20167/Descent: Return of the Spider-Slayer

Descent: Return of the Spider-Slayer
Date of Scene:	02 March 2025
Location:	Midtown
Synopsis:	An arrest gone wrong and an attack by not one, but two Spider-Slayers that are only stopped by the combined effort of a number of diverse heroes.
Cast of Characters:	Peter Parker, Felicia Hardy, Daniel Ketch, Rex Sloan, Logan Howlett, Doreen Green, Wilson Fisk
Tinyplot:	Descent

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Peter Parker has posed:
It is a cool but pleasant weekend afternoon in New York City today. While the temperature hovers just above the freezing mark, the sun has actually managed to poke it's head out from behind the clouds, adding a glimner or warmth and brightness to the day.

There is never a shortage of things to see and due in Manhatten so it should come as no surprise tha the streets of Midtown bustle with activity. Traffic hasn't quite slowed to a crawl, but it is definitely busy and the sidewalks bustle with people out and about, whether shopping or headed to a show, or making their way to Central Park to enjoy the slight turn in the weather while the have the chance.

Two of the people who just happen to be populating the street on this fine day are Peter Parker and Felicia Hardy and while this could easily have been the sort of day that they were out just to enjoy, it is another matter that bring them out this afternoon.

On the whole, Peter has... come to terms that his girlfriend has not exactly completely cut all ties with her former life. She puts her talents to good use -- for the most part -- and that's enough for him. But the fact that she still has ties to the underworld occasionally pays off.

Like today, when she received word that a noted money-man to the criminals is in town for just a few hours. The chance to take him down? Well, that could mean countless convictions and with Felicia having acquired his provisional itinerary, well, Peter didn't hesitate to pass that along to one of the few New York City cops that doesn't hate him, Captain Jean DeWolfe.

Of course he was never going to just leave it at that. He was always going to insist on being present and making sure everything goes smoothly. Which is why he perches several stories above a sidewalk cafe, his trademark red and blue costume firmly in evidence. Okay, sure, Peter Parker isn't on the scene. But the Amazing Spider-Man certainly is, keeping a close watch on the going's on below.

It's a little cold to truly sit and enjoy the outdoors, but the hot treats serverd at Buchannan's still seem to have drawn a crowd, steaming specialty coffees and hot chocolates populating many hands. Including a pair of men who huddle near the back, sitting at a table despite the weather, heads close together, voices hushed. A briefcase sits on the table between them and seems to be the subject of the discussion.

That is hwen a half dozen police squad cars suddenly roar to a stop out in front, their sirens and lights turned off until they suddenly screech to a halt.

In a flash, Captain DeWolfe and a half dozen of her men are pushing through the crowd, heading right for the table and while the pair their suddenly stand up, they are surrounded before they can push through the crowd. In moments the pair are bent across the flat of the table, handcuffs being put in place, rights being read.

"Looks like I was concerned over nothing Cat," Spidey says lightly, casually stretching in place. "What do you think? There's still time to get changed and maybe catch a movie before..." Peter starts when the first shot rings out.

With deadly accuracy, that shot slices down from one of the surrounding buildings, just narrowly missing Jean's shoulder and striking the number's man in the upper chest. A second shot immediately follows, then a third and blood blooms bright, crimson red on the target's shirt.

In a heartbeat, Captain DeWolfe is dragging the dying man -- so critical to so many cases -- down, under the table and out of the line of fire. More shots follow, a fourth, fifth and sixth and two of the officers with her go down as well, while an unfortunate barista also cries out in pain.

In seconds, the streets of Midtown Manhatten are engulfed in chaos, those officers still with the cruisers trying to take cover, to set up a perimeter and scan the nearby buildings, seeking out that sniper...

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Black Cat perches beside Spidey on the rooftop, stretched out like she doesn't have a care in the world, but the impatience is there, a slow-burn beneath the surface. One long leg drapes over the ledge, the other bent, knee up, foot braced against concrete. She props her chin on her palm, elbow resting lazily on her knee, the very picture of boredom.

"This," she sighs, voice lilting, "is not what I signed up for." Her fingers drum against the leather of her glove. "You promised me excitement, Spider. Thrills. The rush of danger. Instead, we're babysitting while your little cop friend does all the heavy lifting."

Below, the cafe hums with life, no one at the tables suspecting the quiet storm brewing. Felicia watches Ralphie Mancini, his greasy little hands gesturing over the briefcase like he's got all the time in the world. Too bad he's run out. She made sure of that.

A last-minute whisper in the right ear, a stolen glance at the wrong itinerary, and suddenly, Captain DeWolfe knew exactly when and where to strike. Ralphie was careful. She was better.

Then, right on time, the squad cars flood the street, silent until the last second. Doors slam, officers spill out, and in seconds, the whole thing is over -- clean, efficient, predictable. DeWolfe and her men descend like a pack of wolves, cuffs snapping into place before Mancini even has a chance to panic.

Felicia sighs, stretching her arms overhead like this is the most exhausting ordeal of her life. "Well. That was anticlimactic." She turns toward Peter, smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Since we're already in the neighborhood, what do you say we -- "

The shot cracks through the air.

Mancini jerks, his chair scraping back as blood blossoms across his chest. The second and third shots follow before the first can fully register. DeWolfe yanks him down, dragging him beneath the table, barking orders as her men scramble for cover. Two officers aren't fast enough. A barista screams.

Chaos explodes across Midtown.

Felicia's already moving, pushing onto her feet, eyes snapping to the rooftops, the windows, every possible vantage point. Her pulse kicks up, but it isn't panic -- it's calculation.

"Damn it," she mutters. "I went through a lot of trouble to gift-wrap that bastard." She adjusts her gloves, gaze narrowing. "Tell me you're already on it, Spider. Because I swear, if someone in the Graziano family gets to walk out of this with my hard work bleeding out on the pavement, I'm gonna be very, very disappointed."

And Felicia Hardy hates being disappointed.

Daniel Ketch has posed:
Among the crowd of New Yorkers there is one Daniel Ketch, going through his usual business, which given it is a Sunday, are not really work-related. Not that it matters when the first gunshot is heard.

Like most people, he is surprised, and looks around warily. Was that a gunshot or just a flat tire or?... another gunshot, and another, and people run, some scream, some do nothing because this is New York.

Daniel gets out of the way, still wary. Because the Ghost Rider usually reacts poorly to this kind of thing and he doesn't want his transformation caught in a camera. And so far so good... until the barista is hit. Because that is the kind of thing that triggers the whole 'blood of the innocents' response from the Spirit of Vengeance. Suddenly, the Ghost Rider is pushing hard, he wants out.

In Midtown, during the day. It is not a good idea, so Daniel resist him for a minute, trying to get closer to the police cars and away from the crowds before the transformation becomes unavoidable.

Rex Sloan has posed:
It's a bright, sunny day in the middle of Manhattan, playing counterpoint to the disposition of one Rex Sloan. Walking down towards Buchannan's, it's plain to see that he could learn a thing or five about common decency while in public, loudly talking into his phone.

"And for the last time, I am *done* getting tossed around like the world's sexiest hacky-sack, because you and Skitter can't figure out your right feet from your le- Yes, I kno-" As the shots ring out, he responds the same way as anyone, ducking low and frantically searching for the source of the shots, his eyes wide.

