ArchivedLogs:Breaking and Entering

Breaking and Entering
Dramatis Personae Doug, Jackson, Peter, Shane	2013-02-13 Peter is not a very good thief. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <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. The art of breaking-and-entering is a new trick for Peter. Sure, he's managed to slip his way into plenty of places where he's not supposed to be--abandoned warehouses, restricted rooftops, balconies, billboards, even the sides of buildings and construction scaffolding--but he's never actually forcibly entered someone else's residence. What's the etiquette for this sort of thing, anyway? Peter's worried about breaking something. If, in his attempts to pick the lock, he ends up breaking it--should he live enough money to cover the repair bill? How much money *does* a lock cost, anyway? In the end, he decides to go up the balcony. Trying the front door might be dicey--particularly when you're dressed in a red hoodie, ski-mask, and gloves. Hardly anyone notices the teenager as he clambors up the fire-escape like--well, like some sort of *spider*--and hardly anyone is likely to notice him when he crouches at that window, upside down, peering inside... waiting for over thirty minutes to make sure no one's home. He *knows* that this Jackson fellow went out, but... well, what if he's got a guard-dog or something? Finally, Peter gets up the nerve--and very, very carefully--nudges the window open. Just enough for a lean, gangly, bizarrely flexible teenager to slip inside. Then, he's slipping in--almost slithering his way inside. Peering about. "Hm," he hums to himself, before saying--his voice just a whisper: "If *I* were secretly running a chain of deranged laboraties, where would *I* hide all my secret files?" On the computer, obviously. The intruder is greeted by a /very/ vicious guard dog, in the form of a small wriggly one-eyed beagle who lopes his way over, tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters quiver, to sniff at Peter's shoes. Then his ankles. Then lean his pretty insignifiant weight against a shin, tail still wagging hopefully. Elsewhere, a large cat, striped black-on-black, cracks an eye open from her lazy drape against the back of the couch. She regards Peter steadily. Yawns, just to show her utter indifference in relation to the beagle's attention-seeking. Goes back to sleep. "OhGod." He manages to keep his voice low, but--he was afraid of this. There *is* a dog, and... and... oh. It's sniffing his shoes. "...good puppy," Peter says, reaching down to scritch the dog between the ears. "Huh." Then, he catches the movement of the cat. "Nice kitty," he says, just in case the feline's feeling lonely. Then: "Really, I was expecting more of a... I don't know. Monster, or something." He moves through the apartment. When Peter creeps, he *really* creeps--despite wearing a pair of heavy boots, his footfalls are nearly whisper soft. He swivels his eyes this way and that, looking for anything resembling a computer--or, better yet, some big filing cabinet with a label like 'SECRET FILES DO NOT TOUCH PLZ THNX'. The apartment holds many things but its living room is devoid of computers. There's fish swimming around. A plate of cookies on the kitchen counter. A copy of /The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress/ lying bookmarked in one of the beanbags. The bathroom is bathroomy. The nearest bedroom to the fire escape window clearly belongs to a child; the bed holds stuffed animals, the walls are painted bright with rocketships and robotic animals, IN SPACE, the floor is strewn with K'nex and a large robotic spider presides over the desk. Also no computer. The farther bedroom doors are both closed, one adjacent to the living room, too, and one farther away, down a hall past the kitchen and past a second bathroom. The beagle slurps at Peter's hand when he's scritched. His tail is /very/ thwappity. Yay pettings! The sight of the toys gives him pause. He didn't know anything about kids; that adds an additional wrinkle. *Luckily*, it's a school day, so they're probably not around. Peter's playing hookie--probably for the first time in his life. Well, look, it's *really* important, and... He continues to absently scritch the beagle, even as it occurs to him that the tail-thwapping is making a lot of noise. A lot more noise than Peter's making, anyhow. He narrows his eyes at the bedrooms--that's probably where the computer is. He creeps, slow and steady, toward the first closed door on his left... then--*very* slowly--he