ArchivedLogs:Looking for Trouble

Looking for Trouble
Dramatis Personae Shane, Sebastian, Peter	2013-04-13 '
Location <NYC> Abandoned Warehouse - Brooklyn
Just one among many old buildings in an industrial section of the borough, this warehouse was undoubtedly once bustling. It's large, a spacious segment of floor with a number of high-rising shelves still lining the walls from floor up to the exposed beams of the ceiling. There's plenty of smaller nooks and rooms tucked away at the sides of the building, and though the ceiling is mostly still intact and the windows boarded up a crumbling hole near the roof and a few removed planks from a window near the back make it a common home for wayward birds, stray cats, and the occasional vagrant taking advantage of strong walls and bathroom plumbing that still largely works. The latter tend to avoid this place more often than not come nighttime, though; among street people there are rumours that this building is often populated by monsters. This is a quiet section of the city. There's not much that goes on here during business hours and even less outside of them, no /industry/ left in the large industrial buildings after nightfall. But there's noises, all the same. Thudding. Grunting. /Growling/. This building isn't /easy/ to get into, broken windows boarded up, doors barred, but there's ways. There's not much light inside, at the moment, but there's /some/, filtering in through board-slats from the streetlamps outside. And inside, a pair of small blue creatures that perhaps give truth to the rumours that this building holds monsters. Both twins have claws extended, long and resembling knives more than nails. The tang of blood is heavy in the air, spattered not infrequently along the floor. To one side there are shoes and shirts and coats discarded in a heap; in matching dark jeans there's not much to signal which twin is which. But one is lunging in, claws coming up to rake -- no, to be blocked at the same lightning-fast speed, slash answered with a hard unbalancing tug -- except the boys are hard to /unbalance/, and quick reflexes put him back on his feet to swipe the other one's ankle out from under him and now they /both/ go down. There's two sets of claws digging deep into each other, bared teeth sinking in towards shoulder -- it's mostly a snarling blur of angryblue though. Scuttle, scuttle. The sounds of violence catch inquisitive ears - prompting something to slip in and investigate, darting quickly through one of the wider gaps left between the boards that criss-cross the shattered windows. Said interloper is surprisingly stealthy and silent - although, depending on who's paying attention to what, the faint whiff of deoderant (along with a hint of soot and char) might give him away. Peter clings to the ceiling, hands and feet spread out as he stares down. The teenager is dressed in a black hoodie and black dress slacks; his matching black ski-mask has the usual bug-eyed yellow goggles. He's wearing black tabi socks - which let his feet better grip the ceiling - and those clunky, unusual wrist-watches. A black nylon sack-pack is strapped behind him; he's currently flattened to the ceiling, head drooping down, regarding the battling blue figures while he's upside down. ...and, well, he just can't /help/ himself. He scuttles closer - along the edge of that ceiling - then, along a wall. Scampering about like some silent - well, um, /spider/. Watching, but never getting /too/ close. The fight below is continuing; one boy hisses, wrenching away from the sink of teeth. His claws scrape down along his brother's gills, eliciting another sharp hiss. But they're both back on their feet a moment later, circling -- another dash, another slash-bite -- freeze. Freeze in /tandem/, and despite the blood still dripping onto the floor from /numerous/ claw and bite marks they are not attacking anymore. Twin black eyes meet each other, for a long moment. Not /looking/ around. But. The thing about stealthy approaches is that they work better on people who depend on their eyes -- or even their ears, and as keen as the twins' hearing and sight are its their nostrils that are flaring, now. Sniff. Sniiiiiff. One of them is maybe licking his claws clean of blood. But the other is tilting his head thoughtfully. "You wanna get down here, maybe?" It's loud enough he's probably not talking to the teenager right /next/ to him. Peter /freezes/; for several moments, he doesn't reply, just staring down at the twins. And then he scuttles a bit more, and... *WHUMP*. On the floor, about 30 yards back from them. Crouched like a frog, hands pressed to the dust-clad floor. His head cocked to the left: "...did you hear me? Or - /smell/ me?" Peter asks, before adding: "Are you angry with each other? You look kind of pretty when you fight - I mean, not that you should fight, it's just really colorful like blue and red and ohgod, um," hands rising up, as if to ward off any incoming mawings from the two of them, "that might have come out wrong /sorry/." "Yes," the boys say together, in answer to -- well. /One/ of those questions. Hearing, smelling. Maybe both. One is still licking his claws clean. The other is rolling his head to the side, wincing as he drags fingers up against his bleeding gills. They exchange another look. One hooks his mouth up in a lopsided half-smile. "You think this is pretty?" It's curious, as he slowly lowers to a crouch, too. His brother flops down beside him, limp against the floor. Staring up at the ceiling. "It's pretty," he agrees, in a tired voice. "We're not -- angry --" "-- with each other," finishes his twin. Idly examining his claws. Maybe for more blood. "You want to be pretty too?" He drops down to sit instead of crouch. Then lie instead of sit, head resting against his brother's side, claw-marks and all. His brother hisses. But doesn't move. Peter's head cocks to the side. Watching them cautiously. His expression is hidden, but his body-language tells a tale; the way he shifts his weight to the balls of his feet. The way his fingers tense a little bit over the floor. There's even a subtle change in his scent - not quite - /fear/, but a tang of apprehension emerging from his pores. "Just, um, the colors, I guess," Peter says, his tone a bit more guarded. "Like, bicycle-reflector-red. Um. I'm not interested in getting /mawed/ if that is what you are asking. Are you - sparring? You're - both really fast. Faster than I figured." "Just the colours." This is a quiet echo, turned up towards the ceiling. One boy's eyes close. The other turns, cheek pressing to his brother's side now so that he can look over at Peter. "We're fast enough. Hold back with most people." "Was holding back," says the other. Eyes still closed. But he's listening, he's smelling. "How fast are you, Pete?" he asks, quiet. "Fast enough," answers the other with a small twitch of lips. "What're you doing here?" "I mean - no I mean I guess you are really cool looking /otherwise/ it's just the colors were -" This entire avenue of thought seems to be cut off by Peter. He sounds embarassed; his fingers flex, delicately scraping the ground with nails. "...just, um, running around the city. I live around here - well, not /here/. In Queens." Peter slightly turns, as if to look off in that direction. "But I swing around the city sometimes. Clear my head. Do some, uh, stuff." "I heard you both fighting in here," Peter soon adds. "I just - wanted to make sure - I didn't know it was /you/ guys, I just wanted to make sure somebody wasn't in trouble..." Now the other boy's eyes close. He snorts. "Cool looking." He sounds a little skeptical of this assessment. His brother loops an arm around his shoulders. Also heedless of the scratches still bleeding on his chest. "If you're into freaks," he says. "Is your head clear?" The first twin sniffs. "Nope." His brother sniffs, too. "You're /looking/ for trouble?" "Yyhh-no," Peter responds, followed by: "Maybe. I guess. I, um. Sometimes - ?" The next sniff - there's still a tang of apprehension to him, but not as much. There's also that faint whiff of soot and smoke, clinging to his uniform, his skin, his pores. It's not overpowering, though. The deoderant and scent of soap are stronger - he's gotten a shower since then. "...did you guys hear about Jax getting tazed?" Peter suddenly just, well. Flat-out asks. "Everybody still misses you. I guess - um. You don't believe that. But..." One twin sinks down against the other, with an almost disappointed huff when Peter says he isn't looking for trouble. Both of them tense, though, at the mention of Jax. Their gills flutter, along the sides of their necks as well as the larger pairs down their sides. "Yeah," comes eventually. "We heard." And then quiet. "You shouldn't be here," there is after a period of silence. "There's