Chapter Text
[ I'm starting to get a bit worried. ] Steven's unbidden thought finally floated to the surface, his fingers nimbly twiddling with the pen belonging to his clipboard. He'd scribbled notes to himself next to the excerpts, reminders of what most people enjoyed hearing and what made others yawn .
He was working at shortening his tours so they had less of a chance of running into each other and normally had only ten minutes at the beginning of his day to do so.
[ I'm sure she's fine. ]
[ Is she? A bit concerning to call in from work three days in a row, innit? Riley's punctual folk, and seems more like the type to come into work whether she was feeling under the weather or not. ]
[ Workaholic? ]
[ I prefer to call her dedicated . She's had my back with this job since day one, you know? ]
[ I know, but there really isn't much you can do about it, is there? ]
Steven groaned aloud, [ Can't you just let me be worried? Not much I can do aside from puttering about like some lame stooge and that alone makes me feel bad enough. ]
[ You know I didn't mean it like that. ]
[ Didn't you? ] The accusation hung heavy in the air, interrupted when a stranger walked up to him with an envelope in her hands.
"Steven Grant?" Her voice was sickly sweet, but not unkind.
"Yes? Can I help you?" The edge of his clipboard was disturbed by a subtle weight, the envelope placed delicately atop his papers.
"For you. I'd suggest you wait to open it until the end of your shift, just in case."
Thinking it was a gift, Steven's mouth lifted into the beginning of a smile, "I'll be sure to do just that. Cheers!" He sent her off with a clipped wave, lips still quirked, "that was awfully nice of her."
[ Open the envelope, Steven. ]
[ What? But she said to- ]
[ It's addressed to me. ]
That brought Steven to a halt, now inspecting it more fully. The script was tiny, cursive letters looped carefully into the upper right corner. Marc Spector . Steven swallowed.
[ That- that can't be good, can it? ] And started peeling back the triangle sealing it shut, nothing but a simple moon-shaped sticker keeping him from what was inside. There were two separate papers; a letter and a photo. He held off on reading, instead focused on the subject within the picture- Peter, rope around his torso and arms, head lolled to the side and decidedly unconscious. Steven's hand flew to his mouth.
"Oh! Oh my God. Marc ." Then that girl was-
It was Marc's head whipping around, Steven taking a step back from the forefront of their consciousness to stutter and shake. Marc cursed under his breath and brought the letter to view, the edges crinkled from where he was gripping it too hard.
Marc Spector,
Should this reach you, know that Peter Parker is in good hands. No harm shall come to him given that you surrender yourself to us willingly, without summoning the suit. We hope to see you soon.
No one had signed off on the letter, but there was an address and a time printed beneath the few sentences offered. He heard the tear of paper as his fingers tightened, griping with a wave of sudden anger.
[ We'll get him back, Steven. ]
[ Will we? What if- what if they're lying and Peter's dead already? ]
[ He's Spider-man. I taught him how to protect himself. He'll be fine. ]
[ But they managed to bloody capture him, Marc! It could mean so many things. What'd they do to get his guard down? Why was he unconscious? Did they knock him out? Was it blunt force, or was it drugs? If they ambushed him, how badly was he hurt? How much can we not see? There are too many variables to consider and they could very well be lying to us, Marc. We'd be walking in blind! ]
[ I've walked into far worse. Trust me on this, okay? ]
[ ... Okay, okay. What's the plan? ]
[ The plan is- we do exactly what they say. ]
[ I'm sorry, what ? Have you finally gone completely mental? ' ]
[ I know it sounds risky, but right now, it's the only option we have that guarantees Peter's safety. Once they've got us in the same room as him, we'll have a better chance at finding an opportunity to get him out of there. S'not like they can physically prevent us from summoning the suit. ]
[ Aces. So we've just gotta waltz right into the enemy den and hope we make it out without a scratch, right? There's no way this would go wrong. ]
☽
[ I'm still not feeling quite right about this. ]
[ Steven- Can you shut up for maybe two seconds? ] They were almost there, a measly block away now, and the flats of his palms were beading with sweat. Marc had always been used to high stakes, but when there was someone other than himself he needed to be concerned for?
It reminded him of Layla and the tomb. The bullets in his chest, the afterlife, and blood in his mouth while he crawled his way out of death. The address crept gradually into view, a warehouse that would have looked empty if it weren't for the dimly lit windows.
