Wolf Spider

With Little Effort

-Peter's P.O.V-

Peter jerks awake on his bed. He doesn't know how he got there, but he knows that everything is extremely loud and even though his room's lights are off, everything is too bright. He can hear music coming from somewhere in the tower, the hundreds of footsteps coming from the rest of the building, the voices from outside, and the cars driving past. Can smell the breakfast someone cooked, the coffee, and the bleach from when someone cleaned something.

Peter knows what this is. He'd heard the scientists at HYDRA speak about sensory overload, how Peter's senses, already dialed to an eleven, can reach such great heights that he'd be in pain. It's where Zemo had gotten the idea for the awful whistle.

He'd gone through this many times before, after mission, after mind-wipes, and when he gets out of the Dark Room. He always stays in his poor excuse of a bed when that happens, nothing short of being dragged out of his room (which was awful because every touch felt like a hundred needles in his arm) would get him to move out of his tight position.

Peter rolls onto his side, and curls into a tight ball. He maneuvers his hands to cover his ears, and presses his knees into his squeezed shut eyes. The blanket is itchy on his skin, and he kicks his legs to move the offending object off of him before resuming his hunched position. The tears coming out of his eyes are warm against his cheeks, but he doesn't have it in him to wipe them away. To do that he'd have to release his grip from his ears, and that's the last thing Peter wants to do.

He knows that there are crescent shaped, red marks on the skin behind his ears, but he can't bring it to himself to care. Peter can only focus on the pain he's feeling from the sensory overload, and the nightmare that had made him jerk awake. A choked sob bubbles out of his mouth despite him biting his tongue to stop it.

All Peter can do is watch as his body moves without him trying. It's an odd feeling, on Peter knows he doesn't like, He watches as his body creeps through vents that are to small for anyone other than the thirteen year old he is. He doesn't know where he is. Doesn't know where his body is leading him, as he takes turn after turn.

He stops at a vent that to the right of him. Someone he doesn't know is sitting on a chair reading the newspaper. Something about a man named Fisk, but Peter doesn't care. Apparently his body doesn't care either, as he silently slips his hand to the small pack on his thigh.

If Peter had control of his body, he'd widen his eyes. A small syringe filled with a clear, slightly bubbly liquid is now in his bodies hand. It's filled with Peter's venom, deadly within ten minutes if you don't get help, and Peter knows his mission is to make sure this person doesn't get that help.

He silently drops to the floor, and creeps up to the person. He wraps an arm around the person neck before jabbing the syringe into his neck, and inserting the venom into their bloodstream. Peter wants to wince as the person lets out choked screams, and struggles fiercely in his tight grip. Peter's body keeps its grip, not letting up until the person is unconscious from lack of oxygen.

His body pulls away, but walks to stand in front of his victim to make sure they die. He's learned the hard way to never leave a job unfinished. He watches as the ten minutes creep by, and blood starts to drip out of the strangers eyes, ears, and nose. Skin growing pale, and the life slowly flows out of the person's open eyes. He knows ten minutes are finished when a final cough is crawled out of the victims mouth, making blood drip from there now as well.

Peter's body twitches as he finally gets control of his body. His face contorts into one of pain and regret as he stares at the victim. He blinks and all the air in his lungs escapes him. His victim is no longer a stranger, but now James.