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.
"I'm glad you understand the gravity of the situation," a man says, kneeling in front of him. Caucasian. Blonde. Bland. There's nothing special that stands out about him. Peter recoils anyway, because he's too close, his presence pushing on him like a physical force.
The man laughs, taking his recoil as an act of fear, which makes Peter's stomach curl. Not because he's taken out villains twice the man's size and a thousand times stronger, but because he's right. He is scared. Everything about this situation is wrong and overwhelming. His memories are littered with holes, his skin is eating him alive, and his body trembles under the cold. He's too on display, and his shoulders curl, the desire to crouch down and assess this new threat takes him by the throat.
The man is talking again, but Peter isn't listening. The inundating sensations of everyone else in the room digs at him like a pick, knocking pieces of him off with every scrape of clothing and grind of shoes against concrete. One keeps sniffing, and another is playing with a wrapper in their pocket.
They're all focused on him.
MOVE, his brain suddenly shouts, and Peter's head whips to the side as the man strikes him in the jaw.
"Are you even paying attention?" He demands, and Peter blinks at him, belatedly realizing he's asking him that question.
But his tongue is too heavy and his mouth too full to speak. The man seizes him by the jaw and it's like he's digging his fingers into a raw, open wound. He's trying to force Peter to look up, but that's where the light is and it's too bright, and Peter jerks his chin away.
"I asked you a question," the man sounds annoyed now and he swings his fist again. This time, Peter moves with the motion. Unprepared to meet open air, the man stumbles, almost falling into him, and Peter's chest constricts as if he were physically being stepped on him. He reacts by instinct.
"GEEZUS!" The man cries, fumbling backward and nearly falling on his ass as Peter bares his fangs and hisses, the sound high and shrill, and entirely inhuman.
Uneasy mumbling permeates the room. More attention fixates on him. More rustling and skipping hearts and anxious fluttering. Peter shakes harder.
Trapped. Cold. He can't tell the difference, all he knows is that it's bad.
Someone comes towards him and he hisses again, horripilation climbing his spine like a ladder. The person falters, hesitating. Good. They should be worried about getting close. The bitter tang of poison sits heavy on his tongue in warning. The prey is decently sized, but it wouldn't take much to bring them down.
Peter watches cautiously as they approach their boss and help him to his feet.
"I didn't know he could do that," one of them mutters.
"Never heard of him doing anything like that before," another says.
The man—the boss—yanks his arm from his lackey's grip and pretends his heart isn't racing as he brushes off his clothes. "I don't care if he's got six eyes and shoots webs out of our ass, we're getting that base back." His words are bold, but sweat dots his temple. He's scared, too. That's good. Spiders aren't meant to be cornered. Spiders are hunters, be it waiting for their prey or tracking it themselves.
The boss adjusts his collar, glancing at his lackey's around the room as his cheeks flush red. "Think so, freak?" He picks something up off the floor, long and made of metal. A crowbar?
Peter's spider-sense flares, but he can't dodge, and the crowbar smashes into his side. Getting hit by a piece of metal always hurts, but it's not the worst thing he's been through. He's been thrown through buildings, off trains, stabbed by mechanical scorpion tails, knocked by synthetic rhino horns, and batted around like a rag dog by metal tentacles. One normal guy and a crowbar aren't going to put him out.
But Peter's caught off guard by the way his skin burns like he'd been lit on fire. He's unable to stifle his yelp, which satisfies the boss for the time being. He gives Peter another good hit before tossing the crowbar to the side.
"Alena, do your worst." He says, turning to leave. "I want him spilling his guts within the hour."
Someone new steps out of the shadows. Bigger and bulkier than the rest. She's different. Peter hears the strain of her muscles, the way her body flexes and moves.
"Uh, sure thing, boss," she says, "but are you sure we shouldn't wait for-"
"You heard me," he snaps. "I'll handle him. You handle this freak. I want him spilling his guts within the hour. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it." She takes her boss's place in front of Peter, picking up the crowbar as she goes and hitting it in the palm of her hand. She's a lot more intimidating than her boss. "Last chance, Webhead," she says, bending the bar like putty. Mutant? Mutate? Definitely superhuman. "Talk. Where're you keeping the base?"
Peter couldn't talk even if he wanted to. His fangs fill his mouth completely and his head is spinning. He's still scrambling to put together how he got here, much less out what this "base" is they're looking for. A thought nags at him, pricking the corners of his mind with familiarity, but it's as graspable as smoke.
When his silence carries, she shrugs. "If that's how you want it."
Peter doesn't have enough room to dodge the first punch.
A/N
There were no spider quirks last chapter other than ones we already covered, but for this one, we actually do: when spiders feel threatened or cornered, they defend themselves by biting and injecting the threat. They can control how much poison they release into the threat as well, so when Peter was looking at the lackey who helped boss man to his feet, he was assessing him and mentally calculating how much venom it would take to bring him down (which wouldn't be a lot).
These guys better watch their steps and not get too close to Peter's mouth.
As for what was causing Peter to act and feel as weak as he was, that's actually more of a Spider-Man fact, than a spider fact, and is something we will cover in the chapters to come ;) Bonus point if you guess what it is.