probably more people on fire for you to save." "More people with actual trouble." "You should talk to Jax," Peter tells them. "You know this is - I mean, he does a lot of really dangerous things, but you know having you two around probably makes him think a little harder before he does some of that stuff?" Peter shifts off the balls of his feet, now; suddenly, he's standing. "And I think this is hurting him, and I don't know, I can't tell, but I can't imagine it's not, and -" Peter stops, mid-rant. Now he's looking around the room, like he's checking it over for the first time. That apprehensive smell is gone; now, he's thinking. A hand reaches out to touch the small machine at his wrist. "He did a lot of dangerous stuff /before/ he knew us," one twin says with a shrug of his shoulder. His arm tightens around his brother's shoulders. "-- Yeah, I mean -- he wouldn't /have/ us if he didn't do dangerous things." "You still shouldn't be here." This comes from the other twin. Not the one who originally said Peter shouldn't be here. "Does P-- Jax look upset? He's at school a lot, you've probably seen him?" The other is quiet. Looking at Peter's wristthings, too. "What makes /you/ think before you do dangerous stuff?" "I haven't seen him much. He's been - I guess kind of reclusive. Ivan and I brought him a bunch of candy when we heard he'd been tazed but we didn't realize he can't eat - /normal/ candy - cuz he's a vegan." Peter's still looking around the room, still tapping that wristthing, as he answers. "He seemed - I don't know, he's always /cheerful/." Now, Peter looks back at the twins - the one who asked that last question. He honestly has no idea which is which at this point. "My aunt and uncle, I guess. And the kids at school. And Jax. And you two." A hint of red at that last bit. He then adds: "You know, the webshooters - the only reason nobody else can use these things - I mean, use them the way I use them - is because you gotta be /crazy/-fast not to kill yourself with 'em. Kinda strong, too. And tough. In case you miss." "He's always cheerful," agrees one boy. Sort of sadly. "Us?" From both of them, this time. One smiles, a little crooked. "If /we're/ keeping you from dashing headling into trouble --" "-- you probably need to reconsider something in your life." There's a bit of grunting, a bit of wincing, as first one and then the other twin sits up. They heal fast but not fast enough that they are not still bleeding, still clearly teeth-gritty with movement. "You ever miss?" "Yeah," Peter admits, "a few times. The first time it scared the crap out of me. I - sometimes do things so fast I don't even realize I'm doing them? I managed to grab a ledge before I fell. Another time, I didn't have anything /to/ grab. I nearly broke my arm. I'm - tough, like /really/ tough. I don't know if I'm as tough as you," he says, looking down at the twins as one of them sits up - staring at the wounds. "Probably not. I don't heal that fast, either." Then, Peter starts unstrapping his webshooter. It's simple; just a strap of leather buckled up at the back. Easy to slip off. One right after the other. "I think you're both tougher than me. Heal faster than me. Got teeth, and claws, and gills. Heck you might even be /stronger/ than me. I dunno. But - I bet you aren't /faster/ than me." He puts the webshooters down on a nearby shelf, side-by-side. Clunk-clunk. "...wanna make a bet?" Peter's smell betrays him; he's apprehensive as hell. Just shy of /terrified/. But his voice doesn't show it. "Nope," says one boy, leaning back to brace thin arms against the floor, palms flat against dusty blood-spattered ground. "What's the bet?" says the other, at the exact same time. Whatever his brother says next is in Vietnamese, and elicits a narrowing of eyes, a brief flare of gills, from the other. A single sharp word of answer, in the same language. "I bet," Peter says, slumping his backpack around and fishing inside of it - hand /jamming/ in there - until finally, he pulls out - are those - bandaids? Yes. Those are bandaids. "I can put a bandaid on both of you before either of you can cut me." "What's," this comes from the one who originally said no, slower and kind of /tired/-sounding, "the /bet/." And his brother: "-- Start out with it still wrapped or already open?" "Still wrapped." PETER'S AN OPTIMIST. Also, it might be noticed that the bandaid /brand/ are My