Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

San Francisco, CA - 1 week ago - The Symbiote

Hang on.

It only takes a split second for a micro-organism to deem its environment sufficiently compatible to develop into a culture. 

There’s a smack on the bar that thrums through every crevice of the tiki wood it impacted, and with the vibrating slap, the wondrously complex structure of their molecular system parted and stung with every millimeter of skin that peeled away from them. The burning warmth of the host body and the sum of their parts, gone. Eddie was gone. 

This isn’t good.

A Symbiote derivative takes a fraction less than that to spawn a temporary cognitive connection when it leaves the primary body. The key word being… Temporary.

“Wait- You didn’t pay the… Aaand there he goes.”

No. NO. WAIT.

That is, unless the primary body of the Symbiote perishes, becomes defunct, or-

“Stupid tourist cabrón. ”

Pops out of fucking existence.

Where is the host? Where is… Eddie? We need shelter. Eddie!

E.D.D.I.E 

Gone... he’s- gone. They thought, in disbelief. 

This particular micro-organism had absolutely no say in whether its environment was suitable for it or not.

“Thanks, Harvey. Well, folks, looks like it's another overcast one in New York Today with typical highs showing at around 47 degrees fahrenh-”

Now they were going to have to find a whole new compatible host and everything.

FUCK. They simmered, furiously.

‘Maybe I should go to New York and speak to this uh-’

What?

The blob shuddered into the tiki wood, they could already feel their amino acids sticking to the grain. The air sizzled around their form and sharp jagged spikes began to brush over the texture of their liquid epidermis. It was starting to hurt.

“-ot to mention those strong winds blowing in from the West, better batten down the hatchets East-Siders cause it’s about to get stormy over the next fe-”

They needed a host. Bad.

‘This uh- Spider-Man then.’

New York.

The barkeep was still tutting. They remembered what the fresh-lookin’ guy had said to Eddie, that this was a new world. Which-

Oh, no no no. What the hell were they going to do now? They were so hungry. And small. They desperately needed a warm body. The barkeep came closer, holding the same ratty dishrag he’d waved at a particular drunken journalist just moments ago.

‘Maybe I should go to New York and speak to this Spider-Man then.’ Eddie had slurred, and their primary body had been jealous that their host wanted to speak to another man. To a superhuman man, specifically. Wasteful.

Fuck. Okay. Guess that's our plan now. They thought, and as soon as Tiki-Boy came closer they slid their burning hide across the bar top and latched onto the ridiculous sweater that made him look like a shark tooth necklace-wearing hippie.

They curled their diminutive form up his back, underneath his ponytail, and around the muscle of his left shoulder, and then they waited until they were in just the right position after a quick measured distance.

Taking one for the team. Thanks, cabrón.

The unsuspecting man turned his head to the left, and then down when he saw a small black splodge suddenly shoot dozens of jagged-looking obsidian tendrils toward his face. Specifically his nostrils. He didn't have much time to breathe at all before his shout of panic was smothered by their amorphous organic matter. The guy could keep his mouth clamped shut for all they cared. They only needed his nose. They could reach his lungs far easier that way anyway.

Mmm. Lungs. Venom would’ve purred excitedly if they had enough mass to form a sinister smile. But not lungs from this guy though. This guy was gonna help him hitch a lift.

A heavy body slammed onto the ground in convulsions. Hands frantically grappling with his face to try and get them off. Shards of colored glass rained down, pinging and tinkling and crunching under their combined weight.

Venom’s sinews spread and spread to fill the gaps within the guy's protein stores and squishy brain matter. Liquid tentacles stretching, tearing, and gliding until finally, they claimed their dominance over the thick set of gym rat muscles resisting their direction.

But, on a journey full of people, and no Eddie here to tell them not to snack along the way… 

Thick, flowing splashes of booze flowed from their broken bottles and spilled over the surface of the bar in an amazing prisma-color of amber, clear, and white cream for the bougier cocktails. A carton of milk was spraying from the busted glass door of the bar fridge. There were even a couple of fresh strawberries and other pre-sliced fruit lying around. Squished. Splattered to the floor, and looking artsy. Bloodied from the piercing shards.

The guy stopped squirming. And when his arm reached back up, his knuckles were curled inwards, joints locked crisply. He slammed that stiff limb into the tiki bar just like Eddie had, but clung to it desperately for support. Then he yanked himself up disjointedly with a vacant expression on his face, eyes coal black and bloodshot; Like a puppet on a string.

“-at’s all for this evening's forecast ladies and gentlemen, so remember to wrap up warm over the next few nights, 'cause we wouldn’t want you catchin’ a chill'. Back to you, Har-”

Their spine straightened, their shoulders rolled back, and their new meat suit rose. Tall and upright. Still a little crunchy on the inside, definitely not a keeper, but there were plenty of strong and interesting new candidates in the Big Apple for him to look forward to meeting according to the TV.

Excellent.

Time for an adventure, Eddie. Dude-Bro’s face was a little stiff, but they were glad they could finally stretch a wide toothy smile across a face that had a jaw in it again. They hoped it wasn’t too unnatural looking.

“Wouldn’t wanna ruin these good looks of ours. Bro .” Venom complimented the cracked, mirrored shelving. Their reflection was stained a sickly canary yellow from the kitschy LED strip light sticky taped to the back, and Venom hissed a cruel laugh as they walked their puppet out the door and into the quiet blue dawn. 

Later on, no one at Emeryville station paid any attention to the odd behaviour of the guy with the messed-up ponytail and the crooked-sounding walk. Probably the pungent odour of stale alcohol. But anyone watching the CCTV footage would have caught the creepy, thousand-yard stare facing the open doors of the train and likened it to a lion staring down a buffet. 

It was a long way from Emeryville to Chicago, and further on from there to New York… And Venom managed to paste a smile on their face the whole way.

—------

Tribeca, NY - 1 week ago - [Identity Unknown]

Across the continent; heavy, fat cumulus clouds gathered outside the penthouse window overlooking the Hudson from Tribeca. There were two dimly lit beacons floating on the water out there. Lit up white against the backdrop of a grim, purpling sky. The first was Ellis Island; The flatter, red brick architecture of the National Museum sat squat and low on the coastline, bowing down to her more flagrantly ostentatious sister. The bell of the ball-

“-hen in fact, crime statistics have reported a massive influx of undocumented refugees flooding in from the West Coast and the Southern Isles since the blip. And who knows ho-”

“A-Actually Steve, Yeah- thanks for that, that's great,” The news reporter's hand rested on his ear as he listened to a small communications device, slightly distracted from his guest speaker. “Uhm- I believe we have some breaking news Ladies and Gentlemen. From the Liberty Monument, Peter Parker AKA Spider-Man is currently delivering a LIVE announcemen-”

“Hah, ballsy.” The sharply dressed figure said, rolling his drink around. Ice chinked the side of his glass where it tipped lazily, its owner turning it slowly into the light, back and forth, admiring its bright crystal sheen. He’d been wondering where the city's favorite red and blue sideshow attraction was. Although, by the looks of him, all blurred and beat up as he was on his shitty ass phone camera, apparently it was red and BLACK around these parts. He sounded young too. Doubly curious.

The figure stood up when the announcement was cut off. Making his way to the floor-to-ceiling window, he ignored whatever the talking heads had to say next as his eyes scanned the horizon for that famous torc-

Oh, that’s right. Not a torch. A shield . And hadn’t he been fascinated by that little universal disparity? 

The man twirled his drink again, idling his time in contemplation. His other hand casually cradled in the tailored pocket of his dress pants, the lapels of his jacket pushed to the sides, loose and relaxed. The brightest sources of light within his dim apartment were the TV, the light of the fireplace, and the white, chromatic gleam of his watch against the black of his ten thousand dollar suit.

Despite wanting a closer look, it wasn’t his time yet. He took a quick, broad swig of his drink intending to finish the glass… Then almost spat it back out again as he watched that gigantic shield fall and crash its way down The Lady Liberty herself in the distance, thundering its way into the frigid water at the base. Large foams of white exploded upwards towards the monument, swallowing the massive disc which flipped itself upright beneath tumultuous waves, and then sank, slowly, consumed by the depths of the North Atlantic Ocean.

The sky roared a sonorous boom and suddenly a thousand fractalized fissures of lightning split the surface of the clouds. Blue, purple, and primordial white.

“ ...Damn, kid. You don’t do things by half.” He said, slowly. Glass lowered in incredulous awe as he marvelled at the sheer technicolor chaos happening before his eyes behind thick sheets of clear, tempered glass. He was impressed.

The fire popped loudly.

All of a sudden, the fine hairs on the back of his neck shot up, and the timepiece on his arm spread, rapid-fire. Liquid and molten chrome tendrils morphing across his skin and clothes. It sealed into a tight form around his shape just in time to catch a certain orange pinwheel of death from sucking him in all over again. His suit stretched and reached out instinctively to whatever surface he could find. Long artificial tentacles clasping to any porous or bolted surface within grabbing distance. It was just enough this time. Just slightly quicker to respond than before.

He fell to a knee, the heaving, crushing feeling in his chest and brain taking his breath away. His hands formed into fists on the carpet. For a long moment, all he could see was the bright, white crackle of stars behind his eyelids, and when that barely cleared, he caught his reflection in the window. Two brightly glowing beacons stared out from his pupils back at him; Extremis working overtime to burn away the foreign invader in his brain. The fuckin’ thing brute forcing him to unlatch and comply.

Or attempting to anyway. He let out a few hacking, choking gasps and snarled with fury when the sensation didn’t abate. He wanted to stay. He wanted to see more . Learn more. How fucken’ da-

Just as his vision begins to blacken and the tips of his extremities start feeling fuzzy around the edges, be it from blood rush or a clenching vice grip on his circulatory system or what- he is released, and the figure slumps to the floor, exhausted. He wasn’t afraid of getting rug-burn from a carpet with a pile count this high. He was too busy basking in the sweet relief of not being sucked through an interdimensional straw. It was interesting though, cataloging the sensation of a trillion molecularly enhanced synapses un-fucking themselves at once.

Quietly, his armor began to recede towards him, services well rendered.

He lay there, heaving for a long moment. He tried to parse himself to get back up but spread prone across the floor in front of the window, glazed and still slightly glowing eyes swimming in and out of focus, he watched the great, heaving fractures in the sky begin to close themselves back up, and as the first light of dawns rays hit the corners of the room, his own eyes began to shutter. So he stayed.

It didn’t sound like it should be a herculean effort, just staying in one place. But the man was going to wake up with a killer headache all the same.

Chapter Text

177a Bleecker St - Present day - Dr Strange

When Dr Stephen Strange strides into the Sanctorum's second kitchen to grab his favorite mug, his teeth are grinding in withdrawal. The room is less covered in old and woe-begotten spell junk than the first and mostly covered in woe-begotten second-hand kitchen appliances that are old enough to belong to his grandmother instead. 