turns the doorknob and opens it *just* a crack, to peek inside. This room is less full of characterization. It clearly belongs to /two/ people, though. Twinned desks, twinned dressers, twinned beds in identical styles of furniture though /very/ different bedding (one is black, with blue trim; the other is vividly pastel-coloured with large polkadots and rainbow striped sheets.) One of the desks is currently covered in bones. The other is bare of everything but a charging cellphone and a laptop. Also, one of the beds is occupied. Or /was/ occupied, given its rumpled sheets. The cracked open door makes it unoccupied in a hurry; a very small very blue teenager with webbed feet and gills rippling down his sides and the sides of his neck crosses the distance from bed to door faster than it /should/ be possible to move. And yanks the door open wider. "What the fuck." It's more bewildered than hostile, Peter clearly not a face the boy was expecting to see. It probably doesn't help that the face he's seeing is one shrouded in a ski-mask. It just now occurs to Peter that sneaking around in people's homes wearing gloves and masks is *probably* going to give them the wrong impression. "OhGod," Peter exclaims, and suddenly he's... he's on the ceiling. Wait. What? If Shane is surprised, Peter is *more* so--he didn't even know he could *do* this. Somehow, he's managed to jump up into the corner where the ceiling meets both sides of the walls--legs and elbows bent, wedged up there through the sheer pressure exerted by his limbs alone. Peter takes his own surprise in stride, though: "Okay listen I know this looks bad but it isn't what it looks like and OH MY GOD why are your teeth so pointy?!" "Jesus, get down from there. They're pointy for biting shit, why the fuck are you on my ceiling?" If Shane is surprised, it doesn't show, but then, he goes to a school for mutants. He's rapidly just looking more just-woke-up cranky, stifling a yawn, rubbing a hand against the gills at his side, adjusting the boxers he'd been sleeping in to be somewhat less rumpled and somewhat more decent. "What the fuck is it, then? Cuz it looks like you're breaking into my house." "I... oh. Is that what it looks like? Then, uh, I guess it *is* what it looks like. But, listen: I have really good reasons. Wait--this is your house? And you're a mutant? *Wait*. This is--this is apartment 303, right?" The boy makes no attempt to peel himself off the ceiling. He is quite *comfortable* just where he is. Unlike Shane, his experience with the extraordinary is limited--and he's still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that he's talking to a half-naked blue fish-type person. "No, I'm part of the Blue Man Group. I just filed my teeth because, look, it's a goth thing, there was a phase, don't fucking judge me you broke into my /house/ and you're clinging to the ceiling so I don't think you're /exactly/ human yourself. What the fuck, man, why would you do it? We don't even have shit worth stealing, okay, my dad's poor as shit, he's just got a bunch of art supplies and he /needs/ those and if you steal them I'll have to hurt you because he'd be stressed as fuck. How about a cookie?" Shane offers, after a moment of consideration of the boy on the ceiling. "I mean, you can just /have/ one you don't have to steal it. Why are you breaking into houses?" "I... uh." The boy's head spins for a moment. Slowly--*very* slowly--he begins to move off the ceiling. His arms relax; his torso slides down, back scraping down the wall. "I'm not here to steal anything," he immediately says, chest still heaving, heart thumping like a jack-hammer in his chest. "And... and I'm okay. I don't need a cookie." He sucks in a breath as he settles down to his feet. "I'm... your dad's an *artist*?" He sounds rather meek about this. "Not, saaaaaaay... a scientist?" Then, tentatively, with the slightest hint of hope: "Of, say... the slightly *mad* persuasion?" "Are you sure, cuz he bakes /really/ good cookies and if you're breaking into houses you might -- do you want, like, /food/?" Shane attempts, and though he watches the boy's movements /very/ closely, he at least doesn't seem overtly threatening. Except for the teeth, probably. And, well, the sharp claws. But they're pretty small sharp claws, at the moment. "If you're not here to steal shit why /are/ you here?" His black eyes narrow on Peter, his thin muscles tensing all at once. "He's an artist," he says -- /bites/, really, quick enough his sharp teeth /clack/ together, "not a /scientist/, who the