Sweat: An Iron Man story by the Biker Chapter 3: Murder
Confusion. Anger. Revulsion. Car keys. The buildings on either side of me blur into each other as I reach a ridiculously high speed in my BMW M3. I figured a more subtle ride would be more appropriate for a hospital visit.
The roar of the engine dulls to all but silence to me. My fingers clench the steering wheel, my nails digging into it. My arms move with robotic accuracy. I'm practically one of the living dead.
My best friend is dying in a hospital bed. Spider-man, my novice, my only family. Killed by my hand: the metal hand of Iron Man. Earlier on a wave of hope nearly engulfed me; what if the person on standing on the building, sliced by my repulsors, wasn't Peter, just a poser trying to make extra cash off one of those tabloid rewards for Spider-man's identity?
My hope had been short-lived. I had received a call from Collins Michael MD saying that their patient's system was rejecting the blood. Guilt overwhelms me, as I remember my suit taking off, leaving my friend bleeding to death on that building with no hope. Somebody had spotted him, mercifully.
I pull into the deserted car park, the reason for its emptiness probably because they were charging twenty bucks an hour for parking. That didn't worry me. There are cars parallel parked in every square meter available around this lot, however. Stupid nosey low-life paparazzi. They're gonna have a field day when I walk in to see Spider-man.
I barge into the hospital. Several heads turn, and I'm nearly blinded and decapitated by the flashing and fluffy microphones swinging in my direction.
"Mister Stark! Why are you here? To see Spider-man? What relation does you-?"
"Mister Stark, over here! Any comments on your sudden appearance?"
"Mister Stark, did you get the birthday card I sent you?"
I bat a fluffy pink microphone away and continued my steady stride down the white hallway.
I race up the stairs, the scent of disinfectant heavy in my nostrils. I go to the door surrounded by shutterbugs and push my way through. I slam the door behind me, hoping a prying nose was whacked in the process. I gasp.
He looks so weak and vulnerable. There's a big tear in his suit, but the wound underneath is bandaged. An IV drip snakes along the ground and into the slither of exposed skin on his right arm, his glossy sleeve pushed up slightly. Guilt wraps its hands around my throat. I clear it and step closer. "Peter?" He turns his head excruciatingly slowly. I see the cloth of his mask stretch: he's beaming. At his attacker, who had brutally fought him without explanation. I wanted to be sick.
"Hey boss," he grinned.
"I'm so sorry," I blurted out. Peter laughed weakly. "S'okay. I know there was somethin' wrong wi' the armor."
That explains it. He's high, I can tell because his words are slurring, like overlapping waves.
"I heard you-" choke- "lost a lotta blood."
Peter laughs again. It's getting annoying. I'm trapped in a tiny room, pounding at the door, trying to escape; and he's carefree and high on drugs. "I'll be fine," he says dismissively.
"No," I growl, "you're not. I beat you to a pulp, and you're dying, and you're practically applauding me. You're laughing your way through this (more so than usual anyway) when I'm dying internally here. Please be serious."
Peter sighs. "Tony," he says in a patronizing tone, "forget the drugs for a sec. Though I have't'admit, they're doin' somethin' whack to my blood. Well, what's left of it." He sighs, but he didn't look that concerned. Well, I guess he did already die…
"Look," my novice said as firmly as he could manage, "I'll be okay, it's fine. Get outta here and get some sleep, you look like Morlun right now." He flinched at the memory of the vampire. I smile incoherently and took a step back. "Okay, see ya."
Suddenly, Peter erupts in paroxysms of gurgling coughs. He is choking on his own blood. "HELP!!!" I scream, and realize with despair that no nurse would be able to plough through that crowd. Peter's dying, and only I can save him. I reach out with my mind, find my armor locked in the garage and pull them toward me. Yank is more suited: I think one of the boots smashed a window on its way out. I briskly throw the window open and the armor encloses around my figure.
The last nut is barely in place when I launch myself out the window at the highest speed possible, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. I don't notice how uncomfortable the dent in the knuckles of the right glove makes my hand. I don't notice the get-well-soon cards and flowers I scatter around the room. I don't notice the ominous red line crawling across the monitor at Peter's bedside.
To be continued…