*ORIGINALLY TITLED: The Spider Chronicles
A/N: Hello! New to the fandom, and wanted to make my own little contribution to the wonders of Bechloe. I've become slightly obsessed with Spider!Beca stories, and figured I'd try my hand at it. Although I love me some Peter Parker, his origin story has been used enough, and I wanted to give some love to a certain other Parker - his lovely daughter Mayday. My knowledge of the Spiderman universe is pretty limited, but I won't be delving too deeply into it; more like borrowing a few aspects from the comics/movies here or there, and tying it into Pitch Perfect to make a semi-original story line. Consider this version... Earth-P.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Along Came a Spider
'Just keep running. Just keep running. Just keep running.'
Like a broken record, the words play through her head; on and on they go, a mantra pleading for sanity in an otherwise insane situation. Chloe can taste blood on her lips, dirt too, but the metallic tang that fills her mouth is far more concerning than the gritty, bland mixture of sand and soil. Her legs churn, feet slipping along cold concrete and wet streets, gasping for air with every shuddering breath.
She can feel her heart beat frantically beneath her breast, thrashing against its bone prison, as if to break free of her ribs and leave her behind. Chloe's lungs burn, screaming for more oxygen that she just can't provide; she tries anyway - inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. She takes massive gulps of air, swallowing them down her raw, and aching throat; she can't let it get to her, can't let the pain win out. She's lucky Aubrey is such a perfectionist, and for what must be the first time ever, she's actually grateful for the strict regimen of cardio that the blonde had forced upon her in preparation for their upcoming reign of the Barden Bellas.
Chloe had always been an advocate for good physical health, and while her own fitness is nothing to laugh at, she's certain that, if not for the mandatory training sessions, she'd be long gone by now. Still, running laps around the school stadium is a far cry from running for one's life, and while she's kept a steady pace, she can feel herself slowing down. Against her better judgement, she tilts her head, glancing backwards over her shoulder to peek at her pursuers.
And that's when she falls.
She cries loudly as she trips over a crevice in the pavement, arms thrown out as she braces for impact; her palms collide hard with the ground, followed by her knees and then the rest of her body. There's a sickening crack, and angry, red hot pain lances through her, radiating from her wrist to elbow, and then all the way up to her shoulder. Tears spring to her eyes, arm instinctively cradled against her chest as she flips onto her behind, feet kicking at the floor in a desperate attempt to create more space between her and her followers.
Alas, it's to no avail; what distance she had initially created is quickly bridged, the heavy thud of her stalkers' footprints echoing through the darkened city streets as the gap between them closes; louder and louder they get, like a horde of rampaging elephants, and soon she knows she'll be surrounded.
Reaching for her purse, she flings it into the nearest man's chest, begging, "Please, take it! Just take it! It's all that I have!"
"Sweetie," he leers, shoving the bag into his friend's hands, "It ain't your money that I want."
His words are accompanied by the twisting of her gut, stomach churning at the way he stares - the way they all stare - as if she's nothing more than a piece of meat to be devoured. It's disgusting, and if she weren't so scared and so utterly, utterly alone, she might have said something; might have told them off for objectifying her, for degrading her self-worth as a fucking human being.
Chloe wants to fight, wants to show them that she isn't some weak, helpless girl - and it's not as if she doesn't know how to. Self-defense classes had been part of the arrangement she'd made with her parents for allowing her to attend college out of state, and she'd always been a quick study. The body is a series of weak points - throat, elbows, knees, ankles - and she knows, she knows, that if she can hit them just right, he'll fall like a stack of bricks.
But he's more than just one man - four of them by her count - and even if she were to get the drop on him, there'd be three more waiting. It's bad enough that her wrist is broken - or, at the very least, badly sprained - but even in peak condition, she doubts that one summer of training is enough to get her through the real deal.
In other words… she's screwed.
