A Change Of Pace

Participants:

cat_icon.gif peter_icon.gif jessica_icon.gif

Scene Title A Change of Pace
Synopsis Drowning his frustrations in alcohol and loud music, Peter encounters an aspiring musician with a unique talent, and finds that isolating himself from people isn't always the best option. But his cheerful evening is interrupted by a familiar face from the past.
Date September 2, 2008

The Surly Wench

A punk rock pub through and through, The Surly Wench is dim, cramped, and incredibly popular. It's a small, rectangular venue with a bar bordering one entire wall. Despite this, ordering a drink on a weekend can be an exercise in line-waiting and rib-elbowing. There are a few small tables ringed with high stools for seating, but these are prime real estate. The majority of the patrons are forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder on any given night. Almost half of the cramped interior is devoted to a low stage for live music. There's no dance floor. If you feel the need, you'll have to thrash in place.


Even out on the street the music from inside the Surly Wench could be both heard and felt on a night like this. No live bands were scheduled to play, not on a Tuesday night, but the music piped into the club still shook the walls and threatened to deafen the occupants. Coming inside, it was a sea of people in shoulder-to-shoulder standing room. In the dim lighting the murmur of conversations being drowned out by the music joined with the clink and clatter of glasses. It was a busy night, like most here. At this time of night the Wench was standing room only; the bar was filled to capacity and much of the crowd wrapped around behind most of the seated patrons. The round tables that lined the opposite wall were filled up as well, one in particular packed with a large group of rowdy women clearly halfway deep into the night's drinking from their behavior.

One of the tables, situated by the stage with a wide view of the rest of the crowd was devoid of the other chairs that surrounded the rest of the tables. It looks like the large party that was huddled together had borrowed the excess chairs, save for one, where a gruff looking man with a deep scar cutting down from his brow to his cheek sat, leaning over a tall glass of some dark beer with a frothing top. However, there was one stool just to the side of his, which he had hung a black, leather jacket over. It had remained unclaimed, likely the last seat in the house that was free for the taking.

She's here, and she's packing; Cat steps through the front door with a guitar case over one shoulder and a backpack over the other. One hand holds a copy of the most recent Village Voice. The woman's features show a calm determination, a confidence. Her eyes scan through the crowd, and she nods. Packed house. Perfect. And she certainly expects to persuade the manager to permit what she has in mind.

But the first order of business is finding a seat in this crush of humanity and the second is securing something to drink. Across a span of minutes she picks her way through the throng and reaches that apparently solitary unclaimed seat. "Dude," Cat begins, "May I?" She casts the scar-faced man a smile, head tilting.

As the music changes, the arrays of speakers set high up on the walls pumps out the screeching guitar and howling vocals of an industrial rock band, Cat recognizes the vocals of Christopher Hall the moment he starts singing, Stabbing Westward, 'Nothing', not a particularly happy song, but it has the energy to get the crowd moving. A few heavily pierced people by the bar begin hopping up and down in place, a few more at the bar rythmicly nodding their heads to the fast-paced beat of the song.

Some nights I feel like I have died
Or something deep inside is dying
I try to understand my crimes
But there's nothing here that really matters

Peter hadn't even noticed the young woman's approach, and it was that faint hum of a voice in his ears that made him look up to see her standing by his table. He looks honestly surprised, and somewhat awkward at the request. He hasn't heard a word she said, the music was pounding too loud for that, but when he sees her motion to the chair she's standing behind, he nods without thinking. Leaning over, Peter snags the black coat by the collar, pulling it away to reveal the stool, and then proceeds to hang it over the back of his chair, "Yeah, yeah…" He eyes the guitar case, then the backpack, "It's cool." His eyes drift back to his Guinness, then back to his new guest.

I don't want to believe in you
I can't believe in you
I don't want to believe in you
I can't believe in you

She sets her gear down and settles onto the stool. "Thanks," Cat grants, the word perhaps recognizable from her moving lips more than audibly in this loud place. Brown eyes start then to look around for where something to drink might be had, or from whom. His glass is eyed briefly. "Stout?" she mouths. "How very Irish." One booted leg crosses over the other, the rest of her in jeans and a t-shirt.

