Carry You Home
After the events Homecoming and the altercation with the Vulture, Peter is officially on SHEILD's radar. Enduring three months in their not-so-tender care, he has to find a way to recover, with the support of Ned and MJ, his Aunt May, and, of course, Tony Stark.
Taken
"How fast was that, Karen?" Peter panted as he landed heavily on the fire escape outside his bedroom window.
"Seven minutes and forty-three seconds. That's a new personal record, Peter." Karen said.
"Oh, nice!"
"Yes, it's very impressive." Karen agreed with a chuckle in her voice. Peter opened his window quietly and crawled in. He carefully checked that his door was shut but winced when he saw the light was on in the hallway. That meant that May was still up, presumably because she found him gone and was now waiting to rip him a new one.
Peter crept over to his door, cracking it open and peering out. If May was awake, he'd go in, admit everything, and beg for forgiveness. If she was asleep, though, maybe he could change into an old T-shirt and wake her up, pretending that he'd been out on the fire escape or something and fallen asleep. She might see through that, but it was worth a shot.
Surprisingly, the kitchen was empty, all chairs vacated. There was a little note propped up on the counter, and Peter went over to read it. "Emergency at the gallery. Might not be home until morning. Call if you need anything! Love, May."
"Anything" was underlined three times.
Peter rolled his eyes but laughed, too relieved to be annoyed at his aunt's overprotectiveness. It was like when she'd found out about him being Spiderman, she only worried about him more, even though he could take care of himself way better now that he had all these abilities. Still, at least he didn't have to worry about worrying her tonight.
Peter went back to his room and painstakingly peeled off the suit, checking for any bloodstains he'd have to scrub in the morning. He didn't find any blood, which he took some pride in considering the amount of ass he'd kicked that night (couple low level thugs harassing an old guy for his wallet), but there were a few weird looking bullets stuck to the back plate. Like someone had taken a shot at him while he wasn't looking, but he definitely hadn't been shot at. Right? He was pretty sure that no one had shot at him that night.
Like, at least 90% sure.
Shrugging, Peter rigged it back up into the alove in his ceiling, figuring he'd check the damage in the morning. Worst came to worst, he'd have to ask Mr. Stark to patch it up for him. Pausing for a moment to actually consider the absurdity of asking Tony Stark to fix the bullet holes in his superhero suit, a smile spread across Peter's face. His life was so cool.
"Night, Karen," Peter said as he slipped off the mask.
"Goodnight, Peter."
The mask he slipped into the same place he always did, tucked under his mattress for easy access in an emergency. Then he collapsed into bed half dressed, pulled the sheet over him, and fell into a heavy sleep.
Peter dreamt of a busy street, cars rushing back and forth at an incredible speed. He knew he had to get to the other side, but the crosswalk wasn't working and he couldn't see any breaks. The cars were moving so fast they were just blurs, and Peter wasn't sure he would make it through without being flattened.
He glanced to the side, and saw an old man sitting on the ground next to what looked like a park bench. The man was sitting, rocking back and forth with a toothy smile. Peter heard an odd noise and looked at the man's hands to see him holding an old metal can and a needle. The man was brushing the needle up and down the rippled sides of the can, eliciting a scraping, clicking, grinding noise that somehow didn't fit with anything else going on.
Peter was drawing closer to investigate when the man opened his mouth. "Alpha team in position," The man murmured. "Preparing to breach."
A sudden feeling like ice on the back of his neck yanked Peter from sleep, and he sat straight up with a racing heart. Listening, he could still hear that scraping, clicking noise from his dream, but now it was coming from his front door. It was real. Not a dream.
Peter reached down and tugged the mask over his face. "Karen," He whispered, hurrying over to his door and opening it a crack.
"Yes, Peter?" Karen's voice was soft, following his lead.
Peter spotted the doorknob to the front door, turning and moving slightly with whoever was out there. "I think there's someone trying to break in."
"Let me activate thermal vision," Karen said, and suddenly Peter could make out the red outlines of four, five, six, eight, at least ten figures outside his front door, with one or two crouched at the lock.
"Holy shit," Peter breathed. What kind of robbery was this? One ordered by the mafia?
"Peter, perhaps I should inform Mr. Stark. He would want to know if someone is putting you or your aunt in danger, and that seems like quite a few assailants for you to take on by yourself."
Peter hesitated. He knew that he should. Knew it was the smart decision, the one that Mr. Stark and May would tell him to make. And yet, he knew that if this turned out to be something stupid, Mr. Stark would be so mad at being woken up at 2:34 in the morning.
