Variant Strain

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Peter fought to keep his restraint. The people here were much less densely packed. Less distracted. He had to move carefully, even though what he really wanted was to use every trick in his arsenal to clear his route to MJ.

But if the Thunderbolts turned their attentions on him, that would be less people working to deal with the other infected.

Also, because bullets hurt like the dickens, Cletus chimed in.

So he couldn't fight like an infected. He'd have to fight like they did... or as well as he could manage without guns or explosives handy.

He knew that at least one of the infected he'd consumed had been a Thunderbolt soldier. Memories spooled out from where they'd been set aside. Advanced training. An old hand talking to the fresh meat.

"-- ighting Hydra in close combat isn't the same as fighting a normal person. Obviously taking them on hand-to-hand is one of the worst possible things you can do, but if you've got no choice, then do it hard and fast. Don't bother trying to just incapacitate them. They feel no pain. Their major organs are either already shut down or have backups. The only way to be effective against an Infected up close, is to inflict the maximum amount of mechanical damage as you can. Break bone. Tear muscle. Separate the head from the body. These are your be--"

The voice of the old Gunny murmured in the back of his head, the voice shifting slowly, deepening to a bass growl until it was all but indistinguishable from Cain's.

He moved towards the clustered Hunters. One of the Thunderbolts had stepped in closer, obviously frustrated at how little damage the Hunters had taken. He had seemed intent on taking as many point blank shots at the Hunter as he could to try and punch a hole in the Hunter's line. Peter took note of the near-invisible markings on the man's hazmat suit and realized this was a Sargent

The Sargent Thunderbolt received a rake to the chest for his troubles, as the Hunter he'd tried to shoot leaped forward with a snarl. The assault rifle that he'd tried to use hadn't helped to block the Hunter's claw and was ripped from his hands by the force of the blow. He was flung back a good six feet. The bright yellow Hazmat uniform was badly shredded and blood was seeping through the damaged material quickly. He'd stopped moving when he'd landed.

The other Thunderbolts hadn't stopped shooting as that had happened, but the Hunters were on all fours, moving and shifting too much for them to get any clear shots. Or if they did hit, the bullets didn't do enough damage to slow them down.

Peter barely paid attention to the shots whizzing around him as he took the attacking Hunter's momentary distraction to grab hold of its extended wrist with a perfectly normal, gloved hand.

The Hunter swiveled its head, to stare at him in seeming disbelief and Peter could only grin savagely beneath the faux-plexiglass mask as he reached out with his other hand for the Hunter's shoulder and grabbed hold with all the force he could muster, digging into the dense muscle with his fingers.

As though to oblige him, small claws grew out of the pads of his fingertips, strengthening his grip and drawing a grunt of pain from the Hunter. It moved to flex its arm and shake him off, but Peter had anchored himself to the ground with a bit of judicious mass shifting.

He lifted a leg, cocked it to his chest and then straightened it sharply, right into the Hunter's elbow. The tremendous blow broke the joint, leaving its lower arm flopping limply in Peter's grasp. It howled in surprise.

As he planted his foot back down, he turned the step into a spin, and whipped the Hunter by its injured arm into the one next to it.

Helped along by momentum and staggered by slamming into one another, the two Hunters landed in a dazed heap, long enough for Peter to kick the assault rifle the Thunderbolt had dropped into his hands.

It took a second for him to aim as the two Hunters tried to disentangle themselves. That was long enough for him to release a pair of three shot bursts into their heads, causing them to stop any coordinated movement and leaving them as little more than spasmodically twitching heaps.

Another Hunter rushed him, taking an impossibly fast overhand swipe. Peter dove to one side, narrowly avoiding the blow. In the same motion he rolled back to his feet, bringing the rifle back up to his shoulder, but the Hunter was already turning and taking another swing at him, this time the blow slapped against the muzzle of the rifle, just as he took a shot at its head.

