tangleweave

[tangleweave]

// When you're the on-call guy and your monitoring system wakes you up after 11 pm to tell you there's a problem, so you have to go in, and you do, and you call the area communications base to tell them you're on-site alone, and when you attend the issue it turns out it's just a control knob that needs to be twisted, so you do that and stick around for 15 minutes to make sure there's no issue, and then you call area communications again to tell them you're locking up and leaving, and you do, and then just as you go up the access road you pass a cop going DOWN the same road, and then you see him turn around and you KNOW he's gonna pull you over... and he does, because you looked awful suspicious locking up that gate and leaving in a hurry, when all you wanted to do was go home and go back to bed, but now you have to waste even more time explaining to this cop that you were there because you WORK there, you're the on-call guy, and your monitoring system woke you up...

[tangleweave]

friendly reminder that even if i take ages to reply, i still want to roleplay with you

[tangleweave]

Stephen can still recall with some dry amusement his introduction to Sigyn and her children by the thunder god. Thor had not been garbed at all as fit to be a king, and he'd made it clear that he wished to abdicate the position to which his lineage would have entitled him... in ostensible favor of thrill-seeking. The notion had certainly come off as irresponsible, although as the survivors of the Blip were telling it, a lot of the last five years had seen Thor behaving far more like an unleashed college student than a world leader. If he refused to take the throne, perhaps it was for the best that Brunnhilde sat in it instead.

But that, in itself, did seem a confusing aspect of the hierarchy. Were there no other heirs to the throne within the house of Odin?

And it was as Stephen had been pondering this question that Thor had beckoned the doctor across the throne room, to stand opposite a woman with platinum blonde hair and an ethereal aura about her. Even in the court of her own people, she had seemed a touch uncertain, not quite out of place but not at ease either. Stephen had taken note of her on that final battlefield outside the grounds of Avengers Mansion, tending to the wounded and the dying among her people. The touch she'd had in those moments reminded him of his own at his peak: confident, determined, perhaps even arrogant but entirely justified. He prefers to believe he still has an eye for the kind of talent, discipline, and compassion it takes to be a good doctor -- and it had not seemed at all out of line then to think that she might have been one, or at the very least, well trained in whatever the equivalent of field medicine was for Asgardians.

It had been that look on her face which Stephen had felt an odd kinship with... a sense of unbelonging in a place that was supposed to be home. When Thor had introduced her as the Lady Sigyn, his sister-in-law, it had given Stephen a long moment's pause to consider the ramifications of that familial title. Wed to Loki, then, and the mother of his children. What must that be like? At the very least, she must know a thing or two about subterfuge. And having been a survivor of the Battle of Earth, it was fairly obvious she had to know her weapons and fighting techniques.

He hadn't taken her on as merely a lark, of course. There had been conversations. Demonstrations. Sparring on various fronts, both with weaponry and with magic. It couldn't simply be because Sigyn needed a change of venue for herself -- that could have been obtained pretty much anywhere she pleased. But he had seen a particular delight sparked in her from being able to show off what she knew and what she could do... as though she hadn't often been afforded the opportunity. And it wasn't difficult for Stephen to imagine that being precisely the case.

Job interviews weren't just about finding the candidate who fit best -- but also what would best fit the candidate.

She'd said yes, of course. But she'd also drawn the line at making sure her children stayed with her. The Sanctum isn't forbidden to children, and Stephen would have only his own status to stand on should he decide they aren't welcome here, but obviously it would mean their mother wouldn't be, either... and if there's anyone in the universe who knows what it means to roll the dice on a hope and a prayer, it's Stephen Strange.

He's confident enough in the spellwork surrounding the display cases in the armory that he's not particularly concerned about magical mishaps leading to doors that shouldn't be opened. Not every weapon of the Sanctum is kept in this room; the conventional wisdom of not keeping all one's eggs in the same basket is not at all new. Still, he keeps his eyes on Vali and Narvi as they scamper about the room, noses pressed against the glass, staring at the variety of tools and trinkets populating it.

"I expect kids to give adults trouble. It's a primary function of being a kid," he replies, not unkindly. "But I'll do my best to not hold it against them. You're their mother, I'll defer to you on matters involving teaching and discipline, but I'm sure you'll understand that some boundaries around here really don't care to be violated, even accidentally. I'm happy to sit with you and the boys and discuss them."

closed for @tangleweave

||

Despite being centuries old, the last few years up until now had been one of the greatest challenges that Sigyn had ever faced. In her first encounter with the Mad Titan, Sigyn had lost her husband, most of her people, and worried that she might even lose her sons. Luckily, the latter had not come to fruition. However, the next five years were not easy. In a few days, she had become a single mother who also had to take care of her brother-in-law and herself, all while fighting off the ever-lurking depression of her own after losing who had once been the love of her life. That and helping out where she could in figuring out how to come back from the phenomenon now known as 'the blip."

