𝓛 ꂦ 🅺 𝐼

" 'kay? I mean i'm gonna try to fix you anyway. but thank you! THANK YOU! ok... where to start... I mean, that Wizard wouldn't happen to have a location spell, would he?" Loki pondered this. "maybe, but i sensed the magic coming from here. and this place doesn't seem that big. so all i have to do is clear my name, and advertise who i am as a shapeshifter!" Loki looked at asher. "also, weren't you like, full of life before? what happened? I miss the old you, no offense. " Loki got up, and brushed himself off. "So! let the search commence!"

---

He misses the old him too. He can't feel it, but his subconscious hates this numb feeling where emotion is supposed to be.
I
The Wizard may know a spell...but ho-w-w-w-w do you think you can clear your name?

𝓛 ꂦ 🅺 𝐼

"Ha! simple. i, as houdini, shall ask the wizard to teach me some spells, including a memory reversal spell. i say it's for a mishap i recently made on stage, but i don't tell that i'm actually Loki. flawless!" loki's eyes glow white for a second, before returning to normal. i doesn't seem like he did it on purpose.

GNARP
he stumbles his way onto a seat.
Blerp Bleepo...
he stumbles onto the floor.
again.

A shadow on the wall flickered slightly in the darkest corner of the tavern.

From years ago and years more on, this entity has come and gone. Eyeing, watching, witnessing and seeing still the events and many conversations playing out within these walls. Since incidents ages past, he's near gotten himself into trouble here many of times. Showing himself had grown to become a problematic event, causation for uncomfortable circumstances. Shadow wielders here, monster slayers there. This tavern has had many a unique visitor that would see him destroyed, claimed, controlled or worse to those around him, empowered for their own ends.

While he's lied unseen these many years, his presence has never truly gone. You could say he haunts this tavern now and has been for a long time, and for the spirit he is it has become almost a second realm to him.

Always slipping just out of view Knutik wisps across the far corner, melded into the shadows unseen as he has been these many years. Nobody could know he was there, or has been here the whole time. His gaze only brief looked upon those conversing within the tavern, before he disappeared once more.

Assallya had been dancing atop one of the tables, drawing the attention and gaze of those swilling their ale. She swayed, undulated and moved to the illusory notes of a nonexistent minstrel. Anklets and bracelets clinked against one another as she moved, necklaces bouncing on her torso. Her hips swing back and forth, her abdomen rippled, and her bare, feet moved between platters of food, tankards of ale with practiced ease.

Once done, she thanked her patrons profusely and stepped on one of the men's thighs, using it as a platform as she stepped down from the tabletop to the floor and collected her coin cup full of tips. Out of the corner of her brilliant blue eye she caught sight of something, a shadow moving in the corner of the establishment, something dark and menacing. For a moment she paused, her lips parted in surprise and then it was gone. Whatever it was, it must have been a figment of her imagination.

Cursing herself for a fool she shook off her glimpse of @Varicke and took her winnings over to the bar, ordered herself a honeyed mead, and then retreated to one of the booths in the back of the tavern.

If there was one thing Clay hated, it was getting used or walked over. It rarely ever happened twice. On this occasion however, be it because of the booze he had been drinking all day or simply the entrancing hypnotic movements of her hips, he didn't mind getting used as a step and would gladly allow it to happen again, and again.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and finish his drink as the near hypnotic effect wore off. With a groan his chair scraped across the floor sharply as he stood to his full intimidating height. He had been called many things throughout his life and while most were aptly true, a viking biker best painted a picture of his muscular, broad shouldered, tattooed body.

He had often romanticised about the ancient viking ways until he remembered that they hadn't discovered the motor engine yet and then the thought of using a horse as a method of transportation quickly made him happy to born when he was. Almost forgetting why he took his first staggering step, his pale blue eyes scanned the room and then he remembered. Spotting the dancer take a booth Clayton casually strode over to her, causing at least one or two others to hold their seats, having not moved as boldly as him.

With a boldness or perhaps arrogance, he took her ordered mead from the bar and went to her booth, giving a well practiced roguish grin as he arrived. His pale blue eyes found hers and were rimmed with the faint signs of intoxication, but by his gravely carefree voice, one could not tell.

"I haven't seen you around here before, and I'm sure I would remember if I had. Mind if I join ya?"

