Chapter Text
With Great Power One Must Go Further Beyond (Marvel/MHA alt power)
aka Power Plus Ultra
By Scriviner
PART 2:
Ezekiel stared at him in shock and horror, his gravelly voice cracking as he cried out, "What the hell are you?!"
Peter stirred himself to wakefulness as that dream faded out.
He didn't move.
At least… not this time.
He was definitely still Peter.
Dumas was something for people to call him by.
Maybe if he learned enough to be Dumas properly… he'd stop having Peter's stupid dreams.
He continued to lie on his side and tried to take stock of what he could before he opened his eyes.
Caliban had taken him towards one of the enclosures a bit of a distance away from the central plaza area they had initially appeared in. Caliban had said that this was closer to his home. It was in a less crowded area so there were fewer of the structures built up. There was also a persistent ammonia tang to the air that the breeze wasn't getting rid of. He could also hear the faint, if constant, sound of water flowing.
He wasn't sure what the plumbing arrangements were like in the tunnels, but he imagined that new folks (and possibly people with no sense of smell) were the ones most likely to get a placed where the plumbing was set up. Which made him wonder where that put Caliban on the totem pole.
The faintly damp, smothering warmth of the alley weighed him down still. A very distinct change compared to having the stabbing cold winter air he'd become accustomed to for the last week or so.
Unlike the night when the place had been almost oppressive in its silence, he could hear people now. A lot of them. There was talking and movement all around. The stone tunnel was causing confusing echoes to ripple all around, magnifying the noise.
His sense for prey sharpened once more. Not with him as the target this time… there was something close by that qualified.
He opened his eyes to find that while the night before everything had been lit by dim candles, now there were distant fluorescent lights in the ceiling that illuminated everything. It also probably explained why no one bothered to cover the structures that people lived in. It's not like there was any weather down here. All they really needed the dividers for were privacy.
The little chamber he'd been given was surrounded on three sides by crumbling, plain sheetrock indifferently nailed to a frame of two by fours. He'd been sleeping on a futon on the floor and the only other furnishing the room held was a coffee table made of plywood and metal tubing that at one point had been painted a flat green which was now peeling to reveal badly chipped brown paint underneath.
His eyes narrowed as he saw with his eyes what he'd been sensing. A small child of around six years old squatting on her haunches, staring at him curiously. She was painfully thin. He hesitated to call her scrawny, but it was a word that fit. She was barefoot and wore a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, both so badly stained that it was impossible to tell what their original color might have been.
Her eyes were blue and curious. Her hair was an odd shade of pale reddish-pink and was only growing out in a few random patches across her scalp. Where the hair wasn't growing seemed to be ugly, barely-healed scars. There were also spurs of bone poking up out of her skull. Where they'd erupted from her skin, seemed to have a ring of scabs and badly inflamed skin. The more Peter looked, the more of the spurs and jags of bone he could see. The spurs were particularly large around her knuckles, elbows and knees. Consequently the wounds and scabs in those areas were worse. He could see scars built up over scars. She was trying to hold still while watching him, but she would reflexively reach over to scratch and pick at one of her scabs, wincing whenever her fingers brushed up against the bone spurs.
"It's rude to stare." She told him gravely.
He stared at her harder. "Yes," He replied with equal gravity, then paused significantly, wondering if she was old enough to know what sarcasm was. "It is."
She nodded at his acknowledgement and asked. "You're new. This room was empty yesterday."
He returned her nod, sitting up and maintaining eye contact with her. "Yeah, I am. I'm… Dumas."
She delicately waved at him, declining to come any closer. "I'm Sarah."
He wondered if she was simply too young to take a pseudonym or it wasn't actually a requirement and he'd just happened to meet with the weirder members of the community?
Peter rose to his feet and so did she. He towered over the small girl and wondered faintly at how she was registering on his… what to call it? Preda-vision? Prey-o-meter? He sighed. She was tiny and weak and that alone was enough to trigger the sense, but there felt like a nuance to the sensation. Something in between hearing and scent and taste that told him in no uncertain terms that she was frail. Injured. The barely scabbed over wounds around the protruding shards of bone and the multitude of scars up and down her arms, scalp and face, were testament to that.
"So what makes you different?" She asked suddenly, staring up at him. She fingered a sharp spur of bone at her cheek. "I keep growing bones where they're not supposed to grow." There was a sullen air to her words. Resentful at what should be a gift twisted to something unfortunate. "It hurts when it's under my skin, pushing it up. But it also hurts when it pokes out like this."
