Disclaimer: SWEET CHRISTMAS
Hello. It's me. I was wondering if I could breAK MY STREAK OF NOT POSTING FOR LIKE 7 YEARS AND POST A CHAPTER FINALLY. I can? Okay, good. :D Since the last time I updated, I have: dressed as Spider-lassy for Halloween, got accepted to Baylor (finally! yay!), been swamped by basketball, school work, been binge-watching Jessica Jones, freaking out about Glenn on TWD, and baking like a mad-lady for Thanksgiving. But hey, guess what this chapter FINALLY has in it? That thing I never mention by name! (well, sorta) I had trouble writing this because I wanted it to be original, but also perfect, and to reflect how it is in the comics accordingly. It's a little misleading though. I hope I don't disappoint :) K, I'm shutting up now. REAd.
Chapter 16
Peter was zipping rapidly above the world, although he wasn't sure exactly why. He had no idea where he was going or where to even begin searching. Wanda could be anywhere in New York, or perhaps not in New York at all. Fisk could've easily moved her to a distant location where he'd never find her, but he refused to believe that. Wanda was Fisk's hostage—bait to draw Spider-Man back so he could finish what he'd started. Somehow he was certain she was still in the city.
Peter landed in a crouch on top of a decrepit roof. Neon lights flashed recurrently across the urban skyline, while the neighborhood that surrounded him was dull, decaying, lifeless. As he admired the familiar view, his thoughts tumbled back to what his teammates had said to him less than an hour ago. Not only had they immediately diagnosed him as medically psychotic and discounted almost half of what he'd told them without a second thought, but they had flat-out ditched him. Again! Why were they so hellbent on making him feel like an outcast? On top of that, they pretended like their cruelty was somehow the best thing for him when really it made everything a million times worse, they treated him like some stupid, crazy child, and they told him, plain and clear, that he was compromised in his present state and couldn't be an Avenger until he fixed his seemingly incurable "illness". I can't trust you, Peter. The words stung freshly in his mind and caused a chill to shiver through him. He realized that all of this savagery channeled his direction didn't just infuriate him—it hurt. He hadn't grasped that side of it until now. Their rigid callousness manifested inside him a truly terrible, tangible pain. The sickening ache was settled in his stomach, making him feel almost nauseous. It was a feeling of betrayal, loneliness.
Hanging his head low, Peter released a unsteady breath. He couldn't let his personal problems affect his mission. He could deal with those later. Right now, someone was in danger, and he had to save them. Dragging himself to his feet, Spider-Man stood at the edge of the roof with his hands balled at his sides, when a sharp buzz rattled at the base of his skull.
Spidey sense.
At the very same moment, a cry sounded from below. He crawled to the adjacent ledge and peered over the side where the noise had come from. In the dark alleyway stretched beneath him, a crowd of four dark figures was gathered. They stood encircling the frail form of an elderly woman who lay collapsed against the grimy pavement. Her body was bent into a semi-circle, cowering, shivering. A bag was splayed beside her with its contents spilled at the men's feet. One of them reached down and scooped up a flimsy wallet.
"This can't be all you have," he snapped, pocketing a crumpled ball of scanty bills and tossing the wad of leather aside. He snatched the bag that lay by the woman's elbow, causing her to flinch, and groped through the empty space disapprovingly. "C'mon, lady. What else you got?"
"Th-that's it, that's it," she whimpered, holding her trembling hands over her head. "That's all I have, I promise." She raised her tearful eyes to them pleadingly. "Everything I own is in that bag. Please, gentlemen, I am a beggar. I am nothing but a poor, tired woman—a lousy target for looters. I have nothing of value to offer you."
"She's lying," another growled, looming over her and snatching a small, tattered box from her jacket pocket. "Old hag's hoarding half a pack of cigarettes. I've been needing a light bad."
"I—I didn't think you would—"
"Shut up," the thug hissed. He grabbed a cigarette from his friend, lit it beneath a cupped hand, then took a long drag, puffing out ghostly rings from his yellow lips. He was completely unaware of the dark silhouette slowly descending behind him. "Don't you dare be calling us lousy. I could stick you in the neck in a second if I felt it. You're in no position to be insulting us."
Like the snap of a trap, a leg suddenly swung out of the darkness and struck the thug right in the temple, causing a yelp to sputter from his throat as he fell to the ground. The smoldering stick slipped from his lips and dropped to the pavement, sending glowing ashes scattering about. A consecutive gasp rose from all the people in the alleyway as the figure stepped down to the concrete.
"I don't think a specific position is required for one to have the pleasure of insulting you assholes. I mean, seriously? Four brawny men against one old woman? How freaking low can you possibly sink?"
The three remaining thieves' faces had washed pale. The dim light reflected in the whites of their eyes. As Peter stepped forward, their feet shuffled back restlessly. The woman stayed shriveled against the concrete.
"Who—who the hell is—?"
"C-call the others! Quick! Somebody—anybody—!"
"No! just—just—run!"
All at once, the trio of thugs took off sprinting down the narrow passage. Peter watched them for a moment with a tinge of amusement, wondering how these idiots had grown into such cowards. Then, with a sudden tenacity, his amusement transformed into anger, and he sprung on to the wall.
"Ah, and the true chickens come out. Not so fun on the opposite side of the coin, is it fellas?" Peter fired a glob of webbing over the first thief, sticking him to the ground, then dropped directly in front of the next. His fist slammed into his face, and Peter was startled to feel the bone concave beneath the punch. He had shattered the man's cheek bone like glass. The thug crumpled to the ground with a screech, cradling his broken face as he gagged on bones, teeth, and blood. Keen guilt instantly nicked his heart, and Spider-Man rubbed at his knuckles nervously. Whoa. Ease up there, Spidey. Where did that come from? You're trying to send them to prison, not the hospital, remember?
Regathering himself, Peter was startled by his spidey sense and turned around to see the last man near the end of the alley. He was standing with his back against a gate, holding a gun. The barrel was aimed at the feeble woman's head.
