2018-12-17-Return of the Latin Kings

Roleplay Log
Name Return of the Latin Kings Date December 12, 2018
Location Marcus Garvey Park, Manhattan, New York

Marcus Garvey Park, occupying four blocks between Malcolm X Blvd on the west and Park Ave on the east, has become a sign of New York gentrification in recent years. It's also a point of bitterness for many; residents of Harlem and its sister neighborhood, Spanish Harlem (known by the gentrifiers, of course, as 'East Harlem'), remember a time when the park was visited by... well, not the gentrifiers.

Not far from the park, on the Spanish Harlem side of things, there is a tattoo shop. Anya Corazon has some friends who work there; friends who owe her some favors, so it's time to call them in. She pops through the front door with one Alyx Sun in tow, and shoots an upnod to the big, hairy dude working the counter. "Yo Enrique, que hay de nuevo, gatita?" The dude throws up a hand, and the pair exchange hi-fives before Anya leans in close and whispers something to him. Something in Spanish, about how there's some dorky guy who's gonna show up soon looking for her, and how Enrique should just send him along to the back room where she and Alyx will be hanging out.

The place is popular, even on a Saturday around noon; the buzzing of needles creates a vibe in the air that tickles the senses and brings a smirk to Anya's face while she leads Alyx toward aforementioned back room. "This is a tattoo parlor," she tells the younger girl as they go. "I don't have any, myself, ya know. I know I dress pretty funky and shit, but, abuela would shit a brick if I ever got inked."

As for Anya's dress, yeah... funky is one way to describe it. She's got boots on that seem to be made of faux latex, and they rise up far beyond her knees and into the ripped black skirt. For some reason, she's got pink fishnets over top of the boots, and they're getting torn up with every step. The t-shirt on her upper body simply reads 'FUCK THE POLICE' in dark red on black, and is partially concealed by a studded black leather jacket, causing it to read more like this: 'UC THE OLI'.

Outside, the sun is shining and the city seems eerily still. You see, the blocks around Marcus Garvey Park is usually a hustle and bustle of activity, but for some reason, things seem quieter today. Outsiders wouldn't have a clue as to why, but as for Anya, something about today seems to be bothering her. She knows this part of town like the back of her hand, having been raised only a few blocks deeper into Spanish Harlem. The quiet... is unsettling.

Alyx, clad in her usual oversized hoodie and skinny jeans, is a little nervous. That's totally why she's twitchy and very aware of her surroundings. "I knew that much. From the people getting Tattoos." She sticks her tongue out at Anya, before following the rest of the way into the back room. "How're you not freezing? Also, I have a bad feeling about this." She tugs at one sleeve of her sweatshirt, her arm hair standing on end.

To be fair, EVERYTHING is popular on Saturday around noon.

If Garvey Park is anybody's territory, it's Anya's. Certainly not Peter's, as he's most at home in Queens, and he doesn't think Arachne has claimed any particular territory for herself yet. Peter arrived a few minutes early, and is now settled uncomfortably in the tattoo shop, trying to look at ink while at the same time keeping a pair of one-use brownie pans from the large, tattooed, Latino man beside him. The man has established, first, that there are brownies, and second, that Peter Parker, in his white button-down shirt and khakis, is a wimp. And he is sure that there are baked goods in his future.

Peter isn't uncomfortable, per se -- the dude could not take these brownies from him if he tried -- but he does feel a warning tingle in the back of his mind. Something is going to happen. Finally he sees Anya enter, and that must be Alyx beside her. "Mi amigo," he tells Danny Trejo's body double, "mi tia hace galletas mucho mejores que yo." And then he rises to meet the others.

A big grin is given toward Alyx, moments before Anya yanks the door to the back room open. "Okay, sorry. I mean, you know." She looks around the shop for a moment, before turning her attention back to Alyx. "I can be a dingus, you know?" Once they're inside the room itself, she seems to relax a bit. "Oh, you know. A ho gets +7 to not freezing, so, I'm good." Truth is, of course, she's got more layers on that she cares to admit at this particular moment.

