I know you probably hate me. An oh god I'm so sorry. I honestly didn't mean to update this so late- but everything's been so horrible. I'M ON HOLIDAYS AS OF TODAY. BUT, there was an accident and a lot of people were hurt ad something's up with someone's ankle and basically I've been studying and babysitting and spending nights at the hospital. I'm so sorry. Honestly. Please forgive me, even though I know what I've done is quote unforgivable. I'm so sorry if this chapter confuses anyone... D: Please tell me what you thought; even if it's a PM. I take all thoughts and ideas in consideration. Thank you :)
Everything was barely comprehendible.
Blurs and dark colours. Nothing was clear, only slightly vague at times. Every single movement occurred with such an unbelievable speed, yet to him it all seemed in slow motion. As if the sands of time themselves couldn't decide whether to remain at a constant rate. As if an invisible clock had been plastered on the invisible wall that made up a side of his invisible barrier. And it ticked, slowly, back and forth. Between a single set of hours, minutes, moments. And back and forth it went. The hands never moving within a major range of each other. They just kept going, tick, tock, tick, tock.
The sand in an hour glass dripping down one by one, one by one, so slowly yet gone in the blink in an eye, and then reversed completely. Up and through the small waist of the feature, the sands of time would fall upwards, again and again and again, never taking long enough to make sense.
Nothing really made sense anymore.
Not once he lost himself to pain, the agony. He couldn't look past it. He doubted he could ever look past the sledgehammer coming down against his knee, the knife slashing across his arms, the needles stabbing into his bruised and battered flesh.
He wanted the pain to be over, but knew they had barely begun. What were a few broken bones and bruises to the red and blue suited crusader? What would the blood that was continuously pouring out of his wounds like never ending death defining rivers, mean? Nothing. Not to them anyway.
He'd forgotten their names a long time ago. He didn't even remember if he had known them to begin with. Who knew? Who cared? Certainly not him. No, it was rather challenging- more challenging than it might seem- to remember a few useless names in his head. Especially when he was being tortured like this- physically and mentally. The physical anguish was obvious, the blood and deformed stains marring his pale skin were enough to prove that. The mental? The knowledge that he was probably never going to leave. The understanding that he will most likely never set eyes on the bright sun, the clear skies, the outside world- ever again. It hurt- to know that he may honestly never feel a comforting breeze against his skin.
And then he took a deep breath and a single moment to rake through his memory- lurking not really past but around the haze of seemingly never ending pain which clouded his mind and tried his best to remember if he was forgetting anything. Anyone.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, it was almost as if he could actually hear the clock. He knew he could do better than this, and he did. He was able to remember everything; he was able to remember everyone. The laughter that echoed through his ears, the smiles that drifted past his vision, the loving touches that reverberated against his skin.
Wonderful, wonderful, Gwen. He realised a while ago that she must be worried, and he'd almost forgotten the concern he had felt for her. But he could never truly forget, not that he actually wanted to. He didn't enjoy feeling guilt. The guilt that plagued his mind of leaving her- not that it was actually his choice. But in a way it did him good. It tied him down- down to earth- and remained him constantly that he was alive, that one way or another he will make it out of this. He will.
Aunt May soon followed the memory of Gwen. And knowing that she was probably just as worried as Gwen is hurt him. He already knew that one way or another he was going to make it up to her. Them. Yes, definitely, them, both of them.
Sighing, yes he can somehow tell h was letting out that short puff of breath, probably out of exhaustion rather than boredom- as a final face followed.
It was somehow easy enough to remember the previous conversation he had with Vaurian Michaelis. Somehow, he was able to force his way deep into the centre of his mind and reply those particular words, and his strange train of thought. It was always the unanswered question that got him.
He couldn't answer the question now. He could barely open his eyes as the feeling and pain of a new, fresh bruise forming snapped him out of his reverie. His eyes were open, but his vision is stained with the blood running from the gashes on his forehead. His arms were becoming numb- finally- but that would pretty much be the only good factor of the entire experience. There was a little- okay, maybe not so little- drummer dancing about and pounding both inside and against his skull and it was killing him. Metaphorically speaking. Because right know he could name about- at least- another dozen or so factors of what was- is-could be- will be, probably-killing him. Loss of blood- and so much, too much of it- his captors and their anger, because he's made them so angry more times than he can count with his smart aleck retorts and insults, the painful- very painful- torture instruments causing him the agony, his loss of hope- almost- and so on.
He could die- he knew he could, there were more ways than one, and he could give up. That would be so much easier. To just finally give in to the comforting darkness and close his eyes.
But Gwen will was waiting for him to come back. His Aunt would slap him upside the head and tell him to 'cowboy up' or to stay strong. And he will, he will- for their sakes, for the sake of solving this damned mystery of everyone and anyone wanting him dead, and of these insane people and Zombie Chuckie's seeming obsession with Connors.
