Black Substenance
by Famira Damaris

Disclaimer: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.
Author Notes: Basically it's mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are the symbiote and the shuttle crash. Again, plot first, pairings next. This is mostly a mixing of 616 and Ultimateverse. Slashyish, you have been warned. Not fluffy.

Italics for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote
Archive: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Black Sustenance
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Hunters and Feeding Habits)

"I trust Brock about as far as I can throw him."

Peter Parker sat frozen to the spot.

Eddie Brock.

Venom.

Oh…Oh shit

Not the most coherent thing to think, but that was all he could manage, staring forward without quite seeing, feeling the blood drain from his cheeks as what Jonah Jameson just said sunk in its entirety. Icy cold fear closed in around the teenager. His spider-sense was useless against Brock; Brock could be anywhere, absolutely anywhere and Peter wouldn't know until it was probably too late. Brock could even be in the building right now and there was no way to know until he came in kicking the doors down and gunning for blood. Peter had to force himself to remain in his chair and not bolt out of the door right there and then.

Jameson was still on the phone during this, stopped facing out toward one of the expansive glass windows, a hand on his hip and completely oblivious to the danger.

"We're going to need damage control on this," he was saying. "Check our records, make sure everything's clean like it should be in the first place…yes, I know the Globe's going to have a field day with this. Look – no, no – just get on it. Now!"

Jameson hung up and slammed the phone into its cradle with a resounding crack; it was only by sheer luck that the thing didn't break into pieces. He stood for a long minute glaring daggers at it, chewing vigorously on the end of the lit cigar and puffing clouds of smoke as he tried to collect himself. "Can't believe he went and actually did it," the head of the Daily Bugle muttered. "Fucking asshole."

He suddenly remembered Peter. "Well?" he snapped, rounding on the sixteen year-old. "Don't stand there with your mouth open. Don't tell me those are Robbie's reports you're stepping on."

The publisher stomped over, took a closer look at the brunette and huffed. "You sick or something, Parker?" Jameson grunted. The fierce expression softened the slightest bit, only to harden once more. "Get out of my office before you start throwing up all over my floor. Go home."

The boy, looking like all the blood had drained from his face, didn't move.

"Go on, get!"

Peter scuttled out. As the door banged open, Jameson bent down with a tired grumble of annoyance, balancing himself with one hand on a knee, and slowly picked up the sheaf of papers scattered around the chair. When he finally came up with the mess in the barest semblance of order, he found Robbie leaning against the doorframe of his office, arms folded across his chest.

"What was that about, Jonah?" Robbie asked, raising an eyebrow. "That was either the fastest chew-out I've ever seen you give Peter…or something's on your mind."

Jameson began to reshuffle the papers, putting them back into order. "I know you heard me."

The other man sighed. "You were getting pretty loud this time," he admitted, "but I didn't get the whole story."

"It's Brock," Jameson growled. He didn't even glance at the papers he'd picked up, instead tossing them onto his desk and slouching down behind it, his chair squeaking as he settled down. Robbie quietly closed the door behind him and took a seat on the edge of the desk. "He went and got himself hired by the Globe. The fucking Globe."

"Ouch."

"Ouch doesn't even begin to cover it."

Robbie sighed. "So what now?"

"So far nothing from the Globe – I had Betty run out and get me a copy soon as I heard the rumor, but I didn't see anything about us. Yet," Jameson scowled. "I thought Brock would've acted faster on this; he could've easily gotten in something before the news ever reached me…I just don't get it. Or him."

"What about Peter?" Robbie asked.

"What about him?"

"Well," Robbie started delicately, "there is a chance Brock might have a grudge against him too, since he did have a part in getting him let go."

"Fired," Jameson corrected him. "He got fired. 'Let go' is just dancing around the fact he got fired. End of story."

"Alright, fired. Either way, the fact is, we don't know what he's thinking right now," Robbie said. "He was pretty upset that time, remember? Especially at Peter."

The editor of the Daily Bugle sat up a little straighter. "You think he'd come after Parker?"

"I'm just saying we don't know for certain what he wants. For all we know, he could threaten to spill everything unless we let Peter go," Robbie frowned. "Brock had a lot going wrong for him when he was fired. He…might not be in the most stable of mindsets. The thing is we don't know what he's planning. I think we should take that into account."

Jameson went silent, mulling this over, his chin jutted out stubbornly.

"What do you think we should do, Robbie?"

"Play it safe. Keep an eye on Peter; I know you planned to have him start getting sent out on assignments with Ulrich, but I think it'd probably be best if none of those were near anything the Globe would cover at the same time."

Jameson scowled at this. He glared out the window. "I can't believe we actually have to worry about this bullshit," he said angrily. "Maybe it'd be easier to just let Parker go for now…"

"You want to fire Peter?" Robbie stiffened in surprise.

"Firing's permanent. Parker does a good job…sometimes," said Jameson gruffly. "I'd rather he come back and work with us again, but you didn't hear it from me. In fact, I better not hear any of this leaking out to the kid, am I clear? I'm not going to let him go unless I've got a damn good, solid reason to believe he's endangered."

Robbie almost smiled. "My lips are sealed."

