Status

Recent Statuses

2 mos ago
Current Because asking the mods "gib power" is a much better bid than demonstrating a groundswell of supporters, right? #Wraith4Mod2K19
2 likes
2 mos ago
WRAITH, WRAITH, HE'S OUR MAN, IF HE CAN'T DO IT, NO ONE CAN!
5 likes
2 mos ago
@KingOfTheSkies but could you fix it with Flex Tape? I say nay-nay
2 mos ago
That last status was literally the most mind boggling thing I've ever read. Bravo!
3 likes

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts



Issue 7.3




New York City, NY --- Queens Neighborhood




The engine sputtered and the frame of the convertible groaned as the webs slammed into the wheel silos. The webs forced gears to a halt and glued sheets of fine rubber to the pavement as the tires spun furiously. The brake pads howled like banshees, scraping on organic webbing and rubber, trying to slow the car as it swung on the road. The driver looked like he was about ready to rip the wheel off the frame as he jerked it, trying to control the momentum.

“Yes!” Peter scrambled backwards and found his footing, setting into a low crouch on his haunches. Gotta swing away before Thing One and Thing Two… Oh, crap. There was a horrible crunch of aluminum and steel twisting together and grinding past one another, as the smell of burnt rubber streaked the air as the convertible started a reverse wheelie that was definitely not intended by the manufacturer. Spider-Sense flared like ice up and down his neck -- better move, or Tweedledee and Tweedledum are gonna be Tweedle-dead.

He threw himself forward, face first, and by the time his chest hit the pavement his hands were up, squeezing what was left of his web fluid through little pores at the base of his wrists, knotting together into a massive spider web between two sickly oak trees on some guy’s lawn. The car flew with the grace and style of a lead brick as it slashed through the air, dropping what looked like a hazy bubble with the kids from the car crouched inside it. The car plowed through the web with the crackle of shattering bark as the connection points gave way and the vehicle headed straight for the house’s picture window.

Peter was already back on his knees, two weblines lanced from his wrists and snapped to the car’s undercarriage. The lines went taut instantly and Peter yanked backward. His muscles screamed at the pressure, like every individual fiber was supporting a hundred pounds of force, wrenching the car down to earth, it felt like trying to topple a skyscraper. Peter felt the webline in one hand snap and he felt something go pop in his opposite shoulder when the car finally bit into the earth and splintered every surviving pane of the convertible’s glass while the car flattened against the lawn, inches from destroying a residential living room.

Peter’s breath came out shaky and the weblines fell from his hands. His muscles felt like pulled taffy, and as he looked down he became aware of the kid’s on either side of him, the passengers, both dressed in garish blue and yellow costumes. He also became aware of the round, bony joint of his shoulder, hanging at an odd angle from the rest of his torso.

Fucking OWWWWWW! Peter grabbed the arm with his opposite hand and considered it. The black costume was still perfectly free of any rips or blemishes, but the arm sat there, free in the bag of his skin. He shuddered, and tried to remember what Mr. Osborn did when the same thing happened to Harry, when they were kids. Well, I guess circumstances were a little different then. Just gotta get it back in before the shock wears off... He took a firm grip around his arm as the girl from the wreck began to get her bearings.

“You...asshole!” She spat. “I swear to God your face is gonna be a hamburger after I'm done with you!”

“Whoa, Strawberry Shortcake, you the were the one…” Peter’s breath caught as he put his shoulder back into its socket in one move, forcing bone past muscle and jamming it in, “chasing me.” His eyes came up to meet hers, narrow slits of white peering out of a sea of darkness, and he realized the floating mass around himself. It was like magic wicked pickets revolving in a circle, dozens of them, held aloft by some kind of ethereal string Peter couldn’t see. His Spider-Sense reached and miss for something, some mechanism to it, and came back with nothing but the cool breeze of the New York air. He’d run afoul of honest-to-God Mutants.

"Y'got one chance to give it up, pal. Or you're in for a world of hurt."

Really screwed the pooch on this one, Parker. He retreated into himself, lower to the ground, a tiny spider against the makeshift artillery before him. Almost outta webs. Could dodge a couple of pickets… Maybe... He glanced behind him, to a boy with his eyes firmly shut, patting about the patch of concrete he’d landed on. And who knows what kinda power that guy’s packing. He tightened the strap on his duffle and then raised his hands slowly into the air, palms out. It’s the hail mary, then.

