Who: Miguel (other) What: coffee Where: Standing beside a table in the food court When: Thursday evening Warnings: Miguel is still not in a good headspace. But he's working on it? Kinda? Status: Open!
Miguel's face hurt. But he could open his right eye again and the bruises that had blossomed all down that side of his face were now at the Ugly stage, rainbow colors as his body dealt with the blood under his skin. They'd be gone by morning, and his eye would be fine within a couple of hours. The bruising was all down his side as well, while his ribs would be tender for maybe another day or so. But that was what happened when Flyboys got ideas into their heads - a handful of them had baited him, kept him busy and distracted before one of them had flown into him and rammed him up against a building corner, and then the rest had joined in. He'd fought them off - his body was now designed for carrying on despite huge impact forces, after all - and fought back, breaking a couple more of their cycles and a few limbs in the process and then he'd vanished into Downtown.
And then a gang of Fenris decided to make him their business? Maybe he'd disrupted a protection racket or some sort of punishment beating or what-the-shock-ever. He didn't know and didn't much care at that point in time, since it seemed to be the day for "ganging up on Spider-Man", but at least they weren't paying attention to the escaping couple, the girl dragging the guy along with her. The attempts at punching him didn't bother him in the slightest. The metal bar being swung at him was an annoyance at most, but he'd have been dealing with a few extra holes in his arm if he hadn't been wearing the Suit. It was as impervious to punctures as ever and he'd sliced through the main Fenris' knife with his talons about half a second after that stupid attempt at stabbing him. The shocking idiot had screamed and pissed himself when Miguel had returned the favor and sliced through the meat of his arm. Gang mentality in Downtown was something Miguel still didn't really understand, but his time on the other station meant that he more than understood Surviving at All Costs. The bit-head was lucky it had been his arm in the way and not his throat. The gang scattered after that, and Miguel decided it would be for the best if he just went back to the station and got a coffee.
The suit was left in his apartment in Nueva York - Lyla had insisted on cleaning it - so Miguel was now wearing clothes that still hung loose on him, his sore right arm clamped down against his sore right side, standing in the food court and trying to work out if he could get a coffee (Was he allowed? Where would he get it from?) or if he might be better just sitting down. At least he wasn't bleeding on the floor.