"Welcome back Peter!" MJ greeted Peter as he sat down in the seat adjacent to her and Harry.
"Yeah, you have a lot of catch up work to do!" Harry teased.
"Oh, don't worry Peter, I took notes," Gwen comforted her boyfriend. "You'll just have to pay me back some how." Gwen batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at the brunette teen.
Peter returned her a wicked smile. "Well I certainly don't now how I could do that."
"Oh, I think I can come up with something."
"Ugh! Someone open a window, I going to barf!" Flash mocked them from the row behind them. "So, how's it going Pecker?"
Every one of Flash's friends joined in heavy, stupid laughter.
"What do you want Flash?" Peter growled, in no mood to deal with this brain dead Neanderthal wanna-be. Why should he, really? He could shoot webs from his wrist, and jump a building, Flash was a flea compared to him!
"Well, not only did you get me kicked out of that Lab thing, which I really didn't mind, you pucked on me, got me three weeks detention, and I'm officially on suspension from the team! So, I got a few issues to workout with ya buddy. See you after lunch." Flash flashed a devilish smile, oozing with ill intent.
Peter smiled back arrogantly, "All right, I'm game, it'll be over in a flash."
Flash Thompson looked at him wide aid with amusement, "WHAT did you just say Parker?"
"I said, I'll fight you, unless, that is you're afraid of little old me." Peter mocked Flash, who's vain in his forehead looked ready to explode in a shower of crimson.
Gasp's filled with bus from the people that were listening in, in complete shock over Peter's attitude. The jocks simple goggled at the suicidal teenager.
"Y-you, are so DEAD PARKER!" Flash threatened, face comparable to a cherry in complexion. Flash slumped down in his seat, pondering what method of inflicting pain he would use.
"Peter, are you high?" MJ asked in all seriousness.
"Nope, perfectly rational and down to earth."
"I have contradictory evidence Pete," Harry said to his long time friend. "You just claimed you, a scrawny little math nerd, could win in a fight against Flash Thompson!"
"He's right Peter, are you sure you're feeling any better?" Gwen asked her boyfriend, worried for his health and survival.
Peter gently kissed Gwen on her lips, "I'm fine, don't worry."
Peter's friend's simple stared at there soon to be dead comrade.
MIDTOWN HIGH 12:43 AM
Hindsight was valuable at certain times. Especially when it came to school cafeteria lunches. Peter had remembered to bring his own lunch, a salami sandwich with Swiss cheese.
Afterward, Peter had left for his locker, prepared for an ambush by Flash. Peter stuffed his algebra and geology into his book bag and closed up his locker, setting the lock back. Peter became rigged as the sensation of needles pricking the back of his skull came upon him. Peter twisted around, coming face to face with Flash, two of his goons, Mark and Jacuzzi, standing at his sides.
"Hey ya, Pecker, how ya doing?" Flash smashed his left hand against the locker, seemingly to intimidate the much smaller youth.
"Pretty good really, how about you, Flashy boy?" Peter remarked with a lopsided grin on his face.
Flash backed up, blood surging to his face. "All right, I was going to give you the chance to say you're sorry and take your wedgie like the screaming three year old little girl you are, but now, I am just going to kick your ass! RAGH!"
Flash charged Peter, fists ready to pound his face in. Things went in slow motion for Peter. He easily dodged the flying fist of death, and stood to the side, cocky smile, ever present on his face.
By this time, students had gathered around the two combatants and were in awe at how Peter just sidestepped the quarterback's punch.
"What the-stay still so I can hit ya!" Flash complained as he threw a swift right hook at Peter, who easily ducked under the strike.
"What's the matter Flash? I thought you were going to kill me. How are you going to do that, when you can't even touch me?" Peter said, dancing around the mass of muscle with astonishing ease.
Flash continued to swing wildly at the lanky teen, grow more furious by the minute. "Damn…it…Pecker…stay…still!" Flash huffed, struggling for breath as he swung away at Peter who was becoming bored with this game.