After the second battle with Thanos, Sigyn was lost, without a purpose. That's when she met Stephen Strange. They had worked together on healing the wounded after the final fight and hadn't actually talked much then. However, once he'd decided to journey with the Guardians, Thor wanted to ensure Sigyn had someone looking out for her and the twins, who were just now starting to discover their own magic. So, he'd formally introduced Sigyn to the Doctor.

It happened to be the luck of the draw that the Sanctum Sanctorum was still looking for a weapons master and combat instructor to replace the one before her. Sigyn had no other choice but to accept, as it was the perfect opportunity for both her and her sons. Today was their first official day after moving into the sanctum, and it would be evident to anyone who laid eyes on her that the goddess was nervous as she watched her sons move about excitedly as she moved to stand beside the Doctor on the far corner of the room.

"I want to apologize for them again, they are... excited. I hope they don't give you too much trouble," She says lightly, a nervous smile on her face as she folds her hands in front of her.

[tangleweave]

When Beth becomes brittle, it almost feels as if spring has reverted back to winter; her face freezes and while the smile remains, her eyes do not shine as brightly, her voice is not half as warm and lacks any backbone that makes it more than a whisper. Her hands move molasses slow as she pats the potting soil around the Everbloom seedling gifted to her from a friend. "You...ah...should go out wi' her, Stephen. I want you. To be happy."

The moment in which Beth's body and soul go frigid is a moment missed by the man leafing through the portfolio she'd handed to him only minutes earlier. Strictly speaking, they're off the clock, but that's never stopped Stephen Strange from reviewing interesting cases, and what Beth had brought to his attention is no exception -- a referral from a local chiropractor, of all things, regarding a 46-year-old woman with a holocranial pulsating headache of increasing severity, self-reporting daily marijuana use, as well as intermittent use of something considerably stronger and far less legal.

"Well, that'll be burning holes in her brain, who knew that might cause damage?" he mutters, more to himself than to Beth. He frowns at one of the follow-up reports. "No MRI because of implants, and the head CT isn't showing anything…"

It's only now that what Beth said catches up to him, and even then, he needs a moment to remember what he himself had been talking about to lead her to express a desire for his happiness. Right -- the suggestion from more than one of the nurses that Dr. Camden's been giving him looks behind his back, and that she would be enthusiastic in accepting an invitation to dinner. Abruptly, his face breaks into a wry smile.

"Oh. No, I don't think that's for me, really. Carlie Camden's a little…" He lifts up a flattened hand and tilts it back and forth. "… gruff. Don't get me wrong, the next best ENT is on the other side of Lake Ontario, but her bedside manner is just a bit too Judge Judy. And then there's the fitness obsession. Is a date with her even a date without a barrage of questions and critiques about my diet and exercise habits? Not from what I've heard at the nurses' station."

He tugs out another article from the portfolio, his attention once again diverted by the case. "I mean, Occam's Razor says it could be as simple as a migraine, it's a headache with positive visual symptoms and sensory phobia. Except she's come back to the ED twice, and this has been going on for a month. Vertebral dissection? It started with a fall, got worse after the chiro visits… the drug use could point to RCVS…"

Then he glances back at Beth, noting the glacial pace at which she's setting the soil about her plant, and he tilts his head to one side. "Sorry. Didn't mean to just blow off your suggestion. I'm just… I don't quite think I'm in the space to consider dating right now. I still have to interface with Christine on occasion, and if that doesn't make for a sufficient cautionary tale about dating your co-workers, I'm pretty sure dating Dr. Camden would be mounting evidence of it."

His photographic memory would have served him more ably had he been looking in Beth's direction when she'd spoken. He might have taken note of her bodily positioning, her demeanor… and he might have thought more about the hesitation in her wording.

But instead, there's the faintest lift of one corner of his mouth.

"It's all right. I'm happy, just the way things are."

[tangleweave]

Late ~ shows up with ☕️🥤🍪

🤩 I WANT TO WRITE EVERYTHING WITH YOU

Plus sprinkle in all the symbols for fond of the mun, loves your writing, etc.

[ Com-MUN-ication / Accepting ]

That's quite all right, my response to this is also terribly late -- apologies!

I'm entirely down to write all the things with you. It's only today really occurred to me that we don't even have to keep plots restricted to Agent Coulson and shady government programs -- the lady does own a coffee shop, after all, and who doesn't like coffee? (Okay, maybe Groot and Vision haven't had the pleasure and it might be odd to have them in there, but there can always be Reasons, right?)

Quite fond of you and your writing, as well! It's a pleasure to see you on the dash!

[tangleweave]

🤩 I WANT TO WRITE EVERYTHING WITH YOU 🙂 How are you, mun? 💘 I want to discuss romantic ships with you

[ Com-MUN-ication / Accepting ]

Of course! We've written things together for... sheesh, 10+ years now? Not about to stop! Come at me with all the things.

