#twttask001

[gwstacy-blog]

TASK: 001; seven deadly sins (envy)

NOTES; gwen doesn't like mj, emily doesn't like her tasks being deleted

“You must be Peter’s friend? Gwen, was it?” The girl across from her smiled sweetly, but her eyes portrayed the image of someone who’d much rather be doing anything else. That detail irritated Gwen. And the rest of the day, she was over-thinking and analyzing the looks shared between this girl and the boy she harbored feelings for. The red-head certainly didn’t look at him like she was bored.

Friends had never been something Gwen was particularly good at. It wasn’t that her social skills were off — not intentionally anyway — but she found the people that she surrounded herself with weren’t the type of people that could keep up with her. It wasn’t some pretentious thing, it was just her taking advice from her father. Never to drop her standards for the sake of social advances. So she didn’t. And it was all well and good, up until she finally did find friends. Ones that could keep up with her, and ones that she enjoyed working to keep up with. Things were even, just as she liked. Being intellectually challenged, while finding people she could form a close bond with was a dream come true. Though it didn’t provide her with some sudden ability to make lifelong friends every which way she turned.

That was the case with Mary-Jane Watson. Or ‘MJ’, as she’d been corrected before. The red-head that seemed to exude sunshine out of every facet of her being. Now, Gwen had no problem with positive people. They were wonderful to be around, to spend time with; and were a lot more fun than people that saw the glass half-empty. But something about her, something about the way she seemed to draw in the two people Gwen herself had become closest to, in a matter of moments, frustrated the blonde immensely. It was as though her heart was overruling her mind in what was quite probably the most negative way possible. 

It was the same feeling she recalled in the first grade. When the little boy that sat next to her during class always seemed to make nicer finger paintings than hers. But you couldn’t ‘accidentally’ spill juice onto another person the way she did with the painting. Or at least, it wasn’t socially acceptable. So what could she do? Getting possessive wasn’t her style. It came off clingy, and juvenile, something Gwen didn’t feel the need to outwardly advertise.

Now Gwen was immensely open-minded. She took on new ideas with great enthusiasm, and was willing to hear others out before sharing her own (usually correct) opinion. But giving Mary-Jane some sort of redeeming quality was out of the question. She refused to make anything more than small talk, with someone who quite clearly reciprocated her own dislike. And she didn’t have an issue with that. Gwen took some kind of immature pleasure in the fact that she and Peter had more in common than her. Should the two girls be left alone together, some sort of ‘my horse is bigger than your horse’ debate was likely to take place. She didn’t want or need that kind of distraction in her life. Especially a distraction that gave her a migraine. 

It wasn’t some problem she could work out, like a formula. Or something that could be easily sorted out of she tried to keep a cool head. Not that she’d know how to do that, considering the topic itself tended to get her easily agitated, something she was not proud of.

Of all the things Gwen seemed to have an extensive knowledge on, navigating envious feelings was certainly not one of them. 

[savingthisforwaaaaylater-blog]

TASK: #001 - SEVEN DEADLY SINS (GREED)

GENERAL NOTES: N/A.

She's in Mexico, this time around.

It's where she picks up a smoking habit -- many poor workers living in squalor offer her some so eagerly that at one point, she buys them simply to appease them, but she opens them later and she tries one and she likes it, the feeling of the smoke wrapping around her mouth, building upon her lungs an guiding it out, feeling it wreck her and control her yet empower her -- just for a couple of months, nothing too serious.

("That's a nasty habit," her father will say upon return. She'll throw away the cigarettes and never look at them again.)

But for now, she's smoking, ignoring the large sign inside the cafe that reads "NO SE FUMA" -- pretending she's so American she doesn't know what it means. She's frowning at her laptop, typing furiously away at it, pens and pencils and her camera sitting beside it, hair disarray and bags under her eyes (which would soon become a signature look, unbeknownst to her), attire the same one she's been wearing for two days straight, and the only thing that's in her stomach is coffee, black and bitter.

She's waiting for someone; but Iris has never been the most patient person, so she's waiting and working. She's unsure of whether or not the man will come through, but there's hope, slowly brewing underneath her skin, tugging at the back of her mind, trying to settle her worries. There's hope, she sees, that she might get what she want -- Mexico's been a bust so far, but today, today it might be different. Today, things might change.