Flash launched one final punch, concentrating every once of strength he had in his sculpted body. And Peter…caught it in his open hand. The gathered crowd gasped and screamed. Flash locked eyes with Peter.
"How, how did get this strong?" He demanded before hissing in pain as Peter applied pressure to the jocks hand.
"Funny, I was going to ask you, how'd you get so weak!" Peter landed a powerful punch into Flashes belly, sending him flying into a row of lockers. Heavy metallic ringing filled the hallway when Flash smashed against the green metal storage boxes.
Flash slumped to the dirty floor like a wet rage. The students were all silent with a cocktail of shock, and amazement. Flash rose unsteadily from the linoleum floor. Randal and Adam went to his side and tried to support him. Flash pushed them away, threatening his 'friends'. He glared daggers at Peter.
"I'll get you Pecker! Count on it…uh!" Flash collapsed on the ground having passed out.
"YAH!"
"WOHO!"
"Sic semper tyrannis!"
"Dude! You're quoting John Wilks Booth!"
"Actually, it is very appropriate for this situation! Sic semper tyrannis is the Virginia state motto which means: Thus always to tyrants or thus ever it be with tyrants."
"Ah."
Peter revealed in his newfound fame. Peter had done what no one else before him had done. Struck a blow against a flawed hierarchal school system, and not have severe injuries!
Peter's revelry came to an end when he saw the principle force his way through the crowd.
"Mr. Parker! What is going on here?"
"Uh-oh."
The car ride home was a quiet one. Uncle Ben, sat in the driver's seat, face hard as stone. Peter couldn't bring himself to look at his fuming uncle so he stared blankly out the window of the old Volkswagen Beetle.
Finally, or maybe unfortunately depending on your point of view, Uncle Ben broke the silence.
"What the hell Peter? What the hell happened back there?"
Peter felt his throat turn into the Sahara as he tried to speak. "I, I don't know." Peter mumbled.
"What did you say? Stop mumbling Peter, and talk to me. Tell me what happened." Ben demanded.
"Flash, he, he tried to beat me up. So, I, I fought back." Peter said, feeling shameful.
"Fought back? Fought back!" Ben Parker scoffed. "Peter, you gave him a concussion! You're lucky you didn't kill him!"
"But, Flash, he's a bully, he always messes with everyone!" Peter countered feebly.
"I have no doubt your telling the truth Peter, and I have no doubt he deserved what he got. There are a million more people out there that deserve it just as much as Flash Thompson did, but just because you can beat them up, does it make it right?"
Peter found himself at a loss of words.
"I thought so. Peter, let me tell you something my father told me, and your dad when we were boys. With great power, comes great responsibility."
Peter looked at his Uncle quizzically.
"Sigh. Peter, all I want you to do, is, think about what that means to you." Ben shook his head woefully as they pulled alongside the curb next to the small house.
"You can expect your chores to be tripled for the next two weeks. You are only allowed out of the house for school and work, nothing else. Got that?" Ben said, closing the car door roughly.
"Yes sir." Peter responded, walking into the house.
"This is ridiculous!" Peter fumed as he flopped onto his bed. "Flash had it coming to him! He attacked me! Does he think shouldn't defend myself? When I stronger then the whole school, why shouldn't I? They have no idea what it's like to be me!"
Two weeks seemed to breeze by for Peter. The fame he gained for knocking Flash around like a rag doll gradually waned as all things do in High School. Gwen had looked at him differently. Almost, like she was afraid. Harry, was well, Harry. He patted Peter on the back, congratulated him on getting back at Flash for the countless wedgies, tripping, locker stuffing's and swirlys, (oh the swirlys!) he had dealt to nearly everyone in school. MJ looked at him differently. Not like Gwen, but with something akin to admiration.
Peter was finally allowed out of the house, able to go for nice long walks and hang out with his friends. At lest, that was partially true. Peter would also go web slinging, as he had dubbed it. He found it was incredibly relaxing, and very fast way to travel. Peter also found himself craving more protein. Made sense really. Spider silk is made of protein molecules, so Peter figured his body was craving more protein to help generate silk. Peter would also hit junkyards and test his strength. He found he could lift a small car over his head with great easy.
