Log: Hey! I always get the feet!

Characters: Peter, Longshot, Illyana. Symon, Rogue, Samuel and Wolf
were around a bit, too.

Date: Wed Sep 27 2000

Disclaimer: Absolutely no arachnids were harmed during this scene.

Logged by Yana
Word-wrapping at 76, 1, 1
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Manhattan -- Central Park: Reservoir

One of the more famous areas of New York City is this place: Central Park.
It attracts people in their droves, as they swarm around like insects,
following their trivial and pointless pursuits without so much as an
inkling of how futile and pointless their lives really are. Picnics are
devoured, half-enthusiastic games are played as each and every person
spirals into obscurity.

Dominating the landscape is the Reservoir; the barely-drinkable water
supply that serves the Island of Manhattan. It's allegedly kept
scrupulously clean, but why such an area would be open to the public
patently defies reason... the place must be filthy.

And as if to draw attention away from that, there's Cleopatra's Needle. An
exhibit from Ancient Egypt, this obelisk has a mate standing in London.

In an attempt to lend a touch of class to a damned city, other attractions
are available: the Shakespearian Gardens and Belvedare Castle to the south,
and the Metroplitan Museum of Art to the East. The remains of the House of
Tranquil Repose -- a Euthanasia clinic from the 1920s -- stands a few yards
away. You'd think in this day and age, such things would be far more
commonplace... and that they'd be used, too.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Samuel nods, making a mental note of Longshot's appearance, primarily his
fingers. "That's very interesting." He thinks of the best course of action
to take. "Ah'll be sure to let both of them know about you right away, and
we can talk through Symon, if that's okay?" He looks over to Symon for
approval.

Rogue glances over to the guys. She can't help being pulled into her
curiosity after a tale like that. She skids the swing to a stop and
straddles it, leaning forward on the chain as her jade gaze watches
intently, even as the rest of her worry nags at the back of her skull.

Longshot begins to panic. "You mean you won't take me to Xavier?" His eyes
race around the scene. He was so close, now he feels as if he's just as far
from reaching his goal as he ever was.

Symon looks up at Longshot, a smile curving his lips. "The Professor is a
busy man, Longshot," he says, trying to calm the man down. "I'm sure Mister
Guthrie will tell Xavier about you as soon as possible..." He looks back to
Sam, nodding. "...as for being a mediator between the two sides of the
equation, if Longshot doesn't mind, I would be happy to take on the role."

Samuel holds up one hand and shakes his head, trying to reassure Longshot.
"Ah'll do what ah can, but ah can only contact Xavier. He's my superior at
work at the University. Ah'll leave a message for him right away tonight,
and speak to him immediately about it as soon as ah can, hopefully
tomorrow."

Longshot shakes his head, still not understanding, still not quite
accepting. Finally his shoulders sink, as if he's given in. He has to meet
Xavier, and if this is the only way, this is the only way. "Very well,
Symon, as always you can find me around the plaza at campus." Longshot
flips off the top of the swingset in a flourish, and takes off in a dash
into the surrounding woods. About 500 feet in, he finds a tree safely out
of the view of the other, and makes his way easily up into it. He sits
there alone and thinks.

"Longshot!" Symon slides to his feet as the man runs off, a frown curving
his lips. "Will you talk to the professor as soon as possible?", he asks,
looking back to Samuel, concern etched in his expression. "He's as naive as
a babe... totally tabula rosa. He needs some assistance as soon as
possible, or else someone's going to notice his hands, and, well..." Symon
shakes his head, preferring not to think about that. "...thanks for meeting
us here, Samuel."

Samuel nods to Symon. "No problem, Symon. Ah'll get you a response back as
soon as possible. Tell him ah'm sorry, okay? Ah'll do everything ah can ta
help."

Rogue blinks again as Longshot takes off. She shakes her head slowly and
then rises from the swing entirely, moving to stand next to Samuel. She
let's out a quiet sigh. Time to face the music, and hopefully get some
answers for her friend. "Bye Sur Wolfe." she smiles a little as she gets
ready to depart.