fuck /are/ you? Because if you're here to make more /shit/ for him we don't need it, he's been through enough." "Actually I am pretty hungry but I mean not if it's a bother or anything, because--nnnuh, wait," he says, interrupting his own thoughts with a shake of his head--and a brief tense of his own muscles as he sees those teeth clack. The kid's small--but there's a certain compact leanness to him. Like a coiled spring ready to fire in an instant. He never looks *untense*. "Nonono, I mean, I'm not here to make, uh, shit," he says, throwing both his gloved hands up. "I'm--I'm looking for information, is all, and his name--it was on a list, and I thought--I thought he worked for this organization. Prometheus." "It's not a bother," Shane says initially, but the rest of the kid's words make him /pale/, a decided shade lighter of blue. "What the fuck is Prom -- /What list/." It should be a question but it doesn't come out that way, just flat and hard and more than a little full of dread. "Who are you." This time, it does sound aggressive. When the boy's shade of color changes--when that aggression starts to surface--Peter actually seems to *calm* down. Like the threat put him at greater ease. His shoulders lift; his hands lower. Slowly. "I'm nobody. Just a kid looking for someone important to me. They're--I don't know much about them. Just that they're, uh, kind of terrible. Scientists. Something to do with mutants. I found a letter that mentioned this person--Jackson, right? His name. A few others. I looked up his apartment, came here, thought I could find something more. This was kind of stupid. I probably should of... um, looked him up first, or something." "It was a list called 'People of Interest'. For New York. I figured they were... I don't know. People who worked for them? Or something." Then: "Your skin changes color. That's pretty cool." "It was stupid," Shane says, and he still sounds somewhat dreading. "Why were you even looking? Are you one of --" His head shakes, "No, you're not, cuz you're a moron. Take off your mask. You're eating." Though there's enough room he doesn't have to, he shoulders his way out of the room past Peter and heads to the kitchen. "Where did you find this letter? Do you still have it? I need to see it." "If it's all the same to you, I'm kinda into the mask," Peter admits. When he gets shouldered past, he slips--rolls to the side like water off the back of a duck. "It's really comfy. Also, I'm incognito, and... um. Right. Eating. And letter. Yeah, I have it. A copy." He fishes into his coat, withdrawing a photocopy of it. Some bits of it have been blacked out. Most notably, the address it was sent to--and the name of the person who occupies that address. "It got sent to someone I know. By accident. He's got nothing to do with this," he says, and there's--perhaps for the first time since Shane's met him--the slightest edge in his tone. Like *this* is something he's not going to be pushed around on. "Fuck you, asshole, you broke into my house asking about people who /tortured my family/ and killed a lot of my friends, /you/ don't get fucking /leeway/ here. You're taking that mask off or I'm gutting you." Shane doesn't sound like he's joking, really. He sounds more angry than anything, and stops his path away from the bedroom when Peter doesn't in fact remove the mask, and probably doesn't cut a particularly imposing figure, all skinny-short 4'11" boniness of him. But those claws are getting longer. It pricks little holes into the letter when he grabs at it. Peter doesn't fight him when he goes for the letter. And when he mentions the torture and murder bit, he seems to stiffen... then, reluctantly, reaches up--tugging the ski-mask off his head. Brown, curly hair. Bit of a goofy looking chin. Slightest sprinkle of acne. He looks like he's somewhere around fifteen or sixteen, despite being a bit taller than Shane. "I'm sorry," Peter says a moment after Shane's snatched the letter out of his hand. "I'm really sorry. If it helps... The letter doesn't give me the impression that they're going after him. Jackson, I mean. Just keeping an eye on him." The letter's rather simple, and straight to the point: It mentions that the following names are individuals involved in Project Prometheus who merit closer observation, particularly concerning recent events. The list contains several names Shane may or may not recognize--all of them mutants known to Prometheus. The vast majority of them were once labrats. Shane's breath has caught, as he looks over the list. And looks