not like the others

Traumatic/Dramatic Starters | Accepting @iobartach ( 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐌𝐀 ) ; our muses sit together after a traumatic experience. + ( 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 ) ; one muse holds the other’s hand while they’re in pain or panicking. 

The scene she last remembered was being in that backstreet, fully of rage and bitterness and looking for prey before being interrupted, restrained, and then--a moment of lucidity--a swift bite to her own body to keep her from hurting him. Even lost in the thrall of her spider she still had the forethought to protect others rather than herself.

It showed in the way she had used her own poison to subdue and paralyze rather than inflict it as a killing blow on Miguel--Who in that haze of basic instinct was a competitor and a potential meal.

Now she lay in her bed, in the very same apartment she had hoisted the other spider to when he had been consumed by similar madness. Her body bruised and scraped from the various surfaces of buildings she had skittered over in her hunt, fingertips splotched with yellow and purple from the spindles that had extended from them. Hints of dried blood still present beneath her fingernails as shallow breaths rattled in her slow-rising chest. No doubt fractured or broken from the contortions and force she had put her body through. There had been a moment, a stirring in the blackness, where she thought she felt someone touch her. It had quickly faded back into the darkness where she wandered. She knew she wasn't dead, but with how much it hurt to breathe she wondered if she may as well have been.

Hinoka knew Miguel's presence, and the fact that it persisted confused her but it was to be expected. Why not finish her then and there? Was she not considered a threat now? Why bring her back in the first place and not to the Spider Society to be monitored?

Why...Why had he even come back in the first place?

Thoughts and instinct swirl around in the dark as she traipsed through nothingness. Only to slip back into familiar glimpses of that night and the hunt she had so desperately set herself on--only to flash and change back to various instances of her life.

Through poorly phrased exchanges of words, prioritising duty over sensitivities, he picked his side and stuck with it, leaving Hinoka to the work that she had settled for instead. Only, this decision in turn would be the cause of consequences most unfathomable, necessitating another visit that had started on the foot of objectivity, armed with a duty to fulfil and carry out, and... now?

He's no longer certain where he's ended up.

What he can report on is the fact that he's taken up residence on a familiar floor, posted outside a room that at one stage, he would've requested permission before answering. As it were, there hadn't been room for such politeness, not in the scramble performed in ferrying her across town to be tucked beneath blankets and... monitored, for what it was worth, alternating between checks of pulse and breathing stats, before retreating yet again.

Such was his lot, as a motionless sentinel, until the point that she began to stir anew, summoned forth by her coughing spirts with a cold glass of water in one hand and a container of over-the counter medication in the other. Thankfully, in a showing of acute awareness rather than abject buffoonery, Miguel makes certain to stand by until her coughing fit relented to offer her the water and meds, short on anything of consequence that was worth reserving until this very moment to say.

A low, guttural growl permeated like frostbite, looming and leeching the air of any warmth. His flesh rattled with that loathing sensation of pressure trying to crush him beneath the weight of his own guilt festering at the confines of his wretched heart. The blackened iron ball wedged so deep within the pit of his gut that he'd dig out every single inch of his guts before he could reach what pained him so. Haggard breaths filtered hotly between a partly opened maw, sweat beading along the harsh ridge of a brow as the pressure only intensified and the agony pushed him deeper beneath the waves.

His spine arched, swinging his head side to side as if it'd dispel the horrendous feeling from him. Fingers dug like claws beneath.

It hurt.

Plain and simple.. but how does one begin to describe why and how when there are no marks to be seen on his flesh and his tongue was too stubborn to speak?

Without guilt, would he still be on the path to ruin? Would he still be breathing as he does right now? Would he-

The thought killed itself savagely like so many thoughts before. What he was raised with bit harshly into the experiences of how he's managed to survive upon Earth on his own, free from control but in a demented twist; he was Craving that numbness to spare him the torment of what had been done. Force him to forget it, spare not a single thought more and be left in the silent echo of his own mental prison in a cage far too small for him to exist without scratching his fingers bloody and raw.

No answer came from him, muscle locking up stiffly as his chest quivered with shortened gasps. The sensation of his presence felt like he was drifting out of control, flesh running cold within while outside it was festering with sweat and heat.

And yet, in lieu of the appropriate facilities to hand, guessing at the sort of mental conflict that appeared to blight the other to the point of non-function was... the only choice that currently stood available to the Spider. To say he disapproved was to put it kind, driven in part by a need to help the very Saiyan that he had fought alongside and shed blood with together in their adventures across the universe. No matter what, Miguel refused to leave Broly unattended whilst caught in this desolate.