Longshot notes a young attractive blond woman from his hiding place. He
watches her intently for a few moments, and then begins hoping stealthily
from tree to tree, slowly making his way towards her.

Symon gives Samuel a nod, and then a smile and another half-bow for Rogue.
"Take care, miss," he says, in a bad English accent. "I look forward to
seeing both of you soon. Please try to get a response in a hurry,
Samuel..." He gives a half-hearted smile, looking worried, and then starts
in the direction that Longshot had originally ran.

Samuel nods and gestures to Rogue. "We gotta go. Ah really hated to cut
that short...the guy needs the professor's help. From the sounds of the
call, it's urgent though." He picks up Wolf in his arms and nods to Rogue,
gesturing over to an unseen part of the park.

Rogue nods and follows suit, not mentioning what she thinks the call may
have been about...

Longshot finally makes it to a tree about 10 feet from Illyana. He sits
there for several moments, just watching her before he finally speaks.
"Hello, there." Even his voice carries his smile and warmth.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Illyana

She seems spun from sunlight and gemstone, this slim young woman, with a
spark of hard blue for eyes. A wealth of hair so bright and golden it seems
the strands were spun from sunlight is pulled back into a loose plait that
spills past her shoulders in a river of strands that ends well past her
waist. Her gently tanned skin is a tawny shade that compliments her hair,
causing her eyes to seem that much deeper blue and her hair that much more
golden. Those eyes at first resemble sapphire, a deep clear blue, but there
is a darkness in their depths... As if the midnight void that surrounded
the moon were gathered in those eyes, bereft the stars to lighten.

She is wearing a black tunic-like top with matching pants with a gilded
design picked out in gold thread across her front. It's an outfit reminiscent
of exotic Oriental culture made even more unusual with her Occidental
features.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Samuel leaves for the southern area of the park.

Well out of sight of the others, as well as far enough away her eerie
presence is probably not felt, is Illyana. She stands next to a crumbling
wall, the large gap of a window casement in front of her. A spider has
built a web there, graceful concentric patterns. The young woman, however,
seems to be poking at the center of the web . . . no, not poking. But
lifting the large orb weaver off the silken net.

Symon continues to walk in the direction that Longshot went, not yet
knowing that he might have bounced off elsewhere. "Longshot!", is called
out now and then, the man's brow constantly furrowed. "Cripes... where'd he
run off to?"

Illyana glances up, tallish girl in darkness and subtle colors, glinting of
gold. Her eyes are such a sharp blue that they resemble sapphires, all the
more so for the sense of darkness that lies beyond. She doesn't say
anything to the tree'd'an. The spider wanders about her hand, moving with
calm deliberation.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

<< Longshot >>

Tall, slender, and very blonde, Longshot is a young man (approximately 19
or 20) who makes heads turn. His face is that of an angel, soft yellow eyes
contrast the sharp angles of his chin line, and small nose. All of it is
outlined with shortly cropped, and nicely kept hair, combed forward into a
caesar style. He drapes his small frame in dark colors, giving him an even
thinner appearance. Mainly he can be found wearing a nice modern sweater,
long black slacks, and black paramilitary boots. Over all of this he wears
a thin gray leather coat that flows in the wind, and comes to rest midway
down his thigh. However, concealed under that coat is a modified holster
that he uses to store his throwing dagger. One of the most noticeable
features of Longshot is that he only has 3 fingers on each hand. Because of
this he often keeps his hands in his pockets when he is out in the public
eye.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Longshot, not at all bothered by her lack of responce, keeps on talking. "My
name's Longshot." He hops down from his tree and stands about 10 feet from
the bizzare girl.

Peter sits in a group of trees in an area that is completely black,
shielded from the light of the lamp posts down the paths in Central Park.
He's depressed about something, but even he doesn't know what.

No smile from the girl, no answering warmth at all to the young man's
demeanor. Her expression is neutral, placid, with just the hint of
coldness. "I should care . . . . because?" she asks, question left dangling
for the answer.

Symon is, for his part, wandering around the park looking for Longshot. A
few more moments, and his walking comes to a halt,and he slides his hands
into his pockets. "Gods know how far he could have gotten by now," he says
to himself, and shakes his head, then commences looking around, triying to
re-orientate himself with what little he recognizes in the park to figure
out how to get back to the nearby campus.

