ArchivedLogs:Peternapped

Peternapped
Dramatis Personae Peter, Kyle Whelan
In Absentia	2013-05-03 Peter is really not having a good night. (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location Queens
Three alarm blaze. One of the tenements on the rougher side of Queens; five stories of kindling in the making. The firemen are already there, with the police department standing by; besides just the fire to draw the crowd, there's the recent report that the Spider was spotted web-lining into one of the upper windows. Confirmed shortly after a man was lowered out of a window with a web-line attached to his sternum, shoulders, and hips. A few minutes later, and Peter's kicking his way out a door - on the side of the building that /isn't/ on fire. There's less of a crowd, and less of a chance to be seen - the alleyway offers him cover from prying eyes as he struggles to recover and head back home. His mask is off, the boy threatening to hack up a lung as he emerges with a loud *WHUMP* - splinters flying as his heel slams into the space just beneath the doorknob. Limping forward. Clad in his black hoodie, dress slacks, and backpack - his sleek, unusual-looking web-shooters looking like modern wrist-watches. "Ohmanohman," he says, his mask stuffed /deep/ into his backpack. Blotchy black marks cover his face - it'd be easy to mistake them for soot amidst all the fire and smoke, except for that faint hint of a metallic blue /sheen/ to them. He's got bruises all over his face, too - a bloody lip, a dark ring around his eye. And he's walking with a significant limp - his arm clinging to his right side. "Ohmanohman I am /so/ getting yelled at for this--" "Yelled at? By who? Hey, kid, you okay?" This is coming from a police officer -- one of the officers to respond to the fire? Perhaps. He is burly, blond-haired, a concerned frown on his expression as he heads with his partner -- smaller by a few inches, less burly by a significant margin -- towards the hack-coughing teenager. "Did you come from inside? You see anyone else still in that mess?" The taller officer jerks a thumb towards the door to the blazing building as he approaches. Peter's face seizes up with panic at the sight of the officer - but his brain does some quick, rapid calculations. There is no way - /play it cool/, Peter. He /shoves/ the panic into a place deep in his chest, lumbering forward, continuing to shake his head as he coughs. "N-no, I just - got out, um." He doesn't mask the pain he's in. There's nothing to suspect at all. Aside from the tabi socks and goofy wrist-watches - which he's now carefully attempting to hide underneath his sleeves, tucking them over and scooting them back - he just looks like some goofy 15 year old kid emerging from a fire. Oh, there are the blotches on his face - but honestly, he's /forgotten/ about them. "No, there's nobody else inside--that I saw--" "You live here? Your family OK?" Kyle's eyes have flicked down to Peter's wrists as he tucks his sleeves down, but they lift up to his face shortly after. Studying it carefully for a moment, his frown deepening. "Hey -- hey." He reaches out a hand as he nears, for Peter's elbow. "Hey, you're limping. You might could rest a minute, kid, don't want to wear yourself out even more. Smoke inhalation's no joke." "S'fine, s'fine," and Peter thuds against the wall behind him. THUNK. "I'm fine," he repeats, like a mantra, as Kyle grips his elbow. "It's - I was visiting - a friend," the lie comes surprisingly quickly to Peter's lips; he's /thought/ about this scenario before, how he'd play it out, what he'd say. Every once and a while he /can/ tell a half-decent lie. "Just - need a minute - um hurt my leg running, s'okay." Cough, cough, wheeze. "Take your time." For a moment Kyle just waits. Watching the teenager wheezecough against the wall. His hand drops -- not exactly /away/ from Peter's arm, more down along it; it's a casual slip of motion until his fingers bump the wristwatchwebshooters under Peter's sleeve. "You get burned?" is all he /asks/, though, here; he's glancing at Peter's face. The dark splotches on it. "You look like you -- that might need a doctor." "Don't think fires normally split your lip," his companion says. Companionably. "Or, uh --" His fingers flutter towards his own face indicatively. "You get in a fight, kid? That spider-dude hurt