Variant Strain

- - -

Peter was listening to a dial tone.

He did not want to be hearing the dial tone. He wanted Cletus to give him some sort of explanation for what was going on. He hadn't even had a chance to answer the man's question about where he was in the house, much less gotten his questions answered.

The number Cletus had called from was unlisted. Or at least that's how it had appeared as it came in. He tapped on the phone to check the call logs and found... nothing.

There had been no record of the last call.

The last call in the log had been the one from MJ's phone before the limo had picked him up.

He frowned down at the phone, feeling vaguely betrayed by it for not having what he needed to know, but also feeling the stirrings of worry.

Had the call even been real?

Or had he started hallucinating calls from one of the ex-voices in his head just so it could give him tantalizing clues?

If that were the case, what exactly did that say about his state of mind?

Equally likely was that however Cletus had made the call, he was with someone who could remote wipe a portion of the phone's call log.

The possibility that Cletus knew how to do that had seemed so unlikely as to be laughable.

He knew in a vague sort of way that that was perfectly possible. He knew how to do it. Or, rather, he used to. Back when he still had all the UltronMobile OS operating codes.

So either he was crazy or dealing with someone who was being paranoid.

Neither option was particularly appealing and he had no way of determining which was right at the moment.

He glanced towards the suite door where, if he paid attention, he could already hear Aunt May's breathing and heart beat even out into deeper sleep.

He knew where MJ was. She was also asleep, but he could wake her. She seemed to know something. She was expecting something. He, on the other hand, was entirely clueless. He hoped she'd have an answer for him.

And if anyone caught them, he could just pretend he'd been coming over in the middle of the night to... ah... what was that word Uncle Ben loved to use?

Canoodling.

He would feign intent to canoodle.

As plans went, it beat sitting on the bed and staring at his phone by a considerable margin.

He got to his feet and walked as quietly as he could towards the door.

He tried the knob and felt a faint moment of surprise that it was unlocked.

He smiled to himself and crossed the hallway, intent on MJ's door. Her breathing was still that of someone deeply asleep, but as he got closer, there was a faint shift. A catch in her breathing and he could hear a rustling and knew she'd sat up.

Whatever he'd done to her had made her stronger. Faster. Perhaps her senses had been enhanced as well. She knew he was out here.

Perhaps he'd finally get a few more answers--

Unfortunately, he'd been concentrating so intently on MJ's scent and the sounds of her movements that he'd all but missed the other scent that was approaching.

He fought down the urge to drop into a crouch as the new scent turned the corner. Strong, steady heartbeat. Aftershave, blood and gun oil.

"Mr. Kingsley." Peter said politely. His heartbeat shot up briefly, but he got it under control. His hands twitched and he found himself visualizing taking the necessary six steps to reach the man at a run, delivering an elbow to his face, then sweeping his feet out from under him.

Kingsley inclined his head and said, "Mr. Parker."

"Uh... I was just..." His initially planned lie had managed to slip out of his mind as more thoughts of simpler and faster ways to take the man down played out. A straight-fingered jab to the throat would do considerable damage and keep him from crying out.

At the hesitation, Kingsley raised an eyebrow. His eyes would be particularly vulnerable.

"I... needed the bathroom?" Peter asked feebly, trying not to envision ramming a finger into the man's eye.

"There was one in your suite, sir." Kingsley said pointedly.

"I needed to... uh... stretch my legs?"

Kingsley dipped his head. Not quite a nod, exactly. An acknowledgement that Peter had said something as opposed to actually believing him. "Well, if you're up anyway, sir. Mr. Osborn would like to speak with you."

Peter swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. "Ah." His eyes flicked up to the ceiling and he realized that if he'd really been paying attention to his enhanced senses he might have noticed the discreet little security camera keeping an eye on the corridor.

This had been so much easier when someone else had been doing the watching for him.

In any case, someone had been watching. The possibility of witnesses made him glad he hadn't gone with any of his thoughts of attack.

Kingsley gestured back the way he had come. "This way, please."

It would have been so easy to grab the man's extended arm. A jerk to pull him off balance. A knee to the solar-plexus to rob him of breath, then an open-palmed slap to the temple to slam him into the floor.

Except he was being watched.

Peter managed a sickly little smile and followed meekly.