over it again. By the third reading, the gills at his sides are fluttering, rapid and, out of water, fruitless. "Fuck," he whispers, and now he doesn't sound angry. Just scared. "Oh fuck. Okay. Um. Can you -- just wait there I gotta -- my dad -- he should be home by now." He doesn't really sound /sure/ of this fact, though, and he turns right around to duck back into his room and grab his cellphone. "Did you -- did you want that food?" With all of his bravado deflated, his claws withdrawing, his tone soft and worried, he doesn't look particularly threatening anymore. Just kind of young. "I think there's, um, some curry -- with chickpeas and there's -- cookies on the --" His hands are kind of shaky as he taps at the phone screen. "He's not a scientist. The scientists kidnapped him to -- where did you get this?" The hand that waves the letter towards Peter is also shaky. "I mean, who was it /from/?" (Shane --> Jax): Some kid broke into the house. Not a bad kid. Thought YOU were a scientist. Had a letter from them. List of people Of Interest. Your name. Flicker. Hive. Peace. Tell me you're okay. (Shane --> Jax): List of people Of Interest. Your name. Flicker. Hive. Peace. Tell me you're okay. (Jax --> Shane): I'm fine. At Doug's. Are you okay? Where are you? Who's the kid? "No return address. Just showed up in a mail-box. They... sent it to the wrong person," Peter explains, taking great effort to pick his words carefully. "They literally confused him for someone else. Crazy, I guess. But it happens." There's a little more to it, but Peter's hesitant to go there. He doesn't want to drag anyone else into this. Not if he can avoid it. When Shane starts shaking, Peter gets antsy. He wants to do *something*, but he's not exactly sure what. As risky as it might be, he settles for pulling off his gloves, shoving them in his pockets, then moving toward him--reaching out to touch his shoulder. Wary, of course, of those claws. "Look, um... maybe I can... help. I kind of screwed up just coming here, but..." He trails off. "I *want* to help. Can I?" "I don't know. Can you?" Shane looks Peter over critically, but then looks up at the distance between floor and ceiling. "Maybe. These people -- they take mutants. Experiment on them. Kill them, usually, when they're done. My pa kind of --" His jaw clenches, the wire-tense muscles in his thin shoulder slowly, if not relaxing, at least settling down into less shakiness at the touch. He's sending a text again, but calmer, now. "We just want these places shut /down/. I think some of our friends are still in them. They snatch people. Take them. It -- maybe you could help. I mean, what if you get another? What if we figure out where it was supposed to be from -- or to. Maybe it could lead us to /something/." (Shane --> Jax): I don't know who. I think he wanted to help. He's still here. He didn't know. There's no knock on the door to signal Jax's arrival home -- it's his house! Why should there be? There's just a hasty rattle of keys, a hasty thunk of lock. And then there is one very brightly coloured young man who certainly does not, at 21-but-looks-younger, look old enough to be any sort of Father Figure. And yet. Currently he is dressed in a bright-cheerful yellow top with flowy half-sleeves, and tight black jeans laced, corset-like, up the side in purple lacing. Also an eyepatch with a cheerful smiley face. Also, a /frown/. "Shane you okay honey-honey?" His /Deep/ South accent places him distinctly Not From Around Here. The teenager following Jackson looks no more happier than he does, face clouding as he enters behind the older man and swings the door shut. He is less garishly colored, in a t-shirt and black soccer shorts. To add to his (attempted) threatening demeanor, he is barefoot and wielding...an umbrella. A big black one. Doug frowns around the room, letting Jax do the talking for now. It /is/ his house and kid. Peter's hand tenses up on Shane's shoulder when he mentions the experimenting and killing. Something more than just a straightforward reaction to being informed that someone's hunting and killing mutants--some deep, old wound. Like being told this drags hooks through some ancient, untreated injury. And when Peter's hand tenses... for a moment, Shane might notice--there's a *bizarre* strength in it. A moment before the grip turns painful, Peter's hand snaps back to his side, fist clenched, knuckles white. He nods as he does it--trying to pass it off as determination. "Right," he says. "Well, yeah. I can keep an eye on the mail-box, try to intercept