kitcat992

[kitcat992]

do fic readers know that their comments actually influence the course of the story sometimes? i don't mean in a "you need to write it this way because i say so 😡" type of comment, i mean when people are asking questions or really engaging with the plot and the themes in the comments they sometimes bring up things that i didn't even think of, or dig into parts of the story that i've overlooked, or get really interested/fixated on something i was going to just kind of glance over--and it has me going 'oh wait that's actually really interesting, that's a good point' and fully adding or tweaking or changing things about the story going forward. i'm literally adding an entire additional chapter to something right now because someone's comment had me like "oh i didn't dig into that as much as i could have." you have impact!

[kitcat992]

Identity Within: Part I︱Chapter 16, Every Flame Leaves Ash (PREVIEW)

There was something about web-swinging that always made him feel better.

“…arker!” the voice screamed — loud, distant, familiar. “Sta…wi…me!”

The feel of the wind rushing through his lungs, the air howling past his ears; a moment, a breath in a heartbeat suspended within time itself where he could feel completely weightless.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say it felt like he was flying.

“I sai…sta…me!” “…puls….crash…!” “Pe..!”

The web snapped taut behind him, flinging him forward; a slingshot loosened from the tallest skyscraper in the city.

No strings, no chains, no weight.

Just him, and the golden sprawl of Manhattan dazzling below, each high-rise structure brushing up against his waist as he twisted his body midair, spinning through the yawning spaces between each building.

His pulsed thumped high in his throat, each beat a spark against his ribs.

He didn’t fight it.

“Squez…aline…stag…ock….!” “..ony!…eed…to…!” “PET—

—ER!”

Pressure suddenly grabbed at his cheeks.

“—Peter!” One hand forcibly clenched at his jaw, shaking his face with urgency, all while the other pried his eyelid wide open. “Stay with me, Peter! I said stay with me!”

A ringing cut through his ear, sharp, blaring. The lights burned into his retinas. All as the grip on his face tightened, fingernails clawing beneath his cheekbone with a thumb digging painfully into the underside of his chin.

Silence shattered as voices crashed in all at once.

“Squeeze that saline, he’s in stage four shock—!”

“Pulse crashing, BP now forty and dropping—!”

“Tony, you need to get out of the wa—!”

“—get every ounce of phenylephrine and epinephrine pumped into—“

“Peter! C’mon, kid!” Tony’s face, blurry and distorted at every angle, hovered over him with a voice that tore straight out of his throat — yet barely got into Peter’s ears, the words digging through a cotton-wrapped fog that swaddled his mind. “You’ve survived too much to die on us now! C’MON!”

Every syllable struck him like a slap, yanking him up from the darkness with the blunt force of panic.

Then—

“Stay with me, Peter!” A hand sharply slapped at his face. “HEY!” Again. And Again. “I said stay with me! Peter! PE—

—TER!”

He surrendered to the pull of gravity.

…Thwip! …Thwip! …Thwip!

A streak of motion flew by him, the buildings blurring into one, the colors morphing into a tie-dyed rainbow. Each swing tilted the world a little more than before, each strand of webbing stretching before he let it go; flipping and spinning in the air until his wrist shot out another anchor to the sky above.

Momentum cradled him, unpredictable and precise; a pendulum of red and blue set loose.

The free fall down to the streets below sent a surge of adrenaline through his very core, dropping his stomach to the toes of his feet, plunging him through the the city that rose straight up to meet him — windows flashing like strobe lights and horns screaming from the veins of traffic.

Web-swinging always did make him feel better.

It was a moment where he always felt the most alive.

…Thwip! …t’wip! …t’w… ….

“..ambu…bag…reath…!”

There was no more web.

“Cap…wheels…’ast…ough!”

No more tether.

“Ta…him! TAKE—

—HIM!”

The hallway tilted.

Lights above flickered past in staccato bursts, stabbing through the haze coating his eyes.

“Use the ambu bag, help his breaths—!”

“—squeeze those fluids!”

“Cap, the wheels aren’t moving fast enough!” Tony’s voice cracked from above, raw and breathless — one of many people on each opposing side of the gurney, caught in a flash of motion as Peter’s head lolled to the side; his gaze unfocused and drifting. “Take him! TAKE HIM!”

A large shape, a sharp glisten of blue and red, a brick wall stepping in — there was motion, so fast, so jarring, that his body rocked with it. His limbs didn’t belong to him anymore. They bounced, dragged, hung weightless.

Boots hammered against the floor.

White walls flashed past.

The thunder pounded beneath him — too heavy, too fast — echoing through his chest. Something else was moving him, carrying him, dragging him forward.

The air wasn’t free anymore, wasn’t calming. It suddenly felt thick, like syrup — bright and golden and brightbrightbright.

The heat of the orange glow battering against his face came from one side as his head rolled with each rapid footstep moving him.

And then, suddenly —

Silence.

No more air.

No more sound.

Just a thick, velvet black, swallowing everything — sight, breath, thought.

Peter heard himself exhale. A breath too thin to catch.

He fell until there was nothing left for him to fall into.

He never remembered landing.

“…’ead man.”

A sound tugged at the edge of nothing.

Soft at first.

Then louder.

“……he’s…dead…”

It cracked, rumbled — the distant scrape of someone’s voice dragging him up by the collar of his own coherency; his eyelids far too heavy to lift past the anchors that weighed them down.

Wait, that didn’t make any sense.

Who was dead?

Did he die?

Again?

And if he was dead, how was he able to web-swing?

Was he still web-swinging?

“I’m goin…ill him.”

“No…ou’re no…”

Voices sounded, floated, some far out of reach, some close enough that he could taste them.

They tasted like smoke — ashy, burnt.

His throat tasted like fire.

That wasn’t a feeling that came from web-swinging.

“—arton, if you…’on’t thin…or one second—” “You don’t …et to make…kind of…cision. It goe…rough Steve.”

A beeping monitor pulsed in the background, too slow. Too uneven. Every pause between beeps hung in the air.

The weight on his chest refused to lift. Something pressed against his face — a mask? It hissed every time he inhaled, sinking deep into the hallow space within his core, cooling the inflamed tissue inside his lungs.

He could feel his ribs trying to rise, but they barely budged under the weight of invisible hands.

His own body felt too heavy to function in.

“..ich, Romanoff. Gues…at? Rogers…out. I’m…’n charge.”

The sound lanced into the fog, cutting through the haze in his mind, slowly wrapping around his drifting consciousness.

“Tony—”

Another voice broke through, tighter, steel-wrapped.

It was the last thing Peter heard, before he heard nothing at all.

“—telling you…I’m

—going to kill Osborn.”

[kitcat992]

Don't Fear The Reaper: The Identity Saga and the Through-line of Death

*waves*

This might seem random (because, well, life is), but I’ve put together a little “behind the author’s chair” insight into this quirky series I call Identity Saga — sorta kinda sharing my POV on what it’s really all about.

For real though. I had some rough news thrown my way recently. And I think this fanfic memoir is my way of acknowledging a new reality that approaches me.

Thank you to those who read below. Love you all.

I started writing Identity Theft right after my second viewing of Infinity War — fully emotionally compromised by the chaotic mentor-meets-dad vibes between Tony Stark and Peter Parker. I was also knee-deep in a bizarre quarter-life crisis at the same time. Needless to say, it was the perfect storm for some serious storytelling.

It started with Loss.

You see, from the age of 25-27, I had a very strange anxiety about death. Not in a phobia sort of way, just in a sorta ‘awakening’ way. It’s a long story that deserves a glass of wine and plate of cheese, but to make it short — around this time in my life, a childhood friend of mine had her father pass away. He was 54. She was 27.

