Peter POV

Today was already feeling like shit.

Peter woke up that morning feeling out of his skin. The nightmares came and went of their own interest, and he was still waiting patiently for the day they would stop altogether. But if the nightmare last night was any indicator, then his hopes for a refreshing sleep was about as likely as Taskmaster putting on a pink tutu and dancing the Swan Lake.

His uncomfortable, dissociative state of mind stayed with him throughout the rest of the morning. In the communal area, everything seemed just a tad too loud and people were getting just a little to close for him to be comfortable. Generally, most of the other students left him alone, as he liked. But with a day like today, anyone within a foot of him was infringing on his unestablished boundaries

Too neurotic to bother lashing out at people - just the thought made him nauseous - Peter took to the walls and ceiling for transportation. No one bat an eye, and if they did, they were careful to keep it to themselves. They were all used to it by now anyway. Peter preferred getting around via web-swinging or ceiling walking. The only ones who ever gawked anymore were the newbies, and even they'd been informed to keep their distance, so it was good. It was all good. The ceiling was good.

Peter took his tray of food, found a nice corner at the end of the wide, communal area, and picked at his breakfast. Today, it was oatmeal, sausage, and eggs. A good healthy breakfast for any intellectual assassin. He was going to need it if this new training assessment was going to be any good. Yet, his appetite was missing. Probably hiding somewhere in his bed.

He managed a few bites of oatmeal and half the sausage without throwing up, then tossed the rest in the garbage. It was getting too loud anyway. He tried to eat as early as he could so he didn't have to suffer through the other students' small-talk. One of the disadvantages to having super hearing was that you ended up listening to everything. And today, Peter's ears were painfully sensitive, and he didn't want to hear about the weird fungus growing between your toes, or the infected ulcer on your butt.

More student were filling the room, which was his cue to skedaddle on out of there. He scuttled across the ceiling, passing over a table with a few Senior students hunched over their trays.

"-you see that ship that arrived this morning? Big-ass thing with these weird symbols painted on it. Let me tell you dude, that thing is not from around here."

"Do you think it's mutant?"

"Nah, man. It's definitely alien."

Huh, perhaps not all conversation was nugatory. Apparently, their lovely school was hosting a guest. On the exact same day, Peter was expected to have an assessment too. Seemed a bit too coincidental for his taste.

He got to his feet and strode across the ceiling, out of the communal, and into the hall. On a normal day, Peter would've gone to one of the (private) classes, Weapon Maintenance and Exotic Methods of Killing preferably, but Taskmaster didn't allow classes on an assessment day. You could study up on your own time, but this was to see how much knowledge and training you retained throughout the schooling period, not how much you could cram into your brain before you were judged.

While Peter could appreciate a break every once in a while, he was itching to do something. Anything to keep his brain and body useful. He'd found that the best way to deal with a bad brain day like this was to just keep busy until it went away. Sure, sometimes he felt ready to explode because his mind wouldn't shut up and his body was off the fritz and ululating over every little thing, and that he couldn't think straight and that even following the simplest thoughts felt like herding a bunch of cats into a swimming pool, but it kept him busy. As long as he kept busy, the day would eventually end, and right now that was all he wanted.

Maybe he could clean his weapons before the assessment. That usually calmed him down. Taking apart his guns was a smooth, mechanic process, and sharpening his blades was always particularly satisfying. The kind of satisfying feeling that sat right on your chest, purring like a content cat.

But Peter never got to do what he wanted. He heard the footsteps before he saw who they belonged too, and the fact that they were slowing down as they drew closer to him made his nerves grind.

"Cheliceri," the Agent called, "Cheliceri. I was sent to deliver a message to you."

Peter sighed and looked down at him, gesturing quickly for him to deliver his message and go.

He straightened up, throwing his shoulders back almost comically, and cleared his throat. He wore his newbie ambiance like a giant fur-coat, strutting around thinking himself so important when he didn't realize he'd been scammed into buying a rug. Peter stifled the urge to roll his eyes. He hated dealing with them. Always tripping up, always getting in the way, always too quick to please, thinking even the smallest task made them viable. They were a major headache and was one of the reasons why he didn't want to instruct students, as Taskmaster implored he did.

