Variant Strain

- - -

He was not fleeing.

That would have been cowardly.

He was... in desperate need of some perspective. And distance.

He'd managed to keep up the smiles and suppress the nervousness all throughout lunch, but Aunt May had picked up on it and he'd simply told her that he needed a walk.

What he needed was to get away from MJ a little. It was... okay, she completely freaked him out. He'd tried to keep his imagination from working overtime on what she had told him, but the Cletus part of his hindbrain was more than happy to keep throwing up images of women beaten and hurt. Then editing in MJ's face into the scene. Or Anna's. So he had gone for a walk.

The faint trail of Hydra that he'd followed from the Sandoval deli still lingered in the air, but he noticed something else. The dead Hydra scent that had suffused the scene just the other day was completely gone. Their house was much the same. The samples from the back wall that he had hoped to replace were gone as well. So... he had no way to check against Ed Whelan's DNA. Well... there were probably still samples of Peter Parker DNA in the bathroom, but those rust colored stains were completely gone and the rosebush he'd thrown up in had vanished. Where it had been previously was just a hole in the planter. He suspected the Thunderbolts team had cleaned it all up while they were there.

That made sense. If that stuff was a potential source of infection-- like you-- it made sense to get rid of it. This just made it clearer that the Thunderbolts really were trying to keep Hydra from spreading.

Running back to Manhattan to find out what had happened to the Bellevue hive was starting to look more interesting by the moment. At least he wouldn't have to think about MJ.

He stopped next to a corner laundromat and lifted his head, inhaling deeply. There was a scent of dead Hydra in the air. The traces were heavy, but it wasn't along the trail the van had taken away from the Sandoval deli. He walked, following the trail of scent. It let him take his mind off things for a little while. He didn't run. He just walked at a normal pace, stopping every so often to take another deep breath and make sure he was still on track. The secondary trail had led away from their street. Away from the deli and the Parker home.

He hadn't really been paying attention to the route he'd taken. He'd gone past the post office, then a few more turns led him to where the trail finally led. He was on Austin street, at the corner of Yellowstone Boulevard. He had a moment of panic as he wondered if whatever was infected with Hydra had holed up in the Junior High School, It would have made for an ideal spot to hide out in, he realized. No one was there during the break. Lots of privacy to let the infections run it's course.

But the scent had been dead Hydra. Not a living specimen. It had a flat, unappetizing carrion stink, but not the rampant slaughterhouse smell of the living stuff. The more he stared the clearer it became that the scent was coming from behind him.

It came from the somewhat familiar blocky old building that had seen better days. Here and there external air-conditioning units leaned out of the multitude of small windows attesting to the lack of central air-conditioning. It had been painted recently. A functional gray that made the whole thing look even more drab than it's old-style design did.

Only a small portion of the entry area, which sported a front door that was glass in an aluminum frame, had a bit of a nod in the direction of style. The section had been covered up with dark marble fronting that had been polished to a high shine and managed to keep it despite facing the street. There was a badge painted to one side of the front door, right on the marble-esque material and gold letters proclaimed it as the Police Station.

He frowned and began to wonder why there would be any samples of Hydra, dead or alive in the police station when the obvious thought occurred to him. Whatever evidence the CSI team that had been at the Parker home must've still been there. Probably not from the Sandoval deli, since the Thunderbolts were already on the scene before the cops had gotten there... except why would the T-bolts clean up crew have missed whatever the police might have had?

Unless Detective Stacy decided to keep some of the evidence for himself since he still seemed set on continuing the investigation.

Peter set his jaw. He needed to talk to the man anyway. More vague memories of how close George Stacy had been to his father floated up. Maybe he might have some advice... at the very least he might be able to do what he could to make sure Brian Watson stayed in jail where he deserved.

He crossed the street and noted a familiar looking woman standing a few yards away from the front door, in the process of lighting up a cigarette off the butt-end of another one. There was a look of fierce concentration briefly as the tip lit up cherry red, followed almost immediately by an expression of supremely blissful satisfaction.

She dropped the finished butt to the sidewalk and ground it out even as she took a deep drag of the new cigarette in her mouth. Her eyes were practically rolled up into her head from the amount of sheer pleasure she was taking in the cigarette.

