Dragonbud said
r00d
bae u kno i only got eyes 4 u
Leonerdo Member
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bae u kno i only got eyes 4 u
These bozos are anything but serious, bruh.
What kind of minotaur? Like the minotaur in the Labyrinth?
I cannot be stopped.
"With great power comes great responsibility..." Barack recited. He took a slow drag from a cherry flavored cigar and held it in his mouth before releasing it into the air, where the smoke danced through the air. He leaned back into his cotton rotating chair and propped his shiny leather shoes up on his coated, mahogany desk. "That's what he said, right? Your uncle Ben?"
The masked protector of Manhattan hung upside down from the ceiling, a mere couple feet above the soft carpet in the Oval Room. His body was relaxed, but his mind was racing. Here he was in the office of the most powerful man in the free world - just alone with him and him alone. He was honored to be where he was, but all he could think about was how dashing his President was in a well-tailored suit. He might be Spider-Man on the outside, but on the inside, he was still an overexcited little boy with the opportunity of a lifetime.
"...Yes." Spidey said, hesitating only for a moment. "He wanted me to remember the value of our decisions, and how they affect others."
"I see. He must have been a fine man." Barack replied. He turned around in his spinning chair to take a brief look out the window that oversaw the city of Washington D.C. before turning back around to look straight to the eyes of Spider-Man's mask. "He must have been for him to have raised such a fine young man."
Spidey felt his face heat up beneath his mask and his chest tightened. "Oh, no, no... it was nothing. I'm just doing my duty."
"Your duty?" The President parroted. His face displayed surprise and admiration. "But most men and women don't feel duty until they pick up a badge. You sprung out one day from the depths of New York City and starting saving people."
Spider-Man tried to deny these claims, "but, no, you see, that's what--", but Barack wouldn't have any of it. He interjected, saying, "save your modesty, Spider-Man. Take the compliment. You saved my life. Don't you remember? I was flying over Manhattan and..."
"...and your plane stalled. Something got stuck in one of the propellers and the wing ripped off the jet. You were right next to it and--"
"--and I fell. I fell from thousands of feet in the air, Spidey. I was terrified. I owe you my life. I owe you everything a man could ever offer."
Spider-Man felt the inside of his chest flutter. Barack has done everything in his power to make him and his family comfortable. His Aunt May was given a house further from the city with payed monthly mortgage and he himself was offered this chance to talk to him alone in this office without any surveillance. And to think he'll be here for an entire week with Barack Obama! It was unbelievable! Maybe he'll be able to meet the First Lady Michelle and maybe their kids and maybe--
His train of thought was interrupted when his conversational partner stood up from the chair and snuffed his cigar out in the ashtray. His heart and mind was racing. What was he planning to say? Or what to do? Barack set the cigar down and paced around his desk, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. He was so refined, and so tailored. It was at this moment that He was all Spidey could think about. Barack ended his pacing when he met in front of Spidey, mere inches in front of his mask. "You're an example to us all." He started saying, his usual authoritative voice was softened. More intimate. "You're a symbol that anyone can help."
Barack drew his hands closer to Spider-Man's mask. The hero could barely see past his dizziness. "Why are you doing all this for me?"
The President didn't stop or hesitate once. He pulled down Spidey's mask halfway. "Because I have hope." He told him. Then he leaned forward and pressed his dark warm lips against Spidey's. It was at that moment that the hero's heart erupted, and everything he thought he knew was gone. All he cared about in this moment was getting closer to him. Spidey pressed more firmly against' Barack's lips, returning his affection. The President held the back of his head and pressed the two toward each other. There were fireworks in the Oval Office today, and the two shared this brief moment of intimacy together before Obama slowly broke off the kiss. Spidey hung there, utterly stunned by the events that had occurred. The line snapped and the hero fell limply onto the floor, but that did little to snap him out of his current trance.
