ArchivedLogs:Tangled Webs

Tangled Webs
Dramatis Personae Peter, Parley	2013-04-07 And so, Peter goes upstairs.
Location <NYC> 603 {Mirror & Parley} - Village Lofts - East Village
The apartment is lush with the smell of melting butter and the bready undertones of flour; Parley stands at the stove-top, whisk-stirring the two together with his mouth slightly skewed off to the side and brows slightly furrowed by this process. Goal: roux. So far: wtf something brown? At least it smells alight so far. Parley has even located an apron, something simple and white to protect his jeans, though he’s already suffered a three-prong smudge of flour in the shape of three fingers on his shoulder - a simple black t-shirt, probably not the /best/ decision. He’s tied back his shaggy hair into a small tuft-topknot at the back of his crown and has, apparently, managed to locate for himself a pair of glasses. Which he has to tip down his head to peer over when he consults a recipe on a smudged piece of computer paper he’d printed out at the library. This is /classy/ cooking. Knock knock knock. Knockknockknockknock. KNOCKKNOCK. Knock knock... knock. Peter Parker is at the door, carrying a (very quietly, very /sneakily/ snatched) bag of gummy spiders. Said gummy spider bag is currently caught in his mouth, dangling down his chin; Peter himself is clad in his red hoodie, blue jeans, sneakers, backpack, and ridiculous glasses. In one hand, he holds his phone; in the other -- well, he’s using the other one to knock. Which brings us back to... KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK... knock. Knock knock! knockknockknock-- Crapcrapcrap - Parley has a wooden spoon in his hand when he opens the door, eyes wide and spoon held up like he’s expecting Peter to /invade/ -- well no, it’s mostly because it’s kind of drippy and he’s trying to keep rotating it to keep the butter /on/ the spoon. “Mr. /Parker/,” he greets. Then, abruptly: “Do you know how to cream eggs?” He steps back to let Peter in. Reaching out to take the package of gummies. SPITOOIE. “I know how to scramble ‘em I used to make scrambled eggs like /every/ morning back when I went to public school--” He’s peering past Parley, into the apartment, as his gummy spiders are snatched; the phone disappears, and Peter /hops/ in. “What does /creaming/ eggs mean that sounds like -- I dunno that sounds weird I never creamed eggs before--” He is now inside of Parley’s apartment, doing his Peter thing. Which mostly involves sniffing around like a good little pushy/curious teenager. At least he isn’t crawling up the walls and ceilings. /Yet/. The Parley-Mirror-Joshua pad is really rather /sad/; it makes House Hive look plush and well-furnished, what with a nearly empty living room (there’s a TV! ... and a beanbag with some duct tape on it. A milk crate probably /borrowed/ from downstairs, and a lot of newspapers stacked up in a recycling bin.) It’s not dirty so much as it does not have that important organic air of a place that is actually /lived/ in. Essentially, three broke refugee full-time workers with little aesthetic leaning: PERSONIFIED. “Um, no I think creaming involves,” Parley is walking back towards the kitchen, tearing open the package with his /teeth/, “Eggs and -- actually, it doesn’t involve creammeagh is this a spider?” He asks this with a sudden surprised /fascination/ and explores a gummy spiderleg with his /canine/ teeth, tearing off a hunk. He has milk to portion into the pan of flour and butter, which he begins to do while Peter noses around, marks the corners, rubs his scent glands on table edges, whatever it is that teenage boys do. “You didn’t tell Mr. Holland you were coming up here did you? I should have mentioned, I don’t think he and I are on the best terms.” “I mentioned it,” Peter admits, nosing around that bean-bag a moment, before adding: “He said I should be careful around you, about the things I tell you, s’all. I mean -- I don’t think he’s -- he just thinks I should be wary around you,” Peter says. Then, with a sidelong glance toward Parley, almost -- /challenging/: “Is he wrong?” Regardless of the answer, Peter hops into the bean chair with a ‘whuff’, and soon asks: “So what did you want to tell me also your apartment’s really kind of boring I hope you don’t mind me saying that I don’t mean it in a /bad/ way but there’s like nothing in here...!” “He said -?” this turns Parley’s head, brows slightly constricted, hands paused -- but then he has to keep stirring so the whole mess doesn’t congeal, looking back down at the pan, “Mmh.” There’s a moment of silent stirring, jaw slightly tightening, then it eases, “I’m not really sure why he would say that about me specifically. But he’s not wrong that you could stand to be more... conversationally savvy?” In a bowl alongside the sauce he’s just made is a dish of peeled hardboiled eggs, which he begins to dice up into the saucepan with a paring knife. “In physical reflexes, being able to rapidly backpedal out of danger is advantageous. Rapidly backpedalling /verbally/ has a way of making messes.” He steps away from the stove and washes his hands, jerking a chin at a laptop charging on the floor against a far wall, “It’s on that. I’m not entirely sure I should be showing you this, but I’m not...” He snags a dishtowel, twisting it up for a moment while watching his fingers clench, then ease, then set about drying themselves, “-- fond of protection through ignorance. The information came from the computer of a man working for Oscorp. Tell me if a name stands out to you?” Comments about his apartment? IGNORED. Maybe he’s hoping Peter will just decorate it for him. “I’m working on that,” Peter mumbles in response to the verbal backpedaling bit -- but his tone and language make the hidden meaning clear -- (and failing). But there’s something else there, a moment, prickling