He’s been feeling off recently. Disrupted sleep and an odd feeling of anxiety that he might be forgetting something have been nipping at his ears for a whole week. He feels like that kid in the first Harry Potter movie, the one who gets the memory ball that turns red when he’s forgotten something, only he doesn’t know what it is he’s forgotten. It’s been driving him crazy. And so today when he woke up, he immediately decided to have a ‘this day is annoying me for no reason at all’ kind of day, an unbearably testing day, and it was only 11 am. 

He reaches for his sweet, savvy wordplay crockery, already dreaming about the aroma, but before his fingers can clasp that disgustingly happy little Fox motif he senses a disturbance. He looks gingerly past his forearm to finally take note of his stalwart friend and semi-boss standing there, silently conducting his own business in a corner, taking no notice of Stephen.

No notice at all.

“I can feel you judging me.” Stephen deadpanned.

He turns, but Wong doesn’t so much as look in his direction.

Stephen could tell though, even if his companion hadn’t pulled a shred of his attention from… Whatever he was doing with that crockpot.

“Oh, come on Wong, it's been a week,” Strange begged. 

“The deal was a month.” Wong intoned, still not looking up from what he was doing. 

Or maybe it was a cauldron? The Supreme was holding several pretty big bags of mixed herbs with one hand and stirring each dip into the pot with the tiniest spoon Stephen had ever seen with the other. A tiny spoon with a long handle.

Stephen still grabbed the cup. But when he turned around and Wong was still being frustratingly stoic with his unfairly harsh criticisms, he sighed and placed it down next to the coffee maker despondently.

Finally, Wong looked up. He didn’t look particularly fazed with his win, but he did raise an eyebrow that Stephen suspected contained a hint of a smirk somewhere in there too.

“Technically I didn't even lose the bet. How can I lose a bet I don't even remember losing?”

“We bet that you couldn't go three weeks without creating significant property damage that magic couldn't fix,” Wong replied as if that justified anything.

“You don’t even know it was me. I don't see any evide-”

“You were found face down and magically exhausted at the top of the Liberty Torch, where the shield should have been.” Wong interrupted. 

Again, completely unjustified.

“That could have been anyone.” Stephen deadpanned in return, having to lift his chin a little to hold the Sorcerer’s stare. “And I could have fixed it. No one would've had to know. The impossibility of fixing it being a parameter of the bet should at least mean I only have to abide by a week and a hal-”

“It was a giant, seventy-foot symbol of patriotism. And sixty five percent of New York watched you light up the night sky like a July fourth parade.” Wong was just too good at staring. Judgingly.

“Mhmh,” Stephen replied, still not breaking the eyeball contest.

“The other thirty five were busy catching it on camera.”

“I still could have fixed it,” Stephen says, weakly. 

Wong's continued glare seemed to portray a deeper level of prejudice without so much as a single facial muscle twitching. Stephen decided to be the chump this time.

“So,” He drawls, “What are you up to?” He finishes, with a falsely perky tone. Masterfully navigating away from the previous topic for his own sake. He fussed around by reaching into their massive 60s-style fridge-freezer for a can of Coke. The thing was practically the size of a Buick, and he hoped one day not to get lost in there. 

He wasn’t going to look at Wong whilst he took his first sip. Sue him, he wasn’t a practicing Doctor anymore. He desperately needed the fix, right here, right now.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” Wong asked, returning to his work. Seemingly busy.

“You're doing spell work? In the kitchen again? Why?”

“I’m using Patchouli. Patchouli belongs in the kitchen.” Wong intoned.

“Patchouli belo-? What are you a hedge witch now?” Stephen asked, bewildered.

“It’s for making tea.” Wong delicately measured out another spoon of the herb and clunked it into the pot. He looked back up at Stephen when he was finished, guilelessly. “You want some?”

“Ugh,” Stephen scoffed, and this time Wong did smirk. “You’re a traitor to true caffeine addicts everywhere.”

“Being addicted to Starbucks blend doesn’t make you a true caffeine addict, Stephen. It makes you basic,” he said, shaking his head in deep sympathy. Then busying himself again, looking deep into his cauldron-pot, “Just like that coffee mug.”

Stephen blinked.

“You don’t prescribe attachments to the material.” Strange mocked, eyes narrow, quoting his friend, and paced over to the side counter to turn on their equally busted TV set. They’d dragged it in here around two weeks ago during what’s now been dubbed as ‘The Tundra Incident’ because it was the warmest room in the Sanctum. They hadn’t bothered to move it yet. “...You wouldn’t get it.”

“I can still have theories about attachments. My theory is that you have an innate need to fill the cupboards with punny memorabilia to compensate for your own deep feelings of comedic impotency.”

“Comedic Impotency? I do not ha- What even is that?” 

Wong continued stirring the pot.

“...People think I’m funny.” Strange said sulkily, taking a long drink of minor victory to appease himself.

The TV static finally cleared once he moved out of the way of the antenna, and Stephen sat creakily on a rickety kitchen stool, only half facing it.

“-iewers should be advised that the following scene is being filmed LIVE and may contain footage not suitable for younger audiences.”

“Thanks, Janette, we’re coming to you from 1st Avenue, where right now, as you can see behind me, mass panic has erupted following the appearance of an as-of-yet unidentified creature. Now, I-I dunno- this is crazy Jan, sources are telling me that this thing broke into the City Morgue first at Bellevue but now appears to be reigning its path of destruction up towar-”

“What the hell is that?” Strange murmured, attention instantly caught by the chaos happening on screen. 

Wong put down the teaspoon and bag, joining Stephen by the counter.

“-an confirm we now have eyes on the creature, I can confirm we have a visual.” The reporter repeated, fingertip touching her in-ear headpiece. And then the screen switched to the bird’s eye view from the news chopper. The monster was completely black, almost too dark for the light to hit it when it blended from shadow to shadow. It didn’t seem to be trying to hide itself at all though, considering it was leaving a trail of what appeared to be…  well, what could only be described as… Viscera in its wake. 

Viscera, a heap tonne of smashed-up cars, and a butt-load of absolutely terrified people.

“Our apologies ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately, this footage does contain some extremely disturbing visuals. So for all the responsible adults out there; please be cautious.” The presenter chimed in grimly.

It picked up a motorcycle and tried to throw it at the chopper, but its balance was ungainly with the weight on its back.

Hanging off its meaty shoulder was a large black garbage bag, leaking its own liquid trail, and containing an amalgamation of large, unidentifiable, misshapen lumps that left one with only the horrific implications of what could be inside. Stephen was already scraping his chair back as Wong gave him a gloomy but resolute pat on the upper arm. 

“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” Wong said, solemnly.

“What? You’re not coming with me?” Strange asked, but he was already stalking over to the kitchen door hook towards his cloak, who came to him with barely a summoning glance. 

“To fight that thing ? Not a chance.” Wong deadpanned, and Stephen couldn’t resist the tutting eyeroll he threw at his friend.

His gaze slipped back from Wong though as he put on the sling ring. Wong’s quiet ‘What the fuck?’ was heard loud and clear as the new Sorcerer Supreme kept his eye back on the TV set, and the old one headed out the metaphorical door. 

He raised his arms to create the portal. Aiming it to throw him out around East 25th on the way to Madison Square Park, in the same direction as the creature. Here goes nothing.

Stephen took a bare second to wonder if he should’ve bullied Wong more for that coffee. He really wasn’t feeling his A-game today, he could sense it. And since he didn’t have his wits about him this morning, running off all cowboy style as he was, he would have to make do with just his courage, his magic, and a little bit of luck. 

The portal whizzed open in front of him, harsh daylight greeting his retinas, and the news anchor’s voice behind him took a sharp up-tick in pitch and tone. Stephen took that as a good indicator that what he was about to find on the other side was about to make his day go from annoying, to a whole lot worse. 

Bracing himself. He stepped through.

—-----

Somewhere in Williamsburg, NY - Present Day - Peter Parker

The first night following one of the most pivotal and traumatizing moments of Peter’s life, (not including all the rest of those types of occasions,) had seen Peter rocking back and forward in his and May’s bathtub back at their apartment. Still untouched and spotless, exactly how they’d left it before they temporarily located over to Happy’s place.

Peter had shuffled in through the door, not the window that time, and was forced to grip the frame when the pain of his injuries and the ache in his heart hit him all at once. He’d looked up into the living room, and it was the innocuous vision of their neat and tidy space together that forced him to choke. Then he’d stumbled and caught sight of the boarded-up window they hadn’t got around to fixing yet since the whole media incident. 

Retrospectively, that brick had been an omen. A cold, unfeeling threat of things to come, smashing into Peter and May’s place of comfort and safety. And it was Peter who had summoned it. 

He’d brought this down on them.

Peter could barely see anything else after that. He’d stripped off the suit as hastily as he could with numb, shaking fingers. His panic gave him one last ‘hurrah’ at ignoring the way the fabric peeled away from the burns, bruises, and bloodied cuts still littering his body. Staggering to the bathroom with harsh, shallow breaths escaping his throat, he’d thrown himself into the tub, hitting the shower button on his way down, and had a full-blown panic attack. 

He’d passed out there too. Because when Peter came around, wet, naked, and shivering under the spray; he’d had a vague memory of his vision going red/black at the edges and the gradual, discomforting feeling of his head swimming as he’d cried and gasped for air. The dizziness, the lack of oxygen, and the devastating heartache of his own actions had gotten to him better than any of his enemies ever had. Even Thanos hadn’t done as much damage to Peter personally as Peter had brought onto himself. As Peter had brought onto May.

A charred figure in red and gold on a silent battlefi-

He couldn’t handle that thought just then. Not if he wanted to get out of the bathtub any time soon.

And he’d needed to move, he didn’t know who or when anyone would be coming to empty the apartment. May, just like him, had no surviving relatives. Happy would’ve been a candidate, Peter thought, they had been dating, so maybe Happy remembered May despite his newly spell-induced amnesia. 

Or maybe he forgot May too, just by association. Peter’s chest had clenched even harder, feeling sick.

Maybe it would be someone from the state, here to catalog her effects after her- her… body was processed and identified at the coroner's office. May would have her prints in the system, Peter realized. He remembered Ben telling him about a couple of bust-ups she’d got into when she was younger, protesting foreclosures on refugee centers in the late 90s. Both Ben and May had laughed, telling him that story. That Ben had loved her for the fire in her.

Peter had a quick flashback of two firmly set, slender shoulders surrounded by burning rubble. Standing in front of a downed Peter, ready to defend him with all the fight and strength in her body. With her life.

And she had.

And then Peter had realized he had maybe the rest of the night at most to reconcile the home he’d made with her before he had to say goodbye to it. For good. He’d lost her, he’d lost his whole life (Oh god Ned and MJ-) and now he had to lose this too.

That had started another round of tears, but thankfully he hadn’t blacked out that time.

When he’d finished, feeling numb and curled up on May’s bed, taking in her scent, he’d pulled the shards of his broken mental state together just long enough to think.

