The whir, thunk, and click of the cassette tape player was inescapable in the team bunk this Saturday morning. Sam hovered over his stereo, his tape recorder pressed up to the speakers as he tried to time the beginning of the next song just right.
Everyone on the team – the Young Avengers, some agents called them, though they didn't have any real designation other than 'The Team' – had their hobbies. Danny Rand had meditation and the occasional surfing excursion, Luke Cage occasionally dabbled in knitting – living with his grandmother had apparently resulted in the shared pastime –, Ava Ayala had romance novels...
Sam Alexander's was making mixtapes. Oh, his cooking probably counted as a hobby to those who hadn't heard his story about the nightmare of trying to find something edible that wasn't served squirming on Alpha Centauri 6 – it was an interesting story, so long as the listeners ignored the fact that an alien had kidnapped the kid and dumped him on a foreign planet at age twelve, where he probably would have died if he hadn't picked up a pointy helmet off a skeleton –, but his real thing was mixtapes.
Nobody knew who he made them for – some long-lost relative or a friend made in the far reaches of the cosmos that happened to still use the medium? – but every Saturday like clockwork, Sam Alexander would be at his stereo, working his way through recording a hand-scribbled playlist. There was a small box full of cassettes stuffed under his bunk, one for nearly every week that he'd spent under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s care, quietly gathering dust in anticipation of – what? Sam usually remained quiet on the matter, often shushing the questioner before moving on to the next song.
Ava normally ignored the habits of her roommates – she even enjoyed them sometimes, on the rare nights that Nova decided to try some weird college dorm-scented recipe he'd stumbled across online –, but it was impossible today. She looked back at her phone.
Eleven. Danny's been gone since seven.
That, she decides in the main bridge of some dance floor pop rock anthem that has vicious kick in the door punk lyrics hidden under bubblegum bright guitar chords and the kind of percussion set that matches the racing heartbeat of a young girl in a thrust into the brave new world of New York City on a Friday night, is far too long.
Ava Ayala might not be the fully trained spy that Coulson is, but she's picked up enough under his wing that the whole situation is setting off alarm bells.
She ducks out of the room and grabs her bag as she makes her way from the Team's civilian barracks – because it's just too obvious when four normal teenagers regularly come down from New York's own Castle in the Sky – to Midtown, her fingers flying through her phone's contacts.
Danny doesn't pick up – and neither does Coulson, something that worries her more than it should – and Ava knows that she needs backup.
Someone who knows how to deal with obvious traps.
Someone who knows how to adapt.
Someone who won't break the school.
Without hesitation, she dials Parker.
Ellen Blake's dreams were pleasant for once.
Instead of running blindly through the dark woods of the Pine Barrens, she was wandering through Central Park, though the grass was an inky greenish-black, the trees had become twisting spinal columns with branches best resembling human arm bones and red orange yellow leaves that burst out of skeletal hands like pompom bouquets, and the sun was like a cherry coal trapped in the charcoal grey of the sky – a fact that didn't change the fact that the lighting below was as normal as the waking world. This didn't bother her.
It was a dream, after all.
She was wearing white jeans and a white leather jacket – the spikes that studded the shoulders ached like phantom limbs –, a black t-shirt poking out from beneath like a splash of spilled ink. Beside her walked her dog.
In waking, she would have remembered that Cohen was over fifteen years dead – an incident with the front grill of a passing truck had killed the ancient – by dog standards, twenty was ancient –, cancer-ridden dog instantly – and that the husky had been black and white in the traditional order, instead of the red-eyed photo negative that walked at her side, but as she wasn't awake, she didn't comment.
It was a dream, after all.
They walked with aimless purpose along the winding path of water-slick slate stone, and Ellen watched with vague interest as red threads tangled into the branches above, going from a few spare strings to huge crimson webs that blocked out the bloody orange sun like sunset-stained clouds.
Anti-Cohen looks at the threads with the patented head tilt of canine curiosity and then bolts towards the center of the web, barking for Ellen to follow. She did.
It was a dream, after all.
The red web thickened, obliterating everything but the path immediately in front of Ellen from sight, leaving Ellen no option but to follow the wagging white black tail of her dog. Cohen barked again, his long lime-green tongue – some part of her mind stirred at that detail, subconsciously realizing that 'green' and 'tongue' in the same sentence was somehow wrong – wagging as he waited for his master to catch up to him.
