As Jessica and Luke searched for the intercom, they could hear muffled shouts and curses coming from inside the cells.
“Don’t get any ideas, Nat.” Natasha felt one of Clint’s hands close around her arm. Was it there to offer support, because he thought she would be frightened, or to secure her and prevent her from escaping? “There are folks down here scarier than you are.”
“Are you sure about that?” Despite everything, she was very aware of his hand on her arm.
His fingers tightened. “Keep your hands away from my weapons.”
“Maybe I was reaching for your hand.”
“They don’t teach anatomy where you come from?”
It’s working, Natasha thought. He is beginning to—
And then the lights flickered and flared with a crackle of surging power, and a lightning blast of light and energy threw Natasha and Clint back against the wall. An alarm began to blare with the insistent, intermittent rhythm of an animal’s distress call. But it was another sound that made Natasha reach for the gun she always carried at her hip, only to recall it wasn’t there.
Up and down the dark hallway, cell doors were sliding open.
Behind her, Natasha heard Clint selecting a different arrow from his quiver. He must be doing it by feel, thought Natasha. She couldn’t see a thing yet.
“Damn it. If there’s no power, why aren’t the cells staying locked?”
“Because someone’s controlling them,” said Natasha, finally able to make out the shapes of things. She pulled an arrow from his quiver. Clint glanced at her, but did not object.
“Jessica,” said Luke. “You have a flashlight?”
“Here.” She turned the light on, transforming the shadows around them into a sea of unfriendly faces: an enormously obese man with an absurdly tiny head, the kewpie doll mouth pursed in a little smile. A hideous, flat-nosed bat face, gazing at her with bright, unblinking eyes. The green, chiseled gargoyle features of a Skrull, assessing her with alien intelligence.
“Buzhe moi,” said Natasha.
She was going to die down here, after all, and a lot more quickly than she had anticipated.
F O U R
PETER Parker knew there were times when the only way to survive a bad situation was to accept a certain amount of punishment. Maybe that wasn’t true for some: Thor, for example, probably didn’t get his ass handed to him on a regular basis. But Thor was an A-list super hero, the kind who got courted by teams like the Avengers. You could tell just by looking at him that Thor had grown up knowing he was first pick for troll-tipping or whatever adolescent Norse gods did for fun.
For your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, on the other hand, a bit of pain and humiliation came with the territory. Take the time when he’d faced down Dr. Octopus and his army of prosthetic limbs—that had been both agonizing and fairly ridiculous.
Then there were the romantic debacles. Other people made out with the wrong girl and got a big cold sore or maybe a case of mono. Peter had kissed the wrong girl once and turned into a massive, man-eating spider.
Last but not least, there was the breakup with Mary Jane. Peter still couldn’t believe that she didn’t accept “I was captive and unconscious” as a reasonable excuse for standing her up at the altar. Or, to be more precise, she accepted it, but decided she could no longer accept him, so long as he remained Spider-Man. Sure, he understood her point of view, and yeah, in a way, they were kind of living in different worlds. But if he were to give up the web-slinging lifestyle, what the hell was he supposed to do? Maybe he could start a special upside-down yoga class at the local gym. Or take up weaving spider-silk plant holders.
So in the end, there hadn’t really been a choice at all. You couldn’t choose the girl at the cost of giving up yourself. Still, at the time, Peter had been pretty certain the breakup with MJ was an all-time low for him.
Now he knew differently.
“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of humor,” said the humorless blonde woman sitting opposite him on the couch. “The problem is, you use humor as a defense.”
Peter tried to look as though he were contemplating the truth of this as he glanced surreptitiously at the clock. Nine o’clock. He had been here for two hours, but it felt like decades had passed.
“I mean, on our last date, you kept making jokes even when we were making out. What does that tell you about yourself?”
