Parker Luck
Peter slammed his eyes shut, hoping that the voice was, in fact, all a bad dream. Standing still like a deer in headlights, he didn't dare twitch a muscle — refusing to even let himself breathe.
All in the absurd fear that it would give away his already exposed position.
‘Thinkthinkthink.’
The footsteps pounded against the floor. Brisk, hurried, then to a full sprint charging towards him and —
‘Panicking. Can’t think. Work on instincts!'
Peter dashed down the other side of the hallway, arms swinging hard up and down as if he could use air for purchase to run faster. He collided against the nearest wall, bouncing off it and stumbling forward.
The raging shouts of Russian got his feet steady under him.
‘Instincts bad. Instincts are so bad!’
Peter stomped off the ground, using the momentum to bolt forward. It put him further ahead of the crazy Russian; a small victory that allowed him elbow room to breathe away from panic.
“Teper' ya sobirayus' ubit' tebya, kusok der'ma!” The man’s voice snarled like a rabid animal.
“Sorry!" Peter nearly stumbled to the ground again, pushing his palm on the floor to right himself and giving him a good boost for his next sprint. "Don’t know what that means!”
A fork in the hallway was up ahead. Peter turned left. He didn’t know where he was going, he could be running in circles for all he knew — but he needed a place to hide, and fast.
His gaze skittered around him, searching frantically. And then, he realized wherever he'd run off to — it was much larger than wherever they were keeping him. It was the outskirts of this — this thing. Building. Ship? Submarine?
Peter passed by a set of large glass windows, with the sight of the clear ocean water twisting his gut into knots.
He had zero clue where he was.
Underwater. Obviously. But he didn't want to dwell on that any longer than he had to.
Peter abruptly stopped, reaching a dead end. He spun around, watching the man slide to a halt. The color of surprise immediately wiped off from his face as he titled his head low, and stomped forward, a snarl curling his mouth.
“You. Come with me,” he demanded.
Peter spared a fleeting glance behind him at the wall and swallowed heavily. He didn’t have any choice but to fight.
“Okay," Peter started, shoving the feeling of imminent terror aside for false confidence. “But first...— high five!"
Peter lifted his hand in the air with an open palm and immediately latched onto the punch from the crazy Russian.
His hand got stuck like a fly on flypaper, and Peter watched with a sliver of giddy satisfaction as the man pulled and yanked, unable to break free.
His spider-sense may have been gone, but his stickiness was still as sticky as ever.
“Whoops, looks like you’re stuck with me!”
The humor was far from genuine, a feeble attempt at distracting himself from the panic fueling his adrenaline. Peter kicked him on the chest, yanked him forward, and used the momentum to flip the man over his back. A loud thud resonated as he smacked down to the ground.
“Hey, while we’re stuck together,” Peter crouched down low to him, “why don’t you tell me about your fascination with Mr. Stark’s helmet? The chameleon device. Is that what you want to be? A chameleon?”
A growl was the only response he received, deep and monstrous.
In his young life, Peter had never heard such a cold-blooded sound before. A gripping chill slithered up his spine.
A brutal kick to his knee had him yelping, the distraction enough for their hands to lose entanglement. Peter barely saw as the man flipped up from the ground. By the time he regained his footing, Peter's arm was forcefully yanked behind his back.
“Ack!” Peter tried to wiggle out from the grip, but a blunt force hit his side and he smacked against the glass window with a grunt. He struggled to catch his breath, the air knocked from his lungs and the man’s body weight now pressing against him firmly, his ribs aching under the pressure.
“Dmitri, Volchiy pauk, Chameleon...” A fist clenched a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. "The names are plentiful, and they mean nothing.”
His breath was hot and steamy on Peter’s bare neck, leaving a damp mark that had him blenching.
Peter kicked him from behind. It loosened his grip enough for him to bend low, tumbling away.
“Really?” Peter hoped his voice didn’t sound as frightened as he felt. “Because I think the names kinda matter. They make us who we are, you know? Like, I’m Spider-Man and all. You clearly know that. Chameleon suits you.”
“Has anyone told you, mal'chik, that you talk too much?” Dmitri sneered.
Peter kept his head still as he looked all around, his eyes darting wildly at his surroundings. It was either run past Dmitri–Chameleon–Russian nickname he couldn’t pronounce because Russian was a crazy language to begin with, or continue fighting.
He wasn’t exactly excelling at the latter.
“Yeah...it wouldn’t be the first time,” Peter muttered with a gulp.
This really wasn’t looking good for him. For a moment, the two froze. Peter struggled to catch his breath — Dmitri hovered silently, contriving his next move like an animal after his prey. He stood tall and confident, the glass windows to their side casting a glow from depths of the ocean.
Peter saw a flicker in his eyes that could be easily discernible, even in the dim light between them.
There was no fear, no fright or panic.
It was murderous. He was out to kill.
Okay, definitely time to run.
Peter made a mad dash past him, sprinting down the corridor with fast feet. Dmitri was hot on his tail. Once again, he used the walls to his advantage, waiting for the right moment before he kicked off the side. Right as Dmitri turned the corner, landing Peter a solid kick on the man’s chest.
Dmitri was barely fazed. He may have stumbled, but he recovered quick enough to grab Peter’s arm.