Peter arched his fingers and wicked angles, and slouched forward like an animal baring its claws. “You better take your boyfriend and leave, lady, because I’m Spider-Man, and you just made me mad. I’m summoning the spiders. Thousands of them, hundreds of thousands of them! Because I’m Spider-Man!
So, one thing I did want to put out there is that there are now multiple Power Rings floating around Earth whilst Hal and Sinestro try to hunt them down. If anyone maybe wants to interact with the rings, I'm more than happy for that to happen.

Examples:
*The Venom Symbiote gets chosen by the Star Sapphire for how much it, deep down, is absolutely madly in love with Peter.
*Lex Luthor's ambition to rule the world gets him chosen by the Orange Ring.
*Magneto's Hope's for a future where Mutants rule gets him chosen by the Blue Ring.

Now, I'm not asking for a Crossover or anything, just saying that, if you think a character in your story getting to weild a Lantern Ring would benefit the story, I'm more than happy to discuss that. It just adds to the size of Hal and Sinestro's search as they track the path of destruction that the Rings leave as they frantically search for a soul to bond with. "Hal, I just got a report that the Sapphire Ring was spotted in New York, attached to a weird, alien slime monster. It has let go and is on the move, but it's going fast and we need to get out there now if we want any hope of catching the damn thing!"

I dont want to spoil too much, but let's just say that, due to some fuckery on the bad-guys part, the Rings are trapped on Earth, unable to leave until they find a suitable host and so, are going crazy from their inability to leave and find the one true being in the universe that they should be bonding to.




Issue 7.2




New York City, NY --- Queens Neighborhood




The sound had faded into the background, pulsing in the night air but much too far for Peter to hear anything but the barest thump of the beat. Instead, he had to think about the bleating wails of the sirens and arcs of blue and red light that seemed to shoot up from behind every house on the block. The road was shaded from the moonlight by rows of trees, black branches stood out like strangling fingers squeezing the starlight.

He pounded down the road, focusing on every footstep as it came and the shock of each footfall jumping up his thighs. The sky had finally settled in color to black glass, twinkling with whatever gasps of light that weren’t choked in smog or tree cover. Every step was getting a little longer, less like a hobble and more like a leap as he settled forward into the neighborhood. He eyed a sturdy-looking branch and bounced forward off both of his feet, launching a webline forward. It was a clean miss, arcing past the branch and snagging onto the next. No no no--

Peter swung, kicking his legs to try and readjust as he careened into a backyard sliced apart by spotty mower work. The line gave and he fell, crashing into a plastic playhouse and scattering shards of plastic across the green.

“Okay… Maybe no swinging yet…” He groaned as he kicked aside the green plastic door and tumbled out of the playhouse’s blown out remains. His feet smacked against the grass and he was going again, jogging for the road. He hopped up and pulled himself over a wooden fence, sucking in his belly and keeping it from the sharp tops of every spiked bar of the fence.

The new neighborhood was quieter, with nubby trees shrunk into themselves and little brick houses with scrappy lawns lain out before them. The police lights weren’t as strong here, now just blue and red suggestions from neighborhoods far away, sirens pinging off into nothing. Maybe I’m actually getting away! There was something else though, on the edge of his perception. It didn’t sound like a cop car, an engine roaring like a beast with no accompanying siren, the sound tearing through neighborhoods and rebounding off of drywall, spiraling around him, drawing closer. Then were was --? Something in our head.

Peter shuddered and hit his hand against his head, trying to shake the nagging feeling, like a gnat buzzing around his ears. Like for the briefest moment, there was something else there with him, another skin slinking over him, feeling him, controlling him. It was gone just as soon as it arrived, awareness washed over and gone again. But there was still the engine bearing down on him, with renewed focus. He bolted for the other side of the street. Whoever they were, they probably wouldn’t run a rut through some random jobber’s neighborhood. He jumped forward and stumbled across the concrete, nearly tumbling over. He righted himself and set back into a jog, vying for the safety of a random backyard. Any other time, this would be a piece of cake, but now…?

