darkest before the dawn

August 1st, 2016

11:09 PM

Before Peter leaves the apartment for patrol, he always gets a good-luck hug from Aunt May. 

It’s technically a good-luck hug for May for when she leaves for her night shift, but Peter also uses the good-luck hug. He’s got Parker Luck and they’re the last Parkers alive. So, May gets a hug everytime she goes to the hospital. She also keeps a picture of Ben in her purse, his smile glossy and frozen in  time.

Just in case.

May’s got her picture and her emerald bracelet; Peter’s got his puzzle piece necklace and plastic dinosaur. Watch stays home tonight, and the necklace stays on. Two taps on the photo frame and his small ritual for the night is good.

May presses him into her chest, hand curling around his brown hair. She presses a kiss into his hair. “See you tomorrow, Peter. Keep the door locked.”

Peter hugs May as tight as he possibly can, in his pajamas. There’s leftover thai food sitting on the table and the TV is playing the Golden Girls, one of May’s favorites. May’s in her scrubs, hair pulled back in a bun. 

“Larb you May,” Peter tells her after they break apart. 

May smiles and ruffles his hair. “Larb you too, Lovebug. Go get some sleep.”

“Stay safe, May.”

“In a few hours, sunflower.”

May softly closes the door behind her and locks it. Peter watches the remainder of the Golden Girls before he’s grabbing his suit, pulling the mask on, and swinging out into the night. His necklace is hidden under his sweatshirt, the dinosaur given two taps on its head for good luck.

Back to Hell’s Kitchen he goes.

Maybe he won’t get shot this time. 

Doubtful.

He slinks across the Queensboro Bridge, webbing underneath it and swinging hard out from under fast enough that no one could notice. From there, it’s just parkouring and jumping across rooftops, swinging across the neighborhoods to the west side of Manhattan.

Turk’s address is in a pretty gritty part of Hell’s Kitchen, if Peter remembers correctly. It’s close to where he grew up in his dad’s home. 

It’s faster if he goes that way, but he avoids going fifty feet near that apartment building. 

bottlesontheflooranddrunkenyellingandbleedinglipsandtornshirtslandhandshapedbruises

Hell’s Kitchen is the realm of the Devil, but the Devil’s nowhere to be found. There’s supposedly another guy, someone called the Iron Fist, but everyone says he mostly sticks to Chinatown. Besides, while Manhattan might’ve been protected by Daredevil, Hell’s Kitchen belonged to him.

There’s graffiti everywhere.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Horns and scripture painted on alleyway walls, the red paint looking quite alot like blood. There’s one of his figure, blood-red against a night-black background, hands curled around billy clubs. His head is lowered and his horns are stark against the black, the words beneath it reading, Thy has sacrificed, thy has paid a price. With blood and bones he gave us light, but now alone we face this dark night.

It’s pretty, considering it’s celebrating a man who regularly beat up criminals in his spare time, often leaving the worst ones in comas. 

There’s other graffitti, too. In Midtown, there’s one of the Avengers, but it got defaced after Steve Rogers and the others became war criminals. Chinatown has dragons curling around buildings and the Kitchen has names written on walls, each in a purple script and bordered with hyacinths. There’s a mural of a blonde girl with blue eyes and sad expression on her face here too. In Harlem, there’s a bunch of Luke Cage, the Hero of Harlem himself. The Bronx doesn’t have any vigilantes to claim, but there’s been reported graffiti of a red and black symbol with white eyes. Whatever that means. 

However, Hell’s Kitchen didn’t also just fear the Devil. And that was seen with white skulls scrawled messily against gang hideouts, promises of vengeance highlighted in the night, and just the eerie knowledge that he could come back. They’re in Queens, too. Showed up back in March.

The most famous one, the one that went up right after he showed up, was the white skull that was painted entirely of guns and knives and bones, with the simple words, an eye for an eye.