"Sorry," Peter mumbled.
She brightened slightly. "When they get big enough I can pull them out, tho."
"That's… good?" He answered uncertainly.
She paused, smiling now, albeit, the smile was a little wobbly. "Except that hurts too."
"Oh." He didn't know what else to say to that and was very subtly scanning the room for a way to exit without hurting the little girl's feelings.
She blinked and asked. "So, what do you do?"
He sighed, trying to smile, but found the expression seemed unfamiliar to his face now. He scratched at his ear, not sure how to answer the question. "I…"
What do you say to that? I'm tough? I'm strong? I can kind of fly? I can consume their–
He stopped that line of thought and simply said the first thing that came to mind.
"... I hurt people." Peter admitted.
Sarah's visibly wilted. "Oh. So you can't help me, I guess?"
Peter stopped to stare at her. If her power was what was hurting her… this uncontrolled… unchecked bone growth… could he perhaps?
"Only if you need me to mess someone else up?" He offered weakly.
She seemed to seriously consider the offer for a few seconds before putting a wobbly smile back on her face. "That's okay. I can't think of anyone who really needs it. Except maybe Hemmingway. He's a jerk."
Peter gave her a smile. "Sorry I couldn't be more help."
Sarah shook her head. "It's not a big deal. Nobody's been able to help, really. I tried hanging around Leech to see if that helped any–"
"Leech?"
"Oh, he's another of the kids! He can make people's powers go away when he's nearby." Sarah chattered. "But all that happened while I was near him was that my bones stopped growing, but it didn't stop hurting."
"I see." Peter sighed. He couldn't help. Stopping further bone growth didn't stop what she did have from hurting. There was nothing he could do for her. He reached down for her for a moment and she flinched slightly, but held her ground. He tapped a fingertip to an unscarred spot on her forehead. "Maybe someday we'll find some help for you." He said gently.
She nodded carefully. "I hope so."
A figure lurched into sight in the doorway. Caliban had changed out of the warmer clothes he'd been wearing the night before and was only wearing the velvet purple suit coat and pants, with no shirt underneath.
He ducked into the area and turned oversized eyes towards the small child. "Sarah? What are you doing here?"
She turned to Caliban and squeaked. "I was just introducing myself to Mr. Dumas!"
Peter chuckled, then muttered. "See, she pronounced it right."
Caliban nodded, as thought he hadn't heard Peter. "Alright, but don't pester him. He's new and I was going to take him around to be introduced to everyone else."
Sarah nodded, then ducked around Caliban's spindly form. "Okay. I'll see you around!" She waved to Peter before stepping out of the area and out of sight.
"She was… nice?" Peter said, his tone intentionally neutral.
Caliban nodded. "She usually follows Calisto around. Caliban guesses she was curious."
"So…" Peter drawled the word out as he tried to find the right words to use. "Are we going to see a lot more like her?"
Caliban's oversized eyes met his. "Oh, yes. Many Morlocks were not fortunate when it came to their powers. Yours doesn't seem to have changed how you look–" He trailed off, seemingly trying to prompt Peter to volunteer more.
He snorted, fighting to keep the memories from rising up. "Believe me, it has its ugly side."
Caliban's mostly cheery disposition cracked for a second as he replied, "Caliban knows about ugly."
Not sure how to respond to that, Peter chose to ignore it. "Is there anything to eat around here?"
Caliban brightened at the prospect of breakfast and he nodded hurriedly. "Yes. They should be serving up breakfast right around now."
He lurched for the door and beckoned Peter to follow.
- - -
The part of the Alley that they had appeared in before was now quite crowded. A line snaked down the length of the Alley towards a set of folding tables that seemed to have food weighing them down. At the tables themselves, there were several people, keeping a close eye on everyone going past to ensure no one got more than their share.
Everyone was dressed in what could be best described as the rags the thriftstores hadn't been able to sell. The close warmth of the Alley also made it so that lighter clothes were fine. Peter almost felt over-dressed in his jeans and t-shirt, layered with a button up shirt and coat combo he had on. The heat didn't bother him any more than the cold did, so he didn't bother taking off any of the layers. He wasn't sure where he could leave them where they wouldn't be stolen and he didn't feel like carrying the clothes around.
