test drive 01

[thestewards]

'Cause I have these new fears I carry with me
So you can feel stronger, you can know peace

► All TDM threads may be considered canon provided both parties agree and are accepted into the game.

► Canon threads may be redeemed for influence and reputation, depending on how you solve the issue at hand or how you engage with the prompt.

► Feel free to switch up your character's Jewel from thread to thread. Get a feel for how a Birthright Jewel may limit or enchance your character's abilities.

GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA
The psychic summons comes with the first light of dawn, waking you from a dream of home. It takes you a minute to remember where you are (a warm, comfortable room in Queen Fayura's residence) and then a moment longer to parse the words.

*Your presence is requested in the training field behind the Queen's Residence. You have ten minutes to get your ass out of bed on your own, or ten minutes to decide you want to be up to your neck in ice-cold mountain water. Your choice.* Gray power flavors the voice. Ah, you recognize that psychic touch. Allairavar, the Master of the Guard.

You remember, too, that he warned the household at last night's supper: if you live in the Queen's Residence, you practice with the Queen's court. You…

i. Drag yourself out of bed with an aching groan, dress with the bleary-eyed confusion of one too suddenly forced awake, and amble onto the training field to avoid the promise of a much more shocking wake up call. Or maybe you make your way quickly with a skip in your step and a twinkle in your eye. You haven't realized yet that Allairavar does not like morning people. Even so, you don't want to get dunked in ice water in the middle of winter.

ii. Roll over and go back to sleep. The Master of the Guard isn't really going to carry through with his threat. In your defense, he doesn't. But one of the First Circle does. You're not sure how you got from your room to a large barrel full of water that could freeze open flame, but here you are, soaked and shivering and very much awake.

Regardless of how you get to the training field, Allairavar pairs you with another Stranger and puts you through your paces. It's barely above freezing, but you're going to need a shower when you're done.


BUILD BETTER BOMBS
There are three rows of four tables set up in the Tinker Guild Hall's auditorium, all heavy laden with materials. Bits of wires, buttons both small and large, ticking clocks. A tank full of goldfish. Sand, canisters of gasses, a strange viscous liquid in a bowl of lead.

"Handle that with gloves," Master Tinker Mari warns you with a wink and a grin. "The bowl, I mean. Don't handle the liquid or you'll lose your hand." She waves her hands at you.

This is supposed to be a crash course in bomb making, and in a way it is. Master Tinker Mari crashes into person after person, pushing them into pairs. She shoves someone up to you. "Blow my mind!" she whispers dramatically, and then she vaults the table, making something in a vial smoke, bubble, and pop.

Around the edge of the auditorium are four chalkboards, each with several diagrams on them. Presumably, these are schematics for you to follow. Smoke bombs, flour bombs. Fireworks and sparklers. Water bombs—maybe she means water balloons? One schematic requires a hamster wheel.

You might as well give it a go.

Note: Master Tinker Mari won't let anyone blow themselves up (or blow up the building). In the event Strangers make something truly dangerous and not just inconvenient, she will hurry over with a much more serious demeanor and disarm the bomb they've created with a suggestion that they take her advanced course.


CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES
You were sent here to help, so help you have: by letting the Ebon Council auction off three hours of your time and the power in your Jewels to help with local troubles. Maybe someone's cold box has lost its cooling spell—that's basic Craft and you can help with that—or maybe someone needs you to fetch their cat down from a tree. Whatever it is, you're here to take care of it.

The stage you stand on creaks beneath your feet as a polite older witch bids on you and your partner (the Ebon Council would never let you work alone, no, the landens are too dangerous for you to be out on your own!) with three jars of pear preserves. No money exchanges hands here, just items like non-perishable foods and handmade clothing or blankets.

You'll help the little old witch who needs some rocks moved from the fields just outside Draega's walls, but it occurs to you that only the Blood were at this auction, and only they will reap the rewards. That's hardly charity… but that's also not your problem, is it? Maybe it is. You could always ask that landen couple hovering just to the side of the stage what they need (their roof is leaking, and the man's right hand is crippled, twisted into a rigid claw). Or maybe you won't. They don't have anything to offer, and everything has a price, even your time.


