Chapter Text
The whole thing had gone wrong from the start. The mission itself was a setup, a ruse to distract the inhabitants of the compound. Mr. Stark, despite adamant protests, had not even allowed Peter to accompany them. He’d been ordered to stay behind, to keep “lookout” and practice his more advanced suit settings while the real Avengers did the work. He’d been pouty after watching them jet off without him, climbing up the side of the watch tower and beginning to gripe at Karen once he’d crawled inside. She was supportive as always, as her programming ensured, but her words didn’t actually make him feel any better.
He knew when Mr. Stark told him to stay behind and keep lookout that the man didn’t actually expect him to do anything. That’s why he was so surprised when, while spinning circles in a swivel chair, a movement from the lawn caught his eye. A large white van pulled right up to the compound, and, instead of radioing Mr. Stark or anyone, he stupidly climbed back down to investigate. He thought he was being stealthy when he snuck around the side of the van and climbed onto its roof, waiting for its inhabitants to exit so he could launch a surprise interrogation, but they had been ahead of him the whole time.
From out of nowhere a large, purple stream of light shot through the vehicle’s roof. There was no warning, and no time to dodge. The beam didn’t hurt, not exactly, as it collided with his body, but it threw him down on the lawn and broke immediately into ropes of light. They were warm, slightly too warm to be comfortable, and slid up his arms and down his legs, tightly tethering his wrists together in front of his body as well as securing his ankles.
He struggled against the glowing, purple restraints, but every resistance only caused them to tighten their hold. Whatever the material was, he was realizing quickly it was stronger than he. He stopped fighting and found his momentum, leaning back and then throwing his body upward onto his feet, his ankles still bound tightly together. If he aimed right, he could still activate his web shooters. He watched the van, waiting for the doors to open, but was never given the chance. The window of the passenger side rolled down no more than an inch before something fired quickly in his direction. He dodged it easily, and glanced down at the ground to see a small dart resting on the grass.
“You’ll have to be faster than that!” he taunted, but regretted his words a moment later when the back windows also lowered and ten darts shot at him together. He dodged the first round, but it was immediately followed by another. The restraints were slowing him down, and it wasn’t long before he felt a sharp sting in his shoulder. The pain wasn’t bad, but he became instantly aware of a tingling sensation rushing through his veins. In a moment everything went numb, and he felt his body hit the ground without ever realizing he was falling. He heard the van doors opening at the same time his vision began to go blurry.
“Karen,” his tongue was feeling heavy in his mouth as he struggled to hold onto consciousness.
“Peter, a foreign substance has entered your bloodstream. It appears to be a form of paralytic mixed with an unknown compound. Shall I run your vitals for you?”
“Just ‘all ‘ister Stark,” he slurred out.
“Calling Tony Stark.”
The phone rang twice before Mr. Stark’s face lit up inside his mask. Peter’s vision was so blurry he could barely make out the shapes. “Not a good time, Pete.”
“...’own,” he mumbled, fighting hard to stay awake. He felt hands on his shoulders.
“What?” Mr. Stark said, finally sounding a little concerned.
“Down. ‘M down.”
“Did you say you’re down? Down how?” He heard the words but was unable to answer. “What’s going on? Peter? Peter!”
Tony Stark shouting his name was the last thing he heard before everything went dark.
___
When Peter woke up it was to cold. He was lying on something hard and freezing, and his head was pounding. His stomach sank when he tried to reach toward his head and realized his arms were restrained at his sides. His eyes snapped open and he looked around, trying to ignore the remaining fog and dizziness.
He seemed to be a large, poorly lit warehouse. The walls were metal, the ceilings were high, and he was surrounded by machinery and wooden crates. The whole place smelled like old wood, and there were only four buzzing fluorescents lighting the entire building. He groaned when he finally looked down at himself. He was lying on something metal, probably a factory work table, and was secured to it with the same glowing, purple ropes that had already proven impossible to break. They were wrapped around each of his wrists and ankles, holding him securely on his back and giving him very little room to shift. Like before, when he began struggling they only tightened. He went still after only a minute.