"N-now you let me go!" he yelled, the weapon shivering in his hands. "Or I'll—I'll shoot her! I'll shoot her dead!"
The thug blinked. The dark figure was gone. The shadowy pathway was vacant, silent. He jerked his head left and right, sweat pouring down his face.
"I—I swear! Don't make me do it, man! Don't make me! 'Cause I...I swear, I'll—"
The gun was kicked from his hand. Webbing was sealed over his lips. His arm was pinned against his back. His face was pressed into gate. Even Peter could hardly believe how fast, how effortless, how perfect the attack had been. It was like he was moving at a whole different frequency than the rest of the world. Never had he felt so superior to his enemy, and never had his abilities felt so fluid beneath his control.
"Cut that out. This is no place for swearing. You'll have plenty of time for that in court, and even more time after that when you're pouting in the corner of a cell." He webbed his face to the gate and his hands into a ball. "Now you and your buddies all stay put until the cops get here. And next time you think about jumping somebody, I hope you'll remember this little meet-and-greet with your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Because I promise if there's a reunion later on between any of us over anything like this ever again, I will be far less forgiving. Capeesh?"
Peter took his muffled whimper as a yes, and backed away from his helpless form. A few more spurts here and there, and the rest of the men were restrained as well. With all four thugs caught in the spider's web, Peter hurried over to the woman. With quaking hands, she was gathering up her measly belongings, facing away from him. Peter took the stolen money from the first thief's pocket and eased up to her carefully. As she strained to reach the wallet sprawled against the pavement a good distance away from her, a gloved hand picked it up first, causing her to cringe.
"Here," he said gently, holding it out to her. The wide, bleary eyes lifted to meet his, framed by deep wrinkles at the corners and underneath. Her face had a thin layer of dirt caked within the dark crevices, making her have a haunted sort of appearance. She was clothed in a shabby floral shirt and jeans soiled with rips and stains. She was a tragic sight to behold. The eyes switched back and forth between his face and the wallet, until finally a pair of gnarled hands cupped together just above the ground, and Peter placed the money and the wallet in them with attentive softness.
"Are you alright? I'm sorry those jerks attacked you. Chivalry seems to be a dying culture in NYC."
Wordlessly, the woman dumped her stuff into the bag, her movements seeming shaky and hurried. Spider-Man watched her disconcertedly for a moment, uncertain what to do or say. She began struggling to rise to her feet, and he stepped forward quickly, taking her by the arm.
"Here, let me help—"
She ripped her wrist free of his grasp. "G-get away! Get off me!"
Peter jumped back fearfully. "Huh? What's wrong?"
"Don't touch me! Whoever you are—whatever you are—don't touch me! Just—just go away!"
She began shuffling down the alleyway, hugging herself defensively as tears streamed down her cheeks. Peter stared at her with nervous confusion, following slowly behind.
"Ma'am, I—I know you may not know me personally and all, but you can trust me. I'm one of the good guys, really. You've gotta recognize me from all the lame banter, the web-slinging, the red and blue onesie? I'm Spider-Man."
As she neared the end of the pathway that bled out into the street, the woman glanced back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were filled with a life of suffering, terror, and humility, but also with something else, something he couldn't exactly explain. There was a horrified knowingness in those sad gray pupils—as if she was staring at a ghost, a beast. She gritted her teeth together.
"You are not. Leave here at once, devil. And do not come back."
Then she turned back around, frail body hunched and stiff, and shambled out into the sidewalk, curling around the corner and vanishing from sight. Peter was left standing in the dark backstreet, speechless. What the heck? he thought, frowning offendedly. I just saved you from a bunch of thugs, and that's how you thank me? Then he heaved a miserable sigh. Suppose I can't really blame her, considering all the crap cycling around about me lately. But seriously, 'devil'? That seems a bit cruel, even from a New Yorker.
Weighed with dejection, Spider-Man stepped over one of the moaning criminals and began scaling the wall of a concrete building. He could hear sirens approaching from afar. A feeling of insignificance came over him, as though his attempts to help others were in vain seeing that they only caused the world to hate him more. At the same time, a second sensation was present inside him, one that entirely opposed the other. Although he couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly was causing it, something about him that night seemed a bit...odd. He had felt it as he was fighting the baddies, but it was even stronger now. Perhaps it was his body transforming so quickly from completely devastated to the pinnacle of health, or perhaps it was a byproduct of all of the extremities thrown his way, but for some reason Peter felt struck with an intense feeling of power, control. Every movement he made seemed effortless and athletic, every slip of his hand across the gritty wall was like a knife through butter. On top of that, he couldn't believe how fast it felt like he was moving. When he reached the top of the building, he rounded the crown with a quick flip, amazed by the acrobatic fluidity of his body and feeling as graceful as a ballerina-ninja-swan on steroids. He landed in a low crouch, trying to keep his mind focused on finding Wanda but distracted by this strange yet exhilarating sensation. He had an incredible urge to go on a pulse-pounding, web-slinging joyride just to expend all this new, vigorous energy.
"Ooh, Spidey," a cool voice suddenly purred to his right. Peter glanced over his shoulder in surprise, and his eyes fell upon a curvy figure just as it landed beside him on the rooftop. He recognized who it was in an instant, even before she leaned into him with her face so close he could feel her breath against his skin. "I'm absolutely in love with the new look. I had no idea what an impression I'd left on you. I'm flattered, truly."
Spider-Man hopped to his feet with a start. "Cat! It's you! W-where have you been? What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying the view, obviously," she replied, looking him up and down with her dazzling blue eyes. "See, I knew we made a connection. Did you finally decide to turn from the goody-two-webs business and join me on the fun side?"
Peter cocked his head to the side slightly. "Uh...no," he stammered, brow furrowed. "I was actually kinda hoping you'd made the conversion. I'm still, um, 'goody'." Peter shrugged his shoulders. "What would make you think that I'd changed?"
Black Cat dragged one long claw slowly down the outline of his face. "Well, why else would you ditch that tacky red and blue to pattern your look after mine?"