Peter was content with his life for the most part. That is, until one day, Peter picked up a newspaper, and for the rest of his life, wished he hadn't.
Peter yawned as he sat down at the breakfast table on Saturday morning. Aunt May had place a glass of orange juice, sausage and bacon before him.
"My, my, Peter, you have become such a carnivore lately!" Aunt May said jokingly.
"I just really like meat!" was Peter's grateful response as he dug into his hot breakfast.
Uncle Ben ate his own breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, will he read the morning newspaper.
"Hey, Uncle Ben, could I see the paper?" Peter asked.
Ben passed the paper to his nephew, asking him what he wanted it for.
"Ah, just want to see what all happened yesterday." Peter searched through the paper, eating his meal.
Peter flipped through the pages of the print, skimming stories that caught his attention. In the employment section, something caught Peter's eye. It was printed in a small box in big, bold lettering:
LAST FIVE MINUETS IN RING WITH TITAN & WIN $1,000 AT THE SPORTS DOME IN LOWER MANHATTAN! COSTUME IS A MUST! For more information call 1-800-560-7990.Peter cocked an eyebrow. A thousand bucks! Peter could really use that to get well, anything he wanted. And with his little gift, this 'Titan', would be easy pickings! One problem. Peter needed a costume.
SOMEWHERE BENEATH NEW YORK
Electric lamps hung down from the arcing concrete bunker, illuminating the twenty-five yard long room. The floor was a very accurate replication of the streets above. Armored cars and police cars were parked on the false road.
SCREEEECCHH!
A brackish blur buzzed across the asphalt kicking up a maelstrom in its wake. Men dressed in high-tech armor, ran after it with futuristic rifles and machineguns pointed ahead at their apparent target.
They squeezed the triggers on the weapons, unleashing a hail of bullets and pellets. The blur made a gravity defying vertical climb. A painful screech bombarded the men's ears. They dropped their weapons, doubling over and trying to cover their pounding ears.
The car windows burst in a shower of razor sharp particles. The shields on their helmets cracked and shattered. Finally, the painful sonic assault stopped. The troopers grabbed for the weapons they had dropped.
"UGK! AHH!"
The soldiers spun around and saw their target gripping a young man by his jugular. The target stood at six foot nine inches tall. His lanky frame was covered by a pale green and black armor. Beneath his arms, was a pair of wing-like constructs made from a lightweight, highly, durable material. His feet and hands were equipped with vicious metal claws. His head was, covered by an avian like jet-black, helmet. Attached to his back was a booster system. Starting at his shoulders, it raised up from his back. At the flat bottom were twin engines.
"H-help me! Good god, help me!" Screamed the captured gunman, as the costumed bird-mans claws drew blood from his neck.
If you could see behind the mask, you would see a predatory smile erupt across his thin face.
SQUISH!
The birdman sank his claws into the man's neck, spurting crimson fluid across his arm and chest. He let the limp body drop to the ground.
"So, you, going to kill me or what?" He asked, shifting into a combat stance.
"Kill him!" Someone shouted, firing off a burst. The birdman easily dodged the deadly bullets, taking to the air with screaming engines. Heavy bolts of lead flew past him as he nimbly danced around in the air.
He suddenly dived down at the rear of the twelve strong gunmen. With a quick slash, he disemboweled two of the men, their entrails spilling out onto the concert. The soldiers scattered in terror, firing wildly behind them, unintentionally wounding one other man.
The flying man descended like the angel of death upon the fallen man. The wounded man brought his machine gun up to the birdman's hidden face. The green suited killer grabbed the barrel of the gun, easily forcing it away with paranormal strength.
He spoke once more in his raspy, high-pitched voice. "I wonder what your guts look like?" Swick! Splat! With little to no effort, the homicidal maniac gutted the poor fool stuck on the ground, his blood splashing all over the green and black suit. He stood erect, turning his attention to the remaining nine.