Cigarette break, Peter figured and that seemed obvious enough. Although the amount of enjoyment she was taking in her nicotine fix bordered on the erotic. Obscene. He meant obscene. He shook his head to clear it and he clearly recognized the tightly bound auburn hair and sharp features. She'd been trying to calm Detective Stacy down when he'd been talking to Sergeant Talbot. Wolf. Or something. Detective Wolf?

DeWolffe, his own voice supplied in his head, the memory of the earlier conversation playing back.

He caught her eyes flicking to him, then away again. She'd caught him looking at her. He averted his eyes immediately and walked past her. Great, now she would think he was checking her out. Which he was not doing. At all. Granted, she was a striking woman, despite probably being older than Anna Watson.

Who you don't have a problem lusting after, his mental voice drawled. He told himself to shut up and stop thinking about it.

He walked into the station, doing his best to not latch onto Detective DeWolffe's scent, which was thick with cigarette smoke and gunpowder and musty papers.

The place wasn't that busy and the desk Sergeant looked up with a tired, but politely inquiring look at him.

"Hi," Peter said politely. "I'm looking for Detective Stacy?"

The man gestured vaguely to the stairs. "Second floor. You'll have to sign in--" He was interrupted by Detective Stacy coming down the stairs, in the process of drying his hands on a paper towel. His eyebrows lifted on spotting Peter.

"I wasn't planning on calling you til later this afternoon." George said with mild surprise once he'd walked up to Peter and shook hands with him. .

Peter nodded. "I... I was just walking around. Ended up here. Did you have some time?"

George ran a hand through his hair and smiled tiredly. He could tell the man hadn't had much sleep. "A little, I guess. I was just about to run down the street a bit to pick up something for lunch." He shrugged, "I usually brown bag it, but I forgot today."

"I can walk with you." Peter offered, to which George nodded.

They left the Police Station and only briefly stopped in front of Detective DeWolffe.

"Hey, Jean? This is Richie Parker's kid, Peter." George said, inclining his head towards Peter. "Peter? Detective Jean DeWolffe. My partner."

She extended a hand and Peter shook it. Her grip was firm. Her fingers were calloused. She sized him up with a single sweeping gaze, the cloud of smoke still wreathing her features. "Nice to meet you," She said in her rough voice. "Condolences on your Uncle."

"Thank you," He replied quietly, withdrawing his hand from hers quickly.

"I was going to go grab a bite at the corner. Did you want anything?" George asked.

She shook her head. "I've got crackers in my desk. Cigarettes in my pocket and Sanders just put a fresh cup of coffee on. I've got everything I need."

George nodded and that was that.

They walked a ways up the street and away from Detective DeWolffe when Peter finally spoke. "I talked to MJ about her dad."

George nodded. "You're pressing charges, I'm guessing?"

Peter nodded back. "I want to. MJ says he's got money. And friends. He's gotten out of it when they tried to put him away before."

The detective seemed troubled by that. "Guy's got a record. Well... sort of. There's a bunch of ones that sort of start, but then get immediately dropped. Mostly drunk and disorderlies. A couple of assaults." He frowned, "His kid... I saw the bruises under her makeup. Those kind come from someone taking a swing at you." He let the statement linger.

Peter nodded. "They're from her dad." He confirmed.

"She ever try to get help?" George asked.

"I got the impression that she's tried." He replied then shook his head. "She doesn't think it'll do any good. He turns it around and gets her blamed for making up stories. Then he gets mad." Peter pinned George with an intense gaze. "I want to help her, Detective Stacy. I really want to see this guy put away." He wondered if he should tell the older man about what he thought she might do, but he kept quiet. He had to. If he could at least keep her father locked up, then maybe MJ wouldn't do anything hasty.

George shook his head. "The guy kept claiming he'd have my badge. Said he was going to 'destroy' me. He's been in the drunk tank sleeping it off since we got him here. I don't care how many 'friends' he thinks he's got. He took a poke at you at your uncle's funeral in front of a dozen witnesses... and you being a cop's son and all." He gave another shrug. "I don't think he's going anywhere for a while."

Peter smiled at that. "Good. That'll be really good. Which actually brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk to you about."