Peter was puzzled. He hadn't changed anything about his look—not that he could remember, anyway. In actuality, he recalled having put on one of his original Spidey suits, which was the tackiest of all he owned. She wasn't making any sense. Clueless, he grabbed her hand and held it away from himself forcefully. "What the heck are you—?"
His words were cut short. His eyes had flickered to his fingers, which were coiled tightly around her wrist. He was startled to discover that they weren't their normal, eye-popping red. His whole hand wasn't.
As a matter of fact, as his gaze travelled along the length of his arm, down his torso, all the way to the tips of his toes, he realized that none of him resembled his iconic color scheme any longer. Now instead, his entire suit—his entire body—was clothed in black.
"Still insisting you don't have a crush on me, short, dark, and handsome?
Peter released her hand and stared down at his palms, blinking repeatedly. "W-wha...what the hell...?"
"Why don't you just admit it so we can stop beating around the bush?" He felt her nails fall across his shoulders, but he jumped back reflexively. Glancing left and right, Peter launched himself off the rooftop and stuck to the adjacent building, whose walls were made of reflective glass. His wide, disbelieving eyes traipsed over the masked face staring back at him. He curled his fingers against the glossy windows.
What—what the hell is going on? he thought perplexedly. This isn't the suit I put on, is it? He swore he had never seen this costume before in his life. It was completely different from all other styles and varieties he had ever worn. The suit was solid black, lustrous, as though it was made of polished leather or satin. There was no web detailing he could see. The only things punctuating the dark silhouette were the bright, wide eye-lenses and the spider design, although this one was very unique. Pure white, stretched far across his torso from the top of his chest to just above his bellybutton, and with long, thin legs wrapping under his armpits and ribs all the way around to meet with the matching spider on his back. The contrasting colors made the majority of the suit blend into the night, while the eyes and the gigantic arachnid seemed to almost glow. It fit his thin, toned body better than he thought possible. It was beautiful, but somehow menacing.
Peter turned his head to the side curiously, gripping his chin. Where did this come from? Is this one of Stark's? Or...or something else?
"Is this a bad time, swinger?" he heard a playful voice call from behind him. He turned to find Black Cat lying along the edge of the roof, rolling a collection of sparkling jewels between her fingers. "You seem a little distracted. I could lend a hand with that, if you ask nicely."
Without responding, Peter held his arm up beside his face. Using his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the fabric that rested on his wrist. It felt slick between his fingers, almost slimy. He pulled it far off of his skin, watching it stretch and stretch farther and farther. It was like it was made of silly putty. Finally, he gave it a hard yank, and a glob of the black material tore from the suit. Peter lifted it close to his eyes. It was unlike any fabric he had ever seen. What is this costume made of? he wondered confusedly.
Then...it started to move.
Like living tar, the bundle of black squirmed a little in his palm. It uncoiled, twisted, writhed. Then, sluggishly, the blob began to melt back into the rest of the black suit, sinking and spreading along his glove, before finally disappearing entirely. It had somehow conformed itself back into the costume. Peter gazed at the spot where it had vanished in silence, then looked back at his wrist. The area he had ripped was growing smaller, the two sides of black creeping towards one another. It moved as though with purpose, like it had a mind of its own. Once they met, the material fused together and settled itself comfortably against his skin, and the suit went back to looking good as new. It was like it had never been torn in the first place.
Slowly, Peter shifted his gaze back to his reflection. He could feel his heartbeat crawling into his throat. W-what is this? he thought. Am I seeing things again? Surely this—this isn't happening. It isn't possible. I mean, unless—maybe Stark made a self-healing suit? Y-yeah, that's it. Tony must've been getting sick of me tearing my other ones up all the time, so he made this. Th-that's what's happening. Well, either that, or it's just my mind playing tricks on me again. Yeah, it could be that, too. It's gotta be one of those two. Those are the only things that could explain why my costume is—
"Peter...Parker..."
Spider-Man's insides turned to ice. His mouth soured, and his breathing ceased.
"Hello?" Black Cat snapped impatiently. "I know I told you you look hot, but c'mon. Can you even hear me, Narcissus?"
After a moment of silent motionlessness, Spider-Man sprung off the wall. Like a demon out of hell, he dropped into the alleyway below, rolled along the pavement, and began sprinting like his life depended on it. Cat watched the little hero curiously as he ran through the passage beneath her, tripping and stumbling all over himself, until he vaulted over a fence in one perfect leap and skidded around the corner, and his black form evanesced into the darkness. Jewels rolling in her palm, she snorted amusedly, wondering what could possibly be going through that strange boy's head.
Oh gosh, no. No, no no.
Peter's arm scraped against the wall as he jerked around a sharp turn. He didn't notice. His feet pounded hysterically into the grimy concrete.
It can't be. It can't be!
His skin had broken into a cold, feverish sweat. His heartbeat throbbed inside his ears. His arms pumped wildly at his sides.
Please, don't let it be true!
Out of nowhere, Peter's foot caught on a trash bag lying in his path. His body tumbled forwards uncontrollably, and he expected to splat face-first into the pavement. But instead, he felt his weight suddenly level off, and with one quick somersault Peter found himself resting on his hands and the balls of his feet, unharmed. He sat stunned for a moment, breaths coarse and rapid, body shivering. His eyes were wide and fitful beneath his mask. What the...? Did the suit just...cushion my fall?
"Spider-Man..."
Peter flinched violently. It was unmistakeable. It was the voice. The voice from his nightmares, the voice from his visions, the voice that haunted his soul, whispering in his mind. It was the voice of the black monster. It was his own voice.
Spider-Man gripped his head in his hands. N-no. No, no, no. It's not real. It's not real! They said I was just seeing things. They said I was just crazy. It's all in my head. It's all in my head. It has to be!
But he knew it wasn't. He was seconds from breaking down right there, alone in the dark backstreets of no man's land. He couldn't believe this was happening. It was everything he had always feared. The black monster had finally claimed him. It had escaped the fire and found him. Fisk had won. It was going to eat him alive, just like it always did in his dreams. He could feel it moving against his flesh like a hungry serpent encircling its victim. Only this time, it was real. There was no waking up from this nightmare. Any minute now, the dark creature would indulge in its feast.