The slap would have spoiled his aim anyway, but the rifle had clicked empty when he had pulled on the trigger, so he moved with the Hunter's motion. Drawing the rifle around in a circular movement matching the direction of the Hunter's blow in a picture perfect bayonet move.

It brought the rifle's stock swinging around to smash into the Hunter's extended wrist, opening its guard.

It was enough of an opening that he could take a step forward closing in with the Hunter. The rifle was already drawn back from the first swing, the step forward combined with an explosive forward motion smashed the butt into the Hunter's snarling face.

The hard plastic, already cracked from the initial blow against the Hunter's wrist, shattered into jagged shards. Momentarily stunned the Hunter never managed to put up any resistance before Peter drove the sharp edges of broken plastic from what had once been the rifle's butt-stock straight into the Hunter's skull with a meaty crunch.

It swayed for a moment, then collapsed forward, the rifle's muzzle slamming into the asphalt, which in turn drove the jagged plastic further into its head.

Peter turned to the remaining Hunters, but realized they were already scattering.

He turned again when he heard the muffled voice behind him murmur in awe, "Holy shit."

Peter whirled back on the Thunderbolt soldiers, who were clearly staring despite the anonymous helmets.

There was a long moment when no one moved and Peter could feel his face heating up with embarrassment. He cleared his throat then spoke sharply, his voice still a rumbling bass, "There's rats infecting the civilians. Pass the word. Take out the rats."

One of the soldiers, a skinny fellow, spoke up in a Texas twang, "This is New York! There must be millions of rats in the--"

Peter cut him off impatiently, "They'll be the ones running towards the noise and the fighting."

Another Thunderbolt slapped the Texan Thunderbolt in the chest with the flat of his hand, staggering the thinner man. "Ignore Brito, sir. It's his first day in the big city." He said in a mushy New Jersey accented baritone. "We'll pass the word, but who are you?"

The cliched quip rose to his lips faster than he could catch it. "Don't call me sir. I work for a living." He winced and began cursing silently and wondering if any of the soldiers were going to call him on that. It had been a stupid thing to say. He also needed an answer. What was he going to--

He only knew a couple of Thunderbolts by name, but one in particular pushed to the front of his mind even without having to consult his stolen memories. "Schultz. With Shield team."

The men began murmuring among themselves and his sharp hearing specifically caught one of the other men give a low whistle and give a star-struck murmur, "Man, they weren't kidding when they said Shield was the best of the best..."

The Jersey native nodded and then added, "I thought Shield team was still in Manhattan?"

Peter did his best to give the impression of glaring through the plexiglass. It must have worked because the man in front of him wilted slightly. He gestured to the panicked civilians and the crashed cars.

"You didn't think they would deploy us for this, --?" Peter paused, not certain who exactly he was channeling at that moment and also unsure of the man's name.

The man coughed uncomfortably and replied, "Jakson Brice. Sorry. Stupid question."

"Now, I've been separated from the rest of my unit," Peter ground out, "I need to go." He paused, then added with sharp emphasis, "Tell everyone about the rats. Otherwise we're going to lose all the civilians."

Brice snapped a salute. "Yes, sir."

Peter was already on the move before the soldier could bring his hand down.

I just realized, Peter thought into his mind, Why didn't we just broadcast to them about the rats? We've got access to their communications, right?

Cain graveled back, Because we don't have any way to authenticate who we are. Those men will. Faster to let them pass the word than it would be for us to try to convince the REMF's we're a legitimate source of info by breaking in to their channels.

Peter was a little surprised at the unfamiliar acronym but realized that whatever other military related information he was picking up was being specifically absorbed by Cain. That seemed to include some degree of the personality of the military personnel he'd been forced to consume.

Wonder if Schultz is gonna appreciate us makin' him look like a total badass? Cletus chortled.

MJ's close. Donna whispered.