It was too late for the backyard, the car careened around a corner and seemed to lock onto him, a red convertible with a gurgling engine and two indistinct passengers inside. It wasn’t like any undercover car Peter had ever seen, it was all flash and muscle. Coming to think of it, Flash Thompson drove one just like it. The car surged forward and Peter stumbled backwards. He kicked against the concrete and ran as the car wrought huge, ugly skidmarks into the pavement. Something shifted and his Spider Sense went off like firecrackers in his head.

“Hey, pal, you got mail!” A woman’s voice echoed through the neighborhood as he chanced a glance behind him. Trash bins were sailing through the air right for his head, filled to burst with banana peels and discard k-cups dropping as they rocketed towards him. Peter was moving to dodge them the instant they registered; he shot himself into the air and seemed to hang for a moment as the first bin shot beneath him. He kicked off of it and it exploded against the ground while he launched further, backflipping up and over the second bin. Ha! Nice moves, Spider-M--

White plastic and reams of paper slammed into his back like an oversized fist as the mailbox hit and Peter hit the ground, bouncing across the road like a rock across a pond in a flurry of envelopes.

“Every time…” Peter pulled someone’s credit score report from his face and turned to the car bearing down on him. He could see the drivers now, a girl with flowing red hair, and a boy with ruby red sunglasses. They were… Kids? Either way, they were about to make him roadkill. Peter flopped onto his back, facing the car gunning for him. Think Parker, think…

He aimed as best as he could for the wheel bays and unloaded with all the webbing he could muster. His fingers hit his palms over and over again as globs of web shot out to strike the front wheels.
In the interest of attracting more new blood, here are some characters you might've heard of that no one has currently staked a claim to!



And many more! These are just a few from off the top of the 'ol noggin. Anyway, hope to see you in the game soon with one of these characters, or even something else! Cheers!
Almost a full month later, The Indomitable Spider-Man returns! Complete with a "Last time on..." since it's been so long. Anyway, my last day of finals is tomorrow, so I should be able to post much more consistently very soon.

Now, time to get caught up on all these posts!


Issue 7.1




New York City, NY --- Outside the 105th Precinct




Last time, on the Adventures of The Indomitable Spider-Man...

The fourth floor. Peter stumbled into the hallway and yanked down the nearest alarm with a glout of webs. It shattered against the ground and the wiring sparked. There were two figures by the far end of the hall, vigil over the window he came in through. One was decked out in riot gear, complete with a clear plastic shield. The other levelled a gun at him.

“Stop right there, son. This ends, now.” The officer pumped the end of his weapon. Shotgun… Right? Peter shook his head. He pointed one hand forward.

“You’d think that… Wouldn’tcha?” Webbing snatched over the head of the shotgun as the officer squeezed the trigger and it blew up in his hands, shot metal and wood particulate stabbing into him.

“Argh! Collins! Take him!” The officer screamed. The Riot cop squared his shoulders and charged. Peter stumbled and slapped against the wall. Webs bounced off the shield and the officer kept coming, low to the ground, ready for drive Peter through the wall. He looked up.

Peter sprang up and his hand caught on the ceiling. The metal skeleton of the drop ceiling collapsed and panels dropped across the floor, lights shaking and swaying as the metal frame crashed around them and over the Riot cop’s armored body. Peter moved as the cop shoved the debris off, staggering to his feet. Peter’s temples throbbed. Little… More…

The cop brought his shield to bear and Peter kicked off the wall, driving his weight into the cop. He stumbled backwards and Peter dropped his shoulder, hitting him again. The plastic of the shield cracked.

“C’mon!” He shouted. He reached for a baton. He raised his shield up to catch another shoulder check. Mistake. Peter’s leg swept beneath the shield and the cop collapsed under the weight of his armor. Peter made for the window.



The glass broke across his body. Free.


The foliage had all blended together into one senseless mass as Peter’s body slammed against the ground. He vaguely registered the grass tickling the soles of his suit as he staggered to his feet, setting off in an uneven run for the tree line. Gunshots zipped out of the windows of the Station behind him, thudding soundlessly into the ground as he ran. The report of the shots rippled through his head, tiny explosions bursting in his eardrums.

“C’mon, Pete, you’re almost…” Another wave of nausea washed over him, bile in his gut jumping up like the plumes of dirt around him. Ugh… Escape now, quip later. He bounded forward and slipped on a patch of grass, his head hit the ground and sparks crackled across his vision. He groaned and pulled himself forward anyway. His fingers plowed into the earth and he pulled, dragging himself forward, trying to will his knees beneath him to make himself to stand.