Peter’s got a picture of it saved on his camera. He printed it out, and hung it on his fairy lights in his room. He stares at it sometimes. Feels at the scars on his body and wonders if they would think he was doing the right thing.

It doesn’t matter now. 

Peter’s close to Turk’s address now. He’s about to set foot on the next roof when a bright purple blast of light comes from-

The docks?

…..He feels like the docks have a very important factor to play in Hell’s Kitchen, but that bright purple light looks like the one he got hit with last night, so he’s going to go check it out. 

Can’t be a coincidence.

❁

It was not a coincidence and Peter would like his winnings for Intuition of the Year, thank you very much.

Also, the bald man with the beard really needs to up his sales pitch from murdering all of his clients. Because this is the second time he’s tried to murder someone. And it hasn’t been 24 hours yet.

Peter says as much to the man. 

The man shoots him back with the purple ray thingy. Peter thinks it’s a laser. He ducks behind the car, right next to the man beside him, dark-skinned and muttering hysterically under his breath. “Laser guns. Why did it have to be laser guns.”

Peter watches him for a moment. “Hey, are you Turk Barrett?”

The man who might be Turk Barrett turns and faces him, dread slowly spreading across his features at the sight of Peter in his Spider-Man suit. “Oh, dear god no.”

“So you are?” Peter cocks his head, “I was looking for you.”

“Oh, fuck no.”

There’s two men, both of them the same ones Peter had met last night. One’s the one with the purple laser and the other is near the van, leaning against the side.

“Hey, bug-boy!” the laser guy taunts, “You wanna another taste?”

“Not really!”

BLAM!

Peter curses. He pats Turk on the shoulder. “Stay here.”

Turk nods, head against his knees. 

“Since you liked the last thing so much last night, I’d thought I’d switch ‘em out,” the laser man produces the shocky blue thingy and Peter is now calling him the thingy man. “You can call me the Shocker.”

Peter squints his eyes, then leans over to Turk. “Do you guys all-”

“No, he’s just crazy. Can you please go-”

“Yeah, I’m dealing with it.”

Peter rolls out from behind the car, sticking his wrists out and shooting a web toward ‘The Shocker’. It misses, but hits the guy behind him, webbing him to the van. Shocker swears and blasts the gun, sending Peter scrambling to get out of range.

“You’re in for it now, bug-boy,” Shocker sneers, his gun-armband thingy lighting up again, “You just can’t seem to stay in your own lane, can ya?”

Peter’s sticking to a wall. “I’m not the one who makes and sells custom fursuits.”

BLAM!

That one hurt. Alot. He’s pretty sure his ears are bleeding. Screw you, Shocker guy.

Shocker’s blasting at random now. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t accidentally shot Peter or Turk, who’s hiding out the fight behind his car. Bright neon blue streaks of sound and light dance through the air, Peter moving like a ninja through the beams.

Then-

THWIP!

The web sends the weapon scattering, Shocker cursing his pants off as Peter moves and kicks him into stomach, knocking him backwards.

“So, Shocker,” Peter politely begans the conversation, “Would you like to tell me where you find all these wonderful weapons?”

Shocker spits at him. “Fuck you.”

Peter’s about ready to just web them up and call the cops when his night goes from decent to holy fuck what’s happening.

This thing-

This monstrous, gargantuan thing-

It’s got razor sharp teeth and claws like-

Like nothing Peter’s ever seen.

And it knocks Peter to the ground, slamming him so hard that Peter sees stars as his head makes contact with the asphalt. 

Turk’s swearing again.

The man webbed to the truck is staring petrified at this thing. Shocker won’t move an inch.

