Variant Strain

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The image on the screen froze and that's when Peter heard the laughter. It was breathy, wheezing laughter coming from dozens of different throats, all coming from the curtained corners of the room.

Peter whipped his head around trying to pinpoint the exact source of the laughter, but they all seemed overlap and echoing within the room. One thing was certain... it didn't sound digitized at all.

The laughter kept going even as the image on the screen started up again, smiling at Peter and Hank's digitized voice spoke, "Ah, well done, Peter. Well done. I must ask, though. How did you come to this conclusion?"

Peter replied carefully, still creeped out by the laughter that was only beginning to die down. "It fits. There's not supposed to be any full-blown infected that keep their minds. Hell, the majority barely retain any of their ability to function. Except for ones that had specific controls but all that does is make them obedient, not self-willed. But I've noticed something... the bigger an uncontrolled infected is, the more of its mind it seems to retain." He paused, "I extended that logically. Hives are the biggest infected I've seen."

"Seems rather flimsy," Hank replied, his voice laced with digitally simulated amusement.

"That wasn't the only clue. Hives can control individual infected. Control them well enough to come up with tactics and coordination. So that points to the Hives having more intelligence than the mobile infected. You told me yourself. They don't have any protocol for rational infected. But I think you meant they don't have one for a mobile rational infected. They've got a protocol for the Hives after all." Peter noted, "It involves eight tanks."

"Usually that's overkill," Hank replied mildly.

"All of that... plus all the little hints about not being able to travel well. The way the building smells like a Hive. Not to mention the security guys, the receptionist, and Dr. Connors and Dr. Warren." Peter shrugged. "It all fits together."

"Very well done," Hank said once more and Peter heard the soft whirr of motors as the curtains began to retract into the ceiling. "I will admit that most people never figure that one out, but then most of them don't have your unique advantages or exposure to such... unusual circumstances."

The walls revealed by the curtains were the same fleshy material of the viral matting that had become so familiar to him, but unlike every other instance he'd seen of it, here, instead of the material covering the walls, here the walls were built to cover the fleshy material. The drywall ended a few feet shy of the corners and beneath it was the glistening, raw-meat color of the viral matting. Peter could make out large orifices in the fibrous, veiny material where the laughter had come from. Tendrils twitched and writhed near the edges of the drywall. One corner had an oversized keyboard that had been overgrown with the twitching viral matting. The keys made mushy clicks as they depressed themselves in rapid succession, more tiny tendrils flailing above the keys as they moved.

"It's good to actually meet someone face-to-face, as it were." Hank's digitized voice sounded from the monitor.

One section of the viral matting irised open and a single, glowing red eye the size of a serving plate revealed itself, the sclera startling white against the rust of the infected material.

"How..." Peter swallowed nervously, "How much of the building do you actually take up?"

The material irised shut once more over the massive eye and Peter realized that Hank had just blinked at him. The keys clicked and the digitized voice replied, "I am behind almost every exterior wall of this building and most of the inter-floor spaces besides that. The rest of myself is hidden in several sub-basements below this building. Maintenance believes I am some sort of special insulation."

Peter whispered in awe as he ran the numbers in his head. "That's tons worth of flesh. What do you eat? I mean your energy requirements have to be enormous."

"Not as much as you would think," Hank admitted, "I'm sessile and a highly efficient filter feeder. I don't really think about it nowadays, but being hooked into the local sewage mains is more than sufficient for my nutritional needs."

Peter winced. "Oh. So..." He wasn't exactly sure what to say to that.

"It might seem somewhat distasteful," Hank replied, his digitized tone dismissive, "But I no longer have a sense of taste or smell as such. I admit, I still occasionally miss having a thick, juicy steak, but nowadays as long as I have a steady flow of reasonably biological materials on a regular basis, it makes no difference."

"How did they even get you into Manhattan from Arizon--" Peter stopped himself, "Ah. You weren't always this size, were you?"

"Very good, Peter." Hank said encouragingly. "I mostly occupied a single basement back then. I was small enough that it only took a few box cars to move me into Manhattan from New Mexico. That was back in the mid 90's." There was a pause and the cartoony face made an exaggerated wince on the monitor. "Actually they had to cut me into pieces and fold me up to make me fit into those box cars. Fortunately, I don't have much in the way of pain receptors and with enough time everything sort of grows back. It wasn't quite as bad as it sounds."

