The platform groaned, a death rattle of tortured metal, as Taskmaster's blade came down. For a split second, the world was a blur of steel and intention. My spider-sense screamed, not a warning, but a symphony of imminent impact. I twisted, feeling the air displaced by the near-miss, the heat of its passage a phantom touch on my cheek. Instantaneously, my wrists fired, twin streams of webbing anchoring the precarious stage to a skeletal girder. A sickening lurch, a cascade of sparks, and the platform, my temporary sanctuary, ripped free and plummeted into the abyss below, taking Taskmaster's second attempt with it.
"Every choice you make," his voice echoed, a chillingly calm pronouncement from the receding abyss, "I've already solved."
He was right, of course. He was always right. And that's what scared me more than the falling steel or the edge of his blade. This wasn't just a brawl; it was a dissection.
The fight resumed, but the rhythm had irrevocably shifted. Taskmaster wasn't just reacting anymore; he was anticipating. It was like fighting a warped reflection in a funhouse mirror, a reflection that had studied my every move, my every tick. He still had the sword, the shield, the bow, but now they moved with an alien fluidity, a disturbing remix of my own acrobatics and the legendary styles of the Avengers.
He'd launch a somersault, a perfect echo of my own evasive maneuver, but twist it at the apex, adding a brutal, shield-driven thrust that was pure Hawkeye meets Captain America. I'd wall-kick away, expecting a pursuit, but he'd use the same momentum to pivot, firing a volley of arrows that didn't fly in straight lines, but in complex, ricocheting arcs, anticipating where I'd be forced to take cover. He even employed grappling hooks, not to climb, but to maintain an unnerving, relentless pursuit, mirroring my web-slinging, always closing the distance.
It was insane. It felt like fighting myself, but a self who had spent years training with the world's greatest heroes, a self who had no qualms about what he was doing. My own signature moves, honed over months, were being turned against me with terrifying precision. The sheer audacity of it, the cold, calculating way he absorbed and twisted my arsenal, sent a shiver down my spine.
"Okay, Peter, time for some jazz hands," I muttered to myself, attempting to inject some much-needed unpredictability. I threw a wild, off-balance kick. But Taskmaster was already there, a fraction of a second ahead. He blocked, then a fluid motion of his shield deflected my arm, setting up another of his composite attacks.
It was like trying to outthink a supercomputer that was emotionally invested in proving me wrong. Every feint, every dodge, every desperate attempt to break his predictive pattern was met with a counter that was faster, sharper, and more devastating than the last.
Then it happened. In a moment of pure, unadulterated frustration, I unleashed a powerful web shot directly at his sword-wielding arm, pinning it against a steel beam. A moment of triumph, quickly extinguished. Before I could even celebrate the hit, Taskmaster, with an almost casual flick of his wrist, fired his own web-like projectile. It wasn't the sticky, fibrous stuff I used. This was a thinner, tougher filament, and it latched onto my leg. With a sharp yank, he pulled me off balance, sending me stumbling.
My mind reeled. He didn't just copy; he evolved. He saw my move, understood its intent, and immediately weaponized it against me. It was a terrifying leap past mere imitation.
Okay, this is bad, I thought, the familiar panic starting to bubble.
The fight had been escalating, moving from the relatively stable ground to the precarious skeleton of the unfinished building. Now, we were in the sky, a dizzying dance among scaffolding, towering cranes, and the skeletal remains of once-proud steel beams. Taskmaster wasn't just fighting me; he was using the environment as an extension of his arsenal.
With a swift, brutal slash of his sword, he severed a thick cable. A massive steel beam, loosened from its mooring, began to swing like a monstrous pendulum, arcing directly towards me. I dodged, webs flailing, but he was already firing arrows, not at me, but at the girders and beams around me, pinning me into tighter and tighter spaces, cutting off my usual swing routes.
I was being herded, corralled like a cornered animal. Each near miss with a falling object, each impossibly tight squeeze through collapsing infrastructure, chipped away at my composure. The adrenaline was still pumping, but it was starting to feel less like a surge of power and more like a desperate, ragged breath.
He landed on a jutting piece of rebar, his posture deceptively relaxed. Then, he started to talk, his voice cutting through the clang of metal and the rush of wind. It wasn't the taunts of a typical villain; it was the analytical pronouncements of a seasoned instructor grading a student.
"You lead with your left shoulder on every feint," he stated, his voice unnervingly calm. "You favor high ground, but abandon it the moment you're pressed. Your quips? A distraction—buying yourself half a second of thought. But now," he paused, his masked eyes seeming to bore into me, "I know the rhythm."
With each flaw he articulated, he punctuated it with a precise, devastating strike. A feint to my left? He'd counter with a shield jab that sent me reeling. I'd try to gain height? He'd fire a ricochet arrow that forced me back down into a more vulnerable position. Even my jokes, my coping mechanism, were dissected and used as a weapon against me.
This was the worst part. He wasn't just out-fighting me; he was out-thinking me, dismantling me piece by piece, exposing every vulnerability. The physical pain was starting to become secondary to the gnawing realization that I was being comprehensively, intellectually beaten.
We were on the arm of a colossal crane, a precarious perch hundreds of feet above the ground. The wind whipped around us, tugging at my suit. Taskmaster lunged, a blur of honed aggression. I met him, but he was faster. His shield, angled just so, its edge glinting wickedly, sliced across my side.
A searing pain exploded through me, and I staggered back, clutching my ribs. I looked down, my vision blurring slightly as I saw the dark, crimson bloom spreading across my suit. Blood. I was bleeding. And for the first time, the chilling reality hit me: he wasn't holding back. This wasn't a sparring match; this was a hunt, and I was the prey.
"You're durable," Taskmaster stated, his voice devoid of any emotion, as if he were merely observing a scientific phenomenon. "But you'll bleed out like the rest if I keep cutting."
His words, cold and clinical, landed with the force of a physical blow. The recklessness, the slight disregard for my well-being that had always punctuated my battles, suddenly felt like a grave miscalculation.
Desperation. It's a familiar feeling, but this time, it was tinged with a cold dread I hadn't experienced before. I had one last gambit, a wild, improbable gamble. I fired my webs, a thick, heavy strand, anchoring it to Taskmaster's legs, then launched myself off the crane arm, intending to use my own descent to pull him down with me, to force him into a situation where his calculated approach might falter.
But he was ready. Even as I leaped, he moved. With a swift slash of his sword, the webbing snapped. Time seemed to warp, stretching and contorting. I was falling. Not swinging, not dodging, but plummeting.
The last thing I saw before the world became a dizzying, rebar-filled blur was Taskmaster, standing calm and impossibly still on the crane arm above. His silhouette was etched against the bruised twilight sky, the very picture of chilling certainty. And I was falling, bleeding, and utterly outmatched, towards the hard, unforgiving ground.