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This time, it wasn’t Peter’s fault. He actually had nothing to do with what happened! He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and unfortunately for the bad guys, the right place at the right time.
His Spider-Man mask had ripped —accidentally, he might add—to the point where facial recognition could probably identify him, and he wasn’t about to take any chances with his secret identity. He’d just have to web the offending tree up like there was no tomorrow, and walk home like he was Peter Parker… Which he was.
This meant that he actually had the night off, albeit reluctantly; he could enjoy his ride home in peace—in fact, it was a little weird that nobody stopped to talk to him or anything—Guess he hadn’t traveled as Peter in a long time—eat dinner in peace—for once, he wasn’t wearing gloves with his meal—he’d have to sew those up too, stupid tree—maybe get some actual sleep—could he even sleep through the night or would he wake to the first sound of police sirens?
He had been sporting a split lip when he entered the train, and he really hoped nobody noticed that he didn’t have one when he got off.
At first, he thought someone had—of all the luck, Parker, you’ve got the worst—when a guy turned the corner into a darkening alley only ten steps behind him—I know, I know, “Peter, why would you walk down a gross alley when it’s getting dark?”—In his defense, he was Spider-Man—If someone dared make a he-was-asking-for-it joke if he got mugged, Spider-Man would punch them in the throat.
Peter was relieved that he wasn’t being mugged, considering the very little money he actually had, and altogether not that disappointed to learn that he was being kidnapped instead. After all, at least it was him and not some innocent civilian who didn’t have superpowers, ya know?
The man pulled out a pistol with two shaking hands, pointed it towards Peter, and practically screamed down the alley, “Stop there, kid! I don’t wanna hurt ya!”
Of course, Peter’s spidey-sense had gone off when the guy started to follow him from the train—why else would he have taken the dark alley, come on!—but he was Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, so he couldn’t do anything—wouldn’t, shouldn’t.
Peter could sense people walking past the alley, glancing in to see this scene, and yet still walking away. It was frustrating that no one would help, but typical.
It was fine, cause he could handle himself better than most, but with people looking down the alley? Who knew who had their phones out, video chatting, recording a video, live streaming, you-name-it, the list was endless. Peter’s identity could come out, and that absolutely could not happen. He’d just have to go along with this guy.
What did he even want?
Peter didn’t move, waited for the man to say something else, and when he didn’t—just stood there quaking in his boots, so it was obvious he was under a lot of pressure and didn’t really want to be doing this—Pete opened his mouth.
He spoke slowly, pitched slightly higher than usual to appear more innocent and vulnerable, “You don’t want to do this.” Maybe he sounded frightened, too? That would sell it!
Still shaking, the man took a few steps forward and replied, “I have to, you won’t understand—Put your hands on your head, please.”
It was the please that made it obvious what was happening. This man was being used by other, more powerful men who probably had something on him. This man was probably a nice guy, had a family, a stable job, a big house, friendly as all-get-out. What then was being held over his head? An affair? A gambling debt? Hidden illegal activities?
Peter complied, slowly rested his palms on the back of his head, spoke again, “Can I help you with anything? I know people—“
Touchy subject, the man was close to his breaking point, cut Peter off with, “No, no, no!” He snapped a pair of handcuffs around Peter’s wrists, continued, “Only Oscorp can help me now, and you’re gonna help me with Osborn.”
So that’s what it was? This man needed some sort of advanced technology and was going to use Peter as bait—wait, did he know Peter’s connection to Norman Osborn’s son? If he did, that just made this situation all the more scary.
This man wanted leverage over Norman, and he couldn’t get his hands on Harry cause he was in Europe, so he went for the next best thing, Harry’s best friend…
But Peter wasn’t Harry’s only best friend…
If MJ was hurt in any way… Peter didn’t know what he’d do, but he’d ensure these men would regret it.
The man lightly pushed him forward, indicating that he wanted Pete to start walking. He lowered his arms and took a good look at the handcuffs—ordinary, probably not even police-grade—they’d be so easy to snap.
“Got a name? I gotta call you something in my head,”—Peter didn’t want to rile this guy up too much with his quips. He was already close to his breaking point, and Pete didn’t wanna push him over the edge. Especially if MJ was involved. He’d just have to dial back his personality a bit.