Before his question had even finished rolling from his lips, he seated himself across from her and placed down her drink.@Assallya

@Assallya was not un-witnessed by a different set of piercing eyes, squinting from a place unseen. The darkest corners he laid hidden and still, where he'd serpentine only from casted shadows and blended in just as well. In public eyes he hasn't been for many long years, try as he will to conceal his presence but it would seem he's out of practice.

He did not miss that glance or gaze, she spotted him careless for a moment, a flicker in sight. He never learns from his mistakes. It's always the patrons he deems most unfit, so unaware of their surroundings or too intoxicated to see, that prove him yet still just how weary and lax he can be.

His realm had grown somber, the quiet too long, such time dragged on there that he had returned to his second home. This tavern brought memories, he's been here for a while, so many things he has seen... oh how he misses the scarecrow invasion. He'd been quiet these long years, glimpsing from the darkness, waiting for something to happen.

Yet this lady he stared at and watched unfettered, every glint and every gleam of the gold she was wearing, drew him in terribly. She was covered almost entirely with all the treasure he'd love to have. Many patrons he's seen here and there, but none so far had nearly taken all but his complete restraint to lash out and steal yet another addition for his hoard.

Or in this case, many.

The distraction of such trinkets may even have been the cause for his carelessness, but he weaved like fluid darkness across the wall to the ceiling above, too far lured by such trinkets to barely notice the rugged man giving her a difference gaze @Dark Light.

If there's one thing he knows about remaining hidden, it's that people rarely ever look up. It's natural for those who evolved forward-facing eyes to keep their gazes along the horizon, so the highest places always made the best hiding spots. Up here however he was closer to the lights upon the ceiling and his shadows could stand out.

Fortunately for him she had made her way to the back of the tavern, where a wall lay close behind her and the lights weren't so bright. He couldn't help his own adrenaline, high risk, but such high reward, he was prepared to snake his way over when he was interrupted for a brief moment @Dark Light.

@Varicke

And he would be right, patrons did not look up, bystanders did not notice the shadow slinking over the walls, and the large, rugged man didn't notice the creature in the darkness. Be it the drink in his hand or the focus of his gaze, he was oblivious to all other happenings around him.

Not everyone was as dull sensed as him though. There was one thing the tavern owner had come to rely on of humans-that they were unreliable.
Shadow imps on the other hand. Once bound to a duty, they would fulfil it.

Thats why one of the little, flying, disproportionally big headed, waiters came flapping down to the table interrupting the man who was still trying and failing to get the woman's attention. It ignored him because he already held a drink and instead looked up directly at the lurking shadow, pale white empty eyes staring directly at him.

"Would you like anything?" It did not speak verbally but the soft intention resonated in Knutik's mind.

@Dark Light

Knutik's infernal green eyes would reveal themselves, blinking slowly in their squinted demeanor. He'd never interacted with other beings of shadow much, so preoccupied with the going ons of too many interesting people, and tending to his own.... hobbies.

The intentions of the imp came through loud and clear, but he's not used to being seen as normal common folk. A fearful face, a trembling figure, this he's adapted to and it made his responses so simple and easy. Stay and glare, or flit away into the darkness. The complexities of communication struck him with too much sensory information, more than what he was usually accustomed too, far too complicated.

In this he had preference to remain a very straight forward entity, but the imp interacting by this means, somehow it made it feel easier for him in interpretation. Yet... his reflex to shy away held firm. He seemed to recoil slightly, as if he could be pressed against the ceiling anymore than he already was as one of the many shadows cast upon it.

For but a moment, he had forgotten about the shiny trinkets he intended to collect, his interest piqued now by this unfamiliar being somewhat in his own likeness.

His voice wasn't much of a voice in this state, but more like a wind.

"Anything?" Knutik barely whispered in the imps mind, that nobody else would hear him.

"Are you asking me to request something from a particular desire?" he's seen enough people come and go, how they all ask for... almost the same things. A drink, a snack... these options were far from Knutik's taste. That is to say... he doesn't quite taste anything.

The gratification of his wants, venting anger, hoarding shiny objects to satiate his desire to grow his collection, other people's feelings and fears, even music... those things he might describe have a taste. But was any of it something he could ask for? Like the normal tavern patrons?

He looked to the far end of the establishment, at the back wall where the lady here previously @Assallya had retreated to a table and sat down. "She... is covered in treasure." a pitch of ecstatic zeal slipped into the wind of his 'voice' at the word treasure. Could it be that he really could ask for.... "anything" as the imp had implied? Knutik tested this.

