Happy New Year!
He came to with something heavy and cold on his head. He was freezing. Wherever he was, it was cold. With a fumbling hand, he groggily reached up to push whatever it was off. It fell to the floor with a smack, jolting him awake.
He sat up, the thin blanket clinging awkwardly to his shirt. He was in a small room with grey, reinforced, walls and a large metal door. The bed he sat on was a thin mattress on a shelf protruding from the wall. On the other wall was a small table with two metal chairs. A security camera blinked at him from the corner above the door.
A cold pack lay on the floor between the bed and the table. Dark gray hexagons made up the the entire room, but the door. The door was metal and blank. It didn't even have a knob.
He reached up with cold fingers to feel his face, and let out a breath when he found his mask there. They'd taken the hoodie Captain America had given him, but he still had the shirt and pants. Scooting into the corner of his bed, back and shoulder against the wall, Peter curled into the blanket.
He might have tried exercising to get warm, if he didn't feel so weak and queasy. So he huddled with his arms tucked tightly between his chest and legs.
He could do this. He just had to stay alive, do as he was told, and wait for the right moment, or until help came. But what if they killed him before the moment came? Or what if Norman told him to kill?
He couldn't be the reason Aunt May got hurt again. But it was kind of too late for that. He was missing. She would be panicking. What if it's too much stress? What if her heart gives out?
An overwhelming swell of hopelessness crashed into him. And he'd gotten himself into this mess. How many people told him he was in over his head and to go home where it was safe? Daredevil, Wolverine, Captain Stacy, every other villain he faced. He didn't listen to them and now he was in way over his head. He barely managed to take each of these goons separately. Now, because of his stupidity, they were working together against him.
He tried to stop it, but the tears spilled over and before he knew it, he was hiccuping and blubbering into his knees. He kept it as silent as he could, but he was sure the camera could see him shaking with each sob.
The loud clang of the metal door shutting woke him up. He couldn't recall falling asleep. Slowly, he lifted his head to see Norman holding two trays of food.
Peter shivered, taking note of Norman's coat and gloves. It wasn't so cold that Peter could see his breath, but it was nowhere near man didn't say anything as he placed the trays on the small table, completely taking up its surface. He noticed the cold pack on the floor, and bent down to pick it up.
Peter didn't dare say anything, the rules and threat given from… before he passed out still fresh on his mind. Norman sat on the edge of the bed. Too close.
"Take off the mask, Peter."
He did as he was told and glared. Osborn only smirked a little, before frowning and grabbing the top of his head. Peter squirmed out of his grip.
"Hold still." Norman ordered.
Peter stilled and Norman turned his head, inspecting his temple. He rubbed his thumb over his tear crusted cheek and raised an eyebrow. But he moved on to brush his thumb over his temple. Peter hissed and flinched away.
The man hummed unhappily, and began fishing in his pockets for something. Meanwhile, Peter prodded the side of his face. It was tender and swollen. He frowned realizing that's where Norman had punched him. The hit hadn't been that hard, had it?
"I punched you," Norman explained, seeing Peter's confusion. "Not long after, you fainted. You do remember, don't you?"
Peter nodded, dropping his hand.
Norman's eyes hardened, and he scowled at Peter. After a brief flash of panic, Peter realized his mistake
"Yes, sir," he mumbled, showing his irritation as much as he could.
Norman nodded, "good."
Peter couldn't tell if that was a praise for his obedience or a comment on his answer. But he found he didn't care. He just wanted Norman to leave.
He flicked on a flashlight and shined it in Peter's eyes.
"Keep them open."
Again, Peter did has he was told. The man looked at both his eyes and turned the light off and stuck it in his pocket.
"You're not concussed as far as I am able to tell. Which is good."
Peter grunted. He was freezing and miserable and kidnapped. Whether or not he was concussed felt very minor at the moment.
"Come sit and eat." Norman got up and sat down on one of the chairs. He looked at Peter expectantly.
It took every ounce of willpower he had, but Peter got up and joined Norman at the table, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. A thick steak, a mound of cooked veggies, a glass of water, and a bowl of soup sat on each of their trays. He scrutinised the meal with tightly folded arms while Norman ate.
