"NnnNNNnngeeaaeeegh," says Purple, about to be bodily crawled upon by what looks to them like the very apologetic bastard child of a snare flea and a bunker spider with pinkeye, and caught without their emotional support shovel to boot. They drop the chair, but not quickly enough to keep Spider-Dad from grabbing their arm, which they flail around wildly. Their non-spidered arm reaches automatically into their jacket pocket. "Nope nope nope nope nope, get off me!"

Their hand closes on the hilt of their knife, but they stop themselves, memories flashing through their mind of wailing blood-splattered Maneater larvae and little orphans sitting down and refusing to move, and instead peel the jacket off and fling it onto the ground. Scaling scenic Mt. Purple will be a true test of Tarantulas' reflexes and dexterity! Not so much Dawn's, since she's still clinging to their helmet with determination and the sticky hands that no toddler would go long without.