He would escape soon.
Peter vowed that to himself, he would leave and they would never see it coming. And then he was going to give Chuckie a good old square punch to the nose.
Gwen bit her lip in worry as the police officers left. She could hear Aunt May in the small kitchen behind her putting on the kettle and fixing up some tea for the both of them- something to help them both relax, even if slightly.
But Gwen knew she couldn't.
Not when Peter was gone- missing. It hurt her so much to say it. He had disappeared, vanished into thin air. But she was going to find him.
The police officers had obviously asked questions, but they asked too many of them. And she couldn't remember the last question she hadn't lied about.
Through every word that came out of their lips she wanted to scream at them, hell- she even wanted to throw something at them. Preferably something both heavy and painful. Something that would give them big, red, bumps on their heads and get through their thick skulls. She knew they were only doing their jobs, but couldn't help but feel a surging anger towards them. Anger so strong she had to take a few deep breaths to physically calm herself.
Yes, it was that bad.
With every question they asked, it was as if they already knew the truth. That Peter was the convicted criminal, that he was going to go to jail for murder.
And then there was a problem- the security surveillance tapes. There weren't supposed to be cameras in that building, and no one knew about them except the school committee- the one she was a part off. One that Casey was a part of too. She pushed back the undeniable feeling of anger towards the other girl, and knew that the best time to take action and remove those tapes would be the next day of school, very early in the morning when no one but the janitor was around. She couldn't do it tonight because there were too many people and the gates would be closed anyway.
She gritted her teeth at the thought and inhaled and exhaled. She would find Peter, and everything would be answered. All of her questions, all she ever needed to know- about Simon, the kidnappers, whether the kidnappers and the kidnapping had anything to do with Simon, about everything.
She contemplated calling Doctor Connors- but two main factors stopped her from doing that.
First were the strange, raging emotions she felt towards him. Was it anger? Was it hurt? Betrayal? She didn't know. He had murder her father. And she had gone over this fact many, many times, and came to the same conclusion every single time. As much as she wanted to, as much as it would have explained a lot of things, she didn't hate Connors. She didn't think she could.
She wasn't really one for handling grudges, even if it was about something as big as this. He had saved both Peter and her after all, and he wasn't in control when he became the lizard and did the things he did.
So whilst things weren't exactly smooth, or wonderful between them, they weren't hateful and loathing either. She knew she could find it in herself to forgive him eventually- but it would take time. And honestly, right now she would forgive him in a heartbeat if it meant he knew something- anything- about Peter's disappearance.
The second major factor was that she had never gotten the number to the building he currently resided in. Hell, she didn't even know if that old, dingy place even had a phone. How could she call him if she didn't have a number, or somewhere to call to- to begin with?
She was going to visit him, because right now, besides Aunt May and Peter himself, there was no one she could really trust with this situation other than him. Not even her own family.
She vaguely debated revealing everything to Aunt May, though she knew the older, kind woman was already suspicious. Despite that strangely and oddly comforting fact, she wasn't just going to outright tell her that her nephew was Spider-Man. She didn't need to worry her even more, she didn't need her to know more than she had to so she couldn't become a suspect in any murders Peter was believed to be involved in, as well as the fact that it wasn't her secret to tell.
Unless things became so desperate, she wouldn't put Aunt May in such a position of jeopardy. She couldn't do that to both her and Peter.
She heard Aunt May coming up behind her, and made a decision.
She would go to Doctor Curt Connors later that night, when she was sure no one was watching the both Peter and her homes. She would answer Aunt May's questions to the best of her abilities without giving away enough for the older woman to be in danger. She would find Peter.
Simon thought this newly discovered information was just so interesting. There was something extremely odd about it and for some strange reason that Simon himself couldn't explain, he was suddenly so glad that his Lord had asked him to dig up and discover everything about Peter Parker's activities in the past few weeks.
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this.
So it turned out, that when Connors had broken out of prison, he had been searching for something. Something no one knew about, except an organisation. Strange, Simon thought silently to himself, and this organisation wanted him dead. Or did they? Somehow this was connected to Parker himself, and when Simon found out, he could hardly believe it himself.
Connors hadn't been working against Peter Parker. Simon's initial guess had been that Connors was in association with the organisation that wanted something he had- whatever that was he didn't know yet- and in exchange for this object they had made an agreement to kidnap the boy.
But how wrong he was.
No, as it turned out, Connors was working with the boy. Curious. Very curious indeed. Why would he? Well, that was what it seemed like anyway. Maybe Connors was conning him. Maybe Connors was conning them all...
"Sir?" Simon asked, after his master had not spoken for a particularly long period of time. He tilted his head slightly.
He had just revealed all of this information to his Master whom was merely gazing onto his hard wooden desk. There was another eerie moment of silence before he spoke.
