Wings of Death: Cleaning Out the Cage
Peter blinked away the vast number of spots hovering before his sore eyes. "Ugh…I feel like I'm in a Jack Kirby comic with these dots…" Peter moaned weakly, trying his hardest to make a joke.
His beaten and battered body lay on an examination table. Peter's costume had been removed and replaced with a flimsy paper gown. All of his cuts and scarps had been bandaged and wrapped tightly, after being carefully cleaned with alcohol and antiseptic. An I.V. drip was hooked up to his arm, steadily feeding some unknown chemical into his bloodstream.
"Don't mock Jack Kirby kid, they called him the "King" for a reason." Said a woman standing with her back to Peter. Her hair was a light black, pulled into a ponytail. She stood roughly at five nine or five eight. She wore a, simple nurses uniform with a long shirt. Over her shoulders was draped a short, blue cape.
She refused to give her name and only told him that she was called Night Nurse. Night Nurse was a woman of young age, though much older than Peter, most likely in her mid-twenties.
"Whatever. By the way, why do you call yourself 'Night Nurse'?" Peter asked, trying and failing to prop himself up on his elbows.
"If D.D. and them get to dress up in pretty colors and talk with fancy codenames, by God I'm going to too!" She said rather dryly.
"D.D.? Oh, Dare Devil, right. Wait a sec, what do you mean "them"?" Peter questioned wincing as a nerve ending went off in his neck, sending messages of pain to his cerebral cortex.
"Doctor/Patient confidentiality, kid." Night Nurse said.
"Hello, May Parker?" Peter slowly turned his head to The Dare Devil who was hidden in the other room just next to the medical office. "Yes, this is Darrel Devine, yes that is my real name. No ma'am, this is actually about your nephew Peter. Earlier today Peter was, struck by a car. Mrs. Parker- Mrs. Parker please, calm down! He is fine. I heard the accident and found him and had my driver take us to my personal clinic. Your nephew was banged up but otherwise fine. Yes ma'am that is all right. You can come pick him up, we're at…"
The injured hero looked away from his hidden rescuer. He had to admit, he that was fairly humorous coming up with "Darrel Devine". Geez, what if that was the guy's real name? Peter pushed the thought aside. He had not seen Dare Devil's face outside of a red horned mask that covered most of it and red lenses stitched into the eyes.
Yet, Peter had gone and blabbed his real name AND home phone number to the guy! Chances are it was due to blood loss clouding his judgment. But he had probably saved his life.
Peter's costume was folded up neatly on the counter next to various medical supplies. His, street clothes and backpack where next to it. He had told Dare Devil where to find his clothes after convincing him not to tell his aunt.
"So kid," Peter looked over to the much older man who now sat in a swiveling chair to his left. He was dressed in a full-body, bloody red suit.
His gloves were, bound by several straps and small buckles. Each knuckle had a small, pointed spike protruding from it just large enough to make some rather nasty cuts with each blow.
Dare Devil's boots looked fairly lightweight with thin soles on the bottom. A column of small spikes like those found on his gloves ran up and down his shins.
Strapped to his hip was a dark red baton with a bronze cape.
"What the Unholy Hell did you think you were doing?" He demanded, every muscle in his body tensing with each word and his face twisted into a furious snarl.
"Stopping a psycho in a bird suit?" Peter responded dully.
Dare Devil looked the youth over with an obvious air of disdain and disgust. "Looked to me like you got your prepubescent ass handed to you!"
"Hey! I'm fifteen!" Peter counter red faced.
"Even worse! At least little kids have enough sense not to jump into something over there heads! Why were you doing this, try to impress a girl so that you could get laid or something?" Dare Devil leaned back in his chair, clearly expecting a retort from the younger costumed adventurer.
"Shut up!" Peter screamed. "You have no fucking idea why I'm doing this! Don't you dare judge me you asshole! You have no clue who I am!" Peter panted heavily, feeling his throat become tender from the yelling.
