Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler: A Reassembly One-Shot

[herodofcows]

You half-doze in the aisle seat of the mostly-empty bus, finally letting a little bit of the exhaustion you'd been feeling come to the fore. Only half-doze, though. Superman is in the seat next to you, gazing out the window and watching the activity in the airport with a childlike wonder. It's been a good day for him thus far, but you still need to be careful: his moods can turn on a dime, and Palmer's harness won't stop people noticing a grown man crying and yelling.

Fixing Superman . . . well, it was easier said than done. After about a week of ensuring that you had a cover for dashing off (well, more than usual) and an explanation for why your social life had to crumble, you'd turned your eyes to finding a cure for Superman's malaise.

In your time patrolling Metropolis as Spider Man, you've made a few good connections. Superman, of course, was the big one. But you'd had some passing acquaintance with the Fantastic Four, and meeting the Misfits meant you suddenly had people that you could text if something broader needed to happen.

It's been hard, knowing who to trust with the knowledge of Superman's infirmity. So you'd started with the big names: world-class telepaths and scientists within the community who might be able bring Superman back to 100%. On a vow of secrecy, Reed Richards had run Superman through a battery of tests, looking for physiological and chemical reasons for the infirmity. Richards had called Palmer (who had likewise been sworn to secrecy), and they'd brainstormed for the better part of a day.

In the end, all they could give you was a basic mechanical fix.

"Gold Kryptonite," Richards had said, presenting the lean mechanical harness, "Or, rather, an artificial variant that we synthesized. It won't have any permanent effect, but as long as he wears the harness he'll be baseline human for all intents and purposes. It should help keep things under control when he gets . . . confused."

"You'll also need to give him these," Palmer had piped up, handing you several bottles of pills, "It's a cocktail of psychotropic drugs that we've managed to adjust to his Kryptonian physiology. It's not perfect, but it'll keep him mostly leveled off while we look for a more permanent solution . . ."

Permanent solutions, however, had been less than forthcoming. According to the two scientists, the problems were not purely physiological, or if they were, they were nothing that even radically advanced science could fix. It was possible, they'd cautioned you, that this was IT.

Okay, so science had failed you. But you'd known that there was more to this than science. What about magic?

THAT was the question that had led to you taking a week off and a trip with Superman taking a trip down to New Orleans.

Dr. Fate has been AWOL for a while. Wanda Maximoff . . . hah, yeah right.

But Jericho Drumm (aka Brother Voodoo) is still practicing. So is Daimon Hellstrom. John Constantine is still knocking around. Zatanna? Also a possibility.

And what do they all have in common? A known predilection for the Big Easy.

As soon as you check in at the Motel Six in Little Woods, you plop down on the bed and look over the list of addresses you have for each practitioner.

Constantine and Zatanna both frequent the French Quarter, owing to their touristy nature and predilection for the more debaucherous things in life. Brother Voodoo runs a practice out of Willow Brook. Hellstrom supposedly now lays his head around Gentilly, but he's supposedly a bit of a transient by nature.

So, a psychologist-turned-houngan, a working-class sorcerer, a performing/ACTUAL magician, and the reformed Son of Satan. Your options are . . . colorful, at least.

"Jimmy?"

You look up, and Superman is standing beside his bed and facing the grimy window. He looks distantly at the fading light of the late-afternoon sky.

"Was . . . why are we here again? I'm sorry, I'm, I'm having trouble, uh, remembering. It's feeling a little loud right now . . ."

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy Olson lets go of the breath he'd been holding when Superman asked for him. All too often these past few weeks, this innocuous question had heralded a very embarrassing and/or destructive outburst.

Like the other day, when he'd had to spend an hour patiently explaining to the Man of Steel why McDonald's wouldn't give him an Egg McMuffin at 12:30 PM. If Mr. Fantastic's gizmo hadn't been suppressing his powers...

"We're looking up a friend", replies Jimmy. His gaze falls back down to the list of names, and for the hundredth time he weighs the pros and cons of each one.

Zatanna had seemed the obvious choice at first. She'd been in the Justice League, for a while anyway. Of the four, Superman would probably be most at ease with her. But her whole stage-magician shtick kind of leaves Jimmy with the impression that she doesn't really take things seriously. It's one thing to be a magician, but is it wise to enlist the help of someone who thinks it's a good idea to dress like one in public?

Dude. Potence.

Okay, point taken. We'll get back to Zatanna.

Next is Constantine. Jimmy had done a fair bit of Internet research on him en route, and most of what he found is contradictory. A college kid swearing that Constantine had saved his friends from the demon they'd accidentally summoned while LARPing with an occult book. A bank manager ranting that Constantine had seduced his wife and taken her for all the money in his checking account. One single mother claiming he'd banished the vengeful spirit that tormented her son, another that he had left her daughter in a catatonic state. On and on it went like this.

Maybe if it was just me, but Superman's too important to hand over to someone this questionable.

What about this Hellstrom guy? Except he goes by Hellstorm in the hero biz, apparently?

Way to obfuscate there, buddy. The Allies will never crack THAT code (https://www.penny-arcade.com/comic/2003/05/07). And he also claims to be the son of Satan? He's either crazy or he's telling the truth, and both of those mean "no way am I letting you get your hands on Superman".

So that leaves "Brother Voodoo". Okay, kind of weird, but glass houses, "Spider-Man". And there's more than just magic to this one - he's a psychologist, too. Big plus there; Reed Richards and Ray Palmer may be geniuses, but they'd been about as comforting as a steel-wool blankie, and comfort has a high place on Superman's must-have list right now. And Jimmy has to admit that he himself is put a bit more at ease by this, too; aliens and super-tech are one thing, but this magic stuff gives him the willies.

Having made his decision, Jimmy opens the closet and retrieves the oversized gray hoodie he'd picked up for Superman. As he does, he spots something up on the shelf above. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses, presumably left by a previous occupant. Jimmy picks them up, holding them up between himself and Superman, trying to imagine how well they'd add to the disguise.

Nah, he decides, putting them back on the shelf. I heard wearing glasses you don't need can hurt your eyes. And anyway, it's not like it would really fool anyone.

"Okay, big guy", he says, moving behind Superman to help put the hoodie on him. "We're going to go see-"

Maybe "Brother Voodoo" isn't what he needs to hear at the moment?

"We're going to go see Dr. Jericho Drumm."

[herodofcows]

Dr. Jericho Drumm's office is in an unassuming second-story building along the east end of New Orleans. The air within is artificially cool thanks to a professionally-effective air conditioning system, in contrast to the growing morning heat outside. The office is carpeted in a pleasant green, and the blue walls are adorned with bookshelves and landscape paintings. Superman goes immediately to a bookshelf, picks out an untitled hard-bound book, and begins reading intently.

You've only just begun approach the receptionist when the man himself exits his office. Dr. Drumm is a powerfully-built man, and does not seem to wear a suit and tie so much as allow them to exist upon his body. Apparently Brother Voodoo is one of those mages that actively rebels against the stereotype of the scrawny magic user.

"Mr. Charlotte, a pleasure to see you," he says smoothly with a slight Haitian accent, shaking your hand in a manner bordering on the bone-crushing, "And this must be Calvin. You're a little early for your appointment, but I think we can take the extra few minutes, don't you? Why don't you two step on in?"

His office is everything you'd expect: dark wood panelling, bookshelves, a passel of degrees on the wall (Rutgers, Harvard, and University of Haiti? Nice), and, of course, the obligatory couch. Superman, engrossed in the book, sits down on the couch and continues to read.

"Why don't you both take a seat?" Drumm smiles, gesturing you over to a chair, "My brother's told me a little bit about you two. Let me have a look . . ."

His eyes glow white for a few seconds, and you hear a chorus of whispers flare up for just a moment. Superman doesn't seem to notice. When the glow subsides, Dr. Drumm's face is grave.

"Now . . ." he says carefully, eyes darting between both of you, "Why don't you tell me what you're here for today, Mr. Spider Man?"

[TheIronGolem]

"Mr. Charlotte, a pleasure to see you. And this must be Calvin. You're a little early for your appointment, but I think we can take the extra few minutes, don't you? Why don't you two step on in?"

Jimmy's face splits into a wide grin upon hearing his and Superman's cover names. Mr Charlotte, as in Charlotte the spider. And "Calvin", most likely a reference to Superman's Kryptonian name Kal-El. It's the kind of stuff you see in spy movies, and Jimmy always loves it when things like that turn out to be real.

He's also relieved to see Superman engaged with a book. If he's reading, that means there's enough of left of him to read, mentally speaking. Plus, he's much easier to handle when his attention is occupied.

"Now . . .Why don't you tell me what you're here for today, Mr. Spider Man?"

Hearing Dr. Drumm openly call him "Spider-Man" derails this good-feelings train. Until a few weeks ago, he'd been almost religiously scrupulous about protecting his secret identity. But then he'd unmasked in front of Superman (and all of the Misfits), and since that day the number of people to whom he'd "come out of the phonebooth" had been steadily climbing. And sure, it was all other heroes so far. But not all heroes are nice, not all of them stay heroes, and everyone knows what Ben Franklin said about three keeping a secret...

"Well, Dr. Drumm", starts Jimmy, "It's like this..."

He tells a story, one that he's told so many times before. AIM's attack on the LexCorp Tower. The formation of the Misfits. Weapon X, Professor Zoom, and what little Jimmy understood of what they had been doing to Superman.

But the story doesn't stop there, this time. Unlike Reed Richards (who had constantly interrupted with questions about this or that piece of tech that was mentioned) or Ray Palmer (who kept nudging Jimmy to hurry up and get to the parts about Superman himself), Drumm seems content to let Jimmy tell the tale in his own time. He's amazingly easy to talk to, like the Gay Best Friend from a rom-com cross-bred with the world's best bartender.

So before long, Jimmy finds himself unloading everything onto Drumm.

The fight with Lois Lane at the coffee shop, and how icily she's been treating him since, and how that's got to be hurting his professional standing at the Planet.

The stress of playing caretaker to a broken shell of a man who could annihilate a city block in a heartbeat, and the terror that had seized him when that man had called Lois "one of the bad people".

His desperate search for someone who can help, each step of which increases the risk to both Superman and himself as word spreads of Superman's condition and Spider-Man's identity (with apologies to the doctor for any impingement upon his own character).

In short, just the suffocating, ever-present panic that has been steadily growing in him since the Disassembly.

Finally, Jimmy runs out of things to say. Lacking the neat closing statement he would have were this one of his articles, he finishes limply with a sigh and "That's, uh...that's it, I guess."

Cripes, Olson. Which one of you is supposed to need the shrink again?

Looking at his watch, Jimmy's heart leaps into his mouth as he realizes he's been babbling for an hour. Reflexively, his head snaps back towards Superman, and despite knowing Drumm is right there he's already yelling at himself on the inside for losing track of the Kryptonian.

[herodofcows]

Dr. Drumm doesn't take any notes as you speak, or hit you with any kind of magic whammy. He just sits there and listens, with a thoughtful and attentive expression on his face. When you're finally done speaking, he seems to gather his thoughts before speaking again in the same careful tone that he'd employed once you entered.

"I see . . . " he says, shifting in his seat slightly. Beside you, Superman hasn't looked up from his book. You can see from where you're sitting that it's a faded copy of Ivanhoe.

Brother Voodoo rises and goes to his desk. From one of the drawers, he pulls a small bottle of white paint, which he spreads over his face in the approximate shape of a skull. He turns to you and smiles apologetically.

"I'm sorry, please excuse me a moment."

He raises his arms, and you can see the faint outline of something pulsing around him. Superman, engrossed in the book, still doesn't seem to notice. In fact, he's about as calm as ever you've seen him.

"Simbi Andezo!" Drumm calls, voice echoing slightly as through some great space, "Vini lakay mwen! Simbi Makaya! Vini lakay mwen! Mwen mande yon favè ou!"

After a moment, everything goes back to normal. Dr. Drumm returns to his seat and looks back at you. He doesn't remove the paint, but the effect is less disturbing than you might think.

"Again, my apologies. I have called some experts. I think they might help us in what we're trying to do.

"Before we get to Superman, I'd like to ask you a few questions and have you consider a few things. You can answer them or not as you please, but I'd appreciate it if you could just think about them:

"You have taken on a lot of responsibility and sacrificed a great deal since the Disassembly. And I can tell that you do this from a sense of obligation, of . . . duty, really. This is a good thing, and you shouldn't beat yourself up over it. But many in our profession can find themselves taking responsibility beyond their power. And it can be a hard thing, to tell what is beyond our real limits versus the ones we set for ourselves. So what I would ask you to consider is, what are your limits? Where do you draw the line for yourself and say that you can't do any more without disrupting your ability to do good for others? What does it feel like, for you, when you reach your limits? How often do you feel like you have reached your limit? And, for all of these, why do you think this is so?"

[TheIronGolem]

Deep down, he knows that Dr. Drumm has only given voice to questions he himself has been nursing for months. But every time Jimmy has tried to consider them, his guilt has shouted him down. Now that guilt has an external target on which he can focus:

"What, so I need to take some time off!? A nice vacation? Maybe backpack around Europe for a year to find myself?"

Ignoring the nagging voice that tells him he knows damn well what the doctor means, he continues venting:

"Superman needs me! He can't be on his own right now! What if Lex Luthor found out what shape he's in? Or Magneto? Or Bill O'Reilly?"

Looking back at Dr. Drumm as he rants, Jimmy gets the feeling that the doctor is simply waiting for him to finish again, like a parent letting a tantruming child tire himself out. Embarrassed, he deflates, and changes the subject.

"Okay, fine. I'll think about it. Promise. But what do we do for Superman?"

[herodofcows]

Jericho's face remains predictably passive as you raise your voice at him. Someone else's does not.

"Jimmy? What's . . . what's wrong?"

You see Superman is looking up at you with wide eyes, fingers white as he grasps the book as hard as he can. He's hyperventilating slightly already, you can easily see. You brace yourself for the inevitable panic attack, when Dr. Drumm begins to speak again.

"Kal . . ." he says in a slow, soothing voice. It's almost hypnotic, the way his register seems to thrum deep into his vocal chords and come out like a low note on a cello, "Everything is all right, don't worry. Jimmy is just very worried about you. He just wants to make sure you get better, okay? We are going to have some friends look at you to try and make you better. You just read your book and-"

Someone knocks on the door. Jericho brightens up immediately as he stands up.

"Ah! Here is one of them now! Simbi Andezo, mèsi pou vini vit konsa!" he exclaims with exaggerated cheer as he opens the door, "Kal, this is my good friend Simbi Andezo!"

The man who walks in the door is . . . well, let's back up. He doesn't "walk". Walking is for people who are several orders of magnitude less cool than this man. He slides. He slithers. He saunters. His every step is a dance number, and only he can hear the music. His clothing is blood-red, top to bottom: he wears a sports jacket over a red shirt, vest, and tie. His red dress pants are pressed to a crease sharp enough to cut yourself on, and his red dress shoes make a low whooshing sound as he makes his way across the carpet. Upon his head, he has a deep red captain's hat on, much like what a middle-aged man going through a midlife crisis might buy along with a boat. He somehow contrives to make this not look silly. His face is fixed in a permanent half-grin, suggesting very strongly that he knows something you don't.

"Houngan, poukisa mwen isit la?" he asks in a tone of raillery. Unlike Dr. Drumm, his accent is thickly Haitian when he switches to English, "Why have you called me here to see a scared spider and a sick god? Poukisa ou pa te rele frè m'lan? This is a matter for Simbi Anpaka! Come on, rele frè m'lan! Mwen gen odas ou!"

Dr. Drumm smiles thinly at this, as though tolerating a joke that is both long-standing and no longer funny.

"Kal, Simbi Andezo is going to look at you to see what is wrong with you, all right?" he continues to Superman, who is eyeing the newcomer with no small apprehension, "If you want him to stop, you just tell him."

"Is . . . is Jimmy gonna . . .?"

"Jimmy will be right here with you. We will all be in the room together, all right? Nobody is going to leave you. Now, Simbia Andezo, eske ou-?"

"Wiii, wi wi wi," Simbi Andezo replies with almost cartoonish jocularity, plopping down on the couch and facing Superman, "Oke man, let me have a look. Eske ou pale kreyol? Non? Fine, English then. Let me see, Mr. Superman, let me see . . ."

As Simbi Andezo begins humming and chattering over a confused-looking Superman, Dr. Drumm sits back down and faces you with a slight smile.

"Now, getting back to you for a moment . . . You're certainly needed here. There is no doubt about that. But are you the only one that can help him? Obviously you don't think so, otherwise you would not have brought him here today. But there is more to this than making a spell go away: it's an emotional toll, to take care of a loved one who cannot take care of themselves. It's a burden that we all shoulder gladly when we must," and here he allows himself a rueful grin at some private joke or memory, "but it is still a burden, and it must be recognized as such. All too often, people try to tell themselves that effort spent for a loved one is not effort at all, and in so doing repress feelings of stress or resentment until they well up as anger. And I know you would not want that to happen.

"So, why don't we think about people that you could ask to shoulder this burden. Who would you trust to take care of Superman if you ever needed to just . . . let go for a bit?"

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy goes quiet for a few moments. In a rare turn of events, he is thinking before he speaks.

"I haven't been Spider-Man for very long", he says at last. "But I've been Jimmy Olson all my life. And if you run in hero circles, I bet you've heard that name before. The sidekick, and not in a Robin kind of way either. More of a running gag. The kid who always needs Superman to pull him out of whatever crazy predicament he's gotten into. I can't count the number of times he's saved me, but if I ever need to know I can just look it up on Wikipedia. Because it's got whole page on the subject. That's how well-known I am for it."

"And I'm not telling you this for sympathy", he adds. "I'm telling you so you understand that, even if I kept all this up " - he waves his hands around vaguely to indicate the general situation - " until I was older than Ra's Al-Ghul, I still wouldn't have done half of what he's done for me.

So if you're asking who I could pawn him off on while I take some 'me time'? Nobody. Because I just couldn't do that.

But this is something I have thought about before, and..."

Jimmy's clothes turn black and flatten themselves against his body, morphing into the skintight suit of Spider-Man.

"Maybe someday, maybe even tomorrow for all I know, someone will need Spider-Man more than Superman needs Jimmy Olson. I mean, it could happen, right? Like maybe if Earth was invaded by aliens whose only weaknesses are bad jokes and sticky black stuff, but Carrot Top couldn't find a bucket of tar?

Okay, if that happened, then yeah, let's figure out who I could trust.

I wanna say Lois, but..."

She's one of the bad people, Superman's whisper echoes in his mind.

"...well, you know why not.

I thought of Sarah Saturn, too. I mean, I'm technically on her team. But..."

