A/N:
This is a reboot fanfic for the story 'Catching the Cub' by ZemonLii.
Kraven, Spider-man, Calypso and Kijni belong to MARVEL.
The outline, idea, and most of the details belong to ZemonLii.
Boone belongs to me!

I've been stabbed!
Peter thought franticly as he stumbled into a brisk dark alleyway. He leaned against the brick wall as he tried to catch the breath that had seemed to escaped him, and tried not to fall unconscious from the fiery pain that rippled through him. No matter how hard he'd tried to stop it, his life was still slowly leaking between his fingers as he clutched his wounded shoulder.

The red just kept seeping out. It wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't stop. He sobbed quietly. He tried to push himself away from the brickwork and stand on his own, to move on; but he just collapsed against it again when his head rattled from dizziness and a flare of white erupted from behind his eyes. He needed to go, to get out of this small space and go were that man couldn't find him. That man was still chasing him. He needed to keep going... he felt so sick.

He never imagined something could hurt so much. His arm burned like fire, and it wasn't just the burn of being wounded. It was the burn of infection. Or worse, poison. The weakened boy shuddered, half at the thought and half at the heated pain the rang through him.
I need to go.
He again tried to stand and move, but the world swirled around him. The next thing he knew the rain was splashing on his covered face and he was sprawled on his back staring at the cloudy sky. He felt so hot. It was hard to breathe. He gasped, curling onto his side weakly as if to protect himself from the pain. He just couldn't seem to breathe.

A sudden scuffle made his head jerk weakly up at the direction it came from.
Please no, not him! No!
Peter pulled himself to his knees, and another loud clatter made him jump to his feet.
Please no...
Adrenaline raced through his already burning body.
Please...

He leaned against the dumpster, his legs trembling from the strain of trying to keep himself up. He heard another noise. It was too close. Much too close. He needed to move. For some reason he couldn't seem to. Suddenly something furry brushed against his leg, and he let out a cry of fear. He jerked back, his back slamming against the dumpster, and the momentum was hard enough that a loud screech echoed through the small alleyway.

Then there was silence.

Peter listened hard. He didn't hear anything. He closed his eyes and listened harder.
Nothing... Nothing -There!
His eyes caught sight of a pair of paws and a long furry tail whipping around the corner.

He let out a quiet sob. Just a raccoon.
You're okay.
Just a stupid raccoon. The sob grew slightly louder and he cried. He cried and cried until he didn't think he could stop. He cried until he was gasping for breath, the salty tears falling from his eyes mixing with the rain soaking the mask he wore and running down his face. He felt like he was choking. He felt like the mask was tightening around his throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!

In panic the teen tore the mask away, flinging it to the other side of the alley where it pounced off the wall and fell to the ground with a wet splat. He leaned back against the dumpster and closed his eyes, letting the cool rain run against his burning face.
Breathe.

Just breathe.

He wrapped an arm around his sore stomach and looked weakly up at the night sky and the storm clouds that obscured the moon. The cold of the rain felt relaxing against the burning of his feverish skin. He again closed his eyes and sighed shakily, trying to focus on the rain - the way it felt, the noise even - rather than the heat and pain and panic that coursed through him.
...Need to... go.
He couldn't run anymore. He could hardly stand. He had no chance if he had to fight.
He needed to hide.
Where?

He looked over his shoulder at the faded green paint of the dumpster behind him.
No.
It was already covered in his blood. That man would find him, even if he had time to get in and burrow down underneath whatever was in there. But what other option did he have? He looked tiredly around the bleak alley, and his eyes landed on a thick metal disk settled into the ground.
A manhole.

His arms screamed in protest as he pried the rusted metal lid from the ground, and he almost gave up; but then with a hiss the lid slipped free and he somehow managed to move it out of the way. He peered dazily down into the dark stinking hole, wondering if this was really a good idea. But it wasn't like he had much of a choice. At the least that man would lose him. It was dark enough.

He closed his eyes slowly and took a deep, shaky breath before wishing the world would stop spinning before lowering himself down into the warm sticky air of the sewers. With only one working arm slick with his own blood, it was difficult to scale the rusted ladder that led down into the hole. He tried vainly to be careful as he tried to go down deeper into the darkness, but then he slipped almost halfway down. He felt the pit of his stomach drop as his hand missed his mark, his fingertips brushing against the metal rung as he tried desperately to grab a hold. But then he fell.

Peter slammed into the damp concrete at the bottom and ley there for a few minutes, weak and unmoving. After what felt like hours of staring up into the sky high above him, weak thoughts managed to find their way out of the empty greyness of his mind. He hurt so badly. He felt so hot. He felt so sick. He wanted to give up. He wanted to just stay there on the ground forever. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be at home. He wanted this all to just be a nightmare, and he would wake up any moment. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. He didn't want to die.

That thought compelled him. He staggered to his feet somehow, and leaned against the wall for a split second before take a weak step forward. He was just running on instinct and adrenaline now. And that one last thought.

I don't want to die...

He took another step, this one slightly steadier than the first.

I don't want to die.

He moved forward through the humid, dark atmosphere with only the sound of sewage bubbling to his side in a small slit in the ground as he tried to keep going. The thick, hot air caught in his throat and mad it burn, and it made his eyes water; but still he moved on. His body seemed to disconnect from his consciousness and seemed to move forward on it's own, one thought pushing him onward.

Don't die.

The boy had no idea how long he kept moving on like that, in his mind it could have been seconds, minutes, hours; even days. He didn't no how long he kept plodding on that little walkway, one foot always moving in front of the other, but soon his body gave out on him as well. He was so tired- so absolutely exhausted. So hurt. He couldn't bring himself to lift another foot, to move another inch. His legs trembled as his slid down the wall and lay down again. The concrete was warm. He was so hot. The hand clutching his shoulder still felt wet, but he couldn't tell if it was blood or the rain that soaked him to the skin. It was too dark.

Again he found himself moving, this time up the wall instead of forward, he could hardly see through the already dark atmosphere with the black spots that danced before his eyes; but his hand brushed the corner of the ceiling and the wall and he started doing something again. At this point he didn't have the awareness to care. But then there was a safe little place for him, somewhere he had a feeling was safe, and he crawled in because he felt he should. He curled into a miserable little ball, hoping the pain would go away, and second later he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

But outside the hunter stood, a slip of red in his hand and he grinned. Now the real hunt was about to begin.