Post by Drake on Dec 20, 2015 13:59:42 GMT -5
#14: The Other Part 4
Falling
By Drake
…
Two Days Later
Peter woke in a cold sweat, his head pounding. He’d had the dream again. Could it really be true? Was he really predestined to become Spider-Man?
“Pete?”
The brunet squinted to make out Rich in the darkness of their dorm room. The larger boy sat up in his cot, turning off his phone’s light and putting a book aside.
“Just a bad dream,” Peter explained, sitting up himself.
“Yeah, I’ve been having a lot of those recently too,” Rich admitted.
“Yeah? What about?” Peter asked.
“Space,” Rich said, looking dreamily out the window. “You?”
Peter took a deep breath. “Death.”
“Fun.”
“You have no idea.”
“Try insomnia for, like, three days, and then we’ll talk,” Rich playfully, but truthfully retorted.
Peter smirked. He scratched the back of his head. “Okay. You win.” He lay back down, but turned on his side to look at Rich after thinking for a moment. “You read?”
Rich nodded, holding his copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey up. “I’m not, like, totally a stereotype. Plus, I’ve got nothing better to do at night.”
“You could try sleeping.”
“Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt. It sucked.”
“Really?”
Rich sighed tiredly, “No, it was amazing. I wish I could sleep.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“Hah. I hate needles,” Rich muttered back.
“Not every doctor’s visit involves needles,” Peter drawled.
“And not every party needs alcohol, and yet, lo and behold, it’s there,” Rich said.
“One of these days, I’m gonna make a man out of you,” Peter whispered, turning over onto his other side.
“Did you just quote Mulan?”
“Goodnight, Rich.”
“…’Night, Pete.”
But Peter didn’t sleep. He couldn’t quiet his mind. Something kept nipping at his attention, drawing it before he could zone out and slumber. He wondered, if his dreams were real and the villain was right, who was Black Tarantula? After all, if an ordinary boy from Brooklyn could be not just a superhero, but a mythological warrior, then who could she be? What was Carla LaMuerto’s story?
…
Inside a cracked, abandoned apartment in Harlem, a single flickering light illuminated an ancient stone statue of a spider. Below the statue rested a picture of a handsome South American man in the prime of his life. His expression was stone cold, unhappy and unyielding. Even in death, Carlos LaMuerto showed no fear.
Before both the statue and the picture bowed Carla LaMuerto, her suit sunk back into a black dress. She trembled with rage, her hands tightened into fists. She looked up at her father’s image with puffy eyes.
“(What else can I do? I’ve tried, but I cannot locate the Spider’s avatar, my lord,)” Carla whispered.
”(You’re a disappointment and a disgrace, Carla. There’s a reason the honor of serving as The Other’s avatar was kept between father and son. A daughter is too weak to handle the burden,)” a voice hissed out in Carla’s head.
“(Then why, time after time, did the males fail to kill the Spider?)” Carla spat, before quickly realizing what she had said. Her face sunk. “(I apologize. I only meant…)”
”(Silence, girl.)” She had struck a chord. ”(If you believe it so, prove me wrong, Carla. Find the Spider’s avatar and kill him. Change the tide of our eternal conflict.)”
“(Of course, my lord, of course,)” Carla bowed.
“Wow. When I brought you your stuff, I never expected…this.”
Carla looked up, allowing her symbiote to race over her body into its standard form. Although Black Cat could not see it, the Tarantula’s eyes were alight with rage.
“You taunt me, thief?” Carla asked in perfect English, standing up but still not facing the criminal mastermind.
“Relax. ‘Twas a joke. Somebody’s got a stick up her—“
“Why are you here? I told you that I would not join your silly team. I will kill Spider-Man on my own,” Carla stated.
“Right, and how well is that going for you?” Black Cat said, slipping back onto the windowsill to sit. Upon the other villain’s guttural growl of rage, she continued, “See, that’s me taunting you.”
“Speak.”
“I am.”
“Thief—“
“Fine, fine.” Black Cat waved her hand in peace. “I’m here to warn you. Don’t attack civilians. Particularly not the silly photographer types.”
