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Fandom MARVEL: By Our Sins

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snakeg0dd

snakeg0dd

living paradox
CHAPTER ONE
The Meetings

Midtown Manhattan buzzed with life, but today it hummed with something else—anticipation. The usual chaos of honking cabs and hurried feet gave way to murmurs of excitement and the more than usual flash of a press camera. Every corner of the city seemed to tilt toward the Baxter Building, drawn like iron to a magnet.

On the 6th floor, the heart of the spectacle, sunlight poured in through towering floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a chamber that felt more like a cathedral than a lab. At its center stood an obsidian-black monolith, sleek and shimmering with faint lights, pulsing with a steady beat of white-blue light—like a heartbeat. The NOVA Core. Around it, technicians in clean, minimalist uniforms moved with clockwork precision, their expressions a blend of pride and barely-contained anxiety. Above them, camera drones buzzed in lazy spirals, broadcasting the moment to every screen in the city, from Times Square to a café in Hell’s Kitchen. A stage had been constructed just opposite the machine, the podium bearing the golden sigil of the Fisk Future Foundation, flanked by shimmering banners that read:
"PROJECT NOVA: POWER OF THE FUTURE, TODAY."

Down below, the streets had transformed into a tightly organized maze of barricades and event fencing. Scientists, journalists, socialites, activists, and a growing sea of curious civilians clustered near massive LED screens that broadcast a live feed from the building above. Rooftop lounges hosted New York’s elite, who clinked glasses filled with sparkling wine and discussed “clean energy revolutions” over caviar. But beneath the surface glamor, not everyone was here for the promise of innovation.

In the crowd, eyes watched from behind mirrored sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats. Operatives from federal agencies, watchdog organizations, and shadowy underground groups moved silently, scanning for anomalies. Masked vigilantes-in-training lingered in alleyways or perched on nearby rooftops, drawn by a whisper—the NOVA Core wasn’t just clean energy.

Rumors had been circulating for weeks. Energy readings that didn’t match known patterns. Mysterious shipments at odd hours. A spike in electromagnetic frequency strong enough to interfere with satellites. And of course, the most persistent whisper: this machine could change everything. Or destroy it. At the center of it all stood Wilson Fisk, towering, composed, and smiling like a benevolent emperor. Dressed in a stark white suit that gleamed under the lights, he kept his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed—yet calculated. He watched the monolith with the quiet, knowing intensity of someone who already owned the future. Around him, bodyguards lingered like statues.

Something was going to happen today. Everyone felt it.

The temperature seemed to dip for just a second. The air shimmered, barely perceptible, like heat radiating from asphalt. A gentle hum began to vibrate beneath the soles of everyone's shoes. The crowd grew quiet.

Then came the applause—tentative at first, then rising in a tide as the countdown flickered to life on the base of the NOVA Core:

00:00:60
00:00:59
00:00:58

The future had arrived. And it was ticking.
the future, now
tagged: Hecotoro Hecotoro RikuXIII RikuXIII Verite Verite Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- Regalileo Regalileo fin fin TwoFacedTim TwoFacedTim Scatterbrain Scatterbrain Goonfire Goonfire
coded by social


Midtown Manhattan buzzed with life, but today it hummed with something else—anticipation. The usual chaos of honking cabs and hurried feet gave way to murmurs of excitement and the more than usual flash of a press camera. Every corner of the city seemed to tilt toward the Baxter Building, drawn like iron to a magnet.

On the 6th floor, the heart of the spectacle, sunlight poured in through towering floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a chamber that felt more like a cathedral than a lab. At its center stood an obsidian-black monolith, sleek and shimmering with faint lights, pulsing with a steady beat of white-blue light—like a heartbeat. The NOVA Core. Around it, technicians in clean, minimalist uniforms moved with clockwork precision, their expressions a blend of pride and barely-contained anxiety. Above them, camera drones buzzed in lazy spirals, broadcasting the moment to every screen in the city, from Times Square to a café in Hell’s Kitchen. A stage had been constructed just opposite the machine, the podium bearing the golden sigil of the Fisk Future Foundation, flanked by shimmering banners that read:
"PROJECT NOVA: POWER OF THE FUTURE, TODAY."

Down below, the streets had transformed into a tightly organized maze of barricades and event fencing. Scientists, journalists, socialites, activists, and a growing sea of curious civilians clustered near massive LED screens that broadcast a live feed from the building above. Rooftop lounges hosted New York’s elite, who clinked glasses filled with sparkling wine and discussed “clean energy revolutions” over caviar. But beneath the surface glamor, not everyone was here for the promise of innovation.

In the crowd, eyes watched from behind mirrored sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats. Operatives from federal agencies, watchdog organizations, and shadowy underground groups moved silently, scanning for anomalies. Masked vigilantes-in-training lingered in alleyways or perched on nearby rooftops, drawn by a whisper—the NOVA Core wasn’t just clean energy.

Rumors had been circulating for weeks. Energy readings that didn’t match known patterns. Mysterious shipments at odd hours. A spike in electromagnetic frequency strong enough to interfere with satellites. And of course, the most persistent whisper: this machine could change everything. Or destroy it. At the center of it all stood Wilson Fisk, towering, composed, and smiling like a benevolent emperor. Dressed in a stark white suit that gleamed under the lights, he kept his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed—yet calculated. He watched the monolith with the quiet, knowing intensity of someone who already owned the future. Around him, bodyguards lingered like statues.

Something was going to happen today. Everyone felt it.

The temperature seemed to dip for just a second. The air shimmered, barely perceptible, like heat radiating from asphalt. A gentle hum began to vibrate beneath the soles of everyone's shoes. The crowd grew quiet.

Then came the applause—tentative at first, then rising in a tide as the countdown flickered to life on the base of the NOVA Core:

00:00:60
00:00:59
00:00:58

The future had arrived. And it was ticking.
 
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matt murdock
// the devil
I
needed to confess. The poison inside me — that abyssal darkness gnawing at me a little more each day — was swallowing me whole. And if I didn’t find a way to stop it soon, to beg God for the forgiveness I wasn’t sure I deserved, then the Devil would take me.

“It’s been a while, Matthew.”


I didn’t know what to say. He was right, after all. It had been at least a month since the last time I came to confess with Father Lantom. But something dark was trying to claw its way out again. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“I know, Father. Hopefully you can forgive me.”
I was quiet. It always felt like the walls leaned in here — like God himself had His ear pressed against the wall, listening ever so carefully.

“Forgiveness isn’t the problem, Matthew,”
the pastor said, taking a pause as someone shuffled out from a pew some feet away,
“The question is: are you ready to ask for it?”


““I didn’t come here for forgiveness, Father.”


There was a pause on the other side of the screen. The kind of pause that makes you feel seen, even when no one’s looking. I exhaled through my nose. Slow. Steady. Just a few pews down, a woman was sobbing. Her heart was beating just slightly more than normal. She was distressed —no doubt. Grief, maybe. Regret? Even with the rain smearing the stained glass, nothing was muffled to me. Every echo of dripping water, every restless shift of a body in the pews — it all bled together into something louder than silence. I could smell the altar candles melting. The incense — thick, old — made my stomach turn. Sweet, cloying, holy. It made me feel nauseous. And safe. Like I was ten years old again, sitting beside my grandma and Dad… praying like it might actually change something.

“So, what troubles you then, Matthew, if not seeking forgiveness?”


I swallowed, jaw tight. My knuckles still ached. I'd wrapped them in gauze for a few hours before leaving my apartment earlier, but the sting was a reminder. Last night.

““Something’s been... building. In me. An anger. Like an unquenchable thirst, raging for the slightest drop of satisfaction. Of release. I can’t keep fighting against it, Father. This… feeling,”
I tilted my head down, my collapsible cane just sitting in my lap,
“I’m afraid. What if I can’t stop?”


Father Lantom’s breath was slow, patient, and in control. Even he could hear the crack in my voice — a break from the calm. My fingers curled around the handle of my cane. Lantom had been like a father to me since mine was taken. A quiet constant in a storm that had begun since I was just a kid. The flickering of lit incense brought me back to the now, in the confessional with Father Lantom. The smell was sweet and smothering — like trying to breathe through velvet soaked in ash.

“But what if I do?”


He didn’t answer right away. Maybe he was praying. Maybe he didn’t know how to answer. Or maybe he did — and just knew I wasn’t ready to hear it.

“The Devil tempts us in moments like this,”
he said finally, his voice low,
“when we mistake our pain for power. When we confuse surrender with strength.”


I wanted to believe him. Truly. But it wasn’t so simple.

A shiver ran up my spine. As if someone gently ran their fingers along my back. It was like a presence, one that only I could see through my world — a world on fire. I flinched. Just slightly. Lantom couldn’t see it, but I knew he felt the shift in the air. I tightened my grip on the cane.

“We all carry something, Matthew,”
he continued.
“But the cross we bear isn’t the weight of sin. It’s the choice to carry it… or let it carry us.”


“Do you think that’s what this is?”
I asked.
“A cross? Then why make me bear it?”


He didn’t answer right away.

“No,”
Father Lantom said softly.
“I think it’s a question you haven’t dared to ask yet.”
He let the silence settle before continuing.

“God’s plan — what He wants for you, for me, for all of us — is like a tapestry. A beautiful one. But the tragedy of being human is that we can only ever see it from the back. All the tangled threads. The knots. The mess. It doesn’t make sense from our side. But if we could see it the way He sees it… from the front… only then would we understand the beauty.”


He paused.

“Do you understand, Matthew?”


I didn’t know how to answer. Even thinking about agreeing made my chest tighten. I could picture the tapestry Father Lantom spoke of, visualizing each thread, each jumbled mess. Something about that tapestry was sticking with me — feeling it wrap itself around my ribs and squeeze. I wanted to believe there was beauty in it. In the pain. In the silence. In the war I kept fighting inside myself. But the more I saw it, the more knots I saw. Frayed, raw threads that never seemed to lead anywhere. My thumb traced along my cane, as if I were tracing the threads of the tapestry itself.