Of course, if May had been home, he would have called for help. He wouldn't dare risk her safety because of something dumb like this. But… He was alone. May was safe at the gallery downtown, far away from this mess, probably wouldn't be home until ten o'clock or so. It was just him here. So there was really nothing to lose.
And besides, how cool would it be to say that he took on ten intruders by himself and won?
"Just hold off on that for a bit, okay, Karen. I don't want to wake him up for nothing."
"I don't think Mr. Stark would consider this noth-"
"Just wait, okay?" Peter kept an eye on the front door, pulling on a pair of pants and a t-shirt as he did so. At the last minute, he realized it would probably stupid to fight them with the mask on and a t-shirt, because then they might realize that Spiderman lived here, especially when he started kicking ass. Maybe he should take off the mask, but then the ass kicking would still give him away… So maybe he should just put the whole suit on-
"Breach."
The front door flung open, and the first few figures came pouring through the door, guns up at the ready. Peter snatched the web shooters off his nightstand and slipped them on, taking cover out of sight before they came near his room.
Heart pounding quickly, Peter watched the reflection in his mirror as they approached. One of the figures, dressed head to toe in black, almost soldierly gear, turned towards his doorway and paused. Peter could have sworn they made eye contact, but that was nuts, cause he was hidden-. Oh. Right. Reflections.
Peter ducked to the side as the man shouted and squeezed the trigger, shattering his mirror. Peter lunged into the doorway, sending a web to the man's hand and yanking the gun to the side. He whipped it into the face of a soldier approaching on the right, and then jumped through the partial partition into the kitchen, where three more had just entered through the front door.
Peter slid over the table, bare feet connecting solidly with the chests of two of them, jumping off them and onto the shoulders of the third. He felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, sensing a threat, and instinctually leapt down, using the man as a shield. He heard a few low pops, and the man went limp, slipping through Peter's arms to the floor. Before Peter could decide if he should feel guilty for indirectly causing the death of someone that was attacking him, he noticed that there was no blood, only a few needle-like vials sticking out of the man's shirt sleeve.
"What the hell?" Peter asked, and then quickly had to do a backflip up to the ceiling to avoid the other darts being shot at him.
"It appears they are not firing traditional bullets," Karen commented.
"Yep, noticed that," Peter agreed tensely, firing a quick web blast into the shooter's eyes before dropping down and delivering a punch to the temple that knocked him out cold.
"What is that, six down?" Peter said, turning to face three more ambushing him from the side. He dodged the punch of one of them, planning to grab the second and swing around to kick the third, but the first guy surprised him with a follow up knee towards his chest, sending him stumbling toward the wall. Within an instant, the second guy was there, driving an elbow toward his face.
Peter dodged to the side, shoving him in the direction of his momentum to knock him off balance, but the soldier recovered quickly. As he danced around the other two, trying and failing to overpower them, it occurred to him that they were a lot better trained than the average thug.
Still, a lucky hit downed one of them, and then some quick thinking with a web and lamp took out the second. The third he took down with one of those badass scissor-neck-grip moves he'd seen Black Widow do a couple times. Turned out it was even more fun to do than watch.
Peter stood in his trashed kitchen, fragments of a few chairs and and a cracked dining table scattered around him, and reveled in the high of victory coursing through his veins. "Take that, assholes!" Peter shouted, pumping one fist into the air.
"Yes, very good, Peter, but you should probably call the authorities now." Karen sounded amused. "And perhaps come up with a cover story as to how one teenage boy managed to beat up a whole gang of hostiles."
"Oh." Peter thought for a second. "Well, I guess I thought I'd-"
Glass shattered, boots crashed into the floor, a dozen guns started firing at once. Peter dropped to the floor, taking shelter behind the toppled kitchen table. Gasping, he figured that more of them must have crashed through the windows from the fire escape. As crazy as that was.
"So this must be Beta team, then," Peter said through gritted teeth.
"Peter, I really think I should call Mr. Stark. This situation is rapidly declining, and-"
Harsh static sounded in his ears, and Karen cut off at the same time that the lights went off and the readings in his mask blinked out. For a moment there was nothing but complete and total darkness.
"Shit, shit, Karen?" Peter whispered, huddled down, listening for the sound of approach. She said nothing, and the only thing Peter could think of that would knock out all the electricity, even Stark tech, was an EMP. A pretty tough one. In fact, it would have to be basically military grade to completely wipe out Karen, who was protected by software that was supposed to make it impossible to shut her down.
