ArchivedLogs:PeterSupervising
| PeterSupervising | |
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| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2013-04-20 Peter supervising is the /weirdest/ supervising. |
| Location
<XS> Gymnasium | |
Peter supervision is the /weirdest/ supervision. If Mariot's read anything about Peter's profile, it goes a little something like this: 'Peter has the attention span of a gnat. He also has access to wrist-mounted glue-guns. He is not permitted to use these glue-guns on school-grounds without supervision; under those conditions, it is best if he uses them either in the gymnasium, the DR, or somewhere outside where opportunities for mischief are minimal. Regular practice is recommended as a way of both increasing his focus and tiring him out to prevent /further/ mischief.' If Mariot is at all curious about what mischief one can cause with a pair of wrist-mounted glue-guns, she's about to have that curiosity satisfied: Peter, clad in a black hoodie, grey dress-slacks, a greyish-black pair of tabi socks - a black nylon backpack - and two unusual, primitive looking wrist-watches - stands at the center of the gym. Looks up. And proceeds to /run/. He then jumps - flying up like some demented /spring/ - and flips, spinning over himself like a mad jack-knife, managing three complete rotations before there's a sudden THWP - and a strand of goopy, silver-gray /web/-fluid flings out to catch one of the rafters with a mild *SPLT*. And then he's swinging - brachiating - from rafter beam to rafter beam, actually /gaining/ height - and momentum! - as he does so. Until, finally, he releases the next webline and /catapults/ himself at the far wall - hitting it with a *SMACK*, hands and feet first, plastering himself up against it. Upside down. Peering down at Mariot. His voice then finally echoes back down to her: ".../OH/. Could you, um. There's a basket of tennis balls over there--" he starts, blushing /furiously/. ...and so much for any hopes of a quiet practice session of her own until the kid turns up. It seems that Peter is that rare thing, a teenager inclined to earliness - and one who favours being an inverted spider-kid to boot. The new teacher is clad as if ready for a rather active session on her own part, with tight running leggings and a loose sleeveless top worn over further spandex beneath. Her hair is securely tied back, fully exposing her expression - which at present is one of wry amusement. "Weren't you supposed to wait for me?", she asks, corners of her mouth lifting into a smile, her accent distinctly British. "At least I can be confident that I've found the right student..." "Ohsorry," Peter responds, "I got kinda bored I mean, um. I'm not in trouble am I?" Peter asks, and now he's /scuttling/ along that wall, hands slapping and sticking as he scrambles down the surface - about half the length of it - still high up in the air. He's eyeing that basket of tennis balls rather /closely/, really. One would probably get the impression of a golden retriever edging for someone to start throwing things. "In the morning I have a lot of energy," he explains, almost apologetically. Also: "Oh hey are you /English/ you sound English. Does that mean you're not allowed to make fun of the Queen? I heard that means you're not allowed to make fun of the Queen. England /has/ a Queen don't they I mean that's kinda /nuts/ isn't it?" If ever there was a teenager with need of an off-switch. Mariot laughs softly, cocking her head as she watches the bizarre manner of Peter's motion. "I think that I can forgive you - but you should be careful about starting early", she cautions, her tone amiable. "You +are+ supposed to be supervised while doing this...." She moves over to the basket, crouching down and eyeing the top layer of balls - curious to see whether they show signs of having been glued +before+ she risks picking one up. "And I don't think that there are particular laws against making fun of the monarchy. Certainly, nothing to compare with the +flag+ defence laws here. The Queen's a person, so she has legal protection from slander, and so on, just like anyone else..." "YeahbutlikeIheard," Peter begins, eyeing the tennis ball that Mariot lifts - it shows no signs of having been glued prior to this, but /does/ look like it's seen some rough patches - some of the greenish 'hairs' have been torn free, and it looks like it's getting close to /splitting/...! "I /heard/ you can't call her nasty names but maybe that was just some internet nonsense I dunno. Flag defense? We have /flag/ defense laws?" Peter seems /astounded/ by this. Not so astounded that his attention has left the tennis ball, though. "Like you mean if someone shot a gun at a flag I'd have to jump in the way?!" He sounds mortified. Peter proceeds to make little head motions. Like, 'over-there'. Toward the other end of the gym. As if he was trying to give Mariot a secret message. Mariot laughs softly, shaking her head. "No - you're not meant to die to defend a piece of cloth. But... most other countries find the US obsession with the stars and stripes to be... weird. They're +so+ widespread here, and there're laws to protect what can and cannot be done to them. I could be deported, I believe, if I did the wrong thing to a US flag", she says with a smile, rising to her with a tennis ball in each hand. After glancing down the gym to be sure that no one is walking into the line of fire, she tenses and cocks her arm, toned musculature bunching before she hurls one ball at the far wall - not a flat-out throw, but considerably more than a gentle lob. "Seriously? Like, if you, like, /ate/ an American flag they might deport you? That's