networkinthenight | [Audio] @ SuprNerd

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[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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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

[ not

filling

peter

with

confidence. ]

Sure, why not.

Invincible, room 2-0-8.

[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.]

—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.

Edited 2019-10-26 15:05 (UTC)

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.

[ 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. ]

[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.

We can also make a compass, [ peter comments, more to himself than to quentin. he doesn't mean to interrupt, it just slips out in the brief silence between remarks. it's not that he distrusts magic — there have been occasions, plenty of them, when he's relied on magic for help, when a magical problem has required a magical solution (because science sure doesn't always work on magic), and when magic has been the easier answer. even so, that's still more of a spider-man thing than a peter parker thing, as far as differentiation goes. peter parker's maybe caught a few snaps of doc strange in action before; spider-man's his friend (kinda, by a definition of the word), and a colleague.

someone mentioned that all of us trampling around in the woods could be seen as an invading force. peter considers that for a moment — maybe, he's willing to concede, but he's not convinced. surely it'd depend on who and how, on the way that spirits view them in general. truthfully, peter's not sure what the spirits understand of the larger issue at hand, about the fate of this world, its inhabitants, and the rest of the galaxy. if the spirits understand why they're here, then there's less likelihood of being viewed as an invading force, even as a group.

if they don't, then sure, mystery someone could be right. ]

But sure, maybe. [ he remarks, after a moment, the verbal equivalent of a shrug. ] I don't think we know enough about the spirits to make that judgement call one way or the other, but maybe your someone knows something I don't. [ punctuated by a breath of a pause and a wince. (ugh.) ] Sorry, that sounded snarkier than I meant it. [ a beat and a sigh; peter holds up a hand. ] I can come get your lantern, if it comes to it — because you're not wrong, if we don't have that, that's it for you. [ another pause, then— ] Listen, I'm not going to pretend I like this plan, but I respect that it's something you want — maybe need — to do, and if it gets us some kind of answer...

Yeah? Do you have a magnet? Needles or pins? Do you have anything that might make a compass, that isn't going to just be a waste of time because I can't hold a cup of water while also wandering around in the woods in the dark?

[He snaps, head going up to glare at Peter and he runs a shaking hand through his hair.] I'm sorry. I didn't mean-- I'm sorry. I'm just a little tired right now, and I did think about making one, but. It's impractical.

I'd, uh, I'd need a small body of water and how am I going to carry that, and everything else and still be focused enough to-- do you have a better idea?

[Still visibly frustrated, hands moving too much and his eyes keep darting from Peter and down to the map on the table, tucking at his own hair or just twisting together.

Eliot was still at the cabin, and still being stubbornly very much against all of this and that isn't helping Quentin plan out anything at all. It is making it worse and Peter calling that asshole his someone makes Quentin snort a bark of laughter.]

He's just some dude on the network, I have no idea who he is, but he is-- uh, he's not wrong? Maybe not right either, but we, everyone, we have been wandering around the woods and several people died as a result. So maybe-- being careful isn't the worst idea? [Great, and now Quentin is defending that asshole. He frowns.]

I need to find a way out of here, and soon. That's what I need to do. There's no way to know what's going to happen to us next, and-- and maybe it's going to be worse? Maybe it's going to be literal hell next time? Maybe we're all going to be on fire, or we're going to kill each other or-- or, maybe-- or maybe next time-- [He lets that sentence hand there, unfinished.]

[ quentin reels off a list of do yous and peter looks up at the ceiling, the corners of his lips twisting downwards while his eyebrows pull together into a frown. it's tiring, after the network post, after everything, to have to deal with a barrage of negativity. this isn't fun and games for any of them, and for as much as peter isn't always great at seeing the positive in a situation, he always tends to try. that was his thing, right? (ha, right. what was the alternative? get bogged down in a myriad of worst case what ifs? been there, done that, worn the t-shirt out. hoping for the best and punching whatever got in the way was, ultimately, the superior solution—

god, he hates the word superior. thanks, otto.)