"Second thought, Tats, I'll call you back. Someone's decided that they want the 'Find Out' portion of the 'Fuck Around' conversation." Darting towards a nearby alleyway, the mostly unremarkable redhead walks in, and the snarkiest member of the original Teen Team walks out, a series of small discs between his fingers as his eyes flit from rooftop to rooftop.

Logan Howlett has posed:
"Look Logan, you know that I love you like a brother in Christ. If you needed a kidney, I wouldn't sleep until I'd found an orphan who matched your blood type. Why, I'd throw my own mother off a building before I'd let you suffer from even a moment of unhappiness. So when I tell you that this is the absolute lowest price that I can give you, I want you to know that it's cheaper than I'd sell to anyone else in the entire universe. I'm basically robbing my kids' college fund to sell them to you this cheap. Swear to god!"

The streets of Midtown Manhattan aren't as notorious for back alley dealings these days, but any city above a certain size is full of questionable activity to observe, provided one knows which rock to look under. And in the alley beside the cigar shop, one of Upstate New York's most notorious residents is in the middle of quibbling with a less than reputable businessman beside a couple of wooden crates. The crates are stamped with export markers that designate them as being from Cuba, but are missing a couple of crucial forms to signify that they've been properly processed through customs. Vices come in all varieties, and some crimes are merely a question of import taxes.

"That's real generous of you, bub. But I could have sworn that you was an atheist... I'll give you six large for 'em. Final offer."

The man doing the haggling looks like the sort of guy who'd be buying a tall boy of Busch Lite and a pack of Swischer-Sweets. Despite the weather, he's got on a biker jacket with no collar or lapels, and prominent yellow 'X' patches on each shoulder, worn open, with no shirt beneath. Of course, the thick carpet of hair on his chest and stomach probably does a decent enough job keeping him warm. With his hair slicked back with a copious amount of bear grease, and sideburns that look like they could have eaten Elvis', he looks like the sort of guy who might have worked at the docks in New York in the 30s, not like the sort of person who'd be doing his Christmas shopping downtown in this paradise full of hipsters and the uber wealthy.

"I'm so sorry, my close personal friend... but the best I can do is eight thousand. Smell them, please, they're real Behikes..."

Shots ring out, and bedlam can be heard nearby. Immediately the short hairy Canadian switches gears from haggling, to hunting. The hairs on the back of his neck practically bristle, and his entire body seems to tense up. But before he leaves the alley, he snarls at the shopkeeper.

"Don't move! I'll be back with five large!"

While most of the citizens nearby are running away from the sound of gunshots, a short guy with terrible fashion sense is sprinting toward it much faster than his short legs and bulky frame would suggest.

Behind him, the guy trying to unload the crate of Cuban cigars simply sighs, and throws a tarp back over the merchandise of questionable legality, looking down at his watch, he says to nobody in particular.

"God... every week with this fucking guy..."

Doreen Green has posed:
While in another part of the neighborhood a figure crouched perched atop an old apartment water tank, watching the streets below. With her fuzzy friend sitting on her shoulders. The still brisk temperatures didn't bother Doreen much, in part because she was still wearing the full body version of her costume with the bomber jacket over it. While when they needed to warm up the squirrels would trade off curling up in the fluffy collar, or in her tail.

The patrol had been rather quiet, but that didn't mean they didn't need to be out and vigilante. One of the reasons Spidey can put his focus on a specific location is knowing he has allies that can help fill in the spaces between. Didn't keep her from being slightly bored. "I wonder how it's going with the--"

Sirens, and shortly after gunfire, echos through the streets. Chaos erupts. Police alerts go out to warn civilians away from the site, setting numerous smartphones across the city blaring. Including the one in her pocket, which Doreen quickly grabs. "--Aw, crud. That was not the kind of answer I was expecting!" She jumped down from the water tank to the roof top and sprinted towards the edge. "We better go see if the spider and the cat need any help!" Doreen leaps at the edge of the roof and onto the next, turning and jumping again to skipping stone across a couple of street lights and signs to get to the opposite side of the road and onto the other buildings. Squirrel Girl may not be able to twip and swing her way around the city like her spider friends but she can parkour with the best of them.

Tippy-Toe chomped and stuffed the cookie she'd been nibbling on into her mouth and cheeks to finish it off and be ready. "I still don't know where you keep getting those from."

Wilson Fisk has posed:
It isn't Fisk Towers that Wilson Fisk can be found departing as the shots begin ringing out. The Hellfire Club seems to be his point of origin and as the shots begin ringing out, Kingpin's eyes rise skyward to the overhead awning that prevents those above from seeing those beneath the obscuring surface of the obstruction. It's a good day for Fisk as it permits him a show from afar. People scatter and Fisk's chin rises a little higher, a mild frown adorning his broad features. The screams of panic and alarm rise up and Fisk's walking stick shifts slightly as he turns to glance behind himself and the pair of bodyguards that trail in his wake, "We're not moving a muscle. I want to watch this," he gruffly informs them. The statement is accentuated by the waving of his free hand, sending cigar smoke wafting about as the thing clutched between his thick fingers joins with the dismissive gesturing of his left hand.

Then it's back to the unfolding chaos that Fisk's attention roams. The unfolding emergency as the police seek to shelter their charge and the apparent assassin's work is executed with brutal efficiency. Out of sight as he is beneath the Hellfire Club's awning, Fisk is permitted front row seats to the dramatic turn of events that are straight out of some sort of cinematic thriller. He does well enough keeping the smile from his face and instead wears a look of grim interest.

The man wearing the white suit and bold red vest beneath it with the Mother-of-Pearl button caps does eventually offer a half-smile as a bit of dark humor escapes his lips to the pair of nearby bodyguards on a low, rumbling voice, "You men didn't think you'd get lunch and a show today, hm?"

Peter Parker has posed:
To someone not knowing the situation, it would not at all be difficult to be left with the impression that some random sniper was simply gunning down people.

To anyone in the know however, there is no mistaking the fact that the first three shots all ended up embedded in the chest of the unfortunate Ralphie Mancini. The high value target who know lays in a slowly expanding puddle of blood beneath that table on the cold, hard pavement of a New York City sidewalk, Captain Jean DeWolfe tearing at his shirt, wiping at the smears of blood to try and get a better look and the entry points, to try and apply pressure as she frantically yells into her shoulder mounted radio, calling for backup, for an ambulance on scene.

Still, it would be an easy mistake to make. Easy, because while his target is down, while Ralphie may or may not be punching his ticket straight for Hell, the sniper is not done, clearly intent on obscuring the issue, on perhaps making enough chaos to make his escape easier.

Another trio of shots crack through that cool March air and again there is that splash of blood as three more innocent bystanders go down even as they try to flee, as they try to take cover..

Which is what most sensible people out and about in Midtown are trying to do. To seek cover, to get out of the line of fire. Of course there will always be those who don't do the sensible sort of thing. Who feel invincible, or that frozen in surprise. Across the street at least a half dozen people stand with cellphones out, held above their head, to capture video footage of the sudden chaos gripping the New York City streets.

But they are not the only eyes that are watching.

Above the buildings, silvery spherical drones that look almost like electronic eyes peer down at the scene below, seeming to capture it all for posterity.

Of course those sky-bound 'eyes' are not the only ones frantically searching the scene and as the Black Cat asks her question, Spider-Man is indeed desperately searching for the apparent source of that gunfire. He does not glance towards that outdoor cafe, does not check to see if he can make out whether his friend -- one of his only friends in legitimate law-enforcement -- is okay.