The room itself is where the manager conducts business, and it doubles as a supply room. There's a desk with a Macbook Pro set up, and shelving lines the walls that is filled with latex gloves, bottles of ink, sterilized needles, boxes of contact paper, and the like. The computer was left unlocked, and currently shows a rather sick design depicting a trio of lamia with their tails intertwined around each other. Anya peers at the art, her eyes wide. "That... is dope." She turns back toward Alyx then, and cocks an eyebrow. "Why?" she asks, in regards to the bad feeling. Then, of course, her eyes are going toward the window, which has a clear shot of the park half a block away. A frown comes to her face, and clearly for a moment she seems to be concerned about something. This is what Peter will likely see when he joins them; Anya Corazon, staring through the window with a frown on her face.

"...Ho? What does Santa have to do with it?" Slang is not Alyx's expertise. She sighs, looking back around the room itself, nose wrinkling slightly. "...I'm not sure yet. It's... Arachne-Sense. Something is off, but no real direction yet." She peers through the window next to Anya, jumping a little and spinning around when Peter enters. He'd be greeted by a teenage girl who looks shockingly like Cindy if she was a little bit taller, although her eyes uncannily resemble his. A lock of hair rests on either side of her face, the rest pulled back in a pony tail.

Peter has applied a lot of bodyspray, it should be noted. Usually he doesn't, but he really doesn't want to risk Arachne putting two-and-two together here. Shouldn't be easy to detect the Spidey-scent through the Axe. "Anya," he says in greeting, noting her concern, but affecting an expression that suggests his greatest concern is just checking to make sure this goes well. "And you've got to be Alyx, right?" He sets the two pans down on the nearest flat surface not occupied by things that could cut the metal. "I think I've got what you need here," he says, tapping one pan, and then, because the pans are identical to the naked eye and he has been shuffling them back and forth, he peels up one corner and peeks in. Brown. "Yes, this one."

What cannot be seen from the tattoo shop is the group of people who are converging at one end of Marcus Garvey Park. Individually, there isn't anything particularly special about the men as they gather together, but as a group, it wouldn't take a genius to determine that these boys are clearly up to no good. There's no visible sign of danger, aside from the fact that a growing number of young and middle-aged men, dressed in jeans, hoodies, jackets, and the like, are all gathering together in the park as time goes on. By and large, they are of latino heritage, and they are gathering on the west end of the park. The Harlem side. This, in and of itself, is a statement, but more concerning to the locals is that these men are -not- locals to Spanish Harlem. As the moments pass, more and more of them seem to come out of the woodwork. They aren't talking... they're just gathering.

Anya's frown is broken briefly by a rueful grin. "There's... a lot you're gonna have to learn," she remarks, not yet explaining how Santa has nothing to do with the earlier remark. Talk of Arachne-Sense, however, wrinkles her nose and brings back the frown. "Yeah... it's kinda... too quiet out there for a Saturday," she remarks, but the last word comes out clipped short, due to Alyx's startle.

Anya turns as well, noting Peter with a brief smile that quickly sours when the scent of Axe Body Spray hits her nostrils. "Seriously, Peter... lay off the bro-sauce, man." A gesture is given between the two. "Alyx Sun? Peter Parker. This is the guy I told you about, yeah? The science guy. He's good." A grin. "Trust me."

Following a brief visual inspection of the brownies, it takes a lot of willpower not to make a snarky remark about bakery and marijuana. Points to Anya on that one. Granted, she's emboldened by the general aura of doom that seems to be hovering over the area like a thick blanket. Back to the window she turns, and as she looks on, she can't help but cock her head a bit. "Arana..." she murmurs under her breath. "Marcus Garvey Park. Vigilancia."

Alyx gives Pete an appraising look as he enters, wrinkling her nose at the reek of Axe. "Yes. I'm Alyx." She peers a little closer to the pan, raising an eyebrow. "...Brownies?" She hugs her arms across her chest, shifting a bit uneasily from foot to foot. Totally not having Arachne-Sense tingles. Nope. Can't give that away in front of the perfectly normal Science Guy Pete.

Pete nods to Anya, then turns back to Alyx. "I'm Spider-Man's science guy. He explained that you aren't able to create something we humans need to live, and you were dependent on some pretty bad people for it. So..." He lifts the foil completely off the pan and presses it toward her. "My aunt's recipe, though I'm not the baker she is -- and I've added something. I think it's the thing you need. If not, that's in here." He taps the other pan.