Where does a human being with no home, no money, no job, no family, and no friends go? Peter would have to check if his high school records were even still there. Did Peter Parker exist on paper still? Did he even still have a bank account? All things he needed to know. 

He didn’t even have his phone or laptop to check either. They’d been at Happy’s place when…

Well, the library had internet access at least. So, that’s one for Peter’s brand new mental ‘to-do’ list.

As for the rest, Peter had struggled to contemplate in the moment, but the answer ‘The Streets’ had flashed up in his brain, and the part of him that was still a child had quivered. Like sleeping rough was the scariest goddamned thing Peter would ever face, until he remembered that he was Spider-Man, for all that was worth anymore. Finding a cranny to sleep in and claim as his own space wouldn't be any more of a hardship than the rest of the crap he’d already lived through.

It would be tough, but he’d make it. 

Thousands of other humans in the city were rough sleepers, and Peter had an instant, bolstering moment of self-admonishment. Thousands of other humans had been through this moment of rock bottom. Well... Maybe not under the exact same circumstances, but still. Rock Bottom. And they were owed absolutely no judgment for the means by which they have to survive. May Parker wouldn’t have stood for that.

Thinking of May though, as painful as it was, reminded Peter of the F.E.A.S.T centers across New York. 

F.E.A.S.T, the acronym standing for Food, Emergency Aid, Shelter & Training, was a non-profit organization started during the blip. May had taken up a job there part-time, and as far as Peter knew, she’d shared her time with them across a few different community centers set up around New York. Scattered between Queens proper, down towards Brooklyn, and then back up toward Astoria and Long Island. He’d made a mental note of their locations so that if he ever needed to find her in an emergency, he’d know where to look.

He’d actually visited the one in Garden Hills though, a few times even, as it was the center closest to their apartment. He’d even done a little cameo as Spider-Man for it in an advertisement as a gift for May. In fact, Peter remembered, that was how Norman Osbo-

His jaw had clenched.

So… The Garden Hills F.E.A.S.T center was out.

That left two others to choose from, once he’d pulled himself together.

Shelving his train of thought on shelters for just then, he’d also realized that effective immediately, he’d had exactly one night, in fact, not even that- just a scant handful of hours, to go through his own effects. And Ben and May’s effects, to decide what he wanted to keep.

And what he’d have to leave behind.

His heart had immediately wanted to keep everything, of course. All the memorabilia that had been cultivated with love and care over his seventeen years of living. He’d wanted ALL the items he could find within reach that had a memory attached to it. He’d wanted an apartment full of reminders of what he’d had. Of May, and Uncle Ben. Of their family unit.

But, logistically speaking, he’d only been able to take what he could afford to carry.

And it had been a long night from there. Despite all of the pain, exhaustion, and adrenaline withdrawal from the previous 72 hours, Peter hadn’t slept a wink.

So, here he was now. A week later, staring up at the new tenement block he would be calling his home for the foreseeable future, holding a sixty by forty cardboard box containing his whole life up to this point, waiting for his new landlord. 

There were a few trash bags full of clothes and other items he could afford to lose if they were stolen as well, but they were webbed up on a rooftop back in Brooklyn, waiting for Peter to come and grab them. He’s been checking on them daily to make sure they didn’t go missing.

He owed a lot to the F.E.A.S.T center in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn. It had taken him a couple of days to have the strength to go in, but when he’d finally got around to using that library card, he’d found his fears confirmed. His existence had been wiped from all electronic records since birth. No social security, no bank account, and even his high school report cards had been wiped from Midtown Tech and his middle school's online databases. The single night he’d spent curled up under an awning on the roof of his old school, shivering, hungry, dirt poor, and shell-shocked, had been harrowing enough that Peter had decided to pursue F.E.A.S.T as his gateway to finding access to appropriate accommodation pronto. 

And food. His stomach had reminded Peter of that pretty quickly.

Speaking of owing a lot, Peter watched as Mr Cruz exited through the main entrance to the building and made his way down the steps towards Peter, the door closing behind him. In one hand he was holding a folder that seemed to be overflowing with paperwork, stuffed full enough that he had to palm it and tuck in somewhat under his armpit to clamp it all together, in his other, a ring of jangling keys that he was fingering his way through as he came towards Peter, a smile on his tanned, weathered face.

Ismael ‘Izzy’ Cruz, was a kind older man of Mexican descent who had been working at the Prospect Heights community center the day Peter had arrived at their doorstep, weather-worn, downtrodden, and with a weary look in his eye that looked more attacked than trusting. He hadn’t noticed Peter at first, but when he’d done a few rounds in the center cantina, handing out food and checking in on the newcomers and volunteers, he’d spotted Peter from across the room and decided he looked just this side of edgy enough that he wanted a turn with him.

Mr Cruz had a prior history of incarceration lasting from 1998 through to the 2010’s, and when he’d got himself right, he’d decided to pledge his living towards helping ex-convicts have access to shelter and job prospects. Turns out he had worked with May a few times on a professional basis, volunteering part-time at F.E.A.S.T centers in Brooklyn and keeping a keen eye out for any shadier lookin’ types to foster and take under his wing.

Peter feels criminally guilty about a lot of things that led him to his situation, so he thinks that’s pretty appropriate.

“Look kid, can I call you Peter? I don’t know what your circumstances are. And if you don’t want me to ask questions then I won’t, I don't need to be up in your business like that if you don’t want me to, but there has to be someone for you to go to for help. And when people come in here without that? The way you have? Well, that's why I’m here, amigo.”

After Mr Cruz had sat with him to talk and introduce himself, he’d shown himself to be a discerning man. Stern, but very kind-hearted. 

Despite trying to be as elusive as possible about his circumstances, (his lack of social security number would raise a few eyebrows he imagined, and telling Mr Cruz that Peter was only 17 would’ve potentially gotten the state involved,) Peter had been so short on gentle human contact recently that he’d slipped up in conversation, only briefly mentioning May’s first name and unconsciously showing his knowledge of F.E.A.S.T, and Mr Cruz had somehow put two and two together. 

He’d still seemed able to tell that Peter was going to be keeping his privacy private though, and decidedly didn’t ask why a random relation of May Parker was where he was now and not back home helping arrange a funeral for her.

Hearing about May’s recent passing had saddened the older man though. He had called her “A real nice lady, with a good heart” and made Peter’s own heart clench in return. After that, Peter told him that he didn’t have a place to live, and Mr Cruz became determined to help Peter. He’d promised to look through his own vacancy programs to see if there was any accommodation available for him and help him get set up, though he’d apologized profusely about the fact that it might take him some time to find something. 

Peter hadn’t minded though. A few more nights on the streets of his home city seemed a lot brighter with a small flickering candle of hope in his chest.

So Mr Cruz had gone on his way with Peter in mind. Letting Peter know his work pattern in the community center once he found out Peter didn’t have a phone so that Peter could catch up with him a couple of days later. And, when he had, it had been with good news.

“Hey Pedro. You manage to find the place alright?” Mr Cruz said, smiling wide and shifting the keys onto a finger of his opposite, overly full hand so he could reach out and give Peter a friendly pat on the shoulder, lingering while moving to stand next to him on the sidewalk.

“Um- Yes sir. I mean, yeah Mr Cruz, I managed to get here just fine.” Peter laughed awkwardly. “The area seems… nice?”

Mr Cruz snorted in good humor, he gave his shoulder one last friendly squeeze before letting go. The keys he had shifted ended up back in his free hand while he searched and picked out two specific keys and started unhooking them from the main ring gingerly with the other.

“It’s okay, kid. I know the area ain’t anything to be writing home about.” He said, knowingly. “It’s a little rough around the edges maybe, but I’ve gotten to know a few of the locals around here, good people. And they tell me that the amenities are decent, neighbors keep to themselves, and most importantly; The best burger joint in the city is just a few blocks that’a’way. ” He finished, pointing a finger down the street with a small grin on his face.

Peter laughed a little in reply, the tension in his neck easing “That sounds great, Sir.” He said.

“What’s with the ‘Sir’ thing anyway? You’re too polite to be dealing with the likes of me,” Mr Cruz said with a little wave of his key-laden hand at Peter, teasing. “You call me ‘Izzy’ or even ‘Ismael’ if you have to.” He finished, though his face told Peter which he’d prefer.

“Only if you call me Peter, Mr Cruz,” Peter smiled back, a little embarrassed to be called out.

But Ismael’s face was soft when he tapped Peter's shoulder again, gently this time, and with the back of his knuckles since his fist was still laden with the now separated keys.

“Okay then Pete,” He said and held out the small ring to Peter, who shuffled the box under an arm quickly so he could grab it in his own hand. “How’s about we give you the tour huh?”

“Thanks,” Peter said, moving forward a step behind Ismael when he beckoned him towards the entranceway, and then stepping in line with him when they reached the short stairway. 

Peter took a deep breath and prepared himself to say hello to his new home. Reaching out with the key fob to ‘bleep’ them both into the building, and Ismael opened the door for him.

The tour took a good half hour of Ismaels time, pointing out the shared laundry room and functional spaces in the basement of the complex, and talking him through the entrance and fire exit points of the building. One of the Washing machines had an ‘out of order’ sign sticky taped to the front, which reminded Ismael to give Peter a list of numbers to call in the event of a maintenance requirement in any of the shared spaces, including the elevator, which Izzy then told Peter tended to go down every few weeks so tenants tended to avoid it if possible. Peter briefly considered mentioning that he was handy in a pinch, but figured the other tenants of the building might not appreciate having a random teenager taking apart their washer/dryers so soon without getting to know him first.

After that, they took the stairs to Peter’s new apartment. 

The corridors of the building looked aged and worn, the magnolia and dark green paint chipping away and desperately needing a fresh coat. Carpets beaten by years of foot traffic. Peter’s sensitive hearing caught a couple arguing behind closed doors, and the sound of a crying infant over a loud TV in another. It looked… pretty dismal.

He was trying his hardest not to let himself be disheartened at all, he wasn’t a brat. But he was still struggling a little to acclimate this as his new norm.

Then on their way up, like a ray of sunshine on a bleak morning, Peter managed to share a smile with a younger kid, maybe 10 or 11,  sitting out by the stairs a couple of floors below his, drawing in his sketchbook and listening to music on his headphones. They nodded at each other, all cool-like, and just that small interaction made Peter feel a little lighter.

A few moments later, they were at his door.

His new apartment was, like the area, nothing to write home about. But Peter was so breathlessly grateful to Ismael then that he didn’t let even a smidgeon of his sadness show on his face.

Ismael once again walked him through the apartment's amenities, showing him that the fridge had been filled with some of the food donations from the center, and after that, had him sign some forms. Though there weren’t many, considering Peter’s desire to remain as anonymous as possible and Izzy’s desire to accommodate his circumstances. Mostly just to say that Peter would keep regular checkups with Ismael so they could get him on track and discuss rent when he was financially stable.

Which reminded Peter.

“Hey, Izzy?” Peter asked tentatively before the man could leave. 

