SPIT: Do you really, honestly, truly think that Raw’s the only attacker I had? Oh, you delicious fools.
SPIT: WRITHE.
The cage type flinches.
SPIT: GET OFF YOUR CLUNKY, USELESS METAL ASS AND GRAB THAT GHOST!
Writhe looks conflicted, looking up at the eye above the door and back to Jasper. It doesn’t seem to take in the words, but by the look of it, it recognizes that tone. It takes a wobbling step towards the phantom type, making a distressed, low whine as it does, like something scraping against its metal bars.
SPIT: For the love of- just GRAB THEM ALREADY.
SPIT: Useless piece of shit.
SPIT: We’ll see what Hark makes of them.
Jasper’s growing panicky, demanding to know what they’re going to do to them. Spit just laughs and laughs, growing louder with every cackle.
They don’t want to leave Marvel, they can’t, but they can’t lift them…they aren’t strong enough! There has to be something! There has to be something they can do that’ll make this work!
EASTWOOD: …
EASTWOOD: There is one thing.
EASTWOOD: But you’re gonna hate it.