Cletus Kassady POV:
Far from the city—out where even the rats don't ask questions—I worked on my... Magnus opus.
Just me, her, and the heat humming in my skin.
"Almost done now... Just a few more tweaks and you'll kiss the air with your breath."
I whispered it to her, like a lullaby, sing-song. meant for no one but the beautiful little monster in my lap. My fingers—already purified—danced over her metal spine.
She hissed back at me, steam and gas purring through her ribs—like it was begging to be let loose.
She didn't answer, of course. Machines don't talk. Not yet. But I like to think they feel. Like they know when they're about to become something sacred.
And this little darling? She's gonna light up the sky. Cleanse it all.
"Look at you" I murmured. "Ribs all straight, lungs all pressurized, and that beautiful throat of yours is just itchin' to sing."
Good girl.
This ain't just a weapon. Oh no. This is art.
This is... Tch.
You ever hold a god in your hands?
Not the fake ones. Nah. I mean a real one. Something alive and hungry to be witnessed? Somethin' you make, piece by piece, stitch by stitch, outta scrap?
That is what she is~
She ain't built for efficiency—nah, she's built for feeling. Hummin' with a different flavor of fire.
Napalm, that sweet cocktail I brewed me for me in this little lab of mine~
But she don't got no trigger. Oh, no no no no...
That'd be lame.
You wanna hear her scream?~
You gotta pump, you gotta crank.
you gotta dance with her.
She wants to feel your heartbeat.
She wants to know you mean it.
That's how you show love. Through effort. Through sweat and ache.
And when you treat her right?
When you really worship her?
She rewards you with purity.
With fire so hot it cleans your bones.
And Wade? Sweet, stupid Wade?
Well, This is for Wade.
"Ready for your gift, Wade~?" I crooned, smiling brighter than a man on his wedding day.
I leaned down, kissed the fuel tank like it was a kid's forehead. Proud of her. "You're gonna make him understand. Make him feel. Just like I do."
They'll all feel it soon enough.
But he gets to go first.
---
The walls around me were painted in soot and scripture—black streaks clawed over rusted panels, symbols scorched in with loving malice. Murals of bodies screaming, swallowed by flame. Their agony immortalized. Beautiful. Honest.
Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows along the room. My sanctuary.
Then—
"Blessed Flame..."
A voice behind me. Reverent. Trembling.
Oh, how I love when they call me that~
I didn't turn right away. Just smiled. Delighted.
"Blessed Flame" the voice repeated, stronger now. Still devout. "The Embers await your word."
Slowly, I turned. Let the firelight catch my eyes just right—like a god stepping down from the furnace. I spread my arms wide, like a prophet.
"My Embers…" I echoed, tasting the name like ash on my tongue. "Good… good. The 'Scorch' is nearly ready. And when it is…"
I grinned. Big. Hungry.
"It won't knock. It won't wait. It'll burn. It'll cleanse!"
I licked my palm, pressed it flat against the side of a standing torch. Skin sizzle. The pain was exquisite. I smiled, shuddering in ecstasy.
"Tell my Embers to be patient" I whispered. "Their baptism is close. And it'll scream—loud enough to make the whole city listen."
I turned back to my work, waving him off with a flick of my scorched hand.
"Now go, my child."
My pawn.
I let him scurry and rattle the rest. Get them ready. The sermon's almost here—and I do love a crowd.
---
I stood before them at the podium—if you could call it that. Just an old crate, scorched at the corners and baptized in soot. But oh, how it commanded....
The flames behind me danced like they knew I was about to speak.
Eyes wide. Hungry. Desperate. Just how I like 'em.
I raised my arms—slow, deliberate—letting the flickering light caress my purified skin. The burns stung like kisses.
Let them see. Let them worship.
"My Embers…"
The crowd hushed. Breath held. Minds leaning in.
"You, the cast out. The abandoned. The forgotten. The world passed judgment on you—called you unworthy, impure, broken. But I…"
I opened my arms wide, like a messiah welcoming his flock.
"I seeyou. I see your pain. Your suffering. And I love you for it..."
Their eyes shined. Their wounds seemed to breathe.
"They told you your mind and bodies were shameful. That your scars were a stain. But I say NO!"
They were nodding now. Swaying. Eyes wet with fevered faith.
"I say blessed are the broken, for Fire comes not to the pure, but to the willing! To the kindling!"
I stepped down from the crate, slow and deliberate, walking among them like a shepherd among sheep.
"Scripture says the blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. But we… We shall inherit its ashes. For fire does not ask permission. Fire does not forgive. Fire baptizes through agony—and in that agony… we are made whole."
They were trembling now. In awe. In rapture.