What… Happened? Peter tasted yesterday’s cheese puffs at the back of his throat and gulped it back down as he stumbled into the cover of the treeline, lurching behind what looked like a messy brown blob of bark. The shots were quieting now, evidently they were looking for other ways to catch a spider. Peter turned his palms over and looked down -- the very fabric of the suit was vibrating, railing against the noise. It was like every element of his Spider-Sense was activating at once, he was aware of heartbeats and coffee scented breath and the thunderous beat pouring out of every orifice of the station.

He felt it as he took steady steps forward, niggling worms of his costumes wrapping around the between the fibers of his muscles, like the legs of burning ants, sequestering themselves down to the myofibril. The grass squished beneath his feet and he forced his eyes open, looking for a getaway.

The light of the moon scorched his retinas but he kept his eyelids open. He couldn’t tell whether there was rain clouding his vision or not, the sky had become like TV static, fizzling in and out of a vaguely blueshifted color. He tried to blink it from his eyes as he kept going, slowly starting to feel the crunch of asphalt beneath his feet. He looked down and the faded yellow line of the road winked back at him.

He shuddered as he sucked in another breath, sharp and violent against his lungs. His grip tightened around his duffle, he pulled the canvas fabric closer. Sirens began their wail in the distance, red and blue light bouncing off into the shattered static of the sky. He could feel the sound of it in his core, baying for his blood. His muscles protested with every step forward, screaming at every rise and every fall, as if his body weighed thousands of pounds. At least he had his web. The fluid of it was bulging in minute sacs along his forearms, warm against his flesh.

Just a few blocks, Pete… You got this…
So, it's been a while, but I just wanted to say that I'm still in for this game! It's finals season now, though, so I haven't been able to post as much. That said, I'm almost out of the woods! Ideally, I should be able to post sometime this week.






New York City, NY --- 105th Precinct




Fluted slats of concrete ran up and down the walls of the NYPD’s 105th Precinct, six inches of concrete and rebar lining every wall. It had been built during the war, some kind of insurance in case the Nazis starting throwing men like Red Panzer at population centers when Wonder Woman wasn’t in play. The building was squat and ugly, five stories adding up to a turtle crouching in impenetrable wrought armor. What few hopper windows were in place were gated behind iron bars as thick around as Peter’s arm. You’d need a tank shell to crack the place open. Or one crafty spider.

Peter was on the perimeter, crouched low against the shingles of a nearby house. The Precinct crept out of a spotty treeline. Security cameras shelled in white plastic swept the several dozen yards of stark green grass between Peter and any semblance on an entryway. He adjusted the strap on the dull duffle bag wrapped around him and tensed his muscles, focusing on the fibers of his costume. There had to be some way in besides the front -- the receptionist probably wasn’t keen on Spider-themed vigilanties.

“Why can’t I be Wonder Woman? Just blow through the front door, say, ‘something something, truth, justice, etcetera’.” There was a trill from his suit, subtle vibrations coming in from the surrounding environment. A huge, sheet metal garage door out back… A loading bay? Probably for prisoner transport… And probably all the more fortified for it. Nuts. He tuned to the suit again, trying to feel out with the fibers on his own accord. The windows, maybe? He directed them, focusing -- Spider-Sense returned to him in waves, minute reverberations of concrete and metal pulsing through his body. It’s a start.

The shingles quaked as Peter flipped from his perch, slinging a web and yanking himself through the air towards the Police Station. He dropped and kicked off a tree, bounding up and over the sightline of the swiveling cameras, he twirled in the air and planted both hands against the concrete of the building’s forth floor, the suit not waiting a moment to stick fast to the side. And I stick the landing! Talk about multi-talented.

He turned on the wall and crawled to the nearest window. They had the foresight to actual bar the upper windows -- whether they were anticipating man-sized spiders or crooks armed with medieval siege towers, Peter could not say -- but now the bars had rusted over a few decades to rain and sleet and a total lack of building maintenance, or proper budgeting, for that matter. He reached for it, the bars were too thick to bend by hand, even for him, but there was something to be said about using securing bolts of the same quality as the steel.

