[ It might be the drugs still floating around in his system, and how impossibly weak and sleepy he feels, but as he and a group of others are led through New Tokyo, Peter Parker can't help but feel a kind of heart-pounding awe at what has got to be the coolest and most unimaginable cityscape he's never dreamed of. It's like something out of a video game or a movie, like Blade Runner or something. Imagine swinging around in this place, once he can get his hands on a pair of webshooters again? So cool.

His mouth is a little bit agape, his eyes constantly towards the sky so that he manages to pose a threat to himself and the people on either side of him as a grade-A tripping hazard.

Oops. ]

Sorry, sorry —

[ Another thing he notices, as they all shuffle into a small nondescript building, is that the people around him are dressed similarly, all in scrubs, all with their hair shorn. He runs a hand across the top of his head, dismayed at how close the cut had been, leaving just a soft fuzz of hair there. ]

Does anyone know who those people are? Or who's coming to get us? And — where they're taking us? [ He lets out an exhale to stop himself from running his own mouth, especially when he's feeling physically jittery and he can't do anything but sit, as directed. ] Oh, man.

[ It all feels very 'business as usual' when the other Displaced arrive to grab the 'newcomers' and they leave the city gates. Peter manages to keep his billions of questions to himself, follows when he's told to follow, and to move when he's told to move. When they're all piled into Red Wings, it's only then that most of the group seem to disperse and Peter finds himself feeling a little ... anxious about the whole affair, like maybe it's finally sinking in that he's really been plucked into a world hundreds of years into the future.

Okay. Okay, he'll start by moving away from the door and approaching the bar for another glass of water; it's really hot here with the kind of heat he's used to during New York summers, but in these long-sleeved scrubs (which he's tugged up to his elbows as best as he could), it's not doing that much good. ]

Can I — uh. Get a glass of water or something?

[ Later, he settles at one of the tables with a now empty plate and glass of water. Turns out food really does help to calm the nerves, just like Aunt May always said. God. Aunt May. If he's here, what does that mean for her? For everyone in his life?

Catch Peter deep in thought by himself, or at any point during his brief stint at Red Wings. And later more, once he's filled his stomach and maybe grabbed some less obvious 'I don't belong here!' clothing, he makes his way to the safehouse with the others. He takes any of the leftover beds not yet claimed, and after wandering around the length of the safehouse, makes his way back to sleep for the night.

Except he's feeling way too wired for it, no caffeine required. He tosses, turns, and the squeaky hinges of the bedframe protest against his incessant movement. ]

Hey — [ It's a hushed prompt to the neighbouring bed over, sorry for Peter. ] — you know how they say you should count sheep if you're having trouble sleeping? I'm calling them out right now, because it's not working.

[ It's okay. You can tell him to shut up. ]

[ ooc: feel free to use anything in the above prompts and spin them around to fit a possible meeting with your character. and if neither of these prompts are quite vibing, feel free to hmu with anything else! ]