ArchivedLogs:The Gorram Batman

The Gorram Batman
Dramatis Personae Peter, Dusk
In Absentia	2013-06-17 WHO IS HE
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. "Date is, um -- 6/17. Monday, I think? Monday," Peter repeats, standing on the roof top -- talking, apparently, to himself. There's a laptop set out on that plastic table, currently humming with life; there's also -- Peter. Standing on top of the doorway that leads to the rooftop, crouched low, hands squeezing the edge. Peter is currently wearing a red hoodie -- the hood down, cords dangling over his chest -- and blue jeans. Those funny two-toed socks of his. Thwippy things, too -- although these look /different/ than the ones he ordinarily wears; the one on his left has got a /wire/ attached to it -- the wire slides up his sleeve, snaring along his arm and coiling back up -- somewhere along his back. Probably up to the mask. Oh, right. Yes. Peter's wearing a /mask/. Red, smooth, with bright white, buggy eyes -- outlined in a black teardrop of plastic that gives him a decisively 'luchador' look. On the front of the mask, over where one would presume his mouth and nose are, is a type of -- unusual looking plastic /ventilator/. It kind of looks like a custom gas-mask, maybe; the plastic wraps over his lower face, gripping it closely -- stitched into the very fabric of the mask. There is also one more unusual detail -- the fact that everything Peter's looking at through that mask is currently being broadcast to the laptop, wirelessly, sitting on the table; a set of double images, side by side -- each from a camera located in the black plastic frame of his eyes (above them). Everything Peter sees is projected on the laptop screen. And is being /recorded/. Peter turns his head, then. Staring at the laptop screen from the rooftop. Producing -- a typical 'hall-of-mirrors' effect. Well, not a powerful one, because actually the resolution on these cameras frigging /sucks/. But, upon seeing it, Peter exclaims, beneath the mask: "Holycrap, it /works/. I am -- the goddamn /BATMAN/." The door to the roof opens. Pretty quietly. The young man who steps through is -- POSSIBLY A VAMPIRE; at least Dusk is looking as pale as ever, rail-thin and ghost-white highlighted even further by his dark-dark hair and dark-dark eyes. The jeans and odd silly five-toed shoes and pink t-shirt (carefully modified to allow for Giant Wings) with Snoopy and Woodstock on it kind of derail the goth look, though. His hands are in his pockets, fidgeting with something inside, but he stops by the door at this exclamation. "/Are/ you." Dusk sounds -- /veeeeery/ skeptical. Despite the lack of loud noises accompanying the opening of that door, Peter /jumps/ -- leaping from his perch like a cricket, landing with a WHUMP -- right back where he started, actually. Beneath the mask, he's wide-eyed; but as far as looks are concerned -- well, the mask only does one. It's pretty much crazed-fire-fighting-luchador. "...holycrap," Peter exclaims -- but then, he jumps -- this time, intentionally! -- and lands somewhere next to the laptop with a dull thud, springing up to his feet -- and adjusting, yank yank pull YANK -- at the wire embedded in his wristshooter. Turns out to be a USB; shortly after he yanks the cord, the video feed freezes -- then two big 'NO SIGNAL' messages pop up. "Uh um hi," Peter says, before -- as if only now remembering he's /wearing/ it -- he reaches up to yank his mask off. "Um, hi," he tries again, sans mask; looking sheepish and nervous as he shoves that mask behind his back. Like he's going to /hide/ it. Dusk's wings are flexing, a slow restless shift; one stretches just slightly out to the side; the other, bound in place, /can't/ but it does quiver. Upwards slightly, backwards slightly. He eyes the mask as Peter yanks it off. Eyes the laptop. His eyebrows raise questioningly. Like a young boy caught scanning parts of the internet he shouldn't, Peter /gapes/ at his laptop when Dusk looks toward it -- and reaches to shut it. But half-way down, he pauses -- looks back at Dusk -- looks back at his mask -- then looks