Peter asked slowly. "Does that mean other Hives could get chopped up and reintegrate that way?"

"That one seems to be unique to me." Hank replied. "I'm exceptionally resilient as Hives go. Most other Hives become non-viable by the time they've lost anything over fifty percent of their mass. They've tried chopping me down to size, but my core consciousness seems to keep surviving in whichever piece is the largest. After that it's just a matter of regrowing any parts I've lost."

"So... you've been growing all this time?" Peter asked, coming to some horrified realizations about the nature of the man's transformation.

"Yes. The extent of my growth limits have yet to be reached and as I'm the oldest intact Hive, we don't really have any other data to compare me against." Hank replied, his voice turning mildly thoughtful, "In fact, with the exception of a few subjects in cryo-stasis, it might be fair to say I'm the longest surviving Hydra infectee to date. Most of the development data in the Red Guardian and Oruzhiya Plyus files I provided you with were cross checked against my own information."

The implications of what Hank had become terrified and repulsed Peter. Near immortal, but sharply limited senses. Immobile. Helpless.

Hank Pym could do nothing but think. No wonder he seemed so starved for company. Peter had no clue to what extent Hank had control over the other infected in the building-- In him-- but given the general mental degradation and issues they suffered, Peter didn't expect the man had a lot in the way of stimulating mental conversation. Everyone else he chanced to speak to couldn't possibly even come close to understanding what he was going through. If anything, they seemed to not even think of him as human.

How has he managed to stay sane? Peter asked himself.

Jury's out on that, boy, Cletus chimed in.

"Yeah... most of that kind of went over my head. I didn't really get much of a chance to study it." Peter replied, glad to let the subject drop.

"Ah. I'll admit the translation from the original Russian left a bit to be desired. I'll send you a few more files with the information in a more... accessible format. "

"The Cliffnotes version?" Peter said with a small smile.

"It's the version that gets shown to the Gentek security trainees. I'll admit, it's probably rather beneath your level, but I'm afraid I don't have anything in a more intermediate level of complexity on the topic."

Peter held a hand up, "Just happy to learn more. This whole thing's been a complete mess. I just want to understand what's going on." He sighed, "I have to admit, I'm still trying to get a handle on why they thought it was a good idea to have you in Manhattan."

The cartoon Hank shrugged elaborately on the monitor, "They were eager to play with the new toys they got from the Russians. They decided I would be perfect to help keep them all under control."

"How much control do you have?" Peter asked sharply. "I mean Jessica doesn't seem to listen to you--"

"Jessica is a special case." Hank replied flatly. "Most Walkers inside me I can... direct. I am limited compared to other Hives and my range is much shorter. My strain of Octavius is... unusual."

Peter glanced over his shoulder and it was impossible for him to keep the bitter accusation out of his tone, "What about Dr. Connors and Dr. Warren? Are they... real? I mean are they actually who they were or are you just using them as some sort of messed up hand puppets?"

Several keys clacked at once as the viral matting and tendrils on the keyboard twitched in agitation, producing the nonsense syllables Peter had heard often enough over the phone. After a moment it stopped and the keys clacked in some sort of proper sequence once more. "If I had that level of control, do you think I would be using a voice synthesizer?"

"I don't know. Would you?" Peter knew he shouldn't be taking it out on Hank, but he was just so tired. So frustrated. And angry. So very angry. He knew he shouldn't be lashing out. Intellectually, he knew none of this was Hank's fault.

No, you don't. His voice drawled back at him.

Hank continued to speak, the keys clacking away as a muffled accompaniment. "The brain damage is usually too extreme to do much else. Miles and Curt were lucky. When the damage isn't so bad, I can make them... I can send them a command to stop listening to their hunger. It isn't perfect, but it beats the alternatives."

Peter's voice had turned hard, "And you couldn't have done that for my mom? For my dad?"

The keyboard was silent for a long moment. The massive eye blinked once more, and then looked away from Peter.

"By the time we were aware that anything had happened, your mother was already comatose and your father already dead. There was nothing I could have done, Peter. If I could have saved them, I would have. That incident was why Jessica was relocated to the Bellevue facility. They finally listened that much to me and kept her away from any mobile infected."

"That's your silver lining, huh?" Peter snarled, "That's the bright side?"