He still didn't know enough. If he did any of the things going through his mind, he would need to get everyone out now and he just wasn't sure if that was even possible. If there was a plan-- he found himself wishing for someone to tell him what to do.

Even if it was just the suggestion to eat the guy.

He suppressed a shudder at that thought.

Kingsley led him up to the second floor. The door was just as anonymous and unremarkably opulent as the rest of the house, but it opened up into a study that had the clear stamp of someone's personality.

There was a large and heavy oak desk that dominated one side of the room. It had an old fashioned green blotter that was mostly obscured by papers scattered in several piles. The piles in turn, were pinned down by fist-sized pewter Jack-O-Lanterns as paperweights.

There was a novelty pen set that was topped by skulls and bats in a ridiculous haunted house shaped ceramic pen-holder. Or it could have been a mug that had been used as a pen holder.

There were bookshelves on most of the walls. A sweep of Peter's eyes took in an esoteric range of titles. Everything from old Stephen King hardbacks to self help books to business books.

Where there weren't shelves, the walls themselves were covered in photos and paintings. One section in particular were of Harry Osborn growing up. Elsewhere, photos of an older man with a marked resemblance to Harry was shown with a wide variety of people. Influencial men. Powerful political figures. A who's who of the American political and economic scene for the latter half of the twentieth century.

Most prominently, behind the desk was a large portrait of the older Osborn grinning widely, in a tux, while wearing a white half-mask that covered most of his brow and part of one cheek. An attractive blonde woman his age with her hair coming down to shoulder length wore a white evening dress and a much more elaborate mask with feathers. The costume for the Phantom of the Opera, he realized.

Peter was startled out of his study of the room by the sound of Kingsley shutting the door firmly.

Then it was just him.

And the man behind the desk.

Peter recognized Norman Osborn. He wasn't entirely certain how, but he could put a name to the face. The man was old. Not just old. He seemed whithered and shrunken in on himself. He wore an expensive suit which was surprisingly well-tailored for his small frame. He had a fringe of sparse white hair around a receding hairline that had pretty much gone past the halfway mark and wasn't making any more stops.

Norman Osborn smiled and it was a startling expression. Pure white teeth. Flat and even. The smile even reached the man's eyes, hard chips of flint suddenly alive and sparkling with intelligence and humor. Peter didn't know what to make of it.

The smell in the closed room was worrying. The alcohol was easiest. Some sort of scotch. Unfamiliar. Peter supposed he should be glad he hadn't any memories nor the discernment of a conosoiuer. There was a bitter scent as well. A medicinal scent. Strong and lingering.

The last was barely a trace. Decay. Not the cloying carrion sweetness of Hydra. This was meat dried out and left to rot. Beef jerky gone wrong. A dying scent. Not quite there, but on its way. The scent was entirely from Osborn.

"Ah, Mr. Parker." Osborn said. His voice was a wheezing rasp. It still had a hint of the air of command of his youth, but there was no mistaking the age in it. That hadn't been conveyed so well over the phone in their brief conversation.

Norman Osborn, Peter thought to himself, was not only an old man, but a dying one. Peter had no idea how to react to that. He'd assumed that Norman Osborn was somehow the Dorrek Chitauri. The God-Emperor waiting in Westchester. He had no idea why he'd been so certain, only that it seemed to fit.

But no. He seemed to every sense that Peter could call upon to be exactly as he appeared. An ill, old man in a room that looked like it was still celebrating Halloween.

"Mr. Parker," Norman said again, cutting off Peter's train of thought. He realized he'd been staring. Possibly rudely.

"Good evening, Mr. Osborn."

Norman tapped a bobble-head figurine on the table. It was shaped like one of the Oscorp Insurance commercial goblins. It's head wobbled comically for a moment before the side of Norman's face twitched into a wrinkled smile. "Manners." The old man nodded approvingly. "It is good to meet someone with proper manners." He gestured vaguely. "I would get up to greet you, but it's far more trouble nowadays than it used to be."

"No need to trouble yourself on my account, sir." Peter responded back hastily.

That approving smile again and a nod of the head from Osborn. "I noticed you admiring the decor of my study."

"It's a bit eye catching." Peter admitted after a moment.

Norman's smile turned somewhat ghoulish. "I love Halloween. My favorite holiday. The spooky games, the candy. Lovely time. I especially love the masks."

