ArchivedLogs:Oddfolks

Oddfolks
Dramatis Personae Violet, Micah, Peter, Shane
In Absentia	19 June 2014 A catgirl crashes Commons dinner and...runs afoul of a tricksy spiderboy.
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a rock-lined koi pond, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. The heat wave continues unabated, temperatures hovering in the high 80s with the humidity and the sun beating down without mercy upon the city below. Over the harbor there is a hazy shimmer of water hung heavy in the air. New York droops beneath its weight. But there are cooler spots still. Shade and green growing things have a balancing effect; the evening moves on promising a dip towards less humid, less hot as well. And, with the prospect of yet more free food looming on the horizon, Violet has battled her way through the oppressive temperatures to invade the Commons once again. Not that she's being /obvious/ about it. There is a small puddle of clothes hidden somewhere in the yard--scavenger hunt, two dead songbirds for anyone who finds it!--and a suspicious scratchscratchscrabble sound coming from one of the old oaks facing the water. This is the sound of one catgirl, dressed in just a greyed tank top and boy-cut shorts, pullpushing herself up onto a thick, leaf-shrouded branch where she can stretch on her belly leopard-like. The intention is both to lounge /and/ to observe, for a short time, the comings and goings in the courtyard. The invitation might have been given but no harm in getting the lay of the land first, right? Things are winding down after the first Commons communal dinner. Micah is helping by taking collected compostable materials out to the bin near the garden, humming softly to himself as he goes. The young redhead is dressed in casual after-work wear, faded bluejeans under a black T-shirt depicting Flutterbat with wings outstretched over a pale blue moon, reminiscent of a Batsignal. His hair is still a little spiky from the shower before dinner and slow air-drying. He dumps the materials from the small container into the larger bin, tap-tapping and lightly shaking it to make sure everything clears before re-situating the set-up. Heat. Uuuuuugh. Peter has actually shed his usual solution to beat the heat for a much more light-weight system; the chitin-clad blue-black spider-boy is clad in a white t-shirt that hugs his lean, compact torso -- black lines painted on the shirt, tracing the structures underneath it, forming a web-like pattern that begins on the sternum of his shirt and branches out on all sides, zagging up his arms and down his back. Beneath the shirt is a network of plastic tubing that carries a stream of water through a hip-mounted cooling unit -- a small, cleverly designed heat exchanger with attached peltier plates and miniature water-pump -- all compacted into a tight, pouch-like space. Beneath it, Peter's wearing a pair of loose-fitting black shorts; he's otherwise bare, chitin-clad feet slapping roughly against grass, dirt, soil, and concrete. Peter wanted to help, too! He's got two more bags -- hefting them up over his head, all STRONG-MAN style. Showing off, maybe, just a little. Waiting for Micah to finish dumping his bags, before promptly moving in to dump his, nattering all the while: "--anyway my character is called DEATHBOT, he is a murder-drone reprogrammed as a MEDICAL BOT." He is apparently chattering at Micah about some new video game he is playing. How very high tech! Violet's cooling system involves ruffled fur and lounging lazy in the light breeze off the water. She is a little mussed, mattered and dirty here or there, but one advantage to being a tortie--the dirt just doesn't show as much. Not that she'd care if it did! /Her/ attention is on the opening of the door, the emergence of that pair with their trash bags. Being strangers, she doesn't bestir herself immediately, but...well, one look at Peter is assurance enough that she isn't in the /wrong/ place. So, without further ado, the young woman lets herself roll off of the branch and drop to the ground. Neat crouch becomes flowing saunter, ears pricked high and tail a lazy lash behind her. "Hey there, fellas," she drawls at them, Savannah-sleepy, "am I late for dinner?" Micah startles at the sudden /body/ plummeting from the tree. To his credit, he doesn't drop the compost collection container in his hands, though he does juggle it a little like a bar of wet soap. Catch-nab-clamp under one arm. Heh. Hazel eyes dart over the newcomer, blinking a few times before recognition dawns on him in the form of a slow nod. "Evenin', miss. I heard 'bout y'comin' 'round from Dusk. 