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Everyone uses body language. It's kind of a thing.
Peter nodded to the girl at his target's side. She introduced herself as Alex. Exchanging turns in the conversation, his mark casually bid her greeting. No name? Either introductions weren't part of her routine or she was careful. Suspicious. This lent some credence to some of his suspicions. If she did have the skill set, then perhaps those habits would signify she was good at what she did. Or maybe she was just a rude little girl, who knows. He knew she was silent until she did greet herself however. Even after, there was a pause. He could see her shape facing him, her head making subtle movements, up and down, but all in his direction. Of course, Peter was strand looking. Peculiar. And if this meeting had any credence, perhaps even suspicious. Much like his mark. However, there was one thing that did go wrong. She said, "would love to hear more about this life work of yours."
Then she turned her head to her friend.
Red flag. Red flag. A bazillion red flags! Alarms, lights, sirens - they all went off in Peter's head. He felt his metal skin buzz as electricity coursed through his body in a nervous tick, though outside the perceptions of the young girls here. Like a hundred skeletons gently placing their bony fingers and plucking the hairs off his body, breathless moans against his neck, mute cackling in his ears - of course, there was no actual sensations against his deadened body. But these phantom agonies, tricks of the mind, they warned him. They warned him: do not share your secrets! Do not share your secrets, else all would be lost! His research? Stolen. Stolen for good, stolen forever! Cheated. Plagiarized. Mangled. Lost. Years of his life lost. What kind of fate would that be? A fate not worth existing for! He felt his arms vibrate. It took all he had to keep himself from taking his hand and wrapping his fingers against her throat! To lift her in the air and send every watt of energy coursing in his body through her own, to make her heart explode where he had her - to ensure the safety of his life's work!
But he did not. He did not lift a finger. Not a motion to signify any move, nor an expression for he had none to make. He took instead a couple brief moments of silence to recompose himself. He was being irrational again. The work was important, yes. But the work was lost if it was not retrieved anyway. He had already decided on trusting to get the aid of another. Naturally... they'd have to know what they're getting. What they're getting into. Of course... how foolish. Peter paused a second after those moments before speaking.
"...Yes, my life work... it's very important. It is about... stem cell research. I've been looking into it for a very, very long tii-iieem... so much time. Put into papers. Silly, isn't it?"
Peter took a moment. Silly. Yes, silly. But it meant so much. Something so fragile and easy to lose could change the world. Or scientific fields. It was ironic, really.
"The research likely has not arrived yet." Peter explained further. "But once it has, I will still be separated from it. I have no means to retrieve it. Peter Brooke has been wiped. So that research will stay there, waiting for a recipient that no longer exists. I need it."
Then she turned her head to her friend.
Red flag. Red flag. A bazillion red flags! Alarms, lights, sirens - they all went off in Peter's head. He felt his metal skin buzz as electricity coursed through his body in a nervous tick, though outside the perceptions of the young girls here. Like a hundred skeletons gently placing their bony fingers and plucking the hairs off his body, breathless moans against his neck, mute cackling in his ears - of course, there was no actual sensations against his deadened body. But these phantom agonies, tricks of the mind, they warned him. They warned him: do not share your secrets! Do not share your secrets, else all would be lost! His research? Stolen. Stolen for good, stolen forever! Cheated. Plagiarized. Mangled. Lost. Years of his life lost. What kind of fate would that be? A fate not worth existing for! He felt his arms vibrate. It took all he had to keep himself from taking his hand and wrapping his fingers against her throat! To lift her in the air and send every watt of energy coursing in his body through her own, to make her heart explode where he had her - to ensure the safety of his life's work!
But he did not. He did not lift a finger. Not a motion to signify any move, nor an expression for he had none to make. He took instead a couple brief moments of silence to recompose himself. He was being irrational again. The work was important, yes. But the work was lost if it was not retrieved anyway. He had already decided on trusting to get the aid of another. Naturally... they'd have to know what they're getting. What they're getting into. Of course... how foolish. Peter paused a second after those moments before speaking.
"...Yes, my life work... it's very important. It is about... stem cell research. I've been looking into it for a very, very long tii-iieem... so much time. Put into papers. Silly, isn't it?"
Peter took a moment. Silly. Yes, silly. But it meant so much. Something so fragile and easy to lose could change the world. Or scientific fields. It was ironic, really.
"The research likely has not arrived yet." Peter explained further. "But once it has, I will still be separated from it. I have no means to retrieve it. Peter Brooke has been wiped. So that research will stay there, waiting for a recipient that no longer exists. I need it."
And Valjean will turn into a lovable puppy dog.
Bruh, he's gonna be a surprise. Come the next act, all will be made clear!
Ooooh, her and Abraham would get along great by the sounds of it. Or terribly. Regardless, it would be fun.
I once had a character in the previous incarnation of 218, who could perform psychic feats through psionic apparitions that only he was able to see. His connection to them allowed a form of telepathic immunity, in that if anyone tried, the apparitions would sense an invader and start screaming and screeching into his head (and thereby affecting the telepath as well). This happened once. Both characters were squirming on the ground crying and screaming for it to stop as their ears were bleeding.
