darkest before the dawn

August 4th, 2016

11:56 AM

Peter desperately tries not to be obvious.

With his Parker Luck, if he showed his face in this suit, he’d probably die.

His shoulder, left hip, legs, stomach, and his cheek itch. 

So, he’s parkouring. 

In Hell’s Kitchen.

Wow, his old apartment that he used to live in with May and Ben is abandoned. Fantastic.

Wait, nevermind. It’s not abandoned. The landlord just doesn’t care anymore.

He wonders briefly if their apartment is still preserved. Like, does it still have walls? Does the stove still not work? It hadn’t mattered anyway, because May’s cooking was absolutely horrible and Ben’s relied on slow cookers and other appliances. The oven had worked just fine.

Peter stretches out his senses. The radio hadn’t been clear at all, so he’s forced to rely on his powers to figure out where everything is.

He pauses, closing his eyes and straining his ears.

Sirens.

Screaming.

Brooklyn.

He shoots a quick text to Jessica, telling her that it’s in Brooklyn. She responds with Get the fuck back here you moron.

Peter’s already making his way east.

Leo and Zach.

It can’t be, right? The person, whoever he is, he thinks that he killed them. That they’re dead. 

Because he hadn’t known when Peter had slipped through the window that Peter was Spider-Man.

Because he had already left.

Set a trap for anyone who tried to help and left them to burn.

So it can’t be Leo and Zach.

So why is it in Brooklyn?

Whoever it is, he has a motive.

Shocker had been for fun.

Metro Gen had been for attention.

Leo and Zach had been for…..

To hurt someone. To lure them out.

All of this, everything he’s been doing, he’s trying to get someone’s attention. Everything that’s gone against him has been insignificant except for whoever he’s trying to draw out of hiding.

But who?

And what did Connors have to do with it?

Peter swings as discreetly as he can under Manhattan Bridge, not wanting to be seen by anyone who might have a gun and/or a saviour complex. 

It’s in Greenpoint.

Leo and Zach are in Bushwick.

Please God .

Peter parkours on rooftops, leaping and rolling. He’d have to do that anyway, with how low everything is in Brooklyn. It’s easier if he just does it the old-fashioned way. Somersaulting over asphalt and jumping like a russian gymnast. 

The sirens lead the way to a church, which is surrounded by police cars. And FBI cars. And literally everyone has a gun.

Guns are horrible.

Peter crouches down, looking for a way in. His sports bra, which had replaced the binder for now, rubs against the bandages. Everything still hurt, but it wasn’t like he was in danger of passing out. Like yesterday. 

It’s still a little hard to believe that he first met that frankenstein-like monster only a few days ago.

He can hear bits of speech coming from below.

“-ostages. Maybe eight, I believe.”

“Can’t go in without casualties.”

“Detective Davis, what’s your call?”

Detective Davis, a broad-shouldered black man with sunglasses, rubs a hand over his face. He looks very similar to Mr. Aaron, Peter notes with some surprise. Maybe they’re related?

He’s facing Peter’s direction and Peter can’t jump into the open window that’s very conveniently located in the church. 

So Peter does the only thing he can and throws something.

It’s a rock.

It hits a church van.

The car alarm goes off.

It does the trick.

Peter can hear a lot of muttered “What the actual fuck.”s and some “Did someone try to throw a rock at me?” as he leaps off the roof and rolls into the church neatly, without even being seen.

“Parkour,” Peter whispers, a small grin on his lips.

Then he hears a loud BANG! coming from downstairs and he gets to his feet and runs as fast as he can toward the noise.

His sneakers are battered as hell, but they’re quiet as he runs down the staircase and into the main part of the church, pausing at the pews. There’s nobody there. There’s no bodies in the hallways, no blood smeared on walls. There’s nothing that would alert to the sign of a cannibalistic human/monster besides the sound of sirens and tension thickening the air.