"They damn well better be."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Peter Parker didn't like this one bit. Ever since he'd heard about Brock being back in town, he'd gotten paranoid – okay, so he was already paranoid, so more paranoid than usual – and he kept looking over his shoulder even as he left the Daily Bugle. Should he even risk web-slinging his way home? What if Brock was waiting for him to go swinging by? Maybe the subway would be safer…but then again, it'd make for something even worse if Brock caught him there – he'd be stuck underground and even more civilians might get hurt.

If Peter didn't get gray hairs from this whole mess, he was going to be very surprised.

He just didn't get it, he reflected as he quickly changed into his Spider-man outfit. Just didn't get it at all. What did Brock want? Peter found it hard to believe that he just wanted to work an honest living again as a journalist – somehow getting fired from the Daily Bugle had been the last straw and something flipped a switch inside the older man. Like some kind of Crazy Switch or something. He still felt bad about pretty much getting Brock fired, but feeling guilty didn't mean he could let Brock get away with hurting innocents.

Swinging past the Daily Bugle and headed back to Queens, Spider-man had to wonder just how much of Eddie Brock was still left. He remembered all too well how it felt to have his own sense of self seem to melt away, being eaten and absorbed by the symbiote, and he'd actually been trying to fight off the alien at the time. Maybe the Brock he knew was gone by now, replaced only with that…that thing calling itself "Venom".

Guilty. That's what he felt. That and a certain amount of pity.

It was his fault. He created Venom. And now the people he cared about were all in danger because Venom knew everything about Peter Parker. And he…he knew absolutely nothing about Venom. No idea how Brock and the symbiote thought together, how they felt together, or even much of either's history. Nothing aside from the fact that they were pretty pissed off at both Peter Parker and Spider-man, and how utterly convenient it was that both were one and the same.

The priority was to get home. Make sure his family and friends were alright, make sure they were safe, and make sure Brock hadn't paid a visit. Then he could try figuring out how to deal with this…

Spider-man was so preoccupied with the news of Brock that he swung right past the glint of binoculars without even noticing them. The woman behind the binoculars tracked the blue and red outfit of the superhero, red lips set in a thin line of concentration, until he vanished around a corner, before lifting up her gloved hand and speaking into the headset.

"Spider-man sighted," she said calmly into the mouth piece. "Going north, northwest, I'm estimating he's traveling somewhere between thirty, forty miles per hour. Looks like he's in a hurry. Do you want me to pursue and engage subject?"

The headset buzzed on the other end. "No. Spider-man's not the primary target; that black mutant from before is. Pursue, but do not engage. Repeat. Do not engage."

The woman sighed.

"You're not being paid to engage the subject. Marko is."

"He's just a thug," the woman muttered in distaste, flipping back a sheet of silver hair over her shoulder as she tucked the binoculars back into her belt. Today she dressed conservatively, wearing a form-fitting outfit that wouldn't restrict movement, but would also keep her arms, legs, and body well protected. She had been a mercenary for as long as she could remember; playing dress up and running around in skimpy little outfits was good if you wanted to look uselessly pretty and show off, but Silver Sablinovia was here for a job and that meant playing it safe, not playing it pretty.

"Silver Sable, this is still his idea and his operation, even if the Kingpin is backing it and your Wild Pack," replied the voice into her ear. "Marko will engage Spider-man. That is all. Move out."

This wasn't one of her better jobs, Silver Sable thought as she made her way down from the rooftop and toward the waiting van parked in the alley. One of her operatives held open the door for her and she slid in as they went in pursuit along the streets of Manhattan, dodging traffic and overzealous taxis as she began running over the arsenal they had at their disposal. This whole job just didn't smell right. She had heard a select little about this black mutant of Marko's, but she wasn't entirely sure that attacking Spider-man would bring him out in the open. She liked it even less that they didn't know anything about this beast. Worse was the fact they were working on practically little intel….

Her briefing had been short. Too short. It basically consisted of:

1). Locate Spider-man.
2). Relay location to contact.
3). Pursue.
4). Subdue real target – UniRegM (Unidentified Unregistered Mutant - URM).
5). Turn sedated target over to Flint Marko (nothing about what to do with Spider-man, who she was sure wouldn't take all of this sitting down).

In other words, they were winging it. Silver Sable disapproved of this utter lack of any real planning. Marko might work like that, but she liked to do a job and do it right, and she didn't take chances with what she was taking to this confrontation. Her small selected team from Wild Pack had enough sedatives, prototype tranquilizers and firepower to take down Spider-man several times over, although Marko had assured her that this black mutant of his was far stronger. They were to take this beast alive.

Silver Sable made sure to bring enough to blow it sky high anyway.

Just in case.

Well, it could always be worse. She heard Kingpin's first choice was that lunatic mercenary calling himself "Deadpool", but unfortunately it seemed he was…busy; which was probably for the better because from what'd she heard about Deadpool, the man was just downright insane. Certifiably crazy. No sense of professionalism from what she'd read up on his previous missions. No sense of teamwork and she wouldn't be at all surprised if they put his picture next to the definitions for unreliable and unpredictable in a dictionary someday. With Deadpool, you'd be ensured your target would end up dead. That, and any and all bystanders, whether intentionally or just for kicks. Silver Sable had to admit she was relieved to know that Kingpin came to her next. At least she was competent and didn't treat jobs like sport.