"It'll be fun," the man promises, as if sensing her impending surrender. "I'll make you feel real good, babe. You'll love it…"
Just as she's getting ready to accept her fate, Chloe's salvation comes in the form of a small, black and blue blur; it flies out of nowhere, barreling straight into her main assailant with violent precision. With a bellow of shock, he's thrown cleanly off his feet, crashing into a dumpster where his head smashes against it with a resounding 'clang!' He slides to the floor in a silent heap, and doesn't get back up.
The ensuing chaos is just that: chaos. Her savior - another woman, by the looks of it - drops low, dodging a retaliatory blow, and uses the man's own momentum to throw him over her shoulder and into the cold, hard ground. His grunt of pain is immediately silenced with a swift kick to the head, sending him straight into the realm of unconsciousness. The two that remain share a conspiratorial glance and leap to attack, one from either side; despite the unfair advantage, she seems relatively unfazed, even going so far as to shove her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
She ducks and weaves, expertly evading their wild swings like it's nothing more than a game of tag, all the while spewing snarky little comments every chance she can get.
"What's the matter, boys?" she teases, dancing around a left hook as she slips past their defenses, stomping a foot onto the back of one thug's calf. "Aren't you having fun?" she asks, reiterating the words of the first man to fall.
"You watch your mouth, bitch!" one of them snarls, attempting a jab, which she just as easily avoids.
"Or what? You'll make me?" is her sarcastic retort, before she pulls her hands back out of her pockets. In a flash, she's upon him, mounting the offensive as she takes a flying leap and sinks her fist into his pudgy face. There's a thundering crack as it makes impact, the sound of bone on bone echoing through the darkened streets; he's knocked back a good four or five feet before he goes tumbling to the floor like a stack of jenga bricks, face first into a pile of garbage.
"Looks like I didn't need to go very far to put him in his place," she scoffs, turning her sights on the last man standing. She regards him with an air of cool indifference, staring unflinchingly, even as he whips a blade from his belt and brandishes it at her. Her head tilts as he jerks forward and then back, a scare tactic no doubt meant to catch her off guard. Instead, however, a single brow raises in question, followed by the release of a long, breathy sigh.
"Amateur," she mumbles, sounding exasperated. And then, in one fluid motion, she slaps the knife from his hand and snaps her elbow, digging it sharply into his sternum. He stumbles back, clutching his chest as pain blossoms throughout, and it's all the invitation she needs to finish him off. One, two, three punches, and he's out like a light, joining his friends on the floor.
"Too easy," the woman mumbles, shaking her head as she stares down at her handiwork. But then she perks up, as if suddenly realizing she's forgotten something, and spins around to find the redhead they'd been following still sitting on the ground, her eyes wide and mouth slack jawed. "Shit, are you okay? Wait, sorry, stupid question! Of course you're not okay, who would be? Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? You're not gonna die on me, right? I mean, do I need to, like... take you to a hospital? Or… or, here, let me take a look at you real quick. I know first aid and… uhm…"
In the blink of an eye, she's by her side, and all Chloe can do is stare in awe as her mysterious protector dissolves into a rambling mess - a stark contrast to the calm and cool demeanor with which she had taken down her adversaries. 'It's kind of cute,' she muses, and thinks that, if not for the situation, she might find herself giggling at the girl's obvious lack at social grace.
"Thank you," she interrupts, placing her uninjured hand over the other woman's. "You saved my life."
"O-oh, yeah. Totally, no problem," she replies, attempting to play it off cool, but Chloe can see the way her face glows with the start of a blush; can feel the miniscule twitch of a hand beneath her fingertips. She finds it rather endearing, to say the least. "What were you even doing out this late?" she goes on, "The city isn't exactly the safest place to go wandering around, especially at night and all on your own."
