Not So Friendly Anymore

Chapter 40: The Black Rain

The horns of Asgard blared like
dying stars.

They cut through the dawn sky, deep, thunderous, desperate, the kind of sound that didn't just warn of danger... it promised it.

Peter's head snapped up instantly. His senses screamed before the first sound even hit. He could feel it in the air, a shiver through the fabric of the Web itself, like silk tearing strand by strand.

Then the first drop fell.

A single bead of liquid blackness splattered onto the golden bridge, hissing like acid as it ate through enchanted stone. Then another. Then another.

Within seconds, the sky opened.
What poured down wasn't rain, it was corruption given form. Viscous, oily masses fell from the heavens, writhing before they even touched the ground. Every drop that hit the streets of Asgard moved, crawled, screamed.

From the balcony of the war chamber, Peter, Susan, Sable, Thor, and Odin watched in grim silence as the shining realm began to darken.

"What in Hel's name—" Thor began, gripping Mjolnir.

Peter's voice was quiet, but sharp. "They're not drops."

He turned toward Odin. "They're berserkers."

The first shape rose from the steaming puddles below, tall, twisted, humanoid silhouettes, their forms barely solid, faces a writhing mass of fanged mouths and glowing eyes. Their bodies were forged from the same darkness that bled from the All-Black itself.

Dozens rose. Then hundreds. Then thousands.

Each shrieked with a sound that scraped the soul raw.

Odin's grip tightened around
Gungnir. "By the Norns..."

Peter's eyes flared gold as the runes on his arms ignited, the staff forming in his hand with a hum that split the air. "He's announcing himself."

Susan turned to him, her voice trembling between awe and fear. "Gorr?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. The Butcher's here."

Sable's pistols materialized in her hands, forged now from the enchanted alloys Doom had given her months ago. "Then let's show him what happens when he knocks on the wrong door."

Odin barked orders to the Einherjar as they assembled outside. "Sound the call to arms! Protect the Bifrost! Do not let the filth reach the throne!"

Peter stepped forward onto the balcony edge, eyes tracking the writhing mass below. Each movement of the black tide sent a ripple through the Web, whispering something ancient and hateful in his head, a voice he'd hoped never to hear again.

You should have stayed dead, Weaver.

He whispered back, "Missed you
too."

Then he turned to Thor. "We hold the bridge. Keep them from spreading into the city."

Thor's grin was sharp and grim. "A fine plan."

The thunder god hurled Mjolnir skyward, lightning tearing through the storm clouds as the hammer sang. The blast lit the black tide like fire, for a heartbeat, the berserkers screamed and burned... and then reformed.

Sable's eyes widened. "They're adapting!"

"Of course they are," Peter muttered. "Figures. They're built from stuff that doesn't like staying down."

The ground trembled. The black tide surged.

Peter slammed his staff down, golden web-lines bursting outward across the ground, sealing off the bridge in a blazing arcane barrier.