“Drat,” says that voice, except. Panting around bared sharp teeth is a woman, her entire left side smeared and dripping, pitted red-black-green; she wasn't there a second ago, and her voice — “Well, it was worth a shot.” “What the hell?” Flamebird yells, and flings a spinning disk. It lodges in shoulder with a wet sound, but the woman doesn't even flinch. She laughs instead, purple earrings swaying, and the blade begins to slide down melting, gross skin. Lance's throat burns, but she. How do they — “Cat got your tongue, little boy?” asks that same voice, neon gaze going bloody and black, pinning him to place. Lance doesn’t. He can’t — 

mushroom man danny wants hot pockets but no one will give him hot pockets

“Who the hell are you?” Jace demands, thoughts flying at top speed but not making it work. Lance said they had that cat for… almost two and a half years. “And what the hell do you want?” The following grin is downright cheshire. “Now that’d be telling,” it laughs, head going low as it takes a step back and just —  “ — ce!” Bruce shouts, and the grind of the wall behind him lifting knifes the almost trance. “Jace, don’t —” High pitched static shrieks over the line, and, again, the colors lose a weirdness, fuzzed outlines solidifying. The ghost is gone, but — Jace whirls as more dust flies, the metallic grate echoing loud up and down the hall in a troublesome chorus. “Guess the game’s over, huh,” ‘Tim’ says, strolling forward, and stretches his hands high up over his head. “Twas fun while it lasted. Where’d I go wrong?”