As for how I am... well, kinda tired on a daily basis. I think that's mostly because I'm getting older, not as much energy as the days when consuming Mountain Dew and straight coffee grounds posed no detriment to my health, and recently I learned I have two bone spurs in my left foot (!!!). The remedy? Daily leg stretches. I really do sound like a middle-aged dad.

You want romance shipping? You got romance shipping. Bring it on. We'll talk shop for anyone and everyone.

[tangleweave]

🤩 I WANT TO WRITE EVERYTHING WITH YOU….

Plus 🏅which wasn’t on the meme (I don’t think) but means I think you’re a pretty awesome person.

[ Com-MUN-ication / Accepting ]

ALL. The. Things. No matter the medium, I'm here for it.

And thank you so very much. You are, too, y'know.

[tangleweave]

🥰 I secretly admire you

🙂 How are you, mun?

💘 I want to discuss romantic ships with you

💚 I want to discuss platonic ships with you

🖤 I want to discuss hate ships with you

💜 I want to discuss familiar ships with you

😄 Can you send me some memes, please?

💖 I love you, mun!

🌟 You're my favorite blog

😊 We should talk more OOC

🤩 I WANT TO WRITE EVERYTHING WITH YOU

[ Com-MUN-ication / Accepting ]

Well, let me just work my way down the line here…

Firstly, I am honored and humbled by your admiration, and to be your favorite amongst Tubmlr blogs. Secondly, I am doing… as well as I can, under present circumstances. I find myself playing a video game way more than writing lately and I want to get back on the wagon while it's still moving slowly enough for me to catch it. Thirdly -- let's discuss all the ships! Let's write all the things! I'm on board for chatting, and as you rightly indicate, it doesn't even have to be about writing. We can always chat.

You're lovely and thoughtful and a really sweet person. You were among the very first to follow me when I went active with this blog and you've not bailed out yet. Thanks for sticking with me. 💙

[tangleweave]

💖 I love you, mun!

[ Com-MUN-ication / Accepting ]

I adore you!

[tangleweave]

💖 I love you, mun!

🤩 I WANT TO WRITE EVERYTHING WITH YOU

[ Com-MUN-ication / Accepting ]

You have all my love -- and you'll have ALL the things!

[tangleweave]

Com-MUN-ication Meme

🥰 I secretly admire you

🤓 I don't dare talk to you, but I enjoy reading your threads

👋 I just came to break the ice and say "Hi!"

🙂 How are you, mun?

🤔 I want to write with you, but I don't know how our muses might interact

💡 I have a plot idea for our muses

😕 I want to ship with you, but our muses have never interacted

😔 I want to ship with you, but I don't know if you're interested

❤ I want us to be mains

💞 I want us to be exclusives

💍 I want us to be ship exclusive

💘 I want to discuss romantic ships with you

💚 I want to discuss platonic ships with you

🖤 I want to discuss hate ships with you

💜 I want to discuss familiar ships with you

😇 Can you write a starter for our muses, please?

😄 Can you send me some memes, please?

💖 I love you, mun!

🌟 You're my favorite blog

😊 We should talk more OOC

😓 There's a thread I'm waiting for you to reply, but I don't want to feel like I'm rushing you

😬 I want to send you a meme about (x), is it okay?

❣ I want to write fluff with you

👄 I want to write romance with you

🔥 I want to write smut with you

😭 I want to write angst with you

😱 I want to write horror with you

🤩 I WANT TO WRITE EVERYTHING WITH YOU

[tangleweave]

If Peter had any knowledge at all, or even a vague suspicion, of what was going through Tabby's mind, he certainly gave no indication of it. But he couldn't help but presume that some part of her must have wanted the company… because if she'd really not wanted any, she wouldn't have gotten up to open the door. The sound of her pulse was worrisome from here, and he could sense the radiance of her bodily heat. (He recognized that, under other circumstances, people like Ned or MJ would be poking fun at him for cobbling together that particular string of words, no matter if it was aloud or just in his own head.) She probably wasn't exaggerating when she described it as the worst flu of… well, her life, and yes, he was editing that particular remark in his mind, but she couldn't be expected to know the abysmal odds of him actually being afflicted in any meaningful way by her illness.

Super powers had their perks, after all. He might not be Wolverine, but his capacity to recover from injury and sickness was nearly as broad as his capacity for obnoxious snark.

To wit, there was his reply to her. "Said the damsel in distress."

Then he set himself about the task of clearing away a space on her coffee table, reflecting that it seemed very much like his own living space -- atrocious in its appearance, not at all prepared for company of any kind. Of course, if it was his own place, May would be horrified and declare that she'd brought him up better than this. But if she were here, she would be doting all over Tabby.

