait...this guy has been tracking your buddies?" he asks Jackson, his brow furrowing as he turns back to Peter, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Why are the police after you?" Jackson frowns deeper, closing the door behind Doug and then locking it. "Wait, you know --" He looks between Doug and Peter, but doesn't /actually/ finish this question. Just shakes his head, leaning against the back of the couch. He leans over to look at the -- "Top secret bad guy files?" His eyebrow hikes up, but his expression is quite serious. "You -- you do?" He doesn't /quite/ sound hopeful, but he sounds like he's trying /very/ hard /not/ to be hopeful.

"I... okay. Okay, one second," Peter says, and then he takes the iphone back to fiddle with it, looking for something, fishing through the directories--and quite promptly, it starts singing the refrain from Taylor Swift's 'Safe and Sound'. "AUGH! Wait, what the hell, oh goddamn her she--ugh ugh ugh!" Peter stabs the iPhone a few more times. The boy's apparently confused; he's also a bundle of raw, highly tensed nerves. "Okay! Here!" Peter thrusts the iPhone straight into Jackson's face.

It's... uh, files. A lot of files. With dates, most of them recent. If Jackson knows a lot about computers, he might recognize them as Excel extensions--otherwise, he'll just be looking at a bunch of gabbledegook.

"I, uh, I kind of nicked the security card off of that guy I mentioned to you the other day and used it to break into his lab and download a bunch of files and while I was there they sent *murderdrones* after me."

"Sure, I know him," Doug says. "This is that kid that broke in the other day, right? That had that list?" He steps forward, brow knitting. "He's got a shit ton of videos on YouTube, doing all kinds of dumbass stuff." He doesn't sound judgemental: it /is/ dumbass stuff. "I've been trying to get in touch with him over who sent it." He frowns, leaning so that he can look at the phone, fishing a pair of glasses out of his pocket and slipping them on, taking a long look and frowning. "Um," he says slowly, a bit of dread creeping into his tone. His hand twitches, as if itching to open one of the listed extensions. "That's...interesting. What exactly are they shipping?"

"Oh! Oh, right, you -- right." Jackson tilts the phone so that Doug can see it, frowning at the files and tapping at one to open it up. "Murder -- drones?" His brow creases, and he looks up at this to squint a little puzzled at Peter. "What, like the kind we send to Pakistan? Is that even legal? -- why were you. That's /really dangerous/, you shouldn't be breaking into places like that." Now he just sounds worried. "I mean. /Murder/drones."

"It's not dumb!" Peter immediately snaps back to Doug--and it sounds like something akin to an angsty teenage wail. "It's--it's--I'm famous on the internet, okay?!" And then, at Doug's question, Peter immediately flips the phone around, thumbs twiddling, clicking, sorting: "I just, like, grabbed *all* the files I could, because I was in a rush, and I don't know how to read *half* of this stuff because it's all sorts of encrypted and weird file extensions and--and--..."

He takes in a slow breath. *Forcing* himself to be calm. This is apparently something he's been trying to work on. After about five entire seconds of Peter being *completely* silent, he starts again--at a steady, quick, but even pace:

"Richard Parker does not work just for Prometheus. Richard Parker works for Prometheus *through* Oscorp, who works *with* Prometheus. Oscorp is a military defense contractor who has recently started specializing in anti-mutant personell devices. The manifests are--shipments. From Oscorp to Prometheus labs. The address of one of the labs--is *on* the manifests," Peter adds.

"It's /dumb/, dude. Dangerous and illegal." Doug doesn't look up from the phone when Peter jerks it back, and frowns at the empty space. "Encrypted, huh?" He chews his lip, and thinks. "Give me the phone," he says, extending a hand. "Let me tr -- " he stops as Peter explains further, and his expression darkens. "Yeah. I knew some of that," he says, shooting an apologetic look in Jackson's direction. "Richard Parker is a scientist that my father consults with on bigger projects." He wrinkles his nose, looking a bit green around the gills. "Like the ones for Oscorp." He shakes himself, and twiddles his fingers. "Let me see the phone," he repeats. "Let me try and crack those encryptions."

Jackson just blinks when the phone is turned around again, and leans more heavily against the back of the couch. He is silent through Peter's explanation, though even through his illusionary sparkle of colour his face pales slightly. "The address is -- you have the address?" There's a sudden urgency to his voice. "Wait, /your/ dad works with these people?" Now he's just looking at Doug again, confused.

