Chapter 1 – A Year of Me, Myself, and Symbiotes
A year. One full goddamn year as this... thing. Not quite human anymore, not some mindless monster either—just something sharper, hungrier, coiled in the shadows of my own making. And right now, I'm perched in the dim flicker of a cave torch, watching the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist himself sweat bullets while he hammers together his salvation from scrap metal and spite.
Tony Stark. Kidnapped, chest rigged with a bomb ticking like a bad habit, surrounded by his own weapons turned against him. The Ten Rings goons outside the cave entrance, barking orders in that guttural mix of languages I don't bother translating anymore. It's all so... origin-story perfect. Marvel's kicking off with a bang, and here I am, the uninvited guest in the front row.
I've got time to kill—figuratively, for once—while he tinkers. Might as well catch you up, since no one's interrupting this little drama yet. See, I've been in this blended mess of a world for exactly twelve months now, give or take a blackout or two. Woke up—or spawned, or whatever the hell symbiotes do—in a dingy alley somewhere that smelled like rain-slicked concrete and regret. No fanfare, no cosmic explanation. Just me, a writhing mass of black tendrils testing the air, and a sudden, burning need to figure out what the fuck was going on.
First things first: survival. I shifted into something human-ish pretty quick—tall, lean, forgettable features with eyes that gleamed a little too sharp in the dark. Blended right in. But hunger hit fast. Not for food, exactly. For... essence. Power. I learned that the hard way when I cornered my first mark, some lowlife thug shaking down a corner store in what felt like a grimy edge of New York. Or was it Chicago? The cities bleed together in this hybrid setup.
He didn't last long. I latched on, tendrils sinking into his skin like roots into soil, and pulled. Drained him dry—life force, memories, the works. Left him a husk slumped against the dumpster. Tasted like cheap whiskey and cheaper regrets. But here's the thing: I didn't just eat him whole. Nah, I sifted through it. Extracted about half his memories—flashes of beatings, deals gone sour, a life of petty violence. The rest? I shoved it deep, locked away in the back of my head. Don't want that crap influencing me, turning me into another echo of the dead. I've got enough voices rattling around as it is.
That was number one. Twenty humans down since then. Some were villains, sure—your classic street-level psychos with knives and grudges, the kind that make Gotham's underbelly look tame. Took down a cartel enforcer in what I swear was a Blüdhaven knockoff, his mind a treasure trove of smuggling routes and hidden stashes I filed away for later. Another was a meta-human wannabe, some lab escapee with minor telekinesis; I assimilated a sliver of that power, made my tendrils twitch objects from a distance now. Felt good, upgrading like that.
But not all were bad guys. A couple were just... in the way. Wrong place, wrong time. A banker type who screamed too loud when I needed a quiet spot to regroup. A jogger who saw too much in the park at dawn. Collateral, you could call it. I don't lose sleep over it—symbiotes don't really sleep anyway. Each kill sharpened me. I got better at the shift: human guise for blending, full symbiote form for the hunt. Less dependent on hosts now; I can sustain myself, pull in ambient energy from the air, the ground, even the faint hum of tech in the distance. And those memories? The ones I keep separate? They're tools, not chains. Blueprints for this world, hints at the bigger players lurking out there.
DC's been quiet so far. No caped crusader swooping in, no alien boy scout from the stars. But I've caught whispers—rumors in the extracted thoughts of a washed-up reporter: something shadowy stirring in Gotham, a bat-shaped silhouette on rooftops. Metropolis feels too clean, too pristine, like it's holding its breath for the big blue arrival. And Marvel? Well, that's why I'm here, isn't it? Popped into existence right as this cave fiasco kicked off. Coincidence? Or is some higher power—or glitch—throwing me into the deep end?
Tony's cursing under his breath now, sparks flying from his makeshift arc reactor prototype. He's got Yinsen helping, the quiet doctor patching wounds and whispering encouragement. I hover in the upper crevices, a subtle ripple in the shadows, invisible to their eyes unless I want otherwise. Amused doesn't cover it. This guy's banging metal together like a toddler with a tinker-toy set, but damn if it isn't impressive. Sweat beads on his forehead, mixes with the grime. His hands, steady despite the pain, weld and twist. The bomb in his chest hums faintly, a reminder of the stakes.
I could intervene. Slide down, offer a tendril to stabilize that reactor, whisper tech insights pulled from those absorbed memories. Or I could wait, let him escape on his own steam, then tail him back to the States. Study the man behind the myth before I decide: ally, meal, or something more useful? A year in, I've learned patience pays. I've killed, adapted, grown. Tony Stark? He's just the next variable in my equation.
The cave echoes with the clank of tools. Outside, footsteps approach—guards checking in. Tony freezes, then resumes, quieter. I coil tighter, senses extending like invisible threads. Faint vibes tickle the edge of my perception: a distant pulse, almost Kryptonian in its solar rhythm, far off in the Midwest maybe. Or a chill from the East Coast, Gotham's gloom seeping through the cracks. This world's converging, and I'm the predator at the center.
Decisions, decisions. For now, I watch. The story's just beginning, and I've got front-row seats.