Barack, too, seemed unfazed. He straightened his suit and tie and looked at his watch. "I have a conference meeting to go to in a few minutes across district."
The President walked to the other end of the room and opened the door to the hallway. He looked back for a brief moment at the starstruck hero that still layed on the ground. "I'll see you later tonight, Spidey." He purred with a wink.
Spider-Man simply raised a thumbs up sign with his hand before he dropped his arm back onto the ground. Barack flashed him a final, charming smile before he closed the door to oversee the congressional commune.
The masked protector of Manhattan hung upside down from the ceiling, a mere couple feet above the soft carpet in the Oval Room. His body was relaxed, but his mind was racing. Here he was in the office of the most powerful man in the free world - just alone with him and him alone. He was honored to be where he was, but all he could think about was how dashing his President was in a well-tailored suit. He might be Spider-Man on the outside, but on the inside, he was still an overexcited little boy with the opportunity of a lifetime.
"...Yes." Spidey said, hesitating only for a moment. "He wanted me to remember the value of our decisions, and how they affect others."
"I see. He must have been a fine man." Barack replied. He turned around in his spinning chair to take a brief look out the window that oversaw the city of Washington D.C. before turning back around to look straight to the eyes of Spider-Man's mask. "He must have been for him to have raised such a fine young man."
Spidey felt his face heat up beneath his mask and his chest tightened. "Oh, no, no... it was nothing. I'm just doing my duty."
"Your duty?" The President parroted. His face displayed surprise and admiration. "But most men and women don't feel duty until they pick up a badge. You sprung out one day from the depths of New York City and starting saving people."
Spider-Man tried to deny these claims, "but, no, you see, that's what--", but Barack wouldn't have any of it. He interjected, saying, "save your modesty, Spider-Man. Take the compliment. You saved my life. Don't you remember? I was flying over Manhattan and..."
"...and your plane stalled. Something got stuck in one of the propellers and the wing ripped off the jet. You were right next to it and--"
"--and I fell. I fell from thousands of feet in the air, Spidey. I was terrified. I owe you my life. I owe you everything a man could ever offer."
Spider-Man felt the inside of his chest flutter. Barack has done everything in his power to make him and his family comfortable. His Aunt May was given a house further from the city with payed monthly mortgage and he himself was offered this chance to talk to him alone in this office without any surveillance. And to think he'll be here for an entire week with Barack Obama! It was unbelievable! Maybe he'll be able to meet the First Lady Michelle and maybe their kids and maybe--
His train of thought was interrupted when his conversational partner stood up from the chair and snuffed his cigar out in the ashtray. His heart and mind was racing. What was he planning to say? Or what to do? Barack set the cigar down and paced around his desk, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. He was so refined, and so tailored. It was at this moment that He was all Spidey could think about. Barack ended his pacing when he met in front of Spidey, mere inches in front of his mask. "You're an example to us all." He started saying, his usual authoritative voice was softened. More intimate. "You're a symbol that anyone can help."
Barack drew his hands closer to Spider-Man's mask. The hero could barely see past his dizziness. "Why are you doing all this for me?"
The President didn't stop or hesitate once. He pulled down Spidey's mask halfway. "Because I have hope." He told him. Then he leaned forward and pressed his dark warm lips against Spidey's. It was at that moment that the hero's heart erupted, and everything he thought he knew was gone. All he cared about in this moment was getting closer to him. Spidey pressed more firmly against' Barack's lips, returning his affection. The President held the back of his head and pressed the two toward each other. There were fireworks in the Oval Office today, and the two shared this brief moment of intimacy together before Obama slowly broke off the kiss. Spidey hung there, utterly stunned by the events that had occurred. The line snapped and the hero fell limply onto the floor, but that did little to snap him out of his current trance.
Barack, too, seemed unfazed. He straightened his suit and tie and looked at his watch. "I have a conference meeting to go to in a few minutes across district."
