ArchivedLogs:The Goblin and the Spider

The Goblin and the Spider
Dramatis Personae Goblin, Peter	2013-03-17 "Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
Location Under New York
Not long after a horrible blood-beast rears its head and roars in the depths of Manhattan's sewers -- and the challenge is met by a sewer knight and a lady of shadow -- a spider stumbles, groans, and lands -- with a thump -- on wet stone. Hands and knees. Coughing and hacking. Beneath the streets of New York, there are sewers -- subways -- pumping stations. And beneath /that/, there is an extraordinary, /living/ vascular system -- a network of naturally carved tunnels, passageways, and rivers which breathe with moisture and wetness, flowing in and out like the steady beat of a pulsing, pumping heart. It's within one of those crevices that Peter slips and lands with a moist *SPLT* -- palms catching himself before he slides further into the underground tunnel, where frigid sewer-water and complete darkness wait to swallow him up into an icy doom. The red hoodie and jeans bare a few jagged tears. The backpack is gone. The mask is still intact. He clambors, struggling to climb up the slippery wall -- then, with a grunt -- THWP -- a strand of grey splats up on the ceiling overhead. Climbing, step by step, back into crevice from which he fell. It's another abandoned platform. Except -- this one was never finished. Half-built, its walls marked by graffiti from the few transients who have stumbled through here in the past -- the half that is unfinished is rough, uncarved rock, with a steady thunderous rumble of drainwater rushing off down into the slit Peter slipped down -- the slit Peter is now emerging from. Cough, cough, hack, cough. Oh /gross/ this is sewage water and he thinks he swallowed some. Despite the platform's state of disarray, life yet remains. In fact, is that a train parked at the far end, there? There's lights. Wait a minute. Those aren't lights. And they're not at all far away, either, but in fact right /on/ that platform already. Attached to a face - unnatural green and pointed - that is, in turn, attached to a body that approaches the watery crevice in a way that manages to look somehow both casual and predatory at the same time. It's humanoid, but not /quite/. It's hard to make him out exactly, the way he slips into the darker, unfinished part of the platform where the adjacent light escapes him. Leaving just those eyes, leering with intrigue. It's almost like he doesn't want to be noticed. But that theory goes straight out the window when he suddenly lunges forward to reach for that weakened soul's hoodie's scruff. To help? ... At the very least, to lift him out of there. His voice, though somewhat strangely reminiscent of that of a /child/, has something quite a lot more sinister wrapped around it, happily choking it into submission. "WHAT have we here?" A gift! As far as he is concerned, it seems. "Gnffh..." Danger-senses tingle. But danger senses are currently thoroughly subdued by the cold -- and by the after-effects of a chemical concoction that's still burning in Peter's veins. He's easily seized, and easily pulled up -- the spider costume is soaked through to the bone. The yellow lenses on his goggles gleam in the dark, reflecting back the yellow eyes that peer down at him. Hack, COUGH, hack. Two gloved hands reach up -- gripping the wrist of the hand that hovers over him, grasping him by the scruff. And /squeezing/. With unusual strength. Now that he's sticking close, it's easier to see what the yellow-eyed individual is wearing-- it looks kind of ridiculous, actually. Purple, for one thing, ragged for another. Barely covers him beyond torso and lower body. The rest of him, just as green as his face, and tensing ever so slightly at that squeeze on his wrist. But it isn't long before those eyes of him widen, only to subsequently have the lower eyelids rise halfway across them again before his mouth opens in a fanged smile that stretches just a little too far to either side. Peter is pulled up slightly higher, before being /slammed/ down onto the floor next to the crack, causing the crack to give a rumble of crumbling stone. "I KNOW you!" Oho! One wrist grabbed, he twists to press his other hand to one of Peter's shoulders. "You're the little BASTARD..." An insult that