ArchivedLogs:Legal Entanglements

Legal Entanglements
Dramatis Personae Eric, Peter
In Absentia	2013-04-03 Unexpected meeting! Unexpected ALLIANCE.
Location <NYC> East Village
Historically a center of counterculture, the East Village has a character all its own. Home to artists and musicians of many colours, this neighborhood is known for its punk vibe and artistic sensibilities. The birthplace of many protests, literary movements, it is home to a rather diverse community and vibrant nightlife. Later in the day -- not /too/ late, but the sun's lazily slinging its way down the horizon, and folks are getting ready to ship off back home after putting in a hard evening's work -- there is a curious sound somewhere along one of the alleyways of East Village's prettier district. It is the sound of a THWP. It is accompanied, however briefly, by a flash of black -- blue -- and then a THUMP -- as a teenage-shaped entity proceeds to land on the wall, almost two stories up -- and by some unknown method seems to /cling/ to it. Both his hands (bare, and pink) are spread out across the brick, along with his butt; his torso is arched forward, and his knees are bent with the heels of his sneakers grinding back into the brick. He's dressed in... a black hoodie, blue jeans, a slick little nylon backpack -- and a black ski-mask with buggy yellow goggles. It's a new one, but familiar. Mostly out of sight, he 'unglues' one hand from the wall -- somehow /still/ managing to keep himself hanging with just the other hand (holy crap that looks weird; either he's re/donk/ulusly strong, or light as a feather!) -- and pulls a slick red phone out of his back-pocket. And proceeds to tap at it, one-handed, with his thumb. Walking along the sidewalk along the street, Eric is either headed to a night club or to work at a strip club. He is wearing a light blue leather jacket at least a size too small that barely zips up, a black pair of jeans and a v-neck t-shirt that is very much not the kind of clothing for wearing outside in April in New York. If it wasn't for the wool coat hanging unbuttoned over his shoulders - and his mutation - he would probably be frozen solid. As there is a clatter far above him, Eric glances up almost casually, then right back to the path in front of him as he passes the alleyway. Pigeons. Big pigeons. A huge pigeon. Wearing clothing. With a phone. Eric stops dead in the path, a few feet away from the alleyway. He glances back towards the opening of the alley, suspiciously. "Huh." Turning around, he steps over towards the gap between the buildings and looks up, squinting. "Hey." he calls up. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Peter doesn't respond. Not at first. Because he doesn't think Eric is talking to /him/ -- and also because he is /deeply/ involved in whatever the heck he is texting. But then, about two seconds later, he seems to notice there was no answer -- and then he's looking about, head sweeping this way and that, and -- oh. Oh. /Oh/. "Nnnnnno," Peter responds beneath the mask, before adding: "I get that a lot, though -- people keep mistaking me for Batman." The phone has quite suddenly vanished. Beneath the goggles, Peter squints at Eric, trying to remember. He /does/ look familiar. And... hhnnnh... DING. Uh oh. "I seem to recall some helicopter drones, and the first of two newspaper articles with me in it." Eric calls up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you know how /annoying/ the press can be?" Despite his words, Eric sounds more bemused than upset. "Why don't you come down here? Looking up at you is giving me a headache." he complains, gesturing to the area in front of him. The police officer even takes a step backwards, leaning against the brick wall of one of the buildings to give Peter a wide berth. "You do know that there's a good subway system in New York, yeah? You don't need to be hangin' out on top of buildings like that." Peter glances down at the area in front of Eric. Then back at Eric himself... then back down at the area in front of Eric. Then... He jumps for the back-end of the alleyway, a good 5 yards from Eric -- and, actually, ending in a rather large dead-end. Not that that's apparently a problem for him. When he hits, it's in a crouch, low and to the ground -- almost the sort of posture you'd expect from a frog. The yellow goggles gleam in what light is available from above and around the alleyway: "Yeah, it's just -- cheaper. And faster. And /awesome/-er," he says, before adding: "I'm sorry about all of that, um. Trouble." And then! "This is /weird/. I didn't expect to, like, see you again -- and when I'm talking to him, too -- !" "Awesomer." Eric says, flatly, one eyebrow raising. Now he definitely sounds amused, though he gives Peter a curious look at this last statement. "Right as you're talking...." he trails off, gesturing in a come-hither motion to the younger man. "What the hell are you talkin' about, Spider-dude?" he asks, bluntly, that suppressed laughter still in his voice. 