Okay, so this is just a quick two-parter I wrote on like three-hours of sleep so it's not my best (though I did like writing it). I just really like the idea of Peter going dark and stuff (though in reality it would literally never happen). This isn't like based on a particular universe of anything either, it's just for fun so ya know :D
Oh, and by 'two-parter' I mean that there will be that the second chapter will be the 'happy' or 'light' version.
Just saying, this fic was also inspired by another fic which I now can't remember the name of. When I find it I will credit it, so don't worry!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
The [Worst] Out Of All Of Them
"Are you kidding? You took a bullet without even hesitating.
When you grow up, you're going to be the best out of all of us."
- Steve Rogers to Peter Parker
The Ultimate Spider-Man
He feels the weight of the man's neck in his grip, feels the pulse beneath his fingers and the rapid pants that rattle that heaving chest. Two wide eyes stare down at him, what had once been a savage and bitter snarl morphing into panic as pale, wrinkled hands claw at him weakly.
It would be almost trivial, he realises. Like crushing a tin can, or ripping open a chocolate bar- simple, effortless and and oh-so very easy.
Maybe it's the dormant spider instincts in him, or maybe even the ugly uncontrollable rage that swells inside his chest, but suddenly he feels the inexplicable urge to take the man's neck and crush it beneath his grip. He feels the sudden sickening need to hurt this man, to punish him for what he'd done to his family, his friends, his city-
It takes a moment for those weighty thoughts to swim about in his head before the disgust finally sets in. He, Spider-Man, the hero who had promised to never harm another person, was thinking about murdering someone. Was thinking of taking someone's life.
In his minds-eye, he sees the ominous glint of a gun in a wrinkled grip and watches the bullet slice through thin air like a butter knife. Images of an enraged mass of muscled, green fury flood his mind, the shattered echo of an animalistic roar ringing in his ears. The terrified screams of the New York City crowds were a vivid echo.
For a moment, with a gun in his hand and anger burning in his eyes, Thaddeus Ross had never looked sadder.
It was obvious what the man had been after. He'd wanted to release the Hulk on the city, even at the cost of the city- even at the cost of himself. It had been a desperate plan, even for a man like Ross- a last-ditch effort to condemn the Avengers and everything they stood for- but it couldn't be said that it wasn't effective.
Spider-Man feels the weight of the crowd's gaze on his back and looks up. His own mask glares coldly back at him from the news-screens that make up the city centre. Two cold black goggles stare unblinkingly from the frayed expression of a torn, red mask. The image should be recognisable to him; a figure of hope and courage if ever he saw one, but it didn't look like his mask anymore. It looked like it belonged to someone else.
He squeezes his fist lightly and feels the man beneath his grip gasp and thrash in a blind panic. Behind him, someone cries out his name- not his real name, of course- and he turns half-obligingly.
He sees Bruce on his hands and knees, wheezing and choking as he fights back the vile green that's beginning to surface beneath his skin. A dirt-stained Black Widow is poised at his side, a comforting arm slung across his arched back even as she stares back at Peter unblinkingly. A gun dangles limply from her other hand. Hawkeye is standing lop-sided, hand grasping at a bloody wound that marks his chest as he struggles to keep his balance. Peter half-notices how he's trying to lift his bow- to aim at himself or the man flailing in his grasp, he's not sure. Then there's Wanda, with red tongues of light licking at her finger-tips and flickering through her eyes as she leans exhaustedly into Vision's gentle, half-embrace. The android looks conflicted but just as strong as ever, a stoic frown gracing his lips as the jewel in his forehead dims.
"Spider-Man."
His gaze flickers.
The good Captain himself stands only a few feet away, tarnished shield tossed carelessly at his feet as he stretches his hands out to Peter. At his side is Tony, his mentor, watching the scene with a pale, ashen expression that looks oddly out of place in his iron armour.
"Just put him down. It's over now." Steve Rogers- the star-spangled man with a plan- looks unnaturally shaken. He sounds desperate; as if he doesn't quite know what he's supposed to do. As if he's choking on the words and on the shaky memories. (Later, Peter wonders exactly how similar he looked to the old, ruthless form of the Winter Soldier at that moment. He doesn't realise that the image he paints is infinitely worse.)
Spider-Man glances away.
There's Ant-Man, who's sprawled across the ground with blood pouring down his temple and an unnerved frown upon his face. The Falcon is leaning against a car door, wings sparking and twitching unsteadily. Bucky looks unusually perturbed, cuts and smears of blood marring his pale face. Doctor Strange is ever-serious but grimacing, floating a few inches above the ground as magic sizzled around him angrily. Thor looks near untouched compared to his brow-beaten, sweaty team-mates but his face screams of anguish. Blue puppy-dog eyes watch him sombrely, Mjölnir gripped tightly in his hand and half-raised in defence.
They're looking at him as if they've never really seen him before.
He almost laughs at that.
Because they haven't, not really. They don't really know him as well as they could. They know him as Spider-Man, not Peter Parker- as a hero, not a child. But it's not their fault, of course, but...
(Vaguely- and with hysterical laughter slipping from his throat- he wonders why he's doing this. Why is he going so far for those he doesn't really know and who don't really know him? What's the point? Though in truth, he's always known why.)
