Post by Drake on Aug 6, 2015 12:11:01 GMT -5
#11: The Other Part 1
Dead End
By Drake
…
In a sprawling forest lined with late-Autumn, orange-leaved trees, an old, graying semi-truck pulled up beside a small wooden cabin, the sole occupant of the house a middle-aged bearded man in overalls sitting casually on the front porch. The man stood up to meet the vehicle as its driver—a pretty blonde in a T-shirt, denim jacket, jeans, and a cap—rolled down the passenger side window and leaned over to speak.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing in these parts?” The man asked with a thick Texan accent.
“Putting the trash out,” the woman replied with a hint of playfulness.
The man nodded and glanced back at the truck’s trailer. “How many bags?”
“Just one.”
“Got a license?” he continued.
The blonde reached into her jacket’s left pocket and produced a seemingly normal New York driver’s license. The man took it in his hands and looked down at it. His irises flashed like a camera, and, after a moment, turned green. He looked back up at the truck driver and handed her the license.
“Have a good ‘un,” the man said, waving her along.
The driver nodded in thanks and continued through the forest. As the truck passed the cabin, trees on either side of her scanned over the vehicle with green lights. Each test proved to end well, and the truck continued down its path. After a few more passed checkpoints, dozens of trees half a football field ahead of the truck disappeared, revealing an enormous six-story building shaped like a donut.
The driver smirked as she neared the facility, glancing back at the passenger in the trailer through a small window using the rear mirror. The prisoner, as made obvious by the metal restraints on his wrists, ankles, and over his mouth, stared back at the driver with eyes filled with equal terror and excitement.
“Calm down, baldie,” the driver cooed, “Everything’s fine.”
Naturally, the prisoner couldn’t respond with his mouth restraint. However, upon the driver’s words, his lips curled up into a maniacal smile and he chuckled to himself.
A hatch in the facility opened up to accept the truck, leading it into the final checkpoint: an open room buzzing with activity. Men and women in black uniforms emblazoned with the avian logo designating them as SHIELD agents scurried around the hanger doing a variety of jobs. Most were involved in checking the various vehicles that littered the room and their drivers as they dropped off prisoners, the amount ranging anywhere from one to four people.
Two such SHIELD agents checked in with the aforementioned truck driver, scanned her driver’s license—or, rather, undercover SHIELD ID badge—and used a large machine to check the truck for any weapons or stowaways.
One of the agents waved back at two armed guards. “She’s good. Grab the enhanced.”
The guards hurried over to the back of the truck as its driver got out to meet them.
“He’s not enhanced,” the driver stated as she opened up the trailer.
“Excuse me? Dead End only accepts gifted prisoners,” one of the guards replied, frowning.
“I know,” the driver purred. She swung the trailer hatch open. “He’s not a prisoner.”
“What-?”
Before the guard could continue, a bullet embedded itself between his eyes. His partner immediately followed, unable to even register what was happening. However, neither agent fell to the ground. An invisible force—or, rather, man—held both agents up, leaving the others clueless as to their demise.
“Horton never fails to impress,” the truck driver chimed, hopping up into the trailer. “A suit with a stealth function so advanced SHIELD can’t pick it up? Pure gold.”
“Where should we leave them?” came the voice of the invisible man, indicating the two agents he was holding up.
“Pull them in. No one will check the trailer while we’re inside,” the driver replied, tossing her cap to the ground and replacing it with a clear mask from her jacket.
“As you wish, Ms. Hardy,” the invisible man said, dragging the SHIELD agents inside and shutting the door.
“I told you, Beetle, it’s ‘Black Cat’ while we’re working,” Felicia Hardy asserted. She leaned over one of the corpses, pressed her mask right over her left ear, and waited as it transformed to match the face of the agent she was looking at.
“Yes, ma’am,” Beetle said, scanning over the other corpse with his armor. After he finished, his suit came into view. However, its appearance matched the SHIELD agent’s, clothes and all, rather than its usual green and purple self.
“Mmph!” the ‘prisoner,’ Jason Macendale, tried to speak.