Outside, thunder cracked again—sharper this time. My skin reacted before the sound even reached my ears, the hairs on my arms standing on end. A flash of white fire lit up the world behind my eyes. My senses flared — sharp and sudden, like the phosphorus on the end of a match being struck.

“I want to believe you,”
I said finally. My voice was hoarse.
“I want to believe that all of this… means something. But I just don’t know.”


I could hear the soft weeping of the woman down the aisle again. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, suffocating and sacred. I shifted to rise, but Father Lantom’s voice came again — low, calm, deliberate. His heartbeat was still steady but something in the air tasted like… disappointment. Sadness. My words must’ve struck him in a way that he didn’t expect. That was more disheartening than he could’ve conjured.

“Be careful, Matthew,”
he began.
“Sometimes, when we carry these crosses of ours too long… we forget they were never meant to become weapons.”


“I’ve been carrying this cross for a long time, Father. The cuts are already deeply etched into my soul.”
I reached out, my hand found the curtain and brushed it aside. The chapel was dim no doubt, lit only by candlelight flickering against the rain-streaked stained glass and dark clouds above. My footsteps echoed softly as I walked out into the hall of the cathedral. Father Lantom was quick to follow me out.

“Matthew, wait.”


I was still holding my cane — folded — in my hand. I’d forgotten to unfold it. Not that I really needed it. I heard the rustle of his sleeve, the shift of his weight. Then his hand, warm and familiar, gently brushing my elbow.

“Let me walk you out.”


I unfolded the cane with a soft click, holding it vertical to the floor, a habit more than a necessity. I let Father Lantom guide me as he asked to. We moved slowly, our footsteps echoing in the hollow quiet of the church. Father Lantom’s hand never left my arm, even with another crack of thunder, like God clearing his throat.

“Matthew,”
he said softly,
“sometimes the bravest thing a man can do… is not fight.”


I didn’t answer. Not out of indecision this time but out of choice. I’ve always known how to throw a punch. To take it. But this time? This battle? It was different. This wasn’t just some average street-fight.

“Sometimes,”
he continued,
“the Devil we’re running from isn’t in the shadows, prowling. Sometimes he’s in the mirror. He stares at us, point-blank. And the only way to face him, to truly face him, is without throwing a punch. Christ met with the broken and the hurting, the violent and the shamed. He never turned from them—He dined with them, healed them, forgave them. I just want you to remember, Matthew: you're not unworthy because you’ve been hardened by life. You’re beloved even in your battle.”


We reached the doors. I could feel the cold from outside bleeding through the old wood.

He stopped there, his hand falling away.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”


I nodded once. Tight. Controlled. Then, without a word, I felt the warmth of Father Lantom’s body press gently into mine. My collared shirt shifted between us — silk at the back, cotton at the front. I always hated the feel of cotton; like sandpaper against my skin. Silk was smoother, easier to tolerate. Comforting, even. I could feel his heartbeat pulse just beneath the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t know if I welcomed the hug. In a way, I did. In another way, I didn’t. This was as close as I could get to God. And maybe, just maybe — it was the reassurance I’d been looking for. Like God himself was wrapping me in a warm embrace, using Father Lantom as a vessel for His will.

The hug wasn’t long. Just enough to convey the message: I’m here. I pulled away. Let the end of my cane tap against the floor. And without another word, I turned from the reverend and stepped toward the cold waiting for me on the other side of the centuries old wooden doors.

Then stepped out into the rain.

The rain began to ease up as I walked a couple blocks down from the church, softening, but the air still carried that bitter chill — the kind that sunk into the seams of your jacket, the kind that made the city feel a bit more hollow.

My coat — navy, tailored, expensive — repelled most of the water, save for a few droplets clinging to the shoulders. Beneath it, my suit stayed mostly dry. That was what mattered. The jacket could take the rain. My hair, already damp, stuck to my forehead in strands of strawberry blond. I didn’t care. Let it soak through. It was the suit I couldn’t afford to ruin — not today. I had a mock trial to prepare for, and Foggy would kill me if I showed up looking like a drowned dog.

The city murmured around me — the city that never sleeps, after all. Tires rolled over slick asphalt. Footsteps splashed through crosswalks. A distant semi let out a low, grumbling horn. The rhythmic tick of a walk signal turned over beside me.

But then there was something else. A buzz. It wasn’t electrical — not a phone, not a street lamp or a livewire. There was no source. No vibration beneath my shoes. Nothing in the air. Still, it persisted.

I tilted my head, eyebrows pulling together. Probably looked like a lunatic standing there, soaking wet, listening for something no one else could hear. I tried to isolate it, to trace it — but it was everywhere. Nowhere. It wasn’t coming from around me.

It was coming from within. And it was getting louder.

A vibration behind the left side of my jaw. A low-frequency tremor rattling along the base of my skull, threading into the curve of my inner ear. Familiar, but wrong. Like the hum of a broken fluorescent bulb in an abandoned hallway. My steps slowed.

I stopped at the corner of 49th and 9th. I could hear the opposite sound of a buzz, the real sound of electricity: a pedestrian light blinking red. My fingers tightened around my cane out of anxiety. I was still a few blocks away from the Baxter Building. There was going to be a huge clean energy reveal today from Dr. Richards and the new, clean face of New York: Wilson Fisk. I was only invited through Judge Hargraves, who had grown close to Fisk in recent months. Though I felt reluctant against this sort of thing, she did say it would mean a great deal for her if I was there, plus, it wouldn't hurt to network. I simply just had to get there.

I glanced down, bowing my head in a small prayer to end the conflict of noise.

A shallow puddle pooled at the edge of the curb. The raindrops sent little ripples spiraling outward from the center. And in it, even with my absence of vision, I saw a reflection.

Not my own.

They were eyes.

Sunken. Glowing faintly. Red, but not alive. More like embers, burning in a dying fire — eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t waver. Eyes that stared through me. Into me. I didn’t flinch, but I didn’t breathe, either.

For just a second, the world around me dulled — no more splashes, no more engines, no more rustle of fabric. Just the buzz. And the gaze of something I couldn’t name.

“God, will never forgive you, Matthew.”

  • energy.

    mood.
    "I needed to confess . . ."
    mindset
mind
set.
sett
ing.
men
tions.
radiohead. //
karma police.
 
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Logan had parked his truck off of a service road, just past the New York City limits for a few hours rest. He lay stretched out in his bunk at the back of the cab, his boots kicked off and using his jacket as a makeshift blanket, when he was awoken by a growl from Callie by his feet. Logan's eyes snapped open but he remained still. Listening, he could hear shuffling from outside, muffled voices and the scraping of tools as someone fiddled with the trailer door.

Logan sat up and slid to the end of his bunk, tugging on his boots and putting on his jacket. Callie was up too, standing stiff as he faced towards the rear of the trailer. The wolfdog gave a low, questioning whuff and Logan answered with a quiet pat to the head “Stay.” He muttered. “Let me handle it.”

He cracked the cab door and stepped out into the morning chill. Gravel crunched under his boots as he made his way to the rear of the truck. The voices were clearer now. Eastern European. Russian? Maybe Ukrainian? He caught words; gruzovik, bystro, otkroy and the unmistakable hiss of a crowbar being wedged between the door and frame. “Can I help you, boys?” Logan called out, as he rounded the back of the trailer.

The figures froze. There were three of them, all wearing dark coats. The one with the crowbar turned, revealing a shaved head and a thick beard. He squinted at Logan like he was an afterthought. “Walk away, old man.” He said. “Not your biznes.”

Logan looked past them at the trailer. “That’s my rig.” Logan said, his tone flat. “My haul. Makes it my business.”

One of the others chuckled. “You haul for Fisk Future, da? Corporate pigs don’t miss a box or dva.”

“I don’t care who it’s for.” Logan replied. “You’re not getting in that truck.” The bearded one sighed like he was already tired of the conversation and nodded his head. On cue, the youngest of them, barely older than a teenager, stepped forward, raised a pistol from under his coat and fired. The shot echoed down the roadside and Logan dropped to one knee, as blood spilled through his shirt. Inside the cab, Callie exploded into barking, claws scraping the cab’s interior as he thrashed to get out.

“Shut that mutt up.” One of them snapped. The young one turned toward the cab, his gun still raised when Logan's irritated voice cut through the chaos.

“Bad move, bub.” He muttered, as he looked at the gunman. The Russians looked back at Logan and he was back on his feet, the bullet wound already knitting itself back together in a slow, unnatural motion.

SCHUKK!

Three jagged claws of bone and metal burst from each hand and Logan took a slow step forward. “You wanna see what I do when I stop being polite?”
 
Gwen Stacy
Ghost Venom.
location.
Near the Baxter Building
"Nothing to see here."
interactions.
this scrolls! user 1, user 2, user 3, user 4, user 5, user 6
T
he crowds around the Baxter Building hummed with excitement. While there were clear paths for the honored guests, the onlooking public were confined behind fences, leading to mosh pit levels of human congestion. It was perfectly normal for a completely ordinary college student to want to be here for the monumental event going on. Probably could even use this experience for a paper. And that's why completely ordinary college student Wanda....shit!

"I haven't thought up a last name for Wanda!"
Gwen Stacy thought, a dose of embarrassment flooding her.
"I can't have another 'Gwanda' incident like yesterday."


The normally blonde Gwen with a half undercut was now sporting long black hair that she was surprised felt real to the touch. Her outfit was carefully constructed to not be too similar to her own wardrobe tastes, but also as kind of nondescript as possible so people didn't notice her. Again, they felt real to the touch. Which still blew Gwen's mind because her clothes and hair were made of goo. The strange monochromatic Nickelodeon slime monster that had saved Gwen in a jam could do some cool yet freaky shit like that. It made moving around the city without revealing who she was easier, if not for her big mouth at times.

"Hungry, Gwen."

Speaking of big mouth.

"You already ate all the pocket bacon."
Gwen hissed under her breath.
"Just stick it out a little longer, and I'll get you all the Big Macs you want."


"Hungry. Now." the symbiote whispered into its host's mind.