“All things being equal to Wondy,” Peter planted both feet on either side of the window, wrapping his hands around the whole set of bars, “I don’t think I’d look so good in those pants.” Peter heaved and all the muscles in his back wound and coiled as he dragged at the bars. The metal groaned as the housing bolts exploded into fine particles of rust and concrete shavings, rattling as Peter began to pry it from the window it protected. Just a little… The concrete fractured as Peter pushed with his legs and the bars finally gave way. He nearly threw himself off the building with the force of his swing and steadied against the wall, bringing the grate against himself. There. He webbed it to an adjacent spot of the wall and popped the lock of the window with a simple push on the frame. Sweet!

Peter slid inside and found his place against the drop ceiling, feeling it out and balancing his weight between the plates. The station was no prettier inside than out. Peter was in gray hallway made out of old, stained linoleum and dotted with bays of fluorescent lights, casting the hall in a sickly yellow glow. Hollow core doors lined the walls, leading to rows of computers and desks, storerooms choked with body armor and guns, endless seas of filing cabinets stuffed with reams of personnel files. Peter listened and there was near silence, but for a few pairs of subtle footfalls echoing around the station and dying against sounds of whirring hard drives. Just the night shift.

Peter crawled forward and took a turn, creeping his way down the stairwells. The building was nearly dead, alarms silent in their places, no clatter of lockers or idle police chatter. Just the click of a mechanical keyboard as Peter drew closer and closer to his destination. According to Captain Stacy, most cops around this precinct tended to keep their work sealed in their desks -- never in evidence lock up, of course, why do something so fiendishly competent? But that meant popping a whole lot of locks in not enough time, at least if Peter expected to be home in time to get any studying in. If there was anything that would find him his case, and fast, it’d be the Captain’s computer.

Peter pushed through a second floor door and was greeted with the clack of keys against a vaulted ceiling as a half dozen cops slupred stale coffee and slaved over their after-action reports. The bullpen was long and wide, stretching the whole length of the building and surrounded by the second floor balcony. Klaxons were situated at every corner, and periodically along the room, wired into the very superstructure of the place. Peter zipped to the ceiling.

“I spy with my little eye, Captain Stacy’s office…” Peter surveyed the assembled workforce. Most were clustered to one side, away from a haphazard jumble of more substantial cubicles and thinly walled offices. Arranged by rank, maybe? Explains why these guys have to work weekends… Peter crept down and along the walls, keeping to the shadows and trying to watch the cops eyes from across the room. They were too distant to see him, but his eyes tracked them, watching for the moment they might catch him. But people never look up, he’d heard someone say, once.

He planted a webline and dropped to the ground and weaved between desks and cubicles, dotted with news clippings and framed photos. How many of them even saw the case? Peter wondered. He paused. One desk, belonging to a “WATANABE, Y”, held a picture of father and daughter.A man, a decorated captain, hands clasped behind her, a freshly inducted cadet. Sticky notes lined the monitor. ‘Ask abt Parker Shooting’, one read. There were six question marks. And how many turned it away?

Peter moved on, finding his way to an office hastily surrounded with hollow-core wood and tinted glass. The walls reached up just enough to tower beyond the cubicles, but still petered before reaching the ceiling, instead just serving as barricades. Peter hopped into the air and landed on the division. The swivel chair inside still had the plastic wrapping around its cushion, and the desk was littered with strewn papers and misplaced office supplies. Photos of a young girl with blonde hair decorated the place, some pinned directly to the wall and others framed and kept close to a dead computer monitor. An older woman was in some of them, straight blonde locks that clashed with her husband’s already greying hair, yet matching with her daughter’s so well. She was gone in some photos, where the girl looked older. A signed Gotham Knights bobblehead nodded at Peter above. This was Captain Stacy’s cubicle, alright.

He was taking his tries at the password before he hit the carpet. A gel cap keyboard, thank God. George72? No, graduation year, maybe? Eh, El Capitan’s not that vain… Favorite Gotham Knights player? The computer threw an error. Nuts… Gwendolyne02? Error. IHateSpiderMan. Error. Peter paused. Fabric of his gloves against the keys. Helen2013.

Captain Stacy’s desktop flashed for a moment as Peter navigated to the file explorer, pulling up a web of interconnected data, nestled in subfolders across the PC. Peter thanked his lucky stars that ol’ Georgie was never a big data security nut, his spider sense didn’t come in digital. He bounced between poorly titled folders that were messes of improperly placed icons and years old field reports. Then, finally, ‘CaseAssn.xlsx’. Jackpot!

