In Which Peter Is Given An Object To Transfer but It's All Very Sketchy and Gross
Peter arrives at the adress a day or so later. It had been two states away from where he'd been. He lands in a crouch on the rooftop of the strangely silent building, and when he stands up to brush himself off and inspect himself to make sure he's not particularly damaged or dirtied. (Cloak:fine. Suit:fine. Duffel bag that's full of ammo and a few spare pieces of armor or weaponry:check. Web shooters:check. Weapons:check. Shrunk weapons because he stole Hank Pym's technology:check. Phone:check. What was he doing again?)
Peter looks around the rooftop, noting the lack of security and deciding that this man was either a complete amateur or the item he's transporting isnt something he actually cares to much for. He flicks out his mental Web just to be sure, and it covers the rooftop before pulling itself back towards him. No security at all. He reaches with his senses. Three guards, all easily avoidable if he crawls in through the large windows.
Peter perks up, getting on his back legs to crawl towards the edge of the roof and flips in head first through the window. It shatters open. He flies throigh the air briefly, before he flips again so he's facing the ground and lands in a crouch. He jumps up, clapping his hands and pulling himself back onto his spider legs, pulling himself a full five feet above the ground. He claps his hands and grins.
"Hello," he calls down, and his smile slips away. Why was he here? What was he doing?
"What took you so long?" The man asks, and his memory slots back to place. Right, right! He has a job!
"Well, I was a few states away," Peter responds easily. He looks around the interior of the building. There's a large van with a group of heavily armed men and woman around it. His transport, then. There's a few guards littered around and- Peter smells the air. It smells familiar, but the smell is heavily masked by something else. Suspicion creeps in but he turns his attention back to the man, who'd started talking about the job.
"-contract is here. I'll meet you back in New York, where you'll be paid." He's saying, and he looks serious. He's trying to be intimidating. Peter frowns.
"I need some money now," he states. "You know, insurance and such. How much were you paying me, by the way?"
The man makes an irritated groan and Peter's suddenly three inches from his face. Guns clicking by the guards as Peter grabs the collars of the man's shirt. "Listen here," he states, "You're hiring me. I could kill you in an instant but I'm not because you're paying me to take an object from point A. Peter gestures around the building. To point B. Peter gestures in the vague direction he's pretty sure New York is in. You do no get to be irritated or annoyed because eyou chose me. If you ever act like that again I will kill you before your guards can blink and I'll take the fucking item myself. Clear?"
The man nods hurriedly. "Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I'm willing to pay five million," he states. Peter nods, smile already returning as he leans back on his spider legs.
"Sounds great. Gimme the contract and I'll be right on my way."
"I-I already gave you the contract," Peter looks down at his hand. Oh! "Oh!"
Peter drops down from his spot in the air suspended by spider legs and places himself in a nearby chair. It's placed in front of a desk and oh, oh, he was supposed to sit there from the begining. Peter hums, reading over the contract.
"The transport team is mine to command," he mumbles to himself, "Can kill who I want, Weapon X-"
Peter stops. "Weapon X? What do they have to do with this?"
"Th-the item was there's," the man responds, "But I took it! It's mine now, it will be mi-"
"Okay, okay, I get it, I get it," Peter responds, waving dismissively in his direction. Weapon X would be pissed? That's good, that's great. Perfectly perfect. This was awesome.
Peter signs the contract. His handwriting comes out loopy and overdramatic. Strange, last time it was jagged and nearly ripped the paper. Curious. Peter tells the man something about bank accounts before tossing the contract at him and walking over to the van.
He's pretty sure it's purposefully soundproof. He's a little suspicious. He shrugs the suspicion off in favor of using his phone to route a course to the adress in New York. He glances up at the transport crew.
"All of you go away, I'll be fine on my own," He states. The transport crew immediately lock their jaws and gain expressions that mean they expressly disagree.
"Ah, ah," Peter states before they can voice said expresse disapproval. "That Itty bitty contract said youre mine to command so shoo, shoo," Peter makes shooting motions and hops into the drivers side. He hums, starting the car and backing up. There's a loud thump that informs him that he's hit someone, but he ignores it and turns to face the opening garage door. There's some crunching as whoever he hit continues to be crushed under the tires.
He drives away, reaching for the radio. There's no radio. What the fuck. Who makes cars or vans or trucks or whatever without fucking radios? This is- this is- this is a tragedy! Peter grumbles incoherently and pulls his phone out to blast music.
~
Within the past day, there has been nothing but boring road after boring after increasingly more boring road. Not to mention, Peter's pretty sure he's being followed and, he keeps forgetting what the fuck he's doing and why. Twice he's turned around. Five times his stopped the fucking car. And seven times he nearly blew the fucking thing up.
He glances at his mirror and finds the same stupid silver car following him. It's been hours and this is a rather empty road and the tail was a complete fucking amateur. Peter sighs, reaching into its duffel bag to grab some weapons.
A few seconds later he has guns and knives propped up in such a way where he can crawl out the window and the car eill drive itself. He crawls out the window, crawling onto the roof and holding up the gun in his hands. The driver of the car seems to realize he's been found and pulls out a gun of his own. Peter snorts. Was that a hand gun.
Peter raises the machine gun in his own hands, digging his heels into the roof of the van. He grins, pincers making a chittering sound that has all the spiders on him sitter skittering away from certain areas of his body. He digs his heels a little further, takes aim.
The driver shoots, and Peter pulls the trigger. The driver's does a funny jerry thing as bullets fill his body, and the car flips and explodes as bullets land on the tires and the sides and the hood. Peter snickers, clicking and button on the gun, and it shrinks into a small keyxhain, courtesy of stolen Pym tech. He crawls back into the drivers seat and pulls the various proper weapons away. He continues driving.
A few hours later he finds a gas station, and he parks the van in front of it. He hums as he walks in, grabbing some drinks from the conveniece store and sits in the drivers seat, legs propped on the dash as he chugs a bottle of water.
An hour of sitting there, and he feels a small bit of curiousity tug at him. What exactly was the item? His feet curl back down and his hand reaches for the door handle. He would very much like to know.
He's out of the van and halfway to the back to open the doors when there's suddenly three motorcycles speeding into the gas station. He has half a second to feel his spider sense shriek at him before he's flipping through the air, mental Web snap at his Web shooters to fire, fire, fire!
He's hurriedly reaching for his knives when he lands on the shoulders of one motorcycle minion, and he plops down to sit on the man's shoulders and snap the man's neck with his hands. (Even though it'd be so cool to use his thighs.) And he finally grabs a knife from his belt and throws it to his left. The squealing sound that follows informs him that it's hit the other's head. He turns to the last one, flipping as he shoots a web.
There's a sharp tug and a larger flip and the man's head smashes into a gas station, exploding in a gory mess of blood, brains, eyes, skin, and various other head parts. Peter jumps up, clapping his hands and looks around for any other attackers before he makes his way back to the drivers seat and drives off.