The newbie sounded robotic, as if reading from a hidden script, word for word, "You are to report to the Changing Rooms L1 - C and prepare for your training assessment, which will be beginning soon. You must bring the weapons and tools you'd like to use because none will be provided. You are to wait for the signal before you enter the training room, and—"

"Yes, yes," Peter interrupted brashly. "Message received."

He stopped at a loss as Peter walked away. His instructor probably hadn't told him what to do if his message recipient blew him off like that, but Peter could care less. He'd been to more than enough assessments to know the drill. Yet, every time, Taskmaster sent one anyway. Peter was probably going to pay for not listening to the complete message, but he also couldn't find the right electric-chemical signals to bother.

He just wanted to get it over and done with.

Peter stopped in one of the changing rooms connected to the Assessments Room where the tests were given. It was a wide room, much like any high school gym with lockers and benches, only instead of gym shorts and basketballs, stealth suits and weapons filled the empty space. Everything was in pristine order, nothing left on the ground, and everything where it belonged.

A clean copy of his suit was waiting for him. Peter stripped out of the one he had one and quickly jumped into the other. This one would track and record his bodily state and warn the administrators if he got too seriously injured to continue.

They couldn't have done this any other day? He had just gotten back from a successful mission and he just wanted to get back to his normal schedule. He jammed his knives into their straps and shoved guns into their holsters. Slid on his boots, wrenched his gloves on, and pulled the mask over his face, feeling the dark pit of irritation in his chest widen.

Thing was, normally, he wouldn't have minded an assessment. As long as he was honing his skills and keeping his mind sharp, then what did he care? But this didn't feel like a normal exercise, and the fact that there was a big-ass ship outside didn't help either. An unhappy, cynical inkling sat on his ribs, glaring at the facts. There was something more going on here, and he didn't like it.

What could Taskmaster hope to learn with this assessment? What was Peter getting graded on? Had he done something wrong during his last mission? He didn't know – didn't know if he wanted to know – and that alone made his unease worse.

The door opened just as he slid his steel bo-staff into its sheath on his back, and he tensed, going for his gun. But it was only Taskmaster.

Still tense, heart trepidated, he eased out of his squared stance.

"Taskmaster, Sir," he greeted, spine straightening and shoulders falling back.

"Assessment Requirements," Taskmaster said, standing before him, tall and imposing. "Your mission is to eliminate a specific target. I repeat, only this target." He handed over a picture. "If anything other than this target is taken out, you fail."

It was a big guy. Tall, muscled, dark skin, wearing a snarling dog mask. It'd be an easy kill. Perhaps he should just use his gun and get it over with. Guns were loud, crazy, irritating, but they made for a quick kill. Why he was killing this guy was beyond him though. The sooner this pointless exercise was over, the better.

Peter waited for Taskmaster to go one, but he stepped back toward the door.

Wait...that's it? Just a picture. No file? No report?

Strange. It's been a while since Taskmasters given him a ghost to kill. No name, no attributes, no skills – just a target on his back. Usually, he was given a bit more information.

But that didn't matter because he wasn't a trainee anymore. He stopped getting attached to his target a long time ago.

"Assessment begins in 5 minutes," Taskmaster said. "Be ready."

Peter nodded again, but before leaving, Taskmaster moved behind Peter and grabbed the bo-staff from its sheath. "If I send you a message, you listen to it thoroughly." He warned, and left with Peter's favorite weapon in hand.

Peter crushed the picture he still held, shuddering sickeningly at the bare feeling on his back. Without the weight of his bo-staff, he felt too vulnerable. Off-kilter. One more of his defenses taken down. One less lock to keep him secure. He should've just listened to the message. Why was he such an idiot?

Breathing deeply, long deep breathes to distract himself from the imbalance, he unwrinkled the picture, smoothed it out on his palm, and committed his target to memory. Once he could list every detail of his target from top to bottom, he snorted and tossed it to the side.

Easy kill.