Not sure what else to say, Peter settled on a neutral noise. Norman seemed to take that as encouragement to continue.

"You can tell a lot about someone from what they choose to dress as." Norman said. "What they hide themselves as can tell you far more about someone than what they choose to reveal on a daily basis."

"Um... you think so?"

"Oh, yes. I know you're a young man, but I have a feeling you dressed up for Halloween last year, didn't you?"

Peter blushed slightly and ducked his head. "Yes. I was a munchkin. From the Wizard of Oz."

Norman gave him a puzzled look, then chuckled. "You didn't pick your costume."

He shook his head sadly. "My Uncle did." He tried to keep the hitch out of his voice, but remembering Uncle Ben's laughter as he presented them their costumes. It was almost impossible to believe he'd only been dead a little over a week now.

That had been when the madness had started. When the world started being so very, very strange. Peter swallowed down the lump in his throat and forced himself to continue. "He was dressed as Oz the Great and Powerful. Aunt May dressed up as Glinda." He allowed a fond smile to bloom. "Basically he was dressed as a giant green head."

Norman watched him for a long second before replying. "My condolences on your loss, Mr. Parker."

"Thank you, sir."

"Your Aunt speaks very fondly of Ben Parker." Norman said. "She speaks very fondly of you, I must admit. Talked my ear off when I asked."

"Uh... yes. She kind of does that." He ducked his head once more, a slight embarrassed blush developing. This was not progressing as he'd imagined it. Certainly not what he would have expected of the Dorrek Chitauri. If this man even was. Or if it was something else and he'd completely misjudged everything. He felt as though he were adrift again.

Norman nodded, seeming not to notice the brooding silence that had settled onto the room.

"Even that choice tells me something, you see." Norman said finally. "It tells me you care a great deal about your family and want to make them happy."

"Well... yes." Peter shrugged a bit. "I guess that's true."

"I'm almost tempted to say you may have a bit of a streak of that. Extends to everyone you care about." Norman continued. "Which given everything I've seen so far isn't a great feat of deduction, I suppose."

"No, sir. I suppose not."

Norman made a vague gesture towards Peter, his smile turning ghoulish on his cadaverous face. "This. This is exactly what I mean about having a good mask."

"I don't understand what you mean?"

"You're sitting there, looking meek as can be. A bright young man like yourself. Promising future. Just the right mask so that no one realizes anything."

"What?"

Norman nodded shakily, "I can respect that, you know. Your family doesn't even suspect a thing, although I imagine your girlfriend knows. Was it her idea or did you decide to do it on your own?"

"I have no idea what you mean," Peter said, struggling to keep his voice mild. Then he added as an afterthought, "Sir."

Norman gave a harsh bark of a laugh then leaned back into his chair, clearly tired. "Oh, is that how you're playing this? I'd like for you to work for me, Mr. Parker. I can see you going places. I expect great things from you."

"That's," Peter paused, unsure of how to actually respond. "That's very flattering, sir. I'm not sure why you would--"

Norman leaned forward once more, his eyes hard and bright and glittering with amusement. "Because at the tender age of sixteen, you seem to have an uncanny knack for surviving. You waltzed past barricades manned by professional soldiers at a whim. Survived in a place that killed tens of thousands and managed to keep your girlfriend well and whole despite those clearly very trying circumstances."

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held. "Oh."

Norman chuckled, "Yes, 'oh'." He waved a hand dismissively and added, "That and you managed to plot and execute the perfect murder of your girlfriend's asshole father at the same time."

Peter stared at Norman. "I'm sorry, what?"

"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?" Norman chuckled then said, "I mean after the military put the quarantine into effect, Brian Watson calls my idiot son, asking for help getting several people out. Except," Here, Norman drew out the word before continuing. "When the security team gets there, not only is Brian not there... no one had actually seen him since he got put in lock up for trying to assault his daughter. An assault that you stopped."

"How is tha--" Peter sputtered. Unable to deny what the old man was saying, but desperate to get a word in edgewise. To say... something.

Norman held up a hand, forestalling whatever Peter would have said. "The lock up which just so happens to be inside a building teeming with the infected. Yet, Harry insists it was Brian who called him a few days later asking for an extraction for not just his family... but for people he would have every reason to despise."

"I... guess that doesn't make sense, does it?" Peter asked cautiously.

