Vengeance and blood. Who do you bleed for? Who do you kill for? What is it that the innocents...
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Arachnids Don't Cry
- Thread starter RainReid
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Summary
RainReid
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2023
- Messages
- 7
- Likes received
- 46
Vengeance and blood. Who do you bleed for? Who do you kill for? What is it that the innocents are owed? What is it that the meek seek from their tormentors? Who hears their cry? Who is the flail wrought upon the wicked? What is my purpose? Join me on this journey writ in blood and together we will blaze through hell to find the answer. Marvel Insert/Reincarnation Fic.
Chapter One
RainReid
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2023
- Messages
- 7
- Likes received
- 46
Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
Rap music blared through the towering black speakers situated on either side of the room. The drum of the heavy bass resulted in a tremble that shook the gold framed paintings on the walls and made the glass bottles and cups shiver.
John gazed at the man who leaned back into the soft bosom of the high seat placed on a slightly raised platform from which he overlooked everything beneath him. It was more symbolic than practical, a reminder of his high and lofty status.
He looked down at the men in black suits who danced and indulged in their base desires. The high pitched and priced strippers who made shedding their clothes into a sensual and hypnotic art and turned fornication into a business. The scent of alcohol, ecstasy and sex soaked the air.
This was a night of celebration; new territory had been gained, old enemies had been buried and the spoils of their kingdom of crime shared between all who held seats on the council.
John stood with his arms crossed, hawk like eyes pierced all through the club from behind the clear glasses on his face. He felt for the weapons holstered on either side of his torso, confirming their weight once again as he imagined how a certain scenario would play out.
"Useless slut!" The chubby man seated atop the high chair roared, sending a stinging slap across the face of the sniveling lady prostrated at his feet. "You can't even give proper head you dumb bitch! Fuck, your pussy better be made of platinum!" He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head away from his exposed member.
"Eyes on me, on me" He snapped at her face. She was the daughter of an enemy, one who'd been buried tonight and this was just the start of her torture. "Good. Listen, you better do a good job cause you do not want me to throw you to my boy John. This guy's a fucking monster, compared to him I'm a fucking angel." He cackled. The girl cried, she was old enough to still be in high-school.
John looked at her face, he stared at those eyes that begged for mercy, eyes that sought the hand of a savior to deliver them from this agony. His sisters had the very same eyes, he once did too.
It had taken years to reach this point. John had done things, terrible, nightmarish things to people, good and bad, and he knew that his soul was destined for eternal damnation. For revenge, he accepted the price.
He reached into his trouser pocket and traced a finger along the seamless surface of a remote, letting the digit rest on a single raised button.
Once more he stared down, down where those who celebrated where, those that were convinced he was their friend and comrade, their dependable leader, second only to the boss himself.
John pushed the button and braced himself.
—BOOOOM!
A loud explosion shattered through the dancefloor below, engulfing the entire area in fire and explosive force. None survived it, not the goons, not the lieutenants, not the strippers, all were reduced to pieces of flesh and bone entwined with burning rubble.
John picked himself off the floor, the building rumbled and twisted beneath his feet. He approached Marco, the boss, the fat man who was busy groaning on the floor with piss staining his white suit. He gestured for the scared girl to run away, the blood trailing down her ears told him of damage she'd sustained as she dashed for the exit.
He grabbed Marco by the neck and lifted him to a seated position.
"Cough! Cough! Shit, John, John what the fuck happened, who did this?!"
"Focus." John slapped the disoriented man hard enough to have him spit a tooth out.
John pulled up his phone and began to play a video. "I'm sure you recognize your father, mother and brothers. Please watch and make sure to stay quiet." He said coldly.
All protest died within Marco as he saw John's eyes. He knew what happened to those the man spoke to in such a tone. The disobedient died an even more painful death. So Marco kept his mouth shut and watched the video. Five seconds into it, he began to vomit and shout, yet the butcher in the video continued with his slaughter and dismembering.
Why? Oh, god why! Marco was too shaken to even speak. Those were his family, they were people being cut open and gutted like animals.
"Why?" John answered as if reading his mind. "A lesson that dues always come paid. But for you, I want you to remember, Marco, I want you to remember what you did on January 7th 2013." John retrieved a blade from his belt. "Don't worry if you can't recall it now, I'll make sure to jog your memory." With that, John began his torture. Carving his way through layers of skin, separating each and minimizing the bleeding to prolong the horrendous act for as long as possible.
Shrieks, howls andwails filled the burning room as though it was a section of hell on earth. Pain and unimaginable agony could be clearly felt in every enduring high pitch that Marco ripped through his raw vocal cords.
John stopped when the crying died down. He gently placed his blade down, and pulled off his shirt and coat. The skinned, castrated, mutilated and dismembered body of Marco laid motionlessly in a puddle of his own blood.
John stood to his feet and stared at the inferno below.
"Jenny, I know you didn't want this. But well you're in heaven so I guess what you want doesn't matter." He wanted to smile, to laugh even though he couldn't. Revenge wasn't as cathartic as he assumed it would be, but he felt vindicated and that was enough. "June, I did it for you too."
I'll have to pay as well. John did not leave himself out of his revenge plans, he too would bear the consequences of all he'd done. For all he'd killed on his path. "Sorry." He said for the hookers, the most recent collateral in his vengeance, for their families and friends who are left in loss.
If there was a different world, perhaps he would've found meaning. Perhaps he would've been the helping hand that he needed while suffering. Perhaps, he left unsaid. Walking off the balcony and into the sea of flames.
"I love you forever, Jenny. I'll always hold you close, June."
*..*..*..*..*
"Urhgmm." A muted groan slipped past my lips. My right arm was on fire, my left was numb and unresponsive. My chest was filled with lead and my heart was busy pumping raw gasoline into my eyes; the world was red and upside down and clearer than it had ever appeared to my eyes.
"HeY BRo YoU GoOD?!"
"DUdE!"
"HELP!"
I cupped my ears from the amplified voices which burrowed into my ear canal like rusted nails with serrated edges, hammering right through my drums with the brutality of broken glass scraping through flesh. I fell off a platform and caught myself drowning through air.
Why am I alive?
"Bleargh!" My mouth tore open, plastered into the floor above my head was whatever my stomach held. Gravity left my feet unpinned, my head being the size of the moon dragged my shoulders down and into the ceiling.
What is happening to me?
I collapsed next to my still warm vomit. The red in my eyes was blotted out by the black ink that spread from the edge of my vision. I convulsed and squirmed, foam bubbled in my mouth. Pain was everything, agony replaced my body.
Hands coated in razors and jagged glass clamped over me, screams and sirens pierced through my head, I hacked up a lung in a cough, darkness swallowed my sight but not my consciousness.
I remained paralyzed and hyperaware. I sat alone in the abyss, a crown of fire rested atop my head as my life played out before my eyes. Electricity took hold of my brain, the shock came before the torture and with it everything; numbers, shapes, sizes, experiences, colors, tastes, light, dark, things I couldn't put to coherent speech drove into my mind at a maddening pace that had me reeling into unconsciousness.
What is this?
*.*.*.*.*
They say death is the destination. They also say life is a journey. Perhaps in my case it was the opposite, death was just a journey and life the destination itself.
Why was I here?
There wasn't rhyme or reason to my awakening. Once the darkness swallowed you and your soul vacated the confines of your body, one was meant to either transcend into heaven or, in my case, descend to hell, or better yet disperse into nothingness if neither place existed.
If that was the case, what then was the process behind my re-life? What grand and absurd reason was there to my continued existence in the body of another? What was the aim, the big picture? It all boiled down to one question—Why was I here?
Many wisemen and philosophers have pondered that same question. The answers vary. None satisfied me. I ceased pondering it.
"Hun." The brown olive skinned woman planted her soft lips on my forehead. Her bunned back auburn hair had the scent of something motherly and warm. Her eyes were as soft as her embrace. "You're going to be alright okay." I could tell you how healthy each individual strand of hair on her head appeared, I could count the strawberry freckles that dotted her face despite how few they were. I could see the pearly quality of her straight and proportional teeth. I could see the thin wrinkles behind her smile.
She's beautiful. My improved sight, which made whatever I possessed in a past life seem utterly useless, allowed me to see her in all her glory. She was beautiful and caring.
I judged her to be the body's biological mother based on instinct, rational deduction and common sense.
My lips remained sealed. The answers she needed weren't mine to give. Her son was dead, I was a man in his body, a parasite in a new host.
"I came as soon as I heard." Said a kind faced man in a pristine police uniform. "How is he?" He asked with worry, cupping my hand in his as he felt my forehead, checking my temperature. I felt the concern in his voice, despite his large and built stature, he was a gentle soul, one that cared deeply for this body, for me.
"He'll be fine. It was just an allergic reaction to a spider bite." The mother said.
"Son, you'll be just right in no time." The father said. A reassuring smile on his face.
"We should let him rest now and no, Jeff you can't stay with him, you have to go to work."
"I didn't even say anything." He deflated like a lost puppy.
"He'll be better in the morning."
"Okay, okay nurse," Jeff said. He rubbed my hair, told me to be strong, told me that I was loved and all would be fine. She kissed my head again and told me the same but with a believing smile as she reluctantly left to attend to her other patients, dragging him along.
I turned to my body.
I felt more alive than I'd ever been. My heart pumped loud enough for me to hear. The air filling my lungs was fresher than anything I'd ever inhaled. The dull aches and abiding stiffness that accompanied my past life lacked a mark on this body. The scars of blades and bullets and all manners of weapons did not paint my flesh.
I was unblemished by suffering, my body was untouched by hardship, labor and battle.
This was too much of a blessing, one I knew I was very undeserving of.
Where was the child's soul? I hoped it had obtained a peaceful resolution for it was too unfair for me to obtain that which a youth had barely begun to enjoy. Yet, the world was an unfair place. Even in another life, I still killed.