A warm smile crosses Longshot's lips. She's not picking up on his charm,
perhaps he simply needs to be a bit nicer. He completely ignores the cold
of her responce. "I saw you from a tree I was sitting in over there. I
thought you might want some company. I know I always enjoy having someone
to talk to. What about you? What's your name?" He smiles brightly, and
decides he's going to be so nice to this girl that she can't help but like
him and be nice in return.

Even if unoticed by the angelic Longshot, the area around the blonde girl
has a chill to it more sensed than explained. The shadows seem deeper, the
light less warm. The rustling of leaves in the breeze has an onimous note,
the movement of limbs before lamp-light casts startling shadows.

Of the blonde herself, she just looks quietly at the man, her expression
still placid. She glances down, holding her hand up a bit to better see the
spider. "I have someone to talk to." She tilts her head slightly, as if
listening to a faint noise.

Longshot smiles like a goon, almost putting on the nice guy routine to the
point of stupidity, but then again, our lovely Longshot is very naive.
"Really? Where are they? I'd love to meet your friends." His voice is more
chipper and melodic than ever, almost as if the young man was singing.

Symon leaves for the northern area of the park.

Peter continues to sit with his eyes closed, absorbing nature, or trying to
anyway. But something just isn't right... his spider-sense is bothering
him, but isn't pointing anywhere in particular, but rather what seems to be
himself. Why would it be pointing to himself? He opens his eyes and peers
around. o O (What the heck is going on?)

Illyana holds her hand up higher, the spider almost in line with her eyes
as it perches atop her thumb. It isn't trying to run around and escape as a
spider should. IT waves its forelegs at her as if gesturing. "The best
friends walk on more than two legs," is her calm answer.

Longshot doesn't let his confusion show, but instead smiles even more. "You
mean like dogs? I just met a nice dog. I think his name was wolf. Do you
like dogs?" He's worse than a third grader, happy about everything, and has
a question for every single answer.

Peter finally notices the voice near by. Arching a brow, he stands up and
looks around. Unfortunately, being surrounded by trees obscures his vision,
and he can't pick out a figure, and now there is no sound. Then another
voice picks up, a little louder this time, so he starts to head in the
direction of the sound through the foliage, causing a light rustle sound as
he does so.

Illyana considers that seriously. "No. Not dogs. They make too much noise
and demand attention. Dog are not good friends." She looks over the spider
at the blonde man. "What are you?" The light breeze tugs at her hair, but
does not loosen any of the long strands from the plait. She shifts her
stance, subtly, as she becomes aware of a closing presence through the
trees.

"Uhm," Longshot pauses, and stumbles over his own words. "Well, some people
think I'm a mutant, but I don't know. I guess that's what I am. Are you a
mutant too? I don't know too many other mutants." He ends his question with
his voice chipper and renewed. He flashes his teeth at Illyana after he
finishes.

Peter stops before he nears Illyana and Longshot. The rustling of foliage
stops, although he is in view, but staggers out, now backing up slowly. His
spider-sense is constantly buzzing up a storm, and he can hardly think but
to get away.

Illyana moves her head slightly, shaking a negative gesture. If a minimal
one. She turns slightly, her hand held out to the center of the spider web.
The arachnid picks its way with delicate movements onto its web. "You are
not very observant, are you?" she comments to the man. Her glance at the
other man is wary, cautious. Sapphire eyes regarding him sidelong with cold
precision.

Longshot finally allows a confused look to pass across his face. "What do
you mean? Are you talking about the man in the trees over there?" Longshot
turns his head in the direction of Peter, point a finger briefly. He turns
back to Illyana with a smile. "Nope, I noticed him." He says quite proud of
himself.

There is a certain darkness that slowly creeps up Longshots spine, making
his slightly uncomfortable, but he makes sure that he is completely
oblivious to it. How can he be as nice as possible if he's worried about a
feeling of uneasiness, besides, it's probably nothing.