He walks in, black hat, black shirt and rotting jeans, brown eyes searching the diner and he spots her the minute Iris spots him -- he walks over, sits across from her without a word. "Señorita West?"

Her spanish is rusty, but "si" is hardly a difficult answer.

The man nods once, reaches into his pocket. "The camera," he says, accent heavy and out-of-practice. "Put it away."

Iris glances at her camera, rolls her eyes. "I'm not filming this," Iris assures him. "I'd be a fool to."

The man looks at her. "You'd be a fool not to put it away."

Resigned, Iris does as she's asked, shoving the camera and the rest of its gears inside her bag, not once looking away from the man before her, afraid he'll disappear the minute she looks away, afraid he's simply a figment of her imagination, an illusion created by the hope that's so egged her on these past two weeks. She finishes zipping the bag, then holds her hands up. "There." She says sternly. "What do you have for me?"

The man cocks his head to the left, stares at Iris intently. He seems to be debating internally -- he seems curious, which makes Iris's stomach churn, her skin crawl, her spine weaken. The man's gaze, though seemingly warm and brown, is nothing but ice, and it's bearing her soul, taking what she knows and what she feels and shaping it to its liking. Iris is doing her best not to cave in on herself, not to give up and crumble, when the man speaks. 

"Before I give you what you want," he says, looking towards the kitchen's open window. "You must know that if I tell you -- if I tell you, señorita West, you will have -- how is it that you say?" he looks back at her for a moment, as if Iris will have the answer when she's no idea where the man is going with this. "Jeopardize. Jeopardized these honest men's jobs -- they will most likely lose their life's work, their -- income. These men, and the men across the street," his index finger slowly points in said direction. "And their wives and their children will suffer because you want a story so very badly."

Iris simply blinks at him. 

"I'm only a messenger," he leans towards her, voice quiet, breath smelling of faint tobacco. Iris idly grabs at her smoke. "But I do feel compelled to tell you many, many lives could be ruined by this." His stare is calculating, judgmental. "Would you still like to know?"

And Iris knows she shouldn't, but there's Mexico, and the hardships of Mexico and how hard, how so very hard it's been to find something trustworthy and worth her time, so she doesn't think -- she puts aside her parents' instilled values and her morals and she says, "Yes."

The man's expression flashes with something reminiscent of disappointment, but he leans back, looks resigned. "Bueno," his voice is slower, quieter. He reaches into the bag Iris hadn't noticed he'd been carrying before, pulls out a stack of papers, neatly filed and color coated, bound together by a thin red rubber band. He places them on the table, slides them to Iris, effectively pushing her laptop out of the way. "Here you are, then." He stands, says nothing else as Iris stares at the folders with bile in her throat. She's taken off guard when her cigarette is taken from her lips, looks up in surprise and offense.

The man smirks at her, points at the sign. "No smoking," he says, throwing the cigarette on the ground and putting it out with his heel. He leaves it there, a memory of what's just taken place, and leaves as quickly as he'd arrived.

Iris takes a second, then packs everything up, including the folders she'd just received. 

She writes the story, she sends it off. The men lose their jobs, the diner closes.

But she's got people now -- the respect of many of the working elite in Mexico, and she's got contacts here shining out of places things shouldn't shine. She's good; Mexico's no longer a bust.

But she feels compromised, when she sees her waiter of two days holding his child in his arms, whispering spanish sweets into his ears and stroking his hair gently. He's holding back his tears and he's being strong, for this tiny child that so very much fears what's to come. She feels dirty -- she feels greedy.

She's smoking inside a restaurant, typing up an e-mail. A "NO SE FUMA" sign is hanging up here, as well, but she ignores it again. Sends off an e-mail to her father, says she's going home soon. She feels as if she's seen enough, done enough.

She throws a sizable amount of pesos on the table and stands, grabbing her things. On the way out, there's a large trash can -- and she looks at it for a moment, looks at her bag, then pulls out the camera she'd compromised everything for and throws it away.

She takes a drag of her cigarette, and walks away.

[spiddypeter]

Against the Grain → Task #001

Task: #001 - Seven Deadly Sins

C.S. Lewis once said, “Pride gets no pleasure out of having something, only out of having more of it than the next man... It is the comparison that makes you proud: the pleasure of being above the rest. Once the element of competition is gone, pride is gone.”