Still. Deadpool was a potential, extremely dangerous competitor. Even if he hadn't replied to the offer, for all she knew he could be making his way down here right this very minute. Wild Pack couldn't afford to make any mistakes and offer an opening for him; despite this ridiculous job, they'd follow it to the letter and get this black mutant Kingpin so very much wanted without letting that lunatic mercenary get a chance.

But...she refused to lose her whole team on account of useless intel. If these were the kind of jobs Kingpin offered, sacrificing mercenaries carelessly as if they were his typical pawns, then she'd even be willing to step aside for this Deadpool character…if it came to that. She hoped it wouldn't.

"You have a lock on Spider-man?" Silver Sable asked the driver of their van.

He nodded.

"Alright," Silver Sable turned around in her seat, facing the faceless men and women of Wild Pack. They all wore the same armor and body suits, their faces fully covered, gleaming HUD visors feeding in any useful data. Identifying them would be next to impossible. "I'll only go over this once. We're not after Spider-man; I don't want to see anyone getting trigger-happy just because he'll be there. We're running this Flint Marko's way," she paused, made a little disdainful sniff, and then continued sternly. "He believes from his last encounter that attacking Spider-man might lure out this URM."

She counted heads again. Ten in this van, another ten in the next van, and thirteen more split up between smaller cars stationed around the area, not counting the drivers. More than enough. Not one of them moved, their covered faces tilted toward her attentively, HUDs glowing a gentle blue.

"We close in once this URM enters the immediate battle zone and engages Marko; the objective is to subdue it for capture and delivery to our employer," Silver Sable continued. "You all know the drill. I want to keep civilian casualties to a minimum; but most importantly we want to keep our own casualties to a minimum…." she trailed off. Now came the hard part. "In the unlikely scenario…if it looks like our teams are suffering over a seventy-five percent casualty rate, we break contract."

The driver next to her started a little in surprise at this but kept on steering them after Spider-man. They never broke contract before. They hadn't failed before either.

Silver Sable met the eyes of her fellow mercenaries: this little talk was being broadcast through her headset's mouthpiece to the other Wild Pack members in the other vehicles. "You heard me. We break contract. We shoot to kill. We can't collect if we're all dead and we can't take future jobs if we're six feet under. Be prepared to take positions once I get the call from Marko."

She turned back in her seat, collecting herself. Her team was more than capable, but there were just too many unknown factors here. Even thinking about failure left her a bad taste in her mouth. Silver Sable hated failure with a passion. She hated not knowing the odds.

But she loathed needless wasting of lives and resources even more.

If this Kingpin and his lapdog Flint Marko thought they could use Wild Pack as mere canon fodder, they were sorely mistaken.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

The phone call with Jonah Jameson was all over the Daily Globe's offices by now, despite the fact no one knew who contacted him. It didn't matter: Eddie Brock just couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. Today was good. No, today was better than good, it was fantastic and he decided that he for once deserved to bask in it while it lasted.

When Eddie arrived at the Globe's offices, intending to immediately start digging around some more through the Archives about Sandman, he'd been met by what had to be at least half the staff wanting to clap him on the back or shake his hand, all the while exchanging knowing smirks or winks, with even a few enthusiastic thumbs up thrown in. He hadn't known exactly what the occasion was until his new boss beckoned him into his personal office, plunked him down in an overstuffed chair and they both listened to a recording of the phone call, with Jameson's tinny, enraged voice bouncing across the walls of the spacious office. They listened to it a second time and had just as good laugh as the first time around.

"I haven't ever seen Jonah this riled up," the head of the Daily Globe snickered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Oh man…I should be angry we've got a mole, but honestly? This was the funniest thing I've heard all week. Comedy gold-mine!"

Eddie only wished he could've seen the look on his former boss's face. Parker would have found out eventually, but hearing the good news at the Bugle made it that much more precious. He didn't have time to be sitting here gloating, but it felt good. Really good.

"I only wish I could've been there," the other man was saying wistfully, echoing Eddie's thoughts. He shook his head, still grinning into his salt and pepper beard, tried to return to business, and failed completely at wiping the smirk away. "He'll definitely be on his toes now that we've got you."

"He really should've treated his employees better," Eddie replied glibly and nearly pitched face first into the desk when his new boss suddenly pounded him violently on the back, reeking of over-enthusiasm.

"Goddamn straight he should!" the Globe's publisher chortled heartily. "Really now, we've been trying to contact you for months trying to offer you a better position, Brock - I'll never know why you let yourself get reamed by Jonah as long as you did."

The blonde suffered through the back-pounding, keeping the increasingly forced grin plastered on his face. He didn't really care for his new employer, but they needed access, they needed to be on this insignificant man's good side and therefore needed to keep grinning and bearing it until they got the information they wanted. Eddie put on an unconcerned air as he leaned a little away from the other man, hoping to avoid another of those annoying back pounds:

"Well, you heard old Jonah. He's biased. Tends to influence his staff. I…wasn't aware of how bad my position was at the Bugle until I got fired for no reason," Eddie said through his gritted teeth. "Saw what a chance you guys were giving me and decided to take it."

"I heard some new kid got you canned?"

Eddie scowled, his sunny mood dashed. "Basically."

"Don't go doing anything," the bearded publisher warned, suddenly serious. "I think it's bullshit too you got fired, but I won't be liable for something happening to that kid. What was he called? Parker?"

