[ Peter similarly finds his own little spot, slightly removed from the crowd. He leans back against the wall, bringing his glass to his lips. He considers letting the comment go unremarked, but he relents. They’re working, after all. And as pissed as he is with this whole fucking mess, the more professional Peter is about this whole thing, the easier it will go, the sooner they can leave. His hand brushes against the back of his ear to trigger the comm, passing it off as an itch. ]
Don’t get caught.
[ Almost a half hour passes after that stellar encouragement. As he’s pausing to get his bearings again, Peter spots someone approaching. Tall. Dark blue skin – Kree, Peter thinks. Black suit and shirt and that weird mud caked on his face; a hard, determined air to him. Guard, then. If Peter’s lucky, he’ll just continue on past.
(When is Peter ever lucky when it counts, though?)
The Kree stands a good half-foot over him, crowds into his space, and despite that flicker of nervousness in his stomach, Peter keeps in character. He glances at the guard from the corner of his eye, takes another mild sip from his wine. ]
Do they normally instruct you to stand so close to guests?
[ Disdain dripping in his voice. Peter moves to leave, but the Kree’s hand wraps around Peter’s elbow as he steps around into Peter’s line of sight. Another flicker of that nervousness, but Peter stares down at that blue hand like it’s filthy with slime, lip curling away from his teeth. Peter tries to yank his arm away, but the guard tightens his grip, expression unchanged. He pries the wine glass from Peter’s hand, leaves it on the pedestal of a nearby statue. ]
You’ll come with me, sir.
[ Not that he gives Peter much chance to argue, as he pulls him from the room. The guard drags him up a dark staircase meant for the staff, leads him through a similarly dark hall to a quiet wing. The corridor should have been filled to bursting with Peter’s griping, except the instant the guard had dragged Peter out of sight, he had clamped a hand over his mouth, wrapped an arm around his throat. Peter’s mind races as he struggles, protests and cries for help muffled by the Kree, trying to think of any mistakes he might have made tonight. It’s all a blank. He well and truly can’t think of anything he might have done to draw suspicion, unless—
… Brennan.
That smug, prickish bastard must’ve thrown him under the goddamn bus without Peter noticing.
Fuck. Fuck.
A door opens, and the guard shoves him through, twisting his arm up and behind his back and forcing him to his knees. He grabs a handful of Peter’s hair, yanking his head to one side as another guard – a pink-skinned Kree, Peter thinks, judging by his height and the similar black markings on his face – steps forward, jabbing his neck with some handheld device while Peter yelps in surprise. ]
What the hell—
[ He feels a little droplet of blood forming on his neck where the guard poked him. The room is bare. Grey walls and a dark tile floor with a single drain at its center that draws Peter’s focus. That… doesn’t seem promising, Peter thinks. ]
Guy wasn’t kiddin’. It’s him, alright.
[ Peter tries to figure out who he means by “guy,” and while logic would dictate he could mean literally anyone – another guard, another guest, a driver, a servant – Peter’s mind keeps settling on that goddamn fucking bastard, Brennan. The pink-skinned man shows the screen on the device to his companion. Peter feels himself pale when he sees his own name from the back of the clear screen, along with his mugshot and an old copy of his rap sheet. ]
Works with Nova Corps now, doesn’t he? [ The first guard, that time, twisting Peter’s arm up higher to drag a pained grunt from him. ] Boss is gonna wanna know we got grunts snoopin’ around.
Yeah, yeah. [ The second guard, scowling down at Peter. Then, a predatory smile that sends a chill down Peter’s spine. ] Five minute head start on loosening him up. Then we call the boss.
[ Peter tries to work a word in edgewise, tries to come up with a bullshit excuse as to how, exactly, this was all one big misunderstanding, that he could totally explain himself, why he had entered under a fake name, why he actually had no idea what the hell was going on, and really, if they could just let him go, they’d all get a huge, giant laugh out of this—
Except the guard behind him chuckles darkly and says, ] Good idea.
[ And slams Peter face first into the tile floor. ]
no subject
Don’t get caught.
[ Almost a half hour passes after that stellar encouragement. As he’s pausing to get his bearings again, Peter spots someone approaching. Tall. Dark blue skin – Kree, Peter thinks. Black suit and shirt and that weird mud caked on his face; a hard, determined air to him. Guard, then. If Peter’s lucky, he’ll just continue on past.
(When is Peter ever lucky when it counts, though?)
The Kree stands a good half-foot over him, crowds into his space, and despite that flicker of nervousness in his stomach, Peter keeps in character. He glances at the guard from the corner of his eye, takes another mild sip from his wine. ]
Do they normally instruct you to stand so close to guests?
[ Disdain dripping in his voice. Peter moves to leave, but the Kree’s hand wraps around Peter’s elbow as he steps around into Peter’s line of sight. Another flicker of that nervousness, but Peter stares down at that blue hand like it’s filthy with slime, lip curling away from his teeth. Peter tries to yank his arm away, but the guard tightens his grip, expression unchanged. He pries the wine glass from Peter’s hand, leaves it on the pedestal of a nearby statue. ]
You’ll come with me, sir.
[ Not that he gives Peter much chance to argue, as he pulls him from the room. The guard drags him up a dark staircase meant for the staff, leads him through a similarly dark hall to a quiet wing. The corridor should have been filled to bursting with Peter’s griping, except the instant the guard had dragged Peter out of sight, he had clamped a hand over his mouth, wrapped an arm around his throat. Peter’s mind races as he struggles, protests and cries for help muffled by the Kree, trying to think of any mistakes he might have made tonight. It’s all a blank. He well and truly can’t think of anything he might have done to draw suspicion, unless—
… Brennan.
That smug, prickish bastard must’ve thrown him under the goddamn bus without Peter noticing.
Fuck. Fuck.
A door opens, and the guard shoves him through, twisting his arm up and behind his back and forcing him to his knees. He grabs a handful of Peter’s hair, yanking his head to one side as another guard – a pink-skinned Kree, Peter thinks, judging by his height and the similar black markings on his face – steps forward, jabbing his neck with some handheld device while Peter yelps in surprise. ]
What the hell—
[ He feels a little droplet of blood forming on his neck where the guard poked him. The room is bare. Grey walls and a dark tile floor with a single drain at its center that draws Peter’s focus. That… doesn’t seem promising, Peter thinks. ]
Guy wasn’t kiddin’. It’s him, alright.
[ Peter tries to figure out who he means by “guy,” and while logic would dictate he could mean literally anyone – another guard, another guest, a driver, a servant – Peter’s mind keeps settling on that goddamn fucking bastard, Brennan. The pink-skinned man shows the screen on the device to his companion. Peter feels himself pale when he sees his own name from the back of the clear screen, along with his mugshot and an old copy of his rap sheet. ]
Works with Nova Corps now, doesn’t he? [ The first guard, that time, twisting Peter’s arm up higher to drag a pained grunt from him. ] Boss is gonna wanna know we got grunts snoopin’ around.
Yeah, yeah. [ The second guard, scowling down at Peter. Then, a predatory smile that sends a chill down Peter’s spine. ] Five minute head start on loosening him up. Then we call the boss.
[ Peter tries to work a word in edgewise, tries to come up with a bullshit excuse as to how, exactly, this was all one big misunderstanding, that he could totally explain himself, why he had entered under a fake name, why he actually had no idea what the hell was going on, and really, if they could just let him go, they’d all get a huge, giant laugh out of this—
Except the guard behind him chuckles darkly and says, ] Good idea.
[ And slams Peter face first into the tile floor. ]