Before he knew it, Peter was engaged in his best May impression, complete with the faintest nervous quaver shooting through his cadence. "Oh, you poor thing, now you lie still here and let me get you a bowl and spoon. The soup'll be nice and hot. Don't even think about moving. Leave every tissue exactly where it is."

It took him a moment to realize he was uttering it all aloud, and when he did, he stopped short, then gave Tabby a half-apologetic smirk. "Well, c'mon, you know that's what she sounds like. Gotta bring the right vibe to the place, right? Needs more of a Reilly touch than a Parker one. Ben would just clap you on the shoulder, say 'Get better, kid', and have some kind of project ready for you whenever you were good to get out of bed."

He gathered together the various dirty dishes cluttering the coffee table and brought them over to the kitchen counter. "I'm banking on you ran out of clean bowls already, so I'm just gonna wash this one out. And don't bother arguing with me or fretting about my health, yours is the immune system with issues right now and we're gonna be working on that."

In a matter of only two minutes, he had the bowl -- plus an attendant spoon -- washed and returned to Tabby, loaded with steaming hot soup and nestled atop a wide plate. He tilted his head to one side to look at Tabby's shadowed face more straight-on and gave her a half-smile. "Holding the line at feeding you, though. I don't think either of us would ever live that down."

He set the plate on the cleared space on the coffee table, then began taking up the tissues and various food wrappers strewn across it, crumpling them all into a single handful and then seeking out the nearest trash can. "You're looking like the fever hasn't broken yet, so another blanket's in order. I can raid your bedroom or closet if you tell me where to find one."

Tabby barely had the energy to glare at him, yet she tried anyway. It was a weak attempt. Barely a flicker of resistance before her shadow-rimmed eyes drooped, too heavy to hold the expression. Not that Peter gave any evidence of taking it seriously. He just stood there like an immovable force, dangling his bag of peace offerings, waiting for her to fold.

She should’ve ignored him. Should’ve buried herself under the blankets and let him drum out Hybrid Theory on the door until his knuckles grew sore. But her throat was sandpaper, her chest exhausted, and when he mentioned Aunt May’s soup, her stomach gave the most pathetic little grumble of betrayal.

So, she sighed. Heavy, wheezy. Stepped back just enough to let him in before she turned on leaden limbs, trudging back into the dim apartment. The curtains were drawn against the late afternoon glare, the only real light coming from the glow of her TV. The coffee table was a mess, more than one traitorous can of Sprite evident, and Tabby was no better. Hair in a disheveled bun and sweat rimmed clothes that kept being too warm then too cold. A truly wretched display. But she barely cared. She was already sinking onto the couch, her bones too drained to resist any longer.

Slumping back with another cough, Tabby pressed the sleeve of her hoodie to her face as the force rattled through her ribs. Then she cracked one eye open, her voice little more than a rasp. “Just don’t get comfortable bossing me around.”

She wanted to say more. Wanted to tell him he hadn’t had to come all the way out here. That she was fine. That she was tough. Strong independent woman who didn’t need saving blah blah blah. But the truth was, she wasn’t fine. Through the aches and grumpiness, some small part of her, the one worn down by endless coughing fits and restless nights, couldn’t help but be touched by the effort.

This part of Brooklyn wasn’t a quick trip. Peter could’ve texted again. Could’ve sent May’s soup in the back of a taxi and called it a day. But he’d shown up. With food. With medicine. With chocolate. Which, sure, she probably wouldn’t be able to taste properly, but it was the thought that counted.

And maybe, just maybe, that silent part of her which wished for more, that ached a little too much when he smiled at her just so, liked the thought of him choosing to be here. That it was proof for all those times Peter cancelled on her, he would turn up when she really needed him.

All thoughts that were a jumble in the fog of her virus riddled mind and became fuzzy just as quick as they formed. Tabby grew more focused on reaching blindly for the blanket tangled near her hip, fingers too clumsy and weak to do more than pull it up a few inches before giving up. “And when you end up with the worst flu of your life, don’t say I didn’t try to save you from yourself.”

[tangleweave]

The comfort that Beth offers is palpable, not least because she rests a hand on his cheek. Through his mask, Spider-Man feels the cool tenderness in her palm and fingertips, and he already knows he's done for the night. But he waits for her touch to withdraw from him before he taps one of the hidden pouches on his belt to withdraw the talisman she'd made for him, drawing the leather cord up over his head and about his neck to let it dangle against his sternum, while she takes his other hand and abruptly he's in tow to a woman who's barely even ninety pounds soaking wet. He probably would have allowed himself across the threshold, except that's where she stops with that expectant look and her affirmation that she wants him to leave his footwear there.