I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, but I can't stop myself

Peter catches the thanks, and he merely nods his head and gives an awkward smile. When the topic of conversation drifts to his drink, he looks down at it, tilting the glass just a bit to one side, appraisingly. He looks back up, cracking a smile, "You want something?" He motions to the drink, then nods over to the bar. It was hard to hear him over the music, and it urged him to lean in to try and make himself heard. When Peter motioned to the bar, it was obvious there was a line for those waiting to get themselves a drink. With that, Peter merely cocked one brow up and leans back in his seat against his coat, bringing up his glass for a sip before setting it back down again. He had slowly begun to relax, but there was still some tense awkwardness about him which contrasted heavily with the gruff exterior.

Now endless questions fill my head
Some nights I'm frightened by the answers
no you can't hurt me, nothing's real
No pain you cause can last forever

"It'll wait," she replies with a quiet chuckle on stating the obvious; the statement would be true whether or not Cat wanted it to be. Her eyes travel the length of that scar on the man's face briefly, then the remainder of his features. "Do you need another?" she asks, head tilting toward the stout as she speaks loudly, hoping that by gesture and words he'll understand what she's asking. "I've got to find the manager too. He and I have business to discuss."

I don't want to believe in you
I can't believe in you
I don't want to believe in you
I can't believe in you

Peter looks towards the front doors for a moment, from where this table was seated, it was relatively easy to see people coming and going, and his focus was drawn to a couple heading outside. He looks back, eyeing his glass briefly, "I'm good…" He held up a hand to aid in the decyphering of what he said, but as he caught the rest of her comment his eyes wander back to Cat's guitar case, and Peter leans forward again, resting his arms on the table while he holds his glass with both hands. "You playing tonight or something?" He motions with his head to the unoccupied stage, then glanced at the bartender before looking back, "By yourself?"

I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, but I can't stop myself

Peter watches as the young woman commands the conversation with confident charm, and he's almost taken aback by how easily she fits in to the surrounding environment, as if it were second nature. When she slid the piece of paper over, Peter moves one hand to pick it up off of the table, opening his mouth to speak, but by then she's already reined the conversation in and had taken her leave, moving with firm grace over to the bar. Peter shakes his head, looking back down to the piece of paper. She was like a whirlwind to him, unflinching, and as he looks back up to watch her head to the crowded bar, a crooked smile crossed the scarred man's face. He sits back in his chair, focusing on the bartender across the way who was busy with a line of other people, "Cat…" He mused over the name, resting one hand by his mouth as he relaxed against the leather of his coat foled over the back of his chair. »Over here.« It was a simple enough mental nudge, and the bartender turns away right after handing someone a bottle of Newcastle, and turns to look in Cat's direction, »She's next.« It was good practice for Peter, keeping his focus with the music pounding on his concentration. Besides, he was a sucker for a smile.

One night I swore I'd die for you
There's nothing else I'd rather die for
But I'll try to live another night
There's too much hate to be forgotten

It helps to have a strong memory. Along the way and through the people ahead of her, she's caught glimpses of just about everything offered behind that bar, save for the mixed items that get made to order and thus aren't visible on the approach. When Cat reaches the bar, her wait truncated by Peter's assistance, she sets an amount of money atop it and tilts her head toward the stout. It's loud, she uses that signal and soon has her draft Guinness, complete with head of creamy foam. Moments later she's back at her stool, taking a slow drink of the dark brew and licking some of the foam from her lips, before setting it on the table. She hasn't the first clue how she got such quick service; to her it was simple luck.

