O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It said a lot about Peter’s life that waking up in a glass cage, clothed in just his underwear, only garnered a sigh from him, rather than abject panic. Honestly, it wasn’t just his emotions that were dulled at the moment—his whole body felt as if it had been powered-down. He figured it was most likely the fault of the thick, metal collar he could feel locked around his neck. 

Failure.

The cage in question was the size of a small closet, 6 feet high, 6 feet wide, 6 feet deep, leaving Peter with the option of either slouching or sitting. A humidifier fogged the glass, and Peter’s bare skin had already become sticky with sweat and water. The bottom of the cage was filled with sand, and a large house plant sat in the corner. There were no visible seams on the glass walls, and even though there must have been some hole for ventilation, Peter couldn’t find any weak points to expose. After banging on it for about 10 minutes, he realized the whole thing was reinforced. Peter didn’t know if it was strong enough to resist him at full power—but it did the job wonderfully in his current state. After another 10 minutes, Peter convinced his body to sit. The sand was grainy and uncomfortable, but his head was swimming and the combination of the knockout gas and heat and collar, really gave him no other choice. No matter how quickly he wiped away the condensation on the glass, more would reform instantly, giving him no clue to his surroundings past the makeshift prison.

Murderer.

Peter heard a soft chuckling to his right and warily got to his feet. Through the fogged glass, Peter could see a figure pacing in front of him. A finger tapped along the glass by his head—Peter could hear sharp fingernails scrape after each tap, and though he would never admit it, the sound—coupled with the lack of a clear visual—unnerved him. 

Fuck up.

“Such a beautiful, exotic specimen.” Osborn’s voice was all gravel and growl, and even with the collar, Peter’s danger sense noticeably spiked at his words. He suppressed a shiver and tried to look bored.

“As much as I’m loving all the OA cosplay, Dr. Hap, I’ve got places to be.” 

The tapping stopped, and Peter watched in a fascinated horror as the glass abruptly cleared. Norman Osborn (or what could maybe pass as Norman Osborn) stood in front of Peter—his nose so close to the glass it was almost touching it. It was clear Osborn had done something to himself—he resembled more monster than man. His ears were large and pointed and thick hair had grown all over his face—his eyes, once wild and dark, were bright green with yellow flecks, and his teeth were razorsharp. His fingernails looked like tiny drill bits. His body was covered in thick muscle—green and purple veins were flexing all over his arms and legs and face. He was at least six inches taller than he had been in California, and as his eyes tracked Peter hungrily, he licked his lips. His tongue was forked and purple and despite himself, Peter stepped back. 

And, yeah, The Green Goblin featured heavily in Peter’s nightmares—that multiverse, alt-Osborn who killed May and Pepper, and proved to him again and again that he was unworthy to be a hero or a son, scared the shit out of him. Almost as much as Beck. (Nothing would be as bad as Beck. Thanos was a walk in the park compared to Beck.) But there was something about this Osborn that chilled him to the core faster than any other villain had in his past. Maybe it was the way he looked at Peter as if he owned him. Or the way the man’s new, modified body vibrated with anticipation as he ran his finger along the glass.

“Ah, ah, ah, little spider. Benjamin.” Osborn tsked, shaking his head. “I’m not in the habit of letting my experiments talk. Consider this your one warning.” 

Backing up, Osborn gestured to the space behind him. It was a lab—just as grand as Tony’s—filled with tools and microscopes and computers. Peter noticed a tall dias in the middle of the room—on top of it sat the JACCASS. It was complete and buzzing with electricity.

Osborn bared his teeth in some sort of facsimile of a smile. “My second crowning achievement.” He tipped his head at Peter and winked exaggeratedly—“No offense to my first.” He licked his lips again and Peter wasn’t able to keep back the shiver this time. 

“Yeah, looks like you really worked it out all by yourself, Dr. Lizardo. Your genius is simply unmatched.” He barely got the insult out before his body lit with electricity. The shock from the collar left Peter disoriented and on the ground. His arms and legs spasmed uncontrollably, and it felt as if someone were hammering nails over and over again into all of his nerves. 