He waited for it to happen, utterly broken and defeated. And yet, after sitting desolately on the cold asphalt for a long while, gasping shallowly with his eyes squeezed shut, something strange suddenly occurred to him. W-wait a sec, he realized. My spidey sense. I—I can't feel it. It's not tingling. It's not warning me of anything.
Peter's eyes slowly slipped open. He swallowed painfully, gulping down the icy fear lodged in his throat. With shaky movements, he lifted his head from his lap and held his palms up to his face. His brow narrowed in nervous confusion. The black ooze, it's—it's not being registered as a threat. How it that possible? My spidey sense isn't being triggered by it. Does that mean—that has to mean—somehow, it isn't dangerous. For some reason, the black monster...doesn't have any intention of hurting me...
He sucked in a careful breath, then laid one palm flat against the pavement. Slowly, hesitantly, Peter climbed back to his feet, unbroken gaze locked on his hand. He turned it over multiple times, and his crippling terror began tentatively transforming into skeptical curiosity. It's...strange. The suit. The symbiote enveloping my body. It doesn't feel how I thought it would, how Fisk made it seem it would be. It's not like it was in my nightmares. He blinked, flexing his fingers beneath the fluid material. I can't believe I'm saying this, but it almost feels...good. Comfortable—maybe natural, even. None of my other suits have ever felt this great on. It's so light, adaptable. I—I feel like I'm wearing an extension of myself. This is so weird.
He was calmer now. His initial panic was subsiding. He recalled how amazing he had felt fighting those four random thugs earlier. He remembered how flawless every one of his movements had been, like he had total control over his body. Greater still, he reverted back to his stumble on the trash bag, and how the symbiote had balanced him mid-trip and had broken his fall. Could it be that...the black monster...was somehow helping him...?
Then he shook his head. Are you nuts, Parker? he scolded himself. There's no way in hell this thing is on your side. It's been haunting your mind, plaguing your entire existence. It's been the bane of your life since it was created. Fisk brought it to you to destroy you with. He said it would either consume you or turn you into a freaking monster. You seriously think, after all that, he would give you something that was meant for anything other than murdering you and your friends?
Still, his mind wandered back to what Fisk had actually said. In every trial thus far, the symbiote has either completely devoured its host subject, or transformed them into a mindless monster of violence and destruction. But with someone like you, whom it shares its very own blood with, which do you think it will choose? Will the beast consume you, transform you into the Trojan Horse I pray you'll become, or turn you into something new, something entirely different?
He had forgotten. The black monster and he, in a sense, were related. It had been created from his DNA. Maybe that was why it had chosen not to hurt him. Maybe that was why it felt so in sync with his body. Perhaps his relationship with the ooze was something new, something entirely different than what Fisk had anticipated. Perhaps he was the exception.
Peter's hand curled into a fist. No. That doesn't matter. None of it matters. Whether or not this thing wants to kill you is irrelevant. There's not a chance in hell you can risk anything. You don't even know what this thing is, why it's on you, what it's after. He set his jaw. No, you've got to get rid of it. Somehow—someway—you've got to get it off.
He was adamant about what he had to do. But as he stood there, pondering how exactly to go about this, it suddenly came to Peter's notice how deafening the police sirens had become. They were screeching now, howling, growing louder and louder by the second. On top of that, an acrid taste was brewing in the air; it smelled like smoke. Startled from his current predicament, Peter spun around just as a blur of flashing lights and roaring sirens barreled past the alley he was in. He ran down the passage after them and turned the corner rapidly. When his eyes fell upon the scene unfolding at the end of the street, Peter gasped in shock. Oh no.
A tall, dilapidated apartment building towered before him. It was engulfed in flames. Fire trucks and ambulances crowded the surrounding road, along with a mob of people gazing at the burning structure in fearful awe. Men dressed in heavy suits were flooding inside.
As he watched the spectacle disbelievingly, a pair of men sprinted past him, snickering to themselves. They smelled like cigarettes. In the split second they were in his line of view, Peter saw the silver body of a lighter glisten in one of their hands. As the front man vanished behind a drug store, the other hung back a little at a distance. He had a dragon tattoo curled around his scrawny neck. He flashed him a disgusting sneer.
"That's what happens when you mess with our people, freak! Better hurry before all those morons get barbecued because of you." Then, chucking the lighter to the ground, he disappeared into the dark badlands.
Peter blinked repeatedly, stunned. Oh crap. Those goons' buddies did this. They must've gotten ahold of them somehow after I beat them up. Can't go after them now, though. He turned back to the blazing building, watching the tongues of fire lick at the inky sky, then glanced down at his hands again. The brilliant orange light spitting from the flames danced across his glossy palms and reflected in the whites of his eye lenses. He could feel the heat seeping through his costume even at the distance he stood at. Frowning resolutely, his fingers curled together. They come first. People's lives come first. I'll deal with this—ditching and destroying the monster—after I save their lives.
Reaching his decision, he was off in a flash. Spider-Man bolted down the street, leapt on top of a yowling firetruck, then sprung on to the upper wall of the building. He could hear a few cries of surprise and protest from the witnesses below, but he ignored them. Thick, black fumes poured out of the window above him, causing his eyes to sting. He could hear people screaming inside. He blinked the pain away and cocked his fist behind his head. With a quick punch, Peter shattered the glass, then quickly swung his lanky form through the gap and into the apartment.
The room before him was a glowing, roaring image from hell. Couches, lamps, walls, carpet—the dresser in the corner, the photos on the walls—all of it was being consumed. The fire was transforming their soft shapes and innocuous colors into gnarled black scars. And the heat was tremendous. It rushed over him from every direction, causing his skin to break into a sweat beneath the black suit. Fear suddenly rose into his throat as his mind flashed back to the incident with The Kingpin and the burning warehouse, but he quickly swallowed it down. Steeling himself, Peter stepped deeper into the blazing apartment.
"Is anyone in here? Hello? Is anyone there?"