"Acckk!" Peter yelped, right as Dmitri yanked him back — hard. The swift movement tossed Peter straight into the wall, and a kick to the back of his kneecaps had him on the ground.
Stars danced around his vision at the impact.
Damn, this guy knew how to fight!
There wasn’t a moment to spare. Peter struggled to dodge the next attack, and the one after that. They came fast, too fast for him to keep up with. His days as Spider-Man were spent catching bank robbers and muggers — never fighting like he was now, throwing hit after hit, letting the adrenaline mask the pain from each blow to his body.
Peter’s punches were sloppy, panicked, desperate. If he managed to land a hit, it only furthered to anger the man. He was breathless and drenched in sweat, absolutely terrified. He felt like he was in a twisted game of cat and mouse, and he was the mouse that couldn’t get away.
Dmitri, on the other hand, moved in exact, smooth precision. Each throw meant to crush each block. He wasn’t skilled, he was an expert.
Peter slid on the ground from a blow to his stomach. Looking up, he barely had time to roll as Dmitri came to attack him again.
He stood no chance at winning without his spider-sense. The man moved with such sharp agility that could easily give the Black Widow a run for her money.
‘Must be a Russian thing.’ Peter wasn’t sure where the thought came from, almost laughing at how ridiculous it was. Russian or not, this man was going to kill him if he didn’t do something.
His mind screamed one thing – ‘get away get away getawaygetaway!’
The hits came one after the other. Dmitri swung, but Peter darted aside. He followed up with a kick to the man’s face. It must have done the trick; Dmitri fell back clinging to his nose with a slew of Russian curses.
Peter ran — fast and hard. He took two turns before finally deciding on entering a room.
When he slammed the door shut, he allowed himself a second to catch his breath, chest heaving as he rested his forehead against the cold metal.
His chest burned and his legs trembled, threatening to give out and collapse beneath him. ‘Can’t stop now. Gotta keep going. Gotta get out of here.’
Adrenaline sent energy coursing through his body, but it didn’t provide him the answers on how to escape. His sweat-drenched suit trapped the chill to his skin. The place felt colder than New York in the winter time, no hallway or room free of the frigid air that hurt his lungs.
‘Things gets colder the further in the ocean you go...and this entire building is underwater. Really deep underwater.'
Peter's face crumbled with the sickening realization that he was truly, actually, totally under the sea.
There was no walking out of this building.
And there was no changing that fact.
Frantically looking around, Peter was desperate to find anything that would help him. His focus came at a struggle; fear making his heart beat ten times too fast. Definitely putting him at risk for a juvenile heart attack.
‘If this place is in the ocean, that means they needed a way to get down here, right?’ Peter began to feel his way around the room. It was too dark for him to see anything aside from outlines of lab equipment. The only light he had to work off of was the large tank across the way, glowing eerily green with the substance still inside. ‘Maybe they have diving suits laying around or something.’
One step at a time, he began to walk down a flight of stairs. The metal creaked beneath him, making his shoulders jolt from paranoia with every step. Slowly, carefully, Peter explored the room with a tiny bit of interest that rapidly morphed into growing alarm.
He was right in assuming the place had been abandoned, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why so much tech was left behind.
“I wonder if anyone even knows this place exists...” he murmured under his breath.
Peter looked to the corner of the room, walking towards the large tank that reached from ceiling to floor. He quickly determined that whatever the substance was – a thick eerie goop floating inside– it couldn’t be safe. The glowing was almost nauseating to see. The green reminded him a lot of Adrian Toomes.
Peter shook the thought away. He really didn't want to deal with that right now.
And that’s when Peter saw it. Engraved on the cement portion of the tank, illuminated over the green glow and clear as day was the company logo OsCorp.
‘Crap.’ Peter's breath halted in his chest. ‘OsCorp. That’s not good. Not good at all.’
The walls groaned under pressure.
KkkkrrrrreeeAAAAKKK!
Peter spun around with his fist out in defense. Chains suddenly rattled loudly from above, echoing everywhere, drawing nearer and nearer. His mouth dried, the fog made it impossible to see five feet ahead of him.
‘Shit, shit, shit! Where—’
The harsh kick to his chest sent him flying into the nearest wall.
Peter heard it before he felt it.
A sickening squish and a horrifying crack.
His vision burned into white nothingness.
The next crushing impact to his chest ripped a scream from his throat, pain searing into his every pore, the wet squelch of ripping flesh a distant cruel echo.
Peter gasped and spluttered. There was no thinking straight, no evading or planning his next move — he couldn’t even breathe without a fiery volcano erupting around him.
Only when he felt someone forcibly grabbing his face did his vision start to return.
“You malen'kiy kusok der'ma!” Dmitri squeezed his cheeks with his one hand, forcing him to look his way. Peter wheezed between the fingers clenching at his jaw. “You think I care about you? You think you are important?”
With his free hand, Dmitri shoved Peter back, the sound of flesh tearing smothered by his hoarse cry. He could feel the metal moving in his body — his body moving around the metal.
Though Dmitri had his face gripped tightly, Peter forced himself to look down below. Horrified at the long, jagged pipe protruding from his abdomen.
He'd been impaled.
Dmitri yanked his face up and over to him. “You are nothing, you hear me? You are pathetic, glupyy mal'chik. An infant pretending to be hero. You messed with wrong man, and you will die because of it.”