dumb," Peter announces, and now he's /swinging/ - leaping off the wall like a snapping rubber band, THWPing to one of the rafters, swooping across the gym - and there's another /THWP/ as his wrist snaps out to catch the tennis ball mid-way toward the wall. The grey-silver strand SPLTS it, catching it, yoinking it out of the air and sending it reeling toward Peter - who catches it mid-swing. It's thrown right back to Mariot - well, right back to the basket. Now with a silver line trailing behind it, weaving its way lethargically as it archs back down into the basket, following like a little ticker-tape tail. "I always thought it was dumb I had to say the pledge of allegiance," Peter says. "I mean I think they get angry at you if you /don't/ say it but I'd always leave, um, the I pledge part out, uh don't tell anyone that I don't know if I would get in trouble," Peter quickly adds, landing in the rafters - crouched. "They don't make us say the pledge /here/ which is cool." "A friend, while I was at school, spent a couple of years over to the US because her parents were sent here for their work", Mariot says, before throwing the next ball - sending this one arcing off to ricochet off two walls to make its course less predictable. "Even as a non-US citizen, she was made to give the pledge in some of her classes. It was just part of life over here: +everyone+ had to say it..." THWP THWP. Peter uses two shots, this time; just in case the first one misses. The ball is SPLT'd, yanked, sent zig-zagging toward him - and then he just /rolls/ off the rafter, dropping head-first toward the floor, tumbling almost boredly. There's another THWP, as the silver line hits the rafter overhead - *SPLT!* - and he catches himself, /bouncing/ as he dangles upside down, ankles crossed over the cord - the ball swung around his wrist by the silver-tail before being released, letting its new momentum carry it back into the basket. "Is it like a law or something? 'You gotta say the pledge OR ELSE'? I mean, it always just, like, intimidated me, you want me to PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE dude I am like fifteen slow the heck down I am not ready to pledge my allegiance to /anything/ 'cept maybe being /AWESOME/." "I know there're laws on how you're supposed to +behave+ while the pledge is being said", Mariot muses, quirking an amused smile in response to Peter's modesty - and his evident gymnastic talent, admitedly. "Though I think that - like the flag laws - there are 'freedom of speech' protections for breaking them. At least, if you're a US citizen. But it's in the law that you're supposed to stand up with your hand over your heart while the pledge is delivered, unless you're in the armed forces - in which case you're to salute." The Briton shrugs thoughtfully, then hurls another ball - this one hitting the floor before rebounding off both walls in the opposite corner to the last one. "You should throw more of 'em like really fast," Peter explains, now dangling somewhere near the center of the gymnasium, and - THWP, THWP - he actually /misses/ both shots, but then - THWP THWP THWP - the middle one hits; he yanks it out of the air and sends it reeling toward the basket yet again - not even bothering to do more than tug it and snap it about like a whip. "Um really? Like I /had/ to stand up? Like if I didn't they would /arrest/ me? Oh my /God/ that is dumb," Peter says, before adding: "I guess if you're in the military that /might/ make sense I dunno but people are so silly about /everything/ sometimes I just want to web them." "I don't think so - it's a weird one, where it's illegal but they won't punish you", Mariot says. "Which is very American - it's against the law, but the Supreme Court protects your right to break it, because you're entitled to free speech." A swift grin, as she loads up her hands with several balls... before sending two arcing out at the same time, diverging gently from each other in mid-air - only to be overtaken by two more, thrown hard and in rapid succession, bouncing around off opposite corners.
Soon, all four balls are within his grip, having gotten no further than their initial bounces - all four swinging up over Peter's head, then, spinning around like a bolo as the arc of his swoosh takes him back in the rafters - and then, all four are released, flinging down into that basket with a THUD. "...huh. Maybe I should slow down," Peter suddenly realizes, and it has /nothing/ to do with the fact that his face is now a bit red and he's breathing harder. "...I might run out of web-goop Dr. McCoy hasn't figured out how to make /more/ yet." "Also I just realized I don't even know your /name/ um hello I'm Peter." The teacher cracks a grin, then offers a rather theatrical bow, complete with crossing of the legs and flourish of the arm. "Mariot Gall, at your service. I'm the Professor's new pet Brit", she cheerfully informs the youngster. "And I certainly hope you're Peter, or I've quite badly failed in my reading of student files. So far as I know, you're the only one who can undertake +this+ kind of practice..." "Ohno there's a few others who could - I mean, the sharktwins could--" And here, Peter blushes /furiously/. And then jumps - from the top of the rafters, down - firing a webline as he falls to catch himself and /swoop/ back down to the floor. Landing with a tabi-clad THUD next to Mariot. There are now several weblines dangling from the surfaces of the gym; it looks kind of like someone's been getting funky with the silly string. He shoves a hand out to her, still blushing furiously. "Peter Parker," he tells her, despite having /already/ said that. "...but, um, yeah there are a few kids who - we