"Your Uncle's case?" George asked.

He shook his head, "No, sir. Well, that too... but there was something you mentioned when you were talking to Aunt May and it's been bothering me since you said it."

"What is it?"

"My parents." Peter said. "You said there were some sort of weird circumstances surrounding what happened. All Aunt May and Uncle Ben said was that there was some sort of industrial accident at Gentek."

George Stacy's expression took on a sour twist. "I probably shouldn't've said anything."

Peter almost let it go. It was old news. Old hurt. He had so much more still on his plate. Uncle Ben's death was still fresh. All the strangeness of the past few days still clung to him. He didn't need to rip open an old wound that had already scarred over.

Or did he? Ed Whelan had seen his mother in a Gentek facility just before he became a runner. The same facility Jessica Drew was in. What did that mean? The circumstances of what happened to his mother and father could be relevant to what he was dealing with now. He needed to know more. He had to know.

He gave George a very direct look and said, "But you did, sir. I need to know."

The detective returned his look and nodded. "There's not really all that much to tell. Your mom had pretty much been working at Gentek straight out of college. Your dad was with NYPD for most of that time. We worked our way up the ranks together." George had a small wistful smile as he spoke.

Peter fought down memories of stealing his father's policeman's hat when he'd still been a beat cop. That led to a memory of him wearing the hat while sitting in his mother's lap as she read out her biology text books to him and showed him where all the bones in a human body were. He fought tears down.

Be stronger than tears.

Perhaps the wound wasn't as healed as he'd imagined.

George Stacy put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and gave him a small smile. "Anyway, Richie tells me that he got offered a position with Gentek security when you were eleven. It seemed fine at first. The place did a lot of classified work. Government work. Richie couldn't tell me anything, really... but he wasn't sure he liked it. He was talking about coming back to the force." He shook his head. "About a week after that, he and your mother got caught in a fire in one of Gentek's research labs."

Peter stared. "You don't think it was a coincidence."

George huffed out a breath. "I think your father, God rest his soul, couldn't resist indulging his curiosity to save his life." He grimaced. "Poor choice of words. Sorry."

Peter gave him a weak smile. "Well, now I know where I get that from."

George smiled back, "Made him a great cop, but it also tended to get him into more trouble than he knew how to get out of, most times. Usually your mother could rein him in..." He grunted. "In any case, the investigation got cut short. Got called an accident after barely a day. No bodies at the scene. Heat from the fire was supposedly so intense nothing was left."

Peter frowned slightly, "That would have to be incredibly hot if nothing was left. Crematoriums hit temperatures of 2000 degrees Fahrenheit and even then bones don't really burn all that well, they get crumbly and shatter."

George looked at him approvingly, "Exactly. I saw some of the crime scene photos. Place didn't look like it had been hit with temperatures anywhere near that high. Lead investigator said as much to me, but he was told it was an accident."

"Told." Peter said flatly.

"Pressure from above. Kind of like the pressure I got during the investigation for your Uncle's murder. The kind that even had a couple of convenient scapegoats." The older man shook his head, "I tried to look into it a bit myself, but almost as soon as they got it ruled 'accidental' all the evidence vanished. There wasn't anything left for me to look at." He grimaced.

"But you didn't let that happen this time." Peter said. He already figured he had the answer to that one, but it wouldn't hurt to confirm it.

George gave him another approving look and nodded. "You might want to think about getting a career in law enforcement, Peter."

Peter ducked his head, mild embarassment flushing his cheeks. "I'll think about it."

He wondered how much more he could tell the detective. The man had been his father's best friend. He had also been a detective with NYPD for years. That had to mean he could do the job, right? But did he dare tell him what he'd found out as Peter Parker? Or anonymously as Ed Whelan? He coughed and said, "Do you think.... do you think it might be possible that they didn't die that night? That they got kidnapped? Or something?"

George's expression softened and he gave Peter's shoulder another squeeze. "Aw, Peter... I... I suppose anything's possible, but that's kind of a slender hope to build on. I won't lie to you. After all this time? It just doesn't seem likely."

Peter nodded gravely. He knew better. Sort of. He had the memories. The maddeningly vague and unreliable memories of another man rattling around in his head and nothing much to really work with.

