Midtown High School, New York City, New York- Peter Parker felt like the luckiest person in the world. Gwen Stacy, formerly believed to have been killed by the genetic monstrosity known as Carnage, was alive and well, and she was back with the Parkers. While she had not come back to school yet, he nevertheless felt pleased that she had been released from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody and as a result would be able to happily live the rest of her life as a healthy, happy (hopefully), and all-around normal human being.
Also, it didn't hurt that he was making out with his girlfriend May-Jane Watson.
Peter eventually withdrew from their loving embrace, resulting in Mary-Jane (who preferred to be called MJ) asking, "What's wrong Peter?"
"Nothing, it's just that I feel I should be getting home."
"Why? What's wrong now? Is your Aunt alright?"
"Oh yeah, she's fine. She luckily hasn't had another heart attack, it's just that…" he trailed off.
"What? What's the matter? I hope you do realize you can tell me anything, given everything we've been through together."
"Yeah. It's just that, well, Gwen's back."
"WHAT!" MJ exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Well, at first I thought she died, and then it turns out she got cloned, and then I thought she got killed again by some new sort of S.H.I.E.L.D. thingy, and well, it's complicated."
"What? What do you mean a clone? Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Tell that to me again."
"I'd rather not," said Peter, looking around to make sure that no one was eavesdropping, "it's a long story. The point is, she's back, except that it's been a bit chaotic, because S.H.I.E.L.D. agents keep coming to our house, and have to help her readjust back into a normal civilian life and run all sorts of tests and it's just been stressing my Aunt May out a lot, so I have to get home early so I can help her out."
MJ put her index finger to her chin, her face beginning to take on a pensive quality. "Tell me, at what time do the agents leave?"
Peter raised an eyebrow, curious at MJ's question, "Eight 'o' clock. Why?"
MJ's face broke into a grin. "Because I'm going to help you. I have nothing to do after school, which is right now, and I'm pretty sure that, based on what you said, your Aunt needs a bit of help. So, how about I come over to help, and then we can go out to dinner, and a movie, with Gwen, giving your Aunt plenty of downtime."
Peter, never far from a pun, said, "Downtime? Does anyone even say that anymore?"
"Oh shut up," said MJ, giving Peter a playful push. "So what do you say?"
"I think it's a great idea. Just one question. Are you coming home with me now, or later?"
"Well," MJ said thoughtfully, "I'll be over as soon as possible. But first I have to stop at my house to tell my Mom where I'll be for the rest of the night. She can be pretty spastic at times."
Peter nodded. "I believe it. She was pretty freaked when you got grabbed by, well, you know," he said, casting a downward glance, not particularly interested in revisiting the, "Clone Saga," as he thought of it.
"Alright then," Mary-Jane said quickly, wanting to change the subject. I'll be there in…" she furrowed her brow in thought, "a half-hour. Sound good?"
"Sounds great. Thank you so much. My Aunt's really going to appreciate this."
"No problem," MJ said, hoisting her pink backpack to her shoulders, "see you soon!"
"Later!" Peter said, waving at MJ. And with that, Peter grabbed his own backpack, the color a deep blue, and walked toward the direction of his house, excited for the upcoming evening plans.
***
Hungry.
It was getting late and the suit, having gone almost twenty-four hours without nourishment, was beginning to weaken.
So Hungry.
After its daring escape at three 'o' clock in the morning from the massive government building in New Jersey, it had since spent its time searching, in vain, for a suitable human host for bonding and feeding. So far, no luck.
The suit, after escaping through a telephone pole, had travelled many miles before finally reaching another computer inside a small apartment. Fortunately, no one was home at the time, allowing the specimen to escape out of the window unseen in the same fashion that it had escaped through its glass vial and storage locker: by slowly oozing through. After touching down onto the street level and traversing numerous back-alleys, it had then, in order to conserve its remaining energy, stowed away on the bottom of a small truck, scanning each of the civilians it could see to determine whether or not they would make for a suitable host. So far, none had fit the bill.