“Soon, Jack, soon,” Felicia cooed. She reached down and began to undress her SHIELD agent. “Look away now, boys. Give a girl some privacy.”
Beetle and Macendale both did as they were told. However, the shackled psycho glanced back for a moment with wide eyes to look at Felicia as she changed. Beetle smacked him, drawing his gaze back to the trailer wall.
“Black Cat, are you confident this plan will work?” Beetle asked in his thick Eastern European accent to break the awkward silence. “There is much risk involved.”
“If there wasn’t, it wouldn’t be any fun,” Felicia playfully replied, before continuing on more seriously, “However, you’re in luck. Let’s just say things tend to go my way.”
Beetle remained silent for a moment. As Felicia finished changing, he asked one last question, “Are you gifted?”
“You could say that,” was the only answer she gave. Felicia picked up her now-nude agent’s rifle and said, “You can look. Beetle, thank you for following my orders. Please, pick up a rifle. Jack…” The usually blonde woman shook her head disappointedly. “Your pay’s getting docked half a million.”
“Mm,” Macendale shrugged.
“Alright, boys.” Felicia opened up the trailer’s hatch as the others readied themselves. “This is where things get interesting…”
…
“Rise and shine, spark plug,” Felicia hummed, peeking into a large cell through its clear, bulletproof glass panel door.
The cell’s occupant was an African American man hanging from enormous high tech restraints like something out of a medieval times-based movie. The prisoner, one Max Dillon, slowly looked up with puffy, bloodshot eyes. He squinted to make out the figure on the other side of the glass, but the face didn’t register.
“You new blood?” Max asked, his voice hoarse.
“Something like that,” Felicia replied as she removed a keycard from her vest and swiped it through a computer terminal beside the glass panel. When the machine requested a code and fingerprint identification, she waved to her side at someone yet unseen by Max.
Jason Macendale hurried into view, carrying a deceased SHIELD agent with him. Max’s eyes widened in recognition as the serial killer put the corpse’s finger up to the terminal upon Felicia’s request.
“Jack O’Loonie?” Max muttered incredulously.
“Hi, Maxie!!” Macendale gleefully greeted.
“Let’s see,” Felicia bit her thumbnail as she looked down at the computer terminal. “Knowing my luck…” She pressed four numbers at random, tapped enter, and silently prayed.
Max’s restraints opened up, allowing the man to collapse to the ground while his cell door opened. Felicia and Macendale hurried to his side. Reaching into her pants pocket, Felicia retrieved a small cube humming with energy.
“It’s not much—“ Felicia began.
“It’s enough.” Max snatched the cube and grinned as electricity surged through his body, first lighting his eyes blue, before enveloping him in an electrical aura.
“I take it you’re that new girl,” Max said, grinning maniacally as he floated off the ground in an almost Christ-like position. “Toomes’ Gal Friday?”
“I believe you have Adrian’s and I’s roles reversed,” Felicia snidely shot back.
“Black Cat is boss,” Macendale agreed.
“Whatever the case, thanks,” Max replied. “You got an escape strategy, or am I gonna have to bust us out?”
“A little of both,” Felicia replied, leading the two others out of the cell, Macendale dragging the agent’s corpse like a child with their doll. “Beetle is handling…managerial duties from the monitor room. Our job is to simply fight our way out of here.”
“I like how you think, lady,” Max smirked.
“Ma’am, boss, or Black Cat, if you would,” Felicia spat.
“Hey, you broke me outta there. I’ll call you whatever you’d like,” Max admitted.
“Stop.” Felicia suddenly said, freezing.
Max nearly ran into her, but managed to stop himself before he electrocuted his boss. He followed her gaze until he was looking through a cell door at a young Latino man with shaggy dark hair and an even messier beard. The prisoner’s only means of restraint was a metal collar that diminished his powers severely, leaving him a smoking mess of a man staring sadly at his cell wall.
“What’s up?” Max asked.
“The ceiling,” Macendale interjected.
The electric man sighed, and Felicia spoke up before he could clarify, “That’s Mark Raxton, the other person we’re here to free.”
“Who?” Max wondered.