“No, now shut up and keep moving—no wait! Stop!”—Mr. Grumpy he decided on—Mr. Grumpy was walking behind him, one hand on Peter’s arm, the other holding the gun against his back, and he stopped them suddenly, releasing him, and Peter quirked an eyebrow.
Mr. Grumpy reached to his back pocket, producing a black material—a bag, it was a black bag. Peter was going to be blindfolded. Yay!—and wrapped it around his head, tightening the drawstrings at his neck, but not too tight. It wasn’t even uncomfortable. What kind of kidnapping didn’t have uncomfortable black-out bag ties!?
Peter wasn’t fazed in the slightest, not a bit scared. He could knock this guy out so easily, not even as Spider-Man, just as Peter Parker. He was a terrible kidnapper. Lucky for him, Pete wanted to see where this was going. If there were men pulling his strings as he suspected, he needed to stop them more than he needed to stop Mr. Grumpy.
So he went along with it, trying to play up the scared victim.
He heard the clicking of texting, the man was probably updating the puppeteer, and then they kept walking, both quiet—against Peter’s wishes! Man, he wanted to be a smartass so bad, but yeah yeah, he knew, he had to play along. If this guy snapped, Peter would have to explain why bullet holes heal over so quickly, and that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have.
He added a “Please, don’t hurt me,” for effect.
Gah, this was so humiliating.
What was that saying? “Don’t compromise who you are for someone else?”
They were nearing the end of the alleyway, and the car that Peter heard idling around the corner slid into view—uh, well he couldn’t see it exactly, but he knew where it was by sound and spidey-sense.
Wait—spidey-sense?
That car was actually dangerous?
Two men stepped out smelling of expensive cologne, and one said, “What are ya doin’? Why’s he awake!?” around the same time the other guy stuck a stun gun to Peter’s neck.
Oh, yeah, they were dangerous.
Electricity arced through his body, and he stiffened, painfully so, every muscle burning, and he couldn’t move. The worst part was that he was in peak health and healing, even as the electricity ravaged his frame, so where an ordinary person would have passed out after five seconds of this, Peter wasn’t close. He couldn’t even move so as to act like he was passing out.
He never figured his speed healing would come to haunt him, but alas.
The taser was removed from his neck, cutting off the stream of electricity, and Peter fell to his knees, arms braced against the concrete, drawing in carefully measured breaths through the dirty fabric of the cloth sack. He’d be back to normal in only a minute or so, but he needed to fall over and act like he passed out—but that thought came too late.
The man with the stun gun examined the gun as if it were faulty, “Huh, I’ll try it again,” and then pressed it back to Peter’s exposed neck.
He could have leaped away, broken the handcuffs, and knocked these guys out—after all, only one of them actually saw his face—but there had to be more of them, an orchestrater, the big bad of the group—his legs were properly shaking this time, his biceps burning from the electricity and from holding him up so stiffly, and he didn’t even need to fake the pained inhale and groan when the gun was finally removed again.
He was in his right mind to fall over and stop moving, closing his eyes beneath the bag for good measure, and letting all his muscles loosen and relax—that felt good after those horrible fifteen seconds.
Then there were arms under his, grasping and lifting him, and then another pair on his legs doing the same. They were probably going to put him in the trunk. Great, just what he needed, a cramped living space. He wasn’t a small guy!
“Weirdo has a high pain tolerance.”
“I’d say—Oi, Charley, open the damn trunk!”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m going!”
The sound of the trunk being opened as he hung in midair between these two goons.
The weightlessness as they tossed him inside—God, ouch, could they be any rougher?
The slamming of the trunk, and the revving of the engine as they high-tailed it out of there.
He was glad that this happened to him instead of an innocent bystander, but come on! Why him?
~
He awoke in a panic: when had he passed out, and why had he passed out, and where was he were the first thoughts that filtered through.
He hadn’t been in his Spider-Man gear, so these guys should have had no reason to use any excessive force or any extremely high doses of drugs—should being the keyword there.
He was still handcuffed, but this time around a radiator—older building then, and judging from the discolored mortar between maroon bricks, he’d wager he was in a factory of some kind.