He and Caliban waited in line along with the wide array of Morlocks. A lot of them simply looked older or just worn down in some way, but a large number sported some kind of more visible deformity or unusual feature. Ahead of them in the line, were a pair of massive, hulking young men with no shirts on, who had bright green skin and massive blonde sideburns. Further ahead was a skinny, slow moving person with a spikey head and tarry black skin that seemed to have random debris stuck to it. Close to the end of the line a woman who seemed to be a flat, monochrome white except for a rainbow gradient across her hair and face. Here, a child with a noseless, reptilian face. There, a woman wrapped up in gauze bandages covering up weeping sores. Others wore body concealing robes or cloaks that bulged in ways that hinted that the body beneath wasn't entirely human shaped.
On the other end of the spectrum, some were simply dressed oddly rather than sporting any obvious deformations. One man with a white beard, wore a leather skullcap and robe that sported a massively oversized, pointy collar. There were easily a dozen young men and women in punk stylings, right down to massive pompadours and mohawks.
"You are new, so the staring is expected," Caliban had told him quietly. "But do not make a habit of it. Most of us do not like to be reminded of how we look."
Peter flinched reflexively. "Sorry."
Caliban gave him a tight lipped smile. "As Caliban said, it is expected. Others gawk more openly their first time."
Before the awkwardness could get any worse, they reached the food tables and what felt like a wave of faint good cheer seemed to wash over Peter. It almost felt like walking into a sunbeam. A pleasant warmth that scrubbed away harshly at the rough spots of his soul and scoured out any lingering exhaustion and ill-feeling.
Peter glanced over towards Caliban who was also now sporting a wider smile. "Better than coffee sometimes," The pale man said as a completely inadequate explanation.
The person at the first set of tables was a small woman in her late forties. She had a sunny smile that did a great deal to make her plain face far friendlier. She had thick glasses and a bright yellow headscarf, from which wisps of curly, auburn hair that was showing signs of gray peeked out. She wore a brown, ragged and stained apron with a checkered pattern over an old-fashioned green dress that seemed to be in better shape. That feeling of sunlight seemed to be radiating out of her.
In front of her on the table were roughly carved wooden bowls, half-filled with what looked like runny oatmeal. Next to her was a massive steaming pot that the oatmeal came from. The pot reminded Peter of the stainless steel one his uncle used to use to deep fry a turkey with for Thanksgiving.
"Here you go, dear." The woman said, passing one of the bowls to Caliban as he got close to her station.
Caliban smiled at her. "Thank you, Anna Lee."
She returned his smile and reached out to pat his cheek. "You're a good boy, Caliban." Her voice was creaky, but warm. She had an accent that Peter couldn't quite place. It sounded vaguely Queens, vaguely Brooklyn, but with a faint hint of something Slavic. If nothing else, Peter was sure she was a native New Yorker. "And who's this?" She asked, turning her attention to Peter, as she grabbed a new bowl and passed it to him.
"Caliban just brought him in last night." Caliban replied, tone polite and friendly.
"I'm Dumas," Peter said, then after a moment added, "Ma'am."
That earned him an extra sunny smile and that good feeling coming off of her just seemed to intensify. "Oh, you're a good boy as well. You boys enjoy your breakfast."
He felt like he'd just finished all his chores and his aunt was praising him. Like he'd just gotten a full ride scholarship to Harvard.
Like there was still good in the world.
Peter tried to discreetly wipe away the tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes as he followed Caliban to the next table.
Caliban nodded. "She's like that."
"Like what?" Peter growled as he felt the good feelings pass as they moved further away from Anna Lee.
"She makes people feel things. Feel what she's feeling. She's the first person in the line because a lot of us Morlocks need the pick me up in the morning."
"She's always that… cheery?"
Caliban shook his head, his face turning grave. "No. Some days are bad. Bad days, she keeps to the far tunnels, away from everyone so she doesn't make us sad."
The next table was being overseen by a man who had a massively overdeveloped nose and almost no chin. He had a pair of dark sun glasses covering his eyes and loose brown hair peeking out from under the floppy, grimy chef's hat he was wearing. The man seemed to only be wearing a loose poncho and ill-fitting shorts for his under-developed legs. Long feathers grew from his mis-shapen arms. He had a wooden chopping board in front of him and he held a cleaver in overly long, slender fingers, that seemed to be somewhat scaly. Next to him was a large canvas bag that had some sort of round fruit that Peter had never seen before.
There was still half of one of the fruits in front of him that he was in the process of cutting into slices, when Caliban greeted him, "Chicken Wing. Good morning."