That I was having the worst date of my life, thought Peter. He could no longer even recall how he had ever found this woman attractive. She was wearing a perfume that smelled like cumin and incense, and it made him want to sneeze. All the books in her apartment had titles like The Self-Actualized Person’s Guide to Nutritional Wholeness and Milk and Meat: The Politics of Cow. For dinner, she had served him a vegetable stir-fry without any salt, accompanied by that glorious icebreaker, unsweetened green tea. Worst of all, she had forced him to listen to the first two chapters of her unpublished YA series about a lonely high-school sophomore who discovers she’s really the Greek goddess of agriculture.
PETER wondered how much longer he had to remain in Anthea’s apartment in order not to give offense. Another half hour? Another hour? Long enough to demonstrate that he was not the kind of sleazeball who got fixed up with a girl, fooled around with her on their first date, and then vanished without a word. The worst part of it all was, she lived and worked in Queens, only a few blocks from him.
“You know, Peter, when you called me back yesterday, I nearly said no to getting together again.”
But then I realized that I had not tortured my quota of male souls for the week, thought Peter. Out loud, he made a vague grunting sound meant to simulate interest. There was a pen on the coffee table. Peter picked it up and twiddled it between his fingers.
“I’ve been traumatized by relationships with boy-men in the past, you see.”
“Mm.” Peter passed the pen under and around his index finger and thumb, the way he used to back in social studies class.
“In fact, before I met you, I was considering becoming celibate.”
“I’m considering it now.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was engaged to be married not long ago, and I think I may have rushed into dating again.” Outside the window, Peter heard the familiar sound of a police siren. From where he sat, he could see the lights in dozens of windows in the building across the street. Each and every person in that building, Peter thought, is having a better evening than I am.
“What are you saying, that I was some kind of rebound fling? That you don’t want to see me anymore? And will you please stop fiddling with that pen!”
Looking back at his date’s pale, annoyed face, Peter opened his mouth to say something about not feeling terribly well.
Then the lights went out.
“What was that?” Anthea tried to turn on the lamp next to the couch. “Did a fuse blow?”
“I don’t think so,” said Peter, walking over to the window. He looked past the darkened windows of the building opposite, out toward the East River. There was a sharp crack of thunder, and for a fraction of a second, Peter thought he saw a massive bolt of lightning hit Ryker’s Island. Then, as a second lightning strike replaced the first, understanding dawned: This was a feat of engineering, not nature. That enormous surge of electrical energy was either coming from the island’s prison complex—or, more ominously, from beneath.
“Is it a blackout?” Anthea came up behind him, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“Anthea, do you have a flashlight?”
“Yes, I think so. In the kitchen.”
“Can you get it?”
“Sure,” said Anthea. “Hang on a moment.”
From the other room, Peter heard her say something about “crises that bring people closer together” and “the elemental power of darkness.” By that time, he already had his shoes off, revealing the thin, flexible red boots underneath. Luckily, Peter had worn his Spider-Man costume underneath his clothes with
the idea of patrolling after he was done with Anthea.
“I couldn’t find my flashlight,” Anthea said from the other room, “but I did see some candles.”
Peter left his shirt and jeans, along with his wallet, in a heap on the living-room floor. She would think it weird, of course, and he would have to face her in the morning to pick up his stuff, but there was nothing to be done about that.
“You know, maybe this is some kind of sign,” said Anthea.
“You got that right,” Peter muttered under his breath. Crouching on the windowsill, Peter launched himself out into the brisk November night, allowing himself a few moments of free-fall before activating his right web-shooter. He aimed the powerful jet of liquid web-fluid at a building and then felt the familiar tug as the web attached, turning almost instantly into a slender, deceptively strong rope. How could I ever give this up? thought Peter as he swung his body forward, pressing his middle finger into his palm to release a second strand of webbing.
Maybe it was wrong to feel a wild rush of elation, given the circumstances. But a minute ago, he had been a loser and a tool, and now he was a man with a mission.