Man, good times.
Man, good times.
It's been more than thirty years since the wolf and the winter cold. And now, as then, it is not fear that grips him, only restlessness. A heightened sense of things. The seaborn breeze, coolly, kissing the sweat at his chest and neck. Gulls cawing, complaining, even as they feast on the thousands of floating dead. The steady breathing of the 300 at his back, ready to die for him without a moment's pause. Everyone of them ready, to die.
Sir, please keep your hands off of the train. It's an antique.
Cryptiic said
Oh, by the way, what sort of reprimand could a pair of student who accidentally knocked out half the school's power grid for a short while expect?Would they go to the headmaster's office, the head of security, or someone else?It wasn't really serious, and they were able to fix everything without too much of a problem, but it still left part of campus completely without electricity for a few moments before the backup generators kicked in.Or should I scrape the whole incident altogether and just leave it at him getting monumentally shit-faced with his roommate?(Speaking of which, what are the consequences for underage students being suspected of drinking alcohol on school property?)Edit: Also, what are the consequences for minors being caught smuggling and using alcohol onto campus grounds?
Bruuuhh, I was actually thinking about Peter messing with the power grid. I don't know much about your character, but I know Peter would have a motive.
That motive being more compulsory than anything, really. An electricity addiction.
The panda bear was unfazing. It prompted only a mere glance towards his direction, and even as the animal meta had grabbed onto Adam Blackmore, and Amanda Blackmore sending her hot scraps of metal through the air, he had just barely paused his pacing. He processed information faster than most people. It took only a brief glance at the panda bear and Adam Blackmore to assess there wasn't any danger in the situation, though Amanda, considering how young she was, was more prone to impulsive behavior. Adam had defended himself and the student from that reckless attack with a burst of wind powerful enough to blow back hot metal flying at high-velocity. That would be enough to blow down most of the children standing too close, and Peter was walking between the crowd. Despite all of his weight, the burst of wind did in fact almost tip him over. He was off balance and on one foot leaning back. In such a fast paced circumstance such as this one, there was hardly any time to notice what Peter had done: a swift arc of electricity was emitted from the bottom of the foot that was in the air, and subsequently pulled the foot firmly back onto the ground. He stood there for a brief second to regain his composure. His rooted foot crackled with electricity but was soon dispelled. Anyone else probably would've found that burst of wind annoying. Peter payed it little heed. He was too distracted. Too focused. He was too concentrated on the static feedback he was receiving from the girl with the ruffled collar.
The static feedback also picked up a girl by the entrance where the panda came in. She was holding something highly conductive, shaped like a box. She moved, and he could no longer see the box. Reacting as fast as electricity could, his body vibrated and crackled - the air itself filled with static, prompting the hairs on people's bodies to stand on end. Through his perception, the entire room lit up to life by all dimensions. A conductive shape was flying through the air on a course towards the panda bear metahuman as Peter was passing them. It just took a mere, sudden movement of his head to avoid the metal box (something inside of it? there was more in the box, and it was conductive - he could tell by the shaking and collisions inside) and proceeded with his pacing uninterrupted. If this girl he had set his eyes on was in fact somebody that could help him, then he'd figure out how he could help her. These were deals that had to be made, not just favors. And Peter was willing to do quite a bit to get a hold of his research. Once he had his research, he had hard, solid proof of his status as a doctor and could proceed as he would have. Adam Blackmore's niche was teaching and the school board - Peter held strong doubts he'd have any place in research development. Those were two completely different fields. Adam would be useless to him.
"Tin Man," Peter heard a voice say as the vibrations of the sound buzzed in his head from the interaction with the static, and it vibrated through his metal body like an echo, "you got a problem?"
Peculiar. She sounded defensive. Antagonistic. Prepared. He remembered hearing it in some of his old friends in the military before they... anyways, it was peculiar. He didn't feel as if she had a reason to. It validated some of his prior concerns, how whoever possibly held that sort of skillset among this age group wouldn't be necessarily generous or trusting. There was at least a form of satisfaction that this young girl fulfilled one of the prerequisites. It suggested that there might be a chance she had what he was looking for. But to answer her question? Peter certainly had a problem. A number of problems. But the most pressing was retrieving his life's work, and he had to figure out how much to tell her about that. After all, if she didn't agree, he just let loose all the information of his predicament to a total stranger. Who knows what she would do with it? He had little time so he'd have to run with it as he went... what a strange feeling, that was. It almost felt slacking; inadequate. He was usually prepared.
"Good voice." Peter said to her, off topic of what she was asking. His voice sounded much like a projected echo, or that there was a man speaking inside a metal shell. It had varying tunes and pitches - he probably could've been the voice actor for Bane. Biding his time to come up with an answer? Well, he had to do something. "Sounds assertive."