'..s..a..v..e…t..h..e..m..'
"Who?" I jolted up, I searched around the room for the voice. The soul biting, teeth gnashing, terror inducing whisper uttered in my ear and rumbled through my core like thunder echoing in the mind. Apart from the other unused beds and devices, I was alone in the room.
Perhaps the sound had come from the Tv mounted to the wall, except for the obvious fact that it was off.
I was hallucinating then. This was uncharted territory—death and subsequent re-life, I am unaware of what followed it, the side effects among other things. It was beyond my current capacity to use science in explaining the unscientific and borderline supernatural.
I lay on the bed, closed my eyes and meditated. The silence was littered by the slide of gurneys, the footsteps of nurses and doctors outside the room and the hushed beeps of machines.
The voice did not return. A long exhale escaped my nostrils, sleep caught my body and held onto me. A scalding bony touch settled on the side of my neck, I could feel eyes on fire stare at me from somewhere beyond my dreams. I sank deeper, unable to rouse myself from the coming slumber.
I was alive again. in a different body, with a different name. A name that held meaning. In a world that wasn't supposed to be real.
The dark swallowed me whole.
*.*.*.*
ADC Rewrite cause I've been meaning to. No confirmed update timetable. You know the power tool.
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
THE END
Rap music blared through the towering black speakers situated on either side of the room. The drum of the heavy bass resulted in a tremble that shook the gold framed paintings on the walls and made the glass bottles and cups shiver.
John gazed at the man who leaned back into the soft bosom of the high seat placed on a slightly raised platform from which he overlooked everything beneath him. It was more symbolic than practical, a reminder of his high and lofty status.
He looked down at the men in black suits who danced and indulged in their base desires. The high pitched and priced strippers who made shedding their clothes into a sensual and hypnotic art and turned fornication into a business. The scent of alcohol, ecstasy and sex soaked the air.
This was a night of celebration; new territory had been gained, old enemies had been buried and the spoils of their kingdom of crime shared between all who held seats on the council.
John stood with his arms crossed, hawk like eyes pierced all through the club from behind the clear glasses on his face. He felt for the weapons holstered on either side of his torso, confirming their weight once again as he imagined how a certain scenario would play out.
"Useless slut!" The chubby man seated atop the high chair roared, sending a stinging slap across the face of the sniveling lady prostrated at his feet. "You can't even give proper head you dumb bitch! Fuck, your pussy better be made of platinum!" He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head away from his exposed member.
"Eyes on me, on me" He snapped at her face. She was the daughter of an enemy, one who'd been buried tonight and this was just the start of her torture. "Good. Listen, you better do a good job cause you do not want me to throw you to my boy John. This guy's a fucking monster, compared to him I'm a fucking angel." He cackled. The girl cried, she was old enough to still be in high-school.
John looked at her face, he stared at those eyes that begged for mercy, eyes that sought the hand of a savior to deliver them from this agony. His sisters had the very same eyes, he once did too.
It had taken years to reach this point. John had done things, terrible, nightmarish things to people, good and bad, and he knew that his soul was destined for eternal damnation. For revenge, he accepted the price.
He reached into his trouser pocket and traced a finger along the seamless surface of a remote, letting the digit rest on a single raised button.
Once more he stared down, down where those who celebrated where, those that were convinced he was their friend and comrade, their dependable leader, second only to the boss himself.
John pushed the button and braced himself.
—BOOOOM!
A loud explosion shattered through the dancefloor below, engulfing the entire area in fire and explosive force. None survived it, not the goons, not the lieutenants, not the strippers, all were reduced to pieces of flesh and bone entwined with burning rubble.
John picked himself off the floor, the building rumbled and twisted beneath his feet. He approached Marco, the boss, the fat man who was busy groaning on the floor with piss staining his white suit. He gestured for the scared girl to run away, the blood trailing down her ears told him of damage she'd sustained as she dashed for the exit.
He grabbed Marco by the neck and lifted him to a seated position.
"Cough! Cough! Shit, John, John what the fuck happened, who did this?!"
"Focus." John slapped the disoriented man hard enough to have him spit a tooth out.
John pulled up his phone and began to play a video. "I'm sure you recognize your father, mother and brothers. Please watch and make sure to stay quiet." He said coldly.
All protest died within Marco as he saw John's eyes. He knew what happened to those the man spoke to in such a tone. The disobedient died an even more painful death. So Marco kept his mouth shut and watched the video. Five seconds into it, he began to vomit and shout, yet the butcher in the video continued with his slaughter and dismembering.
Why? Oh, god why! Marco was too shaken to even speak. Those were his family, they were people being cut open and gutted like animals.
"Why?" John answered as if reading his mind. "A lesson that dues always come paid. But for you, I want you to remember, Marco, I want you to remember what you did on January 7th 2013." John retrieved a blade from his belt. "Don't worry if you can't recall it now, I'll make sure to jog your memory." With that, John began his torture. Carving his way through layers of skin, separating each and minimizing the bleeding to prolong the horrendous act for as long as possible.
Shrieks, howls andwails filled the burning room as though it was a section of hell on earth. Pain and unimaginable agony could be clearly felt in every enduring high pitch that Marco ripped through his raw vocal cords.
John stopped when the crying died down. He gently placed his blade down, and pulled off his shirt and coat. The skinned, castrated, mutilated and dismembered body of Marco laid motionlessly in a puddle of his own blood.
John stood to his feet and stared at the inferno below.
"Jenny, I know you didn't want this. But well you're in heaven so I guess what you want doesn't matter." He wanted to smile, to laugh even though he couldn't. Revenge wasn't as cathartic as he assumed it would be, but he felt vindicated and that was enough. "June, I did it for you too."
I'll have to pay as well. John did not leave himself out of his revenge plans, he too would bear the consequences of all he'd done. For all he'd killed on his path. "Sorry." He said for the hookers, the most recent collateral in his vengeance, for their families and friends who are left in loss.
If there was a different world, perhaps he would've found meaning. Perhaps he would've been the helping hand that he needed while suffering. Perhaps, he left unsaid. Walking off the balcony and into the sea of flames.
"I love you forever, Jenny. I'll always hold you close, June."
*..*..*..*..*
"Urhgmm." A muted groan slipped past my lips. My right arm was on fire, my left was numb and unresponsive. My chest was filled with lead and my heart was busy pumping raw gasoline into my eyes; the world was red and upside down and clearer than it had ever appeared to my eyes.
"HeY BRo YoU GoOD?!"
"DUdE!"
"HELP!"
I cupped my ears from the amplified voices which burrowed into my ear canal like rusted nails with serrated edges, hammering right through my drums with the brutality of broken glass scraping through flesh. I fell off a platform and caught myself drowning through air.
Why am I alive?
"Bleargh!" My mouth tore open, plastered into the floor above my head was whatever my stomach held. Gravity left my feet unpinned, my head being the size of the moon dragged my shoulders down and into the ceiling.
What is happening to me?
I collapsed next to my still warm vomit. The red in my eyes was blotted out by the black ink that spread from the edge of my vision. I convulsed and squirmed, foam bubbled in my mouth. Pain was everything, agony replaced my body.
Hands coated in razors and jagged glass clamped over me, screams and sirens pierced through my head, I hacked up a lung in a cough, darkness swallowed my sight but not my consciousness.
I remained paralyzed and hyperaware. I sat alone in the abyss, a crown of fire rested atop my head as my life played out before my eyes. Electricity took hold of my brain, the shock came before the torture and with it everything; numbers, shapes, sizes, experiences, colors, tastes, light, dark, things I couldn't put to coherent speech drove into my mind at a maddening pace that had me reeling into unconsciousness.
What is this?
*.*.*.*.*
They say death is the destination. They also say life is a journey. Perhaps in my case it was the opposite, death was just a journey and life the destination itself.
Why was I here?
There wasn't rhyme or reason to my awakening. Once the darkness swallowed you and your soul vacated the confines of your body, one was meant to either transcend into heaven or, in my case, descend to hell, or better yet disperse into nothingness if neither place existed.
If that was the case, what then was the process behind my re-life? What grand and absurd reason was there to my continued existence in the body of another? What was the aim, the big picture? It all boiled down to one question—Why was I here?
Many wisemen and philosophers have pondered that same question. The answers vary. None satisfied me. I ceased pondering it.
"Hun." The brown olive skinned woman planted her soft lips on my forehead. Her bunned back auburn hair had the scent of something motherly and warm. Her eyes were as soft as her embrace. "You're going to be alright okay." I could tell you how healthy each individual strand of hair on her head appeared, I could count the strawberry freckles that dotted her face despite how few they were. I could see the pearly quality of her straight and proportional teeth. I could see the thin wrinkles behind her smile.
She's beautiful. My improved sight, which made whatever I possessed in a past life seem utterly useless, allowed me to see her in all her glory. She was beautiful and caring.
I judged her to be the body's biological mother based on instinct, rational deduction and common sense.
My lips remained sealed. The answers she needed weren't mine to give. Her son was dead, I was a man in his body, a parasite in a new host.
"I came as soon as I heard." Said a kind faced man in a pristine police uniform. "How is he?" He asked with worry, cupping my hand in his as he felt my forehead, checking my temperature. I felt the concern in his voice, despite his large and built stature, he was a gentle soul, one that cared deeply for this body, for me.
"He'll be fine. It was just an allergic reaction to a spider bite." The mother said.
"Son, you'll be just right in no time." The father said. A reassuring smile on his face.
"We should let him rest now and no, Jeff you can't stay with him, you have to go to work."
"I didn't even say anything." He deflated like a lost puppy.
"He'll be better in the morning."