Ellen did and once she'd given her faithful companion a good skritch behind the ears, she looked up and beheld.
The figure at the center of the web could be classified as 'feminine', though few would dare think of a femininity characterized by soft curves and a soft smile. She was bone thin and nut brown, the red strands of her web wrapped around her body like a sewn on dress – there are teases of a proper dress beneath, a black one that looks like the midnight sky – while her honey blonde hair dangled like the branches of a weeping willow. Upside down and completely bound, the only parts of her anatomy that seemed to have free movement were her six arms, which were going through the mindless motions of Cat's Cradle as their owner stared out blankly – her solidly black obsidian half-mask did not seem like it would allow for sight – at the exact spot where Ellen stood.
Ellen knows this. Ellen knows her. Ellen knows her name.
It was a dream, after all.
"Madame Web, I presume." She says, bowing. Respect the ones that make the prophecies, she remembers, and they might just word it so it makes sense.
The other one dips her head – up or down, it doesn't make sense but to Ellen's dreaming mind it does register as what it is – and her visor flashes and Ellen can see too many eyes and is it an illusion or a reflection of the dream – "As good a name as any." She murmurs, her voice brushing against Ellen's brain like spider webs caught on a breeze and carrying the spike of panic away. "Though I much prefer 'Charlotte'." She smiles, and the image changes again. Younger, less angular, more human, and – slightly more relevant to Ellen's mind – right-side up. It's only there for a moment before she reaches out and touches Ellen's forehead. "You have other concerns more pressing than what to call me at the moment."
Ellen's eyes widened as realization dawned, driving the colors of the world to white like spilled paint. "Wait-!"
The seer smiles and it's the last thing to fade. "What are you so worked up about? It was only a dream, after all. And it's time to wake up."
Ellen did, awake and aware like she'd been thrown into a swimming pool full of iced coffee, which was a far sight sharper than she'd felt ever since she'd started sleeping in the green-and-beige abandoned apartment. She doesn't focus on that though.
What she's focused on is the red threads that are tied to all the fingers of her right hand – six, two of them attached to her thumb –, stretched taut enough to remind her that there's something on the other end. She moved her hand, and the strings moved with it, proving that whatever they were attached to, it wasn't the wall on the other side of the room.
"Magic." Ellen muttered in annoyance as Anti-Venom slid up from beneath her clothes and over her face. She would have killed not to follow those threads…
But she did anyway, shooting out a webline as she started swinging after the phantom streaks of red.
Of course the threads would lead to Midtown High and, of course, Reilly would be there, kitted out in full costume. A variation on his classic Scarlet Spider look, one that didn't look like he'd just taken a red morph suit and ripped the sleeves off a blue hoodie, it looked remarkably similar to the Fantastic Four's... Ah.
Ellen shook her head, a small smirk spreading under her mask. How could the FF have so many broke episodes when Reed and Sue could just combine their talents to become the fiercest super-fashion house in New York?
"Red strings?" He asked as she landed, waggling his fingers. No strings were visible to her eye, but that was magic. The ones attached to her hand were still there, disappearing into the walls of Midtown High at various locations.
"So 'Charlotte' visited you too." Ellen murmured, Anti-Venom sliding away from her face as she scanned the school through the doors. Dark, save for a few lights on in the classrooms.
This would have been normal save for the fact that Anti-Venom's spider-sense was screaming like her common sense did at the start of a horror movie.
"The fence is electrified too." Ben said, walking up to stand next to her. "And don't you think you should at least wait for a dramatic moment before unmasking in front of a perfect stranger?" He didn't say anything about the symbiote.
"Ben Reilly, the Scarlet Spider and the second person to hold the title of Spider-Man. You've worked at like two different coffee shops and you bleach your hair because you don't want to look too much like your brother." Ellen said as she pushed open the door. Unlocked. Another sign that something was amiss. "I'd hardly call you a stranger."
"No word on me not being perfect, though." He said, falling into step behind her as the front door closed behind them. "And who electrifies a fence and leaves a door unlocked? Seriously."