"I would like her trinkets, as many as could be acquired." So used to simply taking things, sneakily or by force, he's never once tried to ask somebody else to do the deed for him. He wondered if the imp would even be willing to oblige. Amusingly this entire shadowy transaction was being done just over the head of the unaware tattooed bulk of muscle right beneath the dark specter.

The imp was near statue like with its wide empty eyes and patient gaze. Eventually it turned to face the woman that the shadow spoke of, tilting its head to the side, weighed by thought, thinking -deeply.

The man tried to gently usher the imp along, but only managed to force it to hop to the edge of the table where he lost interest in it with a grumble.

The imp turned to look back up over the man's shoulder.

"But they belong to that human, and...
It is not nourishment."

The reply was once again unspoken and this time touched by a sense of confusion.

@Varicke

@Dark Light

Knutik has interpreted confusion before, and he's not new at all to making what others have appointed as 'ridiculous' requests in The Nameless Tavern, but the longer the imp delayed any action, the ever burning his itching desire for all that glinting metal grew within.

Where he comes from, people long ago used to worship him and all he symbolized as an aspect of survival. He was the omnipresent fear that helped drive their very instincts. He was the terror that frightened them of spiders, made them scared of deadly snakes, and terrified them of wildfires and all that threatened them and their lives.

In their worship of him they always brought tribute. Gems and jewelry, gleaming metal and coins. When arrived the industrial era, and then came the age of technology, their instincts grew unnecessary in the safe borders of their cities, within the secure walls of their homes and ever more in the immaterial of the internet.

Knutik watched them grow bold on their own without him, watched them ignore their common sense, fold into their reckless behaviors and challenge every bit of what made him a meaningful part to their lives. Everything he stood for was all but moot in both the safety they had built and their sheer stupidity.

He wondered if somewhere he'd done something wrong along the way... Whatever it was, the gifts hadn't come for centuries, and nobody knew his name anymore. In an ironic twist, he no longer represented the necessary fears of survival... but just plain fear. The only time of year he ever feels recognized anymore is the day they call "Halloween", and they left him with a void he didn't know they filled.

Those gifts always burn in his memory, made a part of who he was. Without tribute and treasure, the ache and need for them persists in him like a fire.

The emerald blaze of his eyes squinted at the imp, tiny slits of a verdant fire.

"If you shall not retrieve them for me, I shall get them myself.". His speech was always so mannerly, so formal and bearing the light of one with nobility and prestige. He's carried it over long from the medieval era of his world when he first learned the developing language of mankind from the many knights that lived. Evolving still to the current speech of modern day man, he's long dropped the "art thous" and "thy", but perhaps a part of him holds onto what remnants there are... in nostalgia maybe.

"But first... that's quite the interesting looking trinket you have there...." Without gesture the imp would be able to sense what precisely the shadowy being meant.

@Varicke

The little imp blinked it's large, pale, empty eyes, this patrons request was challenging the bounds of its contract. He was forcing it to think outside the square-cut parameter of its agreement.

While it wasn't it's duty to prevent conflict, in fact the tavern seemed to rely -thrive even- on a certain level of commotion, it was however considered undesirable conduct to take something that another patron owned and was not willingly giving up.
So no, it would not take the woman's shiny's.

But at the same time it had to try see to this shadow creatures wishes. Bound by an unseeable force, an ancient contract and a spell cast eons ago.

It could hand over its own drinking horn.
It would really prefer not to, but it could.
Untying it from its make shift belt, the imp had to flap its wings and take to the air where it reluctantly held out its little magical trinket to Knutik.

No words were said, aloud or otherwise.

@Dark Light

Knutik's own attention would no longer hold to the imp itself as the horn was presented to him. His eyes only saw treasure, the sheen upon its material as the light gloamed over it. From out the flat surface of the ceiling, a shadowed limb stretched out, elongated claws reached for the horn.

With a careful clasp of the tiny object, just 1/5th the size of his fingers, he pulled it back into the ceiling where he withdrew it to the shadows, and it disappeared just like that. The imp could only guess where it had gone.

To Knutik's own surprise, his thirst for treasure seemed appeased enough by this tiny trinket to let alone the female patrons @Assallya jewelery. However his eyes cast down to the larger man that had been seated this whole time beneath their little quiet transaction. The imp was now lost from his focus and left to his peripheral as he grew curious of this viking-ish, biker-looking individual.

He didn't appear from where he saw at the least to bear any kind of trinket he cared for, but as it was revealed already, Knutik for the time seems to be quelled for now in his lust for "shinies". For how long though, is not known; could be days, could be an hour, could be minutes.