"It kept--" Hank's digitized voice began, but then degenerated into nonsense syllables as Peter picked up the chair in the middle of the room and smashed it suddenly into the floor. The legs crumpled and twisted under the impact and the floor was suddenly cracked underneath him.

"How exactly did that work out?" He ground out furiously.

"They didn't listen to me." Hank replied flatly. "I told them she needed to be destroyed, but no one would listen. She was too useful. Her body churns out new Hydra variants at a furious rate. Too much potential to be exploited."

Peter snarled, "Who are 'they'? The Thunderbolts?"

"No. General Talbot didn't want anything to do with making new strains of monsters. Certainly not after he lost his fiance to Middletown." The muffled clacking of the keys was rapid-fire. Peter realized why Hank would tend to lose the 'emotion' in his simulated voice. He had to type out additional commands to emulate the proper tone in whatever was providing his voice. Whenever he would be particularly upset or hurried, he would miss putting the commands in. "Norman Osborn and his flunkies in Oscorp were able to get the development contracts and all of Weapon Plus's databases as well as the genetic samples. He had all the right contacts in the Defense Department and knew who to bribe. He was the driving force behind finding ways to weaponize and exploit Hydra. That's how Gentek was born."

"Which still doesn't explain why they'd put all of that in the middle of Manhattan," Peter growled in frustration, "That's crazy. They already knew how dangerous it was. There were all those records and... Why would they think this was a good idea?"

"Osborn had something to prove." Hank replied his digitized voice still toneless and flat, "He still does. He didn't see what happened in Middletown. In Littleville. He's the reason why no one believes me when I tell them Jessica's free. You've seen her. You must know she needs to be stopped."

Peter noticed it then.

The scent in the air had shifted. It had shifted earlier when he'd been irrationally furious. Perhaps it might have been justified given the stress he'd been under, but now it had shifted again and he could feel himself calming down. He stared at the eye and he felt his fury build up once more. He took a few steps and then slammed his fist hard into the drywall to one side of the massive eye.

The drywall cracked and splintered under the blow and Peter felt his fist sink deep into the fleshy and fibrous material beneath. The staring eye turned to look straight at the young man's furious face. Broken drywall peeled away from the material underneath and shattered on the floor.

"You were just influencing me." Peter said through clenched teeth.

"Was I?" Hank asked. The tone had a rising, curious tone to it.

"This was why you wanted me here? To see if you could control me?" Peter ground out, withdrawing his fist slowly from the hole he had just made. It was covered in powdered drywall and a brownish red liquid that given what Hank had admitted to regarding his feeding habits, Peter didn't want to think about.

The scent intensified and Peter could feel a certain lassitude settling onto him. He held on to his righteous anger and ignored it. "You're doing it right now." He snarled.

"Peter, the reason I wanted you here has nothing to do with whether or not I can affect you." Hank replied mildly. It sounded odd in that digitized voice, but it was just serving to set Peter's teeth on edge. He welcomed any chance to keep his anger hot. It seemed to help him past whatever Hank was doing. "I really did mean it. The blood sample you provided could be the key to developing a less destructive strain of Hydra."

Peter took a deep breath, feeling the calm seep into him once more as he took it, but he fought it back. He let himself calm just a little. Just enough to take edge off his fury. Angry enough to keep his mind clear of whatever head game Hank was trying to play, but calm enough to still be able to think. "You don't need me to be here for that. I must have left a ton of samples behind when I was in Bellevue--"

He stopped as he realized what was happening.

"Bellevue. You're trying to do a rerun of what happened in Bellevue." Peter growled under his breath. "No one believes you about Jessica. Everyone's buying into the great big noisy outbreak in Queens. Except if my being here starts triggering alarms, people are going to start listening about an outbreak in Manhattan."

The keys clacked and Hank's cartoon face broke into a smile. "Exactly so. I know Jessica is still out there. I can feel something in the sewers and tunnels leading to me. Jessica can take control of nearly anything infected with Hydra and that includes being able to take my Walkers away from me. Portions of my own body have stopped listening and I can't observe entire sections of my body anymore, but no one will listen to me." There was a burst of syllables, followed by a harsher chorus of growling noises from the corners of the room. "They brought me here as the expert on containing Hydra and they keep ignoring my advice."

"So you're handing me over to them to get them to move Thunderbolts to Manhattan?" Peter snarled.