Peter could barely hear him over the frenzied pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. He scrambled to reach down and grab the offending object that had invaded his body. He gritted his teeth to stop a sob and pulled and pulled and pulled, his gloved hands unable to get a firm grip; his trembling fingers slipping on blood, and sliding away with globs of skin and torn muscle.
When he managed to get a hold on the pipe, Peter gripped it — hard. Clenching onto it, his muscles spasming and his eyes prickling. The horror of the situation was tainted, mixed with fear and pain. His breathing turned into hysterical, panicked wheezing.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathehecouldn’tbreathehecouldn’t —
Dmitri squeezed his face harder. He gasped and immediately grimaced as the movement shot white burning sparks through his nerves.
“No one is coming for you, mal'chik-pauk. You will die here, alone and forgotten.”
Dmitri’s free hand grabbed his shoulder, and with a cruel force, he yanked him forward.
An anguished scream split Peter's throat raw, a tortuous howl choking off into silence.
When night arrived, a full moon could be seen outside in the sky. It was one of the few nights without any clouds, and little to no stars that could be seen.
By then, Sam had given up on his run, having lost count of how many times he lapped around the compound in an attempt to burn off his anger. The sun had long since set, and he found the nearest wall to rest again, finishing off his water bottle in just a few quick gulps.
A knock from behind him caught his attention. Three short taps that pounded against the glass door he leaned against.
Craning his neck, Sam saw Rhodey behind him attempting to open the door. Moving slightly to the side, he let the man step outside.
“Hey,” Rhodey held his hand out, offering him a fresh cold water bottle.
Sam didn’t hesitate to take it, twisting the cap off with one smooth motion. “Thanks.”
He drank half the bottle in two swigs, dropping it down to his chest to twist the plastic cap back on. His breathing was starting to come in a little easier, and the aftermath of his run was already starting to kick in, the tremble in his legs provoking him to lean further back against the door.
Sam's eyes didn’t divert from the vast sky over top of them.
“Of all nights for it to be a harvest moon,” he muttered, shaking his head and wiping the sweat away from his forehead.
The moonlight splashed down onto the compound, casting a blood-orange light over their faces. The soft shimmering glow reminded him of late autumn, the warm air only intensifying the comparison. Spring didn't typically have orange moons, but it wasn't uncommon depending on the weather.
Something about the burnt red color didn't sit right with him, though. Not tonight.
Rhodey turned to look at him, eyebrow high in the air.
“You superstitious?” he asked, as if plucking the thoughts right out of his head.
Sam still didn’t look down from the sky. “I wasn’t before.”
Rhodey couldn’t help but notice the light seep deep into the crevices of Sam’s face, his forehead creasing with the stress they all felt.
He couldn’t help but ask, “You okay?”
Sam hesitated on answering. Just long enough for Rhodey to turn his body slightly towards him. His head finally bowed low to the ground, and a deep sigh heaved his shoulders with it.
“No, I’m not,” Sam admitted. “I’m...I'm honestly not cool being sidelined like this.”
Rhodey nodded. "I feel you.”
The response must have triggered something within him; Sam shot his head up fast enough to give Rhodey whiplash.
Sam's body turned to him fully, looking at him with apologetic eyes that Rhodey hated. Pity was a bitter pill to swallow.
“I — damn, man, I didn’t mean to —”
“Don’t sweat it,” Rhodey waved his hand dismissively. “You know, I flew one-hundred-thirty-eight combat missions before this. I was happy to fight each one. They needed to be fought. But you know...not being able to fight this one...”
He looked up at the sky, taking the sight in with a sense of fondness. There was something about the vast open space that left him feeling nostalgic, both as a pilot and as War Machine. He still got out there from time to time, but not as frequently as he had become accustomed to.
Something was discouraging about being restricted to the ground. It wasn’t where the two of them belonged.
Rhodey folded his arms over his chest. “They’ll find him.”
Sam knew he spoke with a false sense of encouragement. There was no guaranteeing the outcome of the mission, after all.
Still, he nodded, returning his gaze to the bright orange moon.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “They will.”
Back inside the facility, Natasha found herself entering the medical wing, dressed head to toe in an older, less electronic version of her Black Widow gear.
She looked around, noticing that Bruce stood amidst a crowd of different employees, most dressed in lab coats and scrubs. With a clipboard in one hand, the other pressed his cell phone tightly to his ear. Everyone walked around him with meticulous purpose, like organized chaos he wasn’t part of. He stood out like a sore thumb.
“I know — I know, it’s...it’s very last minute. I’ll update you with everything I have. It’s...not much, we actually haven’t, uh — we haven’t run any test on him...” Bruce trailed off, noticing Natasha standing quietly in the corner. “I gotta go, Helen. Tony’s people should be arriving for you soon.”
He ended the phone call, slowly approaching her. She took in his appearance, noticing the change to his own lab coat. His glasses sat slightly askew on his face, his fingers awkwardly reaching to fix them.
“We’re heading out,” Natasha told him.
"Right." Bruce nodded, jerkily. "Okay...okay, uhm...be — be safe.”
She forced a smile. “Yeah. We will.”
