( mixed. ) pasa mi corazón del frío al fuego

[ashaya]

Who: Spock, Jim, Gwen, Peter, and various.
Where: Various locations (see prompts for details).
What: Gnosia-related shenanigans.
Warnings: Uh. Probably more than a few? Most likely: references to genocide, references to starvation/famine, references/overt descriptions of being targeted by racially motivated crimes, general violence, and gore. Maybe some vaguely racy commentary here and there (linked).

Comments

>> stem shenans.

[ashaya]

[ this is a catch-all. just respond with your prompts here guys for them. ]

STEM Group Chat >> Secure >> UN: keptin

[finalfrontiersman]

>> Are you guys okay?
>> Did you see that alert on the tablets?



>> Spock and I are infected.

[spidermenaces]

I was buying this sandwich
And the sandwich guy froze
Do you think we cau

You're what
Where are you
We are coming

Are you okay how are you feeling
It said projected destruction
Are you destructing or destructive

[arachnerina]

wtf wait what
jim why didn't you lead with that??
hang tight we're coming
mine said doctor so i think that means i can fix you??

[spidermenaces]

ITS NTOT JSUT ME HE HSOULD HAVE SAID IT RIGHT AWAY RIGHT
I WOULDNT HASVE GONE ON THE SANDWICH RANST IF HE HAD JUT SAD IT
LIKE WE ARE IFNEFCTED FIRST THIGNR IS IT CONTAGENSOUS DO WE NEED TO QUARANTETINE

(peter dont swing and type...)

[arachnerina]

oh my god
peter stop texting and swinging
you're going to run into a tree again

[spidermenaces]

you dsitracted me you csnt hold that against me

healing party take one

[arachnerina]

[Keeping Jim and Spock contained until she could figure out how to heal them did not work. It was a good attempt, something they weren't even sure would work in the long run, but at least they tried.

But now she knows what to do. At least, she thinks she knows what to do. It's just a gut feeling she has, that in the moment, she'll be able to do it.

Step one was figuring out where Spock and Jim even went. Peter and Gwen knew most of the city by heart at this point, as much as they explored it by web, so it wasn't too hard to figure out where to look. They definitely weren't at STEM club, and they weren't at their home, so the next place she thought to check panned out.

A brief stakeout at the warehouse showed it was in fact where the two were camped out. Then came the planning. She would only be able to heal one of them at a time-- an annoying problem that came with this ability, which meant she could only help one of them today. That would mean trying to catch one of them on their own, or if catching both of them, having to keep one restrained again until tomorrow. She would just have to play it by ear, depending on how things played out.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like Spock and Jim were staying far apart (which was honestly completely unsurprising), so they had to go to plan B. Peter would distract Spock with his Iron Spider suit. Spock was stronger, so it would be easier to take on him in with the stronger suit. Peter would nab him while she would lure Jim away and try to heal him, and they would just worry about healing Spock tomorrow. Totally airtight plan, right?

They had to put it in motion quickly, they didn't have time to waste. They only had a week until "projected destruction", whatever that meant, so they needed to save their friends-- and before Jim and Spock hurt anyone else.

So here she is, dropping down silently outside of the warehouse. Peter is off on his mission, so Spock shouldn't be anywhere close by. Her spider-sense is going haywire, so she knows there must be traps galore inside, so she's hiding around the corner as she pushes the door open. She's hoping she can just lure Jim to her, but he's crafty-- and he knows a good bit about her powers. Hopefully that doesn't bite her in the ass.]

Helloooo? Jim? Spock? You guys in there? Loving what you've done with the place, by the way. Really channeling the murder vibes.

[finalfrontiersman]

[ The warehouse was perfectly suited to their needs, strategy wise, and it's no mystery why the pair of them had holed up there. It's relatively removed from common foot traffic areas - but not so far removed that no one would stumble across it, unwittingly, or that they wouldn't be able to get to and from it. Curiously, all of the traps they've set are non-lethal; perhaps there's something of them holding on, somewhere deep within.

Holding on, however, did not mean in control.