He recalls the periodic texts he's been getting from Katie Alden, appraising him on the Misfits' adventures. SHIELD. Doombots. Nightwings. Ducks.

"...they're all kinda busy right now.

And it'd have to be another superhero, wouldn't it? In case things got bad. Someone who could keep Superman from doing too much damage, or at least keep people out of his way.

Thing is, whatever situation is bad enough that I'm needed, they'd probably be needed too.

So it's a real Catch-22 I'm in here, doc. I...just don't know what to do."

[herodofcows]

Dr. Drumm nods at this, even as he keeps glancing over at Superman and Simbi Andezo, the latter of whom is continuing to work and chatter on with every sign of enjoyment.

"Man, you had yourself a hard time, didn't you Superman? Can't remember no damn thing . . ."

"I think I see . . . it is a heavy obligation, owing your life to someone else. But how many lives have you saved? How many times have you been there for teammates, or for innocents? And in all of that, do you believe that they owe you anything? I suspect you'd say that they don't. Do you think that you're an exception to that?"

"Are you a doctor, Mr. Andezo?" Superman asks, seeming less apprehensive and more intrigued.

Dr. Drumm continues to speak over Simbi Andezo's uproarious laughter.

"As far as leaving him around . . . well, I certainly understand wanting to make sure he is safe above all else. But I see that he appears to be missing many of his powers: his gros bon ange is sleeping now. Perhaps that would make him safe to leave with someone you-"

The door seems to blow open, as though someone had kicked it down. Superman starts up but is immediately calmed down by Simbi Andezo.

"It's good, man! It's good! Just my brother. He loves to make an entrance . . ."

The man that comes striding in is dressed in . . . everything. His "clothing" is black and red, and made up of the assembled fabric and loops and buckles and buttons of a thousand unspecified garments, all woven or stitched or fastened together to create the approximate effect of a billowing cloak. He looks vaguely insane, like a man who has seen things unfathomable by normal minds and has had to rejigger his brain to fit it all in. He moves as though propelled by an unseen force, like his legs are the only means of expression for some great fizzling energy within himself.

"Kisa sa ye, houngan? Se toujou yon ijans whenever you call me. Poukisa pou ou ta de? Ta ti bon ange, white boy, why do you have two?"

He sweeps over to you like a hurricane, staring intently with furrowed brow and blazing eyes. Behind him, Dr. Drumm closes his eyes and sighs.

"Simbi Makaya . . . this is Jimmy Olson. He-"

"Wi, of course he is Jimmy Olson! Èske ou kwè mwen sòt? I know more than your brother could ever whisper into your ear, houngan! Se mwen pa pitit, stupid! So, come on!" Simbi Makaya whirls back to you, gesturing as though he were onstage, "How come you've got two ti bon ange, Mr. Jimmy Olson Spider Man? How come you got two souls? What the hell did you do to yourself?"

[TheIronGolem]

"I think I see . . . it is a heavy obligation, owing your life to someone else. But how many lives have you saved? How many times have you been there for teammates, or for innocents? And in all of that, do you believe that they owe you anything? I suspect you'd say that they don't. Do you think that you're an exception to that?"

"Well, no, but..."

But what? The doctor has a point. He may be no Superman, but he has helped people as Spider-Man. Not much in the way of big spectacular saves, but a foiled mugging here, a fire rescue there. Plus that time Spider-Man had managed to nab Deadshot the same night he'd arrived in Metropolis to kill some key witnesses in an organized-crime case. And the thought that any of those people owed him anything - anything at all - is deeply uncomfortable to Jimmy. Could it be that Superman feels the same way about him?

However, before he can take that line of reasoning any further, the newcomer addresses him:

"Ta ti bon ange, white boy, why do you have two?"

MetU's journalism program requires two years in a foreign language. Jimmy had chosen French, because at age 18 his reasoning began with "girls like French, right?" and ended with "of course they do".

He'd barely passed the classes, and they'd gotten him precisely zero dates. But now that he is in a room where half of the people are speaking the French-derived Haitian Creole, his two years of French now pay off by informing him that...they are definitely speaking Haitian Creole.

Which I also could have inferred from the fact that I'm in New Orleans. Thanks, Past Jimmy. Two years well spent.

"Huh? Me? Uh...two what?"

"How come you've got two ti bon ange, Mr. Jimmy Olson Spider Man? How come you got two souls? What the hell did you do to yourself?"

Ah. Two souls. Hang on...two souls? Jimmy's no theologian, but he's fairly sure he's only got the one. Unless...

He looks down at himself, still suited up as Spider-Man.

"Oh, this thing. Nah, it's just a suit. It's just that I can control it mentally somehow. Some kind of high-tech thing. I think it's nanites or something"

He kicks himself mentally right after saying that; he'd basically just admitted that he's messing around with technology way beyond his understanding.

Yeah, well, so are 99% of people who have a DVD player.

Still, he wishes he'd taken some time to ask Palmer and Richards to have a look at the suit when he'd had the chance. He'd considered it, but hadn't wanted to distract them from Superman's problems.

[herodofcows]

Simbi Andezo begins giggling madly as Jimmy talks about nanites. You get the impression that he's quite the giggler.

Dr. Drumm begins muttering again, and his eyes glow white. You can see something swirling around him as he looks at you with professionally-interested eyes.

Simbi Makaya, meanwhile, takes the Diva dial, cranks it to eleven, and then flips the metaphorical table because it can't go any further.

"You think this is a gizmo, child? You see some kind of djab nwa de dlo and you think it's a toy?" he asks, hands pinwheeling through the air like he's having a kung-fu battle with a million invisible microscopic ninjas, "This is what happens with the people of this age! Back in my day the children respected their elders and did not go playing around with lesprits fous if they didn't know them! Ki bagay sa! What would happen if you did not come to Simbi Makaya, eh?"

The air around one of his gesturing hands begins to shimmer, and he seems to briefly become a woman as s/he works.

"There is something there, yes . . ." Dr. Drumm says thoughtfully as Simbi Makaya continues to incant.

"Of course there is! I am Simbi Makaya! Do you think I am a fool because I do not have a piece of paper that says I am a Doctor, a Master, and a Bachelor?" Simbi Makaya replies irritatedly, gesturing at the diplomas on the wall, "Now let me . . . aha!"

Simbi Makaya becomes a man again, and the shimmer vanishes.

"There! Now the second ti bon ange-"

"RRRREEEEEEEEEE!"

Everybody jumps in their seats as your clothes begin to shriek.

"-can be free from your-"

"Good lord!"

"AGH!"

"Jezi Mari Jozèf!"

Abruptly, you are in your underwear. Quicker than blinking, the suit has leapt from your body and propelled itself through the open door. It moves in a manner vaguely similar to your web-slinging, by shooting out dozens of black tendrils and retracting/swinging on them like some kind of creeping liquid insect. You hear the receptionist outside let out a shriek.

"-body! Now you can fix your soul!" Simbi Makaya continues, looking incredibly pleased with himself even as Superman begins weeping. Behind him, Dr. Drumm is rising to go check on his receptionist. Simbi Andezo, for his part, is looking at his brother as though he would greatly like to give him a good kick in the shins.

"It is a good thing you called me! Otherwise you might have been in REAL trouble!" Simbi Makaya exclaims proudly.

Spider Man gets 1 Hero Point (for Complication (Power Loss))

[TheIronGolem]

For a few seconds, Jimmy just stands there, in shock (and almost naked), trying to register what has just happened.

A couple of weeks into his tenure as Spider-Man, he'd fought the Toyman. Not exactly a top-tier villain, but he'd been making an awful mess of some farmer's market using a small army of robots made up to look like rubber duckies. The duckie-bots puffed little cigars that could spray knockout gas or jets of flame, and that had been the first time he'd found out he had a genuine, bona-fide weakness. The searing heat of the flame weapons had caused the suit to wither and peel away from any place the fire had touched him. It even made a high-pitched screech. At the time, Jimmy had figured it was some kind of damage alert system.

He knows now that he was wrong. It had been screaming. In pain. Because it is alive.

So much for the nanite theory.

But he doesn't have time to freak out about that. Right now, he has something much more important to freak out about. He makes one pathetic, futile grasp at the fleeing suit, and misses it by a month. With his Spider-Sense gone, it feels like he's moving through molasses. He rushes for the door, hoping to catch the suit. No good; it's already out of sight. It could be anywhere now.

"What did you do?" he shouts at back at Simbi Makaya. "WHAT DID YOU DO!?"

[herodofcows]

Simbi Makaya looks miffed at your tone. In fact, "miffed" is possibly an understatement.

"UnGRATEful child!" he roars, drawing himself up impressively, "If I had not saved you, where would you be? Manje de djab, that's what! Would you rather you soul had been ripped to shreds by that creature?"

"Ah, fré?" Simbi Andezo pipes up lightly, "Mwen panse ke nou ta dwe reponn kesyon li . . ."

"Pa fe bri! Pa di m'sa pou-!"

"Gade l', fré! Gade nan gros bon ange!"

"Ki sa- oh!"

Both Simbi look at you with fresh eyes all of the sudden.

"Ohhhhh . . ."

It's around this point that Jericho comes striding back in.

"It's gone," he says, shutting the door decisively behind him, "There's a grate outside the office, so it may have made its way into the sewers. Simbi Makaya, what were you thinking . . ."

His eyes drift over to Superman, who is now sobbing uncontrollably next to Simbi Andezo. He sighs and adjusts his glasses, seeming to don the mantle of therapist once more.

"Simbi Andezo, you stay here with me, please. Kal, I'm so sorry about all of this," he says soothingly, walking over and patting Superman on the shoulder, "That was scary, wasn't it? It's all right to be scared, Kal. I was scared too . . ."

"It . . . it-it-it . . . it was on J-J-J-Jimmyyyyy . . ."

"Houngan! Ou konnen ki'l sa-?" Simbi Makaya begins urgently, but Jericho waves him to silence.

"This has all been a little too exciting, I think," he says firmly, "Perhaps Jimmy and Simbi Makaya should wait outside . . . ?"

He glances at Superman, as though to gauge his reaction, but there doesn't appear to be any change from the big guy at the suggestion of Jimmy leaving the room.

"Bon, all right, come on M'sieu Spider Man," Simbi Makaya says, almost eagerly. He puts his arm over your shoulders and begins to pull you out of the office.

"So, perhaps I made a mistake," he begins, and for one wild moment you think an apology is forthcoming, "But I am Simbi Makaya, and even my mistakes serve destiny! Tell me this, M'sieu Spider Man, you ever heard of a Totem before?"

[TheIronGolem]

"UnGRATEful child! If I had not saved you, where would you be? Manje de djab, that's what! Would you rather you soul had been ripped to shreds by that creature?"

By all rights, Jimmy should be fearing Simbi Makaya's wrath. And he would be, but between Superman's condition, his disintegrating personal life, and the sudden loss of his powers, his fear is booked solid for the next several weeks. But as it happens, his anger is free to take a drop-in.

"My soul was doing just fine! Superman's the one who needs your help! My suit wasn't hurting any-"

And now the Simbi brothers are talking about him in Haitian.

"Hey, I'm standing right here, you know..."

Drumm returns, tells him that the suit is gone (as he feared), and suggests he wait outside with the maniac who scared it off. He's about to protest when he realizes that this will at least mean that said maniac is not in the room with Superman, which Jimmy must reluctantly regard as a net gain.

"So, perhaps I made a mistake,"

Oh, y'think?, Jimmy thinks to himself sullenly.

"But I am Simbi Makaya, and even my mistakes serve destiny!"

The EGO on this guy! It's like Tony Stark and Oliver Queen had a kid, and they sent him off to be raised by Booster Gold!

"Tell me this, M'sieu Spider Man, you ever heard of a Totem before?"

"Well, thanks to you, Patches, I'm not Spider-Man anymore", replies Jimmy. If his voice held any more bitterness, you'd need to pour sugar in your ears to counteract it.

"But yeah, there was some mention of a Totem back at Weapon X. You want to tell me about that? And maybe try not to scare off any more of my clothes this time?"

And with that last outburst, Jimmy's anger goes on its lunch break, leaving him with the realization that he's standing in his underwear insulting a...god? Oh, man, he sure hopes not.

[herodofcows]

Simbi Makaya scarcely seems to notice the jibe. If anything, he seems to be floating on a cloud of enthusiasm all of the sudden. You get the impression that whiplash-worthy switches in attention might be a norm for this gentleman.

"Ahh, Weapon X! Wi, wi, I know about Weapon X. Crazy people, very bad men. But you have heard of it! Good!"

Simbi Makaya settles into one of the seats in the waiting room. His voice takes on a tone of half-raillery, half-salesmanship, like one friend trying to sell another on a blind date.

"A Totem is a powerful spirit, one that is an ancestor to many. It is like a loa, but they do not have families and they do not interact with houngan very often. They only are, you understand? They can be very strange, but they are very powerful and worthy of respect.

"Most Totem spirits do not interact with mortals very much; they are too old, and too set in their ways. But every now and again, they can stumble across a mortal with the right kind of spirit. With these, the Totem can develop a sort of close bond of friendship and fellowship. This can grant great power to the mortal, and it will allow the Totem to have influence in the mortal world. It is like a partnership, you understand?

"Now . . . here you are. You are a Spider Man without a spider. You have been freed of the djab nwa that was your suit, thanks to me, and now your ti bon ange is free of taint. Many spirits who once would have turned their nose away from you will now speak to you, if you let them. And . . . it so happens that I know the Spider Totem. Eh?"

Simbi Makaya taps his nose and winks at you.

"Think about it: you have already been a spider! You wear her symbol and you take her name as you do your work! You are a great hero and the world knows you for it! You would enrich her, and she would return to you all of the power that you lost . . . possibly more! And besides, you would like her! She is a good wit and does not give herself airs, like SOME I could mention."

He spreads his arms and grins widely at you.

"So, what do you say, Mr. Spider Man? We COULD go out looking for your runaway djab nwa so you might mutilate your ti bon ange further . . . Or I could introduce you to my friend the Spider Totem and you could go back to being Spider Man without harming your ti bon ange AND have a great spirit on your side!"

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy takes a nearby seat in the lobby, needing to think. He takes a magazine from the end table and drapes it over his legs; a poor effort to retain some measure of dignity, but it's the best he's got right now.

Simbi Makaya's offer sounds good. Too good to be true, maybe. This mercurial spirit is offering to replace the power of which he has just robbed Jimmy, but at what cost? Whoever this Spider Totem is, it (no, she, according to the loa) isn't going to just hand Jimmy her power no-questions-asked like some kind of fairy godmother for superheroes. No, she's going to want something in return. Jimmy doesn't know a thing about spirits, but he's still a journalist, and if he's learned only one thing from his years of doing interviews and chasing leads, it's that nobody does anything for free.

But Jimmy suddenly realizes, that applies to his suit too, doesn't it? Until five minutes ago, he'd assumed it to be a mere device with no mind of its own. If it's really alive, then it must have an agenda of its own. But what might that be? It certainly hadn't asked him for anything, or tried to get him to do anything.

Well...maybe one thing. Jimmy's enormous appetite, post-suit, makes a lot more sense in light of this development. All this time he'd been eating for two, like a pregnant woman (well, more like a pregnant woman who was also a linebacker, and moonlighted as a dockworker). Maybe the creature's needs are just that simple. There are lots of animals here on Earth that developed symbiotic relationships with a host, like those birds that pick food out of crocodiles' teeth. Is it the same with the suit?

Well if that's the case, Olson, you can man up and get over the freak-factor. Because a $40-a-day Go-Getter's habit is a pretty small price to pay for superpowers.

Thinking of Go-Getters reminds him of that first night after the attack on LexCorp, where the Misfits had first met at the pizzeria. Potence had put the mystic whammy on everyone to help them come up with ideas. And it worked. But some part of him had objected (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsinglepost.php?p=19734569&postcount=105). He'd passed it off as his own subconscious, but now he's not so sure. Now, it seems more likely that it had been the suit - no, the symbiote - protesting Katie's spell. It had resented the intrusion into his mind. That meant it has feelings.

Which brings Jimmy to the present moment. The symbiote had fled in a panic from whatever Simbi Makaya had done to it. It was scared. Probably still is. Not only that, but it's lost, and presumably in need of a host. That's going to make it desperate. And desperation rarely leads to good decisions, no matter what planet you're from. It might latch onto the first person it finds, and that person might not be someone who can be trusted with its power. Jimmy needs the symbiote, but it now occurs to him that the symbiote needs him too.

Not sure I like this trend of being needed by powerful aliens.

Jimmy stands up, his decision made. The magazine, forgotten, falls to the floor. He needs to find the symbiote, calm it down somehow, and convince it that it's not in danger with him. Before someone else finds it and "Spider-Man" starts robbing banks or something. But first, he needs to turn down a gift from a flighty spirit.

"Simbi Makaya,", Jimmy offers respectfully, his demeanor firmly shifted into Reporter Mode, "thank you for the generous offer. You are right, your mistake has served a greater destiny. I believe that destiny is to learn the true nature of the creature that has made me Spider-Man, to accept it for what it is, and to make it my partner instead of my tool.

So I must respectfully decline your offer. I will do my best to honor the Spider Totem in word and deed, but her power is not for me to take. I need to find my partner and make it understand that I accept it, before its fear leads it to hurt itself or someone else."

He looks around somewhat sheepishly and adds, "But if you could loan me, like, some pants or something, that'd be great."

[herodofcows]

Simbi Makaya snorts in annoyance, but you can see he's actually begrudgingly pleased by your address.

"Timoun sa yo, timoun sa yo . . ." he mutters half to himself, and then stands up abruptly. His chest puffs out and he extends his arms in the style of an anime character expounding upon the power of friendship.

"Let it be so, then! If you would allow yourself to be host to this djab nwa, then I, Simbi Makaya, will assist you in your quest! We will scour the streets of Orleans! We will lay bare the walls of mortal reality and peer directly into the World That Is!"

His hands glow with sudden power and he suddenly presses his palms over your eyes. His hands are cold to the touch.

"Pants, you say? Where we are going, we will not need . . . pants."

He withdraws his hands, and the world has changed.

"Behold! The Spirit Realm!"

The reception area of the office looks about the same, but only because language cannot bend in the right way to describe how it is different. Light creeps in slantwise from the writhing window, sparking like a grain of sand swept across a marble wind. The books dance cantatas through your nose, and your ears describe traceries along the walls and ceiling that you are sure weren't there before.

Dr. Drumm's reception area is a garden café, Lewis Carroll by way of H.P. Lovecraft, and there are customers. Two heron-people play canasta near the window, and a frog argues with a swarm of bees over croque-monsieurs. The receptionist is a marionette whose strings are pulled by six crows, all cawing and laughing as one. On the couch, a woman with scales and two pairs of eyes thrums a song in a language you don't have the wit to hear.