HIT AND RUN
Chill winter air doesn't keep anyone inside in Draega. Stalls line the streets of the Old Town Bazaar, and vendors hawk their curious wares. Blood and landen mingle here, each a little wary of the other but with the affect of those who have accepted they must live alongside their enemy. Expressions are shuttered, but marks are marks no matter who hands them over. No shopkeeper denies a customer just because the money comes from someone they don't like, not in times like these.

As you make your way through the Bazaar, perhaps in search of something or someone or a place to eat (the scent of meat pies is thick in the air), you hear a shout and a cry of pain. People peel back as one, revealing a group of young landen men carrying clubs and wearing cruel sneers. At their feet, a young boy sprawls across a puppy in the muddy slush that covers the road.

You catch the flavor of his psychic scent: he's half-Blood, one of those pitiable creatures accepted by neither the Blood or the landens.

"Y-you can't hurt him!" the little boy cries, curling around the puppy. "P-Prince Verim will stop you!"

The young men laugh. "Prince Verim isn't here," one spits, raising his club.

You could step back. After all, this isn't your problem. You could just alert the First Circle and call it done; they patrol the area, one of those males will surely be here soon. Or you could step in. Everything has a price, and the price of attacking a helpless child and a puppy is a tussle with you.


WALKIE-TALKIE
Catch up with a new acquaintance you met at the Queen's Residence or simply pause to listen to the news playing in a store you're passing through. Far-casters come in all shapes and sizes, from the held-held device that's a bit clunky to the radios that stand at a man's height in some restaurants. If you're spinning the dial and listening to some radio programs, you'll hear…

etiquette with evandra and aren.
[A woman's voice leads. It's a little bit rough and a little bit husky, the kind of voice that gives bad ideas to young men and headaches to fathers.] …just as well. Since you don't want to die for offending a Warlord Prince's lady, what do you do, Lord Aren?

[A man's voice, chipper and bright. He sounds more like an eager boy than the full-grown man he is.] Apologize immediately to her, but meet his gaze so he knows the apology is for him as well. Remember, dear listeners: a Warlord Prince's lady may be all that stands between you and a violent end. Make sure she likes you!

[The woman laughs.] Or at least doesn't think killing you is worth the trouble. If we all learn a little more about each other, we can learn to live together. As always, I'm Evandra.

[With great gusto, Lord Aren says:] I'm Aren, and you've been listening to…

[Together:] Etiquette with Evandra and Aren! [Jaunty outro music plays, a complete tonal dissonance with the fact that the two were just educating landens on how to avoid murder.]

the weather
[A soft-spoken man's voice rumbles out of the Far-caster. He's pleasant to listen to, with a soothing cadence to his voice.] …rain tomorrow with overcast skies through the morning and afternoon. Landen weather devices indicate a decrease in sky-pressure, so those of you who suffer from migraines may want to talk to your Healers or Medicos now.

There's possibility of snow later in the week from the northwest. Questions about snow removal? Reach out to your local Transport Guild rep or your Ebon Council chairperson.

the news
…Blood family of four found murdered in their homes. The Queen's Court assures Draega that no payment for the murders is being asked for at this time. [The man speaks at a brisk pace, hurried and harried as though he has too much to say and not enough time to say it.]

That's right, Garret. [Another man, nasally in tone. He doesn't sound rushed so much as put upon.] Preliminary investigations do indicate the Hunter Guild may be responsible for the deaths.

[Garret:] Indeed they do, Wilt. Evidence at the scene supports the use of Breakers on the family. Turning now from the grisly murder to the surprising way the Queen's Winsol gift to the city is being used to benefit both Blood and landens.

Comments

rey | star wars

[purpose]

I. GOOD MORNING DRAEGA

[ She's more than accustomed to earning her keep.

All things considered, it's a fair trade: food, shelter, clothing — all the tools for survival she would need in this strange world in exchange for bouts of training that will, in the end, benefit her. In a land without allies, without any familiarity with its environment and its people, it would be too reckless to throw it all away. For now, adapting and adjusting is the only way to continue onward, self-preserving.

Even then, the advantages can't keep her wariness at bay.

Still, despite the skepticism, she raises the moment she's roused, however begrudgingly. Better to get to work than to draw unnecessary attention, though there is something to be said for the freezing air, even without the sting of cold water on her skin. In the cold air, her skin prickles with gooseflesh, teeth gritting from it as she's paired off. ]

Come on. [ Her breath ghosts out of her, frosting in the air, a visible puff of air. Without waiting for an answer, she turns to the rack of weaponry stashed aside, watching — for a brief moment — those partners that have already begun clashing. Immediately, her hands gravitate toward a set of staves. ] It shouldn't be that difficult.

