Holding on

He didn’t have time to register any of it.

Everything he thought he knew, everyone he thought he knew, wasn’t real. Not at that moment. Heart pounding, head swimming, body aching from the assault on his body and brain, all he knew at that moment was that he had to get away.

His panicked mind tried to process what had happened - or what hadn't happened - what was going on. Not moments earlier the rotting corpse of Tony Stark had come at him from the grave, MJ had been thrown from the Eiffel Tower, and then he'd been beaten up by himself. Coming for him with rage was Nick Fury - but then at that point Fury was the only ally he had, so he told him who knew. And then Fury transformed into the man who had betrayed him.

Just as he realised what he'd done, how he'd exposed his friends to mortal danger, the light went out.

Something slammed into the side of him with such force it jolted every fibre of his being, forced every ounce of air from his lungs and rushed all the blood to his head.

It must have been the spider DNA inside him that caused him to stick to whatever it was that had hit him and he was grateful for it. He’d been swept underneath by the force of the blow and momentum of whatever it was. Only when he registered the clickety-clack of the wheels and the distinct smell of metal filaments did he realise he was stuck to the underside of a train. A TRAIN.

Air rushed past him at lightning speed, the sound deafening his already sensitive ears. His mind couldn’t process anything, none of it felt real. He almost imagined the thing he was stuck to wasn’t a train at all, just another elaborate ruse to commit him into eternal paranoia.

What was real though was the pain. He’d been in some serious scrapes before, with the suit, without the suit. He’d been exhausted to the point of passing out, beaten, crushed and dusted, but nothing compared to this.

His entire right side felt like it was on fire, his hip felt as though it had been ripped from his socket, pulverised and put back in again. He didn’t have a rib that wasn’t cracked, his shoulder muscles were most definitely ripped and his neck had been strained so much he could barely hold his head steady without wanting to throw up. And that’s not including the variety of cuts and deep gashes which littered his battered body.

As black spots entered his vision, he realised he had to move. Time was running out before he would lose consciousness and almost certainly die from the fall.

Slowly, he tried to move. All he needed to do was get into a carriage and then he’d be safe. It was the most painful journey he’d ever made, blood-covered fingers straining to take the weight of his body, which felt like it weighed ten times more. He sure as hell couldn’t use his right leg at this stage, any weight through it was abject agony.

Then again, every movement was agony, and all he could think about was how he was going to survive and save his friends. The tears fell freely as he considered the consequences of his mistake, and the danger MJ, Ned and Betty were now in.

“Come...on...Peter...gotta...focus” he chastised himself.

Inch by agonising inch, he shuffled himself down the side of the carriage, the end of it - and a chance to recover - getting slowly closer.

He could’ve cried as he got to the door and was able to open it. He practically fell through it - the wind that had deafened and disoriented him suddenly gone, replaced with stillness, silence and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Unable to stand any longer, he collapsed into the seat to his left, the impact almost too much for him to bear. He arched his back, tried to breathe through it, grabbing as much oxygen as he could, but as another sharp stabbing pain passed through his hip and pelvis and jolting through his entire body, it became too much and before he could even try to fight, he passed out.

--------

It was a normal night at the train depot for the two security guards. All they had to do was make sure the trains were clean, not vandalised, and hadn’t taken on any waifs and strays along the way. They usually had a few on weekends, drunk football fans who had fallen asleep and missed their stop - they’d picked up four of those earlier in the evening and shipped them over to the local police station for processing - or sometimes homeless people just looking for somewhere warm and dry.

The train from Berlin was the last to pull in, and once they’d done a quick check, they could get home.

“You walk the carriages and I’ll inspect the outside,” said the first guard, Tieme.

The second guard, Pim, nodded and boarded the train at the back.

There were 12 carriages in all, and nothing was untoward with any of them so far. Just as they reached the last carriages, Tieme spotted something with his flashlight. Smeared red on the door and corner of the carriage. He radioed through. “Pim, where are you?”

“Just in coach 11, all clear.”

“Get up here, we’ve got something.”

Pim opened the door of the carriage and looked ahead to the next, the red smears illuminated by Tieme’s flashlight.

“It’s all down the side of the carriage. Looks like whatever it was went inside.”

Pim helped Tieme onto the carriage connector and led the other man in, one hand on his taser gun, the other holding the flashlight.

“Anybody in here?”

Silence.

All they could hear were their own heartbeats. They weren’t used to having a threat at their depot. In fact, nothing ever happened at the depot.

“Maybe whoever it was was leaving the carriage?” Tieme said.

“Maybe...Is anyone in here? Hello?” silence again. “Yeah looks like it’s empty, lets-”

A cough. Then a wince.

The two guards followed the sound.

“Oh my god.”