A decision that ultimate lead to a shift in mindset, pivoting from finding a remedy to managing what symptoms were visible, and, therefore addressable, within a realistic time frame.

"Here, let's get you seated before you fall flat on your face or something." Eyes darting left and right, within a few minutes is a stool sturdy enough to support Broly's mass without breaking secured. Dragged into place by hooking one of its legs with a foot, Miguel then proceeds to place his hands on different spots along the man's chest and right shoulder, with a care that's more often seen reserved for newborns and items , rather than planet busters.

"I've got you." Such could easily be parsed as mere comfort dressing, but not so in this case as, in a rare display of might, Miguel draws upon the kind of strength residing within his core that's been used to right overturned trucks and tear the turret off of its platform.

Adrenaline was already high by the time they reached the roof. Windows in Alchemax Tower no longer opened, at least not on the executive floor - specifically the luxury pseudo-hotel suite that made up the office of Tyler Stone. Thera wouldn't mind a bet that there was some sort of Japanese-style secret bedroom hidden behind a wall, but that hadn't been what she and Miguel were looking for.

As, rather than run (again) the company that he had once tried to quit, a whole lifetime ago, such a desire was far from his mind, given current company. A venture that had started out as an attempt to gather records that weren't retrievable by hacking, that were exclusively his own, no matter how much Stone dipped into them during board meetings.

Not having time to explain usually meant stuff was really really bad. It didn't help that he felt a tingle in the back of his head looking at the guy. He hadn't felt like that around other Morty's.

"I'm sure if Rick needs me he'll be able to find me" Morty told him, "or he'll just be there waiting for us and give some sort of drunken lecture." He frowned slightly.

Of that he had no doubt that he would, popping up with such frequency that had idly caused Miguel to question at times why the kid continued to associate himself with such a family member. Then again, it wasn't his place to pass judgement, not with his own messy family to speak of, and so remained silent on the matter, concentrating his energies where they were needed the most.

"Definitely the secret club-thing, yeah." Almost as if by design, Miguel adapts to Morty's way of speaking, confirming what had been already suspected. Society business that required a crew of close to a dozen spiders to assemble, in the hopes of stabilising a reality that's in trouble.

With nothing of importance left to say, a few taps on his gizmo summons the hexagonal shaped vortex in front of them, paying little heed to their surroundings as it sucked up random objects and furnishings.

She stabbed forward, only to be yanked back successfully. Her fingers splay out as best they can, spindles spread out like claws as Hinoka's body tries to wrench itself from Miguel's grip, legs kicking as she tries to thrash in his arms.

Their roles are now reversed, with him being the quieter of the two as she hissed and shrieked , head jerking side to side in another last ditch effort to break free. Her body is beginning to tire, the pauses in between each harsh attempt to struggle free from the larger spider's hold growing longer. The shrieks die down into furious hissing.

Then comes the sound of flesh being pierced by fang, and the woman's body goes rigid for a moment.

Miguel had gifted her the time to regain her senses long enough to envenomate with the large dose she had prepared for him. Normally it would do little, but in this tired frenzied state and with such a large quantity of her own poison it was enough. Hinoka's fangs slowly withdraw from where they had struck beneath their bottom lip, sinking back into her gums as she finally goes limp.

It is, and will be his lasting regret that he doesn't line up the dots as quickly as he should, the reality of her self-envenomation dawning only in the seconds after she jerks and grows as stiff as a board, limbs locking in place until what could be thought of as the Spider responsible for piloting her form in such a frenzied manner before this point succumbs, shut down with the loss of consciousness.

Left open-mouthed by this, he passes on words to turn instead to a tighter hold, drawing her limp form closer against his chest as a voice, quiet and unopinionated, pitches a thought he hadn't considered before now; you were responsible for this. A blame that could be traced all the way back to the last conversation he had held with Hinoka, that ended with him taking his leave due to a crossroads reached. Driven by a need to accumulate numbers for the Society, in a climate that saw an increasing number of realities succumb to anomaly incursions, he could not afford to stick around and try to change the hearts and minds of his fellow Spiders, with pre-existing duties that mattered more than the Canon he was attempting to preserving.

Faced with this realisation, it doesn't take long before he's surging into motion once again, clearing the roofs of cars and other vehicles as he launches the both of them into the air, heading in the direction of Hinoka's apartment.

there is no reaction if there is no energy. he can sap it from the source to make it inert. it also helps he can simply use his energy manipulation to shield himself from harm. many little things he does in the matter of seconds, with the barest thought, as he picks up his own mess.

he may be a brat but he was taught how to be proper, once.

for the wrong reasons, maybe, servant boy as he once was, but he picks up the pieces of the beaker and looks at his host. if miguel looks closely, the jagged bits of glass do not touch his skin with the orange-golden energy surrounding him.