A lingering moment stood between them, a pause that held tension they could barely breathe through. It was clear he was in the middle of his own work, having mentioned he’d be spending his time preparing the medical staff for the aftermath of the mission.
With Ultron having destroyed Dr. Cho’s cradle, there was no telling what work they’d have ahead of them.
Natasha was silently glad to have him back from Thor’s company in the wake of what was to come.
With nothing more to say, she ultimately turned on her heels and headed for the exit.
“Natasha, wait,” Bruce suddenly called out. He watched as she turned to look at him, her eyebrow high in the air. It produced the next three clearings of his throat.
“Listen...everything with Dmitri...I mean, it’s all coincidence, at best.”
For a second, Natasha was unsure of what to say. Her stare was a blank as her mouth, both failing to give way to any hint of how she felt.
“I know," she managed, almost too quiet to hear amongst the organized chaos. “It doesn’t help me, though.”
Bruce's frown noticeably deepened.
“You couldn’t have prevented this," he said, a small shake of his head following suit. "Just because you knew him, you couldn’t have —”
“But I could have,” Natasha was quick to interrupt him.
Bruce stayed silent, using only his eyes to urge her on. It seemed to be enough; she bowed her head, finding the floor more manageable to look at than him.
“After that children's ward burned down, after he killed..." Natasha swallowed, hard enough that her throat shook. "I held a gun to his head. Loaded and ready to pull the trigger. I was furious. I wanted so badly to see his brains splatter on the floor." A pause stole her next words. Just briefly, just for a moment. "But I didn’t shoot. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like my ledger was clean. He’d only be more red to add to the pile.”
While her shoulder twitched in an attempt to shrug off the subject casually, the way Natasha hastily looked away said it all. She forced her face away from Bruce's line of sight, not allowing him to see her as she spoke.
“Now, I really wish I had made that shot." Natasha cleared her throat, not once but twice. "Years later and he’s still hurting children.”
Cautiously — and slowly, at that — Bruce stepped towards her. “I think you’re being hard on yourself.”
Even with her head turned away, Bruce could see the way her frown tugged at her mouth, easily aging her by years. The weight of her own past wore heavy on her shoulders, now more than Bruce had ever seen before. Not even the attempted shrug she gave could shake it off.
“I’ll make him pay," Natasha said, no colder than the words that came before. She looked back at him, a glaze of determination darkening her eyes. “For those children. For Peter. For all of this.”
Her lips pursed with solid, unshakable intent, the kind that made even Bruce — close as he'd been with her — slightly nervous. She pulled her shoulders back and gave a curt nod, and he could tell she was ready to leave, already having stayed too far out of her comfort zone.
What provoked Bruce to speak again was beyond him.
“You’re good, you know.” The words came without his bidding. He waved his hand around in the air as if it would clarify his thoughts. “With Peter, I mean.”
Natasha furrowed her brows, so intently that it nearly closed her eyes shut. “What do you mean by that?”
“I just mean...” Bruce paused, struggling to find the right words to say. “You have good maternal instincts. Surprisingly enough.”
His chuckle wasn’t met with a positive reaction.
Natasha briefly looked away before locking eyes on him. “We have to go.”
Bruce nodded. “Be safe.”
He had reiterated what was said before, almost down to the same infliction.
But with a firm understanding, Natasha changed her response.
“I will.”
Down in Tony’s workshop, he stood center on the platform that once held his Mark 37 armor. With his arms outstretched, pieces of gray metal began materializing around him, nanite by nanite. The once clunky suit had been replaced with microscopic pieces of technology, covering everything but his head and stopping short of his neck.
For that, Tony reached over to the nearest table, snatching an older Iron Man helmet underneath his arms.
“Okay FRIDAY, let’s test this bad boy out.” Tony clipped the helmet onto his head, its design remarkably reminiscent to his older suits. “Deactivate the nanites. Let the magnets do their work.”
“Deactivating in three, two, one...”
There was an audible whir that followed with a slump of Tony’s shoulders, his knees buckling slightly under the additional strain. He waited a second before bending down and then jumping up, ensuring the armor would stay connected. No wobble or wiggle of his body loosened the armor.
“Okay...that’s what I’m talking about,” Tony's voice echoed through the helmet. “A little heavy, but that’s expected. A–plus work there, FRI.”
The two automatic doors behind him swished open, and he clicked off his helmet just as Pepper came walking in.
“Tony?” she called out. “What’s going on? You wanted to see me?”
He hopped off the platform, laying his helmet to the side — barely catching it in time when it nearly rolled off the table.
“Pepper! Hey, yes, come here, I don’t have much time." Tony was already waving her over. "I wanted to talk to you before we head out.”
As Pepper took small steps into the workshop, Tony looked up at the clock on the wall, noting that there was only a handful of minutes left before he needed to regroup with the others. He'd have to make this quick.
“Listen, before I do this…" When Tony noticed Pepper was too busy eyeing his armor to pay him any attention, he reached and grabbed her, pulling her close. "I need to say something.”
Slightly startled, Pepper gave Tony a long once-over as he all but yanked her closer to him. The squeeze of his hand against hers said it all — she frowned, sighing, the disapproval in her breath all too familiar.
“Tony, don’t —”
“Just…hear me out," Tony insisted, the hand not holding Pepper's lifting in the air. The gray metal of the nanite suit glistened underneath the workshop lights. "I’m only going to muster up the courage to do this once. I need you to know that…well…I mean, I love you.”
