Only One Left [COMPLETED]

Chapter 13: SHIELD Initiation

Peter's never woken up inside a SHIELD medical room before, but he didn't think it could be that much different than a hospital.

He was wrong.

Given the fact that he's never woken up inside a hospital either, he probably couldn't give that as a fair comparison, but it was the truth. No hospital could ever match the profound ambiance of a SHIELD medical room over-flowing with equipment that cost more than Otto's entire lab put together.

When Peter first opened his eyes, he wasn't sure where he was, and that alone sent his body reeling in a panic before his brain had the opportunity to fully wake up. One second he was lying in a soft bed, listening to the rising rhythm of his heartbeat on the cardiac monitor, the next he was on the ceiling, clutching his arm where the IV needle in his arm used to be (of which was now dangling off the bed and dripping on the floor) and agglutinating himself into the nearest corner.

The machines formerly around his bed were now either on the floor or knocked out place during his seismic panic, and the places on his skin where wires had been taped to monitor his vitals now tingled raw - the same kind of tingling you got when you ripped a band-aid off too fast.

Without a heart to monitor, the cardiac machine had flat-lined and a shrill beeping alarm emanated from it now, piercing Peter's ears like two vengeful knives shredding his eardrums. He tore his hands from the wall, and with bits of plaster and dried paint on his fingers, he clamped them over his ears to keep that devil-forsaken noise out.

A light, fleeting tingle flitted over his brain just as the door below flew open. Several nurse-looking people stepped in, all wearing terrible pasty-green scrubs, followed by a man in a long white medical coat who could only be the doctor. At least, that's what Peter would deduce later.

Right now, his senses were on overdrive. Ever noise felt like a grater to his ears, the intoxicating smell of medicine and bleach made his eyes and nose burn, even the air from the vents felt like thousands of tiny isicles shooting into the pores in his skin. His brain was in too much of a frenzy to slow down and connect the dots. All he knew was that he didn't know any of them, and if he didn't know them than they were strangers, and strangers were bad.

His voice sounded wobbly and faded, even to him, like he was listening to himself over an old speaker. "Where am I?" His heart was beating a hole out of his chest. "Who are you?" The lights were searingly painful. "What - what did you do to me?"

"Whoa, whoa, easy Spider-Man," the doctor-man was saying, holding his arms out as if to somehow assuage the panic from Peter's chest. "Easy. It's okay. You're okay. Calm down."

But Peter was not going to calm down. He was in a strange place, with strange people, who had him hooked up to machines - however medical they looked. He could only remember vague things, like a glass cage, loud noises, darkness, a creepy, contorted smile, someone's hand on his throat. His brain was too muddled to make the connection. Too panicked to even try.

He needed to get out of there. He needed to go somewhere safer, preferably up-high. Where he wouldn't be bothered and he could calm down and wouldn't be touched or approached, he needed...he needed...

His...his chest was getting too tight. His breaths were coming out laborious and shallow. Peter slapped a hand over it, and he could feel the heavy rise and fall of his lungs, but no air seemed to be making it the rest of the way. A switch flicked in his brain and he gasped, grasping the other hand to the wall as if the stability would help.

Panic grabbed him by the throat, digging its fingers into his windpipe, as the other hand reached through his chest and grabbed a hold of his heart. His thoughts were getting too loud, multiplying too fast, every word in his head died in his throat, and he was left choking on the corpses' of withered letters. The door was across the room, but suddenly Peter couldn't at all. His fingers fused into the wall, with no intention of releasing him.