The Chameleon
1
"The Chameleon"
"La Cantarella; a supposed poison of the Borgias, described as delightful yet deadly,"
She did not know how it came to this…
Felicia sits in a plastic row chair, her head dipped low, and her eyes squinted with confusing thoughts running rampant. Looking down at her slightly shivering hands, traces of Gwen Stacy’s crimson blood still clinging to her skin despite the scrub earlier in the restroom, she grimaces at the residue tinge of iron invading her nostrils.
A bunch of hospital staff walked past her in their rushes, some glances at the tactical catsuit she got on and at two of the hospital’s guards keeping their eyes on her. Saving the police captain’s daughter’s life does not guarantee leeway; apparently.
At least they got her a nice, warm, cup of cocoa. Good for them.
“Gentlemen, you would be so kind as to give us some privacy?” Captain George Stacy showed up with his badge in his raised hand and a look of deep contempt, understandably. The guards inspected the badge for a moment, and as well as noticing the presence of officers behind the captain, they relented and guided them all to a vacant room, and leave.
“Officer Drake, guard the entrance,” Captain Stacy ordered, then turned toward another one of his escorts. “Watch the window, Watanabe,” and the female officer did. George Stacy wanted to kick the operation door in and be at his baby girl’s side as much as any father in their right mind, but the presence of the alleged association of Wilson Fisk in front of him had to take priority. “What happened?”
“Can we sit?” Felicia, still a bit shaken, inquired with her brow furrowed and exhaled when the policeman nodded his head. She led him on a short trip to a set of chairs and took a seat. “I found her bleeding on the floor; had to improvise,” she referred to the ruined underwear piece she used to apply first-aid.
“Any possible identification?”
“No. Sorry, captain,” Felicia delivered with the sympathy she rarely shows, yet the situation seemed appropriate. “But I didn’t hear a gunshot. If that helps?”
“A professional, then…” George Stacy mumbled to himself, scribbling down his pen to his note; Felicia found it curious.
“…kid, wait!” Drake exclaimed as the door almost yanked out of its hinges, revealing Spider-Man who was sporting a set of narrowed white lenses on his mask.
“Get out, Spider-Man.” George Stacy calmly said, looking intently at the vigilante / his daughter’s boyfriend. “This is an official NYPD investigation.” George noticed the object of Spider-Man’s glare to be that of the platinum-haired woman he currently having a conversation with.
“Come on,” Officer Drake put his hand on the vigilante’s shoulder firmly, demanding the younger man to heed his words. But struggle as Spider-Man was adamant to stay in place. “Listen to the Cap’N, kid.”
“I’ll stay,” Spider-Man said monotonously, easily peeling off Drake’s hand from his shoulder, “What did you do?” Peter demanded accusingly at Felicia, who sported a very displeased look.
“Excuse me?!” Felicia became defensive and hissed at him.
“Spider-Man, I will ask you again; Leave.” George Stacy got up from his seat and stood like a stone pillar between Black Cat and Spider-Man, then he turned his voice into a whisper “I know you are angry, son, but acting like this won’t help anything.”
“She knows something, I’m certain,” Spider-Man replied, glancing away at the Black Cat.
“If that’s the case, I’ll find out.” George placed his hand on the man’s shoulder to give it a firm squeeze “You get change and wait for the doctors outside, deal?” George asserted authority, which took Spider-Man a moment to register.
Peter kept silent and retreated from the room, his parting glare only irritated her even more.
“Jerk.” She grunted when the captain retook his seat across from her.
“Miss, what were you doing there?” Captain Stacy opens his notepad.
“Miss Stacy’s relatives?” A nurse popped her head out and called.
“Yes!” Peter sprung up from his seat.
“Name and relation, sir?”
“Peter Parker, I’m her boyfriend.” Peter noticed the look of uncertainty on the nurse's, “Her father entrusted me while he’s interrogating a witness, please?”
“Very well, follow me.”
Peter shadowed the nurse through a hallway leading to the inpatient wing of the building and a room numbered 616. The nurse knocked and opened the door after a moment, revealing the interior of a standard hospital room and another nurse assisting a doctor at Gwen’s bedside, checking her as they should.