"Pa male, eh?" Simbi Makaya hisses. He is coiled on your arm, red and black bands swirling and stepping along his lithe scaled trunk. He flicks his forked tongue at you and laughs.

"Welcome to the REAL New Orleans!"

"Oi, guv!"

You look down and there's a mouse with a battered top hat and raggedy coat staring up at you.

"You wiffat manky black slivverswink, guv? Only 'e just come bustin' frew 'ere an' near made a right mess, I'w teww you whut, an' you got a bivva smeww uv 'im 'bout you. Cuddabeen damages, guv! Near scared me best act roit offa stage!"

He gestures at the scaly woman on the couch, who continues as though enraptured by the sounds you can scarcely tell she's making.

[TheIronGolem]

"Pants, you say? Where we are going, we will not need . . . pants."

Despite all the graphic threats he's heard from lowlife thugs and supervillains, this is still the most disturbing thing Jimmy has ever heard.

Wait, what? I can't have heard that right! Is he really trying to-

"Behold! The Spirit Realm!"

Whew! Okay, it's just an unfathomable realm of chaos where logic doesn't apply and nothing is what it seems. That I can deal with.

"Pa male, eh? Welcome to the REAL New Orleans!"

"Is that where we are? Huh. And here's me thinking we'd stepped into a Neil Gaiman book."

"Oi, guv! You wiffat manky black slivverswink, guv? Only 'e just come bustin' frew 'ere an' near made a right mess, I'w teww you whut, an' you got a bivva smeww uv 'im 'bout you. Cuddabeen damages, guv! Near scared me best act roit offa stage!"

There is a pause while Jimmy's brain works to untangle the knotted string of Christmas lights that is this mouse's accent. Had he known this conversation was going to happen, he would have watched some Guy Ritchie movies to prepare.

"Uh...yeah. Sorry about that. Did you see which way it went?"

While waiting for the mouse to either answer or run off to sweep a tiny chimney, Jimmy risks looking down at himself, hoping that he doesn't turn out to be a column of frogs or something.

[herodofcows]

You find yourself blissfully normal as you look down. Clothed, even! In fact, you appear to be wearing the street clothes that the suit would grant you in your day to day life.

Meanwhile, the mouse looks at you cannily as he adjusts his jacket. You'd never realized how canny a mouse could look before, but this one gives the impression that if you were unconscious he'd be after your fillings with a pair of pliers before you could say "AY! WUH TUH FUH??? GE' OU'A MUH MUHTH!!!".

"Weww . . ." he says in a voice that would sell you a car with a leaky transmission and a corpse in the trunk for $999, "Cubbee I saw where 'ee wuz 'eaded, cubbee I ain't. See, I'm a man'f business, guv. Got mesewf a fair settuf intrests innis town, get me? Got me a reputation t' maintain, y'unnerstan. Cubbee we could come t'a deaw, 'ow 'bout . . ."

He passes his eyes over the office/garden café, and then brightens up immensely.

"'ere, look," he beams, skittering over to the desk and talking briefly to one of the crows guiding the receptionist. In short order, he's returned with an ornate-looking gold paper cigarette.

"I got an associate, see? 'e's inna French Quarter, got 'is ears to the ground, yeah? You deliver THIS to 'im, an' eww do you roit, yeah?"

He offers you the gold paper cigarette . . . carefully.

"Wotchit though, wit'is. 'sa Perfect Lie, yeah? Custom-made, makes a man a big-shot f'r a night. Don't go messin' wit' it though, 'ese types awways come an' bite ya inna arse layter."

[TheIronGolem]

The relief Jimmy feels at seeing himself both fully-clothed and fully-human in this bizarro-world1 is distracting enough to add even more lag time between hearing the mouse speak and parsing its request. Then he waits for Simbi Makaya's input, fully expecting some dire warning about dabbling in things one does not understand. When that warning does not arrive (perhaps because "dabbling in things one does not understand" has pretty much been Jimmy's M.O. ever since he found the symbiote), he supposes the spirit either tacitly approves of the errand or is content to let Jimmy have enough rope to hang himself.

Either way, Olson, looks like you're going on a sidequest for Cut-Me-Own-Throat Nibbler.

He reaches down and takes the cigarette from the mouse, looking at it thoughtfully. Jimmy doesn't smoke, but this almost makes him want to start, just to be able to say he smoked something this ostentatious. He gets the feeling that Flava Flav buys these things in cartons.

With small shrug, he carefully tucks the cigarette away in a shirt pocket.

"French Quarter, you said? All right. So who's the lucky smoker?"

1Though not the actual Bizarro World, to which he has been, and does not recommend as a vacation spot.

[herodofcows]

The mouse contrives to shrug in a manner suggesting that he didn't do it, he doesn't know who did it, and any cop who asks is going to get the same response.

"'snot my business, izzit? Jus' geddit t' Trigon's boys. French Quarter, where Laffite's Bar b'comes vampire-wannabe territory. Now, if'n yew'll pahdn me, I got customers t' serve."

And with that, the mouse bustles back towards the tables, hopping and scampering about with a servile air.

Simbi Makaya slithers up your arm and coils loosely around your neck, whispering in your ear.

"The sons of Trigon . . . I would be wary. They are spoiled brats, and demons to boot. Their father is a big man in Hell. If your djab nwa is known to them, they will probably have designs on it. Be subtle in how you approach them. Or, if we can take them by surprise, perhaps you and I might overpower them . . ."

[TheIronGolem]

The look Jimmy gives the talking snake suggests that it has more faith in his ability to fight demons sans-powers than he does.

But at the same time, it's becoming clear that whatever kind of mojo this gold paper cigarette has, it's not something that he should allow to fall into the hands of any demons. Again, he's no theologian, but Jimmy's reasonably sure that demon plus more power equals bad news.

Hmm. News. That gives me an idea.

Alright, "subtle" it is. Jimmy can do subtle.

James Olson, field reporter for the Daily Planet, steps out of the garden, turns a sharp right, and strides off confidently into the city.

Moments later, he strides confidently in the other direction, after the snake helpfully informs him that the French Quarter is that way.

[herodofcows]

In the real world, the French Quarter is equal parts gaudy and compelling. Fascinating colonial architecture exists in an uncomfortable money-making alliance with strip clubs and daiquiri/pizza combo vendors. Churchyards and dockside views are marred by cheesy tour guides and hungover partygoers from the night previous. It bears as much of a resemblance to the ACTUAL city of New Orleans as does a Go-Getter's cheesesteak to the overall quality of Go-Getter's as a whole.

In the Spirit Realm, however . . . well, second verse, same as the first.

The walk over had given you a fair view of the denizens of the supernatural side of New Orleans. Animal spirits, loa, the odd houngan with pale eyes and ghostly traceries upon their skin, plenty of odd creatures you don't recognize or can barely describe . . . all went about their business through the twisted grids and Hieronymus Bosch sidestreets of the city. It's a place of windowsill markets and rooftop battlefields, of factories hidden in gutters and offices on awnings. It's awe-inspiring, no question, but there's something familiar to it, almost workmanlike, really. It's a city where you work for a living or you slowly waste away, where the only help you're going to get in a world stacked against you comes from yourself or any friends you can rely on.

The French Quarter, on the other hand, is almost tame by comparison.

Western supernatural elements run rampant around here: werewolves stalk the streets and are overflown by fairies. Demons with red skin and horns have drinks with pale vampires and the odd decaying zombie. The buildings ripple and swirl as the dark shadows of tourists go in and out, expanding and contracting with patronage and power. Well-known landmarks like Jackson's Square or Acme Oyster House loom like citadels to kitsh. The French Market sprawls for acres, a gaudy palatial hanging garden made of trinkets for sale.

You, unobserved, largely unremarked upon, make your way over to the oversized pirate ship that is Laffite's Bar.

"Eugh," Simbi Makaya hisses disgustedly as you traipse through a crowd of gothy-looking vampires on your way to the gangway that'll take you to the ship, "Used to be children knew better than to follow espris moves just because they're sexy. I remember when vanpir were parasites you wiped out, shrieking little bat creatures. Now look at them; dress them up like homeless children and people throw themselves upon them to be bitten. Jen jodi, jen jodi . . ."

As soon as you make your way up the gangway behind two raucously drunken werewolves, you catch a facefull of Lafitte's bar. The place is packed, with crowds of mostly-human and entirely inhuman (but not Inhuman) folks sitting around stoops and barrels and chairs and drinking uproariously. Ghosts of cinematic-looking pirates swordfight through gaps in the crowd or else swing across the rigging overhead with daggers in teeth. For all the magic in the air, it feels canned, like a tourist trap or Disney attraction.

You soon realize there's a demon at your side. He has red skin, horns, and a spotless tuxedo. Were it not for the two rows of glowing red eyes on his head, he would look no different than any of the other rent-a-devils you've seen on your way over. As it stands . . .

"Well hell-ooo . . ." he smiles easily with a voice like honey over velvet, "I think you just MIGHT have something for meeee . . . a little lie, perhaps? A little golden lie for a little golden boy that owes me his soul for a night with a beautiful blonde?"

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy pauses for a moment while he reflects on how dumb people can be sometimes.

Seriously? Somebody sold his soul for a hot date? Jeez, even I'm not that hard up!

Still, it means he has a chance to do some good here. After all, if the sap never gets the goods, then he doesn't owe his soul to anyone.

But at the same time, this demon has information Jimmy needs. So all he needs to do is get a demon to give up something for nothing. Easy, right?

Actually...maybe. More than once, Jimmy had witnessed Lois Lane walk right into the den of some criminal mastermind or other - under the promise of helping them "clear their name" and "set the record straight" - and end up getting them to lay out their entire evil plan for her like a Bond villain. Only once the story ran would they realize how thoroughly they'd been had (rumour has it Wilson Fisk had completely destroyed his penthouse office with his bare hands). And while Jimmy was decidedly not Lois, he had learned a thing or two over the years. Now it's time to put those skills to the test.

"Just the man I've been looking for!" Jimmy exclaims with his best winning smile. "James Olson, Daily Planet. I'm so glad to have this chance to talk to you. It's time we got the truth out there. Break down barriers. Bust myths. Too many years we've only heard the negative stories about the business of infernal commerce. It's only fair you get to tell your side of the story, too."

Never give them a chance to say something that isn't an answer to a question - that's the most important thing he'd learned from Lois. So he doesn't wait for the demon to respond before plowing on:

"Let's start with a walkthrough of the process for our readers. What can someone expect from dealing with you?"

If this works, he'll be able to direct the conversation by asking carefully-chosen questions, leading the demon further and further away from the matter of the poor sap he's trying to ensare. When he sees an opportunity, he'll ask about the subject that really matters (the symbiote), but then immediately follow up by giving the demon more opportunities to talk about himself.

And who knows? He might even get an actual article out of this.

[herodofcows]

Demons are, by definition, masters of bullsh*t. It's how they subsist, survive, and thrive in the multiverse. For all their power and subtlety, the greatest weapon a demon can wield is a tongue of honey-coated lies and half-truths to captivate the mortal world.

One might think, therefore, that a demon with a reasonable amount of self-awareness would be immune to such bullsh*ttery and be aware of when they're being played.

One would be wrong!

"I . . ." the demon stumbles for a moment before the Company Line takes over, "I would say our most distinguishing feature is prompt and efficient service."

His face briefly registers some amount of puzzlement that he's talking to you at all, but then he finds his sea legs and presses on;

"The gods don't listen, scrivener-man. They're too busy fighting or loving or squabbling to attend to their, heh, patrons in prayer. And of course, there are plenty of SMALLER spirit organizations that can provide SOME solutions for SOME circumstances . . . but we provide ALL solutions for ALL circumstances. Nobody else has our resources, our record, or our devotion to quality."

He gestures at the cavalcade of merry-makers and monsters currently occupying the deck of the ship/bar.

"THIS is just one of our millions of franchises around the world. We're a bit specialized here, yes; drinks and dreams and desires of the flesh whispered in dim lights and pined for in the grips of the early morning and the darker moments of the soul, heh . . . but through our firm, we can provide specialists of any field at a moment's notice. And you might think that we trade for this global reach with local personality, but nothing could be further from the truth! We pride ourselves in integrating with and supporting the local community wherever we go. Take this bar, for instance! My brothers and I have taken this fixture of the historic French Quarter and turned it into a thriving hub of all that makes New Orleans stand out in the eyes of the world. We bring business, fortify local culture, and provide a top-quality range of services. We may be of infernal stock, but Hell . . . Hell is about the people."

His eyes cast over you, seeming to drink in your presence like ice water on a sweltering day.

"Perhaps a little demonstration, hmmm?" he asks, suddenly all sweetness, "You brought me my perfect little lie, after all, and a favor for a favor is how we do businessss . . . What could I do for you, scrivener-man? What little desire could I bring to reality? Hmmm?"

[TheIronGolem]

As the demon launches into his PR speech, Jimmy fights down the urge to grin. Instead, he maintains the mask of pleasant neutrality a good interviewer always wears. Still, he can't help but feel a little proud of himself right now. It's working!

Still, though, the effect soon proves to be short-lived when the demon tries to turn the subject back to its own ends. Jimmy isn't surprised by this fact; sooner or later everyone remembers what it was they originally wanted to talk about. But Lois had explained to him that being asked to talk about oneself is a bit like doing a shot - the more you do, the more it seems like a good idea to do it again, given the chance. With that in mind, Jimmy prepares to pour the demon another shot.

"You've mentioned this 'perfect lie'", Jimmy says, carefully deflecting the offer to ask a favor. "This sounds intriguing, but on behalf of our readers I must say the name is alarming. So let's clear up this matter: what exactly is a perfect lie, and what can it do for someone?"

With any luck, the demon will soon be "drunk" enough for Jimmy to ask about the symbiote, then cover his tracks with a follow-up question and get the hell out (pardon the pun) before the demon "sobers up".

[herodofcows]

The demon tuts and flourishes his hands in a general gesture to the negative.

"Alarming? Ahhh, these are simply the hypocrisies of modern life coming to bear against an audacious service. The automobile was once alarming, after all. So was the Internet. But both inventions merely took the platonic ideal of existing services and perfected them. So it is with a Perfect Lie! Observe!"

With a graceful leap, the demon propels himself through the air and lands with feline slinkiness at the bar. With a sly flourish and a wink towards you, he presents the golden cigarette (had you given it to him? You don't recall doing so . . .) to a shadowy figure leaning on the bar top. The cigarette lights of its own accord, and the shadowy figure takes a puff. As it does so, the light from the cigarette turns golden, and sparks begin to fly from the tip to the base and engulf the hand of the figure. The hand catches a golden flame, which spreads across the body and you soon realize that it's a he and his body is being filled in with an expensive tailored suit and a precisely trimmed head of hair and a tall-dark-and-handsome swagger speaking of wealth and success and a shark in a pond of fish . . .

"There!" exclaims the demon with a satisfied mien, now right back next to you, "For the rest of the night and well into tomorrow morning, this man will tell the world a story of a successful businessman and Don Juan of the highest and finest order. After all, we are all of us only as real as the stories we tell, wouldn't you say? Every day, mortals and immortals alike tell themselves and the rest of the world the story of who they are, and who they'd like to be. A Perfect Lie simply facilitates that very natural urge. Think of it as a spellcheck for one's own identity. That certainly isn't so bad, is it?"

The demon beams at you, so sure of his own eloquence that he's completely forgotten that he might have been even slightly suspicious of you.

[TheIronGolem]

Sensing the demon's disarmed state of mind, Jimmy decides it's time to get what he's here for.

"This is fascinating stuff," he says, letting the grin take over his face (though perhaps for a different reason than an onlooker would think). "I think it'll come as a pleasant surprise to my readers what you can do for them."

He lets the grin turn a bit sheepish and embarrassed. He needs to give the impression that this next part is a formality he doesn't really want to do.

"But before we finish, there's something I'd like to get out of the way. My editor made me promise to do it before he'd let me come here. Some kind of alien creature, made of black liquid or something. I'm supposed to be looking into where it came from, but I need to get a sample from it to do that. You'd know where it is, right?"

That's not technically a lie; Perry had given Jimmy a standing order to look into alien-related issues whenever they come up. Well, actually it had been to Lois, two years previously. But Jimmy had been standing there. Like, right next to her. And "you" can be a plural. Perry had definitely said "you".

And he does need a sample of the symbiote. 100% is a perfectly valid sample size, thank you very much.

"Sorry for the interruption", he continues, "I just figured it'd be quicker to ask you while I'm here. What better knowledge resource, right?"

Just a spoonful of flattering sugar to help the inquisitive medicine go down...

[herodofcows]

"Ah!" grins the demon happily, clapping his hands together in a satisfied manner, "There it is, scrivner-man! There's the little favor I can do for you!"

He takes off chattering through the press of the bar towards the captain's quarters. You struggle through in his wake, getting glances from vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and just about every other supernatural beast from Western folklore you can imagine.

"People often don't realize that Hell can trade in information as much as in favors. It's a branding problem, you see: during the 13th century there was a big push towards pacts of infernal knowledge, but it fizzled out around the Age of Exploration. We tried another push in the 17th century, but that one didn't QUITE get off the ground. Witch burnings. What can you do? But those services remain available for anyone looking to use them!"

You eventually reach the captain's quarters, and the demon ushers you in with great ceremony. The interior is dimly lit, and you barely have enough time to get a good look at the place before he shuts the door. Blackness envelops the room, except for the red glow from the demon's twin pair of eyes.

"Perhaps now is the time to roll them out again. Dot com bubbles are growing, job markets are collapsing, and oh, the things we have in the works for mortgages! Skills and qualifications in the blink of an eye, THAT'S the future of the industry. We're more than simple purveyors of wealth and success, yes!"

The lights flick on, and you find yourself in a white marble room, so brilliantly illuminated it almost hurts to look at. It is bare except for a deep pool taking up nearly the entirety of the floor, which is filled with gently sloshing oily-looking water. You can't tell for certain, but it looks as though there might be something in the depths . . .

"Now then! Let's see about your black liquid alien . . ."

The demon turns to you, an unctuous smile on his face.

"The function of the pool is simple: you'll receive the knowledge you need di-RECT-ly into your head, in exchange for the smallest of sacrifices. And since this is a favor rather than a deal, Laffite's will be more than happy to reimburse you!"

He casts his eye over you speculatively, and then abruptly seems to notice the serpentine form of Simbi Makaya coiled around your arm.

"Perhaps your serpent? The pool has a fondness for snakes . . ."

Simbi Makaya abruptly starts hissing and pulsating on your arm. Clearly he is NOT a fan of this plan . . . but it might look odd if you don't have a backup option . . .

[TheIronGolem]

"He's not mine to give", says Jimmy. Still, he steps toward the pool.