'Fraid he didn't tell me your name, but by the description, pretty sure he was meanin' you." His accent is less Georgia-drawl and more rural Virginia assault on clear enunciation. He takes a few steps to close the gap between them, holding out his not-bin-holding hand in greeting. "I'm Micah. Live over that way." He inclines his chin toward Lighthaus. "Y'sound like y'might be from 'bout where m'husband comes from. He cooked t'night, so there's /tons/ left over, even if folks is kinda dispersin' by now." "--and also I'm going to... uh... play as a scientist, and..." Peter's words fade off as a cat appears. A human-sized walking cat. He gives a start; the boy's own bright blue peepers widen considerably at the sight of her, before quirking to the left; eyes immediately snap toward the lashing, sliding tail, like a feline who just caught sight of a tiny red laser pointer. He doesn't go chasing after it, though. Not just yet. Instead, he shifts the bags in his arms over, dropping one, then the other -- clunk, clunk! -- and says nothing, content to let Micah do the talking. Still staring at that tail, though. "Violet," she supplies. Or Vahlet, by accent. That her coming was foretold brings a bright glimmer of teeth between dark lips. "He told you? Funny, was Jax who said c'mon by." And here she is--she spreads her arms to prove it, displaying all of her bedraggled glory. The fur flowing down beneath the tank top is finer than that mantling her ruff, and covering arms, legs, back. And that tail? That tail totally knows you're staring, Peter. It takes on a more vigorous tick-tock swinging, like the annoyed flick given before a pounce. But Vi's playing it cool. Orange eyes only /occasionally/ flick at the beetley boy, proving her manners--Micah speaks, Micah gets the full brunt of her Cheshire grin. "We figured he was up the mountains, me down the coast, but s'all the same away from home, yeah? Don't mind if there's less folk around but the man can cook so I figured I'd swing by..." "Well, I mean t'say that Dusk mentioned meetin' you. Not that you'd be by t'day. An' if Jax told me 'bout every person he offered food, we'd never talk 'bout nothin' else," Micah clarifies with a chuckle. /His/ eyes also dart over to Peter, once, lips twitching in amusement at the boy's staring but managing not to comment on it. "Mmhm. Figure s'close enough even if y'all woulda been a whole state away back home. As I said, there's still plenty t'eat. Hive helped cook, so's kinda Thai themed t'night. Got tom yum soup an' spicy tofu salad an' veggie pad Thai. Even mango coconut sticky rice for dessert." A thoughtful look is aimed at the door before returning to rest on Violet. "You're welcome t'come in or I can bring things out if you're more comfortable here. I know some folks get twitchy goin' into strangers' homes. Though I can't imagine we're like t'stay strangers very long." "The tofu is really good," Peter comments, idly, eyes never straying from that tail as it gives a twitch-twitch-twitchity-twitch. The fingers on his left hand give a tiny spasm, as if in desperate need to GRAB and COMB and GROOM. Somuchfur. At long last, as if only just now remembering his manners, he drags his eyes away from the tail and settles them on Violet's face, affixing her with a crooked grin. "I'm Peter." "Not if ya'll keep with the pies'n'corndogs'n dinner invites, probably not." And certainly, Violet doesn't sound upset about this prospect. Such is the way of rambling rovers discovering a steady source of /nourishment/. She perks briefly while Micah considers the matter of setting, eyes sharper, ears forward...and when she grins again, there is less Cheshire, more gratitude. "Not saying I'm not for poking around someone's place, y'know, but...if it isn't a bother, I'd fine carrying a plate out here. Thank you, Micah. And...Peter?" Finally, /finally/, she treats the teenager to his own steady look, slitted irises tilting down, lifting up, then locking orange to blue. She blinks once, slowly, smile ticking larger again. "S'normally me giving the bugs that look." "Oh, gracious, y'know how it is. 