Little Pony. Maybe Peter planned this, and is playing on their weaknesses. More likely Peter just snatched them out of his house's medicine cabinet. "...if I lose, you can have my webshooters. If I win, you gotta talk to Jax. Just - talk to him. Tell him why you're doing this. Just - tell him the truth." The boys exchange a look. Then look back at Peter. One of them narrows his eyes. And then: "-- I want a Fluttershy one." "There's two webshooters, we have four wrists," says the other. "S'not really a great deal." And then - Peter pauses, once again slinging his backpack over. Digging inside of it. Dig. Digdigdig. Dig. And he soon pulls out - a pair of gloves. Blue-and-red. Unusual looking; devices built into the wrists. "The original pair," Peter tells them, waving them at both of them. "So, that's /four/ webshooters." The gloves go back into the backpack. The backpack gets shrugged off and slinked to the ground. "Also if you lose you /both/ have to give Jax a hug." Peter's voice crinkles intentfully on this. Two pairs of claws click against the ground. Taptaptaptaptaptapaptap. "Band-aids on /both/ of us before /either/ of us cut you?" One of the twins looks -- hungry. Peter sucks in a sharp breath - the apprehension he was eminating now ratchets up to 'cold sweat'. But, there's something else, too. A delicate tingling in the back of his skull. His fingers move to carefully slide across the crease of the box. And then... with his other hand, he pulls off his mask. Dropping it to the floor, under his feet. Scruffy hair. Intentful, narrowed eyes. Adjusting to the dark. "Yeah," Peter says, edging back from them. "But no disemboweling." That's a joke, probably. One of the boys shifts. His nails scraaaape against the floor as he moves into a crouch. His brother doesn't move. His nostrils flare, and for a moment he smiles. But he just stays sort of sitting, propped up with one knee crooked towards his chest one palm flat against the ground. "I disembowel him all the time." He jerks his head towards his brother. "He manages fine." His brother just smiles, too. Sniffs at the air. "Alright. Fine. You're on. But /he/ gets Fluttershy. I want Rainbow Dash." "Dude, I am about to suffer a two-sided shark attack," Peter tells them both as one of them crouches. His knees bend - his eyes never leaving the two of them. Both hands now on that box. He /still/ hasn't opened it. "If you think I'm going to pay attention to who gets /what/... um, okay. You're Rainbow Dash, you're Fluttershy. I'll try to - keep track." Peter doesn't think he'll be able to keep track. Peter sucks in a slow breath. Steely eyed. Face like >:(. Then: "Bring it, /Aqualad/." "Hey, no /way/, I'm way cooler than Aquaman," says the one who hasn't bothered to get up. "Who the fuck is Aquaman," says the other irritably. They have probably just given away this TWIN GAME. Admittedly, they weren't intentionally playing it. Shane's eyes train on, not Peter but his brother. Who still hasn't moved. "Aqualad," he mutters. Incredulously. And looks back at Shane, and doesn't move. He turns his gaze to fix on Peter steadily. Shane's still looking at Bastian, though. It's hard to say what cues him to move; there's not much by way of overt tells. A quiet hum that is likely too low for human ears to pick up sends twinned streaks of blue flying at two different angles towards Peter in a very sharp-clawed pincer attack. They're both kind of going for /arms/; nominally, at least, though Shane is /mostly/ just geared to drive Peter in Sebastian's /direction/. Both fingers coil into the box a moment before the twins become two devastating /streaks/ of claws and teeth heading toward him. The fact is, Peter can't hear the attack; he can scarcely see it - and he certainly can't /smell/ it. His five senses are ill-equipped to realize it's coming. But luckily, he's got an extra sense that /is/ up to the job. In that instant - Peter's hands clench into fists and /tear/. The box explodes. MLP bandaids fly /everywhere/, rushing up into a chaotic, confusing swarm. And Peter jumps backwards, toward the wall behind him. The backpack on the floor wasn't dropped sloppily; Peter /knew/ where he put it. Right next to his left foot. When Peter jumps back, that left foot - still clad in the tabi sock - has snapped up underneath the nylon strap, dragging the pack with it. With a flick of his foot, it's /propelled/ toward Shane's chest