Pathetic, Weak, Kid
Peter woke slowly. Everything was fuzzy for a few minutes. He heard a rattling, humming noise and the ground beneath him felt like it was shaking. ‘Where am I again? What’s happening?’ His Spidey-senses were buzzing in the back of his head. He lifted his hands slowly and he found they were heavier than normal, and they both moved together. He was bound, and so were his feet. ‘Shit. Shit. Oh no, oh no.’
He remembered now, the alleyway, the men, the van, the needle in his neck. ‘How long was I out?’ Peter was slightly calmed to find his head didn’t hurt anymore, his cheek had calmed down and the bruise had probably faded away already. The bruise fading away probably wasn’t ideal, explaining that away would be difficult.
They had only bothered to bind his wrists and ankles with rope. Granted, it was thick rope, and there was a lot of it, but Peter could still get out of it with minimal effort. They were tight, and they dug painfully into his skin, if he moved in hands too much they would get rope burn. Knowing he could get free if absolutely necessary calmed him down, but just being in the situation he was in, kidnapped and bound in the back of a van, was feeding his anxiety.
Peter jolted as the van stopped. He slid across the floor slightly, and his bound hands scrambled desperately to find a hand hold. His senses flared as a hand to the back of his neck hauled him up to his feet.
“Alright, how is this kid awake already. Did you give him all of the stuff in the needle?” He heard a displeased sounding voice from somewhere behind him. The man that brought him to his feet responded.
“Yeah, he must have just burnt through it real quick.” Peter tensed, gritting his teeth as the doors slid open. He was shoved out of the van roughly, and stumbled forward, tripping over his bound feet and ending up on the concrete, barely managing to lift his chin up before it smacked into the ground.
“You’re gonna have to carry him, he can’t walk with the restraints.” Peter scoffed silently, they weren’t much of a restraint if he could easily break out of them.
“If you take them off my feet I could walk, I won’t try anything.” He said coolly, keeping his tone as steady as possible despite the abandoned warehouse they were parked in front of. The windows were all either blacked out, boarded over or had cracked glass, the building was only one storey, but it had the height of two, all high ceilings and graffiti-covered concrete. Peter clenched his fists and tried not to think about the fact that the warehouse reminded him of the building that was dropped on him.
He heard the men grunt in amusement at his suggestion of being unbound and saw two men approach him slowly.
“Think we’ll just carry you,” one of them replied. They gripped him under his arms and began walking him into the building. Peter hated how his feet dragged on the ground uselessly. He squirmed in their grip and felt the pressure of their fingers increase as he did so. He was going to bruise from that.
Inside, the building really did look like the one the Vulture had dropped on him. The concrete pillars lined the open space, a few benches and stools had been set up in the far corner and multiple boxes were lining the walls. The men dropped Peter on the ground carelessly, and he shuffled away from the rest of them until his back was pressed against the wall of the building. He felt safer when nobody could approach him from behind.
There were only ten men now, the rest had gone who knows where while Peter was unconscious. The man who originally spoke to him in the alley was there, and Peter eyed him carefully as he dragged a chair in front of him.
“Put him in the chair,” he said with malice coating his words like ice. Two men picked Peter up again and sat him in the chair, the man nodded at them. “Now, Peter. These men are going to untie you now, and re-tie you to the chair, and you are not going to fight it. Got it?” He said nothing, didn’t move at all, but a rough hit to his jaw had him nodding his head in response. As the men untied his hands, he calculated. He could make the door from here, and his only worry was getting shot. His eyes hovered over to the guns attached at the hip to all the men, excluding the one who spoke to him.
His wrists were free from the rope, but the men kept their grip steady. One of them let go and Peter now had one man holding his wrists together behind the chair, and another untying his ankles. As he felt the last of the rope from around his feet fall away he kicked upwards harshly, connecting with the man’s chin. He snapped his head back and felt the crack of his skull against the other man’s nose. He stood and yanked his hands free from his grip as he heard a shout of pain and made for the door out.
Peter made it all of three steps away from the chair when white hot pain consumed his body. It spread through his mid-section and swam through his arms and legs, shaking his joints and burning the tips of his fingers and toes. His head thrummed, and he arched his back as much as it could, falling to the ground as the air was knocked from his lungs painfully. The ordeal lasted about three seconds and then Peter found himself on the cold, unforgiving floor, not even five feet from where the men he attacked were clutching their wounds.
He heard the click of a taser being turned off and he collected his fried mind enough to glare up at the man who originally spoke to him. The man tucked his taser away into his jacket and knowingly patted the lump it formed. Peter rolled onto his back and brought his hands up to his throbbing skull. He groaned loudly and tried to catch his breath.