In some ways, he half-expected to receive an answer like that, a response that was more truth than boast, as further proven by his willingness to pitch in and help. Welcoming to the extra set of hands, Miguel sweeps what he can into the dust pan, then holds it out to Gabriel with a gentle flick of wrist that intended to prompt him to place the remaining shards on it, only to stall for a moment.

Huh. That was new!

It pays to remind himself of the man's mutant gifts, a whole species that's gifted -- and cursed, depending on who you ask -- with abilities that tended to stretch the limits of science in a bid to explain. In Miguel's case, catching a glimpse of that sunset-gradiated energy in practice saw a slight smile tug at the corner of his lip, impressed.

The wind settled in slow, uneven breaths, as if the world itself was hesitating. Samantha hovered for a moment longer before lowering herself to the ground, her boots touching the dirt with a soft crunch. From afar, she might have looked composed, but up close, the illusion fractured. Dried blood pulled at her skin when her expression tightened, and the faint tremor in her fingers made the pink energy binding the man flicker at the edges. She didn’t interrupt him as she listened, but the bruises on her neck where he had choked her were still throbbing as a reminder that he could be lying.

She observed and listened not just to the words themselves, but to the way they came apart in his mouth as if dragged up from somewhere deeper than fear. She’d heard lies before, heard people beg, bargain, spin whatever story they thought might save them. This didn’t sound like that, but like something that had been buried too long, finally breaking through. The ginger's jaw clenched as, for a fleeting second, something else flashed behind her eyes. A memory and feeling the awful, suffocating helplessness of not being able to fix something that should have been fixable. Her grip on the energy tether tightened without her realizing it, the construct pulling just slightly before stabilizing again. “Yeah, that tracks for the GDA. However, you tried to kill me, and you were willing to kill," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him.

Her gaze lifted back to him, sharper now, and there was no anger as she spoke, but the energy around him tightened for a brief second, pulling him forward just enough to remind him that, whatever this was, she was still in control. “Now you’re asking me to trust you? How do I know if you're even telling the truth about having a daughter?” she continued, quieter but firmer. Emerald green eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. “If what you said is true, then with a kid you’ve already put at risk by doing all of this.” For a moment, her attention drifted toward the distant skyline as the GDA must already be mobilizing, sweeping the area, putting together exactly who and what had slipped through their hands.

Eve exhaled slowly, then stepped closer as the distance between them shrank until she stood just within reach, but the steady hum of energy around her said otherwise. The bindings around him loosened, just slightly enough to show that something had shifted. “You said they cut you loose, that means you worked for them,” she said, her tone more measured now. "You know how they operate, so explain something to me. If they had the resources to keep your daughter alive before you are, why are you so sure they’d hurt her now to the point you don't want them to find her?” Her voice dipped, quieter now, but heavier as something didn't make sense. Desperation made sense because she understood that better than she wanted to admit. However, fear like his, the kind that twisted into something raw and almost feral, that came from experience.

The glow around her hands pulsed faintly, betraying the tension she was trying to keep contained. “Start talking, because right now, the only thing I know for sure is that I just made myself a problem for the GDA by bringing you here,” she said at last, her voice low but unyielding. The energy flickered again, brighter this time because that wasn’t a line she crossed lightly anymore.

"Yeah? So what if it is?" There's a scramble made to shore up his defences, bracing as best as possible for the inevitable backlash that was about to crash over him like a tidal wave. "It's not as great as it sounds, you know." Between being genetically different from any other living human, to the hurdles that arise with accumulated funds, habit sees Miguel standing at the ready to debunk any aired misconceptions as needed

Vik had regular visitors, though he supposed to proper term were patients in a sense. Sometimes a friend, like V. But this is a face he has not seen. Still his welcoming personality doesn't falter. Sitting in his chair; elbow resting on the counter while his regular program of boxing continues to play.

It's not the type of place that he suspected he'd ever have a need for. The little chrome he went for focused mostly around ocular enhancements, and chips implanted in his hands. The kind of work that 'Saka not only approved of but encouraged, if only to keep a corpo like him in line. A position that, with the way that current events had been unfolding, was growing in importance by the day.

"Hah, something like that." Appearing in the ripperdoc's doorway with both hands stuffed into his pockets, an attempt is made is seem casual, though the effect achieved could be considered debatable at best. A single glance will tell that Miguel hasn't known a good night's sleep in a number of days, given the bags beneath his eyes, and in how he spoke.