Peter situated himself in the visitor area and waited patiently for the medical staff to finish their work. He sees Gwen’s tired and pained eyes looking at him, trying to brave a smile on her pale lips, thanks to the wonders of modern medical treatments. Peter sported one of his own, yet he can tell it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Rest and don’t move too abruptly,” the doctor wrapped up his inspection with a reassuring smile. “We need to regulate check-ups every two hours if that’s alright with you?” Gwen nods weakly in affirmation.
“Is she going to be okay, doc?” Peter speaks up as he reaches the unoccupied side and takes Gwen’s paler-than-usual wrist in his hand, looking up at the doctor while the nurses excused themselves.
“Positively,” the doctor went through his tablet again “the caliber of the bullet was small enough that it didn’t rupture any vital organs. She lost some amount of blood, but we’ve already transfused semi-blood into her system, and she should be recovered in about two days.”
“That’s good to hear,” Peter said to the doctor, but his eyes never left Gwen’s.
“Anyway, it’s the contusion at the base of her skull that might pose some concerns. Scans showed no signs of internal hemorrhage inside the brain, but we might have to wait for a bit for it to be noticeable.” The doctor finished, looking up at the couple with a reassuring smile “The odds are quite low, though.” He alternated between them and started making his way to the entrance.
Peter stood there, caressing her cheek absentmindedly while studying the weak state she was in.
“…not a fan…” Gwen muttered quietly, leaning into his touch.
“What?”
“…being…shot…” she clarified with an attempted smirk, which managed to elicit a tiny chuckle from him. Peter bends and places a soft kiss on her forehead.
“That makes two of us,”
“I don’t know…Pete…you seem…to be owning it like a champ…” Gwen teased, weakly raising her hand to caress the side of his face, enjoying the rough stubbles he had going on lately.
“How are you?” he dragged a chair to sit at her side.
“Feels…like shit…” she started, letting out a wheezing cough, “and thirsty.”
“My, my, Miss Stacy; now’s not the time to be naughty.” Peter playfully chided her, while reaching for a glass of water that one of the nurses might prepared earlier. Slowly and carefully helped her through an entire glass.
“…I hate you…” Gwen let out a sigh after the water settled in her stomach with a sense of fulfillment. Peter chuckled at that and placed his head on her palm, letting the tender flesh caress him.
“No return policy, sorry.”
“Dang it…” Gwen smiled weakly.
“Get some rest, Gwen.” Peter incited her and planted a soft kiss on her palm. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“What the hell was that in there?!” Felicia hissed at him after pushing him inside a dark corner, disregarding the others looking at them; she concealed her hair in a loose beanie and draped a shade over her eyes while modifying her makeup just enough to dissuade unfamiliar eyes.
Peter exhaled with mild irritation, and squinted his eyes at her betrayed emerald orbs, after he was sure that no one was near, he started “Is this someone you know? Fisk’s? Hammerhead’s? Maybe Lincoln’s?” the accusation in his voice hammered into her, making Felicia faltered a bit, then another wave of anger surge within her.
“What are you saying?”
“Did you tell someone who I am?” Peter pressed on, intending to get an answer.
“What?”
“Did you tell someone I am Spider-Man?”
Felicia recoiled from him, a look of disbelief and hurtful plays across her whole body and face. She might’ve been more rightfully angry with him if not for the secret she’d kept of her own.
She can’t be trusted; she has made that much clear to him.
Still, the wrongful and shallow accusation struck like a burning rod, nonetheless; something snapped inside, and Felicia bundled the collar of his flannel shirt into her fist forcefully.
“You did not just accuse me of betraying your secret identity to crime lords who want your death, did you?” she sported a sarcastic and mirthless grin across her crimson lips. “And also, I hope to any deity you believe that the question did not insinuate that Stacy’s attempted murder stems from such nonsense.”
“I don’t know, Cat,” her nickname bared of any amusement it usually brings “Maybe it was like a tease to you, maybe you just want to see me squirms—” her palm slapped across his face quite forcefully; she still has residue enhancer in her systems, so the slapped make an impression on the superhuman.