Peter had to admit the name fit, if nothing else. The now named Chicken Wing nodded towards Caliban in a jerky, nervous gesture and gestured to the sliced fruit. He eyed Peter for a moment and said in a high, screechy tone. "One slice. Take it."
Caliban took two slices, putting one in his bowl of oatmeal and the other in Peter's.
"Uh, what is this?" Peter asked as they stepped away.
Caliban replied blithely, "Tree-man fruit. It's good. All the nutrients."
"Er… wait, what?"
"Caliban will introduce you to the Tree-man later."
"Sure?"
Further on there was another table with wooden cups and a large water dispenser. "If you're thirsty." Caliban had told Peter.
Peter noticed a small distance behind the tables was Calisto, standing with a few others. She was dressed the same as when he'd seen her last night, possibly with a different shirt, but it was reduced to such a ragged state it was indistinguishable from the one she'd worn the night before. Her arms were crossed as she eyed the distribution of breakfast and made it manifestly clear that any misbehavior would not be tolerated.
Slightly behind her was a man in a sack cloth robe, tied at the waist with a thick hemp rope, looking for all the world like a monk that had lost his way. The robe's hood was up and hid the man's face in deep shadows, but wisps of pale, white hair peeked around the corners of the hood. Peter felt that impression of being considered prey sharpening as he felt the man's eyes sweep over him. He could only vaguely see into the robe, but the man's face did not seem to be quite right. The left half of his face in particular seemed to bulge oddly within the shadows.
Next to her was an immense slab of a man. At least seven feet tall, heavily muscled, bald and with blunt, brutal features. A cruel part of Peter decided that the man would not have looked out of place as the primary actor in a B-rated slasher film. He was dressed in jeans that were too tight for his immense frame, a badly stained T-shirt and what looked like a military surplus fatigue jacket that had the sleeves ripped off. He was wearing what looked like army boots, which, similar to Caliban's, had been polished to a high shine. The other incongruous element to the man's rough hewn appearance was a clearly well-cared for white scarf that had been tied off in a neat overhand knot.
Caliban caught Peter's gaze and said quietly. "The first Morlocks."
"Beg pardon?"
"They are the Morlock founders," Caliban explained, then gave a rueful smile. "Technically Caliban is one of them too, but Caliban is not keen on posturing."
Peter nodded encouragingly, allowing the pale man to keep talking.
"Calisto leads. She lays down the laws and ways that guide us. The big one is Sunder, he helps make sure people behave."
"I can believe it." Peter murmured back. "And what about the one in the robe?"
Caliban's face took on a twist of distaste. "That is Masque, it sounds just like 'mask' but he spells it fancy." He paused as though trying to find the right words before finally shrugging. "He is an asshole."
Peter snorted in amusement at the description. He realized that was possibly the first negative thing he'd heard Caliban say about anyone, which was probably enough to paint this Masque as the blackest of villains and Peter resolved to stay out of his way.
They moved past the press of the crowd, done with retrieving their breakfast as Caliban urged him towards a spot further down the tunnel. The dividers creating homes thinned out in this direction and a mismatched set of makeshift benches, chairs, tables and other furnishings made from bits of old furnishings or repurposed crates and pallets were scattered around the area willy-nilly.
It was a mess, but somehow seemed to come across as homey rather than just dirty. The faint breeze was still present, but now the air carried other scents to it. A sort of floral, citrusy scent that lingered and the persistent earthy smell seemed even more pronounced. The cement underfoot seemed to give way to patches of dirt with grass.
All around, people had taken seats. Some by themselves, others in groups, socializing among themselves. One table had a mound of flesh chanting to itself out of a dozen differently shaped and sized mouths. Here and there, children ran and played, speeding away from where they were eating before looping back to take a few more bites. Peter did notice that not everyone was taking quite a relaxed stance towards eating. A number of the older men and women ate with haste, hunched over their bowls and arms curled protectively around their bowls as though making sure no one could snatch it from them.
Peter had seen people eating like that at the shelters before.
Caliban gestured, pulling Peter's attention away from the other people and towards a table where he put his bowl down.
Caliban took a seat on an overturned crate at the table. Across from it was a semi-reclined lawn chair. Peter shrugged and took that for his own seat.
They tucked into breakfast with Peter slowly drinking the oatmeal down.
It was… fine.