"Okay, okay nurse," Jeff said. He rubbed my hair, told me to be strong, told me that I was loved and all would be fine. She kissed my head again and told me the same but with a believing smile as she reluctantly left to attend to her other patients, dragging him along.
I turned to my body.
I felt more alive than I'd ever been. My heart pumped loud enough for me to hear. The air filling my lungs was fresher than anything I'd ever inhaled. The dull aches and abiding stiffness that accompanied my past life lacked a mark on this body. The scars of blades and bullets and all manners of weapons did not paint my flesh.
I was unblemished by suffering, my body was untouched by hardship, labor and battle.
This was too much of a blessing, one I knew I was very undeserving of.
Where was the child's soul? I hoped it had obtained a peaceful resolution for it was too unfair for me to obtain that which a youth had barely begun to enjoy. Yet, the world was an unfair place. Even in another life, I still killed.
'..s..a..v..e…t..h..e..m..'
"Who?" I jolted up, I searched around the room for the voice. The soul biting, teeth gnashing, terror inducing whisper uttered in my ear and rumbled through my core like thunder echoing in the mind. Apart from the other unused beds and devices, I was alone in the room.
Perhaps the sound had come from the Tv mounted to the wall, except for the obvious fact that it was off.
I was hallucinating then. This was uncharted territory—death and subsequent re-life, I am unaware of what followed it, the side effects among other things. It was beyond my current capacity to use science in explaining the unscientific and borderline supernatural.
I lay on the bed, closed my eyes and meditated. The silence was littered by the slide of gurneys, the footsteps of nurses and doctors outside the room and the hushed beeps of machines.
The voice did not return. A long exhale escaped my nostrils, sleep caught my body and held onto me. A scalding bony touch settled on the side of my neck, I could feel eyes on fire stare at me from somewhere beyond my dreams. I sank deeper, unable to rouse myself from the coming slumber.
I was alive again. in a different body, with a different name. A name that held meaning. In a world that wasn't supposed to be real.
The dark swallowed me whole.
*.*.*.*
ADC Rewrite cause I've been meaning to. No confirmed update timetable. You know the power tool.
Last edited:
Chapter Twi
RainReid
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2023
- Messages
- 7
- Likes received
- 46
Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
AGENDA ACTIVE
I was out the hospital and shuffled by police car to the place that was to be my new home. I'd remained silent with what I could muster as a smile on my face while the driver, my body's father, Jeff, told me what new weird thing he'd seen during patrol, what hero did what where, and what villain caused what casualties while escaping. I paid attention to first hand accounts of my new world, coming from the mouth of a first responder, he had more than what I'd learn from the media.
He interspaced his updates with information that I'd be able to return to school after the weekend since I was cleared. What he failed to notice was the vehicle tailing us from two blocks back. I took note of the driver in the gray sedan and memorized the number plates as they decided to pull away.
Coincidences in a comic book universe were never just coincidences. "harg ha ha." I hid my groan in laughter. Whatever process of change was occurring within me was still ongoing; my muscles restructured themselves, growing denser and stronger, prompting my bones to respond in kind to facilitate the extraordinary changes occurring within me.
We parked outside a home located in a warm neighborhood, it wasn't as sterile as the suburbs but possessed a looked after appearance. The people themselves were what made it warm, they waved and smiled, calling out my, or Jeff's name in greeting.
Jeff led me up the pavement and into a modest home. One decorated with shelves of photographs, wooden furniture, trays of fruits and flowers. It felt lived in, the wood had age, the carpet looked new yet felt broken in, the cases of CDs on the tv stand brought up fond memories as did the scent of fresh fruits and air. It simply felt like a family home.
I carried myself up to my room and entered. Jeff told me to stay safe and take it easy as he left. He made it clear that there was ample food in the kitchen along with an assortment of desserts and that Rio, the body mother, would be off work soon.
I closed the room door behind me and sat on the spring bed, the room was as you'd expect a teenager's to be. Clothes, comic books, action figures littered it in no specific order. The bed was unmade, and the closet was open.
There was no drawing board or pad, and coke was still coca cola. I sat by the desk and turned the pc on. I kept the driver and vehicle description on a note, and clicked up the browser.
Tony Stark was Robert Downey jr. Captain America was Chris Evans. The Hulk was a cannibalistic monster. Mutants existed and were hated. Magneto was a seeming terrorist and the X-men were trying to change the status quo. The Fantastic Four were a thing and they were in the Baxter building. Avengers did not exist, they were called the Ultimates.
Okay, so Earth-1610. The ultimate universe then, a dimension where heroes were reimagined and reinvented to fit a modern retelling. That did not mean it adhered entirely to the 1610 progress of events, nor did it mean my conclusion was entirely correct.
Captain America could be a hydra agent, the skrulls could be in hiding and waiting to enact their invasion, Apocalypse or Thanos could attack the planet, Dr Doom could enact a plan to seize power over everything, Galactus could come to feed, Annihilus could unleash his horde and a great many number of terrible events could occur.
Leaving the question of my meta-knowledge aside—my sister loved comics, I made it a tradition to read as many of them as I could whenever I visited her gra-, her resting place. She preferred marvel comics, she related to the more flawed and human characters within, she would hate what it turned into, the political agendas and flimsy storylines—There was no operational guide other than to be prepared to face these threats, if they came, when they came.
Why? Why was I brought to this world? What is my reason for being here? Was I put here to save people, to enjoy life, to bring death or for no reason at all?
The answers eluded me. If I was the man before my revenge, I would use all means necessary to see myself become powerful, I would kill, steal, murder my way to the very pinnacle, but that was a past life. My revenge was complete, my life did not have meaning save for the moral obligation to atone for my sins. This was a place with an afterlife, heaven sounded like the place I could be reunited with those I loved.
Perhaps it was simple; with great power, comes great responsibility. My family and I suffered only because those with great powers chose to be irresponsible. I turned to destruction only because there was no one there to offer me the aid I needed when I needed it, because no one brought vindication.
With that in mind, how could I not offer my own aid to others? How could I with such a great power in my grasp rest on my laurels while others suffered, when I could very well end or ease their suffering?
Was this it? Was this my grand purpose then or was it simply self rationalization to give me meaning in this new world?
It mattered not, what mattered was taking action.
I had memorized Jeff's access to the police network. I used his credentials and a series of silent nodes and vpns to access the police server, logging in with what was essentially a ghost account. Typing in the plates brought up a name and picture entirely different from the driver's, but it came with a thread, the vehicle owner had their employment status listed under OSCORP—a name that made everything click into place.
OSCORP was where the class went on an excursion trip, it was also where I got bitten. Norman Osborn at this point in time should be working on a super soldier serum replica for SHIELD or the US government.
I knew who my watcher was now. I also knew why I was being watched.
. . .
It was a scrapyard. Abandoned cars sat in advanced states of disrepair, others were stacked in towers of red rust. The ground was littered with pieces of discarded metal fragments that were once useful cogs in a machine. I closed the map function of my phone and stepped over a puddle of black oil.
A tour of the area led me to a secluded spot. One where I'd be hidden from prying eyes, ears and mouths.
I approached the turned over, champagne blue minivan. It was an appropriate target. I wrapped both arms around its crushed and folded bumper. My fingers easily dug into the metal as though it were sponge.
With a low grunt of effort, I hefted the reluctantly groaning vehicle clean off the ground, holding an approximate weight of three tons above my head like a 40lb weighted barbell.
"Jesus." I whispered. This was amazing, how could physics allow such a small body with such a small surface area of muscle to lift such a large car? For hulk or others of his stature and size to lift such a weight would be commonplace, they had the musculature to allow me, and yet I, with my compact and dense musculature which would only be obvious under very fitting clothes, accomplished the same. The enhancement resulting from the spider bite had turned me into a post human, a super being capable of ridiculous feats of strength and power.
I waved the vehicle around as though it was a pillow of feathers, it felt as such, I pulled an arm away and held it up with just one. It was barely even taxing, I had yet to break a sweat. The windscreen broke, filthy water and loose parts doused my clothes and body. In the same vein as a spasm fizzled through my body, the grip I maintained on the vehicle faded when the stickiness gave out and my fingers refused to follow my commands.
I only managed to shield my face as the minivan fell on me. Instead of being crushed however, I created a me-shaped dent in the already broken bumper. I pushed the car off me with minor cuts and aches, no broken bones, no lacerations, no internal trauma. This was downright miraculous.
I still felt an urge, one hard to put into words. Something was racing within me, something that wanted to be free. I could feel it course through my veins, it made me jumpy and restless, a valve needed to be turned open. I followed my instincts.
Yellow arcs of electricity arced and eagerly danced along my outstretched fingers. It was intoxicating! I brought both arms to near proximity, allowing the current to pool between the cupped space of my hands. With the loud cry of a thousand sparrows, the piercing wingbeat of a horde of locusts, the current turned into a ball of crackling electricity, threads of it lashing all along my hands, singing off the sleeves of my shirt.
I rammed the ball against the side of the car—BAAAM! The vehicle folded at the strike's epicenter, a small shockwave followed the exploding strands of electricity which spread all over the minivan's broken exterior as it rolled away for meters on end, kicking up dirt, honking and flashing lights as the temporary charge powered its yet unbroken electronics.
It crashed next to a stack of cars, broken and disfigured beyond resemblance. I fell to my knees in exhaustion, fire burned at the back of my throat, my heart thumped in my ear, my hands shook and my vision doubled.
The fatigue was more than I thought, but the relieved sensation gave me joy. It was obvious that to fully utilize my powers and grow, I would have to exercise and push my limits with effort. I may have been changed but I needed to find proper resistance if I wanted to improve further.
I couldn't understand why turning invisible was so easy for me, but it simply was. It operated, or I perceived it to operate as an internal switch.
Flip; invisibility on.
Flip; invisibility off.
Watching my hands flicker in and out of existence was entertaining, as much as it was; however, it was time to head home before Rio got there.