RATA TAT TAT TAT!
They fired the last remaining rounds at their foe who shrugged off the handful of projectiles like summers breeze.
He dashed in between a couple of the thugs, smashing his left fist into one and grabbing the other by the throat. The sap he punched in the stomach collapsed in a state of unconsciousness. He flung the other man into an armored car, breaking every bone in his body.
He placed his clawed foot on the unconscious mans neck, pressing down with minimal effort, caving in his trachea.
He hunted down the last seven men, killing them all in one nightmarish way or another. Finally, only one was left.
Murray Scot was only twenty-two. He came from a poor family in Hells Kitchen. Murray did everything needed to survive. He sold drugs, robbed stores, even, mugged people. He never told his mother were he got all the cash, fearing the truth would hurt here. If ever offered the chance to score big, he would take it, even if it meant selling his soul to the devil himself.
As if answering his call, Wilson Fisk had stepped into his life. He promised to pay Murray over twenty thousand bucks to test some new equipment. Everyone in the Kitchen new what Fisk was, no one ever listened though. He kept the right cats fat, and the right people dead.
Murray eagerly agreed to what ever job Fisk had in mind, willing to do anything for that kind of loot. So, he got fitted up with some crazy gun and suit and got sent in here told to kill somebody. No biggy. Wouldn't be his first kill.
He remembered the first person he killed. It was some stupid chick in a school uniform. He pulled her into an alleyway meaning to rob her. But he decided to have a little fun first. Then bitch had scratched him, so he put a metal pipe in her head. He light up the body and that was that.
But this guy, this guy was no joke. He had some kinda superpowers, like one of those mutant freaks. He was a butcher, plain and simple.
So now, Murray hid behind an over turned car, fumbling with a new clip for his gun. He tried to breath lightly, but only succeeded in making short panicked gasps.
"What are you doing pal?"
Murray's blood went cold. His heart stopped beating. Murray looked up terrified by the sight of the blood stained monster standing above him. Murray felt himself loose control over his bladder when the birdman jumped down in front of him.
He grabbed his chest, and roughly yanked him up off the ground. The pair shot into the air. Higher and higher they rose. Murray felt himself come close to vomiting.
"Please! Please, let me go! Don't kill me!" Murray begged for mercy.
The birdman looked at the pee soaked Murray. "Fine. I'll let you go." With that said, he did let Murray go. All the way down. Murray screamed as the ground rushed up to greet him. The murderer reveled in the sickening splat that echoed through the bunker.
He came to a landing just three feet from the bloody puddle that was Murray Scot.
"Very good mister Toomes." Applauded Wilson Fisk, stepping from the shadows accompanied by Alistair Smythe, his wheel chair bound assistant. "I am very impressed with your performance."
Wilson Fisk aka The Kingpin of Crime was a bear of a man. Standing at over seven feet tall and weighing over four hundred pounds, was a truly imposing man. He had a shaved head. Wilson refused to wear anything else but the finest Italian suits. In his right had he held a long black, diamond headed, cane.
The blood stained man pulled off his black helmet, revealing his thin, serpentine face. "Thank you Mr. Fisk, but please, call Adrian."
"Hmmhmmhmm. Very Adrian. I see that I was correct in my choice." Fisk stepped up to Adrian Tomes, holding a black suitcase.
Adrian took it greedily with blood stained hands. Not bothering to pop the two locks, Adrian simple ripped off the top. He smiled manically at the sight of over ten grand.
"I am sure we will do more business, Adrian?" Wilson Fisk asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh yes Mr. Fisk, most absurdly. I will strike fear into the hearts your enemies. For a price of course." Adrian smiled at his employer, showing of his dingy yellow teeth.
"Good. I have received that in ten days there will be a large gathering of gang leaders. I wish for you to take care of them for me." Wilson Fisk said.
"Can do Mr. Fisk, can do." Adrian said, a malicious glint in his eye.