Because this thing-

This thing-

It’s not human-

It’s got teeth and claws and it’s gotta be at least seven feet tall and it’s black and red, but not the good kind of red like Peter’s or a ladybug’s or a rose or even Daredevil’s; it’s dark and runny and it reminds Peter of-

It reminds Peter of-

blood’sallovermeit’salloverherwhere’sbenwhere’slisaohgodwhathappenedwhywon’ttheywakeup

Peter’s breathing is harsh and loud. He can’t move. He can’t look anywhere else. He wants to run, but the scent of blood is in his nose and he can still hear gunfire-

BLAM!

The Shocker’s got his gun again. The laser one. 

The man webbed to the van is yelling at Shocker, telling him to stop, but he ignores him. The blaster keeps firing. Purple lights flash through the darkness and Peter can suddenly move, adrenaline in his veins.

The creature is not pleased with the lights.

It hates them.

And after one hit just a little too close, maybe an inch off target, it makes its displeasure known.

By leaping off the streetlight and lifting the Shocker up in one smooth motion.

And biting off his head.

Shocker’s headless corpse thumps to the ground, the laser gun being crushed under the creature's foot. The man webbed to van is swearing under his breath, desperately trying to get the webs off. Turk’s still hiding under his car. His eyes meet Peter’s and Peter motions for him to stay hidden. Turk nods.

Then Peter moves.

He tosses a vial of the web dissolver at the man, the glass breaking as the tensile threads melt away. The creature’s head turns to him, but Peter’s already fighting, throwing punches and kicks with all of his strength. It stumbles back, but-

Shit, it can fight.

Way better than he can.

In fact, he comes to this conclusion when he’s been knocked to the ground again. Peter gets up, immediately dodging a swipe to his ribs. “So, what’s your name?”

Snarl.

“Cool. My name’s Spidey. Um, quick question. Do you normally eat people’s heads or is that just-”

Peter stifles back a scream as the thing’s claws rip through his leggings and tear through his skin on his left leg. He falls back on the ground, blood swelling out of the gashes and falling on the concrete, scarlet liquid painting a gorey picture.

There’s something in his claws, Peter can feel it-

Peter’s barely standing now, hands raised and weight centered on one leg as the creature lumbers toward him with a strange, prehensile grace. He can’t fight it off, it’s going to kill him-

I’m so sorry, May

Gunshots ring out. 

Someone’s on the roof. A small, black-haired figure, holding a pistol and aiming it at the creature. It doesn't do much more than annoy the thing, bullets rippling off it. It shoots something up there, something that makes the bullets stop. But it gives Peter enough time to snag the shocker thing and aim it at the creature, who-

Who very conveniently has his back to the Hudson.

The thing faces him. It’s eyes, soulless black eyepieces, widen just a little bit.

Peter smiles a bit under the mask. “Bang.”

The shockwave sends the thing into the Hudson with a splash. Peter rushes over to see if he can find it, but-

It’s gone.

It’s gone and Peter has a giant leg wound and a very large problem.

He stumbles over to Turk, who’s staring at him wide-eyed, hand on his car door. “Get out of here.”

Turk glances at his wound. “Are you sure-”

“Go. It could come back.”

Turk jumps in and peels out of there in his car. The window is broken. 

That just leaves the other dude.

Who’s staring at the Shocker’s corpse.

“His name was Jackson Briee,” the guy says, unable to take his eyes off the body, “He was an asshole.”

Peter doesn’t bother to correct him.

He can’t look at the body.

Peter’s breathing comes out in large huffs. “Look, if you have anything-”

“I can’t,” the guy says, backing away, “I gotta go. Thanks for savin’ me, I guess.”

He runs off and Peter can’t chase after him ‘cause of the stupid leg thing.

The figure on the roof is coming down and Peter is no way prepared to defend himself, so he shoots web and leaps away. It’s a five minute swing to a telephone and he dials 911 and tells them to go to the docks. There’s a body.

Queensboro bridge is covered with webs underneath.

He makes it to Astoria before he’s heaving his guts out on the pavement and having a full-blown panic attack. Knees skid on the pavement of the roof, hands braced as he crawls to the corner of the roof and tries to breathe.