might be, but the Goblin? He sing-songs it like he's enjoying himself a-plenty. Being slammed into the floor is enough to get a groan out of Peter; the grip on his shoulder makes him shudder. There's a flash of pain, and confusion, and then, all those /teeth/, oh God, some sort of green HorrorMonster above him, and it's telling him it /knows/ him, and... Peter's free hand limply rises upward -- shaking -- as if to reach for the Goblin's nose. Fingers outstretched. Trembling. And then... THWP. Right for the eyes. Peter's left leg snaps up with tremendous force, aimed for the Goblin's midsection -- or whatever he can get that's approximate. The other hand -- the one held by the shoulder -- swings for the jaw. He's desperate, frantic, and terrified. On top of that, he's strong -- not just Peter-mutation-strong. Right now, he's actually stronger than /that/. A spray of webbing plasters itself across that burning pair of eyes, sending an echoing wave of "HHKGH," bouncing off of the surrounding stone and down the distance of the tunnel. The leg connects to his stomach with a dull thud of thin cloth and tightened muscles, though it hardly causes more than a /ripple/ of pain to coarse forth. One punch straight in the talker later, and the grip of Peter's scruff is reliquished. That hand on his shoulder, however? That one grips /harder/, nails digging deeply into the limb for purchase. He does, however, angle himself away, bunched on the floor next to Peter as he lifts his free hand to claw violently at the webbing on his face. In fact, so violently, it sort of looks like he's tearing into /part of his face/ along with it. "Wonderful! Ppffhl--" Bit of webbing stuck in his mouth, there. Together with a bit of blood, trickling down past those sharp, sharp canines. Still smiling, still content, even if there is an occasional twitch that seems to suggest otherwise. "You're not what I was LOOKING for but HELL. I'll TAKE IT!" "Gedditoff," Peter manages to croak -- the claws dig deep into his shoulder, biting through the hoodie, biting into /flesh/ and managing to draw blood. His legs curl underneath him; one hand snaps out to the wall behind him, to steady himself, to get some /leverage/. And then he's pushing, kicking, trying to *catapult* himself into the Goblin. If he won't let go of his shoulder, then he'll just HAMMER into him head-first. Peter springs in a tackle, attempting to send them both reeling. "OFF! OFF! OFF!" And so off they go. The Goblin hardly even has time to get rid of half of that webbing across his eyes (along with bits of bloodied flesh from the sides of his face), but it's just enough to see Peter flying toward him. All the same, he makes absolutely no attempt to get out of the boy's way, his grip lifting from the injured shoulder to wrap his arm around Peter's torso instead, to throw his weight down as they go hurling through the length of the platform, sliding just into the ledge above unfinished rails below. Rockdust is sent upward and catches what little light there is available within it, enveloping them in a blinding cloud of grey. The arm unfurls from around Peter and its owner pulls to the side, his narrowed, slits of eyes just barely visible through the debris-filled air. "You've made somebody very /MAAaaaad/." The voice's echo is much more noticeable now that he's raised his voice along with his pitch, almost as if it's coming from all directions at once. The holes in his face cease to bleed somewhat prematurely, and the blood in his mouth is spat downward. << Find out who he works for, >> the voice in the back of the Goblin's mind speaks. Piercing. Commanding. But there's something else, there, too. An edge of irritation. An edge of anger. A rare indulgence for Norman Osborn. << Stark? Hammer? The government? And stop playing with him. This is important. He endangered /OSCORP/. >> SMASH. Air rushes out of Peter's lungs. He scrabbles -- the moment he is free, he /jumps/, gasping and wheezing, landing in a roll and crouching somewhere near the other end of the platform. The exit -- the only exit, besides the pitch-black tunnels of the rails -- is behind the Goblin. Blood streaks Peter's shoulder, now; he's low, one knee and foot on the floor, both palms flattened in front of him. Chest heaving: "What. What are you." He doesn't sound... well. Terrified, yes, but