Felicia ignored him, already beginning the relatively easy process of liberating the prisoner before her. However, even as his cell door slid open, Mark didn’t move. Instead, he merely scowled and glared up at Felicia.
“Leave me here. I don’ deserve freedom,” Mark grumbled.
“Raxton here can create an artificial flame over his body and manipulate it. However, in the process he overheats his brain, resulting in temporary mania and homicidal tendencies,” Felicia explained as she neared the aforementioned prisoner.
“Stay back—“ Mark begged, sliding away from Felicia in fear.
“So, he’s like an evil Human Torch?” Max concluded.
“Evil is such a strong word,” Felicia sighed, leaning down over Mark and producing a small glass vial.
“STOP—I can’t—please, don’t,” Mark continued, even as Felicia forced his mouth open and poured the vial’s contents down his throat.
The thief hurried back as Mark began to shudder and scream in pain. Max grimaced at the painful sight before him, while Macendale just shivered in ecstasy.
“3. 2. Flame on,” Felicia whispered.
Mark lit up like a firework, blazing brighter than he ever had before and melting his collar in the process. Felicia grinned and crossed her arms.
“The new serum includes a healthy dose of Scopolamine, meaning Raxton will obey every order I give him,” Felicia explained. “For example…Mark!” The fiery man looked at her. “Follow us out. Defend us from any threat that presents itself.”
Mark frowned, cringing with frustration. He shook his head half-heartedly, unsure of whether to deny the order or accept it.
“Mark!!” Felicia demanded.
The superhuman straightened up and nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Looks like your ‘serum’ ain’t perfect,” Max mused.
“Shove it, Electro,” Felicia snarled, causing Max to chuckle to himself as they continued down the hallway. However, before they could get far, the three criminals and one drugged slave found themselves stopped by a voice.
“Chica, liberáme.” The source of the voice in question was a petite woman no older than Felicia, meaning she was in her early twenties at the latest. Her long, dark hair was a mess, as could be expected from someone who had no hygiene products to speak of in a high security, off the books prison. However, her tan skin hadn’t yet paled much, indicating she was a fairly new prisoner. Her eyes seemed to back up the point, as they remained clear and bright.
Felicia eyed the prisoner with amusement, drawing frustrated gazes from her cohorts.
“Boss, we should get going. Forget the crazy Latina,” Max said.
“Mhm. Crazy Latina feel weird, dark…” Macendale muttered cryptically.
“We need six,” Felicia whispered to herself, before speaking up in perfect Spanish, “(Why should I free you? What can you offer me?)”
“Son of a…” Max grumbled, shaking his head as he turned away.
“(Release me and find out,)” The prisoner stated.
“(You’re going to have to give me more than that,)” Felicia replied.
The prisoner frowned, glanced back at her cell before facing Felicia again, “(I can tell you that I am currently harmless.)”
“(You’re not drugged, unlike most of the others,)” Felicia looked around, indicating the dozens of superpowered criminals imprisoned around her, none of whom were in any state to speak up and beg for their freedom.
“(But my…)” The prisoner grimaced. “(My suit is.)”
“Suit…?” Felicia’s lips flicked up into a sly smile.
“I don’t like that—that look on your face,” Max began, eyeing Felicia cautiously, “That’s the look of someone who’s going to do something really stupid.”
“Relax, Electro. We’ve already broken into a maximum-security prison the likes of which most people can’t imagine. Stupid is as stupid does,” Felicia retorted without even looking back. “(What will you do when you leave?)”
“(Anything you want,)” was the prisoner’s instant response.
Felicia chuckled to herself, but continued, “(Don’t play with me. What will you do when you leave the prison?)”
The prisoner sighed, frowned and looked away, as if she didn’t think Felicia would believe her answer. However, before the master thief and criminal leader could pester her, the prisoner looked back at Felicia and continued.
“(I will kill a man.)”
Felicia raised an eyebrow and nodded her on.
“(I will kill Spider-Man.)”
“Spider-Man…” Macendale whispered to himself.
“Spider-what now?” Max asked, “What’re you on about now, Jack?”