Carla grunted the comment off. “I swore I saw that boy change…”
“And yet Spider-Man came in, embarrassed you, and saved your ass from getting shot. By. Me,” Black Cat stated.
“You couldn’t hurt me if you tried,” Carla rebutted.
Black Cat sighed, and shot up onto her feet. “I’m not here for a cat fight. Just keep in mind, LaMuerto, that I am always watching you…and I am not alone.”
With that said, Black Cat leaped out of the open window, only to be caught by The Beetle, who soared off with her in his grasp. Carla watched the two go, before jerking to the side and punching through the wall beside the statue. After a few moments, she pulled her dust-laden hand from the wall, clenched it, popping her knuckles, and then lowered it casually to her side.
“Soon, Spider-Man, you die. For honor. For family.”
…
Hours Later
“Peter…Parker?” the bald professor known as Dr. Miles Warren looked up from his computer screen to the relatively small classroom filled with almost thirty students. One such student, Peter, immediately hopped up, eyes bright and a flash drive in his hand.
“You’re up first,” Dr. Warren explained.
“Cool! Yeah,” Peter enthusiastically replied, hurrying up toward the front of the room. In the process he accidentally knocked over another student’s half-full mug of coffee. He stopped, and when the girl muttered a few choice words at him, unfroze from his shock, and apologized.
“I’m sorry. So sorry. Just, uh…” Peter reached down, as if to suck up the liquid, before standing back up and looking around. “Anyone got paper towels?”
’Course my spider-sense doesn’t help with the important things in life.
The other students looked grimly and lifelessly back at Peter. He turned to Dr. Warren, who offered him the Kleenex box.
Ten minutes later, after near-successfully cleaning up the mess, Peter stood before the class at the front of the room, the projector displaying his PowerPoint presentation.
“So, uh, who’s heard of cloning?” Peter dumbly asked. He mentally smacked himself. Everyone in the room raised their hand—excluding Dr. Warren—if perhaps lazily and with a death glare.
“Right. Cool. Well, I’ve recently found myself…interested in the topic, so I thought I’d explore the history of cloning, and the theorized and actually implemented processes used for cloning. We’ll begin with J.B.S. Haldane, who coined the term ‘clone’ after the Greek word—“
Peter’s phone rang to the tune of the Pokémon theme song. He blushed, paused, and reached for it, to the chagrin of everyone in the class.
“Just one moment, sorry.” He raised the phone to his ear. “This is Peter Parker speaking. …oh, uh, yeah, this is a bad time. You…what? She’s in Central Park?”
Peter gulped, realizing his mistake, and looked at the class, whispering, “My, uh, dog ran away. She’s in Central Park.” Dead glares. Peter held the phone back up. “Yeah, I’m going.”
“Mr. Parker, with all due respect, your dog can wait,” Dr. Warren said.
“No,” Peter sighed. He hurried to his desk, making sure to avoid hitting anyone else’s, and grabbed his backpack. “She really can’t.”
“Mr. Parker—“
But Peter was gone, leaving Dr. Warren to shake his head in frustration as he looked back at his computer, and more specifically the small red flash drive in it.
“You left your flash drive…”
…
“Call the FBI! Call the EPA! Call Al Gore! It’s Manbearpig!” Spider-Man cried out as he landed beside the rampaging Black Tarantula, who’d taken to destroying Central Park and terrorizing innocents with tendrils of her suit and laser blasts. Thankfully, by this point the park was nearly abandoned.
Spider-Man ducked backwards as Black Tarantula jerked around in surprise, nearly taking his head off with a whip of her symbiote.
“Oh…nope. Just you. Got you and the infamous half man, half bear, half pig mixed up ‘cuz of the, y’know, tree killing,” Spidey joked, motioning to his face, “And your piggish features.”
“I wear a mask!!” Black Tarantula retorted, diving for Spider-Man, who barely managed to flip over her in time.
Blasting a volley of webbing, Spider-Man said, “Ooh. Looks like I hit a sore spot.”
The villain blocked the webbing with a wall of symbiote tendrils that expanded out of her right arm. “Why won’t you shut up?? This is nothing to be taken lightly! This is destiny!”
