[spectre of the goblin]
I've got a bomb in my hand that's about to go off.
That's not a metaphor, by the way. The digitized beeping is picking up in speed, ringing in my ears with a rapid staccato that my pulse seems eager to match. The pumpkin-themed casing is glowing a bright, neon green. And, you know, green's not really the color you imagine when you think about warning signs, red's really better for that sort of thing, but that doesn't matter when your life is suddenly on the line.
But I'm getting ahead of myself, so let's backtrack a little.
The beach hasn't been my favorite destination spot for years -- it drags up too many bad memories -- but in light of Mary Jane's disappearance, I find the bad far less painful to remember than the good. It's easier to get through every day if I don't think about how I was happy. Loss has been my only constant since I was a child, and its familiarity is quickly becoming my sole comfort in all of this, more so than any of the people who've tried to help me so far -- not that I've been making it easy for them. I've lashed out and I've yelled, dismissed their concern with a few choice, spiteful words, shut them out by every definition, letting only the odd person in, and even then, not for long. Never for long. I don't ever want to feel this again, like there's a hole where my heart should be, one that's still bleeding even now. Better to keep people at arm's length, because it's not like I have any control over who's the next person to go, anyway.
Not yet, at least. I'm working on that. Or I was, that is, until my eyes started to cross from staring at my calculations for hours without a break, my progress distinctly stalled for the day. Hence my trip out to the beach, not to clear my head, per se, so much as to stew in a different locale. My feet take me to a stretch of sand that was once terrorized by the likes of Norman Osborn, and for a moment, I'm lost in the memories of that day. Of the fear and panic that fueled me to take on an impossible force, to choose the life of the woman I loved over that of an innocent stranger's. If I knew what I know now, would that have changed my decision? Knowing that I was only buying her borrowed time? That she'd only be around for a little over a year until she as good as died, too?
There's only one answer for that: no. Of course not. But the thought alone's got me all riled up, and I kick hard at the sand, biting back a swear when my bare foot strikes something hard. I'm about to dismiss it as a stupid rock when the light catches whatever it is just so, and curiosity sends me to my knees. It's then that I hear it, the beeping, faint at first but getting louder. After a few seconds of digging, I find it's not a rock at all.
It's a pumpkin bomb.
One of Norman's. It must've fallen out of his bag during the fight over a year ago -- with the way he was swooping around in that stolen armor, I'm not particularly surprised -- and I can't help but let out an incredulous laugh. Guys like Osborn don't operate by the same rules as the rest of us. They don't stay buried. Not forever.
Not like I will if I don't ditch this bomb, fast.
I make a run towards the ocean, figuring a detonation's better served over something that isn't flammable, and I don't stop 'til I'm knee-deep in the water, the waves pushing at my legs with enough force that I'm nearly knocked over as I chuck the bomb as far as I can. For a moment it seems to hang in the air, a dark orange spot against a pale blue sky, and then it's gone -- lost in a ball of fire and shrapnel and noise. I don't turn away, instead watching the show from start to finish with all the detached, morbid curiosity of someone looking at a train wreck. I honestly meant to disarm it. Someone stumbling across me right now might accuse me of otherwise, might think I'm actively trying to hurt myself, but I'd deny it 'til I was blue in the face. There are a lot of things I am right now. Angry's still at the top of that very long list. Suicidal isn't one of them, regardless of others' recent implications to contrary.
As the smoke starts to dissipate, I let my body move with the tide, sitting back into water with a drawn out sigh and a splash, and I comb wet hands through unwashed hair. I can't remember the last time I showered, and with the adrenaline pumping through my veins, it's difficult to want to stay still. Ducking my head, I tug off my half-sodden shirt, and stand up long enough to toss it behind me. I'm here and I'm wired. I'll have to do a scan of the beach later to make sure there aren't any more surprises, of course, but now's as good a time as any to go for a swim to work off the last of these nerves...
...or it would be if I didn't catch sight of someone in my peripheral vision, heading my way. Great. I don't bother biting back my annoyance.
"It's fine!" I call out, not really looking as I take a step forward. "Nothing to worry about, all taken care of!" Under my breath, I add, "You can really go away."
Timed to Thursday afternoon. Tags accepted until noted otherwise. Feel free to have seen the explosion from a distance. Open to friends and strangers alike in spite of his mood.