he exhales, an audible, frustrated sigh, punctuated by a roll of his eyes. quentin apologises, quickly, but— ] There are other ways, [ peter retorts, a tired mumble accompanied by a rub of his brow. it's followed by a breath of a pause, and he waves a hand dismissively as if to say whatever, let's move on.

and quentin does. he remarks that the someone is just a dude on the network, and peter glances in the direction of his own tablet, curiosity piqued. he browses, occasionally, public conversations on posts made on the network — in this case, he hadn't really bothered, quentin's outburst hadn't exactly been private, but it hadn't been something he'd wanted to snoop on, something he was interested in seeing how anyone else reacted to. that seemed unfair.

maybe being careful isn't the worst idea. peter looks back up at quentin when he says that, startled. that soon gives way to something bordering on bemusement, and he opens his mouth as if to say something, pauses, and closes it again. the corners of his lips twitch upwards, just once, then— ] Maybe? [ he asks, incredulousness giving way to amusement. he holds his hands up. ] I don't know if you've managed to get the wrong impression of me, but I am all for being careful, Quentin. If you think I'm about to let you run off into that forest and get yourself — or anyone else — killed, you need to have another think. [ beat; a quirk of his lips and uttered as more of an aside than anything else, albeit one that isn't immediately clear as to how serious he's being— ] I've got enough of a guilt complex.

[ he lapses into silence, before making a noise that's somewhere between ugh and nngh. he knows he's tired, he knows his patience is short. ] —What I mean is that, the tracers [ beat. ] trackers are kind of my babies? [ a little bit softer. ] I came up with the idea for them when I was a kid. [ but that's not entirely relevant; peter brushes a strand of hair away from his eyes. ] I wasn't kidding when I said I'm terrified, by the way. I have no idea what's going on back home, whether anyone I love is okay or not. If I'm honest? I don't really care what happens to me here, as long as I get home. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that most people feel the same way, so maybe it's selfish, but I've got a vested interest in making sure you succeed.

[For most of that, Quentin is just going to nod his head like his listening, while actually trying to figure out if starting at the other end of the town would be better. But it's closer to the water and too close to the Light house, and there's no way he's going to do anything that the light house lady might think is an attack.

He spears two hands in his his hair, cupping the back of his neck and pressing the heels of his hands to his temples as if that is in any way helpful to try and hold in all of the fear and the anger and gut-wrenching terror inside of him.

Not get yourself killed like it was just that easy. Like it was something that didn't happen or had almost happened so many times before that Quentin can't help snorting a bitter sort of laugh at that.]

Uh huh, like it would be on you anyway.

[And it's snide and childish and utterly pointless and it slips out anyway, like the filter he used to have between his mouth and his brain is failing. Or maybe it's just exhaustion talking, the way it's so hard to keep his feelings under wraps and not just kick things.]

Most people are covering it up pretty well, and also, I know who I left behind. They're going to be fine, but-- I still need to find a way out. And--and I appreciate this? The help? I need it and. I won't hurt your tracker. Not if I can help it. [There's really no reason to mention that if the spirits attack, there's nothing he could really do except hope his shield would hold out long enough for him to get away or get the lantern away.]

Oh, man, you just don't stop, do you?

[ is all he says at first, flopping backwards on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. most people are covering it up well, oy—. ] Maybe some people are covering it up well, but maybe the rest of us are just—.

[ just what? does he want to admit that he locked himself away in his room once he realised he'd thought wanda was mj? when he realised he was beyond relieved at the fact that mj wasn't dead and that there was a part of him that was glad it was still wanda after all? that it had made him feel sick, and he's still not sure if it was the residual worry that he doesn't know if mj's okay, or if it's the realisation that he's not as good as he tries to be.

he lifts a hand and waves it dismissively, before continuing with: ]

You know what? It doesn't matter. So yeah, sure, it'd be on you and your choice to go running into the forest with [ air quotes ] Puny Parker as your choice of backup. It doesn't absolve you of personal responsibility, but also— [ he lifts his head a touch, eyeing quentin for a moment. ] If you don't follow, means if I fail at saving your ass, it's on me. That's how this works, or did you miss the memo on team-ups? [ a beat and a quirk of his lips. ] I mean, I know I'm not one of the superheroes or magical whatevers you were so keen on making a list of, but...