Ismael stopped shuffling his giant book of papers, now containing Peter’s own name, and looked up.

“I uh- I dunno when I’m going to be able to pay you back for all this,” Peter said, haltingly, and he let some of that guilty feeling in his stomach finally show on his face. “But I- If there's anything I can do for you until then you gotta let me know man… I can’t thank you enough.” He finished, gesturing around the space. 

Ismael’s expression relaxed, humbled, and he wrestled a final time with his giant ring-binder, picking it up to go. 

He strolled back up to Peter on his way out and stopped to look him in the eye.

“You’ll get there Pete,” He told Peter. “And don’t worry about that for now, okay? That can come later, kid. You just take each day as it comes, one step at a time, and you’ll get there.” Peter nodded, touched.

“Just don’t forget to check in okay?” Izzy finished, quick and fond.

“...You got it,” Peter replied, swallowing against a sudden tide of emotion in his throat. The earnest sentiment must have bled into his tone though, because Ismael gave him one last pat on the shoulder before he left, taking his kindness with him, and leaving Peter in his new space.

It took Peter around a quarter hour to come to terms with his new living space. He’d brought his box in from the corridor where he’d left it as soon as Ismael headed out, and decided he wasn’t going to unpack it until he’d had something to eat and retrieved the rest of his items from where he’d left them back in Prospect. 

They’d originally been webbed up to a water tower back in Forest Hills, but Peter’s journey between Brooklyn and Queens everyday to check on them had gotten old fast. So he’d decided to spend a day traipsing each bag to a roof closer to the community center to kill some time. He’d contemplated swinging them through the city, but figured he needed to conserve web fluid now more than ever, and web slinging in his still busted suit with an unwieldy trash bag would have been more annoying than anything else, so he’d walked.

And now he would have to walk again, to bring them here. There was an old cat shaped clock above the fridge, left behind by the old tenants no doubt, that appeared to be working. It read 9:50am. The same time that was showing under the cracked glass of his own watch. Still accurate then.

Estimating it would probably take him an hour to hoof his stuff back if he could carry all three bags at once, he grabbed his keys and a protein bar from the stocked fridge, firming his jaw, and set off. The artistic kid was gone when he headed back down the staircase, so Peter made a note to say hi to him if he saw him again. Other than that the hallways were empty, neighbors keeping to themselves as Izzy had promised.

He hit the sidewalk, determined.

By the time Peter reached Gates Avenue and was jumping up to grab the fire escape ladder leading to his designated rooftop, he found he’d actually made better time than he’d thought. Purpose had driven him to walk a little faster than he’d intended. Hopefully no one noticed, and if they did, hopefully they’d just think he had someplace to be in a rush. 

He climbed his way to the top, praying that his stuff was still where he left it. And when he stepped over the final rung of the maintenance ladder bolted to the wall separate to the fire escape, he was once again steeped in deep gratitude and relief that it was all there. The gray plastic of his and May’s brand of garbage disposal gleamed in the morning sun, slightly dewey from last night's shower, but intact and seemingly untouched.

Peter spared a little bit of his web fluid to lower each one to the alley floor below. Discreetly. Constantly checking that no one was looking or coming around the corner. Then he lowered himself back down the old fashioned way, still being conservative. He needed to find a way to manufacture more web formula fast, and while he was at it, repair his suit.

He still wanted to be Spider-Man. After everything he’d been through and suffered for it, being a superhero was the only thing he had left that gave him purpose. Helping people would give him a purpose. He just… Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Too nervous to face the emotions that would come with donning the emblem again. Not to mention his lack of resources right now to do anything about the patch job required to get KAREN back up and running. Electro having fried her capacity to activate inside the suit. God, he wished KAREN could respond to him just then. He prayed with his whole heart that once he did have her re-activated, she would respond to him at all following the spell. It was risky, she could lock him out and make the suit inaccessible beyond his manual controls, but he had to try.

All in good time though. It was moving day first.

After much weaving and apologies to people having to dodge out of his way on the pavements between Prospect Heights and Williamsburg, he finally reached the entrance of his accommodations again. And he took the stairs two at a time, trying to ignore the personal dramas of his new neighbors on each floor level he passed. 

That was made a little difficult when he reached his own floor and could hear the loud echo of a TV blaring right into the corridor however… Someone had their door open. And as Peter rounded the corner, he realized that it was coming from the apartment opposite his own.

Bracing himself for a hello, Peter stepped up to the space between their place and his, putting his bags down in front of his door. Subtly looking upwards, not wanting to be nosy, and fingering his keys at the same time like Ismael had done so they’d understand why he was standing outside the open doorway. 

An elderly East-Asian lady stared back at him from her couch, hand paused in the air above her coffee table, about to affix a jigsaw piece into a large puzzle that… actually looked pretty hard.

“H-hey.” Peter said, waving awkwardly with his key laden hand. “Uh- I’m Peter, you’re new neighbor?” He finished, though the slight uptick at the end made him sound unsure about it.

She looked back down at her puzzle without saying anything, and after a second of standing there, ignored, Peter felt pretty stupid about waiting for a reply.

Discouraged, he turned back to his own door and let himself in, taking the bags one by one until the apartment finally contained everything he owned. Despite the cold reception, Peter left the door open, happy to hear signs of life from his neighbors TV set. It sounded like she was watching the news, something about a multiple homicide being discovered on a train carriage in Pittsburgh a few days ago. He checked the time on the cat clock. 11 am. 

Time to start unpacking.

Taking a bag and splitting it open, pouring his clothes onto the couch messily, he took stock of items he was going to need when he could get a hold of them. Cleaning supplies, fresh sheets, more trash bags to use for actual garbage disposal, that kind of thing. Though the next bag he made sure to open up without tearing, realizing he could reuse and recycle the two he had left, and sent a silent apology to MJ for forgetting that in the first place. Smaller items he’d kept on his person in the box. Soap, toothbrush and toothpaste and the like. If he couldn’t sleep on fresh bedsheets at least he could have basic hygiene. He could cope with a bare mattress for now.

Across the hallway, the news anchor switched to breaking news, but Peter was a little too distracted to pay too much attention. He started shuffling through the haulage.

The rest of the box was filled with the really important stuff. The photos he’d decided to keep, some of Aunt May’s perfume, uncle Ben’s camera, his web shooters and suit, souvenirs from Ned and MJ, a little mechanical Spider figure Mr Stark had gotten him as a gift during his fake ‘Welcome to the internship day,’ and the goofy photo that came with it; Peter holding his ‘certificate’ upside down, and Tony doing bunny ears behind Peters head. All the memorabilia he just… couldn’t part with. An item for each person he’d lost. He even kept a recipe book that was a joke from Happy, saying that since he was starting college soon he’d “need to know how to cook like a bachelor on a pawpers budget.” 

That book would come in more handy to Peter now than Happy would ever know.

Sighing and delicately folding the final empty trash bag, he looked over the sprawl of his items piled up on the tattered sofa, trying to figure out where to put them all with some sense of order in the space.

“ -a path of destruction up towards Madison Square Park, and there are people everywhere tryna get away from this thing. Stations telling me that they’re getting the chopper up in the air now so they can follow it’s trajectory. Hopefully there's someone who can take this thing on and catch it, because things are looking pretty bleak from here.” A reporter's voice blares from across the hallway.

Peter stops what he’s doing, and all the hairs on his body stand on end.

“Station has the chopper in the air Barry, I can confirm we now have eyes on the creature,” A presenters voice cuts in. “I can confirm we have a visual.”  

“Thanks, Jan. I’ll leave it to you.”

The narration goes quiet for a moment, and Peter assumes they’re switching over to the bird's eye view. He’s already stumbling his way to the open doorway of his neighbors apartment and lingering there, she’s looking at the TV as well.

“Our apologies ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately, this footage does contain some extremely disturbing visuals. So for all the responsible adults out there; please be cautious.”

Rightly so, Peter has no idea what to make of the thing he’s seeing on the TV screen. It’s dark and massive. Shaped like a man, but with incredible strength and dexterity if the thrown cars and giant leaps to evade capture are any indication. Red and blue’s follow it down the streets where they can, patrol cars getting tangled and twisted in the pile ups it's causing, if they don’t get turned around in New York’s regular traffic as it weaves nimbly around corners and dodges their attempts. It’s leaving a grizzly trail in its wake.

His neighbor turns her head, finally spotting him.

“shénme guǐ?” She says, surprised. And Peter nervously glances between her and the TV, pulse jumping.

“U-uh I-” He tries to explain himself, but before he can he hears the news presenter gasp and his eyes are yanked back towards the TV, palms starting to sweat when the lady stands up in his periphery looking irritated.

“Oh my god.” The presenter looks gobsmacked, one half of the broadcast showing her sitting pretty behind the news desk, made-up face fallen slack and eyes wide. The other half of the screen shows a cut out window of the live feed from the chopper, and there’s something on it that has her struck. Peter vaguely makes out a white dot weaving in and out between the buildings, obviously in pursuit of- “Is that…?”

“Gǎnjǐn líkāi zhèlǐ!” His neighbor snaps, while he stands there, riveted.

“I’m- I’m really sorry, it's just that-'' He tries saying, but can't take his eyes off the screen. He can make out the figure now, gleaming chrome and white from head to toe, three sources of condensed heat trailing behind them. Boosters, just like-

“Rúguǒ nǐ wǔ miǎo zhōng nèi bù líkāi wǒ de mén, wǒ jiù dǎ nǐ!” She advances towards Peter angrily just as he gets his clearest picture of the newcomer yet. He stumbles back a bit more into the hallway as the camera zooms in on him, and Peter cranes his neck. It's not Colonel Rhodes, he thinks, the armor looks too sleek for that, and last he’d heard the Iron Patriot was off-world with the Guardians. It’s not anyone Peter knows, that’s for sure. In fact, besides the new paint job, it looks an awful lot like-

“It’s Superior! ” Someone in the newsroom shouts, and there’s an eruption of applause.

“...What the fuck.” Peter croaks. But the lady doesn’t answer. She’s too busy slamming the door in his face instead. Leaving him bereft and just this side of desperate for information. 

He runs back into his own apartment and slams the door, grabbing his web shooters and the busted up backpack containing his equally tattered suit as quickly as he can. He does a quick, frantic spin around to make sure he’s not forgetting anything, feeling out of sorts. The outside of the building hasn’t been scoped out yet to check for cameras, so he doesn’t want to leave through the window. He concedes that he’ll just have to change in the alley next door, not something he isn’t used to. 

He removes his jacket and runs back out into the hallway with his burden, locking up behind him as quickly as possible. Motions so frantic he almost drops his keys. And as he races his way down the staircase for the second time that day, taking the steps two at a time, he’s got one thought ping-ponging its way around his brain that just won't stop biting at him.