The humming in Jim's head has grown louder, in the intermittent hours since Spock's departure, setting off on an expedition for supplies. It's easier to keep the latent violent desire at bay when Spock is there, when the bond that they formed - incognizant and instinctual, as the Gnosia had taken root - is strengthened by proximity. At the moment, Spock is a hungry, desolate echo at the back of his mind. Not chasing prey, not yet, but soon enough. Soon.

Gwen's arrival had not gone unnoticed, but then, it's probably better she's not attempting to sneak up on him. He's not the same as he was, feverish on her bathroom floor - not even the same as the manic energy he'd exhibited upon their escape, Spock smashing right through the wall like it was nothing. No, Jim is...no longer himself, more animal than human.

But there was a reason humans were at the top of their respective food chain.

The warehouse is dark as Gwen enters it, a tripwire placed carefully right by the door. Blood smears the floor, it looks like - someone was dragged? Moonlight filters in from the high windows, illuminating what it can. The room has been outfitted with sheets of metal, forming - a barrier, caged in areas where the people Jim and Spock have been collecting reside. There must be at least ten huddled in the cage closest to Gwen and more beyond, secreted in other areas of the space. A hand stretches out from the bars, stone white and flecked with blood. Please, please help us...

Should Gwen take a step forward, it will become apparent the tripwire was just a ruse - perhaps solely to check that she was paying attention. It seems Jim's set up a motion detector, and the entire room washes with sudden, intense white light - floodlights, rigged to the catwalk along the ceiling. Jim stands at the top, goggles obscuring his eyes and looking much worse in the light - shirt torn, hanging off his body like a rag, blood soaking through most of the remaining fabric. Some of it was red, though whether it's Jim's or someone else's it's hard to tell - and some of it green, splashed gruesomely across his pants.

Jim has a megaphone, and the grin that pulls at what's left of his visible expression is crazed, all teeth. ] Pleasure as always, Miss Stacy.

[ The button he hits, a remote trigger in his free hand? It sends a cacophony of sound ripping through the speaker system (feedback, loud music tracks, overlapping each other), echoing on the warehouse walls. The poor people trapped in the cage shout and huddle down, trying to cover their ears. It seems Jim's the think smarter, not harder type, even when infected - and if he couldn't beat Gwen in a hand to hand fight, doing his best to overstimulate her senses seemed a sensible method of attack. ]

[arachnerina]

[Gwen's already taking in as much information as she can before she even gets through the doorway. Tripwire? Really? She doesn't believe Jim would even think she would fall for that, and she dances over it easily, but that just mentally prepares her for the onslaught of lights that come.

She sensed people, but she has to squint thanks to the bright lights to see the cages-- rows of them, all with nearly a dozen people. She knew they would be bloodthirsty, but this? This was way beyond anything she expected. What were they even doing to them?

She moved towards the cages without thinking, ready to rip open the bars and free them when Jim's voice rang from above. She looked up at him immediately, honestly horrified by what she saw. It was Jim, but in a state almost beyond recognition. How could this really be the kind hearted Captain her and Peter had befriended? But she was no stranger to mysterious circumstances leading to a friend, changed beyond recognition. It-- hurts. Another reminder of how she failed before. But she would not fail this time. She could save Jim. She had to.]

There you are! Did you really do all this for me? Awww, how sweet. [But before she can even put her arm out to swing towards him, the waves of sound surround her, and she drops to her knees, hands going to her ears. She grits her teeth, trying to focus through the noise, but it hammers at her senses in the most painful of ways. The biggest downside of super senses was the risk of getting overwhelmed, and Jim hit the nail with that.

It takes everything that she has to raise her arm again. Swinging isn't going to happen, and her aim is probably going to be shit, but she has to try. So she shoots, hoping her web hits it's mark-- the remote in his hand.]

[finalfrontiersman]

[ The people in the makeshift cages are injured and frightened, to be sure - hopefully none of them are dead. This, however, was ultimately all they had been able to do, in terms of diverting the violent urges. Capturing people, collecting them, a form of resistance until something gave way - they were stopped, or the Gnosia finally overwhelmed them completely. Maybe it would have been worse, had Jim and Spock not been able to reel each other back from the precipice.

If his ferocity and unbridled cunning is surprising, well, fighting Jim and Spock had never been on the table before; the closest they had ever come was Jim's makeshift plan of attack on City Hall, him and Peter busting in to cause a scene, should Gwen and Spock not return in the allotted time. Which begs the question - if Jim is ostensibly the easier target, how might Peter be faring against Spock?