Felicia smirked as she spoke up, “It’s not him, Electro. It’s her, the prisoner. She wants to kill Spider-Man.”
“Well, tell her to get in line,” Max retorted, not even remotely surprised.
“(So…?)” The prisoner wondered impatiently.
“(What’s your name?)” Felicia asked.
“(Carla LaMuerto.)”
Felicia’s lips flicked up into a Cheshire grin. “(Welcome to the Sinister Six, Carla LaMuerto. Hope you survive the experience.)”
…
“But what we found is that each one of us is a brain…and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal…does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.”
The movie’s iconic tune played as one Bender pumped his fist into the air, causing Gwen Stacy to smile as she lay in her boyfriend’s arms, her laptop resting on their legs. The two college students were knee deep in just about the greatest date either could imagine: Netflix and cuddling in a shoddy bunk.
Gwen looked up at Peter as she spoke, only to cut herself off, “So, what did you think—“
Peter was quietly sobbing to himself, tears streaming down his cheeks. As Gwen looked at him, he quickly rubbed his eyes and tried to hide the sudden burst of emotion.
“I think that answers my question,” Gwen teased, nuzzling Peter’s neck.
“It just…hit a little close to home,” Peter managed, sniffling.
“I’m sorry, babe.” Gwen wiped away a tear from Peter’s cheek, much to his dismay.
“’s fine. I, uh, I didn’t want you to see me…” Peter rolled his eyes to finish. Gwen knew what he meant.
“Why? You’re a cute crier,” Gwen said.
“Well, if you’ve got a tear fetish then you came to the right place,” Peter joked.
Gwen smirked. “Whoa, Mr. Parker, did you just admit that you cry after se—“
“Fuck or sleep. Pick one,” Richard Rider grumbled from his bed, trying and failing to use a pillow to block out their flirting.
Peter and Gwen looked at one another for a moment before smiling simultaneously and snuggling up together. Peter shut his laptop, set it down beside his bed, and wrapped his other arm around Gwen.
“Good night, Gwenny-poo,” Peter began, smirking.
“Shut. Up,” Rich groaned.
“’Night, Petey Pie,” Gwen continued playfully.
Rich grabbed his other pillow and used it as a second layer of protection. “I hate you both so much.”
…
Peter awoke to the sounds of Rich groaning in bed. Naturally, his first instinct was that he was about to discover something he would much rather go without, but when he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if his conjecture was accurate, he found Rich simply lying in bed, alone. Rich’s solidarity finally forced Peter to realize he, too, was partner-less. Gwen had left.
Peter sat up, stretched, and hopped out of bed. Rich eyed him through squinted eyes as he approached his dresser, searching for a towel.
“Gwen left like an hour ago. Had class,” Rich grumbled, rubbing his eyes with one hand.
“Figured.” Peter grabbed a towel, and the rest of his toiletries. “What’s up with you? Have a little too much to drink last night?”
“Cut the shit,” Rich rolled over onto his face.
“That wasn’t answer,” Peter playfully retorted.
“You’re not an answer,” Rich said, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“Listen, when I get back, you and I are going to get breakfast,” Peter casually said. He was only partly joking.
“Please don’t…”
“A great man once told me roommates share a sacred bond. They do things together that no one else will…like getting breakfast to sober your ass up,” Peter joked.
“I’m not drunk or hungover.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“I hate you.”
“Fifteen minutes, Rich,” Peter teasingly ruffled his roommate’s hair, drawing a sluggish middle finger from his friend, “To quote the Governator, ‘I’ll be back.’”
…
“You’re making me sick,” Rich grumbled as the two roommates walked towards a restaurant at the edge of campus.
Peter glanced at his friend with a sly grin, “And you say I’m the angsty one—“
“I mean actually sick.” Rich hurried over to the side of the sidewalk and proceeded to puke into a bush, much to the amusement and disgust of passerby’s. Peter ran over to Rich’s side and put a hand on his back.
“You sure you didn’t drink anything last night?” Peter asked.
“I remember you and Gwen just fi—oh God, here we go agaiULKH!” Round two began.