He obliges her on that point, leaning down to tug each boot off in turn. The only thing protecting his feet beneath them is a pair of black ankle socks, and each leg of his suit has a strap running under the arch of his foot -- a necessary component for a form-fitting outfit if he didn't want his pants creeping up his legs as he swung about the city. It feels a touch odd to leave his footwear quite so in the open by the sliding glass, so he makes a point of asking, "Got a sheet or a towel or something you could toss over those? I dunno about inviting the Devil in, but I definitely don't want prying eyes happening across those and getting... ideas, you know?"

Why does he ask her if she knows what he means? Even he doesn't really know what he means. The immediate concern had been if anyone might take notice of Spider-Man's apparel and decide to doxx Beth for it, though to hear her tell the tale, hers is a building not easily spied by mortal eyes that are unwelcome. Which is good. Whether spied by an innocent bystander or a super-tracker -- and he wouldn't actually put it past the likes of Kraven to try -- it serves nobody for Beth to be endangered because of carelessness on the wall-crawler's part. He'd already been complimented by the likes of Black Widow herself for how he's managed to keep his identity secret thus far. There's no need to ruin the streak.

He touches the talisman at his chest again. Another layer of protection for his identity, and Beth is being terribly sweet to suggest webbing up a bedsheet as a privacy screen. There really seems no length she won't go to in order to dote on someone she cares about. And already she's offering food and drink. She seems so... excited? Well, not overtly. But eager, in her own gentle way. Pleased that he's relenting to her, and that she gets to play host. That tracks for her... Peter Parker happens to know that her home rarely sees guests of any sort, and that when they do arrive, generally they're in far worse shape than Spidey is now.

Once he's taken a few steps away from the glass and feels more assured that he won't be easily visible at this angle, he tugs his mask off, allowing her to glimpse the false face the talisman provides him. Sandy blond hair, a prominent brow, a strong jaw, deep-set eyes that sometimes seem as wide as Beth's, and a distinctive nose -- but very much unlike his own.

He's far more a Ben than Beth realizes.

"Actually it's been maybe about twelve hours since I've eaten," he confesses. "I didn't really have time to, uh..." He stops short of saying get a meal at FEAST like I'd meant to, and he casts a furtive sideways glance of the blue eyes the totem gives him, a gesture that might very well betray his embarrassment over his lack of self-care. "...grab a slice at Sal's. Stomach was roaring about four hours ago but I was kinda in the middle of a fight, couldn't get a hoagie. Now I'm at the point where food sounds gross." Now he lets his embarrassment show through a little more with a wry smile. "That's bad, right?"

@tangleweave  {{xx}}

Beth has learned by virtue of a lifetime being surrounded by sailors and marines how to increase the chances of getting her way in the face ~or mask~ of a stubborn man. Rather than standing firm like a stone, she flows above-below-around like water. And while Ben might be a strong swimmer, he relents to her currents. She only wants what’s best for him and trying to save the city when his mind is fuzzy is as dangerous in her opinion as someone how goes drinking and driving. She was prepared to be firmer but is thankful she doesn’t have to be in the moment. As such, all of her seems to relax and maybe it chips away at her minuscule height. What she lacks suddenly in stature, she more than makes up in inner light. She slowly blinks up into the lenses of the mask as a smile blooms across her lips. “I’ll make ya cocoa though, marshmallows or whipped cream an’ sprinkles, all of dat f'ya feelin’ particularly naughty. Or tea f'you prefer somet'ing a bit stiffer,” she makes the offer in a half hushed voice. A moment later when she reluctantly draws away from him, she’s whirling on the tips of her toes. She then once more takes hold of his hand and tugs him along behind her. “Don’ be silly, Ben. You’re not gonna sleep on my couch. All wrong f’ ya posture an’ ya body length. Trus’ me…dere’s a reason dat Andy…” There’s a hitch in her breath, having accidentally tripped over her brother’s memory. “Dere’s a reason he bought his own chair. You’re gonna sleep in my bed. Now…you can web a sheet t’ da ceiling to give us privacy screen between us assumin’ you don’ wan stay alone, or…you can have my bed all t’ yaself an’ I can take da couch, as we bought it f’ me inna firs’ place an’ is probably more conducive to fallin’ asleep when I’m readin’ or watchin’ some kine onna television.” She shouldn’t sound so gleeful, but there’s something about the softly naive tone that could be endearing in the right circumstances. “I’d prefer dat, yes. Oddahwise we’re invitin’ da Devil come inside an’ I don’ need t’ add dat to all da oddah crazy stuff dat we got goin’ on in da city, yeah? Have ya eaten anyt'ing lately?”

[tangleweave]

Skuttlebutt had objections, certainly, to the notion of a still grievously injured Shiloh hurling herself straight back into the fracas below, particularly since the winds were already starting to whip back up and visibility was all but pointless. Not to mention that the sand and debris being kicked up by the winds were trying to gum up the atmospheric thrusters, which would make a second takeoff that much more problematic.

But she also knew enough to realize that Shiloh would not be stopped from doing exactly as she meant to do, and if the option came down to assisting her -- thereby improving her odds of survival -- or not assisting her -- which would certainly not be forgiven by either Shiloh or Bill -- the choice was clear.