Peter’s vision flashed in and out and when it finally came into focus again, he saw Osborn watching him coolly. “I gave you an instruction. I expect you to follow it.” He clucked his tongue and reached into his pocket. Peter watched as he pulled out a cell phone. “Now, here’s the burning question: what to do, what to do? Tell me, pet—” and nope , Peter did not like that, not one bit, “—how quickly do you think I can get our main attraction to come if I ask her very, very nicely?” 

Something curled in Peter’s stomach uncomfortably, as Osborn dialed. He held out the phone on speakerphone and the voice that answered brought a horrified no to Peter’s lips. 

“Petey? Where are you? Uncle Happy is freaking out. Friday won’t let us call Uncle Rhodey. Did you get it? Are you coming home?”

“Mor—” was as far as he got before his body lit up with another shock, this one ripping a scream from his throat. 

“...PETER. Peter was that you? Are you okay? Should I get Uncle Steve?”

“Hello, Miss Stark. It’s a pleasure to hear your voice again.”

“ ...w–who are you? Where’s Petey?”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but… Petey, is it?... is a bit occupied right now. He’s been a bad pet, and had to go in a timeout.”

“You bast—” Peter’s neck felt like it was burning off. His hair smelled like smoke and it was impossible to get his eyes to focus. His harsh breathing filled the otherwise quiet lab. He heard Morgan sniff over the speaker. 

“Now, Miss Stark, unfortunately we didn’t get to finish playing last time we were all together and I’m hoping to remedy that. I have a very simple question for you. Would you like to see the spider alive or would you prefer I cut him up in little pieces and send them to you for your birthday?” 

“ P…please don’t hurt him.”

“As long as you follow my instructions, I won’t. You’re a smart girl, Miss Stark. I just texted you everything you’ll need to do for me. You have an hour, darling. You know what will happen if anyone is with you.”  Osborn hung up and grinned wickedly at Peter. “I just love family reunions, don’t you, Benji? Or is it, Petey, now? Doesn’t matter, really, I guess. Your name won’t be important soon. I have so many plans, my pet.”

Before he could respond, steam crept back into his cage and the glass fogged again. Everything felt like it was on fire, and all Peter could do was throw up in the sand. 

Curse.

Peter couldn’t keep track of the time and the sweat on his face mingled with stray tears. He didn’t know what or who he was crying for—he had lots to choose from. And while he prayed and begged and pleaded and bargained with whatever magic or god or demon was in charge of his life that Morgan turned off her phone and just ignored Osborn’s threats, he knew he was never going to be that lucky. Peter kicked the glass over and over. The bottoms of his feet turned black and blue with the effort—yet the walls didn’t move. 

An indeterminable time later found Peter dehydrated, exhausted, and with a broken left foot. Voices carried across the lab.“Over here, dear, that’s such a good girl.” No, no, no, no. Damn it, Mo. 

“Where’s Peter?” She asked it softly, but Peter couldn’t hear a tremble in it, and for that he was fucking proud of her. Osborn chuckled, “All in good time, sweetheart, all in good time. Now what’s this you were saying about a flash drive? Your poor father needs it or he’s going to die, is he? How about a trade, then?” 

“A…a trade?” No.

“A trade. I am not an unreasonable man, Morgan. Here, please sit.”

“O–Ok. What is this?”

“ This is the future. Your arms through here, please.” 

“Where’s Peter?”

“Very good. Your legs here.”

“Y–you promised he’d be here.”

“And lean your head back, just like that.”

“I did what you asked.”

“Mhmm. You are a very good girl. Bite down on this please.”

“Wha—mnphnm.” 

“And, I’m sorry, my dear, but we will need to postpone our conversation, I have a class to teach.” 

With those words, Peter’s cage cleared again and he found himself staring directly into Morgan’s frightened eyes. She was sitting on a chair on top of the dias—the JACCASS surrounding her body like a standing MRI machine. Her legs and arms had been buckled in, and she was biting down on a small wood block. It was kept in by a handkerchief tied around her head. She was struggling against the restraints, but because they were buckled so tightly, it was almost impossible to tell. When she saw Peter in front of her, her movements became more frantic, but Osborn didn’t acknowledge the change. He ran his long fingernails through her hair, and smirked. 