Two more men dragged him back over to the chair, successfully binding his ankles to the feet of the chair and securing his wrists around the back of it. “Now you see, Peter, this is why we listen and comply” the man spat out. Peter felt groggy and everything was out of focus and fuzzy again, he blinked heavily several times until the room came into focus. He was surprised to see a face, inches away from his own, staring back at him.
Peter tugged at the restraints, testing his strength but he froze as the man moved closer to him. His hand moved towards his face and Peter was jerking back as far as the chair would let him. He felt cold fingers gripping at his jaw and he stilled once again. The man tilted his face side to side, Peter squeezed his eyelids shut, biting his lip to stop it from quivering in fear. The man tugged his face facing forward again.
“Open those eyes Pete.” He said, and it sickened Peter the way he used his nickname and how softly he spoke, as if he were talking to a young child or a disobedient puppy. Needless to say, he kept his eyes tightly shut. There was nothing for a few seconds, as if the man were waiting for him to obey. Then, Peter winced as he felt the man digging his fingers around his jaw firm enough to leave finger shaped bruises. Peter snapped his eyes open and made a small noise of pain, but the offending grip didn’t let up. He stared up at the man through his eyelashes and tried to hide his pain by gritting his teeth.
“What did I say, about complying, huh?” Peter darted his tongue out and licked his dried lips and the man’s fingers pressed even harder into his sensitive jaw. He was unable to stifle the quiet moan of pain and discomfort that escaped his parted lips. If anything, the noise egged the man on because the fingers didn’t let up and Peter was growing more and more desperate to get out of the man’s hold. His eyes darted around the room, and the man shook his head back and forth to grab his attention. “Kid, hey, look at me!” He yelled angrily, and Peter listened, flicking his eyes upwards to meet the mans.
“W-what are you doing? What d-do you want from me?” Peter spoke quietly, hating the way his voice trembled and gave away his fear. The man smiled down at him, running his thumb slowly against Peter’s chin in a twisted display of feigned comfort. Peter felt sick at the memory of his Dad doing a similar thing when he would wake from a nightmare, he would run his calloused fingers over Peter’s cheeks and run a comforting hand through his curls until he fell asleep again. He wrenched his head out of the man’s grip and was unsurprised to be rewarded with a swift smack across his cheek.
“I’m teaching you a lesson about complying, and I want information from you, kid.”
“On what?” Peter replied, keeping his voice steadier this time.
“Not on what, on who,” the man corrected, “I want information on Spider-man.” He said bluntly, Peter’s heart dropped into his feet. ‘Shit, do they know that I am Spider-man?’
“And what exactly makes you think I know anything about him?” The man smirked above him as he stood. He nodded his head at one of the other men and he dragged a crate over next to a metal bench. The man stepped back in front of Peter, effectively blocking his view of the man who he could hear unpacking things onto the bench, the clang of metal on metal making his ears ring slightly.
“Because, Peter,” the man continued to speak over the noise, “I’m not stupid, I know you’re Stark’s intern, and I’ve heard the rumours floating around your petty high school classmates. You know Spider-man.” Peter swallowed, feeling his anxiety ramping up more at the mention of school and his Dad.
“That’s all they are, rumours. Not to mention the fact that all I do for my – Mr. Stark is get his coffee and log his appointments and – Ah!” Peter was cut off when the man’s fist collided heavily with his temple. He furrowed his eyebrows and clenched his still bound wrists, but the hit wasn’t too hard, and he had gotten much worse while on patrol.
“You will not lie to me, you will only speak when spoken too and you will answer everything I ask. Got it?” The man asked furiously, and Peter did nothing but nod slowly, breathing through his nose and trying to stay as still as possible. A sudden thought occurred to Peter and he felt a burst of sorrow in his chest, ‘I miss my Dad.’ He was caught off guard and his eyes, surprisingly, began to burn with unshed tears. ‘No, I am not going to cry, there’s no way in hell I’m being weak in front of these guys.’
The man stepped to the side, cracking his knuckles loudly in the large warehouse, and allowing Peter to view what the other man had set up. Peter, who was vehemently trying to shove thoughts of his Dad away, snapped his eyes to the metal bench. The bench in question, was now littered with an array of medical and construction tools. Various hammers, scalpels, knives and scissors were lined carefully over the surface, and Peter could feel his Spidey-senses flare in warning.
“What a-are those for exactly?” Peter asked timidly, his pitch rising in poorly concealed fear. The man moved closer to his chair again and Peter could hear his own heartbeat thumping rapidly, his breaths coming in shorter and more panicked.
“Those, kid, are my leverage against you. Ask a couple questions, break a couple fingers, make ‘em bleed a little.”
“I – I don’t – I don’t know anything about Spider-man.” Peter whispered tentatively, testing the strength of the bonds to reassure himself once again.
