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6 mos ago
Current Because asking the mods "gib power" is a much better bid than demonstrating a groundswell of supporters, right? #Wraith4Mod2K19
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6 mos ago
WRAITH, WRAITH, HE'S OUR MAN, IF HE CAN'T DO IT, NO ONE CAN!
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6 mos ago
@KingOfTheSkies but could you fix it with Flex Tape? I say nay-nay
6 mos ago
That last status was literally the most mind boggling thing I've ever read. Bravo!
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As an update, we haven't seen nearly as much of Spidey around in the past few days as I might've hoped, I've been getting kinda slammed in school. But the AC in one of the class buildings unceremoniously went kaput, so I got some classes cancelled and some time to get my next installment up, likely tonight or tomorrow.
Was just chatting with Doc on Discord when I brought up the idea of Injustice in this RP's universe, and I figured I'd bring the discussion here.

So. The biggest and bestest superhero went nuts and created a totalitarian dystopia. Who did it and where would your characters be in that mess?


Peter goes full Venom. Probably makes legions of symbiote-enhanced goons to do his bidding and "keep the peace". Maybe he'd serve as Lord Regent of New York, or something.






New York City, NY ---The Stacy Residence




“GONNA ROCK IT UP, ROLL IT UP, HAVE A BALL, SATURDAY NIGHT!” Harry Osborn swung the mic around, doing a half-assed moonwalk and swaying his shoulders side to side as he sang.

“SATURDAY NIGHT!” Peter joined with the backing vocals, hitting each and every drum on the kit, trying to figure out their sound and keep time with the music blasting from Harry’s OsPhone.

“S-S-S-SATURDAY NIGHT!” Harry danced through the garage with a purpose, sliding around Mr. Stacy’s old chevy and just missing its side window with the bottom of the mic stand.

“S-S-S-SATURDAY NIGHT!” Peter found his rhythm, pounding the snare in beautifully discordant time with the music, banging the other drums when it seemed appropriate. The sounds clashed together in a jumble in the cramped garage, bouncing and echoing out into the street.

“S-S-S-SATURDAY NIGHT!” Harry spun on his heel and pointed to Peter. “Take it away!”

“S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y -- NIGHT!” Peter punctuated every letter with a smack of the bass drum.

“S-A-T-U- Hey! Harry’s voice cracked as his mic gave out and the sound from his OsPhone died. Mary Jane Watson glared at the boys from the mouth of the garage, silhouetted against the low light of the sunset. She spun her disconnected mic cord in a slow circle.

“We go to the 7-11 for like ten minutes, guys.” She dropped the cord as the rest of the girls filed in, Gwen Stacy, Betty Brant, and Glory Grant, arms stacked high with tremendous amounts of junk food, complete with an amount of Cheesy Puffs that was probably criminal.

“I thought it was pretty good.” Peter tried a rimshot, the stick bouncing up and off the snare drum as he nearly took out his own eye.

“Harry sounded like a dying animal, and you’re beating my drums like they owe you money.” Gwen put a heap of bursting plastic bags on the hood of the chevy and went to inspect her drum kit, pushing Peter in her stool out of the way with her foot.

“Ouch.” Harry handed MJ’s microphone over and went in for a quick kiss.

“Girl calls it like she sees it, tiger,” MJ said as she sidestepped him. They stuck their tongues out at each other and laughed, MJ tending to the band equipment while Harry went to investigate the snack situation.

Peter righted himself and stood from the stool, watching Gwen as she worked. She rubbed at all the little scuffs and marks he’d left behind in his bungling of the kit, wiping them away with the long sleeve of her dark sweatshirt. Her hair was down to her neck, pushed back by a black hairband. It brought out her eyes, Peter thought, brilliant and pale blue.

“No twizzlers? And on Osborn dime! You wound me!” Harry grabbed a bag of cheese puffs in lieu of his favorite snack and threw Peter his share.

“Your Dad could buy the twizzler corporation, Har.” The bag sailed well past his head, but Peter’s Spider Sense flashed and he snatched the bag clean out of the air, one-handed.

“Woah, Pete! Nice catch.” Harry said, through a mouthful of puffs.