His head tilt to the man minding his own drink. He appeared to be just another regular human patron. Knutik never questioned as to why humans from his own world seemed to fill the Tavern from time to time, he presumes many worlds, dimensions and even other time-streams in various universes existed out there where humans lived. Perhaps in another universe even, someone else here has thought the same thing and Knutik himself just comes from another strange world where these mammalian creatures live.

Nevertheless, the shadow's own capacity for thinking never expanded too far in breadth, being so singularly focused he would often just accept things without a second thought. Perhaps he just... didn't care.

He wondered though how this particular individual wound up here. Elves, dwarves and other human-look beings are quite different he can tell, but this man, at least at a glance, seemed to be from a modernish era.

How did this man wind up here at the tavern? To be honest... how do most of them? Shy from asking so directly, he simply remained at his position and observed the man beneath him for a short time.

It appeared that said modernish individual was the newly arriving guest whose name was Terry Bogard, one of the most decorated martial arts champions in the King of Fighters timeline. Sporting his usual baseball cap and gaudy getup that seemed to belong in the 90s, the brawny blonde entered the tavern bruised, a miniscule cut on his lower lip and dry crimson spots tainting the torn sleeves of his shirt. It was nothing too serious, frankly. This was just another Tuesday for Terry, as he’d suffered worse injuries in a bout before. Considering his condition upon entering the tavern, one might assume that he’d involved himself in a scuffle, and they couldn’t have been any truer. It wasn’t just a random street fight, but perhaps, a fight festival involving numerous competitors at once, hence his slightly battered form. As to why it was held in the middle of nowhere, he had no idea. Heck, it just occurred to him that this area existed, even when he’d been traveling the world frequently.

Dropping the duffle bag that’d been loading his shoulder, Terry took a seat once the counter was approached, making himself comfortable on the fluffy cushion. Oftentimes, he couldn’t help but observe the place, his keen blue eyes darting sideways then skywards to scan the interior. So far, nothing seemed to alarm him, except the fact that he seemed out-of-place when compared with most visitors. However, his reverie had to be cut briefly when a bartender approached him from across the counter. From the looks of it, she was about as peculiar as the other fabled patrons were, sporting a pair of pointy ears and a greenish complexion.

“Excuse me, sir, may I take your order?” the bartender asked politely.

The brawny blonde instantly refocused on the counter ahead, shooting a glance at the bartender. “Oh, sure!” he reciprocated with a slight smile, his gloved, folding hands atop the flat, ligneous surface. “Can I have some cold beer, please?”

“That’ll be a pleasure,” the bartender accepted with a cheeky wink, subsequently picking a bottle of beer and some ice cubes. “Anything else, sir?”

Terry pondered for a moment, caressing his mandible. “Hmm… Not that I can think of,” he reciprocated, then ran his hand around his toned midriff. “I’m full, though, thanks!”

The bartender grinned, tilting her head in amusement. “Ah, okay, sure! A glass of cold beer coming right up!”

As the bartender went to prepare his request, Terry continued to scan his vicinity, one particular performer drawing his attention. It was @Assallya performing what appeared to be an exotic dance, fine jewelry adorning her lithe frame. He had to admit the lady was attractive, her performance mesmerizing, even though he wasn’t exactly fazed by the eye-catching display. Not when he was already in a relationship with an equally beautiful young lady who went by the ring name, Blue Mary, who just so happened to be quite a dancer, too!

“Here’s your beer, sir.”

When the beverage was served, Terry took the sizable glass provided in front of him, turning his attention back towards the bartender. “Thank you,” he said, then raised the glass, playfully grinning. “Cheers, lady?”

The bartender smirked and rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Cheers, indeed!” she agreed with a nod, but had to leave Terry to serve other newly arriving customers.

“Okay…”

Snorting in a snicker, Terry subsequently brought the tip of his glass close to his lips, taking a series of soft, deliberate sips. He’d always loved the carbonated sensation that came from the alcoholic liquid when it began grazing against the tip of his tongue. It felt oddly… energizing, never ceasing to satiate his thirst. After leaving it half empty, the brawny blonde slammed the glass against the counter’s ligneous head, the beer’s bubbling foams jumping and streaming down its broad, pellucid frame. A relieved sigh escaped his mouth.

THUD!

“Ahhh….”