It wasn’t the first death in my life, but in hindsight, I found it to be the moment my childhood truly came to an end. As if suddenly, death wasn’t just a word anymore, or something that happened to our grandparents. It was happening closer than that. And that meant, one day sooner than the last, we’d be next.

Pretty morbid thoughts for age 25, but hey, what else is a cool swanky gal like myself gunna do but finger guns have an existential crisis.

The Identity Saga comes into play, here, by the way — I didn't lose the topic. I just took a detour.

While this underlying theme wasn’t the entire reason I started to write the fic, I snuck it in there at the encouragement of my therapist at the time. When I expressed this odd obsessive thought I had about death ever since my childhood friends father passed away, she advised that I start finding a way to express that anxiety so I could get it out of my head and out into the world.

What’s the saying — knock two birds out with one stone? I’m a nerd in therapy, why else wouldn’t I turn to fanfiction? And I had some crazy ideas for this fanfiction. Enough that when thrown into a blender, they all needed a through-line to tie them together.

With that said, I approached writing Identity Theft with one central theme in mind: crafting a story around the death of a young Peter Parker, believed to have been cruelly lost in a tragic explosion — only for him to be revealed alive, and then almost lost once more.

The saga’s origin story follows Tony’s inner struggle as he reluctantly steps into the role of a mentor — never intending to grow attached to Peter — only to emerge with a kinship bond that cuts deeper than he ever expected, shattering his reality when Spider-Man is caught in a fiery explosion and presumed dead. Suddenly, grief blindsides him before he can even name what he’s lost. In a matter of days, he’s dragged through despair, hope, and desperation; realizing along the way that to have loved and lost means surrendering control to places of his heart that not even his armor could protect.

All the while, fifteen-year-old Peter Parker suddenly finds that fifteen-years-old isn’t nearly long enough to call it a wrap on this thing called life. And yet, when fatally wounded, he awakens a fear within himself that wouldn’t have otherwise existed: Death was terrifying. And dying long enough to think about death was twice as terrifying.

So if it started with loss, then death had already made its presence known, right? Loss doesn’t happen without death stepping in first. And death… well, death is a darkness that reaches farther than we ever want to admit.

Death is scary.

It was around this time in my life, I had done something absolutely wild. I went to conquer my fear of death, whatever fear this was — the reality that we’re mortal and may one day die — I conquered it by exposing myself to it. I passed my exams, I entered the medical field — don’t ask me why, but I wanted to deal with the unknown by making it known. I wanted to face it head on. I wanted to work alongside it. I wanted to look it in the eye, and I even wanted to fight it. Prove that life was better than death. Prove that there was nothing to be scared of.

Death is a topic many people shy away from. It’s uncomfy. It made me very uncomfy. I had this crazy thought that if I made myself really uncomfy, maybe I could eventually understand things a little better.

(That worked, by the way. Tl;dr.)

That brings us to Identity Crisis. I wanted to portray this part of Peter’s journey with the as much dignity as possible because, in many ways, I felt like I was walking a parallel path.

As we move into the second installment, and as Peter slowly recovers from the near-death experience that seems to gnaw at him more with each passing day, we begin to confront how loss truly takes root in the original wound — death itself. For someone who has stood on that razor’s edge, there’s a profound, unsettling truth to face: just how fragile life really is.

Suddenly, Peter realizes nearly losing his life had more effect on him than he thought.

When I went into the medical field, I had no idea just a few years later I’d be in the trenches of a once-a-century global pandemic that took my neighbors, my friends, my coworkers, my loved ones loved ones — I had gone to conquer my anxiety about death wanting to expose myself to it, and wound up doing it through the mask of a hazmat suit.

I remember walking to work one morning, and seeing the refrigerated trucks at the loading dock of the hospital, and thinking “It’s no longer just on the news. It’s now my life.”

During the time I wrote Identity Crisis, I continued to follow my former therapists advice that worked so well for me in the past. She had advised me that I start finding a way to express my anxiety, allowing it to get out of my head and out in the world. I clung to that advice as I went through the 2020 Covid pandemic on the floors of an ICU, wondering if the day was going to bring more death than the last — and how many more codes I’d be called to, knowing exactly how each one ends.

As I began Identity Within — the third book in a trilogy split into two parts — I realized that the trauma I endured during the pandemic demanded real rest and recovery. When I stepped away from my career and made a pivot, I discovered that a large part of my identity had been lost along the way. Suddenly, I had to rediscover who I was beyond the scrubs and figure out how to contribute to the world without being directly involved in someone’s health.

Death is scary. But when you begin to see it so often, the Grim Reaper suddenly doesn’t feel like such a threat. Once you get to know him, you don't want to fight him. Not all the time. Not when he's showing up on his schedule. You realize he’s just an entity like life. Without one, there isn’t the other. And life really is a fragile thing, one we have to take care of.

Life is something we truly must take care of.

Coming out of the pandemic, I felt like I had lost myself. But with time, distance, and a genuine effort to rediscover who I was, I came to realize I hadn’t truly lost anything after all. The through-line had simply shifted — still rooted in Loss, but now perfectly intertwined.

We had moved on from Loss. We moved on when we Let Go.

I never lost that part of myself, I let it go. And I did that to better myself, to ensure I’ll always shed one old skin for a new one, always grow to be better than who I was yesterday — even if it means stepping away from something once loved for something that's healthier for the mind. I had let go of my old self, and started to find the new identity along the way.

I’ve been writing Identity Within during a very special period in my life. It’s had crazy ups and downs and whirlwinds that I can’t even begin to summarize here. I have found a way to contribute in my new field of business, still abiding by the way of Peter Parker — always here to lend a helping hand. Always a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

I’ve leaned heavily on this series for the last 7 years to get me through so much growth, unintentionally creating a therapy session over time with the stories through-line that gracefully, here soon, comes to an end.

After we have loss, we have to let go.

My mother was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer a week prior to writing this post.

It’s been a…its been a time. It’s been an experience. It’s been a shock and blur and surreal heart wrenching anxiety that rips at your heart. I’m the youngest of three, all of us estranged. I’m in my early thirties, at that. My mother has made it to the age of 68 years old. She survived quadruple heart bypass just last year. The diagnosis came as abruptly as the cancer.

We know our time won’t make it to the end of the year. Perhaps not through the summer that hasn’t even officially begun.

I won’t lie, the way this series has entangled itself into the chapters of my own life never fails to amuse me. Having it at my side to get me through these moments makes for a story almost as compelling as the one I like to think I’m writing.

When Identity Within: Part II kicks off, I’ll find those parallel paths with this series and my life intertwine once again. I’m not surprised, it’s not the first time. If you think I’m making it all up, I wish I was — the grief of losing your mother at a young age is no pain I’d want anyone to feel. I’m just not surprised, at this point, that my life merges a little too closely with the characters I’m writing.

In Identity Within: Part II, one of the unfolding plots begins to pave the way for the final installment’s defining arc: a journey from loss to letting go. As Peter faces his greatest challenge alone, he must grapple with the weight of a legacy he never asked for — left wondering just how heavy the crown is, and whether he can even bear it.

This series has truly rooted itself in deep with my own life. I will never stop writing it, not until the day it’s done. Please keep me in your thoughts as I go through this chapter of my life with saying final goodbyes to my mother. And when you think of the subtext that coats each one of these books (in a series far too long for my own good, I’d like you to acknowledge the woman who brought me into this world to craft them into the pieces they are today.

