by Neil Kleid
Sergei’s eyes lolled for a moment. He tested his teeth, poking at them with his tongue, to make sure all were in place. He fixed Spider-Man with a solemn, silent stare and dropped his arms, letting them go limp against his sides. The web-slinger struck again, loosening Sergei’s molar and drawing blood.
“Two weeks!” Spider-Man roared, voice hoarse and shrill. Clearly he’d been driven to the edge of madness. Sergei’s eyes clouded over at that last observation, and his thoughts returned to his true mission. To the many men that Sergei claimed to be, and the many personas he’d assumed over the long, lonely years.
I am the Spider.
I am the Hunter.
I am Kravinoff, like my father and mother.
They said his mother had been insane.
Sergei had been born into an aristocratic family in St. Petersburg, where his family had been happy and prosperous until the downfall of the Russian empire. Chased from their home with little more than the clothes on their backs, the Kravinoffs fled to America, where they would start their lives anew.
After many years of wealth, Sergei’s father was forced to seek employment wherever he could find it. Depression and frustration permeated their household, a feeling Sergei carried with him to adulthood. As work grew scarce and funds scarcer still, his father abandoned the family for a bottle; his mother—a woman of rare breeding, true nobility, and a tender heart—was left to deal with their son and the disgrace of having been driven from their homeland. Here amid commoners, Ana Kravinoff had been overwhelmed by poverty, filth, and a lack of dignity.
The utter mundanity of life in America.
And so, they said, she had gone insane. Sergei’s mother had been taken to a place where he could not be with her. They locked her away—she was trapped, abused, and terrified. Ana had felt that way ever since arriving in the United States, since being forced to live in the great Western cage that men had dubbed the land of the free, home of the brave.
They locked her away. His father, spirit broken, had allowed it. Sergei could only watch, as helpless and terrified as his mother herself. The last thing he remembered was her wide, staring eyes as she gestured to the heavens, cursing and wailing to demons unseen.
One month later, Ana Kravinoff was dead.
They said she was insane, that she had taken her own life. But Sergei—the man who would become the Hunter, then the Spider—knew that they had lied.
Her life had been stolen by the Beast. By the unseen demon that Sergei had vowed to hunt and trap, to catch and kill. This Beast, the foe that Sergei had finally defeated—he had been chasing it ever since he’d left New York, so many decades ago.
His first stop had been the Traveler, a cargo ship out of Brooklyn. Armed with nothing more than his jacket and hat, along with a bundle of bread and cheese, Sergei had stowed away and hidden himself in a broken crate. He’d rationed his food and stolen more whenever he had the chance. Eventually, his presence was discovered; after uproar and questioning, someone shoved a mop into his hand and put him to work. This first assignment led to other tasks; by the time the Traveler dropped anchor, Sergei had become a useful member of the crew.
One post followed another, and Sergei found his way to Africa, where he remained for some time. He learned to be a man, to survive the way god intended—with nothing more than hands and teeth, wits and wiles—and he found honor and dignity in the art of the hunt.
He learned deadly talents while living among the African tribes. A shaman—exiled by the Maasai, living in a hut at the edge of the Serengeti—taught Sergei to mix a paste of blood, mud, herbs, and fruit, infusing it with saps and venoms to expand his consciousness and enhance his natural abilities. He tested his limits, tapping into a reserve of strength to bring larger animals to heel using only his hands. He paced himself against the wild cheetahs that roamed the jungle. He learned the names and talents of every animal known to man as he proved himself their better, one by one.
Sergei’s power, his abilities, and significant time gave him a much-needed edge amid the trappers of Africa; he became one of the most sought-after hunters on the continent. He charged his clients exorbitant prices—enough money to allow him to live the life of wealth, honor, and dignity his family had known long ago. The life from which he had been ripped when his parents’ dignity was stolen.
But happiness and satisfaction eluded Sergei. His father’s humiliation and his mother’s fate haunted him from a world away. Then an opportunity came to return to New York—a call from an associate, offering a chance to hunt prey in the concrete jungles of America. Sergei, now going by the name “Kraven,” leapt at the chance to ply his talents in a place where they might earn honor for the Kravinoff name. And so he undertook his second trip to the United States— alone, this time, and on a first-class ticket.