"I don't care about the kid," Eddie lied. The Other twitched in the back of his skull at the turn this conversation was taking - all this talk about their Spider made Eddie need servicing. Again. It was getting pathetic now. Last week the mere mention of Parker wouldn't make them suddenly lose all control. He steeled himself; he'd at least like to make it to a restroom before they started their newest enactment of Alien Masturbation Time right in front of his boss, "I'm just here for that second chance you guys offered."

That seemed to reassure the other man. He leaned forward. "I understand that and I'm glad you finally came to your senses. Still, you've only been feeding us bits and pieces of all the juicy stuff about our friends at the Bugle. You're being a tease."

Eddie pretended to blush. "It's not fun if it's all in one big chunk," he said, getting up. They couldn't hold out much longer. "You'll get the whole story sometime."

He left, managed to dodge past his new supporters – half of who seemed to think Eddie was the newest celebrity to be mobbed – and just barely made it into the handicapped bathroom, locking the doors behind him after a few seconds of desperate fumbling. It was nine by ten feet, plenty of room for their now twice daily servicing; he didn't have time to note much else, as he found himself already forcefully propped up against the sink by the symbiote, who seemed to be even more hungry for this kind of contact than he was, if that was possible. The black dress shirt and slacks Eddie had been wearing were already gone, vanishing back into his Other and leaving him straining in the cool, recycled air of the bathroom.

My species tends to adopt sexual appetites similar to ours hosts the closer we become to mating. We need to service much, much more in order to try to delay the actual mating, the symbiote purred, its annoyance stained by hunger. Open up.

Completely nude, Eddie obediently spread his legs wide open as he was hoisted up onto a half sitting position on the icy-cold surface of the sink. It managed to hold their combined weight, miraculously, although the stupid faucet was digging painfully into his back. He tried shifting to the side, only to get the damn thing jammed into his ribs now, and then promptly forgot about the faucet entirely as the Other immediately began its servicing of its host with more energy than he was accustomed to. Eddie tilted his head back as one oozing tentacle of it, gleaming sleek and black in the restroom's harsh lights, crept across the planes of his taut stomach, inching quickly down toward his already erect member as another curled up to his neck, caressing his cheek.

It'd be easier if he could come up with a good Spider scenario, but as that faucet was still trying very hard to stab him between the ribs, his mind went blank, leaving just him and his Other and no fantasy of a writhing Parker to sweeten the deal.

His legs were prodded up none too gently by the impatient symbiote, spread to the point where Eddie couldn't help a whimper of pain that he bit down on at the last moment, the whimper turning into a throaty moan as the other began to curl around his shaft, another coming up under his thighs and working their way toward his entrance. The tentacles under his legs solidified, thickening as the blonde craned his head, trying not to bang it into the mirror like an idiot even as the symbiote rippled itself enthusiastically along his cock.

That was new, Eddie had time to think, startled, before he felt the newly formed tentacles pressing insistently between his legs, trying to force their way past his rim.

"H-hey!" he tried to push it away, feeling increasingly nervous. His other never went this solid during the servicing sessions, more liquid than anything else, and he was pretty sure it'd be pretty painful to get something that big getting poked up his ass.

Doesn't matter. We need it. We hunger for it.

Hold on. Hold a second! His Other couldn't just go sticking stuff like that up there without –

Yes we can, we must, our hungers, need to fulfill this one. You can heal.

In the symbiote's excitement, Eddie suddenly caught a glimpse of pure understanding as it let a few of its personal shields go down. Just a scattered series of images and sound, a scene of a different kind of feeding with puddles of blood and opened skulls, but he paled, forgetting about the mirror, forgetting about the facet in his ribs, forgetting how uncomfortable this position was, and forgetting entirely about what had to be a laughably huge alien dildo trying to penetrate him without any lube whatsoever.

Eddie felt the blood drain out of his face as he reeled in shock, and really did hit that mirror with the back of his head this time as he scooted backward, as if he could get away from the horrible realization dawning on him. The blonde didn't even notice the stars bursting in front of his eyes or the pain blossoming.

All he knew was he felt sick. And horrified. Very, very horrified.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he hissed in cold fury, shaken, trying to sit up and getting stabbed right in the side again by the faucet. "I thought we only had this one hunger!"

The symbiote kept trying to continue with the invasive servicing, evasively not replying, but Eddie managed to fend it off with almost inhuman strength born out of desperation. He couldn't do it forever, but he wanted answers. He wanted them now, especially after that brutal, inadvertent flash of memory his Other accidentally let slip…

They were Venom.

They were Venom, but their host consciousness was asleep. He was just so, so very busy with trying to find everything they could about this Man of Sand that when he came to make a nest to sleep in, his brain activity always dropped like a rock the moment he would lie down. He was so exhausted that the symbiote had no difficulty at all controlling their joint body, hijacking it like a puppet on strings and merging completely into Venom for…what would Eddie Brock call it? Oh yes, a "night on the town" - even if this "New York" was pitifully small compared to the other civilization dwellings they had seen in the past. "Night on the town". Endearingly quaint.

They were hungry. Starving, actually. And not in the bodily sense. The symbiote had taken care of that a few hours earlier, even if their host pretty much fell asleep right in the middle, amazingly enough.

No, this was a different kind of hunger.

An ancient hunger.

They were Venom.

They were Venom and they hungered for fresh blood tonight.