‘Who the hell is Superior? ’ 

Chapter Text

[Earth-836] Hells Kitchen, NY - 2 Weeks ago - Riverside Quay [Roxxon Cache]

“We’re preparing the start-up sequence now Mr Fisk.” One of the white-coated techs said absently, too engrossed in his work to turn to the figure on the viewing platform. Wilson Fisk painted a large and looming presence at the front of the control room, but as it was, no one in this facility would pay him any mind. Too drawn to the lure of scientific discovery. And that was the way Wilson liked it. He’d watch the sparrows toiling to build the nest the cuckoo lays its eggs in. At least they seemed just as anticipatory for results as he was.

“Have we received any initiation data from ATLAS yet?” Another tech asked the first, twittering away in excitement.

Wilson continued to ignore the offal in the room, his flat, burning gaze too intent on the colossal structure behind the convexed, floor to ceiling sheet of glass offering a spectacular view of the machine that would soon act as his Becoming. His new world order. His chance at a new beginning.

Vanessa. 

He felt the sidling presence of a viper at his back. The sound of Olivia’s heels clicking against the smooth floors a fair warning to her moving into his space. He wasn’t concerned. She had her own part to play in this, and she’d been well compensated.

Mr Poindexter and Mr Davis however, his two newly hired contractors, shifted on the balls of their feet. Eyes keen on the hand that she dragged up Wilsons spine.

“Looking forward to seeing the spoils of our hard work, Mr Fisk ?” She purred, stepping up to his side to look out of the same window that contained the sum of his aspirations. Her motivation was the science of discovery itself. The discovery of a new reality. She wanted to explore and measure and hypothesize her way through an entire universe that would be at her beck to plunder. She would distract herself with the massive piles of data soon to be laid at her feet.

Whilst he would be the one ruling it.

“It couldn’t have come sooner, Dr Octavius.” He replied, monotone. The sound of his graveled voice seemed to thrum in the brightly lit space their team occupied. Though he never needed to raise his voice.

“Well, perfection shouldn’t be rushed, dear.” She smiled, “And this is perfection. I’ve never seen anything so spectacular,” she was looking at the monitors displayed above the wide curvature of the glass now. Several incredibly complex read-out’s ascended across the screens with no rhyme or reason that Wilson could tell. But she could read it. And what she saw had her breathless and clasping her hands together in excitement, bouncing on the balls of her tall boots. Her moods were too mercurial for his tastes.

“We’re so close.” She breathed, eyes wide when she stepped away from Wilson and towards the edge of the viewing platform.

Wilson began to feel the simmering excitement bubble in his chest, echoing hers, though he didn’t show it. He held no love for the psychotic genius, in fact, he couldn’t wait to be rid of her, but she’d done her job spectacularly well. And in just a few short minutes, they would be beginning the countdown sequence to their new horizon. Seeking the new territory which would be the manufacturing ground for an army. His army. Under his control, not that licentious ingrate parading himself around in a Tin Can. Wilson gnashed his teeth at the thought of him. Their preponderant dictator. The lofty authoritarian and his fabricated legion of scouts and butchers. Oh, how Fisk envied him. 

But not for much longer.

“U-um, Miss Olivia?” One of the techs chimed up, female, timid, and afraid to look Wilson’s way.

His mountainous attention was drawn to her anyway, not happy with his anticipation interrupted, and Olivia tutted again at his expression, before cooing at the tech, who’d flinched.

“Really now-” 

“What is it?” He spoke for the lead scientist. Interrupting her simpering garbage.

“W-well, it-it’s just that I- think there may be a problem with the second quadrant of the Beam Pipe.” She cringed at first, rushing the words out to the last. Like ripping a bandaid off a wound.

Both Wilson and Olivia stood and stared at her for a brief moment. His gaze full of cold, eternally simmering fire and her face in paused refrain, before her lips turned down and her eyes narrowed in venomous irritation. 

“...Why?” She hissed.

“I-it’s not sending back any of the presets we were expe-!” Her voice squeaked up several octaves as Octavius stormed her way across the room towards her, grabbing the back of her chair and shoving it out of her path with the poor girl still in it.

“Get out of the way!” She spat, interrupting the techs rambling before she could finish.

Wilson felt his hackles rise in furious dread. Of course, there would be a setback. Of. Course. He thought, livid.

Poindexter and Davis shifted behind him. The taller, quieter man looming closer in response to his anger, whilst the more diminutive of the two tilted his head and leaned into his slouch a little more casually. The white titanium of his blade dancing a slow, meandering figure eight between his thumb and forefingers. Eyes keen. The other hand resting casually on the handgun strapped to his flack jacket, a similarly gleaming SIG Sauer P226.

Olivia bent her upper half over the computer screen in front of her, face inches away from it, focused. Wilson waited for her verdict, and soon enough, she straightened with a seethingly suspicious look in her eye, and snapped her head towards another tech, a young man this time, who was monitoring the angles of the collider room. Watching as the last of the personnel ambled their way towards the exit in preparation for the countdown sequence via CCTV.

“You.” She barked. “Pull up the internal cameras for HC Quad Two. And throw it on the monitors.” She added, marching back towards Kingpin. As soon as she reached his side again both of their heads collectively snapped up towards the displays. Keen to find the problem.

The image flashed up. And they were staring at an empty tunnel.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed once again, and she stepped a little closer to the monitors. Intent.

It was quiet.

“There.” She pointed, abruptly. 

Wilsons gaze flashed when he caught sight of what she’d seen. A small dot of red and blue, crawling his way up the side of the immense surface of the beam pipe wall. 

“Spider-Man.” He snarled, lowly.

Bullseye whistled lowly from the back of the room, clicking his tongue as if impressed.

“Can you fry him?” He asked Olivia, who was making her way back over to the desks. The techs had all backed away from the scene, instinctively sensing Doc Ock’s festering need to take charge of the situation so she could count the variables.

She clacked away on one of the keyboards quickly, pulling up a second camera angle from within the chamber and zooming in on the external control panel in section two. The wires, usually tucked away neatly behind a reinforced cover to avoid tampering, were spilled out and sparking towards the floor like overfilled spaghetti.

“Unfortunately not,” she gritted out.

Wilson felt the molten pit of anger in his stomach writhe in containment. He wanted to explode. His head bowed and his fists curled, clenching and unclenching in impotent need to break something. His pulse thrummed, thick and pulsating, in the sides of his neck and his temples. His breathing deepened to a meditational level of control. 

Control.

He needed control.

Prowler finally slinked close enough to put himself in Kingpin’s periphery, and Bullseye holstered his knife, standing to attention, waiting.

Fisk’s head lifted, and though he was outwardly calm. His eyes burned.

“Deal with it.” He ordered.

They slinked out of the room at his command, no further instruction required, and Wilson felt a brief flush of welcome gratitude amidst the fire in his chest. There was a reason he’d hired those two. They both, individually, came highly recommended. No expense could be spared for enforcement that was as independent, efficient and lethal as they were. Capable of getting the job done right with only the barest of instructions.

They were well suited to this task, and there was a reason he had hired them.

His gaze focused back in on the two-toned menace webbing his way up to the exit of the accelerator chamber.

A very applicable reason.

“No… NO!” Olivia shouted from across the room, and the clicking of her sharp-tipped nails against the keyboard sped up to a rapid pace.

Wilson felt a vein in his temple pop in internal vexation.

“What. Now.” He ground.

“The sensors,” She snarled, sounding desperate. “I can’t override them from here. We need all the quadrants up and coordinating the preset data before ATLAS can fire. With one down we’re dead in the water.” 

She straightened, sucking in a livid breath through her nose. 

“I’m going as well.”

“Doctor-” Fisk rumbled, but the lead scientist did little more than flash him a stubborn glare as she stripped off her lab coat and, cracking her neck side to side, allowed those long, dextrous beasts of hers out. The sharp, staggered tines chinking and clacking together as they stretched loosely, dancing wickedly around her shoulders. Adjusting themselves to their newfound freedom. 

The pincers turned towards Wilson, and for a second, whilst he stared at the sinister red gleams of light trapped between their claws, it felt like they were staring right back.

“I need to fix this.” She said, resolute. And then she was gone.

Wilson sighed in frustration. His gaze met the faces of the three techs left in the room. All of them scrambled to return to their desks. Avoiding his eyes.

“Keep a close eye on the monitors. And watch the data like a hawk, I wanna know what the arachnids been up to.” He commanded.

“Yes, sir.” They each said.

Just as they’d organized themselves into somewhat of a cohesive unit, a short series of loud echoing pops sounded from beyond the glass, drawing his attention. 

The web slinger was visible to him now. And Bullseye seemed content to let him know his presence had been noticed.

He watched as they danced before his eyes, rapid fire blows traded between them where shots of web couldn't reach and knives couldn’t pierce. Both too well-versed in their individual styles of combat for an easy take down. Poindexter seemed aware that any more ill aimed gunfire could be disastrous for his boss. Good.

As the Spiders' back was turned, narrowly avoiding a slice from Bullseye's knife, Prowler made his debut. Sticking to the shadows of the room, the bright lenses of his enforcers mask glowed in readiness. And with one great lunge, fast as lightning, he shot forward. Dagger tipped gloves just narrowly missing the webhead by a fraction of an inch as he performed a truly inspired twist in mid-air. He landed nimbly, but didn’t pause to re-assess. That eerie pre-cognition of his seemed to adjust at breakneck pace to the new variable in the room.

But he hadn’t noticed the third. 

Olivia sauntered her way around the edge of the ante-chamber, boots click clacking on the metal rung balcony of the observation deck that circumferenced the collider. She B-lined for the sparking control box from her elevated position, taking a second to observe the three men in combat, and then those artificial limbs of hers stretched out and took a firm hold of the balcony railing, lifting and then lowering her to the floor below. When her boots hit the surface this time, distance from the control room made them silent, but with the way Spider-Man was prioritizing trying not to get pin-cushioned, Wilson didn't think he’d even noticed her.

Which was a mistake.

Olivia and her four enhanced robotic arms made quick work of the sparking mass of wires, doing something to tie them off and get them re-hooked up to the main control board, and then she disappeared up the side of the collider hastily. Dipping in through the panel the Spider had entered.

Bullseye and Prowler continued their threeway tango with the menace, both equally matched in distance and close combat capabilities. 

The pair of them toyed with the webslinger, keeping him confined to a limited area of the chamber, tiring him, and not allowing him leeway to utilize the vast pace. Switching off on range, they kept him on his toes, Poindexter quickly nipping beyond Spider-Man’s reach to throw his gleaming knives with unnerving accuracy while the vigilante narrowly dodged them, attention kept by Davis, whose terrifying gauntlets and pneumatic footwear gave him a lethal and fast upper-edge in hand to hand. Not allowing him time to web himself fully away from their dual assault.

They really were worth every penny.

“The sensors are back online!” One of the techs exclaimed, excited.

So, Olivia had worked her magic.

“Are we receiving data from all four quadrants?” He asked.

“Yes, Sir. Sequencing analytics look good on all quarters. We’ll be ready to start syncing and preparing the HC Accelerator in just a moment.” They replied, occupied with their computer once again.