"Of course not. You will need to leave shortly. Shield Team finally responded to the sighting of you in the lobby and they're on their way. I expect them to be here in about fifteen more minutes by chopper. The video record will show you escaping through the maintenance tunnels."

"You're setting me free again out of the goodness of your heart?" Peter asked sarcastically.

"Young man, if I thought allowing your capture would ensure Jessica's destruction then I would do it in an instant. I've already given up my humanity to ensure that Hydra is kept firmly under control... do not think for an instant that I would hesitate to kill you myself if that is what it took." Hank replied flatly, but the soft and incoherent growling noises from the orifices in the viral matting grew louder. "I'm prepared to personally slaughter every man, woman and child in Manhattan and Queens to ensure the safety of the rest of the world."

There was a long silent moment as the growling ceased abruptly.

Peter finally said, in a slow, deliberately careful tone. "You know? I'm starting to get the feeling I know why they don't listen to you."

"Your sarcasm is duly noted." Hank replied with digitally simulated primness, "Nevertheless, it serves no one any good to allow you to be captured. As long as you escape, you are a boogieman. Something for them to chase all over Manhattan and it will improve the chances of their stumbling onto Jessica."

"You could have told me you just needed me to trigger the alarms. You didn't need to lie to me."

"I told you, Peter," Hank's digitized voice remained mild. "The ostensible reason I asked you here remains true. That there was a secondary reason doesn't negate the first."

"Hairsplitting," Peter snapped back. "I'm leaving now, before I do something we are both going to regret." He began to stalk towards the metal double doors.

"I apologize, but surely you must understand the necessit--"

"I do." Peter said without turning. "I just don't like being manipulated."

He put his hand on the door, fully intending to shove it open... or if need be rip his way through. Hank interrupted him by speaking. "I sent directions to your phone for how to get to your mother's body from here. I apologize for manipulating you, but please know that you have my thanks."

The door clicked and swung open just a tiny bit.

Peter glared over his shoulder at the staring eye in the wall. "Still need to make sure I make my escape through those tunnels?" He growled.

"Yes."

Peter made a wordless grunt then slammed the door entirely open with a crash and stalked out without another word.

He ignored Connors and Warren as he stormed through the laboratory, slamming the double doors to the hallway outside with an angry slap. He hadn't really been paying attention if the doors had been unlocked or not when he'd done it and he didn't particularly care.

He jabbed his finger at the down button on the elevator and fished his phone out as he waited.

The directions were there.

Logically, he should ignore it.

Hank had lied to him once already. His tone might have sounded sincere enough, but it was as phony as everything else about him.

He really should leave.

Stop at the lobby.

Go out that way.

Fight his way to the doors if he had to.

Leave Hank and Jessica and the Thunderbolts behind him.

Go back to Queens. Lay low. See if he could figure on some way to get Aunt May, Anna, MJ and Gwen out.

He didn't want to risk getting caught up in a web woven by a psychotic building with a grudge.

The elevator dinged and Peter stepped in distractedly.

Even if Hank Pym were telling the truth and that really was his mom down in those tunnels, it wouldn't do any good if he went down there to see her. Or retrieve the body. What was he going to do, after all? Run across Manhattan carrying a dead body? He could see that going over well with the cops.

One of Ed Whelan's rare memories floated to the surface once more. His mother in the narrow bed beneath Bellevue. Surrounded by instruments. Too thin. Tied down. Sleeping. Helpless.

Peter groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. There wasn't anything he could do. She was there... somewhere... and once there was a quiet moment she would be incinerated.

Except that's not what happens to dead Hydra samples. His own voice drawled. Logic.

Peter realized what that meant. Why drive all captured Hydra samples back to Manhattan instead of destorying them immediately on site?

Pym's a Hive. His voice continued. What do Hives do to dead infected?

Peter shuddered at the memory of the battle with the Hive in the Deli. It was hard to believe that had just been this morning.

He couldn't-- that just felt wrong. Peter would have to see his mother's body one way or another. If only to ensure Hank didn't do anything else to it.

He was about to press the sub-basement button only to realize that the elevator had already been going down the whole time he'd been woolgathering.

The door dinged open on a dimly lit sub-basement. The right one, in fact, according to the directions from his phone.

He growled in annoyance and stepped out.

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