cat_icon.gif peter_icon.gif

Scene Title Invitation
Synopsis Peter attends one of Cat's performances at the Surly Wench, revealing to her some of his gifts, and learning more about one through her help.
Date September 5, 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.

It's just as loud in here as it ever is, but tonight the music isn't canned. A lone female occupies the stage. Her instrument is a cherry red Fender Strat, and the sound she generates isn't so much traditional punk as straight rock, but the delivery of it by her alone skews things in that direction. She prowls the stage with feline grace, her act calculated to work from the use of that single name for this purpose, and the crowd is appreciative. Nearing the end of a tune, she pauses singing the lyrics to let the audience supply them. "Boom boom," she sings, then silence except for what's produced by her fingers on strings and frets.

Off to the side of the stage, a single unoccupied table has her guitar case resting against it and a backpack. The same gear she'd carried that first night, placed against the same table Peter had been at.

He could hear the music from out on the street, before even coming in. There had been some doubt in his mind that she'd be performing tonight, but hearing that guitar and her distinctive voice, all those doubts were pushed from his mind. Peter strode in confidently, he was looking to be in high spirits tonight, even sporting an uncharacteristic smile as he works his way through the crowd. His focus while working his way across the club was entirely on Cat, watching her move across the stage and perform. She was far more animate than the first night he'd seen her act, and it was animate in an attention-grabbing manner, one that captivated Peter from the moment he set foot inside. Stopping by the bar, he maneuvered over to one of the bartenders, squeezing between two people at the stools. He was served, immediately, no small thanks in part to a mental nudge given to the server. Two drinks, tall pints of Guinness draught, and he was on his way over to Cat's table without so much as an invitation.

He was subtle about the way he pulled out one stool without using his hands, the seat scuttling across the floor before coming to a stop. He sat down first, then laid the pints down on cardboard coasters marked with graffiti-styled art featuring the bar's logo. With an appreciative grin, all he did was nod to Cat as she performed, raising his pint to take a long sip from it as she continued her song. All his attention was on her, and the music. Just like he promised.

As he settles into the seat and raises his pint while nodding, the audience provides the next piece of lyrics to the Pat Travers tune Cat's playing in a roar. "Out go the lights!" She continues a short time longer, finishing with an improvised riff. When the guitar goes silent, her voice returns with words spoken rather than sung. "All right! I'm taking fifteen, back soon!" And with that, the woman clad in black tank top and jeans over matching color boots with a two inch heel strides toward that table. Hands pull her hair back and move it in an up and down motion as if to allow air on the back of her neck.

When she reaches that table she sits with her back straight and pressed against the wall, grabs a third stool to use as a footrest, and crosses her legs at the ankles. One hand snags the other pint of Guinness and brings it to her lips. "Rock," she greets simply. Her features show a slight sneer. Is she angered with him, or is this an extension of the act? Perhaps she's taken on being surly, in keeping with playing music for this kind of crowd in a place called the Surly Wench.

Watching her as she makes her way across the stage and over to the table, Peter gives an approving smile, if not somewhat smirking after her greeting, "You put on a heck of a show," He nods back to the stage, "I never would've imagined you'd be so, energized?" He has a hard time putting his finger on just the right word to use. "Like a whole new person up there, it's surprising." He leans forward, setting down his pint as he eyes the crowd for a moment, focus soon returned to the relaxing musician. Peter was assessing the Cat that had come off the stage, so much different in mannerisms and even her tone of voice from the woman he recalled just a night ago. There was something that was entrancing about it, seeing two different end results, but never the emotional transformation between.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be here tonight, glad I was right in showing up." His hair looks windblown, swept back like normal, but only hastily so. It had looked the same the last time he was here, but now Cat has a better frame of reference as to why it does. "How much did I miss?" He asks not long after, leisurely taking another sip of his pint after asking. "Hopefully not too much, if that was any indication."

"That first sampling was just to secure the chance to play more. I put a little more thought into what persona to project before I came here tonight," she answers. "And I decided being catike fit the bill. Play on my name as a theme. Even down to wearing all black to compare with images of a melanistic leopard or jaguar." She takes a long drink of the stout, afterward adding "You'll be able to see and hear enough." as answer to his question about how much was missed.