“Join the football team, why dontcha.” Glory joked. She and Betty tuned their instruments, chords softly plinking off the array of cardboard boxes strewn around the basement.

“Maybe then Liz Allan would finally make a move.” Harry grinned like an idiot. Glory and Betty laughed as they plugged in their instruments, and Gwen looked down, staring intently at her snare drum. She bit her lip.

“C’mon, guys…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck.

“Girls, girls, leave the poor kid alone. Let’s jam, huh?” MJ strummed her guitar. The notes echoed out of the garage and into the street beyond. Betty and Glory plugged into their amps.

“Working on Face It Tiger?” Gwen settled into her stool as Peter and Harry pulled up cardboard boxes at the mouth of the garage, trying not to crush them with their weight.

“Hm… Let’s work on that beat you whipped up, Gwen.” MJ said.

“Rad. One two three four!” Gwen slammed her sticks together and came down on the drums like rolling thunder, the pounding pulse of the bass drum giving life to the other girls’ impromptu guitar work. MJ started on a riff and Betty and Glory followed suit, fingers dancing along the steel fiber of the guitar strings and wailing out killer chords.

“Ah ah ah ah, ah! Ah ah ah ah ah ah!” MJ vocalized as she played, belting at the notes while boys nodded their heads from the cardboard boxes. Harry started with his air guitar and Peter laughed, joining in with a pantomimed drum kit, mimicking as many of Gwen’s moves as he could. She never looked up, her eyes were closed and the music was all around her. Her hair was wild in the air as she played, sticks slamming into drums and resounding bass blasting through the garage. Her hairband bounced wildly, threatening to fling off and take out somebody’s eye as she mashed her snare and raked the rim of her high-hat in time with the beat.

***


“That was fucking legendary.” Harry jumped out of his seat and pumped his fist in the air. MJ grinned and shot a glance back at Gwen.

“Ain’t nothing without the backbeat.” MJ shot a wink to Gwen. She smiled and folded her drumsticks together, giving a little bow from her stool.

“Or lyrics, MJ.” Betty teased.

“Ah, we’ll get there when we get there.” MJ waved her off.

“You guys could write it about Spider-Man?” As soon as Peter said it, his hand shot up to cover his mouth. Crap.

“Oh, God, my dad would have a conniption.” Gwen said.

“Hey, why not? He’s hot right now, up and coming.” Harry shrugged. “You could go viral with it, or something.”

“He fought the police,” Betty interjected.

“Yeah, he gives the pigs a runaround, and then spent the next few days cleaning up the neighborhood.” MJ said.

“What about my Dad?” Gwen crossed her arms.

“Well, yknow, he’s one of the good ones. I’m sure Spidey wouldn’t touch a hair on his chinny chin chin. Probably.” Harry said. He popped a handful of cheese puffs into his mouth.

Gwen frowned. “Couldn’t it be about something more… I dunno, neutral? Like, what about Iron Man?”

“Tony Stark’s pet project, blowing people up in Transia? Great idea.” Glory rolled her eyes.

Peter put his hands up. “I mean, I just... Kinda heard it in my head. Yknow, ‘da nuh nuh nuh, da nuh nuh na, Spider-Man’… Something like that. Seems natural.”

“Anything’s possible. We’ll workshop it.” MJ adjusted the strap of her guitar and flittered between the strings with her pick. ”Another round, ladies?”

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to Pete, quick?” Gwen’s sticks clattered against the snare drum.

MJ cocked an eyebrow. “Uh… Sure. Take five.”

Gwen stood and brushed past the band. Her hands felt soft and arm as she took Peter’s arm and guided him outside the garage, bringing him to the side of the house, between the garbage and a dilapidated recycling bin. She toed it aside and leaned against the wall.

Peter swallowed. “Did… Did I piss you off with the Spider-Man thing?”

“No Pete, it’s…” She huffed. “Yknow how Spider-Man was at the Bugle a week or so ago?”

“Uh… Sure.” Peter stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Do you know what he was there for?”

Peter shrugged.

Gwen looked to both sides. She whispered, “I’m not supposed to tell anybody but, I think you should know. He was grilling Jameson about your Uncle Ben.”