I don't want to believe in you
I can't believe in you
I don't want to believe in you
I can't believe in you

"Stout?" Peter echoes, cracking a smile, "How very Irish." He leans in when she sits down, looking over to the bar as he speaks, "You got pretty quick service, seems like your lucky night. I had to wait almost a half an hour." So he lies, just a little, it made for good conversation. "Maybe you'll find some luck with the owner," He motions to her guitar-case with his nose, then looks back, "So you've got a solo act that plays to this crowd?" His dark eyes scanned the sea of people adjacent to the table, finding their way back to Cat afterwards, "I've got to see that." After a moment, Peter raised one hand, offering it to her, "I'm Peter, by the way, Peter Petrelli." He didn't think anything about offering his last name, it seems so much like second nature. It had been years since he was able to get out, to relax, and he was letting himself be too lazy…

I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it

"Good to meet you, Rock," she replies. Cat doesn't let on how well she recalls the name, though newspaper articles she'd seen before regarding him and Nathan instantly come up in their entirety. "I'm into good rock," the woman adds, continuing that musical path of conversation. "The act is solo, for now at least, though, yes." Her right hand takes and shakes his once before releasing. The skin is warm and soft, save for calluses near her fingertips.

I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it

Peter nods, unsuspectingly, at the handshake. He's blisfully unaware of the information rattling around in Cat's head, and even more unaware that through the contact and company he was exposing himself to a powerful very unlike others he had been used to dealing with, one that would impact his memory of others and the way they make him feel. "Rock, you?" Peter feigns an incredulous expression, "You don't look the type." He adds, remaining leaned in to keep the conversation intelligible, "Still have my interest though, I think you'd light up the place." Peter's eyes, and his mind, scans the crowd, plucking up bits of internal conversation from the staff, his brows furrowing together for a moment as he tries to drown out the noise and find — there it is — "Raymond's a pretty good guy," He wasn't sure of the validity of that, "You should give it a shot, talking to him that is. Doesn't look like there's an act tonight." Peter tilts his head to the side, a crooked smile crossing his lips.

I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it

Her eyes follow his toward the man and she repeats the name. "Raymond." It's a brief glance, but Cat saw him, and for her that's enough. She'll recognize him immediately now. She never forgets a face, and quite possibly Mr. Petrelli will also never again forget a face. Or anything else. "He's a good guy, does that mean everybody loves Raymond?" A quick smile lights her face before she drinks again from the stout. When it lowers, her expression is lit with that complete confidence again. "Light up the place, of course." Her feet settle on the floor, but this time she takes the guitar case and slings it over one shoulder. "Back soon," the woman mouths in such a way to hopefully be understood through the sounds within these walls.

I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it

Cracking an almost pained smile at Cat's joke, Peter shakes his head and reaches for his drink, "That was bad enough to drink to." He states, taking a long sip out of the Guinness that he had been mostly ignoring since he got it. As he watches Cat slide up from her seat and begin walking across the floor again, Peter eases back against his coat again, holding his glass aloft as he follows the musician's movement towards the tatooed man in his late forties who stood by the bar, conversing with one of the bartenders. »It's a shame there's no live music tonight.« Peter led the way ahead of Cat's conversation, bringing the glass to his lips and taking another long sip from it. He breathed in a slow and relaxing breath through his nose, trying to work out the kinks of stress from the last few days. For the first time, in a long time, Peter was enjoying himself instead of burying himself under a mountain of worries. It was a nice change of pace.

I don't want it, I don't need it
I don't want it, I don't need it

Her back is straight, her head erect, as she crosses the floor toward Raymond. Again Cat is clueless to the assistance she was given, not that she expected less than success anyway. When she reaches the man, her feet stop and she stands directly in front of him, raising the volume of her voice to be heard. "When's the stage open for unknowns here?" she asks. "I've come to blow this room away."

I don't want it, but I can't stop myself

Unable to hear the conversation directly, Peter focuses his attention on the older man as Cat approaches, trying to discern from the background noise of the other minds in the club and the music, Raymond's own inner voice. Peter struggles, barely able to make out anything intelligible, but as he begins to hear the man's internal reaction to Cat's confidence — a mixture of confusion, bewilderment and something dismissive — he eases back into the man's consciousness. »It can't hurt to give her a chance.« Peter's brow tenses as he makes the suggestion, and Raymond purses his lips, tilting his head to the side, giving his answer to Cat. Before he could hear the result, Peter broke the mental contact, it was enough strain as it was to focus on him over the noise and other thoughts, but trying to eavesdrop further with the external stimulation was simply outside of his ability. He would have to settle for being honestly surprised when Cat returned.

but I can't stop myself

But, she doesn't return. Her backpack is left there in Peter's care; the woman herself is headed for the stage. She sets the case down, opens it, and pulls out a cherry red Fender Strat. Time is taken with plugging into an amp and tuning quietly while the internal music continues. She makes ready and waits for the current song to end. Cat intends there won't be silence then, her fingers make quick work of ensuring the instrument's ready. It helps when one knows exactly how the strings feel in their correct tuning even without hearing the notes.