something else, too. Like words are hard for him right now. There's a hoarseness to his voice. << Rasheed, maybe? Would Prometheus be that bold? And what is that on your face. A mutation? We need to study him. >> Bristling. Goblin can feel Norman's temper. This is the person responsible for all his current woes. Having to scrabble to hide the drones. Having to deal with Alice. Having to waste his time with Masque. So much /trouble/, all because of this silly, costumed creature. "Shhhhh." Norman might like to keep the inside and the outside of his head separated somewhat more carefully than the Goblin, because this shh? It's loud and clear, head momentarily angling. He may as well be saying it to Peter, though, since his eyes widen once more under what is left of the strands of web across them. << all work and no play >> The thoughts is surface-level, a mere whisper to the second presence in his mind. No more than he deserves. That temper, though. It's a fun thing that he doesn't often see displayed from that /that/ side of the table, and it feeds into temptation very easily indeed. << getting to it >> His words start nicely, calm, "So one-sided," but by the time he gets to the end of his sentence, they are little more than a growling hiss, "... little THIEF." He rises as the dust starts to settle, shoulders pushing backward with a sickening /crack/ before his back arches into what looks like he's about ready to /pounce/. "All TAKE take TAKE but where is the giving...? Tsk, tsk." One of his hands, the fingers still smeared in Peter's blood, reaches behind his back, for a small pouch about the side of a fist. "Were they tired of you, the people you WORK for?" The thought delights him, which shows in his face drawing yet a larger smile of teeth. "It's fine! You can tell ME." "What." Words. Right now, they're a bit hard for Petey. "Work. Work? I don't -- no. I don't work for anyone." Confused, baffled. Still staying low. Watching the Goblin. Tense with fear and confusion. He smells like sweat and blood and /sewage/, that stink clinging to his costume, soaked cold and wet. "What... what are you. There was a blood-monster," Peter finally manages. "Up -- somewhere upstairs, and... you're green. You /attacked/ me." As if his thoughts were only now crystallizing into a coherent whole. << ...what is this /nonsense/? >> "/ATTACKED/ you?" The Goblin sounds genuinely /hurt/, that one hand that isn't reaching around his back, clutching the fabric on his chest instead, roughly where his heart should be. "Oh no, no no NO nono. I /saved/ you." There's the beginning of a high-pitched chuckle there, escaping his throat of its own volition. He moves closer in long, confident strides toward Peter, /around/ him. "You're CONFUSED! Oh you POOR poor poor little thing come with us." Whether he is actually trying to sound sympathetic is a mystery. His tone is akin to that of a scientist trying to lure a labrat to go for a bit of cheese on the other side of a pool of water with an electric current running through it. In the back of the Goblin's mind, there is a long mental sigh. << Yes, I'm sure he'll buy /that/. >> Peter tenses when the Goblin comes closer. "Saved... me." For a moment, it sounds like Peter's actually confused enough to believe him. Then: "Us?" And Peter stiffens a bit more. That throws him off. "There's more of -- wait, no, you /attacked/ me," and now he's touching his shoulder, feeling the blood, feeling the pain. "Oh, man where the -- I'm in the /sewers/. I... the blood monster put something in me. Made me -- making me confused." Head-shake. "I need to... need to get back to the surface. I need to get out of here." Attention briefly off the Goblin. Focused on the exit. << he wasn't supposed to >> Sound the thoughts sent to the very back of the Goblin's mind, the rest of it lighting up with the urge to tumble that rat into the pool, something so much more fun /after/ having given it the illusion of choice. But instead of lunging forwards, this time he hops /back/, sending a smaller cloud of dust up in front of him. Only to be disrupted again, after a rustle of a tiny buckle snapping loose and something being snatched up out of that pouch behind the Goblin's pack, by a small, round, strangely textured, bright orange metal device. Mid-air and halfway toward Peter the top of it snaps