There's no more time to wonder, however - the webbing manages to snag on the trigger, sending it flying - she's a deadly shot with that, but she manages to pull it out of his hand. Jim ducks, rolling across the gangway in a decently agile forward roll. He hits something on the mess of wires he lands next to, and the lights begin to flash, oscillating rapidly. ]

You know I'd hate for you to get bored.

[ His voice echoes through the megaphone, and Jim caps it off with a chilling laugh, something wild and wheeling, echoing in the space as the lights continue to go. Some of the prisoners are wailing now, frightened, adding to the confusion and noise.

Suddenly, there's a projectile, zipping past too quick to identify. Another follows, barely missing Gwen - but be careful, his next shot may yet prove to hit home. Which would run out first, his ammo and marksmanship, or Gwen's senses? They'd handed over their phasers - but it seems Jim was making due with a nail gun, strafing along the upper walkway, laying down covering fire while Gwen still made to recover from his sensory helltrap. ]

[arachnerina]

[Okay, so at least the onslaught of sound is gone with the trigger out of his hands. Lights aren't exactly fun either, but it's a little more manageable. She closes her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, and focusing on the noises around her. The people in the cages. Jim's steps on the catwalk. The subtle noises of electricity pulsation through the lights. And--

Oh.

Her eyes fling open just in time for the nails to start flying, and she flips out of the way, doing her best to dodge the oncoming projectiles. She ends up behind one of the cages, which maybe isn't the best cover, but it gives her a chance to finally do something about that. The metal bends pretty easily in her grip, and she tosses aside the lock, whispering to the strangers to wait until she has him distracted for them to run.

Next priority-- the damn lights. She's not going to be able to get to the control panel without going through him, so she does the next best thing. She webs them. Each one of bright, flashing lights gets a glob of webbing to block out most of the lighting. It helps significantly, especially for the strobing ones.]

As riveting as this is, I think we should really get to the point.

[Cue her finally swinging up and landing on the catwalk. She's crouched, still completely on guard. She knows she can most definitely overpower him, but Jim knows this-- she has no idea what other tricks he might have up his sleeve.]

[finalfrontiersman]

[ She's better than he might have expected, but there has always been a part of Jim that relished a challenge - here, it's twisted, a demented shadow of his normal curiosity. The nails continue firing even as she takes cover - embedding themselves in the metal sheet of the prisoners' cage. Well, that answers the question of whether or not Jim was willing to injure the people being kept there, with the answer being a no-hesitation yes. They cry out, frightened, but Jim doesn't seem deterred.

He tilts his head as Gwen lands on the catwalk, eyes still obscured by the goggles. There's something other about the motion - not quite human, perhaps, and definitely not Jim. He discards the megaphone carelessly over the side of the railing, the crack and splinter of it on hard pavement sending another wave of cries through the captives - whatever Jim and Spock have been doing with them, they're clearly completely terrified. ]

If you're that eager to be added to the collection, Gwen, who am I to deny you? [ His grin is feral, all teeth, and it's clearer up close that he's...not in great shape. He's collected scrapes and bruises all over his torso, beneath the tattered shirt, a smarting bruise blooming in the shadow of his jaw, where someone clearly fought back. He tsks, sliding a step closer, gloved hands spread, deceptively open. ] The point, of course. You know, you could have just said you missed me.

Instead, [ Jim shifts his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet in a mimicry of playfulness, raising his hands into fists. His voice is a lilting, creepy sing-song as he says: ] You're gonna have to kill me~

But you're familiar with that, right? [ Is he goading her, or just being a cruel asshole? Why not both? His voice rises in both volume and mania as he continues, waiting for the first strike, for one of them to break the impasse. ] Killing your friends is your MO, isn't it? I suppose I should be honored, actually. All-time Gwen Stacy Collateral Damage Hall of Fame, ladies and gentlemaaaan!

Come on, Gwen. [ Jim's laugh is cold and horrible, taunting, fingers curled into fists. ] Add me to your collection of ghosts, sweetpea.

