trans_9 | More news from nowhere [OPEN]

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More news from nowhere [OPEN]

Those who have seen Peter Parker around lately will know that he didn't take the Daligig's revelation at all well. Hours spent in the sensoriums fawning over the New York panoramic, even more time spent in the media library trawling through records from Skip James to the Smiths, all of which acutely miserable.

But that was then and this is now. Now-- now he walks quietly through Stacy's corridors, a camera slung over his shoulder and a tatty shoebox in his hands. He scans the walls until he finds one that seems to satisfy whatever purpose he has in store for it and drops to one knee so that he can get at the contents of the box.

One by one he takes out the pictures of friends and family both past and... as present as can be. Being the photography nut that he is most were taken by Peter himself, but there are some from other sources. There is Peter as a kid at Coney Island with his aunt and uncle and photobooth snaps of him and Gwen posing ridiculously. Graduation photos with a begrudging Flash Thompson and one of Harry and Norman back when things were good. A photo of his parents that he credits to May. Shots of the Bugle staff. One of Felicia which he'd had to have been very sly to take and of course, the inimitable Mary Jane Watson.

He takes each of these, looks them over fondly, and tacks them up on the wall. It was a start, the beginnings of what he hoped the rest of the crew would add to. There they were, all the people he'd known and loved over the years. All the people that gave him the strength he needed to face each day were laid out in front of him and in that moment he knew that there was no way in hell that any one of them was gone.

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Goliath, prowling the halls as he usually does in the earlier part of the "evenings," as much as there is an evening on board this ship, pauses when he sees the young human putting photographs on the wall. He can guess the intentions easily enough.

He looks at the pictures, recognizing none of the faces, but surprised to find he does recognize the city, despite most of the pictures being day shots. He leans in for a closer look, examining the pictures as Peter puts up new ones.

"Members of your clan?" he guesses. He knows humans don't use the word as knowingly as his kind do, but the meaning - family, regardless of blood - is easy enough to infer, and descriptive enough to be meaningful.

Peter stops what he's doing and turns to see the gargantuan figure beside him. He folds his arms and admires his own handiwork. He'd been in the habit of putting things into it. He had no idea he had this many treasures and trinkets saved up.

"Yeah, I guess they are," he points to the pictures of May and Ben, "They're the folks that raised me."

He eyes Goliath a little cautiously. Did... demony, gargoyly guys like to collect mementos or keepsakes? He thought it was entirely possible, if unlikely. So, hoping not to offend he says, "If you have anything similar, feel free to add to it."

"Perhaps I do." He knows of the Weapons and Possessions locker, but has never thought to go there. He uses no weapons and owns nothing, so why would he need to? Still, he knows there are photographs of his clan in existence, because he kept at least one for himself.

In fact - he reaches into the pouch on his belt and pulls out a tattered, slightly burnt photograph. He looks at it for a while, considering it against the photographs on the wall, before holding out his hand for the stapler.

"It seems we have a city in common," he says, meaning to put the young man less on edge. Caution is better than outright fear, at least. "Manhattan was my clan's protectorate, for a time."

He passes Goliath said stapler, "Hey, snap. I grew up in Queens but I used to websling in Manhatten most of the time. I swear its two main demographics are bad dudes and snap-happy Japanese tourists."

"Websling?" That's not a term he's familiar with.

The picture he staples on the wall, a candid shot courtesy of one of the trio, was taken on Halloween, judging by the paper lanterns in the background and Goliath's dancing partner's lampshade-happy choice of costume.

Goliath sighs a moment, looking at it, the only possession of his he's truly reluctant to part with - but honoring Elisa by sharing the memory of her with the crew is better than keeping one picture all to himself.

"Oh, I shoot webs from my hands," he clarifies, quite literally now that he had the symbiote suit, "Y'know, sort of like an urban Tarzan."

Somehow the narration thinks Tarzan is probably not flattered by that particular comparison.

Peter looks from Goliath to the photo and back to Goliath, empathising somewhat with the gargoyle's reaction, "Pretty girl. What's her name?"

"It's been a while since I read Tarzan. I don't recall anything having to do with webs in the story."

As for the picture - "Elisa Maza." His voice softens, addressing her. "She is a detective for the New York Police Department." He won't say 'was.' "She is part of my clan."

He looks back at Peter's photographs, picking out May and Ben, since Peter mentioned them before. He taps the picture carefully with a talon. "Tell me about your family."

"No, I mean-- watch," he gives Goliath a quick demonstration by rappelling down the hallway and back, and it takes a great deal of willpower to refrain from making any 'aaaaaoooooaaaaaaooooaaaa!' noise.

Once he's finished his performance and listened to Goliath's curt appraisal of Elisa, he flashes the huge figure a grin, "You're pretty sweet on her, huh?"

When Goliath picks out the photograph of the Parkers, Peter speaks warmly of all parties, despite the tragic circumstances of his life, "Well, that's my Aunt May and Uncle Ben. My parents died when I was little, and they took me in. I don't mean any disrespect to my folks when I say this, but May and Ben were the best parents I could have hoped for."

When he gets to Ben however, the memory of his death visibly pricks Peter and he struggles to maintain quite the same tone as before, "Uncle Ben was killed when I was fifteen. It's funny, but he's partly the reason for me being here."

Ah, very impressive. Goliath watches with interest. Perhaps the human is a mutate of some sort, or the webs are produced through sorcery -

"That is an unusual ability," he says, as Peter returns. "Do many humans have this power, in your Manhattan?"