'Spider-dude' doesn't make a move to come any closer; his head /does/ cock to the side, though. "Spider-/dude/? Spider-/dude/. That is -- eegh! Just 'Spider'. Or 'Spidey'. Or, if you gotta go there, Spider-/Man/, or maybe Spider-/Kid/ -- but Spider-Dude?" Then: "You know, the kid who -- Sha-- aah... shahhh... Shatner," Peter continues, correcting himself -- managing a completely straight face beneath his mask. "I was talking to William Shatner; musician, singer, author, film director, comedian, and actor. That was who I was talking to." /Excellent/ save, Peter. Nevermind that he began the sentence with a 'Shae' sound, not a 'Shah' sound. "Spidey? What are you, five? Spider-kid makes me think of some kind of weird child with limbs growing out of unfortunate places. Spiderman. That's the kind of thing you could not be embarrassed about as a known alias on a wanted poster. Didn't I tell you to turn yourself in already?" Eric frowns, fingers tapping against his biceps. "Shatner? You mean /Shane/. Isn't that where I saw you last?" "Nnno, you must be -- confusing me -- with someone who is totally not me." He shifts up, now; out of that crouch, standing. The backpack he's got on is strapped /tight/; it's one of those nylon bags that pulls shut and squeezes down on everything in it -- unexpected shifting is probably not good for whatever he does. That, and having its contents spill out when he does cartwheels makes life harder. "...but, since you seem to know this mysterious Shane person /anyway/," Peter continues, "maybe you could tell me if you know anything about how he's doing. Because, um. I like to keep track of how people are doing in the city. As a professional..." Intruder? Thief? Fireman Impersonator? "...good samaritan." He /totally/ hops over the bit about 'turning himself in'. Eric gives Peter an incredulous look, then bursts out laughing. The force of his laughter is so strong he has to momentarily bend over as not to pass out from laughing so hard. When he straightens up, sniffing and wiping a tear out of one of his eyes, he grins widely at Peter. "You're really not the best liar, d'ya know that?" he asks, shaking his head once, twice. He straightens up off of the wall and stretches his arms out behind him, cracking his shoulders and letting out a pleased sigh. "If you're talkin' to the 'mysterious Shane person', shouldn'tcha know yourself how he is doin'?" he points out, gesturing with one hand towards the other man's... general area. Where did that cellphone go anyway? His eyes sweep over Peter once more, a brief look of confusion flashing on his face. Oh, there it is; one of Peter's jean pockets is bulging -- just slightly, the outline of the cellphone within. It's hard to imagine just how the thing's /survived/ Peter's lifestyle without getting busted. Either he's got one hell of a good cellphone replacement plan, or... It's hard to read the kid's face under that mask, but his posture hints at indignation; his hands go up to grip the cords of his backpack -- they criss-cross over his chest, forming an X, with another cord around his hips -- keeping it /tightly/ locked to his shoulder and back. Thumbs push out as if he were popping his suspenders. "I'm -- an /excellent/ liar," he says, except that is a lie, told with all of his considerable (lack of) talent for lying. But then, a little quieter: "No, he's -- I don't know where he is. He won't tell me. He's going... I think he's trying to cut ties with everybody. 'Cept his brother. He thinks they can manage to go at this alone." "No, you're really not, Spider-kid." The police officer winces, and tries again. "Spider/man/." Eric's smile fades slightly, and he glances down at the ground. "Why the hell is he doin' that? What's his Pa doin'? Did something else happen with his foster home and he's not goin' to be able to go back home?" he says, rapid-fire, as if it was an interrogation. Eric turns, pacing across the front of the alleyway and letting out a deep sigh. "I talked to him just a couple'a days ago, and he seemed... well, pretty OK, considerin'. Not eatin' enough, I think, nor gettin' enough time in the water, but nothin' like what you're talking about." This time, Peter's surprisingly tight-lipped: "Stuff happened. There was -- a