Peter’s not a religious person, won’t ever be. But he can admit that there’s something about an empty church that’s kind of beautiful, in a way.

It also smells like incense, and not rotting flesh and acid, so he’s in the wrong place.

He can hear some heartbeats, but they’re far away, hidden in the confessional. Scared, but not in danger or injured.

Good.

There’s a staircase that leads down to what he guesses is a basement. Peter clenches his fists, making sure his phone is securely tucked into his ankle pocket. 

He kinda wishes he had the shocker.

Peter moves as silently as he can, creeping down the stairs. He pulls the hood of his jacket up, hands poised over his web shooters. Voices can be heard, but they’re too muffled to be made out. 

Which is fun.

Peter can hear across a city, but can’t make out two people having a conversation. Thanks, Spider-Powers!

He’s on the ground floor of the church, inside the basement. Peter jumps up and attaches himself to the wall, moving quietly and quickly to the area where the voices are coming from. They’re inside a room, with the door closed.

“-do you really think that you’re gonna get away with all of this? He’ll figure it out eventually, he ain’t dumb. He’s gonna come after you.”

The other person laughs and Peter’s blood chills, the wound in his thigh aching.

It’s him.

“I’m planning on it.”

That voice is so familiar.

And usually, in movies, that’s the part where someone dies.

Peter drops down from the ceiling and kicks the door open, his slightly injured ankle sparking in pain. The door hits the wall hard, causing a picture to fall from the wall and shatter, sending slivers of clear crystal in every direction. It startles the two people in there, one a dark-skinned man leaning and hiding behind a wall and the other-

The other a white man with brown hair and a beard, but he’s got his face turned away from the door so Peter can’t really see who he is but-

He looks familiar.

Then this reddish-black liquid starts to swell and cover his body, coating the surface with this oily-looking substance that gives his razor-sharp claws and triangular-nightmare teeth, the ink-black lines around the dried-blood red giving the impression of stitches.

It’s him.

“Oh Mother of fuck,” the guy hiding behing the wall swears, reloading his handgun.

The thing-y’know Peter’s going to call it Jigsaw, ‘cause it just looks like Frankenstein-Jigsaw snarls and tries to lunge for the guy behind there, but Peter webs the feet and knocks him off balance, sending him crashing into the ground.

Peter looks up at the guy pointing the handgun. “Go!”

Before the guy can respond, Jigsaw grabs Peter’s leg and throws him, tossing him straight into the handgun guy. Peter barely has time to think, Hey, this is bad, before he’s flying through the air and colliding with the other man. Handgun guy swears again, catching Peter before he hits the ground and taking most of the brunt. “Motherfucker!”

“Sorry!” Peter scrambles to his feet, grabbing the other guy and helping him up. Handgun guy has a prosthetic, his leg is missing. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to.”

Handgun guy looks at him in slight disbelief, panting slightly. “What-who-why-what the fuck is going on?”

Peter points at Jigsaw. “Evil murder creature.”

Peter points at Handgun guy. “Innocent victim used for plot device.”

Peter points at himself. “Probs gonna die in two years.”

Handgun guy looks even more confused. “ What?”

“I see you’re still alive.”

Peter grabs Handgun guy and they duck down a hallway, the church basement basically a labyrinth. Peter keeps one hand poised, ready to fire at any moment. The church basement smells like cheese and sadness, which from Peter’s experience is pretty on par for a church.

“I thought you would’ve curled up in a hole somewhere and died.”

God, he hates that voice. So does the Handgun guy. Every time Jigsaw spoke, he tensed and his finger slid toward the trigger. 

“I admire that, I have to say. Your resilience. Your strength. Not many people would do what you do, if they had your kind of power.”

The voice laughs and it’s even worse than his talking.

“I don’t.”

Peter looks up at Handgun guy and Handgun guy is making this face like he’s got a bitter lemon in his mouth. Like he wants to say something, but also doesn’t want to die for it. 

