It's a pretty big billboard. Kind of an eyesore, really: It sits right on top of a five-story apartment building, tilted 'round to face one of the major streets--at night, it's illuminated by a set of flood-lights to show off JONAH JAMESON's grim visage, arms folded around his chest, staring out at the city with a skeptical eye. To his right, the DAILY BUGLE logo; beneath him, the words: 'ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FIT TO PRINT'.
At least... that's what it *said*. Someone's taken the liberty of spraying over 'news' and writing, above it--in rather sloppy penmanship--'POOP'. They're also currently in the process of modifying Jonah J's image--they've already spraypainted a big speech-bubble to his side--it says 'BLURGH I SMELL FARTS'. They're currently in the process of drawing a set of confused, googly eyes on him. Two things are immediately clear: The 'artist' in question is *exceptionally* agile, able to clambor over the billboard without need of rope or harness! The other thing: Whoever he is, he is *TERRIBLE* at art.
Peter has modified his costume. Just a little. The black ski-mask has been traded in for a red one; he's put on a set of /giant/ goggles overtop of it--the goggles' lenses are tinted white, giving him a notable bug-eyed look. He's wearing a red hoodie and blue jeans beneath that--with a leather school-bag latched to his back. As he works, he scrambles--with near-effortless ease!--along the upper ridge of the billboard, pausing only occasionally to grab the edge--with his arm, or occasionally just by letting his feet hook over it, and letting his torso dangle--to add some finishing touches with his black spraycan.
"Oh man," he mumbles to himself. "Comedy *gold*. I'm a genius!"
A scrawny figure leaps the gap from another building a lands a bit sloppily, recovering in a forward roll and limping a few steps but not stopping. The newcomer scrambles up the scaffolding on the back of the billboard and pops up over the top of it like a meerkat. Tag Wears a bright yellow jacket, sky-blue scarf, and a leaf-green wool cap that does not quite cover a jagged mop of neon green hair that looks like it has recently been trimmed with craft scissors. "Hey!" he chirps, lifting himself up to sit on top of the billboard, grimy red boots and yellow trousers kicking in the air just above Mr. Jameson head. He cocks his head and leans forward just a little to see the latest 'improvements' on the billboard, bracing his feet on a bank of immobile hair. "Not a fan of the news, huh?"
"AUGH." The kid's reaction is best described as *complete* panic. He almost drops the can--for a moment, he's wobbling, the spray-can tumbling out of his hands. He juggles it--smacking it wildly from side to side, leading it to spiral wildly out of control. It's only at the last instant that he manages to snag it--upside down--and proceeds to hop back, all the way to the opposite edge of the billboard. Peering at Tag suspiciously, crouched. "Whoareyouthisisn'twhatitlookslikeI'mnot..."
"Stencils are great!" Tag braces his hands on the top of the billboard and bounces himself up and down a few times. "I don't use them, though; too much work. Besides, I like to draw." He flips himself around, hangs down by his finger tips, and drops to the metal walkway along the bottom. Straightening up, he tilts his head back to examine the artwork in question. "Don't worry about it. You just need some practice. And you're practicing now!" Hooking his thumbs on his belt, he smiles. "What's your tag, anyway? I've probably seen your other stuff around."
Peter seems to have no clue how to parse Tag. It's clear that all of his interactions concering the intersection of attention and graffiti have consisted of getting yelled at. "I--uh. Oh." He watches Tag drop down the billboard with obvious, confused interest--he's *also* not used to dealing with anyone who can actually get around things like he can. Suddenly, he's slinging his backpack around, shoving his hand into it--fishing. He produces a small stencil--it's covered in black, blue, and red traces of paint. He hops down to the bottom of the billboard, landing in a crouch--when he hits, he hardly makes a sound at all, all the energy absorbed by his suddenly bending legs. He holds the stencil up.
It's, of all things, a spider--one with rather delicate legs. Tag *might* have seen it around the city, particularly in very hard to reach spots--the side of buildings, under bridges--a lot of times, in places where it looks like you'd need a climbing rig to reach. "I, uh. Have a bunch of them," he admits, suddenly finding himself *intensely* embarassed.
Eyes going wide with recognition, Tag squeaks with delight. "/You're/ the Spiderman people have been talking about!" The colors on his person appear to grow brighter, as if the sun has just come out from behind a cloud just for him. "I've seen those around. You are awesome! I wish I could get to some of those spots--I mean, I could if I carried rope and stuff, but that's way more planning than I usually do. Oh! Here's mine..." Tag rolls up his right sleeve to expose the word 'Tag' written in cursive letters fading from red to violet. The same mark adorns many a surreal polychromatic mural around the city, ones that rarely involve any words other than the tag itself. "So, do you use a rig?" he asks, pulling his sleeve back into place, "or are you just /that/ good at free climbing?"
"I... oh. OhGod," Peter exclaims, and at once, it's like he's caught in a set of headlights--the boy is *very* unused to this sort of positive feedback. It almost makes him dizzy. Underneath the mask, his cheeks burn a bright, apple-red; his temperature notches up by half a degree. "I--oh. Oh, wow," he says, peering at that tag--leaning forward. He's still in a crouch, mind you--like a coiled spring ready to fire off at a moment's notice--but he leans upward, craning his neck to see. "Oh, wow, that's... that's *really* good," he says, and then he adds: "Actually I have *totally* seen that around the city too, on the way up to some of the spots I was tagging, and--rig?"
