ArchivedLogs:Danger Zone

Danger Zone
Dramatis Personae Peter, Doug	2013-04-03 Peter and Doug take a dip into the... DANGER-ZONE. Also, Peter is /still/ terrible at secrets.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The weather is still a bit cold for roof-lurking. The wind doesn't make it any less pleasant. Still, Doug is out here on the roof of the Lofts, sitting in one of the plastic chairs with his iPad in his hands, fingers sliding over the screen smoothly as he regards it with a glazed sort of look. He's clearly prepared to be up here for a while, or has been, dressed in an army flak jacket and a thick sweatshirt. On his head, a grey-and-red Jayne-style hat keeps his ears nice and warm. Next to him, a cooler with bottles of some sort of beverage poking through a layer of ice. Occasionally, there is a grunt from the blonde as he works, generally accompanied by a deep frown. Finally, the glaze snaps to clarity, and Doug SCOWLS at the tablet. "Stop that. I'm not a virus." "Oh. Hey. What are you doing." The question comes from /above/ Doug, strangely enough; someone has recently decided to perch himself atop of the concrete ledge that forms the access door. Someone in a black hoodie, blue jeans, a black ski-mask, and yellow -- buggish -- goggles. Very familiar, probably. Also, currently armed with a set of bizarre looking /wrist-watches/. Large, bulky things strapped down in place with leather. And a nylon backpack, strapped tightly in place and pinched shut. He's no longer got on those weird looking gloves he was wearing for several days straight. Doug pauses at the voice, brow furrowing as he cranes his neck around to locate the source. Once he spies the figure on the ledge, he lifts his eyebrows. "That's a new look," he says, sliding his fingers over the screen, which doesn't really look like it's displaying any sort of recognizable app. Instead of angry birds sailing into nauseous pigs, there is simply lines and lines of code. Maybe he broke it. "I'm trying to learn the apple coding," he says in answer to the question. "But the system keeps pinging /me/ as a virus, so I keep getting kicked out." He scrunches his nose. "It's not very polite about it, either." He sighs, and swipes the window closed, setting the iPad on the low table. "What are you doing in the city? Don't you have school or something?" "I'm experimenting. This is my 'dark shadow grimspider' period." Peter's head inclines, cocking to the side at the lines of code that flutter over Doug's screen; the yellow goggles seem to /gleam/, reflective lenses flashing back a concaved image of Doug and his app. "I came to say hello to my folks and check on, um, some stuff. I'll be back before curfew." Actually, at the mention of curfew, Peter proceeds to check one of his wrist-watches. Then he seems to remember: Not Actually A Watch. "Actually I was thinking of checking up on Jax, but I don't want to interrupt him if he's busy. He's got a lot on his plate. Plus I didn't actually... tell him... I was coming by. Just that I was in the city." "I like the red and blue better," Doug says, leaning over to pluck a bottle of...kosher soda from the cooler, holding one up with an inquisitive look. "You came all the way from Westchester in the middle of the week to say hello to your folks." He says this in a disbelieving sort of tone, and he frowns. "You have a telephone, right?" He lifts his eyebrows, a smile playing about his lips. "They even have mobile versions." He frowns speculatively at the watches, and tilts his head. "Fancy jewelry," he says, glancing at the door when Peter mentions Jax. "He could be busy," he agrees. "He usually is." He puts the offered soda on the table while collecting his own. "So, what have you been up to?" he asks as he twists off the top. "What's Xavier's like?" THWP. The offered soda now has been splatted with what appears to be grayish glue; it's promptly /yoinked/ off the table and into Peter's hand. Where did the strand come from? Well, a brief look would probably implacate those fancy wrist-watches. "I also just needed to clear my head. And check on some friends, and stuff." The bottle's top is twisted with a light *FWSH*; the last question is replied right after Peter rolls up his mask and takes a hesitant sip: "Bald." "This is a good place to clear your head," Doug agrees, narrowing his eyes at the wristbands thoughtfully. "I see you figured out the proper pressure," he says, after a long moment, then tips the bottle to his lips. The soda looks and tastes like any other orange soda, although there's a small hint of vanilla in it. "Those are pretty fancy, though. Those more of Osborn's toys?" He leans back in his chair, then half-stands, moving it around to see Peter better. "I wasn't talking about Professor Xavier," he clarifies. "I know he's bald. I meant, what's the school like? I've always been curious about it." "Somebody helped me -- but, uh, I made these ones myself. After a lot of trial and error. Mostly error," Peter corrects, holding one up as if to look at it himself. It looks, well -- like it's been /soldered/ together. They're very -- mercantile. Very 'high-school science project'-ish. But they /work/, apparently. "It's pretty cool, anyway. Everything's bananas. My roommate talks to bugs. He's pretty awesome. Also, I'm training on how to move and climb and dodge with Dr. McCoy." Then: "How is Jax doing? I'm kinda worried. So much stuff," he adds, and then he's waving his hand, as if to silently add -- /all/ the stuff. Doug sits for a moment, his expression stunned. Wristbands are totally forgotten in the wake of this sudden new information. "Wait. Wait a minute." He holds up a hand, and frowns. "Are you telling me that Xavier's is a school for mutants?" He could be delighted; he could be amazed. It's hard to tell. "Like, with actual classes in being better at being a mutant?" He flops back in his chair heavily, his brow furrowing. "Osborn's not going to be happy about that, I don't think. He seemed really pleased that he'd come up with the idea." The question about Jax gets a frown. "I haven't