“Yeah, well, destiny’s a bitch,” Spider-Man muttered.
Spidey immediately sprung toward Black Tarantula as soon as his feet touched ground. The villain smacked him away, sending him crashing through two trees, before crumpling against another. Dazed, he looked up, vision blurry, only to discover a terrified teenager standing over him, filming the battle with his phone.
Spider-Man managed a weak, “Run. Now,” as Black Tarantula approached.
The teen complied, sprinting off and yelling, “I love you Spider-Man!!”
“I don’t know what’s worse.” Spider-Man rolled to the side to avoid Tarantula’s laser vision. “Everyone hating me, everyone loving me, or heat vision.”
Grunting with pain, Spider-Man flipped up onto his feet by springing off his hands. He had to jump away and latch onto a tree to avoid another blast of energy.
“Probably heat vision. I sunburn easily,” Spidey finished.
Black Tarantula blinked away the lasers, smoke rising off her lenses, and took a deep breath. She needed to decide on a new course of action. Recklessness was getting her nowhere. Spider-Man’s reflexes were quick enough that he could dodge her energy blasts, even without his spider-sense to alert him to danger. After all, it was hard to miss the sight of glowing eyes. So, she needed a more direct tactic. Black Tarantula charged Spider-Man.
The webbed wonder tried to sidestep the villain, attempting to swipe her away in the process, but Tarantula matched him step-for-step, grabbing his hand and pinning him against the ground. Her lenses began to radiate red-hot energy, causing Spidey to sweat under his mask.
“So easy. I’m faster, stronger, and smarter than you. I just needed to act on that reality, to focus,” Black Tarantula said.
“You crapping on me or reassuring yourself? I can’t really tell,” Spider-Man said through gritted teeth. He glanced around with the one eye that wasn’t smushed against the ground. He needed something, anything. She was right in most senses. She was faster and stronger than he was, but he had one hell of a brain.
“Even now you joke. This is a game to you. That is why you die, Spider,” Tarantula whispered into his ear, when something hit Peter.
DON’T LET ME DIE!
Darkness erupted from Spider-Man’s suit, knocking Black Tarantula away. The tendrils of his suit picked him up off the ground and suspended him in the air with four pillar-like legs.
“Hypocrite. You really should’ve stopped talking and killed me before I remembered that I had my own goddamn symbiotic suit,” Spider-Man said as the villain rose. What the hell are you?
’I’m your friend, Peter. Now let me in.’
“How…? My symbiote is the totem I use to connect with The Other. But you…the Spider is free. You are given your powers naturally. What…how can you connect with The Other?” Black Tarantula wondered, stumbling back a step.
“This?” Spider-Man flicked his suit, “This ain’t magic. This is the product of science.”
“My symbiote says otherwise. It feels a connection between our suits. I knew something was wrong the minute I met you….what are you?” Black Tarantula spoke with mixed confusion and brokenness. Could she have been chasing the wrong man this entire time?
“The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man—2.0.” Spidey lashed out with his suit, knocking Black Tarantula away.
When the villain rose again, she allowed the suit to uncover her face. Half a football field apart, the two combatants stared at one another: Spider-Man in rage, and Black Tarantula in confusion. Before the webbed wonder could react, Tarantula latched onto a tree with a line of faux-web and catapulted away.
“Spider-Man…” The symbiote covered her face as Black Tarantula swung away. “I must discuss this…development with my father.”
In Central Park, Spider-Man waved the escapee off. “Yeah, run away. Coward.”
I should go after her. She couldn’t have gone far. I’m fast enough. She’s weak, confused…
’Rest. You deserve it.’
Spider-Man nodded. You’re…right. I do. We’ll get her eventually, and when we do…
…
Gwen’s leg bounced up and down as she waited at a two-person table inside a small, Ma-and-Pop café—Bobbi’s. The blonde found herself staring at the flickering sign over the door to remind herself where she was. She’d waited so long that she’d gotten lost in thought. Gwen glanced down at her cheap digital watch, shaking away the fugue state. 12:46. She’d arrived shortly before noon.