in his next words: “You know, I -- never told Mr. Holland this --” He usually refers to him as ‘Jax’, mostly at the man’s insistence, but something about Parley’s presence makes Peter fall back into the old habit -- he approaches the computer as he continues, hopping to his feet. “-- actually I don’t think I’ve told /anyone/ this,” he continues, plopping down in front of it. “But -- I can -- it’s hard to explain -- I can /sense/ danger. Like, before it even happens. It’s this -- tingly thing? It happens before something bad happens. But sometimes, I get it around /people/, too... well, okay. Just /once/,” Peter adds. “But -- I haven’t gotten it around you, so I guess -- I dunno I guess either it’s not working too well on you --” That actually might be quite /possible/, considering Parley’s particular power, “-- or you’re not gonna kill me.” Also possible! He peers at the laptop, now, eyebrows scrunching. And then: “...” The steady stream-of-consciousness dialogue coming from Peter first seems to puzzle Parley - and then, as the boy mulls through scenarios, touches on so many rather /sharp/ observations obscured by so little -- ego? shame? biase? -- it finds a small crook of amusement twist wry at the corner of his mouth. He leans a hip against a counter, arms crossed, and runs the thread of out-loud thinking over the inner tongue of his empathic channels, savoring the simple /honesty/ of it. “I won’t tell anyone,” he says, only at the moment Peter takes a /breath/, “Though it might be to your advantage to not tell anyone else either. An edge like that could save your life.” And then Peter goes silent. And Parley’s smile fades, eyes closing. And he waits, silently. Yeah, one of the things about translating the things that Peter says is -- there’s rarely any translation /necessary/. The boy’s intentions flow straight to the boy’s mouth with pretty much no filter between thought and word. Duplicity is neither his talent nor his nature. That being said -- at the moment -- he is being surprisingly tight-lipped. /Especially/ for Peter. After a few moments of peering at the screen, he pushes back from the laptop and looks up to Parley -- frowning, thoughtfully. “I knew he worked for them,” Peter admits, before quietly adding: “Back before -- the raid -- I --” NOW Peter’s mind flashes with intentions; (careful) (risky) -- a flash of a man in a wheelchair patiently warning Peter -- “--I broke in. To find out if he was -- involved. I didn’t even find /him/. Just his key-card.” “It seems,” one of Parley’s eyes remains closed, the other opened and settled somewhere in Peter’s general direction while he itches behind one ear, “I’ve found him, this time. If by happenstance.” He inhales, then lets it out through his nose, nodding at the computer, “I have a keycard. And a plan for getting past some of the scanners.” He doesn’t look happy, but he looks... braced. Prepared very simply to push forward and accept whatever comes of it, “I understand if you don’t want to be involved, but I have to at least try asking you if there’s anything -- mnh. You might remember about their security protocol when you went in last time.” “Their security protocol was to send /murderdrones/,” Peter responds, and it’s snappy and quick -- but lacks any sort of cut to it. “I don’t think they’d do that ag -- they wouldn’t send them /out/ again,” Peter adds. “They chased -- like, /blocks/ -- I think that made a lot of trouble for --” Peter cuts himself off. Again: (Careful) (Dangerous) (DISCRETION, PETER) “...why are you breaking into this place? I mean -- what else is there to know? Are you looking for more -- labs? Or...?” He’s peering at the screen, despite having pushed himself back. Eyebrows crumpled. Parley’s so-slightly-tense crossing of arms don’t recoil for the questions; he even nods silently as though he’d been expecting them, “Not at the moment. This is a possibly more immediate problem.” His teeth click together a few times, until he remembers the gummyspiders and takes a moment to unfold, fall into casual motion, pull out an arachnid /treat/ and tuck it into a cheek. “Oscorp is working on an extensive anti-telepathy program. I - have a few contacts that could be in very real danger if they’re making progress. I’m hoping to get in and out without,” chew-chew-swallow, and he’s meandering into the living area to stand slightly behind Peter, also looking down at the computer through his glasses, “triggering the murderdrones at all. Do you remember what tripped the alarm that caused them to be released on you?” He says it mildly. But the corners of his eyes are twisted tense. And he’s idly twisting the leg /off/ a gummy spider without seeming to notice. "You want to break into a laboratory where they're studying mutant countermeasures. Possibly /telepathic/ ones," Peter adds, still staring at the screen. "And it's possible that my dad works there. My dad, who I haven't seen in --" He leaves that part unspoken. But then he continues: "And you want me to /help/." And then he turns, looking at Parley, eyebrows scrunched together so /tightly/: "It wasn't an alarm. It was /people/. Like, two dudes, they just turned them on and let them loose on me." Then: "Also, I am now pretty much /positive/ that my power doesn't work on you." Now his tone /does/ have a bit of an edge to it; sharp, but not too deep. More of a papercut than anything. Finally, softer, almost surrendering: "I'll go with you." Parley’s eyes squeeze closed once more, as though these words hurt to hear. And when they open again, his teeth are neatly /clenched/ in his neutral-set face. “I don’t like it.” His head shakes no. But his words, quiet in this papercut-silence are... not surrendered. Not resigned. Because they’re too /awake/, too aware. And too realistic. “Damn.” He lets air out through his teeth, and allows: “I think you may be right.”