Peter nodded, working his way through the thinner crowds of civilians. There were more Sleepers here. Perhaps the numbers weren't as skewed as he had thought. Then again, they all slept where they'd fallen. In some cases behind the wheels of their vehicles. Those that could move had mostly chased after the civilians or the soldiers.

Why not feed on the sleepers? He asked himself, but then the answer came back immediately, Because they're trying to rebuild their numbers. Go after the uninfected. The Sleepers were already on their side.

Or maybe they taste funny. Who cares? Cletus pointed out.

Or maybe because the Sleepers are going to get up to join them. Donna murmured, calling their attention to the movement all around them.

Peter startled as he realized that the fallen Sleepers were all stirring and beginning to get up.

What? Connors voice whispered incredulously. That's... that is not how that works. The Sleepers are Sleepers! They shouldn't... the only Sleeper we know of that ever woke up is Mary Parker and she wasn't exactly a normal Sleeper. They're supposed to break down into viral matting not get back up!

Peter licked dry lips. We thought the Hives were processing the bodies to reanimate them. Or consuming the bodies and building full bodied Walkers from the biomass. That didn't seem to be the case. The Sleepers really are converting directly to Walkers.

So all those bodies we left back there are about to get up too. Cletus tsked.

We didn't have time to consume all of them and at the time there didn't seem to be any threat from them. Cain snarled back in obvious irritation.

Connors whispered into their mind. The assumptions are changing. This outbreak is not progressing the way the Littleville outbreak did. It isn't progressing the way the Middleton outbreak did. The infection is adapting. Incubation time is shorter. More of the infected are converting to Walkers rather than Sleepers. They're better coordinated despite not having full Hives.

The Thunderbolts are refighting the last battle. Cain graveled. Every other outbreak since Middleton followed the same general pattern.

Peter thought back, The Thunderbolts back there were near enough Sleepers that I they should notice what's going on.

Fifty years worth of an established infection model is going to be a tough rut to break out of. Cain replied.

Ain't we makin' an awful big assumption that those boys are smart enough to find their own asses without orders in triplicate?

Just shut up, Cletus, Cain growled.

There. Donna broke in sharply, pulling their attentions towards a crashed car and small form near it. The source of the sweet scent they'd been chasing after.

He was still over a block away, catching glimpses of them through the haphazardly stopped cars. Peter leapt onto the hood of an old Chevy Impala, which gave him an almost clear view of her.

MJ's hood was down. One sleeve was completely torn off. There was a tear in the other sleeve high up on her bicep. She had scratches that were bleeding freely, but she didn't seem to be paying attention to them as she was busy crouching over another form.

Peter could scent the blood clearly, but even through MJ's waffles scent he could catch threads of roses and sweet cream. Gun oil and fresh fired gun powder. Gwen.

He caught a glimpse of the blonde hair spread on the ground as MJ was pressing something red to the Gwen's temple.

Or its stained red, Connors murmured dryly. Head wounds bleed a great deal.

Gwen's eyes were closed and she seemed unconscious, but her shotgun was still cradled in her arms.

His senses kicked in filtering out sounds around them. It was almost trivial isolating heartbeats now. He found Gwen's almost immediately. Her heart was strong. She would be fine. He was certain. Just banged up a bit.

He was almost to them, about to call out when he realized that one of the Sleepers that had been slumped over the hood of the car they were next to had gotten up on all fours.

Even at the distance and over the noise, Peter heard the growl from the infected as it woke. The same growl that caused MJ to look up and see what was looming menacingly over her.

Time seemed to slow as Peter realized it would attack MJ. Details suddenly came into crystal clear focus. Little things. Like the fact that the newly awakened Sleeper wasn't just a Walker. It was a fully transformed Tracker. It's face was a mass of lumpy tumors and he could hear the claws on its fingertips scraping against the hood of the car.

Peter's mind churned with projections. From the Tracker's position and from MJ's, if it leaped, she could easily move to one side. Except if she did, then the Tracker would land on Gwen.