“I -- what?” ... Maybe I should’ve been a little more tactful with that one. Really good at this Secret ID thing, Parker.

“I know it’s crazy but are you sure he wasn’t… I dunno, mixed up in anything?” Gwen asked.

Peter shook his head. “You’ve known Ben since we were kids!”

“I know but, my Dad says the whole department’s acting weird about it. The case keeps getting shuffled around. Lost in the bureaucracy.”

What? Peter’s hands came out of his pockets. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

Gwen hugged herself, and looked down, not meeting Peter’s eyes. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to worry you, Pete. I know you get anxious, and --”

Peter felt his fists clench and he kept them down, pressed against his sides. Goddamnit. “But I deserve to know.”

“Even I’m not supposed to know.” She looked back up at him.

“Then why tell me at all?”

“I didn’t want you to get frustrated about --”

“What? Lack of progress? Frustrated that my g-” Peter caught himself, Friend isn’t telling me anything?”

Peter saw tears in her eyes. She turned away. “I -- I’m just trying to help.”

“I gotta… I think I need to go.”

“Peter?” Gwen’s voice disappeared into the background as Peter hurried down the street. There was a black fire in him, boiling beneath the surface, Spider-Man waiting to jump out. He could feel it crawling already, begging to be put on.

No movement on the case. No closer to Tombstone. Peter's footsteps echoed across the pavement. The suit popped and fizzled, he felt it in between his muscles, rising to the surface of his skin.
Am I…? Oh my God.
I’m going to break into the NYPD.
Nuts.
Well, let's get some discussion going here shall we, without giving away too much of your season, where are you all hoping for your characters to end up by season's end?

But back to my discussion topic, where are you guys intending to land your characters?


Peter will be in a very... Different place at Season's end. As I kind of alluded to in my sheet, he's gonna make some capital M Mistakes and then have a Ctrl + Alt + I Fucked Up moment, and then have an ultimate confrontation that I'd rather not spoil. I think it's a very different story, but still very Spider-Man, which I guess is what these games are all about.


Issue 5




New York City, NY ---Thompson Memorial Hospital




The doctors had departed and the sense of reverie was gone from the hospital room now, leaving the Parkers to only settle into a bizarre kind of new normal while they awaited Ben’s discharge. Ben thumbed through the pages of The Daily Bugle as was his custom, occasionally giving a great harumph and shaking his head. May left for the cafeteria to grab her husband lunch, leaving Peter to shift in one of the hard plastic chairs and twiddle his thumbs.

Peter rubbed the inside of his palms and he could feel his suit beneath the surface, ebbing and flowing, reacting to his touch. It had been too long already, by Peter’s measure. A week without Spider-Man, and Ben’s shooter was only getting farther away. Maybe closer to whatever the hell Tombstone is. Ben would get discharged soon, and that meant taking care of him, and going back to school, and --

”I can’t believe they let them print this rag, huh Pete?” Ben smacked the paper. ”Going after those poor kids in Bayville. The nerve.” Peter nodded and his eyes flashed over Ben. He cranked his hospital bed up and moved more freely on the over-sterilized mattress, but still looked somehow restrained in a web of machines and life support. Peter nodded and looked back out of the hopper windows, tracing the arcs of buildings with his eyes, out to the reaches of Central Park and the Upper West Side beyond. Soon.

”Something on your mind, kiddo?” The paper rustled as Ben set it down on the bedside table, next to a pot half full of wilting flowers. Peter pushed himself back in his chair and hid his hands in the long sleeves of his shirt like he would when he was small, pulling back into himself.

”Ever since… Well, your, uh, accident, things just feel different. Somehow.” Peter shrugged. He looked back down at his hands.

Ben propped himself up more, smoothing out the creases in the dull blue plastic hospital bedspread. “It’s a one in a million thing. It could’ve happened to anyone. I’m just glad it was me, and not some kid.”

“No, it’s not -- I’m not scared or anything.” Peter turned his eyes back up to meet his Uncle’s. The corners of his eyes crinkled and he shook his head.