Peter paused at the roof of a building, staring out at Macneil Park, and felt his mood plummet. There were no buildings between here and Ryker’s, just a lot of cold East River. Fardles. Peter’s red-and-blue spider-suit wasn’t exactly drip-dry, and he did not relish the thought of trying to swim more than an icy mile out to the island.
Just as Peter was about to head over to the 19th Avenue bridge, he heard the rhythmic whump-whump of a helicopter’s propellers overhead. That’s my ride, he thought, and then hesitated, trying to estimate the height. Ah well, life’s for taking chances. Peter shot out his right arm and flexed his wrist hard, sending the webbing out to attach to the undercarriage.
For a few glorious moments, Peter enjoyed a toll-free trip over the East River. But just as the dock came into sight and the chopper began its descent, there was a crack of thunder and a blast of light that illuminated the sky. A plume of black smoke erupted from the helicopter, and Peter had just enough time to arc his body away from the falling metal before it exploded in a huge fireball.
As he plummeted toward the river, Peter recalled something a friend had said about jumping from a bridge: Point your feet or you’ll break your ankles. Peter pointed his feet and knifed through the water, shooting straight down for what felt like a very long time. Maybe I shouldn’t have bailed on that date, thought Peter, as he swam for the surface. All of a sudden, Anthea’s apartment didn’t seem like such a lousy place.
His lungs felt like they were bursting by the time his head broke the surface. Peter gasped, inhaled a mouthful of foul-tasting water, and gasped again. The water was so cold that it was hard to make his arms and legs move properly. As Peter set off for the dock, or what he hoped was the dock, he heard another crack of thunder, followed by the icy patter of sleet. Just great. I’ll bet this never happens to Iron Man.
Shivering hard, Peter took two tries to haul himself up out of the frigid water, using the gaps in the metal dock as footholds. In the back of his head, Peter felt the static buzz of his spider-sense reminding him that he was heading straight into some serious badness. Assuming I survive this, Peter thought, I don’t even have a ride home.
Gripping the edge of the dock with numb fingers, Peter chinned himself up high enough to see the orange glow of burning helicopter fragments. Just as he was wondering whether he had the strength to get the rest of his body onto the dock, Peter looked up and saw Captain America, his red-white-and-blue suit torn and a little singed, extending one red-gloved hand out. “I got you,” he said, hauling Peter up onto the landing dock.
“Excuse me, Captain,” said a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with a special-ops insignia on his uniform, “but we’ve secured the perimeter and are working to contain the blaze. A team is donning protective gear and preparing to insert themselves into the facility once the flames are extinguished.”
“Roger that, Lieutenant. Are there any guards available?”
“Only two that weren’t seriously injured in the blast, sir.”
“Well, put them to work. Do we have a map of the area immediately underneath the blast site?”
“No hard copies, and the power’s still down.”
“Get the guards to draw something you can follow. We don’t want to go in there blind.”
The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned and began barking commands at the other troops.
“Glad to see you here, Spider-Man,” said Captain America, turning back to Peter. “As you can see, we’re a bit short-handed.”
“Well, my evening needed some adrenaline to goose it along,” said Peter, noting Cap looked even more heroic with a few rips in his costume. “You don’t happen to have any spare gym trunks, do you? I’m soaked to the bone.”
“Sorry, this was an unexpected detour. Don’t suppose you have any idea what’s going on here?”
“Someone’s been overusing their ionic hair dryer?” Captain America didn’t appear to be amused by this, so Peter tried a different tack. “Look, Cap, I just got here. I was hoping you could fill me in.”
“I see.” Captain America turned to survey the men and women spraying the remains of the burning helicopter with fire extinguishers. The steady, sleety rain was working in their favor, and Cap turned his attention to the Raft—or what was visible of it from this angle. The electrical blast had been focused on the building’s north side in a small, elevated section of the mainly below-ground prison. There was an enormous, gaping hole in the roof of this section, and the glass in all the windows had been blown out by the force of the explosion. It was clear from cracks in the upper walls there had been some structural damage, but it was impossible to gauge the extent of it from the ground.