From what Venom gleaned from both host and Spider, the pits of downtown would be best for their hunting, with that area called "Queens" and "Forest Hills" out of the question. Their Spider most certainly didn't know about this particular feeding habit and if things went correctly, Eddie Brock would be none the wiser either. Venom remained inverted on the wall of the abandoned building, splayed claws punching holes in the brick, fanged snout pointed down in his permanent leer, slimy tongue lolling this way and that as he scoped out the area quickly, eager to get his stomach stated and back to the human-nest before his host consciousness woke up.

Several potential targets. Some didn't look too appetizing; toxins swam about them, probably from those chemicals these humans sometimes insisted on injecting, drinking or inhaling all the time in order to otherwise abuse their frail systems.

They needed a healthy one. Tainted ones were only if they were desperate – they gave Venom stomach cramps.

Look around.

There had to be a healthy one around here.

There.

Sitting by the dock, hidden behind a grate of netted fish from the rest of the homeless humans wandering.

Venom crouched and released, pushing off the side of the building and sailing silently through the night, landing neatly on the roof of the dock's old administration building and creeping along stealthily on all fours, soulless eyes concentrated forward. The hunger was unbearable now, like a burning itch everywhere: in his face, eyes, arms, heart, both conscious and unconscious minds, like insects crawling up under their skin. They had only a day before even the host would start feeling this new hunger, so tonight had to be the night they made a kill and fed.

The prey tonight was a scrawny little human infant, dressed in rags with holes. Adolescent by Eddie Brock's terms, probably around fourteen, but to the symbiote, to the main awareness of Venom tonight, this one was a mere blip, a spot of insignificance that would never grow up to ever see what lay beyond. It wouldn't even make it out of this tiny planet's atmosphere, much less encounter even one of the vast number of civilizations stretched across the endless expanse of space.

The thought was strangely saddening.

For a brief, split second, Venom felt actual pity toward this creature sitting on the dock kicking its legs, oblivious to the predator watching only several yards away.

He would make this fast. As…as an apology of sorts. Just what for, Venom wasn't sure, seeing as there was no real logical reason he should be feeling sorry in the first place. This was really only a matter of food, with no real hatred aimed at this human. Perhaps Eddie Brock and Peter Parker had influenced the symbiote in unexpected ways with their contact, seeing as they, as humans, were subject to this silly Earth system of "ethics" and "morals".

The actual kill took less than two seconds. Simply a matter of pounce. Open jaws. Close around the neck. Twist. Wrench free. Shove the corpse into black waters of the Hudson. Retreat with their prize back up onto a rooftop, where Venom could feed without being disturbed. Once situated in a good spot, Venom opened his jaws, still on all fours.

A bloodied head tumbled out, bounced a little and came to a rest facing up.

Picking up the severed head, Venom cradled it almost reverently in one claw as he began to set to work with his hand unlocking the prize inside the skull. It took a few minutes, but soon Venom was chewing happily on something coiled, pink and covered with blood.

They were Venom and they were sated tonight.

Eddie couldn't get that image out of his head, no matter how hard he tried, and gagged, sure he was going to be sick. He slid off the sink and found himself on the floor, gagging, nausea flooding through him. Jesus. Jesus Christ. It kept repeating his head like a mantra, the only thing keeping him from trying to claw his way out of the locked restroom and throwing himself in front of a bus or something.

The symbiote was silent for a moment, lying now in a deceptively meek black puddle under its naked host.

I didn't tell you because you didn't need to know.

Oh, he damn well did!

We functioned fine before without you knowing. This is why you never knew, because you would blow our natural feeding out of proportion – like all the other humans would.

"How else was I supposed to take it?" Brock demanded, feeling his insides flopping around in little somersaults of hysterical nausea. "You can't just go up to people and go 'I want to eat your brains'! What the fuck! Honestly, the fuck is wrong with you!"

We require a chemical found in human brains. It may not be…ethical to you as a human, but we need it to survive.

"And if I refuse?" Eddie snarled. For the first time since meeting his Other, he almost understood how Parker felt toward the alien symbiote.

We suffer hunger withdrawals. Both of us. In other words, we lose our sense of self and reason, and go insane. I wouldn't advise trying to resist this particular hunger – I have seen others of my kind try to resist their own individual hungers and it was quite terrible, the symbiote replied matter-of-factly.

It projected a quick series of jumbled memories, each one worse than the last.

Eddie shut up.

You are free to try to resist feeding, the symbiote continued, the black ooze bubbling innocently between its host's bare thighs sitting on the tile of the floor. But I will continue to fight it, and you, if you choose this foolishness.

"How…how many? How many have you killed?" Eddie whispered. He felt dead. Defeated. "Just how long have you been doing this with our body?"

The symbiote hesitated.

Since we bonded. The very night we met, I was dying – our Spider wounded me a great deal. We needed to feed, otherwise we wouldn't make it to the next morning alive, and you were in no state to care what I did. I made my first kill with you as my host an hour and five minutes after our first meeting, and you were actually conscious for that one.

We have fed on twenty-six healthy humans and one tainted one to this day.

Making a strangled sort of moan, Eddie buried his face in his hands, feeling like he could cry but unable to get any tears out.

Maybe Parker was right. They were a monster after all.

Because we feed to exist? the symbiote asked dryly. I think not.

An inky tendril of the symbiote curled up in the air, brushing Eddie's face lovingly.