He shouted out a warning, raising his arm up and willing it to shift. He could take it out from where he was. A single whip blade shot into its body could--

-- miss and hit MJ, his own voice drawled into his mind and his arm stopped in mid-transformation.

He poured on the speed, his legs pumping desperately as he rocketed forward.

The numbers danced in his mind. Cold mathematics. He would be too slow. There was no way for him to reach it before it could--

He caught sight of MJ's expression. She had heard him. She has seen him running. There had been fear and terror in her face, but then it suddenly wiped away as though she'd reached a decision in the split second that the Tracker leapt for her.

Instead of dodging, as Peter had expected her to do out of reflex, she had instead thrown herself forward to shield Gwen from the Tracker.

Peter didn't know if it was MJ screaming or him as the Tracker landed on her and began ripping at her back.

There was a roaring filling his ears and he couldn't tell if the noise was simply in his head, or he was actually making it himself.

It was a chaotic scrabble of flailing limbs and screaming. In the process they flipped over, MJ managing to pin the Tracker beneath her back briefly before its superior strength levered her off.

Peter managed to get there just as the Tracker was trying to get pack to its feet. The scent of blood was strong. Its clawed fingers were scarlet almost to the wrist. He didn't give it a chance to rise. He knew on a vague level that everyone was trying to talk to him at once, but he couldn't hear them over the thunderous sound of the roaring, raging thing running up his spine and threatening to burst out of his head.

He didn't give it a chance to rise. He lifted a foot and stomped down hard on its head, crushing its skull. The feeding tendrils unfolded from his leg and were already tearing the Tracker apart before it even had a chance to twitch.

Peter knelt down, as he cradled MJ as gently as he could. Tendrils flickered across his body, banishing the Thunderbolts hazmat uniform and leaving him in his hoodie and jeans.

The wounds on her back were ragged and bled freely. He could see white bone amidst the blood and he could barely find a spot on her back that was free of the hot, sticky-- delicious-- blood.

Her face, always pale to begin with had grown ashen. She had winced at the contact, but her eyes fluttered open. They seemed dazed but she focused on him almost immediately and a small, warm smile graced her lips.

Faintly he could hear voices murmuring to him, through the roaring. Medical information. Numbers. Blood loss. She was bleeding out. There were too many wounds to stop the bleeding, even if he had something to stop them with in the first place...

Connors whispered, She's dying.

"Hi," She said weakly.

He swallowed hard, feeling the blood continuing to flow in a warm wash across his hand and forearm and down to his lap. "Hi, yourself." He managed to say.

"I knew you were coming," She said, her smile growing somewhat. Her eyes were losing focus.

"MJ, you're hurt. Bad. I mean really bad. I..." He looked around desperately, hoping for some medical miracle to be within easy reach, but there was nothing.

She nodded, then winced, "I know. Pretty sure I'm torn up. It... it actually doesn't hurt." He smiled.

"That's because you're in shock." He said gently.

Her smile widened, her eyes glazing over briefly before she caught herself, "Thank goodness for that. I just feel... I'm so cold."

Uncertain if she really understood what was going on he said, "MJ, You're--."

"Dying." Her eyes flicked to his and her smile was just as warm and serene. "Yeah. I know."

He ran his tongue across his lips. Dry from nerves. That was not hunger. Not anything to do with her blood, slick and sticky staining his skin. "I got here as fast as--"

"I know." She cut him off, then reached a hand up slowly but with great authority and pressed a bloody finger to his lips. "Stop." She said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You're going to blame yourself. Stop. This isn't your fault."

Yes it is, his own voice drawled cutting through the incessant roaring, If you hadn't hesitated so much... if you hadn't waited... if you hadn't chosen to save everyone else first... she wouldn't be dying right in front of you. In your arms. This is your fault. All of it.

He tried to protest, despite his own thoughts, but her finger pressed harder, cutting him off once more. "You saved me, Peter," She murmured, soft but urgent, clearly fighting to stay focused, "You already did that. Every way that mattered, okay? You already saved me."