anything else that comes through." Then he looks back the way he came. "And, uh, this might not have been my *finest* hour, but I'm actually usually pretty savvy when it comes to getting in and out of places I'm not supposed to be... wait, you said there's people *still* in these labs?" When he says that, he sounds slightly ill. And then comes the rattle of keys, the thunk of the lock--and the sound of that voice. If Shane takes his eyes off of Peter for even a *second*, the next instant he turns to look, he'll find that the teenager has apparently vanished. If he spends more than five seconds trying to figure out where--well, the ceiling's kinda high in this room. Peter's currently in the corner, feet and hands pushed back up against the walls--in that short span of time, he managed to put his ski-mask and gloves back on. "Uh. Is that--?" he asks, his voice *very* tiny. "He doesn't have, like, any powers, does he?" "A lot of 'em, far as we can tell. I mean, there's some we /know/ are cuz we met them in there and they got transferred out before we got rescued -- though I guess they could be dead," Shane says, his expression darkening into a frown. "And there's some we suspect -- it seems like there's a /lot/ of these places anyway. There's probably hundreds still in." He doesn't seem worried when the door opens. He /does/ take his eyes off Peter, to /launch/ himself across the room, his arms flinging around Jax to squeeze, tight, cheek pressing to Jax's chest. He's in about more of a state of (un)dress than Doug; barefoot, shirtless, black boxers. He's got a crumpled piece of paper with a few pinprick claw-marks and he shoves this towards Jax when he sheepishly pulls back. A rather simple letter: It mentions that the following names are individuals involved in Project Prometheus who merit closer observation, particularly concerning recent events. The list contains several names Shane may or may not recognize--all of them mutants known to Prometheus. The vast majority of them were once labrats. "There's -- uh -- there /was/ a kid --" he says when he pulls back, stepping back into the living room to peer around it. Behind the couch. His nostrils flare, and as he sniffs at the air his eyes lift. "It's cool. It's my pa. He's got a lot of powers. Like being awesome." Jackson returns the hug, tight and squeezing, his cheek tipping down to press against Shane's poky-spiky mess of hair. He looks around, too, as Shane steps back, though for the moment his attention is drawn more by the letter. When Shane looks up, he follows the teenager's gaze, and though his brow furrows he doesn't seem overly /surprised/ for the ceiling-corner to be where he finds the housebreaker. "Hi," he says, slowly. "M'Jax. D'you want to maybe get down and talk? This --" He waggles the paper in his hand. "I mean, s'kinda a big deal." Doug follows Jax's gaze, and wrinkles his nose at the kid on the ceiling. "Dude," he says, to no one in particular. The umbrella is held up, as if the blonde is trying to determine if he can hook the boy down. "Who would have that kind of information?" he asks Jax in a low voice. "I mean, I've been knee-deep in this shit for nearly two weeks, and you guys didn't ping once, other than the recent news." "Yes. Right. Talk. Absolutely," Peter says, his tone a quick, deft staccato. "As to coming down, though--I'm actually quite comfy up here. Did you know increased altitude can cause a momentary sense of euphoria? It's very pleasant." Then, a bit more sullenly: "I'm really sorry for breaking into your house. And, um, upsetting him." He makes a head nod toward Shane. "I, uh. Thought you were an evil mad scientist. Honest... mistake?" He's staring at Jackson's outfit. If there was any doubt, *that* dispels it. "He's kinda like an evil mad scientist except for the part where /every part of that is wrong/." Shane doesn't look at the paper anymore -- he kind of /determinedly/ doesn't look at the paper in a way that makes it /pretty/ clear that actually the thing kind of disturbs him. A lot. He's slipping off, back to the kitchen to rummage up Food from the fridge and stick it on the stove to reheat. "He's pretty much the least evil person I know. And science gives him hives. Hey, Doug. How's the kittens?" It's back to nonchalance, it seems, even if it's a veneer of it over some kind of shaky undertones. "I don't think I'm evil," Jax says slowly, slipping his chunky silver-and-black sneakers off as he slips into the room, "and I'm really bad at science. And I'm not mad. Can I get you a drink? Maybe