“Hurry it up,” Kingpin said, continuing to watch the festivities below. Not waiting for their response.

Spider-Man seemed to be in a spot of trouble. Both Prowler and Bullseye had worn him down into a corner, backed up against the gigantic structure behind him.

He tried to go for a leap, but just as he reached a good height of around ten or so feet above their heads; a pair of long segmented appendages shot through the air and snatched him by the waist and neck. Coiling and wrapping around his lean form quickly enough that he couldn’t squirm away.

Olivia lowered herself down the rest of the way from her perch, Poindexter and Davis backing up for her approach. She said something to the Spider, dragging a sharp, pointed nail tip along his masked face while he struggled, before brutally lifting him into the air and slamming him into the concrete floor of the collider room. Once, twice, then three times. Disorienting him.

Wilson still thought the good Doctor to be a troublesome woman. But perhaps he could afford her some leniency. 

She really was.. Quite brilliant.

She had the good sense not to release the vigilante when she was through with him as well. Instead, she raised him up into the air for observation, weak and dangling from her grip, then she turned her head. Giving the Kingpin an enquiring look through the thick glass between them.

Kingpin, pleased about the turn of events, beckoned her up. She nodded, once, and started making her way towards the balcony stairs. 

Prowler and Bullseye followed her six, keeping a close eye on her captive.

“The ATLAS preset coordinates are ready for loading now, Sir. Would you like me to begin initiation?”

“Yes I would,” He rumbled. Following the group's trajectory, Wilson turned away from the observation deck window and towards the door, eager to greet their uninvited guest. The boiling wrath festering in his chest had dulled to a simmer from his team's win, but he wasn’t dumb enough to think the Spider had given up just yet.

The door opened, and Wilson knew exactly how he was going to take the wind out of those irritating sails.

Dock Ock looked pleased as punch with herself, not letting go of her bounty for even a second. She ran a hand through her hair flagrantly as she sauntered through the door, the trapped vigilante trailing behind her in mid-air. Tightly constricted.

“I caught a rat, dearest, can you believe it?” She simpered towards Wilson mockingly, “In our house?” 

With a tut of her tongue, she lifted her captive high into the air, and then slammed him into the hard floor at Kingpin's feet. Still keeping her limbs coiled around his arms and torso, but freeing his neck so he could cough freely. The audible, gasping groan that was forced from behind the mask on impact was music to his ears.

“Oh? Right you are Doctor,” Wilson replied, indulging her. 

He lowered slowly into a crouch, looming over the downed hero and clasping the back of his skull with a meaty palm. The Spider faced him bravely, masked lenses meeting his gaze head-on. Unafraid.

Wilson slammed his head into the floor, just to hear the thud.

When he lifted his palm back off, Spider-Man still kept up that kitschy heroic bravado of his, meeting Kingpin's eyes once again, slurring “...M’not a rat. Mh’a Spider.” With a woozy huff of laughter. 

Irritating. 

Still Irritating.

Kingpin grabbed him by the back of the head again, but this time, instead of the floor, the arachnid's face meets Wilson's fist. Which hit a whole hell of a lot harder.

Wilson felt something crunch under the mask, and it egged him on. Each breathless, wet-sounding gasp and cry of pain egged him on. Olivia egged him on. Laughing as she lifted the spider higher so Kingpin could start laying those unyieldingly powerful strikes to his stomach and lower torso, unashamedly re-arranging the pests guts in fury.

When Fisk finally stopped, Spider-Man croaked weakly and retched a little. Not quipping any longer.

Dock Ock lowered him down to a kneel. Prostrate and panting. The front of the mask looked wet. Though from blood, spit, or vomit Wilson couldn’t tell.

He contemplated pulling off the covering so he could see the mess he’d left behind it. But he paused to take stock of the room now that his vision had stopped pulsing red. Bullseye was leering, eyes wide, looking entertained. Prowler was as silently observant as ever, and all the techs in the room were quiet as the grave. Not allowing themselves to look at the downed hero.

Just as Fisk reached forward towards the edge of the mask, one of them found their confidence.

“M-Miss Olivia?” It was the same female tech as before, brave enough to speak up yet again. “We’re ready to begin the initiation sequence. Would you like us to set the countdown?” She said, voice high and nervous, but her chin was tilted upwards. Set.

Both Wilson and Dr Octavious paused, staring at her in a strange echo of before. Then Olivia shifted and smiled joyously in her direction.

“That would be fabulous Fatima, thank you.” She smiled and then turned her stare towards Wilson. “I would like to get this show on the road,” she added, and there was something sharp about her tone that annoyed him.

But Wilson had had his fill anyway. He too was keen to finally see the penultimate realization of his goals. And the simmer in his chest had finally been snuffed out with calm. The vermin was done.

He backed away, giving a considering glance towards his associate in crime.

“Go ahead, Doctor Octavius.” He acquiesced, nodding his head to her in respect. 

She turned back to her worker bees and gestured to get on with it. They immediately flurried into action, caught on an anticipatory wind. Olivia and he both stepped up to the viewing platform, and she dragged the Spider along behind them.

“Initiating sequence.” One of the male techs said, and Kingpin felt his pulse jump. Thumping with new excitement. It was finally happening. 

“Firing ATLAS in T-minus 10… 9…”

He turned to Spider-Man then, to see if he was paying attention. Those eye-lenses were facing the floor, but when Kingpin hooked a thumb under his chin to lift it, his shoulders flinched. He was awake. Good.

“8… 7…”

“You’re lucky, little Spider,” Wilson rumbled, “You’re about to witness something no one’s ever witnessed before.”

“6…”

Spider-Man’s breath rattled in his chest, and his head tilted up a little.

“5…”

“A portal to a whole new universe.” Fisk shook his head. “Who knows, maybe in the next life, you can be my pet.” He chuckled darkly, shoving mockingly at Spider-Man's chin and turning his head where it listed on his neck. Then facing his own attention to the spectacle outside.

“4…”

“...I’d rather be dead than anything for an asshole like you.” the hero croaked quietly. But he was ignored.

The Collider's massive accelerating rings hummed with power, and the giant magnet silos in the center began emitting a high pitched frequency, not unlike standing under a power-line. Except much, much louder.

“..3..”

Fisk and Olivia both held their breaths, eyes glued to the glass.

“..2..”

Fisk stepped forward even further.

“..1..”

Vanessa.

“Firing now.” The tech said, eagerly. And with a prompt push of the control button, lit up red and surrounded by black and yellow tape. The entire room froze in anticipation for launch.

“...”

But nothing happened.

“...” 

It was quiet.

The Tech clicked again.

Everyone was looking his way now, but still nothing was happening.

He clicked more, frantically.

Several faces around the room darkened with thunderous expressions, and Dock Ock started to stalk her way slowly towards the control desks. 

Behind her, all the displays showing the ascending data streams flashed, and then turned black. Unnoticed.

The younger male began to click at a rapid pace watching her approach, sweating nervously. “...I-I swear I don’t understand. It’s-It’s just not working?” 

“Understanding is supposed to be your job, Samuels. ” She hissed, and one of her robotic arms stretched over her shoulder to come towards him, clawed pincers gleaming a haunting red.

“I..Miss Olivia, please! I-I swear I-”

And then the lights went out.

There was a short clicking sound, like the static input from a microphone when it’s first switched on, and everyone went still, standing in the dim ambience of the red emergency lights. Waiting.

The static hissed again, and with a crackle from the overhead monitors, still displaying only black screens, the silence was breached.

Hissssss. Pop.

...

“...Hello Wilson.” A low, masculine voice purred.

...

Oh God.

Fisk caught the snap of Olivia’s head towards him as they registered the presence of the newcomer.

“You weren’t having a party without me now, were you?” The voice asked, amiably.

Oh Fuck .

Olivia stumbled back a little, pivoting slightly towards the control desks, where she looked at the three young techs in the room. The wildness in her eyes had tapered, and then softened. Pained as she looked them over.

“...Go.” She breathed tightly, gesturing at them with a quick hand towards the exit. Tense and protective. Swaying slowly on the balls of her feet as she looked back towards the monitors. “Go. Now.” 

The three of them took the hint and scarpered, quick and quiet. Leaving the remaining group to continue watching the displays. Waiting on eggshells.

Olivia’s robotic limbs had unwittingly loosened their grip, but Spider-Man stayed still and continued to rasp wetly in the silence. He remained quiet also. Observing.

Kingpin’s pulse pounded for an entirely different reason now.

“Did you really think-” Hisssss. Pop. “-that I wouldn’t find out?” The interloper hissed. 

There was a budding clamor from the collider room, pops and bangs of metal on metal coming from the ceiling, gradually rising to a crescendo that they took no notice of at first. Each too apprehensive to pay attention.

Spider-Man tilted his head subtly towards the window.

Kingpin gnashed his teeth in petrified frustration. His hands twitched into fists by his side. No. No, this couldn’t be happening.

Vanessa.

“I’m not afraid of you Stark.” Wilson barked.

“...You will be.” The voice promised, darkly.

With an almighty BANG, the roof of the collider room exploded open. Thousands and thousands of shards of rubble, glass and debri rained down into the chamber, followed by swarms of flying metal suits, each b-lining straight towards the collider. Lining up their stances, palms outward, and taking aim.

“No!” Wilson snarled. “No, no no -NO, he’s going to destroy it!” 

Spider-Man, taking advantage of their distraction, slipped his way free of Olivia's hold and tried to get a few hits in. He spun in a twist and managed to get away from her entirely with a harsh kick, backing up towards the window. She snarled in fury and went barrelling after him. Determined to get in a few licks of her own. 

The Sentinels let their repulsors engage, each shot beginning to eat holes into the gigantic accelerator wall, blast upon blast until the massive machine looked moth eaten and wearied with every hit received from scorching hot plasma.

“No! Stop them!” He roared, and the room descended into chaos. 

Just as Dock Ock managed to get a rough grapple hold on the Spider, he directed one of her claws towards the viewing window, which smashed under the piercing pressure of her claw. Hundreds of large glass shards joined the carpet of debri littering the floor below after about a fifty foot drop. She latched back on to him just as he jumped, and they ended up tumbling off of the viewing platform and into the ante-chamber below. Still fighting.

Prowler shot past them, compelled to follow his boss’s directive. His pneumatic boots launched him out of the now non-existent window quick as a missile. Trajectory aimed towards the sentinels.

Wilson spun around to glare at Bullseye, who stood warily watchful at first. But when he caught his bosses eye he nodded, and turned towards the door the techs had gone out of. His lack of flight capabilities wouldn’t do him much good if he tried the window the same as his associate.

Poindexter yanked open the door, and froze.

In the second it took Kingpin to register the tall, gleaming figure in a suit of armor, Stark had already raised his repulsor, taking aim, and shot his enforcer point blank in the chest. 