"I told you to eat, Peter. Eat it while it's fresh and it'll warm you up."
"Who even made it?" The question slipped out.
In a flash, Norman's fist sailed across the table. Instinctively, Peter dodged it. For a moment they remained frozen like that: Peter leaning to the side with Norman's fist next to his ear. Slowly, Norman withdrew his arm, and stood. Peter scrambled out of his chair and backed up against the far wall as the man approached.
His spider-sense buzzed, screaming that he was being trapped and needed to fight. He couldn't fight.
"You," Norman frowned dangerously, "are not allowed to speak. And. You are not allowed to dodge, block, or retaliate. Or there will be consequences." He grabbed Peter's shoulder and leaned into his face. "Am I clear?"
Peter licked his lips, mouth suddenly incredibly dry. "Yes, sir."
He closed his eyes tight as Norman straightened back up. His spider-sense was screaming at him to move. But he couldn't. He wouldn't for May.
Two swift punches to the gut knocked the wind out of him. He stumbled but refused to fall. But he did double over. Norman used his position to knee him in the gut. Peter vomited and dropped to the floor. He gaped in pain, but he couldn't get air into his lungs.
Norman pulled him off the ground, and held him against the wall.
"Breathe, Peter."
He took in a few tight, wheezy breaths, before his chest loosened and air came in abundantly. He gasped through the pain, staring at the small splatter of puke on the floor. It was funny really, how pain could sometimes clear one's head. Peter thought to himself that the pain wasn't that bad. Yes, it hurt like hell, and he definitely didn't want it happening again. But his fear and anticipation of the pain had been much worse. His fear of the pain was worse than the pain itself. If he'd been alone he might have called himself an idiot out loud.
As Spider-man he'd conquered his fear of pain all the time. He just needed to do that now.
He flinched when Norman grabbed the back of his neck, and put his face in his. Tears of pain blurred his vision, but he could still see the man smirking at him.
"Alright, Petey. Let's try this again, shall we?"
Norman dragged Peter back to the table and pushed him into the chair. Peter grunted as his stomach flared up with the forced movement. It was on fire. The man sat down and cut himself a small piece of his steak like nothing had happened. He looked at Peter with an expectant raise of his eyebrows.
Tentatively, Peter reached out for the glass of water to hopefully delay actually eating, and to wash the acidic taste out of his mouth. But as soon as the cold liquid passed his lips, his eyes widened. He. Was. Thirsty. He guzzled down the whole glass. Then hunger reared its ugly head, having been awoken by the water.
He pushed aside the uneasiness of eating the food Norman brought to him while the man watched with the small thought of, 'screw him, I'm hungry' and dug in.
The reaction was minuscule. So slight it was a miracle Peter noticed. But Norman Osborn diverted his gaze away from Peter's poor table manners to his own food, disturbed. Peter shoveled another forkful of vegetables into his mouth to hide a cruel smirk. He schooled his features, and ate as messily as he could without giving himself away. He whipped his mouth with the back of his hand, didn't fully close his mouth for every bite, touched his food with his fingers, dropped small bits of food, and cleaned his fingers on his pants.
"It's good to see you enjoy your meal," Norman tried to disturb him, get under his skin.
Peter wanted to laugh at the man's false smirk, but he remained unresponsive, only sending a small glance up in Norman's direction. The food was good, and the steak would have been heaven if his stomach wasn't currently trying to push every bite back up.
Norman set his silverware down on either side of his plate and gently cleaned his mouth with the napkin from his tray.
The man was the definition of whiplash. Posh and proper one minute, and happily murdering with laughing pumpkin bombs the next.
"This room is where you'll be staying for the time being," Osborn said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. "The more you behave and earn our trust, the more freedom and comforts you'll be given. Clean clothes, more frequent meals, heating…"
Peter lowered the full fork back down onto his plate and looked up at Norman.
"I can't say how quickly you'll be able to earn freedom; the boys have very little faith in you. But if you're a good boy we'll let you out of the room once in awhile." Osborn smiled like a shark at the worried frown on Peter's face. Then continued, "break any rules and you will be punished, and if the punishments don't work, or if the offence is bad enough, your aunt will be punished."
Peter's fork crumpled in his grip.