like a coffee? Cocoa? Juice?" He unshoulders the chunky black bag from his shoulder, turning the paper over to Doug to let the other man better examine it. "I don't know. I guess someone who works there. Sometimes we're kinda a thorn in their side and the people on that list /I/ know are all ones who've worked with me to -- get other folks out. I don't know about the others. People who've escaped, maybe? Ones who they want back for more?" "No, I'm fine, thanks though, I apprec--what is *with* you people and offering food to your intruders?!" Peter asks. "I'm wearing a ski mask! I broke into your house! You are *not* supposed to offer me delicious beverages! I... uh, actually, some fruit juice would probably be fine, thank you." The kid springs off the ceiling, then lands on the back of a chair. Crouched. Knees poking out, elbows gripping where his ankles connect. He resembles a coiled spring. Close observers may notice that he's arranged himself so that with a single leap, he'll be hurtling straight for the window he came in through. "...so, uh. You're not an evil mad scientist. The evil mad scientists are after *you*. Okay. Um. Hm." "That's about the sum of it," Shane says, stirring curry and rice on the stove. "And it's not like you broke in to steal shit. You just broke in because dumb. Hey, maybe breaking and entering is hungry work?" He shrugs a shoulder. CLEARLY intended to mean he would know NOTHING about that. "I'd /really like/ it if the evil mad scientists didn't find him, okay? So if we can track down where that letter came from and -- make them forget him or something, that'd be swell." "People who break into houses usually aren't in the best of positions themselves," Jackson reasons, ambling over to the kitchen, too, to get out a bowl and set it down next to Shane and the stove. And curry. He grabs a glass, too, opening the fridge to pour -- peach-orange-mango, it turns out. "How much do you know about that letter? Or the people behind it? I think they have some of my friends right now. I'm kind of keen to make them not have my friends anymore." He crosses around the counter to offer the glass of juice to Peter. Peter eyes the approaching drink warily. Again: Coiled spring. But he doesn't make any moves to retreat when Jackson offers it to him. He takes it, instead, gives it a sniff--then proceeds to reach down to the bottom of his mask, pulling it up high enough to expose a pale chin and mouth. He takes a big, long gulp. Then... "I... I know. I mean, I didn't know--I didn't know there were *still* people there," he says, and again, he sounds slightly ill. "If I knew that, I would have... I don't know. The police? I guess that wouldn't matter. I... I don't know much. I know it's Project Prometheus. I know it involves mutants, disappearing. Weird experiments. And..." He looks toward Shane as he adds this last part, inwardly wincing. "...I know the address of someone who works for them." "Well, we have a name, now," Shane says. "Prometheus. What arrogant fuckwads." He dishes rice and curried chickpeas and potatoes into a bowl, sticking a spoon in and shutting the stove off. He delivers this bowl to Peter, too, setting it on the coffeetable by the chair. "Who works for them? Like, actually /in/ a lab? Could we -- follow them?" "/We/," Jackson says, /firmly/, "aren't following anyone anywhere. You should be in school, Shane, not -- why were you even home?" He scrubs his fingers at his eye, and then at the eye/patch/, fingertips rubbing up beneath it briefly. With a heavy exhale, he slumps down in a beanbag chair. "I don't know how much you know, but anything you could tell us could be really mega helpful. And the police -- we can't --" His lips press together, thin. "We tried once. It's really complicated. But as long as there's still lots of people inside, going to the cops or the media just puts them in /more/ danger." Peter peers at the bowl, as if contemplating the wisdom in making a move toward it. He licks his lips, sets the glass delicately down... and then pulls the ski-mask down to cover the rest. For a long moment, he's quiet--as if puzzling over what Jackson and Shane are saying. Then, finally: "Look, uh... it's possible that not everyone working for these guys... I mean, even the Nazis needed, like, *janitors*, right? So they're a janitor who works for the Nazis. But that doesn't make the janitor *bad*, right? He might not even know all the bad stuff they're doing. He's just there to mop the halls. Then one day the Allies show up and blow the whole thing to kingdom