"Not at all." Norman replied. "Brian Watson was a petty bastard. I actually encouraged his friendship with Harry when they were younger to see if he'd help Harry build a spine." He sneered. "Except all that ended up happening was Brian took advantage of Harry. And my poor idiot son just went along with him."

"It sounds like you didn't like him much."

Norman gave another barking laugh. "You've met him. I don't imagine anyone liked Brian Watson much."

"But you're saying I didn't like him enough to kill him." Peter said flatly.

"Like I said, he was a bastard. Alternately, your pretty little girlfriend convinced you to do it." Norman nodded. "I was young once too. I know what that's like."

Peter forced his breathing and heart rate to stay under control. He almost imagined he could hear an echo of one of Brian's uncontrolled roars as a Rhino echoing in the back of his mind, but that wasn't real.

Norman continued on, blithely ignoring Peter's obvious discomfort. "It seems obvious if you know the timeline. Your Aunt and Miss Watsons all agree that you spent a lot of time out 'exploring'." He made air quotes. "Given how you seem to be able to walk through the teeming hordes of infected without a scratch, I imagine one of those times was when you went back into the police station to extract Brian."

"... what."

"Then you must have held him somewhere and 'convinced'," Peter could hear the sarcasm lacing the last word, "Him to call Harry for help." Norman shook his head, "Poor, dumb, easily duped Harry."

"I don't see how you could be blaming me--" Peter sputtered. The worst part was that he couldn't even really deny it. He had killed Brian Watson.

"Harry said Brian sounded fine when they did talk. Did you have a gun to his head then or a knife at his throat?" Norman wondered aloud.

"I didn't--" He actually really hadn't. The gun had been down Brian Watson's throat. And the man hadn't really been able to talk by that point.

"I can only assume you killed him right after that call." Norman continued, before fixing Peter with that bright, intense gaze. "How was it? Was that your first kill, Peter? Or have you done this before and covered it up?"

"You're sick." Peter whispered, desperately forcing himself to keep control. He could already see all sorts of ways Osborn could be dealt with. Norman Osborn was so old. So frail. So fragile. And his stupid brain kept presenting him with all sorts of scenarios to shut. Him. Up.

"You're the murderer here." Norman shrugged eloquently, his cadaverous grin widening.

Peter stared at him mutely, unable to actually refute the accusation. Norman was right. He was a killer. Many, many times over.

"So silent." Norman murmured, "You're thinking about how to get rid of me right now, aren't you?"

Peter took a deep breath to steel himself and looked Norman directly. "Why are you doing this, Mr. Osborn? If I really was a murderer, why would you even want to tell me you know--?"

"I suspected, but wasn't actually certain," Norman replied. "But now that I've finally gotten to meet you personally, it seems quite clear. How still you are. You don't seem so upset about being accused. You're upset at being found."

Peter leaned forward, over Norman's desk. He was surprised to find that he'd grabbed hold of one of the heavy pewter Jack O' Lantern paperweights and was squeezing it in his hand, hard enough to cause his joints to make faint popping sounds.

"If I really were a killer, Mr. Osborn," Peter said, looming over the frail old man from across the desk. "Telling me you know seems like a bad idea."

"Not at all. I have a bodyguard right outside the door, Peter." Norman remined him.

A flare of temper at the old man's lack of concern burned hot in Peter's chest for a moment. "Do you really think he'd be fast enough to get in here before something happened?" He ground out. Then caught himself and added sarcastically, "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

That just caused a barking laugh to bubble up out of Norman. "I'm sure you wouldn't want your poor, sweet Aunt May to realize what you've done, right? Wouldn't want to ruin the good image she has of you. Wouldn't want to see her... hurt, would you?" The way he had lingered over the word 'hurt' just sent a stronger spike of killing rage through him that he was struggling desperately to control.

"I mean your loved ones are all here," Norman added blandly. "In my home. Surrounded by my men. Not that I would do anything to them myself," He gestured at his frail form self-depreciatingly. "But if I were to be hurt... I couldn't say for sure how my employees would react."

"What. Do. You. Want." Peter growled out through gritted teeth.

"Answers, to start with," Norman admitted, leaning back bonelessly into his seat. "What the hell happened in Queens? And with the Gentek Building?"