The spreadsheet was arranged by dates and officer numbers, with little colored sections denoting what detectives got what cases. He scrolled further, “Parker Shooting + Arena Robbery”. Dozens of names were greyed out beside it, but the latest in the line still had a green hex around it. ‘Det. M. Larry’. Piece of cake. Peter moved the mouse to shut the computer down, but stopped. Let’s see if The Captain has… Sweet. ‘Alarm Control’ came up as he searched for it. Just a handy dandy little Spider-surprise… He switched out the file ‘alarm.wav’ for something of his choosing. A little something to remember me by.

Peter jumped out of the office and moved between desks. The sound of keys still rattled across his sense, more and more with every footstep. He’d need to get close, on this one. He slid beside an occupied desk and the officer did not look up. He stared into his coffee, supporting his head with one hand. Peter smelled his aftershave. He passed and rounded a few more desks to the one he was looking for, a dulled bronze nameplate, ‘M, LARRY’. It was a mostly empty desk, clear of notes or pencils, just a black mouse and standard issue keyboard. An aluminium filing cabinet was tucked beneath it, sealed with a garden variety padlock. Peter grabbed and pulled, the lock gave like the tab on a soda can.

There were three or four cases inside, file folders jammed with papers and photos and little baggies of evidence. He pulled them out, one by one, setting them to the carpet at his side. There. His hands closed around Ben’s file. It was slim, by comparison. He could feel plastic bags of shell casings jostling inside the thin layers of papers. It’d have to be enough, it went into the duffle. He paused and considered the other cases. Could do to be a little less obvious that I’m looking into Ben’s case… The rest of the files went into the bag. He’d get around to solving them, eventua-

Fire across Peter’s senses. He got on his haunches and launched himself up, landing poised on a desk. A cop pointed a service revolver at him. Aftershave.

“Hands up. You have the right to remain silent, and --” A glob of webbing snatched the weapon out of his hand and sent it sailing to one of the cop’s coworkers.

“Points for the attempt, big guy. Really hate to do this, but, yknow, people to save, webs to sling. Toodles.” Peter slung the bag over his shoulder and turned. Toodles? What am I, 70s-Man? A web launched from his wrist and he pulled himself forward. He crawled up the wall as the shouts of the officers began to rise, warning each other.

“Call for backup!” Peter crawled over one of the klaxons, heading for the second floor balcony. You wish! I’ll be out of here before you can say,

Peter’s world exploded into sound and color and pain. It was everywhere and all around him. Needles jammed into every pore of is body, that horrible noise raking across every one of his five senses. He couldn’t see, only feel. His spine was on fire, neurons misfiring at once trying to cope as the suit writhed around him, thrashing against him. He felt bruises deep in his muscles, searing with the pain of the sound, guitars and drums and voices all melding into one and stabbing at his core.

***


“PARR-KERR!”

“Cuff him!”

“KILLING USSSSSS!”

“Be strong, Spider-Man.”

“And somebody shut this damn --”

“FIGHT! KILL! THE NOISSSSE!”

“Mask won’t come off…”

“END IT!”

“This too, shall pass.”

PAIN! WAKE UP!”

“Wake up, Spider-Man.”

“WAKE! UP!”

“You still have a job to do, my little spider.”

“Wake UP!”

***


Ugh… My achin’ webhead... Peter didn’t know where he was. On the wall? On the floor? How… How long had it been? Seconds? Hours? His suit throbbed all around him, like a full body headache. The music dinned in the background, the notes grating against his skin and twanging against his head. He was dimly aware that he was somewhere away from it now. Carpet against his legs, fabric covered in plastic against his back. There was steel around his wrists, at least two sets of handcuffs. He opened his eyes.

He was still masked, as far as he could tell, but his vision swam. There were a six… A dozen… Two dozen? However many there were, officers in uniform argued amongst themselves pointing fingers and shouting at each other. He only caught a few words over the music. “Holding cell”. “Unmask”. “Boss”. “Backup”. “Goddamn music”. He was leaned against a cubicle, probably. Why hadn’t they moved him yet?