With the back of his hand, he wiped the barest hints of liquid washing his lips, leaving a barely noticeable taint on his pitch-black fingerless glove. When he continued to look around, though…


…his keen, wolf-like senses tingled! Something seemed to have alarmed him, finally, and it felt like the same kind of dark energy that he would’ve sensed upon confronting the likes of Geese and Yamazaki. It didn’t take him long to track the source, his sky-blue eyes eventually stumbling upon an eerie, shadowy figure (@Varicke) perching by the other end of the tavern. Said shadowy figure seemed to attract a number of visitors, including a brawny viking in a biker getup (@Dark Light) and the prior dancer.

Traditionally, when occurrences like this happened in his place, something disastrous was bound to happen. Terry could’ve minded his own business like usual, but something had changed his perspective lately. Because the last time he hardly bothered, he almost lost his hometown to a madman’s secret weapon, and he’d hate to repeat the same mistake all over again. And so, after strengthening his resolve, he stood out of his seat, closing in on the gathering bunch.

“Excuse me, folks, what’s goin’ on here?” he asked and tipped the brim of his cap, standing right between both aforementioned visitors.

FIN.

@Terry Bogard@Varicke

Clayton Radshaw

Clayton's sharp sense of smell had no trouble singling out the new comer, his keen ears easily identifying each heavy footstep that took the fighter across the tavern floor, however, it all amounted to nothing. His acute heightened senses counting for naught as all the drinks that day prior caught up with him and conspired to impede and seperate him from his own senses. The copious amount of alcohol acting like a blinder, narrowing the breadth of his already vastly limited and inebriated focus, which as of right now was solely concentrated on and unreciprocated by the lady at the table.

He didn't even seem to be aware of the shadowy presence and the imp above him, which one after the other vanished from reality in their own subtle ways, and he most definitely didn't notice Terry's greeting.

It was just by pure coincidence and the luck and timing of an empty mug that made the big man to turn around as Terry strode up.
Clayton just stood there silently for a long drawn out moment, empty mug in hand, a slight sway to his balance, red eyes blinking, slowly appraising the newcomer who stood between him and the bar.

"And who are you?" He abruptly asked, his greeting falling short of any sense of formality.

The brawny viking reciprocated. For a moment, Terry drew his eyebrow up, not out of curiosity but out of concern. Clay didn’t seem quite sharp himself from what he could tell. His eyes were red and burdened, his movements a little clumsy. Quite a stark contrast for somebody who appeared as physically fit as himself. Instead of focusing on the eerie figure ahead, the brawny blonde turned his attention towards the viking near the bar for a while, subsequently facing him.

“Oh, right! I should’ve introduced myself earlier,” Terry reciprocated, then offered a gloved hand towards the drunk viking. “The name’s Terry. Terry Bogard. Somebody told me this is the best bar around the neighborhood, so I came and picked a drink.” As he introduced, he smiled, the bright expression betraying the bruises on his face and the miniscule cut on his lower lip. “And yeah, I know, don’t ask why I look the way I do. Knockout Fest was a bitch.” He snickered heartily. “And you are, buddy?”

FIN.

Clay raised a suspicious eyebrow at the man and said nothing, face flat, neutral, judging...
An then a wide grin cracked his stoic demeanour.

"Aye! Well if you're after a drink, and sure looks like you could use one, you've come to the right place!"

He was loudly spoken, joyous and only had a slight hint of slurred speech.
He raises a big meaty hand and goes to clap Terry on the shoulder.

"Right, so Jerry was it, the name's Clayton, what can I get ya?
He pauses to look at him once again and then a bit more softly adds with a wince.
"You should maybe try blocking or avoiding those punches a bit more."

With a loud self-amused chuckle he starts heading towards the bar.

@Terry Bogard

There was an awkward moment of silence after Terry introduced himself. The way Clay gauged his expression, it seemed like he was trying to determine whether or not the newly arriving patron was a good guy. Hopefully, the biker didn’t get the wrong idea due to the slightest hint of slurs that came out of his mouth so casually.

Albeit exasperated at first, Terry ended up snickering at Clay misspelling his name, shaking his head in amusement. Whether Clay did it deliberately or not, he hadn’t a clue. Thankfully, the biker didn’t just call the brawny blonde ‘Hat Ken’ like many others would’ve done.

“Buddy, it’s ‘Terry’ with a ‘T,’ actually,” he corrected. “So, it’s Clayton, huh? Alright! Nice knowin’ you, Clay. You seem like a cool guy, though.”

Terry seemed a little self conscious about the bruises on his face when Clay gave him a piece of advice. Still, he continued to beam, ignoring slightest hints of injuries inflicted upon him. Not that they still hurt, anyway.