‘His tactical suit won’t be much good to him now,’ Wilson thought desperately. Watching as Bullseye’s smoking body went sailing across the viewing platform, impacting in a harsh thud and bouncing with momentum until he tipped over the edge. Gone.

The Superior armor stepped into the room. Slow and nonchalant.

“It’s nice to finally meet again in person, Mr Fisk.” Tony Stark's voice was darkly amused as he mocked the man, “I hope I’m not late?” 

“...Stark.” Wilson bit in response, heart pounding.

“You look surprised to see me.” the Superiors voice sneered derisively through his faceplate, stalking closer. Still in that slow, meandering pace. “I’m almost offended,” 

“If I’d wanted you here I would’ve asked.” Fisk snarled in return, keeping a close eye on the other man's movements. Watching the gleams of red light slice across that chrome monstrosity of a weapon he wielded on his body. His second skin.

Stark stepped closer, until they were finally opposite one another. Facing off from either side of the platform. 

“Well now, that’s just rude,” he said. And it was on.

Temples pounding with resentment, Wilson leaped towards the giant metal douchebag, determined to at least get a few strikes in against his adversary. He went high deceptively, before dodging the repulsor blast, forcing Stark to jettison over the sweeping leg kick that followed.

They traded blows, bright shots of light and gleaming chrome dyed red meeting the hulking form of the mob boss, who packed every inch of his tightly controlled fury into his swings, fast paced. The whine-pop of the repulsors made Kingpin's ears ring dully when he narrowly avoided taking one of those deadly plasma shots to the face. Dancing around each other.

“Word on the street is you’re after an army.” Superior taunted, unfazed, and dodged another attempt from Kingpin to corral him deeper into the room. He darted around to the back of the larger form and stretched his leg out, kicking the man forward with a heavy metal boot, slamming him into the back of the control desks harshly. 

Kingpin was starting to look worn down, and he didn’t respond. He turned back to the Superior, breathing fire. Rage steadily turned his eyes a burnished red and the veins in his face and neck bulged prominently. His suit was disheveled, and he had multiple scorch marks from near misses littering his figure.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with one if you had one.”  Stark finished, laughing darkly. 

He stood in front of the wide open edge of the viewing platform. Back facing the antechamber as he opened his arms wide, and he cut a menacing visage. The jeering autocrat was still dyed that deep, deep blacklight red. The lenses of his mask glowed menacing white, and behind him the antechamber burned. Illuminating him from the back in a hellish visage. His own army was making light work of their immense destruction. And Kingpin saw the culminations of his desires literally getting turned into a smoldering pile of ashes.

Furious, he launched himself at the Superior again, bellowing with rage. But the armor dodged casually, and Stark drew first blood. Gauntleted fist snapping out and catching Kingpin in the face, neatly. Throwing him off.

“... I hate you, Stark. ” Wilson hissed, voice dripping with poison as he stumbled back.

The Superior tilted his head, and the next thing Fisk knew, he was staring at that irritatingly handsome face. Stark had retracted his helmet to meet his gaze dead on, face twisted into a small moue of distaste as he raked his eyes along the mob boss.

“...I don’t care.” he deadpanned, and he launched himself at Kingpin again. Once more trading furious blows that got faster and faster than Wilson could register. But the tight, blustering hurricane in his belly kept him going. He bayed in victory when one of his meaty knuckles managed to get a swipe at that abhorrent face, fist making a heavy impact with Stark’s jaw. Forcing him to back up this time.

They paused, and circled around each other again slowly, the Superior raising his gauntlet-covered hand to his lip. 

He felt around the shape of the cut. Drawing his hand back and observing the dark slash of liquid on his gloved fingertips. Then he looked back up at Kingpin, tonguing lightly at the injury.

Wilson felt a manic shiver of pleasure crawl up his spine at the sight of that blood. His blood. He wanted to draw more.

But his delight didn’t last longer than a moment. Because when he met Tony Stark's eyes again, they were burning bright, and the smirk on his face belied his mocking amusement. He drew his armored fingertip to his mouth and licked the stain off, mouth curling at the edges wickedly. 

Just like that, the oozing cut was gone.

Disappointment flooded his veins and Wilson clenched his jaw, great heaving wuffs of air being sucked through his nose in fatigue. 

In the face of that nonchalant power he was sufficiently spooked. 

The larger man felt weary. He could feel his muscles trembling. He wouldn’t be able to last much longer, he thought. Stark had him worn to the bone and untethered. Those ecstatic tingles from just moments before had faded to an icy, seeping dread. Like that of a prey animal being stalked from the tall grass.

The Superior was toying with him.

Wilson Fisk was going to die.

…His fists clenched in livid apprehension.

Suddenly, like a dawning ray of light on his darkest day, two blurred figures barrelled into the room via the opened observatory window. Smashing and crashing into each other, forcing the two adversaries to back away. One of the figures made a skillful, twisting movement, and with a knife tipped wrench of his gauntlet, the sentinels head popped off and went sailing back out off the platform.

Prowler rose from his crouch above the decommissioned droid, and his lenses glared as he took in the scene.

“Protect me.” Wilson ordered.

Stark laughed at him. And his stance turned casual as he watched the enforcer make up his mind. Loyalty won out, and the Prowler shifted subtly into a defensive position, slightly in front of his employer, readying himself for a leap.

Stark was still calm.

Fisk felt a twinge of unease. And just as the assassin stepped forward into his lunge, launching himself at the suited tyrant, Stark’s armor flared around his form. Snatching the man in mid-air quick as a flash. Gleams of silvery molten liquid formed a long, thick, ghastly tendril that wrapped around Prowler's head as he dangled there writhing in his grasp, holding him arrested whilst Kingpin looked on, horrified.

With an abrupt twist and a sickening crunch, the jerking body fell still. Quiet.

The armor released him, and the way the man's body dropped like a stone reflected the way Wilson’s heart fell into his feet.

“I don’t like uninvited guests,” The Superior said. And his attention was back on Wilson.

Fever and uncontrolled desperation had the Kingpin throwing himself at Stark one last time with a terrible roar, but Stark was apparently done playing. Because that physics defying armor continued to bleed and convalesce around his suited form. Snapping out of its restraints and shooting towards Fisk with intent.

The next thing Wilson knew, he was on the floor, face down and restrained by the wrists and torso. Parallel to the edge of the platform.

Glancing over the edge, he didn’t have much hope for Olivia either, who seemed to be losing her fight with the weakened Spider-Menace. Fighting to the bitter end.

Behind him, he heard the menacing clanks of metal boots on a hard floor. The Superior approaching from behind.

Wilson heaved exhausted breaths as he struggled, tonguing around the insides of his mouth for a loose tooth and spitting the blood onto the floor beneath him. He crunched his torso, attempting to rise into a kneel. But Stark kicked him back down, chuckling.

Kingpin’s blood boiled.

“...UuaaAARGH- Fuck you Stark!” He barked. Choking on his enraged shout of anger.

“Oh? Have I finally broken that infamous control of yours Wilson?” Stark chuffed, still laughing under his breath.

The autocrat flipped Wilson over with a casual flick of his finger. That abomination of a suit obeying his beck and call with nary a thought.

Fisk felt that dreaded shiver of fear wriggle its way down his spine again as the Superior moved to stand over his prone form. Towering. And instinct had Wilson pushing his feet against the floor, trying to push himself away.

Stark placed a firm boot onto one of his knees, arresting him instantly.

“Who’d have thought I’d have to see such an upstanding figure in my community brought so low Mr Fisk?” The Superior taunted, and Kingpin’s eyes widened in animal fear.

“It really is such a shame.”

CRUNCH.

Wilson’s scream of pain echoed off the walls of the room whilst Stark laughed once more. The immediate, shocking agony of his shattered kneecap blinded him momentarily. White stars dancing behind his eyelids.

The Superior watched as he writhed and struggled to pull himself together. Sweating and panting like a race horse foaming at the withers.

Stark shifted his foot, and placed the opposite on his other kneecap. 

The impotence of his pride and molten, fiery pain had Wilson glaring back up at his enemy, huffing in agony.

“...Why, Stark?” He panted, “Why go through all this? Were you really that worried that I would succeed..? Do I piss you off that much?” he tried to taunt. Pain made his voice hoarse, but he fastened a bloody smile on his face anyway. Glaring up at the tyrant through gritted teeth.

“Your ego would like to think that Wilson,” Stark replied, “But in reality, you just broke the rules.” The pressure on Wilsons kneecap increased until it burned.

“And that means you need to be punished.”

CRACK.

Fisk cried out again, back arching off the floor as lightning shot up his nervous system, forcing him to jolt and tense in agony.

Beside himself, the Kingpin began to laugh through the pain while Superior watched on, interested.

“Ego…” Wilson muttered, head tipped back, veins prominent. “He wants to talk about ego…” he croaked.

The Superior’s head tilted slightly.

Wilson’s eyes snapped back to those blazing orbs, flush with challenge, heaving.

“...And why should you hold all the power, Stark?” he hissed. “You made the rules. But I had a right to seek my own,” he finished, spitting fire at the authoritarian above him.

Stark tutted lightly down at him, entertained. “You’re a villain, Kingpin, ” he emphasized, “You don’t have rights.” And with a heavy snort, he removed his foot and booted Fisk in the flank, hard. Watching as the bigger man jolted closer to the edge of the platform on impact and enjoying the ensuing crunch as he landed on broken glass. He toiled weakly to orient himself, recovering slowly from the kidney bruising kick.

The mobster was failing, brought low like an oxen hunted for sport. But something must not have been right in his head because he began to laugh all over again. A low chuckle that slowly built in its crescendo. Until he was hacking and spitting out blood onto the floor once more.

“You-” Spit, “You’re just-ah as much a villain as I am Stark,” he panted, “A tyrant. Bloated with power. Using fear to manipulate the world. And all in the name of Justice?” Kingpin hissed, and then laughed and laughed. “You’re a butcher.”

“You get off on digging your own grave, Fisk?” the Superior growled, darkly.

Wilson stared him dead in the eye. 

“Murderer.”

Taking Fisk's skull in a broad, strong palm, both Stark and the suit dragged his upper body about a foot off the floor so he could start wailing on him mercilessly. Punch. Punch. Punch. And with each brutal impact, splinters of skin tore open in Wilson's face, bleeding freely and splashing to the floor.

Once Stark had deemed his face sufficiently a broken mess, he threw him back down, slamming his head off the metal grating.

He laid there. Still. While Stark panted above him.

Kingpin blearily opened up a bloodshot and swollen eye, rolling it in his head until he could make sense of up and down. His blurry vision caught sight of three figures directly below him, but he was disoriented and struggled to make sense of what he was seeing at first. 

An odd shape with eight limbs. A quick, darting spot of red and blue firing lines upon lines of sticky webs to trap it successfully. And a smaller, less obvious figure, prone on his belly right under Wilson’s position, weakly dragging himself across the rubble to position himself in a better vantage point.

The figure removed a gun from his flack jacket. Taking aim.

