Hound55
Crimson Flame
Simple Unicycle
Qia
Skai
Issue 7.4
New York City, NY --- Queens Neighborhood
“He is not my- shit, that's a lot of spiders-"
Peter was up on his toes, watching every revolution of the pickets as they circled him, points like daggers stared back at him. The turf was shredded where the girl had plucked them from the ground with her mind, plumes of dirt and destroyed greenery lay in a heap around what Peter imagined was once a respectable hedgeline. The wreckage of the convertible smoldered quietly, little fires starting as the engine gave a sicky whine, still trying to operate despite the crushing pressure forcing its pistons back down into the ground. The more ways he looked, the less opportunity there was for escape -- there seemed to be a picket every foot, and she’d eventually put together that there were no actual spiders.
Honestly, I’m surprised it worked at all. He scanned the line of projectiles. Maybe I can web them together, or something? Screw up her… Throwing arc? God knows if that’s how it works, anyway. Still, even if he could get past that, there was the matter of the other kid. Even with his eyes firmly pressed shut, every time his head so much as turned in Peter’s direction, the surface of the suit crawled and he felt pins and needles on his neck, like his Spider-Sense itself didn’t want any part of the kid’s mojo. Still, he had to try something soon, or…
"Wait! Jean, can you get me my- Thanks." The kid on the ground sputtered, as ruby red sunglasses suddenly rose and skipped across the pavement towards him. The girl’s expression softened as he collected his glasses, but the perimeter of fence posts stayed tight, bearing down like the needles of an iron maiden.
As soon as the glasses found their way onto his face he was moving again, pushing himself up to his feet. A regular Velma Dinkley, useless without his glasses. Peter turned to get a better look at him and pain stabbed down through his shoulder, fire down into the bone and deep into the socket. He bit his tongue and braced himself, squeezing the muscles in his opposite arm and willing the pain away. The sirens had already started in the distance -- evidently playing catch with a Convertible wasn’t a great way to stay incognito.
"Alright, listen,” the boy started, “you don't know us. We don't know you. I figure you've got some issues if you're attacking police stations in the dead of night. But so far as I know you didn't kill anybody in there, so...you're not fully gone. But you hear that, right?" He jerked his thumb back, and Peter saw the police lights in the distance, huge blue and red streaks marking the sky like banners of arms.
"That's the sound of a lot of really angry cops coming this way. Guys with guns who probably won't stop to talk, if you catch my drift. But we can help you. We're the X-Men. Helping mutants out of tough spots is sort of our thing."
This was one of those times when Ben would give a platitude about rocks and hard places… Did he say X-Men? Peter remembered Ben, back at the Hospital; ”I can’t believe they let them print this rag, huh Pete? Going after those poor kids in Bayville. The nerve.” Either way, he still wasn’t sure he was much up to running away, especially with his shoulder socket feeling like an especially painful game of Operation. And if Ben can put a little faith in them… Peter swallowed.
“Well, I only came for the Disney tickets, but you’ve convinced me, I’ll buy the timeshare.” Peter rocked back onto the balls of his feet and stood, inch by inch, pushing both of his hands into the air. The ring of posts held fast, and the girl rocked on her heels. "I don't know about this. This guy, I don't think he's-"
The boy cut her off; "I'd rather not have to knock you out to save your life. Don't make this harder than it already is." He held out a hand. The sirens were closer now, the sound echoing between the plaster and paint of houses and the slick concrete of the road.
“Yeah, I’m partial to consciousness, myself.” Peter made sure to show his hands as he pointed one to the nearest treeline, preparing to sling a web. “I’m thinking we hop a few fences, since your car, uh… Probably needs to go to the shop.” He tapped the center of his palm and the web flew from his wrist, snapping onto the bark of a nearby tree -- he hoped the girl wouldn’t spike him for it.