Peter blinks owlishly underneath the goggles--as if the very *notion* of needing a rig was baffling to him. And that's when it dawns on him: Oh, of course! People use... rigs. Sometimes. To climb things. "Oh! Oh, uh--!! Ha, well, I am kind of a natural climber," he admits, bringing one hand up to scratch behind his head--suddenly straightening, lifting out of his crouch. He is... pretty short. Maybe a few inches above 5 feet.
"Amazing!" Tag exclaims, rocking forward onto his toes. He is about Peter's height, if not a little bit shorter. "Well, it's great to meet you in the flesh. I don't know a lot of the street artists around here yet. I was living in Queens for a while. Also, Philly." He shrugs. "Anyway, if you're that good at getting around, you really don't need to worry much about the police. They're mostly pretty crap at jumping and climbing and stuff, and most aren't willing to pull a gun on someone over graffiti." A pause, then, repeated for emphasis. "/Most./"
Again, the blushing. Tag probably can't see it, but Peter's clearly not exactly sure to do with this sort of feedback. His usual twitchiness seems to fade; at the mention of the police, though--and guns--it surges right back. "I--oh. Really?" he asks, and in such a way that it sounds as if he hasn't even *contemplated* the possibility. Of police pulling a gun on him. "Have you ever been shot at?" It's an honest, bald-faced question--Peter actually doesn't know! He's very new at this sort of thing.
"Only once," Tag replies, "and it wasn't even for tagging. It was for...um...being in a house. Also, it wasn't me specifically, it was kind of a raid. On the house I happened to be in." He blushes fiercely, but then laughs it off. "Trouble is always finding me like that, you know? I didn't get shot, though, or even arrested. Got out through a window." Then, glancing back at the vandalized billboard, he asks, "Any reason you picked this one in particular? Lots of atrocious ads all around town, after all..."
"Oh. Are you--like, uh--a superhero?" The question is... well, it's 100 percent honest. Peter is genuinely asking. Apparently, he thinks superheroes are a thing, now. Maybe another way of asking 'are you a mutant?'. Or, maybe not. Then, after the mention of the billboard, he looks up--then back at Tag--as if realizing just what he was doing for the first time. "Oh. Oh! Oh, I, uh, they--they were just, um, publishing a bunch of stuff about me, and I got really angry, and--The guy is a total *Jerk*-head!" Peter exclaims--quite suddenly, and with *quite* a lot of energy. "He published this article about how I was... how I was totally contributing to juvenile deliquency! And I'm a menace! And I need to be stopped! He's a jerkface and I'm gonna put a tag right in his stupidface office so everyone can see he's a stupidface with a Hitler-stache." That latter bit only riles him up a bit more: "How does he get away with a Hitler-stache, anyway?! It's a *Hitler*-stache!"
Tag laughs, then shakes his head. "I /wish/ I was a superhero! I just make things colorful. You look more like a superhero than I do, anyway." He looks Peter up and down again. "Wow...I'm glad I don't read the new nows. What, they say you're a menace just because you do this?" Tag punctuates "this" by waving one arm vaguely at the billboard. "That's ridiculous. Legal or not, this isn't menacing. It doesn't actually hurt anyone. So yeah, he's a total jerkface and you should tag him /in the face!/" Then he does a double-take at Jameson's facial hair, and tilts his head to one side like an owl. "I guess it is, a bit?"
"Wait--you can do things with colors? I *totally* saw you get really bright a second back there--I thought maybe I was just seeing things, but that sounds really cool, particularly if you're using it on graffiti and stuff and *YES* he totally has a Hitler-stache but no one else can see it, and yeah all I'm doing is spraying spiders anywhere *anyway* so I--"
Beep beep beep.
Peter's left hand jerks into his pocket, pulling out a small cell-phone; he peers at it. "Ohcrap," he exclaims. "I set the alarm for when he gets up for work. My unc..." He looks up at Tag. "Unkkh... Unkh... Oncologist. An oncologist I know. Yes. I... am friends with him, and sometimes... meet him. At his workplace. Uh--maybe I'll see you... later?" He sounds hopeful, but even as he says it, he's... backflipping. Right off the billboard. Right off the building's *edge*, in fact. As he jackknifes through the air, he lands--with a metallic *WHONK*--on top of the fire-escape on the building's side... then he jumps again, off the fire-escape, feet kicking off on the building across from the alley--rolling down to the ground, before disappearing--leaping and bouncing like a sugar-fied grasshopper!
"See you around! I hang out at Montague's in SoHo and sometimes Evolve in--whoa!" Tag yelps when Peter throws himself over the side. He jumps down from the billboard platform, winces on the slightly wobbly landing, and rushes to the edge just in time to see Peter land on the fire escape. "Whoa..." he repeats, but it's more wonder and less terror this time. Then, a slow smile spreads over his face as he glances back at the defaced billboard. "Superhero indeed!"
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