Part of the problem was its genetic codes, and the other part was its metabolism. The genetic safeguards put into place by the lab technicians made it impossible for the symbiote to effectively bond to someone. If the possible host appeared normal and did not have any quick metabolism, then it was a no-go, as bonding would mean the immediate consumption of the unlucky subject. The only way it could bond to an inferior person was if it got hungry enough for the safeguards to break down, meaning that it had switched from following its genetic protocols to self-preservation. The other problem was its metabolism. It was just too fast. If its metabolism were slowed down, then almost any ordinary citizen would do, given that he or she would be a compatible match. Alas, this was not the case. Fortunately, its luck was about to change.
The afternoon sun was slowly, inexorably beginning to set, and the suit, securely latched to what was a vending machine truck, was observing its surroundings as best it could, given the speed of the car. Based on its observations, it was in a residential area, and while scanning all of a sudden picked up an incredibly warm, actually hot, signal.
This was what it was waiting for. Here was someone who had a perfectly compatible metabolism, and as a result, it would not have to worry about accidently consuming the host. With no further thought save for its own survival, it immediately detached from its hidden quarters and began to stealthily approach the person-of-interest. Knowing full well that it could not bond to the chosen subject in the middle of a public residential area, it chose to instead slip into the target's backpack, choosing to wait patiently until the subject arrived at his or her house in order to carry out the bonding process. Secure in the knowledge that it would no longer be in risk of perishing, the revolting abomination sat in the backpack, eager for the subject to arrive home.
***
"Hello?" MJ called as she entered her home. "Mom?"
She glanced around the kitchen. It was dark. She called again, searching around the house for her mother.
"Hello? Anybody home?"
No answer. She shrugged. She's probably just working late, she thought to herself, might as well leave a note. But first, I need something to drink.
After dropping her backpack onto the floor near the kitchen island, she then walked over to the fridge, opened the door, and inspected its contents.
Hmmm. Nothing great. Guess I'll just have some milk, she thought, taking out a glass from an overhead cabinet stationed to the right of the fridge, pouring the contents of the milk carton into the glass, and then emptying the glass. After she completed the milk and set the glass in the sink, she then located a sticky note and began to write a quick note to her mother, informing her where she would be, who to call, and that she would have her cell-phone on her person. She was finishing the note with a, "Love, MJ," when she all of a sudden heard something. It was imperceptible at first, but eventually she realized that she was not imagining this sound. A plopping sound. It was real, and it was coming from within the kitchen, behind her back.
She froze. Here she was, inside her house, with encroaching darkness chasing the retreating sun away, and she was hearing something out of the ordinary oozing.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. One would figure, after being thrown off a bridge, being shot at, kidnapped, chased, and genetically altered, she would be accustomed to unnatural sounds and sights. But MJ knew, she knew that it never got old, she never got jaded. The primal fear that gripped her now was just as strong as when it had gripped her in the past, just as fierce, and just as nerve-wracking.
Slowly, cautiously, she began to place the pen down gently with a quivering hand, just barely able to finish her signature. Then she straightened, and, although she did not want to, she slowly began to turn around.
It had only taken a few seconds, but to her, it felt like an eternity before she finally turned herself around, facing the door. Immediately upon seeing the gruesome sight set upon her eyes, she opened her mouth to scream, but was cut short as a long purple-black tentacle wrapped around her mouth, yanking her with incredible strength towards this hideous abomination.
It was disgusting. Immediately after being grabbed by this, this thing and pulled towards it, she was enveloped in a hideous purple-with-streaks-of-black goo that she could not extricate herself from. Reacting in a panicked frenzy, her arms immediately reached for the tentacle still muffling her screams, but found her arms stuck fast in the sticky solution. She tried to pull her arms up, but found that the more she resisted, the deeper her arms sank. Soon her legs and arms were completely enveloped in the revolting substance, and, to her unbridled horror, the goo continued to spread, enveloping her entire body until only her head remained on the surface. But soon enough, that too, sank into the muck. Now, completely submerged in this hideous, revolting substance, she began to breathe heavily, in short, ragged gasps. All of sudden, her body began quivering and shaking, and then to compound to her horror, she began to transform. She had begun to transform into a hideous red abomination that she had previously thought to be impossible, given the fact that Dr. Richards and Dr. Storm both claimed to have, "cured her of her condition," a fact that she now knew to no longer be true.
All of a sudden, she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her neck, and immediately after the feeling dissipated, she began to feel really woozy and tired. The last thing she remembered feeling was, the sweet, welcoming embrace of a toxin-induced sleep.