He contemplated her question for a brief second and managed to come up with something. "Yes." Peter admitted. He had no reason to lie. "I've been improperly assigned by a "malfunction". I am separated from my life's work. I have one arm. My body is made of metal, so the latter can not be fixed. I have issues with seeing, hearing and spe-eeieak...ing--" reaching certain pitches provided complications, resulting in speech impediments that sounding the warping and screeching of metal - "...a handful more than just a problem. I manage."
Adam Blackmore began talking more on the choices they had this class. Between sparring, power training and games, Peter wasn't interested in any of that silliness. He was just interested in getting business taken care of. And with a mind that moved as fast as Peter's it felt like the teacher was taking as much time as he could to cover all of the options. But he remained silent. When Adam Blackmore finished, Peter remained silent. He said no more. He ought not to ask as soon as they had met, that wasn't much of a "bonding" experience, so to speak. Kids didn't really have the business mindset. They did favors for people they enjoyed or for people that could benefit them. They operated on their own schedule. Interpreting others wasn't quite one hundred percent developed in their brains yet. So he's giving them a chance to reply and so on.
"I am Dr. Peter Brooke." He said. The slapped on tag that was beside the ripped seams where his sleeve used to be, though, said "Richard Cox". That was something he did not know. The writing wasn't made in conductive material and did not stand out.
That said, that's when Peter finally stopped and allowed the girl and her friend (if that was what they chose to do) to speak.
The static feedback also picked up a girl by the entrance where the panda came in. She was holding something highly conductive, shaped like a box. She moved, and he could no longer see the box. Reacting as fast as electricity could, his body vibrated and crackled - the air itself filled with static, prompting the hairs on people's bodies to stand on end. Through his perception, the entire room lit up to life by all dimensions. A conductive shape was flying through the air on a course towards the panda bear metahuman as Peter was passing them. It just took a mere, sudden movement of his head to avoid the metal box (something inside of it? there was more in the box, and it was conductive - he could tell by the shaking and collisions inside) and proceeded with his pacing uninterrupted. If this girl he had set his eyes on was in fact somebody that could help him, then he'd figure out how he could help her. These were deals that had to be made, not just favors. And Peter was willing to do quite a bit to get a hold of his research. Once he had his research, he had hard, solid proof of his status as a doctor and could proceed as he would have. Adam Blackmore's niche was teaching and the school board - Peter held strong doubts he'd have any place in research development. Those were two completely different fields. Adam would be useless to him.
"Tin Man," Peter heard a voice say as the vibrations of the sound buzzed in his head from the interaction with the static, and it vibrated through his metal body like an echo, "you got a problem?"
Peculiar. She sounded defensive. Antagonistic. Prepared. He remembered hearing it in some of his old friends in the military before they... anyways, it was peculiar. He didn't feel as if she had a reason to. It validated some of his prior concerns, how whoever possibly held that sort of skillset among this age group wouldn't be necessarily generous or trusting. There was at least a form of satisfaction that this young girl fulfilled one of the prerequisites. It suggested that there might be a chance she had what he was looking for. But to answer her question? Peter certainly had a problem. A number of problems. But the most pressing was retrieving his life's work, and he had to figure out how much to tell her about that. After all, if she didn't agree, he just let loose all the information of his predicament to a total stranger. Who knows what she would do with it? He had little time so he'd have to run with it as he went... what a strange feeling, that was. It almost felt slacking; inadequate. He was usually prepared.
"Good voice." Peter said to her, off topic of what she was asking. His voice sounded much like a projected echo, or that there was a man speaking inside a metal shell. It had varying tunes and pitches - he probably could've been the voice actor for Bane. Biding his time to come up with an answer? Well, he had to do something. "Sounds assertive."
He contemplated her question for a brief second and managed to come up with something. "Yes." Peter admitted. He had no reason to lie. "I've been improperly assigned by a "malfunction". I am separated from my life's work. I have one arm. My body is made of metal, so the latter can not be fixed. I have issues with seeing, hearing and spe-eeieak...ing--" reaching certain pitches provided complications, resulting in speech impediments that sounding the warping and screeching of metal - "...a handful more than just a problem. I manage."
Adam Blackmore began talking more on the choices they had this class. Between sparring, power training and games, Peter wasn't interested in any of that silliness. He was just interested in getting business taken care of. And with a mind that moved as fast as Peter's it felt like the teacher was taking as much time as he could to cover all of the options. But he remained silent. When Adam Blackmore finished, Peter remained silent. He said no more. He ought not to ask as soon as they had met, that wasn't much of a "bonding" experience, so to speak. Kids didn't really have the business mindset. They did favors for people they enjoyed or for people that could benefit them. They operated on their own schedule. Interpreting others wasn't quite one hundred percent developed in their brains yet. So he's giving them a chance to reply and so on.
"I am Dr. Peter Brooke." He said. The slapped on tag that was beside the ripped seams where his sleeve used to be, though, said "Richard Cox". That was something he did not know. The writing wasn't made in conductive material and did not stand out.
That said, that's when Peter finally stopped and allowed the girl and her friend (if that was what they chose to do) to speak.
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