One brow slowly raises as Peter listens to Cat's explanation, "That's…" Overwhelming? A few words came to Peter, most of them cast aside, "…a lot more thought than I would've guessed went into your choice of clothing for the night." He cracks a smile, "I would've figured it was, you know, because you looked good in it." He shrugs one shoulder, that smile turning to a grimace, "Well, that's my train of thought anyway." He takes a moment to think a little more on what to say, drinking to fill the void in conversation. "I get the Cat part, though, it's cute." He was being sarcastic, "So, when you're up there…" He leans back on his stool for a moment, stretching, "It's not just the singing that's the performance art, but everything you do?" He nods to the idea, looking over to Cat's pint, then up to her. "You really do look, and feel, like someone else."

"I do look good in it also," she agrees, not the least bit short on confidence. The features curve into a smile. "Presentation has a good bit to do with being successful. So much of rock is in the attitude, y'know? I could hardly come here, introduce myself as Catherine Chesterfield, and expect not to get rotten tomato'd off the stage. Catherine Chesterfield is a lawyer from Hartford, Connecticut, by way of Yale University." She seems to delight in surprising the man, by the way her smile becomes a grin just before she takes a second drink from that pint.

Laughing as he shakes his head, Peter settles forward again, resting his arms on the tabletop, "Like day and night, that is." He remarks about her alternative introduction, "I don't know though, you'd think there might be some shock value in a woman with a name like that, maybe dressed up in conservative clothing walking up on stage, getting a few boos, and then rocking the thoughts out of the crowd." FInally reaching for his pint again, Peter takes a long sip before settling it down again. "The smile fits you a bit more than the gruff demeanor, but both have their charm." He looks back, over his shoulder, to the stage and the crowd, "I think they're anxious for more…" He says with a crooked smile, looking back to Cat with an expectant expression on his face.

"It could," she agrees after considering the idea of business dress for a few moments, "but if I wanted to dress like that I could be working in some stuffy corporate office." And that thought sends a shudder through Cat's frame with a distinct expression of distaste. "This is also about me projecting something much different than the plan the 'rents carved out for my life. Law school was done to please them. If Mother had her way, I'd be arm candy, a show wife for some aspiring politician. She tried more than once to set me up with the scion of a prominent family like a brood mare."

Her eyes sweep over the crowd. "They'll get more soon enough. Right now I'm having a break, a drink, and conversation." Attention shifts to settle on his face.

"So it's part performance, part rebellion." Peter smiles at the thought, "That's sort've all what punk is about, isn't it?" He wasn't much of a music man, but he had the basics down, "Seems we both had parents with better aspirations for their kids…" Peter raises his glass, taking a swig from it in a faux toast before setting it down again. "My father wanted me to become a lawyer, actually. He was prominent in the field, thought I should follow in his footsteps…" As he talks, Peter's expression visibly shifts to something distant, somewhat soured. "He pitched a fit when I told him I was going to be a nurse instead. I'm surprised my mom supported it as much as she did," His eyes wander the crowd as he speaks, looking at no one in particular, "But, that's all in the past." Shaking his head, Peter looks back to Cat, that curioux expression of his having returned. "I guess we're both deviants, in our folks' eyes."

"I found a way to make it work for me," she replies quietly, eyes turning toward her pint as she lifts it. "After all, music is very much involved with law. Copyrights, trademarks, contracts. I don't need a third party to handle that kind of thing for me, I'm trained in all of it. I don't hate them. But I've no intention of being them, just another generation of blueblood snob. I also got lucky. My memory went into overdrive, made it a lot easier to study music and political science at the same time." Her pint is lifted in the fashion of toasting. "To living our own lives, and being happy."

Being happy — That was something Peter hadn't considered a possibility in a long time. Now, though, over these last few days the threat of happiness had been settling in on him more and more. It was times like this that always made getting the rug pulled out from under you so much harder. It's evident that thoughts like this are passing through Peter's mind as he mimics the toast, taking another sip of his stout, gaze wandering the tabletop as he thinks.

"You really have a way of simplifying complicated things," He reconsiders his words, "Not that I mean you're dumbing it down, but, you take a complex subject — like rebelling against a parent's plan — and turn it into a phrase that is easy to grasp, and at the same time meaningful." He smiles, appreciatively, "Seems like you've got more than just a strong memory. Anyone can visit a library full of books, but it takes a really sharp mind to be able to put together all that information into a meaninfgul whole, right?" His head cants to the side, "You're not just regurgetating facts, you're taking them in context and disassembling it, turning it into something all of your own invention…" Peter's brow tenses, and he wonders if he's getting across what he's trying to say right. His eyes shift to view Cat sidelong, "You're sharp enough to be intimidating, intellectually."