II. BUILD BETTER BOMBS

[ Working with her hands comes easily.

The schematics are hardly simple, but they're familiar — comfortable, in a way. Finding which parts fit together, discovering how they work, each purpose and value — it's what she's good at, what she's learned. Just as it had on Jakku, it brings with it an outlet, an easy distraction from her predicament.

Her partner, as it stands, hardly catches her attention — at first. To some extent, it's a frustration to be paired off once again — and it shows as she's pulled out of twisting wires and her narrow-eyed concentration by her partner's crackling liquid concoction, frowning as she snaps, impatient, ] Stop pouring. You're going to get both of us blown up.

III. CHARITY IS

[ As far as trades go, it's a ridiculous request.

They're being paid for it, all the same. She can't complain about the reward — three jars of food and decent blankets offered in a bid of desperation — even if the weeping woman who had come to them had wasted her resources on begging them to follow her alleged "cheating bastard of a husban, out at all times of the night, deep in his shady business" to soothe her curiosity.

So far, it's slow-going.

The only crime their target seems to be guilty of is a slimy charm and a tendency to be deep in his cups, inebriated within the hour they've been trailing him to the inn. She frowns, nudging her partner in the side with her elbow when their gaze lingers in that direction for too long. ]

Could you be less obvious about it? [ It's a fevered whisper that hardly qualifies as a whisper at all. ] He's drunk, not blind.

IV. WILDCARD

[ Feel free to bring me your scenarios! I'm very much open; PM me if you'd like to plot something out. ]

III. please forgive the lack if icons! brand new journal :)

[priestoftherat]

[The androgynous person Rey has been paired up with is a bit put off by this odd assignment, personally. They're quite a bit older than Rey though it's impossible to tell by just how much, with hair the color of pewter tied back in a braid, a pointed face, and a robe decorated with little dancing rats embroidered on the sleeve.]

I'm very sorry if I'm not doing this as well as you would like, [they say, a bit snappishly themself.] I've never actually tailed anyone before.

no worries! it's completely fine. sorry about the delay; friday to monday was chaos.

[purpose]

Neither have I.

[ The delivery is equally as snappish as her partner's. Impatient, more than that; no matter the ease of their task, there is no ignoring the absurdity of it. It seems a waste of time — her own, and this world's — when their talents can be put to better use. ]

The point is to avoid being noticed. Staring is going to get us noticed. [ There's undeniable indignation to it, and understandably; after a lifetime of relying upon herself, going about it her own way with her own methods, it's irritating to be saddled with another. ] Unless that's part of your plan.

[ Which, honestly, sounds like a terrible plan. Without any talent for pretending, and with no fondness for the idea of entrapping the man herself in some other way, it suits them both better to observe from a distance. ]

charity is

[phykios]

-- hey!

[ her nudge doesn't hurt, obviously, but he wants his protest registered just the same. it's not like percy had expected their auctioned-off time to go towards a world-saving quest or anything, but this still seems pretty monumentally stupid. especially because the so-called cheater, drunk sleeze he may be, doesn't seem to have actually done anything wrong. not yet, at least. ]

Yeah, and I'll bet he's not deaf, either.

[ he says, as if his whisper is actually any quieter than hers. (it's not.) ]

[purpose]

[ On cue, their sleaze in question angles his head their way. It isn't a snap to attention, but it's a skeptical leering — or as skeptical as it can be when he's wobbling in his seat, seemingly dazed by the entire world from what must be his spinning perspective. ]

Stop talking.

[ She hisses, as if it were Percy's fault for drawing his attention, and not their combined (failed) efforts at being inconspicuous. Their mark teeters a bit more, but seems to be too enamored with the new drink that's been set in front of him by the inn's serving girl. ]

If you think you can do better, go ahead. He's drunk enough to tell you anything if you asked.