with a few tiny metallic clinks, to let a thin green laser erupt from the middle of a small, equally green panel. As the device spins within the same second it is thrown, the laser licks through dust and onto surrounding walls, its dot moving from the one behind the Goblin, over to the ceiling, and-- straight to Peter. Those danger senses? They should be just about frying-pan-directly-to-the-head level, now. "What --" Peter's danger senses have gone off before, but -- never quite like this. It is an /explosion/ of information in his head, all at once. And all of it is sending the same message: MOVE MOVE MOVE. THWP, and -- *jump* -- Peter's web-shooter hits the ceiling overhead as he leaps, and now he's swinging right at the /Goblin/, feet first, rushing at him with the intent of slamming into his chest as he swings /away/ from that spinning device in the air, not sure what's going on beyond that it's something /bad/ and the first thing he has to do knock the Goblin down and GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE. And in the Goblin's mind, Norman's voice /reels/ with frustration: << That's my bio-adhesive formula. He turned it into a toy. He's using it... as a /TOY/. >> The Goblin's mind fills with absolute joy at this realisation. There's just-- there's just something so utterly enjoyable about that little fact. << I LOVE IT >> Still, back to business. Then-- oof! Peter hits him feet first in the chest and he goes flying down and back with a yelp in annoyance and his arms thrown up in front of him. But... whatever he's let loose into the air of the platform is fast, and it's already arcing 'round with the quietest of buzzing whooshes, that laser once more searching for its target as it attempts to make the quickest turn it can. Which isn't very, as it turns out, because before it finds its annoying speedily moving target, it finds a wall. KA-BOOOM! There is a literal explosion, now, a rain of yellow, orange and even /green/ fire (that was a fun day for Norman, buying all of that boric acid in bulk) splashing inward from a newly crumbling wall. Part of the ensuing wave hits the Goblin too, throwing him yet further back into a wall and scorching his arms and one side of his head. Complaints, however, are entirely internalised as he lies on his side, catching his breath. << tight spaces tight spaces TIGHT SPACES INCONVENIENT >> Annnnnnnd... Peter's on fire. "HOLY /SHIT/!" he screams, in what might be... the second? Third? -- time Peter's ever cursed in his entire life. He's rolling across the floor, the flash of heat and fire having scorched his back and side; not as bad as the Goblin, as he carried /through/ with his swing, continuing to the far side of the room -- but it still caught him, rushing heat and pain up his flank. It's not as bad as he initially might have thought -- he's not /entirely/ on fire. Just his mask. Which he's now pulling, yanking off his head as he stumbles for the exit, coughing as he runs up the stairs. A glimpse -- however brief -- the Goblin might catch as he runs. Somewhere inside the Goblin's head, Norman falls -- briefly -- silent. And then, a moment later, the words come: << He's a teenager. >> And a second later: << A teenager. A TEENAGER. OSCORP WAS THREATENED BY A /TEENAGER/. A /TEENAGER/ STOLE MY TECHNOLOGY AND TURNED IT INTO A FUCKING /TOY/. >> << KILL HIM. KILL HIM. GET THE FUCK UP AND /KILL/ HIM. >> The Goblin has probably never heard Osborn /this/ angry. Not since, well, the night with Harry. "HOLD YOUR HORSES, CALM YOUR ENGINES." This was supposed to be a calming little trill inside of his head, but what can a scorched Goblin do-- he accidentally /screams/ it instead, shrill and unpleasant and just downright murderous. When his arms lower to push himself up, it becomes evident that although the clawed gashes in his face had quickly healed with relative ease, fire takes its toll. "I'VE SEEN YOUR FACE, BOY." His eyes, closed to protect them from the blast, now POP open in the midst of scorched green flesh, burning oh so brightly as he jumps to his feet and gives chase, low to the ground and with an inhumanly looking stride, almost as though he'd run just as well on all fours, but he just needs his hands to tackle the boy to the ground should he catch up. << KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL CRACK THAT