[ Finally, Jim strikes out - should his fist make contact, Gwen will find out pretty quickly that the gloves he's wearing are wired up to a battery, tucked into the back waistband of his pants - electrifying them, makeshift taser gloves. ]

the hostage

[spidermenaces]

(the iron spider is durable, he's glad with his choice. even though whenever he's charging it the lights flicker, and it sucks so much power - he can never charge to the fullest extent of it. perhaps this should be in the back of his mind when he chose it, but then, if he's going to get his ass kicked by an alien again, he's going to want nanites to soften the blow. the pincers aid him to stand a little taller on the first building he can get onto, until he finds spock.

the landing is a little dramatic, considering the pincers sinking on grass, and there's a little pose that goes with it right after, like all the pincers shrug along with him, palms up and happy chipper once he finally speaks - and unfortunately for everyone, he won't stop.)

Hey, Mr. Spock! How about you come with me, have some OJ, some Nyquil, and a nice chicken soup to get the murderous virus out?!

[ashaya]

[ It is to his advantage and subsequent disadvantage that Spock holds within his psyche something of a tether — a direct line. For all that the urge to purge and rend drives and scrabbles and claws, there is the hum of the other that centers him. It is gold in the fists, gold in the pull of his orbit. Gold, Spock thinks dim and piecemeal, that flickers as a brand against the back of his eyelids as it settles. Quiets.

There is something wrong and the physical ache of a perceived abandonment mutters and seethes and gnaws. It gouges into the steps of his spine, makes of him mockery. How might he have believed he might not be left behind? How might he believed that nothing more should be taken from him? How might he—

His steps are not as measured as they were before. He hears the call of someone, someone that he knows and recognizes, but the name flees from his tongue. It mutes, beneath the persistent buzz of so much static. Like travel interrupted, the electricity of his home whipping red and wild, he cannot hear a thing above the roar.

I'll come with you, I'll come with you.

The sun is high. Spock knows he knows. Gnosia knows he knows, too. It skitters along the back of his mind, lingering over the bruise of the nascent bond gone quiet, but still alive. ]

I do not negotiate, [ Spock rumbles, voice rough with disuse. His dark eyes seem darker still as he circles him, the acquired limp he's drummed up in the interim hardly an impediment. The air is thick with the scent of copper, green smeared across the high of a cheekbone.

There's a glimmer teeth as his body naturally settles into a fighting stance, knowing if he is to get what he wants — he must take this one alive. ] Not with you.

[ And that's as much warning as he's getting. He'll wait for the first move, but the intent is burning hot and bright. ]

[spidermenaces]

(fighting has never been a complication - a natural response to what life has given him, to wield the strength granted for something good in a world where crime and trouble pool in every corner. challenging a friend, however, sinks his stomach and brings his anxiety to the forefront, not a cell in him wants to harm the man in front of him, but the choices are limited and they asked him to ensure their safety and innocence. peter couldn't, wouldn't, ever turn his back to that.

humor has always helped him, a crutch to carry him through the toughest of times, and the mask that conceals his concerned expression, with furrowed brows and thinned lips, boosts the confidence and extrovertive side that he feels once he fits within.

his head tilts as to express confusion, the eyes of the mask squinting as he gestures towards spock, a few circular motions with his hand and one of the pincers.)

Wow, but you said I was fascinating! 'I don't negotiate' is something you tell terrorists, you know? Which, well, would be great if you're practicing for-- well, who knows what we will find, right? But right now, I'm sorry! We are super not negotiating, man.

(the pincers aid on his jump, over spock, webs shooting towards his foot to keep him in place.)

[ashaya]

[ If Spock were in his right mind, he wouldn't be saying anything relative to the point of negotiations. He would have simply turned himself in. He attempted to, at the very least, at the beginning. That must count for something, right?

Either way, the words sound like nonsense to him. Whatever processing power he's got cooking up in his head is keyed into fight and nothing else, knowing he's been already caught out. It is raw and relentless, an ugly wound of a thing that yanks about the heels of his psyche and threatens to rip him apart. There is no logic in talking, taking the bait where intentions are already decided. That is a ploy. It does nothing at all, but serve to keep one's opponent distracted.

Even so, the movement is quick. Quicker than he might have anticipated, given the relative appearance of Peter's suit. That he bounds over him is not surprising, but the height— he manages to angle himself out of the path of most of the webbing, but it catches at the toe.