He paced the remainder of the 5 minutes in front of the door, and as soon as the bulb above flashed green, the Changing Room lights turned off and he slipped out of the door into the dark immensity of the Assessment Room.

Priorities first. He scaled up the wall, hunkering himself into a deeply shadowed corner to get a sense of how wide the place was. It was a large room, cluttered with columns and immense walls grown right out of the floor. Good for hiding in shadows and getting the drop on people.

He squinted, climbing higher and crawling across the ceiling. He could hear footsteps. Dull, prominent thuds not far off. Crawling closer, he dropped off the ceiling and landed soundlessly on top of a crate-like structure, peering down vigilantly. He almost scoffed.

There was his target just strolling through the room. Not even bothering to hide his blundering steps.

Easy.

Using the shadows to his advantage, Peter flipped to the other side of the crate, taking out a knife in his boot. He stalked his prey a few more yards until he was aligned directly above him. Right before pouncing though, through the corner of his eyes, something zipped through the shadows and he paused, senses tingling lightly. He peered around cautiously.

Hmmm, okay. Perhaps too easy.

He was under the distinct impression that he and his target were not alone.

Speaking of which, his target was moving again. Paranoia probed at his brain as he traced his prey step for step, till he was right above him again. His spider-sense tingled again and he clutched the handle of his knife. It would be best to just get this over with as quickly as possible.

He dropped.

His target never saw him coming. Peter landed on his shoulder, balancing himself easily and tore the crude dog-mask right off his face and thrust the knife into his targets head using the momentum.

Or, at least he tried. Upon impact, the knife shattered against his preys head. Peter brought the busted blade up to his face, inspecting the jagged remains incredulously.

Oh...shit.

A colossal hand latched onto his arm and threw him. Peter hit the crate with enough force to shatter it on impact. He exited out of the other side, rolling over splinters and nails, using the momentum to roll up onto his knees and grab a gun from his holster. Okay, a slight hiccup in his plan. Who the hell was this guy?

A mutant? Inhuman? Your run-of-the-mill superhuman?

Peter jumped, shooting a web that swung him back over to his prey, and shot three clear shots at his target. One to the head, one to the throat, and one to the heart. But the guy didn't even stop. He spared Peter an irritated glance, but turned away, peering behind the nearest structure, looking for something.

Or someone.

Peter was beginning to see where this Assessment was headed.

So, his target was invulnerable. That checked out his projectile weapons. Knifes were gonna be useless too. Nothing could get through him...

Hmmm, his target was hard on the outside. But what about the inside? Peter reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled out a small capsule, inside a thick, pigment-less liquid resided. Poison, specially concocted himself. If he couldn't injure his target physically, maybe it was time to take a different route.

But just as he extended his hand to shoot a web, something zipped through the shadows again. His brain tingled full-rev. and he twisted, but it was too late. He was tackled anyway.

He and his attacker hit the floor hard enough that it knocked the breath out of him. There was a growl in his ear and he sees a white bodysuit and claws. Sharp claws. Grunting, he grabbed the wrist before it could sink said claws into his throat and threw his attacker to the side. They hit the wall but was back on their feet within seconds.

Peter got to his own feet, coming up into a crouch with a knife in one hand and the capsule in the other. His attacker was hunched over, slightly, on all fours as she inched to the side. Her body suit was white with fur around the neckline, black strips decorated the shirt, whereas black cargo pants and boots finished off the look. She hissed at him as they circled each other.

He didn't have time for this. His mission was to take out the snarling-dog guy, not the crazy-cat lady. Peter took a step back, edging toward the crate to get the higher ground advantage. His actions were instantly translated and she lunged forward with a hair-raising shriek. Peter barely had time to dodge the swipe of claws to his chest and quickly flipped back, landing on the closest wall.

Damn, she's faster than he thought.

He needed a distraction. Maybe he could use the laser on the scope to one of his guns. Would that work? How much of a cat was she?

Fortunatelt, he didn't have to test it out.

A bright light erupted next to her and the blast was enough to throw her back. Someone new stepped in. He stalked toward the cat-lady, palms out, with lights and mystics symbols glowing around him. Peter dully noted the dragon symbol on his chest before moving. A distraction was a distraction, and he wasn't about to look a gift-dragon in the mouth.