You know. Theoretically.
Peter felt rather than heard the careful, quiet approach of a few soldiers on either side of him. Without thermal vision, he had to rely on touch and sound to make out where they were, but he waited until he was pretty sure he'd clocked their position before he launched himself over the table and into the pair on the right. He nailed one guy right in the jaw and kicked the feet out from under the other before sprinting for his room, eyes locked on the window. Now it was just about escape. Forget pride, forget how cool it would be to take them all on. Just get away.
Peter was starting to catch onto the fact that maybe the only thing they were after here was him.
As he ran for the window, he caught sight of an arm swinging in his direction. He dodged to the side to avoid it, only to have someone tackle him from the other side, taking advantage of his distraction. Peter thrashed under the full weight of the soldier, starting to shove him off until another two grabbed his arms to immobilize him, and more piled on to hold him down.
"We've got him, sir," One soldier spoke into the radio at his shoulder.
Another soldier raised his gun at Peter, in what he assumed was an unspoken threat, until he pulled the trigger and hit him in the shoulder with the force of a nail gun driving into his flesh. Peter shouted in pain and struggled anew, but felt his strength being sapped by whatever was in the darts.
A few of the soldiers turned on headlamps so they could see, and it was enough light for Peter to spot a man walking into his house, past the busted door, over the splinters of tables, through the shattered glass on the floor. His shoes stopped near Peter's face, clear despite the dusty ground, finely tailored and smelling like a new car. He wore a suit with shiny gold buttons, and stood with his hands in his pockets and a satisfied, smug smile on his face.
Peter hated him immediately.
"Nice to finally meet you face to face," The man said with a politician's smile. "My name is Thaddeus Ross."
Peter glared up at the man from behind his mask and was helpless to stop him as he crouched down and pulled the mask from his face. Behind the mask was the face of a sixteen year old boy with blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes were tight with fear and pain, but he didn't let out so much as a whimper.
"Peter Parker," Ross said softly. "We have a lot to discuss."
With that, Peter felt a second dart strike him in the leg, and the last of his resolve dissolved along with his consciousness.
Peter jerked awake in confusion, head spinning wildly. He blinked his eyes, looking up at the glaring lights above him, trying to figure out if the events that just played out in sharp images behind his eyelids were merely remnants of a nightmare, or a true event that he'd been recalling. Based on the unrelenting metal braces clamped around his wrists and ankles and the fact that he had no idea where he was, he guessed it was the latter.
Peter turned his head to the side, inspecting the walls around him, but could make out nothing but dark metal walls, its surface riddled with small ridges and bumps. He pulled at the metal restraints, testing for weaknesses, but found none.
Glancing down, he noticed that he wasn't wearing the spiderman suit anymore, only a pair of gray scrubs. No webs, no Karen, no magic Stark tech to help him out. These people clearly knew him. Knew that he might be able to contact help with the suit. Knew that he wouldn't be able to break out of Vibranium cuffs. God, what else did they know?
Did they know where May was? Would they go after her, too?
Peter closed his eyes, reigning in his growing terror, and tried to listen. The only sounds were his own soft breathing, the buzz of the lights above him, and the tapping of some wiring in the walls. As he strained to hear something useful, the tapping grew louder, more echoed, and doubled, tripled, until Peter realized that it wasn't wiring his ears were picking up. It was footsteps.
Peter looked to the front of the room, realizing that the wall and door facing the hallway was clear, made of some kind of reinforced glass. He watched as a man with greying hair stepped into view. His icy eyes and shiny buttons were familiar, as were the uniforms of the two soldiers he had with him.
Ross stepped into the room with a swipe of a card and a high pitched beep. The door slid open and stayed clear as the three visitors entered. Peter felt his pulse quicken when he saw the escape route so tantalizingly close. And yet absolutely unreachable.
"Peter. I apologize for the… uncomfortable introduction," The Secretary of State said, standing by Peter's feet.
"Nah," Peter shrugged off the apology. "I was in need of a good night's sleep anyway."
Ross's lips twitched in a humorless smile. "I'm glad you feel that way."
Peter glanced around the room. "What's with the five-star lodgings?"
"Peter, have you ever heard of an organization called SHIELD? No? We act as a buffer between what we refer to as Abnormals and Normals. Our goal is to protect people, help those that we can, and minimize the damage to those out of our reach. Part of that goal includes screening Enhanced individuals that we come across."
"Screening?"