"Oh, I know who you are! You are an immature little baby who has no excuse for being in a costume and you should get you butt home before you get yourself or more importantly, me killed!" By this time, Dare Devil had stood up out of his chair and was thrusting his finger accusingly at Peter.
Peter, his common sense over ridden by rage and teenage angst, leaped out of the uncomfortable pseudo-bed, ripped the I.V. from his arm and stood with shaking legs before a true to life urban legend.
He lashed out with a right hook, the pain in the whole of his right side at the very back of his mind. Like lightening, the masked man had brushed the blow away with his left hand, knocking his young opponents limb away and exposing his whole body. Dare Devil followed up with a jab straight to Peter's face, but stopped short of actually hitting him.
Peter's fogged mind cleared at the realization that he was just three millimeters from getting free, cheap and affordable plastic surgery done to his face.
"Matt!" Night Nurse exclaimed.
"Betty!" Shouted back Dare Devil.
"Matt? Matt Murdock?" Peter said taken back. "The lawyer? The blind lawyer?"
Dare Devil, or more accurately, Matt Murdock buried his head in his hands. "Just bloody beautiful! Now a little brat knows my secret identity!"
"I am not a brat and I am not a baby!" Peter barked back. And then added under his breath in a way that it could not be understood, "And I can't believe I got saved by a blind guy."
"I heard that!" Dare Devil shot at him, much to Peters surprise. "Enhanced senses kid."
"Spider powers are better." Peter said.
"Ooh, wow! So you got lucky with an X-gene so you think you should go out and fight crime? Yeah real smart."
"Hey! I am not a mutant! I just got these powers about a month ago!" Peter spat back, not intending it to sound like a hateful statement.
Matt sneered and said, "How'd you get your power's then, get bit by a radioactive arachnologist?" Peter gave him a confused look. "One who studies spiders."
"Actually no! I got them through what I'm guessing was a combination food poisoning and bite from a freaky spider." Peter responded.
He could have sworn he saw Dare Devil raise an eyebrow. Then he swore that it seemed like he was giving out a little bit too much information. "Um…maybe I should get dressed?" Peter offered.
"Whatever. Listen kid, I did you a favor by not telling your Aunt that you like dress up in tights and dance around the city-"
"Like you?"
"Touché, but you are NOT to dress up like a, what the hell are you supposed to be?"
"A spider."
"Like a spider again and try to be a super hero and get killed. I won't be there to pull your ass out of the fire next time. I did you that favor because you did take down a psychopath, and in turn, possibly pissed off someone I don't like." The red-garbed vigilante backed away to the clinics door, which led to a dark but surprisingly clean alley. As he reached for the door-knob, Matt stopped and turned back to face the young super-powered teenager. "So thanks." With that, the Dare Devil of Hell's Kitchen left the small doctor's office.
His strength finally giving out on him, Peter fell back on the uncomfortable bed. A wave of nausea hit Peter like a steamroller. The world began to spin rapidly around his head, his stomach gurgled and bile rose up in his throat.
"Easy kid, don't strain yourself." Night Nurse warned. "You did lose a good amount of blood." The raven-haired nurse tied the leaking I.V. tube off and threw the needle in a biohazard container.
Peter gave a quick, shallow nod and a grunt. He watched as the medical physician stuffed his costume in his backpack, making sure it was flat against the bottom. Peter worried she was going to tear out the bottom of the bag with as much force she was pushing down with!
Peter's mind strayed from the present and back just a few minutes prior to his "conversation" with Dare Devil. He had mocked him. Belittled him. He didn't know a damn thing about Peter. The young man clenched his fists. Muscles that could crush bone like paper tightened along his strong arms.
Rage boiled in Peter's heart. Dare Devil hadn't simply made fun of Peter he had mocked Uncle Ben! If Peter ever saw him again…
"Alright ki-WOW!" Night Nurse cried, dropping Peter's bag on the floor.
"What? What's the matter?" Peter asked fearfully.
The doctor looked befuddled and disturbed. She licked her lips like she was trying to speak but lost all moisture in her mouth. "Uh…yeah, yeah! Fine!" Night Nurse stuttered before retrieving a penlight from her coat pocket. She walked over to the youth and shined the bright light into his eyes, much to Peter's silent, but very obvious protest.