“But I have plans, Bug-Boy. And you consistently keep getting in my way.”

Peter leans over to Handgun guy, whispering as softly as he can. “Up and left, Handgun guy. He’s gonna attack soon.”

“My name is Hoyle,” Handgun guy whispers back, aiming his weapon exactly where Peter told him to. They’re in a hallway that leads straight to a gigantic room that can be reached from where Jigsaw was, just out of sight.

“This didn’t involve you. You could’ve just walked away. And now everyone’s callin’ for your head.”

Peter tenses at the knees, ready to jump. He holds up three fingers.

“Should I help them?”

Hoyle focuses on the giant mass of black and shadows hiding in the corner of the rafters, arms and hands steady.

Two fingers.

“It’s sad really. You reminded me of someone.”

One finger.

“He’ll join you later.”

Peter clenches his fist and Hoyle fires, striking Jigsaw just as he appeared around the roof rafters.

Blood drips from Ben’s forehead, a red that Peter’s never seen before.

Peter snags Hoyle’s wrist, shoving him forward as they make a break for the door that leads out of the basement. Jigsaw roars and chases them, the bullets only distracting him momentarily, like they had that day at the docks.

Shit shit shit.

Then Jigsaw flings his hands out and these strange glinting metallic needles come flying out of nowhere, like tiny pieces of webs. It reminds Peter of his mother’s needles, the ones she used for stitching clothes back together or making some of her own because it was fun.

One of them hits Hoyle and he goes down, Peter barely catching him as he hits the floor. 

They hit Peter too, stabbing him and sending a swell of numbness to the affected area. But that’s all. 

“Hoyle? Shit.” Peter heaves Hoyle onto his shoulders, heart racing. The stairs are right there, all he has to do is-

Jigsaw is standing in the doorway. 

Peter is between him and the stairs.

Peter sets Hoyle down gently, never taking his eyes off of Jigsaw. “Why were you after him?”

Jigsaw grins and it’s a terrible thing. “Oh, you know. Just catching up.”

“Who are you trying to get?” Peter asks, so aware of how tall the other thing is compared to him, how it blocks the doorway and how the claws twitch restlessly by his sides. “You’re hurting people to get to somebody. Who is it?”

“Hoyle? He and I just needed to have a discussion, that’s all. Whether he was alive by the end of it didn’t matter. As for everything else,” Jigsaw moved closer to Peter and Peter instinctively took a step back. “ Well, let’s just say if that didn’t lure him out, then I’ve got something else.”

Someone else.

“Sounds terrible,” Peter informs him, angling his wrist toward the ceiling. “Have a nice bath.”

Jigsaw cocks his head. “What-”

Peter shoots his web, hitting the fireguard and setting off the water sprinkler. Water pours down from the ceiling, setting off various ones around the basement. 

He’ll pay for water damage.

Jigsaw rears back, an outraged roar coming from him. The oily substance that coats him seems to almost wash off in the downpour that drenches Peter and Hoyle. Peter can get a glimpse of white skin and a white hoodie before Jigsaw snarls at him and turns tail and flees. 

Away from Peter and Hoyle.

He picks up Hoyle again, breathing a sigh of relief at Hoyle’s normal breathing and heartbeat. He’s just unconscious, not poisoned or anything. Nothing to worry about.

Once they get upstairs, Peter lays Hoyle on a pew, in plain sight so the first responders will see him. Jigsaw’s gone and Peter can’t hear his heartbeat or smell him anywhere. Everyone’s safe, for now.

He leaves through an opened window, climbing out from the roof to the sounds of sirens and the police entering the church. It’s sunny out, and the sun beams down at Peter and his drenched clothing, which has tiny little needles sticking out of it.

Peter touches one and it dissolves, becoming a small spot on his hoodie.

Think.

He needs to think.

Also, thank god his ankle pocket is water-proof. Thank you, Peter, for having foresight.