It was a little bland, but Caliban took to it with a relish, taking small, delicate bites from the fruit in between long gulps of the runny oatmeal mush. "It is less watery than usual today!" He praised.
Peter processed that as he slurped the oatmeal thoughtfully. He took a bite of the fruit and that really did go perfectly with the oatmeal. He couldn't quite place what it tasted like. It was faintly pear-like, but had a firm consistency like an apple, but also had a tart sweetness to it like an orange or a tangerine. It made the meal massively better for being part of it.
Peter wrinkled his nose as a scent wafted towards him. Cigarette smoke. It was faint, but cloying. Somewhat worse for not just being regular tobacco, but there was a distinct scent of cloves added to it. Peter looked towards the source of the smell and noticed that Caliban was likewise looking that way too. Others in the area took one glance, then looked away, mostly keeping to themselves, but some waved to her or nodded in acknowledgement.
It was a woman dressed in a way that evoked a 1920's flapper, interpreted by way of a thrift shop. She was a very thin woman in a straight, sleeveless, rose pink dress that came to her knees that had been lovingly, if amateurishly, patched and repaired. Around her waist was a wide, bright pink ribbon tied off into an elaborate knot at her hip as an accent. She had a pair of loose work boots with no laces and thick woolen socks that had bunched up at her ankles. She had elbow-length blue gloves that clashed with her mostly pink ensemble, but seemed to have been chosen to match the little pillbox hat she had on her head that had a veil all around it that concealed the upper half of her face. She had chains of faux pearls looped around her neck. In her hand was a long, black cigarette holder at the end of which was the source of the smell, a hand-rolled cigarette.
Caliban smiled at her and called out in greeting, "Hello, Beautiful Dreamer."
The woman gave a wan smile, bringing the cigarette holder up to her lips and taking a deep drag. Peter noted with fascination that even as she spoke back to him, no smoke seemed to escape from between her lips.
"It's just Dreamer, Caliban." Her voice was low and husky. Roughened by years of smoking, but vaguely sensual still.
"Not to Caliban." The pale man responded with awkward gallantly, earning a small laugh from the woman, but she turned to face Peter and although he couldn't see her eyes through the veil, he could tell they sharpened their focus on him. A faint warning tingle of being seen as prey running down his spine.
"And who is your friend, Caliban? He seems new." Her voice seemed to drop even lower and Caliban gave Peter a small worried glance before he replied.
"This is Dumas." Caliban said carefully. "He is new."
Dreamer's lips curled into a smile. "I see."
Peter swallowed nervously.
"Did you want something, Beautiful Dreamer?" Caliban asked.
"A trade, Caliban. I'm offering a trade." Dreamer said, punctuating the statement with a movement of her cigarette holder.
"Go on?" Caliban asked, tilting his head slightly.
"For an embrace–" She drew the word out. "I'll give you the memory of a much better breakfast than this." She gestured vaguely towards their bowls of oatmeal.
Caliban leered. "Well, that seems cheap at the price–" He spread his gangly arms towards her, which earned a snort of laughter from Dreamer.
"No, Caliban." She jabbed the cigarette holder towards Peter, sending a waft of smoke drifting Peter's way. "Not you. Him."
One of Caliban's hairless brow ridges rose up in his best impression of a quirked eyebrow as he could manage without actual eyebrows.
Peter's eyes widened, "Wait, wait… hold up. What?"
"For a few minutes of cuddling," Dreamer continued, "You'll remember today's breakfast as, let's say… a mushroom and cheese omelet, a T-bone steak, crispy hash browns and a stack of pancakes with maple syrup. Instead of this sad, grueling affair." She made dismissive gestures towards their half-empty bowls.
Caliban glanced towards Peter who still had a poleaxed expression on his face. "It's not a bad deal." He said begrudgingly.
"I'm underaged." Peter replied indignantly.
Dreamer laughed outright. "It would all be platonic, dear Dumas. Nothing inappropriate. My gift is memories, but in order to give them, I have to have had them, do you see? A little bit of time in the arms of a pretty boy like yourself–"
Peter made choking noises.
"-- is something I can offer in trade to others when the time comes." Dreamer continued. "That's worth a steak breakfast, at least, right?"
"Maybe?" Peter said uncertainly.
Dreamer shrugged, as she leaned in closer towards Peter, the scent of cloves and cigarette smoke swirling around her. Pinkish smoke began to leak out around the corners of her lips as she spoke. "Besides, I think I want to remember how you look up close before Masque can get his hands on you."
