[Audio] @ SuprNerd - open

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[The first few seconds of the recording is just Quentin breathing, fast and shaky at first and just before he speaks, the breathing evens out. The whole speech will be said fast and jerky, like the words are just spilling out without thought.]

What the hell? I can't be the only one who's thinking this, but just what the fucking hell? What the hell just happened? This place, oh shit, this place just-- did any of you see things? Hear things? Fucking feel things? And why? Just, why? I thought we were here to help, to find a way to solve this-- this whole puzzle and suddenly there's something here that made me think I was losing--? That's just-- it was just to fuck with all of us?

What the hell? That's what I want to know - just, what the hell? Is this hell? Is that why?

So, if you're listening to this, lady in the lighthouse? Fuck you! Seriously. Fuck. You.

Also, someone took my hoodie and I need that, so please bring it back. Thanks.

Comments

— audio / @parker.

[webshoots]

Is this where I say welcome to Beacon, tagline: creepy death town? Because — hey, welcome.

Re: — audio / @parker.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Fuck you, too, Peter! I was at the fucking river and-- fuck all of this!

1/2

[webshoots]

2/3 whoops

[webshoots]

We all were, Quentin. Everyone here has just been through something really unpleasant. This place isn't fun and games, and I'm sorry— I'm sorry for whatever you saw, whatever you experienced, but that's what this place is. The first month we were here? We got to see how everyone died. The next month, half the town did die, again.

[webshoots]

I get it, I really do. D'you think seeing— [ a breath. ] Being here to help and being here to go through that aren't mutually exclusive.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Voice shaking with impotent anger, Quentin is breathing too hard and too close to the microphone.]

I could fucking handle seeing how people died! It's not like it's this big secret that we all had to die to get here, but this? Making me-- making us see these things? Hear these things? And Robin knew? You have no fucking idea what-- and you still want to help her?

That's shit! All of this is shit! Fuck! [Followed by the sound of something solid hitting the wall before the sound cuts out.]

[webshoots]

I'm not touching the mess of you apparently lacking empathy to the point that you'd be unaffected by being forced to experience the deaths of other people from their own perspective.

[ for what it's worth, peter just sounds tired. there's irritation there, but it's not really directed at quentin — this sucks, a lot, and he gets the anger, but this? this isn't how to deal with it. ]

You don't know the first thing about what I want or about what I believe here. But this isn't about what I think, so just answer me this — and I need you to take a moment to think about the answer: is this helping? I don't mean that dismissively or sarcastically, I genuinely mean that: is yelling at me helping [ breath of a pause, as if for emphasis ] you?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Okay, so that's going to shut Quentin up for a minute as he paces the cabin, tablet held in a white-knuckled grip.]

I-- first off, I have empathy? And you never-- you never said it was from their perspective? You just said you saw it? So.

[He clears his throat.]

Nothing is going to help, okay? Not yelling at you, not yelling at the trees. This just fucking sucks and we're stuck here and it's just shit. Even kicking the trees does nothing. And-- fuck, I lost the books! I even lost the fu-- shit!

[webshoots]

I didn't say you didn't. That's what the apparently was there for.

—Okay. Then go take five, or an hour, a day, a week, or however long it takes to get your head in order. Talk to someone, it doesn't matter who. This does suck, but that doesn't mean it's hopeless.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Yeah, nice try trying to cover your ass on the apparently. I have empathy. This isn't even-- it's not about that? At all?

It's-- my head is in order, my head is fine! And-- please don't do that? I never said it was hopeless, I said it sucks and it's shit!

1/2

[webshoots]

—Sure, fine, whatever. I'm not going to argue semantics.

You know there are kids here, right? Teenagers. Other adults that are just as scared. And you've got to know that you don't know what anyone else saw or heard or felt. Doing this in public isn't going to help anyone. Not you, not them. You haven't said it's hopeless in words, but what you are saying is that talking won't help. You're saying yelling won't help. Punching — trees won't help, which, yeah, I can see that, to be honest.

But if continuing on like this is how you really wanna deal with this? That's entirely your right, but take it off the network.

[webshoots]

But — okay, so for the sake of argument: you asked if anyone else saw, heard, felt... [ he leaves the rest of that sentence, he knows he doesn't need to fill it in. ] If I answer that, do you really want to know? Do you want to know how scared I am? How much I hate it here and how worried I am that I can't go home? How much there's a voice in the back of my head that says my family probably thinks I've either abandoned them, or I am dead.

Because I do. I hate it. I'm terrified. I miss my — mom. My girlfriend. Me trying to keep it together isn't for me, it's for them.

You want to get your friend home? The one you told me about, the one that shouldn't be here? Take a step back and breathe. It's not okay, not right now, but you've got to believe it will be, because what other choice is there?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Wow, okay. So, that was a lot. Okay, point. I didn't think of the kids and I should have? But I have no idea how to take this down again? Second, yes. Yes, I want to know. I want to-- I need to know that I'm not alone here. But-- I'm not-- it's not about being scared, okay? I can be scared. I can be frustrated and angry, yeah, maybe take it out on the trees out back. But-- she knew, Peter! She fucking knew something like this was going to happen to us, and we're just supposed to-- to what exactly? Help her work out her shit? For what?