When he got close enough, there were two faceless goons shouldering the metal doors open and a single man stepped out into the path of light that spilled out with it.
"Marc Spector," He said, all smiles and crow's feet beside his eyes, "or is it Steven Grant? Forgive me, I haven't been given the chance to differentiate between the two of you. Peter's just inside if you want to see him."
How eerily… cordial , "I'm Marc," He said, "I'll be seeing him sooner rather than later. Move-" He went to push past him, but several pairs of hands stopped him from going further. The man that had addressed him, white shirt and black slacks, kept a heavy hand on the length of his forearm.
"Not quite," and he almost sounded truly remorseful, if it weren't for the fact that both of his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. He could clearly see the tattoo marrying the inside of his wrist, the loyalty he bore displayed upon his skin, and it made Marc's blood boil , "we'll be checking you for weapons, first. Have to be completely sure you're unarmed before we have you walking around, of course, for our safety and yours."
"Fuck off," but Marc didn't try ripping away, scowl painted permanently on his features. They briskly patted him down and found both the gun in his waistband and the knife in his boot, "Ah. Oops. Forgot about those."
No one graced him with a response, instead, he only got to watch before they dropped both into some plastic tub that they carried far out of sight. He didn't mourn too much of it, moonlight pouring over his skin, instilling him with a hidden strength that could be provided even without the suit.
"And one more thing," the man said, still having not introduced himself, "We'll need to bind your hands as well. A necessary step, considering your skill set. You can be quite brutal when you want to be, can't you, Marc Spector?"
He gritted his teeth behind a response, instead obediently folding his hands behind his back. Steven's anxiety itched his brain.
[ This is getting a bit sketchy, Marc. Are we sure we should be letting him do this? ]
[ Right now, we don't have much of a choice. Let's just go find Peter and see if they made good on their promise not to hurt him, alright? Baby steps. ]
He refocused back in just in time to feel the stifling weight of chains wound around his arms and hands, locking them firmly to the run of his spine.
"-The hell are these?" He gave them an experimental jerk when they were well and done, irked when they had minimal give. Fuck. Fuck .
[ Peter's still inside. ] It was a chilling reminder coming from Steven, stilling Marc's agitated movement. He lowered his chin to his chest and took a deep breath, grasping for a semblance of calm. The man across from him laughed gently.
"Just in case you change your mind about the suit. Can't be too careful, can we?" And then there was a guiding hand on his shoulder, nudging him through the gap between the doors. If he had thought before that his impression was bad, it was infinitely worse now. The second floor was a balcony that bordered the upper half of the building, and there were dozens of people on it, eyes trained below. What concerned him was that they were armed. Every single one of them.
"Nice place you've got," He murmured icily, "the perfect place to hold a child hostage, right?" All tall walls and roaming sentries. Marc wondered how long they'd been there, how long they'd been looking, and if he'd be able to spot Harrow lurking in the shadows from the corners of his gaze.
This led him to an isolated room that branched off, the concrete floors permeated with the stink of briny river water. His jaw clenched at the sight of Peter, whose leg was restlessly bouncing from sitting still for hours and expression blooming into relief at the sight of him. But it melted away quickly, replaced by staunch concern at the metal confines that twisted his arms.
"It's okay," Marc said, not letting him get a word in, "it'll be okay, Peter."
No-name lifted a brow at the exchange, however brief, "A soft spot, is he? That makes this much easier," the scrape of a second chair joining the fray grated on Marc's eardrums, and the no-name man motioned expressly towards the seat, "why don't you sit down, Marc? We have much to discuss."
He did, ignoring the discomfort of having his shoulder blades pressed even tighter together. No-name lifted another length of chain, mouth slanted into something contemplative.
"Stay still, won't you? This will be much easier if you-"
"Just fucking do it already, alright?" The asking before doing anything- not even waiting for an answer before doing it anyways - it was driving him up a proverbial wall.
"Why is he-" It was Peter speaking, stopping to wet the chapped surface of his lips, "why is he here? What's going on, Finn?"
He had a name now, though it didn't do anything to help their situation. Finn. Marc wished he could strangle the sound of it beneath his fingers, a desire multiplied tenfold when Finn crossed two more lengths across his chest, effectively trapping him against the chair.
