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Being Spiderman wasn't fun. It wasn't pretty or fantastical, it was harsh, it was violent, and it was frankly, exhausting. And had Peter Parker looked at all of these facts right now, he would've simply said 'fuck no' to being Spiderman and would continue being your bog average new yorker with the addition of spider powers. However, he was fifteen and shoved into power, of course the only logical thing to do was becoming a superhero.
Over the years, Spiderman's image of non-violence and unaffected joy dwindled. Whispers of a colder spiderman ran rampant through the city, of Spiderman who lashed at villains with venom seeping from his words. Laughter rarer and rarer, the unflappable optimism that once infuriated those who faced him now replaced with cruel realism.
Of course he would always put on a happy face (as much as you could with a mask) for those he saved, for children running up to meet him, and heartfelt thank yous from families. But it was clear, the friendly neighbourhood spiderman wasn't all that friendly anymore.
He hated it.
He hated coming home to his shitty apartment, broken and battered. He hated that he'd never be able to walk away, he hated that guilt clawed at his throat everytime he considered hanging up the suit. He hated that no other heros cared about the little people, that only he cared about the mugging of 141st, he hated that if he didn't go, no one would.
A trio of men shuffled around the entrance to one of the Napier warehouses, all murmuring quietly to each other. Each held a gun, with another tucked into their waistbands. One of the men, who had a radio clipped to the collar of his shirt stared down the road as he leant against the gate. Another man, had a cigarette caught between his lips, the scratchy orange light smothered by the bright white streetlamps that ran down the street back into New York. Pale smoke drifted up into the sky, fading into the darkness of the night.
"They're here." Radio Man said gruffly, pushing himself off the gate and taking a couple steps into the street. The other two straightened, and glanced back at the city.
On the road, moving towards them was a small truck, flashing in and out of view whenever it passed under a streetlamp. Once it pulled up to them, Radio Man slowly walked up to the drivers side window, which rolled down and a balding man with a permanent scowl popped his head out.
"How many you'd get, Terry?" Radio Man asked, pulling out a tiny notepad and pen, and pulling off the pencap with his teeth. Balding man -Terry- grumbled, leaning his head back inside, and shoving his own piece of paper towards Radio Man,
"Tha' the list." Terry said, sinking back into his seat, chucking a fry into his mouth from where the container sat in his cupholder. Radio Man scanned the list, eyes flickering between his own papers. Nodding, he stepped back, and called back to the other two men, cigarette man had stomped out said cigarette, and was standing next to the left pillar of the gate.
"Open it up, once they're inside, rotate with Neil and Thomas in C."
Terry drove through the open gate, and into the vast warehouse courtyard, where six other similar trucks were all parked. All of the trucks were open and empty, prepped for this all to happen again tomorrow night. He did notice that no other drivers were outside, usually the drivers on shift would have smoke and beer outside once they'd finished their drive, but today, nothing. Pulling into the final spot, Terry turned off his truck and jumped out. Crunches on gravel pulled his gaze towards Radio Man, who was rapidly approaching,
"'M the last one then?" Terry said, gesturing to the empty trucks, "Are we getting them out now?"
Radio Man shook his head, "Nah, boss wants them kept there till the fifth batch goes out to market. But there is something I wanted to talk to you about, Terry."
The driver grumbled in acknowledgement,
"You don't need to drive for us anymore, boss says this final batch will be the ticket."
Terry's mouth opened and his eyes widened, "Wha- but I need this job! I have a kid to feed! Rob you can't be serious."
Radio Man - Rob - pursed his lips, and sighed, but before he could say anything, the two men from the gate walked towards them, as two more took their places outside. Rob glanced at them briefly,
"Look there's gonna be one more batch after your truck, and we don't need drivers for them." Rob explained, holding his hands up defensibly as Terry spluttered.
"How you gonna get them then? You need us!"
Rob smiled, "You're right, Terry, we do need you, just not for driving anymore, you've been a wonderful coworker."
In a quick movement, the two men from the gate darted forward, and smacked the truck driver over the head. The man crumpled to the ground in front of Rob, who waved a hand to the men,
"Put him in the truck with the rest of them. I've already put his name down."
Cigarette man walked forward, and without much effort, pulled open the door to the back of the truck. Now with it wide open, he and his cohort lifted the driver and chucked him inside, landing in a heap in the middle.
The doors were shut again almost as soon as they were opened, and a dozen pairs of terrified eyes stared at the unconscious body of the monster who took them.
Peter Parker didn't really mind the dark, as a kid he'd often climb up the fire escape of his aunt and uncle's apartment building and hang next to the top story window where no one lived and just sit in the dark. He quite liked it. Sometimes, if he was bored, he would bring up a pen light and do his homework, which somehow made everything around him impossibly darker.