amidst the cloud of bandaids; one of the hands remains clenched in a fist, having managed to seize about four of the individually wrapped bandaids. He hits the wall - about 5 yards up, back against it, feet and empty hand sticking to brick. And then... he shoves the bandages in his /mouth/ and turns to scuttle on all fours up the wall, toward the rafters. "Oof." Shane takes the backpack not-very-solidly in the shoulder rather than the chest, twisting out of its path almost as soon as Peter is flicking it towards him. He snags it again out of the air before it hits the ground. And -- glances towards Peter for just a second. Watching him scuttle. He's scooting back towards Sebastian, opening the backpack. Digging out the gloves. Sebastian is doing similar, when the cloud of bandaids explodes around him. Not reaching for the backpack, but for the webshooters Peter left on the nearby shelf. Sebastian's keeping his eyes on Peter as he takes them. Shane's keeping his eyes on Sebastian. As Peter scuttles up into the rafters - spitting out the bandaids, and immediately going about the process of unwrapping them - he's watching the twins the whole while. When they don't pursue, his brows crease; when he sees Shane digging in his backpack - and Sebastian going for the webshooters on the shelf - his eyes /pop/ open wide. "Oh... oh, /shit/," he mumbles under his breath. But by then - he's got two of his four bandaids open, and he's slapping their non-sticky sides on his palms. SLAP. SLAP. The gloves and manual shooters are both similar in design; the latter are more crude, but the operation is the same. The gloves have a contact point at the center of the palm; tap it twice, and you get a string. The nozzle can be adjusted - but without understanding the mechanics, Shane's not likely to figure that bit out. Sebastian's getting the one Peter made himself - the 'wire' that straps onto the palms serve as the activation circuit, and it actually has /two/ contact points. Two taps on one to fire a string; two taps on the other to fire a glueball. Two taps on /both/ - and hold - to activate the coccoon. "Ksssh." This is the noise of someone with webbed fingers attempting to wrangle GLOVES. Shane hisses at the gloves like they have offended him, as he wriggles a hand -- /kind of/ into it. Kind of slicing through a little of its webbing as his claws slide in so that /it/ does not slice through any of /his/. Sorry Peter your gloves now need stitching. Sebastian is having it easier with the wrist devices. Strap strap. He at least has the presence of mind to point towards Peter on the wall /before/ attempting to experiment. Tap. Frown. Taptap? His eyes /widen/ at ohshitglueball. Shane isn't experimenting with his yet. Just edging closer to his brother. Littlebit closer. Still fiddling with the now kind of mangled at the seams gloves. Peter crouches low and watches the twins a moment as they experiment - the ripping and tearing - /that/ gets Peter to grimace. "/Dude/," Peter says. But then Sebastian is pointing the web-shooter at Peter, and - tense! Crouch! And - oho, /double-tap/, fool, you haven't figured out - THWP. Oh, SHIT. Peter jumps off the rafters - just as something splats on the beam where he was previously, covering it in greyish glue-goo. He hits the far wall - feet and knees first, only using his /fingertips/ as he slaps down atop of it roughly - and now he's scuttling toward the warehouse opposite the twins. Shane and Sebastian /might/ notice that, as he moves toward the floor - still moving on all fours, /scampering/ - that he's trying to make his way toward his backpack. Slyly. The backpack is still /pretty/ close to the twins who -- are now both aiming webshooters at Peter. Taptaptaptap. This time it is a jettison of string from Shane and another glueball from Sebastian, in quick succession. Sebastian's eyes are narrowing. On Peter. His posture is shifting as Peter comes closer. A little bit more crouched, a little bit more tense-ready. "Crap, /crap/." Peter's primary advantage - distance - is now nullified. The strings and glueballs fling out for him; hopefully, they aren't too familiar with aiming the things, but if they've got sharp reflexes, it's probably not going to be long before their shots are coming much closer. Which means - Peter has to get creative. Which means - Peter has to get /close/. He bobs out of the way of the first few shots, a glueball