The President walked to the other end of the room and opened the door to the hallway. He looked back for a brief moment at the starstruck hero that still layed on the ground. "I'll see you later tonight, Spidey." He purred with a wink.
Spider-Man simply raised a thumbs up sign with his hand before he dropped his arm back onto the ground. Barack flashed him a final, charming smile before he closed the door to oversee the congressional commune.
Peter had kept to himself in the back of the room, silently listening to Adam's speech on arena armors and ratings and classifications and so on. The arena armors were supposed to amplify or enhance, or in some cases, work in conjunction with. Peter would, perhaps, not have one available to him. It was basic deduction: before he left on the boat, he was signed out as an applying doctor and professor. As he arrived, he was suddenly a student. This error was made only recently, and so the faculty likely did not have the time to prepare a suit for him. And no one would ever know, because it would be seen as just a simple oversight. The children that surrounded him with scurrying about, excited and eager and anxious - Peter just felt indifference. Wearing a suit wasn't a big deal to him, neither was showing off. He'd rather remain inconspicuous... but there was still that plan. He had to meet someone with a particular skill-set that would allow them into the warehouse. The problem was, such skill-sets belong to people that were not necessarily trust worthy. Children with those skill-sets, even less so. But Peter still had no choice.
He continued on toward the locker rooms, searching for his own. Unlike the others, which had a plaque of their name labeled upon the lockers, Peter's own had a hastily-put machine-stuck plastic label taped onto it, named "Richard Cox". Briefly fiddling with the lock got him to opening the locker door, but unfortunately, there was nothing inside but a dust bunny. Turning around, he glanced at a closet. A metal sliding door was there, and upon opening it, was a collection of standard arena suits on clothes hangers. These were meant for younger students, so he'd have to go for an ill-fitted larger size (except for the gargantuan one on the far left - probably made for students whose power was correlated to their size). He selected a large and examined it carefully. A black and grey kevlar mesh. Skin tight. Had two arms. The palms and soles were padded with a kind of rubber. That was something he couldn't manage with. While trying to rip apart kevlar was one hell of a feat on its own, there was the idea that perhaps these suits weren't as carefully made... but no, that would be a liability issue. He examined it more closely.
While he'd have his work cut out for him trying to rip kevlar... there was the seam. The stitching. That he could do. He set the suit onto the ground and stepped on one end of it, before taking his hand at the base of the suit's arm and pulling on the arm. Within a moment, a ripping sound was heard and his arm was abruptly pulled back. One arm down. Peter repeated the process on the other side. He felt lower down on the suit where the legs were. Rubber soles. For grip, no doubt. This time, the seams were around the knees. One above the knee cap, one below. Presumably for joint flexibility. All he needed was to be rid of the soles, not to strip down. He ripped away at the leggings at the bottom seam, allowing his knees to remain concealed.
A brief moment of stripping down and donning the suit later, Peter found that it was still pretty tight fitting. Not that he could feel it. But Adam Blackmore did say they were supposed to be skin tight, yes? He'd be provided a more personalized suit in the future, no doubt. As for right now, his bare left arm had full control, and there was no empty and lifeless sleeve on his right side. The worst thing about having one arm was pretending. It was salt in a wound.
Electricity. I should find electricity soon.
There was nothing to be gained in the locker room alone. He returned outside to hear the bustling crowds of children. Peter ejected electricity out his feet onto the floor - a feat more easily and effectively done with the lack of footwear. The crowd and the room lit up vibrantly. The student body was donned in similar looking suits, some more complex than others. One girl (did she look familiar?) was a mix and match of flesh and metal - in his vision, she lit up more than any other person. She conducted the electricity well. He had to wonder if she would feel the buzzing effects more significantly than the others, a reason for concern, but Peter was stoic as always. He just had to find a proper... tenant of the skill-set he was searching for. He found himself staring at one girl - a black suit with a thick bush around the neck, who donned a hood. It looked like the stereotypical getup for the kind of person he was looking for, but if her ability had something to do with not being seen, then that was a start. He had to wonder if she could pick locks and carry boxes without being seen, too. He didn't fully realize that we was very slowly pacing across the room while staring directly at a student. He was too lost in thought.