Gwen shivered, both from the surge of hunger coming from the gross parasite, but also in recollection. Their first time out on patrol. The guy had been just about to stab his mugging victim. Gwen had just wanted to incapacitate him. Gooey...

"You are not eating anyone."
She started to say louder then intended, but pulled it back to a whisper hopefully only Gooey would hear. It seemed to be good at hearing.
"It's because of that last guy that I gotta stay away from crowds so you don't get any funny ideas."


"Wouldn't feed on the people in the open." It mentally growled. "Not stupid. And that's not why we're at a distance."

The symbiote's last comment stung because as much as Gwen wanted to lie to herself about the reason she was a good three or four yards away from the press of people trying to get a better look at the Baxter building, Gooey was right. She was scared. Ever since her dad's death at the hands of a psycho who could make himself look like anybody, the idea of getting in crowds brought her to a near panic attack. Even with the protection Gooey gave, Gwen couldn't bring herself to get close to the throng of bodies where anyone could be a threat.

"A roof, then?"
She asked after a steadying breath.

"Roof."



 
CODE BY SEROBLISS
G
Elric


Downtown, New York.

"I still don't understand what I'm doing here." The streamer leaned her head against the glass with her phone against her ear. "I stream video games, not do these kind of social events. I don't even see how the new energy whatever effects me in any way." Her eyes watched as the crowd below on the streets gathered, celebrated and waited anxiously for the new energy source to kick in. The sight of Kinpin on the big screens all over the area and the Baxter building being the main focus, invaded the view of the building Elizabeth found herself in.

G listened to her manager on the phone. Ever since her popularity had grown, she had been expected to appear more in public. But G just wanted to stay home. Wintry hadn't even gone out anymore due to her schedule being always packed. It's not like she needed to go out there and risk her life, but it was an obligation she was neglecting. Dad would be disappointed for sure. Instead of being out there, knowing very well some shady people would take advantage of the distraction going on, she was at some party with people she didn't even know.

"Why is Sports Illustrated even interested in..." She tried to defend herself against her pushy manager, but he already knew what her complaint was going to be. For some reason, the famous sports magazine had taken an interest in video games. With Elizabeth having grown her popularity through the famous League Of Legends games and others, they wanted to include her in an upcoming issue. This meant she had to be at one of their parties. God she wanted to be home. She had a good stash too.

"Fine, but I can go once they announce the new energy thing, right? Yeah yeah, pictures so I can show up on their social media. Yes, I already met with the editor for my article, they interviewed me." G turned aroud and leaned against the cool glass, her eyes then checking out the scene in front of her. It was fake. She knew it, because she was fake too. The people dressed in their best clothes, talking and laughing as if they were really interested. She knew they were just trying to get along, to get money flowing and their reputation growing. At least the free food was good.

Elisabeth blocked out the yapping from her manager. She turned around again to look at the crowd. They were so happy. They were free. They chose to be there, they wanted to be there. Lucky. "Yeah, I'll be good." She said before hanging up and pocketing her phone. Elisabeth turned around once more, to face the party. With a deep breath she put that smile everyone loved and walked forward, taking a glass of champagne from the waiter standing by.

 
The interior of the seedy auto body shop looked like an abattoir. Five Russians lay dead beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, their bullet-riddled bodies and dropped pistols strewn across the floor without ceremony. A sixth lay gasping, his arm and ankle broken. A figure in black towered over him, clutching a smoking rifle. The skull emblem on the attacker's chest was unmistakable; Frank Castle—the Punisher—had struck again.

These guys were low on the Russian Mob's totem pole. They definitely didn't know their superiors well enough to yield valuable information, but did enough to collect a fat envelope of hundreds. It burned Frank to think there were probably a dozen more chop shops like this in the city—fingers of a powerful, faceless criminal network.

"Talk to me, Evgeny," Frank started, the surviving Russian recoiling at the sound of his own name. "You're receiving stolen cars at this little chop shop, but what are the goods in back? The boxes labeled 'Fisk'."

"I know nothing about them, mudak," Evgeny insisted through gritted teeth. "I just hold them here—AAAAHHH!" His answer ended with a combat boot stomping down on his twisted, busted ankle.

"You run this place and you don't know more?" Frank criticized before sliding him headfirst under a Volvo held up by a jack. "Tell me who and where." With that, he pointed the gun at the jack.

Evgeny scrambled to speak again, incoherent noises escaping first. "I—I have... muzhchiny—GYAAAH!"

Another stomp. "English."

"Aghhh... MEN! I have... men... who take from trucks outside of city..."

"That's better." Frank's stern expression was inscrutable as he leaned closer. "Tell me, Evgeny... You like game shows?" His piercing blue eyes flickered towards the miraculously unharmed television, which blared reruns of Family Feud.

"What...?"

The Sicilian flicked the fire selector to 'SEMI'. "Time for the speed round. Talk fast, and don't even try to lie. How many men?"

"Ah...! Three!"

"Where?"

"Service roads, by New Rochelle."

"What are they driving?"

"Black Mitsubishi... SUV."

"Pajero?"

"D-Da... Pajero."

"And who should I be looking for?"

"Uh... Shaved head... Big beard. Looks... tough."

Frank paused. "I'll be the judge of that." Satisfied, he rose. "You swept the speed round, Evgeny. Oh look, you even won a Volvo."

"Wh... N-nyet...!"

BLAM!

The jack collapsed, the car dropped... and that was the end of Evgeny.

———

Frank stepped out into the alley behind the chop shop. In one hand, he had the money envelope. In the other, a can of gasoline, its contents pouring in a trail. Frank climbed into his waiting GTO and cast the envelope into the passenger seat. Taking one look back, he dropped the can and pulled a book of matches from his coat pocket. He struck one match, flicked it into the gas, and sped off as the flames raced into the building.


The armored Pontiac's engine roared as he zoomed across the bridge out of the Bronx. Frank wove from street to street, avoiding the police's gaze as he searched for his targets. He patrolled the roads for nearly an hour until he found a curious service road. There was a truck parked off the road, several hundred feet down.

Frank pulled onto the shoulder, then raised a pair of binoculars to get a closer look. Off to the side, nearly in the bushes, was a black Pajero, big enough to fit a shipping box... or 'dva'. Panning up the road, he spotted three figures confronting someone else... an old man, by the looks of it. One of the trio seemed young—probably a recent addition, but still likely an addition to the problem. One also had a shaved head and a beard. Bingo.

Before he could shift gears and turn the car, there was a flash and the old trucker dropped.

"Shit..." Frank hammered the gas pedal, tires screeching. It took only seconds to close the gap, and the next thing one saw was the glint of a pistol through the open driver's-side window as Frank skidded ninety degrees to open fire with practiced precision. He took care to not hit the rising, enraged stranger or his truck.

Scatterbrain Scatterbrain
 
The third Russian staggered back, blood erupting from his chest as Frank's shot tore into it. The young one panicked as he saw his compatriot crumple to the ground in a heap. “Chyort!” he yelped, spinning toward the car and firing rounds from his pistol as fast as his trembling finger could pull the trigger.

Logan didn’t even blink at the chaos around him. The heat of the bullet hole in his side had cooled slightly into something more bearable, the wound steadily sealing itself shut. He had bigger problems. The bearded Russian, the one who’d tried to crack open his trailer, was still standing, crowbar in hand, ready to murder Logan with it. “You should’ve run.” Logan muttered under his breath. The man roared and charged, swinging the steel bar like a baseball bat.

CLANG!

The crowbar collided with Logan’s skull and his head snapped to the side with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed from the gash and splattered across the gravel but the sound that rang out wasn’t flesh meeting metal... it was metal meeting metal. The Russian staggered backward, howling in pain. The impact had rebounded straight up his arms, shaking his bones like a jackhammer. The crowbar dropped from his fingers with a dull clatter and he looked at Logan in disbelief.

Logan slowly turned his head back, his neck cracking as he realigned it. The wound still bled, trailing down his cheek and dripping off his chin, but the skin was already knitting itself back together. He wiped the blood from his eye with the back of his hand.

“Chto-Chto ty?” The bearded Russian asked, bewildered.

"I'm Canadian."

Goonfire Goonfire
 
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Valentine could feel the flames threatening to consume her whole, as she watched as they engulfed the building. The brightness of the flames easily overpowered the red and blue lights from the police cars and fire trucks parked out front surrounding the area. A firefighter rushed by her trying to get in, check for civilians and all that, while nearby officers interrogated any civilians who were close to the scene of the crime. No one knew the fully understood what had gone down inside the Chop Shop. Civilians reported gunshots, and by the time they arrived, whoever was there torched their evidence. However, according to forensics the bodies the firefighters recovered so far appeared to die from a bullet would rather than the burns or smoke inhalation. The whole thing almost reminded her of . . .

No, she thought as she shook her head, We have a job to do, can't go reliving the past. Its way too early for trauma

Val took another sip of her coffee as she took in the scene, eyes flitting across different details in an attempt to avoid looking at the fire. Until she, accidentally, made eye contact with her boss. She tried to play it off, quickly looking away, trying to ignore him but it was too late, she could feel his approach. She braced herself mentally as she turned towards her boss.

"Chief, what can I do for ya" She asked with a fake smile plastered on. The chief always came to her when it came to tedious assignments that was typically unwanted and considered a waste of time. It made sense why he always singled her out, she rarely, if ever, complained about the work, or ever vocalized her frustrations.

"A civilian got plate number from a car leaving the scene, ASM-129, last seen over entering a service road, I'll send the address." He let out a sigh before continuing "I'm gonna be real, guys probably not our perp - I mean a Volvo, really? - but its one of those things we need to confirm. If it is however, you call for backup immediately. You're technically a detective not a cop but you understand why we need you to this right?" hinted the chief, implying that she was the only one he could ask without backtalk or a complaint. Still, she nodded and smiled forcefully, as she assured him "No worries chief, I'll get right on it". She strode back to her car, resisting the temptation to flip off her boss


The radio on blast as she turned onto a seedy looking service road. Val glanced at her phone, reciting the license plate number as she scanned the road for the car. She immediately took note of the fresh screech marks on the road, the Pontiac that was here must've been in a rush. Though she remembered the chief mentioning the Pontiac likely wasn't the perpetrator, she still was wary as she slowly continued down the road.