coming precariously close to his head - keeping down on the ground, /springing/ to the side like some over-energetic grass-hopper. After the third hop, his fingers slap down on an old, dried up husk of a pallet - a good 4 by 5 feet in size - and he /hefts/ it up in front of him, turning it into a makeshift shield. /Charging/ Shane and Sebastian with it. Sebastian, particularly. Unfortunately, even before Peter starts his charge, while he is hopping for the pallet, the twins are already /darting/ back, scampering at very rapid speed away from Peter to /keep/ some distance. Shane scoops the backpack up to take it with him. They're hurrying, though, quick and unencumbered with pallet. THWPTHWP -- this time it's two strings, THWPTHWP, two more, and their aim isn't on point but it's definitely improving with each successive shot; the first ones might just have been testing, gauging so they can improve their accuracy. THWP. THWPTHWP. THWP-- Shane's next shot aims for the pallet, seeking to grab it, jerk it from Peter. He at least does have to stop his retreat to aim this shot /right/. Sebastian's shot doesn't aim for Peter at all. He aims his string for a ceiling-beam as Peter charges. It is apparently time to FLY. Or at least dangle. It takes a second shot, a second beam, before he is actually swinging /away/ anywhere. With a startled "/eep/," as he goes because holycrap this is PROBABLY NOT SAFE. The pallet is grabbed with a THWP; Peter grunts - and as Shane yanks, Peter is pulled - his fingers more or less /sealed/ to said pallet, having wall-clinged it. But rather than fighting Shane, Peter /jumps/ into that forward pull, trying to move with the yank - to use it, along with the push of his own feet, to /hurl/ himself in Shane's direction - pallet-first. One thing that took Peter a while to get used to with the webshooters - dealing with the things he pulled toward himself with them. When Sebastian starts to swing, Peter mumbles under his breath: "Oh my /God/, flying sharks, what have I /done/--" Busy Peter, FOCUS ON SHANE. Shane's eyes widen when he catches hold of Peter. "Ohshitfuck," is what he says in lieu of /oof/, as he goes sprawling backwards beneath a pile of PALLET+PETER. SQUISH. Okay maybe not squish but he is small and has literally no bones, it's /kind of/ squish. Kind of /snarl/: "Bastian!" he yelps from beneath his dustydry wood. WrigglesnarlSHOVE at the pallet oh god. Sebastian is currently DANGLING thank you very much. It is not a thing he is used to. There is swinging in one direction and then swinging in the other direction but then another THWP. "Oh my god," he is also saying, but it's kind of /delighted/ because dangling is turning /into/ flying. This is everything a shark should be. At least until Shane's yelp and then OH YEAH. He looks downward and THWP THWP THWP, alright it takes kind of a /few/ tries to aim /while/ dangling, but he is aiming to /glueball/ Peter. Possibly to glueball Peter /to/ Shane but OOPS. If webslinging is an art form he is basically fingerpainting. Portions of the pallet shatter; that buffer between Peter and Shane rapidly begins to crumble - just as Peter's hand rears back, fingertips unsticking from a plank, and /slams/ forward between the wooden slats - aiming to slap Shane's chest. With - FLUTTERSHY. He might have gotten the twins mixed up, or he might just be too desperate to even care. Whether or not the bandaid hits, Peter is getting the hell /out/ of here, because his SHARK SHIELD is officially coming apart. He kicks to try and jump up, and back - just as that THWP THWP THWP looms from behind him. The first two miss - but the third one hits. SPLAT - right on Peter's hand as it pushes off a chunk of the wooden pallet. Which means Peter's hand is now /stuck/ to it, and it's coming with him; it's just a bit bigger than a watermelon, and dangles rather clumsily as Peter spits out a stream of 'crapcrapcrap/CRAP/'s as he flings himself back, somewhere underneath Sebastian. Shane /snarls/ again, inner eyelids blinking closed as the pallet start to shatter and rain splinterydust down on him. He shoves a hand /up/ as Peter shoves it down, claws raking out towards Peter's arm as the bandaid slaps down against his chest. "Ffffffffffk," he sort of hisscurses whether or /not/ his claws find purchase. One twin down, at least. Well, down for bandaiding. Not down for the /fight/ this is not dodgeball. He launches