'Tween me caretakin' at people an' Jax bakin' constantly, we got more'n our fair share of the Southern 'Feed People' compulsion. Sure you'll get that more'n most hereabouts." Micah gives Peter a clap on the back when he finally manages to introduce himself without needing /prodding/ to do so. Well done, kiddo. "Let me snag you up a plate, then. S'prob'ly less overwhelmin' not meetin' all of everybody at once, anyhow. An' I can put this back in its home, meanwhile." The bin gets a little tap-tap drumming from his fingers to indicate his meaning. "Be back in two shakes with some of everythin' for you t'try." Peter /preens/ beneath Micah's back-clapping. Look what HE got! But he's also still wearing that semi-crooked grin, watching Violet guardedly while Micah speaks -- at the mention of bugs giving her that look, his head dips a bit deeper into the tilt -- eyes drifting from Violet up to the tree where she had been nesting. "I bet," he states, eyes narrowing on those tree branches, "you are a pretty good climber." Rather than answer with silly human-talk, Violet makes a sound midway between a burble and a rumbling sound, like a car's idling engine shuddering to rest. That /could/ be her way of laughing (or scoffing!) at Peter's theorizing. But she has /all/ of her teeth on display now, frighteningly white in that soot-and-cinnamon face of hers. Micah, however, requires the dignity of an answer and she tips her head to him. "You're doing it up right, from what I can tell. That'd be just fine, sir, thank you." Two shakes? That should be just long enough to go noticeably a-quiver...and then make a zoomies style dash for the tree that Peter had been eyeballing. That's possibly catspeak for, "yessir, it's on like Donkey Kong." With the food not even /put away/ yet, it doesn't take Micah long to scrub his hands and fetch dinner and dessert for Violet. He returns with an honest-to-goodness serving tray laden with a large square plate of tofu salad and pad Thai, a wide bowl of soup, and a smaller dessert bowl of sticky rice. There is also a glass of water and a steaming tea cup that smells faintly of peach to finish things off. Not knowing the woman's preferences, a fork and spoon atop a cloth napkin and set of lacquered chopsticks on a tiny ceramic rest accompany the foods. Micah's look is one of mild confusion when the intended recipient of the foodstuffs is not where he expects her upon return. He stands in the spot where they had been talking and rubbernecks a bit. Huh. Peter is polite enough to wait until Micah has *turned*, at least -- he's not going to make any mad dashes for any trees while the young man is within eyesight. But the moment Micah's back is to the two of them -- and Violet is dashing -- Peter has sprung. The distance between him and the tree is cleared in no more than two hops -- or skips, if you prefer -- before he's catching hold of a lower branch with one hand, snatching it in his palm -- and swinging, like a mad monkey, up on top. And then -- hop! Up to the next branch, swooping up higher...! Violet is only a heartbeat behind, the last distance closed by an immense leap that ends with her clinging limpet like to the tree's trunk. The scrabbling sounds are louder now, all claws digging in as she tenses and /pushes/ to throw herself at one branch, another, coiling, uncoiling, swinging and climbing... Halfway up, catching a glimpse of shiny carapace above her, she laughs aloud, high and loud and clear--that might be Micah's first cue as to where his guest and his charge have /gone/. That and the lazy drift of leaves knocked loose, the occasional pattering rain of torn bark. Up and up and up she goes as if chasing the teenager...and then certain smells drift through to a finely tuned nose, so down and down and down she goes. The last branch occupied is some twenty feet above the ground and it's from this that she simply leaps. The jump carries her out into the air, and then down, to connect with solid earth in a crouch not too far from her adult host. Breathing heavy? A little. But gleaming, bright-eyed and poofed with energy. "I win!" If only because she announced it first. And is closest to the food. The laughter is fortunate, as it clues Micah in to where folks are and spares him startle-juggling the tray of food this time. Undoubtedly, that would have gone less well than the empty compost bin. His reddish fringe of lashes does still blink-blink down a few times as he processes sudden catgirl before him once again. "Y'win food! Which is one of the better kindsa winnin', I'd wager," he jumps right in, words laced with a warm touch of laughter. "We got picnic tables just down the way if you'd rather." He lofts the tray slightly in offer to carry it to the dining destination of her choice. Let it never be said that Peter is a good loser: Still among the tree's upper