I love you, mom. We had our differences, but you always said I was special, and always encouraged me to do the things I loved to do. I started writing at age 9 years old, because you saw it made me happy, and you encouraged me to keep doing it. I may not have a published book to write your name on the front page of. But you played a part in what I’ve been able to do in life; from leaving childhood and turning into an adult, to looking a global pandemic dead set in the eyes and laughing — all the way to rediscovering an identity that wouldn’t exist had you not encouraged me to keep doing what I love, and insisting I was special for it.

We had our differences, but thank you for being my mom.

I’ll see you all at the end of Part 1, and we’ll move forward — and let go — in the final installment.

(by the way, I fully acknowledge what I've insinuated is going to happen in the final installment, all while while also mentioning my mom is dying. It's okay to scream at me over what I've implied and skip that. Honest to God, I actually need the fan love now more than ever. #no character death #but you guys know that doesn't stop me)

[kitcat992]

kill the imposter syndrome in your head because not only is there someone out there doing it worse than you, they’re also using chat gpt to do it

[kitcat992]

just learned people associate em dashes with chat gpt. Girl fuck you. You can pry em dashes from my cold dead hands. One of us is gonna have to stop using em— and it’s not gonna be me!

[kitcat992]

Identity Within: Part I︱Moments That Matter: Chapter 16, Every Flame Leaves Ash

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 19: When the Bad Things Happen

───────

Sitting next to him, Natasha had locked her gaze on Bruce, never taking her eyes off him throughout the discussion. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would have sworn that she heard the man talk.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ rang in her ears, words that he never actually spoke, a personality normally so predictable faded underneath the stress of the situation.

It disturbed her how quiet Bruce had been. It disturbed them all. He was usually one to pitch in with giddy enthusiasm about how this type of technology functioned, proceeding to bore the team with details that they never asked for and could never understand.

Instead, he sat quietly, chin in the palm of his hands and elbows on his knees.

Natasha’s brows pulled together, concerned. “Bruce?”

His head snapped up, as if he now suddenly remembered where he was. Bruce looked at her, the deep lines across his face echoing her exhaustion.

Almost immediately he bowed his head again, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose tightly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just...” Bruce heavily sighed, “this is bad.”

Wanda leaned forward, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “How bad?”

“His blood is...well, it’s mutated,” Bruce said. “Beyond what’s compatible with any other cross-match. On the surface he still has a normal B positive blood type, but beneath that it...it’s more. The antigens and protein markers have been so abnormally altered by that spider bite that he’s...he’s essentially developed an ABO incompatibility.”

Sam was the first to catch on. “He can’t receive blood.”

Bruce nodded. Clint audibly cursed under his breath, and Rhodey scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It’s...incredibly unfortunate in the current situation, but yes. We had to stop transfusing the universal O negative to prevent a hemolytic reaction,” Bruce explained.

Natasha stayed neutral. “So what now?”

Steve sat up a little straighter. “Doesn’t he have accelerated healing?”

“Yes,” Helen simply answered. “And that healing factor has certainly kept him alive this long.”

“Where’s the but?” Clint asked, arms crossed and all but rolling his eyes.

Bruce didn’t seem to have the willpower to answer the question. The tension grew twice as thick between them, and Steve was silently appreciative when Helen finally took over.

“He can only regenerate so fast. With his injuries, with the hypovolemia...he spent days dehydrated, malnourished — his body needs twice as much intake as that of a normal individual, and consequently he loses it twice as fast,” she explained. “It’s not as if he’s been stripped of his healing factor. It’s that his body is simply too weak and injured to utilize it.”

Rhodey leaned into the side of the couch, his temple resting between two fingers that rubbed at his forehead. He appeared to be able to keep up with the medical details up until now. It was typically the case for him though, superpowers always had a tendency to complicate things.

“So what does all that mean?” he asked.

Bruce put his glasses back on. “Think of it like a muscle. It takes energy to use. Hematology has a theory — one I’m inclined to agree with — Peter used a lot of strength in just trying to stay alive. It’s not a...pleasant thing to think about, but his body more than likely went into hypovolemic shock multiple times. A normal person loses a certain amount of blood, they go into shock and if not treated, their heart gives out. Peter's body lost a certain amount of blood, fell into shock and began to regenerate the blood that was lost, until it couldn’t anymore. And then the process repeated.”

His hands spun and twisted around each other, mimicking a moving wheel.

Natasha frowned. “Until now.”

Steve didn’t need to see Bruce nodding to know the answer. He felt the cushions of the sofa lighten as Natasha stood up, her only response being that she walked away from the group. By the time Steve looked up, she was standing across the room and over the stairway banister.

They all knew her well enough to leave her be.

“I would like to reiterate what I said before,” Helen cut in. “By all accounts, he should be dead. He’s hanging on by the skin of his teeth but...he’s hanging on.”

Steve really didn’t know what to say to that. Of course the kid was hanging on. He was a hell of a fighter, a soldier beyond what they could have ever expected.

He was also just a kid.

“We’re not soldiers,” Tony had once told him, the words resonating in his ears. 

Steve was starting to agree with that sentiment.

───────

Identity Within: Part I︱Chapter 13: Unlikely Alliance

───────

When Peter came to, it was to the sound of splashing liquid.

The sound came from a distance — at least it sounded from a distance — and at first thinking, he assumed was a bucket of water being carelessly tossed into a tub.

His eyelids cracked open, slowly, barely reaching past half-mast slits. It felt like each individual eyelash on his eyes was suddenly replaced with lead, keeping him weighed down and flattened with exhaustion.

Despite it, Peter didn’t need coherency to know how bad things were. He was loosing blood — a lot of blood. He remembered that feeling a little too well; the feel of his heart gasping as it tried to pump depleting blood throughout his body, the arctic, bone-freezing chill that came from shock, his pulse weakening further as he lay there. Helpless.

It was a feeling he never wanted to feel, ever again.

And yet here he was.

Parker Luck really needed to cut him a break.

His vision swirled, blurry and doubling in layers that wouldn’t stay in focus. It took a handful of passing minutes until he managed to make out the rough silhouette of Norman on the other side of the room.

Peter watched blearily while the man squeezed a clear plastic bag between both his hands, with enough force that it caused a gush of liquid to splatter into the sink below; dousing the silver metal with a bath of crimson.

Not only could Peter feel the blood loss and all its similarity from before, but he could see it; watching with his head lolled to the side while Norman proceeded to paint the sink red.

“…what…a…waste,” Peter slurred, hardly recognizing his own voice. The sound was barely audible, swallowed up by the faint splashing that echoed through the lab.

“Indeed.” And yet still, Norman heard him. Responding so easily, with such chilling nonchalance, that it made the second gush of liquid sound all the more audible. “If I wouldn’t have had to keep drugging you, I wouldn’t need to dispose of so much.”

Norman tossed one empty bag and reached for another from the tray next to him.

The bag gushed into the sink, the metal glistening as crimson liquid pooled, spilling with every twist of Norman’s grip. Peter’s double vision made it difficult to make out the details, but even in his hazy state, he knew that tray of bags — those countless blobs swimming in his blurred view — had all come from him.

His blood.

Each bag being poured down the drain like May tossing out a pot of burnt pasta sauce.

“As long as the anesthetic is running through your system, I can’t use anything I take from you. It’s far too contaminated — trust me, I’ve tried.” Norman’s voice was calm, clinical, fading in and out of Peter’s earshot. “I can’t pull the DNA from your leukocytes while they’re actively charged from chemical abuse. The leukocytes won’t bind to the double helix strand. I need it pure, untainted. No trace of anesthetic can remain. Once the effects of hypovolemic shock fully kick in, I won’t have the need for any further intoxication to keep you subdued. The drugs will stop there shortly after, only once your blood loss becomes it’s own form of paralysis.” Another gush interrupted Norman. He made sure to wait until the noise went away before stating, “And only then can I use what I take from you. The rest, sadly, is indeed a waste.”