you, maybe?" "Wh--" Peter feels that all too familiar prickle of ensuing danger. He's already running on little more than /fumes/, by this point; heart pounding in his chest, /heaving/ with every wheezy, coughing breath. When he feels Kyle's hands bump the outline of those wrist-watches - Peter tenses. And /pulls/, suddenly. Backward. Away. "N--I fell when I was running," he stammers, and a hand immediately goes up to his face - in response to the second officer. Touching the marks. Danger sense proceeds to /scream/. "I - need to get home," he stammers, then, attempting to back away /very/ quickly. The officers exchange a /look/ when Peter pulls away suddenly. It's just a quick one, but it's noticeable. That danger sense should likely be screaming itself /hoarse/ right about now, because it's clear that the officers have no intention of letting Peter back away. At least, as he starts to back off, Kyle is moving, diagonal to cut off his path in that direction. "The medics are the other way, kid." His voice is gruffer. Just a little. "Good to get checked out after you've been hauling people out of a fire." Peter's eyes pop open wide as he realizes he's surrounded; when Kyle mentions that last bit - his hands give a little shake. The danger sense is /more/ than enough to tell him just how deep into this he is, though. He glances between the two of them - eyes flicking back and forth, wide and desperate. Voice suddenly very quiet: "...please, just -- just let me go." An instant after that, he /jumps/ - for the far wall - managing to get a good 6 or 7 yards up. But as soon as he hits it, his left flank smacks against concrete - and he produces a sharp, surprised yelp of pain, hands /slipping/ as he slides back down toward the ground - a foot kicking out to knock over a trash-can, trying to scramble back /up/. It might have been a bluff, that last bit; at least Kyle is /watching/ Peter closely for his reaction to it. He's already reaching to his side when Peter jumps, drawing -- well, at least it's not a gun. But it /is/ his taser, aiming and shooting at Peter as Peter slips back down towards the ground. His partner is standing by, his hand -- thankfully not reaching for gun /either/. Just his baton. Maybe not /much/ more pleasant. But he doesn't draw it, just watches the taserprongs fly. "Letmegopleazzzzzhhsh," and the rest is gibberish - Peter might be fast, and he might be strong, but a taser is a taser and he's not really /built/ for handling that sort of thing. At once, his body spasms, convulsing as he slides down the wall - knees hitting the floor, the trashcan sent /reeling/, slapping his palms against the brick as his teeth clench down /hard/. Writhe spasm augh augh augh /squeaky/ squeal. "Goddamn freak," Kyle mutters, as his taser hits. He leaves the prongs embedded where they are, waiting out the spasms. His partner unfolds his baton with a chhhhk. Presses its tip down against Peter's throat, almost testingly, just one slow hard pressure and then release. Kyle is getting out handcuffs. "C'mon. God. Look at that --" He's gesturing towards Peter's face. "You think this thing really /is/ like a spider?" His partner is using his boot to prod at Peter's ribs to try and turn the teenager over. "Nnghghngh..." Peter's eyes are glazed; his jaw is slack - the worst of the spasming seems to be over. When the officer prods at his throat with the baton, there's a wheezing, choking sound; Peter's eyes are rimmed with tears. When he nudges at his ribs, Peter immediately /yelps/; there's a slit in the fabric of his hoodie - about five inches in length - it looks like a slash wound. Through it, silverish web-like strands peek out - apparently used to seal the wound shut. It's not hard to shove him over, after that. "Lemmgoleemgo..." Another spasm, then - FACE TO FLOOR. "I think it'll be interesting, whatever it is." Kyle's partner holds Peter in place with a press of baton to back. Kyle waits for the spasms to end, then stoops to handcuff Peter's wrists tight behind his back. He leaves the taser prongs where they are, for now. Probably (hopefully?) someone will remove them when they get where they are going. "C'mon," he says, grabbing Peter's backpack, "Let's get him out of here." The car is not parked out where the crowd is. It is at the /other/ side of this side street. Possibly Peter has a long ride ahead.