Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Dr. W(h)ack's Warehouse

Spooktober 12: Kidnapping

⚠️tw: needles⚠️

Plink.

Plink.

Plink.

Plink.

Plink.

Plink.

His head was pounding something fierce, like an echoed drum reverberating around an empty Olympics stadium. His eyes, shut tightly as they were, still burned from the excess brightness shining on his closed eyelids. He could see the blurred red as the blinding light shone through the soft tissue.

It wasn't normal to feel as if his ears were full of cotton. He knew that well enough. He had been through far more than his fair share of knock outs and concussions to understand what both of them felt like layered on top of eachother.

That would certainly explain the rest of his condition.

Peter ran his tongue over his bottom lip, cringing at the taste of dried blood crusting off and onto his tastebuds. He could feel how puffy his lip was, as well as the ident that tore the skin in two, no doubt split from the amount of punches he had endured before... all of this.

He tilted his head down to try and force his eyes open even a little bit, and the sting of the light as he looked at his feet still made him wince. He could see, after squinting down and blinking for a duration of time, that his feet were cuffed to a chair. The cuffs weren't anything that Peter had seen before; they looked heavy duty, thickly casted in iron and glowing with a light from the middle bar.

He stared down at the cuffs until it clocked what else he was looking at: the red webbed pattern of the boots on his Spider-Man suit. He widened his eyes and jerked his chin upwards.

The warehouse he was sitting in was abandoned, which Peter could tell immediately from how empty it was. The lack of concrete supports in the middle ground of the building was a temporary relief, but the details of what actually was in the warehouse let the relief shrivel up like a wilted rose.

The plinking of a faucet is beside him, the steady drip from a leaky pipe causing all of his previous sensory problems continued to slowly spill drops one at a time on the ceramic of the sink it was underneath.

Beside the sink, a rolling table, on it consisted of several interesting looking medical devices that Peter would love to never be introduced to under any circumstances ever. Especially the syringe. Or the test tube with a crude label on the side, simply a piece of white painter's tape and "SUBJECT BLOOD" written on it with a black permanent marker.

He also noted, as all of the colour in his face drained away, that his mask was on the very end of the rolling table, and was being plugged into a laptop. That was certainly not ideal.

Peter tried struggling in the chair, moving against the rope tied across his chest that bound his arms back, but it had no effect whatsoever other than to make every muscle in his body hurt a hell of a lot more. He figured it had been the cuffs, it had to have been, and that's why he wasn't healed yet, and that's why something as simple as rope was keeping him from breaking out of here.

He was at a loss.

Last time he was stuck somewhere, it had been a storage facility that took a considerable amount of impatience and willpower to break out of, but he had full range of motion and ability then. Then was not now, where Peter was stuck in a chair in a dingy room and his mask was off and he was probably gonna get tested on by evil scientists and—