Peter desperately wanted to say something to that — the wit was on the tip of his tongue, begging to come out — but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his lips to separate.

A splash of liquid sounded in the place of any witty remark he could’ve conjured up.

Norman noticeably squeezed the bag harder, twisting it to ensure every drop of liquid from inside the plastic had been wasted. Once done, he reached for another, clearing the tray in time.

Peter could feel his pulse quicken, the struggle to keep himself awake suddenly feeling more impossible than lifting a collapsed building off his back. A painful shiver coursed down his spine as he rolled his head to the side, forcing his cheek against the frigid, metal table — stiffening his muscles until they spasmed from the exertion of his own cold.

Blearily, he looked down at his hand. Watching in muted horror as his forearm gave a frail, pathetic tug against the leather restraint.

He just needed to get a signal out to Mr. Stark.

He just needed to get his wrist free.

He just needed to—

— weakly, Peter tugged.

“There’s only two percent inhalant of anesthetic being released to you at this very moment.” Norman’s voice was a faint drone, his words almost lost as Peter’s ears rang with the pounding of his own heavy pulse. “I’ve replaced the rest with oxygen to ensure your heart doesn’t give out too soon. Hypovolemic shock is tricky, easily fatal, if not treated quickly. As it stands, I’ve had to take such an extreme amount of your blood for your body to finally stabilize into that shock. It’s unfortunate, but I wasn’t able to use any anti-coagulant in the linings of the collection bags in fear of contamination to the purity of your samples. So returning all I’ve taken is simply not an option, and testing isn’t possible once the clotting takes effect. Sadly, all of it must be disposed.”

With eyelids fluttering and threatening to close shut, Peter could feel his grip on consciousness drifting. The only thing keeping him from blacking out was the harsh burn of leather rubbing relentlessly against his wrist, each pull and yank of his arm — as feeble was it was — digging the strap into the tender tissue of his arm.

He welcomed the pain. Each tug pulled harder then the last. Pushing him to muster the willpower to keep trying.

“You see, Mr. Parker,” Norman’s feet paced alongside his words. Peter could hear it, faintly, with the sound of splashing finally coming to the stop. Footsteps easily replaced the noise. “The way your mutation kept rebounding your hematorcrit levels — it’s as I’ve said, I can’t use anything taken from you with the sedative still effective in your bloodstream. And I saw, first hand, during the clinical trails of A.00…just how enhanced the immune system becomes — with an extraordinary degree of superhuman healing a result of your genetic modification.”

Norman’s words were accompanied with distant clinks and clanks of tinkering that Peter didn’t have the energy to try and locate. He was too busy using what strength he could muster up for each weak jerk of his shoulder, fighting to loosen the restraint, pulling at his arm over and over—

“Over and over again, your circulatory system replaced what I’ve taken, over and over — and by now, I’ve simply taken too much. When the body of .00 was tested against endurance, it was only at the point of near death we’d see its healing factor finally weaken,” Norman explained. “I’m afraid there’s very little volume left in your body at this point. I won’t have any left to spare for your mutation to rebound in effect again. What will remain is everything I need to fix me. And not a micro-gram less.”

Peter wasn’t sure if he could feel much of his face, but he was almost positive his eyebrows had furrowed together like a fuzzy caterpillar — it was an attempt, anyway.

The confusion was enough to halt his movements, combined with the surge of ice that shot down his back; sending a tremble through his body that he couldn’t fight.

Even disoriented, Peter knew something was off; the way Norman wasn’t shy about talking, giving answers to questions that had yet to even be asked…there was something deeply unsettling about that.

He knew enough about bad guys to know they didn’t want others knowing about their plans.

So why was Norman telling him his?

The leather burned against his chafed and torn-up skin. Peter kept twisting to loosen the strap — he really didn’t want to find out that answer.

“I do apologize, Peter,” Norman began, turning around to face him — all while squeezing another bag empty. He barely came into focus as he said, “But you should know that this procedure is going to kill you.”

Too late.

The answer Peter never asked for drained him faster than the blood that was leaving his body. He lolled his head to the other side, his cheek planting hard against the metal surface of the table, his skull rolling before it came to a stop. He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone any control of his muscles.

Still, he fought for an escape.

“—how’s…how’s my…blood…even gunna…help you? ‘N’w?” Peter slurred, heavily. He blinked hard to force his eyes to stay open. Even then, he kept tugging. “…y’ve alr’eady…taken…Oz.. It’s…too l’te.”

With the strength Peter was almost positive could be outmatched by a premature new born baby, he kept tugging at the leather strap around his forearm — swearing to himself that after this, he would never, ever, ever take the small things for granted.

Things like being able to break free of a single restraint that tied him to a metal table, or knowing which way was up and which way wasn’t tossing him in a radically, never-ending, high-speed spin that put a broken carnival ride to shame.

The sink Norman stood at — once clean and sterile, now dripping with a deep, dark red — wasn’t far from the machines that surrounded them, each making their own noise and sounding an alarm that all tied back to Peter’s body.

Norman didn’t seem too concerned over those sounds.

Peter was.

───────

Identity Within: Part I︱Chapter 9: Bachelor Party

───────

“It was then that silly, strange man came and took you away, Banner,” Thor kept on, completely oblivious to the silent banter happening between the two men. While Bruce kept his finger high in the air, and Tony a smirk that was every bit his flavor, Thor’s brow creased with a sudden tightness. “I had no idea of what happened to you — I thought for sure you had perished there on Saakar!”

Clint noticeably squinted an eye as he gestured his drink off to the side, lazily pointing where the game of billiards was taking place.

“And so…” he trailed off, confusion already vividly laced in his voice. “You guys exchanged pen pals or something…?”

A sharp gasp sounded from across the lounge.

“We are pals, yes!” Mantis’ delighted chime couldn’t have reached any higher in pitch. Along with another shatter of glass from the kitchen.

Tony looked to the ceiling, briefly.

Steve caught glance of him; for a moment wondering if the man was calling for patience, or for his armor.

“These people — you see, I never thought I’d see of them again! They meant nothing to me!”

Thor’s enthusiasm felt misplaced with the words he spoke. Steve went as far to arch an eyebrow, and even Natasha looked on with an uncharacteristically expressive face.

“It was in our journey to find a new home that our ship was forced to land on a nearby planet for supplies and sustenance,” Thor continued on, never one to easily understand their social cues. “By the fates of Odin did I happen to find the Reigning Champions there! Surely it was a sign — someone across the nine realms speaking through to me, saying what needed to be heard at a time I needed to hear it most…”

Thor’s voice trailed off as he looked away, almost distantly, the cup still clenched in his hand but the rim neglected to touch his lips.

At the same time, another clatter sounded from the kitchen.

“I told Quill to hurry up and get to the Bentar running before he saw us,” Rocket droned on from across the lounge, slamming a kitchen cabinet shut along the way. It caused a rattle of noise that echoed through his tangent. “None of you listened to me! I’m tellin’ ya, all of this could’ve been prevented if we had just ditched Mantis at the fuelstop—!”

“We weren’t ditching Mantis!” Quill shouted back.

“And now we’re stuck with him! Congratulations!” Rocket wasn’t shy to holler in return.

