The wind tore at me, a cruel caress against my already screaming lungs. One moment I was clinging to the precarious perch of the crane, the next, gravity asserted its brutal dominion. My swing, a desperate gamble, connected with a girder, but the jolt was a white-hot brand against my injured ribs. Not enough. Never enough. I plummeted again, the metal shrieking its protest as another web line shot out, a desperate prayer catching a distant beam. The deceleration was a violent embrace, wrenching a gasp from me that tasted of copper.
I crashed onto a scaffold, the impact sending a fresh wave of agony through my side. Coughing, I felt the wetness bloom inside my mask, a grim testament to the damage. Above me, a shadow detached itself from the sky. Taskmaster. He descended with an unnerving calm, each movement deliberate, unhurried. There was no urgency in his descent, only the quiet confidence of a predator who knew its prey was already cornered. This wasn't a fight; it was an execution.
The beatdown began not with a flurry of blows, but with a chilling precision. Taskmaster didn't throw punches; he placed them. Each strike was a calculated response to my every defensive twitch, a perfect counter to my ingrained reflexes. My guard, so often my shield, was bashed in by his shield, the impacts resonating deep within my bones. He was like a phantom, anticipating my every move, my every evasion. My web-lines, my primary offense and defense, were severed before they could even fully form, his blade a silver blur that cut through my sticky solutions with contemptuous ease.
He moved with a terrifying grace, mirroring my acrobatic dodges, then punishing them with brutal efficiency. A kick here, a shield bash there, each one a lesson learned, a pattern dissected. He wasn't just fighting me; he was dissecting me, breaking down my every strategy, my every instinct. He's not even fighting me anymore, the thought clawed at me, raw and horrifying. He's… correcting me.
The midpoint of this nightmare arrived with a sickening crunch. I tried to launch myself away, a pathetic attempt at escape, but he was already there. His hand, impossibly strong, clamped around my midsection, and with a grunt of exertion, he flung me. The world became a kaleidoscope of twisted metal and concrete. I slammed through a stack of rebar, the sharp ends tearing at my suit, at my flesh, before I impacted a solid wall.
My breath was stolen, not just by the impact, but by the grip that followed. He pinned me to the concrete, my mask pressed against its rough surface, his gauntleted hand clamped around my throat. Air, precious, vital air, refused to fill my lungs. He lifted me effortlessly, my feet dangling uselessly.
"I've fought the best," Taskmaster's voice was a low growl, amplified by his mask. "Captain America. Hawkeye. Black Widow. Do you know what they had that you don't?"
The words choked out of me, a desperate, pathetic attempt at humor, a last vestige of my usual wit. "...a better dental plan?"
His grip tightened, his mask impassive, but I felt a flicker of something akin to disdain. "Discipline."
And then I was flying again. He hurled me across the vast expanse of the construction site, a rag doll tossed aside. The impact was catastrophic. I smashed into a massive cement mixer, the groaning metal folding around me like cheap paper.
The world swam. My mask, torn open around one eye, was a stinging, bloody mess. Blood trickled down my cheek, into my mouth. Each ragged breath was a fresh stab of pain. I pushed myself up, relying on a bent steel bar for support, my knees threatening to buckle. Taskmaster circled me, his movements slow, analytical. He was studying me, cataloging my failures.
"Every hero has a breaking point," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Widow lasted seven minutes. Hawkeye, nine. You? Eleven. Impressive… but not enough."
He moved with a speed that belied his earlier deliberation. His boot slammed down on my chest, the force of it crushing. A sickening crack echoed through my ribs, and I gasped, a strangled sound that was swallowed by the wind.
I tried. God, I tried. One last surge, a desperate lunge fueled by pure instinct and the fading embers of defiance. But my body was a shattered vessel. My limbs were leaden, my reflexes dulled by pain and exhaustion. Taskmaster's hand shot out, catching my fist mid-swing. It was like hitting a wall of steel. Then, before I could even register the contact, the hilt of his sword drove into my gut.
The world dissolved into a blinding white. I doubled over, coughing violently, the metallic taste in my mouth intensifying. My vision blurred, the harsh lights of the construction site smearing into indistinct blobs. Sounds became muffled, distant. I crumpled, a heap of broken limbs and shattered will, sprawling across the dust and rubble. My body refused to obey, my muscles screaming in protest. I couldn't rise. I couldn't move.
Taskmaster stood over me, his sword glinting in the dim light, its tip poised for the final, decisive blow. But he didn't strike. Instead, with a deliberate, almost bored motion, he sheathed the weapon. He was certain. The fight was over. I was finished.
"You're done," he declared, his voice resonating with a chilling finality. "Another broken hero. Nothing more."
Through the haze of agony, I felt myself slipping away. Consciousness was a fading star, its light dimming with every shallow breath. My hand, a traitorous limb, twitched towards the ground. But the impetus, the desperate, ingrained instinct to fight, to grab, to do something, was gone. Instead, my fingers unfurled, and my hand fell limp, a lifeless weight against the gritty concrete.
The last image burned into my fading senses was Taskmaster, a dark silhouette against the chaos, turning and walking away into the shadows. He was convinced. Convinced that Spider-Man, that Peter Parker, was broken beyond recovery. And as the darkness claimed me, I couldn't find the strength, or the will, to prove him wrong.
I failed everyone. Uncle Ben. Aunt May. Elaine. Harry. Bobby. Shadow. 3D-Man.
I'm truly worthless.