He’s got a stash bag hidden in a warehouse near here. There’s clothes there and he can call Jess.

It’s so weird working with someone else. Especially someone who’s been doing stuff like this for longer than him. Someone who has experience dealing with people like Jigsaw. 

That name is sticking. He doesn’t care if no one else likes it.

But also, he’s working with fucking Jessica Jones, so that’s a whole added benefit.

She’s so cool.

His feet squelch in his sneakers as he rolls and runs to the warehouse. The church is miles back, the warehouse being closer to the waterfront. Sirens wail in the distance, a symphony of panic and distress. They fade away as Peter gets closer to the waterfront and he pulls out his phone and texts Jess, telling her where he is at the moment.

She responds with, You’re a fucking moron.

Someone’s coming to come get you.

Stay there.

Peter sticks his tongue out, putting the phone back in his pocket. He’s standing on the roof of the warehouse, a slight breeze drying his clothes. He can smell diner food from where he’s at, and his stomach snarls with hunger. He’d only eaten a bagel this morning, having slept late. 

May had ruffled his hair as she had come home just after he woke up. They had eaten breakfast, and May had excitedly told him that she managed to get the day off after his birthday.

“I couldn’t get the tenth off,” May rolled her eyes over her toast. “But I could get the eleventh off, so we can go do whatever you want that day. I have to work extra shifts till then, so I hope you can be trusted with an empty house.”

“No, I’m going to throw a party.”

“Last week you told me you’d rather eat nails than deal with other people.”

So he’s pretty hungry.

Maybe whoever Jess sent has money to buy food.

Then the hair on the back of his neck rises and his eyes narrow. 

dangerdangerbulletdangergunmove

Peter throws himself to the side of the roof, a gunshot sounding and ricocheting off the brick wall. He curls up in the corner, eyes wide and staring at the quarter-sized hole in the wall only a few feet away from him.

Oh for fucks sake

Another gunshot rings out and Peter moves again, the bullet exactly where his head would have been.

They’re trying to kill him.

Who? The police? The FBI? Anyone with a gun? A mercenary?

Whoever it is, they’re in the building across from him. A lone heartbeat, steady and calm. 

His sense, the one that hadn’t existed before yesterday, flares again and Peter dives for a hole in the dilapidated building, pulling himself through the torn tin roof as another bullet hits where he had been only moments ago.

Well, this was fun. He’s just gonna go to the other side of the building and swing away-

Wait.

His web shooters-

Oh no.

They’re water-logged. 

Peter experimentally tries to shoot them, aiming his wrist at the wall. Nothing comes out but a small stream of water and a jamming noise that only spurs on Peter’s swirling panic.

He can’t get out, can’t get out. If they see him, they’ll kill him and he doesn’t want to die, not now, not yet. 

There’s an empty grave next to Ben’s.

Just one.

The door to the empty warehouse opens with a bang.

Peter holds his breath and tries to calm his racing nerves, terror and adrenaline twining together like the cobalt-blue and lipstick-red on his thigh.

He’s gonna live, he’s gonna get through this, he’ll live to be thirteen.

If he dies, who’s gonna take care of Max?

A black-clad figure, tall and male, walks through the door, furtively glancing in all directions as he enters the warehouse.

He’s got this gun. Not a handgun, but something larger and something that Peter knows with a sinking dread that he can use well and with purpose.

Swallowing his anxiety and terror, Peter tries to calm himself down, reciting the words to a poem he memorized the night before. Right after Jessica broke into his apartment.

A smile fell in the grass.

Irretrievable!

Peter crawls across the ceiling, hands and feet sticking as he tries not to alert the person below to where he is. The black-clad man scours the warehouse, gun held aloft and steady. He sticks to the rafter, waiting for an opportunity to escape.

And how will your night dances

Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Peter hides in the shadows, right behind a rafter. The black-clad man is angry, judging from his heartbeat. His target is gone, from what he knows. The black-clad man slams his hand into the side of the wall, and Peter’s pulse jolts, but he’s ultimately relieved. He’ll leave soon.