"So, here's my logic: if they're going to prevent you from making something you need to live, it's probably one of what we call the five dispensable amino acids -- these are amino acids that humans make in sufficient amounts that nobody bothers to make supplements, because nobody needs them. Three of them are commonly found in foods that aren't necessarily cheap, but not hard to get either, and they wouldn't want you to stumble across what you needed when you got asparagus or Chinese food, so those are out. "The other two aren't nearly so common. Aspartic acid is a possibility, but I consider it less likely. No, I think they left out Serine." He pushes the brownies toward her. "Because it's just too, neat, you know? The word Serine comes from the Latin word, sericum. Which means 'silk.'"

Somewhere, back at headquarters, reports are coming in of this gathering. Data sifters are analyzing it, using satellite photography to determine identifying features, take stock of body language, and assess commonalities among them. Conclusion: organized violence most likely outcome, from an exclusively male demographic. There's no question which operative would receive the best public response in the MeToo era.

They scramble to deploy the asset, but quietly. It's best everyone have no idea what kind of support system exists behind her. She emerges from the rooftop of an unassuming brownstone a mile out, and starts running. Her metallic boots occasionally flash pink from the heels as she leaps from one rooftop to the next.

Anya is listening, to be sure, but she's shrugged off her backpack and retrieved the smartphone from within. Her face is buried in the screen, fingers tapping every so often as she receives surveillance from Arana.

Meanwhile, the little Spider-Girl drone itself (recently repaired and significantly upgraded) is hovering over the park in question. Her visual recording devices are feeding video back to Anya's phone, and at the young woman's command, begins zooming in on some of the people gathering.

"Quien eres?" Anya murmurs quietly to herself, then quietly walks over toward the computer and sits down at it.

Meanwhile, in the streets on the Harlem side of the park, men and women of the local gangs operating under Cottonmouth are starting to gather. They, also, are coming out of the woodwork; peeking out of windows, climbing down fire escapes, emerging from alleys or jumping off MTA bus lines. Dialogue between them comes quietly, sparsely, and in hushed tones. Arana doesn't notice it just yet, for the drone is still snapping from one person to the other, still focused on the men gathering in the park itself.

Alyx bristles a little a the mention of Spider-Man, but gingerly reaches out and accepts the Pan. "T-Thanks." She holds it up to her face, inhaling deeply. ...Okay, that's /really/ good. Most of the science is kind of going over her head, but... She accepts the other pan too, stacking it atop the first. "...That would be the kind of irony that they would like. They think they're smarter than they are. These smell really good though. I can't tell, but we think it might... might work." She reaches down and digs out a small chunk of each pan, about the size of a sugar cube, and pops them into her mouth one by one. Her gaze shifts off into the middle distance, head tilting as if she's listening to some inner voice. "...Yes. These will work. Thank you."

Anya's shift to the computer also gets a curious look, before another shiver runs through Alyx's body, the electric buzz in her nerves getting worse.

Peter gives Alyx a thumbs-up. "Try the Serine pan on its own next time," he says. "Just to make sure that's the one you need. Anya can get in touch with me if anything goes wrong, of course. And there are foods you can get that will give you serine, too -- it's just that a lot of them are things you're not likely to find on your own. Primarily, you need to eat a lot of meat."

To Anya he says, "If things are going south, I should get out of here -- but I can have Spider-Man come by." A glance at Alyx. "If that's not going to make things worse."

On Anya's cell phone, the video feed has frozen upon a zoomed in shot of one person's neck, where the tattoo of a crown was captured. On the computer, Anya is ferociously banging through web pages, going back and forth between two. She settles upon one, which bears an image of that same tattoo taken from another person at another time. "Hold on.... Fuck!" Anya darts to her feet, clearly alarmed. "Oh, no! Nonono. This isn't good. This is -really- not good!" Her phone comes up and she speaks into it, her voice trembling with audible signs of panic. "Arana, vigilancia oeste." The phone's video feed zooms out and pants westward, where these presumably opposing gang members are visibly gathering on the Harlem street side of the park.

"Oh my God," she breathes, eyes wide. "Get out of here, Pete, and get Spider-Man on the phone. We're gonna need him. We're gonna need -everyone-." She spins around, turns the computer so that they can see, and takes a deep breath.

"Latin Kings are back." The Latin Kings operate out of Chicago, and bailed out of East Harlem almost 12 years ago, when the neighborhood began to feel the effects of gentrification. Their departure signaled a period of significantly reduced crime in the neighborhood. "I think we're about to be in the middle of a war zone."