The ship remained banked in midair, circling above Bill and Shiloh's last known location as though caught in a maelstrom. And when Shiloh leapt out the ventral airlock, Skuttlebutt continued on her canted course, not willing to leave either one of her charges until both were safely aboard.

The explosion might well have been perceived as nuclear in origin for the level of destruction it wrought. Sand turned to molten glass, and insectoid warriors were entirely obliterated in the blast's shockwave. The air itself seemed to burn with an intensity that only she could generate; perhaps if she'd pushed a handful of degrees higher, she would have set the atmosphere itself ablaze, with no recourse to contain it. But that would have surely meant the death of her companion -- even the advanced metals of Bill's substructure were not immune to temperature shifts.

The blast also buffeted Skuttlebutt in her circling path, forcing her to widen her arc while molten sand and scorched debris burst outward in a concussive sphere that refused any occlusion to the scene below.

For moments, there was nothing but silence surrounding Shiloh, though it might well have been impossible for her to hear it for the roar of her own flames. But as the bursting fires receded, the sound of snapping and crackling rose up from the smoldering ground… as did the song of Stormbreaker's star metal. The sound of Uru in flight was unmistakable, as was the sight of it when it collapsed to the scorched ground in front of her.

But its wielder was nowhere in sight.

The part of her mind that had once cared so little for Bill's life, for any life, screamed at her to stay down. Self preservation or just selfishness informed her that his use of the command spell meant she should leave Bill behind. As Scuttlebutt banked to the side and she slid slightly on the tilted floor, Shiloh had to decide what her next move would be. Her heart raged against her mind. An occurrence that only ever happened when Beta Ray Bill was the subject. He threw Shiloh's life into chaos in ways she'd never known or expected. Bill made Shiloh feel. And in the end that was why she couldn't just let herself be carted off to the infirmary.

She would not sit by and let Bill and Scutt do all the fighting. That wasn't in her nature to sit back when she could be in the fray. Not to mention that her healing had kicked back into full gear since she was no longer fighting while trying to heal. Her fingers were almost fully regenerated and her gashes scabbed over. Enough healing that she could shoo the mouse droids away and wobble to her feet. Shiloh's lips were set in firm determination and her eyes blazing with a combination of fury and anguish.

"Scutt," Her voice rasped as she strode her way over to an airlock door. Steps becoming more confident and steady as she approached the exit. "Get lower. Low enough for me to jump." The blasts of cannons and cracks of lightning were not about to deter her. Shiloh had been careful with her fire before, not wanting to singe Bill by accident, but she could do so, so much more. She felt the flicker of her inner flame, always alive and always hungry, and prepared herself.

Once low enough, Shiloh opened the door. Her hair whipped about her face. Ginger and gold curls glinting like polished metal amongst the dull destruction. Her pupils dilated to pin pricks. Blue eyes emptying of light and life and focusing purely on her targets. In a way there was comfort in falling back into her old self. A familiarity that came with unfeeling brutality behind it. Her hands burst into flame. Shiloh willed her fire hotter. The flickering orange glowing into a soft white. War popped her neck and and then jumped. She hurtled towards the ground, thought to herself hotter, and then opened the valve of her flames. Just before hitting the ground an explosion of white and blue flames burst from her skin. War detonated like a bomb, spreading her own form of destruction out at least half a mile.

[tangleweave]

Peter's lips twisted to one side when the other man spoke about how Ben always had the best stories. "Yeah, he did," he mused. He could still remember being twelve years old and equally entranced and horrified at his uncle's harrowing tale of having saved a junior electrician's life.

"Alan, he just onboarded with us three months ago but he's got ten years' experience, so he knows what he's doing… but today could've been his last. He wasn't wearing gloves, got hung up touching a main buss on a 2000a service because his elbow happened to glance it, and the bucket had a short from the knife to the can. Mark saw as it was happening, but Richie was closer and he just ran straight at him, full speed, to knock him off, hard hat down like he was Ray Lewis. Then Mark, Richie, and I all alternated CPR on him for almost a full hour before life flight got to us. He's hanging on, but…"

Peter shook himself out of the memory to refocus his gaze on his alternate, just in time to see his rueful chuckling over the speed of the local cops. It drew a wry smile on the darker-haired Parker. "Yeah, these guys are good. And maybe not my biggest fans, sorry to say, but there's a reason…"

The sudden note about food gave him pause, and suddenly he felt that certain protective streak within rising up. Whether it was a little kid, an old woman, or a fellow Spider-Man, he wasn't about to leave someone out in the cold and hungry if he had the power to change it.