branches when Violet SPRINGS down for food, Peter lands, crouches, peers -- and -- THWP. A line of silver flares down from the tree, lashing out to attach itself to Violet's tail -- and give it a brief, tiny TUG. Tug tug tug. But then the line is released, and Peter is *scuttling* down, head first -- bare palms slapping down across bark as his bare toes squeeze down against the tree, clambering rapidly toward the root -- circling it as he descends -- resembling, for just a moment, a rapidly charging spider descending toward its prey. Except, in this case, prey turns out to be the bottom of the tree! "Hey, you went all fancy with the what do you call it. Presentation," Violet is saying as she straightens to begin padding towards Micah. "Picnic table is fi--ssss!" Being a good guest is /rudely interrupted/ at the feeling of something snagging and pulling her tail! Woe! She seems to grow three dress sizes as all available fur poofs out, though it's a change that might be missed due to her jumping straight up in the air and whirling around to try to catch at what's caught /her/. Yes, yes, cats do chase their own tails--even if it means they get sticky silvery stuff on their hands as they try to paw the offending material /off/. Offffffffff! "/Peter/!" Micah has apparently gotten his Teacher Voice down already. "We /do not/ web guests! Good gracious, get some vinegar an' get that off her immediately." His tone implies that he would very well be /face-palming/ if his hands weren't full of food tray. "Miss. Violet, honey. S'okay, that was just Peter an' ain't nothin' attackin' you or nothin'. It's best if y'don't try t'mess with it meanwhile. He's gonna get it off /right away/." This last comes with a very pointy look aimed Peter's way. Micah quick-steps it to the picnic table to set the tray down, hurrying even faster on his way back to do what he can to soothe Violet's frayed nerves and poofed fur. There *might* be the tiniest bit of a chittery-noise coming from Peter's throat as he reaches the root of the tree; whether that's meant as laughter or something else is hard to tell; when Violet begins spinning around in desperation to catch her own tail, Peter *charges* forward, his lope resembling that of a rapidly striking arachnid -- close to the ground, legs and arms scrambling over rocks and soil. In an instant, the boy's wrist-mounted shooter is emitting a sharp, pungent odor of vinegar -- *tss!* *tss!* -- as he chases after her tail, snagging the line and quickly firing burst after burst of vinegar from the miniature shooter. "--sorry, sorry," Peter begins, while trailing after her, following her spinning path in a blurring circle. "Just, the tail, uh, I wanted to really -- catch it." Another chitter, more subdued, swallowed into the back of his throat. But oo! Look at how big and *poofy* she got. "... what in the fuck." Shane is just sauntering out of the common house, recently in from work judging by his strong coffee smell. He's dressed in pale linen trousers, a short-sleeved button down, vest, bow tie. "Peter what the fuck are you doing. -- Jesus don't /say/ that." His eyes are narrowing after the apologies. "Fucking biters took a /chunk/ off of Dusk just yesterday. -- Yo." His chin jerks up to Violet in greeting, one arm slinging lazily around Micah to reeeel him in for a hug. No amount of soothing is going to stop the whining, choppy growl that bubbles up in Violet's throat, when Micah names the culprit and he has the temerity to come into view. She has landed low, hugging the ground, curled in a way that /could/ allow a leap if she so chose. There's a sense of being ready to, certainly, through most of her body save the tail Peter is trying to squirt. /That/ has resumed its lashing. "You tie fireworks to tails too?" Okay, so that was unkind. But her tail. Tugged, sticky and now reeking of vinegar. :( And her /hands/. When pride dictates that she present a more human posture to the world--and the +1 addition to the audience--she rises to stiffly present these towards Peter. Bubblegum pink is hidden beneath clumps of silver, tangled in dark tufts of fur. Fix it. "...hey." "Oh/gosh/, we gotta work on your impulse control," Micah responds to Peter's explanation with a sad-slow headshake. "Um. You can definitely borrow our shower if y'want later, Miss. T'get off the vinegar smell. There's a napkin on the tray if y'wanna just wipe your hands off first." He's gone a little sheepish by this point at the overall behaviour toward their guest, a soft shell-pink settling into his