"Don't... please don't..." Andrea's voice cracked as she pressed herself against the rusted cage bars, her eyes fixed on the severed limb in Muse's hands. The appendage still dripped crimson onto the concrete floor, each drop echoing in the underground chamber like a countdown to her own mutilation.
Her entire body trembled with terror as the bandaged figure approached with the methodical patience of a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. In her mind, she screamed desperate pleas to anyone who might be listening: God, Mom, Dad, anyone—please come save me!
Muse tilted his head with the curious expression of an artist contemplating a challenging composition. "Why do you refuse such an honor?" he asked, his voice carrying the gentle tone of someone genuinely confused by her reaction. "You will become part of my greatest work. Your suffering will be transformed into beauty that will endure long after your flesh has rotted away."
The sincerity in his voice was perhaps the most terrifying aspect of the entire encounter. This wasn't sadism for its own sake—this was a true believer in his own twisted gospel, convinced that he was offering Andrea a gift beyond price.
He continued his approach, mentally cataloging the possibilities. Where would her hand look best? Perhaps attached to her shoulder blade, creating an impossible anatomical statement? Or maybe grafted to her forehead, forcing future viewers to confront the arbitrary nature of human form?
That was when Ben dropped through a ventilation grate in the ceiling.
"I'm genuinely impressed by your shamelessness," Ben said, his voice carrying the controlled anger of someone who had seen too much horror for one lifetime.
Despite his mental preparation for this encounter, the reality of Muse's gallery still hit Ben like a physical blow. Hundreds of victims hung from the ceiling in various stages of mutilation and decay, their bodies transformed into grotesque art installations that challenged the very definition of human dignity.
Blood and viscera covered every surface, creating abstract patterns that spoke of madness given free rein. Some victims were still alive—barely—their eyes tracking movement with the desperate hope of people who had given up on rescue but couldn't quite abandon the will to live.
Ben had never considered himself a particularly good person. This rescue mission had begun as a strategic move to gain political influence through Senator Caldwell's gratitude. But confronting the raw reality of Muse's atrocities triggered something deeper than calculated self-interest.
At least I didn't bring Peter, Ben thought grimly. This would have broken something inside him.
Ben's unexpected arrival sent a surge of desperate hope through Andrea's entire being. She had been hanging in that cage for hours, watching other victims undergo unspeakable transformations, convinced that she would die in this underground hell without anyone ever knowing what happened to her.
"Help me!" she screamed, her voice raw from previous pleas that had gone unanswered. "Please, I'm Senator Caldwell's daughter! My father will pay anything—"
But Ben was already moving, his attention focused entirely on the monster who had created this.
Muse studied the newcomer with professional interest. The black and red suit was well-made but unremarkable—probably some wannabe vigilante inspired by recent superhero activity. New York had been spawning these costumed amateurs ever since Iron Man's public debut.
"You understand nothing about true artistry," Muse said with the dismissive tone of a master addressing a dilettante. "My work transcends the mundane boundaries of law and morality. I am creating something eternal."
Rather than engaging in philosophical debate, Muse simply attacked. His movements were economical and precise—the result of years spent wielding surgical instruments with deadly intent. A throwing knife appeared in his hand and flew toward Ben's throat in a single fluid motion.
Ben's enhanced reflexes made the attack seem almost leisurely. He ducked under the blade and closed the distance between them in two quick steps, his mind automatically calculating angles and force.
Muse followed up with the bone saw, swinging it in an arc designed to open Ben's throat from ear to ear. But where Peter might have hesitated due to his moral constraints, Ben had no such limitations when dealing with monsters who tortured innocents for artistic inspiration.
Ben caught Muse's wrist mid-swing and applied precise pressure. The sound of snapping bone echoed through the chamber as dozens of tons of force—carefully modulated to avoid creating a mess—destroyed the joint completely.
The ease of the victory surprised even Ben. After Peter's descriptions of their previous encounter, he had expected someone with enhanced physical capabilities. Instead, Muse appeared to be an ordinary human whose only advantage was his ability to mask sensory perception.
What was truly unsettling was Muse's complete lack of reaction to the injury. No scream, no gasp of pain, not even a change in facial expression. He simply stared at his mangled arm with the detached interest of someone observing an abstract sculpture.
"No pain receptors?" Ben mused, filing the information away for future reference.
It was then that Ben noticed the Omnitrix's display had activated. Muse's blood, splattered during the bone-breaking incident, had made contact with the device's sensors.
[Defective genetic sequence detected. Initiate repair protocol?]
Ben's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Genetic defect? Interesting."
He studied Muse with new understanding. This wasn't just a human who had chosen to become a monster—this was someone whose genetics had been fundamentally altered, creating abilities at the cost of basic human psychological functions.
