ArchivedLogs:Dealing with Consequences

Dealing with Consequences
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane, Sebastian, Jackson	2013-08-09 (part of fight club.)
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. Post-Fight-Club, Peter is upstairs, preparing to go; the chitin-clad teen is still exhausted from his fight (which involved a thoroughly jumbled wrestling match with Taylor's tentacles) and gobbling bottles of water; it isn't until someone tells him he shouldn't /gulp/ it down all at once that he's finally slowed to just taking tiny, constant sips -- on his second bottle already, now half empty. He's clad in his red patched hoodie and dark blue sweatpants; he quietly slipped the thwippy things back on immediately after his match -- he's also got his nylon black backpack on. During the fight, Peter's shown a considerable escalation of physical /aggressiveness/; nothing so terrible that it'd make them worried he's gone all NEGA-PETER, but he was clearly -- more willing to just /bodyslam/ Taylor a couple of times. Right to the ground. At the moment, he's flushed with effort and expended energy, hopping nervously from one foot to the other, waiting for the others. "You're still holding back." It's a quiet observation, more than a criticism. Sebastian is perhaps the one who tells Peter not to /gulp/ all his water down, as he reaches for a bottle of his own. He sips some, pours some into one cupped hand to splash on his gills. He is limping -- rather /badly/ after a very blurry whirlwind bout with Flicker, who boasts little by way of innate physical prowess but that only means so much when it's ridiculously difficult to even /land/ a hit. "Kinda need to take out the biggest tentacles first," Shane agrees with a small frown. "The /hooks/ can take chunks out of you." He pulls himself up to sit on the counter, slumping forward to rest his arms on his knees. His match tonight proved similarly challenging; there's still a kind of /burnt-plastic/ smell to his hair after one too many zaps from Inès. A kind of sluggishness to his /motions/ even after Mirror!Joshua's yanking him back from what was proooobably a heart attack. It's a Very Good Thing their club comes with healers on standby. He swipes a hand towards water. Peter's water! He's /stealing/. "Y'all just about ready?" Jax, at least, looks little the worse for wear though it's hard to tell how much of that is genuine; the basement floor downstairs currently holds its own share of his blood. His match with Dusk was conducted largely in the /dark/, though; it's likely whatever could be seen of it was only erratic. He's chipper enough now, though, if still terribly sweaty-sticky-gross, his sleeveless blue shirt sticking to him in places though its fabric is drying quickly enough. "Peter, where'm I dropping you off for the night?" "Hnh," Peter responds to Shane's sudden theft of the water bottle, though he doesn't seem to otherwise complain; he grins, a bit, at the mention of the hooks. "--yeah I /noticed/," he says, shifting his hoodie a little bit; he notably /didn't/ wear his suit for the match. "But, mmf, just not ready to -- tear flesh apart, I guess," Peter says, kind-of-mumbled, in response to Sebastian. Peter's reaching for another bottle of water to replace his when Jackson asks that question; a hint of violet creeps up his face, his hand darting to seize up the bottle of water, and: "--school. Ivan's coming back tomorrow, I want to be there to -- um, I wanted to ask you about -- I stopped by Sloan's apartment the other day? And Parley told me I should talk to you. About her." Sebastian splutter-coughs on his water. "Oh, fuck." Shane winces. He glances towards his brother. Sebastian throws him a /guilty/ look back. "We -- meant to talk to you about her," Shane says apologetically, "Back -- last month, after -- fuck." He gulps at Peter's water, and shifts uncomfortably on his perch on the counter. "Peter, she's -- not --" He looks to Peter, and then looks kind of /helplessly/ to Jax. "You should probably not --" Sebastian starts, but /he/ drops off, too. And looks to his dad as well. Jackson draws in a slow breath, wincing and settling back against the counter. "Oh. Oh, I thought you guys were going to -- oh." His shoulders tense at the dual /looks/ from the twins. His teeth scrape down against his lips. "Right. Right, Peter." His mouth opens, and then closes again. "Peter, Sloan is -- that's -- not Sloan. She never -- made it out of that place. Not -- exactly." The spluttering draws Peter's attention quickly; a series of glances snap back between Shane and Sebastian, before his eyes lock on Jackson -- the water bottle is, for the moment, forgotten. There's an expression of open bafflement on Peter's face at what he's saying; bafflement, accompanied by a pinched /narrowing/ of those eyebrows: "--what, you mean like, she's... still -- I mean, she's still trying to -- wait you mean /literally/?" Shane frowns, lowering the water bottle to rest between his knees. "Yeah, like. Literally, she --" "-- Her last fight. With that girl. Who -- glowed?" Sebastian's fingers flick towards Jax at 'glowed' by way of indication. "That wasn't --" "There's a mutant," Shane breaks in. "Who can take other people's bodies over. They were in the glowing girl. And now they're --" Sebastian's hand is sneaking out to rest kind of tentatively on Peter's shoulder. "It's not really Sloan anymore. And whoever it is is -- kind of dangerous." "M'sorry," Jackson says, quieter. "We didn't know, when we got