"But you're--" He started once more, but her eyes focused on his with a painful intensity. "I don't understand."

"You did. You totally did, Tiger." She coughed, a small fleck of blood coming up to her lips and her already shallow breathing hitched. "I picked this. I could've gotten out of the way. I know that." Her eyes drew his in, seeking desperately to make him understand. "I knew what was going to happen. I could've let it eat Gwen."

Peter shuddered. Just the moment, right as she'd made her decision... she could have. "But you didn't."

She nodded weakly. "Because I didn't want to disappoint you."

The roaring receded in his mind and Peter's eyes stung. He didn't know how to respond to that. The lump in his throat refused to go down and he didn't know what to say to her. He didn't even know if he could find his voice.

Her eyes fluttered and he could feel the flow of blood slow to a trickle. Her heart was slowing. Her breathing was shallow and almost nonexistent. She slipped into unconsciousness as he continued to hold her.

"No... MJ? Stay with me, MJ..." He whispered desperately.

Her scent, so familiar to him now diminishing, changing. She was beginning to smell of... dead Hydra. Faint, sickly sweet carrion. She wasn't entirely there... but it was close.

His eyes widened at that. When had she gotten infected? How could he have missed that?

His tongue darted out once more, scraping against the blood her finger had left on his lips and the roar drove back up his spine once more. Her blood was awash in Hydra.

His mind churned through what it knew. Her scent... she was infected. She had been infected. How had he missed it?

Cause you were around her all the time? His voice drawled back. Or because her version of Hydra smells like yours?

He frowned at that. It could have come from him... maybe? Then again, how many times had they kissed? Open-mouthed. Unrestrained. Passionate.

A perfect vector for infection.

He couldn't focus on that. He had to focus on the fact that his own particular strain responded to him. Maybe he could still do something.

He shook his head, forcing himself to think faster. One small part of him kept whispering prayers.

Command interpreters. Molecular assembly. There was obviously some interconnection between his thoughts and Hydra that allowed him to rebuild his body at the cellular level. It came down to templates and analysis. Hydra obviously had to be able to analyze things. Otherwise there was no way to explain how else he could duplicate physical structures from other infected. Faces, bodies, weapons... not all of that was encoded simply purely through DNA. People's appearances were built by life and living and somehow, somewhere in Hydra's immense viral toolkit it could take the instructions for building those structures and store them.

Instructions that had to be referenced when Peter needed to heal his own body. Something in his body provided blue prints that his body else could use to build new structures. Her body would have its own blueprints. If the infection had been there as long as it seemed to have been, it must have the template for her body when it was undamaged.

Something in his body knew how to read those instructions and push things to start rebuilding.

"You don't get this one," His voice was a snarl as his mind raced. "She's mine."

She had been the one good thing that had happened to him since Uncle Ben's death. As strange-- crazy-- as she might have been, she had kept him sane. She'd saved him. He had to pull at least one more save out of this for her.

Hydra owed him.

Owed.

Sto d'zan che'ir.

His body wavered in a haze of tendrils that wicked away her blood. Sampling her genetic material, pulling it all apart for analysis. Structures formed and rebuilt themselves in his head, along his spine. His eyes blazed red as his fingers at her back splayed and split. Tendrils wormed into her wounds, melding into the broken flesh, knitting shut the gouges and cuts in her body.

His stomach clenched briefly and that hunger flared and died unheeded. The roaring in his head was undiminished, but no longer wordless. He could almost pick out words being spoken in that strange language in the cacophony.

He couldn't pay attention to the words, though. He had to concentrate.

Her weakened heart slowed and stopped, but he clenched his teeth and it began to beat once more, in time to his own. There was a silent interplay of commands between his body and hers. He wasn't certain how he knew that, but he knew it was happening.