"Don't-" Peter stopped himself when Osborn gave him a warning look.
Peter's head jolted to the side as Norman slapped him across the cheek. Looking back, he glared death at the man. His temple throbbed and he could taste blood in his mouth.
Ignoring Peter's defiant expression, Norman started piling Peter's dishes onto his own tray, even though Peter hadn't finished. He stacked the trays and Peter had an odd moment of deja vu, remembering back when Peter had dinner with the Osborns, and the most stressful thing at the time had been trying to decide if it was appropriate or not to thank the butler that took their plates. Norman motioned to the bent fork still in Peter's hand, and Peter dropped it onto the tray. Norman picked the fork up and studied it, before putting it back down with a smile.
Rage boiled underneath Peter's skin in response. He wanted to hit the man back. He wanted punch the creepy smile right off his face and make him regret everything.
Norman put a black mask on the table. "Any time you hear the door buzzer, you have ten seconds to put that mask on and to stand against that wall with your hands on your head. You don't move until the second buzz unless told otherwise."
Peter looked over at the bed for his Spider-man mask, but Norman held it up and dropped it onto the tray.
"Got that, Peter?" Norman demanded, tearing Peter's gaze from his mask.
"Yes, sir." He growled.
Again, his defiance only amused the man, but this time he actually laughed. It rang with a tinge of the insanity he heard from Goblin so many times. Osborn stopped with a content sigh.
"Let's practice then, shall we?" Norman stood, picking up the trays.
The buzzer sounded, making Peter flinch. It sounded like a painfully loud dying recording of a horn.
"Ten seconds," Norman reminded him.
He was so mad his hands shook. But he took the mask and put his back against the wall furthest from the door. He couldn't see anything through the mask. Being blind with Norman in the room made his skin crawl.
"Hands on your head."
Peter complied.
"This is just a small taste of prison, Peter. The place you sent each of us to. Whether things get better or worse from here is up to you."
A faint swishing noise and a slight draft told Peter the door was open.
"Someone will be back in here to clean up your mess in a minute. Remember the rules." Norman took a few steps towards the exit then stopped. "Peter? I'm going to give you the freedom to respond." Norman paused sounding like he was smiling. "Goodbye for now, Peter."
The words poured from his mouth like venom without hesitation, "go to hell."
And the Goblin cackled, relishing in Peter's anger. The door clanged shut, cutting off the sound off the laughter. Seconds later the buzzer honked.
Peter ripped off the mask, breathing in short angry huffs. He roared, screaming in rage. Without thinking, he grabbed the chair and smashed it against the wall. It bent with a loud crunch, and he chucked it at the door. The cheap metal chair crumpled and broke into pieces. He stood there fuming and glaring at the door.
The door buzzed and Peter's stomach dropped. He broke into a cold sweat as his brain automatically provided him a countdown.
One.
He was going to be punished for breaking the chair.
Two.
His breath hitched at the thought of willingly blinding himself to have Goblin beat him up.
Three.
What was he supposed to do?
Four.
He glanced down at the vomit. What were the chances it wasn't Norman?
Five.
Was that better or worse?
Six.
He forced himself to breathe.
Seven.
His fear of pain was worse than the pain itself.
Eight.
The fear is worse than the pain. He took a breath and put the mask on and his hands on his head.
Nine.
Ten.
The door opened.
"What the- did you seriously wreck something already?"
Not Goblin.
Electro kicked the pieces aside. The stench of bleach began filling the room, making Peter's nose itch. He stood as still as possible, while Electro grunted in annoyance.
"Osborn," Electro said, and Peter stiffened. "The bug broke a chair," he paused. "Well, duh, I'll clean it up. Seeing as I got maid duty. I was asking what his punishment should be." Electro sounded excited, but after another pause he grunted, "fine."
Peter heard the click of a cell phone and silently released a breath.
"Yo, Bug, if you so much as twitch the wrong way I will light you up."
Peter didn't respond, but it satisfied him a little bit to hear poorly hidden caution in Electro's voice. Electro set a bucket down and began picking up the pieces of chair. After a few moments Peter couldn't really tell what the man was doing.
"Move yourself out of the way and get on the bed, freak."