fight, I guess? It was just an accident. A couple of accidents. And -- I think they think everybody's better off without them? I don't know. He kept talking about being on their own team. I think they're frustrated because they're tired of everybody spitting on them and punching them and they think they can manage to go off on their /own/, except they haven't stopped to think that maybe it isn't just that they need their friends but that their friends need /them/," and this last bit might have just a hint more anger than is usual for Peter's tone -- although Eric may not be very familiar with Peter's tone. But if there was a flint of anger there, it's quickly gone by the next bit: "I just want to make sure they're okay. I don't know. I'm worried about them. You talked to them a couple of days ago?" -- and then: "...do you know where they are?" Eric is silent for several moments as he digests this. Or attempts to - the look on his face is not too dissimilar from indigestion, lips pursed. He paces faster, then lets out a growl and drops his head heavily against the brick wall. "Mature and yet, it seems, not." He mutters darkly underneath his breath. His head comes back up and then forward, again. Head -> Wall. Head -> Wall. After a few taps, though, it seems Eric has gathered his thoughts enough to turn towards Peter. "Yes, I know. But if he doesn't want to see you, I'm not gon' tell you. You'll just make him angry and then chase him away farther." he says, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And then where will you be?" "I'm not going to go see him," Peter says. "Not unless he wants me to. But, I dunno. If something happens -- if they need help -- if no one can reach Jax? I, uh." Though his face still remains obscured, the force of his flush somehow permeates his tone: "I kinda told somebody once I would look after them? I mean they are pretty much /sharks/ and they've got each other's backs, I know, I don't think they need anybody to /really/ look after them, but..." The word lingers in the air of the alleyway. "They risked their lives for me, once. I'm kind of a spaz, right? I don't make many friends. But I'm not losing any of the ones I have." More silence. Pregnant silence, as Eric studies the other man. It is the kind of measured studying that one might do to an animal, trying to decide if it was going to attack or not, or the kind of studying a film noir cop might use across the table at a suspect. Finally, Eric reaches into his coat and pulls out a pen and a business card. Turning it over, he scribbles something on the back of it and extends it towards Peter. "You fuck this up, I'll break your neck, and the feds can go suck it." Peter steps forward and reaches for the card. Hesitantly -- he only enters Eric's space with great reluctance -- but still, with great care. As he does: "Y'know, I /totally/ get your sentiment, and I'm with you one hundred percent on it, and you look all kinds of bad-ass, and I'm not trying to muck any of that up. But I just gotta tell you..." As he plucks the card up, the head behind the mask peeks up at Eric -- the lean, scraggly 15 year old's yellow goggles reflecting back the off-duty officer's face: "I am about 95% certain I could kick your ass." Eric's smile is wide as he looms down over the smaller man. "You can certainly outrun me, but if you think you can outlast me, you're dead wrong." he says. "If you want to find out, that can certainly be arranged, but I don't think you'll be in much shape to help Shane with anything." he drawls, with a smirk, as he leans in to grin at Peter. His grip on the card is briefly firm, resisting just a hair to make the other man /pull/ the card out. That lingering resistance -- gimme! -- is quickly responded to with an insistent and strong /tug/ from Peter. The inward lean actually throws him off; he /hops/ back, making it clear that despite his brief burst of bravado, Peter's not brazen enough to take Eric up on that challenge. He /did/ say '95', after all. "I'm a spider, not a fighter," he says, and then -- BOING. He's up on the wall again, both hands to his sides, facing down Eric from above. "But... thanks. I won't screw this up. And I'll send you something. A way you can contact me. In case you need..." Help? From some crazy mask-wearing mutant terrorist? "...if there's anything I can do to help them -- contact me. Basically, you're Jim Gordon and I'm Batman. 'Cept my parents aren't dead, I don't brood, and I'm not fighting crime." Beat. "Also you don't look anything like Gary Oldman." Beat. "...plus, no Bat-Mobile. I really want a Spider-Mobile." This bit is under his breath.