Instead those masked features frantically scan those buildings for anything that might give him a clue. And he does indeed get lucky, just a hint of muzzle flash catching his attention, the glint of sunlight off a rifle barrel pulling his eyes to the barely open window of a tenth story office across the way. "Got 'em! I'm on my way," Peter calls to Felicia even as he leaps from that perch, a webline spraying out from his wrist, finding purchase on that same building as he swings towards her, his expression grim beneath that mask.

He is not the only one that springs into action though. As Spider-Man suddenly makes his appearance, one of those same silvery drones suddenly plunges down out of the sky on a direct course towards him. Even as the arc of his swing starts to carry him towards that tenth story window where the sniper wrecks terror on those below, that silver eye drops down and explodes mere feet away from Spidey.

Only his Spider-Sense saves him, makes him twist away at the last second, to release his hold on the webline. He's in free-fall when the shockwave of the exploding drone hits him, hammering him downward and he drops hard, one last desperate webline slowing his descent before he crashes into the pavement in the mouth of that alleyway.

And in those skies above the street now gripped in fear and blood? A dark, flying shape in the shape of a giant spider suddenly swoops in over another rooftop, thrusters mounted on the bottom side of the familiar gorm of the black Widow Spider-Slayer flaring brightly as it drops down towards the city street below.

Doreen Green has posed:
And as Squirrel Girl is parkouring to the scene across the rooftops she catches sight of the Spider-Slayer swooping over the buildings and towards the streets. "Holy Macadamias, it's that mechanical menace again!" Tippy-Toe chitters from her shoulder. "Just because the black paint job is cool looking doesn't mean it's less of a problem!" She doesn't even know about the whole sniper deal yet, but this is a big problem in it's own right.

But as she finally reachs the proper street, there's another big problem -- the people too dumb or facinated to leave. "Oy! You'd think people would know by now..." Doreen leaps over the roof edge, grabbing onto a fire escape and climbing down the exterior of it much like a squirrel would to get closer to the street level... just in time to grab one of the wannabe paparazzi by his hood and pull him both into the alley and away from imminint danger. "This is not the kinda photo shoot you wanna risk it for, buddy. Get outta here, that thing is major bad news. Even for New York."

Then Doreen edges out of the alley herself, to get a better look at just the sort of chaos going on. People have been shot, criminal and bystander alike. Even her usually energetic expression tightens a bit more seriously. Tippy-Toe huddles back down in the collar of her jacket. This wasn't good....

Wilson Fisk has posed:
The marksman's rifle continues to sing its destructive song and yet more continue to dive into concealment or cover, while others actively begin to run elsewhere. From his vantage point beneath the Hellfire Club's awning, the Kingpin's expression remains about as carefree as some of those raising their cellphones above their heads to gather evidence for the sake of posterity or social media views. Calm and undisturbed by the carnage being instigated in the streets of New York City. Fisk's gaze wanders over the crowd, but eventually settles onto Captain Jean DeWolfe and the individual that he's actively attempting to protect and serve - or save in this case.

Who is that the cop's attempting to save?

Is that Ralphie Mancini?

Oh, what a shame.

Fisk's expression darkens and a faint smile begins to pull across his features as a tight sneer. The expression doesn't last for long as the sound of an explosion - something that Fisk doesn't seem to expect - interrupts the melody of gunfire and screams. As others begin to rush toward the scene to offer their assistance or intervention, the possessor of unsoiled hands known as Wilson Fisk steps to the edge of the walkway that travels beneath the awning in order to hunker his shoulders and head to permit his looking from beneath it to the skies above in search of the source of the explosion.

Just in time to see the red and blue of the Spider-Man plummet out of sight into an alleyway. "Hrm," the grunt rumbles in his chest while the streets turn to even greater chaos than expected.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Got 'em! I'm on my way.

Spider-Man has a head start, but he's not alone.

The Black Cat runs along the edge of the building. The few inches of concrete might as well have been a sidewalk's width to her footfalls. At the edge, she leaps, stretching out a hand, and with a *pzzzzzt-chk!*, she fires one of her wrist-mounting grappling lines, swinging after him.

She moves before she thinks, before she processes the explosion, before the adrenaline fully kicks in. Instinct. Action. Not Spider-Sense.

The second Peter twists mid-air, the shockwave sending him plummeting, her breath catches -- just for a fraction of a second, a sharp inhale that never fully leaves her lips. Then she's already surging forward, arm up to shield herself from the residual heat of the blast as she swings wide, her line catching a fire escape just past the chaos.

She doesn't stop to look down. Not yet.

Spidey's durable. She tells herself that as she propels herself forward, the wind cutting sharp past her as she gains momentum. A flick of her wrist, a line snapping taut, muscles coiling and releasing as she swings.

Her eyes lock back on the tenth-floor window.

<< "Back on your feet, Spider," >> she sing-songs into the comms, voice lilting, but her teeth grit as she pivots, shifting the angle of her trajectory.

She's not as fast as he is. Not as fluid. Her grappling hooks are efficient, precise, but they don't have the same effortless reach, the same rhythm. It's work, swinging like this, chasing the path she'd assumed Peter would already be ahead of. But he's not. Not this time.

And she doesn't have time to spare more than a glance back -- to see his web-lines still going out as he falls -- before she reaches that window.

Felicia twists mid-air, boot catching the edge of a ledge just long enough to propel herself up and forward. She doesn't hesitate. A clean arc, a perfectly executed vault, and then she's flying toward that open window, bracing for impact.

The sniper has to know she's coming.

Good.

She aims low, tucking into the momentum, rolling through the window frame in a practiced movement. The second her boots hit the floor, she's already rising, already scanning.

Ahead of her, the door is slowly closing, and she's bolting for it, in hot pursuit.

All the while, through the window behind her, the screams and the sirens fill the air as the Spider-Slayer descends.

Logan Howlett has posed:
It doesn't take hypersensitive senses to be able to detect gunshots from such a close range. But it does require years of intensive training to be able to trace each of the shots back to its point of origin and formulate a plan for eradicating any gunmen in order of proximity and perceived threat level. Though there are multiple shots, it's clear they all came from the same place, the same gun. Logan might not remember all of the training that allowed him to process threats in an almost robotic fasion, but it's engrained deeply within his brain.

But before he can deal with the gunman, another threat plops almost right on top of him, causing him to skid to a stop and throw his arms up in front of his face in a crossed, x-like fashion as a brightly colored figure lands in the alley that he was planning to leave. The quick defensive posture is quickly abandoned when it becomes clear that the figure splatted on the pavement is not in fact a threat, but rather a friendly neighborhood nuissance.

"They told me them cigars was Honduran!"

As non sequiturs go, it's kind of a doozy. But when it becomes clear that Spider-Man is not here to arrest a nefarious cigar peddler, the mutant known as Wolverine takes a cautious step foreward, sniffs the air, and then... nudges the costumed vigilante in the ribs. Gentle-like, at first, and then a bit harder.

"Quit yer gold-brickin'... I need a boost and forgot to pack my rocket skates this mornin'."

Behind him, the cigar shop owner is hurriedly removing any traces of his less than legal dealings from what is quickly becoming a costume convention practically on his own back porch. But as Logan peers out into the street nearby, and gets his first glimpse of the Spider Slayer, he turns back and offers Spider-Man a hand.