I miss-- I miss a lot of people, and I feel guilty about a lot of shit I've done and-- and half of the time I'm not even sure this if this place is even real? If-- fuck. He-- it's-- I can't. I can't talk about him.

There's always a choice.

[webshoots]

Yeah, you're right there's always a choice, Quentin. So make the right one. [ a pause; he thinks briefly of a conversation he's recently had with allie. ] Or at least the one you can live with.

[ DON'T U TALK TO PETER "i feel guilty for quite literally everything" PARKER ABOUT GUILT, QUENTIN. ]

And? So what if she did? Trust me, I'm not thrilled about it either, but the question is: what are you going to do about it?

—And, uh, I don't think you can delete this. I just meant 'take anything further off the network', y'know? If you wanted to punch some more trees, or something.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Yeah, I'm going to go with or something. Thanks. I mean that? Thanks.

[webshoots]

Don't worry about it.

—And listen. Try not to forget we are all in this together. If you need anything, just send a message. [ beat. ] I think I promised you some trackers, anyway.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

If I had a plan, that was more than just - let's see that happens. Yeah, I remember. I'm going to have to get to you about that.

[webshoots]

Look, I know I told you I needed a plan that was more than 'let's go into the woods and see what happens', because — I've seen horror movies, I'm the guy that gets killed like, one hour in and people only vaguely feel sorry before because I'm the definition of average, anonymous white dude. Honestly, it's amazing I've lasted this long with only a broken wrist.

—But overplan and we hit the same issue. As long as you've figured out something for when the what happens, that's — that's enough.

I'm so going to regret saying that.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

I have half a plan and it's enough. But I could use a tracker for it, just in case.

[webshoots]

[ not

filling

peter

with

confidence. ]

Sure, why not.

Invincible, room 2-0-8.

@ action

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[It's going to be a few days from Quentin's angry and frustrated network post and until he finds his way to the Invincible. He stomps through the hotel like a man on a mission, tablet tucked protectively in to the pocket of his newly-found hoodie. He heads straight up to room 208 and knocks on the door with a frown on his face.

He's looking like someone who hasn't been sleeping well, dark circles under his eyes and his hair greasy and sticking to his face, too short to get tucked behind his ears and too long to not just flop in to his eyes when he moves his head.

But he knocks, jaw set in a stubborn clench.]

[webshoots]

—Just a second!

[ peter's not expecting quentin — or rather, he is, but he's not entirely expecting him to turn up announced, so the knocking at his door makes him freeze. there's a moment — habit, more than anything else — where he checks to make sure he doesn't have anything obviously spider-man-y sitting out in plain sight: suit, no; webshooters, under his clothes, it's fine—. ]

Oh, hey. [ beat. ] Quentin. [ peter can't quite keep the surprise out his voice, and he pauses, just for a moment, as he takes in quentin's apparance: he's aware that the last week (had it only been a week?) had been rough on all of them, but quentin looks terrible. ] Come in.

[ he pushes the door open a little more for quentin before turning to head back into the room; there's a breath of a pause and he shoots a quick glance back at quentin before— ] You look about as great as I feel. [ it's not an entirely accurate statement: peter's felt worse, way worse, but he certainly doesn't feel great, and there is something to be said for the way that the darkness feels oppressive, for the way that peter hadn't entirely believed he hadn't just been cracking up, something to be said for the lack of routine and the fact that peter honestly can't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep.

the room itself doesn't entirely look as if anyone's lived there for four months: sure, the sheets on the bed are are dishevelled mess, and the desk is a scattered, untidy assortment of paper, some books, his tablet, and his tablet poking out from underneath a pile of veritable and miscellaneous this and that, but other than that, there's not a whole lot of personality to the room.

(unless you count an almost-finished cup noodle and the remnants of a cup of coffee as personality.)

peter gestures towards the chair at the desk, before opting to sit on his bed, and he runs a hand through his hair before speaking. ] —So.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Uh, yeah. Hi.

[With just the barest wave in Peter's general direction, before he rakes a hand through his hair and heads for the desk. He ignores the chair completely in favor of, very carefully, moving the papers in to small piles and stacking them at the edge of the desk to give him more room on the tabletop. The rest of the room could have been plastered in neon-bright poster, or it could have been a barren, white room with just a sheet on the floor for all the attention Quentin is giving it.

It's a cursory look to see where Peter is, and where the table is, because that's what he needs right now. A plan. Half of one, at least and it's not even all that dangerous to the general population of Beacon. His first reaction had been too much, the network post and yelling at nothing in the woods behind the cabin. The vague and unformed plan to just storm at the light house and find the woman who knew about this and didn't stop it. By any mean necessary.

They'd done worse things for less, back in New York and in Fillory. They'd done way worse to themselves, too. Alice, drinking the nectar of the twin god, to gain enough power to slay the Beast and it still hadn't been enough. Julia, turning over every stone, every book, ever Hedge witch and using desperate measures to get rid of her God-touch. Eliot, choosing to stay behind in Fillory forever and marry Fen, to give them a chance to win. Quentin himself, who'd chosen to stay behind in castle Blackspire as the eternal playmate to a monster so evil and so dangerous, even the gods wanted nothing to do with it and made the protector of the wellspring of all magic.