y'all all out and then. When Parley told us --" His brows crease, deeply. "Sorry." The pinch of skin between Peter's eyebrows only gets increasingly narrow as the three of them explain; there is a steady growing tenseness both in his jaw -- and in his posture. He doesn't pull away when Sebastian's hand lands on his shoulder, but the muscle underneath that palm is /clenched/; Peter's relentless bobbing has grown suddenly still. "--she's. Someone's /controlling/ her," Peter says, before: "--is--but. Can't you -- is she still /there/? Is there a way to... help her?" "Well, yeah, maybe," Sebastian starts, while Shane simultaneously shakes his head: "No, not really?" The twins exchange a very /frowning/ look. "... I don't know." Sebastian exhales a defeated breath. He looks to Shane, and then looks to Jax. "/Is/ there?" Jackson shakes his head uncertainly. "If I knowed any way, I'd've tried it. But the -- it ain't even /possible/ for anyone to /force/ them out, that's not -- I don't even know what powers you'd need to have to manage that. And even if someone could, they --" He swallows, uncomfortably. "They don't /have/ a body. Of their own. Ain't nowhere to /go/ except -- into someone /else/. Or -- dead. How do you -- decide who lives and who dies." "--so what," Peter says, an edge of something harsher slipping into his tone, "she just -- gets controlled forever? Until she's dead or something? And then what, they just -- take--" He cuts himself off; the tension in his posture heightens to a point where, for a moment, he starts to look extraordinarily angry. He probably /is/ extraordinarily angry; his fists are suddenly clenched. "--she can't--she /helped/ me," Peter says, his voice strained. "When I first -- went there and what the /hell/," he continues, and now he's pushing forward, to the kitchen's exit, as if he intends to head back to the Lofts /this very instant/. "--I need to. Talk to her." Shane slides down off the counter with a thump, /snapping/ out a hand to grab Peter's wrist. "What," he says, kind of heavy-blunt, "the fuck are you going to say?" "Are you going to ask them to kill themselves?" Sebastian's brows raise. "Are you going to supply them with someone /else/ whose life you're OK with trading?" That question just makes Shane's eyes /widen/, and his fingers tighten /hard/ on Peter's wrist. "What /are/ you going to say?" Jackson asks this more quietly than Shane. "Because those are really the options here. Kill them, or kill someone else. Until we can find them their /own/ body -- if it even still exists." His hand lifts, his knuckles rubbing at his eye again. "-- Is taking someone else better, if they ain't your friend?" "I'm not--" and with this, there's a /hiss/ between Peter's teeth, as Shane's fingers wrap around his wrist; Peter /pulls/, a harsh yank meant more to dislodge than to drag Shane with him -- although it's certainly not as strong as Peter /could/ pull. "--going to--kill anybody I. I want to know how it--works. If she's still in there, if she can--" Peter's expression becomes clenched; teeth almost /grinding/. When Peter glances back to Jax, there's something almost /furious/ in his expression: "--I'm not going to take someone else. She just--she doesn't deserve--she should at least have a chance to--maybe this person can just... switch. Back and forth. For a little while. Between people. She never even got out /let go of my arm/." Yank. Shane's fingers grip /tighter/ through that first yank, his eyes still wide. "-- No, you can't --" It's a whisper, really, mostly lost beneath Peter's words. "Do you /remember/ the last fight she had? She killed the last -- person. That she was in. When she took Sloan. I'd /guess/ that --" "-- they're still there," Shane says a little more evenly, "and she's not the type of person to --" His teeth clench hard, and at the last yank he lets go with a narrowing of his eyes. "/Fuck/ you," he grits to Peter, "fine. Go fucking -- /die/, that'll help a lot." He grabs his stolen water bottle off the counter, shoving past Peter to head out. "Nobody deserves any of this," Jackson answers, his eye narrowing on Peter's face. "Peter, I --" His eyes scrunches shut for a moment, and his hand scuffs over his scalp. "Don't -- be around her alone. If you go -- make sure someone's there. Joshua. Hive. Parley. This is a person who will /kill/ you an' not feel --" His breath hisses out sharp through his teeth. "We need to get them out, I just don't -- know -- how. -- /Shane/." This last just sounds frustrated. Kind of tired. As Shane leaves, something in Peter's hardness cracks; at the last line, he just steps back, a little numbly -- by the time Shane's actually stepped out of the room, the tension in Peter's posture is rolling out of him, replaced by a sudden swell of swaying weakness. He slumps into one of the chairs and props his face up against his hands, elbows down on the surface of the kitchen table. "--okay," Peter says, finally, in response to Jax, his tone muted. "I just--" He slumps down /lower/, elbows sliding apart, resting his forehead against his arms, his upper torso just crumpled against the table. "--thought she was. Okay," he says, much more weakly. "Shane --" Sebastian's brows crease in worry, but he doesn't follow after his brother. The gills on his neck flutter, and when Peter slumps down into the chair he creeps over beside him. He crouches by the chair, very tentatively sneaking his arms around Peter's slumped form, his forehead leaning to press against Peter's arm. "{I'm sorry,}" he offers very quietly, and, "I know in there she -- I'm sorry." Jackson stays where he is, leaning against the counter and watching the other two with a small frown. "If there is a way to get her out without --" His head shakes. "Peter, I'm sorry." In him this doesn't sound like sympathy so much as contrition. "Sometimes I don't know how to -- sometimes I don't know if there /are/ any right solutions." When Sebastian closes in for his sneak-hug, Peter draws in a ragged sigh -- and one of his arms unfold, /coiling/ around Sebastian, as if to drag him closer -- though his head doesn't rise out of the other arm, on the table. Just making hard breathing sounds. "Sebastian--" he starts, before: "{I know. Tell him. Am sorry.