cheeks. Shane's entrance perks him back up a bit. "Hey, honey." He returns the hug readily, tight and squeezy. "They /did/. S'a good thing he heals up so quick." His eyes track up and down Shane as if this will help him to assess the boy's level of needing to be fed. "Y'gotten dinner in you yet? S'all kindsa Thai Jax an' Hive cooked up." "Oh, right, ssooohh... soooh... uh apologies," Peter catches himself, following a considerable squinching of his face and mouth. The mention of Dusk getting a bite taken out of him causes him to perk, as he struggles to catch that tail -- spraying the BEJEEZUS out of it, but trying to be careful not to spray anything *else*. The sticky gooey web-goop is rapidly evaporating, at least -- leaving nothing in its wake but the vinegar he's misting it with. His cheeks turn a ruddy violet at the mention of firecrackers and tails -- "No!" -- he replies, maybe a bit too quickly, before sheepishly adding as he finishes with the tail -- springing back in a crouch: "No, I wouldn't -- I mean I didn't -- think it would -- I didn't really think about how you'd respond -- I kind of just," and here, Peter sighs exaggeratedly, "web /everything/." He's straightening up, a bit, eyes slinging toward Micah and Shane, an expression of worry flitting over his face: "--s'okay, right? I mean, Dusk -- the bite -- I mean, I guess it's --" He scratches the back of his head, then. "My parents bought a *crossbow*." "I haven't had dinner. I mean okay I had like a. Pile of roast beef an hour ago --" So probably Shane is ravenous again already. "Peter, dude, I'll send you into the kitchen -- Pa can give you a refresher on /consent/ right the hell now." He shrugs a shoulder, quick, at the talk of Dusk. "He heals quick. S'alright. We ran into some kid in a warehouse -- kinda spooked him I think even /before/ the zombies." His teeth flash bright after this. "Crossbows are great. Regular bows load faster, though. Kind of an advantage in -- well. I guess there's not many /hordes/ left. Hey. Ba. Can I get a bow of my own?" "I am /not/ a /toy/," Vi says of Peter's explanation--and her own interpretation of it. Not a toy! But still a kitty, and one who finds the sharp tang of vinegar pouring off of her fur distasteful. There is ample nose-wrinkling while she prods at the dissolving threads; only after the last of it has disappeared, that she can both see /and/ feel, does she deign to look at the others. A quick sniff could stand for disgust over the continued smell or reception of the news of the winged bat-man having been bitten. Oh wait, Micah had mentioned napkins. She leaves the malefolk to discuss zombies and weaponry in favor of the picnic table, where the napkin is grabbed for to begin...okay, /fine/, yes, she is grooming. But napkin. No tongue. "It ain't a bad idea t'have some defenses on hand for handlin' zombies when they crop up," Micah concedes with a shrug at the mention of crossbow. "Y'should grab yourself a tray an' join us. Or I can, but you'd know better what y'want. There's...tofu salad. An' soup. Dunno how much of anythin' else you'd want." He shifts as if to move over to the table and keep Violet company, but decides to give her a few more moments to groom in peace and relative privacy. "Don't see why not, y'get cleared for usin' it responsibly by one of the folks as teach archery at the school. An' get proper licenses for huntin' if you're gonna bow hunt." At the mention of being taught a lesson in consent, Peter's violet goes dark indigo; he mutters something underneath his breath, hand darting to the wristwatch he's wearing, unsnapping it -- slipping it into his pocket. "N--no, I know, I just didn't -- I won't do it again." A hesitant glance toward Violet, at the mention of 'toy'; his fingertips drift back to his wrist, now absent one webshooter. "...they wanted something easy, I guess? Something they could figure out without having to think about it. They keep it in the bedroom. Uncle wants to buy an alarm system, too, but I told him... locked doors work. I don't think they're -- smart enough to open doors. Maybe smash a window, but... we can get bars." As Violet retreats to the picnic table to groom and dab at her tail, Peter slooooowly makes his way toward her, glancing from left to right to make sure the coast is clear. Creep. Creep. Creep. Not too close, but just within quiet earshot: "I *am* really... apologetic," he murmurs. "Sometimes when I get to roughhousing I totally forget how weird and messed up the weblines are, especially to someone who's