At the questions, Peter's anger sputtered into sudden confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I have a bunch of conflicting reports." Norman grumbled, waving a hand. "Some sort of virus outbreak that mutates people. Some sort of terrorist attack, people tell me. Some sort of containment breach for a bioweapon. Nothing that makes sense." He looked directly up at Peter. "You were there. Unless I miss my guess, you've been right at the heart of this whole mess."

Peter settled for a hard stare. "You can't possibly be telling me that you have no idea what's going on."

"Not a clue." Norman shrugged eloquently. "At least nothing I can actually trust."

"Then why the hell would you accuse me of being a murderer--?!" Peter sputtered.

Norman gave another of those harsh, barking laughs. "Masks, my boy. Mine is that of a ruthless and powerful industrialist. Yours is of a good, polite boy." Norman's ghoulish smile seemed to cast half his face into shadows. "Now our masks are off. Your eyes aren't those of a traumatized survivor. You have the look of a veteran soldier. A killer tempered by a harsh world." Norman added thoughtfully. "But still a good boy nonetheless, I think."

Peter's grasp of the little pewter paperweight tightened. "Are you so sure of that?"

"Sure enough to be willing to put my life in your hands." Norman replied, spreading his hands and revealing himself helpless. "As you said, we both know you can probably do something unfortunate to me faster than I could shout for help. Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Peter sighed and looked away briefly, more scenarios for silencing and killing Norman rising in his mind before he mumbled. "Maybe."

Norman spread his hands wider, "Meanwhile, I am revealed as a clueless old man who really wants to know what the devil is going on. No one will tell me what is happening. I know my company's resources are being used for something, but not what."

"That makes no sense." Peter said, looking back towards the older man sharply. "It's your company."

"With my health the way it is, I'm insulated from day to day operations by a forest of middle managers and pencil pushers. No one will give me a straight answer. You were there. You saw everything that happened. Young Miss Watson's a very accomplished liar and its obvious she's covering up what she knows." Norman inclined his head towards Peter. "You, on the other hand... you're a lot easier to read."

Peter flushed for just a moment before forcing himself to calm down. "I suppose I am."

"Now... tell me about what happened in Queens."

Peter really wasn't certain what to tell him. Or even where to begin. He had a great deal of information, he realized. A great deal he didn't want to say. More that needed to be told.

But there were the dead with their buried secrets. Some of the dead had only died the day before. He had some of the answers, but he was still awash in questions himself. Mostly concerned with what had just happened to him.

And the big questions... where was the Dorrek Chitauri? What had he intended to happen when he'd shut off the majority of his powers? What was supposed to happen now?

Peter looked at Norman. Frail and withered. There was a fading echo of the man's strength and Peter found himself wondering what kind of terror the man had been in his prime. A faint memory stirred and a recollection of someone who had known him in his distant youth. A Hank memory.

Peter blurted out, "Does Middletown, Arizona, mean anything to you?"

The amusement in Norman's face seemed to leach away. Leaving only a vague impression of cold disquiet. Peter looked the man in the eyes and could see a terror looming within them. "I was afraid of that." He grumbled weakly. His eyes hardened once more and he asked, "What do you know about it?"

"I spoke with Hank Pym before he died." Peter admitted, wondering if that would be enough of an answer.

Norman heaved a sigh. "And why would he have told you anything?"

Peter considered his answer before replying. "Someone arranged for Jessica Drew to escape."

Norman's eyes grew wide. "Oh." He nodded grimly. "Well, that tells me what I need to know. Excuse me, Mr. Parker," He reached for the phone at his desk and added, "I need to wake up some very important people and persuade them to call down a nuclear strike on New York."

Peter's own eyes grew wide at that, "Wait! No! You don't have to! She's gone!"

Norman seemed to flinch, "How would you know that?"

"I was there. She's gone." Peter replied firmly.

Norman stared. "That's impossible. She was kept contained because she couldn't be killed."

"Well, she wasn't contained anymore because the people who were supposed to do that let her go."

"That still doesn't explain what you mean when you tell me she's 'gone'."

"Arrangements were made." Peter hedged.

"What sort of 'arrangements' were those?" Norman growled harshly.

"Ones my mother made." Peter said firmly. That was even the truth, Peter congratulated himself.

Norman looked puzzled for a moment, but then slumped. Clearly exhausted by the conversation. "I am an old man, Mr. Parker. I don't have the strength to keep this conversation up when getting anything from you is like pulling teeth."