His vision was no longer impaired by the gross bag, and he could see the man who kidnapped him sitting at a cheap fold-out table not twenty feet away, one elbow resting on the table, the other with that same gun in his hand bouncing along with his leg. Still nervous then.
He should probably put the gun down before he shot someone on accident.
The other men were talking in the corner to the left, most likely too quiet and jibbery for Mr. Grumpy to make out, but Peter’s senses were better than most, and he could hear them just fine:
“Yeah, he recorded the video, and we played it on the big screens, just like you asked.”
“I saw, looked excellent. Any sightings of our little friend yet?”—A new voice—they were on the phone, hopefully with heir boss trying to discuss the next steps of their plans so Peter could eavesdrop and get the whole scoop.
“Not yet, but it’s only been ten minutes. He might be stuck in the subway.” —Were they talking about Osborn? What was that video that they released? If Peter was bait, he’d have been on it…
“Hey!” —It was hushed, said under someone’s breath, trying to get his attention, so he turned—it was Mr. Grumpy—“You’re not supposed to be awake! How are you awake?”
Peter ignored the questions—he wasn’t supposed to be awake? So they had drugged him—they drugged him, and he burned through the drugs too quickly. That could be cause for alarm, he’d need to play this carefully—he ignored the man’s questions and posed his own, quietly, so the men across the room wouldn’t hear.
“What’s going on? Why did you bring me here?”
The man sighed, hung his head, and shook it, “It wasn’t supposed to come to this. you were never supposed to be dragged in—I didn’t want to hurt anybody!” Hs was almost desperate in his hushed plea, his eyes begging Peter to understand. And he did.
He’d taken out enough bad guys to know that some bad guys weren’t actually bad guys.
“I believe you,” he nodded, “but can you tell me why you need me?”
This guy was easy. All the not-really-bad guys gave away their plots so effortlessly as if they wanted to get caught and foiled.
“It’s my wife, she’s dying—her heart, and she was—and Oscorp was supposed to—“ He was rushing his words and they were all tangling up, so he stilled, and Peter stilled, patiently waiting.
“She’s on the donor list, but she doesn’t have the time to wait. Oscorp came to us, we signed papers, they were supposed to give her a new heart—but they backed out!” He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair back, and neared Peter—he didn’t blink, should have, but didn’t, but it was okay, nobody would notice something like that.
“They changed their minds—said it wasn’t ready for human trials yet!”
He turned around, slowly walking back toward the table before leaning over it, bracing himself on the edge—and Peter wasn’t too sure that that rickety-looking table would hold the guy for long—
Peter spared a glance toward the other men—still on the phone, oblivious to their surroundings.
“They made us sign more papers about how we didn’t suffer any damages and blah blah blah but we did. She’s going to die, and our time was wasted.”
The man didn’t even look at him, just sat down and sighed—it was like his very soul had left his body, draining him of all life. He sat there utterly still and silent, a defeated look on his face.
He continued his story, almost in a monotone, “I wasn’t going to do anything, just try to convince you to pretend to have been kidnapped, so I’m not actually the bad guy. But these guys somehow changed my mind. I don’t know—I’m not a bad guy, ya know? I’d never do anything like this…”
Yeah, Peter believed him. Some people are good with words and can make people believe anything, do anything.
“Who are these guys? What do they want?”
The man barely moved, just glanced at them chatting in the corner to each other, having ended their call. He looked back at Peter.
“They want Spider-Man. They’re with one of the maggia, don’t remember which, don’t really care. They figured kidnapping someone right off the street would bring Spider-Man around, and they intend to capture him. He hasn’t shown up yet, obviously.”
Ah, now it makes sense—and he realized he’d forgotten that he was worried about MJ, guess her absence made it clear that she wasn’t involved—and it sounds like they thought he was just a random stranger, some innocent civilian with no ties to Osborn or Oscorp. That’s a relief.
They probably used the video they supposedly shot earlier to draw Spider-Man out, meaning he was probably that little friend their boss spoke about. One major flaw in their plan though—Spider-Man was currently handcuffed to a pipe—but maybe if he escaped innocently enough, he could switch into Spider-Man gear and take—Where was his backpack?
He passed out with it, but woke without it…
If anyone went through it, they’d find the suit—but all three of these men were still waiting for Spider-Man to show up, so they clearly hadn’t gone through his bag. He was still safe—for now…
He tested the waters, “…Do you… know what happened to my backpack?”