He continued on toward the locker rooms, searching for his own. Unlike the others, which had a plaque of their name labeled upon the lockers, Peter's own had a hastily-put machine-stuck plastic label taped onto it, named "Richard Cox". Briefly fiddling with the lock got him to opening the locker door, but unfortunately, there was nothing inside but a dust bunny. Turning around, he glanced at a closet. A metal sliding door was there, and upon opening it, was a collection of standard arena suits on clothes hangers. These were meant for younger students, so he'd have to go for an ill-fitted larger size (except for the gargantuan one on the far left - probably made for students whose power was correlated to their size). He selected a large and examined it carefully. A black and grey kevlar mesh. Skin tight. Had two arms. The palms and soles were padded with a kind of rubber. That was something he couldn't manage with. While trying to rip apart kevlar was one hell of a feat on its own, there was the idea that perhaps these suits weren't as carefully made... but no, that would be a liability issue. He examined it more closely.
While he'd have his work cut out for him trying to rip kevlar... there was the seam. The stitching. That he could do. He set the suit onto the ground and stepped on one end of it, before taking his hand at the base of the suit's arm and pulling on the arm. Within a moment, a ripping sound was heard and his arm was abruptly pulled back. One arm down. Peter repeated the process on the other side. He felt lower down on the suit where the legs were. Rubber soles. For grip, no doubt. This time, the seams were around the knees. One above the knee cap, one below. Presumably for joint flexibility. All he needed was to be rid of the soles, not to strip down. He ripped away at the leggings at the bottom seam, allowing his knees to remain concealed.
A brief moment of stripping down and donning the suit later, Peter found that it was still pretty tight fitting. Not that he could feel it. But Adam Blackmore did say they were supposed to be skin tight, yes? He'd be provided a more personalized suit in the future, no doubt. As for right now, his bare left arm had full control, and there was no empty and lifeless sleeve on his right side. The worst thing about having one arm was pretending. It was salt in a wound.
Electricity. I should find electricity soon.
There was nothing to be gained in the locker room alone. He returned outside to hear the bustling crowds of children. Peter ejected electricity out his feet onto the floor - a feat more easily and effectively done with the lack of footwear. The crowd and the room lit up vibrantly. The student body was donned in similar looking suits, some more complex than others. One girl (did she look familiar?) was a mix and match of flesh and metal - in his vision, she lit up more than any other person. She conducted the electricity well. He had to wonder if she would feel the buzzing effects more significantly than the others, a reason for concern, but Peter was stoic as always. He just had to find a proper... tenant of the skill-set he was searching for. He found himself staring at one girl - a black suit with a thick bush around the neck, who donned a hood. It looked like the stereotypical getup for the kind of person he was looking for, but if her ability had something to do with not being seen, then that was a start. He had to wonder if she could pick locks and carry boxes without being seen, too. He didn't fully realize that we was very slowly pacing across the room while staring directly at a student. He was too lost in thought.
It's just a suit to be worn into the arena. It's skin-tight. It probably won't look like a suit of armor. Much of it has kevlar, has padding in certain places, and not as much reinforcement where the joints are.
It sucked.
InfernoBlaze said
nearonetasos@hotmail.com or just nearonetasos...Don't fall in love with me ladies, my face is on the profile picture :P
Hey, why don't you think of the men for once?
Peter stood expressionless at Matthew's comment. It was basically his way of shrugging and not caring, however, it wasn't quite as expressive. It was an esoteric notion - or lack of notion - that could be interpreted in a number of ways according to how his given associate's mind processed. Apathetic? Ignoring? Silent agreement? Though Peter personally detached himself from such conversations, about how he and Vespera were good "cock blocks". A vulgar phrase, but he didn't care so much. He found it strange how Matthew Evans, as he introduced himself completely, had a peculiar duality. Now he was here making proper introductions! Not at all like the introduction he gave to Christopher Clarke: shoving him off of the seat. But there was still the prior suspicion that he perhaps didn't want to contest with Peter, or "tango" as kids said it nowadays. Christopher appeared a lot less intimidating.