"Swear to god... New York's got the laziest superheroes and the weirdest parade floats."

Daniel Ketch has posed:
By the time the sniper begins targeting innocent bystanders, Daniel Ketch is gone and in his place stands a skeleton in spiky biker leathers, the skull in fire. Which certainly is not going to help calm the people panicking, and maybe give the picture-taking fools a reason to consider their life choices.

Maybe. Some are now they are taking pictures of him.

Also, there is a robot coming, which is very interesting for everyone but the Ghost Rider. Robots don't trigger his wrath, as they don't have souls (usually) or are sentient (mostly). His quarry is the sniper, and the sniper is not in the street or anywhere close to the police vehicles. The Rider supernatural senses don't quite require him to spot the killer, he seems to know. The 10th story window. And the killer is running.

With a gesture, his motorcycle appears in a flash of fire, and a few seconds later the Ghost Rider is driving it up the wall of the building. Felicia gets there before, but she is barely through the door when the windowframe explodes, along with a good chunk of the outer wall, so the Ghost Rider and his motorcycle bursts into the office the sniper was using.

Rex Sloan has posed:
There's a passing moment where Rex's gaze jumps from window to window, searching for the sniper. As a rather larger shape casts its shadow over the area, however, he turns to look upward.

"Oh come the fuck *on*! Snipers *and* mecha bullshit?" Even as he gripes and complain, a hand flings out, and a trio of metal disks fly towards the newest arrival to the party, now glowing a bright yellow. As he lets the discs go, he runs off to the side, away from the outmatched and under-gunned NYPD officers. "C'mere, big guy!"

Peter Parker has posed:
Just another day in Manhatten, right?

Such occurances are not nearly so rare as one might hope admittedly. Really, in the grand scheme of things this is practically ordinary on some levels. Where are the invading aliens? When is the host of enraged angels ravaging the streets? A single sniper, an exploding drone and a giant spider robot? Okay, that's pretty good but it's not exactly a summer blockbuster or anything.

At least that would seem to be the attitude from some of the crowd who are gathered close by, at least those out of the line of direct fire. More intent on capturing footage, to uploading it into the cloud. Already local television stations are starting to break in with their own converage, something that probably won't make some of the onlookers any more cautious.

Fortunately Squirrel Girl is there watching out for them. Her pointed words don't seem to have much effect on the young man she accosts, but the fact that she -- deliberately or inadvertangtly -- gets him out of the way of the falling debris from the explosion overhead just seconds before it rains down the sidewalk seems to make muchof an impression. "You got it. I'm outta here!" he agrees, a panicked note in his voice as he turns tail to run, a half dozen of the others close by Squirrel Girl seeming to take their cue to do the same.

Fortunately that constant barrage of sniper fire from above is finally cut off. While Spider-Man might not have made it through the window where the hired gun lay in wait, Black Cat had more luck, creashing through that glass, sending the tripod mounted weapon sprawling across the ground, clattering to the floor. Of course, even as she gets to her feet, the window behind her -- and a good part of the wall -- are simply dissolving to let that impossible motorcycle and it's even more impossible rider through.

But the gunman himself is already darting away, apparently having decided that this is his last chance to get away. And as the door starts to swing shut in his wake, he tosses one last present back behind him, the sphere clattering across the ground before it explodes in a blinding burst of light and a loud explosion of noise designed to confuse and incapacitate. Flashbang.

Across the street, the respite might come just too late and Captain DeWolfe continues to should into her radio as those of her officers who are still upright and mobile begin to advance towards that office building, weapons drawn, peering warily upward, looking for any signs that they're being lured out.

For her part, Jean continues starts chest compressions on poor old Ralphie. "You don't die until I say you die, you corrupt son of a bitch," she snarls as blood leaks from the corner of his mouth and his breath gurgles in his chest.

It doesn't look good for Ralphie Mancini.

Out on the street, the crumpled form of Spider-Man stirs from his unwelcome, makeshift bed -- that really is just a New York City sidewalk. He aches all over. Yes, he'll heal. Faster then any normal person could hope to. But not nearly so fast as the hairy Canadian looming over him, that's for sure and beneath his mask Peter groans aloud as he tries to get to his feet. "Have a heart, will ya," he mutters, reaching for the offered hand, taking the assist to get back to his feet.

Though he probably wishes that he didn't.

Watching the familiar shape of that black and red Spider-robot descent, watching those mechanical mandibles begin to drip with that acid discharge is by no mean's reassuring. "You gotta be kidding me," he mutters in complaint, trying to draw himself straight while clutching at his ribs.

Fortunately, before the thing can attack and handful of exploding disks pepper the heavily armored Spider and it twists it's mechanical head, a hatch opening and a missile suddenly launching out towards Rex.

No good deed, right?

Less reassuringly? New crashes begin to sound from the opposite end of the street, the sound of cars being crumpled nearly unmistakable.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
*Boom.*

The wall behind Felicia detonates, blasting outward in a fiery explosion of shattered drywall and glass. Instinct kicks in. She twists mid-air, landing in a crouch, one knee bent, palm braced against the floor. Winded. A sharp inhale drags in smoke and heat.

She whips around, breath catching as the flames flicker around the bike, curling around the gaping hole in the building.

Black leather, spiked and gleaming. A motorcycle, wreathed in hellfire, rolling to a slow, deliberate stop. Chains coiling and rattling like something alive. And at the center of it all -- no face, no flesh, just a grinning, flame-wrapped skull.

Felicia stares.

"Hot."

It slips out before she can think better of it, half-breathed, half-impressed. Full of tongue-in-cheek irony. Because really. A stunning platinum blonde in a catsuit in the middle of winter might have been the most eye-catching thing in the building a second ago, but now? Yeah. She's been upstaged.

She pushes to her feet, dusting debris from her gloves, shaking out her ponytail like she's not in a hallway with a literal embodiment of vengeance burning ten feet away.

"You know," she muses, tilting her head as she surveys the absolute carnage he just left in his wake, "I could've opened the -- "

She doesn't get to finish whatever she was going to say.

The flashbang goes off in a blinding flash of light, and though the flash itself doesn't seem to hurt her -- thank god for flash-proof lenses in her mask -- the _sound_ has her bringing her hands up to her ears.

"That son of a bitch!" she growls. Her sharp blue eyes flick past him, to the flames still licking at the edges of the ruined office, then back to the hallway where her target had vanished.

A door that's shut but not latched all the way. The faintest impression of a shoe print in the drywall where someone kicked off for momentum.

"Hey, Ghost of Bad Boys Past?"

The call out to the mysterious rider comes out a little too loud, her ears still ringing.

"I think our rat's trying to scurry down the west stairwell."

She taps her temple like she's the one with the supernatural senses, then flicks a wink over her shoulder.

"Race you."

Rex Sloan has posed:
No good deed ever goes unpunished, not one bit. Those looking on from a distance might even be impressed as the summer-hued hero backflips away from the oncoming missile, hand flashing out as a series of explosions erupt in front of the missile. Those closer might be less impressed as the words "Pocket sand!" come from his mouth, as a handful of glowing ball bearings are thrown from his right hand. Original, he is certainly not, but the effect is the same.

Looking over towards the Spidey-shaped hole in the pavement, as well as the scowling bastard who might have given Immortal a run for his money in the 'grouchy old bastard for more than a century' department, he maintains a steady stream of discs, rocks, and random bits of detritus, all glowing and sent towards the mech. "Little help, over here?"