Flip went the switch as I blended seamlessly with my environment.
*.*.*.*.
"You're saying he's stabilized?" Norman Osborn reclined comfortably into his chair, he found comfort in it and its orthopedic effect. He read the data projected on the screen before him.
"In effect, yes. The deterioration that should've been in progress has instead reversed itself, it seems to have even resulted in an advantageous effect for the child as it has increased his physical attributes to an Olympian standard." The scientist in a lab coat explained. He clicked on a button to display graphs and charts, a before and after of the subject's physical state.
"Interesting." Norman said. It was a blessing that unlike other test subjects that had been exposed to the oz-serum, the child's body did not deteriorate from the accidental exposure. He had been prepared for the bitter legal battle that would've ensued should had the boy died. Perhaps this was proof that the ozserum was ready. That his scientists had been wrong. That he would finally be able to prove to his power and impatient investors and impertinent board of directors that he had developed that which he was tasked with.
This was a heaven sent opportunity to bring results, the serum was successful and he would prove it, despite the advice of those under him, this was his chance to show that he had succeeded where a multitude of others had failed, a chance to obtain unimaginable power and wealth.
A grin was etched across his face as he brought his hands together, a dangerous thought brewing in his mind. "The serum is ready."
"I do not believe so sir. This isolated event was, forgive my words, a miracle resulting from a series of uncontrolled coincidences. It is impossible to replicate" the scientist quickly warned.
"We will match the situation, control the environment and replicate the effects. The serum is ready." Norman was confident. He knows when to be. He became the CEO by recognizing when to take risks, that and when to be ruthless even if it meant eliminating his competition. Why would he limit himself to by staying loyal to his clandestine investors? Not when he could rule the world and own the biological arms race.
"But sir—"
"You are excused, Dr Warren."
The dejected scientist left the office. He wasn't saddened by the ethics of human experimentation, he cared little for the lives of others outside his own. No, Dr Warren was one who sought perfection, the ozserum needed to be perfected, it couldn't be rushed, it shouldn't be! Perfection must be maintained at all cost, for only with it, could they create the ultimate being.
"Brian." Norman called, prompting his bodyguard and assistant to approach.
"Yes, sir."
"Silence the doctor and promote his replacement." Norman ordered, the boy's existence was a secret that he could not have anyone else knowing of. It was his and his alone.
A sinister grin appeared on his face as a dangerous thought grew in his mind. He was on the precipice of all he sought, the world would soon bow before him.
*.*.*.*.
Shumalummadumma that's birdspeak for cheeeeeeeeee
Well, I'll leave you all to enjoy your day/night with me in your mind.
Till next time, Rain (the best ever) away!
You can come find me,
ON TWITTER: Rainreider /RainReider
On PA*T.R.E*ON: https ReidR41n
On YOUTUBE: /RaiNation
Rainmaine on Instagram
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
AGENDA ACTIVE
I was out the hospital and shuffled by police car to the place that was to be my new home. I'd remained silent with what I could muster as a smile on my face while the driver, my body's father, Jeff, told me what new weird thing he'd seen during patrol, what hero did what where, and what villain caused what casualties while escaping. I paid attention to first hand accounts of my new world, coming from the mouth of a first responder, he had more than what I'd learn from the media.
He interspaced his updates with information that I'd be able to return to school after the weekend since I was cleared. What he failed to notice was the vehicle tailing us from two blocks back. I took note of the driver in the gray sedan and memorized the number plates as they decided to pull away.
Coincidences in a comic book universe were never just coincidences. "harg ha ha." I hid my groan in laughter. Whatever process of change was occurring within me was still ongoing; my muscles restructured themselves, growing denser and stronger, prompting my bones to respond in kind to facilitate the extraordinary changes occurring within me.
We parked outside a home located in a warm neighborhood, it wasn't as sterile as the suburbs but possessed a looked after appearance. The people themselves were what made it warm, they waved and smiled, calling out my, or Jeff's name in greeting.
Jeff led me up the pavement and into a modest home. One decorated with shelves of photographs, wooden furniture, trays of fruits and flowers. It felt lived in, the wood had age, the carpet looked new yet felt broken in, the cases of CDs on the tv stand brought up fond memories as did the scent of fresh fruits and air. It simply felt like a family home.
I carried myself up to my room and entered. Jeff told me to stay safe and take it easy as he left. He made it clear that there was ample food in the kitchen along with an assortment of desserts and that Rio, the body mother, would be off work soon.
I closed the room door behind me and sat on the spring bed, the room was as you'd expect a teenager's to be. Clothes, comic books, action figures littered it in no specific order. The bed was unmade, and the closet was open.
There was no drawing board or pad, and coke was still coca cola. I sat by the desk and turned the pc on. I kept the driver and vehicle description on a note, and clicked up the browser.
Tony Stark was Robert Downey jr. Captain America was Chris Evans. The Hulk was a cannibalistic monster. Mutants existed and were hated. Magneto was a seeming terrorist and the X-men were trying to change the status quo. The Fantastic Four were a thing and they were in the Baxter building. Avengers did not exist, they were called the Ultimates.
Okay, so Earth-1610. The ultimate universe then, a dimension where heroes were reimagined and reinvented to fit a modern retelling. That did not mean it adhered entirely to the 1610 progress of events, nor did it mean my conclusion was entirely correct.
Captain America could be a hydra agent, the skrulls could be in hiding and waiting to enact their invasion, Apocalypse or Thanos could attack the planet, Dr Doom could enact a plan to seize power over everything, Galactus could come to feed, Annihilus could unleash his horde and a great many number of terrible events could occur.
Leaving the question of my meta-knowledge aside—my sister loved comics, I made it a tradition to read as many of them as I could whenever I visited her gra-, her resting place. She preferred marvel comics, she related to the more flawed and human characters within, she would hate what it turned into, the political agendas and flimsy storylines—There was no operational guide other than to be prepared to face these threats, if they came, when they came.
Why? Why was I brought to this world? What is my reason for being here? Was I put here to save people, to enjoy life, to bring death or for no reason at all?
The answers eluded me. If I was the man before my revenge, I would use all means necessary to see myself become powerful, I would kill, steal, murder my way to the very pinnacle, but that was a past life. My revenge was complete, my life did not have meaning save for the moral obligation to atone for my sins. This was a place with an afterlife, heaven sounded like the place I could be reunited with those I loved.
Perhaps it was simple; with great power, comes great responsibility. My family and I suffered only because those with great powers chose to be irresponsible. I turned to destruction only because there was no one there to offer me the aid I needed when I needed it, because no one brought vindication.
With that in mind, how could I not offer my own aid to others? How could I with such a great power in my grasp rest on my laurels while others suffered, when I could very well end or ease their suffering?
Was this it? Was this my grand purpose then or was it simply self rationalization to give me meaning in this new world?
It mattered not, what mattered was taking action.
I had memorized Jeff's access to the police network. I used his credentials and a series of silent nodes and vpns to access the police server, logging in with what was essentially a ghost account. Typing in the plates brought up a name and picture entirely different from the driver's, but it came with a thread, the vehicle owner had their employment status listed under OSCORP—a name that made everything click into place.
OSCORP was where the class went on an excursion trip, it was also where I got bitten. Norman Osborn at this point in time should be working on a super soldier serum replica for SHIELD or the US government.
I knew who my watcher was now. I also knew why I was being watched.
. . .
It was a scrapyard. Abandoned cars sat in advanced states of disrepair, others were stacked in towers of red rust. The ground was littered with pieces of discarded metal fragments that were once useful cogs in a machine. I closed the map function of my phone and stepped over a puddle of black oil.
A tour of the area led me to a secluded spot. One where I'd be hidden from prying eyes, ears and mouths.
I approached the turned over, champagne blue minivan. It was an appropriate target. I wrapped both arms around its crushed and folded bumper. My fingers easily dug into the metal as though it were sponge.
With a low grunt of effort, I hefted the reluctantly groaning vehicle clean off the ground, holding an approximate weight of three tons above my head like a 40lb weighted barbell.
"Jesus." I whispered. This was amazing, how could physics allow such a small body with such a small surface area of muscle to lift such a large car? For hulk or others of his stature and size to lift such a weight would be commonplace, they had the musculature to allow me, and yet I, with my compact and dense musculature which would only be obvious under very fitting clothes, accomplished the same. The enhancement resulting from the spider bite had turned me into a post human, a super being capable of ridiculous feats of strength and power.
I waved the vehicle around as though it was a pillow of feathers, it felt as such, I pulled an arm away and held it up with just one. It was barely even taxing, I had yet to break a sweat. The windscreen broke, filthy water and loose parts doused my clothes and body. In the same vein as a spasm fizzled through my body, the grip I maintained on the vehicle faded when the stickiness gave out and my fingers refused to follow my commands.
I only managed to shield my face as the minivan fell on me. Instead of being crushed however, I created a me-shaped dent in the already broken bumper. I pushed the car off me with minor cuts and aches, no broken bones, no lacerations, no internal trauma. This was downright miraculous.
I still felt an urge, one hard to put into words. Something was racing within me, something that wanted to be free. I could feel it course through my veins, it made me jumpy and restless, a valve needed to be turned open. I followed my instincts.
Yellow arcs of electricity arced and eagerly danced along my outstretched fingers. It was intoxicating! I brought both arms to near proximity, allowing the current to pool between the cupped space of my hands. With the loud cry of a thousand sparrows, the piercing wingbeat of a horde of locusts, the current turned into a ball of crackling electricity, threads of it lashing all along my hands, singing off the sleeves of my shirt.
I rammed the ball against the side of the car—BAAAM! The vehicle folded at the strike's epicenter, a small shockwave followed the exploding strands of electricity which spread all over the minivan's broken exterior as it rolled away for meters on end, kicking up dirt, honking and flashing lights as the temporary charge powered its yet unbroken electronics.