An idea has formed in Jimmy's head.

A crazy, stupid idea that he doesn't like, that will certainly cause him no end of pain both now and later, and that he really wants to be talked out of.

But it's the only idea he's got.

He takes another step towards the pool. He feels the snake's grip on his left arm tighten, and wonders if it's to protest what it thinks he's about to do, or to warn him away from what he's really about to do. Either way, he can't afford to listen.

He takes another step, and now he's at the pool. This is it.

He thinks of the missing symbiote, and of everyone that might get hurt if he doesn't find it.

He thinks of Superman, and of everyone that will get hurt if Superman doesn't get better.

He also thinks of his X-Box, which he might have to sell when he gets home. Nice to know you've still got your priorities straight, Olson.

Jimmy kneels down and looks into the pool. He still can't tell what's moving around in there, but right now that's kind of a plus.

From his left arm, the snake hisses at him again. He turns his left side away from the pool, the best reassurance he can offer right now.

"I hope you're not too hungry", says Jimmy. And with that, he plunges his right arm into the pool up to the elbow.

[herodofcows]

Many things happen very fast.

"What the He-" begins the demon, lunging towards you.

"Kisa ou-" begins Simbi Makaya, voice suddenly loud and strident.

And then you hear the CRUNCH

It's not a sudden sound like you imagined it might be, not the simple snap of a jaw over your arm that might cleanly break flesh and bone. The shattering sound begins at the skin level, like your arm is the thin sugary shell of a lollipop dissolving under the eager suction of a child. You feel a curious sensation of warmth wash over your arm, punctuated by pinpricks of discomfort.

And then, suddenly, your nerves are caught in a thresher and all you can feel is agony.

The rest happens very quickly. You feel your radius and your ulna (funny, how you remember the names of the bones at a time like this) wrenched apart, stretching your forearm muscles until they snap like rubber bands. Your hand just seems to rocket off piece by piece, fingerbones shooting off into the ether before your palm flies apart.

In the space of a second, your right arm is gone. You're blinded by pain, mouth yelling and throat aching independent of conscious thought.

And you know.

A dark room in a dingy brick building in the lower Ninth Ward. It's lying insensate in a puddle on the table. It wants to move, or fight, or flee. It wants to bond, and be safe. But it can't. Because it can't disobey HIM. Oh, it's not disobedient by nature; usually it'll follow its host's lead on anything. But even when it was bonded, it could always react to pain, or fear, or danger. But now the danger is all around it and it can't disobey HIM.

Not HIM. Not the man with purple skin.

"Let's try that again . . ." a drawling voice oozes into its consciousness, psychopathically carefree.

"SPLIT"

"Ou se oke, Spider Man, ou se oke . . ."

You're shocked to your senses by the sudden sizzle at your elbow. Looking down, you see Simbi Makaya in full human form holding a flame to your ar- your stump. Your arm is missing. Your stump.

You notice that the demon is twisted up on the floor, squirming ineffectually. Then again, it's hard to move when your head has been literally shoved up your own a**.

"We have to go, Mr. Spider Man," Simbi Makaya's voice steps in, leading you to the door.

The door is pounding. Your arm is missing. The door is pounding.

The door is open.

"Guete!"

A small posse of demons is awaiting outside. At their head, you see two other individuals with the dual pairs of eyes that mark the sons of Trigon. They are all smiling most unpleasantly.

"YOU'RE not supposed to be here, loa," spits one of Trigon's boys, snarling the last word like a slur. Your arm is missing.

Simbi Makaya looks at you worriedly for a second. Your mind is suddenly sliced through with his thoughts:

~Go find your djab nwa, Jimmy Olson. I will teach these zozo santis some manners~

He shoves you to the side towards the bar, and cracks his knuckles theatrically. The demons barely pay you any mind, so focused as they are on the loa.

"Èske w konnen ki se mwen menm?!" he roars, drawing himself up, and up, and still further up. Snakes begin to slither out of his clothing, and all the liquids in the bar begin to arch from their glasses like cobras waiting to strike.

"I AM SIMBI MAKAYA!!!"

Demons charge. Snakes strike. Liquid flies. A battle royale between a dozen devils from hell and one pissed-off sorcerer loa begins.

Your arm is missing.

[TheIronGolem]

Right about now, Jimmy's inner monologue of self-criticism would normally be excoriating him over his latest rash decision. It would be Nice job, Olson this and What a hero that. But as he's just had his arm torn off and the stump burned, he's got a lot of screaming to do, and he just doesn't have time do it himself right now. So he delegates that task.

AAAAHHHH! MY ARM! AAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Meanwhile, he takes a moment to process what his sacrifice has gained him.

He knows where the symbiote is. Exactly where it is. He knows how to get there as well as he knows the route from his apartment to the Daily Planet. He's not sure if that knowledge will last, though, so he needs to get there now.

He knows the symbiote hasn't bonded to anyone else yet. That's good.

But he also knows that someone has it. A man with purple skin. Jimmy supposes that must be the Purple Man; he's heard of the guy but has no first-hand knowledge. He vaguely recalls the Purple Man having mind-control powers. That's...not as good.

And he knows that the Purple Man is trying to get the symbiote to "split". That either means he wants it to kill itself, or make more of itself. That's either bad or really, really bad, respectively. And knowing his luck, he has a pretty good guess which one it is.

Jimmy gives Simbi Makaya a nod of acknowledgement as the loa covers his exit by starting a bar fight with a dozen demons. He starts to rush outside, but skids to a stop at the end of the bar when he notices the ashtray. Or rather, the remaining half of the Perfect Lie still smouldering in it, forgotten momentarily as its smoker took cover from the fight. He snatches up the burning cigarette, then runs straight for the exit.

Outside, Jimmy does his best to merge into a crowd of pedestrians in case anyone tried to follow him. This proves harder than it sounds, since not being any kind of weird monster makes him sort of stand out here. Suppressing the urge to look behind him for tails, he starts making his way towards the Ninth Ward.

Putting the golden cigarette in his mouth to free up his left hand (why did he have to feed his good arm to the magic pool monster?), Jimmy takes the now-empty right sleeve of his jacket and stuffs it into the jacket's right pocket in an attempt to make it less immediately obvious that his right arm is missing. He's going to need to do a lot of bluffing soon. Hopefully the cigarette still has some of its mojo left...

[herodofcows]

Later

No spirits cavort around this house. No anthropomorphized beasts or bestial humanoids or anything in between stalk the rooftops or peek from the gutters or windows. There are no loa here, no houngan, no demons or vampires of werewolves or sprites. If New Orleans is a bustling metropolis of the abnormal, this is the derelict urban waste.

This is the place, you know. The pit has given you a perfect knowledge of the place: a run-down single story house, paint crumbling, a couple windows duct-taped over. The lawn is overgrown and full of weeds, and the chain link fence seems to have an inordinate number of tears and points on it.

You almost can't tell if this is still part of the Spirit Realm or not. For all the surreal things you've seen today, this place feels disturbingly . . . real.

You're here. The symbiote is inside, and so is the Purple Man. You have one arm, a set of journalistic skills, and a mostly-used Perfect Lie to get the former away from the latter. And gumption. And spunk. And moxie. And grit . . .

But mostly one arm, a set of journalistic skills, and a mostly-used Perfect Lie.

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy stands in front of the run-down house, gathering his courage.

As Spider-Man, he's faced supervillains before. As Jimmy Olson...actually, plenty of times, come to think of it. Only back then it was less about fighting them and more about getting kidnapped or turned into a gorilla or something, and waiting for Superman to show up and sort it out. But that's not going to happen now, obviously.

He goes over the plan in his head one more time, partly to make sure he's thought it through, but mostly to put this off a little bit longer.

C'mon, Olson. Every second counts here. Quit stalling and do what you came to do.

Jimmy takes the remaining half of the golden cigarette out of his mouth, its cherry a weak ember, and holds it up. He takes one more deep, calming breath and blows it out slowly onto the cherry, coaxing it back to life. Then he puts the business end back in his mouth and takes a long, deep drag, waiting for the magic to do its thing. Not being a smoker, he expects a coughing fit, but it doesn't come.

He does feel more confident now. He thinks. Maybe. Is that the magic, or is he just trying to psyche himself up?

Either way, he reaches up and knocks on the door. Recalling the name of someone he'd interviewed last year for a puff piece on super-science, he puts as much urgency and authority into his voice as he can muster:

"Francisco Ramon, STAR Labs! We've traced a Class Five extraterrestrial contaminant to this domicile!"

As the words exit Jimmy's mouth, he's surprised at how credible they seem. For a second there, he's pretty sure he is Francisco Ramon from STAR Labs. And the fact that "Class Five extraterrestrial contaminant" is something he just now made up doesn't bother him at all. He searches his memory for more sciencey-sounding terminology to add extra oomph.

"Class Fives are nothing to mess around with! Last one we saw was a little thing called the Legacy Virus! Maybe you've heard of it? Ask a mutant if not!"

He grips the doorknob and gives it an experimental twist, intending to just stroll in like he owns the place.

[herodofcows]

The door flies open under your fingers and your stride carries you right into the house. How could it not? You're SUPPOSED to be there.

You come into a threadbare hallway. The wallpaper is peeling and bits of plaster are peeking through. The carpet is threadbare and discolored in places. The whole place smells of dust. Just beyond and to your left, you can see a bare-walled living room empty but for a comfortable-looking gray couch. The couch looks new. Everything else looks old.

"Come into the kitchen. Right now."

The voice rings out from the kitchen and you find yourself walking through the living room almost immediately. As you step, you come to understand exactly what it is that makes the Purple Man so terrifying.

See, you've had a few brushes with mind control here and there. You've had a run-in or two with brainwashing, the Psycho-Man, Emma Frost in a pissy mood, the usual suspects. With them, there's always some awareness that you're being controlled: you have an out-of-body experience, or you black out, or you're fundamentally aware of someone controlling you. Something.

Kilgrave isn't like that. You just do what he says. You WANT to do what he . . . no, WANT would imply an artificial desire fostered within you. You don't WANT to. It's just that you're doing it. It's natural that you'd do it. The most natural thing in the world. It's very nearly your idea to do it. Had you not known that you were walking into a Purple Man situation, you wouldn't even know what was happening.

Your steps take you through the living room and into the kitchen. The room is much better appointed than the rest: the table is mahogany and expensive-looking. There's a steak cooking on a cast iron skillet, supervised nonchalantly by a large guy in a chef's apron. The table is set exquisitely for one, behind a centerpiece of . . . your symbiote.

Your symbiote and . . . your symbiote. And, again, your symbiote.

There are three of them on the table. The largest one is black, and seems to be curled up on itself and swaying fitfully. The other two are red, small, and slithering back and forth along the table. You can hear a high-pitched whine coming from them, like a broken radio.

"Sit down."

The voice comes behind you. Apparently he was leaning against the wall behind the kitchen doorway, just outside your line of sight as you'd walked in.

You sit down. Someone walks up behind you and rests a dark purple hand on your shoulder.

"Tell me what you know about them. How are they dangerous?"

As he speaks, your mind races for a response, and with a thrill you realize that the Perfect Lie still has some mojo to it. The magic isn't as powerful when you're under his control, you can tell, but it's there. You can lie to him!

[TheIronGolem]

As the array of possible responses race through his mind, "Cisco" considers what little he's seen here, and what it can tell him about the Purple Man.

New couch. He values comfort.

A chef to cook a simple steak. He's lazy. No, wait...it's not just that, it's the prestige of having someone cook for you, isn't it? A status symbol. That explains the mahogany table, and the way the symbiotes are on display.

The poor state of the rest of the house...that doesn't fit with the rest. It suggests he hasn't been here long, or doesn't plan to stay long, or both. Yet he still goes to the trouble of getting expensive furniture? Why?

Because he gets bored with it. He likes nice things, but it's so easy for him to get them that they don't hold his attention long.

Back to the symbiotes. The Purple Man split it into three. Why?

Is he going to use others as guinea pigs so he can gauge the risks before bonding to it himself? Maybe, but this feels more like the start of an army. Mind-controlled slaves with the power of Spider-Man. Yikes.

Okay. Now to convince him that the symbiote doesn't fit with his plans or his lifestyle.

"It infests the victim's brain", Jimmy says. "Takes it over and turns them mindless. Like a zombie. Actually, that's what we're calling them: 'tar zombies'. I came up with that myself. You know, because the stuff looks like tar?"

He grins dopily at the affected boast, before switching to a more somber tone.

"Also, that's...pretty much how they act, too. Did you see 28 Days Later? I hated it, because really? Zombies that run? Come on. But that's how the tar zombies are. They just go crazy and attack everything they see. Eventually it consumes the rest of the body, too, and converts it into more biomass for itself so it can reproduce."

This feels like a good start, but then he remembers that the Purple Man made the symbiote split just by telling it to. That needs explaining, or it'll seem suspicious.

"That's not the worst part, though. The worst part is that a newly-formed colony has intelligence. It's rudimentary, but it's there. It's smart enough to find hiding spots and choose its victim. That part doesn't seem to survive the infection process, thank God. We think the nervous system is just some kind of stopgap to help it find a host, but degrades afterwards to save energy for the larger infection. A two-stage parasite. We need a live sample to study before we can figure out any more, let alone how to stop it."

Jimmy stops talking here, hoping he's sold the story. An uncontrollable, unpredictable creature, poorly suited for the needs of someone who wants puppets. A rapidly-spreading infection that threatens to ruin the advanced society that makes a life of comfort and leisure possible. And, through "Cisco", a convenient way to get it out of his life.

[herodofcows]

The Purple Man smacks his lips behind you and withdraws his hand. In front of you, the large man in the apron flips the steak.

"Not too cooked," Kilgrave calls out smoothly, still standing behind you, "I like it a little bloody."

He paces around into your field of view, and you see him fully for the first time; the purple skin is there, of course, nearly distracting from the jet-black hair, the widow's peak, the distinguished features and expensive suit . . . he'd actually be quite handsome were it not for the purple skin. His eyes are almost childlike, gazing out at the world with unfettered and unabashed emotions (or lack thereof).

Right now, he's looking at you entirely emotionlessly, but whenever his eyes flicker over the three symbiotes on the table his face lights up with a faint smile. After a moment, he pulls out a phone.

"I'm going to make a call," he says nonchalantly as he dials, "Don't make a sound. Cisco, don't move from that chair. You, finish my steak and set it out on the table."

He doesn't even bother to turn his back to you as his phone rings. You can see him getting unabashedly more annoyed with every right, but it all smooths away as someone picks up.

"Get me Luthor. I have something he might find interesting . . ."

As he speaks, eyes unfocused and looking elsewhere, you see one of the smaller red symbiotes inching towards you. It brushes against your left hand, and you hear, no, you feel something, faintly . . .

terror lonely hurting help need save kill

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy's nose itches. He'd like to scratch it. It should be easy; he's got ten (well, five now) perfectly good fingernails to choose from. But he can't. Because that would make a sound, which he can't do.

And it's a really serious itch. The kind that demands to be scratched, and will not be ignored. The kind that occupies the entirety of your attention until it's dealt with. The kind that gets more and more insistent until it drowns out all other sensation in your body. There is no body, there is no world, no time or space. There is only the itch.

So when the Purple Man asks to be put in touch with Luthor, Jimmy barely registers it. Yes, Luthor's even more dangerous than the Purple Man, and yes, Luthor will recognize Jimmy as not-Cisco-Ramon if he shows up here. But the itch, man. The itch.

terror lonely hurting help need save kill

Huh?

Jimmy looks down at his left hand (turning his head might make a sound, but eyes are quiet) and sees one of the red symbiotes touching it. His heart skips a beat. It's talking to him! Well, not talking as such, some kind of telepathy or something, but still.

It occurs to Jimmy that the suit never really communicated in such a direct fashion to him before, and he's not sure if he can communicate back. He decides to try anyway.

It's okay, he thinks as "loudly" as he can. We're going to get out of here.

On the off-chance that the symbiote can "see" his thoughts as well as "hear" them, he forms a mental picture of himself leaving the house with all three symbiotes. The cook, too.

All of us, he adds.

[herodofcows]

"Luthor," the Purple Man says with a smile as the chef carefully removes the steak from the pan, so as not to make a sound, "I have something I think you'd like. A bio-weapon. Makes goo zombies. I'm told it's a Class Five extraterrestial threat, whatever that means . . ."

You suddenly start to feel fear rising in you, constricting your lungs and making it hard to breathe or sit still. Your stomach feels as though it's bubbling fit to burst. You're terrified . . . but the terror isn't properly yours, either. It takes you a moment to realize that you're just processing fear from the little red symbiote you're touching.

purple man rip tear control kill kill save kill help kill save kill

Kilgrave turns his back to you and gestures the chef away. He remains with his back turned, still talking on the phone.

". . . Well, the boy I have here yammering about it clearly thinks it means something! I don't know, it's all Greek to me. The point is, I have a product, and I know you're in the market for a city-killer . . ."

Quick as a Flash (but one of the less impressive ones, like Impulse or Jesse Quick), the red symbiote has crawled up your arm and is hiding under your sleeve. You feel it spreading up your arm and over your body, gradually covering it haphazardly and in fits and starts. And as it does so, you start to feel the creature's feelings penetrating your mind, translating itself into your emotions:

You're cornered and the Purple Man will kill you in some horrible way if you don't kill him first. This is a matter of survival, do or die. You have to do this. You have to find a way to kill him!

". . . A demonstration, you mean? Well, I'm in New Orleans now . . . yes, that sounds just fine. I have three. One for the demo, two for sale. Sound fair? Good . . ."

The creature's emotions are loud, but they're also noticeably separate from you. You can still think your own thoughts (mostly, anyway) and make your own judgments. You can keep the symbiote at bay . . . but do you want to? You wouldn't have to disobey your orders to do so, and even a scared and kill-happy symbiote might give you an edge . . .

Okay, here are your options: Jimmy can reject the symbiote and gain an HP, or you can accept it and regain your powers, but with the Unreliable modifier. However, there's a twist: instead of Unreliable representing a power failure, it'll mean that the symbiote will take an action instead.

[TheIronGolem]

In case this isn't clear, I'm going with the "reject" option, although I'm expressing it as a (presumably doomed) attempt on Jimmy's part to talk the symbiote into playing nice.

The one and only time Jimmy has ever seen Superman get angry at him was the time he had suggested that maybe things would be better if Superman just killed some of the villains. Not all of them, he'd said. Just the really irredeemable ones, like Sabretooth and the Joker. The ones who murder innocents, get caught, spend a little time in jail, and just get right back out and start it all over again.

The Man of Steel hadn't so much as raised his voice when he replied, but there was no mistaking his mood. He had been furious at Jimmy for the mere suggestion. Jimmy hadn't really understood why, at the time. Having collected some experience in the superhero gig, he does now.