Wilson Fisk has posed:
The chaos in the streets is expanding. Only a moment ago there was nothing more than the sniper dispensing some well-earned street justice. Now there is the arrival of exploding drones and from the vantage point of Wilson Fisk - some sort of massive robotic spider. He watches on with growing interest, but equal concern. Before he had the advantage of being concealed from view of the tenth story office building's vantage point by the awning of the Hellfire Club's entrance. Now with threats emerging on the street itself, that leaves Fisk increasingly in harm's way. For the moment he doesn't retreat back inside or otherwise seek out some form of cover, but instead watches on with passing interest.

Money and power can protect from a lot, but flying missiles and large techno-spiders may not be covered under the acquisition of the things that grease palms and prevent many politicians and celebrities from ever seeing the interior decor of a prison.

The pair of bodyguards at his flank begin to step forward in unison. Their mouths open and a hand lifted, as though both reaching for Fisk at once. They pause, glance toward one another, and knock out a quick game of paper-rock-scissors to determine just who's going to be the one to advise their employer that they should withdraw to a safer location. The one to Fisk's right earns the honor and steps forward, clearing his throat as he declares, 'Mr. Fisk, we should step inside'.

Another thoughtful rumble of sound escapes the massive man and his walking stick offers the carpeted walkway a little tap as the point of it jabs at the concrete beneath, "You may be right," his thunderous voice answers, "but..."

Fisk trails off as the sound of colliding cars begins to unfold further down the street and that draws the attention of the Kingpin for the time moment. A new threat emerges? Intriguing.

"People across the world usually pay good money for this sort of entertainment. Modern day gladiators contending against the beasts and contraptions for their keeper's entertainment and profit. Mr. Boyd, gather some footage as well," he instructs, advising one of his bodyguards to begin filming, "and we'll make sure to turn a little profit from providing some of the major networks front row footage."

Doreen Green has posed:
Normally this would be the point where Squirrel Girl calls in a horde of her namesake to mob the threat, cover its eyes/sensors, start chewing on it's moving parts and all that.... But with all the chaos and bloodshed that's already happened she doesn't want to put them at such risk. Tippy-Toe, Monkey Joe and Gadget Gregg were exceptions, they choose to accompany her despite the dangers.

Speaking of, there's a Spidey shaped form hitting the ground. And being helped up by... "Now what is -he- doing here?" We'll put a pin in that for now, because there is still a very big problem to deal with. Even if someone else has it's attention for the moment.

"Think, Doreen, think." Tippy-Toe chirrups, and points. "Well, that's as good as anything else..." She steps back into the alley a moment.

And steps back out to use her somewhat more super than normal 'Proportional Strength of a Squirrel' to hurtle a garbage bag at the Spider Slayer! "Time to take out the trash... With trash!"

Likely not the most damaging of attacks, but that bag is going to break and splatter whatever crud is in it on the machine and maybe mess something up. Or just make a big mess.

Daniel Ketch has posed:
The flashbang grenade seems to have even less effect on the Ghost Rider, possibly because the lack of eyeballs, or ears. What distracts him momentarily is Felicia's presence and banter. Most people would classify her as 'hot', but the Rider studies her a second and classifies her as 'not guilty, for now'.

Race? This is a chase, not a race. "No. This sinner is mine," his voice a bass too low for a human throat.

The engine of the motorcycle roars, and the hellish contraption speeds forward, crashing through the door of the room and then through the desks and panels of the office space like a bulldozer.

The Ghost Rider is one of the reasons insurance premiums are through the roof in New York City.

Logan Howlett has posed:
"Grrrr..."

Not exactly scintillating repartee, but Logan's response to the request is nevertheless fairly definitive. He will not be having a heart today, nor upon any other day in the foreseeable future. But for a man without a heart, he certainly has a lot of guts, judging by the way he begins sprinting in the direction of the giant robot, armed only with his swinging dog tags. Perhaps the fact that he stopped at all to help the wall-crawler is evidence of a heart? At the moment it's probably a moot point, as his brain is clearly operating somewhere on the level of a junkyard dog, chasing down an especially juicy-looking rat.

As he gets within sight of the Spider Slayer, metallic claws pop out from their sheathes within his forearms with a familiar 'SNIKT!'. The wild man from the frozen North leaps onto the back of a yellow late model Prius with a New York City cab badge, and runs along the short distance of the roof until he's able to leap onto a nearby Chrysler Pacifica. Children in the backseat are simultaneously thrilled and terrified as the hairy mutant runs along their parents minivan, before leaping up onto the back of a cargo van with a bunch of ladders stacked on the roof.

And it's from this last vehicle that the Wolverine is finally able to gain enough altitude to leap into the air, propelling his squarish, bulky frame an astonishing distance with his arms stretched in front of him and his face contorted in something between a fit of rage and a flight of ecstasy as claws make contact with the Spider Slayer!

Just in time to get pelted right in his ugly mug with with the contents of some New Yorker's garbage can!

"RAAAARGH!"

Blinded by garbage, the feral mutant swings wildly, claws flashing as he unleashes his fury upon the robot, and also upon a bunch of half-eaten cartons of Chinese leftovers!

Peter Parker has posed:
If Mr. Wilson Fisk wants a show, it would seem that someone out there is inclined to give him one.

While the sniper tries to make his escape from a Spirit of Vengeance and a very pissed off Cat Burglar, things are not calming down appreciably on the streets of Midtown Manhatten. Fewer people are out and about at least, most anyone of any sense having taken cover, having darted into the surrounding buildings or off side streets away from the chaos. Most of those left are well back from the action, the authorities, or the wounded, laying on the sidewalk and the streets, waiting for medical attention, the distant wail of ambulances beginning to fill the air with their warning of approach.

In that little sidewalk cafe, Captain DeWolfe's efforts to keep her prized capture's heart going are beginning to flag, the rise and fall of his chest growing more and more imperceptable as that puddle of blood continues to inch it's way ominously across the ground. "Heads are going to roll for this," she growls, hardly noticing the blood staining her jacket, her hands. "Get out there and clear a path for the ambulances," she growls into the radio.

That red and black Spider-Slayer continues it's slow advance towards the injured Spider-Man, even after having launched that rocket -- one that Rex manages to deal with thanks to his own unique variation on the pocket sand trick. It buys him a few moments anyway.

What probably helps more is the fact that Squirrel Girl and the Wolverine leap into action, offering it a very different threat to deal with.

In that previous encounter with the Spider Slayer it's armor showed just how tough it was, withstanding quite a beating and as those micro-explosions from Rex and Squirrel Girl's hurled sacks of trash rain down on it, it does indeed keep coming.

That armor is not designed to stand up to adamantine claws though, and Logan's blow slices clean through a section of that armor, making sparks fly. But as he is distracted, pelted with garbage, one of those mandibles swings up, a viscous, green acid spraying out towards the Canadian Mutant.

Just in case anyone might have thought the situation was well in hand might quickly be disabused out that notion, as right outside the Hellfire Club, no more then fifteen feet in front of Wilson Fisk, the car parked at the curb is suddenly squashed flat and an even larger blue version of that Spider-like robot -- this one longerm larger and bristling with weapon turrets - stomps past, crushing abandonned vehicles in it's wake.

