This is sort of a followup to a very well known Spider-Man story that ran in Web of Spider-Man #31-32, Amazing Spider-Man #293-294 and Spectacular Spider-Man #131-132. I won't say it's name because it would spoil the story but check it out since the story rocks and if you want more information about what this story ties into.
I really want to hear feedback to know what sucks and what doesn't so any would be appreciated.
A suitcase jabbed at his knee.
Bad breath wafted in his direction, fouling his nostrils.
Music blared in headphones so close he might as well have been wearing them himself.
It was rush hour on the New York subway, and Peter Parker wasn't happy.
As the train rattled along Peter and the other standing passengers swayed lightly.
The motion wasn't particularly turbulent.
Nevertheless, Peter gulped slightly.
He'd faced hordes of armed gunmen. He'd evaded impalement by lunatics dressed as rhinos and scorpions. He'd even been trapped under tons of rubble deep below the Hudson River. And yet the simple discomforts of the subway after five were making him feel anxious. It was absurd. This was nothing compared to what he'd seen, what he'd done and what he'd overcome in his career as the Amazing Spider-Man.
It all seemed so stupid, particularly since he didn't know why he felt like this.
Or at least...that's what he told himself...
That's what he tried to make himself believe...
As a scientist Peter knew a thing or two about problem solving. Whilst the mysteries of the human mind weren't exactly his forte, he was competent enough to work out why he was feeling this way.
It was for the same reasons why he'd felt similarly over the past few months. Whether he was waiting in a particularly busy line, stuck in a traffic jam en route to Aunt May's or amidst the hustle and bustle of the Daily Bugle, pangs of anxiety had suddenly hit Peter out of nowhere.
The train lurked forward as it stopped at a station. Peter found the other passengers pressing in closer to him as they were thrown off balance.
Against his will Peter's mind drifted back to the root of his recent problems. A root that could be summed up in a single name.
Kraven
Peter began to lightly sweat. Between the hot weather and the mass of people it wasn't unreasonable. But he knew that it had nothing to do with either.
Sergei Kravinoff.
Kraven the Hunter.
A big game hunter who lived by the law of the jungle. Many years ago as Spider-Man, Peter had tangled with him. He'd been a dangerous and cunning opponent back then and throughout their later encounters that hadn't changed much.
What had changed though was Kraven's state of mind. Though clearly a few bananas short of a bunch, Kraven's frequent defeats and his obsession with his 'honour' had led to him going way over the edge. He'd concocted an insane plan to pay Spider-Man back once and for all.
And so, one stormy night he'd stalked Spider-Man through the New York rooftops.
He ensnared him in a net.
Took out his rifle.
And fired.
But 'killing' Spider-Man was only the start. After having slain his hated foe Kraven proceeded to conduct a funeral for him.
He'd watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
He'd helped shovel the dirt and mud on top of it as he'd laid Spider-Man to rest.
He'd wept over a man whose face he'd never known.
But the horrible truth was...Peter...wasn't dead...
Deep down Peter desperately hoped that some of his fellow passengers would depart the train and give him some room to breathe. His stomach churned as he realised that hardly anyone was leaving the train...and that more people were climbing aboard.
Kraven had shot Peter with some kind of drug which put him into a deep state of sleep, something akin to suspended animation...or death.
Peter had been trapped in the coffin, buried six feet underground, boxed in on all sides and had been completely isolated...For two whole weeks.
The influx of new passengers was causing people near Peter to bunch up closer. Peter had to grip his handhold tightly to avoid falling on anyone who was lucky enough to have grabbed a seat.
Barely able to move, Peter began to lightly shake.
Peter had managed to free himself from the coffin when the effects of the drug had worn off. He'd struggled to walk, partially because of the muddy rain soaked ground, and partially because the lack of movement had made his muscles numb.
Even in the darkness of night, the brightness of the striking lightning had stung his eyes as they tried to adjust.
Seeking refuge in a church Peter had discovered newspapers detailing how 'Spider-Man' had been acting far more violently over the last two weeks. It hadn't taken Peter long to deduce what had happened.
Kraven.
He'd impersonated Spider-Man and ruined his reputation, all as part of some mad desire to 'prove' himself better than Peter. To prove that he wasn't just superior because he could kill Spider-Man, but because he could be Spider-Man.
And his masterstroke was leaving his enemy alive so that he'd know that. So that Peter would know Kraven had completely bettered him.
Peter suddenly felt very thirsty. He didn't have a drink of any kind on him, and even if he did he was squeezed in so tight that he wouldn't be able to reach it anyway.
Peter had gone to Kraven's townhouse to confront him.
He told himself he was just going to bring him in. But at the back of his mind he wanted to do more than that.
He wanted to beat him within an inch of his life. He wanted to tear him limb from limb. He wanted to make him feel every ounce of the pain that Peter was feeling at that moment.
But Kraven had denied him that.