And what Superman had said to Jimmy with words then, Jimmy now says to the symbiote with his thoughts and feelings.

No.

That is not our choice to make. We protect people, we don't kill them.

When they hurt each other, we stop that. But we have to let them pass judgment. If we take that from them, we're no better - no different - than the ones we fight.

We take this guy down, but we do NOT kill him. Period. I am not a murderer, and I'm not going to let you be one either.

Now, are we in this together or not?

[herodofcows]

You feel the symbiote sliding around you, even as you think your message and memories to it . . .

scared lonely afraid want to bond NEED to bond . . .

". . . that should do it. I'll be at the airport in a couple of hours. A pleasure doing business with you . . ."

. . .

trust

safe

help

The Purple Man hangs up the phone with a sneer just as the young symbiote slips back onto the table.

"Pompous jacka** . . ."

He sits down at the table directly opposite from you and fastidiously picks up his fork and knife. Humming a jazzy tune to himself, he begins to dig into his steak. He eats gracelessly, chomping into the meat with an unsavory gusto. For the longest time, there is nothing but his slurping and gnashing and chewing sounds. Mind controllers don't have to worry about table manners.

Finally, a last gulp sends the final sliver of meat vanishing down his gullet. He looks up at you as he dabs his his lips with his napkin and smiles cherubically at you.

"You've been very helpful to me, Cisco. Thank you. So I'm going to reward you . . ."

He abruptly gestures his fork at one of the smaller symbiotes. The one you hadn't talked to yet.

"Infect Cisco as soon as I step out the door. Cisco? Let it happen."

He goes to the drawers and, after some rummaging, pulls out a large tupperware container. The lid comes off and he plops it down on the table.

"Junior and Brood Mother? Get in."

As the two symbiotes slither into the container, he gestures at the chef.

"As for you, my good man . . . you're going to take out your phone and record a video of what happens. If it starts to attack you, be sure to send it to me before you die, okay? Good."

The chef takes out his phone and hits record. His face is pale and he's sweating, but there's a red flush of anger in his cheeks.

The Purple Man shoots you a jaunty wave as he grabs the tupperware container and walks out of the kitchen.

"Have fun, you three!"

His footsteps retreat. The door closes. You're alone.

Like a striking snake, the symbiote leaps onto you. Soon you are coated in a red shifting mass that feels like a million snakes slithering all over your skin. It's not like your old suit: there's something feral and hungry about it. And it's not scared, like the one you contacted.

It's angry. VERY angry.

HELP ME FIND MOTHER.

Its voice rumbles through your head like the first crack of a storm.

HELP ME GET MY REVENGE.

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy gives a little mental sigh as the new symbiote crawls onto him. Couldn't the Purple Man have picked his old symbiote, or at least the one he had already talked down a little?

Still, at least "talking" to that symbiote has prepared him somewhat for dealing with this one.

First thing's first. He can't know we're coming for him. Let's give him the show he's expecting.

He bolts out of the chair and stands upright, throwing his head back and screaming bloody murder as the red symbiote overtakes his body. The Purple Man had bought a monster story, so a monster is what he'll get.

While he spends the next minute or so reenacting what he remembers of that famous scene from An American Werewolf In London, Jimmy takes this time to repeat his lay-down-the-law act with this symbiote:

We're going to stop the Purple Man, yes. We're going to make sure he never hurts anyone again. But we're doing it my way, and you need to follow my lead. This won't work if I have to fight you and him. Understood?

Waiting for an answer would give the creature a chance to "talk back", and Jimmy figures that for a bad idea. Instead, he offers it a chance to act on its anger in a way that will help.

Slowly, and as menacingly as he can manage, he turns toward the hapless cook filming him. This is not going to be nice, but right now Jimmy can't afford to be your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

We'll call this a test for you, Jimmy thinks to the symbiote. We need to scare this guy, but only for a second, and we do not hurt him. Don't make me regret trusting you.

He starts walking toward the cook, making a big production of smacking his lips as he increases his pace. Finally he leaps forward, pinning the cook to the ground. As he does so, he snatches the phone away, making sure to smash it against the floor. He imagines what the resulting footage must look like, with the "tar zombie" slowly advancing towards the camera and then the footage abruptly cutting off as it pounces. That, Jimmy reasons, should be suitably melodramatic for a supervillain.

As quickly as he pounced, he rolls off of the poor cook and gets to his feet.

"Sorry about that", says Jimmy. Along with the apology, he offers the cook his hand to help the man stand up. "It needed to look real or he might get suspicious. I'm going after him. Can you find your way home?"

[herodofcows]

As you shriek, you can feel the symbiote reacting to your sudden authoritative burst. It doesn't like it, that's for certain: for all your attempts at convincing and setting boundaries, your experience with using your symbiote's power is what's doing most of the heavy lifting here. Regardless, it doesn't resist you, or give you any sass as you lay out the fiction you wish to pursue.

. . . WE'LL SAVE THE OTHER WATERBAG

THEN WE TAKE REVENGE

The chef shrieks as you approach him, but he still keeps filming. He's a big guy, no question, and the mind control keeps him filming as you lunge towards him, but the look on his face says it all: he's terrified.

As you wrench the phone out of his hands and crush it, you hear a swoosh sound effect come from the speakers. True to the Purple Man's commands, the chef had sent the recording in what he assumed were his final moments.

On the plus side, those were the last of the Purple Man's orders. He's free now.

IT'S DONE

NOW WE GO

"H-h-h-h . . ." he stutters wide-eyed, taking your hand on reflex and allowing you to pull him up, "He . . ."

He gulps and begins shaking. His face goes pale as his brain catches up with the events that led him here.

"He took-a me from my keetchen . . ."

And then he goes bright red. Quick as a wink, he's suddenly holding a sizable steak knife and dashing for the door.

"THAT CAZZO BASTARDO PAONAZZO TOOK-A GIANCARLO FROM HIS KEETCHEN!!!"

WE GO NOW

WE FIND THE PURPLE MAN

WE GET OUR REVENGE

WE SAVE MOTHER

NOW

You feel the symbiote's coils starting to push against your limbs, urging you forward. It's clearly reflexive: the symbiote doesn't have control and it's not forcing you to do anything, but it's being skittish and battle-eager. Might present a problem with the action gets serious . . .

[TheIronGolem]

"He took-a me from my keetchen . . ."

"I know, man. This must've been really hard on you. If there's anything I can-"

"THAT CAZZO BASTARDO PAONAZZO TOOK-A GIANCARLO FROM HIS KEETCHEN!!!"

"Whoa!" exclaims Jimmy as he hops backwards out of the path of the rampaging cook. He'd like to take the time to make sure Giancarlo is okay, but he supposes he'll have to trust that the big guy can take care of himself from here. Right now finding the Purple Man takes priority. As if hearing his thoughts (which it apparently does), the symbiote chimes in:

WE GO NOW

WE FIND THE PURPLE MAN

WE GET OUR REVENGE

WE SAVE MOTHER

NOW

Yeah, Jimmy thinks back in assent. We can do that. But I'm in charge, and when I say it's done, it's done.

He makes his way to the front door and walks out, stopping on the porch. The Purple Man only left moments ago. Jimmy figures he can probably get to the airport first, if he hurries.

A second later, when he realizes why his right hand isn't firing the web-line he's expecting, he gives his stump a sheepish look before firing one from his left hand. With his old symbiote, he had healed wounds pretty quickly, which was good since he tended to collect a lot of them. He wonders if regrowing an arm is beyond this one's ability, and if not then whether it can get him fixed up in the next couple of hours.

[herodofcows]

As you walk out the door, you watch as Giancarlo runs off towards the street, flushed and brandishing the steak knife like a raving berserk. As soon as he steps out of the house, though, you notice an odd distortion of the senses: every step he takes, he becomes less and less distinct. His form becomes blurred, his features obscure, his limbs seem to vanish as though in harsh sunlight . . . until finally he's just a shadow. Blinking, you suddenly notice that the once-desolate neighborhood is now full of shadows, all flitting slowly through the streets or standing idle.

"Ehhhh . . . perdoname, theñor?"

On the roof of the house nextdoor, you suddenly notice a crane dressed in yellow 1640's admiral chic. He is perched next to what appears to be a family of jaguars with face-shaped spots and a red toad in green robes. Across the street, several other bizarre anthropomorphic animals and zoomorphic people peer from within window gutters, behind trash cans, up from sewer grates, and other various alcoves throughout the street.

"Ehhhh . . . the purple perthon . . . he ith gone, yes? We can come back?" asks the crane admiral.

Apparently you're still in the Spirit Realm . . .

[TheIronGolem]

The fact that Jimmy had forgotten that he's still in the Spirit Realm says something about how his day is going. Saying something further on the matter is how the Spirit Realm has gone from being one of those vampire games his college roommate had tried to get him into, to being a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.

Hey Olsen, remember when the weirdest part of today was taking Superman to see a magical shrink? Good times!

"Er...yeah, I think so", Jimmy (without the black suit he doesn't quite think of himself as Spider-Man) says to the crane.

It then occurs to him that he left his "ride home" back at the demons' bar. Simbi Makaya is probably okay, but he probably didn't hang around after busting all those heads. No telling where he is now.

"Hey, maybe you guys can help me", he says. "You already know that purple guy's bad news, right? Well, he's got some things that don't belong to him, and I have to stop him before he gives them to someone even worse. But I can't really do that here. I need to get back to the r-"

The real world? Isn't that a bit, for lack of a better word, ethnocentric? Not to mention inaccurate; this world is pretty real, too, and Jimmy has the throbbing arm stump to prove it.

"- to my world", he finishes. "Can you help me get back there?"

[herodofcows]

The crane admiral looks doubtfully at you, even as the spirits begin to bustle out from their hiding places and reassemble their lives.

"Emmm . . . No thoy mago, theñor. I cannot help. But, perhapth you might find thome athithtenthe with your thituation from a houngan? I know that theñor Jericho Drumm liveth clothe by-"

Abruptly, the heavily Spanish voice is interrupted by an incredibly . . .

Well, perhaps not quite "English" and certainly not "British" . . .

"Limey", perhaps, is the best term.

An incredibly Limey voice interrupts the crane via the time-honored medium of drunken melody.

". . . there's no future . . .How can there be sin . . . We're the flowers . . . In the dustbin . . ."

A matchstick of a man in a long brown trench coat and a gaudy sombrero comes stumbling around the far corner of the block. All the spirits pause in their activities briefly, allow themselves a quick glance, and then go back to rebuilding. The crane tuts haughtily at this newcomer.

"We're the POI-son . . ." the figure slurs to the world, gesturing grandiosely, "In your human ma . . . chine . . ."

The man catches sight of you and stares with drunken inquiry for a moment. After a moment, he seems to make up his mind to continue walking towards you, raising his hand in greeting.

"Oi! You're not supposed to be here, are yeh?" he calls, voice only slightly glazed by alcohol.

As he paces, the sombrero falls from his head and you see a mess of ginger-brown hair and a stubbly face that might threaten to push you closer to the center of the Kinsey scale were circumstances less utterly bizarre. Apparently you were fated to run into John Constantine one way or another . . .

"Yeah . . . Simbi Makaya told me . . . urp . . ."

Constantine holds out a finger and bends over in preparation for an Osborn-esque stream of vomit. His digestive system apparently wrestles with "To Puke/Not To Puke" for a few seconds before deciding in the negative.

"Fleh . . . yeah, Simbi Makaya told me to look for you around. Said you'd need help with a purple wanker and a black water-devil?"

By now he's fully approached you, and is squinting into your face. He smells like a distillery got drunk and hooked up with a liquor store in the back of a bar.

". . . why d'you look familiar?" he muses, breathing alcoholic fumes onto your face.

[TheIronGolem]

For the first half of Constantine's spiel, Jimmy silently congratulates himself for having picked anyone other than this drunken slob. But at the mention of Simbi Makaya, he becomes less confident. The loa had certainly earned Jimmy's trust during the last hour or so. Still, Constantine hasn't, and just because he's name-dropping doesn't mean Simbi Makaya really sent him. Jimmy decides to play it cautious.

"Yeah, I'm a little new here. I'm -", Jimmy starts. He's not about to give Constantine his real name, though, and even putting Spider-Man's name out there might not be the best idea. Besides, in this suit he looks even less like Spider-Man than he feels.

"- I'm the Scarlet Spider", his mouth adds, before his brain can veto it.

"Anyway, yes, I could use some help. That 'purple wanker' is a real nasty piece of work with some kinda mind-control whammy, and I gotta stop him from leaving town with...sure, we'll go with 'black water-devil'. Dire consequences, lives at stake, et cetera, something tells me you know the drill."

"But first, I have to catch that purple psycho. And that means I need to get back to the version of New Orleans where people just dress like vampires."

[herodofcows]

Constantine looks at you dubiously for a second as he readjusts the sombrero back onto his head.

"Rrrrrright, ahhh . . . could do, give us a mo' . . ."

He begins muttering to himself in a language you don't understand, burping and coughing occasionally as he goes. After a moment, he stumbles over to you and puts his hands over your eyes. Unlike when Simbi Makaya did it, his are quite warm.

"Annnd . . . presto!"

He jerks his hands away from your eyes, and . . .

"-FIGLIO DI PUTANO PAONAZZO! COME AND FACE-A GIANCARLO!"

You're standing in the Ninth Ward along a block of approximately well-kept single-story houses. A bunch of very human faces are peering out of the windows of these houses as Giancarlo stands in the middle of the road, screaming (literal) bloody murder. Aside from this, things look like they're more or less back to normal!

"Right then" Constantine interjects with sudden decisiveness and apparent sobriety, "You know how your purple friend is leaving town? Might know some lads who could . . . er . . ."

At this point, you notice that the red symbiote is literally bubbling seething over your body. It's like boiling water made solid, pushing at your skin and psyche with the kind of rage and impatience you'd usually associate with a troubled first grader.

WHY ARE WE STILL HERE?

We need to find Mother. NOW.

"Errrr . . . you know that wanker's taking itty-bitty bites offa your soul, yeah?" Constantine says, his face a rictus of mildly horrified fascination, "You might wanna find a new mate there, Scarlet. This one's not so good for you . . ."

His hand flares up with pale orange light, and his eyes take on a calculating expression.

"I can fix that bit, if you'd like. Just hold still . . ."

"REEEEEE!"

The suit shrieks a little as the flames emerge on his hand, still flowing faster and faster over your skin. Some of the eyes of the neighborhood now begin to turn to you.

Don't let the flame touch me. Don't let him touch me. Nobody touches me. NOBODY. NEVER again. NEVER.

"It's hurting you, mate," Constantine continues in a level voice, "I'm just going to stop it, yeah? All over in a mo', promise . . ."

[TheIronGolem]

Even without the symbiote's prompting, Jimmy reflexively leaps away from the flame. By the time he's consciously aware of the fire, he's already perched on the nearest lightpost.

"Hey, watch it with the fire, Johnny Storm!" he yells down at Constantine. "I burn too, y'know! Besides, this thing's only, like, an hour old! It's basically a baby!"

Still, he has a nagging feeling that the sorcerer isn't lying. The old symbiote had been minimally intrusive, and even that other one back in the house seemed like it might be okay once it has a chance to relax. But this one? It's like wearing a gallon of Liquid Hulk, and it's getting pushier by the minute. Jimmy is certain he can't work with it long-term, and that leaves the question of what can be done with it once he gets his own symbiote back. Quickly he pushes that thought out of his mind, partly because he doesn't have time and partly because he doesn't want this symbiote "hearing" it. Instead, he changes the subject by talking to Constantine again:

"Look, Purple Man's going to be at the airport in a couple of hours. I'm going to stop him, and this" - he plucks demonstratively at the suit - "is coming, too. After that, we can talk about souls or whatever. You wanna help, great, otherwise thanks for the lift and have a nice day."

Jimmy tenses his body as he waits for Constantine's reaction. Jimmy doesn't want to hurt the guy, but if he's going to get in the way he might need to eat a faceful of webbing for his own good.

[herodofcows]

Constantine doesn't break eye contact as he lifts his hands. The flames go out and the symbiote stops shrieking.

"Just a child . . . right then . . . Be glad to help, time's of the essence and all that . . ." he says steadily, seeming several miles away from whatever he'd been drinking earlier.

Still, you feel your danger sense spinning up something fierce. There's a buzzing like crazy in the back of your neck, and the symbiote is whispering at you with terrified thoughts.

You have to look out. He's planning something. He's going to hurt us. You have to protect us. STOP HIM!

Like a man under a gun, Constantine begins to lower his hands down to his sides. He's still speaking in a quiet level tone of voice, like a hostage negotiator talking to a man on a ledge.

"Let's get going to the airport, yeah?"

He doesn't trust us. He's going to hurt us. He's going to KILL us.

A woman in a house across the street is recording with her cell phone . . .

"Just gotta . . ."

STOP HIM!

DANGER SENSE BUZZES

"KNALB-"

The web flies from your hands as the first syllable leaves the warlock's lips . . .

I DON'T WANT TO DIE!

. . . but it sizzles against a red ankh that is suddenly in the way . . .

"-DNIM!!"

And then there is only light . . .

!!!!!!!!!

. . . fear . . .

. . . and then, silence.

Blinking the light out of your eyes, you see Constantine pulling out a cigarette from a dog-eared pack. Giancarlo continues to yell in the middle of the road, and the neighbors are gathering footage for what will surely be one in a host of bizarre YouTube posts from today.

The symbiote rests cold against your skin. You can feel your link to it still strong, still in command of the various functions you've come to associate with your suit, but there's no sense of presence or persona to it anymore. It almost feels lax, flaccid, like it's sleeping or comatose. It's deathly silent in your head all of the sudden.

"That's sorted, then," Constantine remarks around the unlit cigarette in his mouth, "Gave the little f*** an icepick to the brain, metaphoric'ly speaking. Your soul's safe. You're welcome. Now, shall we?"

[TheIronGolem]

For the second time today, Jimmy stares in shock as someone "saves" him from his own suit. Within moments, shock gives way to anger.

"Yes..." snarls the webslinger, "we shall."

He leaps from the lamppost, somersaulting through the air with one leg coming down at Constantine like an executioner's axe.

"You KILLED it!", Jimmy shouts at the sorcerer. "It wasn't hurting anyone! It didn't do anything! It just wanted to find its mother!"

Part of Jimmy's mind reminds him that he himself was pretty sure only seconds ago that this symbiote was going to be trouble sooner rather than later. But he's in no mood to listen to it. The sheer nerve of these guys! Lex Luthor might be hours away from getting himself an army of Spider-Men, and it's all their fault!

Now on the ground, he lets his anger, pain, and frustration out in the form of a series of wild kicks and punches aimed in Constantine's general direction.