"You are not sinners. NO. You are saints in the making... You are fuel of a new gospel. You are the spark that will bring about Revelations."
A cheer rippled through them. A roar, even. But I raised my hand and silenced it like a king waving away thunder.
I turned back to the torch, my altar, and pressed my burned hand to the flame. It hissed, and I hissed with it—grinning.
"And when the Scorch comes…"
I turned back. Eyes blazing, catching the sunrise.
"We will remind this rotten city what it means to be cleansed. Not with water. Not with false forgiveness. But with a HOLY FLAME."
They cheered—some wept. I let them cry for a moment, then raised my hand, calm and commanding.
"The baptism begins on the seventh dawn. And when the sun rises, it shall rise through smoke. Through sacrifice."
I pointed outward, to a ruined world beyond our chapel.
"Go now. Pray. Prepare. And tonight… burn something small."
A pause. A smile.
"And when the Scorch rolls over this Earth, it shall bring truth, judgement... and CARNAGE."
And oh, how they listened.
---
Norman Osborn POV:
Oscorp. The pinnacle of bioengineering. A technological empire built brick by brick on intellect, and vision. My vision.
We would be the undisputed zenith of scientific innovation—if not for Stark.
That Damn... weapons peddler with a legacy he didn't earn.
And now this.
Me, and the rest of my so-called trusted circle—if you could call these incompetents "trusted."
Charles Standish, my Vice President.
Donald Menken, my ever-lurking shadow.
And the chief scientist—Kurt Connors.
All present.
All silent.
"…Are you all seriously telling me" I began, voice a scalpel, smooth and slicing "That we developed hundreds of genetically-modified spiders—millions of dollars in R&D, a decade of genetic mapping..."
My gaze swept across the room, a razor passing over necks. It stopped on Connors. The scapegoat. His breath caught when our eyes met.
"…and the one and only successful integration—ESCAPED?!"
The air choked. Even the AC seemed to shut up.
Dr. Connor's voice came out brittle. "W-we believe it was a containment breach, sir. Minor. Possibly a janitorial error or—"
"Janitorial?" I barked, slamming a palm against the reinforced glass of the now-empty containment and observation tank. "You're standing in front of the pinnacle of neural-genetic integration. The future of bioadaptive development, years of research, millions in funding—my funding—my life's work... AND YOU'RE BLAMING THE JANITOR!?"
Silence.
A long, trembling silence.
I didn't even bother turning. Just spoke, each word carved in ice.
"I want full security protocols. I want terminal logs, motion sensors, badge swipes. Every second of footage nitpicked—Frame by frame. If anyone so much as breathed near that spider, I want their name. And their clearance. On my desk. Tonight."
Now I turned. Slowly. Let them see the storm building in my eyes.
"Interrogate them. ALL OF THEM. And if any of them so much as blinked out of turn—terminate their contracts. Ruin them. Blacklist them from the industry. Make sure the only work they find is scrubbing toilets in SOKOVIA!"
Silence.
"Is. That. Clear?"
The chorus was immediate.
"Yes, sir."
"Understood, sir."
"Right away."
I smiled. Thin. Deadly.
"Good. Now move."
My son will not die due to your incompetence...
---
Warren Wade POV:
I woke up to a palpitating pain drilling into the back of my skull.
"Agh... Son of a bit—"
Darkness. That's all I could see. No matter how hard I forced my eyes open, nothing but black.
I shifted—tried to stand—but my arms pulled me back, rope biting into my wrists.
Tied up and blindfolded...
Great.
Because obviously, my night hadn't been fun enough already.
I took a breath, slow. The air smelled... familiar. Dust, old couch fabric, and that...
Wait.
My living room?
The hell?
Did my kidnapper get lazy? Or was this some psychological warfare crap? Break into my home and tie me up inside it?
That's bold. Disrespectful, even.
Okay... Think, Wade. What's the last thing you remember—?
I swallowed hard, jaw clenching as the memory rolled in—me, stepping inside, lights off, dead quiet... then THUD.
I didn't even get to scream.
Now here I was, tied up in my own damn house.
Wade, you shouldn't have come home. Shit.
The air shifted—subtle. Someone was breathing near me. Slow, deliberate. Enjoying this.
I tilted my head, straining to catch any sound.
Then I heard the soft creak of floorboards—my floorboards—like a butcher pacing around a pig.
"Awake yet, sunshine?" the voice drawled. Crooning like a lullaby made of gravel and old leather. "Don't keep me waitin' now. We got a lotta catchin' up to do."
I didn't answer. My throat was dry, my pulse loud in my ears.
"You reek of blood..." I muttered. Couldn't help it—it was true. Coppery. Sickening
A pause. Then a low chuckle.