It crashed next to a stack of cars, broken and disfigured beyond resemblance. I fell to my knees in exhaustion, fire burned at the back of my throat, my heart thumped in my ear, my hands shook and my vision doubled.
The fatigue was more than I thought, but the relieved sensation gave me joy. It was obvious that to fully utilize my powers and grow, I would have to exercise and push my limits with effort. I may have been changed but I needed to find proper resistance if I wanted to improve further.
I couldn't understand why turning invisible was so easy for me, but it simply was. It operated, or I perceived it to operate as an internal switch.
Flip; invisibility on.
Flip; invisibility off.
Watching my hands flicker in and out of existence was entertaining, as much as it was; however, it was time to head home before Rio got there.
Flip went the switch as I blended seamlessly with my environment.
*.*.*.*.
"You're saying he's stabilized?" Norman Osborn reclined comfortably into his chair, he found comfort in it and its orthopedic effect. He read the data projected on the screen before him.
"In effect, yes. The deterioration that should've been in progress has instead reversed itself, it seems to have even resulted in an advantageous effect for the child as it has increased his physical attributes to an Olympian standard." The scientist in a lab coat explained. He clicked on a button to display graphs and charts, a before and after of the subject's physical state.
"Interesting." Norman said. It was a blessing that unlike other test subjects that had been exposed to the oz-serum, the child's body did not deteriorate from the accidental exposure. He had been prepared for the bitter legal battle that would've ensued should had the boy died. Perhaps this was proof that the ozserum was ready. That his scientists had been wrong. That he would finally be able to prove to his power and impatient investors and impertinent board of directors that he had developed that which he was tasked with.
This was a heaven sent opportunity to bring results, the serum was successful and he would prove it, despite the advice of those under him, this was his chance to show that he had succeeded where a multitude of others had failed, a chance to obtain unimaginable power and wealth.
A grin was etched across his face as he brought his hands together, a dangerous thought brewing in his mind. "The serum is ready."
"I do not believe so sir. This isolated event was, forgive my words, a miracle resulting from a series of uncontrolled coincidences. It is impossible to replicate" the scientist quickly warned.
"We will match the situation, control the environment and replicate the effects. The serum is ready." Norman was confident. He knows when to be. He became the CEO by recognizing when to take risks, that and when to be ruthless even if it meant eliminating his competition. Why would he limit himself to by staying loyal to his clandestine investors? Not when he could rule the world and own the biological arms race.
"But sir—"
"You are excused, Dr Warren."
The dejected scientist left the office. He wasn't saddened by the ethics of human experimentation, he cared little for the lives of others outside his own. No, Dr Warren was one who sought perfection, the ozserum needed to be perfected, it couldn't be rushed, it shouldn't be! Perfection must be maintained at all cost, for only with it, could they create the ultimate being.
"Brian." Norman called, prompting his bodyguard and assistant to approach.
"Yes, sir."
"Silence the doctor and promote his replacement." Norman ordered, the boy's existence was a secret that he could not have anyone else knowing of. It was his and his alone.
A sinister grin appeared on his face as a dangerous thought grew in his mind. He was on the precipice of all he sought, the world would soon bow before him.
*.*.*.*.
Shumalummadumma that's birdspeak for cheeeeeeeeee
Well, I'll leave you all to enjoy your day/night with me in your mind.
Till next time, Rain (the best ever) away!
You can come find me,
ON TWITTER: Rainreider /RainReider
On PA*T.R.E*ON: https ReidR41n
On YOUTUBE: /RaiNation
Rainmaine on Instagram
Chapter Three
RainReid
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2023
- Messages
- 7
- Likes received
- 46
Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
INTERLUDE : YEAR 0
The ski mask slides on like a well fitting glove, the familiarity it brings turns it into a face, the most fitting one among the many he wears. He clings to the wall's surface and despite the established laws of nature denying a human the capacity to, he crawls, as a lizard might on tree bark, or a critter across the ceiling, he pulls himself by his fingers and toes, steadily ascending the flat concrete face like an expert climber. There are no handholds wider than the edge of his finger nails, yet he easily scales the vertical surface as though it were horizontal, as though gravity was naught but an inconvenience.
There is barely any fatigue in his muscles from dragging his body against gravity's pull up the intimidating height of the eight-storey apartment complex.
The loose gravel beneath his boot barely rattle as he climbs the ledge. The starless night sky is reflected in his eyes. He catches a distorted reflection of his on the adjacent glass window of a darkened office building. Black hoodie, black jeans, black boots, black gloves, black mask. He gazes down at the vibrant city, at the glimmering neon signs, at the zooming cars that spew exhaust. At the pedestrians, some stumble, some jog, some walk aimlessly. Some laugh, some don't.
At the scantily clad girls and similarly dressed guys hovering the sidewalks, appealing to varied flavors. The pimps taking refuge in the sanctuary of their leather covered car seats. The unlicensed chemists and unvetted distributors that clung to shadowed corners, eyes scanning for fiending customers.
He inhales the city's atmosphere. Shivers run along his back, the flesh on his neck tingles, his fingertips tremble. He can taste the sparks, the static charges dance along his tongue.
He raises his arm and aims at the skyscraper in the distance. Yellow electric arcs race down the length of his hand and into the clunky device situated on the back of his wrist. A mechanical whir comes from the strapped square box, he waits for it to charge fully.
Beep! A small LED blinks green and the masked youth squeezes on the trigger mechanism on his arm.
PaF! A thick line of black is spat out the device and latches onto the surface of the tall building. He gives his malformed shadowy reflection one last look and dashes for the roof's edge before the fear and rationality sets on his mind.
For a moment, he levitates, trailing the New York skyline in freefall for a scenic moment before he pulls hard on the reinforced webline, it holds his weight, snagging him up for swing. Cresting the air once again.
PaF!
A smile is writ on the face beneath the mask, Miles Morales now feels like Spider-man. His webshooter might be bigger and clunkier than what he'd seen other Spider-men build, but it didn't matter. This was the first iteration, this was his own creation and design, and he was damn well proud of it. Keeping himself from shouting in elation is an exercise in willpower. With the ground drawing closer, he tugs the line again and --
Snap!
The wire breaks. Gravity laughs, laying hold on the defiant object that is a swinging teenager. Mile's tilts his head, avoiding the full lash of his broken webline. He feels a slice somewhere, but it's secondary to avoiding falling this high.
He squeezes on the web shooter trigger click—click, the LED blinks red, the device is out of charge.
'Bigger capacitors.' He notes, something to improve on later, he was too close to the ground to try charging it again.
Now to survive this fall. He positions himself for the street light, the wind whips past his ear, something red drips into his left eyes. He stalls the instinct to blink, doing otherwise would temporarily blind him and alter his depth perception.
Screech! The metal pole folds and twists from the velocity of the impact and the mass of the object that is his body, specifically his feet which cling to the pole, dragging it out of its cement foundation from the immense momentum. Mile's rolls with a quiet gasp, shielding his head with both arms in an attempt to bleed off the excess force; it is partially successful. His ring finger is numb and barely responsive, he knows it is out of joint.
He quickly transitions to his feet and attempts to bolt, however the metal sheets from the twisted pole attached to his boot slow that avenue, he disables the electrostatic cling. Headlights fill his vision. There is a screech of tires, the blare of a horn and the groan of metal as the taxi bumper dents, Miles is flung further down the road. He cups his side and dashes past halted, honking cars and surprised pedestrians, into a dark alleyway past a very startled corner boy.
"Oh my God!" "What the fuck!" "Holyshit!" "Fucking mutie!" The expressions left in his wake vary. He focuses on setting his finger back into place and finding refuge.
…
Miles stifles a breath and pours the disinfectant alcohol over on the side of his head, the cut is fortunately hidden beneath his lush hair, his lower back however sports a discolored bruise, it would take some time to fully heal. A dull ache assaults his shoulder and lower back and right ankle with every breath he takes.
His first attempt might be unfortunate, the web shooter might not have functioned as well as he wanted it to, his webbing might not be as strong as he expected it to have been. These setbacks would however not deter him from his mission. They were instead lessons, valuable ones that would take him higher.
Someone needed saving, someone needed protecting, someone needed a hand to pull them out of darkness. He was out here to be a helping hand, he could not be deterred by bruises and or machine malfunction. As long as breath lay in his lungs, he would keep fighting.
So up he rose, stashing the bottle of disinfectant, flattening his hair and pulling his mask back on. The night was young and he had much to learn.
A little something.
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
INTERLUDE : YEAR 0
The ski mask slides on like a well fitting glove, the familiarity it brings turns it into a face, the most fitting one among the many he wears. He clings to the wall's surface and despite the established laws of nature denying a human the capacity to, he crawls, as a lizard might on tree bark, or a critter across the ceiling, he pulls himself by his fingers and toes, steadily ascending the flat concrete face like an expert climber. There are no handholds wider than the edge of his finger nails, yet he easily scales the vertical surface as though it were horizontal, as though gravity was naught but an inconvenience.
There is barely any fatigue in his muscles from dragging his body against gravity's pull up the intimidating height of the eight-storey apartment complex.
The loose gravel beneath his boot barely rattle as he climbs the ledge. The starless night sky is reflected in his eyes. He catches a distorted reflection of his on the adjacent glass window of a darkened office building. Black hoodie, black jeans, black boots, black gloves, black mask. He gazes down at the vibrant city, at the glimmering neon signs, at the zooming cars that spew exhaust. At the pedestrians, some stumble, some jog, some walk aimlessly. Some laugh, some don't.
At the scantily clad girls and similarly dressed guys hovering the sidewalks, appealing to varied flavors. The pimps taking refuge in the sanctuary of their leather covered car seats. The unlicensed chemists and unvetted distributors that clung to shadowed corners, eyes scanning for fiending customers.