[ It isn't a conversation Rey wants anything to do with herself. The entire establishment reeks of booze — the proximity of their target, most of all, alcohol wafting toward them. For drinking money, her mind repeats, trying to lead her into memories of the parents that had stranded her, traded her like they would another other find. ]

[phykios]

[ truth is, percy isn't any more comfortable here than she is. the reek of alcohol has two major associations for him: dionysus, the irritable ex-director at camp half-blood who only hated the demigods there more than he hated his job, and percy's ex-stepfather gabe ugliano. neither reminder puts him in a good mood.

which may be why he frowns at both her rebuke and her suggestion. ]

And to probably not remember he did in the morning. [ which is an oblique agreement. still, though. ugh. he lowers voice, consciously looking away from their mark...not that, he thinks, he's missing much. ] How about we save that for Plan B?

[purpose]

He's not supposed to remember.

[ that's the entire point of their journey here, after all — subtlety, acquiring information without direct, assertive confrontation. all of their effort — all of their wasted time, more aptly — would mean nothing if they were to be exposed and consequently unpaid. still, rey lets go of the suggestion. "plan b" is a sufficient compromise. ]

What's Plan A, then? [ she asks, frustrated, though not with percy himself. the situation is a test to her own patience, and the wait they have been enduring for a solid hour has brought with it an understandable restlessness. and, true to her word, he hasn't gone anywhere; he's far too preoccupied singing out bawdy tavern songs to consider leaving his seat in the tavern. ] He isn't going anywhere. We'll be waiting for nothing.

[ even then, she hasn't stood and insisted they tell his wife a half-truth. rifling through his mind would be the easiest bet, but she hesitates to consider it, all the same. ]

Build Better Bombs~

[mint_and_bronze]

[A return to cobbling together explosive from scavenged crap feels good. She's always loved it when things come together, especially unexpected things. That was the whole principle of her studies in magic from before, after all. So for now, rather than pick a schematic she was more familiar with, Maeve does a bit of experimenting with some of the liquid components set out for their bomb-building use.

Some time later, she has to school her features back to neutral; pouring and mixing alongside her companion makes her feel like she should really be chanting and maybe waving her hands about. It's only when her companion--a rugged young woman with nimble fingers doing something rather more conventional with wires and metal--calls her out on the component she's about to add does she snap her gaze to her face and lift an imperious eyebrow.]

We'd be fine.

[Maeve is bullshitting. She has no idea. Risk is part of the fun. She does, however, stop pouring and instead uses the little vial to gesture at the big board.]

That thing uses at least twice of whatever this is.

[...Maeve has added other mystery ingredients because they looked interesting or smelled neat. So uh. The instructions probably don't apply anymore.]

[purpose]

You don't know what any of this does.

[ From her mouth, it resembles less of an accusation and more of a stated fact. If it weren't apparent that they are all refugees here — or the very telling whatever this is, to which Rey raises an incredulous look in her direction — Maeve's act could be more convincing. She's cocksure, that's for certain, but Rey has seen cocksure in Jakku. That degree of arrogance has never led to anything good.

Clearly, this woman must lack the same self-preserving streak. She has, at the very least, stopped — but Rey doesn't look any less skeptical for it. ]

We're supposed to be building bombs, not ... [ Her eyes fall to the liquid in Maeve's basin. ] — not whatever you're trying to make. Kill yourself if you want, but some of us would like to stay in one piece.

[mint_and_bronze]

[Maeve carefully sets the vial down, more clearly humoring Rey than she's worried she's going to end up without a face. She then rests her elbow on the work surface and her chin on her fist to study Rey herself.]

Considering the reaction you seem to think I would have created, I believe I was following the spirit of our instructions rather than our schematics. And I'm not particularly worried. Since waking up here, I've learned how to shield, and it would be interesting to test my reflexes in a controlled environment.

A touch of risk makes it exciting.

[She makes no move to try again, though, and she hasn't moved on to try and add anything else to the concoction. She probably should have been writing things down.]

You caught me before it all went to hell, though, without even paying attention to what I was doing.

[That's...not quite a question, but she is giving Rey an expectant look.]

[purpose]

[ 'Interesting.' The woman, Rey has concluded, must be some sort of lunatic to be so free with a threat to her life. Thrill-seeking, more than that. It hardly inspires comfort. ]

If you want to blow yourself up with a bomb, be my guest. But the rest of us want to stay in one piece.

[ She doesn't bother correcting that the bombs are most surely not intended to be used here and now, on the Queen's own — whatever they are. Army, if Rey had to guess, from how they've been treated. That, too, hardly inspires comfort; the wariness has left her on edge, bristling, but her retort takes on a more dry tone to combat Maeve's light-heartedness. ]

I know what I'm doing. [ It isn't the first time she has set about with traps, with explosives, learning to fasten them out of what she'd had. That, she doesn't share, closed off and unused to social etiquette. ] It wasn't difficult to see you weren't paying any attention to the actual schematics.