With a frustrated sigh, Gwen stood up, left a twenty on the table, grabbed her bag, and left. He’d done it again. What was this? The fourth time in two weeks? He was never reliable. He always had an excuse, but she knew why he was really late. She’d known since before she’d actually seen proof of his actions.
For once, Gwen wasn’t thinking of her often absent boyfriend. No, Gwen was mad at her father, George.
…
“Gwenny!” Officer Carlton greeted Gwen as she entered the police station.
“Hey, Jenny,” Gwen replied with a half-smile. She didn’t even slow down to speak to the cop, moving full speed toward the door to the back, much to the surprise of the few civilians reporting disturbances, crimes, or being arrested for one themselves.
“Haven’t seen you around since—“
“Dad in the back?” Gwen interrupted.
“Um, yes. He’s in his office,” Officer Carlton said.
“Great. Thanks.”
Gwen knew where to go. She’d walked this path through the maze of officers and assortment of rooms almost every day as a child. She’d walked this path as a terrified eight-year-old to ask her father, who’d spent the night in the station for a case, why her mother wasn’t home to make her breakfast and to drive her to school. She’d walked this path to grow up, hearing and seeing the worst and best humanity had to offer. When she reached the end of the path and opened the door to her father’s office, a grown up nineteen-year-old woman, she wasn’t sure which category the unconscious man before her fell into.
Gwen bit her lip, holding back rage, and threw away the half-empty bottle of liquor beside her father. Then, she tapped him. When that didn’t work, she shook him lightly, punctuating the action with his name. “George.” She shook him harder, getting louder, “Dad.”
George blinked away drowsiness. He squinted to make out Gwen in what seemed like bright light to him, and rubbed his forehead.
“Gwen? Honey, why—“
“You stood me up,” Gwen simply stated.
George turned his head to look at his clock. He groaned. “Shit…”
“Ben told me you weren’t at the AA meeting Wednesday,” Gwen said, crossing her arms.
“Gwen, I’m not—“
“Just thought you should know that I know. Bye, Dad.” Gwen turned away and began to leave, before offering the stinger, “Grow up.”
When his daughter was gone, George sighed, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the pictures on his desk, the only three things that remained in order. The first was half of what had once been a picture of he, his wife, and a young Gwen standing in front of the Washington Monument, only now missing the mother of his only child. He’d cut her out a few months after she’d left. The second was of Gwen at graduation, laughing with friends. The third was of George and another police officer, a handsome man who stood half a head taller than him and looked to be about ten years younger, in his late twenties. The two smiled brightly for the camera, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.
“What the hell am I doing, Brian?”
…
“I need an update.”
“Holy shit!!” Blackie swirled around to come face to face with the source of the voice: Peter Parker. The costumed hero cocked his head to the side, confused.
“Blackie?”
“You scared the hell out of me…”
“…I used the front door,” Peter explained. The symbiote suit slicked back over his body into black jeans and a black V-neck.
Blackie took a deep breath to calm himself, and shook his head, moving on, “Whatever. Update, right? We’ve got…something.”
“Mhm.” Peter nodded. He looked around at the relatively empty base; nobody was near as far as he could see. “What’s up with…?” Peter motioned around the room.
“Emergency meeting,” Blackie explained, walking over to the computer terminal. “Don’t stress about it. It’s strictly OsCorp business.”
“OsCorp’s business is my business,” Peter admitted, continuing, “But Norman will come calling if he wants my involvement, so start talking.”
“Alright. We’ve managed to scrounge some more info about Carla LaMuerto,” Blackie booted up the computers, and clicked through a few folders before finding the file he was looking for. “She’s originally from Brazil, heiress to an enormous drug cartel. Here’s where it gets fun, though—“
“Really? Drugs are fun!” Peter sarcastically joked.
Blackie rolled his eyes. “Please, Peter, for once just shut up.”
Peter mimed zipping his lips closed.
Blackie nodded in thanks and continued, “Carlos LaMuerto, her father, the cartel’s original boss, used the drug money to create an enormous temple to worship his god of choice: The Other. In fact, the entire cartel turned into one big ass cult—The Disciples. They’ve since spread into all of South and Central America, and sections of the States.”