A monster is subjective, Host Mine. Humans are monsters to those they prey on. We feed just like any human; we simply have a change in diet, nothing more or less. We are who we are…provided we continue to feed. A brain is just flesh, blood and electrical impulses, essentially. It's hardly different from the meat you humans already feed on, except…fresher.

It all seemed to make sense, but…

You will have to come to terms with it eventually, the Other murmured. All hosts do. It seemed to think of something, sounding almost gentle as it added: If it would make the transition easier, we can feed when your brain sleeps, just as before.

"…Okay," Eddie felt like he'd been picked up, shaken violently and then set down like a limp rag doll. "I better not wake up in the middle of-of any of that."

As you wish. May we please finish up what we started here?

Eddie didn't care. He watched and felt all of what transpired next like it happened to a stranger, as if it was a movie and he was sitting as a mere audience member, locked in the theater with no way out, with no choice but to sit it out and watch. The black tentacles of the symbiote oozed around him and began to service him as he sat there stunned on the tiled floor – one speared right up from the ebony puddle under him and penetrated his entrance, wiggling in deeper – pain stabbed at him from inside and the blonde felt a detached sound of distress escape past his mouth even as he wiggled his hips to slide down deeper on the gleaming shaft.

Had he really been conscious for that first kill? How come he didn't remember it?

The symbiote brought up thinner tendrils running up his chest, toying with his bared, hardened nipples, a thicker one coiled around his neck like a snake and began trying to press against his lips. Numbly he felt himself giving way, the coil thick and hot in his mouth as it burrowed deeper down his throat. Rocking back and forth, still on his knees, Brock felt himself slowly being lowered so that he lay face down, pillowed with one outstretched arm. He scrunched his eyes shut as the pumping inside both his entrances increased in tempo and strength, feeling invaded from front and back.

It seemed to go on forever and despite the detachment – shock? – it hurt. A lot. It almost never hurt before.

When Eddie came to again, he realized that not only was his whole body achingly sore and tingly, his arm was killing him. Something tasted funny, metallic and when he looked down, he realized why. During the last bit of the session, in order to keep from crying out-loud and alerting the others to their activities, he'd bitten right into his forearm to muffle his voice, ripping open a long, jagged gash running from wrist to elbow that normal human teeth simply couldn't manage. Reaching up shakily to his mouth, he felt the dagger-sharp edges of a row of fangs starting to retreat, slick with his own blood.

All servicing will be like this, the Other said. Until we mate. Then it will go back to normal. It won't hurt then. The mating itself will be both enjoyable and painful – for all parties involved. Sadly, I cannot say the same about the actual birthing.

"I bit myself," Eddie mumbled in dull surprise. "S'hurts."

We didn't want to make noise and draw attention. It was a smart move. That injury is relatively minor for a servicing session this close to mating.

Finding that hard to believe and not at all reassuring, the blonde journalist stood up, swayed drunkenly, and righted himself on the sink with his good arm. There were a few cracks from where he'd hit the mirror and his haggard reflection gazed back at him. Moist blood still coated his chin and nose. He alternated between wiping and licking it off until his face was clean again, trying to fix his mussed dirty blonde hair and giving up. Eddie wasn't sure if he imagined it, but it almost felt like his Other was sympathetic as he bent down and wiped up the little lake of his own blood on the floor with a paper towel. He had to grab some toilet paper in order to try to stem the blood from his arm.

They had been inside for only five minutes.

Why don't we go outside for a bit? the symbiote suggested helpfully. Exercise tends to help.

Eddie nodded mutely.

What he needed right now was to get out of the Globe and just web-sling for a bit. Get his mind out of this bathroom, try to take all this in. And recover, he supposed.

Yes, going outside might be just the thing.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Why hadn't he taken the subway?

Spider-man hated his luck. Really, really, really hated it. It just wasn't fair; he'd been so terrified of Eddie Brock coming after him in the subway, yet there was absolutely no sign of the man or his psycho black sweatshirt. Maybe if he'd just gone as Peter Parker and taken the subway, he wouldn't be in this mess. Come to think of it, he didn't even know what he was doing here, madly trying to dodge Sand Dude for the second time in a month and not even sure why he was getting attacked in the first place.

The New York Public Library was in view when his spider-sense suddenly erupted in his head like a deafening klaxon right in his ear. Spider-man had been so startled that he let go of his web-line prematurely and dropped a story, just as a massive pillar of sand rocketed over his head, missed him, and smashed into the side of a building.

"What the - ?" Spider-man craned his head, quickly regaining his bearings and veering away from the Queensboro Bridge. His heart dropped as he caught sight of a familiar striped shirt. "Oh jeez," the teenager muttered. "Not now, now's not a good time for a round of Kick Spidey."

He narrowly dodged another jet of sand, leaping up and landing neatly on a flag pole protruding horizontally from a nearby apartment building. Sandman retracted his arm from the street below as cars skid to a halt around him, others simply piling into one another, civilians fleeing in all directions. Spider-man scowled, wishing they'd hurry and get out of the way, then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down to the street.

"Hey! Seriously, what's your problem now?"

"Get down here!" Sandman yelled back. It was hard to make out what he was saying. "We're finishin' this!"