“Fucking asshole.” Felicia drew it out, intended for him to hear every word spoken with venom and resentment, then stormed off.
Peter, fueled by the elusiveness and the stings on his cheek, rushed after the woman, intending fully to continue the interrogation.
“Felicity!” he called after her but saw no sign of acknowledgment. He gains more speed as her back becomes bigger and bigger as the distance lessens. “I’m not done talking!” he was tempted to just flick his web-shooter at her and reel her in like a fish but settled to just trapping her wrist in his unnatural grip.
Felicia cursed in frustration, struggling in vain to pry her wrist off the Sticky Spandex’s hand. “But I am, adieu!” Felicia grunted furiously, struggling still to the point where her wrist tendon started to ache. She whimpered a bit when Spider-Man seemed to increase the pressure just a smidge.
“Don’t make a scene,” Peter advised.
“Talking to a mirror?”
“Answer the question…” Peter offered, calmed down a bit as the numbness on his face dissipated.
“What are you, my college teacher?” she spat.
“I just need to know, please.” Peter offered again, the fire inside him reduced to just a pile of embers, loosened his grip.
“I didn’t,” Felicia said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, retreating her sore wrist after being released. “Thought it’d be a bit better; the way you saw me.” She finished that and got away from the miracle of Spider-Man shutting himself up.
Felicia walks in a foul mood, huffing at the absurdity of Peter Parker’s accusation of her screwing him over so carelessly.
She saw herself as cold-hearted, but never heartless.
To think that he thought she’d be so malicious as to announce a deadly secret like his to any dimwitted morons she came across. It was such a ridiculously moronic thought from someone so smart.
Her eyes fell upon a dirtied and abandoned Spidey plushy ahead of her, and without much thought, stepping in to kick it away in a fit of frustration directed at the owner of the likeness “Homme stupide!” she growled lowly, casting the final glance at the abused doll, and kept walking toward her destination.
Felicia discretely snatched an OsPhone from one of the coffee tables when the owner wasn’t paying attention; she needed to contact her client as soon as possible. Felicia applied a ‘trick’ she learned from some street kids to unlock the advertised ‘most secured smartphone money could not buy’, because Norman Osborn was so generous to compensate everyone who was affected by the Siege with one, free of charge.
She finds the notion laughable and such a shallow scam; nobody does anything for free…well, maybe one exception, but alas.
Punched the number, called, and waited for about three rings before the other end answered. “Zenith, 1030 PM, order an apple Martini.” She waited exactly half a second before disconnecting and crushing the phone between her hands, tossing it away into one of many dark alleys.
She landed softly on the balcony of her penthouse, retracting the specialized hook line into the shooters on her wrists. Walking inside, she draped the borrowed hospital gown over a cushioned chair in front of a full-body mirror she used for dressing and applying cosmetics; full-body, as in two feet taller than herself. Deposited her visor on the nightstand, Felicia casually undressed the panther suit and piled it on the floor near her fluffy bed. Stretching her athletic body to chase out the knots in her muscles and relaxes a bit just before taking a shower.
‘Who would want to kill Gwen Stacy?’ the question runs in her mind while the torrents of cold water bombard her body. ‘Her father’s enemies? But taking a hit on a police captain’s family is just a funeral service to oneself in terms of carelessness,’ she lamented, recalling the panic she felt as the smaller blonde woman lay bleeding in front of her.
Definitely not Wilson Fisk; the man was too much of a shadow broker to do something so brazen. He’d even positioned himself outside of the city just before the Siege to create his own albeit.
Lonnie Lincoln, on the other hand, holds a potential motivation to do so; but Tombstone always plays his cards so safely that something like this is borderline uncharacteristic.
A hit like this was more inclined with the Maggia’s vintage charms, yet, it was not spectacular enough of an execution for any of the Dons; to be honest.
A new player? Somehow the notion of another addition to New York’s fabulous circus of criminals and crime lords sounds boring as hell for her.
Felicia finished the shower and got dressed in her ‘uniform’ for a Zenith bartender; since the end of the Siege, Kingpin had taken over Hammerhead’s businesses while the mafia himself was on the run. All according to plans, her employer would have said proudly.
