Can she swing from a thread?
This is not my home.
I don't mean that it's not the apartment I used to live in, because let's face it, given the quality of the property, there were probably small rodents and insect life that had more of a claim on that place than I did. I don't mean Aunt May's house in Queens, either, because I was never a part of that; as much as a part of me still longs for it, I don't belong there.
No, I mean New York. Subways and skyscrapers, and everything in between. It's a fun word, skyscraper, when you pull it apart; sky scraper, scraper of sky. Built so high it does that, brushing up and butting against it. That used to be my domain; I spent as much time up there as anywhere, swinging through it. Call me a skyswinger.
Actually, don't, that sounds terrible. But the sentiment stands.
Here, there are trees. Jungle. It's not the same, but needs must. I have adapted to greater shifts in my world than this, albeit of a far more specifically personal nature. I'll adapt to this, and the first step is reclaiming some of that old Spider-Woman magic. The chemistry equipment this place awarded me as some kind of bizarre welcoming present provides the means to make the web-fluid; the web-shooters took a little more ingenuity, although once I found out about that scrapyard, the way forward was pretty clear.
Tony Stark seemed happy enough to let me rummage about, once he'd established who I was. I did have to suppress the urge to simply follow him around seeing what he was working on -- an alternate universe version of one of your scientific heroes still counts, right? -- because I was there on business, but maybe next time. He's friends with Peter, so if I hang around... no, actually, that's why I can't. Robbed of the chance to be imaginary buddies with Iron Man because he got there first. I'd say that guy has all the luck, if I didn't know that he did, in fact, have all the luck, it's just that most of said collected luck is completely terrible.
I told him, when he asked, that I was making an insect repellent spray. I figured some of the mechanisms -- they're both kinds of chemical delivery systems, if you look at it like that -- would be close enough that if he went and imagined what he could build from what I was grabbing, it wouldn't be completely off-base. Plus a few parts gathered while he wasn't looking, to help obscure the fact.
Weird thing of the day: building web-shooters, which I have never done, but distinctly remember doing. I keep thinking disclaimers like that, because I kind of have to, but in this instance it was nice to have that knowledge as a part of me, because at least now I have one part of my old life back, and ready to go.
The problem being that I am less so. I need practice. New environment, no powers. So I head into an empty part of the jungle, snap these babies onto place on my wrists, and go swinging.
It goes well.
For about a minute.
I'm just starting to work up some speed and a genuine grin -- underneath the balaclava that is serving as stand-in for my mask -- when one of the differences between here and home rears its naturally occurring head.
I'm using to swinging through the city, webbing walls, buttresses, girders, anything and everything... designed and purposed to take weight, most of it, if not in the way I do it, of course. No one builds things with me swinging from them in mind, but they serve admirably, nonetheless.
Not every tree branch proves to be so kind.
It happens mid-swing, as I'm reaching the lowest point of the arc, weight coming fully to bear. The branch snaps and I start to tumble, but that's fine, I have another web-shooter, I can just catch myself on something else-
Only I don't have powers any more. No enhanced speed, perceptions, or accuracy, and it is amazing the degree to which you rely on those things without realizing it. The first shot I miss, the second and more desperate hits, but my aim was still off, the tree I hit was too close and on the wrong angle, it hauls me up short and yanks me sideways, smacking my head right into a branch.
That one holds, of course. That one doesn't break. That one stays right where it is as I fall. Right into a stream.
After a moment, when I have my wind back, I say, "Ow, my sense of myself as a badass." It's only bruised, though. It'll heal. I hope.
I lie there for a moment to catch my breath and bearings, before the water threatens to go up my nose and I have to sit up. And then I might as well stand up, gingerly. The fact my clothes are wet, I can deal with. Tropical showers are a regular thing, after all. The mud is more annoying, especially since my balaclava came off somewhere along the line and it's in my hair. Along with the twigs, a bird could probably set up shop in there. And -- when I prod my forehead where it took on the branch and lost -- I'm bleeding.
It's still going when I make it back to the path, having stowed web-shooters and balaclava back in my bag. That's annoying, too; it's not like I was ever Wolverine, but I did heal faster than other folks.
God, I hope I don't need stitches.
[Because of that whole secret identity business, I'll ask that no one saw the actual web-swinging portion of this; everything after she gets back to whichever boardwalk you want to find her on, please. :) ST/LT welcome as always.]