“Well, I’m not a mind reader, unfortunately.” Ben smiled. He motioned for Peter to move closer, and Peter swept his chair up to the bedside. “You’re growing up, kiddo, and this whole thing must’ve been some kind of a shock on top. You’re starting to see things differently. The city, friends, decisions, girls,” Ben started.

“Don’t tell me we’re segueing into a sex talk.”

Ben laughed. “No, no. But your Aunt May has been telling me we’ve been seeing more of Gwen around--”

Ben!

“Kidding! Kidding. She’s a lovely girl anyhow. How is she?”

Peter nodded. “Good. Harry and I are supposed to go to one of their band practices, this Saturday.” He leaned back in his chair, balancing just off the floor on two back legs.

“That’s great. Is there anything else going on?”

Well, I’m a Spider-themed vigilante who occasionally gets grounded by his Aunt when he’s not getting shot at by the cops. So that’s, yknow, fun and cool. “School’s supposed to start again for me next week. Same old same old.”

”Hmm.” Ben looked at Peter for what felt like an age, sizing him up from his scuffed converse and beaten jeans to the strained smile on his face. Peter’s two innermost fingers twitched every few moments, gently rubbing his palm and then straightening back out again just as quickly, like the nervous tic was some kind of secret. Ben sighed. He reached for the copy of the Bugle.

“Are you up on the news?”

“Huh? What about?” Peter’s focus broke and the chair legs came down. He flinched.

“What do you think about this Spider-Man character?” Ben turned the Bugle to his nephew. There was a blurry picture, a screencap of CCTV footage. It was a black mass of pixels with the flash of a white spider, holding an unarmed SWAT officer aloft with one hand, inches from the camera. What a flattering picture. At least he didn’t photoshop ‘I Hate Cancer Patients and Children’ onto my forehead.

“Aunt May was giving me an earful about him the other --”

“No, Pete, what do you think about him?”

Peter paused. “He… I dunno. Seems fine to me.” He rocked back in his chair.

Ben shook his head. “I’m of the opinion he’s irresponsible. Power like his, and he attacks the police, an innocent reporter. I don’t much see how it helps people, if he’s supposed to be a superhero.”

“You never liked Jameson.”

“Doesn’t mean he should be attacked.” Ben took the Bugle back, scanning over the picture and the article for the umpteenth time.

“Maybe that’s how it is with superheroes, sometimes.”

Ben flattened the article across his legs on the bed and used both hands to turn himself to face Peter. “Hey, I get it. It’s gotta be tough. Gotta feel like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Maybe he was scared and didn’t know what else to do. But, hey, maybe he reads this, hears about it somewhere. Sees what he’s done. Maybe tries to get a little better every day. It’s all that anyone can do. All we can ask for, really. Then maybe, there’s something to be made of him.”

Peter looked down. “Maybe.”

A little better every day. Peter thought about the doctors, the hushed tones they didn’t think he’d hear. He thought about the metal in Ben’s body, fragments of lead that they couldn’t get out, inching closer and closer to the remains of Ben’s spine, day by day. He thought about the time Ben had left. A little better every day. If only.
Speaking of being done with chapters, that post is also the end of my own first chapter (or volume, like I listed in my post catalog).


You kooky kids with your 'chapters'. Just be like me, and tell your whole story as one congealed, inseparable block of posts. Where does one arc end and the next begin? Who can say?!
Just wanted to say it properly in the thread, but my plans for Spider-Man are now looking a little... Ambitious, considering I really overestimated the number of posts I'd be able to churn out in this timeframe. To be clear, I'm not dropping or anything of the sort, but I guess I'd like to put out a warning well in advance for anyone interested: My arc might end up feeling a little disjointed across the eventual season break from 1 to 2. But, hey, I guess we'll see what happens.
@DocTachyon Damn. That seems to be the story of my life with these kinds of RP's. I don't suppose, being the Spider-Man player you'd allow me to use Kaine, would you?


Unfortunately, I don't think that'd really work well with my Spider-Man, given how new he is and his symbiote-powered nature. The vast majority of his supporting cast/legacies are going to be unavailable for the foreseeable future, I think, given my plans. I could maybe see a Kaine working out a few seasons from now, but until then, I don't think so. Sorry!
This still accepting? Because i was recently in an RP very similar to this, that sadly died, and was really excited to play a re-imagining of Michael Morbius.