However that being said, Peter Parker really hated being kidnapped. So the darkness that his eyes were adjusting too did not counteract that he didn't want to be there. He could feel the harshness of the rope that was wrapped around his torso and arms, cutting into his skin from where his shirt didn't cover. There were other people next to him, all in similar states of distress and restraints.
There were 14 that he could count, including himself and they were all in a truck. Or perhaps a bus? But there were no windows, so it probably was a truck, who had a bus with no windows?
They trundled along, the rumble of the engine and sound of tires on what could be gravel muffled any outside sounds.
"Does anyone know what's happening?" A croaky voice asked, all heads turned, seeing a stout plump woman who was almost bowled over. She had been knocked around on the trip and didn't have the strength to right herself.
"No." Was the unanimous answer, only a couple called out, but others just shook their head defeatedly.
"There's been a buncha people missin' lately, think we're the next lot?" This time a sort of whingy voice broke the silence, it was a weird looking guy, looking like a cross between Shaggy AND Scooby. Peter heard one woman begin to cry and another begin to pray under her breath.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTHS." Came a strangled yell from the driver, immediately people began to scream loudly at him, begging him to let them out, pleading for him to be merciful, threatening him wildly.
"I SAID SHUT IT!" Not one second after he finished hollering, a yellow smoke filled the truck. Everyone began to scream louder, Peter tried holding his breath, but it seeped into his lungs. And the last thing he noticed, before the world went black, is that the truck had stopped moving, and everything was quiet.
Peter felt his head pound, like he had just gone on a bender, or perhaps got hit by a subway train. Lying on his side, he cracked an eye open. Blurrily staring at dirty wooden floors, he rolled onto his back, only to stare at an equally dirty wooden ceiling.
"Fuck me." He groaned. Sucking in a deep breath, he found the energy to push his head up and look around the room. It looked like an apartment, not dissimilar to his own, sparse furniture, a mattress on the floor in the corner covered in a flimsy white sheet. A milkcrate was next to the mattress and atop it, was a laptop, with its charger cable connecting into the wall.
Pushing himself up, Peter felt his spine and neck pop at the movement.
Tiny streams of sunlights broke through the newspapers that covered the solitary window in front of him, they were old, and weathered, and looked somewhat rain damaged.
Peter shakily got to his feet, swaying as his vision spun.
He took a step towards the window, tugging down the newspaper, to look out. Dark clouds wafted over the buildings, standing tall and looming like Thor was in a particularly shitty mood. Peter craned his neck, trying to find anything recognisable.
A flash of colour caused him to narrow in on a billboard, 'LexCorp needs YOU!' burst into bright green with intermittent flashes. LexCorp? Peter scrapped his brain for LexCorp, Tony often seethed about rival companies at breakfast, and nothing was ringing a bell.
Peter stared down at his hands, feeling his chest tighten uncomfortably.
And then he saw it, there on the top of the page on the newspaper currently clenched in his hand;
GOTHAM GAZETTE May 15th 2010
BATMAN DUELS THE PENGUIN! 3 CASUALTIES!
The rest of the page was torn, Peter dropped the paper, watching it float to the floor in horror. He swallowed harshly,
Where the fuck was he?
Peter eventually had moved from his place next to the window and sat on the mattress, and cracked open the laptop. He let out a breath of relief as he recalled Tony's joyful instructions on how to crack through basic password locks, and began to scroll through the computer. He was pleasantly surprised at the internet connection and wasted no time in opening google.
'Gotham'
7.3 billion results...
An actual city? One so popular? Peter tried hard to think of the big cities in New Jersey, none came to mind. How the fuck did he not know about this place, especially one with such an awful crime rate. He scrolled through all the scathing articles detailing the rampant underbelly, the unsafe environment and most notably, the 'vigilanties' sworn to help. If there was this many superheros defending Gotham, how the fuck didn't Peter know about them? Had no one told him? He felt like a massive city with a conglomerate of spandex wearing knights would at least be mentioned in passing.
'Lexcorp'
4.04 billion results...
Run by a man called Alexander Luthor, or Lex Luthor. He seemed to dabble in the same shit as Tony, yet it rang no bells. Peter let out a frustrated groan. Before curiously he typed in,
'Spiderman'
6.9 thousand results..
No.
No. Peter stared blankly at the screen. It wasn't him. There was nothing about him. The only results were about actual fucking spiders. He took in a shuddering breath, how did Spiderman not exist? He read article after article about himself throughout the years, hell he wrote them himself. And yet, nothing.
'Iron Man'
5.3 thousand results..
Nothing? How?
'Tony Stark'
1.2 thousand results..
NO!
Peter felt his lungs seize.
'Avengers'
4.4 thousand results..
He felt his throat catch on a sob.
Tears rolled down Peter's cheeks, blurring the bare screen of what should've been a plentiful google search. He slammed the laptop closed.
Where the fuck was he?