"Investigating," Ross amended. "We'd like the chance to learn about you, Peter. In non-painful, non-invasive ways. We'd like to learn where your abilities came from, how they work. And if you cooperate, you'll find your vigilante work supported by the American government and backed by the operatives of this team."
"What's the point?"
"Many of the technological advancements we've made have come from studying Enhanced people like yourself. We've made giant leaps in medicine, manufacturing, technology."
"And weaponry, I'm guessing," Peter threw out casually. "Nothing like an army of superhumans to spice up a war."
"Of course we've made improvements to our defense system," Ross laughed. "How could you expect us not to?"
"I never did," Peter said.
"Glad we're on the same page," Ross stated, as if they'd come to some kind of agreement. "Peter, there are some tests that we'd like to run on you. Your cooperation would be much appreciated. If you comply with our requests, you'll be home in time for dinner."
"If I don't?"
Ross's icy smile never faltered. "I think you'll find your stay to be significantly more lengthy."
A third soldier dressed all in black entered the room, pushing a metal wheelchair in front of him. There were more cuffs on the arms and legs, hanging open as it rolled.
"I hope you understand our caution," Ross said silkily. "One can never be too careful."
"I couldn't agree more," Peter agreed with a smile.
One of the soldiers approached, unlocking the clasp over his wrist and opening the restraint. The other soldier did the same to his other wrist. The last soldier watched apathetically, looking bored with the procedure, but Peter still noticed his hand resting on the firearm at his side. Just as the last restraint was opened on his ankles, Peter jolted into action.
He grabbed the first soldier's shoulders, using him to swing himself around and kick the second soldier in the head. Despite the man's helmet, Peter delivered an impressive blow that sent the man sprawling to the ground. He landed on the ground, crouched, and was lunging for the open door when a terrible claw of electricity raced down his spine. Peter collapsed against the cold linoleum floor as the web of agony spread through his body, zapping to the end of his fingers and toes. The initial shock faded, leaving behind only a resounding ache.
Peter lifted a feeble hand and reached for his neck, finding a tight collar clamped around his throat. Metal prongs bit into the skin on the back of his neck, two pinpricks of pain he hadn't registered until that moment.
"Ah, holy shit..." Peter gasped, breath coming shallowly.
Ross crouched beside him. "As I said, you can never be too careful." He stood again, gesturing to the soldiers who were getting to their feet. "You can take him now. I'm guessing he'll be more cooperative. And if he isn't…" The man pressed something into one of the soldier's hands. "You know what to do."
Two of the soldiers grabbed Peter by the arms, roughly hauling him up. Ross walked out of the room without a glance backward. Peter thrashed clumsily, barely managing to jostle the soldiers as they slammed him into the wheelchair. Still, the third soldier shouted angrily and slammed a hand down onto the device a split second before the agony came again.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and fought to keep the cry of pain inside as the shock slowly faded. Every breath rattled in his chest, and his hands and feet felt numb. He heard the click of the cuffs locking into place, and felt the pressure of them on his wrists and ankles, but couldn't find his way to his limbs to move them. Not even a twitch.
The third soldier leaned down, bracing his hands on Peter's arms. "You cause any more trouble, I'll scramble your brains," He promised savagely. Peter could tell by the glint of sadism in his eyes that he would make good on that promise. Probably hoped he'd get the chance to.
One of the others grabbed the handles behind Peter and began to push him, out of the room and down the hall. Peter's head was spinning from the last shock, and his vision was blurred from the glare of the overhead lights. He was able to make out countless doors lining the hallways, some keypads to the side lit with green, others with red.
Doctors passed them occasionally, but none spared him a second glance. As if this was normal. Everyday. Procedure. When nausea began to set in, Peter hung his head and shut his eyes, focusing on pulling in even breaths to dampen the sensation. He opened his eyes again when they jolted to a stop.
They were outside a set of double doors, with no handles. There were clouded windows, indistinguishable shapes drifting around beyond the foggy glass. The soldier with the device was standing next to a panel on the wall, holding up his ID badge. There was a beep, and the doors slowly swung open.
Peter's heart leapt into his throat as he was pushed into a crowded room reeking of antiseptic. One long metal table covered with a thin paper sheet filled up the center of the room. Peter didn't fail to notice more cuffs, this time made out of leather and padding, hanging off the edges. Around the edges of the room were numerous counters and cabinets. Computers beeped, displaying illegible results, and others waiting ominously, their screens blank and dead.
