It takes me longer than it should to parse what she's saying, my head too muddled from everything that's happened to make the necessary connections with any sort of haste. Not helping matters is that she's upset, and it's hard to pay attention to her words when I'm preoccupied by her body language, her posture and the way she hesitates when she reaches out for my hand. I want to tell her it's okay, that I was disoriented before, but I understand the need for her to get this out without interruption, and I stay silent until the very end.
I take another shuddering, shallow breath, afraid that anything deeper will spur on a coughing fit in addition to everything else. The longer I'm awake, the more I'm conscious of the individual injuries as opposed to the overall pain -- broken ribs, broken fingers, broken nose, dislocated shoulder, broken leg, burns, cuts, bruises, and probably a concussion to boot if my head's anything to go by. It's nothing I haven't had before, but that's a small comfort in a situation like this.
"So you lied. To the police." It doesn't sit well with me, that she's made us all complicit in a madman's lie, but then I realize the alternative could be so much worse, that I could be handed the blame for not telling the authorities something they wouldn't have believed in the first place. Clones are commonplace, after all, and Tabula Rasa does, occasionally, try to live up to its name.
I fix her with a surprisingly steady stare. "It's... not ideal," I add after a beat, which is something of an understatement. This whole mess with Osborn is about as far from ideal as it's possible to get, and if I've learned anything from my dealings with him in the past, death is not the end of him. "But... But it's okay. It'll be okay. You did fine."
Peter Parker, also known as the vigilante, Spider-Man, is one of Marvel Comics' flagship characters. Created by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko in 1962, Spider-Man first debuted in Amazing Fantasy #15.
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Date: 2010-01-11 05:50 am (UTC)I take another shuddering, shallow breath, afraid that anything deeper will spur on a coughing fit in addition to everything else. The longer I'm awake, the more I'm conscious of the individual injuries as opposed to the overall pain -- broken ribs, broken fingers, broken nose, dislocated shoulder, broken leg, burns, cuts, bruises, and probably a concussion to boot if my head's anything to go by. It's nothing I haven't had before, but that's a small comfort in a situation like this.
"So you lied. To the police." It doesn't sit well with me, that she's made us all complicit in a madman's lie, but then I realize the alternative could be so much worse, that I could be handed the blame for not telling the authorities something they wouldn't have believed in the first place. Clones are commonplace, after all, and Tabula Rasa does, occasionally, try to live up to its name.
I fix her with a surprisingly steady stare. "It's... not ideal," I add after a beat, which is something of an understatement. This whole mess with Osborn is about as far from ideal as it's possible to get, and if I've learned anything from my dealings with him in the past, death is not the end of him. "But... But it's okay. It'll be okay. You did fine."