Caliban made a noise in the back of his throat and shot Dreamer a hard look.
"What does that mean?" Peter asked.
Dreamer's tone had turned wry and bitter. "Before he makes you ugly like the rest of us."
"Why, Dreamer," A gravelly, dramatic voice declared, "What a cruel thing to say."
Peter glanced over his shoulder to find Masque leering menacingly over their small group. At his side, Sunder loomed.
"We talked about this already, Dreamer," Masque said, walking around the table to approach Dreamer who was now cowering back. "You were told not to smoke where people were eating."
Dreamer flinched back, hurriedly pulling the cigarette from the holder, crumpling it in her haste, and letting it drop to the dirty floor. She crushed it underfoot.
"It's gone! It's gone! I just… I just forgot, okay?" Her voice was almost a wail.
Masque clicked his tongue, shaking his cowl covered head. "We told you and told you." He reached a hand out towards her, Peter was close enough to see that his hands were blunt fingered and calloused, with cracked and broken nails. "We're gonna need to make sure you learn your lesson this time."
Peter glanced around. The other people who had been eating in the area were all looking away. Even the children who'd been somewhat boisterous before that moment had gone deathly silent.
Caliban was chewing on his lower lip and seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but there was a tightness around his eyes. A fear towards the man in the robe.
A small man who was bullying someone.
Right in front of him.
Peter was on his feet even before he realized he'd moved. He put a hand to Masque's shoulder to hold him back. "That's enough." He managed in a firm, level tone.
Masque looked over his shoulder at Peter. This close, he could smell him now. It wasn't pleasant. The clove cigarette smoke had reeked less. The robe was unwashed. Masque himself hadn't taken a bath in a while. The shadows of his hood, up close, were now failing to conceal a massive spreading tumor across the left side of the man's face that rendered him hideously ugly.
"The new boy." Masque sneered. He glanced towards Caliban who had also just started to rise to his feet. "You should have told your new friend that a proper Morlock minds their own business."
"I'm making this my business," Peter growled back, the faint red glow rising within his eyes as he let the power fill him.
Caliban held both hands up placatingly, "He is new, Masque. He has not even decided if he will–"
Masque brusquely jerked his shoulder away from Peter's hand, giving the young man a look that would've been ugly even on a less ravaged face. "Oh, no. I think he's decided already."
"She already put the cigarette out." Peter said, trying to sound reasonable, but a gnawing anger was curling around his heart. He shouldn't have been surprised. Bullies existed everywhere. School hadn't been unique. The streets were rife with them. Why not in this sanctuary for those 'different' as well?
"You don't need to do anything else." Peter finished.
Caliban winced speaking at the same time,"There is no need to–"
Masque gestured towards Dreamer who continued to cower back. The hat had slipped off her head, moving the veil enough for Peter to see her eyes, which looked like a set of bulging compound eyes more fitting of an insect. "But there is a need," Masque hissed, "I gave her those eyes the last time she 'forgot' to put her cigarette out before coming around meal times. I was just going to make the rest of her face match."
Peter forced himself to remain still, even as Dreamer hurried to readjust her hat and veil. She clearly wanted to leave, but seemed frozen in place by her own terror.
Masque gestured dramatically, sweeping an arm to take in Peter and Dreamer. Peter could tell that the man was playing up to the audience. "But now, this isn't just about the smoking anymore, boy. You've chosen to disrespect my authority."
Peter glared at him and Masque seemed to take it as a cue to continue. "I speak with the voice of Calisto. You, a whelp who just got here, are trying to dictate things to me?!" His voice rose to a shriek and others seemed to be shuffling in place, uncomfortable, but Peter could clearly see that they were glad it wasn't being directed at them.
"He does not know the ways, Masque." Caliban said, jabbing a pale finger in Peter's direction, trying to put himself between Masque and Peter, while simultaneously staying out Masque's arm's reach. His voice was placating and calm, but held a definite undercurrent of concern. "He needs time to learn."
"That is true. He is new and must learn." Masque said, facing Caliban fully. "So I shall be merciful and let this be an opportunity to learn." He spread his arms out seemingly in a benediction.
"Thank yo–" Caliban began to say, but Masque cut him off, glancing over to Sunder.
"Hurt him." Masque said to the larger man in a deceptively mild voice. "Show him his place, but only do as much as Healer can fix a session or two."
Peter barely had time to register the sensation of attention fully being turned on him and he whirled to face Sunder, who he realized was already in motion.
