Chapter 4: Taking the Initiative

Dennis Carradine woke up to excruciating pain shooting through his skull like someone had driven a railroad spike directly into his brain.

His head felt like it was being systematically crushed in a vise, while thick ropes cut deep into his wrists with every slight movement. His feet dangled uselessly in empty air, and his entire body swayed back and forth like a broken pendulum, the motion making his already splitting headache infinitely worse.

"Where the hell am I?" he croaked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

He tried to force his eyes open, but the dim lighting that filtered into his vision only made everything worse. The world appeared as a blurry mess of overlapping images that refused to resolve into anything coherent. Even that simple attempt at speech emerged as a pained whimper rather than actual words.

Dennis couldn't tell exactly where he was being held, but he could definitely rule out being on a boat somewhere. Instead of the wet, salty smell of ocean air, his nostrils were filled with the distinctive odors of dust, rust, and the faint but unmistakable scent of gunpowder—the same combination of industrial decay that permeated every abandoned factory in Hell's Kitchen.

The realization hit him like a physical blow: he'd been kidnapped.

This kind of thing happened all the time in New York, especially to people like him who operated on the margins of society. But Dennis couldn't understand why anyone would bother going through the trouble and expense of abducting him specifically. He was just a small-time crook, barely making enough from petty theft and minor scams to keep himself fed and housed. He had no wealthy family to pay ransom, no valuable information to extract, no important connections that would make him worth keeping alive.

His vision was still completely useless, but that didn't stop the fear from building in his chest like a living thing trying to claw its way out.

Damn it all to hell! If he'd known something like this was going to happen, he should have pulled off one big score months ago, stolen a decent car, and gotten the hell out of New York permanently. He could have gone anywhere—Los Angeles, Chicago, maybe even left the country entirely. Anywhere would have been better than staying in this urban nightmare where even bottom-feeders like him could become someone's target.

"Dennis Carradine."

The voice that spoke his name came from somewhere in the darkness, but it sounded completely wrong. There was something sharp and metallic about it, like multiple voices speaking in perfect but slightly off-key unison, creating an unsettling harmonic effect that made his skin crawl. The sound seemed to bounce and echo throughout the space, creating the illusion that dozens of people were surrounding him, their combined voices pressing down on his chest until he could barely breathe.

Dennis felt his face contort with terror as he tried to respond. "Sir, please—I don't know what you want, but—"

"Dennis Carradine," the voice repeated with mechanical precision, cutting off his desperate plea. "Do you know why I brought you here?"

By now, Dennis's vision had cleared enough for him to see his surroundings properly, and what he saw made his blood turn to ice water in his veins. He was suspended from the ceiling of what appeared to be a massive abandoned factory, hanging at least fifty feet above a concrete floor that would turn his skull into paste if he fell. Rusted metal walkways and improvised barriers made from corrugated steel sheets surrounded him on all sides, creating a maze of industrial wreckage that looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare.

His heart began hammering against his ribs so hard he thought it might burst. His entire body started shaking uncontrollably, which only made his suspension rope sway more violently, each movement reminding him of just how far he had to fall.

"I don't know, sir, I swear I don't know," Dennis stammered, his voice cracking with barely suppressed panic. Hot tears were already streaming down his face, and he could taste blood where he'd bitten his tongue. "Whatever you want from me, I'll give it to you. Whatever information you need, I'll tell you everything. Money, drugs, connections—I'll give you names, addresses, whatever you want. Just please, please don't—"

People like Dennis, bottom-feeders who couldn't even make it in Hell's Kitchen's criminal hierarchy, rarely possessed much in the way of courage or backbone. Right now he was completely terrified, but some small part of his mind was still functioning rationally. If his captor had wanted him dead immediately, he'd already be a stain on the factory floor. The fact that he was still breathing meant he had some kind of value, some purpose that required him to be alive, at least temporarily.

Maybe if he cooperated fully, gave this psychopath whatever he wanted, there was still a chance of survival. Maybe this was all about money, or information, or some debt he'd forgotten about. Dennis was prepared to promise anything, betray anyone, debase himself in whatever way necessary if it meant walking out of here alive.

But then his kidnapper spoke again, and that tiny spark of hope was immediately extinguished.

"I only want one thing from you, Dennis," the voice said with chilling matter-of-factness. "Your life."

"No, sir, please—" Dennis began sobbing openly now, tears streaming down his face as he stared at the distant concrete floor below. If he fell from this height, there would be nothing left of his head but brain matter and bone fragments scattered across a wide area.

