A/N: What's this? Taking my very first stab at a Marvel comics fic? Perish the thought! In all seriousness, I got back into Marvel with Cult of Carnage: Misery. The five-issue series added a whole new character arc for Liz Allen, who - as long-time Spider-Man readers will know - was, for the longest time, married to Harry Osborn. I'm taking several creative liberties with this fic, starting with the events immediately relating to Issue #5.
Needless to say, anyone who hasn't read Cult of Carnage: Misery may wish to bypass this fanfic until finishing all five issues, as there will be spoilers for it.
As for our OC, I will be taking several cues from the Crysis games in later chapters - I have a general plan for how I want this to progress, but this will likely be a slow-burning fic as I focus on completing other outstanding fanfics, first. Without further ado, let's get into things.
Welcome, true believers and newcomers alike. Our tale takes us to New York City, where venerable heroes like Spider-Man make their home, and where Stark Tower once stood. But the hero of this chapter isn't Peter Parker, or even Tony Stark folks. It comes from the last person in the last place you would expect.
The door to a local liquor store in Manhattan open, revealing a man who was in his Thirties, sporting a head of brown hair with equally dark eyes. The stubble he sported was about a week old, and he smelled strongly of whiskey. Enter Ashton Reeves – our gruff, intelligent, sometimes temperamental hero of the story. Behind him, a history of pain. On his plate right now: just released from a dead-end job as a security guard.
Ahead of him? Probably more than he bargained for.
Bottle of whiskey in a paper bag, Ash walked back to his apartment building. Checking his mailbox, he found the same thing he always found: namely, ads and coupons. The air was musty when he opened the door to his apartment room. It was small, cramped, and lacking much in the way of decoration and luxury. Ash's style was purely utilitarian.
The only thing of note was a series of medals inside a glass picture frame. Mementos of when others still considered him useful – four Purple Hearts, one Silver Star, and one Medal of Honor. Already a decorated hero. And now, he was considered obsolete hardware – neither worth maintaining nor upgrading.
A tear formed in the corner of his eye when he looked at the corner of the frame – a picture of him and seven others in service uniform. He missed the men he considered like brothers to him.
He checked his browser inbox to look through the applications he sent out over the past week – no bites. Searching more in the sector of corporate security, a posting intrigued him. Alchemax…formerly Allan Chemicals. They were a big-time chemical corporation, unlikely to be short of any of the best PhDs on the planet. But security staffing needed to be filled.
There was an attack on Alchemax Tower just over a year ago, during which Elizabeth Allan – its CEO – went missing. She was eventually found, and the tower was slowly reconstructed.
Why the Hell not? The worst they can do is turn me down.
Corporate giants like Alchemax tended to pay well, and it was unlikely Ash would be stuck behind a desk watching a door for several hours at a time. Whenever he got hours at all – just about every position he got since coming home was part-time or per diem, and Ash tended to go ballistic whenever he was not on his feet.
Once you get out of the Corps, you don't stay content by sitting around and getting fat. Ash was the type of guy who enjoyed constant hustle and frequent movement. When he wasn't sitting and searching for work from his apartment, he was jogging on the streets and in the parks.
Opening the bottle he got, he poured a bit into the shot glass. The shakes subsided after the whiskey from the shot glass traveled down Ash's throat, the sensation burning the whole way.
Putting in all the appropriate applications out, including his military service, Ash got on the leather jacket and went out to take a jog. He must have jogged five – maybe even six – blocks before he decided to stop in at a bar near central. He was good for the money…at least for a few weeks, and he ordered the strongest the house had to offer.
He was three glasses deep, slightly buzzed but still coherent, about to order his fourth before something else drew his attention. Opening his eyes, he heard a lot of catcalling and saw some punk in a black biker jacket harassing a gorgeous blonde. Buzzed as he was, Ash had trouble recalling where he saw the blonde before – still, something about her seemed familiar.
He didn't think. He didn't even stop to consider what he was about to do. Ash just acted. Standing up, leaving the fourth glass of alcohol untouched, he approached the commotion.
"Hey, bud. Can't you see the lady ain't interested in you?" Ash called the man out.
The punk turned to face him, and Ash had to admit that he didn't have a bad face to look at. He was also built like a Norwegian ski champion – muscled, not particularly bulky. Purely lean.
"And who do you think you are?" the punk asked. "Do you know who you're talking to?"
"Like I care. You're being rude to the lady," Ash replied.
"Back off, drunkie," the punk said.