Then it begins to rain down laser blasts on Spider-Man and the rest of those close by, forcing the wall-cralwer to dive for cover, grunting as he aggitates those already injured ribs.

"A second one? Who needs two giant robot spider squashers? Talk about overkill," Spidey protests, leaning heavily against the side of the building but beginning to spew out webbing, criss-crossing the street in front of that new threat's advance.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia doesn't chase.

She _hunts_.

But this time, she doesn't have to.

The Ghost Rider tears through the office, his motorcycle roaring as it smashes straight through cubicles, desks, and whatever sad, soulless remnants of corporate America were unfortunate enough to be in his way. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, swinging wildly from their mounts. Papers explode into the air in a blizzard of meaningless reports, half-empty coffee cups crash to the floor, chairs go flying -- one bounces off the back of the hell-cycle and disintegrates into splinters on impact.

Felicia hangs back, slipping into the shadows between the chaos, her boots eerily silent against the floor.

The sniper is running.

Ghost Rider is sure to sense him as he bursts through a door, turns a corner, vaults over a desk, and tries to zigzag through the office, desperately seeking an escape route -- the stairwell. But it doesn't matter. Nothing about this chase has ever been fair.

Hell itself is coming for him.

The Ghost Rider closes the distance fast, his motorcycle eating up the space between them. Cubicle walls collapse in his wake, partitions shattering like cheap plastic.

Felicia keeps moving, low and swift. She could go after him herself -- maybe she _should_ -- but there's something about watching the Ghost Rider track his target -- his 'sinner.'

Something dangerous.

Something terrifying.

Something irresistible to a woman who lives for the next thrill.

She prowls along the edge of the destruction, sharp blue eyes flicking between the wreckage and the inevitable conclusion. Because there is no doubt about how this ends.

The sniper reaches the glass wall at the far end of the office. His hand slams against it as he tries to find a way out, but there isn't one. He whips around, frantic, raising a sidearm in one hand and unloading one whole magazine directly at the flaming rider.

Felicia smirks. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs under her breath. "I don't think that's gonna help you."

But at least it wasn't her who got to him first. She is many things, but bulletproof is not one of them.

Doreen Green has posed:
Well at least Wolvie has something to take his annoyance out on.

He's going to have to keep working on that one, as the crunch of metal from up the street draws Doreen's attention. "Oh you have got to be kidding..." uttered in the same manner of exapseration at excess as Spider-Man, just before she leaps and bounds across the street as the turret fire rains loose. Squirrel-like agility has her lunging from car to car just ahead of them blowing apart in her wake from the laser blasts. It might look like random zigging and zagging, but it's actually much more calculated. Squirrel Girl eventually weaves her way to the other side of the landstriding Slayer. Jumps up, kicks off a wall, rebounds off a lamppost, and aims to land on the side of the machine so she can climb towards the top of it.

Daniel Ketch has posed:
A chase, a hunt. Or just plain, old vengeance. Biblical style.

"Murderer!" Roars the Ghost Rider, feeling how the soul of one of the bystanders shot in the streets passes on the afterlife. Bullets strike his body, but to little effect; a couple pass through the biker leathers and between his ribs, leaving small entry and exit holes, another bounces off his skull, a couple splatter against the hellbike's metal frame.

Then the motorcycle slows down, and the Rider grabs the chain around his waist and whips it in the direction of the gunman. It stretches unnaturally, the flaming links growing sharp and thin, and hits the assassin, going through his left shoulder and pinning him against the wall.

"Your soul will burn for your crimes," sentences the fiery skeleton. His jaw opens and a blast of fire engulfs the killer. The man begins to scream.

It should be heat, and the stench of burning flesh. But there is nothing of it. If anything, it almost feels as if the already cold air is getting chillier, and the screaming man clothes are not burning, neither is the plaster or the desks, the papers of the floor or the bits and pieces of the wrecked office space.

But a soul is burning, and that is a sharp, painful spectacle to most eyes.

Logan Howlett has posed:
Using his claws simultaneously to cling to the Spider Slayer's side, and to rip into its armor, Logan is blissfully unaware of the acid being sprayed in his direction all the way up to the point where it melts his face and chest completely off, leaving a gleaming Adamantium skull and ribcage exposed to the chilly New York air. But though he no longer has any eyes, he continues to rip apart the robot's armor as he burrows deeper within its metallic guts to get to the mechanical and electronic goodies concealed within. Notably, his war cry goes from a feral growl, to something that sounds wet and pained, gurgling up from a partially-melted throat and escaping from a mouth that no longer has a tongue.

"Gwkaaaaaa...."

It's not an especially inspirational sound to rally the troops with. But it's not like Wolverine was especially effective with the speechmaking.

Bits of his jacket fall by the wayside, alongside bits of his skin, until the mutant digs his way deep enough within the Spider-Slayer to be protected by its own body. Some combination of instinct and berserker fury is all that he's operating on, as both his pain receptors and his higher reasoning seem to be completely cut off.

The acid fights against his healing powers, continuing to melt skin, muscle, and organs that are trying their damnedest to grow back. But once he's buried completely within the giant robot, he begins to really lash out, throwing the sort of tantrum that an Adamantium-clawed toddler might after being told there are no more Uncrustables. And though Logan isn't really here anymore, he still does an impressive job tunnelling forward, much like his namesake. Electrical components shock him repeatedly, causing convulsions as he's exposed to amperage that really should kill him. But there is nobody to witness the way that his body lights up on its path forward, though the smoke pouring out of the Spider Slayer smells of both wet dog and burning hair.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
The sudden crushing of a car sends glass spraying out in all directions. Kingpin's mighty hand rises up to shield his face as his head turns aside, eyes closed. When it's felt, rather than seen, that the debris has stopped flying he looks ahead anew. The sight of the newest addition to the growing battle earns a scowl from Mr. Fisk, but he does not comment on it. Instead he turns about with a tap of his cane while his massive hand grips the golden knob of his cane.

To one of the pair of bodyguard, Fisk comments with a grimace, "Call Ms. Reeves and inform her that now would be a good time for the disaster cleanup crews to go on strike and demand higher fees for their contracts". Which of course will result in some more funds lining his own pockets on account in the long-term.

Only then does Mr. Fisk turn about and begin to walk with long strides back toward the Hellfire Club's entrance in order to seek shelter from the craziness unfolding in the streets of his city today. He'll turn a tidy profit from all the chaos that's unfolded today and perhaps he'd been witness to more than one form of garbage being destroyed today.

Rex Sloan has posed:
Raising his brows at the sudden arrival of both a trash heap and a glorified honeybadger given a human form, Rex trails to a stop, watching the clawed berserker go to town on the mech. "Huh... Well. Yeah, fuck it u- Fuck!" He ducks as the other mech makes its presence known, before straightening up.

Sparing a glance for the oversized squirrel, Rex instead flings a glowing bar towards the second mech. "C'mere, new friend!"

Peter Parker has posed:
A whole new level of chaos descends upon that Midtown street as those two Spider-Slayers advance from either side, each with their own approach, each leaving thousands if not millions of dollars in damage in their wake.

Some city contractors are going to wake up to a very good day tomorrow. And apparently Wilson Fisk is going to be one of the ones who benefits.