“Y’know, it was hard when your opponent hit like a damn brick. Glad I still made it outta the Fest victorious. That was sooo close!” Terry recalled, then when Clay offered him help, added: “Well, I’ve just ordered some beer not long ago. I just came here to see if everybody’s alright. The way y’all have been gathering here, I thought something off had just happened. Say, uh, what’s the deal with that shadowy thing over there?” He gestured at the pitch-black form still perching by the wall with his eyes, wondering if Knutik had been frozen in place or that he was paying attention to their conversation.

Meanwhile…




From across the tavern, a man clad in red and yellow scurried towards an alleyway separating a rundown inn and a small bakery. It was apparent that something had been chasing him, and although his face was mostly covered, he still seemed visibly uneasy beneath that mask. The man quickly hid behind the inn’s mossy wall, then tried to control his breath, tightening his grip on the strap of the sizable sling bag worn over his shoulder. He swallowed and panted, his fright intensified as he began peeking past the wall. So far, only a couple of pedestrians were spotted strolling by the sidewalk on sight, minding their own businesses. The man looked away, closing his eyes and sighing in relief. Thank goodness, he mused. Unfortunately, his relief wouldn’t last long…

WEE–WOO…

WEE–WOO…

WHOOOOP!

The masked man forced his eyes open, widening in fear. He took a peek past the wall one last time, panicking at the blur of red and blue closing in his direction. Apparently, it came from the same police vehicles that’d been chasing him around since the moment he was caught robbing a local bank. As the blaring cars and motorcycles became imminent, the man reflexively jolted out of the way, barely striding deeper into the alleyway. The vehicles eventually reached the location, its reeling wheels stepping on the puddles across, creating a massive splash that’d made its way to the fidgeting man. The man jerked away further, part of his tight-fitting costume dampened. Thankfully, despite his initial concern, the police vehicles continued to move forth, oblivious to the fact that their wanted felon was there. Once again, the man took a long, relieved breath, running his gloved hand around his chest. But just when he believed that he was safe…

“Excuse me, sir…”

A mysterious figure had poked his shoulder with his finger, prompting him to jerk both of his shoulders up. He turned around, only to find that it was…

“Spider-Man!”

“Yeah, it’s me. Miss me?” Spider-Man playfully asked, his form blue and red just like the prior sirens. The web-slinging vigilante was seen perching by the inn’s wall, his gloved, webbed hands glued to its mossy surface. “Oh, and also, do you happen to be the ‘Shocker’ guy I’ve been looking after? Hah! Silly me! Of course, it’s got to be you! We’ve been fighting each other for, like, what? Forever?”

Shocker grunted, his eyes narrowing. “You… I thought I’d gotten rid of you!” he retorted, pointing a finger at the fellow masked menace. “How the hell did you find me?”

Spidey widened his expressive lenses and gasped, feigning surprise as he brought a hand over his chest. “Oh, you wanna know how?” he reassured, craning his head slightly. “Well, it’s no rocket science, pal. I have my spider-sense, unlike you!” Reflexively, the web-slinger launched a spreading web out of his wrist-mounted web-shooter, producing an audible…

THWIP!

And just like that, he glued Shocker’s hands together, thinking it would’ve reduced the impact of his vibro-shock gauntlets if he was to trigger them. Spidey casually leaped and rolled out of the wall with practiced ease, landing right across from his archenemy in a crouching position.

“And how about that? Didn’t see that coming, did you?” he quipped, leisurely approaching the squirming Shocker. “Gee… I wonder what’s in that bag. Not so slick, are you? Think you can just get away with what you stole, knowing that I’ll send your butts back to the Raft?”

Surely, Shocker would’ve hated getting back into that specially designed prison like most other super-powered felons had. Charging both of his gauntlets, the masked felon broke out of the webbing trap gluing his hands together, his thumbs tight around the triggers attached to both cutting-edge appendages. Frowning, he pointed his knuckles towards the approaching Spider-Man, a pair of vibrating gleams bringing both vibro-shock units to life.

“Stay out of the way, web-head!” he warned. “If you know what’s good for you…”

Spidey was unfazed. He, instead, giggled. “Alright, it’s showtime, isn’t it?” he asked, carefully lowering his lithe frame, his ready stance assumed. “I’m really gonna take you on a ride!”

Perhaps, the true commotion raged outside of the building, instead of within. One could only hope it didn’t crawl farther into the tavern.

FIN.