"Tony..." Pepper’s demeanor immediately softened, and she blushed in a way that made her freckles stand out. “I love you too. But you’re going to find Peter, and come back with him. You’re going to come back.”
It was the unspoken between them. It was always the unspoken between them. The fear of leaving and not coming back. Ever since New York, it was something that invaded their thought, every time Tony left for a mission — Iron Man related, SHIELD related, Avengers related — they both had the lingering thought of 'what if' hanging over their heads.
For once, Tony addressed it head-on.
“I know,” Tony said, clucking his tongue. “But I don’t know.”
Pepper gave him that look. “Tony —”
He wagged a finger at her. “Ah-ah, don’t break the mojo.”
Pepper scowled, but stayed otherwise quiet.
They both didn’t want another New York incident, they both didn't want a goodbye phone call that would never be received.
If he was going out into the unknown, Tony didn’t want to do it with lingering regrets.
Looking at Pepper in front of him — the love of his life, the woman who had been by his side through it all — not letting her know those things...that would be one of his biggest regrets.
Tony took in a breath so deep it pulled his shoulders back. “Pep...all along it’s been you. Thank you for that. For keeping me grounded long before I ever realized it was you keeping me grounded. You take such good care of me. And things are going to be different after this. We’re not going to keep doing this barely seeing each other bullshit. We’re going to have a life together,” Tony said, and honest to God meaning it. “But I need you to know, just in case…I love you.”
Tony locked eyes with her, knowing what he didn't speak — what he couldn't speak — it had been heard.
Pepper stepped forward, breaking what little distance separated them as she slowly lifted her hands to his face. Both her palms tenderly cupped his cheeks. He watched as she leaned in and pressed her lips against his, softly yet firmly, holding the kiss for a long second.
Her skin was cool against his flushed face, and he couldn’t help but lean into it.
For that one quick moment, one that didn't last nearly long enough, he melted to the floor. The tension he harbored ceased, almost all at once, as the world slowed down for them both.
When Pepper pulled back, she made sure to give the strongest smile of confidence she could.
“Go kick some magical ass.”
Tony smiled in return.
In the laboratory, Stephen waited for the others to regroup. Sitting cross-legged on the conference table, he meditated quietly, staying calm even when he sensed a presence behind him.
When he cracked one eye open, his suspicions were confirmed.
Wanda walked around him, eyeing him with curiosity.
He raised an eyebrow in response.
“You do not trust me,” Wanda stated, so out of the blue it should've provoked a reaction from Stephen.
Yet it didn't. With slow movements, Stephen lowered his arms onto his thighs, his trembling fingers resting on his knees.
Though he expected the subject to be brought up, he chose his next words carefully.
“It’s not you that I don’t trust,” he settled on saying.
Wanda titled her head to the side. “Then what?”
Her accent seemed twice as thick with the emotion laced behind it. Stephen still didn’t answer. His eyes stayed focused straight ahead, remaining calm despite the agitation that she emitted.
Wanda folded her arms over her chest, that agitation only growing by the passing second.
"I do not know about you," she started to say. "But we do not go into a battle harboring distractions that could cost the lives of others. I have made that mistake before. And it costs many lives." Wanda paused, just briefly, before she resumed her gaze on Stephen. "If we are to fight by each others' side, it is best if you say why it is you can't trust me.”
With one smooth, fluid motion, Stephen uncrossed his legs, letting them dangling over the edge of the table. He was then on his feet in a seconds time, looking straight at Wanda — the sudden movement taking her by surprise.
“Wanda, dear, it is not you I don’t trust. It’s your abilities,” he admitted, somewhat somberly at that. “You’re inexperienced and you lack training. Your emotions run you rampant. There is a chaos inside you that you cannot control...a very dangerous chaos.”
Wanda frowned. Neither could deny that the way Stephen spoke; straight-forward, laced with a clinical tone — his words weren't spoken as an insult. They were an observation.
Unfortunately, it was an observation Wanda was already aware of. The memories of Lagos still haunted her, the magic she possessed harming people even when she meant only good.
She wouldn’t let that happen again. With her back stiffening and her chin lifting, she looked at Stephen head-on, doing her best to let what little confidence she felt outshine the doubt.
“Then let us hope that chaos protects my family tonight," Wanda said, her lips pressing thin not a second after she spoke.
Stephen simply nodded. “Let’s.”
For one blissful second, Peter forgot where he was.
He opened his eyes slowly, his lids barely lifting past slits. They felt so incredibly heavy, like concrete bricks had been attached to his lashes. Too heavy too keep open.
He wasn’t at home, was he? Definitely not at Ned’s.
Wasn’t he staying at the Avenger’s compound? That didn’t seem right.
Maybe he was —
A harsh gasp tore through his chest. Peter choked when it came out of his throat, his frame recoiling against the wall as spasms seized every muscle in his body, striking every nerve, resounding through his core.
Agony hit him all at once, burning inside him, spreading from his chest across his spine — into his stomach, front to back.
It was everywhere.
"H-he-help!" Peter tried to scream — it barely croaked out his lips. "S-some-somebody, h-help me! 'm-I'm-'m"
He couldn’t breathe. One attempt fired shock waves through his entire core.