Said warzone has yet to become a reality. However, the gathering latino men in Marcus Garvey Park seem to have taken notice of Cottonmouth's thugs. It doesn't take much to see that red line being drawn somewhere between Mt. Morris Park West and Malcolm X Blvd. A pair from the park side step forward, and a trio from the Harlem side emerge, walking across the street to meet them. Whatever is coming, it seems it won't be entirely without some sense of procedure.

On the corner of a rooftop overlooking Garvey, a woman in skintight bands of gray and blue metal is perched on her toes and fingertips, the red gleam from the lenses in her silvery mask hiding an HUD that is scanning the crowd for the chemical signatures of weapons: bullets most obviously, but also the presence of alcohol that would suggest a molotov. An implant in her inner ear delivers the voice of her handler, commanding, "The company forbids the use of your energy weapons. The public would not accept your use of powers against such menial thugs." The voice does not wait for an acknowledgment; it expects the order to be obeyed without question.

Peter doesn't even acknowledge Anya's statement verbally -- just heads out the door at a run, fishing his phone from his pocket and dialing a spare phone he has set up, secreted on the top of the Empire State Building's antenna -- where it's unlikely to be found. As he bursts through the tattoo parlor, he announces, "Spidey! It's Pete! Head to Garvey Park - the Latin Kings are back!"

Admittedly, Peter, and thus Spidey as well, was only 13 when the Latin Kings left town, but that's neither here nor there. There's trouble, and that's what the message is conveying. Or would be conveying, if he weren't essentially calling himself.

Once outside, Peter ducks into an alley, ostensibly to get as far from the park as possible, as quickly as possible. But he's just looking for a place to hide and change and also to use baby wipes to clear off the stink of Axe body spray so, again, Alyx doesn't put two and two together.

Alyx nods, re-wrapping the pans assuming that Pete still has the tin foil available. "Thank you. I will use the computers at FEAST for more research, now that I know what I'm looking for." Anya's sudden outburst confirms the buzz. Gang warfare is definitely a reason for danger. "We can... deal with it. As long as he doesn't get too close. We don't want people to get hurt." She ducks out after Pete, jogging at a surprising pace considering she's carrying two trays of brownies. Sticky hands are incredibly useful.

Once she's cleared the area and found her own rooftop, the pans are securely webbed to the top of a HVAC unit. Her clothes start to shift, darkening and flowing together up and over her face. But this time... This time it'll be different. Instead of the typical stark black and white 'feral symbiote' costume, she looks substantially more like a regular cape. A Spider-Suit, in black and purple. Of course, if people look really close, they might realize something's off about the eye lenses, but... Hopefully nobody will be paying that much attention.

They may not be visible to the naked eye, but every single one of the men and women gathered on each side are packing heat - everything from semi-automatic pistols to assault rifles. And yeah... there's booze. Some for enjoying, some for burning.

"You see this?" One of the Kings points at the street beneath his feet. "New border. We're taking back Spanish Harlem. Right here, right now. You got one hour to get your skanky-ass bitches and your sloppy-ass pushers outta here. Clear 'em out, one hour."

The gang member opposite the Kingsman stares at his would be enemy for a long moment. He doesn't speak a word.

The Kingsman steps forward, and the look in his eye is threatening. "Get out your phone. Get your n**** Cottonmouth on, and tell him. One... fucking... hour... or we'll burn your precious club to the ground."

Meanwhile, in the tattoo shop, Anya turns back to Alyx as Peter runs away. "Okay," she says to Alyx. "I'll be right there!" Instead of following, Anya sits down at the computer and begins getting to work. This... will be questionable later, of course. On the computer, she's very quickly hacking into the MTA and NYC Traffic databases as if she's done this before. "Arana," she says, her earpiece still feeding verbal commands to the Spider-Girl Drone. "Atasco las radios de la policia de Nueva York."

Anya's not calling for help. No... she's jamming the police radios, and in turn, their in-cruiser data networks.

Peter hears plenty from where he's getting into costume. It's a somewhat longer process than usual, what with being covered in alcohol, which is drying his skin out rather a lot. Ugh. He's not going to smell like himself to Arachne either. But once he's managed to struggle into his spandex and leave his Peter Parker gear stashed in an open vent on the side of an apartment building, he makes his way to a rooftop overlooking the park. Taking the Kings by surprise is the ideal -- and best if Spider-Girl and Arachne are able to coordinate with him when they do it.