George forced a smile to his face and jerked a thumb at the restaurant with blue signage on the side of the street they were on. "You like Thai food? My treat."

Peter began to protest that he had eaten lunch already, but the embarrassing gurgle from his stomach indicated that he still had room for more.

- - -

The second lunch had been pleasant. George Stacy had told Peter a few embarrassing stories of Richard Parker. Then all the little things that he hadn't known about. How his father had had a tendency to enthusiastically jump into new hobbies that involved sinking money into them until his mother would tell him to stop. Or how his mother would tend to get so involved in her work or her reading that his father had to tell her almost as often as once a night to stop so that she could eat or sleep.

George had tipped generously. Peter could tell he was a regular. Everyone on the wait staff knew him by name. He hadn't even had to ask them for the doggie bag of their leftovers. George mentioned that he was planning on giving it to his partner. Peter had had to stop himself from finishing everything on the table. Once he turned his attention away from it, he really didn't seem hungry... but if the subject came up... his body seemed to always be ready for another meal.

Disturbingly so, he reflected.

They stepped out and Peter's instincts began screaming. The restaurant had good air conditioning and the closed space had been heavy with scents of food. Peter had toned down his Hydra-sense since he didn't want the dead, but clinging scent of it to disturb his meal.

Except now, back on the street the scent hit him full force. This was no longer the dead Hydra scent. It was live. Thick and sickly-sweet and heavy with carrion rot.

He reeled and George looked at him with concern. "You alright, Peter?" He asked.

Peter caught himself against the wall of the restaurant, his eyes glazed and his skin was crawling from the living Hydra scent. It smelled almost as bad as the hive. Not quite as vibrantly intense, but it was there and growing stronger by the second. He whipped his head back and forth, nostrils flaring.

It was strongest coming directly back in the direction of the police station.

"Something's wrong." Peter murmured, shaking his head to clear out the stench. "We need to get back to the Police Station. People might be in danger. Like what happened at the deli."

"How do you--?" George looked like he was about to argue the point, but saw the tense, strained expression on Peter's face. He nodded and they ran up the street.

Peter kept his speed down to let George keep up with him and to make sure he was heading straight towards the scent. It was abundantly clear. It didn't even take him too long to begin noting distinct traces within the mass of slaughterhouse scent that swamped him. It wasn't a single source. There were several of them. They didn't smell like the Trackers either. So probably not the Thunderbolts.

He wracked his brain. How fast did Hydra propagate? He was sort of sure that the dead sample couldn't have spontaneously reinfected someone... which meant what? The live stuff had come from elsewhere. Manhattan had been awash with living Hydra. It was possible that it had spread over the bridge and had now begun to spread through Queens.

Except that didn't quite fit, because there seemed to be no reason for the Forrest Hills Police Station to become a target, given that there were places closer to Manhattan... unless... Peter groaned as a thought flashed through his mind.

Unless Jessica had sent something chasing after him. Something that had been able to follow his trail back to Queens. The Police Station hadn't been that far from Queen's Boulevard where he'd doubled back on his original route, following the trail that had led him to Bellevue in the first place. If they had been following his trail, they would pass the Police Station well before they even got close to the street the Watson house was at.

Whatever sample of Hydra that George Stacey had kept, it had probably drawn these things in. This was all his fault. They were on his trail. Detective Stacey had held on to the Hydra sample as he had probably because of clues he'd dropped on the man as Ed Whelan.

All his fault.

He cursed.

Peter skidded to a halt to find... nothing amiss. The entire building was still awash in Hydra scents and this close up, Peter had needed to tone the sense back down in order to try and control the intensity of the scent. .

But there wasn't anything he could see.

No monsters. No victims torn apart. No piles of unresponsive people being slowly eaten alive by the mess of fleshy growths.

Nothing. Just people going about their daily business.

What was happening?

George panted to a halt next to him, puffing loudly as he bent over, his hands on his thighs, trying to keep himself upright. He gasped out painfully, "What the hell's wrong?"

"I... I don't know." Peter admitted, "We need to be ready for anything."

A voice came from behind them both, the speaker's scent had been masked by the Hydra and it caught Peter completely by surprise.

"Dad! There you are. You forgot your lunch."

- - -