"Not until you leave her be…"
The punk cracked a grin as he approached, seeing that the drunkard in front of him still wore his old dog tags.
"Well, well…we got a washout. Drunk dude's a soldier…"
"A Marine – get it right. Now, back out of here before I lost my patience," Ash growled.
"Oh, I'll get out," the punk said, before wrapping his arm around Ash and yanking him. "You're coming, too. Let's have a chat…"
Ash spent the next ten minutes out back of the building being wailed on by the punk, either taking the hits or blocking them.
"Come on, old timer. At least pretend to fight back," the punk taunted.
Ash pushed himself to his feet, spitting out blood from where the inside of his mouth was cut open on his teeth.
"This only gets worse for you the more you drag it," Ash shot back. "You hit hard for a thick-headed youngster; you know that?"
"Cheeky bastard…" the punk growled, tackling Ash, the latter's body hitting the dumpster hard.
Ash groaned as the buzz in his head was replaced with pain; and pain was a powerful motivator. His hands found asphalt again and began to push himself back up again.
"Stay down, or you will not be getting up next time," the punk yelled, but Ash kept pushing himself to his feet. "You must be some kind of fucked-up masochist. This is sick. I'm outta here…"
"You threw the first punch; you stay until it's done," Ash said, shedding his jacket, revealing a wrinkled plaid shirt under it which had a few tears in it from the scuffle. "It's until someone taps out or gets knocked out".
The punk growled and pulled out a switchblade. Ash paid it little mind, instead staring the punk in the eye. The punk charged, eager to eviscerate the veteran who crossed him. Ash was ready, a fine turn of his body moving his torso out of the way, his hand grasping the wrist holding the knife before twisting into it. The punk cried out in pain as he was forced to drop the switchblade, and then Ash introduced his knee into his gut, and an elbow to the head.
The punk fell to the ground, knocked unconscious in two hits – and only because Ash held back. If he wanted to, that blow would have killed him. Ash kicked the switchblade away before the punk could regain his wits again.
"How you feel now, tough guy?" Ash taunted as the punk regained his wits and stood up.
"You win this round, old-timer," the punk said. "But this ain't over by a long-shot, pretty boy…"
Ash shoved down the anger at being called "pretty boy" as the punk turned tail and ran. The scuffle had attracted a group of the bar's patrons, too caught up in Bystander Syndrome to have taken any action. The blonde from earlier approached after the punk had run past. Whatever perfume she was wearing was cutting through the smell of trash and alcohol.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice a concerned alto.
"Yeah," Ash coughed. "Better than him, I guess. He seemed to be giving you a hard time – who was he?"
"An ex-employee of mine who thinks he's entitled to his job…and entitled to me," she replied.
"Never cared for people that felt entitled to anything," Ash said. Damn, she smelled nice.
"So, is what I overheard true? You're a Marine?"
"Was…I've been out five years, now," Ash clarified. "I'm Ashton Reeves. Just call me 'Ash'…that's what everyone calls me."
"I see," the woman said. "I'm Elizabeth Allan…"
"As in Alchemax's CEO…that Elizabeth Allan?"
"The same one," Liz said. "Thanks for taking care of him".
"Not a problem. Always looking to help," Ash said.
"You were pretty reckless about it, though."
"Eh. What can I say? I like living on the edge," Ash said. "What about you? I'm surprised someone of such high class would come to a spot as modest as this".
"Believe it or not – I do sometimes get tired of sitting in a penthouse suite," Liz teased. "I like to blend in every so often in a working man's dive – it reminds me of the time I spent as a nurse".
"Hell of a leap to go from nurse to CEO…"
"You're telling me…"
Ash went over to pick up his jacket from the pavement. The sky was starting to get overcast as he started to walk out of the back alley, Liz near him. A light coughing fit hit him, but he paid little mind – though he thanked Liz for the concern.
"Are you okay to head back uptown on your own?" Ash asked.
"I'll be fine. Thanks. And thanks for taking care of him, Ash. It was nice meeting you," Liz said.
"Pleasure meeting you, too," Ash said before turning to walk away, raising the hood on his jacket.
The first few droplets of rain drizzled on him. Between the booze and the beating, Ash was going to have a terrible hangover in the morning.
When he got back into his apartment, Ash checked his messages. He got the same old story from one of his old supervisors. Jim, a guy pushing sixty, was offering to take him to an AA meeting in the city. Jim was a good guy – a former Naval crewman back in his prime and took his mechanical expertise to the private sector before settling on security work. He'd never once had to discharge his service weapon.