“Rich, buddy, I’m being serious now…did someone knock you up?” Peter tried and failed to lighten the mood.
“Really, Peter, that’s not helping.” Rich finished and wiped away a smidge of vomit from the corner of his lips with his sleeve.
“Sorry, sorry.” Peter hovered by his friend as he stood up straight. “Forget breakfast. Let’s get you back to the room.”
Rich shook his head, breathing in and out slowly. Color returned to his cheeks. “No. Nope. We’re getting breakfast.”
“Rich…”
“I feel great. Really! Like a new man.” Rich looked at Peter and smiled a toothy grin.
“As much as I was making light of the situation before, you should really rest. I’ll get you some water, maybe a Gatorade,” Peter said. This was weird. Any sane person would have listened to Peter, but Rich…
“Peter, have I ever let puking stop me before?” Rich quipped.
“That’s the dumbest logic I’ve ever heard,” Peter deadpanned. Seriously, something is off. One second, he was morbid and sick. The next? Well, he looks fine now and he’s acting even livelier than usual.
“Bud…”
“Lite? No way. Lite’s for girls,” Rich joked. He patted Peter on the back with strength the smaller boy didn’t think he should have given his condition…or, past condition. “I’m an adult, Peter. I can make my own decisions.”
Peter sighed, “I hate myself for saying this, but fine. However, if you throw up again, I’m taking you back.”
“Deal.”
And so the two continued onwards, almost as if nothing had happened. However, no matter how Rich acted, Peter wouldn’t forget what had just happened. Something was wrong, or, at the very least, had been wrong with his roommate. Knowing Peter’s luck, things were only bound to get worse.
…
“I know your secret, Peter,” Rich blurted as the two scanned the menu.
Peter’s head jerked up. He forced himself to calm down. Rich may have thrown him off guard, but he couldn’t actually know…could he? “And what’s that?”
“I’ve known for weeks now. The truth…” Rich sipped his water. “The truth about why a nerd like you can score someone as smoking as Gwen.”
Peter quietly relaxed. He raised an eyebrow. “Please, do tell.” Peter lifted his glass of apple juice up to his lips.
“You’re Spider-Man.”
Peter choked on the juice as he swallowed, but managed to restrain from erupting into a full-on coughing fit. Rich eyed him questioningly, and he nearly offered to help before Peter waved him off.
“I’m fine.”
“Right…” Rich smirked. “It was a joke, Peter, not a dick. Don’t take it so hard.”
“Wasn’t that. Just, y’know, went down the wrong pipe,” Peter lied. Why was it he could handle lying to his aunt May for nearly a year with no hiccups, but he couldn’t even last a conversation with his considerably less intelligent friend without screwing up? Then again, Peter reminded himself, May had figured out his secret a long time ago. Maybe he had always been a bad liar.
After the two ordered food—Peter asking for a six-stack of pancakes and a side of bacon, to which Rich exclaimed he’d never understand how a ‘stick like him could eat so much’—the frat boy continued the conversation, “I’m being serious though. You’re, like, average looking, average height, fit but still a stick, and only kinda funny. I’ve got the pretty boy thing going for me, am totally jacked, and I’m hilarious.” Peter snorted at that comment. Rich lightly punched him in response. “See, I made you laugh. Anyway, for real, how’d you score a babe the likes of which I’ve never even gotten close to?”
Peter struggled to retain a frown as he responded, “Well, let’s see, starting from the top, it might have something to do with how you objectify women—“
“No! No, bro, you totally don’t get me. I may look like a douchebro, I may talk like a douchebro, but I am not a douchebro. Sure, I find women attractive, and sure, I may occasionally talk about how attractive I find them, but it’s not like women don’t do the same, only in reverse. The problem’s when that’s all you see or do. That’s not me. Honestly, I was mostly joking with the whole ‘why you’ thing, but there was a bit of truth to my words. My deal is not really how hot a woman is or whatever, but the…mystique they have.”
“I mean, you can’t tell me women aren’t different from men,” Rich said.
Peter didn’t reply, which was a response in and of itself.