come and they grab the janitor and he's like 'huh? what's going on?' and the Allies let him in on the whole deal and he's *shocked*, I mean completely flat-out horrified, because he just thought 'Nazis' were a bunch of weirdos who had a thing for bad Nordic fan-fics..." He trails off, and tries again: "What I'm saying is, if I tell you what I know, you aren't gonna... like, hurt somebody, right? Not unless you *had* to, to save somebody, or..." "Pa doesn't hurt anyone he doesn't have to." Shane says this like it's a personal moral /failing/ of Jax's. With a /grimace/. "Not even the fucking /mayor/ that douchebag /needed/ to die. Asshole." He's leaning back against the counter, now, between kitchen and living room. He might be sulking. It involves a copious expanse of grimacing teeth. "Who doesn't have a thing for bad Nordic fanfic, though." "Look, if the Mayor had died it would've -- no, you know, it's not even /right/ to --" Jackson gives up on both these lines of thought with a quiet how-many-times-will-we-have-this-conversation sigh. His fingers scrub through his purple-and-yellow hair, pushing it back up away from his eye. "I don't want to hurt people. I just want to find my friends before they -- before anything bad happens. Worse happens. If there's anything you could tell me --" He sounds almost like he's pleading. Peter perks when Shane mentions the mayor--and immediately, he's staring at Jackson with renewed interest. Some of the tension seems to leave him--his shoulders unstiffen. He loosens up. "Oh... Oh, wow. That was *you*? I heard about that--I thought that was *so* coo--" Another glance Shane's way. He lets the sentence dwindle off. "I mean, uh. That was pretty impressive," he states. When Jax goes on, Peter seems to relax even more. At once, he seems to trust him: "I know who the letter was *supposed* to be sent to. See, they goofed up--they sent it to his *brother*. Which is weird, because his brother's not even into science. Can't tell a beaker from a flask. But, uh... I know his name. And his address. And--I know he's a *brilliant* geneticist. But--but I don't know how deeply he's involved," Peter adds. "I just know... this letter was *supposed* to go to a guy named 'Richard Parker'." "Thaaaat was him." Shane sounds like this is a failing, again. Grudging. He's scowling down at his webbed feet. "Dude gets up to tell the entire city how much we suck and need to be /dealt with/ and you save his fucking life." But he's subsiding, a little, as Peter talks. "Maybe he's not involved." He sounds skeptical of this but at least /says/ it. "Maybe he knows how to find the people who are, though." "Maybe." That's all Jackson says. Quiet, and giving Shane a long thoughtful look. His head shakes ultimately. "Richard Parker. Okay. I'll look into it. Like I said, I'm just trying to find --" He draws in a slow breath, frowning. "These people take a lot of us. They figure they're snatching people nobody will miss. I want to make sure they know we're /all/ going to be noticed. They can't keep doing this if we make it too expensive to continue." "Maybe," and Peter sounds a bit pleased at the notion, like it's a possibility he'd *rather* entertain--instead of the alternative. "...but like I said, he's a brilliant geneticist. He's, um, published work on the X-Gene, and... and..." He trails off, peering at Jackson. "...and, yeah. I guess... I just didn't want to go *there* first, as stupid as that sounds. I think the idea scared me." He takes in a slow breath: "Thanks, Mr. Jackson. Also, uh, thanks--I didn't catch your name," he tells Shane, but instead of waiting around to hear it, he's suddenly *jumping*--like a *missile*, he soars for the window he came in through. The fire-escape. It's still partly open--not enough for a grown man to wriggle into, but enough for him to squirm through. He does it fast--so fast you might not think there was a window there at all. "I'll tail him, tell you where the place is. ASAP. Sorry about everything," the last bit is as he's out the window, barely audible. He didn't even leave an address--but then again, how many 'Richard Parkers' can there be? Shane scrubs a hand against his face. He watches the kid go, his shoulders slumping heavily. Moving to pick up the untouched bowl of food, he presses it into Jax's hands instead. "We'll find them," he says, quiet. "And if not we can just kill them all." Jax /snorts/. It's not really all /that/ amused. He picks up the bowl, head tipping forward to bonk lightly against Shane's shoulder as he starts to eat, in silence.