Until she caught site of the truck. Then the people. Then the noise. It looked like+- a fight had broken out, she could see blood trailing towards a couple of dead bodies. All she could do was watch as a man with crowbar raised his weapon over an elderly man and then . . . wait that metal? Was he getting back up? She reached for her radio for a couple seconds, before realizing it wasn't in her usual spot. She ransacked the front seat, heart sinking as she realized her radio wasn't there. She picked up her phone and immediately called the chief before realizing most everyone including chief had their phone shut off while on duty as it went to voicemail. Ok think. . . she couldn't return empty handed, and no one would believe her unless she had some kind of evidence.

Hesitantly, she picked up her phone, opening the camera, and zooming in. She was at far enough distance where it simply looked like she had pulled over, but close enough to capture video footage of the elderly strongman. She hit record, as she tried her best to capture her own evidence the scuffle going down in front of her and prayed they didn't see her

Scatterbrain Scatterbrain Goonfire Goonfire
 
The young punk was spry, springing out of harm's way. Thankfully, he wasn't calm enough to hit the broad side of a barn. Frank dropped his seat back to avoid the returned fire. The kid thought he was a thug, but Frank knew what he was: a scared little prick, slapping the trigger on a cheap surplus Tokarev. The easiest prey.

Once Frank counted eight shots, he sat up and promptly presented the business end of a shotgun. He didn't hesitate.

Chk-chk... BOOM!

Nine lead pellets spewed forth, seeking to perforate their mark.

Finally, there was the bearded 'tough guy', reeling from his own attack. His crowbar had clattered to the ground, the clawed stranger barely fazed after a blow that would've killed a lesser man. Frank cycled his shotgun, though the situation was well under control, by the looks of it. He also hadn't noticed the spy filming them from afar just yet.

Scatterbrain Scatterbrain TwoFacedTim TwoFacedTim
 
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matt murdock
// the devil
T
he Baxter building was just a few short blocks away by now. Though I could still feel the "demon" inside me try to sway me, try to break down the barrier I constructed to prevent it from seeping into the real world, it felt like only a matter of time.
Sometimes the bravest thing a man can do is not fight.
"How pathetic."
The demon — devil —would whisper back, over and over. It's voice was clear, even through the thousand different sounds, smells, and sensations thick in the air that I could feel. A charming city: New York City.

I continued to tap my cane with rhythm on the cracked sidewalks, guiding me past the scent of wet trash and hot oil. A couple was arguing across the street — a car horn blared — but it all blurred into static. White noise. I didn’t need to listen. The city’s voice was always the same. Angry. Desperate. Loud. In a way, it was the amplifier to my own darker half — the devil that lived in me.

I kept moving forwards. Step after step. Until I didn’t. The Baxter Building towered ahead, I could feel the glass and steel carved into the skyline like it was trying to outrun the clouds. The crowd, much like everything else in Manhattan, thickened the closer I got — cameras flashing, voices overlapping, someone shouting about innovation, someone else about corruption, news reporters talking over one another, it was all one big cacophony of sensations that I came to be able to sift through after so long. I tuned most of it out. Noise is just noise until it isn’t.

Something caught my attention though. Not a sound but a smell.

I slowed, breath catching on something strange. Muddy water. Gasoline. A smear of glue. And… wood? Not the clean kind you get in furniture stores but almost like the type of wood you could find in Central Park. This was . . . splintered, raw. Warped by damp air and time. Sweaty wood? There was tinge of sweetness to it too.

It didn’t belong in the heart of Manhattan, let alone New York City.

I turned my head slowly, following the scent the way someone might chase the thread of a half-remembered dream. It tugged me across the street, up — my senses trailing to a rooftop tucked beneath a rusted billboard.

That’s when I heard a voice. Soft, young. A lady. She wasn’t talking to anyone but herself.
“Odd"


I won't lie, it wasn't entirely easy having to hone in on a lone conversation a good couple hundred feet or so away, with all the traffic and bustle of New York socialite life standing next to me and then some, but there was a name I could pick out from all of the commotion:
“Wanda,”


That name meant something. Maybe someone at the event? A sniper, a saboteur, some sort of codename even? It cracked open a space in the back of my mind, where warnings live. Where the devil liked to roam.

Then—
“Mr. Murdock.”


The all too recognizable voice — firm, grounded — cut through the haze. It pulled me back like a hand on the collar.

I turned slightly. The scent hit me before anything else — tailored wool, coffee with too much sugar, and the faint metallic tang of a courtroom pen. Judge Hargraves. Always smelled like power dressed up to be casual.

“I didn’t think you’d come through the front,”
she said, his tone not unkind, but heavy with expectation.
“They’re about to start upstairs.”


I could feel her arm brush through the air, her finger pointing to the sixth floor. She was right. I could hear the machine inside hum to life. The voice of Dr. Richards over a microphone announcing this achievement and spewing with excitement. It was only a matter of time before the machine buzzed to life now, and thankfully the storm was letting up too.

I flashed a grin at my mentor, adjusting my cane like it was an accessory.

“Had to stop at church,”
I said with a shrug.
“You know, just checking in... with God. Maybe getting a little extra credit.”


My ears were still trained on the rooftop. The woman was still nearby. Still whispering to herself. Maybe she was security?

Wanda.


The air around me seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the city, the distant hum of traffic and chatter, but it felt hollow—like I was hearing everything from a distance. My mind was locked on her, that whispering, like a constant pull in my gut.

“Do you—”
I hesitated, then cleared my throat.
“Do you ever get the sense that something’s just… wrong? Like something's about to happen, but you can't see it coming?”
I asked, letting Judge Hargraves guide me towards the entrance, her hand in mine.

She stopped just a step ahead of me, eyes flicking toward the glass doors before us, her unoccupied hand lingering on the handle.
“I’ve had my share of premonitions,”
she said, half-smiling but her gaze never wavering.
“But not like the looks of yours. You look like you’re waiting for a storm. Worse than what we've been having too.”


I didn’t answer. How could I explain that the storm wasn’t on the horizon—it was here already, buried somewhere amidst the layers of concrete and steel. Something was out of place in the world, something in the air.

And that name—Wanda—felt like it had been branded in my head, echoing louder with each passing second.

"Matthew?"
Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it now. Concern, maybe. Or curiosity.
"You okay?"


"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine."
I offered a sincere, reassuring smile.

But one thing I knew for sure was that Wanda wasn’t just a name. She was something much bigger. Something I felt unready for.

“Let's go see the world change,”
I finally chimed, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
“Hopefully I can save a couple bucks on using the dishwasher now.”
And we pressed inwards, to the sixth floor.
  • energy.

    mood.
    "I could still feel the demon inside,"
    mindset
mind
set.
sett
ing.
men
tions.
radiohead. //
karma police.
 

Lin Lie, The Immortal Iron Fist

1745297152393.png​
For better and for worse, Chinatown tended to keep to itself under usual circumstances. Minded its own business. But things were different tonight. These were not usual circumstances.

It was almost eerie how quiet Chinatown was right now, compared to how it usually was, so lively and bustling. So full of energy, sometimes to a suffocating point. Lin Lie was almost grateful for the silence, the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts and collect himself for just a little bit, but he knew sooner or later, he'd have to go see what all the commotion was for himself. All the excitable youths in Chinatown and the rest of Lower Manhattan had no doubt gathered up in Midtown, dragging their tired mothers and fathers, their uncles and aunts, to stare expectantly at the Baxter Building, waiting for whatever was going to happen there. Something about a NOVA Core, whatever that was. Lin Lie didn't exactly pay too much attention to the tech side of news, but even he knew thereabouts the implications of the promise of clean energy. He also knew that if things sounded too good to be true, they usually were. Matters like these weren't really supposed to be his wheelhouse, but well, he couldn't deny he wasn't a little curious. Especially with all the murmurs he'd heard concerning dear Mister Fisk.

As his thoughts drifted to the source of the excitement within the city, his hand idly moved to caress the jade pendant around his neck, a perpetual reminder of the mission he had been entrusted with upon leaving his second home. The place that was simultaneously his salvation and a dreary cloud over his head, the place that saved him and also cemented that he would never wholly, truly be at home anywhere. Not there, and not here. But all that was less important than the mission. The mission that had given him purpose, and also to an extent, clarity. A clear and direct path, but also the freedom to take a few detours along the way as needed. Lin Lie may have been looking for something specific, but if he just so happened to stumble into something else of interest along the way, then who was he to turn a blind eye to it.

If nothing else, he shouldn't ever pass up the chance to build up as much good karma as he could so that he didn't reincarnate as a dog or something. Whatever enlightenment was supposed to look like, he definitely wasn't going to find it in this life. He'd resigned himself to that fact a long time ago.

Lin Lie had been perched atop a low rooftop, brooding and pretending it was meditation for some time now, but he had been stirred out of his reverie when he saw a peculiar movement at the corner of his eye down at ground level. With a blink, his gaze shifted down to catch three figures walking with shifty steps toward the backdoor to Uncle Po's BBQ. They were all dressed in black, no doubt with the intent of hiding in the shadows, but with Chinatown's walls being painted with various shades of red, gold, and other bright colors, their clothes only made them stand out that much more. The way they uneasily looked around, clearly aware that they were about to do something they shouldn't, it didn't take a detective to deduce what was going on here.

An establishment like Uncle Po's, and many others in Chinatown, only accepted cash for their services, for various purposes that everyone agreed not to speak of. No doubt the Po himself closed up early, dragged away in a rush to go stand outside the Baxter Building, but with full intent to come back later to collect his earnings for the day before heading home. In other words, between now and then, that cash in his register was completely unattended to, protected only by a few locked doors.

While the three hoodlums stood outside the backdoor to Po's, Lin Lie slinked down from the rooftop while hardly making a noise, lithe and flexible like a cat. One of them knelt before the door, attempting to pick the lock, so it was his two friends standing on the lookout who spotted Lin Lie when the young man stepped out of the nearby alleyway into plain sight. Their eyes widened in surprise like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, before shifting into hardened gazes toward him, their scowls and sneers evident even despite the face masks obscuring the bottom half of their faces.