himself towards Peter when Peter backs up -- and, given he's already lost the bandaid game, now he is not holding /back/ from this. Hissclaw. With Fluttershy on his chest. Sebastian is pretty happy danglingflying out of the FRAY, swinging awkwardly away from Peter's backing-up to -- crash into the wall ohgod ohnowait THWP okay quick reverse-change direction. "Jeez no /wonder/ you need good --" THWP. Another awkward turn this time so that he can THWPTHWP spooge glueballs downwards again. Claws /do/, in fact, catch on Peter's sleeve as he slaps; fabric /splits/, but there's no scent of blood - just the distinct *RRRRRRIP* as fabric and stretches during Peter's retreat (now peppered with a loud, intensive series of 'ohGod's). The chunk of pallet - now firmly secured to Peter's right hand - becomes a makeshift shield between him and the hissing, snarling, /clawing/ Shane - but it's not a very good shield. It only takes a few swipes of claws for the wood to begin shattering, /whittling/ away beneath blow after blow. And with Sebastian raining glue down from above - even as he swings, confusedly, and struggles to right himself - well, it's only a matter of time before - *SPLAT*. Another hit, right on Peter's left shoulder; he grimaces. At least /this/ one doesn't stick anything to him. It does make it a bit harder for his left shoulder to move - the glue stretches, though. "Ohgod," this is coming from Sebastian up above again, because splooging glue down towards Peter has ended with a THUNK. And now he is dangling again. Daaangle. He did not at least crash /face-first/ into a wall, but his knees braced the THUNK and they are none too pleased right now. Peter gets a respite from THWPing while he tries to sort out turning again. Shane's claws savage the wood when it starts to whittle away, and when that glue hits Peter's shoulder, the left shoulder is the one he goes for. Though not with his claws. Just his palms, thudding for more of a /tackle/ than a slash. For some reason perhaps trying to /pin/ Peter rather than disembowel him. OK no disemboweling. Even if he's mad about his Fluttershy bandage. WHich is sitting SO CHEERFULLY on his chest like a warm yellow happy LAST PLACE ribbon. One chance. It's a long-shot. Peter doesn't know if it'll work. It's actually pretty crazy, but - well, /CRAZY/ is Peter's middle name. Okay, it's actually Benjamin SHUT UP. Shane lunges for Peter's shoulder, palms open. Peter spins with the impact - and goes down, with Shane, toward the floor. But even as he does - he swings his /unglued/ hand down to SLAP Shane's wrist. And when he hits the floor, that slap shifts - trying to grab. Yank. Pull. Aim. And FIRE. In the unlikely case that he succeeds - IF he manages to slap Shane's wrist. IF he manages to grab it. IF, in the process of falling to the floor, he manages to correctly aim. IF he manages to hit the contact point with his own hand - and not get his hand /in/ the way. There would be a THWP as Peter hits the floor - a webline fired from Shane's glue-gun - right at Sebastian's back. With a flappy little RAINBOW DASH riding the very tip. Shane's wrist is SKINNY and easily grabbed. Less easily manhandled. But perhaps slightly moreso given that he is only minimally fighting; most of his attention is on curling the long razor-claws of his free hand in. Towards Peter's cheek. To prick, drag down -- it's almost a delicate motion. Light. Gentle. His claws are sharp enough that it takes a long moment before blood wells up in small dots from the two papercut-thin lines they leave behind. "You lose," he says, quiet, even as his brother yelps, "/Gah/." Reflexively spins, reflexively GLUEBALLS downwards straight towards Peter and Shane, but a moment later he is irritably swiping claws at the glue, shaking himself free to THUD to the ground. With glue thwapped to his back and a Rainbow Dash bandaid -- backwards -- pinned to his skin. And the webbing still trailing from it, kind of half wrapped around his side now as he heads towards the pair on the floor. Stiff and limping. Because knees. "/Gross/." "Nnngh -" Peter blinks, wide-eyed and owlishly beneath those clawtips as they descend toward his face - and prick, /drag/ - a tiny grimace, Peter's body tensing rigidly underneath Shane's. His hand still squeezing Shane's opposite wrist - he grimaces, baring his teeth - but when Shane declared he's lost... he gives his head a tiny