"My place is about five blocks from here," he said. "I've got a shower and a… well, more like a loveseat than a full couch, but it's at least padded and none of the springs have burst through the cushions yet. Dangers of secondhand and all that." He tilted his head, looking the other Parker up and down a little more critically. "You might be a size or so off from me, but I'm sure I've got some fresh clothes you can use. And I can hook you up with a couple slices from Sal's, but let's get you cleaned up so the cops don't keep chasing you around like a bum. C'mon."

He began walking, glancing towards his counterpart as he moved to make sure he fell into step beside him. "What about the under-threads? Need an update? I've got a couple spares. Occupational hazard."

"Damn, I was kinda hoping your Ben was still alive. Mine always told the best stories. Though I didn't know it at the time." It wasn't hard for Peter to admit how much he missed his Uncle Ben. Being so far away from home only made him miss Aunt May and Mary Jane all that much more.

"I don't need a beast-mode, multiverse-hacking Peter Parker. Just one who believes me and maybe has a couch I crash on while I figure this out. The cops in Central Park put me through the wringer last night. They are surprisingly fast in this universe." A playful little chuckle with a hand rubbing over the back of his neck.

"Honestly the donut joke probably didn't help - " His voice cut off and eyes grew wide. "Food. I wasn't exactly carrying money on me before I got dumped here. What I wouldn't give for a hot meal. And a shower! I don't mean to be begging here...but I'm begging. I'm cold, hungry, and dirty. I can't figure out what I need to do what I need to do to get home on an empty stomach and running from the Central Park police."

[tangleweave]

Stephen felt a touch of amusement at her assertion that he would draw attention of an unwanted variety. She probably wasn't wrong. The spellcraft evident in the dashed ritual markings spoke to something beyond the base demons, devils, and eldritch beings that routinely poked through the barriers otherwise protecting the Earth. Though to consider a comparable analogy, the barriers were not so much solid walls as they were fishing nets. Small gaps would inevitably abound, and things would get through -- but on a case-by-case basis only. The larger fish would be caught and sent back from whence they came. Or dealt with, as needed.

His gaze followed Lylia as she inspected each of the corpses in turn. It was obvious that they had not met their fate at the hands of a singular creature; the means were as far apart as one might imagine. But he came to very much the same conclusions as she with a cursory glance towards the door. Without the involvement of forced entry, one could only assume they'd been interrupted by someone or something within the room. But had they known their attacker was in their midst at the time?

"Doesn't look human," he noted, approaching and kneeling down beside the body. He gestured to the man's flanks. "Here and here. Claw marks, dug into him like he was gonna be a springboard." He pointed at where the victim's neck joined his shoulder; claw marks were likewise present there, and still oozing blood. "Something jumped up on his back and just started stabbing away."

Then he looked toward what Lylia had been studying in the markings on the ceiling. It wasn't just a single spell circle, it was four concentric circles, each with tis own thickness, definition, and… valence electrons? Markings upon each of the circles at seemingly random intervals, cells with runes of power inscribed within them. It spoke to a level of experience that small-time crooks like these guys absolutely had not earned.

"Most unwelcome summoning circles I've seen invite demons and the like to crawl up from below," Stephen noted. "It's how the summoner establishes his dominance over the creature immediately." He stopped there upon realizing his commentary may have been mansplaining to his apparent companion. Rather than seek to qualify the abrupt stop to his chatter, he approached and tilted his head up at the markings, examining them more closely. "So then putting it up here suggests they understood whatever they were summoning was vastly above their station." His eyes narrowed. "They may have inadvertently insulted it, though. This space is indoors. Higher demons like showing off their size. These quarters wouldn't easily accommodate anything beyond a large aberration."

His face scrunched at the various possibilities on his mind. "Maybe each circle was a separate attempt at summoning, and they were stacking the power of the prior circle in with the current one. Interesting cheat, but where would they have learned it?"

That was when he noticed Lylia scanning about the apartment. He tilted his head. Obviously she was on the search for something. He raised an eyebrow. She was looking at the remnants of a bookshelf; she must have struck upon the same idea. "Looking for a reference manual?"

Stephen's head tilted to one side. It was one thing for her to say she was a demonologist -- self-proclaimed occultists were a dime a dozen in New York, and a vast majority of them were laughably incompetent hacks getting off on convincing themselves of the efficacy of crystals and pyramid power. But her mention of having worked with the Ancient One was quite another thing altogether, and the name-drop invited him to let go of the prior preconception.

"Lylia." He rolled the name around his tongue for a moment. "Not a name I'm familiar with, but the Ancient One's had any number of associates over the centuries whom I've yet to meet. So, a pleasure to meet you."

He wanted to be careful about revealing the Ancient One's fate. Treachery was always a subject of sorrow and fury, and speaking of it to a stranger -- even a well-meaning one -- had the potential to beckon enemies to the gates. It wasn't the first time he'd decided to be circumspect in addressing the Ancient One's death. Let people think that the role had been peacefully abdicated, rather than thrust upon Stephen following his mentor's murder.