"I know, I know," Chloe sighs, her own cheeks heating with shame. "I was out at the club with some friends and needed to leave early. I live just off campus, near Barden University, and it's really only a fifteen minute walk away. I figured I could save myself the cab money, and I needed a bit of fresh air anyway… but somewhere along the way, I must have taken a wrong turn and ended up in a different part of town. These goons here tried to jump me, and… well, I think you can figure out the rest…"
The woman makes a noncommittal "ah" as she shucks off her jacket and slips it around Chloe's shoulders, bundling her up in its warmth. "Well, I guess you're lucky that I showed up when I did then," she remarks, whipping out her phone. "Anyway, sit tight. I'm gonna call the cops to round up these idiots, and hopefully get you some medical attention too." As she talks, she paces back and forth between the fallen men, giving them each a kick here or there for good measure, and despite herself, Chloe can't help but let a small smile through.
"What's your name?" she asks, once the girl is finished explaining their situation to dispatch, and there's nothing left for them to do but wait it out.
"Huh?" The girl seems genuinely surprised to be asked, pointing a finger at herself, as if to ask 'who, me?' When Chloe nods, she laughs sheepishly and replies, "Oh, sorry. My mom always said that I was bad with manners. I'm-..."
"Beca. Beca Mitchell," she says, as she hands her ID over to the motel receptionist.
"Thank you," the man replies, flashing her a smile that is so obviously forced, it's almost painful (she's been there, she's worked retail - she knows a fake smile when she sees one). "Your reservation says you've booked a single for the weekend. Is that correct?" When she confirms the statement, he spends the next two minutes typing away at the computer, printing out her receipt and keying in a card for her room.
"Know of any places to eat around here that are still open?" she asks, as he passes Beca back her cards. She's just come off a five hour plane ride, and while peanuts and soda are fine, they are hardly substantial (nor healthy, though she doesn't particularly care about that one). After pointing her in the direction of a small, 24-hour diner just down the block, she thanks the man for his assistance and - with a strength that beguiles her stature - effortlessly carries her backpack, three suitcases, and a skateboard out of the lobby and towards her room.
"Home, sweet home," she jokes, throwing her suitcases in the closet. There's no point in unpacking - not when she's only there for three days - and so, after changing into clothes that don't carry the stench and germs of a million other travelers, Beca slings her backpack over her shoulder and heads over to the diner.
When she arrives, she's greeted by an elderly waitress, who leads her to a table by the window. Scanning quickly through the menu, she rattles off an order for, "a double cheeseburger with bacon, a side of chili fries, a basket of hot wings, cherry coke, and a slice of mixed berry pie a la mode." So what if the woman looks at her like she's grown an extra head? It's the middle of the night, she hasn't eaten since noon, and she'll be damned if she doesn't eat what she wants, when she wants!
As she waits, Beca plays with her phone, attempting to ignore the grumbling of her stomach as it demands to be fed. Scrolling through her latest batch of texts, she can't help but roll her eyes at her father's most recent message, expressing his excitement to see her come Monday morning, and promising to pick her up from the airport if only she'd send him the time.
'Sorry, dad,' she thinks, without so much as an ounce of remorse. 'Guess I forgot to mention that I decided to fly in a few days early. Whoops.' It's not that Beca hates her father; she loves him - really, she does - but after having him walk out on her and her mother seven years ago, she can't find it within herself to feel anything more than general disdain for the man she once looked up to and adored. Additionally, after all but forcing her into attending college (a college he taught at, no less), Beca's current opinion of him is at an all time low.
So no, she doesn't tell him she's already in town - doesn't even bother to respond out of basic courtesy - and instead deletes it from her inbox. 'I'll see him when I see him,' she reasons, and that is enough for her.
Family drama aside, Beca wants to take a few days to learn the ins and out of the city - preferably on her own, and in the only way she knows that she can. At the very least, she'll be here for a year, and while Barden lay on the outskirts of the city, she knows she'll be spending plenty of time in the hustle and bustle of downtown Atlanta. With that thought in mind, she resolves to take a quick tour of the streets after dinner (midnight snack, early breakfast, whatever), just to get a general feel of her surroundings.