Oh, god.
‘Oh god, oh god, ohmygodohgodohgod’
He was trembling, shaking apart, the back of his head clattering against the wall. The desire to curl up on himself was strong — the metal wrapped around his biceps was even stronger. Cruelly denying him the small mercy.
Oh, god.
"P-lease, 'm-'m—" His strength rapidly fled him, the mere act of lifting his head to look at his arms a disabling effort. Restrained, again — bolted to the wall, no doubt the same metal from before. Peter couldn't even remember the name of it, he couldn't get a single coherent thought past his mind.
He couldn't think past the pain — his vision went white with each breath that lifted his chest.
Looking back down, Peter scantily made out the wound on his stomach, only by the growing wet spot on the side of his abdomen. His eyes grew wide, only to clench shut at the sight — his entire hip was drenched, soaked, absolutely saturated. He could feel the wetness pour out of him, on both sides, front and back — surrounding him, creating a puddle of crimson without signs of coming to a stop.
"O-oh no," Peter swallowed hard as his head fell back against the wall. The vibrations of his tremors echoed the steel behind him. "O-oh, I'm bl'eding. 'm bl'eding bad."
Peter remembered hitting the wall with force, he remembered his front bearing an exit wound to the pipe he'd been impaled him on.
Oh, god. He'd been impaled. Through and through.
He'd been shish-kebabed.
The concept was too real to grasp onto, and the wetness puddling around his thighs told him he was losing blood — losing it fast, losing too much.
Peter smacked the back of his head against the wall, fear making his heart beat in a pace that didn’t feel normal. Not that any of his body felt normal. His legs futilely writhed on the floor and his hands clenched and unclenched into fists, all the while he rasped for air and choked on sobs he didn’t have the energy to let out.
He was going to die.
He couldn’t escape, he couldn’t move, he could barely breathe. He was sitting in a pool of his own blood — a pool, splashing with each tremble of his legs.
He was, without a doubt, going to die.
“Gah-ahhhhhh!”
The thought finally broke the cry Peter had been struggling to hold back. It was weak and full of air, bringing forward a panicked slew of sobs he couldn’t control. The next cry came before the last had finished, and Peter sat hyperventilating on the floor, his face screwed up in hot agony. Every breath that escaped his chest rippled an ungodly pain through him.
It was as if a creature was eating him from the inside.
Oh god, he was going to die.
Peter's bottom lip quivered almost as strongly as his entire body shook. He was going to die here, alone. No one was going to save him, because they thought he was already dead, and he had failed at saving himself.
It was hopeless.
He screwed up, and now he was going to die.
Peter squeezed his hands so tight he swore his fingers were about to break. He didn’t want to die.
He didn’t want to die, he was too young — he hadn’t even graduated high school yet. There was so much he hadn’t done and now he was going to die having never done it.
Wet and raspy sobs spluttered from his lips, one after another.
God it hurt. It hurt so, so much. His nails scraped against the cement floor, every nerve in his body ignited and screaming, blood gushing from both open wounds and pooling around him, making him shiver. It was cold; the liquid was making him so cold.
With a sickening realization, Peter realized he was extremely cold. Sweat dripped down from his forehead and stung his eyes, shock setting in faster than he could understand what was happening.
It was definitely shock. He hadn't lost enough coherency to know he was definitely in shock.
And he was definitely going to die because of it.
The weight of his body slumped him downward, and Peter lolled to the side, only kept up by the binds around his arm. He didn’t know what to do. All he could focus on was each breath, unable to ignore how the next one would bring more pain than the last. He was so cold and so tired, and his vision was fading, an unsettling gray color teasing at the edges.
Ultimately deciding that keeping his eyes open was draining his energy, Peter closed them shut. Spots of red, white and black danced beneath his lids — he tried to focus on them to keep himself from passing out.
If he passed out, he may not wake up again.
Peter wondered what his last thoughts would be. He tried to think of May, Ned and MJ, the Avengers and Mr. Stark...he tried to focus on anything besides the blood, the copper smell that burned his nose. Besides the pain. Besides…
Besides... he... he...
He didn't want to die.
He doesn't want to die.
Please...please, please.
I don't want to die.
Steve was pulling on the brown gloves to his Captain America uniform when Tony came marching into the lab, a renewed energy taking the room by storm.
“Alright, let’s rock and roll!” He pointed a wagging finger at them all. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
Steve fiddled with the edges of the gloves, not daring to argue with the man. There was a time and place for their petty disagreements, and right now, he simply wanted to focus on the task at hand.
Eyeing Tony from head to toe, he took note of the dull, gray, and colorless armor that sealed around him. It was seamless and smooth; the metal almost seemed to wrap around his body like a new layer of muscle.
Steve wasn’t the only one to take notice. Clint raised an eyebrow at the new design.
“An entire suit held together by magnets,” he dryly stated. “What will you think of next, Stark?”
Clint tossed his pack of arrows over his shoulder, buckling the straps over his chest with an audible click.
Tony shot his head in his direction, his forehead creased.
“Who knows, the cure to world hunger?” The quip was sharp and unamused.
Caught between fidgeting with the leather frays on his gloves and eyeing the shadows underneath Tony’s eyes, Steve could clearly see through his facade. His energy may have stolen the room, but it was fueled only by temporary strength; passionate anger and desperation.