seen him," he admits, frowning a bit. "Not since the gala. Did something happen?" Peter's head bolts up at Doug's sudden response: "Wh -- huh? No I didn't -- wait," he says, and now he's straight as a rail -- and his grip on the edge of the window ledge is steelclad -- enough to make his knuckles bone /white/! "I didn't -- oh my /GOD/, what the /HELL/, I thought -- oh for crap's sakes I'm going to get somebody /killed/," and now his head is dropping down -- gently! -- to the concrete, temple first. "Dude. Relax," Doug says, his eyes widening at Peter's sudden flurry of nervousness. "I'm not going to roll over on you or anything. I mean, my friend Alexandrine teaches there, and doesn't Jax teach there?" He frowns. "Wow. I should have put that together sooner," he says, half to himself. "I really need to work on my detecting skills." He purses his lips, briefly, before he smiles. "I promise I will not repeat anything about your super-cool superhero high school," he says, drawing an X over his heart. "But you've got to tell me how super-cool it really is." "It's not just that," and now Peter's hands are on either side of his head, /clutching/. "It's -- for Frith's sake I /told/ them I'd be careful, and discrete, and they /talked/ to me about this and what the hell is /wrong/ with me?! Oh my /GOD/. I either have to learn how to shut my mouth or stop. Learning. Important. Things. Or I'll end up getting somebody DEAD!" He seems a bit miserable, up there on top of the door ledge. Just, well. Head down, clutching at the back of his mask. After a few seconds of this, he mumbles: "I thought you knew. When we talked outside Xavier's school. You were totally like, 'I wanted to attend', and I thought 'oh that must mean he knows what's up with it'. Oh my God I need to have my brain wiped or something." Doug pushes to his feet, stepping towards the ledge. "While I agree that you do need some practice in subtlety," he says, with a grin, "That /is/ a fairly easy mistake to make, You didn't know that /every/ kid in Salem Center wants to attend Xavier's. It looks so cool from the road, and there's all this speculation about what kind of school it really is." He shrugs, and spreads his hands. "You don't have to tell anyone you told me," he offers helpfully. "I don't want you to get in trouble, or anything. I won't even say anything to Alex or Jax. I promise." His grin goes lopsided, and he tilts his head. "Even though I'm totally jealous." "Dude of course they'll know we're basically talking about Hogwart's here and besides that's not the point, the point is /I/ know --" Peter flicks his eyes up to Doug -- a gesture he's bound to not notice, considering REFLECTIVE EYE-WEAR. "-- I can't afford mistakes right now, not even /honest/ mistakes, oh man maybe I'm just freaking out over nothing but people could die. Okay, okay," and Peter's ranting seems to be slowing, now; Doug may not have noticed it, but the kid seems to have been, for a moment, hyperventilating. "Okay, it's fine, it's totes cool it's not like you are mister sinister or something but /goddammit/ I need to stop screwing up." Doug chuffs a laugh. "Join the club, kid. Screwing up is just part of life." He waves a hand. "Although, I /would/ recommend sticking to the acadmeic part of your cirriculum in the future." He lifts his eyebrows. "Why can't you afford mistakes?" he asks. "I mean, an honest mistake is an honest mistake. And like you said, it's not like I'm some sort of evil mastermind." He considers that. "Although, I probably could be, if I wanted." "Dude have you been paying attention to the news?" Peter straightens, now, head popping up. "Like -- just -- any of it? The stuff they're saying about the Osborn Institute? Because--" Peter cuts himself off here. He just shakes his goggle-clad head. "...nevermind, I shouldn't -- I'm just going to... unf." And then he's looking back up to the sky -- which has grown noticeably darker. "...I should head back. Hard to ride the trains in the dark." "I've heard it," Doug says, lifting a shoulder. "And I was there when he made the big announcement, and the party crashers showed up. Nothing about it seemed right." He wrinkles his nose. "Do you know, he had those fucking drone things serving drinks and canapes?" His expression matches his incredulous tone. "And he had your web stuff," he says. "In little canisters. On fucking display. As a 'non-lethal' countermeasure, like that email mentioned." He furrows his brow, glancing at the sky. "It's not that hard," he says with a frown. "I mean, the trains are lit insi-- oh." He frowns deeply as Peter's meaning becomes clear. "That doesn't sound very prudent. Or subtle." "Not that," Peter says, standing up to his full height, now. "The stuff that they're gonna /throw/ at the Institute. Talking about it like it's an army. Like it needs government oversight. Government control. If they find out -- when they do -- they'll do the same thing. Maybe worse. I dunno." He checks the webshooters -- always check your web-cartridges /before/ jumping. The devices make a low, barely-audible whirring purr. "Just, that's why it's important to keep quiet, okay? It's dangerous. People might get hurt." But then, in response to the matter of the train: "Oh, /that/? That's not dangerous. I do that like, every other day." And then... Peter jumps. Off. The roof. A moment later, there is a THWP, and something gray hitting a ledge in the distance, and -- for a brief, spurious instant, Doug might catch the sight of the boy *swinging* along the length of an alleyway, before releasing the cord -- slingshotted into the evening air, arms extended -- before there's another THWP, and he's swinging down in a completely different direction -- out of sight. Doug watches Peter go, his brow still furrowed as the boy leaps from the roof. He doesn't seem overly concerned, though his eyebrows lift appreciatively for the web-swinging. "Government control," he echoes, and frowns deeply. "Fuck. /Dad/." Then he's scurrying to collect his own things, and slamming back into the building, leaving the roof quiet once more.