#venom 01

[spider-mobile-blog]

@locuscaeruleus

Peter’s no stranger to being dumped halfway across the galaxy without warning, so he wasn’t too stressed about waking up in a strange room underwater with no memory of how he got there.  It was the first time he’d been supplied with a phone for his trouble, though, so he spent the first few hours getting his bearings, picking up what information he could about this place from the weird protocol apps.  It all seemed...pretty mundane, as far as these things go; it was no Secret War, at least, and Doom wasn’t the kind of guy to use the same evil plan twice.  Too tacky and unbecoming of a noble ruler like himself, or something.  That reminded him, though-- the phone had a contact list, and what were the odds of an Avenger, or hell, even Reed, getting beamed up here too?  

He’d only made it through the short section of A’s before Eddie fucking Brock’s name greeted him like a brick wall.  Sure, Doom wasn’t here, but Venom?  He’d booked it out of the room after that, pausing only to grab a pillowcase on the way.  The denizens were thankfully helpful in directing him to this “Palilicium”, despite his somewhat frantic and impolite demands, and he made it to the train without issue.  Nothing like a good old fashioned Venom hunt to familiarize a guy with a new subway system.  (The notable lack of any spider sense alarms has him on edge, but considering he’s getting closer and closer to the symbiote, it’s not surprising.  He just has to be on his guard until he’s sure Brock isn’t going to come crashing down on top of him.)

Despite the general creepiness, Crises felt...sort of comfortable.  Reminded him of midnight in the Financial District.  He didn’t know where his webs were (and that was the next problem on his list), but once he found them, it might be nice to go swinging through here, you know?  After making sure Brock was out of the picture and wasn’t going to kill him anytime soon.  Small goals, small goals.  

Peter found the Palilicium without issue, checked the roster for Brock’s room, tied the pillowcase around his head as a makeshift mask, and started scaling the wall.  Or.  He’d tried to.  He didn’t stick.  He figured he could make his way up there if he dug his fingers into the brick, and scaled it through sheer force, but if this is Venom cancelling out his powers just by presence alone again, then...he didn’t want to get caught with his strength shorting out halfway up a building.  Guess he has no choice but to do this the straightforward way.

And so, several minutes later, he finds himself pounding on Brock’s door, fully planning on breaking it down if no one opens it in the next minute or so.  Going in through the windows is so much easier.  

“Open up, Brock-- room service.”

[cyborgstilettos-blog]

@locuscaeruleus

Ah, the beach.

It is nicer, Raiden reflects, to be able to walk along the shore without sand crusting in the seams of his feet, but he isn’t sure it’s worth having to adjust his every stride to accommodate for the frankly enormous dress shoes he’s wearing. They gleam under Nectar’s midday sun, and leave trench-sized footprints in the sand behind him, and he desperately wants to kick them off, along with the baggy jeans and sweater he’s wearing. But. You know. The natural look hasn’t gone so well for him the last couple of days. Better some minor discomfort than scaring another person half to death.

Last time he was at the beach, he’d borrowed one of Hal’s Gundam t-shirts and worn boardshorts Sunny bought him from a tacky surf-wear shop along the boardwalk, adorned with tiny ducks. No shoes. It was a fun day, right up until he checked his phone to see who was calling and the display said Rose and-

Never mind. The beach. Listerine-blue salt-water lapping lazily at the sand, leaving foamy waves like strings of meringue; the shrill, eerie calls of the bird denizens; the occasional rainbow reflecting off the metal his sweater has ridden up to reveal at his hip. He tugs it down again, and when he looks up he spots someone else meandering along the beach. A man not far from Raiden’s own age, dressed equally incongruously for the seaside in a heavy, nondescript grey hoodie.

They’re going to pass each other if they each continue on the same path. Raiden squints and his vision telescopes in, shows him features best described as - handsome? No. Shove that adjective aside. Normal, he decides. Remarkably normal, given the array of people he’s met so far. 

So of course, about ten seconds later, as the man comes within earshot of Raiden, his optical implant flashes him some very not normal heat readings from this ordinary human man. A viscous red line expands and retracts around his trachea, curls around his brain, plays limbo with his small intestine, then winks out of existence - what the hell is that? A glitch? A parasite? Hot flushes? “Hey,” he blurts. “Uh, hi. Sorry. Are you feeling okay?”

[dazzlingdaredevil-blog]

@locuscaeruleus

At first, finding out that his main mode of transport would have to be a train had filled Matt with a sense of dread. Public transport was something he usually avoided, the overwhelming noises and smells primarily generally causing him a migraine if they didn’t overwhelm him completely. 

But he needed to get acquainted with this new place if he wanted to make any sense of it and so, bracing himself, he had entered the train and been pleasantly surprised when neither of his expectations were met. There were only a few people, primarily sitting alone, and there were no overwhelming smells of forgotten fast-food and human waste, just a natural mixture of natural and unnatural human odors, sweat mixed with cologne, deodorant, perfume, body-wash, shampoo. Music coming from headphones somewhere, the sound of someone chewing gum, shoes moving over dusty flooring, the hum of electricity, roughly 16 heartbeats all at different rhythms, fingers tapping against the flat surface of a phone, a few conversations blending together. Nothing unbearable then.

The person closest to him is relatively quiet and, at least to Matt, radiates a number of at least somewhat interesting signals, a heartbeat that would make most supersoldiers jealous combined with a vaguely familiar scent, the olfactory equivalent of recognizing the face of someone you’ve seen in passing a few times.

Not wanting to directly address a presumed stranger based on him “smelling familiar”, Matt does the next best thing and walks right past them and sits down directly opposite of them, listening for any indication of the other person recognizing him.