[ And part of her had sensed it, more significant, bubbling and brewing — stronger, now that her abilities have increased, more out of her hands than they've ever been in their development. Rather than share it, she gives Maeve a look, and turns back to the tools at her own station. ]

[mint_and_bronze]

Duly noted. I shall endeavor to avoid catastrophic experiment failure.

[And she will. She's shifted from being gleefully interested in mixing volatile chemicals to being focused on the puzzle that is Rey. And Rey does indeed strike her as a very intriguing puzzle. Though Maeve's expression is more of someone eyeing a particularly delicious pie on a windowsill.]

Even if it was simple to see I'd gone a bit rogue, your awareness of your surroundings is admirable.

[The kind of awareness (mundane or not) that would have had Maeve tapping her colleagues to come test Rey for aptitude.]

charity;

[warfares]

( the nudge is enough to shift his attention from the inn back to her. )

We could resolve this within minutes. ( lure the husband to some shady corner, sift through his memories ㅡ not that he's particularly relishing the thought of that, either. )

[purpose]

No.

[ Vitriol doesn't work in their favor. The flint in her voice drags their mark's attention to them, though he isn't capable of doing much more than squinting, curiously, in his intoxicated state. Soon, that fades into amusement at the display they must be putting on.

Were he anyone else, had she not known the touch of his mind forcibly extracting what he had wanted from her, the idea might appeal. As it stands, she looks betrayed — incensed — that he has even suggested his usual method. ]

I won't let you. [ Bored, now, and easily distracted as most people tend to be, the drunk returns to dribbling his drink all over himself. ] Think of something else.

[warfares]

( what a sight they must look.

and, for all her answer rankles ㅡ less at the refusal than at the fact that it means they will be here longer than he has any desire to be ㅡ he doesn't argue. he merely cants his head, considering their target. )

Fine. Then one of us should speak with him, instead. ( "speaks" he says, though the implication hangs heavy in the words. )

[purpose]

Go ahead. No one is stopping you.

[ it should be clear, without further expounding, that she isn't volunteering herself for the task. a smaller part of it is ingrained stubbornness, though defiance for principle's sake would be absurd. it's merely an unwillingness to do this his way when she has already decided on her effort — and, more than that, no interest in involving herself with a lecherous, intoxicated schmoozer.

the acrid smell brings forward too many associations, even from this distance. ]

[warfares]

( his lips press together. the idea holds about as much appeal for him as it does for her ㅡ only a little less so, perhaps, because of the two of them he knows which is more likely to be their target's type.

then, after a moment: ) All right.

( it's said as he steps forward, pausing to snatch up a glass of something cold and alcoholic on his way. if nothing else, proximity should lead to a better read. and perhaps he can steer the other man's thoughts in the direction needed ㅡ as bloodless as possible. )

[purpose]

[ it's ridiculous.

more ridiculous, even, than waiting him out in a pub. as far as she is concerned, the husband in question isn't so guilty of dishonesty and betrayal as he is guilty of a sloppiness known only to those finding their hopes at the bottom of a bottle — emphasized by his sudden movements when ben moves to approach, hefting his drink in greeting. predictably, it splashes against his front in all of his overeager, amicable behavior, amplified by his lacking sobriety.

both of their fronts, for that matter, but their target is significantly more drenched by the jerking motion than the droplets that have splashed across ben.

it allows, at least, the attention to divert from her as she watches, vigilant, waiting for any wisp of information she can bring back. it hardly seems difficult to loosen the lips of a drunkard. ]

[warfares]

( it's more than just ridiculous it's downright farcical.

he manages to contain his disdain, even while covered in cheap beer that smells like it would be better suited as paint stripper. acrid, acidic. he lifts his own drink at the proffered greeting and proceeds to make the sort of polite small talk that would have set even his mother's teeth on edge.

takes a long pull of his own drink as he extends mental fingers to the other man. feeling the shape of his mind, a glancing brush of fingertips that will be forgotten easily in the monstrous hangover that awaits him, come morning.

he learns lot of this sad, strange man. learns that, for all the he is deeply troubled, shame coiling like tightening roots through him, it is not because of his interest in other women — or even other men. )

Gambling debts, ( he tells Rey once he finally returns to her, the worst of the beer dried into an impressive stain. he's tempted to burn the shirt, damn the cost. )

[purpose]

You said you were going to speak with him. You lied.