Like that of a man trying not to step on toes, rather than own the place, out of a fear of being turned away.

Around fifty yards from shore, a tail-fluke slaps. The sound cuts through the air, over the otherwise steady to-fro rush of the waves. The sleek grey backs breaking the surface are barely visible to ordinary eyes - though perhaps not so to Miguel's enhanced vision, should he happen to look their way - but Thera can sense them as they glide, the alien perspective of life lived in the sea.

A touch of thought, a touch of petulance, that brings her laughter following after. Tomorrow, Little Ones ... I hope!

"Dolphins," She explains, as shifting footfalls bring her back to dry sand. "They're disappointed that the boat isn't moving so they can play in the bow-wave."

The contact, the exchange, seems to have settled her in a different way than their playing at island life as she sets driftwood in the freshly dug pit - then cheats a little by dropping as tiny fireball into the middle to set it alight. The fish is threaded lengthwise onto a green stick, and she holds it over the flame to begin to cook.

As his look would have it, the dolphin's approach his caught and parsed, grey dorsal fin distinguishable to his gaze from the sun-baked sea surrounding it. It's a test of range that he had few chances to try, outside of urban jungles at any rate, something that further warms his heart and results in the curve of a brand new smile as laughter, tugging along an explanation behind it, floats back to him.

"Ah, now it makes sense. I read about that behaviour recently." With the concept of wishing to have fun seemingly shared between species, a need arises to ask if she fancied going swimming, both to be closer to the dolphins and to simply enjoy themselves and their time together. Whilst not ruled out, he decides, for the moment at least, to put pause to action as, no longer alone, the fish feels the touch of flames.

"Heh, if only. Not quite the 'fish 'n' chip' most expect, huh?" Amused, even with their lack of batter available, the question strikes a humorous beat, well received as, always in need of something to do, Miguel busies himself by clearing the area around the pit, pushing away rocks, driftwood and other sea-brought detritus so that they didn't happen to place their palms on something that wasn't sand or the other's hand, keeping their conversation rolling as he did.

He followed over to the building edge with a nod, "Sounds good to me, but I can tell you right now I'm going to be wanting that pizza." he warned, looking at Miguel and falling backwards, a tired smile under the mask as he tilted back, "Keep up!" he called up before shooting a web and letting himself follow through on the swing. It was less strain and easier to manage in his current state, and Peter didn't have to think too hard about what direction to shoot the next strand to keep going where he needed to.

The only real work was getting around the two corners along the street to actually make it to the right station. That sudden and sharp tug to manage the right curve but keep momentum, wincing as he went and the sudden strain could both be managed and added to how bad he felt. He kept himself to one arm for the most part, trying to keep that exact added strain to a minimum. It did keep the worst of his injuries from bothering him much, but it didn't stop Peter from needing to lean a little heavier than he'd have liked against the building when he landed across the street from the police station. Head pounding, legs weak for not having been walking or standing, and the pizza started sounding less appealing in favor of just laying on the building ledge for a few minutes instead. Which was both disappointing and depressing, because he really was looking forward to eating something before his body completely crashed on him.

He looked back for where Miguel was instead and gestured to the building across the way, "You web him to the doors and they'll come right out to get him. Works every time."

Unlike the original, a telling difference could be spotted in the way that Miguel hauled himself through the skies, gripping tightly and trusting completely in the tensile strength of his own spun webbing as he took a corner at speed. Taloned toes occasionally sheered chunks off of weather beaten facades as he worked to stay in motion, minimising the strain placed on his passenger until he landed in the vicinity of the police station, cracking the pavement beneath his feet.

Eyes automatically veering towards this small act of property damage, it takes Miguel a minute or two to give Parker his attention again, gaze steadily lifting to the other's masked mug in a way that felt flaked with reluctance. "Okay, don't move from this spot in the meantime..." Using terms that, in any other setting, could've easily applied to the criminal on his shoulder, rather than the hero opposite him, Miguel held onto a shred of hope that his words might be heeded as he tended to the business at hand. Crossing the street without looking in either direction, he was before the desired door within seconds, pressing the bound fool against it as he moved around a half-clenched fist, launching globules of organic webbing at the spots where the crook pressed up against the metal.

"I should say something inspiring here, shouldn't I." Given to a self-confession, more for the crook's benefit than that of Peter's, an unability to say something witty, or even crack wise, delayed Miguel's departure by an extra minute or three. It was mercifully broken by the passing of a nearby taxi, headlights cutting through the semi-dark as the Society's leader forced out a cough, pretending to clear his throat before rapping the door with the knuckles of a clenched fist.