“I may be a murderer,” Stark said, collecting himself, tall and confident, “...But my methods?” He ran a hand over his hair, “My methods mean the bad guys lose. ” He finished with conviction.

A loud BANG echoed from below, and even though he stilled, cautious of the noise, Stark didn’t see what happened.

But Wilson did.

A bright, radiant beacon of red and blue, blurry to his eyes, jolted forwards with impact, and then dropped like a stone. 

And it didn’t get back up.

The collider-chamber beyond them was quiet as the grave. Suddenly, Wilson started howling and hacking on his own delirious joy. His delight was grim, savage. Savoring his own small victory as Stark looked on, confused.

His ghastly laughter echoed around the vaulted space, hauntingly.

He bared his teeth back up at the other man in a manic grin, his entire face a mass of blood and swelling and pain but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about his disheartening losses anymore. All he cared about in this moment was the look on Stark’s face when he raised his head slightly to look him dead in the eye through blackened lids, and said;

“Not this time they didn’t.”

The Superior tensed. Wary.

Still chortling, Fisk enjoyed as a slow look of realization dawned on the other man’s face. Power was a saccharine motivator, Kingpin thought, as the Superior’s eyes surveyed the scene outside of the room quickly before they shot back to meet Wilson's own again, full of fury and righteous anger.

‘But sometimes, vengeance is just as sweet, ’ he smiled. And as a gauntleted palm took aim at his head and began to glow, whining up its charge, he was still smiling. Looking beyond those metal fingers to stare into Stark’s eyes, which had darkened with rage.

“At least I got rid of the pest problem,” he taunted.

Hsss-BANG!

.

.

.

Besides the still crumbling thuds of rockfall and the high, squeaking pops of smoldering shrapnel, the entire building was silent.

.

.

.

—-----

Tony took a deep breath and swiped a hand through his hair again, looking down at the messy splatter painting the floor beneath Kingpin's twitching corpse. The room was so hot from the radiating flames beyond that if it weren’t for Extremis, he’d have been sweating buckets. 

His palm scorched when it made contact with his skin, still hot from the assholes execution. But he wasn’t phased.

He stepped away from the piss-ant and closer to the edge of the platform, eyes roving over the scene and each of the still figures below, pulse pounding in aggravation.

There were only two that he could see, each lay scattered in different positions amongst the giant heaps of smoldering rubble and flames. 

He could feel the grit of brick dust and ash begin to accumulate at the back of his throat.

Grimacing, he reactivated his helmet and HUD.

He needed a closer look.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. Any survivors?” He asked, cautiously gliding his way down into the lower vista, avoiding any of the large unstable looking structures cluttered around the space.

“I count two heartbeats, Boss.” The AI answered promptly “Although I detect the resting pulse rate of the second to be critically low. The survivor appears to be hemorrhaging from a wound in the upper torso.”

And right she was. The first body he found belonged to Benjamin Poindexter AKA Bullseye. He scanned the read-out that popped up on his mask display. Former SEAL, dishonorable discharge, multiple counts of murder and high profile weapons trafficking. All around scumbag.

Tony flipped him over whilst beckoning a sentinel, which landed next to him smartly.

The man didn’t move.

“Looks like I may have gone a little overboard shooting him point blank.” He said, as he took in the ruined and bloodied state of his flack jacket. How he’d even survived the fall Tony had no idea, he thought, looking back up to the platform and judging the distance. Never mind a repulsor to the chest. 

But survived he had. His ruined chest rose and fell slowly, long, gurgling rasps drawing in through his throat and inflating his still intact lungs. Tough bastard.

“Tag ‘im.” He said to the sentinel, who nodded and gripped the half-dead soon-to-be convict under the shoulders and knees, lifting him upright, then taking off towards the massive opening that was now the ceiling. The night’s sky twinkled down into the room, only partially marred by the long billows of black smoke rising up and being taken by the wind. 

He moved on to the next, and had the dubious pleasure of meeting two bright and alert eyes glaring at him from behind a whole sticky mass of webbing. Her face and neck were covered from the mouth downwards, and from there her body was a mass amalgamation of flesh and metal limbs, all tied up in a pretty knot with the same sticky fluid. Heavily wrapped. Four red, glowing light sources stared at him through the mess, and what little leeway the white substance could allow saw them following his trajectory as he crouched down to her level with a smirk. Defensive of their mistress. 

Hmm. Those were interesting. The scientist in him wouldn't mind having a closer look sometime. Her tech seemed just as instinctively responsive as his own Endo-Suit. Though nowhere near as advanced. Almost.

“Well, well, well Doctor Octavius,” He said, “Looks like you got yourself caught up in a spider’s web.” He boasted, and the muffled noises she made behind the thick white layers of goop seemed a little angry as she twitched and struggled against her restraints. 

“Catch yourself a little of that vigilante action huh?” He asked, smiling. 

He didn’t much care one way or another about the local crime fighting street presence. He’d had one or two encounters with self made ‘Heroes’ who’d both crossed his path and crossed him , and he’d made sure those idiots had sorely regretted it, but other than that they tended to keep to their turf. Operating on a much more microscopic level than the platforms within which he himself moves. They helped to clean up the streets in the nooks and crannies where his own droids and sentinels had the capacity to fail due to nuance alone. It was an ever irritating flaw in his system that someday he’d like to fix. But for now, they could be the cleaner shrimp, picking away at the parasites in his giant, continent sized fish tank.

Besides, he used to like comics as a kid. He got a kick out of characters with guts.

Speaking of the ‘hero’ in question.

“Where is the red and blue wunderkind?” He asked the Doctor, as if she could give him an answer. And was surprised when actually… she did.

Scowling distrustfully, with a feral look about her, her eyes darted to the side quickly, as if checking her peripheral.

Tony frowned back and turned, wondering where he should be looking. His eyes scanning the rubble until he saw it. There. Hidden behind a large segment of broken silo, piled up into a heap of twisted steel, concrete and sparking wires, was a foot. Or more specifically a boot. Laying prone against the floor, covered in bright, effervescent red and decorated with black patterns of web. Still and unmoving.

The fires continued to crackle and burn into the night.

‘Two heartbeats.’ F.R.I.D.A.Y had said.

“...ah.” 

He turned to look at the doctor again, but deemed her suitably stuck in place, not to be moved for now.

“Call someone to keep an eye on her F.R.I.D.A.Y.” He ordered as he rose from his crouch, neck craned in the direction of that ruby slipper, ignoring her quick ‘Yes, Boss’ in response.

Two more sentinels came to land behind him, watchful and stoic.

Tony didn’t know why, but something inside him made his approach towards that rubble feel anticipatory. A quick, fleeting flicker in his chest that gave him pause before he brushed it off.

It was just the spider-kid, he thought. It's not like he was a fan or anything.

And yet, as he rounded the corner of the pile, his footsteps slowed.

Tight red boots led up to the equally form fitting pants legs of his onesie, clad in radiant sapphire blue. And Tony's eyes followed the mounds and dips of that lean, strong back laying still, face down on the floor.

“Anything F.R.I?” 

“No vital signs detected, Boss.” She replied.

He sighed, disappointed. Okay, maybe he was a little bit of a fan. Sue him. But the Spider had always been one of the more wholesome vigilantes on the scene this side of the east coast. And somewhere deep down Tony kinda liked that there was a small-time hero who couldn't be mired by the taint and filth like the rest of them. 

He walked a little closer to the downed web-slinger, taking in the large perforations in his suit and the odd angle of one of his wrists. Looked like he'd been put through the ringer.

It really was a shame.

Morbid curiosity had Tony crouching back down again beside the svelt form, and when he turned the guy over, his head rocked with the motion until it was facing Tony. Loose and-... Well. Pretty dead.

Those wide, white lenses reflected the glow of his own back at him. Cold and a little eerie to look at.

Tony wanted to see what was behind them.

He reached out and hooked a gauntleted finger under the seam of the mask after a quick scan for the edges, and slowly drew the soft, elasticated fabric upwards. First catching sight of a pale, strong Adam's apple. Then the firm cut of his jaw. Finely shaped, masculine lips were swollen and split. Marred with the stain of blood that had leaked at some point from a small, classically formed nose, and Tony admired the portions of his face that were clear of it. The way the Spider's long lashes swept downwards to dust the pale, clear skin of his cheeks. 

He was young, maybe low to mid-twenties or so. But his maturity was belied in the way he had a prominent, but not unattractive brow ridge with a slight uptick in the hairs on one side. A smooth forehead, and thick, luscious brunette waves crowning the top of his head, damp, slick, and curling against his skin with previous sweat. 

Wow.

It really was a damn shame.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y who is he?” Tony asked, still staring solemnly down at the young hero.

“Facial recognition has him down as Peter Parker, Boss. Male, 21, former resident of Midtown, NY.” She said, but threw the information up onto his HUD anyway for his viewing leisure. 

“Peter Parker, huh?” He asked quietly into the empty air. Blowing out a quick breath as he registered some of the IQ read-outs flashing across his screen, which had him raising an eyebrow and feeling mildly disappointed all over again.

He looked back down and into the face of Spider-Man.

He wondered what color his eyes were.

“Well, Mr Parker.” He said, lowly. And he delicately reached out to move a damp, blood stained lock away from that face. “Thank you for your service.” 

After a moment or two more of looking his fill, eyes roving, his arms lifted, pulling the mask back over the hero's head. Concealing those fine features from prying eyes in his own measure of respect. He made a mental note to find out if the younger man had any surviving relatives. But for now, he needed to take care of the clean-up. 

Shifting in his crouch, he readied himself to stand and direct his droids into rounding up the last of the rabble involved and begin damage control proceedings when suddenly, Tony felt… 

Off.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and as he shot up, his ears caught the sound of a strange, sparking, hissing noise over the cacophony of burning metal and flames. A warm glow began to form around him, and when he swung around to look, almost tripping over his deceased companion, he saw a small, orange ring sparking and fizzing in the air like a pin-wheel firework, growing larger and larger until it rapidly grew into a portal wide enough to fit a fully grown man. Framing the image of an empty alleyway in a New York skyline, flush with the pink glow of an early dawn.

“Wha-” Tony started to say, but was suddenly and inconveniently yanked into a crushing vice hold.

He gasped, panicked, endo-suit rapidly rising to the surface to try and stop him from being dragged forwards. But the only items it managed to get a hold of were loose flags of broken concrete, which either broke or got dragged with him, and the ankle of Peter Parker's body. Which he quickly let go of, not fancying the idea of ferrying a corpse.

His head swam and his vision crackled white as he fought to stay, but with no leverage it was futile. The force tugged harder, and for a few split, agonizing seconds he was seeing every color under the sun, guts twisted and rearranging themselves in one of the worst sensations he’d ever felt in his life, until the squeezing pressure finally ended. And the next thing he knew, he was watching that glowing ring of death shrink itself shut with him on the wrong side of it. 

When he looked back around, disoriented and breathless, he was staring at the same empty alleyway as before.

Except he was standing in it.