<OOC> Peter Parker has to warn, he's got to go run errands pretty soon -- about half an hour. Anya, feel free to emit Spidey smacking down Kings on the edge of the battlefield and making things easier for others.

Fully suited up, Arachne leaps a few rooftops, yanking herself along with strands of black web, until she gets back to a building fairly close to the park. She's still not quite sure where Spider-Girl is, but... She should show up soon. And then they can do things together. She's not about to start a fight yet, but she does perch on the edge of the rooftop and stare down at the forming lines of battle below

It doesn't take long for Anya to access the MTA and NYDOT servers. Within moments, the traffic signals are being overridden - red lights on all streets coming into the area, and green lights locked on roads leading out of a ten block radius. She's letting people get out, and not letting people in. A similar effect is being taken with the MTA lines, affecting bus routes and train lines. "Arana," she speaks while working. "Connectar Spider-Net." This connects the spider-folk's comm devices... though Arana, where she hovers over the park, blats like R2-D2 and suddenly flies toward Arachne.

Meanwhile, in the park...

The representative for Cottonmouth smiles at his counterpart. Rather than speaking, he turns his head to the side and nods his head. To whom, it's not exactly clear... but a moment later, the Latin Kingsman's forehead is ripped open by a bullet. The fence behind him is sprayed with blood and grey matter. Within seconds, the opposing gang members raise their voices in a cacophony of shouts, insults, cursing and racial slurs. Weapons are brandished, loaded, and waved around. People who aren't involved scatter, running for the proverbial hills. However, the impending violence, it would seem, is held by a few precious seconds.

As hardened as these thugs are, none of them are really itching to die.

Arana approaches Arachne and opens a compartment. Inside is an earcomm, ready for her to use. Meanwhile, in the nick of time, Anya completes her hacking. She then grabs the computer, rips it free from its cables, and throws it with the force of a wrecking ball toward the router and modem across the room. Both items are smashed into pieces. "Enrique!" she cries, while bursting from the shop and making for the door. "Bajar! Kings are back!"

Time's up. All of those illegally purchased firearms are suddenly coming alive, and the short distance between the street and the park is filled with gunfire.

Subcutaneous implants awaken, a lattice of copper and gold beneath the skin forming a second nervous system that charges her body like a flood of adrenaline would. The woman atop the roof leaps down, her long hair trailing behind her like a black comet. "I have this! Everyone get clear!" she yells, an order unnecessary since everyone is fleeing, but it serves the purpose of attracting attention to her as she lands in the park, all two hundred and fifty pounds of her, only her shoulders and mouth not encased in flexible metal.

"Who invited Robocop?" some wit with a fondness for Peter Weller snaps. Derisive laughter follows, cut off as the woman it's aimed at flashes across the park to bury her foot in a flying straight kick right in the thug's belly. He goes down hard, retching up spittle. Like a ninja, the gray-blue woman is already on her feet and twirling away from her position. The sunlight reflects off her chassis in confusing sparkles. Stupid thing to keep connected.

Arachne quickly shoves the earpiece into her ear, a hole briefly forming to allow it in before sealing over it again. At the sound of gunfire, she launches a web from each wrist, and a blur of black and purple is slingshotted into a group of Kings. She flows between them, delivering fluid strikes and strategic bursts of web to disable guns and stick people's feet to the ground, or limbs to their torsos. Sure, there might be a few broken bones, but better than than gun violence. "Arachne here, we're engaging."

"This won't stay here," Anya is saying, even while throwing a hand into her shirt and pulling the mask over her face. "It'll spread." She throws a hand skyward, a webline flying loose. The backpack is clung to by her free hand, even as she leaps and goes soaring upward. "Doesn't matter who wins or loses. We gotta lock down the park -" A pause in the transmission as she lands gracefully upon the rooftop. Then, there is some grunting in the words as she very much begins ripping her clothing off, revealing the Spider-Girl costume beneath. "Then we gotta - urmf - comb the whole neighborhood. Both of 'em - urf! Boots. Harlem, East Harlem, both. Hold on guys, I'm almost ready!"

Meanwhile, Spider-Man is engaging from the opposite end, forming a triangle of sorts between where Robocop and Arachne are engaging the gangs. This leaves one area open, and as Spider-Girl makes for the edge of the rooftop, she spies it. "Incoming!" she calls, before vaulting into the air. She springs over the train running over Park Ave, then quickly pendulums between two buildings to gain speed. Then, she's soaring over the park, descending toward a trio of thugs who are unleashing hell toward the Harlem side of the park. She lands with two feet into one's back, knocking him into the second, and rips the gun right out of the third's hand.