[ furious is not the word for it. betrayed, however, is — by his decision to dishonor her discomfort and charge ahead with his plan, regardless. for all that it had been conversation, to some extent, she had not been ignorant to the ripple of the force around him — around them. that's damning enough evidence of what ben has done.

and she had been fool enough to believe his concession had been sincere. rey directs that anger inward as much as it displays outward in the harsh accusation it is, forgetting herself for a moment as her voice carries. their mark is too lost in his drink to pay it mind, and rey herself is already standing to leave. ]

[warfares]

I did speak with him ㅡ civilly at that.

( is he misinterpreting the source of her anger or simply refusing to acknowledge it? he glances back over his shoulder, toward the man, happily into this ...fourth, maybe fifth tankard for the evening. )

He's unharmed, untroubled and we have the answers his wife seeks. Hardly a bad end to the evening, I'd think.

[purpose]

Don't try to justify it, [ she snaps, too loudly to be ignored over the din of the tavern. ] You lied.

[ to me remains unspoken in that repetition, heavy in the air, but the truth remains. he'd made a fool of her, and now he intends to treat it flippantly — dumbly, as though he is a child unaware of what she's done. she isn't having it. ]

I'll deliver her answers on my own.

[ if only because she does not trust him to deliver the answers himself, not now, and she has no desire to linger in his company for longer when he has proven what he still is — a warning, in case she has forgotten. once again, she has trusted him; once again, he has gone against her wishes without a care for them. the throne room is still a fresh wound, ringing in her head, but she pushes through the tavern door without so much as sparing a glance in his direction. ]

II Better Bombs

[stickypete]

[He doesn't stop pouring.]

I've got a lifetime of weird experience and two letters I earned - that I'm a couple hundred thousand dollars in debt for - that say I probably know what I'm doing better than you do.

[He keeps pouring. The container fizzes dangerously, crackling, bubbling - and then he stops pouring.]

[The mixture makes a whistling sound like a teapot or a firework whistling into the stratosphere, but then it slowly simmers down, as the reactions inside start to get slightly less volatile.]

[Peter briefly raises his eyebrows at her - the closest he'll get to being smug, because he's not a child.]

It was just a little oxidization, nothing to worry about. [He goes back to focusing on his work.] This is kind of my thing.

[His graduate degree was in chemical engineering. And not many people had invented an industrial-grade adhesive with a tensile strength of 120 pounds per square millimeter at the tender age of 16.]

[purpose]

What do letters have to do with any of it?

[ More than half of what he's said — a couple hundred thousand dollars, letters, weird experiences — sound nonsensical to her ears, but the general gist of it isn't lost on her. The mention of oxidization, at least, wraps up the point of his message clearly: there is no reason to worry when he is more experienced than she.

The assumption causes her to bristle, shooting him an indignant look, if only for her interpretation of it as condescending. He would not be the first, after all, to look down upon her. Still, he ... has a point. It seems they don't, in fact, have anything to concern themselves with as the mixture settles.

Despite her pride, she presses her lips together, a crease appearing between her eyebrows as she eyes his concoction. Curiosity, in the end, wins out. ]

How did you do that?

[stickypete]

[Whoops, maybe she's from a place that isn't like Earth. Fantasy world? Alien planet? Galaxy far, far away?]

I have a science education. I earned a degree called a Master's degree. Master of Science. Two letters. MS.

[He's not going to be a jerk about her not getting it. Different universe, different cultural context.]

That's how I know what I'm doing - kind of. [It's not like any of this stuff is labeled in ways he entirely understands or at the exact concentrations/purity/etc. etc. he's used to using.] My degree is in chemical engineering and I rely on it a lot for my night job.

[His day jobs are garbage: a mix of freelance photography and science journalism, and low-paying consulting work. Sometimes odd jobs here and there. All his years as Spider-Man and the superheroism-fueled latenesses, absences - and resulting firings - have left his work history looking like Swiss cheese.]

[But he sure uses his education a lot as Spider-Man.]

That means I know the reactions that happen when you mix certain chemicals. The ways they react with each other and what gets produced after.