Ellen smirked. "Not a single syllable." She looked both ways down the hallways. Deserted. "And as to who… my money is on S.H.I.E.L.D. Anyway, Ellen Blake has more reason to be here than Anti-Venom."
"Formal introductions after the current disaster then?" Reilly said lightly as something in the depths of the school slammed.
One of the red threads was separate from the others and, while the others hurried around the building like whatever – Ellen was beginning to suspect that it was a 'whoever' from the distant sound of shouting – they were attached to was moving at high speed, it was motionless, pointing up towards…
"The principal's office." With that, she darted towards the stairs, bouncing off the walls to get up there faster. Anti-Venom's hidden influence was enough to manage that much without being in full display. Reilly followed, making no effort to conceal his abilities as he sprang off the walls like a super ball, the golden eyes of his mask flashing in the half-dark of the unilluminated stairwell.
Ellen scurried along the wax floor, skidding to a stop in front of the principal's office. She opened the door… And immediately shielded her eyes. "It's too early for this." She muttered.
Coulson twitched, somehow conscious despite dangling upside down over a vat of something green and fuming. "It's almost noon, Blake." He said, as if he wasn't stripped down to his underwear and suspended over a certain death.
"It's a Saturday." She said, looking desperately at Reilly to… do something other than die laughing. She'd probably be a long time waiting, as the man was still half-bent over, the soft sounds of wheezing and muffled laughter keeping any commentary at bay.
"The point still stands." Coulson said, apparently not noticing that Ellen's attention was elsewhere.
"You're not my dad or in a position to be lecturing me about… whatever!" She threw her hands in the air as she moved into the room and started thinking. Coulson didn't look any worse for the wear, so the fumes couldn't be anything too powerful. The size of the acid bath – the thing was too supervillain for her – would be a problem, unless…
Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of quiet 'thwips'. Ellen looked up.
Reilly, finally over his case of the chortles, had spun a net below Coulson before jumping up to the ceiling. The agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. stared, only his wide eyes giving away the basic flavor of his thoughts. Some variation on '404 – connection cannot be made', Ellen supposed.
The moment passed quickly as Coulson schooled his expression into his usual unamused frown. "And you are?" He asked.
"Trespassing. Already graduated. Not touching a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with a ten foot pole if I can help it." Reilly snapped part of the web, allowing Coulson to roll down to the safety of the floor. "But if you must have a name… The Scarlet Spider works well enough."
Coulson rubbed his wrists as soon as Ellen had freed them from the bindings. "Original." He noted dryly.
Reilly shrugged, apparently not the least bothered by the sight of people in their underwear. On second thought, Ellen realized that was pretty much half of the superhero population in some way or the other. "Got it from a reporter I saved from a mugging one time." He said, dropping back down to the floor, "They're unimaginative like that."
Ellen rolled her eyes, trying not to look over interested in her right hand. One of the strings had disappeared – the one wrapped around her index finger , while the rest were still blisteringly present and still running around the school wildly–, the red trail no longer leading to Coulson, who was pulling his clothes back on.
"What's going on?" Ellen asked, wincing as something else crashed.
"Supervillain. Thinks Spider-Man goes to Midtown, so he decided to… take us over for the weekend."
"Was it the substitute gym teacher?" Ellen asked before throwing her hands up defensively. "What, I guessed it right when the guy introduced himself. Should have picked an alias that wasn't a predatory bird…"
Coulson rubbed his eyes. "Blake… this is Taskmaster. He's a…"
"Combat chameleon. Mercenary. Spy. Assassin. Copies people's moves and makes a killing off training junior assassins." She answered, ignoring Coulson's grimace in favor of scratching the side of her face. "I'm well-read."
"His existence is considered an underworld secret…"
"Which would have been better kept if he didn't wear a cape, spandex, and a freaking skull mask to work every day." Reilly finished.
Someone screamed. Ellen knew that scream well – she'd first heard it during a B-movie marathon and teased the one who'd made it vigorously over its wavering high pitch. "Harry!" She darted out of the room, Reilly hot on her heels as she raced through the halls after the wavering noise. Anti-Venom writhed under her clothes, but she forced it down as she followed the red threads.