"I told you before, didn't I? We have things to discuss-"
"-And why's the kid gotta be here for it?"
"Because you've been keeping secrets, Marc. Does poor Peter Parker have even an inkling of what you get up to at night? And I'm not talking about the cape, no, I mean the killing. The slaughter . I'd hardly sanction a lone teenager keeping the company of a serial murderer, but that's just me."
Steven's speculation over the body they'd dealt with came rushing back to him all at once, "You have no clue what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Here, you stand on a mountain of bodies taller than the pyramid of Giza itself," Finn turned to Peter, "doesn't that concern you in the slightest, poor Peter? No moral compass, an indiscriminate murderer, a monster ? And that's only the tip of the iceberg. Has he told you much about his mercenary work? Dark history, that is. No wonder he won't talk about it. You'd finally see him for what he is."
Marc's patience was tempering, roaring to life in his veins when he strained against his restraints. Peter was looking right at him now, eyes wet and chest twitching with half-breaths, on the verge of something .
Marc was too much of a coward to label it as fear.
"That's ancient history," Marc spit, "bringing it up won't change a damn thing. You don't think I've tried to repent for that night? That the faces of the dead don't haunt me every time I close my eyes? I don't know what the hell you're trying to instigate here, Finn , but you're going to have to try harder than that."
"I think I've tried just enough," Finn beckoned and two figures darkened the doorway, broad-shouldered muscle men that had a mean look in their eyes, "I have you right where I want you, Marc Spector, and you are going to pay for the losses you've put us through. You're going to pay for the death of Arthur Harrow ."
Marc's stony resolve cracked right down the middle.
"What- what are you talking about? I spared him. We spared him. Yeah, he disappeared, but he's not- he's not dead. Who the hell would've killed him?"
"You, apparently. And I've begun tiring of your lies. I'll let my friends here take care of you both for the rest of the night and we'll see each other again in the morning, should you last so long."
"The hell happened to 'discussing' things?"
"Oh! Well, we're quite past that, aren't we? I think I've made it perfectly clear that the world would be a much better place without you in it."
"Finn, we could really do with less villainous monologuing. It's honestly killing the vibe you've got going on here. Is this your first time being the bad guy?" Peter asked, finally ending his unassuming lapse of silence. His arms shifted and from his spot three feet away from him, Marc could hear the ropes groan with tension.
Marc nearly doubled forward in his seat, "Peter, don't ." His demand didn't go unnoticed, Finn's position in the doorway lingering, having stopped to hear Peter's goading.
"Don't what?" Finn needled, fishing for his answer. Marc swallowed over the lump forming in his throat.
"Don't… provoke him. Okay? Don't."
Peter sidled back, a grim frown seated on his face. He at least stopped subtly tearing at the ropes, but now his eyes were gauging Marc's expression, pupils jumping.
Finn sighed, "I'll leave you all to it, then. And I'd advise not trying anything, Marc. Who knows what permanent damage we could inflict upon poor, innocent Peter? You've already dragged him into your mess. Anything happens to him, and it'd be all your fault ."
Marc's whole body twitched, a live wire yanking his body as the words filled his lungs like poison. The ringing that plagued his ears was new , a whining drone that drowned out everything else. When he looked up again, Finn was gone, and one of the muscle heads he'd left behind had a fist pulled back.
As it came hurtling towards him, Marc's eyes flitted closed. Steven's opened.
"What the-" the knuckles busted cartilage, his teeth clamping down on his tongue with a burst of blood while he'd been mid-word. Steven's head swayed and an unfiltered groan fell ragged from his throat, "M-Marc?" Another punch, pain bursting across his cheekbone, "where- where'd you go?" His head was erringly silent, but Steven could guess why. It wasn't powerful knowledge, but it would explain why Marc withdrew, riddled with distress.
Red dribbled steadily down Steven's chin, "Can- can you hold on a sec? I, I just, I need to-" But he wasn't afforded a break, another hit knocking his head to the side. He swore his brain rattled with it.
"Stop!" Peter was testing the restraints again, tipping forward, a fraction of a second from breaking free. The other man in the room yanked Peter's shoulder, bringing all four chair legs back to the ground. When his touch left, he wrestled something out of his back pocket, a glint of silver as he slid them over his fingers.