“I knew my place was not on our ship,” Thor, to no ones surprise, kept on — even as their bickering continued, just more noise added to a room full of activity. “I knew my home, it laid elsewhere. That…that is what I believe was spoken through the nine realms. And to find it…I needed to venture on my own. And so I asked these good people if they would open their doors to me—”

“—you broke down into a blubbery wet mess until Gamora felt bad enough to let you stay!” Rocket hastily butted in.

Thor failed to notice, “And it is in my travels with the Space Lords—”

“How many times have I told you that ain’t our flarking name—!”

“—that I hope to find a home of my own.” Suddenly, against then harsh layer of chatter and activity nearby, Thor’s voice grew quiet. His face softened, noticeably, but with less grief than before. The lines that deepened the skin around his eyes weren’t that of sorrow, but surety. “And perhaps, though hope is thin, I may find my brother again along the way.”

Not even Quill striking against billiard balls could make the moment that followed any less uncomfortable than it already was.

That much, to everyone’s surprise, Thor wasn’t oblivious to.

“I apologize,” he started to say, leaning back against the couch as if to distance himself from the others. “I know that the mere mention of my brother here on Midgard brings up sour memories—”

“The past is in the past.” Steve held an open palm in the air, stopping Thor right in his tracks. He nodded, firmly. “Family’s important, it’s understandable.”

It had always been hard to gauge the Asgardian for his emotions — always stoic, always firm in his resilience. Steve was more than surprised to see that barrier had broken down since they last were together.

There was now an opennesses wearing on Thor’s sleeve now. If Steve didn’t know better, the God of Thunder almost looked relieved — heartened at the acceptance to his burden, regardless of the history attached to it.

“Yes, yes, right you are.” Thor nodded, many times, before coming to a stop. “Of course, Loki is adopted—”

“Still family.”

This time, it wasn’t anyone in the lounge who spoke up.

All heads turned over to the entertainment space, finding the source of words to have come from the green skinned woman at the pool table. She bent over with her cue stick ready to strike, barely giving those in the lounge a single glance when they all turned to face her.

Standing behind Gamora, Quill pointed his own cue stick in her direction.

“What she said,” he needlessly added.

No one spoke up to disagree.

For a minute, only the music played overhead — a new song overtaking the last, with no song having repeated itself so far.

It was certainly a wide range of tunes in Quill’s collection — no doubt all of which was as outdated as the music player it originated from, but at the very least it kept the atmosphere in the lounge steady; calm and positive, even when dialogue had taken a more somber tone.

Though the conversation came to a halt, things weren’t necessarily quiet. Rather, there was a loud contemplation that followed — internal, and brief. But still there.

“I thought the world of my brother,” Thor broke that shared introspective with his own thoughts spoken out loud. His vulnerability was genuine, bringing a shared nostalgia to the group that grounded them all. “I thought we were going to fight side by side, forever. But at the end of the day, he’s him…and our paths diverged a long time ago. Still. I hope to see of him, once more. To start anew, in this new chapter of our lives.” Thor brought his cup to his mouth, hesitating before it could touch down on his lips. “But if I should never see of him again…so be it.”

And with that, he tossed his drink back, taking a mouthful that emptied the cup dry.

Thor noticeably sniffed when finishing, and swallowed twice for good measure — ruffing his hand through the thickness of his beard in hopes no one would pay any mind to the spasm in his throat, even long after finishing the remains in his cup.

Tony noticed.

───────

Identity Within: Part 1︱Chapter 3: R.S.V.P

───────

“Oh my, my, yes, it’s been…it’s been quite the few months, for sure. A lot of preparation has gone into this, many things occurring behind the scenes — and now that OsCorp has reached the point of publicizing this announcement, well…I won’t lie, it’s a bit of a burden off the back.”

As Peter threw open the front door to the apartment, the first thing he heard was the distant voices coming from the living room television. It was at a volume that told him May wasn’t really paying attention, just using it for background noise. Yet it was loud enough that it reached over her struggle with pots and pans all the way inside the kitchen, and certainly quick to grab his attention.

Anything OsCorp related had a tendency to do that these days.

Peter hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the front door to living room when he looked over at the TV, frowning deeply.

“But of course, things are just beginning. We have a long future to look forward to, one that’ll far exceed my time on this earth.” The voice of the man sounded professional, each word said with a sharp precision and clarity to his statements. “It’s all about legacy, after all. And the Osborn dynasty has yet to untap their full potential in what lays ahead. I’m excited to be apart of these unfolding developments with them.”

Whatever channel was playing, Peter quickly deduced it was a news station. Something where someone was being interviewed — an old man, that much was obvious. He wore a business suit that Peter was sure cost five times May’s rent, and his grayish white hair matched perfectly with the deep wrinkles that dug harsh lines into his skin.

And yet, despite talking about OsCorp, the man was most definitely not Norman Osborn. Peter wasn’t sure he’d actually ever seen him before. Granted, he never paid much attention to these things until recently, but still.

He approached the back of the sofa, watching the TV and moving almost in a trance. So much so that he completely forgot his laundry detergent soaked socks were still gripped in his hand, and his bare feet still sticky with the residue they’d encountered.

“You sound quite optimistic about the longevity in OsCorp’s future, Mr. Symthe,” the interviewer said, his tone as serious and straitlaced as the much older man sitting across from him. “Does this mean you’re not worried about the dissolution of partnership with Bio-Labs? Their upstate, New York facility alone brought in OsCorp over thirty percent of their shares and profits last year.”

The man being interviewed gave a light chuckle — Spencer Symthe, Peter discovered, right as the lower third graphic appeared on the screen, displaying his name in whole.

It also gave him a title. Peter furrowed his brows as he quickly read it. Right next to his full name were the words, Co-chairman.

The man may have not been Norman, but there was no doubt that he was right up there in hierarchy.

“Last year is behind us, OsCorp looks only to the future,” Spencer simply answered, as smoothly as the words that came before him. “Bio-Labs served us well in the past, but OsCorp is moving forward with their endeavors in other ways. Having gained majority ownership in buying them out will only prove to serve us further than ever before. We have something quite exciting happening here very soon. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details just yet, but our acquisition of Bio-Labs has made way for something far better. Both for us and for mankind.”

The interviewer looked down at his lap and the sleek notepad in his hands. “Is it true OsCorp purchased that facility from Bio-Labs?” he read off his notes.

“We did, yes,” Spencer answered so quickly, the camera didn’t cut to him until mid-sentence. “We came to an agreement with Bio-Labs on a price, "acquired their and OsCorp is hoping to utilize the facility for further expanding their research studies across the east coast.”

Peter suddenly looked left and right, and then down to the sofa — finding the TV remote stuck in-between the armrest of the cushions. Discarding his socks, he grabbed the remote and hit the first button his thumb could get a hold of. It displayed the title of the show over the screen — ‘Executive Insights with Mark Mitchell.’

“There’s been…quite the controversy regarding those research facilities, Mr. Symthe,” Mark Mitchell, Peter correctly assumed, went on to say. “I’m sure you’re more than aware of the legal trial that took place this afternoon — any comment?”

Slowly, Peter dropped the remote down onto the end table next to the couch. All the while, he never looked away from the TV.

“Ridiculous claims made by ridiculous people.” Spencer waved his hand right alongside his answer. “Despite his rank in the air force, I assure you that Colonel Rhodes has no interest in the safety of this country. He sides with his interest and his team alone — that is, the Avengers. The only people we seem to allow to live above the law.” For a man who had kept his tone even and unwavering, there was a slight hitch in words that heated them up, something Peter couldn’t ignore. He suddenly sounded frustrated, angry. To the point where a pause followed, and he noticeably cleared his throat. “These claims made by him and subsequently, the team he participates with, are as foolish as they are deranged.”