Harry Osborn ran through the halls, trying to keep focused on where he was going, rather than on Flash's choking sobs. If he wasn't careful, he'd just end up going around in circles and then the man in the mask – he wasn't sure if he was an actual phantom or just some kind of freaky ninja – would catch them.
Not that the guy needed any help. The skull faced man descended from the ceiling, cutting off their escape. Rand slipped between them, sliding into a fighting stance as their pursuer stared, golden eyes unblinking.
"Going to play the hero without putting on your mask?" He said – Harry swore that he'd heard that voice before, but where had he heard a voice that sounded like Death slamming a leaden coffin lid shut with a one-liner? – mockingly. "Though, of the three of you, I did have you as my top choice for him."
Him?
Who was 'him'?
Harry's thoughts blurred as the fight started, Rand's legs flashing out in lightning strikes as the caped phantom dodged and weaved, golden eyes never leaving Rand's face as the two danced in deadly synchronization, punches and palms strikes interchanged at speeds Harry could barely follow, much less predict the path of.
"Never pegged surfer-boy Dan for a Bruce Lee clone." Flash murmured in a tone of near reverence. Of course a display of physical prowess would impress the jock, though Harry was hard pressed not to be awed himself.
Danny spun around for a flying roundhouse, eyes widening as he looked at the onlookers. "Get out of here!" He yelled.
The distraction was enough for the masked man, who dodged the kick, twisting the martial artist's leg until his momentum died and left Danny to crash to the linoleum. He slammed his foot into the downed boy's head – the crack was sickening, and the way that Danny had gone limp after was even less comforting – before turning golden eyes on the remaining pair.
"So it wasn't Rand." He said casually, as if he wasn't wearing a skull mask and he hadn't just killed a kid and as if he hadn't just drawn a combat knife from one of the pouches on his belt, the blade dancing between his fingers like a deadly butterfly as the assassin walked towards them, each footstep deafening in the dark. "So who is it? Which one of you is Spider-Man? Osborn? Thompson?"
"How about 'D' for none of the above?" A red and blue blur said as it kicked the skull faced ninja into a set of lockers. The metal crumpled like newspaper around the villain's body, though he quickly pulled himself out of the scrap like it was less than an annoyance. Golden eyes flashed dangerously –
And were covered by a splatter of white webbing.
"Didn't your momma tell you that it's rude to stare at people?" Another – Another? How many Spider-Men were there? – Spider-Man said as he dropped down from the ceiling. This one was wearing a blue hood, and his mask had golden eyes that shone in the near-dark like coals.
"What is it with me and copycats?" The first Spider-Man asked, ignoring the assassin who wasn't even close to out for the count.
"I'm sorry, did you trademark all things eight-legged and arachnid while I wasn't looking?" The second asked, dodging a blindly thrown locker door, ripping from its hinges by the villain. "Excuse me, Tasky, but can't you see we're in the middle of a- oh wait, you can't. My bad."
Someone pulled Harry to the side, narrowly saving him from being smashed by the far-flying attack. "El?" He asked, looking up at the bleach-blonde girl, who was watching the fight with a hard focus that he associated more with his father than his friend. "What are you doing –?"
"Saving your butt, what else?" Ellen snapped, shoving both him and Flash out of the way of another carelessly thrown attack, this one a thrown sword, of all things. "Now, in the name of common sense, run!"
Ava tried not to freak out. She was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent – no she wasn't, she was a trainee at best –, she was trained for this – on paper, maybe, but not here, she wasn't –, she knew the risks – again, she'd known but reality was kicking in that idea like a rotted out door –, she needed to keep a level head. She knelt down next to Danny and pressed her fingers to his neck, mindful of the sharp claws of her gloves. Nothing. She swallowed, and move her hands again.
A pulse. Somewhat erratic and slowly slowing to a normal sedate pace, but it was undeniably there.
She let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding before looking back up at the fight. Taskmaster was managing to juggle both of his opponents, though fighting two Spider-Men at once – Ava didn't even want to know how that had happened – was obviously taxing the mercenary's ability to keep up.
The other Spider-Man wasn't afraid to push the mercenary's powers further, pulling off flips and bends just a hair outside of the realm of human possibility, moves that made Ava's back twinge just to witness, all while keeping up a stream of banter with both Taskmaster and Parker.