“OSBORN YOU FUCK—” Blood poured from his nose this time, and he wondered how many volts it would take before permanent brain damage set in. Morgan was crying, but still. Osborn’s claws held her head straight.

“See, Morgan, this is the problem when you leave your experiments alone too long. They forget who created them. Your so-called-brother has been living a miserable half-life—stolen from my very lab—and playing a hero. He hasn’t been doing a very good job at it though. I’ve come to free him from that burden. At first,” and here, Osborn stopped touching Morgan, and crept over to Peter, “I thought, well, what do we do with rogue experiments? We trash them, but I am a sentimental man. Even geniuses have their vices, and I just couldn’t give him up. So, I thought, what to do? Should I dissect him? Find out what makes him…tick?” He enunciated the k and licked his lips. Staring at Peter hungrily, he went on.  “Perhaps, copy his DNA, make an army of human spiders to sell to the military? Find a way to breed him? Put eggs in his stomach and watch him have a million spider children? The possibilities were endless, my young lady. What to do to the insolent,” he spit this out venomously, and despite the heat cloying at Peter’s neck, he felt cold, “arrogant, half-breed who stole my research and tried to make a name for himself? Why,” he turned and clapped his hands—Morgan was watching them both through tears—”you do what any person would do with a bug. You crush it.” He giggled and turned back to Petter. Leaning in, he whispered, “And I so do love the crushing.”

Louder, for them both to hear, he continued. “Miss Stark, you have the honor of being the first outside subject of my latest invention. I simply call it the Transformer. As you can see, it does its job.” He pointed to his hairy face and blinked his yellow eyes and laughed loudly—Morgan began hyperventilating as he stalked closer to her. “Don’t worry, young lady. It won’t hurt too badly. I dare say it’ll be an improvement.”

Peter wiped the blood from his nose and got to his feet shakily. His left one was still broken, so he leaned forward against the glass and began pounding steadily. “Leave her alone, you big sack of dicks, she’s innocent. Let her go.” 

“Ooh, language, pet.”

“Fuck you,” Peter stuck his hands to the glass, putting his neck flat against it. The angle was odd, but he was able to touch the collar directly to its surface. “Fuck you, you ugly prick. If you even think about it, I will end you. You are nothing but a fraud. A disgusting, pervy, idiotic fraud who will end up rotting in jail with no family or friends and everyone laughing at your tiny—” But how he was going to end that sentence was lost to his screams as the collar activated again. Electricity flowed and Peter’s body jerked—he was pretty sure his eyes were bloodshot. His whole face felt bruised and there was a ringing in his ears that wouldn’t go away. 

Osborn’s back was turned and Peter watched as he typed a command into the computer station next to the modified JACCASS. He willed his body to stop shaking and clumsily got back on his feet. He began to punch the glass where he had laid his collar a few seconds earlier—ignoring the way the impact made his knuckles crunch. 

“Look at me, you piece of shit.” Punching and pounding harder, blood splattered on his face and on the glass. Osborn turned around and rolled his creepy-ass eyes, touching the button he was holding to send another shock to Peter’s collar. He faltered, however, at the loud sound of cracking coming from the cage.

Glass shattered outward and Peter fell forward. Morgan started twisting wildly in her seat. Using the momentum of the crash, Peter pushed himself forward and dove towards Osborn’s feet, knocking him to the ground. 

“HOW?” The goblin-man shrieked. Peter crushed the controller to his collar and felt it loosen on his neck. He ripped it off—pulling some of the skin that had burned around it too—and threw it to the side. He felt a surge of strength and began punching Osborn in the face. 

“Heat…weakens…glass…genius.” He kept going until he knocked him out. Peter spit out the blood pooling into his mouth and it landed in Osborn’s long, coarse hair. 

Peter turned around and hobbled to the dias where Morgan was kept. He quickly began undoing her restraints and gently took off the makeshift muzzle Osborn had put on her. 

“Petey!” She was a ball of nerves and tears and limbs, climbing into his arms and holding on like she’d never let go. It was mutual. 