Then Peter’s burner phone rings.

Such pure leaps and spirals ——

Surely they travel

It’s just on a low volume, but it rings throughout the entire warehouse. The black-clad man whirls around and aims up, right at Peter, firing his gun as Peter is frozen in panic.

The bullet rips through his leg.

The world forever, I shall not entirely

Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Peter falls to the ground with a thud, biting his lip so he doesn’t cry out in pain, copper-taste filling his mouth. He left the phone on for Leo, knowing that if she called, he wouldn’t be awake. He lands on his leg, hand immediately reaching for his leg, which is coated in blood.

Of your small breath, the drenched grass

Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

The black-clad man fires again, but Peter’s up on his feet, running for stacks of boxes haphazardly around the warehouse. He hears the man curse and snarl, but Peter’s already hidden behind the boxes, leaning against them as his leg throbs with pain.

Their flesh bears no relation.

Cold folds of ego, the calla,

Adrenaline thrums through his veins, almost numbing the pain so Peter can focus. He can hear the man breathing, low and muted, but Peter can pick up on it. He smells like gunmetal and black pepper, stinging Peter’s nose.

They’re playing cat and mouse.

Peter doesn’t want to die.

And the tiger, embellishing itself ——

Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The gun goes off again and Peter ducks, only for his senses to flare again and his stomach to burn in pain as he looks down to find blood darkening the front of his suit. He drags himself to another box, stumbling.

There’s a boy with dark hair watching him from on top of a box, eyes scared and concerned.

The comets

Have such a space to cross,

Teeth clenched together so hard they could break, Peter senses where the heartbeat, where the sound of breathing, where the scent of black pepper and gunmetal is coming from and he leaps-

Up and over the boxes, flipping and contorting his back, bullet wound tearing, as his feet plant against the chest of the man with the gun and send him skidding back.

Such coldness, forgetfulness.

So your gestures flake off ——

Peter lands, panting slightly, hand over his stomach wound. His mask is askew, the goggles slightly blurry. He can’t see clearly, but he can hear the black-clad man roar. Another gunshot goes off and Peter dodges, fixing his mask and lunging forward.

Looking up into his attacker’s face to find- 

Warm and human, then their pink light

Bleeding and peeling

Hey kid, what’re you up to?

Peter freezes, finally meeting the face of the black-clad man. His fists stall at his sides and he can’t move, can’t do anything but stare. The world seems to slow down and his body goes slack, the past and present colliding with each other.

It’s alright, okay? It’ll be okay, I promise.

Through the black amnesias of heaven.

Why am I given

A fist slams into Peter’s face, knocking him down. Peter wakes up, but only slightly and he tries to fight back, to at least get away, but he’s weak from blood loss and the black-clad man is furious, relentless on beating Peter into a pulp, slamming into the cold ground. 

These lamps, these planets

Falling like blessings, like flakes

A gun presses to his forehead, the cold metal welcoming from the thoughts attacking and the rampant pain in his body. Peter doesn’t fight it. Can’t fight it. He can’t speak, something preventing him from even uttering a single word. Weights as heavy as lead keep his mouth shut, something icky and fluid like guilt in his bones.

He stares at a white skull instead of brown eyes. 

Six sided, white

On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Footsteps enter the warehouse and there’s yelling, the cold metal retreating from his head. It’s replaced by white-hot pain, the adrenaline finally wearing off. There’s a feeling of weightlessness, and for the second time in a week, he’s being carried off to an unknown location by an unknown person.

He’s not dying anymore.

He catches a glimpse of a face, scarred and furious, with dark hair and brown eyes. 

Familiar brown eyes.

His eyes closing and his wakefulness fading, Peter can only close his eyes and not wish for nightmares, guilt rising in his stomach.

I’m sorry Mr. Castle.

Touching and melting.

Nowhere.