[ a breath of a pause, and he sighs, pushing one hand down on the mattress to lift himself back up. ] Or do you really think that no-one else here cares about anyone else? Do you really think I wouldn't care if you died?

—I don't care about the tracker, Quentin. When I said they're my babies, I meant I know them inside out. Quirks, warts and all, you know? I don't think you're unappreciative, I just think you're struggling.

Just what?

[But Peter is still talking, flat on the bed like being upright it just too much of a chore and Quentin gets it, that bone-deep desire to just crawl in to bed and stay there for a few days, weeks, months. Stay there, until the world stops feeling quiet so unreal and disappointing.

He can't do that, though. Because if he stops, even for a moment, he's going to lose it. He's going to lose whatever motivation he has and he's going to just break. Fly apart at the seams and be less than just ordinary useless. Extraordinary useless.

Quentin sighs and leans his hip against the table, rubbing his face with both hands again, digging his heels in to his eye-sockets.]

I know. Alright? I'm not stupid, I get that if you come along, you're going to feel responsible, even if you aren't? But-- listen, that list? I just wanted to help, and flying above the trees would be really helpful, except that can't happen and-- and maybe. I thought maybe someone here would be more powerful at magic, than me? Or, have magic that wasn't affected like mine is? I never said that people without powers were bad? Or that they couldn't be helpful. That's not--

[He huffs in frustration] I think you'd care because you'd feel responsible? [Jesus, Peter, let up on the whole duty thing? Because Quentin gets it, gets feeling responsible even if you might not be.

The feeling like the whole world is on your shoulders, and yours alone.] But-- you wouldn't be? [a shrug] And no-one would think you are. I wouldn't.

So what? Huh? So what if I'm struggling. I'm always struggling. It's not-- it's not like this is something special? I just-- I can't not do something and this is what I came up with. I can't think of any other way to search the woods and find the way out.

You said you'd help, but if you'd rather not? That's fine. I can do this on my own.

[ he ignores the just what?; barely blinks in acnowledgement. instead— ] Je— ez, I said I'd help, so I'll help. I like to keep my word.or at least try.

[ he exhales, audibly, and runs a hand down his face. ironically — is it irony? — beacon's the first time in a long time that he's spent the majority of his time as peter parker. there's no real reason for him to don the suit, to patrol and to find someone to take his frustrations out on. it's — weirdly sobering, and it's made him realise a few things about himself that he'd admittedly already known, but hadn't felt particularly inclined to acknowledge.

spending more time as peter means more time to do the things he says he'll do, more time to be there for the people he says he'll be there for, and it's — it's weird, to not be battling disappointment on account of something he can't admit to. ]

Magic's not the be-all and end-all, Quentin. [ a breath of a pause and a noise that's something between guh and nngh. ] I don't claim to get it, because that's never been my area, but what I have managed to get? Is that there aren't any easy answers here. Magic, science, logic— none of it exists here. Like, why isn't there light? The simplest of things and it doesn't—. [ he huffs. ] It doesn't make any sense. [ but whatever, that's hardly relevant. ] I don't have powers, I don't have special abilities— [ it's amazing, really, how easily the lie rolls off his tongue ] — but trust me, I'm not offended by you reaching out to that first. I would, if I had that kind of thing within easy reach. I'm not offended, and I don't think you were deliberately trying to exclude anyone.

I don't say you're struggling as a, I don't know, condemnation of you, or whatever you think I'm saying. It's not a weakness. Do you know how many times I've messed up in my life? That's rhetorical because the answer's obviously 'no', but it's a lot. It's great that you think I wouldn't be responsible, but unfortunately, I don't live with solely the weight of other people's opinions on my back — and you clearly don't either, otherwise you wouldn't be here. [ the corners of his lips quirk upwards into a wry smile. ] But that aside, you're — I don't want to see anyone here die again. It's not about responsibility, it's about being a normal person. The first time we met, you spoke to me about trust. You know what goes with trust? Community. How can we be that if we don't care about what happens to each other?