"Guns are -stupid-!" she tells the thug, before whinging it like a baseball bat into the thug's face. "SEE?"

On the ground, the gray and blue woman proves she is not fast enough to dodge bullets. Oh, she's amazingly good, and her moves seem designed to startle her enemies into being unable to aim, but that kind of psychological tactic only works until the third gangster is on the ground; at that point, people get their stuff together. Just ask Batman. A bullet takes her on the right side of the ribcage, not penetrating flesh, but the impact certainly throwing her out of her dervish spinning to land hard on one knee. The gangster who landed the shot crows in self-satisfaction, then screams: the orders regarding use of powers is provisionally rescinded, and the metal-clad woman has permission to fire a jet of pink energy from her fingertips to the ground at his feet. The superheated plasma turns the ground briefly into lava, and his shoes catch fire before he can dance back out of range.

"Someone film that and send it to Nike," the woman quips with a beautiful, sinister smile; but she's already on her feet again, dashing into her next opponent, both fists surrounded by pink auras.

Arachne nods in response to the voice on her comms. "We'll web everyone we can down!" She thwips off a few more blasts of webbing, guns jamming up as the sticky stuff gets into the mechanisms, and gangsters clawing at their faces as they're suddenly blinded. A buzz behind her and she ducks, a shotgun blast taking the thug in front of her off his feet. The wielder of said shotgun is immediately kicked in the groin hard enough to lift him off the ground. "Are you even trying? We can do this all day!" Hey, if they're shooting at her, they're not shooting at civilians...

"Holy shit!" Spider-Girl cries upon seeing what RoboPink can do. "We got the Pink Ranger on our side here!" She flings a pair of weblines to another couple of guns, ripping them right out of the hands holding them. "Don't worry, Arana's recording everything."

From the corner of her eye, she catches Spider-Man suddenly pinned down by a handful of Cottonmouth's thugs. They're firing rounds from AR-15's at him, and he's spinning and flipping about to avoid being pegged by a bullet. He's damn fast, but too locked up in dodging to do anything about them. Rushing over, Spider-Girl lets loose a barrage of web blasts that catch the thugs one at a time, pinning them down against a brick wall. However, before she can do anything else, someone else gets the beat on her. From behind, one of the Latin Kings fires, and four bullets peg her right in the back. The young woman yelps in agony, and collapses face first into the cold grass beneath her. There's no blood; the shells are flattened against her costume, proving that the spider-silk it's woven of is, indeed, just as bullet proof as kevlar. However, it might be easy to miss this critical fact.

With the wind knocked out of her, she lies there silent and still. A crackling sound can be heard as something seeps out from her back; liquid-like at first, the gooey stuff hardens into a chitinous shell of opalescent black and luminescent blue, covering her from head to toe in a protective shell.

The thug who pegged her runs forward, lowering his weapon. Then, he unleashes a barrage of rounds into the fallen hero, the bullets chipping away at the protective armor piece by piece.

Range, melting point, and megawattage are calculated in a second as the metal ninja dodges behind trees, her speed enhanced by blasts from the heels of her boots (or at least, the blue-colored metal that climbs up to mid-thigh like boots). With calibrations duly performed, she peeks out from the tree absorbing bullets for her and extends a hand, fingertips out like the female victim in a horror movie reaching for the kitchen knife that might save her from the slasher behind her; but instead of finding a knife, she emits a needle-thin ray of plasma that turns the barrel of the AK it hits red-hot. The gangster holding it shrieks, drops it, realizes the risk of the bullets overheating, and kicks it as it falls, sending it flying in an arc. He doesn't have time to look back at his assailant before her fist has pounded the back of his head and given him a contracoup injury that leaves him senseless on the earth.

"Spider-Girl!" Arachne sees Anya go down, and leaps out of her current spot in the melee, launching out two more strands of web and *yanking* It's like the slingshot maneuver, but more so. She speeds feet first towards the ganger pumping rounds into her ally, feet meeting his back with a rather visceral noise and sending him flying. A burst of web for good measure, and she tries to check Anya's pulse. Hopefully Pink Ranger/Robocop/whoever the hell she is can keep the majority of the members distracted. Espcially since she seemingly IS bulletproof.

