Scorpio

THIRTY SIX - I Hate Spiders

The moment has finally arrived - I'm so excited! As epic as this is, this chapter also signals to the impending end of Estella's story. I'm honored to have this opportunity to write, and have my writing read, by all of you on Wattpad - and everyone beyond, who have kindly given in to my pleading and helped me beta read much of this story. (Can I call it a novel yet?)

Alright, enough speaking on my part. On to part one of chapter 36!

*******

Engaging: Operation Spidersuit.

Holographic fabrication complete.

Warning - holographic projection may cause a decrease in height. Proceed?

"Yes."

Proceeding...

-

Warning: two energy signatures detected.

Status: within 15 yards.

Engaging: auto-calibration. Calibratin-

"Abort. Re: Anti-Madness Protocol."

Protocol reviewed. Calibration abandoned.

Weapons at ready.

***

"Thanos is near."

Peter crouched low, his breathing loud in the confined space. His heart thundered in his chest. This was the biggest assault he had ever lead before - come to think of it, it was the first Mr. Stark's ever let him lead. And if Mr. Stark was involved...it was bound to be gigantic. And creative, of course. He probably shouldn't have expected anything less, really.

I'm leading a bunch of shapeshifting aliens from outer space plus a crazy android-dude - all with my face on their heads.

He huffed to himself.

Technically it wasn't even his face, it was Spiderman's face, and Mr. Stark had made the design.

He shook his head.

Focus. Focus, focus, focus.

The Strange wizard with the magical orange hoops had magically deposited them in a run-down chamber with warehouse-esque beams and stuff, so the blunt of the job was done. They made it this far. They could do this.

It's just a distraction ploy so everyone else can take out the velon-thingies.

I got this.

Mr. Stark and the captain believed in him.

So why am I freaking out?

***

The heavy clanks of his boots against the grated floor echoed throughout the room. The gauntlet on his arm shone like sand-blasted brass, slicked with oil - or sweat and blood, neither of which would have been surprising considering the being he was. A small, sleek prism clasped to the thick leather of his armour, emitting short, periodic beeps.

Outside, he watched as the velons preceding The Sanctuary dug themselves into the ground, like a leopard honing in on its prey. The Motbalanians had retaliated, of course - they were the ones who so kindly sent his children the invitation.

Maybe they knew peace, too. It was wishful thinking, foolish thinking - no one knew peace as he did. No one knew the horrors that came from civil war like him, the feeling of fighting one's own brothers for the right to live the following day.