“Lying Pete – don’t do it.” The man sighed threateningly. He circled around Peter until he was behind him and placing his hands over his shoulders, squeezing carefully, his fingertips brushing his collarbone. He leant down, draping one arm around Peter’s neck casually. His senses exploded, screaming at him to move and he tried to, but once again the blast of pain raced through his neck and careened through his body, sending white hot flares of agony rattling through his skull.
Peter cried out, biting his lip to cut off his own cry and tasting blood as his teeth slid through his lip, splitting the soft skin. He gasped for air, choking on the blood in his mouth as the pain pulled away. His body trembled as he sucked in air and coughed out the blood from his lip. He peeled open his eyes to see the man place the taser down on the metal bench alongside the rest of the tools.
“Liar.” The man called out, dragging another chair over and placing it directly in front of Peter’s slumped body. “Pete, I – ”
“Don’t call me that.” Peter cut him off furiously. The man quirked an eyebrow in interest, sitting down on the chair backwards, placing his hands on the back and leaning his chin on them. He waved a hand and one of the men Peter had fought before came forward, thumping his fist down on the back of Peter’s head.
“Care to explain why I can’t call you by your name, Pete?” He asked, emphasizing his name cruelly. Peter spat blood at his feet and rolled his head back to face him, staring directly into the man’s cold, grey eyes, he replied darkly.
“Because you don’t have the right to call me by the name the people I love do, because you’re nothing but a stain on this city and I know that Mr. Stark is coming, and he will make you pay.” Peter’s voice didn’t quiver, he didn’t stutter, and he didn’t miss the small look of worry that flashed over the man’s face before it was washed away with the look of pure fury.
“You know what, you little shit, you’re gonna learn not to talk back like that, one way or another.” His voice was low as he stood, gripping the back of Peter’s chair, the inside of his elbows grazing his neck in a way that didn’t exactly imply positive outcomes. Peter narrowed his eyes, looking up at the man and mustering the best glare he could through the terror and adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Fuck you.” He said plainly, causing the man’s vein to throb on his temple and the wood to creak under his white knuckles. Peter noticed as a flicker of something floated across his face and he pushed off his chair, leaving it wobbling in the air before gripping Peter’s shirt and tugging him harshly back down. He parted his lips and ran his tongue over them, practically shaking with ferocity.
“Teach him a lesson,” he called to the men behind him, smirking hatefully as they trooped toward Peter, a few of them cracking their knuckles and necks in a mock display of their strength. They lunged for him, and Peter immediately used his full strength to tear at his bonds. One of his feet pulled off the chair as the fists began to rain down. He had a particularly hard hit to his right eye and left cheek which would leave bruises, and he was winded from a few knocks to his ribs and stomach by the time they stepped away from him. Peter was breathing heavily and still tugging at his wrists, feeling the rope begin to give slightly. He looked around, wondering why they had stopped when he saw the leader clutching a phone to his ear.
“Yeah, we got him at the warehouse for questioning. Uh huh, no, no, you took his bag and phone then? Good, and you turned it off to avoid tracking? Perfect. Sorry what? You found what in the bag?”
‘Shit. Not good, really, really not good.’ Peter had his suit and web shooters stored at the bottom of his school bag, which he was only just realising wasn’t with him when he woke in the van.
“I see. Yeah, we’re gonna restrain him with the special cuffs and transfer him over now. Yeah, get the room ready with the stuff I set up now.” The man had a glint in his eye as he shut the phone off with a click. He stalked towards Peter as he sat motionless on the chair. His arm reached out for the teen as he kicked the chair away and thrust himself at Peter. His fingers wrapped around his throat and squeezed tightly, cutting off all his air. A choked off gasp of fright and pain escaped out of Peter’s split lip and he wheezed, futility trying to slip out of the powerful grip around his neck.
“You shit. You thought you could hide it from me, huh? Well you were wrong, and now you’re gonna suffer the consequences. You are going to endure a whole world of hurt before your precious ‘Mr. Stark’ is gonna even begin to try and save your sorry little ass!” He screamed, eyes alight with anger and teeth bared as he leaned all his weight on Peter’s airway.
Peter tried to respond, tried to deny and lie his way out of the situation, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t get a breath, couldn’t talk. The only thing he could manage was a weak, obstructed gag of pain. He felt like his eyes were bulging, his face felt hot and it felt like his windpipe was being crushed as the corners of his vision morphed into a grainy black. White spots danced in the forefront of his watery eyes as he felt himself begin to fade away.
The hand pulled away as Peter teetered on the edge of consciousness. As soon as nothing was obstructing his airway he fell forward, coughing and hacking, sucking in air like a vacuum. He gasped at the relief of inhaling, and he could feel the hand-shaped bruise that wrapped around his throat like a snaking purple and blue watercolour.