Unfortunately, the solution is relatively simple. He yanks his foot up and out of the shoe for the moment, the drape of his robes masking much of the movement. Either way, no matter how it is Peter lands, he'll find that Spock's managed to close just enough distance in that time to lash out with — a whip? No, some kind hybrid between that and a flail that he's thrown together and tucked against his person.

Either way, the aim is obvious: get around the base of the pincer and yank him back. Reel him in, as it were. ]

[spidermenaces]

(not a bit of peter could be upset over this - it seems like it could happen, is happening, to just about everyone. with no one in their right mind, all that is left is to be thankful that spider bit him - it gives him power to help the people in need, and an extra layer of relief that he can help his friends, on top of that.

that said - he isn't quite sure what to expect. thanos was insanely strong physically, and he didn't have the limitations of touch, but spock isn't purple, huge, bald, horrible, and keen on eliminating half the universe, so, just keen on eliminating him - is that a plus? it has got to be a plus. his experience falls short.

shit -- he also was not paying attention to any weapons. his ears ring with how danger approaches, every hair standing, every sound boosting - but he can't get out of the way in time. instead, he's taken, all the pincers sticking to the ground as strongly as peter can will them to.)

Hey, man, personal space!!! Personal space!!!!!!!!

[ashaya]

[ It is no more or less than Spock might have expected. Whether it be by the virtue of empathy or logic, it is something in the understanding of what is beyond one's control and the comprehension that injury was not personalized — and yet. And yet, how much is that is a lie? How much is that is a fabricated set of social understanding that masquerade? What defines what is a wound and what is not? Context? Circumstance?

At Spock's foundations is the same, hurt boy as before. He has never excised him, has never pulled him free of the fate that all he loved would leave him — that his existence was as much a blessing as it too was a curse. He had learned to grow around it, had learned to understand it, but there is something in the way of a body that carries an injury. You may adapt and you may survive, but what comes out of it?

All that Spock knows now is pain. Gone is the way of his teachings, the logic and control that keeps him grounded. His mind is a single-threaded agony, absent of the one that has kept him from the thousand tongues — the bleak and soundless waves. ]

I would have much preferred to have let you alone, [ Spock snarls, the flash of canine teeth as he tugs. Plant yourself all you want, Spock thinks. Something that does not bend is sooner bound to break. End-over-end, he winds the whip tighter over his fist — twisting. The effort of it cuts raw and green across the palm, heels digging into the earth beneath. ] You have not given me the option.

[ No, he knows precisely what it is they've done. ]

hostage situation (night mode).

[ashaya]

[ It isn't to say that the night is any easier than the day is.

No matter the influence, Spock's body is one geared to habit. When he does sleep (and sleep he does in fits and starts), the periods are brief and heavy. Made small in the darkest corners of his newly outfitted premises, Spock drifts not unlike a Terran feline. Curled over his own knees, cheek pressed to the crown of bone, he mumbles soft and incoherent things. He dreams, the rapid movement of his eyes beneath their lids insensible and feverish.

Where it is Peter is confined, Spock has made certain he is without the ability of easy escape. Situated within his periphery, it is an unusual option for a Gnosia to take, but then the situation itself is peculiar. Spock has never been one to be boxed by any such parameters and confines, a singular since the day he was born. His own existence is abomination to some, miracle to others.

But, what experience does that beget? When one is so closed by nature and nurture and culture, how does that begin to shape a person? ]

[ There is a house set up high upon a hill. The night flowers are sweet whilst they are in bloom, but you (Peter? Spock?) are awake. You watch the spill of stars along the cusp of the horizon, the darkness heavy and velvet without the light of a moon.

Your father's estate is spacious. Sterile, geometric. Alien in its architecture with wide, sweeping windows. You find yourself following the creaking floorboards, which you know do not creak to the ears of a Human. But, you are (not) Human. You are (not) Vulcan.

A shape moves swiftly down the stairs. Young, girlish. Rounded ears. She carries with her a rucksack. Your voice is caught in your throat, but it seems more than that. It seems as though the words are disconnected. Your mind knows the shape, but your tongue is useless. It cannot (will not) form them.