In school students are told over and over by their teachers to believe in themselves. Even those that tend to fall behind are encouraged to believe that they can be better, they are told to have pride in themselves and the things they accomplish in and outside of the walls of their school. The younger generation is often considered the most narcissistic of it's time, however they grew up in an age where people were rewarded for just showing up. So when one rises above the rest and excels without even trying those with the participation ribbons are left to wonder if they are still good enough. That insecurity that maybe their ribbon isn't quite as great as the one with the trophy starts to peak. It eats at those who are not as inclined as those select few, and so they do what they can to punish them. Peter sometimes likes to believe maybe that's what happened to him, sometimes he doesn't even know if he's correct about that assumption though.

Contrary to the popular belief of those who know Peter, once upon a time he actually was able to hold a complete conversation with a person. He picked up on social cues and even had friends that he could run around with. However that was quite awhile back when his parents memory was still fresh in his mind and he was still settling into the life he now lived with his aunt and uncle. The kids around his school had been lining up behind the swing each of them trying to fly to a certain spot on the ground. For what reason Peter doesn't remember, though he doubts there ever was one. Back then it was always about filling the time with challenges and adventures. Time and time again the kids would fly from the swing set and none of them would ever hit the mark. Sometimes Peter questions why their teachers would allow all the children to just continually jump out of the swings, then again the teachers of Marvel Elementary were never the kind that looked out during recess. Finally, after everyone had gone there was a chorus of 'Peter! Peter, you should try!' and 'Come on Pete just give it a try!'. Peter had seen enough people that he knew just what to do. When he flew out of his swing and landed on the mark it was no surprise to him. The other students went wild though yelling about how lucky he was that he made it. Young Peter had retorted that it wasn't luck, and it wasn't, he explained how he had watched everyone and made different calculations to their moves so he would make it.

Peter had always known he was smart, but the blank faces of the other children as he spoke made him really see just how advanced he was over the other students. After that most of the students just stopped talking to him, remarking how weird he was. Peter didn't really care though, because there was a moment when he was looking at their blank faces that he realized he was better than jumping out of a swing just to hit a mark. The lack of friends gave him time to work, it gave him time to set goals for himself and work towards being better. And Peter loved nothing more than being better. He loved knowing an answer that no one else could find. Socially Peter might have been inept, but ever since that whole swing incident Peter just couldn't understand them. School work though was easy and natural, much more natural than ever talking to the other students was. Sometimes, sure, he would get pushed around for ruining the curve in a class but the things he learned made the shoving worth it.

Peter had been shoved into lockers, pushed around in the halls, in the cafeteria, really anywhere but it didn't ever stop him. He didn't boast about his intelligence, though he was proud of himself, but he didn't dumb down like some of the students wanted him to. Peter was striving for something more than being stuck in Marvel, he wanted to be the best for not only himself, but his deceased parents. He wanted to honor them by being the brightest, and he wanted to be the best for his Aunt and Uncle so they would never doubt that taking him in was a mistake. So sure, Peter developed a bit of an air about him. It was bound to happen, he was eventually going to get some sense of pleasure out of being smarter than the people who pushed him around. Who wouldn't get a sense of pride at seeing their test scores way on top while others around them floundered?

Upon graduation Peter was out of the town, he needed more challenges. He at least needed to feel like he was doing some work  that allowed him to keep being the best in his class. At first he thought Blue Valley would be more challenging, but that he would still excel above all the others easily. His pride was taken away when he met the other students though. Some of them he did surpass quite easily, and others he fought tooth and nail for the best grades with. Peter had always assumed that before, when he was barely trying, was the best he would feel when it came to learning. But coming to Blue Valley not only knocked him off the invisible pedestal he had built for himself over the years, but it also made him proud in a different way. Here he knew what grade he got he at least had earned it, and that was always more satisfying than anything he had felt back in high school when he would fly by the other students.

It's funny how pride works sometimes. Too much of it and you're considered as being on the wrong side of it, you're seen as pompous. Even though everyone always told you to take pride in your work. Not enough, and people encourage you to just dig a bit deeper and do things you can be proud of. That sweet perfect amount though was just what everyone was looking and striving for. It was hard to find, but somehow Peter had managed to find his perfect center. He was still a proud man, but now it wasn't pride at being better than others. It wasn't a sense of pleasure at knowing no one would be better than he was at this one thing. Instead it was a pride at the actual work he was accomplishing.