The floor beneath his feet gave a threatening creak just as a chorus of wailing met his ear. Startled to action, Peter buoyed above the flames on a web-line and burst through the door on the opposite side of the room. Outside he found a series of hallways encircling a center stairwell. All of the apartments to his left and right were belching smoke, and the stairs leading to the lower floors were blocked by a wall of a fire. Gathered in the small area that led into the staircase was a group of disheveled, terrified people. Some were cradling their children and spouses, others were hacking and wheezing violently, more were clutching their wounds, weeping, crying for help. There were nine in total. Peter vaulted over the safety railing and landed in front of them, causing many to flinch and yelp.
"H-hey," he stuttered nervously, holding out his hands. "It's—it's okay. Don't panic. Everyone's going to be alright."
A young man coddling a tiny, screaming baby in one arm and a teenage boy with the other squinted at him through the smoke, beads of sweat rolling down his face. "Is...is that...?" He blinked repeatedly. "Who are you?"
"The onesie-wearing wonder who's going to get all of you out of here," he replied curtly. Without explaining further, Peter grabbed the man's wrist and scanned across the rest of the terrified expressions staring back at him. "I know a way out, but I can't carry all of you at once. I've got to make two trips. I'll take the injured and those with kids first, then come back for everyone else. Okay?"
A couple nodded, while the rest simply remained bleary-eyed, unresponsive. Wasting no more time, Peter bent down and carefully scooped a girl with a burned foot off the floor. He held her under one arm, and gathered a woman who was coughing ceaselessly under the other. Lastly, he turned to the man with the boy and the baby, wondering how he could add all three of them on top as well, as promised. But after a long moment of hesitation between them both, the man suddenly stepped towards him.
"Here," he said, gently passing the wailing baby into his teenage son's hands, who jumped in surprise as he nudged him forward. "Take my boys. Get them to safety."
Peter stared at the father with a mixture of reverence and gratitude, but his kid grabbed his shirt frantically.
"Dad, no! I'm staying with you! I'm not leaving until you do!"
"Son, you must," he snapped instantly. "The longer we argue about this, the longer the rest of these people have to wait to be rescued. This once, just listen to me."
The boy's face was red with terror. The baby lied screaming in the crook of his arm. Growing desperate, Peter knelt down beside him and motioned with his head.
"Come on. I'll be fast. I'll drop you and your bro out of here real quick, then swing right back in and get your dad. It'll take two seconds. I promise I'll get all three of you out of here, safe and sound."
His expression was still unconvinced. Peter realized right then how odd this was—that he was talking to the boy like he was a little kid, when really he looked around his same age. Luckily, the father was cognizant of their time-crunch, and quickly scooped up the teen and placed him on Spider-Man's back. After a moment of startled uncertainty, he wrapped his free arm around Peter's neck and held the baby with the other, carefully sandwiching him between his own body and Spider-Man's. Satisfied, Peter stood upright with the heavy load weighing on his skinny body and exhaled slowly. He stiffened a little as he felt the tiny bundle of warmth stir restlessly against the middle of his back. The baby whimpered piteously, causing the father to flinch, and the profundity of the cargo he bore suddenly dawned on him. These people's lives—the young kid, this precious infant, all of them—were at the mercy of his ability to save them. They were his responsibility. He couldn't fail.
"Thanks," he said with a nod. "I'll be back in a jiffy for the rest of you. Hang tight."
With careful agility, Spider-Man leapt into the hallway and landed back in front of the yawning doorway. The four people he carried made him drop roughly against the floor, yet he kept his balance. In fact, the ease with which he was able to support them all was almost alarming. They felt no heavier than a couple of grocery bags slung over his shoulders and around his neck. He looked down at the barely-conscious woman he held under one arm, vaguely impressed with himself, and quickly discovered something rather odd. The black suit, he realized, staring at the dark, finger-like protuberances extending out from his frame and clinging on to her body. It's...helping me. It's helping me carry them. Then he shook his head dismissively and focused his attention forward. Flickering tongues of fire blocked the path before him, and the people wrapped underneath both his armpits would make web-zipping over the flames very difficult. Luckily for all of them, Spider-Man had sticky feet. After giving the blackened wall a quick one-over, Peter stepped on to the sideways surface and ran all the way up to the ceiling. A few yelps of shock came from the people he carried, as well as a gasp from the teenage kid, and the baby wailed miserably against his spine. He had to get over the rift fast, or else his passengers would be cooked medium-well. Sucking in his breath, Peter sprinted across the room upside-down, the heat flaring against his body from below for only an instant, then flung himself through the shattered window. Down they all dropped towards the street, and Peter softened their fall by clumsily hooking a web on to a tall ladder and buoying everyone's weight slowly to the ground. The surrounding firemen gazed at them in shock at first, but jogged over quickly just as Peter began to relieve the load from his body. He passed the two injured women to them, who they quickly rushed into a flashing ambulance, then allowed the teenager with the baby to drop off his back, feeling the symbiote retract back against his flesh as if on command. The crowds of people watched the scene in puzzled surprise.
"You good, kid?" he asked the boy, who was coughing harshly into his shoulder. The baby cried softly in his arms, its tiny hands pawing at the air. The pair of them were caked in soot and sweat, but they appeared to be okay. Recovering somewhat, he offered him a quick nod.
"Y-yeah. I'm fine." He laid the baby against his shoulder, then ran a hand over his forehead. "Now go get my dad. Get him out of there."
Relieved, Peter turned back to face the burning building, when a hand suddenly seized him firmly by the arm.
"Stop right there, sir," a policeman growled into his face. "I don't know who the hell you are, but I can't let you go back inside. The firemen are the only one's authorized to enter the building."
The officer looked familiar, but he didn't care. Spider-Man wrenched away from him furiously. "There are people in there waiting for me to come save them. I'm going back in, and you're not going to stop me."
Peter bolted across the street and rocketed himself high on to the wall with an extra boost from some bio-cables. Stunned, the officer held a megaphone up to his lips. "Hey! Who do you think you are? Spider-Man?"