Peter loomed over Norman and said, "I need to know that you had nothing to do with what happened. I will tell you everything if you can reassure me you didn't know anything about Colonel Jameson. Or the Hydra infected Oscorp security personnel."

Norman's face twisted into a pained grimace of revulsion and confusion. "What infected Oscorp security personnel?!"

Peter glowered. "The Russian Super-soldiers. The Soldyat. The ones that were 'acquired' when the Russian Hydra program tanked."

"It... amazes me that you even know about that, but I have no clue why you'd think they'd be with Oscorp." Norman admitted. "Everything to do with Hydra should have been handled through Gentek. The entire point of getting Gentek set up was so it would handle Hydra! Oscorp's an investment company, for goodness sake! "

"Well, someone working for you certainly does." Peter replied, his voice harsh.

Norman looked confused once more, but his face darkened briefly before a smile twisted his face. "No... that can't be."

"What?"

Norman nodded to Peter. "I can think of at least one person who could have had access to everything, but I couldn't imagine him being the one doing any of this."

It was Peter's turn to frown, then sigh as the man continued to grin at him. "Enough dramatic build up."

Norman opened his mouth to speak once more, but then Peter's phone rang.

"Sorry," He mumbled, reaching into his pocket with his free hand.

As he did so, the door burst open suddenly. The heavy wood around the lock splintering from the force of the blow.

Peter whirled, glancing over his shoulder, cursing his inattention once more. He'd gotten so intent on his conversation with Osborn that he'd forgotten to keep an ear out for anything else.

Kingsley strode through the door, but it wasn't quite Kingsley.

The Oscorp security man in his dark suit had just kicked the door in and he didn't quite seem to be himself.

The man's suit was no longer fit quite right. His body bulged and writhed in odd spots beneath the material. He didn't move right anymore. Legs suddenly a touch too long. Arms shifting in joints no longer quite fitting properly. His face still bore the same features, but they had distorted. His mouth was twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile. A pained rictus that seemed to be tearing at his cheeks. His chin was showing the faint vertical ridges Peter had seen on some Hydra victims. His ears had twisted to strange points at the tips.

The eyes... Kingsley's eyes had red irises. Not quite the edge to edge red. This made it worse. Made it easier to read the expression of crazed, murderous intent in them. The scent was similar, but shifted. Muted. The familiar carrion sweetness wafted through was painfully familiar.

He had a gun in his hand. A large pistol. In the back of Peter's mind, a set of dry statistics about the weapon rattled off, but he hadn't paid any attention to it because the gun at that moment was pointed right at Norman Osborn. A one handed grip while walking.

The accuracy would be terrible, but as close as he was... that wouldn't be a big problem.

Numbers ran through Peter's mind in the moment of realization. It would take too long to leap over the desk to push Osborn down. If he even managed it, he'd take the bullet... and he didn't think he was as resilient as he had once been. It was also too far to rush Kingsley to enact any of the scenarios that had gone through his mind. It would be far too simple for the man to begin shooting him directly.

Fight smarter. Not harder. He told himself. No helpful tendrils or claws or whipblade right now.

His heartbeat spiked and his hands clenched into fists.

One hand did.

His other hand was still holding the smooth, cool surface of the heavy pewter paperweight that he had grabbed earlier and forgotten to put back down.

He wasn't even consciously aware that he was moving when he'd realized that he'd already worked out a course of action.

His fingers shifted on the pewter Jack O'Lantern in his hand even as he lobbed it like a fastball directly at Kingsley's pistol. Or more precisely, the hand that held it.

The heavy paper weight slammed into Kingsley's hand with a sickening crunching noise that spoke to Peter of shattered fingers and broken bones. The force of the strike had also thrown the man's aim completely off. The reflexive tightening of the fingers sent a shot booming through the room, but missed Norman Osborn entirely.

Kingsley's broken fingers couldn't hold the gun firmly anymore, but the same damage had gotten his forefinger tangled up between the trigger and the trigger guard, leaving the pistol dangling loosely in his mangled hand.

Peter didn't give the man the opportunity to recover. He'd shot forward towards Kingsley, right behind his projectile. He'd intended to tackle the man. To knock him down and keep him down.

That hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped. Kingsley was larger and as much as Peter had some degree of enhanced strength, those strangely bulging muscles beneath Kingsley's suit made him strong enough to keep from being bowled over.