"Oh my God," Steven realized, face contorting in horror, "are those knuckle dusters? You serious, mate?" His shoulders jumped, chains clanking with the movement. Fear was beginning to settle in more prominently now, searching the recesses of his mind for even a hint of Marc's consciousness.
[ Marc? Marc, please. I could really use a hand right now! ]
The man's boots kicked up a cloud of settled dust as he came to a stop at Steven's chair, tenderly rubbing at his wrists.
"Been waitin' to do this for a while," the man confessed, the shape of his mouth twisted into something sinister and dark . Steven leaned as far back as the space would allow him, pins and needles running up and down his arms as he crushed them under his weight, "clench your teeth."
Snap .
Right as he was beginning to swing his arm back, Peter was crashing into him. He got a few good hits in, a genuine tooth rolling across the floor. Brass knuckles had a decorum of blues and purples blurring the line of his jaw and they grappled-
Until Peter seized, body trembling like a leaf when the other goon, the one that had started pummeling Steven first, had a box-shaped device pressed into the dip of his spine. Peter collapsed, his body still shivering from the aftershocks. His mouth was forming words but there was no sound coming from it.
"Shit," Taser guy said, "that was for the Moon guy. Think it fried his brain?"
Brass knuckles nudged Peter in the side, rolling him onto his back with a grunt, "s'fine. Not like we were planning on letting either of them leave alive, anyways."
"You-" anger, burning suddenly and hot throughout Steven's entire body, " bastards , the both of you. I'll- I'll-" He hadn't seen the appeal before, but Steven was thrumming with it now. A capability to kill . If only he could just bring forth the-
"Shit," When Steven's violent intent peaked, Marc was thrown back into the front seat, "How long was I…?" Blinking spots out of his eyes, he saw Peter's body on the ground, "-No, no, no what the hell did you do? Peter, can you hear me? Shit-" White strips of fabric started at his shoulders, coming to an abrupt stop when Brass knuckles pressed the edge of a blade to the stretch of Peter's throat.
"Kid's still breathin'," He said, sounding partly amused, "suit stays off, Spector. Unless you want me to change that?"
Marc slumped.
[ I'm sorry, ] Steven babbled, [ I couldn't do anything, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. ]
An involuntary tear leaked out of the corner of Marc's eye.
Then they started collecting Peter off of the floor, depositing him back into the chair he'd escaped. Taser guy was holding the frayed ropes in his hands, looking appropriately confused.
"... the fuck?"
"What is it?" Brass knuckles busied himself by rearranging Peter's lax limbs, not looking up but reaching for the rope after a moment. The Taser guy handed it over, lips thinned. Brass knuckles murmured a curse, "fuckin' hell, how'd he break out of these?"
"Dunno. We got more chains, though."
"That'll do the trick, grab 'em for me." He did, and Brass knuckles started winding them around Peter's chest. The teen himself still seemed very much out of it, head wobbling and eyes glassy. The sight filled Marc with unadulterated grief .
"Peter," He tried, "Peter, can you hear me, kid? Are you alright?"
Brass knuckles back-handed him for the attempt, "Shut your damn mouth, alright? Fuckin-"
Marc spit the blood out of his mouth and swayed back in his chair, bringing his forehead down, hard . His skull throbbed with the impact, but a self-satisfied smirk tugged at his lips when Brass knuckles' fell flat on his ass, holding his face. Blood poured out from the gaps between his fingers.
"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, you son of a-"
"I see things have… escalated in my absence." It was Finn, a bag slung inconspicuously over his shoulder. Brass knuckles and Taser guy froze. Peter was only just starting to come to, but when he saw what Finn was holding, his brown eyes grew comically wide. If he had any color left on his face, that would have drained away, too.
"We looked inside," Finn said, confirming Peter's worst fears. He crossed the room deliberately, studying the chains that had replaced his previous ropes. He closed his fingers around the back of Peter's chair and tilted it back, meeting frantically wild eyes, "we'd have cleaned up a bit more, had we known we were in the company of the… highly esteemed Spider-man . You used to have it good with the Avengers, didn't you?"
Peter made a small, despairing noise and Marc's cognizance began flickering in and out like a skipping record. He was there long enough to feel the claws of panic closing slowly around his throat, suffocating him, and then he was nowhere. And neither was Steven.