"What are you lookin' at?" One of them said, the thinly veiled threat purposefully evident.

Lin Lie, nonplussed, merely gave a shrug. "Nothing much from the look of it," he replied, before narrowing his eyes as he spoke again. "Listen, let's cut to the chase. Just step away from that door, go home, and think about how to turn your lives around before you get yourself into real trouble. No one has to get hurt here."

"Blow me, fuckface," the man verbosely responded, flipping him off.

Lin Lie sighed with a shake of his head, as though genuniely disappointed by that answer. "I'm really trying to give you a chance here. I don't want to have to hurt you," he earnestly said, though he was glibly aware of the likelihood that he just sounded condescending.

"No, you're the one who should be scared of fucking with me. I know Krav Maga, dude. I'm like a living weapon!" The thug said pridefully, to an utter lack of fanfare.

Shaking his head with a sigh, Lin Lie looked tiredly at him. "Krav Maga? Do I look like a toddler to you, man?" He said, not in an inflection like he was trying to quip, but more like he was genuinely exasperated by the display. Still, "Living Weapon," huh? He'd have to remember that one next time.

With the time for words apparently passed, the hoodlum charged forward at Lin Lie with a clearly telegraphed throat strike, but without even having to get into stance, Lin Lie swiftly sidestepped and gave him a backhanded slap with such force, the man let out a surprisingly childish gasp as he staggered to the side, disoriented by the surprising force behind it. The second thug, less willing to play fair, pulled out a pocket knife and lunged after Lin Lie. As their eyes locked, that was when the young man got into stance, and as the thug moved to stab him, his lunge was intercepted as Lin Lie sidestepped again, before swiftly grabbing the other man's wrist and performing an Aikido throw. In a flash, the man suddenly found the wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground, his hand suddenly missing the knife he had just brandished, until everything went black as Lin Lie brought his foot down on his head.

The third cronie, who had long since ceased trying to pick the backdoor to the building, gazed upon him with fear. "Who the hell is this guy?!" He exclaimed rhetorically, while the first finally recovered from the ancient Chinese technique of the bitchslap.

"Dead is who he's gonna be!" The man exclaimed angrily, gathering his bearings again before moving to throw a punch aimed squarely at the bridge of Lin Lie's nose, followed by a kick aimed at his groin, yet both attacks were expertly blocked by the martial artist's arm, moving up to protect his face before just as quickly craning downward to push the kick down, before mounting a counterattack of his own.

Yi, Lin Lie thought as he threw a backfisted punch toward the man's face, like a viper lunging forward to strike before retreating back to its original position. Er, he thought as he threw another of the same kind of punch, aimed at the man's stomach this time, causing him to keel forward. And then -- San -- Lin Lie threw a roundhouse kick square in the man's face, putting him down into the ground more definitively this time.

As the third and final thug watched with eyes agape at what his buddies had been reduced to, the fight left his body before it even began. Overcome by horror, the man made a beeline away from the door, leaving his downed friends to fend for themselves, abandoning them to their fate, and presumably abandoning his ambitions of quick cash, at least for the night. With a breath, Lin Lie couldn't help but give a bemused smile as he looked down at the two unconscious men at his feet.

"Huh. Whatever happened to honor among thieves?" He sighed. Too bad he couldn't just web up these guys, but he was sure he could scrounge something up to tie them with in the meantime.

He could already feel it in the air. This was just the beginning of what was going to be a long night. This was barely even the preamble.
 












LUKE CAGE
































power








man




















♡coded by uxie♡








LUKE CAGE​




The ID badge said CAGE—just that. It was as if the name itself was still trying to fit into something palatable.


The uniform was standard-issue navy—plain, boxy, forgettable—but Luke felt it clinging to his skin like it knew better. He shifted his weight, the fabric pulling tight across his shoulders with every breath. He didn’t belong here. Not in this building. Not in this city’s shining new future. Aristocrats and pencil pushers, socialites and celebrities. This wasn't the spot for people like him. Folks back home had no idea what a NOVA Core even was; NOVA Core wudn't going to pay any bills. What the fuck NOVA have to do with the 'hood?


But he stayed.


He had told himself it was a one-time thing. A favour for a contact who owed him, who whispered about construction gigs and extra cash. “Simple muscle for a launch event,” the guy had said. “Just stand around and look big. No questions asked.”


Luke had questions. A whole damn scroll of them.


The minute he saw Fisk’s name on the security manifest, he should’ve walked. But something had clawed at the back of his mind, something colder than instinct, heavier than suspicion. It wasn’t just the name. It was the frequency.


That building hum was subtle but constant. Beneath the marble floors, behind the polished chrome walls of the Baxter Building, something pulsed in a steady rhythm. It vibrated up through the soles of his boots and into his bones. It was not loud, not obvious, but familiar.


Too familiar.


That pulse was like the low thrum of the machines from Riker’s secret wing. He remembered the way it echoed inside his skull—dull, mechanical, living. The way it grew louder every time they strapped him to cold steel and whispered about “progress.” The memory had been buried deep, locked behind the muscle and the scars. But now, it was clawing its way back, beat by beat.


Whumm.
Whumm.
Whumm.


The same rhythm as the machines that changed him.


He rubbed his thumb against his palm, grounding himself, knuckles flexing as he glanced around the lounge. A champagne glass clinked nearby. Laughter rose in waves from clusters of influencers and politicians too drunk to notice the tension in the air. Luke saw everything. That hadn’t changed.


And then he saw them.


Two of the scientists moving through the upper catwalk, hovering near the core’s observation deck. They were hard to recognize without their white coats, but those aged faces and postures were too familiar to be a coincidence. They didn’t see him. But he saw them.


One of them—Dr. Mercer—had stood over him during the early stages of the Riker’s experiments. Not with cruelty, but with sterile detachment. The kind that cut deeper. Like Luke had never been a man, just a specimen.


His jaw tightened.


So this was it. Nova. The same science, a new name, new funding, new polish. But he could smell it—beneath the gleam and the suits and the curated press releases, it was the same beast. The same hunger. And now, it was out in the open.


He’d come to Harlem to protect them from it. Now it had followed him here.


He crossed the lounge slowly, eyes scanning every exit, every suspicious face. His hand brushed the chain tucked beneath his jacket, cold against his skin. A reminder of the last cage he broke out of. He had to control himself, breathing heavily as if his oxygen intake could put out the fire within him. It did not.


And then—motion.


A young woman in heels, moving through the crowd with the air of someone halfway out the door. She had lavender hair, shoulders too tense for the smile she wore, and a glass of champagne dangling between two fingers like she wanted to drop it on purpose. She didn’t belong here either. That much, Luke could tell.


She didn’t see the guy turning. Didn’t see the elbow coming.


Luke moved fast.


The glass slipped, arced mid-air.


His hand shot out, catching the stem just before it could shatter on the marble. Smooth. No splash. The kind of movement no one noticed—except her.


He held it out.

He recognized sharp, tired eyes behind the kind of practiced smile he recognized in himself. A face built for cameras but carved by something real underneath.


“You good?” he asked, voice low, steady.


His gaze drifted briefly past her, back to the monolith visible through the glass wall beyond. That pulse again. Whumm.


He could feel the countdown approaching. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know if he was here to protect Harlem—or if he was already too late. There was a quiver in his expression then.


"Try not to throw any more champagne," he said dryly. He tried to joke, to sound sincere amidst his disturbed thoughts. Unconvincing would be an understatement. Luke tucked the glass into her hand like it weighed nothing.

***

Hecotoro Hecotoro G at the Baxter Building.​

 
CODE BY SEROBLISS
G
Elric


Downtown, New York.

Nobody would notice. She was talking to nobody, just smiling and posing for pictures and then they would go on their way. There was going to be more than enough evidence that she had been there. It was time to slip out, before everyone got more wild, before the guards started to turn a blind eye to what these rich people started doing under the table. The streamer moved between the fancy dresses, the slick tuxedos, the expensive food and drinks, until some asshole decided to get in her way.

G felt her glass fall from her hand. She was ready to hear it hit the floor and call unwanted attention to her, but no sound. No glass shattering. It took her a second to process what happened in that quick second, but a guard had managed to catch her drink without any flaw. It was impressive. Probably the most interesting thing she had seen all night. Which was a bit sad. Still, Elizabeth couldn't help but actually smile at the action, for a split second. Then she remembered who she was and that persona took over.

"Nice catch. I hope they're paying you well." She watched as he put the glass back into her hand before catching a glimpse of his face. For some reason, it just came out. She didn't plan it, like instinct. "It's going to be okay."

Once again that unpracticed smile came out and then it was pushed back down once more. She shook her head. "The champagne situation, I had enough. You don't have to worry... about the champagne." Why was she trying to explain herself? She didn't drink that much, did she? "Sorry, it's been a long day." Why was she talking to the guard?! "Said the girl drinking in fancy clothes at a party you're working at. Your day has probably been longer, since your people work more." What?! "Like, guards, not the other thing. That has nothing to do with it, I mean, I'm Asian, we had it rough too..." She was sinking fast. "Anyways, nice reflexes, thanks for saving my drink mister... Cage." She read the name tag. "Keep up the good work, I guess." She gave him a thumps up and walked away, rolling her eyes at herself. She didn't look back, she didn't want to see that person ever again. She walked straight to the exit, ignoring the guard opening the door for her.

G turned towards the elevator down the hall. That was her ticket to freedom, to go home, boot that pc on and just play until she passed out. But then she stopped, took a long breath and then realized, there was another option. She put her hand into her coat pocket and felt the small rolled up joint she had crafted earlier. Smoking in her room to go to sleep or just ignore her responsibilites was one thing, but doing it in the open air? The night was cool, with a party going on all around her. Nobody would notice.