are kind of - I mean, Dr. McCoy, he can keep up with me too," he adds, a little meekly, still blushing a vicious shade of apple-red. "...nice to meet you, Ms. Gall." "The sharktwins could? Complete with the swinging around, and grabbing balls at range?", Mariot asks, clearly surprised. "I think I need to review their files.... But yes - nice to meet you." With a smile, the Briton offers her hand to shake. Peter hesitantly takes said hand - he's got a strong grip! But subdued, also. "Ohno, I mean, they don't use the shooters - I mean they /could/ - um, they haven't practiced as much as I have, I don't think - also Dr. McCoy says I can think /really/ fast, like I think he described it as 'borderline pretercognitive', basically totally /rebonkulars/, but - they've got nutso reflexes /too/, and..." Peter pauses, suddenly, adding: "...actually they might /have/ shooters now." Off-handed. Slightly blushing. Mariot looks surprised at +that+. "They might? Where'd they get them from?", she asks, both curious and (mildly) alarmed. Her own handshake grip is strong, but by no means superhumanly so. "Oh - uh, oh, um. You know. They're - you can build them? I guess - uh." /Now/ Peter is /really/ flustered. Looking around shiftily, as if trying to find a spot to hide in. He soon adds: "...um, I might have - you know, last time I saw them, I was trying to - they kind of - I mean I guess they didn't /run/ away from home, but they are kind of not going back home and their reasons are really dumb and I /might/ have made a bet with them to try and make them go back home and I might have kind of put... some webshooters... up as... the bet." Mariot nods slowly, head cocking once more. "How many sets of them do you have? Or +did+ you have?", she asks warily. "Oh, this is my last - I mean, these are the only ones I have left," Peter admits, lifting his wrists up to show the primitive-looking wrist-watches. But then: "I had three, altogether; a set that looked like gloves - the newest set - those are the two they won. Then these, which are the first ones I made myself that actually /work/. I, um, asked someone to help me make a new set though because these ones are kind of derpy." He picks at the devices, as if to demonstrate their derpiness. Mariot nods thoughtfully. "That they work at all is impressive", Mariot assures her young companion. "For a prototype to work at all is quite an achievement. Stylish designs tend to come a bit later in the process..." "Oh like the first one - totally didn't work," Peter adds, followed by: "Actually the second one didn't either. Or the third, or the fourth - it, um. It took three weeks just to get a version that /did/ work I had to keep reworking /everything/, but um - yeah they /totally/ work and anyway I should probably - get ready. To head back to the city. For the weekend." Blush, blush. Blushblush. "Um thank you for - y'know, um. Playing fetch." Mariot offers Peter a rather quizzical look. "Are you all right? And you're quite welcome, I assure you. Though... ahh. Perhaps a little hand clearing this up might be a good idea. I'm not sure I can exactly +reach+ everything...." "OhI'mfine," Peter says; he's apparently just flustered by Mariot's /presence/, for whatever reason that might be! He glances up at the various weblines dangling, and then suddenly he /beams/. "Oh, that's the best part!" he tells her. "They dissolve after, like, about an hour. Like, they literally just /evaporate/. You don't have to clean up - plus I mean it would be basically impossible the things are /bizarro/ strong I mean, you can use a solvent to cut 'em but it's vinegar and it /stinks/..." Mariot chuckles, shaking her head slightly as she gazes up at the assorted strands. "Mmmm. So - I'd best make sure that any time we practice, there's a good stretch of clear time +after+ we're due to finish", she muses. "And take care not to stand under them, in case bits fall off while they're dissolving." "Ohyeah," Peter quickly agrees. "I mean, they usually won't just /fall/ but if I've got somethin' hanging by one of them - it'll snap, and..." Peter makes a descending whistle-sound, his hand swinging down toward his other hand, slapping it together and then producing a loud 'SPLAT' noise. "/Anyway/ I've got to make sure I, like - don't run out of web-goop because it's apparently a little tricky? To synthesize. But if you want a pair I could make you one too," Peter advertises, standing a bit /taller/ now at this announcement; like he's suggesting he become some sort of WEBSHOOTER dealer. "...though I couldn't give you much web goop I mean I am pretty low...!" he adds a bit more thoughtfully, color briefly returning to his cheeks. Mariot laughs, glancing upwards once more. "I doubt I have the upper-body strength to pull off the kind of moves you do", she says ruefully. "And I tend to consider myself pretty athletic, in most ways. But I do appreciate the offer. From the sound of it, focusing your time on making more... goop might be a good idea. But thank you." "Pffh you can use it for other stuff too like you could glue a bad guy's /feet/ to the floor or make people shut up I did it once to /Shelby/," Peter announces, quite cheerfully, before an immediate look of fear crosses over his face: "...don't tell Shelby I told you that." And then, another darting glance, behind him: "Ohyeah I better go I gotta catch a /train/ and Jax and McCoy both said I shouldn't ride on top of trains anymore so, I can't be late this time." He sounds... regretful! Laughing, Mariot grins as she gently shakes her head. "On you go. I'll make sure no one gets stuck in it here. I was going to have a work-out anyway, so I can stand guard over it easily enough." | |