} For --" The fingers on the table -- and wrapped around Sebastian -- curl, tightening. "--worrying him. I won't," he continues, with a tiny hitch in his voice, "do anything stupid. I promise." In response to Jackson, Peter just squeezes Sebastian closer, head still not rising: "--yeah I don't... know. I just..." A pause, then; Peter's arm gets tense around Sebastian -- Peter's head shows signs of starting to pull up, though not all the way. Enough, maybe, to peek at Jax through slightly blurred eyes. "--if it was one of us. What would you do?" Sebastian's arms tighten when Peter moves into the hug rather than away. He presses a kiss to Peter's shoulder, and another to his temple. "Sometimes," he says regretfully, "the world just. Kind of. Sucks." His cheek rests against Peter's hair, head only lifting when Peter's starts to move. His arms tighten just a little further at Peter's question, black eyes shifting to Jackson with a hint of discomfort, gills fluttering. "Oh --" Just a short syllable, breathed out in a tiny voice as Jax's eye meets Peter's. Then Sebastian's. Then drops to the ground for a moment, the light around him shivering. He looks back up at the boys, his head shaking. "I --" His arms fold, slowly, against his chest, fingers curling hard against the opposite biceps. "-- I don't know," he admits, a little raggedly. "I -- would /like/ to think that I'd -- still not want to hurt --" He swallows, and drops his gaze to the ground again. "If one of y'all was in danger I don't. Know. If I'd trust myself." Peter's mouth tenses into a straight line at Jax's response; his eyebrows dig together -- the hand around Sebastian remains curled, tightly, as he presses his cheek to Peter's hair -- but then, Peter's /other/ arm is untangling, sliding out from under his chin -- leaving his face more or less exposed to the table's cool surface. And... THWP. A tiny silver strand lances out to catch Jackson by the upper sternum; the impact is not hard, but notably /sticky/ and spreads out in a sprawl of thin gray lines that /cling/. It is accompanied by a firm -- though not /harsh/ -- pull. Kind of a steady reeling, really. Intent, apparently, on dragging Jackson over toward himself and Sebastian. For hugs. "--I probably," Peter says, a little weakly as he does this, "shouldn't have asked that. Um -- sorry." "If it was one of /you/ --" Sebastian just squeezes his arm almost /bruisingly/ tight around Peter. His brows raise, when that silver strand flicks out. "Did you just /thwip/ my dad." An uneven edge of laughter breaks into his rather strained tone. "Hhhh." It's almost a laugh, except it's /exhausted/ heaviness just leaves it a kind of defeated /sigh/. "No, no that's -- that's /valid/ it'd hardly be -- fair of me to tell you -- one thing if I'd just --" Jackson is sort of bat-bat-batting at the string that has attached itself to his chest, though he's /also/ walking forward with the tugging on his shirt. "I'll talk t'Parley. An' the Professor. An' see if there ain't /somethin'/ we can --" His head shakes. He curls his arms down around the boys' shoulders in quick tight squeeze. "I," Peter informs Sebastian with just an edge of pomp, "can thwip anybody I /want/." This is accompanied by a sudden kiss, directed at the side of Sebastian's face -- right before Jax arrives, wrapping his arms around them both. Peter's free hand releases the length of silver line, curling around Jax's hip, squeezing back and /shoving/ his face against the young man's chest. A slight shuddering sigh, followed by: "/Thank/ you." And then, suddenly pulling back, a little more quick, with a tiny hint of panic: "I -- I gotta go -- I'll go get Shane," Peter says, rising up from the chair to apparently do just that! "Yeah but. Indiscriminate thwipping. Thwipping /Pa/. Shane's really rubbing off on you." Sebastian doesn't exactly hug Jax in return, but he does lean up into the hug, weight shifting in against Jax's side. "-- Right. He's probably --" He frowns. "Should find him. And Anole. And go -- home." Jackson presses kisses in turn to the top of Bastian's spiky head and Peter's less spiky one. His arm squeezes tighter around Sebastian's shoulders; his other hand lifts for a moment to smoothe at the scruffy mess of Peter's mousy hair. He steps back, poking at the dangling silver STRING on his shirt. "Vinegar," he says. "Then Shane. Then home." "Nnmf," Peter responds, to the Jax-kiss; he flushes violet at the scruff-smoothing, and then -- psssst, his wrist extending out to Jax's chest to deliver a quick spritz of vinegar misting. As the cord comes unraveled, detaching, Peter's already -- darting out the door. With a quick squeeze to one of Sebastian's shoulders, apparently intent on retrieving Shane. Leaving Anole to Sebastian! "--home," Peter agrees, as he darts off.