Wade Wilson's Guide to Studying Your Spider

Peter wakes up chilled to the bone.

From the moment he opens his eyes, he's assaulted by a freezing burn that had infected his skin, so overwhelming and brutal that his entire body jolts, and he gasps. It's not the type of cold that typically makes him sleepy. It stings, digging into his pores and sending pain signals blaring to his brain that something is very wrong.

Overcome with an innate urge to get away, he scrambles back, only to be held in place by metal that CLINKS and CLANGS with each move. He's unable to move his legs at all, they bolted to the ground by chains that dig into his thighs and calves. His arms are suspended in the air, over his head, and pulled so tight it roots an ache deep into his shoulder.

He feels...strange. Pain is not an unfamiliar sensation, but it's something more than that. His head is swimming, performing the backstroke and the butterfly, taking the shadows and garbled light and twisting them into fuzzy blobs. The light, though not particularly bright, sends stabbing pain through his irises, and he leans over to escape it, hissing as the cuffs around his wrist pinch his skin, keeping him propped up.

He tries to breathe.

What happened? Where is he?

He can't remember much. Just a few things. Like a flash of light, a loud BANG, and then cold. Infectious, poisonous cold that covered his entire body and made him burn, fingers going numb and limbs curling in on themselves. And then there was darkness.

And now he's here.

"He's awake," someone says, and Peter flinches. They are close by, but they may as well be yelling into his ear. Every vibration in the room scrapes across his skin like knives, and every shifting molecule becomes tangible TV static that envelops him, peppering his body with thousands of razor-sharp snowflakes.

He feels everyone in the room more than he sees them. Hears the shifting of their clothes, the scuff of their shoes, the breath that leaves their lungs, and the beating of their hearts. There are not a lot of them, but still too many to be comfortable.

"It's about time," someone else says, and one heartbeat among them differentiates itself by moving towards him. "That's some legit stuff, isn't it? The Tinkerer sure knows his shit."

Peter cocks his head, snagging on the name like a loose thread. The Tinkerer. He knows him. Memories of goggles and balding heads come to mind: machines, motor oil, and the grind of metal and gears.

The scuffling of shoes grates on him like nails on a chalkboard and he shakes his head, trying to disentangle the noise, only for it to creep up his spine and make him cringe. The guilty shoes in question stop in front of him and then a piece falls to the floor where his eyes are pinned. It's red, with large white eyes that stare at him like an alien creature. It takes a few seconds for it to click and Peter inhales sharply, choking on the smell of body odor and lemon-line cleaner.

"Nice to meet you, Spider-Man," the voice chuckles. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time."

Peter stares at his Spider-Man mask in shock. He didn't realize how the cold air was against his skin until now. How it's lacking the subtle protection of spandex. If it were possible, his body goes number.

Rationally, he needs to keep a cool head. Losing his mind won't help, and it'd be hella embarrassing in front of the goon-squad, but his mask also happens to be one of the few things that hold his identity as Spider-Man together. With it he has anonymity. Protection. He doesn't have to worry about being recognized, or his enemies coming after him and his family.

But gone, it opens a whole can of worms that perforate his composure into swiss cheese.

The situation isn't helped by the fact that his head is pounding and it's impossible to focus with so much invading his senses. He tugs on the chains, but they hold firm. Maybe he could break them if he put his back into it, but his limbs feel made of ice. Thin, brittle, and numb.