It was something he always noticed about Tony — the man ran on fleeting emotion. It was what fueled his fight.
Wanda walked closer to them both, stopping the thoughts from proceeding any further in Steve's head.
“I do not think I understand the point," she quietly mentioned. "If the suit does not have any technological function, what is the purpose of it?”
Tony knocked his knuckles against his chest pate.
“Armor. Lightweight protection," he simply stated. “No penetrating these bad boys.”
Still tugging at his gloves, more absentmindedly than anything else, Steve was the first to notice as Stephen approached the group.
“Are you good with your plan?” Stephen asked, his cloak noticeably rustling behind him.
Steve turned his head to face the sorcerer, giving a sharp nod as he did.
“We split up into teams once we arrive in the facility. Wanda and Natasha will stick with me. This way Tony and Clint will also have a...” he paused on the word, “magical component on their side.”
The way Tony visibly rolled his eyes once mentioned he'd be paired with Strange was so dramatic it was borderline childish.
“Play nice, boys." Natasha smirked, having seen Tony's scowl from across the room.
On any normal occurrence, Steve knew Tony would have easily engaged in a witty comeback. His decision to stay quiet only intensified the emotion that gave him strength — hot and radiating, and growing stronger with the passing seconds.
For what it was worth, Steve hoped that fuel stayed around long enough for Tony to keep fighting.
“Wanda, Natasha and I will be taking the west and north sides of the building." With one swift movement, Steve swung his shield onto his back, the Vibranium metal clanging against his harness. "Clint, Tony, Doctor Strange — you guys cover ground on the east and south," his commands were smooth and uninterrupted. “Remember, the structure loops around from the back. It's a giant U. If you haven’t found Peter on those perimeters, it’s important to re-group at the central point. We won’t have our comms to rely on for communication.”
While everyone else acknowledged him with wordless nods, it was Tony who opened his mouth.
“Aye aye, Captain.” Tony gave a fake, tired, and sloppy salute. His hands went from his forehead down to his side, provoking Steve to eye his wrists — curiosity getting the better of him.
The glisten of silver bands stuck out like a sore thumb among the dim gray and black Iron Man armor.
“What are those?” Steve furrowed his brows at the sight.
Tony briefly looked down at his hands, eyeing the devices as if he'd forgotten they were attached to him. The wanly frown that engulfed his face had Steve’s gut twisting with apprehension.
“Web-shooters,” Tony answered succinctly. “If the kid needs them, he’ll have them.”
Steve watched as he tinkered with the silver bands, messing with them in a similar fashion to how Steve was nervously fidgeting with his gloves.
The fact fooled no one. Tony had easily polished the act of holding a neutral expression; his words were clipped, and his features were deadpanned. But there was something in his eyes that Steve latched onto. It was there, strong and encompassing. Even if he couldn’t vocalize it.
Doubt.
The emotion could be read like a book. Steve knew Tony was worried, doubtful even. Unsure that even with the Avenger’s charging in, even with Captain America and Iron Man trying to save the day, Peter would still have the need to defend himself. Steve wouldn’t deny that it was a smart move to think about such a scenario.
Even so, he wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Hopefully he won’t.” Steve gave a curt nod of his head along with his words.
Tony never looked up at him, his hands absentmindedly adjusting and tugging at the devices.
Steve could only imagine what it felt like. How it would feel so wrong. The device was a symbolism of the hero it belonged to.
They were Peter's, not Tony's. Spider-Man's, not Iron Man's.
“Hopefully,” Tony settled on mumbling in response.
Something inside Steve finally broke. When Tony briskly walked past him, attempting to reach the rest of the team, he grabbed onto his bicep tightly. Stalling him from moving any further.
“You good, Tony?” Steve asked, his voice almost too low to hear.
Tony looked over at him, stone-cold sober with exhaustion that sank deep in his bones.
“I will be once we get this over with,” he answered.
Steve didn’t let go of his grip. “You know we have your back on this. Right?”
Tony shook him off, roughly at that, with his brows furrowed tight.
“And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”
Steve had a million different thoughts raging in his head — things he wanted to say yesterday, the day before that, and the day before it all. It burned a hole deep inside of him, screaming to get out.
Things he'd clearly noticed about Tony and Peter over the last few weeks. Things he noticed about Tony, bringing a whole new light to the man.
They didn’t have time for it, though. The others stood across the room waiting for them both; waiting to leave any second now. With resignation, Steve settled on the most straightforward answer he could muster up.
“It means we’re going to find him.” Steve tilted his chin low, his eyes locking onto Tony’s. “And we’re all going to come back, together.”
What he didn't say out loud was heard, loud and clear in the emphasis of his words.
There wouldn't be sacrifices made. This wasn't New York — they weren't doing that again.
Tony paused, his tongue running across his teeth before he popped his lips together. With rigid firmness, he turned to face Steve head-on.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Rogers," he started, each word heavier than the last. "Whatever we’re about to walk into, the end result is bringing Peter home. If for one second, there needs to be a decision made between the kid, or me, or anyone else, you best believe the kid comes first. Every time,” Tony's tone was deep and rumbled like gravel. “Is that clear?”
There was a quiet moment between them. One only filled with the suffocating tension from Tony’s imposition.