He let go of Peter’s shirt and shoved him back against the chair, his head snapping back and hitting the back support roughly as he still struggled to suck in enough air for his burning lungs. “I’m driving over myself, make sure he’s restrained at all times, and use the special serum on him.” He turned back to face Peter who was still curling into himself as much as he could. The man dragged his fingers through the weak teens curls and gripped tightly, yanking his head backward with such force his neck cracked. The man was facing him when he next spoke, but he was directing his words at the rest of the men.
“We caught ourselves a spider, and the spider is a pathetic, weak, kid.” The man smiled down at Peter, but fury still burned deep in his eyes. His grip in Peter’s hair loosened and began carding through, ruffling the curls in a way that mimicked the way the boy’s Dad would after a long day. Peter pulled back weakly, his feeble attempt seemed to encourage the man as he began to scratch his scalp in a heinous display of false comfort.
One of the other men, who was watching the exchange intently, spoke up.
“It’s gonna be fun getting info outta him, now that we know he can handle the pain.” Peter heard the smile in his voice and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach.
‘I want my Dad. I need my Dad.’ He thought to himself, trying not to think about the fingers still running through his messy curls.
“I’m not weak or pathetic, and I’m sixteen,” Peter argued. The man’s hand pulled out of his hair, brushing past his temple as it went. He still had a smirk plastered across his smug face as he stepped back to the table, securing his taser as he went.
“Sure, and my name’s not Ryan,” he leaned down again, “and by the way, Samuel over there isn’t wrong, it is gonna be fun getting info out of a brat like you.” He stood, waving his hand as he sauntered toward the exit, calling over his shoulder, “restrain him properly and take him to the location, knock him out for the drive. The less he knows the better.” With that, he pushed open the rusted doors and let them slam shut behind him, echoing throughout the warehouse and rattling inside Peter’s throbbing head.
Something, about the finality of Ryan’s command and the fear-induced adrenaline, alit a powerful surge of anger in Peter’s bruised stomach. He ripped his foot out of the remaining bonds and stood, using the momentum to kick his chair back with all his strength and let it fly across the room and shatter into pieces at the impact with the wall. He split the rope binding his wrists and dutifully ignored his own red and raw wrists as he shoved one of the men advancing on him into the remnants of the chair. He kicked out at another two, successfully flooring them and sending their drawn guns skittering across the floor.
‘Shit, drawn guns. Run, run, run!’ His mind and senses began screaming at the same time. He turned, dodging one of the men who came at his right, elbowing his backside as he sprinted past.
‘Fifty feet away. Forty-five, forty.’ He was nearly there, he could see the natural light leaking in through the gap of the door. ‘Thirty feet.’ His Spidey-sense blared in warning, but he didn’t care, he sped up, bracing his arms in front of his, preparing himself for pushing open the doors.
Inexplicably, Peter’s feet stopped working, and the ground seemed to be rising to meet him. Darting his hands out at the last second possible, he collided with the floor. He turned himself over, carefully, still curious as to why he was currently lying on the cold floor of the warehouse instead of bursting through the doors into the awaiting sunlight. He got his answer as he tried, stupidly, to lift his arms.
Peter’s entire left shoulder was enveloped in fiery agony, tears immediately burnt at the forefront of his eyes, his lip quivered as he cut off his own cry of pain. ‘No, no. This cannot be happening, I just got shot.’ He laid as still as possible, gently moving his left fingers to check that he had mobility. Surely enough, they wiggled along side him, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. The pained teen searched for an exit wound somewhere in his upper torso, but there was nothing. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the path the bullet had taken through his flesh, lodged deep within the muscles of his shoulder.
Peter focused on keeping his breathing steady and staying still. He didn’t hear the thud of several pairs of footsteps approaching his cowering form, only noticing when sets of hands roughly held him down as more twisted both his arms behind his back. He whimpered in agony as he felt the bullet, still inside him, grinding and grating against his shoulder blade as the men tugged at his wrists, securing them behind his back. He couldn’t keep his burning tears in his eyes as strong hands grasped at his neck and skull, pressing his cheek into the dirty warehouse floor. He couldn’t move, let alone fight as reinforced metal cuffs clicked around his shaking wrists. He felt a knee digging harshly into his spine and he cried out again as his shoulder was jolted purposefully.
“That’s what you get for running, stupid brat.” Someone said as the knee pressed deeper into his back, the hands holding his head down shoved harder and his shoulder was tugged higher. Peter couldn’t stop himself as his pain-filled sobs echoed around the warehouse.
Peter didn’t even attempt jerking away as one of the men jabbed the needle into his neck, the darkness was a welcome relief and escape from the pain.