The man looked up, puzzled, “Your backpack? No, I dunno, why? Is it important—I mean, do you need an inhaler, or insulin, or medication, or…”
The men noticed now, but they weren’t angry or upset that Peter could tell—and his spidey-sense was always right—but they were coming near.
“N-no, but I had important research in there—I’m a scientist. I work at—“ He was trying to make the conversation normal, not to clue the men onto the fact that he just successfully and very easily interrogated their friend—coworker? Fellow minion?—but they didn’t like the look of things or something because his spidey-sense was warning him of more danger. He just wasn’t quite sure what.
Neither the top of the table nor its contents could be seen from the floor where Peter sat, and he probably would have handled himself and this situation differently if he’d known there were drugs and needles up there, cause the larger of the men filled one up with some clear liquid—his spidey-sense was saying badbadbad—and it was a bad situation regardless of the drug because he didn’t like needles—and was approaching him.
It was clear that he wasn’t supposed to be awake when the poor guy had first said you’re not supposed to be awake, but it was drawing a little more attention than Peter wanted when the other goon, the one not holding a needle, said, “Yo, how is he even awake, shoulda been out for like twelve hours…”
Peter wanted to struggle, but he knew it was pointless unless he wanted to show these guys what he could really do, so he just sat there, hoping this guy wouldn’t poke and prod too much—please let them know what they’re doing, please let them know what they’re doing—nothing was worse than having a nurse fish around inside your arm with a needle looking for a good vein.
The contents were plunged into his veins while the man was talking, but Peter wasn’t listening, instead focusing on the sensation of numbness physically rushing toward him. It was an odd sensation, and he imagined ordinary people didn’t feel it this quickly.
~
He came around with thoughts still going through his head almost like they had been paused for him to resume. That was weird. But that rushing, cold sensation was gone now, almost as it had never been there at all.
His head was resting against the sharp metal edge of the radiator and there was a slight headache, most likely from the drugs. He hated being drugged; he never knew what to expect. How long had he been out this time?
“Holy shit, you’re awake again! It’s only been ten minutes!”
Oh, that long?
Oh crap.
He should have played it off, should have taken a nap maybe? It wasn’t like they had a hostage they could hurt if he didn’t save them in time—he was the hostage, and he still had to save himself somehow—but he hadn’t thought of that when he woke. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He should have thought of that! What was wrong with him?
He supposed his head was still a bit sluggish, that headache still present and bugging him. Maybe it wasn’t completely out of his system yet—how much had he been given, anyway?
The surprised outburst caught the attention of the other two. One approached cautiously with wide eyes, and the other with angry eyes.
Angry-Eyes growled, “What the hell—“ and grabbed another needle, but Wide-Eyes stopped him, “Wait, he’ll just burn through it again! What’s up with his metabolism?!”—It’s how he stays in great shape! No fat on him! Costs a lot of money, eating twelve meals a day, it’s why he’s always late on rent, but—Angry-Eyes crossed the room and grabbed something off the top of a crate Peter couldn’t see, while mumbling, “Why waste it when I can take out my anger?”
That didn’t sound good—Peter’s eyes widened—didn’t look too good either, cause that there clenched tightly in a fist was one of those pesky stun batons Peter hated—now would be a good time to escape, just break the cuffs, beat these guys up—they were already onto his speedy metabolism! Breaking the cuffs and escaping would be a clear and straight connection to his being Spider-Man, especially since they have his face on video!
It was either forfeit his identity or have electricity knock him out—what kind of ultimatum was this? Why has this become his life? This was so messed up!
It was a difficult choice, one that he didn’t make in time to avoid that baton coming into clear open contact with him through his shirt. By now in his Spider-Man-ing, it was easy to clench his teeth at the pain and work through it, so that’s the kind of strength he channeled—or tried to.
The electricity burned, sending his muscles into uncontrollable spasms, but he grit his teeth and grunted through the pain. His lungs had stopped entirely, out of his control, so he couldn’t scream if he wanted to—and he wanted to. It seemed to go on forever, not stopping and not passing out.
He supposed Angry-Eyes was waiting for him to lose consciousness before removing the hurty stick, but his speed healing was making that very difficult to accomplish—and he really wanted to accomplish just that. Passing out would be so nice.