The pressure seemed relentless. Peter only wanted an inch or two of space but no one was able (or cared enough) to give it to him
When he'd impersonated Spider-Man, Kraven had captured a wretched specimen called Vermin. Vermin was an innocent man who'd been transformed against his will into a rat-like monster with an unfortunate taste for human flesh. Despite his actions Vermin was ultimately someone who needed help. But he received the opposite from Kraven.
After Kraven (disguised as Spider-Man) had beaten him senseless, he'd imprisoned Vermin within an electrified cage in his townhouse and proceeded to torture him. All this had served to make Vermin more violent and more dangerous than he already was, especially in regards to Spider-Man.
Another stop.
Another lurch.
Another moment where Peter would rather have been dodging bullets.
Kraven released Vermin and thus presented Peter with a simple choice.
Take the time to attack him, or go after Vermin?
Choose what he wanted, or what he knew was right?
Revenge or responsibility?
For Peter Parker there could never truly be a choice.
When he'd first gotten on the train Peter had given up his seat to a woman with a baby carriage. He knew that she needed the seat more than he did. At that moment though a hot flare of resentment flushed through him and he wished he'd never been so 'noble'.
So he'd pursued Vermin, intent upon going back to Kraven and settling thier unfinished business afterwards.
Little did he know at the time that he'd never get the chance. He'd never get his revenge. He'd never bring Kraven to justice. He'd never truly settle things.
Because as soon as Spider-Man had departed, Kraven had returned to his study, taken his prized rifle... and blown his own brains out.
Peter felt suffocated in his tiny corner of the carriage. He gulped again and then began to involuntarily take short sharp breaths which increased in speed.
It had happened then. It hadn't lasted as long as the times afterwards but it had been no less acute.
In the dark vestiges of the sewers Vermin called home, Peter had found himself crawling on his front doing his best to follow the creature.
He was fighting fatigue. He was fighting the stench. He was fighting the desire to go back and brutalise Kraven.
But Peter was also fighting his own fear.
The sewer, in all it's darkness and filth and confinement, was all too similar to Peter's 'home' from the previous two weeks.
A part of Peter didn't want to find Vermin.
A part of him wanted to run away.
In the end though Vermin had found him, commanding his rat minions to swarm on Peter and smother him.
More people flooded onto the train. What little space Peter had had was slipping away.
He'd fended off the rats but then Vermin had struck. He dragged Spider-Man down until he was completely submerged below the depths of the filthy water.
No.
Not submerged.
Buried.
His breathing continued to quicken. He tightened his grip on the handhold.
Peter had struggled beneath the water and eventually freed himself.
He proceeded to pummel Vermin. He didn't need to be so rough, but his fear had gotten the better of him.
He was never quite sure if it was fear or some kind of intuition which had caused him to run after Vermin seemed to get a second wind. Regardless he'd managed to lead Vermin up and out of the sewers into the bright morning light above.
Vermin couldn't take that. For him the cold darkness of his underground home was his sanctuary. In his own way he had been as afraid as Peter was.
Peter had handed him over to the authorities and then left. But the events of that night would never truly leave him, no matter how much he wanted them to.
The train moved off and the lights of the platform gave way to the darkness of a tunnel.
He was there again.
In the coffin.
In the darkness.
Barely able to move.
The music blared louder.
The pain in his knee grew more acute.
The stench of bad breath intensified.
He was banging desperately on the coffin lid, feeling the pressure on top of it.
He was screaming. Was he doing that out loud or within his own mind?
He wasn't sure.
Why couldn't he just get some space?
Why did they all have to be so close to him, squeezing him in from all sides?
They could show a bit of consideration couldn't they? A bit of compassion?
No. That wasn't going to happen. Peter could just tell by looking at thier faces.
He saw their faces.
Ned Leeds.
Captain Stacy.
Gwen.
Uncle Ben.
And everyone else he'd failed.
Everyone who'd paid the ultimate price.
Everyone he was going to join forever.
His throat was burning. He was so thirsty.
He wanted to leave. He didn't want to be down in the darkness among the dead men.
His stomach churned.
He was so scared.
He was so alone.
He was so tired
Why couldn't he just sit down for a minute?
How was he going to find the strength to escape?
His breaths grew shorter and faster. Like rapid fire.
The faces were so inviting.
His heart was beating faster. The pound of jungle drums.
It was so dark.
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
So dark.
The music was so loud
So cold
He was drenched in sweat
So alone
Too many people
So many faces.
He couldn't move
So many people he'd let die.
No seats. No chance to rest.
He was so tired.
He had no strength.
He was trapped.
He was never going to escape.
He wasn't going to get any help.
He was-
He felt something on his hand.
A tight squeeze.
He looked at it and saw a smaller hand gripping his.
He turned to meet the green eyes of its owner.
"We're almost there tiger." Said Mary Jane.
She gave him a small smile.
Peter's breathing slowed.
His stomach settled.
He stopped sweating.
Suddenly he didn't feel all that tired.
Suddenly he didn't feel all that alone.
Suddenly he remembered what had driven him up and out of the darkness on that terrible night.
Or rather who.
He squeezed her hand right back.