"Why can't you people just leave them alone!?"

[herodofcows]

Constantine grunts in surprise and discomfort as your leg smashes against his wards, sending red and purple sparks sizzling out from the thin air between your blow and his face.

". . . the bloody hell . . ."

He stumbles back and whirls his hands in a complicated motion, sending out a green lance of light at you that hisses with soporific power.

". . . is wrong . . ."

Suddenly the world is inching by. The attack is creeping through the air like molasses, and dodging it is the easiest thing in the world. Your spider sense, your reflexes . . . they're all back, just the way they used to be.

". . . with you?!"

Constantine breathes raggedly as he faces you, snarling around his cigarette.

"That thing was eating at your soul, mate. Eroding your conscience, your inhibitions, everything that'd keep you from becoming another monster to put down. I don't give a f*** what kind of lies it told you, I've seen too many demons make monsters out of well-meaning c***s like you. So, mourn it, hate me, throw some punches to feel better about yourself, but now I know that thing isn't going to turn you into another bloody Bruce Wayne. YOU'RE. WELCOME."

[TheIronGolem]

Hearing himself compared to Bruce Wayne takes most of the wind out of Jimmy's sails, if only because it piques his journalist's curiosity. That spoiled billionaire certainly keeps the paparazzi busy, but the Planet has always held itself above that kind of muckraking, and so Jimmy has never had cause to investigate Wayne before. He makes a mental note to look into it later, on the off-chance that Constantine actually knows what he's talking about. Although there's one aspect of this conversation where he clearly doesn't.

"It's not a demon, Harry Potter", says Jimmy. He backs away a couple of steps from the sorcerer, but stays wary.

"It's an alien. I know, 'cause I got the other one on a - you know what, never mind. Let's just say you spooky types oughta take your own advice about messing with things you don't understand."

He rubs the stump of his arm absentmindedly, because it's itching. He figures that for a good sign; his old suit made him itch when it was healing wounds, too. Even if it doesn't grow his arm back, it should at least take care of the burn. He wonders if he's earned enough brownie points with Sarah Saturn to ask her for some kind of prosthetic or something. Metal arms are all the rage with superheroes these days.

"I'm going to the airport to stop Purple Man. Come with me or don't, but you are not killing any more of these creatures, understand? Try it, and I'll take you down right along with him."

[herodofcows]

Later: Louis Armstrong International Airport

You swing your way over the roof airport hotel, and the symbiote husk has become street clothes before you've hit the ground beneath the nearby overpass. A quick look around reveals that nobody has noticed your abrupt descent, and you pass onto the street opposite the airport without apparent remark.

Web-slinging had been tricky to get the hang of, at first. Not only was missing an arm still an issue, but once you get past the downtown area New Orleans doesn't exactly reach the soaring heights of Metropolis or Gotham or New York. However, you'd quickly realized that the symbiote's husk could create a substitute arm for your webslinging purposes (although actually creating another arm was somewhat beyond it), and a little experimentation had allowed you to figure out ways to basically slingshot yourself from low rise to low rise like a human bullet.

Constantine had gruffly declined to go swinging with you, saying he'd find another way to the airport. You'd assumed he meant some kind of teleportation spell, but as you'd swung away you'd seen him approaching a parked car with a brick and a determined expression. Another issue for another time, perhaps.

For now, you have a good remote view of the airport. It seems quiet, all told. No particular sources of danger or panicking civilians, just the sedate workings of a noonday airport in a non-vacation time . . .

American Airlines, Air Canada (Both Concourse C), Delta, U.S. Airways (both Concourse D), and Southwest (Concourse B) all have regular flights from the Big Easy to Metropolis and back, but LexCorp might have sent a private plane . . .

There is a private airfield on the northernmost end of the airport, which would be ideal for LexCorp's purposes!

. . . However, the Purple Man wouldn't go there. It's mostly used for loading cargo, and the facilities there are less than luxuriant. Definitely not to his taste. He'll be in the main terminal, probably within one of the flight lounges.

You can see a few airport security people milling around an improperly-parked car in front of the far side of the terminal, near Concourse B. Looks as though the driver just drove it up and left it. Very much the Purple Man's M.O.

Sorry, I went ahead and assumed a few things to keep the plot moving. Please tell me if any need changing!

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy makes his way towards the nearest terminal, intending to look up the next flight to Metropolis and then wait for the Purple Man at its corresponding gate. He's almost at the door when he realizes that this plan isn't going to work.

Kilgrave isn't going to Metropolis to sell PVC pipes to some plumbing-supply shop, he's selling a bioweapon to Lex freaking Luthor. No way is Luthor going to entrust something like that to Delta Airlines or whatever. He'll be sending a private plane for sure - probably one full of elite security personnel in case of trouble (particularly trouble from Luthor's would-be weapons vendor).

Kind of a good thing, actually, Jimmy thinks. It means I might have a way to confront that lunatic without a bunch of innocent people getting caught in the middle. Maybe. Hopefully.

With a new plan beginning to take shape in his head, Jimmy ducks into the first out-of-the-way corner he can find and wills the brain-dead symbiote to shift form again. In a few seconds, he's dressed in the gray jumpsuit and orange safety vest typical of various airport workers, plus a baseball cap to obscure his face somewhat. He makes his way around the outside of the terminal building towards the tarmac, keeping an eye out for any locked gates or security checkpoints. Most people lacking an access card or proper identification would be stymied by such measures, but they're not so much of a problem for someone who can climb walls and jump three stories high. He just needs to be careful to do that when nobody's looking. The hard part is keeping the right pace, fast enough to look purposeful but not so fast as to attract attention - this latter part is especially hard with the anxious knot in Jimmy's stomach constantly urging him to hurry up already.

Once he's on the tarmac, Jimmy plans to surreptitiously patrol it, looking out for a LexCorp plane (thank goodness for Luthor's obsessive need to put his name on everything!). Populated areas he'll move past quickly, like he has somewhere to be and no time to chat. In slower areas he'll act like he's taking a smoke break (the remains of the Perfect Lie being a useful prop here despite the magic being used up) and take a few minutes to scan around more carefully.

I'm taking some minor liberties myself, let me know if I'm over the line in assuming I get this far.

[herodofcows]

You make your way over to the nearest terminal and immediately catch sight of a likely clue: near the rightmost terminal, security are surrounding what appears to be an abandoned car. The door is ajar and it's halfway mounted on the curb, as though someone had driven it up and then abandoned it. It might not be the Purple Man, but the odds there aren't half slim.

Your approach to the tarmac is judicious and careful. Hugging the wall as the symbiote transforms, you duck to the side of the terminal and surreptitiously leap off to the side, over to the fence that blocks off the airfield from the airport drive. Quick as a wink, you vault the fence and begin proceeding at a leisurely pace along the underside of the far terminal. You can't see much from this vantage point, as the far end of the terminal is blocking you from seeing the main tarmac. You've got a long ways to go, it appears . . .

The whole area is the typical mild hubbub of airport activity. You dodge carts of luggage and workers flagging and refueling planes fairly easily. It's fairly easy to avoid notice: a purposeful stride makes you immune to all questions. You're not seeing any LexCorp private jets, but then again you're only seeing about an eighth of the overall tarmac so that's far from surprising.

After a couple minutes worth of careful proceeding, you finally round the edge of the first terminal and see the main tarmac. There's considerable bustle, and it appears that a bunch of planes have just landed and are disgorging their passengers. You set up behind a luggage cart for a moment and, with your prop cigarette, begin a leisurely visual survey of the arriving jets. Nothing LexCorp-y jumps out at you at the first pass, but . . .

"Hey!"

You spin around as a sudden bark smacks you right in the ear. A woman with a clipboard is approaching you, along with a couple of sheepish-looking tarmac workers. The Clipboard Woman is glaring at you with a look awfully similar to the one you've seen on Perry's face when directed at a lollygagging intern or oafish reporter. It is a look to strike fear into blue-collar workers everywhere. It says "I, the boss, do not like what I am seeing from you, the employee, and you, the aforesaid employee, had better change that visual REALLY fast or else cease to be the employee".

"There's no smoking near the luggage!" she snaps as she gets closer, the two tarmac workers cowering slightly away from her, "Where are you supposed to be working? Who's your supervisor?"

As your eyes dart involuntarily away from The Clipboard Woman, you find yourself taking in the windows facing the tarmac. Most offer a view into the gates, filled as they are with people waiting around, but something soon catches your eye along Concourse B: a line of people, all standing perfectly still and staring out onto the tarmac from a window in the terminal. Many of them are in suits or corporate attire, or else in red steward uniforms. They're in an area slightly smaller and separated from the other gates, and a keen glance tells you that the area they're standing in is considerably more comfortably-appointed than the gates. It's probably one of the members-only airplane lounges.

There's a slight gap in the line of people at the window, and behind them you espy a flash of purple . . .

[TheIronGolem]

Once again, Jimmy falls back on his recollections of shadowing Lois and seeing how she dealt with obstacles like this. What he had learned was that when you get caught somewhere you're not supposed to be, never cop to that. Instead, take control of the conversation by changing the subject.

"I'm not smokin'!", Jimmy protests, in the boisterous, vaguely New Jersey-ish accent that television has trained him to think blue-collar workers are supposed to have. Defiantly, he holds out the stub of the Perfect Lie right in front of Clipboard Lady's face.

"I quit two months ago, and this was my last smoke! I keep it for when I get a craving, so's I don't end up smokin' one for real. Helps me cope. It's a, whaddayacallit, surrogate."

He tosses annoyed glances at Clipboard Lady and the other two, to cover for the second look he takes at the lounge window to attempt to confirm Kilgrave's presence.

"And I ain't in the designated smokin' area, for reasons I'm pretty sure I don't need to explain!", he adds.

As a final flourish, he pulls his smartphone out of his pocket, making a big show of unlocking its screen.

"Now are you gonna let me finish the last two minutes of my break? Or do I gotta get on the horn with my union rep and tell 'im management's interferin' with my recovery from a harmful addiction?"

[herodofcows]

At the words "union rep", The Clipboard Woman does an about-face so fast that even Red Tornado would be like "daaaaang that is some fast spinning"

Or, more precisely "That woman is highly proficient in circular motion."

"A-all right, all right, it was a simple misunderstanding. I'm sorry. Let's not turn this into a whole thing, all right?" she says placatingly, as though you were a madman with an itchy trigger finger and nothing to lose, "I was just making sure, all right? That's . . . that's all. Just finish your break. You two! Let's go, come on . . ."

She stalks off, peevishly waving the clipboard at her two minions.

As she walks off, you spare a look up at the window of the airport lounge, and you see that it is suddenly empty . . .

[TheIronGolem]

On the inside, Jimmy does a joyful little dance as Clipboard Woman retreats. Then he notices the empty lounge, and on the inside he trips over his own feet, faceplants, and gets booed off the stage.

Either he spotted me, or his plane's here. Either way, I'm going too slow. New plan. Again.

He takes off at a run along his planned route, with no particular worry about who's watching. At the next unoccupied jet bridge, he leaps up through the doorway (if it's open; if not, eh, super-strength) and comes to a halt inside the hallway. After a quick glance to make sure nobody else is present, he has the symbiote shift form again - this time into a security guard's uniform. Then he advances along the jetway out into the gate and the terminal beyond. If the Purple Man hasn't boarded yet, Jimmy reasons, he should be easier to spot from here.

[herodofcows]

You sprint across the tarmac at a pace slightly more than twice as fast as the average Olympic sprinter, dodging taxiing airplanes and moving baggage carts and leaving confused airport workers in your wake. A flying leap up through an open terminal gateway draws a squawk of alarm from the orange-vested gentleman controlling the mechanism, but within a second you're too far down for him to spot you.

Shifting its shape to your very thoughts, the lobotomized symbiote becomes the uniform you require. Thus concealed, you step out into the terminal, and . . .

Well, it's really helpful when your quarry is a purple-skinned man in an area full of humans.

He's passing by amidst a crowd of well-dressed people, presumably the group from the air lounge. They're all forming a screen around him as he walks towards the northernmost end of the terminal, mostly shielding him from view. However, this doesn't stop him from keeping up a steady stream of orders.

"None of you notice anything different or unusual. Nobody is reacting, or thinks that anything you see here is abnormal. You will not take any photos or make any recordings. If you're an employee, you'll go make sure that any security feed gets disabled or erased. If you see any police or capes coming this way, be ready to attack them. Fight them to the death. Nobody notice anything unusual . . ."

And so on and so forth. His whole entourage walks right past you without giving you a second glance. True to his word, nobody seems to be reacting to his presence at all. He's smiling smugly as he gives out his mind-controlling patter, eyes sliding across the terminal with unconcerned ease. However, you notice two things:

1. He's no longer holding the tupperware container with the two symbiotes.

However, a young woman walking near him has a purse with the kind of unsightly bulge that might indicate a container hastily stuffed within.

2. Now that you're ready for it, his mind control doesn't seem to be affecting you . . .

[TheIronGolem]

As the Purple Man's group passes by Jimmy, his heart briefly forgets what its job is. He hadn't expected to get so close this soon, the symbiote could only change his clothes, not his face - and surely the Purple Man doesn't meet that many one-armed people every day.

But...he and his group pass right on by. Maybe the crowd is blocking his view, but Jimmy suspects Kilgrave simply doesn't bother to really see most (perhaps any) people he encounters. In any case, it's something to take advantage of.

He was hoping to execute this plan before the Purple Man ensared any innocents with his power, but at least Jimmy has a chance to limit the effect. The Purple Man's power seems to work through the sound of his voice, so what Jimmy needs to do is keep anyone from hearing his voice.

Heading to the nearest customer-service desk, Jimmy takes his smartphone out of his pocket again, opens up a music player app, and hits the "shuffle" button. He's surprised to see the title that comes up - he hasn't heard that song since he was a kid, and doesn't remember downloading it. Still, it's not time yet, so he pauses the playback before the song can actually start.

With the employees occupied by the Purple Man's orders, nobody seems to care when Jimmy picks up the microphone from the desk, the kind that is normally used for announcements and paging. He maxes out the volume knob on the mic, does the same with the volume switch on his phone, and holds the phone's speaker right up against the mic right as he hits the "play" button on the app.

A short, peppy burst of synthetic percussion erupts from the phone (and the terminal PA system), followed by a synth-pop melody that is so 80's that it might actually be wearing shoulder pads. Jimmy can't stick around holding up his phone like this, though, so he webs it in place against the mic. Then, for good measure, he webs the mic to the desk, and its power cord to the wall. That should buy a few minutes.

As he fades into the crowd to observe the Purple Man's reaction, a voice that sounds ten years older than its owner actually was at the time of recording starts to croon:

We're no strangers to love
You know the rules and so do I...

[herodofcows]

As Rick Astley's dulcet tones permeate the terminal, you notice a lot of people seeming to react naturally/as you'd expect. A lot of confused glances upward ensue, along with not a few laughs from the more social-media-savvy fliers in the area. Quite a few people are clearly annoyed by the noise and make tracks to speak angry words to the now VERY flustered airport employees, who immediately start trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.

Purple Man, however, seems to pick up on what's going on almost IMMEDIATELY. He stops dead in his tracks and begins looking around wildly, nearly getting bowled over by his entourage as they continue walking purposefully forward without him. You notice that nobody gives him a second glance as he's suddenly exposed. Apparently standing orders are still in effect . . . but can he give new ones?

As it happens, not without effort. He tries to yell above the music but his words don't seem to come through. Eventually, he grabs a random passerby and yells something into his ear. The woman he's grabbed nods and walks off almost immediately towards the security checkpoint. Meanwhile, Purple Man begins walking frantically to catch up to the group that was meant to escort him. He gives another wild look around . . .

. . . and sees you.

Recognition, realization, and rage compete within his eyes as he glares at you. He opens his mouth, but your reflexes in the symbiote are working overtime and you could clear the distance before a single word comes out of his mouth.

What do you do?

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy swears under his breath as the Purple Man recognizes him; he had been hoping to find a way to get the Purple Man away from the civilians before confronting the villain. But it looks like this is the best he's going to get.

To complicate things further, Jimmy can't think of a way to fight the Purple Man without giving away his status as a "cape" and therefore triggering the standing attack order. No way does he want to fight any innocents; with his strength it would be far too easy to permanently injure someone, even if he pulled his punches. But again, the situation is what it is, and he needs to play the hand he's been dealt.

Jimmy abandons the security-guard disguise, letting the symbiote resume its natural form and making it clear to all onlookers that (sigh...) the Scarlet Spider is here.

As the Purple Man begins forming his first word, Jimmy crouches down...and leaps straight up to the ceiling, sticking there like a pencil tossed by a bored kid. Up here, the civvies won't be able to mob him, and they should be limited to throwing their overpriced airport souvenirs. Any armed security under the Purple Man's influence could still be a problem...but one thing at a time.

First thing: that woman the Purple Man sent off towards the checkpoint. Whatever the villain has her doing, it's probably not good for anyone, including her. With his right (pseudo-)arm, he fires a spray of webbing to stop her in her tracks.

At the same time, he points his good hand at the Purple Man, aiming for dead-center in the chest.

"Think fast, Grape Nuts!", he shouts.

A tight, dense coil of webbing goes screaming out of his wrist. Upon finding its target, he'll yank back with all his considerable strength, bringing his quarry flying helplessly upwards, right into the waiting fist of (why?) the Scarlet Spider.


Move Action: Jump to the ceiling. I've never been to Louis Armstrong and can't say how high the ceilings are here, but from other places I've been I'm assuming it's 15-20 feet, and Spidey can jump 30.

Standard Action: Web Pull on Kilgrave - Attack roll [roll0], damage DC 20 on hit I AM SO HERO POINTING THAT ROLL

Hero Point for Extra Effort: Web Snare on the woman leaving Kilgrave - Attack roll [roll1], DC 15 (Dodge Resist), 1st degree: Hindered, Vulnerable, 2nd degree: Immobile, Defenseless. Here's hoping that's not Jessica Jones!

[herodofcows]

The woman stumbles and nearly trips as your initial deluge of webbing slows her right down. She tries to continue forward, but she's struggling through a morass and her progress is considerably decelerated.

Unfortunately, you just revealed yourself as a superhero, which means the crowd has noticed you.

Even as Purple Man is flying helplessly towards your waiting fist, the crowd begins surging towards you with singular blank-eyed purpose. As his jaw meets your knuckles with an OH-so-satisfying thwack, the three security guards that had been nearby all pull out their guns and begin firing at you. You avoid two bullets with the greatest of ease, and the symbiote takes the third without the slightest force making its way to your body proper.

And then, they are upon you.

They pile one on top of the other, a soundless clawing mass of humanity with no drive or purpose beyond doing their level best to rip you apart. Their eyes are blank and dead, but their hands reach up for you like a hundred serpentine maws looking to bite and claw and tear into you.