Peter reached out to feel where the bed was, but Electro snapped at him.
"Keep your hands on your head!"
Peter complied, slowly scooching over until he felt the edge of the bed with his shin. He climbed on and paused. The mattress was gone.
Electro chuckled. "Broke the chair and lost your mattress. I would have preferred to make you scream for breaking our stuff. But this works."
Peter's anger flared back up again. But he just sat down, crisscross applesauce with his back against the wall.
"Oh damn, Bug, lift your shirt."
Peter hesitated, but did it to avoid being electrocuted. He really didn't care what Max did. He just wanted the guy to leave.
"Oh damn," he hissed in false sympathy, probably smiling. "Is that how Osborn got you to stop running your mouth? If I'd known all it took was a punch to your gut, I would have done it a long time ago."
Peter rolled his eyes and put his shirt back down. Several rebuttals that would piss the man off ran through his head. The chlorine smell suddenly got stronger as liquid splashed onto the floor.
"Gotta say though, the silence is a nice change."
Peter let out another silent sigh as the man scrubbed the floor and continued to rub in Peter's inability to speak. Peter wasn't bothered by a single thing he said as most of it sounded like the idiotic bullying of a fourteen year idiot even forgot that Peter's hands were supposed to be on his head. Electro never was all that bright.
The memory of his kidnapping suddenly came to him. The Shield agents. Had Electro killed them? Did they die because Peter was there using their help? What happened to Captain America and Iron Man? The idea of Electro and Sandman killing Avengers felt a little absurd, but… people died because of less all the time.
No, he couldn't think like that. The agents were alive, the Avengers were alive, and they were searching for him. They had to be. Both Iron Man and Captain America disapproved of him superheroing at sixteen. How much more would they disapprove of said sixteen year old being kidnapped? He would say quite a bit more.
"Back on the wall, Webhead!"
Peter looked in his direction, to fake calmness and maybe freak him out a bit, before he did as he was told.
The door opened and Electro left, throwing a couple more profanities over his shoulder.
The door shut and then buzzed.
He pulled the mask off again. The thin blanket sat tossed on the metal bed and the floor was wet with bleach water. His stomach hurt. Lifting his shirt he found dark purple bruises splotching his stomach.
He shivered. He put his shirt down and grabbed the blanket. Climbing up the wall, he tucked himself into the upper corner above the bed.
The metal bed was much too frigid to sit on and with the floor wet, Peter felt this was his best option.
Peter sat up there shivering for what felt like hours, before he finally drifted off to sleep. When he woke, nothing had changed. He was cold and the room was empty.
He hopped down from the wall, landing in a crouch. For a while he just stared at the door, half expecting someone to burst in and beat the hell out of him for waking up.
He wasn't sure why he was so nervous. He literally had a built in alarm system for unwanted surprises. But he still felt like he was on extraordinarily thin ice.
The fear was worse than the pain, he firmly told himself.
He forced himself to relax a bit by reciting the periodic table.
It didn't take long, sitting in the absolute silence, for boredom to kick in. He'd moved from the bed to the chair to the ceiling and ended up back on the bed. No one seemed to be coming. He greatly appreciated the solitude. But staring at the same dark gray hexagonal pattern on all four walls and the floor and ceiling with nothing but thoughts of utter hopelessness and the frigid cold, he wished for something to distract himself.
He stood, and jumped onto the ceiling again, hanging by his fingertips.
Five of the ceiling hexagon panels brightly glowed, lighting the room. Avoiding the glowing areas, he walked with his hands across the ceiling over to the security camera. It was a small black ball with a red light inside one of the panels behind a tiny glass window.
The hexagons themselves were interesting. They felt like plastic to the touch, but were clearly something much stronger. The metal chair hadn't even scuffed the surface. He was also sure that the panels were made individually and later linked together, and probably could be taken apart again.
In his exploration of the room, he found the vent along the top of the door wall above the security camera. It was no help though as it was no wider than his thumb. He frowned at the cold breeze coming from it.
The jerks.
He dropped to the floor, landing on his hands. He did a few push ups like that, only to frown again. His body just felt so light that exercising without super heavy equipment seemed useless.