“Darn it.” Captain America looked grim as he watched an injured agent being dragged away from the blaze toward the makeshift first-aid station. Four guards were already out of commission, receiving oxygen or being treated for blistering second-degree burns. “We need to get in there, and fast.”
Cap turned back to Peter, who was working hard to suppress the violent shivers racking his body. Peter could almost hear Cap thinking, Great, this is what I have to work with.
“All right, I’ll take point, since I’ve got my shield. Soldier,” Cap said to a young man in protective gear, “how many of your men are combat-ready?”
“About twenty. I’ve got four injured here and six trapped behind a section of fallen roof on the second floor, but no idea what to expect when we get inside. There’s no communication with anyone below level B.”
All right, Peter. Time to make yourself useful. Spider-Man was up the side of the two-story building in the time it took him to complete the thought. From this vantage point, the sky and water were identical shades of battleship gray, divided by the black silhouettes of Manhattan’s skyline. The wind was blowing the icy rain down at an angle. Against this bleak backdrop, bright-orange flames from the downed helicopter illuminated the Raft’s lower dock. There was no sign of the incandescent, blue-white light Peter had seen blasting through the roof.
Down on the ground, Captain America was still making plans. “All right, then, let’s break into three groups,” he said. “Spider-Man, you can lead…Spider-Man?”
Peter peeked down from the side of the roof. “Already on it.”
Captain America shook his head. “I appreciate your initiative, but the last thing we need is to go off half-cocked.”
“Funny, that’s what my date said.” The surface of the roof felt hot and tarry underfoot as Peter made his way toward the deep fissure. “You know, I was under the impression that this whole structure was reinforced with Adamantium and Vibranium. Tch. You just can’t trust builders not to skimp on materials.”
“Spider-Man, you need to wait for backup!”
Peter walked carefully around the gaping hole in the roof, avoiding the sections that were still smoldering. “I’m not planning on t
aking the full tour of the underworld on my own. I’m just scouting around up here to get a picture of what’s…” Peter paused, peering into the dark, rubble-filled room below. There was no sign of movement, but his skin was prickling as though someone had raked fingernails over a chalkboard. “Whoa. I’m getting a bad feeling here.”
“What kind of bad feeling?”
“The kind that says the evening’s probably not going to end well.”
“I’m coming up,” said Captain America.
Suddenly, Peter heard a loud bang. A glowing ball of violet light flew up at him from the hole in the roof—and then there was a second, louder bang, followed by a searing pain that whited out all thought.
When Peter came to, he found himself lying facedown near the fissure, looking down through the twisted shards of metal and crumbled stone. It took him a moment to focus on what he was seeing. When he did, it was like peering down into one of the lowest chambers of Hell: A score or more of malevolent faces stared back at him, features twisted by mutation or cruelty or some combination of the two.
Time seemed to slow down for a second as Peter picked out the villains he recognized: Count Nefaria, elegant and silver-haired and capable of knocking over a tank with just one hand; Armadillo, with his orange-plated exterior; Crusher Creel, his shiny, bald head and boxer’s blunt features frightening even without the absorbing powers that allowed him to take on the attributes of any substance he touched; Max Dillon, who had gotten his hands on his old green-and-yellow Electro costume and was grinning like a middle-grade sociopath with his very own kitten.
“Spider-Man,” said Electro. “Don’t be shy. Come on down and play with us.”
“What is it? What do you see?” Captain America’s voice sounded very far away.
“Unfriendlies,” said Peter, and then he was being dragged down into the mob. Someone tore off his mask. There were shouts of “Kill him!” Another voice, lower and cultured, said, “No. We can use him as a hostage.” Rough hands pulled at him, yanking his arms and legs in opposite directions. A fist slammed into his eye, spangling his vision and scrambling his thoughts. Another blow, this one to his ear, left his head ringing. Electro said, “Wait! My turn!” An electric shock crackled through Peter, making him scream.