Once that moment comes, she begins without fanfare. Fingers display their dexterity in moving over strings and frets; the lady is very skilled and practiced. The tune of choice is a Clash piece, joined by her soprano voice at the proper moment. She's chosen to Rock the Casbah.

Surprised at first when Cat didn't come back, Peter watches her make her way through the bar as he drains his Guinness down. Seeing her heading to the stage, though, brings a smile to his face. With a push of one foot, he slides his stool to the side to have a better view of per perform. When the canned music ends, and Cat's rythm on the guitar begins to play, he settles his now empty glass down on the tabletop and leans to one side, resting his chin on his palm as he listens to her sing. The tone of her voice, it reminded him of the singer from Heart, but that paired up against the Clash was something that fascinated Peter, even for someone who didn't have much of an ear for music. He sits there, listening intently as the rest of the bar takes in the musical talent the young woman brings to bear. He didn't truly have a full grasp of Cat's range, until she belted out, "Of that crazy casbah jive" with the same intensity and energy as the original, but with her own brand of lyrical charm. Peter found himself nodding along to the beat, much as other people were earlier. This really was the first time he had relaxed since the bomb, and it was worth the wait.

Her feet are on the move as she plays, eyes scanning out across the crowd and making contact with people from time to time, drawing the audience in. At one point they settle on the guardian of her backpack and her stout, then move along. Cat is in her element onstage, singing and playing. Her presence is palpable there.

When the song concludes, she unplugs and packs the instrument away, pausing to give Raymond some contact information, and makes her way through the multitude to rejoin Peter and take up drinking that stout again. Her face displays a quiet pride, the reactions and responses observed seemingly something she had no doubt of inspiring.

"I was wrong." Peter started to say as Cat came back, a lull in the sound of the bar giving way to much easier communication, as the canned music hadn't been turned back on yet. "You didn't light up the room, you blww it up." A smile crosses his face, the first really honest one in a long while. "Where'd a girl like you learn to sing like that?" He asks as he straightens his stool back to its proper alignment with the table, "I think the crowd liked you too, definately." He knew more certainly that they preferred the live music, but that ws a bit harder to explain to her just how he got that foreknowledge.

"You're just full of surprises…" Peter leaned back into his chair, seated on the far end of the Surly Wench from the door. The bar was packed tonight, shoulder-to-shoulder with all manner of roughs and punks. Most of the bar was standing room only with most of the seats having been taken hours ago. The line of round tables opposite of the bar were, likewise, packed to capacity, one in particular surrounded by a pack of drunken and bnoxiously loud young women. The plethora of chairs they occupied, though, seem to have been taken from the last table in line, that one on the other end of the bar where only two sat. Peter was seated with a young woman beside him, who looked to be catching up on her beer, the pair of them drinking Guinness. There was, notably, no music playing at the moment, which was unusual for the Wench on a weekday. However some of the bar staff was just shutting down the stage lights and clicking off the amps, it looked like some live music just ended. Judging from the guitar case leaning up against the table, it might be the brunette that Peter's sharing a drink with.

The woman takes a brief bow on hearing his praise. "Hartford and New Haven," she replies with an easy grin as her stool is re-occupied. Fingers take that glass of stout and lift it slowly, it hovers mid-air. Her voice shifts into singing mode, quietly calling up a bit of Paul Simon. "And it was late in the evening, and I blew that room away." When silent again, Cat drinks.