Elizabeth felt that problematic smile that peaked out every now and then. She walked towards the elevator, feeling fresh and smart. The doors opened to welcome her in, the low elevator music filling the small room as G leaned against the glass walls before pressing the button for the bottom floor. To think she would have the elevator to herself. She reached into another of her pockets, feeling the small smooth round case that held her earphones. A quick moment later and she had them in her ears, with a sigh of pleasure as her music came to life into her head.

Welcome to My Life, Simple Plan.

The elevator did it's job while the streamer swayed and sang her heart out. The only people watching her were the ones keeping track of the security, but it wasn't like she wasn't used to being recorded. As soon as she her the familiar DING! She composed herself imidiately. She stepped out of the small paradise she had created, gave a smile and nod to the people passing by, including some blind guy, and walked as fast as she could out the door.

Nobody would notice. She was walking quickly across the street, dodging people, ignoring the bumps, the noise, the screaming. She knew an uber was going to take ages to get there, if they could even get into the streets. She was not in the mood to walk home, not in those damn heels. The best option was to find a spot for herself, somewhere alone. She stopped as soon as she got on the sidewalk and looked up, perfect. It was an expensive hotel, yes, probably completely booked, but she knew how to get around.

G walked up to the guard, a smile on her face, that money smile. "Hi, I know I'm running late. I forgot my invitation but you know who I am, right?" She stood there, trying to look innocent while the guard squinted his eyes. There was going to be an opening, there was always an opening.

"Oh my gawd, that's G!" Some random person called out, quickly moving towards her location, followed by a small group of about five.

"Please don't leave me outside with fans right now. I'm super late." She pleaded the guard.

Just like that, she was inside. Nobody would notice. She fit right into the taste of the hotel, everyone was busy looking at the Baxter building, she didn't exist and she loved it! G moved through the hotel as if it was hers. The elevator became her small karaoke once more while it took her to the top floor. From there, she walked up the stairs while she put her headphones away. She opened the exit to the rooftop and there it was, nobody.

"Finally." She whispered to herself while moving across the roof. G reached into her pocket and pulled that small bundle of joy she had been saving. The cold air making her feel more alive than she probably was. The party going on in the bright building in front of her and in the streets under her, seemed to ignore her bubble completely. Finally, peace.

G stepped on to the edge of the roof, her eyes looking down at the waves of people. She put the joint to her lips, smiling like god intended to and not how her Instagram followers wanted. She reached into her pocket for her lighter. Wrong pocket. She reached into her other pocket for her lighter. Must be in her purse. She reached into her purse for her lighter. No. No, no no nononoNO! No lighter.

G felt her mood crash into the streets under her, dead. She forgot to bring a damn lighter. She removed the joint from her lips, clenched her fists and looked up at the sky. "FUCK!" She just wanted one moment to herself and instead she was yelling at the night. "Just one fucking thing! Just ONE! Fuck!"

Elizabeth felt the wind pushing against her back, like if trying to end her suffering then and there. But she was too stubborn to log out on a loss. All she could do was take another big breath and scream, a scream that nobody would notice.

Interaction: fin fin
Mention: snakeg0dd snakeg0dd

 
The shotgun blast tore through the space where the kid had been standing and screams echoed into the trees as he fell to the ground. The bearded Russian’s eyes were wild now. It had all gone so wrong, so quickly, he was no longer thinking straight. He raced toward the truck's cab in a desperate attempt to get away, slipping once on the blood-slick gravel before reaching it. Yanking the driver-side door open, Callie came flying out with a savage snarl, knocking him backwards. The Russian screamed, arms flailing, trying to shove the beast off as jaws clamped down on his shoulder and tore both fabric and skin.

“Callie!” Logan called out, as he slowly walked up to the cab. The wolfdog held for a moment or two before finally releasing his grip with a growl. He hopped off the Russian and stood beside Logan, while the whimpering Russian lay slumped in the dirt. Logan stood over him, menacingly, the sun catching the sheen of the claws still extended from both fists. “You started this, bub...” He growled. "Now it's about time I finished it."

The man looked up at him through one swollen eye, too afraid to speak but too proud to beg. Logan raised one clawed hand, prepared to strike, but then paused. Directed by his senses, he glanced around briefly before his eyes settled on something further down the road; a car sitting in the shadow of some trees. His eyes narrowed for a moment and he gave it a long hard stare.

SCHLUKK!

Logan claws slid back into his hands and he slammed his fist into the Russian’s face, knocking him out cold. “Should’ve stayed in bed.” Logan muttered, as he leaned against his truck, holding his side, and took a few steady breathes.

Goonfire Goonfire TwoFacedTim TwoFacedTim
 
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Gwen Stacy
Ghost Venom.
location.
Hotel Roof
"What could go wrong?"
interactions.
this scrolls! Hecotoro Hecotoro , user 2, user 3, user 4, user 5, user 6
A
fter a brief survey of the buildings around the Baxter Building, Gwen decided on the hotel next door for her vantage point. She still wasn't 100% exactly what was bothering her about this NOVA Core thing. Yeah, something this high profile was a big target for this new class of criminal this age of vigilantes was bringing with them. She could remember her dad's reaction to some old dude with mechanical wings robbing an armored truck. Crazy people got crazy tech or powers, and...well, went crazy. Even Gooey seemed curious about this. It seemed to view things in a "threat or food" lens, so must want to see what NOVA was all about.

"So, think this NOVA gizmo can get you home?"
Gwen Stacy asked, once again trying to get anything out of Gooey as to its past.

"Don't know, don't care." It replied in her head. "Have everything that is needed."

Gwen made a face at that as she rounded an alleyway, heading towards the hotel. She strongly suspected she was included in that everything and rather resented that implication. Though, with out her new "partner", how she would ever be able to take down Chameleon was beyond her. No, she needed Gooey, so she just had to put up with it. For now.

As she got on Madison Ave, Gwen saw the people outside the Hotel who looked like extra security. A few people in fancy get ups being waved in confirmed the suspicion that there was probably a party going on in one of the upper floors. Down side was that meant slipping in as a guest or friend of a guest was probably gonna be harder than usual. Up side was that meant there was likely extra caterers around. An extra face around them could get her going. Circling around to the back of the hotel, Gwen caught sight of some dark suited caterers pulling in extra cases of drinks from a truck. Perfect. All she had to do was duck in this alcove and let Gooey do its thing.

"Think you can-?"
Gwen prompted, but didn't get to finish.

The outfit she had been wearing shifted and contorted for a moment, going from solid looking clothes to its black and white slime self. While she was getting use to it, Gwen was still a little freaked out about the transformation. But, it was over in a second and she was left in a suit like the caterers were wearing. Now, to get in. She watched for a moment for a lull before she joined the ranks of servers, grabbing a case of beers and lugging it inside the hotel kitchens. A guy with a clipboard stopped her with a suspicious look on his face.

"Who are you?"
He demanded, exasperation in his voice.
"You better be the help Donny said he was sending."


"Of course I am."
Gwen replied, her natural anxiety in this situation making her put upon tone more convincing.
"I'm Wanda. Look, can this wait until after I put this case down, my arms are killing me."


The clearly overwhelmed door checker waved her away as more servers piled up behind her. He called after her to come back to properly clock in when she had finished. Yeah, like she was going to do that. As soon as she put the case of booze with the others, she headed deeper into the kitchen, passing cooks working furiously on hors d'oeuvres for the party. The smell of food sent shivers through Gooey, and warning bells in Gwen's head. It wasn't going to much more patient with her this close to food. As she passed through, she found where trays had been set up to be taken upstairs. She grabbed one as she moved past it and out of the kitchen. While there was a service elevator, that wasn't what Gwen wanted. Making sure she wasn't obeserved, she entered the stairwell. After a moment to move to a camera blind spot, she tilted the tray as if to dump the contents on herself. A mouth filled with sharp teeth and a writhing tongue formed out of her clothes. It caught and devoured all thr dropping hor d'oeuvres, toothpicks and all.

"There, happy?"
Gwen whispered as she leaned the serving tray against the wall.

"It's a start." The Symbiote responded.

With Gooey's mouth disappeared, Gwen started climbing the stairs, heading for the roof. Normally, the idea of climbing up some many stairs would have been tiring, but Gooey helped her make it up at speed and not out of breath. It would likely demand more fries for this, but worth it. When she made it to roof access, she opened the door slowly to take a look around. Seemed clear, and the view of the Baxter bulding was great. Just needed to see if Gooey could do camoflague for an urban roof top and she was golden.

She was just closing the door when an F-Bomb shattered the claming quite of the roof.

"Just one fucking thing! Just ONE! Fuck!"

Gwen looked around wildly, to an outsider looking like a kid getting caught trying to sneak out of their house on a school night. She spotted someone standing on the edge of the roof. From the outfit, maybe a guest to the party down stairs. Gwen figured if she could just ease to the door and get it open silently, she could just leave-

The woman screamed, but not at Gwen. Concern about her own discovery fogotten, the fake server moved foward in case this woman was having suicidal thoughts.

"Hey, you okay?"
Gwen asked, trying to sound soothing and more composed than she actually felt right now.
"Maybe you'd like to step away from the edge and we can talk about it?"




 
CODE BY SEROBLISS
G
Elric


Downtown, New York.

"Of course I'm not fucking okay." Elizabeth said, taking a second to realize she was replying to someone who wasn't her inner voice. She swalloed the tears building up and quickly turned to see a waitress? Why on earth was she up here? No way did any of them get any breaks during the peak moment of the event. "I mean-" G came back, that practiced smile that pays her bills. "It's not what it looks like, don't worry."

The streamer looked down at her feet and the edge. The people at the bottom not knowing she was standing above them. She looked at the blunt in her fingers and sighed. "Yeah this looks very suspicious. You have a lighter? I'll get off if you have a lighter." She held up the joint. "Please don't tell anyone? Just wanted to blow off some steam. I swear. I'll take a selfie with you if you want or whatever, I just need a break."