This would end better.

Because it had to.

Quentin pulls his tablet out and finds the map of Beacon, all the places they've found are on there and so's the vast expanses of wild forest all around them.]

There's a way out. [He starts, not even looking up but biting at the soft flesh of his thumbnail between words, talking clipped and hurried, like he's going to forget the important part if he doesn't get to it soon enough.] There has to be. All doors open both ways. And--and I know that if someone is lost in the woods--[from tv shows and that one time someone from class got lost on vacation] they search it in grid-patterns. South to north, and back. Over and over until the grid is-- they called it 'cleared', but. That doesn't matter. I'm going to search the woods. Starting here-- [he points to the forest just south of the cabins] and working my way through. One grid at a time. I could use a tracker?

[And he looks up then, eyes wide and jaw clenched against either rejection or questions, a stubborn set to his shoulders before he continues.] For my lantern. In case-- in case I find something bigger than me out there. Also, to check. Where I've been.

[webshoots]

[ peter's silent whilst quentin's explanation registers; it's accompanied by a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, one that says 'this is a really, really bad idea', and he leans forward, resting his head in his hands. search the woods. god. ] They don't record data, [ peter comments, voice tired and muffled; a breath of a pause and he lifts his head out of his hands and looks back up at quentin. ]

The only way we'd know where you'd been is if you recorded it and marked it off on your map, if you gave the grids a reference point. But they're not— They're pretty basic, y'know? There's not a whole lot to work with here, I'd have to modify each and every tablet, get some more equipment via Rastus, which is going to be pretty—. [ peter waves a hand: until the start of the month, they're not going to know what that's going to be like. he'd like to hope that there was some return to the status quo, but he's not going to kid himself that it's going to be the likeliest answer. if there is, he'll consider them lucky, but it means they'll have to have to wait another month for anything further. ]

All the tracker's going to do is leave a sort of ... ping for where you are, or wherever you've left it, for roughly a 100 yard radius. If you get lost or worse, we'll be able to find you if you've kept even a rough track of your location, but it's not going to tell us when you reached that point, how long it took you—.

[ peter pauses, exhales; stretches his arms out in front of him and then sighs. he hates this place. he wishes that he had someone like reed to bounce ideas off, or doc strange to ask for magic help in finding a portal back home, or — anything. it's not that he doesn't think it can be done with the group they've got, it's that he thinks it'd be faster, easier with someone more experienced with things like this. it's not that he's discounting the experiences of anyone else here, except—

(okay, maybe he is, a little.)

still, this isn't too far off of what peter had imagined using the trackers for, isn't too far off what peter ordinarily used his spider-tracers for: following people and things. there's one issue, though — other than one's he's already mentioned. ]

Are you going to be doing this alone?

[ from the sounds of it, peter thinks quentin plans on going into the forest by himself. the easiest way of tracking him would be to do it concurrently, to enter the forest just after him and keep out of his line of sight, but he's not sure about the feasibility of that. the other question it raises is: if he is going into the forest alone, why? of course it's safer going in with someone else, he'd have to be an idiot or — idiotically reckless not to entertain the thought. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[There's an extended period after all of that, of Quentin just frowning at Peter like the words aren't sinking in, or like he's lost in thought and Peter just happened to be in his line of sight. Lost, somewhere inside of himself for half a minute before he blinks rapidly and shakes his head.]

Okay. [He bends back towards the map, wishing for someone, anyone, who knew about maps like Benedict had. A royal Map-maker, and just a little too in to it for that to be sane, but. Good with maps. Good with keeping track and finding places and knowing where to look and what to look for. But Benedict had ended up somewhere else in the Afterlife, after he killed himself, the depression-key clenched in his hand.

Quentin clears his throat.] Okay, fine. That's-- fine. I can. I can mark the way. Somehow. We-- I lived somewhere else? With. There were no road signs and really no way to tell if you were coming and going, so we-- I put up ribbons. On the trees. To mark the way to the water, the stream and to town. So-- so no one [with his mind whispering Teddy] would get lost. I can do that. I'll have to-- [And most of what he says, is said quietly, more to himself than Peter, thinking out loud and making adjustments, and he's looking at the map again. No way to tell if he'd have to walk for hours or longer, no way to know if he's hitting the edge of a grid or not. But with markers, he could choose. One hour out, one hour back and keep repeating it.] It's going to be slower, but. I could make it work. I just need a compass? I think there's a spell for that.

[He does look up at Peter, by the end, hand pressed to the table.] Someone mentioned that it could be seen as-- that all of us trampling around in the woods, might be seen as an invading force. To the spirits. [loathed as he is to mention it, because the guy had been so fucking obnoxious about it. High handed and superior. Fucking Wayne. But he might have had a point.] Like-- as if we're trying to start something. If it's just me [Quentin shrugs] I'm not really an invading force? And I was hoping that you'd be-- that I could have a tracker and if the tracker stops for longer than thirty minutes? You'd come get my lantern. Because I think I need that to come back.