She stood up, slid the light into her coat pocket, shaking her head. "Must've been my imagination." She muttered, snatching Peter's bag up off the floor. The medical doctor handed it to the spider-powered teen.
Not too much later, Peter's aunt arrived very distraught over finding her nephew in such a state of being bandaged and bruised and berating him for his carelessness and how lucky he was to be alive before driving Peter home and shouting at him even more.
While I wish that we could stay and further observe the happenings of the Parkers in more depth, we must journey to other parts of interest. Farther away where a large man, both in the great shadow he casts and size of his body resides.
High in the gleaming silvery towers of the city, Wilson Fisk sat most discontent in his office, a lavish place filled with original Rembrandts hung upon the walls, statues depicting Greek Gods and Goddess placed in the corners and by the left and right side of his large, kidney bean shaped desk which was made of a unique blend of gold, silver, platinum and oak.
The bear of a man tapped his black cane rhythmically on the marble floor, pondering his next move in the game. His pawn had been captured, that was most certainly obvious, as it had been playing over and over on the news that a man in a bird-like suit had been captured by the Spider-Man after killing several dozen people in the Library Hotel.
Fisk was happy with the killing's that was the truth, but the fact that Adrian had been captured, even more by a costumed vigilante, angered him. It was smart to anger the Kingpin of Crime. This 'Spider-Man' would have to be taught that.
The one thing that angered Wilson Fisk even more was when he was betrayed. Betrayal within his organization was not acceptable, no not at all. It was punished very severely, often times by Wilson himself. This was one of those times he would deal with it personally. He had always suspected that this day would come.
The Kingpin rose from his chair and left his office with a neutral expression that betrayed no emotion or intention other than locomotion of his massive frame. He traveled down three floors by elevator and went down two different hallways before stopping at a door labeled 207.
The Kingpin swiped a keycard through the electronic lock of the door, which beeped twice, and opened the door quite calmly. He entered a comfortable room that resembled a smaller in scale and price version of his office, lacking the desk, marble floors and Rembrandt paintings.
Before a large, plasma screen television set was a satin love seat a nightstand of hickory was placed next to it with a fern on top that looked to be in need of water. Twin doorways were to the left and right of this small sitting room, the left leading to a large work place and the right to the bedroom and restrooms. The current resident was in no need of a kitchen, for all he would have to do was but pick a phone and order whatever dish he desired and it would be brought to his room, free of charge. That was one of the perks of being high up in the organization; all your needs were taken care of as long as you pulled your weight, and more importantly, never angered Mister Fisk.
"Mr. Fisk, I was not expecting to see you sir." Alistair Smythe spoke, wheeling himself in from the workroom.
A large grin spread across his massive face, flesh and fat wrinkling and folding back along his cheeks. "I thought so Smythe." Wilson chuckled. With heavy, ominous thuds and clacks, the white color criminal overlord hovered about his wheelchair bound assistant. "It has recently come to my attention that many of my operations have been compromised from within the organization. Interesting, no?"
Alistair followed his employer with a weary gave. "Yes, it is intriguing. Do you…suspect a traitor in our midst?"
The massive man looked down upon Smythe, smiling wider as he saw tiny beads of sweat trickle down his neck. "Why, yes Alistair!" The Kingpin stopped in front of the crippled criminal. Then, in a much heavier, darker tone, said: "I do."
With that, Alistair Smythe threw up his right arm, a small taser that he had hidden in his long sleeve, in his hand. The twin metal probes crackled with power, enough electrical current to bring down a man Fisk's size with ease. One quick press of a button and the twin metal prongs would leap out of the black and gold box, attached to copper wires and embed themselves in Fisk's chest, electrocuting him, and immobilizing him long enough for Smythe to get the gun stashed behind his wheelchair.