SKULL OPEN >> And for once, he fully and unequivocally means to follow through on the orders in his head, teeth bared and breath rattling in anticipation. "OhcrapohcrapohCRAP," Peter begins, and then he's running, really /running/ down that passageway, up those stairs -- first on all fours, then on all twos, and then -- THWP, THWP, THWP -- he's *airborn*, rocketing down that tunnel as he pulls himself along by strand after gray strand, his mask left behind. "Why does everything in the sewers want to /KILL/ me?!" Main access tunnel, now. Peter's fast with those webshooters -- but just as he's emerging on the subway tracks, running toward the distant lights -- his left webshooter makes a sound. *SPFFFssst....* Nothing comes out as he extends his arm for the next web -- which means, instead of soaring down those tracks, he's /smashing/ into them, rolling off to the right with a cry of pain and oh SHIT, that means he's /out/ and -- He turns, twisting on his back, swinging his right arm up -- THWPING right for the pursuing monster's eyes. Somewhere down the line, a subway train rumbles -- in the distance, but not for long. The Goblin, to his credit, manages to keep up well enough to actually stand a chance at getting to kill this terrible teenager. An elated, breathy giggle reupts from him when Peter goes crashing down, and the webbing misses him by an /inch/, hitting one of his shoulders instead, in the middle of a half-successful dodge. "FOOL ME TWICE," He speaks between quickened breaths, slowing his pace, blackened arms at his side and eye on the scorched side of his face squinting in Peter's direction. "You've got a few things COOOOooomiing..." << Finish him. Finish him quickly. But save the devices on his wrists. I want to -- >> Peter's web-line now attaches to the Goblin's shoulder rather than his eyes. Peter sucks in a hard breath, eyes wide with fear -- but even as fear hits him, both his hands curl around that slender cord. Tightening into a white-knuckled grip. Behind him, the train is rumbling closer and closer. White lights paint Peter's back. It's coming in quick. But the Goblin's still got time. Still holding the webbing in his right hand, Peter's left hand descends to adjust the nozzle of his webshooter with a low click. Then... he turns his arm. Slides the end of that strand in front of the webshooter's nozzle. And shoots. THWP. Not a strand, this time. This time, it's just a large gluey *ball*. It hits the web-line and carries it -- all the way to the subway's middle-rail. Where it sticks with a dull *SPLT*. That would be the electrified one. << What's he doing? >> "WHAT'S HE DOING?!" The Goblin is NOT SURE and everyone needs to know, evidently. He picks up his pace again when Peter turns his attention to something that /isn't/ him, bracing for another full-speed sprint forward when-- when that ball hits the rail. TZZZZZzzz. There's a high-speed fall forward, tumble head-over-heels, and then an incredibly twitchy, spastic, /panicked CLAWING of the Goblin ripping his own flesh from his shoulder/ along with the webbing. Though he manages, the time he takes has its costs-- he's sizzling, quite literally, by the time he manages to unhook himself from the electified railing, and manages little more than a confused, disoriented, dragging crawl away from... what's that rumbling noise? Peter's scared, exhausted, bleeding, slightly singed, and currently hyped up on some sort of sinister MUTANT DRUG. But he's on his feet -- minus one webshooter (out of juice) and with hot white lights painting his silhouette as he stands, hopping out off the subway tracks -- down into one of the tunnels -- as that train lumbers inward. And... and... God /damn/ it, Peter. It's a moment of indecision -- just a moment -- and then he twists, spins, FIRES that webshooter out with a *THWP*, smacking the Goblin's ugly mug -- aiming for the eyes and nose -- and pulling, /hard/, down toward the tunnel, to yank the Goblin out of the way of the incoming train. Into the very tunnel Peter's diving into. And as the Goblin collapses down into it -- THWP THWP THWP THWP THWP -- Peter fires a barrage, at the Goblin's hands, legs, ankles -- anything and everything, trying to PLASTER him down to the floor. And then Peter *runs* down into the darkness, stumbling over himself, falling deeper into those shadows.