It'll prove difficult to check Anya's pulse considering the shell that has formed around her, but there comes a grunt when Arachne is near. "Mmmmrh. Go. Fight." She moves just so, her insect-like face pried out of the grass. "Go!"

Meanwhile, Spider-Man is thoroughly beating the snot out of the thugs on the Harlem street side of things. There's a lot of shouting, and some confusion, but it would seem that Cottonmouth's people are being told to pull back, retreat, likely to reform elsewhere. The Latin Kings don't seem to be so willing. After all, they are in foreign territory, and don't yet have the advantage of holding turf. They begin turning their attention upon the heroes that remain, ignoring the fallen Spider-Girl for now and instead focusing their attention upon the Pink Robocop and Arachne. Spider-senses are way beyond tingling - right now, they're screaming.

If asked, the woman in metal might disagree with being characterized as bulletproof; then again, she might not, as neurological rerouting prevents the pain from her cracked ribs from reaching her brain. Like her ribs, the tree she's hiding behind has seen better days, so she makes the best tactical move she can think of: she emits a wide, thin blade of energy from her fingertips and swipes it across the tree's base in a reaping strike. The blade cuts through the tree like a lightsaber. She finishes her plan by jumping and pistoning one leg out sideways, kicking like a goddamn Street Fighter character, striking the tree so hard it ponderously topples off its trunk in the direction of her assailants, who have to scatter to avoid being hit by falling branches. Not all of them succeed, and several of the ones who do are left with the vision obscured by the tree's upper branches.

Assured that Spider-Girl isn't dead and/or bleeding out, she launches herself back into the fight. She tries to get herself in the middle of the crowd in the hopes that they won't shoot their own. Best to focus on the Kings, since they wont' retreat. And she doesn't have to hold back quite as much as the other wall-crawler who has way better PR. Dodging and twisting, she continues to deal out broken bones and blasts of webbing. ...Oh hey, and Robocop has a lightsaber. That's pretty cool. And a good way to take out lots of popel eat once....

Soon enough, Spider-Man finds himself freed up to join in the fight against the Latin Kings, whose numbers are in fact dwindling. He is intentionally filling the gaps where Arachne and Pink aren't closing in. Before long, Spider-Girl is able to recover, and crawls to her armored feet. She's still feeling a bit winded, but not so winded that she can't lift two arms. The webbing comes through tiny holes in the armor, and it shoots forth in a wide arc. A net. She's been practicing this one but yet to really put it into action; the net flies out and falls upon a handful of the Kings. Pulling the strands together, she tugs, and the net closes, wrapping around them and pulling the thugs into a tangled ball of bad clothes, guns, and cursing.

At that point, it's just mop-up. The woman in metal lifts her fists to chin level like a boxer, and lets a blade snap-hiss into existence from the back of each one: she then smiles at the remaining Latin Kings. "No future in it, gentlemen," she advises them, and waits to see if they take the smart path or the dumb one.

Ooooh. Even /more/ lightsabers! And Anya's back on her feet! Still doing her best to steer clear of SPider-Man, she shifts to a slightly more defensive fighting style than her earlier all-out brawling, mostly webbing people to the ground while also making their guns jam uselessly. Any moment they're not quite running, is more of them having to stay behind. "Yeah! We have the high ground!" ...How do We know that?

Those Latin Kings remaining suddenly book it, headed eastbound for Spanish Harlem. "Spider-Man?" Anya says into the comm, and gestures that he follow them. Not only is he fast and good at tracking... it'll get him away from Arachne. "Arana, escolta." The little Spider-Drone turns and flies off after him, providing updated surveillance.

Finally, the shell begins to fall away from Anya. She shrugs her arms and legs to help get the gross stuff off her, and the disgust is visible on the exposed lower half of her face. The act causes her to grimace, and she turns around a bit to try and get a look at her back. Four flattened out shells fall, one by one, when she turns her back, and another grimace comes to her face. "They aren't kidding. That really hurts."

<Do not pursue, agent,> comes the command. <Let Spider-Man bear the responsibility for their failure.>

Compliance is mandatory. Instead, the long-haired woman takes a long-legged saunter over toward the other two, smiling easily. "I'm glad you two showed up. You saved lives today. Are you alright?" she asks the more obviously injured one. Stupid thing to keep connected.