“Morgs.” Peter breathed out her name like a prayer. “Morgan. God. That was too close, bug. God. You’re ok. We’re ok.” 

And they were. 

Idiot.

They made quick work of stripping the computer and finding the drive Osborn had stolen from Peter. Morgan’s hand stayed in his as he typed with the other one. Both of his hands ached—skin was healing around the pieces of glass stuck in his fist. His knuckles were healing but his fingers were twisted—it was something that probably would require surgery but in the moment, Peter just felt an intense wave of gratitude. 

They were fine.

Worthless.

“Momo, can you call Uncle Rhodey and see if they can pick us up?”

“Really? We’re going to be in so much trouble.” 

He smiled at her teasing tone. Lifting up his hands and pointing to his foot, he shrugged, sheepish, “Don’t think I can get us home too quickly like this, bug.” 

She nodded, and walked over to the cell phone laying on the desk in front of them. She began to dial Friday’s number when she looked behind Peter’s shoulder and let out a scream.

“PETEY—”

His vision went black as he felt his head ram into the floor. Morgan was screaming and Peter felt claws around his scarred and bleeding throat. 

“Crush—crunch—like—an—insect—” Osborn’s voice matched his eyes: crazed and burning with intensity. Peter struggled under his grip—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t warn Morgan not to, so he watched helplessly as his sister attempted to bat Osborn away with a microscope she found on the table next to her. He winced as he watched Osborn throw her off of him. She went flying and her head hit the wall. She was disturbingly still. Peter let out a roar and lunged for the monster in front of him. 

Their bodies clashed together—Peter grabbed his hair and pulled, trying to get enough momentum to throw him back. He needed to figure out how to restrain him, but Osborn was no longer playing a game. He was out for Peter’s blood, and as they went flying through the lab, bones crunching and blood spurting, he started spitting out green acid ( because, yeah, that was on brand for a mad scientist who was moonlighting as Frankenstein’s monster) that burned every place it touched Peter. 

They crashed through the window and Peter could feel the wind whip around them as they fell. He grabbed onto the outside of the building, but his speed made it difficult to stick to anything. The cold wind was whipping around them—a storm had settled over the city, and all Peter could see as he fell was inky blackness and furious snow. 

Cursed.

They crashed on a balcony a few levels  below—Peter felt his leg snap with the impact. Osborn screamed—a piece of window pane impaled him in the arm. Backing away from his claws, Peter scooted towards the balcony door to the office floor they landed on. His leg ached and his head was throbbing—Osborn angled himself towards Peter and lunged. Bracing himself, he kicked his unbroken leg outwards. Osborn tripped over it and went flying again—this time, over the railing. It was an odd angle, and after a couple minutes of only hearing heavy breathing, Peter realized what happened. The broken window pane stuck out of the Goblin’s arm awkwardly, and now acted as a makeshift parachute for the otherwise dangling man. It was caught on the balcony railing—and was the only thing keeping Osborn from tumbling to his death, 90 stories below.

Wheezing and trying to catch his breath, Peter found himself staring into the yellow eyes of the crazed man. His pupils were dilated and reflective—he watched as his own beaten and broken face stared back. 

“…all you’ll ever be is a failed experiment, pet. You weren’t meant to have a family,” the Goblin coughed out the words, but they were spoken as a man confident in the truth. “You weren’t meant to be a hero. It’s just science, darling. And if you were smart, you’d know when to just give up.” 

Peter’s spider sense spiked and before he could stop him, Osborn pushed against his own wounded arm. A guttural scream tore from the man’s throat, and Peter stared as the businessman fell off the balcony, down into the dark, snowy void. 

“…Petey?”

The yell came from above him and carried with the wind. “Are you ok?! I called Uncle Rhodey! PETER! Are you down there?”

Down into the dark snowy void.

Where failed experiments went.

“Peter!! Please answer!!! I want to go home!!”

Where monsters died.

“PETER!”

Where fuck-ups ended.

“PLEASE PETEY. Let’s go home.”

Down the void.

Quick.

Easy.

Sensible. 

Peter sighed, and turned away from the balcony. He crawled towards the door and shouted,“…MO! I’m on my way. WAIT FOR ME.”

Coward.