That's not a metaphor, by the way. The digitized beeping is picking up in speed, ringing in my ears with a rapid staccato that my pulse seems eager to match. The pumpkin-themed casing is glowing a bright, neon green. And, you know, green's not really the color you imagine when you think about warning signs, red's really better for that sort of thing, but that doesn't matter when your life is suddenly on the line.
But I'm getting ahead of myself, so let's backtrack a little.
The beach hasn't been my favorite destination spot for years -- it drags up too many bad memories -- but in light of Mary Jane's disappearance, I find the bad far less painful to remember than the good. It's easier to get through every day if I don't think about how I was happy. Loss has been my only constant since I was a child, and its familiarity is quickly becoming my sole comfort in all of this, more so than any of the people who've tried to help me so far -- not that I've been making it easy for them. I've lashed out and I've yelled, dismissed their concern with a few choice, spiteful words, shut them out by every definition, letting only the odd person in, and even then, not for long. Never for long. I don't ever want to feel this again, like there's a hole where my heart should be, one that's still bleeding even now. Better to keep people at arm's length, because it's not like I have any control over who's the next person to go, anyway.
Not yet, at least. I'm working on that. Or I was, that is, until my eyes started to cross from staring at my calculations for hours without a break, my progress distinctly stalled for the day. Hence my trip out to the beach, not to clear my head, per se, so much as to stew in a different locale. My feet take me to a stretch of sand that was once terrorized by the likes of Norman Osborn, and for a moment, I'm lost in the memories of that day. Of the fear and panic that fueled me to take on an impossible force, to choose the life of the woman I loved over that of an innocent stranger's. If I knew what I know now, would that have changed my decision? Knowing that I was only buying her borrowed time? That she'd only be around for a little over a year until she as good as died, too?
There's only one answer for that: no. Of course not. But the thought alone's got me all riled up, and I kick hard at the sand, biting back a swear when my bare foot strikes something hard. I'm about to dismiss it as a stupid rock when the light catches whatever it is just so, and curiosity sends me to my knees. It's then that I hear it, the beeping, faint at first but getting louder. After a few seconds of digging, I find it's not a rock at all.
It's a pumpkin bomb.
One of Norman's. It must've fallen out of his bag during the fight over a year ago -- with the way he was swooping around in that stolen armor, I'm not particularly surprised -- and I can't help but let out an incredulous laugh. Guys like Osborn don't operate by the same rules as the rest of us. They don't stay buried. Not forever.
Not like I will if I don't ditch this bomb, fast.
I make a run towards the ocean, figuring a detonation's better served over something that isn't flammable, and I don't stop 'til I'm knee-deep in the water, the waves pushing at my legs with enough force that I'm nearly knocked over as I chuck the bomb as far as I can. For a moment it seems to hang in the air, a dark orange spot against a pale blue sky, and then it's gone -- lost in a ball of fire and shrapnel and noise. I don't turn away, instead watching the show from start to finish with all the detached, morbid curiosity of someone looking at a train wreck. I honestly meant to disarm it. Someone stumbling across me right now might accuse me of otherwise, might think I'm actively trying to hurt myself, but I'd deny it 'til I was blue in the face. There are a lot of things I am right now. Angry's still at the top of that very long list. Suicidal isn't one of them, regardless of others' recent implications to contrary.
As the smoke starts to dissipate, I let my body move with the tide, sitting back into water with a drawn out sigh and a splash, and I comb wet hands through unwashed hair. I can't remember the last time I showered, and with the adrenaline pumping through my veins, it's difficult to want to stay still. Ducking my head, I tug off my half-sodden shirt, and stand up long enough to toss it behind me. I'm here and I'm wired. I'll have to do a scan of the beach later to make sure there aren't any more surprises, of course, but now's as good a time as any to go for a swim to work off the last of these nerves...
...or it would be if I didn't catch sight of someone in my peripheral vision, heading my way. Great. I don't bother biting back my annoyance.
"It's fine!" I call out, not really looking as I take a step forward. "Nothing to worry about, all taken care of!" Under my breath, I add, "You can really go away."
Timed to Thursday afternoon. Tags accepted until noted otherwise. Feel free to have seen the explosion from a distance. Open to friends and strangers alike in spite of his mood.