"Are you intimidated, Rock?" she asks with that smile returning. "I'm what life taught me to be. What I've had to become. Someone who could satisfy her parents enough to keep them at bay while not giving up her dreams or losing sanity from dealing with it all. Practical, resourceful. Tools are only as good as the way they're used. It can, though, be hard not so seem arrogant."

"A little, actually." Peter returned the smile, reaching for his drink again. There was a lull in the conversation as Peter watches the brunette where she sits, scrutinizing and at the same time appreciative of the company, "I sympathize with you on the latter part. While it's not entirely the same thing, I worry about coming across like that in my own day-to-day life…" His brow tenses, thinking again on his words. He always seems more considerate of exactly how he words things when around Cat, perhaps it's a byproduct of that intimidation. "It's hard, balancing confidence and arrogance, and not coming off as too much on one side and too little on the other…"

"You've got potential for intimidation too, Rock," she replies. "That scar. It gives you gravitas, makes people more likely to do what you ask, follow your lead. How'd you get it?" Her eyes make contact with his at the asking of this question, while her pint is lifted and the contents once again tasted. Curiosity has arrived.

"That's not up for discussion." There was a certain finality to the way Peter addressed that topic, and all that sense of mirth and humor that was in his voice earlier drained away entirely. Was he merely acting on the notion that he had potential for intimidation, or was he serious? It was hard to tell. "No fault of yours though," He tries to not seem like a complete ass, "You didn't know better. But I don't talk about it…" As he speaks, Peter raised one hand to touch at the scar, and there was a clear expression of distaste on his face as he did.

She, notably, isn't intimidated. There's nothing about her that suggests such a thing. Cat doesn't look away when he draws the line. But she also doesn't pursue the subject. What is that? Respect? It would be a logical conclusion. "What're your tastes in music? Other than mine, that is." Up goes the pint, in goes more of the stout it contains.

"I haven't thought about something like that in a long time," Peter admits, leaning to one side and resting his chin in one hand, "I haven't thought about listening to music for enjoyment, probably since I discovered what I was." He leaves the idea in broad terms, but enough for Cat to understand the meaning and obfuscate it for anyone eavesdropping. "I used to listen to a lot of classical, more out of habit than desire. I think the one thing I really enjoyed — and you're going to laugh at me for this — was Big Band." He cracks an awkward smile, eyeing his drink but hesitating from having any more, "My dad used to listen to Glenn Miller in his office, and I remember hearing it when I was a kid. I guess it rubbed off on me. There's just something about it, espescially when you listen to it on vinyl, with all the cracks and pops, it gives it…" He searches for the right word, "Texture?" Smiling awkwardly, Peter shakes his head and reaches for his drink, taking a long swig from the pint glass, he sets it down a bit hard on the coaster. "I think I come here more for the atmosphere than the music — " He quickly corrects himself, " — Except in your case, anyway. You're turning me towards this genre…"

"Classical, big band," she replies with a chuckle. "I've been around it all. All the culture training I got, things aimed at making me a renaissance woman. Ballet and ballroom dancing too. And all that before I had a digital everything recorder in my head. Glenn Miller… one piece they did that's stood the test of time better than others is called In The Mood." She drops into silence for a moment, letting her eyes wander. "Punk works for now. I don't know how this crowd would react to me flexing out the creative muscles. I'd do things like mixing rock and classical styles. There's acts like Metallica who've done that. For the moment, anyway, punk style fits best. Can't get more bare bones raw than me without bassist and drummer."

Giving an appreciative smile, Peter nods as he listens to Cat. "Yeah," He says once she's taken a pause, a laugh mixing with his words, "I can't imagine this crowd reacting well to you breaking out into a crooning rendition of Moonlight Serenade." He shakes his head, that smile spreading a bit, "Though, maybe sometime, if you're feeling up for a different venue, you could do an open-mic night at a classier place?" He holds his hands up and lowers his head, "Now I don't mean run back to the way your parents wanted it," He really was just a little intimidated by her, "But maybe if the mood struck you. I'm not opposed to the idea of wearing a suit, it's just not often needed in my line of work." His smile fades somewhat, and something seems to come to the front of his memory as his gaze goes distant. He snaps back to reality without commenting on whatever distracted him, not missing a beat in what he was saying earlier. "Not that I'm suggesting it's anything more than two friends going out for a night of entertainment," He tilts his head to the side, "But it'd be nice, if you're up for it." Intimidated, but flirting none the less.