I don't mean that it's not the apartment I used to live in, because let's face it, given the quality of the property, there were probably small rodents and insect life that had more of a claim on that place than I did. I don't mean Aunt May's house in Queens, either, because I was never a part of that; as much as a part of me still longs for it, I don't belong there.
No, I mean New York. Subways and skyscrapers, and everything in between. It's a fun word, skyscraper, when you pull it apart; sky scraper, scraper of sky. Built so high it does that, brushing up and butting against it. That used to be my domain; I spent as much time up there as anywhere, swinging through it. Call me a skyswinger.
Actually, don't, that sounds terrible. But the sentiment stands.
Here, there are trees. Jungle. It's not the same, but needs must. I have adapted to greater shifts in my world than this, albeit of a far more specifically personal nature. I'll adapt to this, and the first step is reclaiming some of that old Spider-Woman magic. The chemistry equipment this place awarded me as some kind of bizarre welcoming present provides the means to make the web-fluid; the web-shooters took a little more ingenuity, although once I found out about that scrapyard, the way forward was pretty clear.
Tony Stark seemed happy enough to let me rummage about, once he'd established who I was. I did have to suppress the urge to simply follow him around seeing what he was working on -- an alternate universe version of one of your scientific heroes still counts, right? -- because I was there on business, but maybe next time. He's friends with Peter, so if I hang around... no, actually, that's why I can't. Robbed of the chance to be imaginary buddies with Iron Man because he got there first. I'd say that guy has all the luck, if I didn't know that he did, in fact, have all the luck, it's just that most of said collected luck is completely terrible.
I told him, when he asked, that I was making an insect repellent spray. I figured some of the mechanisms -- they're both kinds of chemical delivery systems, if you look at it like that -- would be close enough that if he went and imagined what he could build from what I was grabbing, it wouldn't be completely off-base. Plus a few parts gathered while he wasn't looking, to help obscure the fact.
Weird thing of the day: building web-shooters, which I have never done, but distinctly remember doing. I keep thinking disclaimers like that, because I kind of have to, but in this instance it was nice to have that knowledge as a part of me, because at least now I have one part of my old life back, and ready to go.
The problem being that I am less so. I need practice. New environment, no powers. So I head into an empty part of the jungle, snap these babies onto place on my wrists, and go swinging.
It goes well.
For about a minute.
I'm just starting to work up some speed and a genuine grin -- underneath the balaclava that is serving as stand-in for my mask -- when one of the differences between here and home rears its naturally occurring head.
I'm using to swinging through the city, webbing walls, buttresses, girders, anything and everything... designed and purposed to take weight, most of it, if not in the way I do it, of course. No one builds things with me swinging from them in mind, but they serve admirably, nonetheless.
Not every tree branch proves to be so kind.
It happens mid-swing, as I'm reaching the lowest point of the arc, weight coming fully to bear. The branch snaps and I start to tumble, but that's fine, I have another web-shooter, I can just catch myself on something else-
Only I don't have powers any more. No enhanced speed, perceptions, or accuracy, and it is amazing the degree to which you rely on those things without realizing it. The first shot I miss, the second and more desperate hits, but my aim was still off, the tree I hit was too close and on the wrong angle, it hauls me up short and yanks me sideways, smacking my head right into a branch.
That one holds, of course. That one doesn't break. That one stays right where it is as I fall. Right into a stream.
After a moment, when I have my wind back, I say, "Ow, my sense of myself as a badass." It's only bruised, though. It'll heal. I hope.
I lie there for a moment to catch my breath and bearings, before the water threatens to go up my nose and I have to sit up. And then I might as well stand up, gingerly. The fact my clothes are wet, I can deal with. Tropical showers are a regular thing, after all. The mud is more annoying, especially since my balaclava came off somewhere along the line and it's in my hair. Along with the twigs, a bird could probably set up shop in there. And -- when I prod my forehead where it took on the branch and lost -- I'm bleeding.
It's still going when I make it back to the path, having stowed web-shooters and balaclava back in my bag. That's annoying, too; it's not like I was ever Wolverine, but I did heal faster than other folks.
God, I hope I don't need stitches.
[Because of that whole secret identity business, I'll ask that no one saw the actual web-swinging portion of this; everything after she gets back to whichever boardwalk you want to find her on, please. :) ST/LT welcome as always.]