never -- seen them before. Your fur's pretty," he adds, as if offering this as some gesture of CONTRITION. Yes, okay, see? Pretty fur. Everything's square now, right? "Alarms will go off with smashed windows too. If you trip across their --" Shane sketches a line in the air. "Laserbeam. Whatever. Um. I mean, might be nice to have like an early warning? Huh." He meanders over to the table though he hasn't get gotten food, just leaning up against it as he glances back to Peter. "Dude it's like getting spooged on. But /stickily/." His nose crinkles up. "I don't even like it and I /know/ what it is. -- Oh /hey/." His ridged brows lift to Violet. "You ever get that cobbler? Pa made some like I said. But I was out that afternoon --" He shrugs again, claws scritching against the table absently. "I'm responsible. I don't know what requirements are for licenses though. Do I need a license just to -- I mean, I /already/ hunt. A lot." The fur on her tail is standing up in wild wet spikes, even with help from the napkin, but it's the smell that's most distressing. Micah's choice was probably the wiser one--Violet's grumbling, literal cat grumbling of little growls and whines, takes some time to fade. She has just finished scrubbing at her fingers when Peter slinks in close, and his attempts at peacemaking earn him pinned ears and slitted, gleaming eyes. It's a look that says she'd like to be biting him but she is too much of a lady to do so! "It reeks." Alas. Compliment fail. But she flops herself down on the bench and does allow for Shane to rescue the unfortunate spider boy. "Yeah...yeah. Peach. Think your...sister? Twin. The other you bought it for me. Was great." Nose still wrinkled, she reaches for the fork--no chopsticks!--to begin prodding at foodstuffs. "S'usually an ultrasonic sensor, picks up on the glass break. Y'can set motion sensors with most systems, too, if y'want." Once Violet appears to have finished her grooming (for now), Micah also drifts over to the table, taking a seat on the opposite bench. "Apologies for all that, sugar. You're still welcome t'borrow a shower t'get that offa you if y'want. I know it kinda...lingers." He nods as Shane continues the hunting talk. "Pretty much they only wanna license you for whatever weapons y'might be usin'. Guess 'cause most folks ain't goin' huntin' /without/. Prob'ly it'd be a good exercise for you t'research what's required for y'get yourself a bow." A smile curls Micah's lips upward again as things settle, particularly when Violet mentions peach. "S'peach tea in the cup there. Had a hunch." "--it's not like--oh," Peter replies to Shane's comment, his hand immediately moving to scrub at the spot just above the bridge of his nose. Fingers crinkling. "--I really need to change the color on the weblines. Maybe to... green. Or black, or pink. Or something." At Violet's comment about the smell, Peter sighs, hand dropping from his face: "Yeah it's going to take -- probably an hour to fully evaporate -- you can use lemon on it to mask the smell but then you smell like *lemons* instead of vinegar. You can use baking powder, too, just a little bit will neutralize it, but it's kind of gross?" Peter has a *lot* of experience when it comes to the vinegar smell. "--y'know, I should probably have told my parents to invest in alarm systems when this zombie thing started," Peter adds. "Alarm systems and crossbows. I wonder if..." His nose wrinkles, as if suddenly struck by a rather irritating thought. "Blue. Go with blue. It's the best colour." Shane is finally wandering off to get a plate, stocking it up high with tofu and grabbing himself a lemonade as well. He /does/ get chopsticks, returning to plunk himself down at the table beside Micah. "Oh, B? Yeah. Oh shit. Is B my sister now? I guess twin. We can go with twin. I don't think she minds being my sister though." His brows wrinkle in brief contemplation of this before he digs into the plate, chopsticks held in his left hand while his right drums nails against the table. His nose twitches, expression briefly mirroring Violet's disgust. "It isn't a great smell no. Hey. Do /you/ hunt?" This is directed to Violet, curious. "-- wonder if what?" "A shower...yeah, that'd be good. Y'know. With soap." Not lemons! Or baking soda. Boys are strange beasts, aren't they? Violet gives Peter a wary look--possibly she suspects he might fling one or the other named substances at her in a bid to help and make friendly again. But then Micah swoops in to save the day, earning himself first a startled