"You're just full of surprises…" Peter leaned back into his chair, seated on the far end of the Surly Wench from the door. The bar was packed tonight, shoulder-to-shoulder with all manner of roughs and punks. Most of the bar was standing room only with most of the seats having been taken hours ago. The line of round tables opposite of the bar were, likewise, packed to capacity, one in particular surrounded by a pack of drunken and bnoxiously loud young women. The plethora of chairs they occupied, though, seem to have been taken from the last table in line, that one on the other end of the bar where only two sat. Peter was seated with a young woman beside him, who looked to be catching up on her beer, the pair of them drinking Guinness. There was, notably, no music playing at the moment, which was unusual for the Wench on a weekday. However some of the bar staff was just shutting down the stage lights and clicking off the amps, it looked like some live music just ended. Judging from the guitar case leaning up against the table, it might be the brunette that Peter's sharing a drink with.

"My dad used to listen to that song — Not the one you played, but the one you quoted there. He was a big Paul Simon fan…" Peter's eyes divert to the table, running his fingers around the rim of his empty glass as he talked, "So you do this often, perform?" Leaning back in his chair, it gave a better view of his face, of the jagged scar cutting down from his brow to his cheek across the bridge of his nose, "Makes me wish I'd come out more often."

The glass of stout is placed on the table again, and she answers. "I play when and where the mood strikes these days. I've been enjoying the freedom to do it that way." Cat's back is straight where she sits on that stool, one booted leg crossed over the other. "And I think the mood will strike me to be here a time or three weekly. My goal is to build a rep, get my name out there as much as I can." Brown eyes scan the thick throng again, before returning to the man. "Are you a music lover, Rock?"

The door to the bar opens, and in walks Jessica. She's not long after work herself, which means she's garbed in stripperwear…tight white top, short black skirt, sky-high stripper heels. She also looks to be in a royally bad mood…which really isn't that uncommon for Jessica. But she moves through, clearing a path by dint of brute effort, as she makes her way up towards the bar. "Drambuie and JW." she tells the bartender. Might be a little high-end for this crowd, but she doesn't care.

"I don't find much opportunity to listen to music these days," Peter's eyes downcast to the table as he pushes his empty glass away from himself, "Though I could be convinced to change my ways." He starts to smile, then looks up to Cat with one brow raised, "I thought it was a mistake the first time, that I mishead you, but…" He tilts his head to the side, "Why are you calling me Rock?" With his brows furrowed together the way they are, it makes it easier to see the definition in the scar that crosses his face. And as he focuses his attention on Cat, Peter's curiosity finds the best of him, and much as he had done to the others in the crowd, his thoughts extend outward towards the young woman across the table, hoping to hear what was going on inside her head, to compare it to her answer. But all that effort is wasted when he loses his focus, spotting the tall blonde who muscled her way through the crowd, an expression of confusion dawns on the scarred man's face. He recognized her, from a long time ago, but not directly. He oculdn't quite put his finger on — the dream. All hope of prying into Cat's mind was lost as Peter's brain reeled from the familiar face.

He gets enough to answer his curiosity, though, in the short time of peering into her thoughts before being distracted by Jessica. While her voice is heard saying in a matter of fact tone "It seems to fit. Peter means rock, after all," Cat is thinking that same thing, and then some, that his face with the scar indicates hard living and makes the monicker she gave him fitting. To her it's a badge of respect to be so titled. Silence returns as she once again drinks from her stout.

Jessica hasn't noticed Peter or Cat…yet. She doesn't have the benefit of prophetic dreams. But she does get her drink. There's a brief commotion there a moment later…someone trying to put the moves on the blonde, followed by a sharp yelp of pain in masculine timbre.

Letting his eyes move from Cat to Jessica and back again, Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he tries to reconcile the familiar face from a time when things were so much different. "Yeah…" It was his non-comittal answer to what Cat was saying, and he glanced over at the blonde again at the yelp, shaking his head. "Yeah I guess it does fit, doesn't it?" He didn't like to admit it, but there was truth behind her thoughts and words. For all that he was enjoying himself tonight, finding some escape from the things that had been plaguing him since he returned, seeing that woman's face was a sharp and blinding reminder that no matter how hard Peter tried to dodge the events of two years ago, they would find him no matter where he ran.