Reaching the broken window, Peter turned and shot him a goofy little salute. "The one and only, chief." Then he scrambled through the opening, and the heat swallowed him once again.
Spider-Man reached the four remaining people quickly, but it wasn't fast enough. The entire stairwell was now engulfed in smoke and flames, and two of the civilians were collapsed against the ground, gasping. A woman was bent over herself, retching up dark liquid, and the father was knelt beside them, hacking painfully through the black fumes. Moving rapidly, Peter dropped in front of all the victims and gathered the old, wheezing man in his arms, the fragility of his body almost startling. He draped his limp form over his left shoulder, then slung the man and the woman over the other one. The warmth of their bodies paired with the blistering heat pouring from every direction added to Peter's slippery sweatiness, but he tried not to let it deter him. Lastly he turned to the father, whose eyes were red and watering.
"I'll follow," he assured him, motioning to the floor above. "L-lead the way."
Coughing through his mask, Peter nodded gratefully. "Alright. Come on."
They reached the escape apartment, the dad right by his side. Only now, the flames had grown much taller, almost kissing the ceiling. He could feel the people heaving strenuously against his small fame, unable to breath. Have to get them out of here, now. He turned to the father, who gave an understanding nod. Panting coarsely, blinking his fatigue aside, Peter unconsciously willed the black sludge to adhere the victims to his skin, then ran up on to what remained of the wall. When he thought he saw a window, Spider-Man went for it—bolting across the ceiling between the hungry tongues of fire.
The surface under his feet lurched just as he broke through the red wall, then suddenly gave out all together. A huge chunk of the ceiling ripped free, and Peter and his cargo tumbled to the ground. Cries of pain came from every direction, along with heat that felt like it was melting his skin, but Peter acted fast. With one quick roll, Spider-Man sprung off the burning floor, all passengers intact, and slipped through the window. Though less gracefully than before, they all made it back to the ground, coughing harshly and gripping their burns beneath the glaring blue lights.
"H-hey!" Peter yelled at the paramedics blinking at them disbelievingly. "Come help these guys! They're in bad shape!"
His commands refocused them, and they sprung into action. As they began strapping the injured to gurneys, securing masks around their heads, pumping their lungs with oxygen, something nudged him from behind.
"Hey! Where is he?" Peter turned to see the ashen face of the boy from before. His eyes were wide and fearful. "Where is he? Where's my dad?"
Peter glanced back at the building stupidly. "I—he—"
"You didn't save him?" he cried hysterically. "You saved everyone else and just left him up there to die?" The baby was bawling into his neck. "How could you? You told me you'd save him! You promised you'd save him!"
"And I will," he said instantly. A thread of webbing shot from his wrist and stuck to the dark brick, growing taut between them. In the same moment, the clicks of multiple guns being cocked made his ears prick and his spidey sense tingle.
"Freeze!"
Just to his right, in front of an army of police cars, stood five officers. The barrels of their pistols were locked on him like cold, dead eyes. So officer asshat had found himself some friends.
"We have a warrant for the arrest of the masked Avenger Spider-Man. Are you him, or something else? Stand down, or we will open fire."
Peter's voice was edged like a knife. "Are you freaking blind? What is the matter with all of you? Can you not see that I'm trying to save these people's lives?"
"Doesn't matter," a woman retorted coldly. "That's the fire department's job. It's our job to take you into custody."
In a sudden jolt, it struck Peter why the mustachioed man looked so familiar. Why the woman looked familiar. Why he recognized almost all of the officers who stood before him. He had seen them when he'd let Shocker get away. He'd been shot by them while fighting the Sinister Six. They weren't real policemen. They were paid off by Wilson Fisk. They were agents of Hydra.
The very second the realization dawned on him, a loud crash sounded from behind. Spider-Man whirled around to watch as flaming debris exploded from the window he had escaped from, shooting streaks of smoldering rubble into the street to bounce along the concrete. The room where he had left the father belched out of plume of deadly smoke.
"Dad! No!" the boy screamed, voice raw and shrill. Spider-Man coiled the webbing around his wrist.
"I'm going," he asserted levelly, then darted across the pavement. A rain of bullets instantly followed, making his spidey sense shriek inside his head and the crowds stir in terror. His strange new agility helped him evade the attack effectively, and the shots left holes all across the wall as he dodged left, right, up, down. But when he reached the window, the sickly heat poured over him like lava, and he hesitated. In that moment, a stabbing pain blossomed in his back, just below his shoulder. Peter gasped raggedly, feeling the bullet burrow deep inside his flesh. Agony washed over his whole body, trailed quickly by a horrible numbness, but he pushed it from his mind. Gritting his teeth, Spider-Man crawled through the opening as the gunfire slowly desisted behind him.
A vicious wall of fire met him inside. The floor had caved into the next room down, creating a hellish fissure of pulsating flames separating him from where he had left the father. He was baking—bathed in sweat, soaked from head to toe. He wasn't sure if it was perspiration or blood slithering down his spine, rolling slowly over each individual vertebrae, although it was probably both. He had to get over the fault; he had to find him.
Nerving himself, Spider-Man sprung off the window frame, somersaulting right over the gaping maw of death. The fingers of fire curled around his body for an instant, toasting him like a marshmallow before he landed unkemptly on the other side. He lied there, wheezing in the thick smog, then sluggishly lifted his head.
"W-where...where are you?" he called, pushing himself on to his hands and knees. Chalky dust spilled into the abyss from overhead. "I'm here! Where are you?"
Hopelessness had begun to cloud over his soul when a weak cough to his left suddenly snapped him back. It came from just ahead, behind the burning couch. Instantly, Peter scrambled forward on all fours, and there he found a lonely man curled in a ball against the wiry carpet. He was plastered in a layer of filth, singed with bubbling blisters, barely breathing. Peter kicked the couch out of the way and wrapped his arms underneath the father's armpits.
"I'm sorry I'm late. Don't worry, though. We're getting out of here."
He began to hoist him to his feet, but the man moaned in protest. Peter ignored him at first, until a lone finger gingerly raised upright, pointing towards the ceiling. He stared at it confusedly.