But what Smythe had not expected was for a man of Wilson Fisk's size to move with such honed precision, grace, and above all else, raw power. The Kingpin of Crime lunged forward grabbed his former assistants arm and then jerking Smythe's arm to the left. His bear like hand covered much of Smythe's thin forearm. Squeezing tightly, Fisk applied tremendous force down atop tibia, and on his elbow. With a sickening snap, he broke Alistair's arm down, shattering his forearm and elbow.
A banshee's cry was nothing compared to Smythe's hair curling scream of pain. Bits of bone stuck through his flesh, pouring blood down his wrecked, limp, and useless limb. His cry was silenced as his throat was caught in a crushing vice. Alistair was lifted from his chair, which rolled back away from him, bumping against a small table holding a vase full of flowers. One destroyed arm hung useless by his side in almost perfect mimicry of his withered legs. His one good arm scratched pitifully against his captures meaty arm.
"I could crush your throat with such ease right now Smythe!" Kingpin growled, tightening his death grip on Smythe's throat. "But no, a quick death is to good for a traitor scum like you." Alistair barely felt The Kingpin jab the tip of his cane into his belly, nor did he feel the tiny prick that broke his skin.
With a frighteningly swift move, Fisk hurled Alistair into the large Plasma screen television. The thin television shattered from the impact, embedding shards of polyurethane in the cripples back, whom fell with quite the noise to the floor, the Plasma screen accompanying him.
Calmly, Wilson walked over to the downed man, looking down at him with a disgusted face. "I just injected you with a lethal toxin. In just a matter of seconds you should start to feel a burning sensation course all throughout your body. Ah, yes, I can tell by that delicious expression that you are experiencing it now. That burning sensation is the toxin corrupting your red blood cells, changing them into a highly potent acid-like substance. With each beat of your heart, your blood, now a poison, circulates through your heart, lungs, brain, everywhere, rapidly destroying them. Soon, you will be dead, but not before experiencing more pain, then your brain can comprehend. Goodbye Alistair. It was to bad that you just had to follow in your fathers foot steps."
Alistair watched through red hued vision his killer walking away. He barely heard what he had said, our even noticed that he was even there, too enveloped in the mind shattering pain. Soon however, his brain had shut down, too damaged by his own toxic blood to keep functioning. Just as The Kingpin had said, his heart, lungs, brain and all other organs had been ripped and gnawed at by the poison, reducing them to shriveled, decayed mush within his body.
Oz. Corp. HQ
Seconds ticked by, time passed all about him, but he did not notice. Or maybe, he did care. Norman was far too caught in his own thoughts to be aware of a nuclear bomb detonating in the same room as he. It had been on the news. A mass slaughter with only one survivor who's identity was undisclosed. The murderer was a man in a bird-like suit. Norman Osborn's suit too be, exact.
This "Spider-Man" character was the one credited with his capture. Norman did not like this at all. No not at all. The quality of a product is directly represents the quality of the manufacturer. If something breaks, gives out or fails to perform as expected, the finger of accusation is immediately drawn to the manufacturer. If you bought a new car and upon driving it out of the sales lot, it burst into flames, whom would you blame? The people who made the faulty vehicle of course! If you purchased a power suit designed to make the wearer an unstoppable killing machine and he was beaten, whom would you blame?
Norman clicked a pen in his hand, subconsciously in time with the tick and tock of the wall clock. His cold emerald eyes bore through the empty space before him, filled with bitterness and fury.
The Kingpin was already on the edge. It was Norman's product that had failed to live up to expectations. It would be Norman's head on the line. If he didn't come back with something that would truly make up for the VP-001's failure, he would be dead by the end of the month. Maybe that formula would…
Crackle! The abhorrent hissing crackle of the P.A. system disturbed, Norman's train of thought. Angrily, he smashed the button down on the rectangular box. "What is it? I'm busy!" "Mr. Osborn? You have a call from New York General Hospital. It's about your son."
Parker Home
Peter lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The pain had for the most part dissipated. That didn't mean he felt fine, though. If Peter moved the wrong way, a jolt of pain would shoot up one side of his body and down the other.