Mark simply nodded. “It’s been no secret that Stark Industries very own Tony Stark has been pushing this case, advocating for the entire revocation of OsCorp’s funding and participation with the Institutional Review Board. He states that compliance with regulatory requirements have been, in his words, the biggest disgrace to not only the field of science but to humanity as a whole.”

“And yet Judge Whittaker has made it very clear today that he disagrees with those claims,” Spencer answered the question that had yet to be asked. “Tony Stark’s efforts to shut down OsCorp have been nothing but a blip on our radar. The court system sided with us on that today, making it very clear that there’s no grounds to the absurd accusations put forth by rumors and heresay.”

Mark cocked his eyebrow high, and so did Peter. Both of them for different reasons. “Is that your way of saying OsCorp’s research studies haven ’t been neglecting proper codes and regulations, and remain to demonstrate due diligence in maintaining public safety standards for both their participate and employees? ”

“By all means, yes,” Spencer easily answered. So easily, Peter went to fold both arms over his chest, the look that pulled at his face causing lines he was far too young to be dealt with. “If all goes well, the former Bio-Labs facility will be up and running within a few months, once converted into one of OsCorp’s technological facilities. And it’ll foster not only the community and development of science careers, but also expand the boundaries of research to pave the way for a brighter tomorrow.”

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 15: Slithered Here From Hell

───────

Tony wasn’t too sure what exactly he’d been expecting, if he had been expecting anything at all. To his knowledge, he had never met with Osborn one on one, privately. He had never wanted to . They had exchanged handshakes and false pleasantries at conventions, perhaps public attendances — his time in the corporate life had a tendency to blur together into an incoherent mess of ‘that was boring, what’s next?’

But all things considered, Tony was positive he had never stepped foot inside Osborn’s personal office before.

The blatant contrast was what startled his eyes, a difference so broad that it almost didn’t seem real. The harsh silver, whites, and blues of the OsCorp building weren’t present with the modest sized office ahead — no, rather the opposite.

There was mahogany wood covering the walls, the bookcases, the desk against the center wall. Deep, rich colored tones accompanied the smell of leather and cedar, and there was a hint of strong alcohol still lingering somewhere in the air. Scotch, if Tony’s nose detected it correctly. The open-lid decanter backed that assumption.

It reminded him too much of Howard’s personal space. Traditional, dated. Musty and old-fashioned. Tony stepped inside, nodding a thanks to the guard for keeping the door open. With decor like this, it was hard to believe Osborn was in the same age bracket as Tony.

Speaking of the devil — in more ways than one — Tony locked eyes on the man of the hour, at his desk against the far end of the room.

Norman didn’t bother to lift his head, focused intently on the tablet in his hands.

“Stark,” he dryly greeted, no louder than the sound Natasha’s heels made as she entered the office. The glow from the tablet’s screen highlighted the wrinkles and stress lines engraved deep into his skin, an unflattering light in an otherwise dark room. “Should I invite you to take a seat, or do you think this meeting will be brief?”

Tony turned his back to the desk, stuffing his hands deep into his blazer pockets, casually strolling in without further invitation. He occupied himself by taking in the smaller details of the office — the floor to ceiling bookcases, the collection of fountain pens put neatly on display; he held the tip of his finger against antique globe nearby and spun it for amusement.

Anything to keep his eyes off Osborn.

“Should let some sunshine in here,” Tony mentioned in lieu of answering, looking towards the large yet covered windows of the room. Heavy, vintage curtains were drawn on them on, barely a creak of light sneaking in through the corners. “Vitamin D is good for your mood.”

Natasha hummed low in her throat, taking a place quietly against the door frame of the office. Her hands were clasped in front of herself, no doubt already having thought of five different ways to discreetly rid a body and any fingerprints left behind.

It was a disturbing comfort for Tony, knowing she held the same disdain for the man as he did. That if given the chance, they’d both serve him the punishment that was long overdue for the hell he’d put them through.

At the same time, he knew — and so did she — that they had one opportunity for this. One chance to get it right.

Tony wasn’t about to blow that in favor of giving Osborn the black eye he deserved.

“I’m not sure if my assistant made you aware,” Norman failed to hold back a sigh, the sound mixed with the opening of a drawer to his desk where he put the tablet away, “but I do have other meetings planned in my agenda today. Ones that were booked properly, with advance notice.”

Tony barely paid him any mind, peaking through the weighted curtains to catch a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline from outside.

“Mhm. A beaut.” Tony offered him a brief glance, drawing the curtain closed but pointing a finger towards it at the same time. “You just don’t get that view upstate. One of a kind, this city is. Nothing like it.”

Norman kept his gaze straight-on, never looking Tony’s way, going so far as to intentionally clear his throat with growing impatience. “My time today is limited, so if there’s something you’d like to discuss with me —”

The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted him, catching him off guard. Even Tony had to admit that the noise was humorously loud, especially contained in such a small space.

Norman placed two firm fingers to his temple, eyes squeezing shut as the sound blasted through his office. Tony knew that look from a hundred miles away — a migraine. A pretty bad one, from how it appeared.

“I...as you say, apologize.” Natasha clumsily reached into her purse, finding and clutching onto her cell phone with a blooming tint of pink covering her cheeks. “I must take this call.”

Noticeably aggravated, Norman waved a hand in her direction, keeping his head low as he rubbed gingerly at his forehead.

“That’s not a problem, thank you.” The words didn’t seem to match his gruff tone, his fist gripping tighter with each click her heels made leading out of the office.

Tony watched discreetly from his place at the window, his fingers playing idly with the tassels of the curtain. Natasha closed the door on her way out — Natalie, he should say. The guards followed her out, leaving just the two men in the room.

Clucking his tongue, Tony made his way to the bookcases lining the walls, unable to deny the fact that the open decanter of scotch was smelling better by the second. The edge he felt was getting sharper, and from the look of it, the feeling was mutual.

Now he was starting to remember just how unpleasant those brief meetings at conventions always were, the forced handshakes and fake smiles for the cameras. Osborn had always been scum to him, long before these inhumane experiments ever came to the surface. 

Scanning the bookcases, Tony plucked out the first title that caught his eye, grabbing the book by its spine and pulling it out from its cramped spot in-between numerous other collections.

“The Art of War.” Tony flipped the book over to its back cover, his index finger trailing down the printed design. It was a limited copy edition, cloth-bound with a dust-jacket, kept in pristine condition. “Hm. Have a lot of memories with this one.”

Leaning over his desk, Norman poured himself a modest glass of amber-tinted scotch, barely managing a passing glance to Tony as he did. Norman's disinterest didn’t keep Tony at bay; rather, he found himself walking closer to the desk Norman sat at. His eyes never wandered from the book in hand.

“Not long after the folks passed, Obie made it mandatory to read this puppy front and back, five times over.” Tony cracked the book open, shuffling through it without much thought. The smell of old ink and dry, dated pages was more potent than the cedar and leather encompassing the office. “Had me studying it before I could even consider dipping my toes in the corporate world. Pretty sure I can still quote parts in my sleep.”

As quickly as he opened the book, he closed it shut.

“Let’s see…” Tony’s fingers tapped ceaselessly on the hardcover, his eyes looking far-off in thought. “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent. Only once knowing both your strengths and weaknesses, as well as those of your adversary, can you begin to form a strategic plan.”

Norman moved to take a sip from the mountain glass in his hand, eyes meeting Tony’s squarely, green irises shrouded in the dim light.