"L-look...out..."
Spider-Man's gaze lifted upwards. A long, whiny creak echoed throughout the entire floor of the apartment complex, and the ceiling listed violently. Then, as his spidey sense rose to a fever pitch inside his skull, the concrete beam slanting overhead gave way, along with the rest of ceiling. Everything above began to fall towards the pair in slow motion, and Spider-Man was thrusted into frantic action. Two nets of webbing released from his wrists before it dropped on top of him, causing him to sputter out a gasp. It was incredible, unbelievable—like a semi-truck filled with cement had just landed on his body. He had never held anything so heavy before in his life. He was Atlas supporting the entire weight of the world on his scrawny shoulders, except this world was on fire. Flaming rubble tumbled down his back, red nothingness invaded his vision. His bones and muscles felt like they were about to pop. He was no longer dripping with sweat—the heat had cooked it right off his skin. The bullet in his back seemed to be gnawing through his flesh. As he stood there, hunched over and strained with the immense load hanging over his thin frame, he wondered which he would succumb to first: his strength failing him, or the heat boiling him alive.
Yet through the blinding redness, Spider-Man caught a glimpse of him. The father, balled against the ground, motionless. He had made a promise to that boy. He had to bring his father back to him. If he didn't, the son would never forgive him, and that baby would grow up never truly knowing how amazing his dad was. He couldn't let another father die, not when he could rescue him.
The weight of the ceiling suddenly didn't seem so heavy when compared to the weight of his responsibility to save this man's life. He had to get him out of here. Desperately, Spider-Man scanned across the raging wall of death, grappling for some way of escape. He could see a small hole funneled through the fire, leading to the window, but he wasn't sure he'd be fast enough to drop the burden sitting on top of him, gather up the lifeless man, and jump across the savage ravine before everything fell and crushed them both. Still, it was worth a shot.
It all happened in one quick, terrifying second. Peter bent low to the floor, grimacing feverishly, then threw the weight up with all his strength, providing them both with barely a moment to react. Like a bolt of lightning—fleet, unpredictable, yet moving with a striking sort of precision and control—Spider-Man snatched the man off the ground, dashed along the charred carpet, and flung himself over the yawning crater. He could feel the darkness descending over them, like a black wave breaching to swallow them up. Time moved sluggishly, but he moved fast.
They burst through the wall. Bricks and mortar plummeted alongside them as they dropped to the sidewalk, Peter's body enduring the brunt of the fall when they finally struck the unforgiving pavement. He was jarred, burnt, stretched to his limits, but somehow stirred with strength all at the same. A loud rumble drummed from behind him, and he scrambled to his feet with the man in his arms.
"W-what's...?" he stuttered, blinking up at the building perplexedly.
"Run! Get away from there!"
Startled, he sprinted across the sidewalk and into the street, the commotion growing louder behind him. When he reached the center, Peter spun around in awe.
The building was collapsing. Starting from the floor above the one he had escaped and up, the apartments were caving in on themselves, spewing mushrooms of smoke and fire high into the air. And it kept going—falling, falling, past the upper floors, down into the middle, all the way to the very bottom, until there was nothing left. Blazing smog rushed out from the down sight, shrouding the block in a soupy cloud, before all of it slowly began to settle. What remained of the homes to so many was a pile of jagged rubble, hissing and smoldering pathetically. The red hands flickered in Spider-Man's big, white eyes. Damn...did I really just—?
"Dad!"
The teenage boy tore himself away from the paramedics and ran up to him, the grime on his face striped with glistening trails. One team of firemen was blasting the ruins with water, while another followed the boy, taking the man from Peter's arms. He stared at his silent, sooty face in terror.
"Is he—is he—?"
"No," Peter reassured him, panting softly. He could hear the man's gentle heartbeat and coarse breathing. "He's okay. He's just fainted."
"Get him in the ambulance, put him on oxygen." The fireman turned to Peter, a small smile hinting along his lips. "Thank you. This man would've died without your help."
"Thank you," the teen wept piteously. Without warning, he wrapped his arms around him, causing him to flinch in surprise. "Thank you for s-saving him. Thank you so much."
Recovering, Peter smiled nervously, patting his back. "No problem, really. I had to keep my promise, didn't I?"
He nodded quickly, then pulled away, suddenly embarrassed. "Y-yeah. Sorry. I just...thank you. Thank you so much." The teen stepped back with the rest of the rescued civilians, a couple of whom Spider-Man didn't remember saving. The baby laid in the arms of a doctor, squealing. Pairs and pairs of tearful, bloodshot eyes stared at Peter from the middle of the road, overflowing with gratitude.
"You saved us," the injured woman said as gauze was wound around her foot. She blinked curiously. "Who...who are you? Really?"
Taken back a little, but at the same time amused, Peter laughed lightly, placing his hands on his hips. "What, a hero can't switch up his wardrobe a bit without his whole city not recognizing him? Maybe I'm just going through a goth phase." Dropping low to the ground, Peter leapt up on to a lamp post, all eyes following. The yellowish light from the foggy bulb and the diminishing glow from the smoldering rubble bounced off his black costume, accentuating his slender, athletic form perfectly. The white spider design stretched across his back and chest seemed to squirm and crawl with his movements, and he offered his people a dapper salute. "It's just lil' ol' me, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."
A murmur of surprise rippled across the crowd, and he could see the police officers huddled in their cars, frowning and hissing into their radios. He didn't want to wait around to see if they brought backup. He would deal with them later on; that is, if chopping off the head of the snake didn't eliminate them by default. Right now, he had other problems to attend to.
As Spider-Man sprung off the light pole, the flash of a camera washed over his form, blinding him for a second. There was no hiding from it now. The world had seen, and soon it would be front-page news: NEW BLACK-SUIT SPIDER-MAN: SHADY MENACE, OR DARK KNIGHT?
Dropping fast, the shadowy figure fired a bio-cable, swung above the heads of the awe-struck crowd, then whipped on to a rooftop, out of sight.
I can't believe it...
He walked aimlessly across the flat surface, gripping his back.