The police that were headed for the office building to try and intercept the sniper are brought up abruptly short and once more they are forced to scatter, once more are forced to seek out cover, to crouch behind car doors and level their sidearms through rolled down windows, unleashing an answering hailstorm of gunfire at the advancing blue spider. Most of which accomplishes little, the bullets clinking off the armored exo-skeleton of the robotic spider.

The weblines that Spidey throws up do help to an extent. If nothing else they slow down the blue Spider-Slayer's approach, they make it nominally more difficult for it to twist and reposition those turrets, helping to buy time of the police to get to cover. And for Squirrel Girl to dodge and weave her way into a position that she can land atop the robotic spider. All those weapon emplacements twist, a handful of them trying to track her, to shoot the bushy-tailed woman off it's back, but the design flaw would seem obvious and Squirrel Girl is not so easily dislodged.

It probably helps that both Spider-Man and Rex have her back as well. In Rex's case those next explosions begin to rain down on the second Spider-Slayer and while the armor might be durable, those weapon emplacements are vulnerable. Metal twists and melts and the rain of fire from those turrets rapidly begins to curtail.

Joining in on the show, Spider-Man lashes out with those weblines, grabbing hold of those gleaming golden laser cannons and beginning to rip them free of the body of the SPider-Slayer, leaving sparking gaps in the armor of the robotic threats. "Finish 'em off Squirrel Girl!" he calls out.

Which is when he glances back to see how Logan is holding up against the red and black Spider-Slayer.

And very nearly throws up in his mask.

It is a sight to behold certainly, watching the half-melted Canadian, still battling, still tearing that armor to absolute shreads, ripping into the much more vulnerable 'guts' of the robot until it is sparking, until flames start to ignite and smoke pours forth from the gap in armor.

"Oh my god, that's disgusting," Peter mutters, his words a gagging sound as he quickly looks away from the gruesome scene.

And in the skies above, those nearly invisible silvery drones continue to record everything happening below.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The sniper's screams are raw, ripped from some place deep, some place where terror has no words -- only sound.

The fire wraps around him, but it doesn't burn. Not the way it should. His skin doesn't blister, his clothes don't blacken. The chain through his shoulder should be the worst of it, the metal still biting deep, but it isn't.

This is worse.

He feels it, something pulling, tearing, peeling him open from the inside. His chest contracts like his ribs are collapsing inward, like something inside him is being dragged free.

It's not the pain of flesh. It's the pain of knowing.

The sockets of the skull in front of him burn through him, deeper than anything physical. It sees him. Not the gunman, not the hired professional. The truth of him.

And the moment he understands that -- he knows it's already too late.

He chokes on it, gasping, because the weight of every sin he's ever committed is pressing down hard, squeezing, wrapping around his ribs like a vice. It's wrong, this creeping cold in his bones, this sensation of his mind fracturing under the pressure of something eternal, something that doesn't just pass judgment -- it is judgment.

It _sees_.

And then it goes deeper.

A fresh scream rips from his throat, his back arching against the wall, against the shattered glass, because he remembers now, sees all of it. Faces of the dead, blood in the streets, the weight of every life taken -- his work. His sins.

His soul is burning even as he begins to collapse.

And from the edge of the chaos, a feminine voice murmurs, smooth and amused.

"Well, _that's_ dramatic."

She's just a shadow in the flickering light. Watching. Waiting. And she's not stopping it. This isn't hers to stop.

Doreen Green has posed:
Only some of the turrets try to turn to follow her. Which is what Squirrel Girl actually had been counting on, the thing being designed more on laying waste around itself than on it's back. To the ones that do try to track her... she turns around and shakes her fluffy-tailed backside at them, which Tippy-Toe mimicks on her shoulder. "Catch us if you caaaan~" Because if they're trying to hone in on her, they're not shooting at other people.

Then she springs back into motion, even as weapon mounts start blowing up from Rex's explosions. And some well placed webslinging starts to pull off the bigger cannons. "On it!" As she darts closer she grabs onto one of the smaller turrets, using her climbing claws to rip it free of it's mooring. Then bolts again to ram it into one of the now exposed gaps left. Tippy even helps, jumping off her shoulder to stomp on it and help jam it into all those delecate electronics inside the machine.

Then Doreen grabs Tippy and leaps once more to get off the thing, deploying the 'flying squirrel' glider flaps of her jacket to get as much distance from the stompy explody machine as she can.

Logan Howlett has posed:
There are sounds of tearing, grinding, and hammering from within the Spider Slayer. As the robot begins to falter, the unseen berserker barrage continues within its interior, while burning acid continues to make the world's rudest Canadian especially cranky. Systems begin failing, mechanical components stop operating, and lights begin to flicker and then die. Then the robot finally falls, collapsing under its own weight, the creaking of metal legs giving way to a spectacular crash as the body collides with the asphalt.

And then, for a moment, there is no sound from the robot.

But only for a moment. Seconds later, a final sound of tearing can be heard, like impossibly hard nails on an improbably tough chalkboard. And then the armor of the Spider Slayer gives way, revealing the form of a feral mutant who has clawed, struggled, and even chewed his way through the entire center of its bulbous body.

As he emerges, there is still an electrical cable caught in Logan's teeth, bearing down to expose the copper amid a spray of his own frothing saliva. He pulls himself out, standing atop the smoking ruin of a perfectly good vigilante-killing robot, breathing in labored, heaving gasps as his partially-regrown tongue hangs limply out of his mouth. Already the skin is starting to regrow over his skeleton, covering up the organs that are currently giving onlookers a serious case of nausea. Neither the chain wrapped around his neck nor the tag hanging from it seem to have been damaged at all by the acid or the exposure to thousands of amps worth of current. Like his skeleton, they seem to be made of pretty sturdy stuff.

"GRAAAAAAAGH!"

Clambering down off of the robot, with eyes still in the process of growing back, Logan retracts his claws with a 'SNAKT!' as he fumbles his way foreward with his hands outstretched. In an intermediate stage of healing, the fresh skin on his face looks ghoulish, giving him the appearance of a burn victim, but already improvement is beginning to show. Any minute now, he'll probably have eyelids again.

Right about the time that the skin inside his nostrils begins to regrow, a familiar scent catches his attention, and he turns toward its source with a look of what may be surprise, but it's a bit hard to tell at the moment.

He appears to be looking right at Squirrel Girl, though only one of his eyes seems to be working, and only barely.

A gurgling growl of recognition follows.

Rex Sloan has posed:
Flashing a cocky grin as the second Spider-Slayer starts falling to pieces, Rex flips one of his small disks like it's a coin. Before it can come back down, he reaches up to snatch it out of the air, whipping it at the last sensor cluster on the second Spider Slayer and bowing grandiously to no one in particular. "And with that, you're wel-" He lets out a strangled yelp as a chunk of mech comes flying the one currently getting a Canadian blender to its insides, passing perilously close to his head. With a muttered grumble, he leans back on his heels, watching the fights wrapping up.

As he watches the mechs come to an end, he quirks a brow, listening for something, "Does anyone else hear screaming?"

Daniel Ketch has posed:
It takes a few minutes for the Ghost Rider to take his vengeance on the sniper. Once he considers the punishment has been completed, the chain withdraws, and the killer slumps to the floor, unconscious to the catatonic. He might recover in time, but it is unlikely he will ever be the man he was.

That is if the policemen pick him up before he bleeds off. There is a hole in his right shoulder that goes all the way through his body. But his fate is no longer the Ghost Rider's concern.