"Oh, I've got ambitions," Cat replies with a grin. "I've been in New York under two weeks. Playing here builds me an audience, gets my name out there. Next step is finding a band, and whatever comes beyond that. And/or session work at studios. This," she gestures around the interior, is the sort of places legends go started. So it fits, now."

Silence happens, as she pretends to consider his offer, before replying "I've got skirts and heels. A smattering of little black dresses too."

"Lies." Peter feigns disbelief, "I'm a mind-reader you know," He cracks a teasing smile, "I can tell when someone's full of it." He raises his glass, taking a quick sip, trying to hide his enormous grin at the teasing commentary. "Though, I guess if you provide proof, I could be made a believer." A click of his tongue and a shake of his head, "I'm not sure though, seems like a tall tale to me." After a moment of restrained laughter, Peter considers what else Cat had said to him, and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. "You're… really going to go for this, aren't you? The music career?" He seems surprised, "I'd thought it was just a hobby. I never thought you were this serious." His eyes drift back to his glass, then up to Cat again, "You should do it, while you can." As if she needed his approval, "Most people don't get a chance to live out their dreams…" His gaze diverted, back to the crowd, "It's a rare opportunity."

Her eyes study him when he remarks about being a mind reader. That's a new one on her, but then again he did say he was spongy. The head tilts, and she smiles playfully. "You want proof, reader? Come and get it." Cat doesn't say anything more. Her thoughts, instead, turn toward the fact she can follow those dreams without having to worry, because she has money. Lots of it. There's images of her apartment in the Dorchester Towers, and a closet which holds clothing of the mentioned sort. She calls up images of several, along with memories of seeing herself in the mirror wearing them. When she looks away her pint is raised again.

"Careful." Peter says with a crooked smile, "I can teleport myself to places I've seen before…" He lifts his pint when Cat does, taking a sip from it, then, with a puzzled expression on his face seems to finally realize something. "Wait…" His expression turns entirely serious, "I saw that." Peter leans forward, his tone lowering as well, "I can't see thoughts, I can only hear them…" He looks Cat up and down, slowly putting the pieces together as he leans back with an astonished expression. "Your memory, maybe because I can think the same way," He looks from side to side, "I could see everything you were imagining… I've never been able to do that before." There was a tone of disbelief, and then, after a moment of replaying the images in his mind, that teasing smile returns. "Red heels?" One brow raises, "That's a statement."

Now the intimidation factor is slightly evened out. He can fly, he can teleport, he's acquired her digital everything recorder. And he can scope into her thoughts. She'd made the invitation playfully enough, and some of it is still there, but the thought is in her head that in a way she's already had sex with this man. She invited him in. "Red heels," she repeats, her lips curving a bit. "And other colors." Cat doesn't let on what she's thinking outwardly. He'll pick it up if he's still scoping. 'I dropped the topic of that scar because you asked. It's a line with you. I'm trusting you'll show me the same respect of not going into my head without consent or dire need.'

"Only on invitation." He tries to make his point subtly, looking down at the table, "Sometimes accidentally, but that's infreuent now, I try to tune out large crowds. Back when I first learned how," He shakes his head, "I couldn't shut everyone up. Headaches, the kind that knock you flat on your back, when you wish your head would explode…" He stares down into his glass as he speaks. "You taunted, I took the opening… Normally I try to keep out of people's thoughts, you hear things — ugly, terrible things — things like the truth." He folds his hands in his lap, leaning back with one shoulder managing to catch the wall for support. "I respect that," He considers, "I respect you." Finally, he looks up from his drink. "I wouldn't cross that line, not with you. You have my word on that."

She's moving from respect to awe of this man. Her fingers on one hand lift the pint and drink more of it, the other taps twice at one temple while brown eyes try making contact with his. It's a gesture to continue listening in, in case he isn't there still. Cat uses no spoken words to communicate. Thank you, Rock. I… I can only imagine what it was like to get a handle on this one. The woman's head tilts. Can you transmit like this too, or is it just one way? And if I want to invite you in, can I make myself heard to prompt it? Text appears in her mind, the contents of a section in Suresh's book about telepathy.