He desperately tried to locate his captor in the shadows, straining to see who was threatening him and why. Whatever he had done to deserve this treatment, he was prepared to apologize, to make amends, to do whatever it took to convince this person to spare his life. He'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd offer to work for free for the rest of his life—anything to avoid that terrible drop.

Finally, he spotted a strange, unnaturally thin silhouette standing motionless in the darkness near one of the metal walkways.

"Sir, please!" Dennis called out, his voice filled with desperate hope at finally seeing another human being. "Don't kill me, I'm begging you! I can work for you, do anything you need, anything at all—I can get you money, information, whatever you want. I know people, I have connections in Hell's Kitchen. I can be useful, I swear!"

His plea died in his throat as the figure stepped forward into the light, revealing something that was definitely not human.

The creature looked like a bipedal velociraptor that had been designed by someone with an obsession with speed and technology. Most of its body was covered in sleek black skin that looked almost metallic, while its arms and legs were bright blue with distinctive striping patterns that seemed to pulse with their own energy. A long, flexible tail swished behind it, also marked with those same blue stripes. Most unsettling of all were its feet—instead of normal claws, it had what appeared to be natural wheels built into its legs, as if evolution had designed it specifically for high-speed movement.

This kidnapper was Bennett, transformed into XLR8.

Originally, Bennett had planned to spend the days following Peter's spider bite constantly monitoring Uncle Ben, staying close enough to intervene if any danger presented itself. But after successfully transforming into Grey Matter for the first time and experiencing the enhanced intelligence that came with it, he had reconsidered that purely reactive strategy.

Why should he wait for tragedy to strike before taking action? Why allow fate to unfold when he had the power to reshape it entirely? Evil should be crushed while it was still in its infancy, before it had a chance to cause irreparable harm to the people he loved.

So he had immediately begun searching for leads, using his newfound abilities to hack into police databases and conduct thorough background checks on potential threats.

Bennett didn't know exactly who would be responsible for Uncle Ben's death in this particular universe, but he had watched multiple versions of Spider-Man movies and possessed two crucial pieces of information that might prove useful.

In the Tobey Maguire films, Uncle Ben's killer had been Flint Marko, also known as the Sandman. But in the Andrew Garfield series, the murderer was someone with a distinctive star tattoo on his wrist. Since this world seemed to be some kind of hybrid combining elements from different Spider-Man universes, either clue might prove relevant.

His search had led him to Dennis Carradine—a small-time criminal with exactly the right tattoo and exactly the wrong kind of future.

"I hacked into the New York Police Department's criminal database and found your file, Dennis Carradine," Bennett said, his voice carrying an edge of barely controlled aggression that made the air in the factory seem to vibrate with menace.

His wheeled feet clicked and clattered against the metal walkway as he paced back and forth like a caged predator, the sound echoing throughout the vast space in a rhythm that reminded Dennis of a countdown timer.

"Out of all the documented criminals in New York City who have star tattoos on their wrists, you're the only match. The only one," Bennett continued, his triangular eyes fixed on Dennis with predatory intensity.

Bennett had also investigated the possibility of finding Flint Marko, but no one by that name appeared in any official records. Either he didn't exist in this universe, or he was operating under a different identity entirely.

"If I offended you somehow in the past, I apologize completely," Dennis whimpered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own terrified breathing. "Whatever I did, however I crossed you, I'm sorry. I'll make it right, I swear. Just tell me what you want—money, information, revenge—and I'll give it to you."

He had obviously realized that Bennett's actions were highly targeted and specific, not the random violence of a deranged monster. But he also knew he had nothing of value to offer, no reason why anyone would pay to have him killed. The only logical explanation was that he had accidentally crossed someone dangerous, or perhaps stumbled into some kind of supernatural horror that he couldn't begin to understand.

"When I kill you, I'll apologize too," Bennett replied with cold amusement, his voice carrying harmonics that made it sound like laughter from beyond the grave.

He moved closer to Dennis, close enough that the terrified man could see his razor-sharp claws gleaming in the dim factory lighting. The black, scissor-like talons looked like they could cut through steel cable as easily as paper.

Bennett knew this wasn't heroic behavior by any reasonable definition. He knew that murdering someone in cold blood, regardless of what they might do in the future, was exactly the kind of action that separated villains from heroes.

Perhaps someone who was willing to commit premeditated murder didn't deserve Spider-Man's abilities, or access to the Omnitrix's power. Perhaps he was becoming the very thing he claimed to be fighting against.