"Finishing what?" Spider-man kept an eye on his opponent as he walked backward from the flagpole parallel to the street and up the wall. If he could get up onto the roof tops, he'd feel a lot safer. "I thought we were the bestest of best friends, Sand Dude! Is this a date? The least you could do was call, it's only polite!"

Something that sounded suspiciously like "mouthy jackass" floated up.

"I heard that!" Spider-man had about a split second's of warning to dive straight down off the building as a double-headed hammer of sand suddenly came barreling up toward him.

He tucked in and kept his body straight as he dived one story. Two stories. Three and he let loose a line of web at the last second, missing the ground by a few feet and streaking right at a surprised Sandman. Spider-man got in a good double-kick just as the older man was starting to dissolve defensively into sand, knocking him onto his back, and sailed up into the air again, somersaulting as he shook off some sand and then made a bee line away toward the New York Public Library. Clouds of smoke were rising from several of the crashed cars.

Down on the ground, Flint Marko collected himself, reforming and sitting up as a series of unmarked vans and cars came up on the scene. He brushed himself off as Silver Sable joined him. The female mercenary crossed her arms, unimpressed.

"Well?"

Flint shrugged. "Jumpy little bugger. He won't get far."

"Can you even hit him?" Silver Sable was watching Spider-man in the distance, her sharp eyes analyzing his movements, looking for any openings or weakness. She cocked her tranquilizer rifle with a click, checking the chamber. "I could slow him down for you." The rounds she had were enough to bring a team of horses down.

"Whatever. Do it." Flint Marko grunted out the side of his craggy mouth and melted into a river of sand that bounded in great leaps down the abandoned section of Fifth Avenue after Spider-man. Taking her time and remaining where she stood, Silver Sable shook back her luminous hair over one shoulder, lifted the rifle up and carefully began to take aim…

"Oh man oh man oh man," Spider-man said over and over as he booked it to the Public Library.

He seriously couldn't go back to Aunt May's now. It just tore him apart to be stuck running around this guy when all he really wanted to do was make sure his family and friends were safe from Brock. Running away forever from Sandman wouldn't work – he had to think of something to immobilize him for good. He was good with thinking on the fly. That's how he made it this far. Sandman was fast, but Spider-man had a feeling he might be faster if he only put his mind to it. After all, he'd scored an actual hit only a few seconds ago.

Run in. Sucker punch him before he had time to de-solidify or harden. Run out. Rinse and repeat.

Sounded like a great plan…until he could buy enough time to think of something better, because looking over his shoulder, that Sand Dude was getting awfully close for comfort. His time was running out

Spider-man passed over the stone lions guarding the stairs leading up to the library and vaulted up until he was perched on the corners of the roof. Sandman took aim and missed – but just barely. He began swinging at Spider-man with both arms and it was all he could do to keep from getting flattened into the Library. One of the misses caved in a section of the stairs, sending chunks of it flying. Another bowled off the head of one of the lion statues, sending it flying into a parked semi-truck's trailer and right out the other side.

"Hey, I don't suppose we can talk about this?" Spider-man called down and back-flipped away from the latest miss, sprawling on the wall behind him. "I'm sorry, but I don't think it'll work out between us! What with you getting beat by an ugly stick and YOW - !"

Sandman clearly didn't appreciate his wit – he was scowling and looking seriously pissed off, which was the one thing he'd been hoping for. It was running a risk (it'd hurt a lot more to get hit), but his aim probably wouldn't be the best. Spider-man was about to start diving in for what would have to be the most stupid charge in his life when he heard a strange little high pitched sound.

Pft!

"Pft?" Spider-man echoed, bewildered.

He looked down and was rather puzzled to see a little shiny cylinder sticking out of his shoulder. It didn't hurt, not exactly, but he was starting to feel weird and funny where it hit. He pulled it out, looked at it for half a second…realized just what it was. Oh. Okay, awkward. He hadn't really counted on getting shot up like this. It took the barest of milliseconds to come to the conclusion he probably shouldn't be standing there, presenting such a nice big target, but by then there was another pft of compressed air. Spider-man's head tilted back slightly even as his hand came up to remove the second dart imbedded in the side of his neck.

Without thinking, he started to vault up to roof to the library, thinking only of blind escape and feeling panic welling, when he heard that dreaded puff of air again. Spider-man never made it. He came down on the balls of his feet and rocked slightly, feeling the third tranquilizer dart rooted to his chest right above his heart. He staggered as the potent chemicals from all the darts began to invade his body.

Wow.

So this was what it felt like to get all hopped up?

Who knew it'd be so…so…so weird? So fast? Weird and fast?

He didn't know what this stuff was, but it sure acted fast, didn't it? What'd they shoot him with anyway? Elephant tranquilizers? Feet were pretty much disconnected (gone!) and he felt all light-headed and floppy, what with the world zoning in and out, as if he was traveling through a tunnel on rewind and fast forward - at the same time. Oop, and there went his arms now, with a bizarre sense of weightless inertia carrying them away, leaving his arms dangling limply and his head to droop down toward his chest, barely able to stand upright. Pft! Just like that. Like whoever was shooting him. Pft!

Spider-man looked down slowly and found a fourth tranquilizer dart in his thigh.

" 'kay, now thas' jus' unnec'ssary," he slurred and teetered unevenly.

The teenager managed to raise his head – it felt like someone injected concrete into his skull - looked up, saw the giant fist of sand coming right at him and found at he couldn't even move his legs.