back at the laptop -- and. Sloooooowly, he pulls it back up. Then, just as slowly, he reaches down to plug the USB back into his thwippy thing. Looking quite penitent as he does so. After about -- ten seconds -- the two blank images return, forming -- a low resolution, very /jumpy/ camera view of Dusk -- from the mask's perspective. Which is now dangling in front of Peter's chest like a little white flag. "Um," Peter soon adds, eyes shifting from the left to the right, "...don't tell anybody I'm -- I mean -- it's, uh. For in case -- I ever, um. Go back to superheroing." That last word almost /whispered/, like it's somehow naughty. "I live with two tele --" Dusk says this automatically; it's an /ingrained/ response when people tell him don't tell anyone! But it hitches, stops, is quickly corrected to: "-- I live with a telepath. And I'd tell Jax /anyway/ he's supposed to be making sure you don't die." He moves closer to the laptop, frowning as he watches himself move in the jumpy camera-eye. "Are you /planning/ to go back to superheroing?" Peter doesn't quite get the 'two telepaths' slip; his eyebrows just crumple. He'll probably understand it /later/, and then be all sad. But, for now: "...yeah I guess you're right," he mumbles, pensively looking back to the laptop -- the mask is lowered, Dusk's image fluttering away and becoming -- folds of the mask fabric, just a blurry dark reddish brown carpet covering over much of the image -- and a bit of the wall, and Peter's pant-leg. "...yeah," he then admits, a little more softly. "After -- things calm down." Dusk looks down at the laptop screen, at least for a moment. He glances back to Peter when the image is replaced with blurry fabric instead. "Superheroing is never going to be very calm. Do you," he is wondering this actually quite seriously, "have some kind of death wish? Because I know a lot of people who'd get pretty sad about that." "Superheroes don't /die/," Peter says, like -- this very suggestion is ridiculous! But then, he adds, perhaps a bit more reverently: "I mean, I don't want to d--I just. Want to -- help. Save people. Because --" Peter's stumbling suddenly fades, a pressing /insistence/ behind his next words: "--have you ever been in like a situation where everything is going nuts? And everybody's losing their head and going 'waaugh waaugh'," Peter adds, flapping his arms as if to -- illustrate? Dusk's lips press together, his wings shifting stiffly behind his back. "Superheroes," this is the only answer he gives to Peter, quiet but kind of /emphatic/ for all that, "die." For a moment, Peter looks like he's going to contest this point -- but then, suddenly, his eyes widen; he seems to be remembering something. "...oh," he says, soft; he takes a step back from Dusk. "Oh, /oh/, I'm --" Even softer: "...I'm really sorry I didn't mean like -- y-yeah, I guess. They do." Whatever point Peter was trying to make previously seems to evaporate; he's now /peering/ at Dusk's shoes. "...Shane told me, um. About a friend of his, who -- back in the raid. Got -- eaten by a dragon. He told me he was -- kind of a superhero, too." "Friend of ours," Dusk agrees. One hand curls fingers in loosely into a fist, thunking down against the table more heavy than fierce. He leans against the prop of his bony arm, the rickety plastic table rocking slightly under the weight. "He got eaten by a dragon. And Ian got killed because of one of the same people /he/ saved once. And so many people on our team --" He exhales slowly, looking downward. "-- Superheroes die all the time. Are you /ready/ for that?" "No," Peter responds, kind-of-instantly, before looking at Dusk -- eyes dragging up to him. The next words, much more slow, much more meek: "...I mean, is that -- something you -- /can/ be? Ready for?" Dusk lifts a hand, scrubbing it against his eyes. "No," he says, quietly. But then reconsiders: "Yes. Maybe. I think you have to be. I think all of us have to be. But you don't --" He's looking back to the laptop screen now, his bony shoulders tensing. "It doesn't matter. How ready /you/ are. The people around you won't