shake. And nudges his head up, toward Sebastian, as he complains. "On his back," Peter pants, breathing hard, narrow chest /heaving/. Face bright red. "Underneath the sticky web." And - yes. There, beneath the splat, are the flaps of a Rainbow Dash bandaid. Wrong-side up, but actually /there/. Beneath Shane, Peter draws in a ragged breath, before admitting: "...I can't believe that actually /worked/." Shane glances back towards his brother and then hisses, slumping down -- kind of on /top/ of Peter. "You said /before/ either of us cut you," he argues. Sebastian comes to a limping stop beside them both, reaching behind himself to irritably poke a claw at the glue sticking to him. He says nothing. But his nostrils flare, eyes locking on the side of Peter's face. Peter touches his face, now - releasing Shane's wrist as he slumps down on top of him - smearing the tiny pin-pricks of blood, lifting them up to his eyes to see - distracted by them, along with Shane's sudden weight on top of him. "I fired that - as we went down - I fired it /before/ you cut me. But I don't - know if it /hit/ before you cut me," Peter confesses, before looking up at Sebastian - his sniffing - and frowning, just a little. "No," Shane says, frowning at the smearing pricks of blood. "I cut you as you fired it." His nostrils flare, too. "He fired /your/ webshooter." Sans pupils the faint shift of Sebastian's eyes is hard to track as his attention turns to Shane. He follows this up in Vietnamese, quieter, thoughtful. Shane /tenses/, on top of Peter. He rolls away with a grimace, slumping just beside the spiderkid on the floor. His eyes squeeze shut. "We're keeping your fucking webshooters," he mutters, "... even if I can't really wear gloves, holy /shit/." He's yanking them off, flexing his fingers and rubbing his thumb against the sore webbing between them. Peter accepts this declaration with what /might/ be a surprising amount of grace. "I can make you a pair like Sebas--I can /get/ you a pair like the ones B's got on," Peter says, not getting up as Shane rolls away; he's still breathing heavy, still flustered. "I made a pair for Ivan. I could give him the gloves, and give you those. They don't shoot web-balls or do the coccoon thing but neither do the gloves." He dabs at his cheek, again. "And you're gonna need the glue stuff. I'm - running kind of low, but I think Dr. McCoy might be able to make more." "But," Peter says, "I fired the webshooter /before/ you cut me and you should talk to Jax. You have to talk to Jax." The panting hasn't subsided yet. "Can you get me my backpack. There's a vinegar spritzer in there. So I can get the glue off my hand - B can get it off his back, too." Pant, pant. "It melts after, like, an hour, but I don't think anyone wants to wait that long." Sebastian's eyes have narrowed on Shane. He turns away rather /sharply/ to go get the backpack. It's not very stompy because his feet are still bare. Slapslapslap. He snatches the back up to drag it back, dump it right ON Shane's chest. Shane hasn't moved. His eyes are still closed. "I bet Bastian could make the wrist-thing. If he studied yours. He made my bro --" He stops, here, cutting this word short and digging the heel of his hand against his eye. His other arm curls around the backpack that has thudded onto him. "We should get back to our house," he says, more tired. "Maybe," Peter agrees, just laying here next to Shane while Sebastian SLAPSLAPSLAPS off to get his backpack. When it's dumped on Shane's chest, Peter adds: "I made it with a soldering kit and some, just, junk and stuff, I bought some watch parts and it took me like three weeks but, I could help too, probably." Pant, pant. Then: "I totally didn't even /think/ of you two going for the webshooters. That was pretty cool. It totally freaked me out." Pant. "I can't make it," Sebastian says quietly, "all my tools are at Jax's." "We can't climb walls," Shane says with a shrug. He opens his bag to root inside for the vinegar. He spritzes it at Sebastian, first. Admittedly at Sebastian's (unglued!) /face/ which is not helpful. Sebastian bares his teeth at both of them. "We'll get your tools," Shane says. Which mollifies Sebastian, somewhat. Shane spritzes Peter, next. But here at least he actually /goes/ for the glue, hand and then shoulder. Sebastian just quirks a faint, tired smile. Watching Peter pant. "And you say you weren't looking for trouble."