New York offered a wealth of targets, but none so enticing as the man he’d been hired to kill—one of the multicolored “super heroes” that had come to populate Manhattan since Sergei had last set foot in the city. This particular masked man, seemingly a red-and-blue-webbed weakling, had struck Sergei as an idiot, a pushover. After Sergei finished the job— hardly the first time he’d hunted a man, and not the last—he’d planned to hire himself out to track and kill other superhumans, more impressive specimens. Spider-Man was a step on his road to glory and restored honor. An afternoon of sport, nothing more.
But Spider-Man defeated Sergei. Then again. And again, each time distracting the Hunter with a string of ridiculous jokes. Spider-Man’s tactics reminded him of the shaman’s stories of Anansi the spider, a West African god who outwitted clever hunters and terrible tigers with tricks and tales.
Spider-Man proved a resourceful quarry. Sergei continued to underestimate the web-slinger, slipping from predator to prey as the hero vanquished him again and again.
He even set aside his pride and joined with other self-important “super villains” to complete his mission. Time and again, throughout the years, he tried to gain the upper hand—to no avail. The wall-crawler’s sigil mocked him day and night. It burned into Sergei’s brain, constantly reminding him that honor would forever remain out of reach as long as Spider-Man stood in his way. The “afternoon of sport” had transformed into a lifelong vendetta, the trickster in the crimson mask marking himself as Sergei’s white whale.
Finally, as failure and humiliation roiled within the Hunter’s beaten psyche, Sergei realized that no mere man could have accomplished what Spider-Man had done. No man could continuously defeat Sergei and so many like him. And Sergei’s mind, aided by an indulgence of potions, had convinced him of a Truth: Spider-Man was the Beast. The very same trickster god that lied to civilized noblemen across the centuries. The great mocking creature that had caused all of humankind’s suffering, including his father’s ill luck and his mother’s suicide.
The very Beast that Sergei had sworn to kill.
But I see now, he said to himself, smiling as Spider-Man continued to pummel at his chest and face. I understand in a way that I never could before.
What a fool he had been. All this time, he’d been afraid of a man in a ridiculous mask.
Yet perhaps within him, Sergei considered, is something more. Something great, something awful. The very essence of the demon that brought Russia to ruin. The demon that destroyed my father, consumed my mother.
Spider-Man pulled back a hand to strike another blow, but paused. Sergei seized the moment to turn to one side and expel a gout of blood from his mouth. Two molars clattered onto the floor. Sergei’s eyes, dazed and glassy, focused on his attacker like pinpoints of light. He smiled; blood dribbled from his lips, mingling with the scarlet of his suit.
He grinned at Spider-Man, chuckling to himself. All his fears had been for nothing. The demon he believed to be inside Spider-Man had been one of Sergei’s own devising. A demon that had haunted his life since the Bolsheviks had driven his family from Russia long ago.
A demon that Sergei had, at long last, finally defeated.
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Sergei smiled, laughing again, and Spider-Man roared in frustration. He lashed out once more and blackened the Hunter’s eye. But Sergei Kravinoff, who had called himself Kraven for as long as he could remember, was Hunter no more.
And Spider-Man, a masked shadow—the monkey on his back for more years than Sergei cared to count— was nothing more than a man. A man trapped in a cage of pain, of guilt, and now—finally—of crushing defeat.
Sergei laughed out loud, and the blows continued.
FOUR
TRAPPED, caged
left for dead, in the dark, like an animal
Edward whined and shuffled in the corner. He clamped arms across his ears in an attempt to shut out Vermin’s constant complaints.
hunger im hungry
“Shut up, go away. Leave me alone.”
try again, edward. try the cage again
“Won’t work, won’t work.”