Despite the fact that his restraints were just a step down from burning against his skin, he realized he was shivering slightly. The table and room were cold, and he finally noticed why. His spidey suit was gone. He had been stripped down to nothing but his boxers, and his web shooters were nowhere to be found. Great. He laid still, staring at the ceiling as his vision slowly cleared. He needed to think of a plan, but was unable to get far when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Before long, three men were stationed at the foot of the table where he laid.
“Hello, Peter,” one of the men finally spoke. He was wearing a cheap-looking brown suit and appeared to be in his late fifties. He wore large, silver-rimmed glasses and had a gray mustache that matched his hair. Not exactly the most threatening figure.
“Okay, so you know me,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. He was grateful he no longer seemed to be having trouble speaking. “But who are you?”
The man chuckled, softly. “You may call me Bill.”
“Well I’ve kinda gotta ask, why am I here, Bill?”
“To hurt.” He felt his heart skip at the man’s easy reply, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“Without even finishing the introductions?” He nodded toward the other two men. One of them was large and muscular and looked the typical gym-fanatic-turned-criminal. Shaved head, wife beater, tattoos; the whole thing. The other guy was smaller and skinny, wearing a pressed button down, khakis, and thick glasses. Science geek for sure.
“Oh, you will know them both quite well by the end of the day,” Bill said.
“Would it matter if I asked why I’m here to hurt? Is it the Spider Man thing, because honestly I’m just a friendly neighborhood Spider Man. I don’t even usually cause that much trouble.” He wanted to keep them talking. The longer they chatted, the more time the rest of the team had to figure out where he was.
“You’re not shy about your identity,” Bill said.
Peter shrugged the best he could, but felt the ropes around his wrists tighten at the motion. “You sort of already took my suit.”
“Yes,” Bill said. “My apologies, but we needed the exposed skin. You’ll understand.”
At that he gestured to the skinny man, who raised a tall jar into Peter’s line of sight. It was filled with a pale, purple liquid and dozens of long, skinny needles. The man set it on a nearby rolling cart that Peter then realized was carrying a number of jars and metal instruments. He pulled on a pair of black, leather gloves before unscrewing the lid and pulling one, thin needle from the liquid that had to be at least five inches long.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Peter said quickly when the man leaned over him, beginning to press around his ribs with his free hand. “Can’t we talk about this?” They all ignored him, and in a moment the science guy slid the needle under his skin in a practiced motion, horizontally so that the entire needle rested just below the skin on the left side of his lower ribs.
Peter sucked in a strangled gasp the moment the point punctured his skin. It was just a needle. A long needle, true, but he hadn’t expected it to be anything special. He had been very wrong. He laid back, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, feeling the ropes around his ankles tighten as he involuntarily tried to kick his legs. The needle might as well have been coated in acid. A deep, burning itch radiated from beneath his skin, spreading across his torso and down into his bones. He’d never felt anything like it.
“That’s one,” Bill said, snapping Peter’s attention back to him. He was panting, but otherwise tried to ignore the pain in his chest when he met the man’s gaze.
“I still don’t get it.” He was glad he managed to keep his voice steady. “Why are you doing this?”
“We’ll talk more in a little while,” Bill said. “Alex here has fifty nine needles to go. I’ll be back when they’re all beneath your skin.”
“What? Hey, no!” He shouted after Bill and the muscle man as they turned to go, and didn’t even realize that the skinny guy, Alex, apparently, was already holding a second needle. As it entered the skin above his stomach, all thoughts of talking immediately left him. He gasped again, loudly, and squeezed his eyes shut. The needles were barely beneath his skin, and yet the fiery pain they left penetrated deep into muscle and bone. They were two needles in and it was already the worst thing he had ever felt. He had no idea how he was supposed to handle sixty needles, but was beginning to realize he wasn’t going to have a choice.
Alex continued his work, expressionless and silent. Peter finally started screaming after the fifth needle. It was too much. His entire body was burning from the inside out. After a while he stopped counting, getting lost in the pain and silently praying that the team would find him before the jar was empty.