Lucky Jim…
Ash had pulled the trigger back in the day…a lot. What did he come away with? Some shiny medals? A little acknowledgement was better than nothing, he supposed. Still not a fair trade.
He checked his email inbox, just in case something came in while he was out. Nothing.
With nothing else to do with the day, and the rain outside wreaking havoc on his already low mood, Ash fell into bed. His mind turned to Elizabeth Allan – someone from high class that he met today. It was just about the most positive experience he had today.
Fixating on that memory, Ash fell into another night of tortured sleep.
Alchemax Tower, CEO's Office
When Liz checked earlier, Normie and Stanley were asleep. Ever since the attack on Alchemax by Corwin Jones, Liz Allan had been looking for promising candidates to add to her Guardsmen and the rest of the security team. With Spearhead out of action, someone else was heading them in the interim – but that someone was only somewhat experienced.
So, Liz searched, in both legal and extralegal channels, for someone with a good history – be they veterans of S.H.I.E.L.D. or otherwise. Occasionally, the hiring section of the company kicked up applications to her to review. They only did that when they found someone Liz might find promising.
You can imagine her surprise when the name that came across her screen was the name of the retired marine that saved her the headache of having to put up with an incompetent employee she had fired. Ashton Reeves had extensive experience in security companies – mostly smaller firms that contracted with stores and apartments. This was, of course, before factoring in his military service.
Looking through more – extralegal methods, she saw how decorated he was. A genuine Medal of Honor recipient with a full honorable discharge. She saw even several parts that were covered in black ink, and…well, to say Ash was troubled was putting it mildly. Seven different psychologists over the past five years – that told Liz that there was something buried deep that bothered him.
Not that she couldn't sympathize – she was no stranger to trauma. She had gone through her share during and after her troubled marriage with Harry Osborn, and the rocky relationship with his clone. She'd been lying to herself for a long time since Harry died – that there was a good man in him, or that it was the drugs.
Even if those were explanations, they weren't excuses for the abuse she was put through. It took help from the last source she would imagine: a Symbiote. Or perhaps, the more accurate scientific term would be a gestalt of Symbiotes. The one she shared her existence with.
Misery…
Liz Allan was Misery, a fact known only to a few. And with the connection she and Misery shared, she was able to move forward where she refused to do before.
Liz looked at the photo frame next to her computer monitor. Her and a fellow med student and old flame of hers: Zakar Hafam. After Harry's death, she tried to restart a relationship with him. It didn't work out. And then last year came, after she bonded with Misery. It went well for several months, then their careers started picking up. While saddened that she and her old flame couldn't properly rekindle their relationship, Liz found comfort in the fact that they parted on amicable terms.
Liz shook her head, dashing the reminiscing from her mind. It was time to focus on the now. She needed to keep managing Alchemax – and she needed to keep her sons safe. Based on his record, Ashton Reeves was one of the people who could help her with that, with the right incentive.
On occasion, Liz…or rather, Misery…would go out to vet potential employees from a distance, seeing their conduct for herself rather than just relying on the resume they gave. In layman's terms, she stalked potentially good employees. Standing on the roof of Alchemax Tower, well outside of any security cameras, Liz willed the powerful form of Misery to engulf her.
A fusion of samples from the Carnage and Anti-Venom Symbiotes, Misery manifested a blood-red form with streaks of white along parts of it. Fangs like its gene donors covered the front, with glowing yellow eyes. Liz's hair, normally blonde, was a blood red in this form. Unique to Misery was two sets of extra appendages springing from her back. Bladed limbs which she had used as extra weapons in the past.
Diving from the top of the tower, Misery caught herself on the nearest building with her webbing. Momentum carried her as she swung from one line to the next. It was rather impressive how quickly the skill came to her.
The apartments that Ash made his home in were fairly close to the river, in one of the poorer neighborhoods. Based on what Liz had been able to find on him, Ash was a native Arizonan whose parents passed away while he was in the service. Packed with leftover debt, he sold his old home and used what little remained to rent out an apartment in Manhattan. It was all he could afford on a fixed income.
Landing gracefully nearby, Misery had no way of knowing which room Ash lived in. She had an idea, though, given that most of the tenants were asleep. A rustle behind one of the curtains drew her attention.
A/N: Like I said, I've been away from Earth-616 for years. Nerds who have stuck around longer than me, let me know if things are out of place. Read and review, and thanks for being readers of my fanfics.