But that didn't matter to him. He wasn't trying to be a hero, had never wanted to be one.

What mattered was protecting the people he loved, by any means necessary. And if that meant getting his hands dirty, if that meant crossing lines that heroes wouldn't cross, then so be it.

"No! No! No!" Dennis screamed as he watched the rope fibers separating slowly under Bennett's claws, each cut bringing him closer to a gruesome death.

The terror of imminent death was so overwhelming that he nearly lost control of his bladder. He couldn't spare any mental energy to wonder what kind of creature was about to murder him—his entire consciousness was focused on the desperate, animal desire to continue existing.

"I don't know what I did wrong, sir," he sobbed, speaking as quickly as possible in case these were his final words. "But please, I'm begging you, spare my life. I'll leave the city, I'll disappear, you'll never see me again. I have a sister in Philadelphia—I can go there, start over, become a completely different person. Please, I have so much I still want to do with my life!"

"You don't know? That's fine. I can explain it to you," Bennett said matter-of-factly, pausing in his cutting to look directly into Dennis's eyes. "You're going to murder a good man, an innocent person who never hurt anyone. Someone who spent his whole life trying to help people, trying to make the world a better place. And you're going to kill him for pocket change."

"I haven't killed anyone," Dennis protested through his tears, shaking his head frantically. "I've never murdered anybody in my life. I steal things, sure, and I've been in fights, but I'm not a killer!"

"Not yet," Bennett corrected him, resuming his methodical cutting of the rope. "But that changes in a few days. You're going to try to rob an old man who's just trying to find his nephew. And when he tries to stop you, when he tries to talk you out of making a terrible mistake, you're going to shoot him in the chest and leave him to die on a dirty street corner."

A few days? Dennis was now convinced that this monster was completely insane, talking about crimes that hadn't happened as if they were historical facts.

He was filled with regret for every decision that had led him to this moment. He should have left Hell's Kitchen years ago, should have pulled off one major robbery and used the money to relocate to Brooklyn, Queens, or anywhere else in the country where creatures like this one couldn't find him.

The gang wars in Hell's Kitchen were constant and deadly. Joining any of the organized crime families was essentially a death sentence, but staying independent meant scraping by on petty crimes that barely paid for food and shelter. He should have just robbed a bank or armored car, stolen a decent vehicle, and driven to San Francisco or Washington D.C. or anywhere this nightmare couldn't reach him.

But now it was too late for regrets or alternate life plans.

All he could do was try to reason with a monster, plead for mercy from something that didn't appear to possess any.

"I won't do it, I promise!" Dennis screamed, his voice echoing throughout the factory. "Whatever you think I'm going to do, I swear I'll never hurt anyone. I'll become a different person, I'll find legitimate work, I'll help people instead of robbing them. Please, just give me a chance to prove I can change!"

"I've heard that speech before," Bennett replied, his voice completely devoid of sympathy. "From dozens of criminals who promised they'd reform, right up until the moment they pulled the trigger."

But Bennett had already lost interest in continuing the conversation. The XLR8 transformation made him naturally impatient and aggressive, and he'd already shown more restraint than usual by explaining his motivations at all.

Now his claws finished cutting through the rope, and Dennis instantly lost his final support.

The condemned man's scream echoed throughout the factory as he plummeted toward the concrete floor below, his voice raw with terror and the horrible knowledge that his life was about to end in the most violent way possible.

Bennett didn't bother watching the fall—he knew Dennis's skull would impact the unforgiving surface and explode like an overripe melon, painting the factory floor with blood and brain matter.

But just as Dennis was about to meet his fate, a tremendous noise shook the entire building.

It wasn't the sound of a body hitting concrete.

Instead, a figure wreathed in flames had smashed through the factory's roof and was now diving toward the falling man at incredible speed. Superheated air washed over Bennett's face as the armored figure streaked past him like a guided missile, its repulsors glowing with barely contained energy.

The flying figure reached Dennis just moments before impact, catching him safely and then gently setting him down on the factory floor. Then the armored form rose slowly back up to Bennett's level, hovering in the air with mechanical precision while targeting systems locked onto the alien threat.

"Tony Stark!" Bennett's voice was filled with f disbelief.

Of all the people who could have interfered with his carefully planned execution, it had to be the one man in New York with both the technology and the arrogance to insert himself into situations that didn't concern him.

This was supposed to be simple, clean, final. Now everything was infinitely more complicated.