At least he phrased it with more class than Dracon did. Goliath has no reason not to acknowledge and agree with Peter's assessment, and he nods.

"When I lost most of my clan - and my mate - I thought I would not love again. She proved me wrong."

And that's enough of that, or he'll start getting sad again. In any case, Peter has plenty to say on his family, and Goliath does not miss from his tone how much his uncle's death affected the young man. "What reason is that?"

"Nah, just me," well, if you exclude future events, "I'm Spider-Man. The one, the only. Lot of folks have their own powers though."

While he's a complete sucker for a story about the redemptive power of love, Peter's smile doesn't quite hold, but he senses the reluctance to continue from Goliath and settles for a, "That's what this wall is here for. Proving that there are still things worth fighting for."

He's of course more than happy to talk about his family, especially Ben.

"He made me who I am today. I tried to be a good, studious kid when I was younger and that's pretty much all I was. I never thought about putting on a costume and fighting crime. But then, I never thought I could ever do anything to hurt the people I loved. But I could, if unintentionally."

Peter talks of Ben in a hushed, reverent tone and his face is set in a smile split between the guilt he feels towards his uncle's death and the pride he feels towards his life.

"I'm the reason he died. I had the chance to stop a thief but I did nothing. That man shot my uncle minutes later. That changed me forever."

And he's adamant that it was for the better.

"Then I will have to find more pictures of my clan." Elisa was not the only reason Manhattan was worth protecting.

At the story of Peter's uncle, Goliath's usually-grim face grows more so. "You were very proud of your uncle." That much is clear. "I am sorry for your loss."

"You should," he replies, "And encourage others to do the same."

He looks at the display. It looked a little sorry as it was but he knew that there were hundreds of them aboard the ship. If each of those people had only one photo or keepsake to offer, that would be enough.

He brightens a little, perhaps forcibly, "I still am. I'll always regret what happened but at the same time, as long as I remember everything he taught me, he'll never really be gone."

"Memories," Khel said, his voice filled with amazement at the tiny photographs, "like a moment in time caught on canvas. Such magics I have never seen." He held up a hand, almost as if to touch one of the photos, before pulling it away.

"Anymore, I have but one physical memory. I am not certain of its appropriateness on this wall."

Peter turns to see the armoured skeleton as he stares on in that uncomprehending amazement.

"They're called photographs," he attempts to find an appropriate explanation and fails, "The film is coated with an emulsion that reacts to the light that reflects off the subject and into the lens of a camera--"

He holds up his own to iterate, "If I had a polaroid with me I'd show you."

When Khel proffers his own item, Peter shrugs, "Maybe not, but I'd still be interested to see it."

Khel nodded at Parker's invitation. Unstrapping the buckles holding it shut, the undead warrior removed his left gauntlet, revealing a skeletal hand, not quite as bleached as his skull but still very dry. Hanging loosely off of it was the one part of his past he refused to surrender. It was a reminder of the treachery that had come to pass, but he still treasured it.

It was a plain and simple golden band, nothing more. It had a simple enchantment on it to keep it pristine, but it was otherwise very mundane and unadorned. "My wedding band," he said, after staring at it for what felt like hours, but was almost surely seconds.

"Oh, I'd never expect you to part with that," he replies, holding up his hands in a 'no way' kind of gesture.

He pauses for a moment, trying to gauge Khel's reaction to the ring, "But maybe you could tell me about her?"

"It is not the most pleasant of stories, but it is only fair I tell thee," Khel replied. His telling of his story (http://forced-unlife.livejournal.com/profile) had grown easier with each retelling, surprisingly, and he found that the grief he normally felt upon completing the tale was not so strong.

"This was many thousands of years ago."

He just... stares.

"Wow."

"I am sorry. I meant not to cast my troubles onto thee."

"No, no," he urges, "It's just an incredible story. I'm a little honoured you shared it with me; it can't be easy to recount something like that for a virtual stranger."

"Everyone I knew is dead, friend. Everyone here is a stranger to me. What would it serve to not tell my story to the only ones who would know me?"

"I'm sorry." he says flatly.

It certainly put his isolation into perspective. At least he had Carol. At least he had people that recognised him even if he failed to recognise them. People who understood him unconditionally.

"This is still so alien to me. I guess that's why I wanted to do this," he gestures to the wall, "So that I could get to see pieces of other peoples lives."

"Peace. There is no need for apologies." Khel found that, yet again, his lack of current social skills seemed to have been causing troubles as far as conversation went.

"Many of the pieces of my life are lost, but I find I can see them again in the room known as the Sensorium. I try to avoid such a crutch, however, for dwelling too much on the past can blind one to the present."

Lafiel looked curious at the wall. Printouts showing a lander's childhood. She wondered briefly if this what Jinnto's childhood had been like. Were there happy moments like this or had it all been eclipsed by his father's surrender to the Abh?

"Many apologies if I am intruding. If it is not too rude a question, what are you doing?"

"It's not," he says, continuing with his tacking. Up goes a picture of an agitated J. Jonah Jameson coming at the person behind the camera with a rolled up newspaper.

"In my locker I found this box which I used to store all of the personal photographs I took that never found their way into frames. Now they're the only ones I have left and I didn't want them tucked out of sight. I'm proud of these people and of the life I had back home. I wanted to be able to see it, wanted to share it with the crew in the hopes that they'd do the same."

"I see." Lafiel giggled at the picture of the angry, scruffy looking man. Whoever had taken that photo clearly had not had a good time of it afterwards. At a glance he reminded her of the inspector on Sufugnoff. No, the other one. The not crazy one.

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