Steve honestly didn’t know how to respond.
Not at first. Not on instinct.
“That won’t need to happen,” he finally said, his voice too reserved for his own liking.
“Look me in the eye,” Tony demanded, the lines on his face tight. “He comes first. Is that clear?”
Steve opened his mouth to speak.
Nothing came out.
The silence only grew thicker, and the next inhale that lifted Steve's chest was a struggle. He stared at Tony, unable to break the hold the man had on his eyes. There was something about him that seemed different in that moment. Something as foreign as the magic he still couldn't wrap his head around.
It was the self-sacrificing, almost parental drive and commitment that he felt coming from Tony. It was the intrusive realization he'd been denying since the night the chameleon helmet had been stolen, finally ringing true to his ears.
Tony had changed. He'd come to accept that long ago — it wasn't as if they were both the same people they knew five years ago. But Tony's change was abrupt, not something he expected, not something he'd ever even considered.
It was obvious the day he showed Peter off to the team.
A handful of years ago, they once stood in a similar position; Steve insisting that Tony was nothing without his suit, that he knew men without such fancy armor worth ten of him. Tony stood next to him now, all but stripped of his technology, and eager to run head first into a battle they were unsure of. Ready to sacrifice himself for someone he felt was better than them all.
Steve decided, then and there, that he wouldn’t let that dedication go to waste.
“If it comes to that,” Steve preempted, “then yes.”
Stephen stepped forward, tall and confident among the disarray of skepticism that roamed between them all.
“Are we ready?”
While Stephen looked at the team, Steve kept his eyes locked on Tony. They refused to look away from each other, a silent conversation taking place. It was only when the sound of crackling static caught their attention did they turn to the source; a bright, vivid orange portal appearing in front of them both.
Steve nodded. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”
The other side of the portal was dark and emitted a strong, cold wind that blew through their hair. One by one the team stepped through until Stephen was the last to enter, with the portal closing behind him.
Dmitri stormed the empty hallways of the OsCorp base and took a sharp corner with precise speed. His anger was hot and evident, and the sweat that dripped down from his bald head shinned from the windows casting the oceans light. As he came to a sudden halt, a cloud of smoke emerged from nothingness.
“They’re coming,” Dmitri sneered.
Francis Klum stood amidst the thick, swirling fog, and Dmitri didn’t have the patience to wait for the smoldering vapor to clear the air. His words were harsh as he snapped at the man, the plexiglass helmet reflecting his face like a mirror.
The sight had him growling, a deep sound emanating from his chest.
He hated the sight of himself.
“They’re — who’s coming?” Klum’s voice resonated through the helmet. “Stark?”
Dmitri charged past him, only aware that Klum was following by the sound of his cape rippling like a waving flag.
“Stark and his playmates. We need to move, fast.”
Klum jogged to catch up. “What? Hold on, how do you know —”
“I know everything, Klum,” Dmitri scolded. “I no longer have access to Stark Industries database. Walter Cortez’s employee numbers have been flagged as security threat. The encrypted files containing this base’s forced cessation have been accessed by Colonel James Rhodes of U.S Air Force. It is only matter of time before they arrive.”
Klum gaped. “I thought this place would be safe, I didn’t know —”
Dmitri spun to face him, his hands clenched into tight fists.
“Zatknis'!” he shouted, his breathing heavy and labored. “The Oz weaponry — what is left?”
“The Oz...” Klum paused to think. “There should still be pumpkin bombs in the incubator room. But Dmitri, those things are untested, and this building is already unstable.”
They took a corner and entered the nearest room, the door already wide open. Dmitri immediately headed to the closest table, gathering the white chameleon helmet under his arms.
“Good. Go, get them.”
Whereas Dmitri was quick to gather his belongings, Klum paused at the room’s entrance. In the corner was the kid they had captured, still restrained to the wall but surrounded by a pool of dark liquid.
It didn’t take a genius to know it was blood.
“What the hell?” Klum finally said. “I thought he was our bait! The spider-kid’s no good to us dead, what the fu—”
Dmitri snapped the clasps around his neck, securing the helmet on both sides with force.
“He was our bait. And he served his purpose. Stark is coming, right? So I will personally snap his neck between my own hands.” Dmitri approached Klum, somehow more intimidating with the helmet attached to his head. “He will meet his demise coming for boy. You get bombs, I will detonate and flood them in this godforsaken hellhole. You teleport us out to safety. Understood?”
Klum nodded. “Blow this place to smithereens. Got it.”
A low, weak groan caught his attention. Klum snapped his neck to the source, watching as the kid made a disgusting gurgling sound, a moan and gasp forming together a pathetic cry.
“And him?”
Dmitri stormed away, his shoulder knocking into Klum’s.
“He’ll die here with others.” He turned fast on his heels, a gloved finger wagging fiercely in Klum’s direction. “Follow my orders, and I will get you your money, Mysterio.”
Klum gave one curt bob of his head, the shiny, round plexiglass helmet surrounding it nodding along the way. Within seconds a cloud of smoke replaced where he stood.
Dmitri took one last look at the trapped boy, his body slumped forward and only held to the wall by the Adamantium bands that were bolted around his arms.
With a sharp stream of curses muttered under his breath, he swiftly turned and left the room.