He inhales the city's atmosphere. Shivers run along his back, the flesh on his neck tingles, his fingertips tremble. He can taste the sparks, the static charges dance along his tongue.
He raises his arm and aims at the skyscraper in the distance. Yellow electric arcs race down the length of his hand and into the clunky device situated on the back of his wrist. A mechanical whir comes from the strapped square box, he waits for it to charge fully.
Beep! A small LED blinks green and the masked youth squeezes on the trigger mechanism on his arm.
PaF! A thick line of black is spat out the device and latches onto the surface of the tall building. He gives his malformed shadowy reflection one last look and dashes for the roof's edge before the fear and rationality sets on his mind.
For a moment, he levitates, trailing the New York skyline in freefall for a scenic moment before he pulls hard on the reinforced webline, it holds his weight, snagging him up for swing. Cresting the air once again.
PaF!
A smile is writ on the face beneath the mask, Miles Morales now feels like Spider-man. His webshooter might be bigger and clunkier than what he'd seen other Spider-men build, but it didn't matter. This was the first iteration, this was his own creation and design, and he was damn well proud of it. Keeping himself from shouting in elation is an exercise in willpower. With the ground drawing closer, he tugs the line again and --
Snap!
The wire breaks. Gravity laughs, laying hold on the defiant object that is a swinging teenager. Mile's tilts his head, avoiding the full lash of his broken webline. He feels a slice somewhere, but it's secondary to avoiding falling this high.
He squeezes on the web shooter trigger click—click, the LED blinks red, the device is out of charge.
'Bigger capacitors.' He notes, something to improve on later, he was too close to the ground to try charging it again.
Now to survive this fall. He positions himself for the street light, the wind whips past his ear, something red drips into his left eyes. He stalls the instinct to blink, doing otherwise would temporarily blind him and alter his depth perception.
Screech! The metal pole folds and twists from the velocity of the impact and the mass of the object that is his body, specifically his feet which cling to the pole, dragging it out of its cement foundation from the immense momentum. Mile's rolls with a quiet gasp, shielding his head with both arms in an attempt to bleed off the excess force; it is partially successful. His ring finger is numb and barely responsive, he knows it is out of joint.
He quickly transitions to his feet and attempts to bolt, however the metal sheets from the twisted pole attached to his boot slow that avenue, he disables the electrostatic cling. Headlights fill his vision. There is a screech of tires, the blare of a horn and the groan of metal as the taxi bumper dents, Miles is flung further down the road. He cups his side and dashes past halted, honking cars and surprised pedestrians, into a dark alleyway past a very startled corner boy.
"Oh my God!" "What the fuck!" "Holyshit!" "Fucking mutie!" The expressions left in his wake vary. He focuses on setting his finger back into place and finding refuge.
…
Miles stifles a breath and pours the disinfectant alcohol over on the side of his head, the cut is fortunately hidden beneath his lush hair, his lower back however sports a discolored bruise, it would take some time to fully heal. A dull ache assaults his shoulder and lower back and right ankle with every breath he takes.
His first attempt might be unfortunate, the web shooter might not have functioned as well as he wanted it to, his webbing might not be as strong as he expected it to have been. These setbacks would however not deter him from his mission. They were instead lessons, valuable ones that would take him higher.
Someone needed saving, someone needed protecting, someone needed a hand to pull them out of darkness. He was out here to be a helping hand, he could not be deterred by bruises and or machine malfunction. As long as breath lay in his lungs, he would keep fighting.
So up he rose, stashing the bottle of disinfectant, flattening his hair and pulling his mask back on. The night was young and he had much to learn.
A little something.
Chapter Four
RainReid
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2023
- Messages
- 7
- Likes received
- 46
Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
RHYME & REASON
Let us think. I haven't had much time to properly ponder my earlier circumstances. But here, in the deep shadow of these dusty tunnels, I stuck my back to the dusty ceiling, the scurrying of rats, lizards and critters of all sorts resounded in the depths. In this deep frigid darkness I could let my mind cool, I can finally allow cold reason to prevail within the solitude of myself.
I don't know how I came to this body, or more importantly why. That is a question I will have to tackle further down the line, when adequate resources are available to me.
Then let's get to the who's who. Who is Miles Morales? He is the first and only son of Rio and Jeff Morales, only nephew to Aaron Davis. He is a smart teen from Brooklyn, a boy raised in a modest home, someone who would become –a scientist, a successful businessman, a great teacher, an outstanding artist— whatever he wanted to be. He was someone with a bright future, and a life ahead of him, an unexciting one yet a good one still.
Yet he chose to be Spider-man, a hero, hated and loved. Why? Simply because he is a good person, someone with a hold on responsibility, someone with a heart that bleeds for others.
I wasn't such a person. My heart was black with vengeance and hatred.
It isn't something I could change simply because I found myself in a different body. This heart was mine, one I'd earned from my suffering.
So the truth is that I will never become a hero. I am more inclined to punish, to seek blood for blood, to pluck an eye for an eye than to be inspirational. I am not spider-man, I am one simply bit by an irradiated spider, a spider that caused an extremely absurd mutation within my biology. I will save people, but I will do it my way.
For the sake of clarity I must delve into my memories, the sequence of events and organize the facts. Why? To understand the present we must consider the past. To predict the future one cannot discard yesterday.
And here is where I cheat, the spidey sense, this borderline precognitive sensory ability that allows one to perceive things beyond the natural. I bend it, I twist it, I straighten it out and spread it through all things. It is ethereal yet graspable, ghostlike yet solid. Asking me to use it beyond just a sense for impending danger, I did. I allowed it to move through me, to saturate my thoughts to encompass my being.
I was bit by an irradiated spider. The spider was an experiment that escaped its cage, a creature put through an immense amount of suffering for the advancement of science. In its last act of defiance, it sunk its fangs into my veins and pumped my body full with unnatural venom.
brZzzz
The buzz of the spider sense tells me I am correct but not fully.
The spider is an avatar of an extra-dimension force, a universal constant of order or good and it chose this body to bear the responsibility of being its agent on earth, a force of hope in the mortal plane.
brZZzzz
The buzz confirms, yet there is more. More I am unable to fully comprehend yet. Two conflicting postulations both correct but not fully so. A link is missing.
I was bitten by the spider during a school excursion to the prestigious Oscorp Labs, one of the leading research and development agencies in the US. Oscorp Labs was solely overseen by a man called Norman Osborn, an extremely successful—industrialist, weapons manufacturer, electronics maker—billionaire businessman.
Why would a man so seemingly competent then allow an excursion to his facility? A facility where he was actively developing such a bio-weapon? Yes, it was unmistakably a bio-weapon. Why bring teenagers into your house of glass knowing that young adults and teenagers are reckless and untamed, they will go where they want, do what they want, touch what they want, act how they want regardless of warnings or consequences.
They will throw stones in your house of glass just to see it break, so why let them in? If your glass isn't just glass, if your glass is reinforced to the extent where it can withstand explosions and weapons fire, then you would be secure in your trust that stones would do nothing to your abode.
He had nothing to worry about, his facility was adequately protected, the important things could not be accessed, if they were any even stationed in the facility. We do not know how the spider got there, it could have clung to an object at an entirely different facility in an entirely different location and arrived there in manner.
Further then, if you can display your power and prowess to the younger generation, if you can have them in awe and worship of you then you can control them, you can have them climb over each other in trying to please you. They may not know it now, but once they mature, once they're in that final year, when they have to go to college and find a job, when they have to choose what company will determine how rich they live, how good their lives will be.
You create an army of willing slaves, answering to your beck and call. It is a way to cement yourself as a dream, an ideal.
We can agree that his facility is protected, and to protect something you must keep watch of it, then we can agree that he has seen me.
That he is aware that I was bitten by his experiment and that I survived it. That conclusion meshes with the observation I made upon being followed from the hospital after my recovery.
So if he is still keeping an eye on me, then I must contain something valuable to him. I must be evidence of something he is chasing or something he sees as interesting enough to keep a hold on.
brZzz—The spidey sense confirms.
Knowing Norman Osborn, my meta knowledge of his life, his murderous alter ego, of his dark dealings and his heinous crimes cements a fact in my head, I will kill him. I must. If I want to protect this new life I lead and those connected to it, there is no other option. I am not Parker nor am I truly Morales, I am not as forgiving, nor naïve, nor bright.
These are geniuses that build objects and devices that put entire industries to shame, teenagers and young adults who rightfully qualified themselves to stand amongst other geniuses.
What do I need to kill a man as protected and powerful as Osborn is? I would need money; money to acquire resources and information. Most importantly I would need power. I have power, a type of it, I would have to fashion it, to understand it fully so I utilize it fully.
Power to face the consequences of my actions, being an arachnid mutate was not enough. I would need power to topple armies, power to stand against the truly powerful, the power to be kind without fear of repercussion.
With these I would have to strike as swift and with extraordinary precise lethal force.
What is the best way to acquire both? It would have to be in a field I was familiar with.
A subject I'd not only dissected down to its fundamentals but also steeply involved myself in. That subject is crime, criminality was my bread and butter, criminals were my brethren. I knew them as I knew myself for I was one of them. In this field I truly excelled, filled with schemes and plots and murder and death and destruction, this was my calling.
With access to the police database through Jeff, I know who to strike and when to strike.
*.*.*.*
Till next time, Rain (the best ever) away!
You can come find me,
ON TWITTER: @Rainreider https://twitter.com/RainReider
On PA*T.R.E*ON: https://www.patreon.com/ReidR41n
On YOUTUBE: https://is.gd/RaiNation
@Rainmaine on Instagram
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
RHYME & REASON
Let us think. I haven't had much time to properly ponder my earlier circumstances. But here, in the deep shadow of these dusty tunnels, I stuck my back to the dusty ceiling, the scurrying of rats, lizards and critters of all sorts resounded in the depths. In this deep frigid darkness I could let my mind cool, I can finally allow cold reason to prevail within the solitude of myself.