Peter seems, ultimately, surprised by Cat's reaction to what he as saying. He leans forward again, resting his folded hands on the table in front of him. I can. His voice sounds hollow inside of Cat's mind, echoing, as if spoken by a single man in a large and empty room, I can do more, too. Compel people, make suggestions. But I won't do that. He doesn't elaborate on times he has, though, that's beyond an invasion of privacy in others. Given what I saw when you were thinking, I can likely show you when I'm thinking as well. Beyond a voice… But I'd rather not experiment inside of your head, just in case something unfortunate would happen. I don't like taking risks with powers I don't fully understand. Peter shifts his shoulders, his head tilting to the side as he continues his unspoken conversation. Unless I'm listening to your thoughts, there's nothing I can hear from the outside. You'll have to ask me the good-old-fashioned way. There was a disconnected feeling with this much mental communication, the sensation of dissonance from visual input to what is being heard. Observing Peter, being able to see he is clearly not talking, and yet hearing him internally is a strange and unwieldly experience at first. It's easier when the person I'm trying to speak to is willing, too.

I'm no guinea pig, she thinks on the subject of experimentation. It's trippy, having a conversation this way. I'm… awed. Suddenly feel a little like the timid, blushing virgin who's about to not be that anymore, or who just recently stopped being that. The image of those red heels pops into her head again. If I look at you and tap my temple twice, that's an invitation. She lifts the pint again and finishes it off. I feel like I should be smoking a cigarette here.

Peter cracks a smile, a mildly embarassed one, as he reaches up to rub his temple with two fingers, shaking his head afterwards. To be forward, I imagine this gift of mine would put a new twist on things. His smile grew and that teasing tone in his voice he had earlier returns, this time though with that distant, echoing quality. Cigarettes, then. Maybe. Peter reaches for his glass, taking a drink while continuing to think, if only for the juxtaposition of visual and audio Cat recieves. I think the crowd's calling for you though… He tilts his head to the side, grinning.

It's intimate, something I've only shared with you, to my knowledge, Rock. And more than that. You've got my ability too. Can, can you imagine how that plays in a woman's head? We're connected, and I've put a trust in you no one else has. Her lips curve into a smile. Now, how soon did you want to see those red heels? Her eyes move to the stage slowly, then back to them. Will you be here when I finish the next set?

Peter leans back on his stool, and as he listen shis expression visibly shifts from someone who's enjoying having the upper hand in a teasing contest, to someone who looks like he was just trumped. "I ah — " He speaks before he thinks, it's a bad habit of his, and one only furthered by Cat's comments. He tries to maintain his composure, If that's an invitation… Peter begins, looking over to the stage, I'll be here until sunrise.

"I'll be back," she replies, switching back to verbal communication. Brown eyes seek contact with his again before she heads toward the stage. Once she gets there the guitar is taken up in hand and her fingers begin to move. "All right! This is the final set of the evening, so let's rock!" A tune is chosen and launched into. Joan Jett this time, I Love Rock 'N' Roll.

Laughing to himself, in an attempt to get over his own awkwardness, Peter shifts on his stool and rests his shoulders against the wall, finishing off his pint as he watches Cat walk up to the stage. He just held the pint glass in his hands, lips crooking up into a smile as he hears the choice of song, eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them again, he looks out to the crowd, then back up to Cat on stage, tapping his fingers on the side of the pint glass to the rythm of her guitar. Joan Jett was easy to emulate with only a solo vocalist and guitar, and it was a song even Peter recognized. But the music wasn't what was foremost on his mind, it was the musician.

Time passes with her onstage performing. Eye contact with him is attempted occasionally. The songs progress over the course of approximately an hour, mostly old punk standards. Including at least one Clash tune. After that hour and change, like all things, it ends. She comes to center stage, shifts the guitar behind her, and takes a bow. "Thank you! Good night!"

And she's making her way back to the table.

"The crowd loves you," Peter says as he stands up from his seat, setting his empty pint glass down on the tabletop, having a bit of a time communicating over the rowdy voices from the crowd. Yet, he doesn't take the easy way out, "The crowd loves you!" He tries it a bit louder this time, leaning in as Cat comes sauntering back to her seat, "I don't think you're going to have much trouble getting your name out there!" Peter grins, looking into the crowd, and then back to Cat with a smirking expression.