"However," Ben continued with a slight smile, "I'm much more interested in your defective genes than your artistic philosophy."
Before Muse could retreat, Ben fired a web-line that wrapped around his legs and yanked him to the ground. A moment later, Ben's boot pressed down on the killer's spine with just enough force to keep him immobilized without causing permanent damage.
"Now then," Ben said conversationally, "let's see who you really are."
The interrogation took less than ten minutes. Muse seemed genuinely indifferent to concepts like self-preservation or operational security. His only concern was the destruction of his artistic tools, which meant he could no longer continue his work.
"I wasn't always like this, you know. Once, I was just a man with shaky hands and no vision. Then the mist came... and I saw everything."
Ben didn't speak—but his silence, his sudden stillness, must have been enough for Muse to sense confusion.
"Terrigenesis, this word came to me after I transform myself " Muse said, smiling faintly beneath the bandages. "A gift for some. A curse for others. For me? It opened the world... and closed it at the same time. My senses turned inside out. I don't see light. I erase it. I don't hide. I make people forget I was ever there."
Ben then remember about the Inhumans—a hidden race of genetically modified humans whose abilities were activated through exposure to Terrigen Mist. Some became gods among mortals, gaining powers that defied conventional understanding of physics. Others, like Muse, became something far more disturbing.
The Omnitrix classified his abilities as a genetic defect rather than an evolution, Ben noted mentally. That suggests his powers came at the cost of essential human psychological functions.
The information was fascinating from a scientific perspective, but it didn't change Ben's ultimate decision about Muse's fate.
"Maybe I should try to develop the Null Void Projector," Ben mused aloud, considering the practical challenges of studying dangerous metahumans. "But that's a project for another day."
A sharp blow to the side of Muse's neck dropped him instantly. No scream, no resistance—just a heavy thud as his body hit the floor.
Ben stood over him, breathing steady. He knew Muse wouldn't stay down for long. People like him didn't. And locking him up again—expecting it to hold—was a risk Ben wasn't willing to take.
This had to end.
He crouched beside the unconscious killer and, without hesitation, placed both hands around his neck. A quick, powerful twist—clean and final.
There was a soft crack.
Then silence.
Ben stayed there for a moment, staring down at the man who had turned Hell's Kitchen into his personal canvas of horror. There was no sense of victory. No weight lifted.
Just the knowledge that it was over.
Ben hadn't done it for revenge. And it wasn't justice, either. Muse was too far gone, too dangerous to leave breathing. This wasn't a punishment. It was the only way to stop him—for good.
Simple. Final. Necessary.
Andrea watched the execution with a mixture of relief and horror. She had prayed for rescue, but witnessing this new Spider-Man kill someone was deeply disturbing. The casual efficiency of it suggested this wasn't his first time taking a life.
He saved me, she reminded herself firmly. Whatever else he is, he saved my life when no one else could.
"Thank you for saving us, Mr. Spider-Man," she said aloud, her voice steadier than she felt.
"You're welcome," Ben replied, carefully collecting samples of Muse Inhuman blood in specialized containers. "Eunice, contact Senator Caldwell's office. Anonymous tip about his daughter's location. Coordinate with local emergency services for victim extraction."
"Already in progress," Eunice's voice responded through his suit's communication system. "Estimated response time: fourteen minutes."
Ben nodded, satisfied with the efficiency of the rescue operation. He had eliminated a dangerous metahuman threat, acquired valuable genetic samples, and created a debt of gratitude with a powerful political figure. All in all, a successful evening's work.
But as he prepared to leave, Ben's thoughts were already shifting to larger concerns. The Marvel Universe was entering a new phase of activity, and he needed to position himself for the opportunities ahead.
"Eunice, book me a flight to New Mexico," he said, scaling the wall toward the ventilation grate he had entered through. "I think it's time we investigated the recently reports about that unusual meteorological phenomena."
S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical Bay
"How are you feeling, Captain?"
Nick Fury stood beside the hospital bed, his single eye studying Steve Rogers with the intense scrutiny of a man who'd just invested heavily in keeping someone alive.
Steve struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at his barely-healed wounds. The shame in his expression was unmistakable.
"I'm fine, Director," he said quietly, though his voice carried the weight of disappointment. "I just... I didn't expect to nearly die in my first real mission since waking up."
The irony wasn't lost on him. Seventy years frozen in ice, only to almost get killed on his first mission within days of his return to active duty.
"Times have really changed," Steve continued, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find words for the disorientation he felt.
"I didn't spend millions of dollars on Osborn's experimental healing serum to pull you back from death's door just so I could listen to you feel sorry for yourself, Captain," Fury interrupted, his tone characteristically blunt.
He pulled out a thick folder and dropped it on Steve's bedside table with a decisive thud.
"Here's a new assignment. I think you might find it... diffrent."
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