[ but whatever. ]

—You've heard the saying, right? About no man being an island? Don't make me break out the trite quotes at you.

Alright, okay? It's-- it's fine, you just sounded like maybe you wanted a way out and? And that's fine. Whatever. You can-- [Quentin throws his hands up in the air, like - fine. Before shoving them in to his hair again, to tuck at it and try to make it stick behind his ears. It never does. It just falls in to his face half a second after his hands fall to his sides, clenching.]

No, that's-- no. At least where I come from? It's explained pretty much by the gods being dicks? I mean, they made up a lot of crazy shit, just because they were bored or because it was a Tuesday. The air in Fillory is 0,2% Opium. Yup, just being there gets you high and addicted. Which is a dick move all around.

[This isn't Fillory, it's probably not even earth, since the stars are different and the circumstances for the spells keep getting shifted around. Like, the position of the moon or the water, is fluctuating. Or not earth.

Magical theory had always been more Julia's thing than his, but Quentin was good - no, he was fucking brilliant- at the theoretic math involved in getting the spell right, and all of his calculations still fell short.

It was annoying, it was frustrating and it was getting on his last nerve. Just like this whole place was - just an endless puzzle with no solution, all riddles and no answers.

He wipes a hand over his face.]

So, I guess I'm saying, there isn't light because some god didn't want there to be. Because they're an asshole.

Trust? That's-- shit. [Not as an answer, but an exclamation, because these last few days has really showed him that he can't trust anything. Not himself, not his own eyes.] I don't even trust myself all that much right now? And-- and I'm not sure-- but yeah, fine. It's fine. You care and it's-- yeah, it's fine.

So-- so maybe I tie something around my lantern? You can pull it back if. Or, around me? Can you pull me? [Quentin frowns critically at Peter, looking him over. He's tall. Ish. But wiry. More like someone who runs two miles on Saturdays because his girlfriend wants him to, than someone who works out. That might just be the shirts, though, but. He doubts it.

He frowns at Peter a little more.]

That's never going to work. But-- even if I die? If you get my lantern out, I'll be alright? Right? That's what it says. I'll come back. So, it's not really that big of a deal.

[ or because it was tuesday earns a snort of laughter in spite of himself because honestly? peter can relate, sort of. tuesday for him was being late for work, because of spider-man, missing a date with mj, because of spider-man, and dealing with someone like quentin beck deciding they need to do something grand and grandiose to make themselves feel a little better. someone like the tinkerer deciding to host an alien invasion because humanity is terrible (or something). tuesday is dealing with that and getting home and finding a past due statement for his rent, and having to ask for another advance on his salary if he hasn't been fired for a high number of unexplainable absences and—

none of it's gods. but boy, if only the answer was that simple and that easy here. he doesn't know how many times he's wanted a skulking, behind-the-scenes bad guy to emerge from the very literal shadows and go 'hey, it's me', only with maybe a little more razzmatazz. then there could be a little bit of punching, some jokes, they could all laugh, maybe cry a little bit, and then go home.

but there hasn't been. there hasn't been any of that here: all they've had are questions and mysteries and a whole load of non-answers. it's beyond frustrating, but peter can't believe that's all there is because — what then?

he holds his hands up, attention shifting away from quentin just for a moment. he looks almost sheepish, although there's a quick smile before: ] —Look, I think I'm, like, honour-bound to oppose that thought, because I'm [ he drops a hand and waves it at himself. ] a scientist. [ there's an edge of humour there, like he's not entirely serious, or like he's not entirely sure how serious he should be. ] But between you and me, I'd really love if this was just someone being a dick.

[ but then he catches that frown, the pause, the changed mind, and he manages to sound a little offended, nevermind that it's part of the reason he opts for clothes that are slightly larger in the first place. (puny parker, right?) ] Hey, I'm — stronger than I look. [ he half-heartedly attempts to argue, half-mumbles before appearing to give up on the idea and shrugging a shoulder. (it's not a big deal, huh? peter doubts eliot would agree with that assertion.) ]

—I'm not going to assume that rule always holds true, but it's the closest thing to a constant we've got, so sure. Focus on keeping the lantern safe, and I'll focus on finding either you or it.