We are still accepting, but I've actually just introduced Morbius as a pretty critical NPC for my take on Spider-Man. Sorry.


Issue 4




New York City, NY --- Empire State University




”You’re lucky she only grounded you for a week!” Gwen Stacy shouldered open the glass revolving door that led to ESU’s Biological Studies Lab. Peter shrugged behind her, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Yeah. I figure she’s only letting me off the hook now for Connors’ sake.” He pushed through the cold glass. It’d been months now, but still, every time he entered Connors’ lab, his eyes went wide and his heart throbbed in his chest. The forefront of science. It made him think of when Ben and May had managed to scrape enough money together to take him to Disney World, bounding through the boulevards and trying to see everything he could. He had fixated on Tomorrowland, seeing some spectacular vision of the future carrying humanity off and beyond. And here? He could make that future.

Hanging rows of interwoven greenery spread through the lab in a vast web, each little island of pots and soil seeming to reach out for the others and wave. Rows upon rows of lizards and assorted life danced in glass cages that lined the walls, feasting and sleeping, while little mechanisms dumped endless gigabytes of biological feedback through microcomputers Peter had rigged. Lines of epoxy resin tables marked the path up and down the lab, each scuffed with memories of little lab accidents, all stacked high with readouts and precarious racks of test tubes. But dominating the room was something new -- it was a massive, black crate, marked with hazard lines and projecting the steady hum of a cooling unit against the linoleum floors. There was a rush of lab coats around it, as Mrs. Connors and Michael Morbius prepared cooling of their own, a container likely pilfered from the Medical Department, lined with gadgets and gizmos and a healthy supply of Connors’ formula.

The doctor himself stood towards the back, firmly pressing his daily comic strip to a battered bulletin board with one hand, while his hard plastic prosthetic jerked the fine nub of a pin in wide circles around the comic, trying to attach it without skewering himself.

“Doktor, the children have arrived. May we begin?” Morbius didn’t look up from his work as Peter trailed behind Gwen into the lab.

“We still need everyone coated up, Mich--” Connors turned from the board, his eyes were green, and they lit with excitement. “Peter! Great of you to come!” He waved with his real hand and the comic dropped, pinwheeling to the ground. Connors sighed and shook his head, but his eyes betrayed his smile as they came up to meet Peter.

“You know me, Doc. Only so long I can sit around.” Peter pulled his lab coat off the hook, still splayed with stains from his first and last attempt at using the centrifuge unsupervised. It was almost a badge of honor, now.

”Are you sure it’s no hassle for you to be here, son?” Connors weaved around Gwen as she passed to talk to Mrs. Connors and Morbius, holding a pair of tremendous goggles in his hand.

“No trouble at all. Gotta come back to work sometime, right? It’s been a few weeks, and science stops for no one.” Peter accepted the thick plastic lens and pulled them over his head, pushing back his hairline. ”What’re we up to today?”

”Well, while you were gone, Michael and I heard back from the review board -- we’ve finally received a grant! This is the first batch of stem-cells!” Connors gestured to the black crate.

“Doktor Connors insisted we wait for you before we open it, Parker.” Morbius’ thick Eastern European accent floated across the lab. He leaned back against the countertop, strands of black hair dropped across his head and he swept them back. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

Lovely manners Morbius, they teach you that in Markovia, too? Peter bowed his head and stepped in beside Gwen. Dr. Connors whirled off to his office as Mrs. Connors tended to final preparation on the crate, beginning to cycle down its internal power supply.

“Did Doc Connors say we’re getting rid of the lizards? With the new stem cell direction, and everything?” Peter asked Gwen as his eyes flitted away from the box of stem cells, back to the cages embedded in the otherwise placid white color of the wall. They idled in their cages, picking at the faux scenery and nibbling at the scraps of food automatically dropped to them.

“Why do you ask? Still afraid they’ll bite ‘cha?” Gwen grinned at him, playing at gnashing her teeth.

Peter rubbed at a tiny scar at the base of his pinky finger. “...No.”