"We're fine. We're not sure about Spider-Girl, though." Arachne gestures towards Anya, tilting her head a bit to one side questioningly. "Do you need medical help? We could go find a first aid kit somewhere." She looks back at the probable cyborg again, appraisingly. "We were already in the area."

"I think so," Anya answers. She pats her stomach indicatively. "Spider silk. Strong as kevlar, apparently, but I ain't had a chance to test it until today." A pause, and a groan. "Not that it was any fun." She turns her head to Arachne and shakes it negatively. "Probably a pretty nasty bruise under there, but... sorry kiddo, it's too cold to go stripping in broad daylight."

An expression of irritation now crops up, and the masked latina reaches up to fix her hair. It's all messed up and there are chunks of chitinous armor all through it, which go clattering to the ground at her fingertips. "The goddamn Kings. I should'a known," she chides herself. "There's been all this whispering. Quiet real estate deals, shady evictions, all kinds of weird stuff. I'm gonna tell you both, right now, that ain't all of 'em. These guys are organized. They're like the gestapo. Bet you a hundred bucks they've got people all over Spanish Harlem, waited to make their move until they had a stronghold."

By now, she's pacing, irritated. "This is why the smaller gangs have been quiet. Probably got recruited by the Kings, had to go through their crazy boot camp shit, got told to settle down and wait for the right time. Which is now." She turns to look back at Arachne and the Pink Warrior. "You mark my words. This is just the beginning."

The woman in gray and blue metal takes a respectful step back as the chitinous woman stands from a gunshot wound. "It sounds like your intelligence is better than theirs, if you heard whispers about this but they had no idea to expect you two."

"We're... not really from around here. We were just visiting her." Arachne gestures towards Anya again. "All the intel work is hers." The spider in purple and black looks down at the pile of chitin for a second, before bringing her gaze back up. if the brownies really do work... She doesn't need to scavenge any more. She can actually fight back.

"Well, I don't wear a mask when I'm doing my investigating," Spider-Girl admits. She didn't intend to make that type of a strategic decision, but is now realizing just how smart of an accident it may have been. Coming back to her senses, she looks back to the woman that she and Arachne don't yet know, and offers a tired smile. "I'm Spider-Girl. Spanish Harlem's... kinda my turf."

"They call me Cyblade," the metal woman explains, tossing her hair pertly. Her skin is dark enough she might be Latina; then again, she could be Mediterranean. Hard to tell, when there's nothing to go off of but a mouth, chin, and shoulders. "Since Spanish Harlem is so well protected, I'll leave you to it; but if you ever need help, I'll be around."

And on that line, sounding like the hero from a radio serial, she flips the other heroes a salute and bounds off in a series of blast-enhanced leaps.

"...Well that was a thing. We just fought alongside a cyborg." Arachne leans back against a tree, scratching hte back of her neck. "...Sorry if we caused you any trouble. You've helped us, and..." She trails off, managing to look extremely awkward despite the suit.

For a brief moment, Spider-Girl seems to bear an expression of wonder. 'Cyblade' is such a cool-ass name, way cooler than hers, or Peters, though Alyx's certainly stands a chance at competing on the same level of cool. She nods her head and grins. "Thanks for the help, Cyblade."

She watches as the woman departs, then whistles quietly. "Damn. Saying it even sounds cool. Arana?" A pause. "Catalogo 'Cyblade'. Enviar solicitud de contacto y banner amigable."

Spider-Girl walks over toward Arachne then, her expression tired. Too much fighting, too much emotion. "Actually," she answers, "you... kinda kicked ass today. She's right. You and I saved lives today. And you didn't break off and go after Spider-Man. That's some real progress." A deep breath. "But look... we gotta scram. I kinda... hacked the city's networks, kept the cops away, jammed up traffic and completely fucked over the MTA's grid and schedule. I need to go get my backpack, undo all that, and... you know, I could eat about twenty tacos. Wanna go grab a bite?"

"We're pretty hungry too. just gotta grab the brownies. Tell us where to meet?" The mask melts away around Arachne's mouth, and she offers a smile to Spider-Girl. "You're buying, though. We only have twenty bucks."

"Yeah, you keep that," Spider-Girl says. "And stay in costume. We can get all kinds of free food that way." She gives Arachne the address for where they're meeting, then runs off toward Spanish Harlem.

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