red :: spideypool au

prologue

The alarm screeched early in the morning, eliminating every chance at sleep. Peter lurched at the noise, limbs maneuvering sporadically until he was on the ceiling. His fingers gripped the flat surface as if they were hooked, and his feet followed through with the action. It was only then that he could catch his breath and evaluate his surroundings. Once again, his bed was littered with books, and his clock flashed red with warning. He summoned his pillow with a strong, stretched web, and threw the item mercilessly at the alarm clock.

He missed.

The teenager groaned, stretching the noise out painfully to maximize its volume. With that, he let himself fall back to the bed with a loud thump. From there, he was able to slap the alarm clock with an open hand and silence the horrific beast. Smiling at his accomplishment, Peter let his face settle into a different, softer pillow.

However, the comfort stopped when Peter's enhanced hearing identified the heartbeats within the building. As the fatigue diminished, his senses hoarded at the gates of his conscious, desperate to be used. After a slight period of calibration, Peter was able to locate the noise that was closest in proximity. The heartbeat was unfamiliar, yet Peter had no trouble identifying it; it was inevitable that the two finally meet. His upstairs neighbor had returned from a trip. From the smell, Peter gathered that it was somewhere exotic; the scent of saltwater clung to the individual. Peter was jealous. He moaned as he envisioned the warmth of a beach.

"Fuck'n semen-eating scumbag." It was a shout that came right from the mouth of the upstairs tenant, Wade Wilson. It was followed by the shuffle of paper. Peter's neighbor was counting money.

Regardless, Peter giggled. It was the humor within Wade's insults that got to him. Or maybe he was just tired.

As far as introductions go, that was all Peter got that morning. Before he could even think about going upstairs, Wade Wilson went silent. With his profanity absent, Peter was left without entertainment. Instead, there was a loud crash as something–someone–fell to the floor.

Peter frowned, slightly disappointed.

Eventually, Peter found it in himself to return to reading. His books all revolved around nonfiction; he grabbed the largest one, running his finger across the spider printed on the cover. Once again, he buried his nose within the spine and busied himself in its lignin. He found himself forming connections between his body's biology and the text. He was writing a paper on arachnids, but that was just an excuse to carry several spider-themed library books in his hand at once.

It must have been an hour, Peter figured. His eyes were getting tired, and his fingers grew numb. The new paper cuts on his fingers had already healed at that time. However, the determined teenager kept reading.

Peter found himself staring at the pads of his fingers. The hooked, jagged spikes that were far too small for an average human to see. They latched on to surfaces as he saw fit, and it was far better than licking his finger to flip a page.

Once again, Peter got a paper cut as he turned to the next section. He inspected the bead of blood that covered the tip of his pointer finger. After closer evaluation, he noticed several new drops of blood. They covered the page number of his book, but they were hardly transparent. Peter frowned, but his confusion grew exponentially as he realized the blood types did not match. Both samples smelled different, and he swore he could see the variance in structure. His mouth watered with the excitement of mystery.

With that, Peter's head turned upward. His ears identified a peculiar sound, one that resembled some kind of drip. Much like the bag hanging by every bed-ridden hospital patient's head.

There, on his ceiling, was a circular blotch of dark red blood that lightened to a true red at the edges. Peter was positive it was not there an hour earlier.

The teenager growled in anger, grabbing his trash can and positioning it directly under the leaking ceiling. With his books ruined, the red liquid dropped once more. Drip, it even sounded louder within the confined bucket.

Peter swore angrily, for the popcorn ceiling was white and the apartment new to him. How could one explain that, of all things?

There was a faint return of a heartbeat, and that only painted Peter a dumbfounded expression. Regardless, it tested his patience enough for him to throw on a red sweatshirt and head for the door, tossing his finger into his mouth to taste the bloody papercuts–as if that would make them heal faster.