Edward closed his eyes and fought the pain deep within his gut. He wished he had something more to drink, but he’d already had his fill. There would be nothing to eat or drink for another three hours, give or take.
hungry NOW
“Be quiet. I’m hungry, too.” Edward’s stomach groaned again, echoing throughout the room. It filled the murk and gloom with uneasy gurgling.
try the cage again
“No. No more hurting. No more pain.”
the spider has been gone for hours. maybe he turned off the power this time
“Don’t want to. It hurts. It hurtsssss.”
maybe he forgot. maybe he’ll forget to bring food, too
Doubt pervaded Edward’s thoughts. Vermin had a way of doing that, of presenting the very worst of possibilities in order to push Edward into action.
hungry edward, aren’t you hungry?
His stomach rumbled. “Of course I am. Of course.”
days its been days since he brought us down into the darkness, days since we were
“shutupshutshutUP!” Edward clapped his hands over his face, squealing and whining in an effort to keep Vermin’s voice from reaching his ears. But as weak and hungry as he was, even Edward knew that would never happen.
free, since we roamed above and ate what we wanted who we wanted and i hunger
“SHUT UP!” Edward rose to his feet and swung his arms around the confining space, attempting to ward off his unseen partner. Then he dropped his arms and stared into the middle distance, gazing at the metal bars he knew would be there.
go ahead and try
“You know what will happen. You know it will hurt us.”
maybe not. maybe this time it will be different
They both knew it was a lie, both knew what would happen when Edward tried the bars again. Nothing had changed in the last few days (how many has it been, Vermin wondered. we’ve lost all sense of time and space down here in the cold in the dark in the hunter’s cage).
Still. They had nothing left to lose.
Edward shuffled across the cage, edging closer and closer to the bars. He stopped short of the metal, peered through the bars, and tried to see what lay beyond in the darkness. As always, it came down to Edward and the cage, and what he might do next.
touch it, edward. try the cage again. so hungry
“So hungry.”
Edward raised a hand, reaching for the zigzag of silent steel. He touched three fingers to the humming metal bars, and—
—the section of the cage before Edward’s eyes flared with cold, fluorescent light. A flurry of electrical charges raced across the bars, converging on the iron between his fingers. The charge ran up Edward’s fingers and onto his arm, scorching his hands and his tender, beaten skin. He howled and pulled away, grabbing at his hand. He waved it in the air, trying to halt the burning, frying sensation that seared his nerves and hurt deeper than anything he’d felt before.
Vermin screamed with frustration inside his mind, and Edward scuttled back to the corner to nurse his wounds.
“Told you, I told you, you wouldn’t listen and it hurtsssss so much!” He stuck his hand into his mouth, biting on his burns in an attempt to keep from screaming.
It didn’t work.
hungry so hungry, edward, we need to be free need to escape need to eat
Thunder sounded far above, and Edward remembered how things had been only weeks before. He missed his solitary existence beneath the city. Sure, he had been lonely, but he’d been free to roam and feed, finding his meals thanks to Vermin’s penchant for survival. His life had been miserable, full of pain and fear, terrible memories and pangs of hunger…
but we were free
The cage. Edward hated hated hated the cage. Simmering with anger, numb from the pain, he scrambled to his feet and rushed at the bars once more. He howled and bellowed as the thunder (or drums or the voice that mocked and taunted us, the crawly man, the spider man) rumbled above. He threw himself against the bars; the metal crackled with electricity, singeing his hands and searing his chest. Edward bared his teeth and spat at the cage bars, sending sparks flashing back at his eyes.
Finally, the pain became too much to bear. He hung from the bars for a moment, his melted flesh and fur sticking to the steel. He mewled like a babe, his tongue dry, parched. He cried then, sobbed in this horrible place he’d come to—no, been taken to by the man who’d beaten him in his home. He knew, Edward did, that he might be here forever, and his stomach hurt and he hungered to be free.
He crawled away from the bars, back into his corner, and wrapped both arms around his body to try to stop the shivering, shocking pain. He rocked back and forth, curled into submission, wondering how much longer this imprisonment might last.