Still, it was only a matter of time until Parker slipped up and gave Taskmaster an opening. Danny was stable for now – at least he was alive, which moved 'First Aid' up Ava's personal To-Do list to a near top position – and Taskmaster's back was wide open. Ava flexed her claws, sparks of electricity flashing for a moment before she darted forward.
"Decide to join in, pussycat?" The not-Parker Spider-Man said as he twisted out of the path of her attack. Taskmaster managed the same at the last moment, though he lost a fair portion of cape in the process. "This dance floor is getting a little crowded, I think."
"And that, students, is why prom takes place in the gym." Parker said, twisting around a vicious kick, before leaning back to whisper to Ava. "Tiger, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
She ducked under a constellation of ninja stars, taking Parker down with her. "I don't think calling an airstrike on the school is either practical or even sort of realistic right now, Spidey."
"No, no." He said, pulling her up the wall and out of the way of a pit trap that had opened up in the floor, somehow failing to inconvenience anyone. "I was thinking we relocate this ballroom blitz and pick the set list for ourselves."
A moment of confusion fuzzed Ava's mind and then… "Oh! Oh." She smirked, the expression hidden under her mask but fully evident in her tone. "That is good."
"Always with the note of surprise." Parker grumbled good-naturedly, swinging her over to stable footing, scrambling out of the way of the other Spider-Man as he was flung across the room. "The mask goes on and that 4.0 grade point average just disappears."
The conversation was interrupted as the other Spider-Man was thrown across the room, slamming through the stair access door and out of sight.
"I'm really starting to hate you little punks." Taskmaster said as he walked towards them, not quite fully hiding the way that he was favoring the left side of his body. His mask was nearly cracked in half, one golden eye obscured by a broken lens. In his hands he held an energy rifle, the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo printed clearly on the side while the barrel smoked slightly. "Unfortunately for you… Fury has left some extremely age-inappropriate toys lying around this building. Just one more of his many bad judgement calls, I'd say." With that, the mercenary leveled the barrel at the two super-powered teens.
"Lozersaizwhut." Parker coughed.
"What?"
White web fluid slammed over the barrel of the energy rifle, shoving the shot back into the sensitive innards of the machine. "Works every time." Spidey said.
Ava gave him a withering look, one of few expressions properly conveyed by her mask. "Really?"
"Well, not 'every' every time, but y'know… Come on, at least give me my one-liners."
The smoke parted, revealing the battered yet still upright form of Taskmaster. He looked up at the pair, revealing that his mask had finally given up the ghost, only a few stray scraps of it – likely the parts that had kept it anchored – remaining, along with one of the eyepieces. This small remainder was not enough to disguise his face.
"Coach Yeager?!" Ava and Peter exclaimed.
The gym teacher's lip curled into a sneer. "You're obviously both newbies to the spy game, not even suspecting the substitute teacher. Stupid kids." He threw away the ruined energy rifle. "Makes my job a lot easier, though." He pulled a pair of knives out of his utility belt, twisting them into a reverse grip before he lunged at the pair.
Taskmaster – 'Tony Masters' was a well-worn alias, used because it was within the realm of expectation and it was a whole lot less attention grabbing than putting 'Taskmaster' on all of his business card – calculated his situation.
His first layer of cover was blown. He'd expected that, possibly counted on it in one of his many secondary plans, but it was still a small sting to his professional pride. That, however was trivial, and he discarded it in favor of other details.
There were unexpected players on the board. The tiger girl and the Spider-Man knockoff – he almost hesitated to call the superhero a 'knockoff' as his skills were infinitely more polished than his target's but seniority won out in the end – had certainly spanners in the works, along with the revelation that Rand was actually skilled in the martial arts. It was almost a pity, roughhousing the boy like that, but he'd likely live to learn from the experience.
His personal armory was nearly spent – only his holdout gun, some throwing knives, and a smoke grenade were left, though those would prove enough if it came to him 'exiting stage left' sans pursuit by bear –, and someone – most likely Coulson, if someone had let him out of Taskmaster's trap – had locked up the S.H.I.E.L.D. arms, removing another precious resource from play. It wouldn't be long before the building itself would turn against the mercenary, making a relatively cushy job into an exceedingly troublesome one.