“Let me guess. We’ve got a bit of a spider infestation in the Big Apple?” Peter said.
“You could say that. It’s not large, only about a dozen drug runners in the Bronx. I’m transferring the data to your suit,” Blackie said, typing.
Peter slid off the desk he’d been resting on. “Then what are we waiting for? I’ll go down there and beat answers—”
Blackie stopped Peter before he could turn away by grabbing his arm. His eyes focused in on Peter’s intensely, causing the powered teenager to recognize the rage in Blackie’s eyes for the first time.
“Peter, you’re not just fighting a crazed extremist. Two years ago, Carlos LaMuerto died in an explosion. SHIELD reports claim that Carla blames her father’s death on…”
“Me?” Peter’s eyes widened.
Blackie’s brow furrowed. “Worse. Herself. She thinks she wasn’t strong enough to stop you.”
“But I wasn’t…”
“Somebody was there. Somebody killed her father…somebody in red and blue.”
Peter pulled away from Blackie. He ran a hand through his hair. He knew that person wasn’t him, but then…who? Peter looked back up at Blackie, eyes equally filled with determination and confusion.
“This is SHIELD’s data?”
“Yes.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“I told you everything they know,” Blackie admitted.
Peter nodded in understanding. He turned away. “So, LaMuerto’s Dad got killed. She blames herself. Sounds familiar.”
’She’s a murderer, a criminal, a monster. You’re nothing alike.’
After taking a few steps, Peter stopped and turned his head halfway to Blackie. The symbiote arced over his body into the black suit as he spoke, his eyes quickly becoming obscured by blank, empty white lenses.
“Who cares?” Peter darkly said. “She attacks my city; she attacks me and I’m supposed to care about her dead dad?”
“Peter…” Blackie began, worry creeping up in his chest.
“I won’t return until I’ve stopped her…once and for all.” Peter whispered, and then he was gone.
…
“AGGHH!!”
“HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!!!”
“HE’S GOT MY LEGS!!”
James Walt crept back against a concrete pillar, sweating profusely and shaking. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together, and tried to drown out the cries of pain and fear around him with a prayer. It didn’t work.
Sounds of gunfire shook James out of worship. Then, more cries of pain echoed over the enormous blackened room. He glanced past the pillar. Gunfire briefly lit up the darkened room. A shadowy figure acrobatically leaped through the air, kicking another victim to the ground. James immediately slid back behind the pillar.
“Salvame, Maestro Otros,” James whispered, repeating the phrase over and over, getting more frantic with each statement. When the room became silent, he was begging it.
Barely humane roars of anger filled the open room and were quickly accompanied by sounds of shattering glass and stone. James opened his eyes. He knew what was breaking. First, it had been the candles, shattered when they were mysteriously thrown off their stands by an unseen force. Now, it was the idol…
James stood up, grabbing the knife from his belt. He looked at the shadowy silhouette seething over what had once been a beautiful sanctuary, a home to the only god that mattered.
Anger boiled up in James’ chest. “You disgrace The Other, you son of a—“
James suddenly found his mouth clogged by something dense. He tried to tear it away with his free hand, but only got it stuck in the process.
“Mmph!” James tried to cry out, panic replacing anger, as the shadow turned around and began to walk slowly towards him.
James stumbled back a few steps, before tripping and falling, losing his knife in the process. The shadowy figure leaped through the air, landing nimbly over James, and in one smooth motion slammed his head against the ground. Dazed and in pain, James swore the figure above him was a demon with eight blank white eyes and disgusting pincers.
The demon ripped the substance off of James’ face and roared, “I WANT ANSWERS! NOW!”
“Wh-what…are you?” James muttered, still not thinking straight.
The shadow leaned in, revealing for the first time its spindly form, black mask, two white lenses, and the white spider logo over its chest.
With a guttural growl, it said, "I'm everything you wake up in a cold sweat fearing. I'm the monster under your bed. I'm the beast your master can't stop..."
"I'm Spider-Man!"