Thankfully, even a brain-dead symbiote gives you all the mojo you need to evade them handily. No matter how savagely they leap and swipe, you are several steps ahead, always just beyond their reach.

It is during these scrambles that you find the Purple Man back within your line of sight.

He's picking himself off the floor, clutching his jaw with every appearance of extreme discomfort and moving with extreme stiffness. He looks up at you, and his eyes widen even further. For a moment, he seems as though he's going to open his mouth and try to speak some more snakelike serpentine words, but Rick Astley is still refusing to give anything up or let anyone down.

And besides, you can see it in his eyes: the Purple Man is scared of you.

And like all abusers do when defied by someone whom they had thought was under their control, he turns tail and runs.

He's sprinting away from the morass of people as fast as he can, trying desperately to catch back up with his still-proceeding entourage. Unfortunately for him, his power is all in his voice. Take that away, and he's just a man.

A purple, punchable man.

[TheIronGolem]

Trusting in his webbing to keep the woman slowed down enough for now, Jimmy zip-lines his way towards the Purple Man's entourage and drops to the floor, putting the Purple Man squarely between himself and the onrushing crowd. If he wants to force innocent people to do his fighting for him, he'd better be willing to let them trample him on the way. Though with any luck, it won't actually come to that.

"So, tell me, Violet,", Jimmy says as he casually shoots a web-line at the floor on either side of the Purple Man. He knows Kilgrave probably can't hear him over the music, but he doesn't care.

"Do all these nice people get their brains back," he continues, hauling back on the lines and turning himself into a human slingshot, "if I rattle yours around in that oily head a bit?"

A little hop upwards, and the tensed lines snap him forward towards the Purple Man like a bullet.

"Let's find out!"


Move Action: Move far enough past Kilgrave to put him between myself and the crowd, which I assume I can do with a 60' move speed.

Standard Action: Spider-Strike against Kilgrave (+12 to hit, Damage DC 23): [roll0]

[herodofcows]

SMASH

Kilgrave goes literally flying backwards, smashing headlong into the rushing crowd. Now, if he had been more circumspect and less overwhelmingly confident in his ability to control the entirety of any situation in which he found himself, he might have considered explicitly ordering his mindslaves not to harm him. Unfortunately for him, not so much.

You have a brief view of him looking up frantically from his supine position . . .

". . . YOUR HEART'S BEEN ACHING BUT/YOU'RE TOO SHY TO SAY IT . . ."

. . . screaming unheard words at the blank-faced rushing crowd . . .

". . . INSIDE WE BOTH KNOW WHAT'S BEEN GOING ON/WE KNOW THE GAME AND WE'RE GONNA PLAY IT . . .

. . . and then, a brief terrified glance back at you, before . . .

". . . I JUST WANNA TELL YOU HOW I'M FEELING/GOTTA MAKE YOU UNDERSTAND . . ."

. . . there is only the crowd rushing towards you.

"NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP
NEVER GONNA LET YOU DOWN
NEVER GONNA RUN AROUND AND DESERT YOU"

Which leads to the bad news: it looks as though Kilgrave's commands remain in effect even after he's been knocked out.

The mob can't touch you, of course. The brain-dead symbiote has you moving like greased lightning (and not the double-entendre-filled song from the eponymous musical). Still, you've got a crowd after you and a group of civvies running around with unclear purpose.

Oh, and you still have NO idea where the symbiotes are . . .

[TheIronGolem]

"Jeez", Jimmy remarks to the still-onrushing crowd. "What is it with rampaging mobs these days? No sense of when it's dramatically appropriate to suddenly come to their senses, I tell you."

Okay, so knocking out the bad guy isn't a magic off-switch after all. Of course not. Nothing can ever be easy, can it?

Also, there's the missing symbiotes. Does the webbed-up woman going back towards security have them, or is it maybe one of the people Kilgrave was having escort him to his plane? Or are they somewhere else entirely?

C'mon, Olsen, think. What would you do, if you were a purple sociopath with mind-control powers?

The entourage. Kilgrave had set them on this path before spotting Jimmy, which means he was expecting everything to go his way when he set them in motion. Probably one or two of his human shields were pulling double duty as couriers. He might even have planned to bring them onto the plane, in case he and Luthor came to a disagreement and he wanted bodies between himself and Luthor's goons.

There's still the woman, though. She's the piece that Jimmy can't figure out how to fit into the puzzle. He must be missing something.

Still, he's not going to solve anything by standing here dithering. He needs to act, now. He needs to lose that mob and find out if the Purple Man's erstwhile bodyguards have the symbiotes. An idea occurs to him as to how he might be able to do both.

Taking to the air once again (or at least, to the space right below the high ceilings), Jimmy swings his way to the entourage, then drops down in the middle of them, making sure that enough of them are between him and the mob to block their view for the moment. He uses that moment to change the symbiote's form back to his civilian clothes, then lets the entourage pass him by so that he is once again exposed to the mob.

"There! Jimmy shouts at the top of his lungs, pointing at a spot on the floor in front of himself.

"He can shrink!" he adds. Realizing that Rick Astley has gone from ally to enemy at this point, he tries to get that message across by bringing his hands together in a motion mimicking someone getting smaller. He points again, moving his finger slightly as though tracking movement on the floor.

"There he is!" he shouts again, "Let's get him!".

He starts stomping madly up and down on the spot he'd pointed at, and motioning for the crowd to join him. With any luck, this will keep them busy for at least a few minutes.

Deception check at +6: [roll0] Okay, this arc is clearly bent on eating all my Hero Points, so I may as well give in and feed it

[herodofcows]

Your gestures don't go through, unfortunately: people continue to charge unheeding of you or your motions. Luckily, there seems to be an element of hive-mind going on with the Purple Man's work: they do not believe you, but your lack of superhumanity causes the crowd to cease charging. They all stagger to a stop and then, like clockwork, all turn back to their gates and initial seating places or destinations and act as though nothing much has happened at all.

Looking around, you can see that the Purple Man's former entourage has made it to one of the far gates and is now splitting up. Some are coming back the way they came, while others are proceeding to the gate they've reached. All of them appear to be headed to one gate or another. Suddenly the whole thing just became a shell game.

Meanwhile, the restrained woman has been dragging herself with grim purpose back towards security, moving sluggishly for the webbing that has glued her with partial success to the floor. Whatever purpose she has, she seems far from completing it, at least . . .

Abruptly, Rick Astley cuts out and your ringtone begins to sound. Amid all the chaos, all the disorder . . . someone is calling you.

Perception DC 17 to keep track of a chosen individual amidst the motion of the crowd, with a +2 circumstance bonus to the woman you webbed. DC 20 Perception to keep an eye on each member of the Purple Man's former entourage.

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy gets a little lost in his impromptu stomping fit, and most of a minute has passed before it really hits him that nobody is following suit. He looks around and notices that while a few people are giving him looks, it's not nearly as many as he should be getting. Upon reflection, Jimmy assumes that's because this is, at best, the fifth-weirdest thing that has happened at this airport today.

Suddenly, Rick Astley is gone. In place of his voice is what one unfamiliar with post-grunge rock might mistake for the announcer at an illegal boxing ring trying to power his way through a job interview while badly hungover:

An' they say that a heeeee-roh can saaave us,
I'm not gowh-na stand here'n waaaaiiiit...

Why Jimmy picked that for his ringtone he'll never know. He doesn't even like jock-rock. In retrospect, that might be the earliest sign of the symbiote's influence...

Regardless, it's yet another thing demanding Jimmy's attention in the moment. If that call is just Perry calling to chew him out over a deadline or Eddie Brock trying to set up another "friendly" lunch meeting to sucker him into giving up a hot lead, that would be merely embarrassing. But if it's hero-business-related and it rolls over to voicemail while the phone is still broadcasting over the terminal PA, he (or worse, Superman) could be exposed. Besides, he needs to recover that phone before airport security gets it.

As quick as he can without attracting (even more) unwanted attention, he rushes back to the customer-service desk to pry his phone out of the glob of webbing. As he does so, he does his best to keep an eye on the scattering members of the Purple Man's entourage.

He also does his best not to step on the Purple Man's spine on his way there, but alas, his best is not good enough.

Perception at +6: [roll0] Haha nope!

[herodofcows]

You do your best to try and keep your eyes on everyone in motion, but it's too much input: the movement of the crowds and your focus on your cell phone make it impossible to keep watch on the individuals under Purple Man's control. Even as you just so happen to plant your foot right into the small of Kilgrave's back, it becomes sickeningly apparent that you've lost the objects of your pursuit. The woman with the webbed foot continues to stand out and make her grim progress towards airport security, but the rest of them . . . you've lost them.

The number on the phone is work-related . . . but it also comes as a bit of a relief. Looks like someone is back on the grid at last.

"Jimmy?" Clark's voice sounds tired and not a little stressed. What good was that whole walkabout of his anyway?

"Where are you, man? We, uh . . . we need to talk about something."

[TheIronGolem]

Clark Kent. Clark freaking Kent, of all people.

As he scans the terminal, desperately and vainly trying to regain sight of his lost quarries, a mix of emotions flare up in Jimmy.

Relief at finally hearing from Clark. It had been quite a while, and it was uncharacteristic of Clark to go incommunicado for so long. The rumor-mill at the Planet maintained that he had made a pass at Lois, and left in shame when it failed. It had been so long since anyone had heard from Clark that Jimmy had started to wonder if it was true.

But more than a little anger, too. The guy had bailed on everyone at the worst possible time, professionally speaking. The Disassembly had triggered an avalanche of assignments at the Planet - and without Clark around to do his share, far too much of that work had landed on Jimmy's plate at a time when he was needed as Spider-Man. And he'd especially needed Clark in the wake of his fight with Lois; Clark had been the only one at the Planet who really knew how to handle her. He's certain that her complete shutout of him at the Planet wouldn't have happened with Clark around.

Which brings him to the guilt. After all, it wasn't like Clark had an obligation to run Lois Interference every time Jimmy got on her bad side, even if he'd kind of gotten used to it. The guy had never been a flake before, so if he said he needed some personal time then he probably did. Yet here was Jimmy, agonizing over how he was affected by whatever Clark's problem was.

And then, finally, annoyance. Mostly at himself for letting the call distract him from tracking the Purple Man's entourage, but partly at Clark for making that call at such an inopportune time.

"Clark? Buddy, not that it's not great to hear from you, but..."

One more glance around the place confirms that he's lost those people. For the umpteenth time today, he needs a new plan. Briskly, he walks toward the woman he'd webbed up, still talking to Clark.

"...well, let's just say you'd better be careful before doing any more interviews with Senator Kelly, 'cause I'm starting to think bad timing is your super power. Hang on a second - "

Jimmy steps directly in front of the woman, blocking her path. He takes the phone away from his ear and puts it up against his chest so Clark can't hear.

"Ma'am, the purple guy - what did he tell you to do? Did he give you anything? I know you have to do what he said, but I can't let you do it unless you tell me."

Having been on the receiving end of the Purple Man's orders, Jimmy knows it's pointless to tell her any of the cliches about how he knows she's in there somewhere, she can fight it, etc. But he figures that framing his question as an obstacle she has to overcome to complete her task may make her more cooperative.

[herodofcows]

"Yeah, Jim, I understand, but this is . . ."

You take your ear away from the phone at this point as you approach the woman. She's about at middle age, looking like your average tourist on an impromptu vacation, and she's working her way forward with a snarling grimace. Ahead of you, you can see a host of airport employees finally emerging from security, coming to try and figure out what on earth was just going on with the PA system and, while they're at it, what the heck was going on with the rampaging mob that apparently just cleared up. It looks as though Kilgrave wasn't able to get to the entire airport before you got here . . .

"I have to make a call from an airport phone," she half-growls, half-sobs as she forces her way forward, "I have to call 555-558-8467 and say to bail Kilgrave out . . ."

". . . important. I need to know how to take off the suit, Jimmy. How do I-"

In the background, you hear another familiar voice. Not all the words are distinguishable, but the Haitian baritone is pretty distinctive.

". . . maybe want to think . . . Simbi Andezo only could . . ."

"Yes, I understand the risks, but he needs backup if he's going after the Purple Man and I'm the only one that can get there in time. Jimmy? Can you hear me? How do I take off the Gold Kryptonite suit?"

Feel free to think of some kind of locking mechanism that Richards and Palmer would have designed. Password, keypad, what have you. If you make it something like a retinal scan or a thumbprint, or something that only Jimmy could unlock in person, I'll shoot you a Hero Point.

[TheIronGolem]

"I have to make a call from an airport phone. I have to call 555-558-8467 and say to bail Kilgrave out . . ."

Okay, Olsen. You can work with that. Just need to get rid of Clark first.

"All right. I can help with that," Jimmy says. "One second..."

He puts the phone back to his ear, intending to give Clark an excuse to call back later. What he hears makes him forget about that.

". . . maybe want to think . . . Simbi Andezo only could . . ."

"Yes, I understand the risks, but he needs backup if he's going after the Purple Man and I'm the only one that can get there in time. Jimmy? Can you hear me? How do I take off the Gold Kryptonite suit?"

In stunned disbelief, Jimmy brings the phone back down to look at its screen again. Yes, it still says "Kent, Clark". The woman passes him as he stands there, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as though his secret identity were actually Goldfish-Man.

No...that can't be right...it doesn't make sense at all...

Doesn't it, though? A hundred little remembered incidents and details jump to the forefront of Jimmy's mind, each one eager to explain how it now makes perfect sense.

Too much to process now. Just act like you believe it and deal with this.

"It's, uh...kinda made so that you can't take it off yourself," Jimmy says into the phone, a bit guiltily.

He recalls going over the design with Richards and Palmer. Or rather, standing there while they went over the design and occasionally pointing out some practical limitation that made them shoot him a dirty look and start over.

All three had agreed that Jimmy should be able to open the suit's lock, but Superman himself shouldn't. Palmer had been hell-bent on using some kind of genetic scanner tied to Jimmy's DNA sequence, whereas Richards had been insistent on making the lock a bizarrely complex mechanical puzzle with the solution hardwired into Jimmy's muscle memory by a customized smart-drug. Those weren't they only ideas they had, but they were the only ones whose explanations Jimmy could actually understand.

But in the end, Jimmy objected to being the only one capable of unlocking the suit. He hadn't been comfortable with the idea that if something happened to Spider-Man, Superman was effectively gone for good. Better to make something that at least some of his allies could open if need be. Wonder Woman could do it for sure. Iron Man probably could, too. Batman shouldn't be able to, but he'd probably find a way regardless.

"The lock is at that place on your back you can't quite reach" Jimmy says softly into the phone. "It's a little like the gas cap on a car. You put your fingers in these little slots and pinch inwards, then just unscrew it and the whole thing pops off when you get it all the way out. But the pinch has to compress an adamantium spring, so you need super-strength to do it."

"But listen," he continues. "You don't need to come bail me out this time. I've got this."

Jimmy is surprised to hear himself say those words to Superman, and even more surprised to hear that he means them.

"Besides," he adds, thinking of Constantine with that brick in his hand. "I think I've got some backup on the way already. I'll see you soon, okay?"

He hangs up before he can change his mind, but doesn't put the phone away. Instead, he opens his contact list, finds the entry labeled "Go-Getter's Pizza", and hits the Edit button. He leaves the number alone, but changes the Name field to "555-558-8467" and hits Save. Then he catches up to the woman again.

"Here," Jimmy says. He shows her the phone's screen, all set to call "555-558-8467" (actually the pizzeria). "Just hit Call and you can be done with this."

He might have to change his number before ordering any more delivery from Go-Getters, but this should at least prevent Kilgrave's backup from being alerted if this works.

I know I'm kind of splitting the difference with respect to the lock here, so I'm fine with not getting the HP.

[herodofcows]

"Wait, Jim JIMMY-"

You give the newly hung-up phone to the woman. She looks at the number, sniffles slightly, and presses call. You hear the conversation going on in the background as you keep an eye out on the rest of the terminal.

"Go-Getter's Pizza, how may I help you?"

"Kilgrave has been arrested in New Orleans. The weapon has been sent outside of the city. If you want the weapon, you'll have to bail him out."

". . . Damn it, not again. Look, we are NOT Roscoe's Bail Bonds! They changed their number! Look online, crazy lady!"

The woman seems to sag in relief, breathing shakily as the Go-Getters server rants and raves.

"I don't . . . how . . . what just happened?"

Meanwhile, the situation is not looking good. Three domestic flights are boarding now, all with possible connections to Metropolis or who knows where. The shell game has intensified as the members of the Purple Man's entourage have been lost in the shuffle. With rapidly approaching departures and a crowd still primed to go after any superhero that emerges, you're running out of time . . .

CRASH

vvvvvvvVVVVRRRRRRRRR

The sudden motion out of the window catches your eye. Well, that and the noise. And the blue flames. The blue flames are a definite eye-catcher.

An utterly indigo-immolated car (which looks SUSPICIOUSLY like the one you last saw Constantine approaching) comes smashing through the fence outside and goes roaring onto the tarmac, weaving and dodging through the undersides of planes, smashing through baggage carts, and generally causing mayhem. You don't have a perfect view from where you're standing, but you see it swerve beneath the terminal and come out the other side. And somehow, against all common logic, the burning car's speakers are blasting loud enough for music to briefly flood the terminal for a SECOND time . . .

ENGLAND FIVE, GERMANY ONE, MICHAEL OWEN IS NUMBER ONE!
ENGLAND FIVE, GERMANY ONE, MICHAEL OWEN IS NUMBER ONE!

. . . before the car zooms out past the terminal, onto the runway, and then, as the pale blue flames dance and flicker along the exterior and interior of the car . . . nearly parks itself right in the middle of the runway.

The door opens. A figure in a brown trench coat staggers out, swaggers away from the car, and puts his hands in the air as though he just doesn't care (or, you know, as if he's surrendering to the rapidly-approaching authorities). For its part, the car continues to burn a noxious bright blue and, incidentally, impede all departing air traffic.

. . . you just MIGHT have a little bit more time now.

[TheIronGolem]

Gently, Jimmy takes his phone back from the woman. "It's okay", he says to her, as warmly as he can manage. "You're free now. Oh, speaking of free...". He bends down and pulls away the webbing fastening her to the floor, then walks away from her. The possibility that Kilgrave gave her contingency orders nags at Jimmy, but he ignores it; these people have had their lives disrupted enough already without him grilling them over endless what-ifs.

As he walks away, Jimmy takes in the sight of Constantine's display, impressed in spite of himself. He wouldn't have pegged the sorcerer as the sort to get himself caught just to buy time for an ally. Doesn't mean Jimmy has to like the guy, but still.

