|Peter Parker (is definitely not Spider-Man) (__spiderman) wrote in avengers_logs,|
@ 2018-04-01 20:54:00
|Entry tags:||-complete, -gamewide plot, -narrative, peter parker|
“Okay,” Peter muttered to himself tightly, hand pressed against his side before he webbed it with what was left of that canister, “So that happened.”
“I’ve scanned the building,” Karen told him. “All possible exits are covered and the large door that is in here is secured with biometrics and a key card. I don’t think we can replicate the biometrics to get you out. Would you like me to call Mister Stark for you now?”
“No,” Peter protested, dropping from where he had been hanging onto the ceiling. The move jolted pain through his entire body and he groaned aloud, falling to his hands and knees. He’d had a concrete building collapsed on top of him and it didn't hurt as much as being clipped by that bullet. It hadn’t even broken his skin but this bullet had not only broken skin but he hadn’t really stopped bleeding since. He hoped that the webbing would at least stop him dripping blood everywhere. That was a dead give-away when he was trying to hide.
“Spidey,” a voice called in a sing-song manner that sent a shiver running down Peter’s spine. “Marco…”
He was out of webbing, the last canister he had had been used to web his side and he was stuck in a basement with at least ten goons trying to shoot him in the head.
“Ma~arco…” the goon said, turning around the corner and Peter jumped up again, using the shadows to his benefit as the man walked underneath him. “Marco…”
“Polo!” the teenager responded, dropping from his vantage point and using the momentum to kick his feet into the man’s back. He was sent flying forwards and slammed into the concrete hard enough that his head bounced backwards in a ricochet, clearly completely out for the count and probably in need of some extensive plastic surgery. If this hadn’t been the goon that shot him, Peter might have felt more guilty.
Who was he kidding? He felt plenty guilty. There was blood everywhere. There was a blood imprint of the guy’s face on the wall. He’d not forget that in a hurry.
The kick had done him in, though, the landing had been perfect but the pain that jolted through him made him almost bite through his tongue.
Nine goons. Nine goons and he had to get out of here without bleeding to death and before he passed out.
He just needed a quick rest…
The intention had just been to look around, to get in and get out without any hassle. He’d followed a shady truck, Karen had tracked a live call back to someone who had links with a shell company owned by Hammer Tech. He and Ned and done some sleuthing and found a car that had been used in a weapons deal and Peter had followed it into the parking structure of Hammer Tech in Queens.
Right under his nose.
He’d been about to leave, to try and sneak out when someone nearly busted him and he jumped into the back of a truck. His assumption had been that it would be leaving, but when it was empty, he realised that it was just going further into the structure - quite the opposite of the way he wanted to be going - but by the time he’d worked that out it was too late.
A heavy concrete door locked behind the truck and it was put into park. He heard footsteps, people talking about what they were gonna do when they were done for the day, how they’d got a number of deals that needed to be done and then they’d be good to enjoy what was left of Easter Sunday with their families.
These people had families? Jeez, Peter sometimes forgot that bad guys weren’t just random faceless goons. They were people too, like Toombes.
Anyway, he’d been trying to work out how else he could get out of the truck when the doors swung open and he was face to face with fourteen guys.
“Uh- hi everyone,” he had managed, before weapons were drawn and all hell broke loose.
Nine goons left, but Peter was quite aware that he really couldn’t do much other than just hide. They’d fanned out, started knocking things over to chase him out and it had worked once, he’d ended up running - and he really really hated running - before jumping over a stack of crates.
“Peter,” Karen said, “I’m worried about your vitals. The odds aren’t looking great right now and-”
“I know,” he bit out, pressing his hand against his side again and flinching as a crate exploded nearby. Clearly they’d decided against playing Marco Polo and had escalated to just blowing stuff up.
Somehow stealthing his way around the goon-net, Peter clung to the underside of the truck he’d come in on, pressed as flat as he could so that if they shone a torch underneath they wouldn’t see him.
“Do it,” he muttered, eyes closing and drawing in a breath, pressing his teeth together as Karen thanked him.
You just gotta hold out for help, Peter, he told himself.
”Mister Stark, this is Karen. Peter has been seriously wounded and is unable to escape. We are in the basement of Hammer Tech’s facility in Queens - I have attached the precise location and a current read of Peter’s vitals. Currently we’re playing a game of cat and mouse.