Laying in front of them was a boy, no older than 18 they figured, looking like he’d come from some kind of battle scene. He was wearing a strange black uniform, with what looked like a bullet hole in the chest plate, and covered in dust and debris. Next to him was some kind of mask, with a strange visor. His hands were covered in blood, as was the side of his face, his hair matted, his pallor a deathly pale.

Tieme gently tapped the boy’s cheek but got no response.

“He’s not waking up.”

“He’s probably been in a fight somewhere and is evading the police, we should call 112,” Pim said. “I’ll get the local sergeant down here, he can sleep it off in the local cell and they can sort him out in the morning.”

“I don’t know Pim he looks like he needs a doctor. He looks awful.”

“Well it’s not our responsibility, is it? And I’d like to get home. Let the police handle him.”

“Hmm ok. I’ll go clear up the blood on the outside. You stay with him.”

And so that’s what they did. Tieme mopped the sides of the train down, while Pim helped throw the still unconscious kid into the back of the local police van.

----------

Sgt van der Meer was annoyed he’d been called to the depot for a second time that night. He would rather be at the station watching his phone for a call from his heavily pregnant wife.

Instead, here he was, dealing with drunken football fans and now an unconscious teenager. Pulling into the station, he then had to tackle the challenge of lifting the kid’s dead weight and getting him into the cell. He hauled him through the door backwards, his arms hooked under the boy’s armpits, dragging him along. The boy hadn’t stirred at all, which concerned him a little, while his breathing was laboured and wheezing, which concerned him a lot. He would be ready to call an ambulance if things didn’t improve.

Two of the four football fans were awake as the Sgt approached.

“Hey what’s wrong with him?” said one. “Is he coming in with us?”

“Yes, and I need you to keep an eye on him. I’m waiting on my wife, aren’t I?”

“Sure thing,” said the second fan, whose face dropped from a smile to a frown as he caught sight of the boy. “Lay him down here,” he said, gesturing to a free space on the right-hand side of the floor. He rolled up a Netherlands flag to make a small pillow for his head and put him in the recovery position. Even still slightly drunk, he knew to at least do that.

With that, the Sargeant went back to his desk duties, kicking his feet up onto the desk and finishing his now cold coffee.

The two football fans looked at the boy, trying to work out what had happened. He clearly hadn’t been to the football, he looked like he’d come from some kind of spy movie. The sight of him sobered them both up immediately.

“Has he been shot? Look at that big hole in his armour there?” the first fan said.

The second fan, the one who’d put him in the recovery position, went to the boy’s side and rolled him on his back to take a closer look. He unzipped the armour and gently removed it.

“He’s struggling to breathe, he’s hurt.” The first fan joined his friend by the boy’s side. “I can’t see anything with this suit on, help me get it off him.”

Slowly, and with great care, the two men gently removed the suit, although the kid still didn’t respond or show any signs of consciousness throughout the process. Stripped to his under armour, the two men discovered that thankfully, whatever had hit him in the chest had done nothing but caused a large bruise, which was already yellowing. Cuts were strewn across his arms and hands, and lifting the t-shirt revealed deeper lacerations across his back.

“Well there’s nothing we can do about those,” the second fan said. “He looks like he’s taken such a beating. Poor kid. Ribs look busted but everything else looks intact. Let’s let him sleep, hopefully he’ll come round soon.”

The duo returned to their bench, leaning on one another and eventually falling asleep as well.

Two hours later

With a stiff neck, the first football fan stirred, struggling to lift his hungover head from his friend’s shoulder. As he rubbed the side of his neck to put some warmth back in it - the draft from the cell bars had clearly made an impact - he heard small, shuddering, noises from the corner. He crouched by the boy, feeling through the dark to make contact with his shoulder. The kid was shivering violently.

“Hey, hey...you awake?” the man said, concerned. His call was met with silence. Perhaps the boy was going into shock. There was a draft, but it wasn’t all that cold, he thought. He tapped the knee of his friend. “Buddy look, the kid’s shivering.”

“Shock?” said the other man, groggily.

“That’s what I thought. But he is actually cold to touch. It’s weird. Maybe if we put him between us he’ll warm up a bit? Like a bit of body heat or something?”

“Yeah and we have that spare shirt from Hans, he seems fine without it,” gesturing to the man passed out in the other corner.

Together they gently moved the boy between them pushing into his sides to keep him upright and then draped the shirt over his chest. Initially, the effort didn’t seem to make much difference, the shivering continuing and at times growing with intensity. Still, the boy didn’t seem to stir, and it was only in the dim light coming through the window above them that the two football fans notice just how young and troubled the kid looked. As his shivering continued, the pair couldn’t help but keep watch, just in case.

Worries were eased around an hour later when the shivering died down and chattering was replaced by somewhat of a peaceful snore.

Then, as the sunlight pierced through the window over their heads, hitting the railings of the cell and reflecting back, the kid woke up.