My name’s Lisa, what’s your’s?

This is Frankie, don’t worry. He’s not a snitch. He’s just annoying.

Do you want to be friends?

The pain is agonizing, so Peter wraps his webs around it to stop the bleeding as he focuses on breathing in and out. His mask is clenched in his hand, the taste of vomit still on his lips. The concrete digs into his back, the rooftop apartment not really suitable for panic attacks.

C’mon, Peterbug, tell me a poem.

Peter’s voice is cracked and hoarse.

“It’s all I have to bring today—

This, and my heart beside—

This, and my heart, and all the fields—

And all the meadows wide—

Be sure you count—should I forget”

Peter loses his voice and coughs, but continues on. 

“Some one the sum could tell—

This, and my heart, and all the Bees

Which in the Clover dwell.”

It works. It always does.

Peter’s breathing easier now, the pain still a throbbing agony in his leg. His right hand loops around his necklace, fingers tangled in the chain. He pulls the mask back on and stumbles as best as he can toward the edge of the roof and swings, left leg tucked behind him to avoid further damage.

It’s gonna need stitches if it doesn’t heal soon.

That thing-

That thing-

What was it? Peter’s not sure if he’s right, but it kind of looks like him, if Peter wore black and red and was five feet taller and ate people’s heads. The shape of the thing, though. It’s really similar to Peter’s suit and it moves just like him.

Peter really hopes that it’s not coming back.

It probably is.

Crap.

Peter keeps an ear out, making sure that thing isn’t following him home, back to his apartment, back to May, back to the only place he considers a safe haven. It’s silent, except for the usual sounds of Queens. He stops a mugging on his way home, webbing the mugger up and telling the other person to call the cops. And then he’s slinking his way up the wall, opening the window and slipping into his room. 

May’s not gonna be home tomorrow morning, so he doesn’t bother getting out of his suit, too tired to do anything else. He wraps the long, oozing, gashes that stretch across his thigh in bandages, and if they don’t heal by morning, he’ll stitch them up. He takes off his hoodie and shirt, only to put them back on again after he takes off his binder. He’s not sure why, but it makes him feel better so he does.

Everything hurts and Peter is so very drained, so he doesn’t feel embarrassed as he grabs the stuffed-spider out of his closet, {named Anton, short for Antoniette} and curls up under the covers, eyes falling shut as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Peter sleeps fitfully that night, nightmares of blood and screaming playing in his mind. Anton is tucked beneath his chest, the almost teenager wincing in his sleep as his leg moves. His hands are bruised and bloody, tucked beneath his body, gloves discarded on the floor.

It’s more than a good enough excuse for what happens the next morning.

Peter wakes up, eyes still closed. Sunlight is streaming through his window, illuminating his room. The sound of talking and honking, background noise can be heard outside the window. Leg a dull throb of pain, Peter groans and rolls over on his covers. It’s gonna need to be stitched. But that can wait, he’s not done sleeping.

“Holy fuck,” a voice whispers and Peter’s eyes fly open, jumping out of bed.

Ned’s at his bedroom door, a lego set in his hands. His mouth is open in shock and his eyes are blown wide. The lego set drops from his hands and falls to the floor. He’s wearing shoes and jeans and a Han Solo t-shirt. Peter blearily wonders why Ned is staring at him. Is he not wearing his binder? Is his room a mess?

Then Peter realizes.

“You-you’re Spider-man,” Ned whispers in complete and absolute shock.

He preferred the human-eating monster.

◔

Who the fuck was that?

A challenger. A so-called hero. Easily taken care of.

He was strong.

We are stronger.

Could he be a problem?

Not if we move quickly. What is our next move?

Diversionary tactics.

What?

Red herring. You’ll love it. 

You promised bloodshed.

And we’ll get it. But we have to be smart. Otherwise we get that hoodie guy up our ass again.

Then we go.