Three Nights Later

It was a wonder to Peter how anyone could live in the Narrows whatsoever. Peter himself had grown up in one of the poorer streets of Queens. He knew the struggle. But the Narrows was a whole different beast of poverty. It was almost like the longer he stayed, the more he felt molded to the dirt, grime, and haze that oozed out of every building and street. He felt himself becoming apart of it, even to the point where he could taste the polluted air. He might as well been smoking menthols instead of breathing in oxygen.

Another night of petty crime, and Peter found himself exhausted. He threw himself against his makeshift bed, which was nothing but a bundle of cardboard sheets placed on top of one another. Green paint coated his right thumb. He could thank the hours of spray painting a mural of the Joker's face for that. Veck had at least promised "shakedowns", which would've entailed Peter getting a chance to take out his anger on other thugs. Not even that was given to him, since the captains of Purgatory kept Peter on a tight leash, putting him on the "arts and crafts" crew.

When he wasn't filling his lungs with the chemicals of spray paint cans, Peter was on janitorial duty around Purgatory. Afterwards, each time, he swore that whenever he got the chance, he'd never take a shower for granted ever again. So was Peter's undercover life for the past few nights. It was a struggle, no doubt. But whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her. The person he could say was his sole reason for living at this point. Harley Quinn. The woman that haunted him. Each time her face flashed in his head, he worked just a little bit harder to keep us with his roleplay. He knew that his time would come. And through his time, it would be her time as well. When he would take Harley away from the Joker. Away from crime. And away from the world itself.

What would be done afterwards? After he rescued her somehow?

Peter mulled the thoughts as he rested his head against the cardboard. He hadn't thought that far. Was this a crush? A crusade, like Catwoman had insisted? Or was this all something deeper? An internal cry for help, masking itself as a last resort to prove why Peter didn't need to contemplate suicide again - Why Spider-Man should still exist. It seemed that like everything that had been done since first donning the mask led up to this point. Almost like Spider-Man's entire career was made for the sole purpose of salvaging this woman and her tragic life. Of course, Peter reasoned, it couldn't be just that. He couldn't make his entire life, his entire vigilante career on the foundation of Harley Quinn. Yet, here he was, on the floor of a rotting warehouse, bunking next to criminals who had long given up on life itself. At least, Peter and the criminals had something in common - Little to no hope.

"You gonna eat?" A groggy voice snapped Peter out of his thoughts.

His mate, to the left of him was pointing to Peter's "dinner," if he could even call it that. It was bowl of brown liquid with meaty protrusions peeking out of the broth. It had long since grown cold. After Peter tasted the daily meal once his first day and almost threw up, he decided he'd be better off starving himself to death. After all, it had only been a few days in Purgatory. Peter had gone much longer without eating after Gwen's passing. Even longer after Aunt May's.

Peter scooted the bowl towards his mate and nodded. "Knock yourself out, man."

"Thanks, son. You ain't half bad."*

It was hard to get any sleep in Purgatory, especially since the industrial facility lived up to its looks. It seemed like people were always in and out, criminals, thugs, and civilians the same. Add on the constant loud machinery from both ends of the warehouse, and you'd be lucky to get your full eight hours of sleep before sunrise. Peter's eyelids finally began to gain some weight until his Spider-Sense stripped him of his slumber. A loud crash, followed by an even louder explosion at the rear of the warehouse alerted everyone. They were quick to rush towards the disturbance, but his senses were telling him to keep a safe distance. And he was glad he did so when he heard gunfire, followed by cries of dying men in the distance. Survival instincts kicked in, and Peter found himself ducking for cover behind an idle bulldozer.

Just up ahead, the smoke from the explosion made it difficult to truly decipher what exactly was going on, who was shooting who, and whatnot. But Peter kept his focus, as the smoke, as well as the gunfire got closer and closer to his position. Looking to his right, he spotted the mate that he shared his food with just moments ago running toward the mass, along with a few others.

"Yo, yo! Stay back!" Peter begged.

His pleas would go unheard. It didn't matter. Just seconds later, all of them were mowed down by machine gun fire, blood springing from every inch of their bodies as they fell to the floor, limp in a bed of scarlet. He stared at their corpses as sharp footsteps got louder. Soon, dark figures emerged from the smoke - Two Faces henchmen. Dressed up in their trademark split suits, they approached the center of Purgatory, where Peter, the captains, and the rest of the survivors all huddled together, ready to offer cover fire. That was, until another crash from the front of the warehouse now took them by surprise. Turning their attention behind them, more of Two-Faces thugs entered the building, shooting up the remaining men who tried to make a frontal retreat, and trapping their competition from both sides. No escape was in sight, neither from the front nor back. That's when the Joker's crew realized they were screwed. Their deaths might as well been written in stone.