Peter was no longer in his hospital gown but back in his normal street clothes, which he had changed into before Aunt May arrived. If Peter ever figured out why in the world he needed to wear that stupid little gown every time he went to the hospital, he would be a happy man.
His door opened with a creak that nowadays, never bothered him. May Reilly Parker step in with an orange plastic tray in both hands, a bowel of steaming soup placed in the middle of the, tray.
"Here you go Peter," said Aunt May with a smile, "a nice hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. It will help you heal faster!" Peter smiled, sat up and said thanks as his widowed Aunt dropped two metal props from the bottom of the orange tray and sat it down over his legs.
As she walked out of his room, Aunt May turned back and said, "And when you are all fixed up, I'm going to smack you upside your head for running into traffic!"
Peter sighed heavily. "Yeah, traffic. Let's go with that!" Peter picked up his spoon and looked at the soup, which constituted nothing more that a bowel full of hot, yellow fluid with steam rising off its oily surface. Tiny bits of chicken floated on the surface, wrapped by pitifully thin noodles. "Here's to bargain bin chicken noodle soup!" Peter slurped a spoonful of the soup and grunted with dissatisfaction. It tasted just about as good as it looked.
After Peter had consumed the soup, he dared to venture from bed to take the bowl and tray down to the kitchen. With uncertain legs, Peter slowly stood up from his well-used bed, wincing as his ankle gave a small twinge of unpleasantness. His breath quavered with each small step, each one a, mile long stride for stressed and damaged muscles.
Finally, after much effort and pain on the youth's part, Peter had finally made it down the stairs into the kitchen. He put the bowl into the sink, letting a small amount of water pour into it from the faucet to rinse it out, and put the tray on the counter with its legs folded back under it.
As Peter began to move back up the stairs, he caught a grim face Aunt May, speaking on the telephone. Concern made his injured body stop and listen to the call. "I see. Okay, that's New York General right? Okay, thank you Gwen dear." Aunt May hung up the phone and looked at her nephew with loving concern. "Peter, that was Gwen. Harry's in the hospital."
NY General
Peter Parker, Mary Jane Watson, and Gwen Stacy sat around their friend with grief stricken faces. A heavy aura of sorrow and misery blended with the primordial scent of death that hovered in the room, creating a new sensation that ripped the heart. Machines beeped and hummed to the tune of Harry Osborn's weak heartbeat.
"When…when did it happen?" Peter finally spoke through a dry throat.
"After you left." Mary Jane replied without raising her head. "Doctors said it was a severe seizure. They're not sure what brought it on."
Peter tightened his fists. His muscles protested by screaming at his brain. Peter ignored them. If only he had been there for Harry, maybe he wouldn't be in that bed, hooked up to all those machines.
And if Peter was there, everyone, in that room would have been, killed by that psychopath. Would he have even stopped with those people? Would he have gone out into the streets and started picking people off? The Vulture had been crazy enough! What he had done the first time they fought, good god! It hadn't hit Peter right then that what he was looking at was a dead body. After he got home, he had vomited.
"Out of my way, damn it!"
All three friends looked out the large window to see a red haired man in a black business suit storm his way past interns and doctors, a furious scowl plastered on his sharp face. "Out of my way! I want to see my son!" He shouted again. The doctors begged the irate man to calm down, but he pushed past them and burst into the room.
With heavy, purposeful steps, he moved to the end of Harry's bed and cast down at him with eyes that gave a definite sense of emotion, but complete uncertainty as to what the emotion was. His emerald eyes then shifted focus to the three teenagers at both sides of Harry's bed. On the left hand side were Mary Jane and Gwen, on the right was Peter.
"Who, parietal, are you three?" He demanded harshly.
"We um, are Harry's friends." MJ said. "Are you Harry's dad?"
"Yes. I am Norman Osborn." Norman said with a thinly veiled sense of pride.
"Oh, well I'm Mary Jane, MJ for short, this is Gwen, and that's Peter." She said nervously.