Peter trips over a park bench, falling onto the cement path before it. It
knocks at least some sense into him, but the constant throb in the back of
his head won't leave. o O (I.. have. to.. get answers...) Walking towards
them, it looks almost as if he is drunk, but he hasn't had alcohol in his
life. As he gets closer, one can see his eyes become bloodshot as his
spider-sense gets even worse, feeling worse than the usual migraine. When
he is within fifteen feet, he spits out, "Who are you?" It is directed
towards Illyana as he gazes at her, but never makes eye contact as his
vision begins to blur.

Illyana looks at the blonde man for another long moment. Then starts
walking past him, presumably to maker her way to the path. "I meant him
naught, child," she murmurs quietly to Longshot. The encroaching Peter is
dismissed with a casual gesture of her hand; she obviously cares little for
the staggering man. Her chosen course has her leaving the both of them
equally.

Longshot follows Illyana for a short time with his eyes. He should follow
her, but decides against it with a shake of his head to himself.

His voice is more of a low growl now as Peter manages to get out, "Answer
me.." before he falls to his knees. He howls out in pain as he draws his
fingernails against his forehead, drawing blood as he makes two shallow
wounds. As he stands, his vision clears up, but it is clouded with anger.
He stretches his neck, the bones crunching as they readjust. The whites of
his eyes are almost completely red now, "Answer me."

Longshot notices the pain of the young man who had been sneaking up in the
trees earlier. He runs over to him. "Are you alright? Can I help?"

Peter reaches for Longshot with his right arm to grab him by the collar and
throw him into the foliage, "Back off!" The red liquid... his blood
trickles down from his forehead and down the sides of his nose.

Illyana glances over her shoulder at the two men. "This is your only
warning: I do not condone rudeness." But other than that, she continues
walking. Her footfalls are brisk, but that seems to be a natural pace for
her. A person well used to traveling long distances afoot.

Longshot is caught totaly off guard by his reaction, but still manages to
land safely on his feet a few feet away. He wants to help the man, but
after the mans reaction he is skeptical.

Peter tenses up his hands into fists, almost digging his fingernails into
the flesh. He stops though, as the pain starts to subside as Illyana
becomes more distant. Falling to his knees, his face collides with the
ground as he takes deep breaths before going limp in that position, having
blacked out from the pain in his head.

Longshot stands there just staring at Peter lying on the ground. He isn't
sure quite what to do, but he doesn't feel like running is the answer.

The blonde, her long braid dangling sensually behind her with her walk,
takes the path through a copse of trees and soon vanishes from sight. That
darkness to the park continues, however. A sense of menance curling through
tree limbs and grass blades.

Slowly Longshot creeps towards the body on the path. Its several minutes
before he works up the nerve to touch it lightly, and even then, only a
quick touch.

The body doesn't even flinch as it is prodded quickly; it simply lays
there, motionless except for the occasional breath.

Longshot looks around, the park seems to be fairly empty, atleast this part
anyways. He doesn't want to leave the poor man though, just in case
something happens to him, so he sits in the grass next to him, and waits,
just waits.

Peter stirs slightly, raising his head. His eyes open, revealing that they
are still blood shot. Looking around, he jumps up and starts running...
right into a tree. After smashing his head on the tree, he stumbles
backwards and hits the ground once more. His eyes close for only a few
seconds before they open again, slowly returning to normal. He simply
blinks before sighing, closing his eyes again.

The blonde girl is long gone. As is, finally, that eerie presence that
filled the park. Somehow, the late September night almost seems to be as
welcoming as summer without her around . . . .

Peter is currently unconscious, about six feet away from a large tree,
which has a small amount of his blood on it. His forehead has two long
scrapes, almost along the whole visible area of bare skin. The cuts aren't
that deep, but enough to ooze blood out. Blood also streaks down either
side of his nose from the cuts on his forehead, from when he was standing.

Grant is ambling along smoking a cigarette and arguing about baseball with
a skinny black man who is wearing a Texas Rangers T-shirt. "I'm tellin' ya,
there will never be another Swoboda, no matter how long ya live." "You with
your Mets, Grant, I swear ta god that team is gonna kill you one a these
days." "What did you think of the Montero trade?" "You askin' ME?" And so
forth. Just ambling along. "Hey, wuzzat goin' on over there?" Grant's
companion asks. Grant peers out into the darkness.