Behind him the dragon-dude yelled something about the energy of the whats-a-ma-call-it and another blast of energy explodes outward. Peter needed to find his target and end this.

Unfortunately, his Assessment had other plans. A bright, shining blue light encased the room and Peter hissed, momentarily blind. He stopped on the wall, crouching low and shielded his eyes. A pristine sensation of vulnerability swept him for being out in the open like that and he shot the side, letting his senses guide him up to higher ground. The light dulled down and he blinked away the blue and yellow dots dancing in his eyes.

And a new player entered the game-board. This one was encased in blue energy, donning a gold and black costume that looked otherworldly. He had a giant helmet on his head too. Weirdo.

The newcomer attacked the dragon-dude, which, in turn, gave the cat-lady the opening she needed. She bolted away from him, hissing, and quickly spotted Peter on his perch.

Frick.

He didn't have TIME FOR THIS. Shooting a web, he propelled himself forward onto the ceiling and quickly scuttled across it, all too aware of the clinking of claws hot on his heels below.

"Where'd you go," he muttered, searching through the chaos beneath him.

There. He watched as his target lunged forward, tackling the helmet guy mid-air and brought him down to Earth. The dragon-dude looks like he was contemplating attacking both of them, before turning around and searching for the cat-lady.

Clever exercise, Peter thought grimly, watching them tussle. Irritating, but clever.

He rolled the capsule around in his palm, thinking of the best way to distribute it. Direct approach? Just shove it down his throat and see if he's as invulnerable on the inside as he is on the outside.

It would probably be a lot easier if he didn't have the crazy feline at his back.

Heaving, he jumped off the ceiling, springing from structure to structure, and flipped down. He landed directly on the snarling dog-dude's shoulders once more and used his body weight to lean them both to the side. The dog-dude was lurched off his feet and Peter twisted so he was straddling the dude's chest when they hit the ground. One-handed, he held his head down, vaguely aware of the angry eyes and snarling face – a scarily close resemblance to his mask – and held the capsule in his fingers.

"Shut up," Peter griped as his target struggled, working to get a clear shot to his mouth. Before he could try though, he was tackled again and this time claws dig into his arm. His skin feels as though it's been eaten up by acid and he almost dropped the vial.

Cat-lady growled as she shifted her other hand to tear out his jugular. But she's stopped again, this time as glowing orange chains wrapping around her torso, pinning her arms to her side, which yank her back. Dragon-dude is looking irritated now. He's chanting again, but whatever he's trying to say is interrupted by a blast from the helmet-guy, who, in retrospect, was body-slammed by Peter's freed target.

THIS was the Assessment. Kill their target and ONLY their target. They were all just going in circles. All of them ordered to kill one, and none of them were going to stop until their target was eliminated.

Clever, clever plan.

Peter scrambled to his feet. Well, just so long as he killed his first he didn't care. If he could just get cat-lady off his back. Hmm, if he could free the dragon-dude, that'd take care of his feline problem. However, dragon-dude was still struggling against helmet-head, who was also trying to evade Peter's target, which was leaving Peter open to cat-lady's attacks. Wow, what a head twister.

"Use your environment," he muttered to himself.

Jumping forward, he shot a web at helmet-heads hand and yanked so he was no longer shooting at dragon-dude. Once freed, the dragon dude centered on cat-lady. Peter' target was distracted by strangling helmet-guy.

Perfect.

He sprinted forward, shot a web at the back of his target's legs and pulled them out from under him. Startled, his targets grip faltered and he slipped. Helmet-guy tried to break free and succeeded for a second. Just before he could zip away though, Peter's target gripped his ankle and helmet-dude fell with him.

Peter quickly webbed his target's limbs down, uncaring that it trapped helmet-guys ankle too. He was on his target in an instant, capsule in hand. Unable to move, Helmet-head made better of the situation and shot across the room. He must've hit his target because Peter hears a thud and suddenly cat-lady is behind him. Her claws dig into his forearms this time, but he forced himself to ignore that as he clamped the capsule in his targets mouth. One hand covers his mouth so he can't spit it out and the other curls around his jaw. One jerk upward and his target would bite down.