"So Connors has something this..." His Lord paused, as if searching for the correct word, "organisation wants, something they would kill for, something Connors won't give them?" Simon merrily nodded. "But they cannot find Connors, but they could find the next best thing. The key to his location..." He chuckled slightly, and Simon paid extra close attention. "So they kidnapped Peter, because apparently, he had been working with Connors since the beginning?" He ended with an almost sarcastic tone, though Simon knew he believed him.
"Yes, My Lord. I realise that it is a working theory, and it could really be that Connors is simply conning every piece on this intricate board, they could all just be pawns." Simon replied simply.
His superior laughed lightly for a moment before offering a small, secretive smile.
"Well then, Simon, I believe it is time that this intricate game was explained to us. By the man whom set the pieces and made the first move himself..." He trailed off...
"Yes, we will meet Curt Connors shortly."
Curt sighed lightly.
His new prosthetic arm was nowhere near as god as the real one he'd lost, but he supposed it would do. The newly polished light metal seemed to gleam beneath the glare of the light above as he moved the entire long, strong, limb, stretching it forwards and backwards and then again- repeating the exercise several times. Each complex, differing thin, lengthy, coloured wire of the brand-new console was tied to a different nerve in his body- allowing the entire contraption to function properly. It really did feel good to have more than one regularly working arm.
Considering this one was definitely stronger too, and it also didn't take much energy to control, so everything was good. He'd managed to get it from one of his 'contacts', seeing as he couldn't do much without the much needed limb.
He snapped out of his thoughts, however, as the old telephone he'd found in the building rang in the next room. Huh, he thought. How curious, he didn't even know it actually still worked. Pulling himself together, he rushed from the small, dingy room he was currently in, and through the squashy dirty corridor, towards the other room with the old ringing phone.
Hurriedly jogging to the other side, his real arm flew to the antique phone and picked it up. He didn't say anything though, because he'd just remembered he was supposed to be here to begin with. Running a tongue over his teeth, he paid close attention to the noise on the other side before a voice spoke.
"Doctor Connors?" It was Gwen. Sighing in relief he was about to answer- before something stopped him. It was a single straying thought.
I never gave either Peter or Gwen this number.
He tensed and his metal fingers curled tightly. He had never given anyone this number, heck, even he didn't know what the number was. Something was so wrong, so off, this wasn't Gwen. This definitely wasn't her. But then...
They had found him.
They knew where he was.
Panic suddenly began to flow through every corner of his chest. He couldn't help the quiet gasp that passed through his lips. Immediately, he slammed the phone down with excessive force onto its matching receiver.
He knew it. Damn it- it must be true.
He hadn't told anyone about those men- not even Peter or Gwen. But somehow they had discovered his location, and they were going to hunt him down, heck they probably already were. Oh god, his mind was frantic with thoughts of death and dying. They were going to come here, that call was only a short verification- it must have been. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have answered the phone when no one actually knew the number? They were probably already on their way.
And then another thought hit.
The person on the phone had probably tried to trick him into believing he was Gwen to stall time. But that meant he knew that Connors had been associated with her. That meant they knew who Gwen was, that meant that they had seen her, known her, approached her. That meant she was in danger.
This couldn't be happening. They must have been spying. That meant they probably knew about Peter. What if they knew his secret? What if they knew he was Spider-Man? What if that meant they were after him too? What if they already had him? This was horrible, absolutely freakin' dreadful. Yes this was certainly not good.
Then the knock at the door came, ringing and reverberating throughout the whole old building lightly yet loudly. There was no denying.
They believed he still had it.
Peter- Gwen, they were in danger now, he had to contact them. He had to reach them somehow, to give them a message, they had to know. They had a right, he had to explain everything. Nothing, absolutely nothing, no words, or sentences, or phrases could describe the worry and desperation he was feeling right now. They had to be told. He would probably never live to see the next sunrise, but he couldn't leave them to pick up all the broken, shattered pieces. He knew this was going to happen- that this organisation was going to find them- but he didn't know they were going to find him this soon.
They hadn't found him this soon before, so why now? What changed? Everything was such a mess. He barely though about his movements, barely registering picking up a random pen or pencil- right now he couldn't tell which- and grabbing the nearest piece of paper. His hand shook slightly as letters began to form on the old page, explaining everything he could at that moment.
They were coming for him right now; the knock became louder and more brutal. He could hear the door downstairs crashing off its hinges, loud footsteps bouncing off the stairs.
In as few seconds as possible, he finished his rushed note and messily and quite unevenly folded the paper, before turning his head up slightly and shoving it beneath an old brown lamp that he'd doubted would work. They would find the note, he reassured himself, and they would know everything.
That was his finally thought before rough arms grabbed him from behind and darkness was all he knew.
What did you think? Sorry if it's confusing or bad and short. Please tell me what you thought. Thank you.
Here's an internet cookie.