Peter's mind raced at full speed, desperately looking for an out from their trap. He licked his lips and stood up in a panic, raising his arms in surrender, along with the rest of his crew. As Two-Face's gang stepped closer, one man stood out among the bunch, draped in a long trench coat with a tommygun raised towards the ceiling. He was considerably taller and more muscular out of Two-Faces men, and it carried into his rugged voice that boomed throughout the anxious warehouse.

"Here it is, boys! The big bad Purgatory!" His exaggerated smile instantly fell flat as he dropped his sarcasm and spit on a dead body next to his feet. "The damn place smells like shit." His disrespectful comment earned chuckles throughout the other henchmen as they approached closer and closer to the huddle Peter was in. "You boys will send a nice message to the Joker." Trenchcoat continued. "Imagine how pissed he'd be when he wakes up to a warehouse full of dead men. But... somethin' tells me that's too easy. Joker don't give a shit about any of you's. So, why don't we send a different message? A warnin' to the rest of your crew of why Two-Face is not to be fucked with. Death is too easy. Two-Face would like to give ya somethin' just as permanent, but a lil' more painful." He chuckled as he looked around the area, noticing the industrial equipment. "And this looks like the perfect place to do it."

Snapping his fingers, he ordered his men to secure the remaining lot of Joker's crew, which was only Peter, and a handful of others. They did what they were told, scooting right up behind Purgatory's remaining few. They stood around them, huddled in a circle with their assault rifles poking into the back of their heads. Trenchcoat picked up a circular power saw that was laying still on the floor, practically shouting out for the sick man to put it to use. "Let's see if this baby works." Squeezing the trigger, the machine eagerly spun its rusty blade, putting a smile on its wielders face.

"W-What the fuck?!" One of Peter's peers whined out. He couldn't have been any older than Peter himself. "T-The fuck is he gonna do with that?!" He shouted, panic running rampant in his voice.

Trenchcoat turned toward him and smiled. "Hear that? He sounds fuckin' excited! Got us a volunteer."

Without needing to be told, the henchmen grabbed the victim by his arms, and slammed him down by their leader's feet. Trenchoat stepped over him, positioning himself over his back, and taking a tuft of the victim's hair in hand, pushing his head against the concrete floor. "The fellas that already died here is good enough. But I'm gonna make damn sure the rest of Joker's posse gets the message, when he finds the rest of ya walkin' around with no arms."

The power saw revved up, and Peter turned his head away, wishing he could close his ears from the sound of flesh and bone being split by the blade, and the terrible screaming that accompanied it. He opened his eyes, and saw two severed arms in each hand of the leader. It was an image worthy of a horror movie. It was enough to break Peter, and make him realize just what kind of situation he was in. A part of him refused to believe that Trenchoat had the gall to do it. But in a most gruesome way, he was proven wrong.

This wasn't a game.

This wasn't a dream.

It was real. And Peter needed to be Spider-Man without the suit, the web-shooters, and the wisecracks, more than ever.

Focusing on the environment, Peter looked around for something, anything, that could be used to assist in an emergency exit without blowing his cover. That's when a large crane toward the back got his attention. Its hook was conveniently dangling underneath the oil barrels that Purgatory's natives used to make fire. Bingo. His plan was made just that quick. Now, he needed to execute it.

"My fuckin' arms! My fuckin' aaarms!"

"Somebody shut his ass up!"

Excruciating screams still ripped through the victim's lungs as he looked in horror at his severed limbs. It was tough to do, but Peter used the man's yelling to his advantage to inform his captain about his plan. He coughed toward his captain, who was directly left to him, giving him a wink when the man looked his way. The captain squinted his eyes in confusion, trying to pick up on Peter's signals.

"Crane. Fire." Peter said in a low enough whisper. He exaggerated the movement of his mouth, hinting him one last time on his plan before he could get caught. "Crane! Fi-!"

A crackling bullet pierced the tense air, silencing the screams.

Trenchoat laughed and looked down at the dead man beneath him. "That's more like it. Music to my fuckin' ears. Now, who wants a turn?" He threatened, looking up into the rest of the huddle just in time to see Peter reel his head back from his whispers. Not fast enough, unfortunately. "You there! The hell you whisperin' about?! Huh?! On your fuckin' feet!"