Edited (WHOOPS errant punctuation) 2019-11-07 20:54 (UTC)

It's always someone being a dick.

[Quentin snorts, waving his hand in the air a little.] It might not be a god every time, because this one time? It was just a guy who-- well, uh. So he had a tough life and bad things happened to him and I guess that fucked him up enough to stop caring. He-- Martin. He choose to do bad things to people, because he was hurt as a kid. But he was still being a huge dick about it. This?

[Gesturing at the world outside the window and the room and Peter and everything.]

This is probably just someone being a dick. To fuck us up or to-- I don't know, maybe punish us? Which is why I need to find a way out. I don't really feel like being fucked by some dick again.

[Okay, so maybe Quentin likes dick metaphors a little too much, but it's just so handy and it works with just about everything. He frowns at Peter, because - dude, you look weak. Not that this is a bad thing, but it's not going to move all of Quentin across a muddy and cold forest floor. Sorry not sorry about pointing that out.]

Okay, so. Wait. You're not sure it works? That I'd come back? Because a pretty big part of plan really hinges on that. I talked to--[He stops, not really ready to rat out Daylight] I talked to someone who said he came back. He just didn't come back right? Or, all the way?

[ peter's expression undergoes a series of changes when quentin just — takes that dick metaphor and runs with it. ]

—Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly illustrative?

[ peter catches the way that quentin catches himself when he says he'd talked to someone. frankly, peter doesn't really care who he talked to — name or not, the outcome's still the same, and it's not as if any of it's some massive secret that needs to be hidden. ]

I know it works sometimes, [ he answers. ] When there was the — incident with the lighthouse and the party, some people got hurt, some people died, some people disappeared. No-one really knows what happened to everyone — the reasonable assumption is that yeah, their lanterns were damaged beyond repair. [ a beat. ] But the bodies weren't found, and does this place strike you as reasonable? [ he half asks: it's not a question, not really, because he's banking on the answer being 'no'. ] But you're not wrong when you say that people don't always come back right.

[ peter pauses, takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. it's not that it's a hard topic of conversation — truth be told, he barely knew the captain, it's just a lot. ] You were after that, right? The expedition? So you didn't meet the Captain? [ another pause and he glances away from quentin. despite everything, it's hard not to take it personally, hard not to think that he could have done more and maybe the captain and five would still be here.

(although question is, would they have wanted to be?) ] He seemed like a good guy — been through a couple of resets, if I remember correctly. I think he was human, or pretty close to it, but dying and coming back a couple of times meant he started to grow scales along one of his arms. Maybe there was more to it — physical and mental, but the scales were the only visible sign I ever saw.

It's up to you if that's something you want to put your faith in.

[It seems that staying quiet and keeping all the words that crowd around in his head, to himself. At least for now. Because Peter is talking, and it might be important and even if it isn't strictly important to this plan, it might be worth noting for later. For when he comes back, for when he finds the way out and finds a way to get as many people as he can, through it without the lighthouse lady pressing the button to keep them here. Or, to reset them. She hadn't been that clear on it, just that 'some people here seemed familiar'. Which could mean, well, anything and--

and Quentin slips off inside his own head, nodding along because that's what he does, trying to look like he's all there, when most of him is off in the clouds or drowning in the mess that is his broken brain.

But he snaps back with a jerk when Peter starts talking about the failed expedition.]

I came after, yeah. I-- uh, I heard about that? A little? That something went wrong and a lot of people died. And that time, they didn't come back? But--

[Stalling, thinking hard and Quentin frowns down at the map again.]

Yeah, I'm not really good at that? Putting my faith in things? [Lies, because he did it, had done it, so many times, and every time it let him down.] But I'm not going to die.

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FIVE YEARS LATER SORRY......

Stumbles in way, way later! Sorry!