"I don't either," the woman agrees, as the guitar is slipped over her head and put into the case. She closes the latches and leans the thing against that table again, before settling into her seat. "Of course they love me." Perfect confidence, she expects and believes nothing less.

Peter turns as Cat makes her way back to her seat and sits down. For a moment he hesitates, then settles back down on his stool, "Confident." Peter remarks, then offers an alternative, "Or cocky." He cracks a smile, intending that to be taken lightly, "One of the two, I'm sure of it." He leans forward again, relaxing back into his seat. "Three nights a week, they're going to either never have enough of you, or get tired of you." His eyes divert to his empty glass, then over to the still crowded bar in thought, then finally his eyes wander back to Cat.

"I like to keep busy," she replies, placing her feet on the other stool again and crossing them at the ankles with her back flat against the wall. "Sometimes I take the guitar along, walk the streets, pick a spot, and play if the mood strikes." One hand gathers her hair up and moves it a few times to fan the back of her neck.

Watching Cat for a moment, and seeing an opportunity to keep himself sharp on new talents, Peter rests his wrist on the table and tilts his palm up, facing it towards Cat while a look of concentration comes over him. There is a momentary look of concentration, and then from Peter's direction a cool and gentle breeze flows towards Cat. It begins to build in wind-speed very briefly, sending the cardboard coasters n the table fluttering across, but when Peter furrows his brow and shifts his head to the side, as if listening for something, the breeze becomes gentle again. Just enough to feel as though it was coming in through an open door, or a current from ventillation. Though, from Cat's perspective, obviously Peter. "Acoustic?" Peter finally comments, and the breeze begins to die out, "I'd like to hear that."

Her eyes close as the breeze reaches her skin, and she sighs slowly. "Long hair gets hot sometimes. Thanks." Then her eyes reopen, and fix on him. The head tilts. "That… that was you too?" For once she seems at a loss for words momentarily. "Nice." Some seconds of silence passes while she collects herself before adding "Acoustic sometimes. Occasionally electric, if I bring along a portable battery powered amp." And that playful look returns. "I bet you'd like to hear it."

"You'd bet." Peter nodded in smirking agreement to her statement, "And yeah, it's…" He takes a moment, very carefully considering what he says next, "It's a friend's gift, weather-related. I've barely got a handle on it." He grins, tilting his head to the side, "All that unexpected rain a few days ago?" His brows raise and he looks down to the table top, "Sorry." After a moment, Peter shifts his weight to one side, leaning his chin on his palm again, brows furrowed as he seems to inspect Cat. "I really don't know what to make of you, to be honest." One brow slowly raises, "Cosmopolitan Rennaisence Woman…" He tilts his head the other way, "Punk Rocker…" And back again, "Lawyer." His smile remains throughout all of the taunting head motions. "And here you are talking to me," He adds, "So I'll put crazy down there too."

"I pale in comparison," she replies softly. "We're multiply talented in our own ways, it seems." The woman gets to her feet and takes up the gear she rested near the table. "Acoustic guitar is on the Upper West Side, Rock." Another invitation. "What's crazy about talking with you?" Cat's replied questions is playfully asked, as she looks toward the exit then back toward him.

Eyeing Cat as she stands, Peter's gaze follows her over to her gear, and then towards her indication of the door. There's a thoughtful look on his face, head tilting forward slightly to rest his mouth on his hands. He seemed to be seriously considering something, and it didn't look like he was enjoying it. After a moment, he looked from the door to Cat, "People get hurt." He says reluctantly, "Often, when they're around me…" There was a seriousness in his tone that doesn't entirely mesh with Cat's playful demeanor. "Still invited?" He watches her carefully.

"This way," she replies solemnly. A step is taken, she then looks back toward him over her shoulder. She won't ask about the getting hurt part yet, not here, but she may well do so later. He's become privy to her secrets, and she to some of his, the intrigue and the connection won't let her turn away now. Her face shows this plainly.

There's a moment of hesitation, as if Peter hadn't expected that answer. He looks down at his empty glass, then back up to Cat as she begins walking away. For a moment, it seems as though he isn't going to get up. Then, after looking back to the empty stage, he slowly rises from his seat, straightening his jacket. "Right behind you," He says, mostly to himself, and begins following Cat through the crowd, all the while looking both intrigued, and at the same time, worried…

September 5th: A Request for Infiltration
September 6th: Faith
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