Kingsley staggered back slightly. He was forced to take a step back as Peter slammed into him, but it was not enough to knock him down. He roared and swung his unbroken hand, staggering Peter with a immensely powerful blow to the side of the face. Peter managed to turn his head with the punch, but only barely. Kingsley was fast. Inhumanly fast and strong.

Peter responded by grabbing hold of Kingsley's already broken hand and squeezing. He could feel bone grinding beneath his fingers, shards beginning to tear through flesh. Kingsley barely flinched.

Anyone else would have been screaming in agony. It didn't seem to slow Kingsley down.

The flinch, had been enough for Peter. It gave him an opening. Not much of one. But something he could use.

He slammed a fist into Kingsley's throat. Hard enough to shove the man's back into one of the bookshelves. Hard enough to feel cartilage crunch and collapse against his fist. He didn't let go of the broken hand even as books began raining down around them.

Again there was that utter non-reaction to what should have been debilitating pain. Peter could hear a broken, gurgling whistle through the crushed throat, but it still didn't seem to be enough to take Kingsley down. Kingsley's free fist managed a hard, short jab into Peter's ribs.

He hissed, feeling his own bones creaking under the strength of the blow. It had hurt. His next breath seemed to set his entire side on fire.

Up close now, that breath was tainted with a subtle tinge of ozone mingled with the sweet carrion scent of Hydra. If Peter had any doubts that Kingsley had been infected, this dispelled them. Peter couldn't hold up in an extended fight. He could still feel pain. Kingsley seemed not to.

He had to end this quickly. Decisively.

Peter's hand clenched tighter around Kingsley's broken hand. A twist popped the gun entirely free from the man's slack grip, sliding oh, so easily into his hand.

Kingsley brought a knee up, intending to slam into Peter's already aching side, but he took that moment to take a few steps back, dodging past the scattered books on the floor. He pulled himself out of Kingsley's reach and looked at the man.

Truly looked at him.

The smile on Kingsley's face was a twisted thing. Drool speckled his multiply cleft chin and had stained the collar of his now ill-fitting suit. His eyes were faintly glowing red, lit by madness. There wasn't a shred of anything human left in that hungry, gaze. Animal cunning perhaps. The bared teeth of his 'smile' was no indication of amusement or happiness. It was the aggression of a beast, ready to attack.

Just like nearly everything else he'd dealt with back in Queens.

Hydra had taken another victim.

Peter could hear Osborn screaming something. His phone was still ringing. Osborn's heart was racing. All around him, beyond the room, Peter could hear and feel movement and panic.

It had followed him here.

Or perhaps it was better to say that it had been here already.

Waiting for him.

His heart was calm.

His hands steady.

He no longer had his abilities to manipulate his own flesh. He healed quickly, but not to the extent that his flesh would twist into place for whatever was broken. He had no direct or simple means of taking care of infected.

Kingsley took Peter's moment to gather itself as well. He rotated his neck, producing a dozen painful popping noises before it clenched its broken hand into a fist. The grin widened and it launched itself at Peter.

Reflex, instinct, experience and the understanding of what he was dealing with drove Peter's movements.

While the man was in mid-air, Peter twisted to the side, the gun raised and tracking the former security man.

Peter squeezed the trigger. Once.

The gunshot slammed into Peter's enhanced senses.

The bullet hit Kingsley dead center on the left temple. The opposite side of his head exploded into a ruin of flesh. He landed in an awkward heap with a familiar spasmodic twitching. The body wasn't quite dead yet, but with the brain gone, it wouldn't be able to move properly.

It was almost disturbing how familiar that had become to Peter. He stared down at Kingsley. The gun was heavy in his hand. The smell of the spent gunpowder filling his nostrils as much as the coppery tang of blood and the familiar tainted carrion sweetness of Hydra.

He wondered if he should be bothered that this didn't even bother him anymore.

He glanced over his shoulder to Osborn who stared back.

Osborn, who had been screaming looked back at Peter with a drawn, bloodless expression. His wide eyes flicked down to Kingsley, then to Peter, then to the gun in Peter's hand and finally settled for meeting Peter's eyes.

"Well. I can see how you survived."

Peter swallowed, keeping his voice level. "Do you have any idea why you seem to suddenly have a Hydra outbreak in your house?"