Now, about Felicia. The Ghost Rider turns to her briefly, "it was... necessary. Nothing more." Pause, "now, there are machines endangering other humans. I should deal with them," he comments as an afterthought. He turns the motorcycle back the way he came, but by the time he is driving down the building wall, the heroes seem to have taken care of the spider-themed robots.

No need to punch robots that won't feel guilt despite his best efforts. So, being the grim and unsociable Spirit he is, the Rider just turns aside and vanishes into midtown alleyways, leaving a trail of startled screams and curses in his wake.

Peter Parker has posed:
In it's own way, the death of the second Spider-Slayer is every bit as dramatic as the death of the Black Widow Spider-Slayer.

It's just pretty hard to compete with the sheer spectacle of a half-melted man, half indestructible metal skeleton going to absolute town on a metal robot.

On the flip side, all of Squirrel Girl, Rex and Spider-Man are -- or or less -- still in one piece, so kudos for that.

With Squirrel Girl's perch making it each for her to stuff those explosive bits into the gaping hols opened up in the blue Spider-Slayer, she is able to easily skip away without issues right before those internal explosions send up plumes of smoke from just about every entry point in the robot, those powerful mechanical legs freezing then giving way as the second of those Spider-Slayers collapses into an immobile heap.

For his part, Spider-Man's still trying not to gag -- or to look, or smell, or listen to, or taste for that matter... god, he can practically taste the scent of melted flesh through his mask -- Logan, though when he does sneak a peek the Canadian mutant already does look much better then he did. It is both reassuring and terrifying that he can seemingly heal up from that in a matter of minutes and reassured that the feral mutant will be okay, Spidey lets out a slow breath.

Still trying not to breath too deep. So gross.

A quick glance across the street shows Jean DeWolfe still desperately trying to do what she can to keep the potential gold mine of criminal information alive, though from the look in her eyes she has come to the conclusion that it is hopeless. For a moment she lifts her gaze, meeting the masked one of Spider-Man across the street.

Then the arriving paramedics obscure her from view, already spreading out to collect the wounded -- and to catalogue the fatalities.

"Good job. Yay team," Spider-Man says quietly, lifting a hand towards those nearby -- though he's not at all sure that Logan can even see him. More, despite dealing with the Spider-Slayers it doesn't feel like a victory. The man Felicia and he tried to see into police custody seems to have made his final escape. At least two or three others -- including a police officer -- would appear to be dead. Given that, it's hard to celebrate.

It is also hard to think about sticking around, when those looking for someone to blame are likely to turn his way before too long.

So with one last regretful look around, the Amazing Spider-Man lets loose a webline and sweeps up towards the rooftop, already headed towards that office building to meet up with the Black Cat.

Hopefully she had a better time of it.

Doreen Green has posed:
Doreen Green glides down to the street. "Well that was a mess. City cleanup is going to have their work cut out for them." She glances over in Spidey's direction. "Well, now the thing clearly isn't a one-off. We're gonna need to look into where they keep coming from." A pause as Tippy-Toe chitters and waggles a forepaw. "And who, as Tippy says."

Of course, Spider-Man needs to scram before he gets blamed and Ol' JJJ starts another slam piece over the matter. You get use to it. She also gives a wave to Rex the new guy. "Thanks for the assistance!"

Before finally turning her attention back to the still somewhat melted Logan. "Hey, you." She ambles over, leaning a bit closer, and despite everything managing a bit of a smile even at his deformed state. "Why the long face?"

Logan Howlett has posed:
There's a cracking sound as Logan's jaw resets, and his tongue is pulled back behind lips that move carefully, as if the slightest twitch causes pain, but their owner can't help himself. Anyone who has ever picked at a scab will doubtless recognize the impulse. Now that he's no longer leaking all over the place, Logan is starting to look more like his familiar self, though onlookers might not soon forget the feeling of having witnessed an autopsy in reverse.

He's sacrificed a very nice jacket to help take down these robots. But Logan's clothes rarely have enough time to get broken in before being burned, melted, or shot full of holes. Fortunately Xavier's credit card seems to have no upper limit, or Logan would be forced to do all of his shopping at Goodwill. It's already hard enough to find pants in a size 36-26 without rummaging through bargain bins.

"Need.... beer...."

His rage has receded, which brings the pain back right at the time that most of his nerve receptors are sprouting back in place. It'll probably be a while before the hair on his face and chest comes in, but fortunately the carpet on his back managed to escape any serious acid-related melting.

Stumbling forward, Logan gets a bit less wobbly with every step, and soon looks like he'd be capable of driving his Harley back upstate. He's blinking again, at least, which is an excellent sign, though it's not really a requirement on the New York drivers license exam. Which... Logan didn't take anyway, as he has a propensity for riding dirty.

And then his other eye regains focus, and he sees her in all her nutty, three dimensional glory.

"Hey Doreen... Tippy-Toe..."

He rubs a hand along the back of his neck a few times, before looking down awkwardly at his boots.

"Been awhile..."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia doesn't move.

Not at first.

The Ghost Rider looms over what's left of the sniper, the chains withdrawing with a rattling slither, the fire dimming just enough to leave the ruined office in eerie half-light. The man -- what's left of him -- slumps to the floor, barely breathing, a hollowed-out husk of who he used to be.

She doesn't know what Ghost Rider 'sees' when he looks at people. Doesn't particularly want to. But whatever he saw in this man... it was enough.

Felicia tilts her head, studying the way the flames still curl and flicker around his frame. She exhales through her nose, amusement flickering at the edges of something sharper, something unreadable.

"Well," she murmurs, weight shifting onto her back foot, hands settling on her hips. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

It was... necessary. Nothing more.

Felicia's lips curve, just slightly. "You say that like I'm about to argue."

She isn't.

Now, there are machines endangering other humans. I should deal with them.

And just like that, he's gone.

The roar of the hellcycle echoes off the walls, a final blast of fire and heat rolling through the shattered office before it vanishes down the side of the building.

Felicia lets out a slow breath, one hand lifting to smooth back her ponytail, fingertips brushing over the comm in her ear. She tries _not_ to think about how worried she really is about what's going on down on the street. Spidey's hard to hurt, but not invulnerable.

<< "Spider? You okay? We caught up to the sniper, but I... don't know what shape he's in." >>

Yes, she said 'we.'

Her free hand moves to the forearm controls of her gauntlet, sending her location to the authorities with a few quick taps. A couple of years ago, she would've been out the window by now, vanishing into the night before anyone could ask her inconvenient questions.

But.

Some people -- one person, really -- have been a more positive influence than she'd care to admit.

Felicia sighs, stepping forward, crouching over the crumpled man on the floor.

"Lucky you," she mutters, flicking a gloved finger against the sniper's forehead, watching for any reaction. "I don't think he completely cooked you."

Her gaze flicks to the jagged ruins of the office, and she gets her answer not in the form of a comm response, but in Spider-Man himself appearing in the tenth floor wreckage.

A breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding blows past her lips as she stands smoothly, turning to meet him half-way, and in the relative privacy of the destroyed high-rise office building, she lifts a hand to his mask-covered cheek.

Relief curls her lips, her blue eyes sparkling, but the moment lasts only an instant. In the next breath, she's slipping away again, moving back to the man on the floor and applying pressure to the bleeding wound on the man's shoulder.

"I have to say, Spider... When you promise a good time, you never disappoint."