Thankfully, her food arrives only a short while later, and she makes quick work of the meal in little to no time at all. She can't resist the semi-smug smirk from crossing her lips as the waitress returns to clear her table, pausing to glance frantically between Beca and her deceivingly empty pile of plates - as if she can't believe what her eyes are telling her. She leaves a generous tip for that look alone, and after slipping the straps of her bag over her shoulders, the soon to be student offers a friendly (if not half-hearted) wave to the staff as she leaves.
Letting out a content sigh, Beca searches for the nearest dark alley - of which there are plenty - and slips easily into its shadows. It's pitch black, and although her vision has gone dark, she is far from blind to any threats that may remain unseen. She likes to call it her 'seventh sense' because, while everyone seems to have some varying degree of spacial awareness - or a 'sixth sense' - Beca's level of perception is on a level all its own.
Safe in the knowledge that her only witness is a stray tabby cat and her kittens, Beca stares upwards, mentally calculating the height of the building. Four stories is hardly trying, and with a single bound, she finds herself atop the deserted roof. Removing her backpack, she sits on a random AC unit and scrounges around for her hooded jacket, bopping her head to a random tune as she finds it stuffed beneath her laptop.
A few good shakes and it's sufficiently wrinkle free; Beca slips into it one sleeve at a time and zips it three-quarters of the way up, before tying back her hair and throwing the hood over her head. Assured that her identity is now safe, she stands and stretches, working out the kinks in her knees and shoulders. Securing her backpack once more, Beca cracks her neck and sets her sights on the building across the street - one that is significantly higher than the one she stands on now.
Backpedalling a few feet, she takes a running start and leaps across the long stretch of road, landing vertically along the building with her hands and feet splayed. She slides down nearly six inches before she manages to get a proper 'hold' on the wall, and with just a bit more concentration, Beca scales her way to the top. Although not the tallest structure, it's high enough to give her a proper view of the city, and she takes a moment to appreciate the sights.
It's as she does this that her 'seventh sense' comes into play; it begins with a tingle, a miniscule buzzing at the base of her skull that alerts her to the fact that something isn't quite right. Instantly, she's on the move, letting instinct guide her as she surges past several city blocks, searching for whatever danger it leads her to.
Beca doesn't know or understand where her powers come from, only that they began to develop sometime after her fifteenth birthday - just as she was hitting (late) puberty. Inhuman strength, unnatural speed and agility, lightning fast reflexes, prolonged stamina, the ability to climb buildings only using her hands and feet; Beca had it all.
She had never told anyone, of course. The closest she had ever come to revealing her secret was the one time she'd asked her mother if she'd ever been exposed to radiation as a child; perhaps dropped in a vat of nuclear waste? When her response came in the form of an at-home drug test, Beca never bothered bringing it up again, choosing instead to simply accept whatever curveball life had thrown at her and go on from there.
For the next three years, between school, mixing music, and her job at the mall, Beca honed her skills; she learnt her strengths and weaknesses, pushing boundaries and limits, if only to see just how far she could go. And while she never exactly went looking for trouble, trouble had a funny way of finding her, and she'd become a sort of accidental vigilante back in her hometown. And, as life would have it, it seemed she'd be taking up that mantle here as well…
"Please, take it! Just take it! It's all that I have!"
Beca pauses mid-leap, the tingle in her skull an almost full-blown throb as a woman's terrified cry reaches her ears. Glancing down, she stares as said woman - a young redhead by her eyes - is slowly approached by a man, flanked on either side by three more.
"It'll be fun," she hears him say, "I'll make you feel real good, babe. You'll love it…"
Her blood boils, coursing through her veins like molten lava; her teeth clench, and - as it always does - something within her snaps, and the next thing she knows, she's shedding her backpack and dropping onto the street, just around the corner. It takes her less than a second to make it back towards the scene, and before the man can take even another step, Beca flies headfirst into the fray.
'Not on my watch.'
A/N: Let me know what you think!