ever be ready." The screen is showing /Dusk's/ legs, now; the mask is slightly turned to him. Peter is -- scooting. A little closer toward Dusk. Scoot, scoot. "Yeahbut. I mean. I know that --" He draws in a slow, ragged breath. Scoot, scoot. "--if I had, um. Died," Peter says the word, with a notable swallow -- as if struggling to get his throat around it. "Back there. I think -- there are people -- it would have killed," he says. "I mean, um. Not /literally/, but..." Peter shakes his head. "...I don't -- want that. But I can't just stay /safe/ all the time." "There's other ways to help," Dusk points out. "I mean, you're a freaking genius, there's a million ways to use /that/ to save lives. Just -- not quite so /flashy/. Why are you so hung up on the way that gets you dead?" Peter flushes violet at the phrase 'freaking genius'. Scoot, scoot; he is now within arm's length of Dusk. Eyes lingering on those wings. "...um. I guess, I want to help in those ways, too. But," he adds, hesitantly, "I'm really, /really/ good at the... dangerous stuff. I mean -- most people don't even /know/ when they're in danger. I... do. I /always/ know. And -- I like superheroes. And," Peter adds, his head inclining up to Dusk now, a certain /edge/ in his brows. "It's frigging /awesome/." Then, a little softer, frowning as he quickly looks down at Dusk's feet. "...I think I maybe /do/ have a tiny deathwish, sometimes." "Knowing doesn't seem to help you avoid it much," Dusk says with a faint grimace. But then quiets, his jaw tightening at the mention of it being /awesome/. His hand lifts, fingers clenching into his hair and then releasing it just that much more mussed than before. It's the last sentence that drops his expression back into softness; as soft as angular-pale-fangy can /get/, anyway. His good wing unfolds, stretching out to curl its way around Peter in a fuzzysoft hug as he steps in closer. "... does your danger thing warn you about /yourself/?" When that wing extends, oho. It is as if Peter has been just initiated in a super-secret club. Or better yet; it is as if Dusk has managed to /read his mind/. Suddenly, FWUMP. There is a Peterhug, right around Dusk's waist, within the interior of that wingfold. /Careful/, because of splinted wing, but. "...yeah um. That's probably because -- I don't. Always use it. To /avoid/ danger," Peter admits, very quietly. At Dusk's question, there is a /snkrt/, followed by: "Ohman holycrap no. If it did it'd just be going off 24/7 I mean I'm basically a danger-bro." Dusk's wing curls tighter; for all its suede-soft fragile-looking membrane its hold is firm. /He/ snkrts, now, but only quiet and brief. "-- Do you at least get proper training? I mean, if you're going to be stupid, you shouldn't be stupid /recklessly/." "Ohyeah," Peter replies as the wing coils around him, /fascinated/ by its strength despite the apparent visible fragility. He goes on, as if oblivious to the irony of being stupid but not /reckless/: "I mean, I do a lot of stuff at -- the school. With my advisor. He, um, doesn't. Want me doing the superhero stuff. But, he trained me in some -- emergency first aid. Medical evacuation, too. With the webshooter settings, you can do all sorts of -- wound binding, bracing -- um. Sometimes I ask Joshua to show me stuff, too," Peter admits, a little more quietly, before adding: "I meant to take -- classes on fire safety and rescue? But, I haven't gotten around to it -- I will, though. Oh and self defense," he says, though he quickly adds: "Though seriously dude /no/ one can kick my butt I'm basically Ba--" Suddenly, Peter tenses within that wingfold, the endless nattering coming to an abrupt halt. There is -- /maybe/ a sense of reserved, ultra-hushed awe in his tone when he speaks the next words: "OhmyGod. You -- you. You're /Batman/." "Good, Joshua knows his shit," Dusk gives in endorsement of this; his bandaged wing quivers just slightly as he says it. But the last words make his lips pull back; almost a smile but sharp and thin and very fangy. "Well, /yeah/. And, Peter? I'm sorry but. There's only /one/ Batman around here."