"I…" His train of thought had been derailed, "I should probably go." Worry started to fill his expression and his thoughts, worry about the people that were looking for him, worry about being exposed in a public place like this. For all he wanted to pretend he could have a normal life, that wasn't possible — in his eyes — any longer. "Here…" He reached down into his coat pocket, pulling out an old and worn wallet, withdrawing a pair of twenty dollar bills and laid them out on the table. "That should cover your night." He looked around the crowd as he unfolded his jacket from his chair, starting to the long black leather.

The pained yelp from a man near Jessica draws her attention, Cat's eyes briefly turn that way. "Sounds like someone met the surly wench," she quietly deadpans, before turning attention back to the man at the table as he prepares to depart. A hint of curiosity and concern settles onto her features. "Is something wrong, Peter? If you don't like that Rock thing, it's all good, dude. Sit, chill." And she looks hopeful.

Jessica certainly doesn't hold anything against Peter. She WOULD, if she knew…but she has no way to know that. All she is is a face from a dream. Well, and a testy woman in a bad mood with super strength. She gets her drink and decides to move away from the now-collapsed guy with the grabby hands. Fate or chance starts to bring her nearer to the Pete/Cat table.

With his brow tensing, Peter looked over to Cat with a momentary smile, "No, it… it wasn't that at all, actually." He adjusted the collar of the coat, pulling it up to cover the back of his neck, "It's just — " He couldn't think of how to explain himself, not in any way that didn't make him seem like a lunatic. "I just need to go." He looked back to Cat without saying anything, just watching the musician for a short time, and then closed his eyes and shook his head again. "It wasn't you, I swear." He managed to make another attempt at a smile, but his expression was back to that dour countenance he had before Cat had arrived. "Thanks, for the night — " He eyed the guitar case, then looked back to its owner, "It was a nice change of pace." Turning his focus to the front door, Peter slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, rolling his shoulders forward a little as more thoughts began to race through his mind — PARIAH, Cameron, Claire. He scowled, something wasn't right inside of him, his thoughts kept jumbling back to things that he thought he'd forgotten, but when he looks up, Jessica is almost directly in front of him.

"I — " Peter breathed out a strained breath, and just walked away from the table. He could remember, vividly, the expression of fear in Jessica's eyes in that dream, the way she had been running from the parked vehicles choking the streets. The way he felt so helpless, the way Sylar was mocking him. "I have to go." Peter sidesteps a pair of men on their way back from the bathroom, but he never comes out from around them. From Cat's perspective, it was like he vanished into thin air in their shadow. But to Jessica, who had a wholly different angle of that, she could see he did just vanish into thin air…

For her part, Jessica freezes in place as she sees Peter just…disappear. She doesn't know him, but that sort of thing just smacks of elements that she would really rather not consider. And given her night…she steps up, hurrying towards where he vanished…but it's a crowded place. Even with her knocking people out of her way…and she does…she won't get there before he's got plenty of chance to sneak out.

There was no trace of the scarred Petrelli, and as Jessica stood in a crowd of anger patrons that were thrown away, their voices were drowned out as the interior music was turned back on again. A few hard and slamming drum beats accompany a blaring guitar and a deep and rough voice. Cat recognizes it, Lajon Witherspoon of Sevendust had a distinctive voice. And as she sat at her table, sinking into her thoughts, the music washes over her.

It takes time
To heal the wound I've made along the way
If I'm blind
Open my eyes 'cause I need to see again

And Cat just watches the events before her, eyebrows raising. He suddenly takes off when the surly wench turns up, and now she's trying to chase him. Innnnteresting. The woman's digital everything recorder does what it does. It records everything.

If I can feel again
Will you tell me now
Or wait til I'm broken down again
Save me now
I'm broken

The blonde looks about. She didn't get there in time to see he was with Cat, and she looks about. No sign of him. She mutters something quietly, under her breath, and then turns, heading towards the door.

If I bleed

My lies won't fill the emptiness inside

I just need

For something real to open up my mind…


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September 2nd: Philosophy and Popsicles
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September 3rd: Pick Your Poison
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