Osborn's eyes flicked back to the gun briefly, then shook his head hurriedly. No further shift in his heartbeat. No change in pupil dilation. No involuntary flicking away of the eyes or any other micro-expressions on the man's face that would have told Peter he'd lied. "No. Not at all." Osborn rasped, honest alarm in his tone.

Peter licked his lips as his phone rang again.

In the distance he heard a gun shot. Then another. Then something that sounded like a shotgun blast.

"Excuse me. I should probably take this." He said in as level a tone as he could manage.

Osborn nodded carefully. The exaggerated care one did in the presence of a predator that might choose to attack at any moment.

Peter fished into his pocket with his empty hand, not relinquishing his grip on the gun at all and tapped at the phone's screen to take the call, which was showing as having come from an unknown number.

"Yo, kid."

"Cletus." Peter growled.

"Soooo... we're trying to get the extraction done, but there's been a bit of a snag--"

"Does it have something to do with a sudden Hydra outbreak in the middle of the Osborn house?" He closed his eyes and let his senses expand outwards, catching scents and heartbeats and the sound of movement. "There's at least twenty or so infected on the ground floor with more arriving."

"Yeah, they're probably coming up from the basement," Cletus admitted. "In my defense, they were already infected when we got here."

His senses pinpointed familiar scents clumped together. Moving. A lingering scent of spent gunpowder clung to them. He'd hoped they'd barricaded themselves in their rooms, but it looked like they hadn't.

"I don't have time," Peter ground out. "MJ, Anna, Aunt May and the Staceys are getting chased by the infected downstairs."

There was another distant sound of a gunshot.

Peter glanced over at Osborn and gave the man a terse nod before he hurriedly pulled the door open and began to sprint down the hall. The noises grew louder. The cloying, scent of Hydra grew stronger even as he drew closer to where the familiar scents had clustered.

He growled as he ran, "I really just need the highlights, Cletus." He paused then deliberately said, "Focus. What is going on?"

A patter of noises came through the phone, including Cletus's voice complaining, but growing more distant. A feminine voice came through the phone. "Here are the key points, Peter."

"Donna?" Peter asked incredulously.

He could almost hear her smiling at the other end of the line. "Focus. We were infiltrating the Osborn house to pull May, MJ and everyone else out. Unfortunately, the house appears to be sitting on top of some sort of bunker that has a lot of infected. Possibly some sort of research facility. We're fighting our way through the infected to get to everyone else. Can you tell where they are now?"

"I'm making my way to them right now." He panted as he slid to a stop at the top of the stairs.

Below, the infected were all too familiar. The muscular distortions. The oddly disproportionate limbs that never quite matched up. The horrible groaning and shuffling steps as strangely set muscles moved in unfamiliar ways. These ones all sported those same terribly white, flat teeth, curled into horrible grimaces like Kingsley's. Rictus grins and cleft chins everywhere.

A glance told him that they weren't just twenty. He could count easily fifty on the floor, not including the half-dozen or so that had already fallen. Somewhere in one of the manor's wings, there was a door that was disgorging infected up to the ground level. The same door he was expecting Donna and Cletus to come through.

Fifty six Infected didn't seem like quite so much to him.

He had faced down larger numbers of infected than these.

Vastly larger numbers.

Except those vastly larger numbers hadn't been surrounding the people he cared about.

They were all in rather generic white pajamas. The same design as the ones he been issued and was still wearing now.

On the landing below him, he could see George Stacey leaning heavily on Anna. He looked physically wiped. There was a ragged cut on his arm that was leaking blood into the raggedly torn sleeve of his pajama top. Anna looked physically fine, but her expression was terrified.

Aunt May was holding what appeared to be a hat rack and was prodding at infected with it. Her expression one of grim determination.

Ahead of them were MJ and Gwen. Gwen had the shotgun in both hands, keeping it trained on the infected. She probably didn't have enough ammo for all the infected down there. Not enough even for just the ones there, not even counting the additional numbers still coming.

MJ was the closest of all to the infected, standing a three steps below the landing. She had a pistol in each hand as she delivered a whirling roundhouse kick into the face of one of the infected, sending it flying back into the others that were pressing up against it.

Hydra upgrades, Peter realized with a fiercely possessive grin.

"We'll be at the staircase." He said before pocketing his phone and taking a running leap.

- - -