"Yer a little sensitive, ain't ya?" he said, like I'd just complimented his cologne. "Alright, brat. You got ears, nose. That's somethin'."
The floor creaked again—closer now. The voice leaned in, low and sharp.
"You keep yer wits to yerself, and maybe—maybe—you won't leave this room less alive than when you came in."
The weight of him shifted. Then—tack—something hard knocked the top of my head. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting.
"Now talk. How'd you find out about Matthew? or I start breakin' fingers 'til one of us feels better about it."
I let the silence stretch a second longer than I should have. Then—
"I… I read it." I said finally. "In a, uh... A blog."
"That's the story yer goin' with?" he said, exhaling through his nose. Dissapointed.
He crouched, I could feel it—closer now, just behind me.
"Last chance, Brat. Tell me how you really knew. Or I start assuming things. Dangerous things."
I swallowed.
"…I didn't mean harm. I just—"
"Don't care what you meant. I care what you know." His tone dropped lower. "'Cause if you know that much… then maybe someone else told you. Or worse, maybe someone sent you."
That got under my skin.
"No one sent me" I said, firmer now. "I'm not part of anything. I just… I needed help."
"That 'Need' yer talking about is a luxury" he growled. "One yer real close to losing."
Then he grabbed one of my fingers—my pinky—and started bending it the wrong damn way.
I panicked.
"Okay, okay! Stop! Stop! I'll tal—!"
Snap.
White-hot pain. My scream ripped out before I could stop it.
"AAAAGH! You—motherf—!"
"Try again." he said calmly. "And this time, tell the truth."
"Fuck you… I'm gonna—"
Another—Thack—from that damn stick.
You're going to give me concussion, you bastard.
"None of that." he muttered. "I'm not here to play 'shitty brat wants revenge.' The truth… or I break another finger. Real simple math."
He grabbed my hand again. I could feel the pressure—casual, like he was checking the ripeness of fruit.
"Clock's tickin', kid."
My breath hitched. Ragged. I tried to ignore the white-hot sting still screaming from my pinky. Hopefully just dislocated and not shattered.
So what else could I lose?
"I… I dreamed it"
Snap.
There went the other pinky.
"Fuuuuuuck! You—son of a bitch!"
He didn't even flinch.
"Dreamed it?" he said, like the word tasted wrong in his mouth. "Yer sure like the pain, huh? Try again."
"Fuck you…" Jaw clenched. "Fucking psychopath…"
Thack
"What part of say the truth do you not get, Brat?" His voice was still calm, like a thunderstorm pretending to be a breeze. "I'm givin' you a chance most people don't get. Don't make me regret that."
Inhaled, Exhaled...
Okay, either I tell him I'm from another universe where all of this is just fiction to me, or...
"I…" I licked my lips. Hesitating. "I can come back from the dead."
That earned silence. Three long seconds of it. Then—
Shffk.
The unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn. Cold steel pressed against my neck, ready to cut.
"I don't like yer bullshit, Brat" he muttered, low and dangerous. "But this better be one."
My heart was pounding so hard I swear it echoed in the room.
"I'm serious. I'm serious." I said. "I've died... More than once but I came back... Like some kind of time loop shit—alright?"
No answer, for a while. Then—
"...And how does that get you to Matthew?"
I hesitated.
"Because every time I die... I remembered more. Stuff I shouldn't know. Details that didn't make sense at first—but they started adding up." I swallowed. "He's good at hiding—but I had something no one else did."
This is it.
My grand, steaming pile of bullshit. Delivered with just enough truth to make him think about it...
The blade didn't move.
"Guess we'll find out if that's true, won't we?" he murmured.
Then... the blindfold came off.
And I saw his face for the first time.
I expected a thug. A psycho.
What I got... was worse. Way worse.
The man standing before me wasn't young. His skin was a roadmap of every fight he'd ever survived—creases, scars, sunken cheeks. His white hair stuck out beneath a battered green cap pulled low, casting a shadow over his eyes.
Eyes that were clouded—blind as stone. But somehow still piercing. Like they'd stared death in the face... and found it boring.
The man wasn't just dangerous—he trained dangerous.
Stick.
Daredevil's mentor. The Hand's bogeyman.. The kind of man who'd kill you just to prove a point—and then make you apologize for wasting his time.
My mouth went dry.
Because suddenly, every smart-ass comeback I had felt like throwing toothpicks at a tank.
And he was still crouched there, calm as a corpse, waiting to see if I lied again.
I wasn't sure what scared me more—what he'd do if I lied, or what he'd do if I told the truth.
He cocked his head.
"What's the matter, Brat? Never seen a blind man before?"
Then his voice dipped into a growl.
"Start talkin'."
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Word count: 2.565