G jumped off the ledge, landing well on her heels. "Better? I'll just smoke this and be on my way, nobody will ever know I was here. Cross my heart." It sucked sometimes, to be at the mercy of some stranger, but she didn't see any bad intentions on this girl. Usually, after meeting so many people, you learn to get feels or vibes on some of them. This one actually looked concerned, it was odd. The only person to every worry about G was her mother. Not even her manager cared as long as she brought in the numbers. "We could even share it, if you want?"

It was a long shot, but maybe talking to someone who wasn't posing or looking to gain any benefit from her presence might be what she needed. Worst case, she can just leave and pretend it never happened. Nobody will ever believe such a story anyways.

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matt murdock
// the devil
H
argraves’ palm pressed a code into the private elevator. The doors slid shut with a hiss, the world outside dimming to a low mechanical thrum. The sixth floor: high enough to matter, high enough to see what the rest of the city couldn’t. I shifted my weight as the elevator climbed, listening to Hargraves’ breathing — steady but tight, like she was rehearsing something in her head. When the doors opened, the air changed, it felt colder and tighter. No doubt they needed to keep the machine cold from all of its activity — to keep it from overheating — and the room was obviously packed because of the science wonder before them. Cold. Clean. Manufactured. That's all this was.

The viewing deck sprawled ahead, lined with black marble floors and crystal walls that overlooked the core of the building. At the center of it all, it pulsed — a colossal engine of light and steel embedded deep into the building’s spine. NOVA.

People gathered in small cliques — politicians, military brass, scientists, other public officials — orbiting the machine like moths around a flame. Champagne glasses clinked. Cameras flashed. And standing near the front, larger than life, was none other than Wilson Fisk. He was wearing layers that no doubt all cost more than my closet-space office did. I could smell the different threads of silk. Beside him stood a man I recognized from other events I had the honor of attending, based solely on the smell of aftershave and coffee — Dr. Reed Richards — his expression clinical, almost bored, hands tucked neatly behind his back. His heartbeat was the steadiest in the room. Clearly, he had no feeling of worry about his machine.

Fisk raised his glass high, his voice booming as he began a long, drawn-out speech.

"Ladies and gentlemen,"
he declared, his voice cutting through the room with the sharpness of a blade,
"today marks the dawn of a new era for New York—one unshackled from the chaos of outdated systems and defined by innovation... and progress. Today, we step boldly into the future, unlocking the potential of clean, renewable energy that will cost this great city a fraction of what it currently pays for power. This isn't merely a science experiment to be applauded and flaunted—this is a new way forward. A path to a brighter, more sustainable life."


His eyes scanned the room, pausing for a beat as they locked onto me.

"And soon,"
he added, his voice firm with certainty,
"the entire world will follow."


With a subtle gesture, he motioned toward Dr. Richards, offering a nod of approval.

The crowd's applause erupted, but it felt distant, muffled, like a wave crashing far from shore. I could almost taste the insincerity hanging in the air, thick and cloying. The smiles, the handshakes, all of it felt rehearsed. A show. Nothing more.

Fisk soaked it all in, his eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a man who knew he'd just secured his place in history. But something in the air shifted. The hum beneath my feet grew more pronounced, its rhythmic pulse tapping at the edges of my thoughts like throwing a pebble at a window.

Hargraves leaned in, her voice barely audible over the clamor.
"Isn't this incredbile? This isn't just about energy. This is about power—true power. The kind that makes everything else fall in line. No doubt Fisk starts stepping into a prominent political role soon."


I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to say. Her words were heavy with implication, but something about the entire situation didn’t sit right. The whole spectacle—too polished, too perfect. It felt like I was standing on the edge of something far darker than clean energy and progress.

Fisk turned back to the crowd, waving for their attention once more.
"We are on the verge of something extraordinary,"
he said, voice rising above the clattering applause.
"This is not just about changing the way we power our homes. This is about reshaping the future itself, a better one for everyone!"


The seconds ticked down, each one heavier than the last. Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.

Hargraves' grip tightened on my arm, but it wasn’t for reassurance anymore. I could feel the pulse of her anxiety radiating through her fingertips, her unease now as palpable as mine.

Fisk stood at the center of the room, basking in the adoration, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that something had shifted. The energy in the room wasn’t excitement. It was a mounting pressure, a sense that we were teetering dangerously close to something irreversible.

The seconds crawled by, slow and deliberate.

00:00:45
00:00:44
00:00:43

I craned my head around the room, my senses funneling everything into a piece of art that helped me picture everything. The faces in the crowd, still smiling, now looking... distant, almost mechanical in their enthusiasm. A part of me wondered if they truly understood what was about to happen, or if they were just swept up in the tide of the performance.

The countdown reached thirty seconds. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Something big was coming, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to face it. But there was no turning back now.

00:00:30
00:00:29
00:00:28

The murmur of the crowd faded into a dull buzz as my attention snapped to the security room a few floors above. The guards were speaking in clipped, urgent tones—too tense, too off for a normal operation.

"Someone call in Cage now. Tell that beast to get to the sixth and remove that guy before someone notices."


Remove who? The question rattled in my mind, but I couldn't afford to process it fully. The moment demanded focus. The clock was ticking, the countdown pressing me with each passing second.

I kept my face calm, neutral—my eyes scanning the room for any sign of disruption. That’s when I saw him. The man, moving carefully through the crowd, as if he was out of place among the sea of well-dressed guests. His steps were deliberate, almost mechanical, like he was calculating each movement. But it was more than just his precision. There was something wrong. Something off.

His heart rate—barely detectable. Slower than any human's should be. Almost nonexistent. Too slow. Too still.

My breath hitched.

And then, I noticed the most unsettling thing of all: his boots. They were dark, worn leather, but there was something splattered across them. Something that, at first, I couldn’t place.

Blood.

Dried. Old. Still clinging to the leather like a grim reminder.

The countdown continued. The seconds slipped away, faster now.

00:00:10
00:00:09
00:00:08

My pulse quickened.
What the hell was going on?


The man was closing in on Fisk, his eyes focused with eerie precision, like he knew exactly where he was headed. No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they weren’t acting on it.

Without another word, Hargraves slowly pulled her hand away from my elbow, her movements deliberate.
"I need a drink,"
she said, her tone a little too casual, but the sharpness of her eyes betrayed the unease in her voice.
"Save my spot, Murdock."


She turned, weaving her way through the crowd, her figure disappearing into the throng as I kept my eyeline locked on the man. This was the perfect opening.

I couldn’t afford to waste time. My instincts were screaming at me, and the blood on his boot was enough to send my mind racing. Who was he? What was he here to do? I had no answers, but I knew one thing—whatever it was, I couldn’t let him reach Fisk.

I took a slow, measured breath, feeling the air around me settle as I focused. With Hargraves no longer beside me, I moved with purpose, slipping through the crowd without drawing attention. I kept my steps light, my posture casual, but inside, I was a coiled spring, every muscle tensed, ready. I had to get to him before he reached Fisk. But just as I approached, I felt the room shift, a subtle change in the air—a warning. The man was aware. He knew I was coming.

The man was almost at the center of the room.

00:00:03
00:00:02
00:00:01

The room itself was on the cusp of something, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was about to happen would change everything. Without a moment's hesitation, the man turned—his head snapping around, eyes locking onto me with unnatural precision, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"You're not supposed to be here, Solicitor,"
he said, his voice far too calm, too knowing. It felt as though he’d been expecting me—anticipating my every move. A subsequent chill ran down my spine.

Then, without warning, he lifted his hand toward me. There was something radiating off his palm—a dark energy, almost palpable, pulsing in time with the frantic beats of my own heart. It wasn’t just a glow; it was a force, a power that felt as ancient as it was lethal. Before I could react, he snapped his fingers. The world around me seemed to shift—the air thickened, a deep, resonant hum vibrating through the floorboards and into my bones. The walls felt as though they were warping, turning inward, closing us off from the outside world. The air itself felt charged, alive, humming with something far older than technology.

And then, it was as if time itself stuttered. People around us faltered—lost their balance, their movements jerking like puppets on strings. Their eyes glazed over, expressions vacant, as if they were now part of the current—entranced, controlled. Their bodies swayed in sync, moving together like a hive mind.

The NOVA Core countdown, once a steady march toward an uncertain future, faltered. The screen on the wall flickered violently, glitching in chaotic bursts of static, as though the very force the man was unleashing was battling against the technology itself. Something ancient was taking hold.

And then came the voice.

It was low and guttural, like a whisper crawling across the room and sinking deep into my mind. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It was a warning—and a declaration.

"All will witness the Crimson Choir's flame."


I didn’t need to understand the words to know this was more than just a simple disruption. This wasn’t about throwing the gala into chaos. This was far beyond that. The Cult had made their move. The man before me—the one whose bloodstained boots had betrayed his presence—wasn’t just here to cause a scene. He was the harbinger of something much darker. And it wasn’t just the building at risk.

The city, its power grid, the very systems that held it together—all of it was now at the mercy of whatever the Crimson Choir had planned. Their ritual was set in motion, and its consequences would stretch far beyond this room. Whatever they had planned wasn’t going to tear this building apart—it was going to bring everything down.

I didn’t know how much time we had left, but I knew this much: the countdown wasn’t just for the NOVA Core. It was for something far worse. Something that had the potential to destroy everything in its path.
  • energy.

    mood.
    "A subsequent chill ran down my spine."
    mindset
mind
set.
sett
ing.
men
tions.
radiohead. //
karma police.
 
Gwen Stacy
Ghost Venom.
location.
Hotel Roof
Exchange one terror for another...
interactions.
this scrolls! Hecotoro Hecotoro , user 2, user 3, user 4, user 5, user 6
G
wen realized she was not prepared for this situation. Her dad had described trying to talk someone off the ledge as tap dancing in a minefield, only it wasn't you that paid the price with a bad footfall. When the lady turned to speak with Gwen, her demeanor changed. She was still upset, but seemed to be concerned about something else now. That's when Gwen noticed the joint. There was actually a bit of relief seeing it, to be honest. Even though it had been legalized in New York for years now, some people still kept their marijuana use secret.

"A lighter, um..."
Gwen murmured, looking a bit bewildered.