But he was bored and cold. Bored was probably the wrong word. Restless. That fit better.
He flipped onto his feet and approached the door. By just looking at it Peter couldn't tell which way it opened. Did it slide open, swing open, lift open? He had no clue. He stuck his hands on the cold surface. He tried lifting, pushing, and pulling it. Not to open it, just to… see how to open it. But it wouldn't budge. He had the sinking feeling that even if he used his full strength it wouldn't budge. But escape by just running away wasn't an option anyways. He couldn't risk Aunt May's life like that. He let his hands drop to his sides.
The best option he could think of was getting a secret message to the Avengers, or Shield. Even the X-men or the Fantastic Four would work if he got the right message to them. The only questions were how to get the message to them and what exactly he would tell them. Big questions, but workable. Osborn said he could earn more freedom, and the more freedom he had, the more he could learn about his whereabouts, and the better chances he had of sneaking a message to someone. That is all assuming Osborn was telling the truth.
Peter placed his palm against the door. He just had to wait. Be compliant and wait for his opportunity. He could do that.
He looked back at the small room.
He could do this. He had to.
An indiscernible amount of time later, Peter had a thought as he jumped from the ceiling to the floor and from wall to wall just to keep his blood flowing so he'd be less cold. He wasn't allowed to speak, but what about when he was alone? Were they really going to stop him from talking to himself?
To test it, he started to hum a tune as he bounced and flipped around. He then mumbled the words of the song, gradually getting louder until he was confidently singing.
No change. They didn't mind singing, that or the camera didn't have audio. But he doubted that.
Another chunk of time passed and Peter laid on the floor with his feet up on the wall. He drummed his fingers on his sore stomach as he tried to consider possible options for sending a message.
Ben Urich ended up at the top of Peter's 'who to contact' list. The man was smart and had connections all over the place. If anyone could get a message to the avengers discreetly, it was him. That, and, Peter had his contact information memorized because he may or may not have stollen one of the man's notebooks.
Peter had a strong suspicion that the Bugle news reporter knew that he was Spider-man. He had to steal the notebook. To protect his identity and in extension New York. The notes had been encrypted, but there are no limits to a procrastinating, paranoid high school student. The notes answered nothing for him in whether the man knew or not. But that was beside the point.
If peter had a the right handful of junk he might be able to send out a morse code signal via radio waves or something. But Dr. Octavius would probably catch that. Maybe. The chance was high enough Peter wasn't sure he wanted to risk it.
If Peter pickpocketed a cell phone? Still extremely risky.
Using a computer? If he got access to a computer that would be a miracle. Not likely to happen.
Maybe if he got the chance to talk to Aleksei he could appeal to him.
He was sitting on the folded blanket on the bed, practicing Spanish, when the door buzzed. Peter gave a small yelp in surprise. Taking a breath, he got himself into position and pulled the mask over his head.
He hated this. He hated the mask.
After eternity the door opened.
"Face the wall!" Shocker barked.
Peter did and took comfort in the fact his spider-sense was relatively quiet. And mentally told Shocker that he could easily kick his butt all the way into next Tuesday if it wasn't for Norman playing dirty.
Shocker stomped in, slammed something on the table and stormed out. Peter counted the seconds between the door shutting and the buzzer.
One
Two
Thre-
Three seconds. He pulled the mask off and looked over at the table. It looked like lunch (breakfast? dinner?) was a water bottle, a bowl of mush, and an apple on the same tray as last time. As soon as he finished the last bite, the door buzzed again. Someone, he assumed it was Shocker, came, took the tray, and left without a word.
The timing had his insides squirming. He knew he was being watched, but this just solidified it. Peter ignored the discomfort and went back to practicing Spanish. After his seventh run through of all the words he knew constructed into a nonsensical essay, his eyelids began to droop. It was then he realized that they probably weren't going to turn the lights off.
He tried to tuck himself into the corner like last time, but the lights were too bright. He really didn't understand how he managed to sleep with them on last time. After a frustrating amount of time struggling to sleep, Peter found that under the bed was dark enough to satisfy.
Love you all!
Thank you for the suggestions, Guest, but I got this whole story mapped out already. ;)
I hope you guys like where I'm taking it as much as I do!