I don't know how I came to this body, or more importantly why. That is a question I will have to tackle further down the line, when adequate resources are available to me.
Then let's get to the who's who. Who is Miles Morales? He is the first and only son of Rio and Jeff Morales, only nephew to Aaron Davis. He is a smart teen from Brooklyn, a boy raised in a modest home, someone who would become –a scientist, a successful businessman, a great teacher, an outstanding artist— whatever he wanted to be. He was someone with a bright future, and a life ahead of him, an unexciting one yet a good one still.
Yet he chose to be Spider-man, a hero, hated and loved. Why? Simply because he is a good person, someone with a hold on responsibility, someone with a heart that bleeds for others.
I wasn't such a person. My heart was black with vengeance and hatred.
It isn't something I could change simply because I found myself in a different body. This heart was mine, one I'd earned from my suffering.
So the truth is that I will never become a hero. I am more inclined to punish, to seek blood for blood, to pluck an eye for an eye than to be inspirational. I am not spider-man, I am one simply bit by an irradiated spider, a spider that caused an extremely absurd mutation within my biology. I will save people, but I will do it my way.
For the sake of clarity I must delve into my memories, the sequence of events and organize the facts. Why? To understand the present we must consider the past. To predict the future one cannot discard yesterday.
And here is where I cheat, the spidey sense, this borderline precognitive sensory ability that allows one to perceive things beyond the natural. I bend it, I twist it, I straighten it out and spread it through all things. It is ethereal yet graspable, ghostlike yet solid. Asking me to use it beyond just a sense for impending danger, I did. I allowed it to move through me, to saturate my thoughts to encompass my being.
I was bit by an irradiated spider. The spider was an experiment that escaped its cage, a creature put through an immense amount of suffering for the advancement of science. In its last act of defiance, it sunk its fangs into my veins and pumped my body full with unnatural venom.
brZzzz
The buzz of the spider sense tells me I am correct but not fully.
The spider is an avatar of an extra-dimension force, a universal constant of order or good and it chose this body to bear the responsibility of being its agent on earth, a force of hope in the mortal plane.
brZZzzz
The buzz confirms, yet there is more. More I am unable to fully comprehend yet. Two conflicting postulations both correct but not fully so. A link is missing.
I was bitten by the spider during a school excursion to the prestigious Oscorp Labs, one of the leading research and development agencies in the US. Oscorp Labs was solely overseen by a man called Norman Osborn, an extremely successful—industrialist, weapons manufacturer, electronics maker—billionaire businessman.
Why would a man so seemingly competent then allow an excursion to his facility? A facility where he was actively developing such a bio-weapon? Yes, it was unmistakably a bio-weapon. Why bring teenagers into your house of glass knowing that young adults and teenagers are reckless and untamed, they will go where they want, do what they want, touch what they want, act how they want regardless of warnings or consequences.
They will throw stones in your house of glass just to see it break, so why let them in? If your glass isn't just glass, if your glass is reinforced to the extent where it can withstand explosions and weapons fire, then you would be secure in your trust that stones would do nothing to your abode.
He had nothing to worry about, his facility was adequately protected, the important things could not be accessed, if they were any even stationed in the facility. We do not know how the spider got there, it could have clung to an object at an entirely different facility in an entirely different location and arrived there in manner.
Further then, if you can display your power and prowess to the younger generation, if you can have them in awe and worship of you then you can control them, you can have them climb over each other in trying to please you. They may not know it now, but once they mature, once they're in that final year, when they have to go to college and find a job, when they have to choose what company will determine how rich they live, how good their lives will be.
You create an army of willing slaves, answering to your beck and call. It is a way to cement yourself as a dream, an ideal.
We can agree that his facility is protected, and to protect something you must keep watch of it, then we can agree that he has seen me.
That he is aware that I was bitten by his experiment and that I survived it. That conclusion meshes with the observation I made upon being followed from the hospital after my recovery.
So if he is still keeping an eye on me, then I must contain something valuable to him. I must be evidence of something he is chasing or something he sees as interesting enough to keep a hold on.
brZzz—The spidey sense confirms.
Knowing Norman Osborn, my meta knowledge of his life, his murderous alter ego, of his dark dealings and his heinous crimes cements a fact in my head, I will kill him. I must. If I want to protect this new life I lead and those connected to it, there is no other option. I am not Parker nor am I truly Morales, I am not as forgiving, nor naïve, nor bright.
These are geniuses that build objects and devices that put entire industries to shame, teenagers and young adults who rightfully qualified themselves to stand amongst other geniuses.
What do I need to kill a man as protected and powerful as Osborn is? I would need money; money to acquire resources and information. Most importantly I would need power. I have power, a type of it, I would have to fashion it, to understand it fully so I utilize it fully.
Power to face the consequences of my actions, being an arachnid mutate was not enough. I would need power to topple armies, power to stand against the truly powerful, the power to be kind without fear of repercussion.
With these I would have to strike as swift and with extraordinary precise lethal force.
What is the best way to acquire both? It would have to be in a field I was familiar with.
A subject I'd not only dissected down to its fundamentals but also steeply involved myself in. That subject is crime, criminality was my bread and butter, criminals were my brethren. I knew them as I knew myself for I was one of them. In this field I truly excelled, filled with schemes and plots and murder and death and destruction, this was my calling.
With access to the police database through Jeff, I know who to strike and when to strike.
*.*.*.*
Till next time, Rain (the best ever) away!
You can come find me,
ON TWITTER: @Rainreider https://twitter.com/RainReider
On PA*T.R.E*ON: https://www.patreon.com/ReidR41n
On YOUTUBE: https://is.gd/RaiNation
@Rainmaine on Instagram
Chapter Five
RainReid
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2023
- Messages
- 7
- Likes received
- 46
Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
CTRL+S US ALL
There is fear, further down the scale lies terror. These men were terrified. Maximus could tell, even if he ignored the tremble in their limbs their loud shaky breaths announced it to the world.
"Compose yourselves idiotas!" He roared. You'd think a group of twelve fully armed men would muster courage in the darkness of their hideout, but no.
Fucking cowards. He spat. He'd fought hard to recruit these men, they were criminal soldados, hitmen and killers for the cartel. Men who skinned and dismembered people alive, yet here they were, their flashlights pointing at the darkness as they searched for a target.
"Fucking puta come out and fight!" He shouted.
Thwhip!
"AHH--!" Whoosh! Twelve standing men became eleven.
Bratatatatatataatat! Bratatatatatat! Bratatatatatat!
Bullets flew, painting the walls in slugs that shot at where they heard the scream disappear to.
Thwip!
"AIEE--!" Eleven turned to ten. Maximus heard the tell tale sounds of bones breaking, silencing the scream. He knew that sound for he had caused it on others, never this loud of course, no this was thunder. It was vicious.
Bratatatatatataatat! Bratatatatatat! Bratatatatatat!
"You fucker! Face me like a man!"
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
"UHK--!" "ARGH--!" "AIEE--!" "HAA--!" the screams were again quickly silenced.
Bratatatatatataatat! Bratatatatatat! Bratat—click click!
The AK-47s were emptied, the mags were hollow now, spent casings littered the floor. The remaining six huddled together, waiting.
Maximus believed the attacker would show themselves now that they were out of bullets.
The figure was lit by a stray torch. It zoomed towards them and Maximus felt his chest tighten. The figure that was meters away was suddenly inches away.
It did not even strike them, he just felt it rush past and felt a touch on his shoulder. His skin itched where he felt the touch, it was as though goosebumps were gathered just on that spot.
Yellow electricity lit the room up, Maximus was on the ground, curled in agony from the electricity dancing about his organs. His men fared much worse than he did, they were foaming at the mouth and twitching.
He then watched the black blur approach his men, breaking their limbs beneath his boot. It was unrushed, it was systematic. Those were breaks that would never heal cleanly, they would leave one with life-long debilitating injuries effectively rendering them cripple.
That man approached him, he wasn't tall, he did not look imposing or big. He seemed like a low profile athlete, someone Maximus would never be scared or careful of, yet here his heart beat wildly, a loudspeaker in his chest.
He was Maximus Gargan, the cartel called him the Scorpion for his preferred weapon, a hooked blade at the end of a chain wrapped around his waist, one he'd been using for almost a decade now. He'd learned to kill with the weapon when he was but a teenager, it was an accidental discovery, being bored and involved in gang activities while in school, he was chastised by a teacher.
He didn't like that very much, he was to be respected, a man like him could not tolerate any form of disrespect or insults especially to his name or honor. He followed the woman home and then to her spouse's business, a humble, almost rundown butcher's shop. Where the woman, her daughter and husband worked together after she was done with teaching for the day.
He raided the place with his boys, guns drawn and pointed at the stupid bitch. He sliced her husband's throat with his still wet blade. Her and her daughter's screams made him feel powerful, the look in their eyes wasn't enough, it wasn't terrified enough yet. He saw the swaying hooks that held bled pigs and his mind conjured a sinister and vicious image.
He grabbed the daughter, a terrified girl his age, begging for her life. He laughed and stabbed her in the stomach with the hook, burying the item deep within her, he pulled the chain, hung the girl by her intestines all while she howled in agony.
He proceeded to have his way with his teacher, making sure to thoroughly enjoy himself as she cried for her dying daughter.
He left her alive to serve as an example of what would happen to those who disrespect him. Today he would make another example.
He was fucking scorpion a ruthless criminal listed on the FBI's most wanted list, a heinous man who was responsible for heinous crimes, a son of satan. Once he was done here he would have words with his employer who had made it known they would be undisturbed, even promising that the cops were in his pocket, that he owned the city.