Peter continues to be unconscious.

(Of Longshot there is no sign, the young man having wandered off for
reasons entirely his own.)

Grant approaches. "Drunk, looks like." Grant says. "Man, he /did/ have a
party. Ouch, he's losin' a little blood there." Grant offers his cellphone
to the black man. "Hit speed-dial 9 for me." He takes out a handkerchief
and wipes up a bit of the blood gingerly, then applies very pressure to the
wound on Peter's forehead, so as not to exacerbate any concussion. "Hold it
up to my ear. Sutton, major crimes, badge 6927, requesting ambulance pickup
in Central Park Reservoir Sector niner four three, repeat, niner four
three. Pulse is strong, but he's unconscious. Looks like a concussion, ran
into something or took a spill down a hill into a bench or a tree. Yes,
that's right. No, just an ambulance. Thank you."

Grant says "Stay on the line and tell them where we are, okay?"

Peter winces slightly as pressure is applied. It's a good sign, since last
time he was poked, he didn't even flinch.

Grant's companion nods, looking a bit squeamish. Grant gingerly feels for
broken bones and smells Peter's shallow breath. Finding neither broken
bones nor a devastating stench of alcohol, he relaxes a little as he waits
for an ambulance. "Parker, can you hear me? Peter?" he says, keeping his
voice low so as not to /jar/ Peter into consciousness. Apparently he's
trained in first aid.

Peter remains unconscious, the whites of the eyes beneath his eyelids are
still slightly bloodshot at the moment. If the detective were to check his
eyes, they would look like he hadn't slept in days.

Peter otherwise has no broken bones or any other injuries, not physically
anyway.

Grant does check his eyes. "Now that's some party." he mumbles under his
breath. But so long as Peter is stable, and not actively bleeding, Grant
doesn't attempt to further wake or jar or move him until the ambulance
arrives. Grant's companion keeps talking to the 911 operator, giving
specifics about where in the Park they are, what time they saw him, what
the area looked like, and so forth.

The sound of sirens in the distance gets louder. After a few minutes, a
park grounds-truck with a pair of EMTs and a grounds keeper-driving arrive.
Wtih the recent gang warfare and heavily increased random violence in the
park, city services has managed to coordinate much more than usual. The two
EMTs jump out of the cart carrying a stretcher between them piled with a
few gear-boxes. "Oh, gowd," says the first one, nametag reading "Sasha."
"It's /Grant/."

"Who'd you bounce around this time, Grant," asks the second as they come
closer. "Henry," on his nametag.

Grant says "Well, if it isn't Moe and Larry. He was like this when I found
him, honest. He's not even a bad guy, just a little stupid."

Grant leaves his handkerchief there rather than to peel it away again,
stepping back from Peter so Sasha and Henry can work.

"Well, he's not Dead yet, Jim," quips Sasha. "You can't have his wallet."
She pulls the boxes off the stretcher and opens one. Henry checks the young
man's vitals as he says "got a name for him? Or should we just write
"Stupid" on the report?"

Grant says "No, 'Stupid' is just an alias. The name's Parker comma Peter."

The grounds-keeper stays out of the way back on the small truck, chatting
with someone else on his walk-talkie.

The two EMTs know their stuff, working expertly to patch Stup-- err
--Parker up. But they don't stop their chatter. "Little boy Pete, gotchya."
"There's blood and tissue under his nails, looks like he did himself in."
"Bruising is minimal." "Did you see what happened at all?" "Hey, he looks
almost as dumb as my kid brother."

Grant says "Nope, we just stumbled across him by chance. Good thing the
tournament went late, I guess. God knows how long he would have laid
there."

"Grab his feet an--" "Hey, I always get the feet!" "What, you want to smell
his breath?" "Oh, like his socks are better?"

Still arguing about feet and breath, the two slide him onto the stretcher,
strap him in, and haul him to the truck. They even have his head in a
brace.