One last attempt, he decided, before calling on a tactical retreat.
This time, it wasn't nearly as easy to track his targets. There was no sharp slap of sneakers on linoleum, no screaming, no panting, nothing other than the occasional 'whoosh' of displaced air. Taskmaster was actually running into a situation half-blind.
Another soft breeze, heading in the direction of the gym, met his ears. Beneath the latex mask of 'Coach Yeager' – copied from an old exercise video that had collected more dust than it had sales –, he grinned. "You're only prolonging the inevitable, Spider." He rumbled, eyes scanning the dark hallway for any trace of movement. "And my contract doesn't cover the condition I deliver you in. Only that it gets done."
"Big talk for a man with a pornstache." Spider-Man said before his head vanished through the swinging gym doors, narrowly avoiding impalement via throwing knife. "So far, I'm not terribly impressed."
Taskmaster rolled through the door, only to be greeted by darkness. Trap, he realized as the doors locked behind him.
"So you're a McNinja Sasuke… or Itachi?" Spider-Man's voice echoed in the gym, giving the mercenary no hints as to the superheroes location. "Maybe Tobi… do you consider yourself a 'good boy', Tasky?"
"Not hardly." His nightvision would make short work of this game… Taskmaster's fingers twitched as he touched all of nothing. His mask, complete with the nightvision lenses, had been broken long before he'd reached this floor, and he'd failed to notice because the mask was designed not to obscure his vision.
Spider-Man had checked him without him even realizing. The mercenary chuckled. "Well played, Spider." He said, accessing his memory of the gym. "But you forgot…"
"Your photographic memory?" The girl asked as she kicked him into the wall-climb.
"Oh, we remembered." Spider-Man called as Taskmaster reached for the sawhorse… and missed entirely. "I guess it only works if everything is just as you left it…"
Which it wasn't, Taskmaster realized, taking a glancing strike from the girl – he twitched away from her claws, knowing that a single strike from them would shock him into unconsciousness or worse–
The electrified strike came from behind, breaking off his train of thought before kicking him into the bleachers. Wood splintered, driving into Taskmaster's skin as someone webbed him down. The lights came back on, revealing…
Taskmaster smirked as he saw the superheroes, each wearing the other's equipment. Behind them, the civilians – so easily dismissed, and never wisely ignored – manning the light switch panel.
Checkmate. He smirked, despite his situation.
"Good game, Spider." Taskmaster said, clicking the emergency release of his smoke bombs. "I'm looking forward to the next round."
Smoke obliterated the scene, and he escaped. Discretion was the better half of valor, anyway.
Coulson watched the two standing members of his team mill around, even as the small camera crew interviewed Osborn and Thompson. Rand was getting medical care for his concussion – apparently being an 'Immortal Weapon' didn't confer invincibility – and Blake had vanished as soon as everyone was confirmed as being alright.
The girl attracted more and more questions to her and never answered any of them. Her unimpressed reaction with events, the classified information so nonchalantly shared, her casual association with this 'Scarlet Spider'…
He shook his head. The whole day was raising unpleasant questions.
Who had hired Taskmaster to come after Spider-Man? Not even an assassination mission, but with the goal to capture. The mercenary had no particular love for Hydra, though…
Coulson's phone buzzed. "Coulson here."
"Coulson." Fury said. "Status report?"
"Iron Fist's going to be out for a few days, there's a bit of damage to the school, a new spider in the web…" He shrugged. "Other than that, Taskmaster didn't get what he came for."
"And you know what that is?"
"Either Spider-Man's secret identity or Spider-Man himself."
"Yet he came to Midtown to do it." The director noted darkly. "Anti-Venom show up?"
"No. A guy by the name of 'Scarlet Spider' did though."
The sound of plastic crunching could be heard on the other end of the line, which Coulson could only guess was the sound of Fury's phone dying. "What."
Woo, this one took a while. Mostly because I got halfway through the Taskmaster fight and realized I didn't know who should take it over after that. Obviously, that problem's been hammered out already, else I wouldn't have posted.
Anyway, a big kudos to those who leave the reviews as always, I'll try to get the next chapter up before too long (I already have a fair section of it done already, as is the same with some other bits, but hey, who knows).