He felt nausea and bile rising up in his stomach as he tightened the muscles in his arms. C’mon Pete, you’re almost out… He pulled his wrists apart and the chainlinks of the cuffs tore like tissue paper. His whole body shuddered and he lurched forward, reaching out a hand to steady himself. The pattern of the carpet swirled beneath him.

“He’s up!” Black shapes came to point at him. He looked up. The light hurt. His hands went into the sky. If I can disarm one… A web shot from his wrist and passed through the phantom of an officer, landing on something square and blocky. The music rattled in his eardrums. Oops.

“Hey!” The shapes moved. He heard hammers clicking. Peter sucked in a breath and pulled on his line, swinging whatever the hell he’d snagged around in a wide arc. The blocky computer monitor exploded across a cop’s chest and officers ran for cover, ducking beneath shards of glass and filament. The sound pounded in Peter’s pulse as he wobbled to his feet. He grabbed the fabric of the duffle bag and pulled it close to him. The weight felt right. He made for the exit.

”If you wanna find all the cops / They’re hanging out in the donut shop!” The beat thundered. Bullets whizzed past and he stumbled, gunshots breaking through the cacophony of the music. How many? He reached out with his Spider Sense and it recoiled, fibers of the suit retreating back into the space between his muscles. He shuddered and dropped, a bullet missed his head. Where do I go? Peter crawled for the door. There was no way in hell he’d get out the front, but maybe they weren’t sure about where he came in.

He threw open the double doors leading to the bullpen and limped down the hall, the music bouncing across the linoleum behind him. He could hear the click of shoes chasing him, guns being loaded. Crackle of radio static. Pain flared across his senses as he stumbled forward, supporting himself with the wall. Cries of “Stop!” echoed down the hall. He turned into the stairwell.

He pointed his hand up. He had… Three? He grabbed his wrist with his other hand and braced his arm against his body. A webline launched up through the gap between either side of the stairs and he pulled himself up, hand over hand. With every floor passed, the alarms still blaring the Bangle’s hit slammed against his senses and he rocked on the webline, shuddering. Boots pounded up the stairs after him. A little faster…

The fourth floor. Peter stumbled into the hallway and yanked down the nearest alarm with a glout of webs. It shattered against the ground and the wiring sparked. There were two figures by the far end of the hall, vigil over the window he came in through. One was decked out in riot gear, complete with a clear plastic shield. The other levelled a gun at him.

“Stop right there, son. This ends, now.” The officer pumped the end of his weapon. Shotgun… Right? Peter shook his head. He pointed one hand forward.

“You’d think that… Wouldn’tcha?” Webbing snatched over the head of the shotgun as the officer squeezed the trigger and it blew up in his hands, shot metal and wood particulate stabbing into him.

“Argh! Collins! Take him!” The officer screamed. The Riot cop squared his shoulders and charged. Peter stumbled and slapped against the wall. Webs bounced off the shield and the officer kept coming, low to the ground, ready for drive Peter through the wall. He looked up.

Peter sprang up and his hand caught on the ceiling. The metal skeleton of the drop ceiling collapsed and panels dropped across the floor, lights shaking and swaying as the metal frame crashed around them and over the Riot cop’s armored body. Peter moved as the cop shoved the debris off, staggering to his feet. Peter’s temples throbbed. Little… More…

The cop brought his shield to bear and Peter kicked off the wall, driving his weight into the cop. He stumbled backwards and Peter dropped his shoulder, hitting him again. The plastic of the shield cracked.

“C’mon!” He shouted. He reached for a baton. He raised his shield up to catch another shoulder check. Mistake. Peter’s leg swept beneath the shield and the cop collapsed under the weight of his armor. Peter made for the window.



The glass broke across his body. Free.
As a question to everyone; in your head, do you have a theme song for your character? Do you have one for the game at large?

On my end, Spidey's theme is probably just the Spectacular Spider-Man theme, but I'm making that diegetic, so, a little better than just taking it, I guess. Otherwise, his arc theme is The Distance by Cake. I think it connects pretty well to what I'm going for this season with Spidey, and I figured Spider-Man: The Distance was a good arc name, and so it was.

As for an overall theme for the game, though? I'm drawing a blank, which is kind of why I ask the question in the first place. Last time, in UOU, Glitter and Gold by Barns Courtney was my pick, but it somehow doesn't seem to fit as well to this game, but maybe it's just the clashing mental association between this and UOU. Who knows? What do y'all think?
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet