#scorpionstung

              ♚   ❝           mac gargan  . .  what a    SURPRISE    ----    been quite the little while, no  ??         ❞ he muses, standing quiet as he stood just in front of the glass that stared new york city down below.  ❝           a drink   ??         ❞

“Mr. Gargan, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Weeks ago, he’d set this plan in motion, paying off all the right people under the Raft’s employment to gather information about the prisoner before him. And when that information had come back with tantalizing promise--whispers of an enhanced healing ability--he’d paid more still to be quietly escorted inside for a meeting.

“I’ve heard...” He takes a deep breath, half-laughing as he recalls the absurdity of his situation; coming here to ask one of the five men who’d acted on Octavius’ sick will for help. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. The Scorpion.”

Norman approaches to the glass barrier that separates the two of them, eyes curiously--greedily--scanning his would-be subject. How ironic would it be that this man, hand picked by none other than Otto Octavius himself, might hold the key to the cure that’s eluded Osborn for years? 

Reigning in his grin, he promises to properly thank his old partner for bringing Gargan to his attention.

With a glob of sauce on his face that he hasn’t bothered to wipe off yet, Peter unwraps his third Big Mac. It’s one of those nights: a genetically enhanced super-metabolism, hours of high-activity, and T-injections will do that to a guy. 

“I haven’t forgotten about you,” he whispers, slowly running his index finger along the bottom bun to collect the runoff sauce before it can drip off. In a comically exaggerated motion, he brings his finger to his lips to lick it clean.

Satisfied that it won’t drip onto his shirt, he brings the burger to his lips, taking an obscenely large bite. Only to damn near choke as an unpleasantly familiar face walks past on his way to the counter. Try as he might to suppress the coughing fit that will only bring attention to himself, he can’t help it.

“Mac Gargan,” he wheezes inaudibly, reaching for his drink. 

Unfortunately, he’d run out of soda halfway through Big Mac #2. And that means, he has to get up--still red-faced and coughing like mad--walk between the counter and the Scorpion of all people, refill his drink, and try not to die the world’s most embarrassing death.

In a McDonald’s. In secondhand sweatpants. At the Scorpion’s feet.

Ha! You must love my costume.