Before he could even comprehend it, Peter found himself being lifted off the floor, and thrown onto the ground in front of Trenchcoat's feet just as fast. He felt the overbearing presence of the man positioning himself behind him, revving up the machinery when Peter decided it was now or never. Working off the seat of his pants proved to work just fine for him anyways. Before his hair could be grabbed, Peter chucked his head backwards, bashing his skull into the bloodthirsty man on top of him.

"Goddammit! My teeth!"

Muffled cries rang out through his mouth, and before anyone could retaliate, Peter scrambled onto his feet and grabbed Trenchoat from the back. Gunfire opened up, and Peter used their leader as a bullet sponge as he charged forward, eyes set dead ahead on their one hope for salvation - that crane. Peter tossed the body away from him, now that the man had served his purpose, and picked up a tommygun lying in wait on the floor. From the front line, henchmen put their guns on Peter's back. The last remaining captain of Purgatory jumped up and intercepted them before they could shoot, clotheslining them, and taking their guns in hand for himself.

In just mere seconds, the tables had been tipped in Purgatory's favor, and Peter aimed the gun at the crane's swivel joint, ready to seal the deal. He squeezed the trigger, pumping as much lead into the antique machine as he could, and gravity did the rest. The metal hook dropped down on top of the oil barrels, igniting a swooping fire that briskly encompassed the center of the warehouse, and most of Two-Faces men that couldn't escape the flames within it. The rear flank was taken care of, thanks to the fire. However, it also meant that a rear exit was out of the question. All that remained was the front, that still had a good amount of Two-Faces henchmen now in a brawl with Peter's associates. Peter cracked his knuckles and got ready to get to work.

Charging back into the front lines, Peter clumsily weaved through gunfire, throwing kicks and punches in a exaggerated sloppy way, lest he show off his true skills.

"Die, motherfu-", a threat was made from behind, until Peter silenced him with an elbow.

Peter's opponent stumbled back, dropping the wrench in his hand, and instead, bringing his hands up to his broken nose that had damn near been knocked off his face. Still, Peter had more to offer the thug, and he communicated that with a pummeling haymaker, thrown so hard that Peter almost tripped over himself. Even in the milliseconds his knuckles touched the thug's cheek, Peter could feel those bones cracking under the force. The thug wasn't dead. But his face would never be the same. It brought a smile to Peter. It was vengeance for the cruelty he'd been forced to see. And, it was another opportunity to blow off some steam for the heaps of shit-sandwhiches life had forced Peter to eat for so long. If Two-Face's men wanted blood and violence, Peter decided they would have it all in abundance.

Before he knew it, Peter was a one man army. The others had stopped firing, and looked in awe as that "Benjamin kid," single handedly took on the remaining men by himself without needing a weapon. Two were pushed into the lingering inferno with a shoulder ram. Another two were dropped to the concrete with a punch-headbutt combo. And Peter's knockout spree continued with relentless brutality.

Finally, the last man from Two-Faces crew, dropped to the floor, clutching the broken ribs that he'd been gifted.

Peter turned toward his allies and snapped his fingers. "Show's over! We need to jet before we're toast! C'mon!"

Sure enough, the fire had spread to the walls of the building, crawling up to the rooftops that had already began falling apart. Running on each other's heels, the remaining men escaped just in time before the building completely collapsed on itself, along with Purgatory's legacy in nothing but ashes.

"Benjamin did all of that? I'm hearin' you right?"

"Veck, listen. I wouldn't be standin' here if it ain't true," the captain said, accentuating his speech as if he were telling a fantasy. "I swear, that boy was like some sort of demon. He starts whisperin' some shit in my ear I couldn't even understand. Next thing I know, the whole joint is on fire. Then I see him slingin' knuckles like Mayweather. Never seen anyone move so fast and hit so hard. He's got talent."

Veck took the words in of the man before him, the captain of Purgatory. He stared at Peter, who was sitting on a curb on the other end of the street, recovering from the disaster, as multitudes of the Narrows' natives drove through the scene in crowds - the ones fortunate enough to have smartphones recording the last bit of smoke dancing on the rubble.

News spread around the Narrows incredibly fast regarding the attack and eventual destruction of the crime hotspot. It wouldn't be long before the GCPD to inevitably show up. But for now, Veck took his time wrapping up the situation. He trudged up to Peter and parked himself in front, looking down at Peter's lowered head. A dangerous aura was radiating off of Peter, and Veck could feel the violence still pulsing from within him. Switching his gaze back and forth between the remains of Purgatory and the young man in front of him, Veck finally asked, "Jesus, kid. Who the hell are you? What the hell are you?"

Peter looked up through tired, ashy eyes.

"Just a guy with a whole lotta anger."