But these weren't thoughts Peter had much time to think on.
After nodding to Matthew Evans' in return to his bidding goodbye, but before he could even sit down or completely finish farewells, Amanda Blackmore had gone and flipped the table. Literally. She outright heaved the kitchen table from underneath and flipped it on its top, before it fell and clashed against the floor in an alarming clatter. He simply looked over at Amanda Blackmore, who had subsequently listed her demands: that he and Vespera "got lost" - which wasn't an option as far as Peter was concerned - because of... she was done, with whatever it was that they did. Vespera? Understandable. Sort of. She was grating, but so was Amanda Blackmore. The latter had overreacted. It had to be hormones, what else could it be? There was no reason for that to have happened. It was illogical. And for what purpose? Was Amanda Blackmore and Matthew Evans... oh. Right. Of course. Talk about hormones, for sure. It was still illogical though, and Peter was pretty swift on the uptake in responding to the crazed teenager's demands.
"I don't understand. Does your labia entitle you to the destruction of academy property?"
In a school full of damaged kids who God only knows what they went through, charged up with hormones and super powers, security was inevitably going to be tight. And with anything being a possible trigger for either a stress response to occur, or a group polarization effect in which Amanda Blackmore's actions could influence similar rowdy behavior in other students, she was - without a doubt - going to be reprimanded, receive some sort of punishment. Blackmore? He read the files and information he was to be aware of if he was to work here. A highly respected instructor here was a Blackmore. Surely, not a common name. Neither were the odds of there being two different Blackmores, both with superhuman powers. The odds were more likely that a Blackmore that had connections to the academy, who happened to have kin, managed to bring them here. Powers were also inherited, yes? Then that had to have been the most likely reason.
Peter continued. "I can only imagine how embarrassed the father must bee-e..."
But these weren't thoughts Peter had much time to think on.
After nodding to Matthew Evans' in return to his bidding goodbye, but before he could even sit down or completely finish farewells, Amanda Blackmore had gone and flipped the table. Literally. She outright heaved the kitchen table from underneath and flipped it on its top, before it fell and clashed against the floor in an alarming clatter. He simply looked over at Amanda Blackmore, who had subsequently listed her demands: that he and Vespera "got lost" - which wasn't an option as far as Peter was concerned - because of... she was done, with whatever it was that they did. Vespera? Understandable. Sort of. She was grating, but so was Amanda Blackmore. The latter had overreacted. It had to be hormones, what else could it be? There was no reason for that to have happened. It was illogical. And for what purpose? Was Amanda Blackmore and Matthew Evans... oh. Right. Of course. Talk about hormones, for sure. It was still illogical though, and Peter was pretty swift on the uptake in responding to the crazed teenager's demands.
"I don't understand. Does your labia entitle you to the destruction of academy property?"
In a school full of damaged kids who God only knows what they went through, charged up with hormones and super powers, security was inevitably going to be tight. And with anything being a possible trigger for either a stress response to occur, or a group polarization effect in which Amanda Blackmore's actions could influence similar rowdy behavior in other students, she was - without a doubt - going to be reprimanded, receive some sort of punishment. Blackmore? He read the files and information he was to be aware of if he was to work here. A highly respected instructor here was a Blackmore. Surely, not a common name. Neither were the odds of there being two different Blackmores, both with superhuman powers. The odds were more likely that a Blackmore that had connections to the academy, who happened to have kin, managed to bring them here. Powers were also inherited, yes? Then that had to have been the most likely reason.
Peter continued. "I can only imagine how embarrassed the father must bee-e..."
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