blink and then a grin that's surprised right onto her face. "Didja? Lookit that, it's..." She pauses. Hot tea? The fork is set down so she can reach for the cup, for a process of hesitant sniffing and equally hesitant sipping. Hot, unsweetened (by Savannah standards) tea. The novelty is thick. Another smallsip is taken before she trades oddhottea for fork again. Good mood finally restored, she tucks in with street-style gusto. "S'good," she tells Micah, cheeks bulging. And then again, even before chewing, "Sure, hunt. All t'huntin. S'cheap 'n easy." "Yeah, blue's a...maybe blue. Not really any serious negative associations with blue." Micah nods along with Shane's word-searching, having gone through a similar process himself. "I've had t'remember t'stop callin' y'all m'boys. Since it ain't that way no more. Been usin' a lotta...kids. Or 'twins' or 'teenagers' if it's just 'bout you two an' not Spence, too." He chuckles at Violet's reaction to the tea. "Y'know, I was the same way when I moved up here? Had a coupla good instructors in the /variety/ of tea. Ain't always /just/ sweet tea, come t'find out. Though I ain't been proper broke of sweetenin' it a bit much for average tastes. Don't help m'husband's a hummin'bird. End up with tea syrup. Coffee syrup. Lemonade syrup. Pretty much all syrup all the time." The chatter is pleasant-fond, really, not the complaint it might otherwise seem. Peter lingers around the table, not sitting -- just standing, brows rumpled, arms slowly folding over his chest. "B's been working on those dragonfly bots? And they can get really good at identifying the zombies," Peter remarks, the irritated nose-wrinkle not vanishing. "But I'm wondering if -- the Osbots would be really good at it, too. Especially 'cuz, when they're armed with the web-guns -- if they used them to detain the zombies -- like, if they made a mistake? It would really suck, but it's not like it'd be the end of the world. The dragonflies can tell you where they are, but the Osbots could... disable them, pretty easily. I wonder if he's tried to push the city to let him start using them to explore and patrol areas..." Then, a little more softly, he adds: "Maybe B should get Mr. Stark to push for it, instead. I don't think I'd like it if -- Norman Osborn had a legion of robots patrolling abandoned buildings in the city." He grimaces, as if at an unpleasant memory. "Some of B's dragonflies have weapons. She's not allowed to keep those at school anymore but she did turn some of them over to the faculty for patrolling the grounds. They can shoot the zombies or web them." Shane shrugs a shoulder again, still digging hungrily into the tofu. "I needed some tea instruction, too. Tea is some strange-ass art that I don't /get/. I got a, uh, consultant. To help with figuring that out for the shop. Because coffee I can do /good/ but tea I needed -- education. -- Pa and Hive say 'pups'," he tacks on, to Micah. "I like that one." Certain portions of the talk leaves Vi content in silence and eating, her eyes ticking from one to the next between bites, tick tick tick. All thoughtful like but mostly invested in pushing more food in--the fork shares its purpose with her fingers until the vinegar smell drives her to swapping out for another proper piece of cutlery. After awhile, she asides to Micah, "Variety ain't a bad thing." It is possible she means more than just tea. "Nothing beats the sweet tea though, this weather. Ya'll are odd folk, y'know? I figured /I/ knew odd but y'got me beat." This she tells them without preamble or warning. Just bemusement, amusement, /judgment/, delivered before she pops another heaping pile of something or other into her mouth. “Can't say as I'm too trustful of anythin' comin' outta Osborn /or/ Oscorp. Creepy bugger /he/ is.” An involuntary shudder shakes Micah's shoulders at a particular memory. “I'd be much happier with Stark, B, or both workin' on anythin' like that.” A soft hum answers Shane's recommendation. “S'B like 'pups', too? Wanna make sure I'm sayin' what's good for hir, too.” his amusement at the ongoing tea talk doesn't wane. “Y'got Luci fixin' your menu on that one, Shane? Figure he wouldn't hesitate t'make sure a place was set t'his likin'.” A /vigorous/ nod of agreement is timed with Violet's sweet tea opinion. “Once it's this hot out? Y'better bet we got a pitcher in the fridge. Usually sweet tea an' lemonade, both.” His smile twists up into a lopsided grin. “Never claimed nothin' normal or nothin' dull 'round here ever. Pretty much just Oddfolks.”