The larger man was faster than his bulk should've allowed and a fist shot straight for Peter's face faster than he could move out of the way. He reflexively held a hand up and caught the huge, meaty fist in his palm with a thunderous noise.
The tableau held for a second. Peter standing, holding Sunder's fist in his hand. The larger man's expression was even more surprised than that of the bystanders.
"We don't have to do this." Peter said, trying to sound reasonable, but he could feel the strain in his arm and shoulder, a strain that was beginning to spread across his back. He tried to make this seem effortless, but he knew he couldn't keep matching Sunder's strength for long.
To his surprise, Sunder's face broke into a delighted, mean-spirited grin. "You're strong."
"Thanks." Peter replied, through clenched teeth, he could feel the man pushing at him even harder, the pressure mounting.
"Sunder is stronger." The larger man declared and leaned into his fist, putting even more weight and strength behind it.
Peter's arm quivered from the strain as he found himself not just being moved, but the sheer pressure he was being subjected to was shattering the concrete underneath him as he was inexorably pushed back.
Peter growled back. "No, you aren't." His arm was quivering from the strain and he could feel the cement turning to powder around his ankles as he was dragged through the material. He kept his voice as level as he could. "You can stop this now and I don't have to show you how much stronger I am than you."
Sunder laughed.
Caliban fretted.
Dreamer seemed to be sobbing.
All around the bystanders had begun murmuring excitedly.
Masque glanced around, watching the reactions, and finding them not to his liking. He roared, gesturing dramatically once more, "Stop playing with him, Sunder! You heard me! Hurt him!"
Sunder's smile was eager and he met Peter's eyes. "You heard him."
Peter nodded, returning his gaze in full. "I did. I want you to remember that I asked nicely."
Then he let his power loose to reach out through the point of contact. His eyes flared red as his hungry, stolen power reached through where his hand held off Sunder's fist.
He felt it pull.
Peter's eyes flared red and energy rushed into him. He drew a breath and kept breathing in. A golden stream of energy surged out of Sunder's mouth, out of his eyes, drawn into Peter's mouth and nose.
It was indescribable. Delicious. A steak breakfast couldn't compare to this. The feelings of sunshine and good cheer from Anna Lee couldn't compare to this.
He was drinking in a man's life and it was incredible.
As life flowed out of Sunder, he seemed to visibly wither, his immense muscles slowly shrinking in on themselves and a long, rattling moan of anguish came out of him.
Peter knew he could simply keep breathing the man's life in until he was little more than a dead, desiccated husk. He was intimately familiar with how that process went.
It would be simple, even if he had only used it in that way once, a long time ago.
Even as he kept drawing in more and more, Sunder seemed to take forever to run dry. Peter had rendered people unconscious with the drawing in of life after a second or two. Sometimes it was difficult to judge.
He had to have been breathing in for a minute now? Two minutes? He didn't know anymore.
Sunder seemed like he could take it. There were such massive stores of strength and vitality within the man. Peter was sure he could keep going just a bit more and Sunder would be fine after some rest. Maybe. Mostly.
It was intoxicating.
He could feel where he cradled the man's fist in his hand. No longer pushing. If anything Peter was holding him up by that point of contact.
A single point of contact that let something within him– a part that wasn't drinking the man's life in– to reach out to take hold of something within Sunder. He could feel the shape of it. He recognized the sensation of reaching out. He knew it was Sunder's strength. His gift.
He was already drinking the man dry, why not take that away as well? If Peter kept going, it would just be wasted if he didn't claim it as his own.
Sunder was just using his power to bully those weaker than him, anyway.
He didn't deserve it.
He really didn't, Peter insisted to himself.
But does he deserve to die?
Peter stopped breathing in sharply, almost choking on the last golden tendrils of energy as they flowed into his nostrils.
He released the grip he'd taken on the man's power as well, leaving it where it was.
He released his fist from his hand.
Peter let everything go.
Sunder dropped to his knees and looked half-dead.
Peter could feel a massive amount of strength simply surging through his body. He forced the powers back, forced all that strength, all the riotous, rambunctious energy down deep where the hungry power dwelled when he didn't need it and allowed the glow to leave his eyes.
Calisto came into the area at a dead run and thundered, "What the hell is going on here?!"
Peter looked towards Masque, whose expression was apoplectic with rage. He met the robed man's eyes and said with a malicious smirk, "Masque was just showing me my place."
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