“If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. Momentum is the life force of any conflict. When momentum is on your side, you have the advantage.” Norman set the glass down on the surface of the desk, condensation leaking onto the mahogany wood. “Sun Tzu was a wise man, a military strategist ahead of his time.”

Tony shrugged, chucking the book onto Norman’s desk, taking a seat in the empty chair on his opposite end.

“I tossed my copy,” he flippantly said, brushing some non-existent lint from his suit jacket. “Got tired of looking at it.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Norman drawled out, managing the slightest shake to his head. He placed both hands in his lap, casually and loosely folding them together.

[kitcat992]

Wish me luck

I really want to get the next chapter out on the anniversary date, but with life and work and soon to be school (again, wtf)...😬...wish me luck, boo's. Let's make it happen.

[kitcat992]

For a moment he was unaware of, everything was quiet.

Really, really quiet.

Then,

“Time for a Plan B!”

The metallic timbre coated every ounce of stress that lined Tony’s shout, so loud that it echoed across the lab — seeping past Peter’s eardrum in the same synchrony as his fading pulse.

“We have a Plan B!?”

Clint’s voice tore back in desperation to be heard over the violence — Tony’s repulsors being part of that mix, firing off each blast without a break separating one from the other.

“No, but it’s time for one!”

By the time Peter realized he’d passed out, his eyelids were already peeling apart in a desperate pull of consciousness.

“Boys!” Natasha’s shout ripped through the lab with a tone of urgency foreign to her voice. “It’s time to put your big brains together and figure this out!”

It wasn’t the voices that called to his attention, each shouting out desperately, frantically — from all around him, above him and behind him.

It was the sensation against his cheek that tugged at his awareness, the sharp sting of numbness spreading across his jaw as the side of his face planted firmly on the ground beneath him.

He was on the ground.

Peter had to blink twice, sluggishly twice, before he realized he was laying on the ground.

With his cheek pressed to the floor, he watched absently as the carnage raged on from all around. Figures flew by, their limbs the only thing he could make out — jetboots left trails of hot energy while more slender legs ran forward with urgency and adrenaline.

“No!” Quill’s anguished cry could only be heard at a distance for Peter; seen only by the sight of his boots flying away. “Not my tunes!”

He watched with glazed and glassy eyes as Quill’s jetboots took off, caught in a onslaught of flames, and eventually overtaken by a pit of black smoke.

Through that cloud of ash and soot came something flying towards Peter, bouncing more times than could be counted before it finally rolled to a stop in front of his face — his eyes may have been open, but he couldn’t quite register what he was seeing.

What he could hear, however, proved to be a different story.

                             ♫ Don't stop me                    don't stop me ♫   don't stop me ♫                    ♫ Hey, hey, hey ♫

 “I am Groot!”

“Groot, no!”

                              ♫ Don't stop me                    don't stop me ♫   ooh ♫                    ♫ ooh

                                ooh ♫

 “I am GROOT!”

“Strange—!”

“—this fire is out of my control, Stark, we need to retreat!”

“What do you mean it’s out of your—!?”

                              ♫ Don't stop me                    don't stop me ♫   have a good time ♫                    ♫ good time

  “Wanda! Vision! You need to—!”

“We are trying—!”

“Thor—!”

“—where’s Banner!?”

Peter stared at the headphones in front of him, blinking sluggishly — slowly, repetitively — until finally, his vision focused on the contents sprawled all around Quill’s music player.

The tables he’d crashed into still sprinkled down a multitude of items to the floor, each quake and tremor shaking the foundation beneath them; trays of medical equipment clattering against the tile as they fell down to where he laid, joining the Zune without a care to harming its already fragile condition.

Ash and soot sprinkled against his face, burning in Peter’s eyes, making it hard to see past the hot heat that created a warped film over everything he saw; the air itself was rippling, distorting his vision even further.

But he didn’t need clarity to register the syringe that had fallen right behind Quill’s outdated Zune player. The word ‘Epinephrine’ was written across the label in a way that even Peter’s blood-depleted brain could make out.

His hand trembled as it slid forward, fingernails raking across the floor, scraping —clawing for a grip that would get him just a little bit closer—

—a little bit closer—

                             ♫ Don't stop me                    don't stop me ♫   whoooaAAAA ♫

 “I am Groot.”

Suddenly, the syringe rolled forward, brushing up against the tips of his fingers.

“I am Groot!”

Peter blinked, dazed, on a fast pace to the brink of death and still unsure that this wasn’t all some twisted dream — his eyes locked onto the tiny twig that approached him, pushing the syringe forward with both his tiny twig arms until it was snugly pressed against the soft tissue of his palm.

“I am GROOT!”

The high-pitched cry grew louder, more urgent — Peter’s blurred gaze shifted towards it, half-aware as the tree continued to push the syringe forward with a gentle but determined shove.

His fingers trembled uncontrollably as he wrapped them weakly around the glass barrel, his nails scraping against the label written across, dragging it closer towards him with what fleeting strength he could muster.

“So m’ch …” he gasped like a fish out of water as he reeled his arm in towards his chest, bringing the syringe along with him “…f’r not do’ng… ‘rugs.”

It took everything he had and some he didn’t know was in him just to get the syringe to the bite of his teeth.

Peter spit the cap out too weakly for it to do anything but fall away listlessly.

Without any hesitation, without so much a second thought — let alone a first one — he quickly, sloppily, jabbed the needle into the flesh of his neck.

“N-g’uhuuhhhhhhhhhHHHH!”

The burn alone was enough to make his eyes roll back into his skull.

“Tony! The ceiling—!”

“—we need to contain it!”

“Strange—!”

“—the roof will fall on us all if I let go, Stark!”

The rush of magic enveloped every scorched wall, every burning beam, holding the inferno back like a dam straining against a flood.

[kitcat992]

Yes, it is 8pm. Yes, I am drinking coffee. Let us bless this caffeine and pray we can meet this deadline of May 6th. Just a few days away.

My dear friends, if I fail, at least know I gave up so much sleeping in trying

[kitcat992]

Identity Within - Chapter 15 - There Will Be Blood (PREVIEW)

Blinking through the haze, Peter suddenly found himself face-to-face with something cold, stainless, and far too close to him; the gleam of surgical lights caught every glint of gold etched into shining black metal, pressed way too firmly against his chin.

“C’mon you—son of a—C’MON!”

Peter had to blink several times before his vision made sense.

It wasn’t until too late that he realized the arm belonged to Bucky — reaching over him in a rushed attempt to undo the final restraint still tied around his wrist.

Claws reached for that black and gold arm, wrapping around the bicep and ruthlessly tossing him across the lab.

“Shh—iiiittTTTT!”

“—Buck!”

Steve’s shout was lost beneath a burst of machine gun fire, bullets ripping through the flames that lit the room ablaze.

Peter wasn’t sure which of the countless sounds belonged to Bucky; all of it blurred into a single, overwhelming clamor, soaking through his ears only to be pushed aside by hammering of his fading pulse.

The thumbing in his ears was getting louder. And further apart.

Peter knew he had to do something — now.

“Somebody wanna chime me in on what we’re doing here!?”

“Fight it, Rocket!”

“That’s your great plan, Quill!?”

Moving his eyes in the direction that led him down to his wrists, Peter could narrowly make out the restraint that had been the focus of Bucky’s attention. The skin underneath was chaffed and red, oozing with blood that seeped through the cracks torn open by the rough friction of his desperate escape.

Only now, it hung there loosely.

A weak tug, followed by one more, and suddenly—

—Peter was free.

“Do not run from me, you grotesque monster!”

Before there could even be an attempt at thinking of what to do next, Peter felt himself hurtling across the room on wheels that skidded forcibly against the floor — Drax barreled into the table at full speed, plowing forward with relentless force.

