Only One Left [COMPLETED]

Chapter 11: Perverts and Poses (Part 1)

WARNING FOR LIGHT MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ABUSE AGAINST A MINOR AND SLIGHT SWEARING. I just want to include that to make sure you're all aware. Keep safe, chilladas.

Going home to your worst nightmare lounging in your chair with four of his nefarious employees was bad.

Waking up with the face of your worst nightmare three feet in front of you, grinning, and holding a syringe was even worse.

Looking back, Peter wished he had the good grace to wake up with dignity and valor. Instead, all pre-sense of dignity fled and he scrambled away with a surprised yelp. Norman stepped forward, and Peter scooted away from those black shoes - they were probably the hide of some poor baby animal - until his back hit something hard and solid. However, he realized pretty quickly that moving was not a very good idea. Like, at all.

He was positive he was a living bruise. Or a conscious injury. Something akin to pain, cause everything hurt. From his cracked ribs that felt ground to sawdust, to the blood sticking pieces of his clothes to his skin. Peter groaned loudly, body seizing up. Oh, that was a bad idea. A very, very, painfully bad idea.

He sat frozen for several seconds. Or minutes. Heck, it could've been hours and he wouldn't have noticed. After a moment, he slowly let himself relax, and gently slumped against the wall at his back. What type of freakish, steroid-injected, villain-born vendetta did the Frightful Four even have on him? Sure he's had his squabbles with them before. They attempted a criminal act, Peter said 'no', they fought, Peter threw them in jail, end of story. It was a good, stable process.

But was such violence really necessary? He never hit them that hard, honestly, what the frick?

Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes and counted his injuries. He got as far as his cracked ribs, split lips, broken nose, and bruised throat before he decided he didn't want to know anymore. Stupid villains and their stupid grudges and their stupid hard punches.

So wrapped up in his hate-fest, it took him an embarrassingly long time before he realized he was in a cage. Of sorts. It was a cylindrical, glass cage, bolted into the floor, and stretching clear up into the ceiling where it was bolted there too. Peter shook his head. Well, that's a bit excessive.

But of course, would he expect anything from Norman Osborn. Speaking of the devil, the monster himself was still watching Peter from outside the glass walls.

"Watch out," Peter rasped, cringing when his voice comes out weak and hoarse. "You don't want to max out your creepy in one day." Even talking hurt. Did they rub his throat with sandpaper while he was out? Honestly, Peter was sensing some serious relationship problems between him and his villains. He didn't think they were harboring so many ill-emotions. Like, sure they wanted to pulverize every other day, but it was practically platonic at this point. In a weird villain-hero, I'm-going-to-kill-you-and-grind-your-bones-to-make-my-bread kind of way. Talk about not catching on.

But he supposes that's what he gets for tangling with a group calling themselves the Frightful Four?

Norman ignored him easily, rolling the syringe lightly in his hand. Peter tried to ignore how creepy that was. Just put it down, man. You don't have to go the whole 9-yards. You're a creepy billionaire-psychopath scientist, he got it.

"You know," Norman finally said, backing up leisurely to put the syringe on the table. He leaned against it, crossing his arms. "I'll admit, you surprise me. You woke up a lot sooner than I expected. You're refractory period and healing factor must be amazing."