He shifted mass to her in some inexplicable way, he knew she was burning through it somehow, pulling on his mass reserves to force her body to heal and all the while fighting the temptation to simply enfold her body in his and just consume her.

Something that seemed partway between his own voice and Hank Pym's whispered as he worked, That will be easier. Safer. Her neural structures haven't had time to degrade, nor do they seem compromised despite her complete infection. A full memetic engram. A perfect copy. She could be safe with you forever.

That's creepifyin', Cletus murmured disgustedly, Shut it.

His voice continued in a drawl, You don't know what you're doing. You're not even sure if this will work like you expect it to. Hell, she could be even worse off after this than if you'd left well enough alone. Think she'll thank you for turning her into a monster?

Peter almost stopped then, but she took a single, shallow, shaky breath, then another.

Another. Deeper.

Another. Stronger.

Her heart still beat in time with his, but he no longer felt himself forcing it to pump blood through her body.

Color flushed back into her face. He could still feel her flesh knitting under his fingers. Feel wounds closing and his tendrils somehow pumping fresh blood into her body.

Now she just had to wake up. He could know then if he'd caused any damage.

Once her eyes opened and it was still her, then he'd know for sure that he'd done the right thing.

That was when he heard the scream.

It was followed almost immediately by the shotgun blast.

He felt the buckshot just narrowly miss, burning flecks of gunpowder peppering his back as he glanced over his shoulder.

Gwen was sitting up, her back against the tire of the crashed vehicle near them. Her shotgun was wavering in both her hands. She had an expression of pure determination on her face. Peter could see that there was a previously white hanky, soaked with blood stuck to her temple. Unfortunately all the determination in the world couldn't do anything for the obvious concussion that was spoiling her aim.

"Get away from her!" Gwen screamed, cocking her weapon for another shot.

Peter grit his teeth. He couldn't move away from MJ yet. Even though the worst of the physical damage had already been dealt with, he was still linked to her and passing mass to her body to use to deal with her other injuries.

He wondered what he looked like to her.

Probably like you're eatin' crazy girl, Cletus drawled.

"This isn't--" Peter started to say, but Gwen snarled and pulled the trigger once more.

The shot went wide in the opposite direction, peppering a lamp post.

"Gwen stop!" He shouted, which seemed to startle her enough to point the shotgun up and away from him and MJ.

We need to convince her that she was seeing things because of her concussion and you're actually you. Donna murmured.

A man came running around the corner kept Peter from responding. The man had an assault rifle in one hand and was dressed in black fatigues and body armor that resembled the Gentek security uniforms. The only major difference was that several prominent patches on his shoulders showed Oscorp logos. Over his right armored breast plate was a patch that said, "Macendale, J."

The armor had looked like it had seen better days and the man, who had a full head of wavy brown hair, looked exhausted. That didn't stop him from raising his rifle and taking aim.

More men in similar uniforms were beginning to round the corner. All of them were armed, and taking their cue from the first man.

More guns aimed at him.

He considered leaving MJ with them. This was the Oscorp security detail they were supposed to meet up with. They could take over. They could get her out.

Except MJ wasn't well yet and it was going to take him at least a minute to disentangle his body from hers.

Boy does that sound naughty, Cletus laughed.

Except that she was now infected. Leaving her unconscious and at their mercy.

Like your mom, Connors pointed out.

If they don't take the pragmatic route and shoot her in the head first. Cain chimed in.

Hurry. Donna urged.

Peter held MJ closer to him, carrying her bridal style as he rose to his feet, ducking his head just enough for the first bullet to miss.

He shot straight into the air with a leap and he began shifting mass just as more bullets whizzed past the space he had only just occupied.

Beneath him the man leading the security detail began shouting into his headset. Peter caught some of it, "Kingsley! We've secured Miss Stacey, but the Spider just kidnapped Miss Watson! I need eyes in the sky now! And get the rest of our guests out before anything else goes wrong!"

Peter ran.

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