“Nn’UGnguhhHHHHHHHH—!”

“—I will peel apart each and every one of your UNSIGHTLY SCALES!”

Everything dizzied into one kaleidoscope of motion and light. The roar that followed was muffled, like sound warped underwater— distant, smothered — until it all came crashing back into focus once Peter slammed to a halt, toppling into machines and equipment that finally shattered his momentum.

For a moment he was unaware of, everything was quiet.

Really, really quiet.

Then,

“Time for a Plan B!”

The metallic timbre coated every ounce of stress that lined Tony’s shout, so loud that it echoed across the lab — seeping past Peter’s eardrum in the same synchrony as his fading pulse.

“We have a Plan B!?”

Clint’s voice tore back in desperation to be heard over the violence — Tony’s repulsor blasts being part of that mix, firing off each blast without a break separating one from the other.

“No, but it’s time for one!”

By the time Peter realized he had passed out, his eyelids were already peeling apart in a desperate pull of consciousness.

It wasn’t the voices that called to his attention, each shouting out desperately, frantically — from all around him, above him and behind him.

It was the cool, cold sensation against his cheek that tugged at his awareness, the sharp sting of numbness spreading across his jaw as the side of his face planted firmly on the ground beneath him.

He was on the ground.

Peter had to blink twice, sluggishly twice, before he realized he was laying on the ground.

With his cheek pressed to the floor, he watched absently as the carnage raged on from all around. Figures flew by, their limbs the only thing he could make out — jetboots left trials of hot energy while more slender legs ran forward with urgency and adrenaline.

“No!” Quill’s anguished cry could only be heard at a distance for Peter; seen only by the sight of his boots flying away. “Not my tunes!”

He watched with glazed and glassy eyes as Quill’s jetboots took off, caught in a onslaught of flames, and eventually overtaken by a pit of black smoke.

Through that cloud of ash and soot came something flying towards Peter, bouncing more times than could be counted before it finally rolled to a stop in front of his face — his eyes may have been open, but he couldn’t quite register what he was seeing.

What he could hear, however, proved to be a different story.

♫ Don't stop me don't stop me ♫

don't stop me ♫

♫ Hey, hey, hey ♫

“I am Groot!”

“Groot, no!”

♫ Don't stop me don't stop me ♫

ooh ♫

♫ ooh

ooh ♫

“I am GROOT!”

“Strange—!”

“—this fire is out of my control, Stark, we need to retreat!”

“What do you mean it’s out of your—!?”

♫ Don't stop me don't stop me ♫

have a good time ♫ ♫ good time

“Wanda! Vision! You need to—!”

“We are trying—!”

“Thor—!”

“—where is Banner!?”

Peter stared at the headphones in front of him, blinking sluggishly — slowly, repetitively — until finally, his vision focused on the contents sprawled all around Quill’s music player.

The tables he’d crashed into still sprinkled down a multitude of items to the floor, each quake and tremor shaking the foundation beneath them; trays of medical equipment clattering against the tile as they fell down where he laid, joining the Zune device without a care to harming its already fragile condition.

Ash and soot sprinkled against his face, burning in Peter’s eyes, making it hard to see past the hot heat that created a warped film over everything he saw; the air itself was rippling, distorting his vision even further.

But he didn’t need clarity to register the syringe that had fallen right behind Quill’s outdated Zune player, the word ‘Epinephrine’ written across the label in a way that even Peter’s blood-depleted brain could make out.

His hand trembled as it slid forward, fingernails raking across the floor, scarping —clawing for a grip that would get him just a little bit closer—

—a little bit closer—

♫ Don't stop me don't stop me ♫

whoooaAAAA♫

“I am Groot.”

Suddenly, the syringe rolled forward, brushing up against the tips of his fingers.

“I am Groot!”

Peter blinked, dazed, on a fast pace to the brink of death and still unsure that this wasn’t all some twisted dream — his eyes locked onto the tiny twig that approached him, pushing the syringe forward with both his tiny twig arms until it was snugly pressed against the soft tissue of his palm.

“I am GROOT!”

The high-pitched cry grew louder, more urgent — Peter’s blurred gaze shifted towards it, half-aware as the tiny tree continued to push the syringe forward with a gentle but determined shove.

His fingers trembled uncontrollably as he wrapped them weakly around the metal barrel, his nails scraping against the label written across, dragging it closer towards him with what fleeting strength he could muster.

Peter didn’t need to be told twice.

“So m’ch …” he gasped like a fish out of water as he reeled his arm in towards his chest, bringing the syringe along with him “…f’r not do’ng… ‘rugs.”

It took everything he had and some he didn’t know was there just to get the syringe to the bite of his teeth.

Peter spit the cap out too weakly for it to do anything but fall away listlessly.

Without any hesitation, without so much a second thought — let alone a first one — he quickly, sloppily, jabbed the needle into the flesh of his neck.

“N-g’uhuuhhhhhhhhhHHHH!”

The burn alone was enough to make his eyes roll back into his skull.

“Tony! The ceiling—!”

“—we need to contain it!”

“Strange—!”

“—the roof will fall on us all if I let go, Stark!” The rush of magic enveloped every scorched wall, every burning beam, holding the inferno back like a dam straining against a flood.

[kitcat992]

I’ve followed you on Ao3 since you first started posting there and I absolutely love your work, you’re an amazing writer. You inspired me to start my own fic, like actually gave me the confidence to try and put my work out there <33 The highlight of my day is seeing that little notification that you released a new chapter 😊

Holy hell. I don't know what to say. That's the most flattered I think I've ever been in my life.

Thanks for sticking around through the journey and I hope the end is everything you ever could've wanted from the series ☺️☺️☺️❤️❤️❤️ Don't ever stop being creative!

[kitcat992]

Honestly i can't even express how talented you are gjhgkjhf how do you do it??? <3

I have an overactive imagination and a lifelong obsession with comic books. Only I can't draw anything beyond a stick figure, so I had to learn how to word words into pretty words instead.

[kitcat992]

A warrior, this one. Foretold only in the stories spoken to children before they went to sleep. They have done the impossible. They've cranked out both stories, uninterrupted. Commenting on each and every single chapter along the way.

And they came out the other end, still alive.

#mad respect #that must've been a wild ass trip #did you even SLEEP!? #this was the closest experience to seeing my work through someone else's eyes #how blessed I am

There's an active reader experiencing Identity Theft for the first time and dropping comments on each chapterbas they go, and y'all, words do not express how alive this makes me feel 😭 #i love fanfiction #reader engagement brings my soul so much joy

[kitcat992]

Interpretation is literally the best thing about reading something. Stop ruining that for readers by over explaining things. The ones who are meant to understand it, will understand it. Weed out the ones not meant for your work by being genuine to your craft

Hardest part of writing is accepting that some people will not fucking get it & you just have to like cope with that because over-explaining it just makes it worse

[kitcat992]

[kitcat992]

Wish me luck

I really want to get the next chapter out on the anniversary date, but with life and work and soon to be school (again, wtf)...😬...wish me luck, boo's. Let's make it happen.

[kitcat992]

hearing that someone was reading the saga for the 1st time had me wanting to go back and read it myself. now that i have i need to drop in and ask HOW you managed to connect so much in all the stories? i never realized how much ties together as each story goes on and reading it from start to now almost about gave me a stroke. you're a genius. thank you so much for your hard work and can't wait for the next update!!

Asking that question is like asking how God created the universe and/or the big bang that created the universe. There is no explaining it. It just happened 😅I appreciate your kind words and love for the series!!