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@stillgrows : "oh, fuck - in' - hell," clive says as he walks into the room and sets his eyes upon salem, each syllable held out a half second longer than needed. "is the secret to surviving whatever the fuck just being ginger? is that it?" he crosses the room with a brisk confidence, holding out a hand for a firm handshake once he's close enough to them. "clive schill, overhead industries, r&d. you've got me thinking now we need to rethink the old golden egg metaphor. what're we working with here? — a perfect fucking pack of bloody ginger nuts? eh, i'll workshop it."
The cold and clinical walls of Overhead Industries are not unfamiliar to Salem. In many ways it was their second home growing up, & currently the only home they're permitted to have. However, the ever changing faces of their caregivers and companions are predominately strangers to them. This does not even account for executives from other departments who seek Salem out like
Salem's acknowledgement of Clive is that of one towards a stranger, lacking any sort of warmth or friendliness. Though many would argue that they behave even colder to him than most would towards a stranger.
Salem merely nods in response to Clive words, staying silent & ignoring his outstretched hand completely. They've been instructed not to touch anyone on their own accord by their supervisors. Maybe Clive didn't get the memo. Salem decides to simply wait for him to drop his hand as they fix their empty dark eyes on his.
" Hello, Clive. " Their greeting is short and to the point, greatly contrasting Clive's own way of speaking. The vowels of Clive's name come out softer than most here would speak it, Salem's Louisiana accent making the name almost float into the air. They make no move to introduce themself. Salem concludes it's unnecessary, assuming that anyone seeking them out from another department would already have their name on file.
Their gaze briefly flickers downward before returning to Clive's face. "Do you know that your socks are mismatched?"
@castigare said: i don’t believe in heaven or hell but i do believe in revenge.
SHE'S GOING TO BLEED OUT. She's going to die in the gutters of New York City, all because Frank Castle is on another revenge spree. And not only that, but he feels the need to give some impassioned pitch about believing in revenge. What the fuck is she supposed to say to that, when she's in a pool of her own goddamn blood? Selina vaguely recognizes that he's hovering over her, and she wonders if he's here to help her out or finish the job.
At this point, she's also wondering which one she'd prefer.
Her lips screw into a strange expression, rationality slowly taking the place of the white-hot pain flooding through her. She assesses the situation, like survivors learn to do. The bullet is lodged in her upper arm. No critical organs have been hit. Yes, it hurts like hell has been bottled up and is burning inside her bone, but according to the PhD she earned from living on the streets, she's not going to die.
That doesn't mean Frank is off the hook, though. Far from it.
Through her hazy vision, she realizes that he's attempting to stop the bleeding, seemingly having chosen the help her out option. Maybe she would be touched, if he hadn't been the one to fucking shoot her.
Selina reaches for his arm, and it almost is like she's expressing her gratitude. Almost, except that's not at all her intention. ❛ Fuck your revenge! ❜ She cries out, claws poised at his bicep and biting deeply into his shirt to penetrate through the skin. She drags her hand back and forth in a steady motion, only satisfied once she's certain he'll be wearing a scar for the rest of his life.
Bruce Wayne's Headache Class. System: Sneak Peak 1
“I insist he assigns the blame to me,” grumbles Damian, his mouth twisted in a frustrated frown. “He refuses. The entire scheme was my idea, down to the very verbage used, and yet he still continues to blame Marinette, and refers to her in an uncouth, slanderous manner. If he continues to insist upon said belligerent name calling I will be taking matters into my own hands and he will find himself contending with my blade.”
Bruce blinks at the hissed statement. It’s vicious, it’s descriptive, and it wouldn’t be out of place if Talia had said it. The pit of anxiety in his stomach triples. “Against your own brother?” he forces himself to ask, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.
“I would sell him to Satan for one corn chip,” Damian says, face totally blank, tone serious. Bruce can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Marinette has done nothing to deserve his name calling. It was a trick, he fell for it, and they lost. He can dislike her.” Damian rolls his eyes and huffs. “Even if I think it is a childish grudge, but the insults will cease or I will make him cease.”
(I swear I'm going to get this damn chapter completed. It's just fighting me. Here's a little something to prove I'm not dead!)
All thanks and credits to @jann-the-bean and @help-im-a-gay-fish for being so inspiring and sharing such amazing ideas for the Across The Spider-Verse crossover \(//∇//)\☆
Cross from xtaleunderverse by jakei95
Dream by jokublog
Killer by rahafwabas / rahaf-wabas / rahofy-sketch