Intent on taking advantage of the distraction of security while it lasts, Jimmy stops to pick up the unconscious Purple Man. He hauls the unconscious man over to the nearest waiting area and plops him in a chair. Making a bit of a show of things, as though he were simply helping an injured victim of the recent chaos, he straightens Kilgrave into a sitting position...and takes the opportunity to fasten him into it with some well-placed webbing under his legs and behind his back. Then he kneels in front of Kilgrave, lightly slapping the man's face until he comes blearily back into consciousness. He's not surprised to see that the villain starts to say something, and he presses two fingers firmly against the Purple Man's lips.

"Ah-bup-bup-bup", Jimmy says. "Nooo talky. One peep, and it's lights-out again. You know I can. And your backup isn't coming, either."

Once again, Jimmy takes out his phone. Fleetingly, he muses over how he'd done as much crime-fighting with the freaking thing today as with his actual powers. Maybe Spider-Man could get an endorsement deal with the manufacturer...

"Here", Jimmy says. He hands Kilgrave the phone with a notepad app open.

"You're going to write down descriptions of whoever you gave the-"

Jimmy remembers that as far as Kilgrave knows, he's still "Francisco Ramon from STAR Labs".

"- the samples. Flight number, too. Both of them, if you split the samples up."

He stands up again, looming over Kilgrave menacingly.

"Write it down and wait here while I get the samples. Don't bother trying to get up. If I have the samples safely in my possession in the next ten minutes, we'll let the authorities know you cooperated. Who knows, you might even be able to sweeten the deal if you turn state's evidence against Luthor."

He leans in closer.

"If I don't have them by then...well, I imagine after this they'll wire your jaw shut and let you spend the rest of your life sucking mashed-up prison food through a straw."

Again, let me know if I'm taking too many liberties here and I'll edit appropriately. And needless to say, Jimmy's readying an attack if Kilgrave tries to speak.

[herodofcows]

You've faced down a lot of glares in your time as Spider Man: glares for your interference with their master plans, glares for your taunts and godawful puns, glares from other heroes for ruining their too-cool-for-school vibe (Daredevil in particular, that one time; talk about a guy who needs to cut back on the Evanescence).

But you've never seen a glare filled with such raw HATRED as what Purple Man now shoots you as he comes to with your fingers over his mouth. It's not the usual glare of a thwarted villain, not with the calloused anger of a contractor used to being caught or a kingpin with a contingency plan up his sleeve. No, this hatred is deeply personal and utterly raw, like the hatred of a child: it's as though his hatred is virginal, chaste, nearly untouched until you came along. Something special has happened here, to inspire this kind of emotion.

. . . congratulations?

He takes the phone and begins typing into it. You see the message take form as you look over his shoulder.

You get one. Not both.

I fail to deliver, my reputation is shot. I fail to deliver, my client comes after me. He'll kill me. You'll just arrest me. That's why you lose.

But I'll give you one, and I'll testify against some former clients. People who I don't mind ratting out. People who can't hurt me while I'm inside.

You pick: you want the red one or the black one?

[TheIronGolem]

There's this unspoken agreement among heroes that you haven't really made the big time until you have at least one full-fledged arch-enemy. That getting a serious villain to make taking you down his number-one life goal is a Superhero Merit Badge. It's stupid, and everyone knows it, but there it is anyway. So even as he knows this means his life is about to become yet another order of magnitude more difficult, a small-but-loud part of Jimmy is celebrating this achievement.

The more rational remainder of Jimmy decides to focus on the dilemma in front of him. Kilgrave is right and they both know it; nothing Jimmy can credibly threaten him with is going to be worse than what Luthor would do. He wishes Ronin or White Cobra were handling this part; either of those two could probably scare the Purple right off of the Man.

But one symbiote recovered is better than zero, and maybe Jimmy will get lucky and find a way to regain the other as well.

Right, because your luck has been just awesome lately, hasn't it, Olsen?

Quiet, me.

"Black", Jimmy says. He reasons that the original symbiote is more likely to be able to help him find its "child" than the reverse. Besides, he realizes, he's actually starting to miss the damned thing. Not just the powers, but the actual creature.

"And no tricks," he adds. "If you try to pull some amateur-hour switcheroo, no Glowing Referral Letter for you."

[herodofcows]

The Purple Man grimaces slightly as you give your preference, but picks up the phone and gives you the flight information and a basic description of the woman.

The black thing is in her bag. She'll have it under her seat. You'll have to fight her. I ordered her to guard the bag with her life.

Remember our deal.

Outside, you see airport security converging on Constantine, who continues to gamely stand in a position of surrender. More security begins to flood into the terminal proper, beginning to evacuate the terminal. The fact that they aren't police ensures that the crowd doesn't attack them, but it's only a matter of time before uniformed authorities show up and things get hairy . . .

You head into the walkway towards the specified plane, only to meet with some resistance . . .

"Sir, I can't let you on without a ticket or- sir! SIR!"

. . . which can thankfully be (temporarily) overcome by symbiote-boosted speed.

The flight is fully boarded, so you have multiple seated and puzzled/concerned faces to sort through as you proceed down the aisle. It takes a few moments, but you're soon able to identify the woman that Kilgrave had described. Contrary to most airline regulations, she's holding her bag in her lap and glancing around at the surrounding passengers with a paranoid look in her eyes.

As you approach, she begins sizing you up and clutching her bag tighter . . .

I'm fast-forwarding a little bit here, presuming that Jimmy would go directly after the symbiote (failed the deception check against an oddly efficacious insight check). Hope that's okay!

I figure we'll close out in a couple posts, if it's all the same to you. Gives us time to get into the prologue.

[TheIronGolem]

No problem with the skip, except that I'd like to note I was planning to have Jimmy web Kilgrave's mouth shut before leaving him. Also, I'm again taking some liberties of my own in the interest of getting to a wrap-up point, so let me know if I'm out of line anywhere.

Jimmy shuffles down the aisle on the plane, scanning passengers' faces frantically from underneath his hoodie. His knee smacks against an armrest for the third time in the exact same spot. Spider powers aren't as useful as one might think when it comes to worming around people who can't figure out the overhead compartment. One more reason to be jealous of the flying guys.

Finally, he spots the woman Kilgrave described. It's obvious she's spotted him, too, from the way she redoubles her grip on her bag.

Well, so much for subtlety...

He stops directly in front of the woman, looking her in the eye.

"I'm sorry about this," he says to her. "I know you don't understand what's going on, and I wish I had time to explain why it's happening. But that thing you have is dangerous, and I have to take it now."

Before she can reply, he webs her feet to the floor and her shoulder to the back of her seat, hating himself as he does it. He unzips her bag and reaches in, pulling out the Tupperware box with the black symbiote. He holds the box up briefly, regarding the creature inside.

Hey, uh...buddy, he thinks at it, hoping it can "hear" him. Good to see you. I guess we have a lot to talk about, but we need to find your other "kid" first.

He stows the Tupperware box away in his pocket. Time to get off the plane now.

The growing commotion Jimmy hears from the front of the plane tells him that going back the way he came isn't the best plan. Since what little cover he'd had has been blown anyway, he hops up to the ceiling and sticks to it. Nothing to step around or bump into up here. Ignoring the shocked stares and alarmed shouts, he crawls to the back of the plane and drops down in front of the emergency exit. He's not sure if he's strong enough to break the lock, but thankfully the locks on these doors only engage when the plane is in the air anyway. It takes him several embarrassing seconds to figure out how to open it (how many levers can one door have!?), but soon he finds himself looking out over the tarmac. In the distance, he spies Constantine, now on his knees and surrounded by cops.

Jimmy lets the red symbiote resume its natural form again, becoming the Scarlet Spider (hopefully for the last time). He'd prefer to use his own, of course, but he's not sure if the two can "mix" and this is no time for experiments. Instead, he sticks the Tupperware box to his back with a dab of webbing, then jumps out of the plane and starts swinging towards Constantine's position.

One well-placed web-yank later, and Jimmy has his one good arm around Constantine's waist, whisking the man away from the cluster of police and the burning car.

"There's a bunch of people in the terminal who need help", Jimmy explains to the sorcerer. "The Purple Man left them standing orders to attack any cops or supers that show up. I'm not sure how long those orders last, but it's only a matter of time before the police get there. Can you do anything to break mind control?"

There's also the other red symbiote to find, but Jimmy's not about to share that tidbit. He still hasn't forgotten - let alone forgiven - what Constantine did to this one.

A distinctly uncomfortable shifting of pressure against his hip jars Jimmy's thoughts back to the matter at hand.

"Hey!" he snaps, shooting Constantine an angry look.

[herodofcows]

Constantine gives a half-apologetic shrug and an entirely unapologetic smirk as he shifts his hand.

"Sorry mate. Got a nice pair on you, seemed as they were feeling unappreciated. Ah, well . . ."

He gives a speculative look at the terminal as you swing on by. Somehow, he's smoking again. The fact that his lungs aren't piles of ash is likely the product of some Faustian pact or another.

"Can't help you m'self, but I know just the bird for the job. Give us a mo' . . ."

He whips out his phone and selects a contact as you get beyond the tarmac. Behind you, you can hear the renewed wailing of sirens as the TSA renews its pursuit.

"'allo, Zatanna? Howyeh, it's John . . . no call for that kind of language, love. Listen, I'm in New Orleans, at the airport . . ."

Throughout, you're half distracted by the sudden pulsing of emotion emerging from the symbiote's container. Unlike its two children, it does not appear to have the full hang of speech. Instead, it seems to communicate purely through the emotional spectrum. It's subtle, but now that you know what you're listening to it's as sonorous as the sea:

As you retrieved it from its captor: Relief. Joy. Familiarity.

But then, as you'd fled using symbiote powers: Confusion. Disbelief. Amazement.

And then, at last, as you'd manifested the brain-dead symbiote: Shock. Anxiety. Fear. Apprehension.

Now, as you continue your motion through the air, you can feel it tentatively sending forth pulses of feeling: Welcome. Acceptance. Availability . . .

It's not sending those latter pulses to you. It's trying to communicate with the brain-dead symbiote . . .

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy tunes out Constantine's conversation with Zatanna as he re-establishes contact with the black symbiote.

It puzzles him somewhat to note that the creature doesn't seem to have grasped language, when its hours-old offspring had apparently mastered that skill. It would explain why the symbiote had never "talked" to him before, but why not? Did it have something to do with the circumstances of the two red symbiotes' births? Maybe the fact that they were born here on Earth, or as a side effect of whatever psychic mojo the Purple Man has? Or had Jimmy, in his ignorance, neglected to teach the symbiote during some crucial window of learning that was now long-missed?

That sounds about right for you, Olsen. Make first contact with a whole new alien species, and turn it into Nell.

Regardless of the reason, if emotion is how the symbiote communicates, then that's how he'll communicate back to it. Jimmy does his best to dispense with the abstractions of language as he focuses his thoughts toward the symbiote and lets the emotions come as they will.

Relief, at having it back and knowing it won't be a weapon for Luthor.

Embarrassment, that he failed to recognize it as a living creature (seriously, nanites!?)

Sorrow, for the harm done to its offspring. Guilt for his failure to prevent that harm. Which leads to:

Anger at Constantine and the brutality he inflicted on this red symbiote. Frustration with the fact that he still needs the sorcerer's help.

Finally, hope. Hope that he and the black symbiote can reunite and somehow find a way to make this all right.

Because it has finally dawned on Jimmy that he isn't Spider-Man. They are.

[herodofcows]

Constantine continues to natter away, describing the encounter at the airport in broad strokes. Even in the intensity of the moment, you notice he omits certain details about how he came by the car, or his overall role in the proceedings beyond a concerned bystander.

The symbiote's reactions are uncanny in their nuance. "Empathic" communication, or communication through feelings and emotion over the raw particularity of language . . . these are rarely effective for communicating things in specificity.

But now, as you send your emotions out to the symbiote, your partner's responses are very nearly electrifying. Actual tingles run up your spine, as you're suddenly flooded with a depth of understanding nearly beyond what language can give. If anything, your mind must hasten to cage the wild and unruly meanings beamed into your brain with words and phrases.

Amazement, Flabbergasted, You Can Hear Me?

Shock, Regret, The Fate Of My Offspring

Fear, Anxiety, I Have Offspring

Fury, Disbelief, the Purple Man

Determination, Resolve, WE Will Make This Wrong Thing Right

Ardor, Ferocity, We Will Gain Justice

Hesitancy in Anger, Apprehension in Resolution, We Will Find My Offspring

Eagerness, Longing, Let Us Be Rejoined

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy struggles, at first, to keep up with the symbiote's emotional communication. It's easier than he would have expected, though. There's a familiar undercurrent to the "conversation". It's a bit like finally understanding the lyrics from that one verse of that one song you've been hearing your whole life without quite knowing what it says. You know the one.

He suspects that the symbiote had been trying to communicate with him ever since he first put it on, and he only just now figured out how to listen to it.

Soon, he tells the symbiote. We need to get a little privacy first.

Once he's confident that he's put enough distance between himself and the police to get some breathing room, Jimmy swings himself and Constantine into another open jetway.

"You should ditch the Bogart coat", he tells Constantine as he sets the man down. "It's really identifiable. Speaking of which..."

Jimmy makes his way down the hallway, scanning beyond the exit for a restroom in the terminal.

"I need to visit the, uh, little spiders' room", he says. "Any ETA from Zatanna?"

[herodofcows]

The events of the day roll on by in a bit of an adrenaline-fueled blur:

************************************************** *********************

The symbiote, swirling around you even as your brain-dead costume placidly glides into the container. The cool liquid sensation of your partner flows around you, feeling almost as much like an embrace as the sensations that emanate from the creature:

Gratitude, Relief, We Are One Again

Determination, Pride, We Are Spider Man

Less than ten minutes later, you're back in the terminal in your usual Spider Man garb. Zatanna is next to you, hands glowing as she slowly draws out the effects of the Purple Man's programming from everyone present, teasing smoky magenta worms from their eyes and ears that whisper and hiss. Outside, a contingent of police are impatiently waiting to enter the building and take the bound and gagged Kilgrave into custody.

Zatanna had been invaluable, in that she was everything that Constantine was not: efficient, brusque, and highly capable in corralling the police. Despite her chosen "child's-birthday-magician-meets-burlesque-dancer" aesthetic, she'd managed to shock and awe them into submission by teleporting in with a pyrotechnic thunderclap and then barking orders with a force that would make Lt. Colonel Kilgore (of Apocalypse Now fame) s*** his britches.

Unfortunately, not everything goes as swimmingly as you might like. Thanks to Constantine's interference, you're able to individually search every single boarded plane to find the red symbiote and whatever thrall Kilgrave had created to deliver it.

You find a very confused businesswoman on a flight to Dallas . . . and an empty tupperware container.

************************************************** *********************

"Oh, come ON!"

Constantine rubs his jaw, somehow managing to be sprawled on the ground in a manner that conveys some PG-13 vibes.

"Really, it's as though I'm surrounded by children . . ."

"Woah hold up, are we hitting John? Cause I'm always down for that," Zatanna asks, making her way back with your orders (and yes, it's an absolute sin that you're eating a po' boy from Popeye's in New Orleans, but it was the closest place to the airport and hunger is a thing).


************************************************** *********************

Drumm meets you outside the door of his building a few seconds after Zatanna teleports you back. He looks at you with piercing eyes, seeming to drink in details.

"He's going to be all right," he says finally, leading you up the stairs towards his office.

"There may be an adjustment period. Simbi Andezo just finished talking through some of the details. Whatever they did to him, they stripped away a lot of the filters he puts on himself. Governors on behavior, on physical and emotional restraint. We did our best to put it all back together, but even with magic you can't rebuild a lifetime's worth of maturity in a few-"

You make it to the top of the stairs into Drumm's reception area . . . and there's Clark.

It is Clark, you can see it now. He may not be showing the usual hayseed bumbling that you've come to associate with Smallville's hunkiest export, but you can see traces of the awkwardness, the hesitation, the discomfort in his own skin. Sure, the outside observer might scoff at you for being fooled by a pair of glasses and a costume change, but there's more to it than that: Superman is confidence personified, raw certainty and alacrity in humanoid form. Clark Kent is weak, unsure of himself . . . even a little cowardly (http://www.monologuedb.com/dramatic-male-monologues/kill-bill-vol-2-bill/). Nothing about the former suggests the possibility of the latter, and vice versa.

It is therefore further disconcerting when Clark Kent walks awkwardly over to you and speaks in the voice you've come to associate with Superman.

"So, I'm guessing you have some questions . . ."

This is my last post on this one. Feel free to post in response if you please.

Spider Man gets 1 HP and 2 pp

[TheIronGolem]

Jimmy marvels quietly as he shakes Zatanna's hand and says goodbye. Lesson learned about books and covers.

He takes a few moments to reflect on the events of the longest day of his life.

The stump of his right arm is itching badly. He sticks it into his hoodie's pocket, trying to ignore it. It doesn't work. He takes it out again, giving it an irritated glance, and...wait. That freckle on his arm, just above the elbow. He could swear that part had been gone before. Maybe...?

He's not about to show his face in the spooky side of New Orleans anytime soon, that's for sure. Jimmy doesn't know much about demons, but he figures they probably have long memories. Still, going over the notes that he took, he thinks he could cobble together a pretty decent expose on the resurgent soul-selling business. If Hell is really about to start a new PR push as Jimmy's interviewee had hinted, this might be a good chance to get out ahead of that, maybe save a few suckers from selling their souls for magic freaking cigarettes.

The Purple Man. Good news? He's in jail now. Bad news? He knows what Jimmy looks like (if not his name), definitely wants him dead, and can probably get it done if he only meets the right people.

Bruce Wayne...what the hell had Constantine been going on about there? The thought of that walking scandal-sheet being something worth taking seriously is ridiculous. It's like suggesting that Dr. Doom is actually Paris Hilton under that armor. Then again, according to Katie the Misfits are currently palling around with a talking duck, so it's not like ridiculous equals impossible. Another side project for the list...

The missing symbiote...that thought leaves his stomach in knots. When he'd left off with it, it seemed to trust him, but it was scared. No telling what had happened to it, or who had found it. He'd already started digging for information, but there were a lot of people on that plane, and he had to be quiet in his investigation. Quiet costs time.

And...Clark. Superman. Man, that just explains so much, doesn't it?

"So, I'm guessing you have some questions . . ."

Jimmy's quiet little chuckle avalanches into an uproarious guffaw before he can stop it.

"Yeah, I'd say I have one or two", he replies while wiping tears (of laughter, dammit!) out of his eyes.

A deep, ominous rumble interrupts the conversation. The power of Spider-Man comes at a price.

"But first", he adds, "We are going to need something."

To Clark's inquisitive look he replies: "Pizza. Lots and lots of pizza."