A few of the figures glanced up from their work as he approached. Long green gowns draped over their bodies, and blue caps were tied over their heads. Identical masks covered their faces, leaving only piercing eyes visible. Their calculating gazes swept over Peter as though he were nothing more than a lab test, as though he weren't even human.
One figure approached, wearing thin-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes, giving him the liking of an owl. He looked down at the clipboard in his hands, and up at Peter, fixing him in a look that made Peter feel like a bug pinned under a magnifying glass.
"This is Case 362?" The doctor verified. He leaned down towards Peter, who pressed back into the chair in an effort to stay away, but only took a look at his left hand. Peter looked down and saw a thin plastic band around his arm. The doctor twisted the bracelet, reading the tiny print on its surface, and nodded to himself. "We're starting in Exam Room B." He gestured behind him, and the wheelchair rocked back into motion, following the doctor as he walked.
The doctor led them to one of the many doors leading out of the main room, swiping his card over the scanner by the door and waiting until it beeped to press down the handle. He held the door open as they passed, and then closed it behind them. Peter heard the sharp snap and click as the locking mechanism engaged. He looked around the new room, which was only half as big as the other. A mechanical chair stuck out of the ground, surrounded by an army of machines, from which wires and sensors hung loosely.
The soldiers wheeled him toward the chair, as more personnel filed in through the door. Most huddled around the machines, checking them and murmuring to each other, but a few stood by the chair, watching Peter approach with rapt interest. Their staring made him feel sick, and the hungry look in their eyes made his heart pound furiously. No matter what they labeled him or how they stared, they seemed more inhuman than he did.
The soldiers stopped the wheelchair next to the metal chair, and the soldier with the device leaned close. "Remember what I said, right?" He hissed menacingly. Peter saw him waving the device in the air out of the corner of his eye, but didn't dare break eye contact to look. "This puppy was on a low setting. You act out now, I'll crank it up to high."
The restraints snapped open, and the soldiers wasted no time in seizing his shoulders and yanking him out of the chair. Peter's head snapped back when they slammed him into the metal chair, and his skull banged painfully against the unyielding surface. His muscles shook with exertion and leftover tremors, and there was a faint ringing in his ears. He felt restraints being fastened over his wrists, ankles, elbows, and knees, tightly securing him to the chair. Someone pulled a thick strip of leather over his waist and pulled it tight. Last, a strap was drawn over his forehead, holding it firmly to the metal headrest.
Peter realized his eyes had drifted shut when he felt hot breath blast against his face, and his eyes shot open to see the narrowed eyes of the third soldier inches from his own.
"I'll be back once they're done with you," He said, a grim smile twisting his face. "So be a good boy until then." He patted Peter on the face before stepping back with a patronizing sheen in his eyes.
Peter focused through the haze to read the man's name tag on his chest: Capt. Marian Elliot. The name tag flashed once as the man turned to leave, but Peter swallowed, summoning what was left of his strength to form words.
"I thought Marian was a girl's name," He croaked. The soldier froze, back still to Peter, so he pressed further. "Parent's musta been hoping for a girl, huh?"
Elliot spun around, his eyes alight with anger. One meaty fist clenched around the device, and Peter braced for the worst. Suddenly, a doctor leapt forward, placing a hand on Elliot's arm.
"You can't," The doctor protested, and Peter was surprised to hear the soft soprano of a woman. "It'll disturb the results of the test."
Elliot stared at Peter, and he could tell that Elliot was considering exacting his punishment anyway. With a deep breath, the rage cleared from his features, and his tight grip relaxed.
"Just wait 'till you're done," Elliot whispered, nearly inaudible except for Peter's accelerated hearing. "This'll be nothing compared to what I'll do to you."
With that, he stormed from the room, the other two soldiers following close behind. Peter noticed they had to scan their IDs in order to exit the room, and his heart clenched when he realized how truly trapped he was inside that room, completely at the mercy of the people who'd strapped him to the chair.
He watched the woman who'd intervened, hoping she would spare him a kind glance, but she never once looked his way. It was with a sinking heart that he realized her token protest was nothing more than she'd said. Only a wish to preserve the authenticity of the test.
The head doctor with the bug eyes stepped up to Peter's side. As if by unseen cue, the rest of the staff bustled to get into place, watching him for further instruction. Bug Eyes reached up and snapped on a light above Peter's head, sending bright light glaring down into his eyes. Peter squinted against the bright light, staring up at the figures now silhouetted against the glare, and watched as Bug Eyes raised a handful of wires and electrodes in one hand.
"Commencing test one…"
To Be Continued...