“That is my deal. I find it fascinating, is all. Like, I can never read a woman, but a guy? Easy as shit. You, for example. You may not dress like Harry, you may not bitch and moan all the time, and you may not listen to Lana del Rey, but I could still tell from the minute I met you that you were an angst machine. It practically bleeds from your pores, from your every subtle movement,” Rich stated.
“But you just said—“
Rich continued on without a thought. “Girls, though? I don’t have a chance in hell,” Rich paused for a moment, before adding, “At reading them, I mean. Jumping straight to the girl of the hour: Gwen Stacy. She’s just as angsty as you, but you’d never guess it.”
“Wait, what?” Peter bumbled out. The conversation was finally getting to him. Gwen wasn’t angsty. She might even have been the happiest person he knew.
“You’ve gotta know, right? I didn’t, not till I had a serious talk with her—“
“You had a serious talk with Gwen? When was this?” Peter asked. He hadn’t even known the two talked outside of when they stumbled upon one another when Gwen came to visit Peter in their room.
“I don’t know. A week ago, maybe a little more. I was drunk. Things had gone wrong at a party and I was reminded of…” Rich shook his head. “Never mind. The point is, she spilled her guts to me. I’d have never guessed she was so…well, I said it, angsty. You’d never guess she deals with all that shit at home.”
Peter nodded. This he knew about. “With her mom? Yeah. It’s awful.”
“And her dad! God, I can relate,” Rich continued the thought.
“Her…what? Your dad’s not a cop,” Peter said.
“No,” Rich looked Peter in the eyes, confused, “But he’s a drunkard.”
Peter’s eyes widened in shock. “Gwen’s dad is a drunk?”
Rich half-heartedly chuckled. Peter couldn’t be serious, right? “Nice. You got me, Peter. Next you’re going to tell me you don’t know Harry’s gay.”
“Harry’s gay?” Peter muttered disbelievingly.
Rich eyed him warily, and after a few seconds the truth began to dawn on him. “You’re serious?” Peter didn’t say a word. Rich frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit. Shit! I screwed up. Oh my God, I really screwed up.”
“You weren’t joking about—about all that?” Peter wondered.
Rich met Peter’s gaze. “Bro, I’m so sorry I was the one to tell you about everything—“
“That is everything, right? There’s nothing else I should know?” Peter asked.
“No, not unless you care about NFL stats or who’s rushing who on campus,” Rich quipped.
“Oh my God, Gwen…” Peter looked down at his juice. “…and Harry’s gay? Why didn’t he tell me? It’s not like I care.”
“That I definitely can’t explain to you,” Rich interjected.
Peter looked up. “What?”
“Um…look, here’s the waiter!” Rich tapped the man on his arm. “Can I get some more water? And how’s the food coming along?”
As Rich tried to change the subject by pestering the waiter, Peter was left to drown in his thoughts. Two of the people he cared most about in the world had been lying to him. Why? Then again, was it fair of him to ask that? After all…
I’ve lied to everyone I love for as long as I can remember.
Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket, shaking him out of his thoughts. He pulled it out and looked down at it. Blackie had texted him: ‘BAD GUY ON 36th AND BROADWAY. BLACK SUIT. REAL STRONG. REPORTS SAY SHE CAN CRAWL ON WALLS AND WEB SWING. SOUNDS LIKE SPIDER-WOMAN WENT BAD.’
“Sir…? Sir?”
Peter looked up at the waiter. “Yeah, sorry, I’ve got to go. Rich, can you spot me? I’ll pay you back later.”
“Uh…sure,” Rich muttered, confused. “But wait—“
“Sorry! It’s an emergency!” Peter pushed past the waiter, ignoring his frustrated cries, and ran out of the restaurant before Rich could call him back. The text had arrived at the perfect time. He needed a while to think about what he had just heard, to process the information, and maybe even blow off a little steam.
As Peter rounded the corner to the back of the restaurant, with no one in sight, his black sweater and jeans morphed into his costume, and he swung off towards the thick of the city.
Peter held the home button on his phone down as he swung away, and said, “Text Blackie Drago ‘consider her squashed.’”