Spider-man caught the full force of the blow, body snapping back, and went sailing with a crash of glass through one of the windows and into the Public Library itself. He crashed heavily through one of the long wooden tables in one of the Research Halls, torn papers fluttering around the point of impact as glass shards rained down around him. Outside, Silver Sable lowered her rifle and discreetly switched positions in order to get a better aim on the windows, her hand going up to her ear-piece. All the other members of Wild Pack were scattered around the area by now.

"Just how many did you shoot him with?" Flint's voice demanded.

Silver Sable reloaded. "Four. Shouldn't kill him. Seven is the calculated lethal dose."

"He was just standing there, he didn't even try to dodge me." Flint sounded deflated. "You overdid it."

"You wanted him to stop moving around," Silver Sable replied coolly. "He's stopped. We're not here to play games, Marko."

Flint shook his head. Women. Crazy, the whole lot of them. Damn good reason not to bother if it could be helped. Still, they had been fighting Spider-man for what? Half an hour, tops? That black mutant had come charging in almost the second he'd started kicking Spider-man around and now there was still no sign of him. Maybe he'd heard wrong? What if this mutant wasn't interested in this kid playing superhero?

Doubt began to set in. This could be an incredibly costly mistake if he was wrong.

With this in mind, he mounted the steps of the Library and let himself in, the doors blasting off their hinges and thumping hard to the floor below. The place wasn't quite abandoned; he could hear terrified whispers and someone crying in the distance, but he wasn't overly worried. He took his time picking his way through the ruins until he saw the wreckage from Spider-man's impact, rounding the splintered table cautiously. A set of leanly muscled arms were protruding over part of the table, hanging limply over what remained of it. Flint kept his distance for a moment.

Whatever the hell Silver Sable shot Spider-man up with, it was some damn powerful stuff, Flint realized, gazing down at Spider-man. The kid – he had to be a kid, what with the high school insults – was practically comatose from the tranquilizers, his masked face lolling aimlessly from one side to the other, legs sliding feebly across the wood splinters and glass shards littering the floor as if he was trying to stand up and couldn't quite find the ground. Flint almost felt sorry for the kid. He was a wreck, not even a shadow of that annoying punk flipping around like he was on crack and a massive sugar-high. This wasn't even a challenge.

Those were some amazing shots, but in the end, they were cheap ones. Shooting from afar was a pussy tactic in Flint's book, but he had to give grudging props to Silver Sable: she was efficient in what she did, although he'd have to take her word that all those tranqs wouldn't kill Spider-man. Approaching the defeated superhero, Flint easily picked him up, holding him in the air by one useless arm. Several of the darts were still lodged in the other's body despite the fall, amazingly enough.

"Havin' fun?" Flint asked conversationally. "Wish I could say I was, but this fight was so short it doesn't even count."

Spider-man gave a thick groan. His head slumped down to rest heavily on his shoulder.

"I agree, she did overdo it," Flint replied. "Between us, I think one tranq woulda been plenty, but no, she had t'shoot you up with four. Women're crazy, huh?"

Another dazed moan. Spider-man's left arm twitched like he wanted to move it.

"I know you can hear me, Spider-man. Where's your big friend?"

"…dunno…w…wha' talkin'…talkinbout," Spider-man slurred into his shoulder.

"Sure y'don't."

" h-home….e…Eddie…"

Flint contemplated the defeated superhero. It would be so easy to reach out and pull off that red mask, but it seemed like a bit of a cop-out to do it this fast in the game. Unfair especially since Silver Sable was responsible for putting Spider-man out of commission, not him, so…yeah. Maybe next encounter, when the odds weren't so stacked against his opponent. Four fucking tranqs. No wonder Spider-man couldn't even string a sentence together. Christ. That silver bitch was crazy.

Winding sand around Spider-man's leg and forming them into thick ropes, he dropped the smaller man none too gently on the floor and began dragging him out the way Flint came in minutes before. His captive didn't put up much of a resistance, even as they exited the ruins of the Library doors, and into meager sunlight struggling to peak through the thick rain clouds hovering over Manhattan. There was no sign of Silver Sable.

His headpiece crackled. "Told you he's still alive."

Flint dragged Spider-man down the stairs after him like a sack of luggage. "You practically put him in a coma," he returned, irritated. "Good going."

"Is he still moving?"

"Barely. He's out of it."

"Still alive. There you go."

By now he could hear the sound of sirens. Great.

His headpiece suddenly screeched as one of the other Wild Pack members shouted something. It sounded like "target", except the last part cut off into something that sounded like a scared yell, gunfire and then ended with a sickening snap.

"We've got company!" Silver Sable's tinny voice said crisply. "Teams, flash bangs on my mark. Marko, primary target approaching fast from Sixth. We've got him clocked at 50 mph and counting; he's coming in hot

Flint tossed Spider-man aside at this news, cracking his knuckles.

"– Wild Pack 7 and 13 have visual confirmation of primary target –"

"- Wild Pack 21 confirming visuals. Target is entering the designated outer perimeter– "

"- Target has made contact with Wild Pack 1… Wild Pack 1 KIA; Wild Pack 8 MIA, probably KIA as well -"

Flint rolled his neck back and forth until it popped, getting nice and loosened up.

It was go time.

To be continued...
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