Norman cast stony eyes at the group, nitpicking and condemning them for any flaw they had or tried to hide. Norman looked at Peter strangely, intrigued by his bandaged state. Gauze was wrapped around his forehead, musing already unruly follicles. Bandages were wrapped around his right palm and a number of small stitches dotted his cheeks and forearms. His pants and shirt most likely disguised numerous other injuries.
"Whatever happened to you, Mr.-"
"Peter, Peter Parker."
"Yes, Mr. Parker. What happened to you?" Norman asked, a strange glint in his eye.
Peter shifted uncomfortably in the small chair he sat in. Something about Harry's father just didn't sit right in his gut. "I was um…hit by a car. Nothing bad, it was going kinda slow."
"And you were with them when my son had his seizure?"
"No, Peter ran off to puke after a bomb exploded." Gwen said, answering for her boyfriend.
"A bomb? You mean the one in the Library Hotel?" Norman asked.
"I guess that's what the building was, yeah." Gwen said with a shrug.
Norman looked back at Peter, who shied away from the businessman's stony, emerald orbs.
"Yes, quite. I must be going. I trust you will not pull the plug on my son?" Norman said, voice dripping with venom.
"Hey!" Gwen shot up, snarling and glaring like a mother lion protecting her cubs. "We're Harry's friends you ass wipe! We would never do anything to hurt Harry, unlike you ass wipe!"
"What do you just say to me, little girl?" A hiss that could curdle milk and send animals running passed the industrialist's lips.
Gwen locked eyes with Norman, defiance coursing through her veins like red-hot lava. "I called you an ass wipe. From the way Harry speaks of you, that should be a complement!"
Murder screamed in Norman Osborn's eyes, like green fire licking out hungrily for food. His chest swelled like he was prepared for a cutting insult and numerous threats. Then, Norman shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. Norman looked over the gathered three and bid them farewell, leaving without another word, and leaving behind a very prominate sense of malice.
Osborn Mansion
The clacking of keys echoed in Norman Osborn's home office. Norman sat before the computer on his desk, typing furiously. On the monitor, illegally extracted personal and medical files dotted it, each being overlapped by a new screen that popped up whenever the Osborn eldest clicked or input the right code. The heading for each of the files, all though different in certain ways, always had two words constant. Peter Parker.
From what Norman had seen, Peter was an extraordinary young man. Top marks in nearly all of his classes, top praise from teachers and school staff alike. They were considering bumping him up to Senior this coming school year.
Peter resided with his widowed aunt, May Reilly Parker. Parents dead from a plane crash a little over decade ago, when Peter was maybe one or two of age. His uncle, Benjamin Carter Parker had been shot and killed by a burglar sometime ago.
Then, something in his school record caught Norman's attention. He had been in fight against one Eugene Thompson. He had given Mr. Thompson, the star quarterback of Midtown High, a concussion!
Digging back in Peter's medical history, he found something even more curious. Peter had been administered to Bellevue Hospital just a short time before the fight happened. On that day, Norman recalled an incident at the Bio-Research Lab he owned. On that day, Midtown High had a field trip there. Mr. Parker had been treated for a severe case of food poisoning and being poisoned by a black widow spider. Among the three escaped spiders, was a black widow.
Today, a "Spider-Man" had done battle against a highly skilled assassin in a power suit. He most assuredly would have walked away with some rather bad injuries, if say he, was, a young child, no more than fifteen. Peter Parker had been bandaged a good deal when Norman had seen him.
Norman Osborn leaned back in his chair, a wide, insane smile spread across his features. A strange sound began to usher from deep within his throat. The noise began to increase in volume to the point it was clearly a laugh. Not a laugh of humor, or of sarcasm, but of, something very different, something very perverse. Norman laughed louder, turning it from a low, dark tone to high-pitched cackle that rang throughout the mansion, sending shivers up the spines of the servants. One maid swore she had heard a goblin laugh.
The End…
Next Story Arc: Through Green Eyes featuring PadawanCassy's original character Lightningbug!
What is the essence of a hero? Is it the deeds they do? Is it the powers they have? Is it their desire to prove to the world that they are special? Or is something far, far deeper? Does essence of a hero, dwell within the souls man?