He glanced about the room once more as she sought his permission. There wasn't anything within a human's visual spectrum which indicated immediate danger, but looks could be deceiving, and a simple spell of revealing magical influence would reduce his apprehension. He lifted both hands, crossing his wrists just under his chin, and curled his twitching fingers into the 'devil horns' formation, supplicating the Vishanti for a wisp of wisdom. The request was answered with a faint haze of golden energy that washed across the room, highlighting the spell runes drawn on the ceiling, as well as what appeared to be a residual -- and bizarre -- blast pattern in the air beneath it. But there wasn't just the tang of vile energy here; the cloud appeared to have been swiped through with vicious claws, as well. Those could easily be attributed to the cause of the men's deaths.

The golden energy clung around Stephen, as well… though he found it fascinating that it seemed not to settle at all on Lylia. He arched an eyebrow at her. "A bona-fide demonologist with no magical artifacts? You either live dangerously or in a cloister."

[tangleweave]

Eddie released a tense scoff that whistled between his teeth as he looked in any direction but Jayden's. He couldn't very well argue that it was better for her to tell Them now rather than later, when Marko was being onboarded. He wondered just how much input she had into the makeup of the team… and then, something clicked in his head (with no small amount of help from his Other).

"Wasn't your idea, was it." He scoffed again. "Actually, I'm gonna go out on a limb here, you're not the one pickin' most'uh the folks showin' up for duty for this thing, am I right?"

Venom chose that moment to chime in of His own accord. "If you were making the calls, you would be choosing fewer shapeshifters. You do not trust what We can do. You believe We would engineer escape plans" The words might have carried the structure of questioning, but the temper of His voice came across as more accusatory.

"But it's gonna be either shapeshifters or folks who can't hide what they can do so easy," Eddie supplemented. "An' you don't want the likes'uh Vulture or Scorpion or Rhino -- basically any tech-rigged joker named after an animal's a no-go, yeah?"

For His part, Venom's grin seemed to widen while His eyes(?) narrowed. For all the world, it looked like he was leering at Jayden as the tentacle bearing His face pushed towards her, a step beyond Eddie's range. "Nor people of such great intellect that they would be a threat to your operation. So that rules out the likes of Octavius, Morbius, Curt Connors, Tinkerer…" But then His head tilted to the side. "What do you mean 'nearly the same conditions'?"

Eddie blinked at the realization. As usual, his Other had gotten there before he had. "Hey, yeah, hold on… for that matter, what do you mean find him?" His brows knit together. "You're sayin' he's at large right now? That'd explain why you're aayin' you don't wanna fight unless it's a last resort…"

Venom made a chittering sound between His teeth, somewhere between a hiss and a snicker. "I would very much like to see how you seek a target... to say nothing of how you intend to engage the Sandman in intelligent conversation."

“You don’t think I know that?” She scoffed, returning the sass she was getting from Them right back. Eddie and Venom, she assumed at least, were starting back on the right track to getting into fighting form. Something had been going right at least. Though she did wonder if the amount of chocolate would be increasing as time went on. She may have had a nearly bottomless amount of money, but even then there would be some limits applied eventually. She was just happy progress was being made as time went on.

It wasn’t really her idea. Not anymore. She was doing what she was told to keep her own leash holders happy. Keeping to the terms laid out so that she was free to do what she needed and wanted to do. And if that meant picking the worst of the worst and making a semi-functional force then she was willing to walk that tightrope.

“I know that you are not going to get along with everyone. But a good compromise is one where no one is happy but willing to work within the boundaries.” She said, a heavy sigh leaving her as her head pounded in time with her heartbeat. She had been fighting not only with the Pair of them, and Figurehead. But also her own body which she was pushing further and further to the edges of her abilities. The lack of consistent sleep and food was starting to take its toll and catch up with her. But she would be damned if she gave in,as that would just complicate things.

“I wouldn’t be telling you to play nice if I didn’t have to.” In fact she was surprised They had gone on as long as They had. Her hands came up to cup the back of her skull, willing the pain away as she stared down at a file on her desk. She didn’t want to have this fight again. Only last time it had been her trying to get out of having to add Marko. Amusing to some entity out there how alike Jayden, Eddie, and Venom were.

“WE need a team. And if Flint Marko is on the list then that is that. We are going to find him, we are going to talk to him, and we are going to give him nearly the same conditions I gave you two.” Leaning back into the chair she finally looked at Eddie and the floating tethered sharkmouth with featureless eyes. Her own eyes were a reflection of Their ire, though more contained.

“There is a reason I am telling you ahead of time rather than letting it be a surprise.” Her hand wrapped around the handle of the small four cup coffee pot that had been in the hotel room to begin with. She’d been using it as a coffee cup without any care as to what people might have thought. “I’d rather not have to fight unless that is out very last choice.”