Peter hesitantly hands over the phone to Doug. "Don't change the ringtone. I finally got it back to the original Batman theme," he mumbles. The files are all inside a single directory--the aforementioned 'TOP SECRET BAD GUY FILES'. Then, at the mention of Doug's father, Peter swivels his head--between Jackson and Doug--and then finally settles back on Jackson. "Yes. I mean--I don't know it's *the* lab you're looking for. It might even just be... a warehouse. But I don't think so? Because the stuff they're shipping--it's... I don't know all of it. But I know that one of the things they're shipping are the drones, and I *know* the drones are designed to ki--uh... um, go after mutants."

Doug takes the phone from Peter, wrinkling his nose at Jackson's question. "Unfortunately, yes. I found that out when I started looking into Richard Parker -- who, technically, doesn't exist anymore. He's as gone as anyone I've been looking for." His thumbs begin skimming over the keys, and he frowns. "Man, you treat this guy like crap," he admonishes the younger boy. "No wonder he won't do anything for you." He frowns as he begins opening files. "My father runs a bio-lab, and Richard Parker is listed on several of his documents as consultant." He FROWNS at the phone as he works his thumbs. "Ugh. I'm going to have to bring in Betsy on this." That's followed by a fluttering of thumbs, and then Doug is quiet as he studies the screen. "Wait. I know this address. This is one of the addresses that I couldn't track down what was going there."

Jackson's Frazzle is not getting any /better/ through all this talk. "It might be just --" He starts to agree, but then swallows. Hard. "Drones designed to -- what." His tone is quieter, until his phone starts buzzing at him. Which only increases his nervous agitation. "Oh, gosh, I -- I have work but -- but I really need to -- /please/ don't break into anything else, okay? These people aren't messing around, they kill mutants all the time. I -- can you --" His hands scuff through his hair. He looks between Doug and Peter. "Can you -- I don't know. Work with him. Get everything --" His fingers flutter towards the TECHNOLOGY. It's clearly not his forte. "Cuz I gotta go but -- but when I get back we -- need to talk. Do you got anywhere to be? Cuz there's a couch. You can have whatever food."

Peter springs off the chair, lands on the couch, and promptly *slumps*. "I have to call somebody so nobody thinks I am dead," he explains, before adding: "I. Uh. Okay. Yes. I think--I think I need to lay low. A police officer saw me. He--he seemed nice, but he saw the drones, too. Before they exploded." WHAT? "And there was a girl, she almost got exploded but I grabbed her and saved her but it was my fault that she nearly got exploded *anyway* so I don't think that counts as me saving anybody but *ANYWAY* I think I need to lay down for a little bit," Peter finally finishes.

"But -- pizza!" Doug seems a bit non-plussed at the sudden Jackson departure procedure, and he looks up from the phone. "I guess the kid can have it. You like pizza, right kid?" He stands, cradling the phone in his hand. "I'm taking your phone, dude," he says as he heads for the door. "I promise not to read your texts or send anyone pictures of my junk." He grins as he reaches the door. "You can pick it up in the morning. I'm in 503." He raises an eyebrow pointedly. "And I don't answer windows." He waves the phone at Jackson. "I'll have answers in the morning," he promises, pulling open the door. "And probably a lot more questions." He grins. "I give better answers with muffins." And then, he's gone. And he /totally/ stole Peter's phone.

"Thank you," is a little breathless from Jackson to Doug, but seems quite grateful. His smile to Peter is wan. "And thank you. For -- I mean, don't get yourself /killed/, okay? But thank you. Um. My kids are going to be home soon so don't freak out, they're cool. I mean, Spence is /seven/ but he's cool. He might try to make you play K'nex with him. Or play with his robot spider." He says this kind of apologetically. He's shutting off his phone alarm, skidding in socked feet towards the door to put boots on over his slim jeans. "Um! Oh gosh. There's clean sheets and stuff in that closet," he's pointing, "and if the kids bother you too much there's a futon up there," pointing again, this time to the ladder leading up to the loft. "Sorry to run. Police won't bother you here at least. Um. See you -- later." And then Jax is grabbing his jacket and his keys, because, Work.