Vermin wheedled and whined inside his head, fueling Edward’s psyche with portions of hate and anger. Vermin told him what to do when the time came, when they might be free of Spider-Man’s cruel and painful cage.
yes, Vermin comforted Edward from his prison within a prison. then we will take our revenge. then we will feed and tear flesh from bones, rend fat from sinew, eat where we like and who we like and you know, edward…oh, you know who our very first hot and delicious meal will be
Edward nodded and bared his teeth.
“Sssssspider-Man.”
FIVE
PETER drove a fist into Kraven’s mouth, and blood shot from the man’s lips. A haze of scarlet dropped before Peter’s eyes.
I’m going to kill him. One of us is going to die here, and it won’t be me.
Kraven’s eyes watered, and it seemed for a moment that Peter’s jab had damaged something vital. Then Kraven casually glanced to his left and spat a gob of blood onto his costume.
MY costume he took MY costume and he ruined my name he ruined my good name
Then he smiled at Peter, a glint in his eyes adding to the smug, infuriating smirk.
I’m going to kill you, Kraven. I’m going to kill you for what you did to me.
Peter let loose again, sinking a fist into Kraven’s gut. He pounded with all his might, waiting for the Hunter to fight back. He pulled back a fist, gripped the front of Kraven’s costume, and stared into the man’s glassy, drugged-out eyes.
He’s just standing there. Like he’s been expecting it.
Perhaps he was. Kraven hadn’t bothered to hide—he’d been waiting at his townhouse. Kraven had wanted Spider-Man to find him. And now he stood there, wanting to be beaten.
Peter didn’t plan on disappointing the man.
“I’m going to enjoy this, Kraven,” he said. “I’m going to make you feel what I felt, hurt you the way that you…just like you…”
Just like you hurt me. Like you hurt everything I am.
Two weeks in the ground. Two weeks away from Mary Jane—dead and buried, while Kraven masqueraded in his mask, twisting and disgracing everything Spider-Man stood for. Kraven had committed murder in his name.
Suffering would be too good for this animal.
Kraven chuckled, waiting passively for the next blow. Then Peter’s vi
sion blurred, the lights dimmed, and Kraven’s laugh rose to a cackle. Another face danced before Peter’s eyes, yellow and hateful beneath a ratty, worm-ridden orange hood.
The cackling pierced his ears, tore through his bones and soul. Peter closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear the hallucination.
“No,” he whined, suddenly afraid. “No, this isn’t real, I’m out now I climbed out—”
(Murder, Peter? Ned’s voice rasped in his ears, and Peter tried to dig it out. Makes sense to me. You and death are old pals, remember? Hell, more than that. A team. Spider-Man and Death, his amazing friend.)
Peter backed away from Kraven and the ghost between them, waving both arms and trying to ward off Ned’s spirit. “No,” he whispered, “no, I…no more death.”
(Kill Kraven, Peter. Kill him dead. But what do you get in return? What do you get?)
Peter’s face contorted with rage. He stepped toward the Hunter, pushing his way through the Hobgoblin’s ghost. As his throat filled with bile, Peter screamed and landed two more punches, bruising Kraven’s cheek and temple.
Fine, I may not kill Kraven. I’m not that far gone. But I’m sure as hell going to make him bleed.
Thunder shook the townhouse, vibrating through his bones, and Peter reared back to strike again. “Do you hear me, Kraven? I’m going to make you hurt! I’m going to make you suffer! I’m—”
But Kraven was still laughing, still grinning. Slowly, he lifted both arms and raised his hands in surrender. He wiped blood from his cheek. When Kraven spoke, his voice no longer retained its characteristic bass growl.
“Hit me again, Spider-Man,” he said, softly and patiently. “Hit me a hundred times. I won’t resist. I won’t fight.”
Confused, Peter slackened his hold on Kraven’s costume. The rush of adrenaline began to ebb from his muscles and blood, leaving him lost and disappointed.
Fight me! Peter screamed in his mind, watching his enemy for some trick. Fight me, Kraven—come at me with your big, meaty ham-fists and let me smack you in the head. Let’s go! I want to fight. I want to hit something! I want to ki—