Spider-Man was done. He is tired of being the underdog, of being under-estimated, of being useless. He is tired of being insulted and attacked by those he was trying to protect. He is tired of watching his friends get hurt. He is tired of waiting around and doing nothing. He is tired of the lies, of the hate, of the destruction. He is tired of the accords, of the fights, of Thaddeus Ross.
He is just so tired.
So tired that he doesn't even think about it.
The sudden snap of Ross's neck rings in his ears and the air goes eerily still and silent. Almost as if in slow motion, he watches the body slip out from his fingers and drop to the floor, slumping in a broken puddle of blood and bones with a sickening thump. Killing someone isn't anything like he imagined. The Earth doesn't shake, time doesn't stop, his breath doesn't even still in his chest. He knows he should feel something, anything- but he doesn't. He just feels numb. He doesn't need to look up at the screens to know what he looks like, but he does it anyway.
It's so much worse than he imagined.
A single red and blue masked figure stands suspended in the middle of the city, police lights flashing dangerously across the torn, blood-stained fabric of his costume. Darkness dances over the slouched form, throwing the hero's expression into a half-darkness that changes the expression of his mask into one far more menacing then he's used to. At his feet lies a corpse with a crooked neck, wide terror-filled eyes staring glassily at the horrified crowd.
That's not a hero, Peter thinks, that's a murderer. A monster.
(Vaguely, he wonders if the rest of the world is watching his fall from grace. Part of him wonders whether, somewhere, the infamous merc-with-a-mouth is jeering at him. 'Yeah, go get him, Spidey!' or something like that. He wonders if the Fantastic Four are staring at a fuzzy TV screen with wide-eyed horror. He wonders if the X-Men are already resigned for the impending backlash. He wonders where his aunt is. He wonders if his Uncle Ben is looking down at him right now in shame and fury. Honestly, he wouldn't blame him.)
The bile burns the back of his throat and his stomach churns furiously as he stares at his hand in part-disbelief. This wasn't a battle against some infamous super-villain. This was a battle against a tired, old man who'd had nothing left to lose. A stranger fuelled by pointless revenge- as if that story isn't familiar enough already.
Spider-Man is frozen in the aftermath. First, he looks to the shell-shocked faces of the New Yorkers, the gritted tension in their features. For a moment, he swears that he catches a glimpse of grey, peppered hair in the crowd and falters but forces himself to turn away. Next he looks to the remainder of Earth's Mightiest Heroes and flinches at the way they grip their weapons as they start to turn on him. There is pity and conflict raging in their expressions and something that looks like betrayal flickering through their eyes as he watches their faith in him crumble away. Then finally, he looks at himself- the shadow reflected in the screens and the nearby windows; a murderer and a monster dressed in a hero's bloody skin.
"Spider-Man, this is the New York City's Police Department. Put your hands in the air."
He jumps defensively and spins around to see a dozen guns pointed in his direction. He's used to that, of course- used to the guns and the shouts and the anger and the fear. But not like this. Never like this.
His spider-sense screams and thrashes for attention but he doesn't dare move. The tell-tale lights from the police siren's tint the world a murderous red, then blue; it's almost poetic. They are colours that should stand for freedom, for justice and righteousness, but he doesn't feel any of that right now. Instead, he just feels sick. He doesn't know what to do.
Spider-Man gives a weak, weary sigh and drops his hand back to his side, nails digging into his skin. He's scared. He's only 16 years old and he's terrified. He's scared of himself, of what he knows he just did and of what he still could do. He doesn't know what's going to happen now. Though actually, that's a lie- he knows exactly what's going to happen. They're going to call him a monster and he will run- run as far as he can and never come back because he would never be welcome in New York City ever again. He would never be welcome anywhere ever again. Not a murderer like him.
He goes to raise his hand; to fire a single web across that shaken sky and swing away as if nothing had ever happened... but then he stops.
"With great power, comes great responsibility."
The forgotten words shake him to his core, nearly choking him with their weight.
Slowly, almost gracefully, he puts his hands in the air. He hears the crowd almost sob in relief behind him as he surrenders. But then he keeps going. His hands go up and up and up until he's no longer holding them up in defeat, but raising them to the back of his neck, grasping the material he finds there and pulling.
The city goes deadly quiet.
Spider-Man- crying but unafraid- stares out at the world through the clouded brown eyes of a bruised and battered teenager. His expression is set grimly and his skin is covered in wounds and bruises that decorate his face with a dangerous rainbow of yellows, and purples, and browns, and reds. His hair is rumpled and even with a dead body slumped at his feet and blood dripping down his face, in that moment it is truly obvious how young he is.
The crowd watches with baited breath as the boy lets the mask slip from between his fingers. The only thing that protected him from the world- his identity itself- drops away, leaving only a frightened, jaded teenager with blood dripping from his new-forged ledger like tears.
He is not Spider-Man- the respected super-hero, well-known Avenger or loathed vigilante.
He is Peter Parker- nerdy high-schooler, awkward teenager, beloved nephew.
Murderer.
Hope you enjoyed, guys!
Next Time: The [Best] Out Of All Of Us
SkyriseN X