“Well, there’s no sense in depriving them of a good home. Besides, we don’t really need the space.” Mrs. Connors said. She pulled a clipboard from the side of the crate and began double checking it against a list she held in her other hand.

“I just thought that Doctor Connors would -- er, Curt -- uh, I mean, Mr. Doc Connors would --” Peter’s words came out of his mouth faster than he could catch them, but Mrs. Connors laughed and waved it off.

“They’re a little part of the family, now, like you kids.” She said. Across the lab, the thin wood of Doctor Connors’ office doot swung open, and he stood in the frame, holding aloft a small key like a holy artifact, his blade to seal the darkness. Morbius rolled his eyes and leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Mine eyes can but weep as they bear witness to the majesty… The Big Key 9000.” Peter whispered. Gwen smacked his arm and chuckled softly, it was a sharp, melodious sort of laugh. Peter leaned back against the counter as Connors made his way to the crate.

“Everyone ready?” His smile was wide and his eyes were alive with color, as he propped the lock up with his prosthetic.

“Ready when you are, Doctor Connors.” Peter said.

“Here’s to the future.” Connors said. The key pressed into the lock.

“To the future!”

***


Ju kan’t just inveynt a de-liv-a-rey mekan-ey-sim like zat, Doktor Conn-ors. Peter rolled his shoulders and pumped his eyebrows as he swung the tails of his labcoat around as a great cloak. For I am ze great Morbius! Science Wizard!

It is just as zey taught me in Markoviaaaa! Gwen could barely get through the line. She laughed with her whole body as Peter wiped the tears out of his eyes and tried to steady himself enough to take another bite of his food. Their little nook was a section of lab table, cleared of assorted microscopes and tubes to make way for bag lunches. Morbius had left to get outside food, undoubtedly mumbling something unflattering about the chill-drun as he left, while the Connors idly chatted in Curt’s office.

“Oh, man. Do you think that guy ever asks himself how much Markovia is too much?”

“He’d need a hint of self awareness for that. The real question is how Connors puts up with him.” Gwen tucked her hair back behind her ears. It was getting long again, Peter noticed.

“The man’s a saint! The Bob Ross of science.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Parker.” Connors office door clunked close as the man himself stepped out. He’d taken the prosthetic off now, the arm of his coat was folded up to his side.

“And humble!” Peter said.

“Is lunch over now, Doctor Connors? I still need to set up my station, and --” Gwen was already collecting her lunch and sweeping food debris off of the table.

“Oh, no, Gwen. Uh, Martha was actually hoping to speak with you, in my office?”

“Oh, um. Sure. Right away.” Gwen scooped up her lunch and nodded to Peter, skirting around Connors and making her way to the lab. Connors sat in her stool as she left, and it seemed to take a great weight from his shoulders as he sat. He propped on elbow up on the table.His joints creaked as he moved, and Peter saw the wrinkles already starting to appear on his face. The only sound was the soft trills of the lizards. Connors cleared his throat.

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you, Peter.”

“Oh.” Peter said. He swallowed. “If it’s the Morbius thing, I--”

“No, no, nothing like that. That’s just how kids get, sometimes. I actually wanted to thank you for coming in today.”

“It’s no problem at all, Doctor Connors.”

“I just don’t want you to feel obligated to--”

“It’s fine, Doctor. Sometimes things just… Happen, I guess.” Peter shrugged.

“I suppose so, Peter. Uh, otherwise, Martha’s telling Gwen in there, but I thought I would let you know that Martha and I have a little one on the way, now.”

“Really? That’s great, Doc! Congratulations!” Peter could practically hear Gwen’s squeals of excitement from the office as he shook Connors’ hand.

“We’ve known a little while, but we thought maybe you kids would like to know.” Connors said. He shifted in his seat. “And, you should know, I’ll be just as available to you as a mentor. If you need to talk--”

“It means a lot, Doc. Really.” Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. “Sorry. I think I need to take this. My Aunt.”

“Hello? Aunt May?” Peter answered.

“Peter? It’s Ben, he’s --”

“Oh, God--”

“No! Peter, he’s waking up.”
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