Through his pain he held his weapon and waited.
"Ha!" Gargan threw his blade once the attacker was within range. Had he been of sound mind, he might have been aware that the earlier attack that had him on the floor was electric in nature, that metal was a superb conductor as well.
His attacker tilted his head and grabbed the blade before it sailed past his face.
"Your sins cry out." The attacker spoke in a cold whisper that sounded like a gravelly rasp.
Gargan felt the chain tighten, air fled his midsection, the ground flew from under his feet. He found himself in the attacker's grasp.
"Suffer." The hook ate into his lower jaw and tore down brutally, going through his neck, ribs, stomach, pelvis and last his groin.
His intestines fell from his open torso, tears pooled in his rolling eyes as an all consuming agony ate through his soul. He felt electricity flood his system, burning his nerves and keeping him alive, prolonging his agony.
Thud. The once feared criminal fell unceremoniously, split twain and smoking as burnt flesh rose from his corpse.
The attacker, Miles, wished he could torture souls as well but this was the most he could do for now. He searched the vicinity, keeping whatever devices contained information on dealings and employers. He tore open the safes and emptied their contents into his backpack, keeping the money, drugs and weapons he could.
He approached a closed door and twisted the lock. The people huddled together, wondering if the one in black was a savior or something worse. They ranged from parents, to young adults to children, none were older than thirty.
They were each sold for different purposes, some for prostitution, some for their organs, the healthiest of them would be used for human experimentation by a man he was already after.
"Go to this man, he will help you." He handed them money, and a flier that held directions to a law firm in Hell's Kitchen. Thinking it over he decided to lead them himself. They would get lost or robbed, some would be too fearful to even head to the destination. "Follow me." He said, his voice sure and strong.
In the alleys of New York, a young man covered in black led a group of weary travelers. They whispered amongst themselves about the savior, about the dark angel who brought down the wrath of God upon the wicked, the image of the mutilated body remained fresh in their minds, a deserving end for a wicked one.
This dark angel that led them—the lost, the scared, the weak, the meek, through these unfamiliar paths, beating down on predators that crawled from the dark corners, keeping them safe under the cover of night till they reached the destination.
"Go knock, he's in there." Was the last thing they heard from him as he vanished into the shadows.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
"I'm coming, I'm coming—oh, wow." Matt Murdoch adjusted his glasses, sensing just how many people stood at the entrance of his establishment. They handed him whatever money they'd been given and told him of this dark angel, their savior.
He could feel it in the air, it was the taste of electricity and vibrance, New York was about to witness something unfamiliar soon enough.
8.8.8.8.8.8.8
Ariganno espa vida! That Spaneesh for I hope you enjoy it!
Till next time, Rain (the best ever) away!
You can come find me,
ON TWITTER: @Rainreider https://twitter.com/RainReider
On PA*T.R.E*ON: https://www.patreon.com/ReidR41n
On YOUTUBE: https://is.gd/RaiNation
@Rainmaine on Instagram
This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.
CTRL+S US ALL
There is fear, further down the scale lies terror. These men were terrified. Maximus could tell, even if he ignored the tremble in their limbs their loud shaky breaths announced it to the world.
"Compose yourselves idiotas!" He roared. You'd think a group of twelve fully armed men would muster courage in the darkness of their hideout, but no.
Fucking cowards. He spat. He'd fought hard to recruit these men, they were criminal soldados, hitmen and killers for the cartel. Men who skinned and dismembered people alive, yet here they were, their flashlights pointing at the darkness as they searched for a target.
"Fucking puta come out and fight!" He shouted.
Thwhip!
"AHH--!" Whoosh! Twelve standing men became eleven.
Bratatatatatataatat! Bratatatatatat! Bratatatatatat!
Bullets flew, painting the walls in slugs that shot at where they heard the scream disappear to.
Thwip!
"AIEE--!" Eleven turned to ten. Maximus heard the tell tale sounds of bones breaking, silencing the scream. He knew that sound for he had caused it on others, never this loud of course, no this was thunder. It was vicious.
Bratatatatatataatat! Bratatatatatat! Bratatatatatat!
"You fucker! Face me like a man!"
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
"UHK--!" "ARGH--!" "AIEE--!" "HAA--!" the screams were again quickly silenced.
Bratatatatatataatat! Bratatatatatat! Bratat—click click!
The AK-47s were emptied, the mags were hollow now, spent casings littered the floor. The remaining six huddled together, waiting.
Maximus believed the attacker would show themselves now that they were out of bullets.
The figure was lit by a stray torch. It zoomed towards them and Maximus felt his chest tighten. The figure that was meters away was suddenly inches away.
It did not even strike them, he just felt it rush past and felt a touch on his shoulder. His skin itched where he felt the touch, it was as though goosebumps were gathered just on that spot.
Yellow electricity lit the room up, Maximus was on the ground, curled in agony from the electricity dancing about his organs. His men fared much worse than he did, they were foaming at the mouth and twitching.
He then watched the black blur approach his men, breaking their limbs beneath his boot. It was unrushed, it was systematic. Those were breaks that would never heal cleanly, they would leave one with life-long debilitating injuries effectively rendering them cripple.
That man approached him, he wasn't tall, he did not look imposing or big. He seemed like a low profile athlete, someone Maximus would never be scared or careful of, yet here his heart beat wildly, a loudspeaker in his chest.
He was Maximus Gargan, the cartel called him the Scorpion for his preferred weapon, a hooked blade at the end of a chain wrapped around his waist, one he'd been using for almost a decade now. He'd learned to kill with the weapon when he was but a teenager, it was an accidental discovery, being bored and involved in gang activities while in school, he was chastised by a teacher.
He didn't like that very much, he was to be respected, a man like him could not tolerate any form of disrespect or insults especially to his name or honor. He followed the woman home and then to her spouse's business, a humble, almost rundown butcher's shop. Where the woman, her daughter and husband worked together after she was done with teaching for the day.
He raided the place with his boys, guns drawn and pointed at the stupid bitch. He sliced her husband's throat with his still wet blade. Her and her daughter's screams made him feel powerful, the look in their eyes wasn't enough, it wasn't terrified enough yet. He saw the swaying hooks that held bled pigs and his mind conjured a sinister and vicious image.
He grabbed the daughter, a terrified girl his age, begging for her life. He laughed and stabbed her in the stomach with the hook, burying the item deep within her, he pulled the chain, hung the girl by her intestines all while she howled in agony.
He proceeded to have his way with his teacher, making sure to thoroughly enjoy himself as she cried for her dying daughter.
He left her alive to serve as an example of what would happen to those who disrespect him. Today he would make another example.
He was fucking scorpion a ruthless criminal listed on the FBI's most wanted list, a heinous man who was responsible for heinous crimes, a son of satan. Once he was done here he would have words with his employer who had made it known they would be undisturbed, even promising that the cops were in his pocket, that he owned the city.
Through his pain he held his weapon and waited.
"Ha!" Gargan threw his blade once the attacker was within range. Had he been of sound mind, he might have been aware that the earlier attack that had him on the floor was electric in nature, that metal was a superb conductor as well.
His attacker tilted his head and grabbed the blade before it sailed past his face.
"Your sins cry out." The attacker spoke in a cold whisper that sounded like a gravelly rasp.
Gargan felt the chain tighten, air fled his midsection, the ground flew from under his feet. He found himself in the attacker's grasp.
"Suffer." The hook ate into his lower jaw and tore down brutally, going through his neck, ribs, stomach, pelvis and last his groin.
His intestines fell from his open torso, tears pooled in his rolling eyes as an all consuming agony ate through his soul. He felt electricity flood his system, burning his nerves and keeping him alive, prolonging his agony.
Thud. The once feared criminal fell unceremoniously, split twain and smoking as burnt flesh rose from his corpse.
The attacker, Miles, wished he could torture souls as well but this was the most he could do for now. He searched the vicinity, keeping whatever devices contained information on dealings and employers. He tore open the safes and emptied their contents into his backpack, keeping the money, drugs and weapons he could.
He approached a closed door and twisted the lock. The people huddled together, wondering if the one in black was a savior or something worse. They ranged from parents, to young adults to children, none were older than thirty.
They were each sold for different purposes, some for prostitution, some for their organs, the healthiest of them would be used for human experimentation by a man he was already after.
"Go to this man, he will help you." He handed them money, and a flier that held directions to a law firm in Hell's Kitchen. Thinking it over he decided to lead them himself. They would get lost or robbed, some would be too fearful to even head to the destination. "Follow me." He said, his voice sure and strong.
In the alleys of New York, a young man covered in black led a group of weary travelers. They whispered amongst themselves about the savior, about the dark angel who brought down the wrath of God upon the wicked, the image of the mutilated body remained fresh in their minds, a deserving end for a wicked one.
This dark angel that led them—the lost, the scared, the weak, the meek, through these unfamiliar paths, beating down on predators that crawled from the dark corners, keeping them safe under the cover of night till they reached the destination.
"Go knock, he's in there." Was the last thing they heard from him as he vanished into the shadows.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
"I'm coming, I'm coming—oh, wow." Matt Murdoch adjusted his glasses, sensing just how many people stood at the entrance of his establishment. They handed him whatever money they'd been given and told him of this dark angel, their savior.
He could feel it in the air, it was the taste of electricity and vibrance, New York was about to witness something unfamiliar soon enough.
8.8.8.8.8.8.8
Ariganno espa vida! That Spaneesh for I hope you enjoy it!
Till next time, Rain (the best ever) away!
You can come find me,
ON TWITTER: @Rainreider https://twitter.com/RainReider
On PA*T.R.E*ON: https://www.patreon.com/ReidR41n
On YOUTUBE: https://is.gd/RaiNation
@Rainmaine on Instagram