She supposed there were plenty of legitimate reasons for not having a lighter, but her mind kept going back to one explanation. She wasn't that hopeful that "No, my outfit has a phobia of fire, and was nearly killed by it when we met" would go over well. Luckily, the lady was still talking and had come off the ledge. The promise of a selfie caught Gwen's attention. So, a celebrity. That made sense. And now that Gwen could get a better look at the lady's face, she did look familiar. Gwen just hoped her adrenaline flooded brain would calm down enough to think about who this was before things got awkward.

"Look, ma'am, none of that is necessary."
The fake waitress replied.
"If you'll just forget you saw me, I'll forget I saw you and-"


Gwen's words cut out as something seem to rattle inside her brain. She was dimly aware of something happening with the Baxter Building, but she dropped to her knees, holding her head. Her mouth was open to scream, but no sound came out.

"It's them!" the symbiote screamed in her head, it's voice a mix of elation and panic.

As Gwen adjusted to whatever this feeling was, the symbiote sprung into action. Her disguise as a caterer lost definition as clothes as they melted into a tar like substance in a moment. It quickly surged up, enveloping the rest of Gwen, its need to protect its host paramount in this moment. The writhing goo was prominently black, though white showed up in large patches, with lessor examples of red and a form of cyan. The bit of the symbiote that was altering Gwen's hair spread across her head, forming a featureless mask with two large white eyes. More of the symbiote flowed up to form a currently ragged hood that was to Gwen's taste, the white and red forming the edges.

Gwen struggled to her feet, the symbiote continued to writhe over her, colors shifting as wills clashed. The symbiote wanted to grow teeth and claws, charge in and devour the threat. Gwen wanted to keep things non-lethal, make sure innocence was protected, and not have to wonder if her digestive system was being used to digest another person.


"You need to get inside."
The costumed Ghost Venom said, her voice sounding strained.
"Get to your room or a manager's office and call the cops."


She turned to look at the Baxter Building as she saw and felt darkness radiate off it. Gooey had been sure this was the cult. She had thought they were just mundane weirdos. Wrong again.



 

Lin Lie, The Immortal Iron Fist - Outside the Baxter Building

1745892303764.png​
Shortly after rounding up the would-be thieves in the empty Chinatown, Lin Lie decided to take a trip toward where the action was, toward the Baxter Building just a few miles away. Aside from those stragglers from earlier, he didn't imagine there'd be anything of much interest back here, so he may as well join in on the "fun." He was more of a night owl these days anyway, so it wasn't like turning in early would have been much of an option. And again, there was a strange feeling creeping up upon his back. Was it his chi going out of balance? Good ol' human intuition? He couldn't say for certain, but he knew well enough to trust his gut feeling on matters like these. Even if it had nothing to do with his mission, well... he had time, after all.

By the time he hopped onto his motorcycle, drove a mere three miles over to Manhattan and parked his ride before strolling over to join the crowd outside the Baxter Building, Lin Lie kept his hands pocketed as he stared up at the imposing skyscraper. Something between a scowl and a look of consternation at the grotesque display of lavish wealth before him. Of course, it was one thing that growing up in that little village in the mountains had given him a taste of minimalist, ascetic living. Lin Lie might not have been the kind of person who could become a verifiable monk, but he was at least committed enough to take the tenant of letting go of attachments just a little seriously. Worldly possessions brought nothing but trouble in the end, and this building was a symbol of that need, that avarice to own, and to continue owning. A monument for people to whom what exactly they owned ceased to matter. Acquisition in of itself was its own reward.

Even amongst the crowd, Lin Lie still felt as alone as he did in Chinatown. A crowd that he could simultaneously blend into, and one that he would always be out of lockstep with. People and their priorities, their fascination with glamor and the new thing, the new external force that would surely bring happiness to them, take away their need to unearth it themselves. The NOVA Core, all these new innovations that would be sure to change the world, and then the next one would change it in an even more meaningless way, and then the next one. It was like an infection. One that afflicted people not with sickness, but something so much worse; the notion that happiness was something outside themselves, and so it would birth a new kind of loneliness, one that Lin Lie wondered how many people had already known at this point in their lives.

If only he had such a power to take away people's sadness, but that sort of fight wasn't his.

And then, it finally happened.

If Lin Lie had been at any risk of slipping too deep into an endless reverie, he found himself suddenly snapping out of it as that strange air of uneasiness washed over him again. The one that perhaps beckoned him to come here in the first place, gradually growing more intense and urgent with each second. It was subtle; the crowd outside might not have even been able to feel it, but Lin Lie could feel it in his chi, in the air. And on top of that, there was his jade pendant too. He raised a hand over the pendant that hid underneath his shirt so that no one could see that it had actually started glowing, subtly and steadily flashing on and off at regular intervals, and if not for the commotion around him, a soft humming sound would have been able to be heard emanating from it. Though the Elders back then had told him it reacted to the presence of magic, Lin Lie mentally begged forgiveness for imagining to himself that they were perhaps a bit limited in their imagination of what that even counted.

All the same, something was wrong, and it was getting worse.

Gathering his resolve, Lin Lie began to make his way through the crowd, and toward the entrance of the tower, clenching his fists in order to bottle the anxiety welling up within him. No doubt he'd have to figure out a way to slip inside without being noticed, but Lin Lie would trust that that wouldn't be too hard. All he had to do was actually come up with a plan first.
 
With the three stooges crumpled on the ground, Frank exited his car, leaving the engine humming. He pursed his lips at the idea of letting one live, but then turned his head to look over his shoulder, towards the parked car in the distance. It didn't look like a police cruiser; maybe a journalist? Whatever the case, he squatted next to the unconscious man and slid the wallet out of his pocket.

"I'll remember your address," he muttered into the Russian mafioso's ear while peering at the ID. "You will never be safe again."

Finally leaving the thieves in a puddle of blood and rainwater, he brought the shotgun to rest over his shoulder. "Canadian, huh? New York's scum rolled out the red carpet for you," he grumbled, making eye contact with the trucker. The latter seemed little more than irritated that he got shot and bludgeoned. The wound had stopped bleeding, the blood slowly drying. "These Russians have been hitting other inbound Fisk cargo. I nailed their superiors already, but you should finish your job and go before the bigwigs ask questions."

There was always a bigger fish—someone the law wouldn't touch. That was where Frank came in; no criminal was exempt from justice under his watch. Still, he had to find them first, and letting a civvie get caught in the crossfire in the meantime wasn't very professional.

Scatterbrain Scatterbrain TwoFacedTim TwoFacedTim
 
Last edited:
CODE BY SEROBLISS
G
Elric


Downtown, New York.

"What the fuck..." G just watched as the world basically shifted completely around her. The Baxter building was being weird, making her feel out of place and foggy, She even took another step back from the edge. But to make things worse, the waitres was eaten by her clothes? That was wild, way too wild. It was of course typical of New York to witness or hear rumors about things like these, but she hadn't signed up to fight, demons, aliens or whatever that thing was.

Elizabeth squinted her eyes, trying to keep herself focused despite the odd vibes coming from the building in front of them. She shoo her head, trying to clear her mind up, her eyes trying to understand the waitres demon monster girl thing talking to her. "Why? So no witnesses when you eat me? Fat chance." The streamer replied, stumbling back a few steps. "I'm gonna be sick."

The tide was on that thing's side. It was obviously part of whatever what was happening, otherwise why show its true self when the Baxter building went all weird on them. She hesitated on using her abilities but nobody was watching besides the black goo and if she got rid of it, no witnesses. However, the effect the building was having on her was too much. Fighting at a disadvantage, but it was that or accept her fate.

G stumbled again and fell down on one knee, on purpose. She put on hand down on the ground. She needed advantage too. She sent cold chills across the floor, looking to lower the temperature around them. She didn't know what that thing was made of, but she knew if it was gooey like that, it meant it must be somewhat liquid? Low temperatures meant slow opponent.

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Gwen Stacy
Ghost Venom.
location.
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Exchange one terror for another...
interactions.
this scrolls! Hecotoro Hecotoro , user 2, user 3, user 4, user 5, user 6
G
wen was still struggling with the symbiote, trying to prevent it from going feral. Maybe she could start talking it down once the lady ran aw- wait, why wasn't she running? She had caught sight of Gwen's plight, said something about not getting eaten. Which was fair, to be honest. But why wasn't she running. She said she was sick, stumbled back and now was on one knee. Too much to drink?

"Listen, I can help-"
Gwen said, half rising as she strained to get Gooey to settle down.

That's when she felt through the Symbiote the temperature drop. It wasn't beyond the Symbiote's tolerance, but it was noticeable. Was whatever magic mumbo jumbo that was going on with the Baxter Building also causing temperature fluctuations? Not enough data to tell what was causing what. Gooey was likewise confused, giving Gwen an opening.

"Trust me."
Gwen whispered to Gooey, hopping it would.

After a moment, the Symbiote capitulated to Gwen, causing the suit to calm down and coalesce into a stable form. While her most of her body stayed black, part of her upper torso shoulders and arms solidified as white, along with the mask and hood. The red patches turned more pink, forming up more permanent places on the inner part of her upper arms, the interior of the hood, and around the eyes. Veins of cyan showed up among the pink. And because she liked the look, two white stripes on her hips appeared. She had spent hours with Gooey on this look. It didn't understand the utility of this form, but if Gwen had learned one thing about those pictures of "spider menace" in the Bugle, it paid to look good while trying to be a hero. With the inner conflict resolved for the time being, Gwen fully stood up.

"I know this is scary, but you have got to-"
Gwen began to say to the lady when things began falling into place.

The lady didn't scream or run, she challenged. She wasn't retching, she seemed to be concentrating. There didn't seem to be any other sign of temperature drops except right here. Could temperature drop be because of her? Was she a metahuman?

"Are you making it colder?"
Gwen asked, sounding a bit exasperated.
"I am not part of that crap, i wanna stop it! I'm a mask, er, hero!"


Gwen briefly wondered if the lady would recognize the police slang for vigilantes in "mask", but that didn't really matter now. Mental processes were being better utilized by the growing fear that things might escalate and if this lady could make things colder, what else could she do?



 
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