Felicia was not as privileged to the overall chess game that Fisk and Osborn played together as much as she’d like, but she could tell that they got what they wanted in the end.
“Yes?” Felicia picked up her phone after checking the contact to be one of her colleagues at the club.
“Are you coming tonight?” Isabella, a red-haired girl who works as her bartending partner, asked with her usual cheerful tone.
“Are you calling to let me know you want the tips all to yourself, sweetie? Because I can just be lazy here at my place if that’s the case?” Felicia teased.
“Oh, please! I don’t have to do that; I’ve already got 12% more than yours; I am a delight,” Isabella replied with a chuckle.
“If by ‘delight’ you mean the almost unfit-to-be-a-dress you wear every time? Then, yes you are.” Felicia retorted with a smirk.
“It’s an advertisement, Leesh,”
“Apple Martini,” A man in his thirties, dressed in a white shirt and a vest, sits in front of her and orders without even a pleasantry. Felicia looked up from cleaning a flute to look at him; noting some things and checked her wristwatch before replying.
“Very punctual; I’m impressed,” Felicia commented with a corporate smile, quickly preparing the requested beverage as well as slipping a note to the man.
“A code?”
“For the combination keypad of the cache I dropped for you,” Felicia said while leaning close to him and sporting a flirty façade as usual. “Give me your phone,” she demanded with a faux smirk, masking the business transaction as a casual hook-up for others to see. He handed her the device as requested and Felicia quickly punched in a set of numeric combinations, then returned it to him.
“A coordination?”
“Look it up,” Felicia dived in to complete the play as she planted a light kiss on the man’s cheek.
“Lucky guy, huh?” another drinker, with a bun of auburn hair with blonde streaks, took a seat after a moment, casually checking her out. “Nice hair; dyed?”
“Natural,” Felicia answered without a care; she’s used to it.
“It’s a rare color, I’ve seen it once or twice.” The man commented, fishing out a bill and putting it down.
“Really?” Felicia inquired with a bit of intrigue at the man’s words, “Where?” she asked while putting the bill into her pocket and serving him a shot of whiskey.
“Symkaria; it’s a kind of inheritance trait among some of them.” The man replied with a smile, sipping the beverage with a sigh of satisfaction.
“A traveler?” Felicia leaned forward a bit with an inquisitive look.
“Just here and there, I like getting to know people.” He replied and leaned in closer, taking in a whiff of fragrances on the bartender, “Let me guess…Lilac?”
“Close, but not quite,” Felicia giggled a little, then shot her hand forward. “Felicity,”
“Richard,” the man with a bun replied, shaking their hands a bit before release.
“So, what are you doing here, Richard? Business or pleasure?” Felicia asked while tending to the bar.
“A bit of both, I hope,” he smirked at her, and Felicia chuckled.
“Good luck with that,”
Felicia saw Richard taking a seat with another man, a glasses-wearing middle-aged with a mob of blondes, after a while; observing them casually as both engaged in a conversation. She saw a glimpse of the other man’s ID card dangling off his shirt and recognized the logo of Ravencroft Institute.
“Currently on patrol, Sue, I’ll be back soon,” Peter replied to another blonde in his life while clinging to the concrete.
“Don’t be late for dinner. See you later, Peter.” Susan finished the call and hung up.
Peter sighed to himself and dropped from the ceiling silently, listening to any sound that might betray an occupant of the archive. When assured that he is alone, Spider-Man stalks the vault of Precinct 19th like a sneaky spider (lame pun, he knows) and relocates himself to the recent section of evidence and crime scene data.
“Let's see…got it!” he exclaimed quietly as his eyes fell upon a box labeled ‘Oscorp / 1600 / Stacy, Gwen’ and opened it just as another presence invaded his Spider-sense.
Peter quickly propelled himself upward to stick to the ceiling again, flattening himself as much as possible by using his back as a sticky pad. A figure dressed in all black made an appearance after a moment, masking themselves in a very cool-looking helmet, and with a barely visible saber insignia in the middle of their back.
‘SWORD agent? Nah, doesn’t make sense,’ he thought as he observed the individual making their way to the same section as he did, and reaching for the same box of evidence. Peter descends from his position on top of the newcomer using his webbing and dangles silently as he watches the cool-helmet ninja taking an item out for inspection.