Claws are around his neck, digging into his skin. There's another shot from behind and suddenly....

Everything is very still.

Heavy breathing fills the space but no one moves. Peter glanced around, cautious of claws at his throat. His target had gone still, focusing intently on keeping his jaw open, but had also managed to rip one hand free and had helmet-guy by the neck. Helmet-guy had one hand up, pointed directly at Dragon-dude's face, who had the cat-lady's head in a breakneck position. It was enough to stall the cat-lady from digging her claws into Peter's jugular and ripping his throat out.

One bad move and they'd all be dead within a blink of an eye. They were locked in a stalemate.

For a long moment, they stood frozen. Then lights flashed on and a small clapping filled the room. Their eyes swiveled to the side where a group walked in. Peter noticed Taskmaster among them. There were more people too. A guy with a weird beard and a cape of sorts, another with hunting furs, another with a scorpion on his chest (Peter recognized him as Scorpio, leader of the Zodiac. He's done jobs for them), and...a tiger-cyborg?

"The exercise is over." Taskmaster said. "Mission complete."

Peter stared for a second, before slowly letting go of his target. Instantly, the dog-guy spat out the capsule, but his grip on helmet-heads throat tightened. Before he could crush his throat in though, Scorpio barked out, "Dog, down," and he let go instantly.

Similar orders followed. Helmet-head dropped his glowing hand, the dragon-dude released the cat-lady, and cat-lady jerked away from Peter.

Confused, they stalked toward the group.

Cat-lady stopped next to the man with the hunting furs, Dragon-dude to the caped-guy, his untarget to Scorpio, and helmet-head to the tiger-cyborg.

Peter stopped next to Taskmaster, performing the respective fist to the chest. "Sir," he greeted, but couldn't find the words to say much more. While he figured that was where the exercise had been heading, he was still unsure about what its purpose served. None of them even won – it had ended in deadlock. But Taskmaster didn't look angry that Peter had failed. His stance was easy, pleased. Whatever Peter had done, Taskmaster approved.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem as though any of the other Assessmentees were going to voice their confusion either. They stood tense and worried, just as confounded as Peter, but held their tongue.

"It went better than expected," hunting-furs grumbled admittedly to Taskmaster, voice thick with a Russian accent.

"Indeed," Scorpio agreed, "Although, it would have been nice if at least one of them had gotten the upper hand." He leveled a stare at the dog-dude, who looked down shamefully.

"Aye," hunting furs agreed, and to Peter's astonishment, cat-lady simpered too.

Peter glanced left and right, but all the others stood silently in front of their superiors and didn't breathe a word. He looked down, thinking to do the same, but it didn't sit right. He could take orders, he's been trained to, but what was the point of all of this? He couldn't figure it out.

His fingers drummed against his thigh, and quickly, he stepped forward before he could talk himself out of it. "Sir," he addressed Taskmaster. "Not to speak out of term, but what was the point of this exercise."

He felt the stares of the others on his body, and he clenched his fist. Taskmaster regarded him coolly, quiet for a moment, and shifted his stance. Still open, shoulders relaxed, hands clasped in front of him - Taskmaster was satisfied with his question. What was going on?

His mentor turned to the other men around him, and they all shrugged. Scorpion gestured indifferently. "Cheliceri," the way Taskmaster said his name made his hair stand on end, "This is your new team."

Peter froze.

Dog-man froze.

Cat-lady froze.

Dragon-dude froze.

Helmet-head froze.

"WHAT?" They all screeched together.

WHOO! An update! An update! I had this one edited and sitting in my folders, so I thought 'Why not?' and uploaded. Cheliceri finally met the others :3 Whoop-de-doo! :D :D :D

Once again, for those who don't know, I won't be updating anything else for the remainder of this month or maybe some of next month because I have a competitive event coming up and I need to study and prepare for it.

But here's this! :D :D I'll still be here to reply to comments and messages, I just won't have the time to upload anything.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

-OfficialUSMWriter