You come to the top of the stairs. Do you follow? Do you seek another path? ]

Re: hostage situation (night mode).

[spidermenaces]

(this couldn't suck more. he's sure he could break a wall, bend metal, there wouldn't be any problem with the environment - it's the vulcan that is too close to him that paints the situation as complex. there's an advantage at being here - jim and gwen will most likely come for them, and three against one seems to decrease the risk of injury for all involved. it plays better if he just stays here for a while, until the boredom and monotony plant ideas into his mind and he acts upon his crime. naive, reckless.

but as of now, he isn't in captivity. he is somewhere that feels familiar, somewhere that is partly inherently of his memory, and yet, so foreign.

he'll follow the shape, an attempt to understand and unknot the phrases in his throat.)

[ashaya]

[ You stay silent. It is not by choice.

Words, you know, have always betrayed you. They are slippery and inconsistent — they have variable meanings. They are not anything that you, yourself find any sort of affection for. In fact, it causes you frustration. Frustration, that bubbles up in the chest even now and causes your lungs to heave about the ache and the inevitable worry that drives you to the landing.

You know these stairs well. Your eyes are sharp, though tired. You can see the banister at the right clearly. You lift your hand and know that you are small for your age. The only proof of your most current growth spurt is the fact that you can more comfortably settle your palm around the polished wood as you work your way down the steps and to the ground floor. Further, almost as if the image has slid sideways as though grains of sands through the mouth of a jar.

The sweet smell of night flowering trees and shrubs is sweeter down here.

The front door opens, then closes. And then? You are outside too.

The girl from before is trekking her way across the cobble of the courtyard. Her small back is straight, her shoulders held high and determined.

It is dangerous to be alone at night. Especially for you. Especially for her. You know this very well. Something rumbles in the depths of your memory (an explosion?). Your heart patters, rabbit quick against your side.

You open your mouth — and this time, your words seem to obey you.

What do you say? How else do you intend to get her attention? ]

[spidermenaces]

(as falling dominos, everything seems to land as designed, and yet, he can't figure out why they are falling in the first place. he's too small for this room, it makes him feel claustrophobic, with how imposing the feeling of it is. familiar, and yet, strange - the door that opens is unexpected, and the girl is finally in sight, the sense of loss dissipating, and yet, danger stains the air.

a feeling neither should be here, and perhaps the fire and thundering noise that invades his brain allows for a glimpse as the reason why.)

... We should go back. It is not safe here.

(he's unsure of the reasoning behind the sentences he's producing. it's just what his gut tells him.)

[ashaya]

[ The moonless sky above turns. Like folded paper caught through with a pin, it tips about the concept of words that are not words and words that were not. Your dark hair curls about the points of your ears as the wind surges and silences, electric on the tongue. The figure before you still marches on.

She's quick, but you are too. Your small feet pad across the stone, cool in the desert night. ]

Michael! [ Your voice is so soft, so young. She is so tall next to you, imposing and so Human. She is familiar to you. She is familiar to you and you realize - with the jolt of your heart - that you love her. You love her, but it is not something new. ] Michael, wait! Where are you going?

[ Her form flickers before you. Older, younger. Younger, older. The severe angles of her hair settle into short, tight curls. Back again. The lay of her coat smears between the greys of their home and the blues of a smart, fitted uniform.

She turns on her heel, her dark eyes sharp. Her expression is set with firm determination, but her features are so unlike your own. She lets you move in, closer. Close.

You too are tall and not, the same and yet different. You have seen yourself outside yourself before. She has too. She has too and she looks past you, almost to the left.

You still, but you are no longer you. Or are you?

"You're not supposed to be here," she says. Her rounded ears show beneath the varying stylings of her hair, her hand settling against the strap of her rucksack.

"Who are you?" ]

[spidermenaces]

(peter, wherever he is, will most likely never experience something like this ever again. a dream that feels so real and ethereal, personal and unknown, and yet, he feels like this is exactly who he is, who he is supposed to be, what his life once were.

affection overtakes him, stronger than he ever felt, a vulcan's view, overwhelming and yet normal, logic should override it, and yet, he feels it so inherently to what he is, to what she is. she's not like him, of course, he can feel the shape of his ears, her appearance unlike his on the surface, but half as his in blood.)

... I'm me.