The longer it continued, the more it seemed to burn and the more violent his spasms became. His joints were actually aching, his jaw especially from clenching his teeth so tight—but then it stopped, and his whole body sagged. His eyes were still closed, but softly, wanting to just go to sleep—and appear asleep, too, so that that didn’t happen again.
It worked.
The men all backed off, muttering each to themselves:
“Dude’s a freak or something. Mutant maybe?”
“…My God, that poor boy. I should never have dragged him into this…”
“Where the crap is Spider-Man? Isn’t he supposed to save people from this stuff?”
Peter stopped listening, just tried to focus on breathing. Now that they weren’t monitoring him, he could breathe deeply, refill his lungs and relax. The pain was practically non-existent anymore—peak health, remember?—but that stupid headache hadn’t gone away. Now, Peter just wanted to go to sleep for real in his own bed in his own apartment—in pajamas preferably, these jeans were uncomfortable.
Why couldn’t Spider-Man just save him already?
Right, right, because he was Spider-Man.
The only way to get out of this situation was to wait for the cops to show up and bust him out. They would most likely take several more hours to locate him though, and he was getting pretty hungry. With no idea what time it was, he could really go for some chocolate pancakes from IHOP right about now.
If only he could just call the cops himself—that’d bring them here pretty fast.
And that’s not a bad plan. He wouldn’t have to run this time, since he was just a civilian, a casualty—well not a casualty since he didn’t plan on dying in this firefight—not that there would be a firefight, there shouldn’t even be a fight at all, all he had to do was wait till they’re not looking and stick them with a trip mine web.
And there it was, a plan accidentally formed itself in his head. There were only three of them, off in all different directions too—did one of them leave the building? Did he hear a door close a minute ago?
This poor guy with his head in his hands was the easiest target. He wasn’t paying attention to anything at all, so Peter cracked an eye open to aim, engaged his Trip Mine gadget, and shot the wall beside the table. The faint splat was audible to this man only and he lifted his head in curiosity—Peter laid his head back and closed his eye.
A few seconds later, a louder SplAT sorta echoed around the place, most likely drawing the attention of the other guy, so Peter shot another trip mine at the same wall on the other side of the table and rested his head again—another SplAT was music to his ears, as well as the muffled shouts the man was making.
Peter cracked his eyes open just barely, to make sure neither man could see him—sure enough, they were both facing the wrong direction. It was go time! Finally, free to be himself again!
“Ha, ha, ha!” He’d wanted to laugh at these guys the whole time! “Aw, guys, were you waiting for me?”
He covered their ears with a short burst of webbing so they wouldn’t hear him snap the cuffs—“You shouldn’t have” he said with just a touch of menace—then the door opened. The third man was returning, most likely from a potty break. He shot a third trip mine to the wall next to Angry-Eyes and resumed his position as unconscious kidnap victim #1, cherishing the sound of the SplAT.
Ah, at last.
There was, in fact, a cell phone on the table, and he dialed Yuri’s number, examining his nails after a job well done.
“Captain Watanabe speaking, who is this?”
He was Peter Parker, and Peter Parker didn’t know the captain.
“Captain, Spider-Man told me to call you about these guys…” This was awkward, he’d never had to do this before, “He freed me, I was kidnapped.”
“Are you the boy from the video?”
Oh right, the whole city knew he’d been kidnapped. Explaining this to Aunt May would be fantastic…
“Yeah, I’m not sure of the address, but I’m sure you can track this call. I—Spider-Man webbed these three men to the wall. They’re not going anywhere.”
His stomach rumbled. God, he was hungry. What time was it?
He checked the phone—8:34.
He’d only been gone two and a half hours?
He didn’t really feel like making himself a nice meal anymore, maybe he’d grab a pizza again, or those IHOP pancakes.
Yuri responded, “Yes, on it, thank you. May I get your name?”
He didn’t really wanna give her his real name. He just wanted to go home, eat, and sleep. Maybe shower, but he wasn’t feeling that gross, so that could wait for the morning.
Was it rude to hang up?
He hung up. He didn’t want to file any paperwork, or give a statement, or interact with the police either.
Meh, he didn’t stick around.