It's a kind of polymer composite mask; very similar to what he saw in Mission Impossible franchises. The individual carefully inspected it with a familiarity that piqued his interest.
He decided to drop down onto the floor, and the slightest sound his soles made with the concrete seemed to set the ninja off as they quickly executed a spin kick backward, aimed at his body. Spidey was faster as he grabbed the limb with one hand and yanked, reeling the individual when a punch breeze passed the side of his face.
Peter weaved and got the Ninja in an arm lock where he kept the pressure on their elbow from behind; the person was relentless as they took out a concealed weapon from…somewhere and fired several shots of concussive blasts in his general direction. Some of the spontaneously compressed air knocks into him and manages to make him lose focus. Peter involuntarily let go of the arm and received another blast dead on his face, making him dizzy for a moment.
Out of pure dictation of his Spider-sense, Peter flowed with the attacks rained upon him from the person, punches, kicks, knees, and some decorative concussive blasts accompanied the little dance between them.
Inside the NYPD’s archive.
Where neither were permitted to enter.
Peter got kicked in his face but his sticky hand managed to unveil the helmet from the stranger; he faltered a little at the silvery bob framing a beautiful face revealed, and that was enough for her to shoot three more blasts into him.
“Can we have a time-out?!” Peter inquired with a hand signal, but the silver-haired woman kept pressuring him, “Look, missy; let's talk this out, okay?”
“Hard pass, vigilante,” the silver-haired Eastern European retorted with a serious face.
‘I think I’ll go with Broody,’ Peter thought to himself. He utilized the unnatural flexibility of his body and muscles to contort with uncanny visuals and webbed her up after a short struggle. He shot a line into the ceiling and hauled her struggling cocoon above the floor. “Oh, please, I insist.” Spider-Man shot another line of webbing to bring a mask to his hand. “Now, let’s chat.”
“Get me out of this, now!”
“Hard pass,” Peter crossed his arms, looking at the woman with expectancy “Who are you, and why are you looking for this?” he shakes the unnervingly organic-like mask in his hand at her face.
“It’s none of your business,”
“Wow, great attitude,” Peter sarcastically retorted.
“You are making a mistake, Spider-Man. Let me down, right now!” she struggles in vain; his new formula can withstand a full-speed Rhino charge with its elasticity, theoretically.
“Live and learn, amirite?” He teased her as he crouched to level their faces, “You are trespassing MY city, broke into an evidence locker, and being vague,” Peter delivered slowly, with a lowered voice as his lenses squinted, demanding. “Now, I’d say you got about…a minute or so before you lose consciousness from this position; I can cut it short if you would have just answered some simple questions, it’s not a college exam or anything, so relax,” he playfully pushed the cocoon around, inciting more vertigo for the webbed woman.
After she felt like vomiting, the woman pleaded to get somewhere private so they could talk. Peter hauled her, still webbed, onto his shoulder and made their way out of the building.
Felicia took the trash out back and her eyes fell upon a dead body tucked inside a dumpster; of the same man that she saw having a conversation with that Richard guy earlier.
What set her off, was a piece of a skin-no, a mask-near the body that bore the likeness of the man who introduced himself as Richard.
She quickly called 911 about the murder.
“Welcome, mister Johnson,” A guard greeted her, and Teresa walked with a façade she wears into a section reserved for the most dangerous of the inmates here, where her father was held.
She’d risked everything when the news of her father’s defeat reached her during a mission with the Wild Pack and effectively deserted herself from Silver Sable’s ranks to deal with this debacle.
“Please clear the room,” she demanded through a hidden modulator that imitated the mask’s voice. Soon, there is only her and Doctor Octopus.
“Good afternoon again, Mister Johnson,” Richard Parker greeted, looking intentionally at the camera at the corner of the cell. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I want to continue with the discussion of your rehabilitation and return to the outside world.” Teresa delivered each with purpose, hoping the HYDRA defect would get the hint.
Richard Parker contemplated the strange familiarity in the doctor's demeanor for a while and sported a satisfying smirk.
"Please, I would love to."