I held up a building. I kept a building from collapsing for almost a solid minute. How much weight was I supporting at that moment? I've never been able to lift that much, have I? I've never been strong enough.
He watched his glossy feet shuffle forward, one in front of the other, spinning with the light of the milky moon.
It's the symbiote. It...upped my spidey strength, somehow. My speed, too. I can feel it, all over me, saturating my body with power. I'm faster and stronger than I've ever been.
He stopped. He swallowed painfully.
I hate to admit it, but if I hadn't had the black suit, I...I don't think I could've saved all those people. Heck, I don't know if I could've even saved myself. I know for a fact that I couldn't have saved that man, though. The symbiote made me strong enough to hold the ceiling, fast enough to get him out of there before it was too late. That baby and that boy—without the black suit, I think they would've lost their father.
Wincing, Peter took his hand off the wound on his back. He expected it to be covered in blood, but found his palm clean.
Has the bleeding stopped already? he wondered, straining to look at the injury. For a moment, it felt like something was moving inside his flesh, which startled him a bit. Then the black sludge in the middle of his hand stirred, peeling back to reveal a small metal object. It took him a second to realize that it was a bullet.
What? he gasped in his head. You—it took the bullet out? It took the bullet out of my back!
Moments later, the symbiote writhed again, and a second bullet alongside a pile of spiky suture thread bubbled up from the dark slime. The objects sat innocuously in his palm, and he lifted them up to his eyes, blinking in disbelief.
"You healed me," he said aloud. He couldn't hide his shock. "All the wounds from the Sinister Six, The Kingpin. You're why I recovered so fast. You're why the bullet in my leg and the stitches in my skin were gone in the morning. Oh my gosh..."
He let the trinkets roll off his palm and drop on to the roof, listening to them bounce and ping quietly. That's why all my burns stopped hurting so quickly. The suit must ramp up my healing factor or something! This is insane, crazy! Fisk couldn't have known this would happen. He must have thought it would kill me or hurt me or whatever, like it did with all his lab rats. No way would he have tried to bind me with the symbiote if he had known that it would make me more powerful.
Breathing slowly, Peter stared down at his hands again. They were hardly visible through the thick darkness. But...that leads me back to the choice I still have to make. Do I let the symbiote stay, do I keep it with me, or do I get rid of it? Even with all the ways it's helped me, there's always the chance that it could be something bad, like it was in my nightmares. So, do I destroy the black monster, or let it live?
A presence on the roof suddenly frightened him from his thoughts, and he whirled around. When he realized who it was, however, he relaxed a bit.
"Cat, you—"
"It sure takes a lot to get your attention, doesn't it?" she chuckled, wiping a smudge of soot off her forehead. "You're quite the little hero."
Peter noticed the chalky rubble dotted across her costume and in her hair, and gawked in shock. "You...you were there? You had something to do with all that?"
"If you mean dragging those low-lifes off the bottom floors while you were busy with the ones on the top, then yes, I did." She dusted her shoulder off casually. "Kids these days are heavier than they look."
"Wait...you helped save them? Those other people I saw—you pulled them out?"
"I'm not that big of an asshole, swinger," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'm a thief. I like stealing stuff. But I've never been a fan of watching people burn to death."
Peter sat, stunned for a moment. Then a grin broke across his lips.
"I knew it."
"Huh? Knew what?"
"You're not evil. You're a good person."
Black Cat giggled. "I'm a lot of things, darling. But good is not one of them."
"You are. Whether or not you admit it, you're a hero to those people. And to me."
She batted her eyes, puzzled somewhat, then turned away bashfully.
"You're helpless, spider. Absolutely helpless."
He stepped towards her quickly. "Maybe. But speaking of that, I just remembered. I really need your help with something."
She eyed him inquisitively. "And what could such a macho man as yourself require of an innocent little damsel such as I?"
"Wanda. She worked for Fisk. She and her brother did; Fisk exploited their powers for his personal benefit. But she saved me, and now he's holding her prisoner somewhere, and I have no idea where." He rubbed at his neck uneasily. "You still work for him. You've got to know some of his bases, his secrets. Do you have any idea where he could be keeping her? Any at all?"
Black Cat looked a little unsettled by the fact that he was mentioning her boss by name, but quickly pushed it aside with a shiver. After a moment in thought, she stared across the urban skyline, brow furrowed slightly. Her face had grown uncharacteristically solemn, her hands noticeably restless, and she gave a hollow sigh.
"I think...I might know," she spoke hesitantly, erecting her spine as she stepped close to the edge of the rooftop. "I seriously hope I'm wrong, though. Come on, it's this way."
Hope sparked inside his chest. "Thank you, Cat. I promise I'll repay you for all you've done by whooping Fisk's ass and freeing you and everyone else from his tyranny."
She offered him a genuine smile, then slipped off the crown of the building. Spider-Man trailed eagerly behind, reaching the steep drop-off, but hesitated just before leaping after her. His eyes traced down his body once again: the large, white spider, the inky silhouette, the smooth, glossy texture. He could feel the symbiote moving sluggishly against his skin, balancing his movements, strengthening his muscles. Am I really going to keep it? Am I really going to let this monster live off me, like some kind of parasite? Is this really the right thing to do?
The black suit had helped him save the lives of many that day. It had saved his own life in a predicament that seemed hopeless. What if he was in a situation like that again? What if he got rid of the symbiote, then found himself unable on his own to save a hapless victim in the midst of danger, without the strength or speed to rescue them from death? What if he wasn't good enough as he was now, even with all his power? What if this was what he needed to become a new Spider-Man—the Spider-Man this world needed?
It took less than a minute for him to make his choice. Wanda needed to be saved, and he knew the suit would give him the power to do so. In one quick hop, Spider-Man vaulted over the edge, following after the thief as she approached the earth below.
In the shadows, the two black creatures crept silently through the city—monsters on a mission.
Yaaaay the black suit! I've wanted to write about it for so long, and now I finally get to! Yaaaaaay. I hope ya'll like it. If not...sorry :P Until next time, chickadees. I like the next chapter too :O