Take Your Favourite Character and Put Them in Another Setting Exercise

Favourite Character - Spiderman

New Setting - Tsarist Russia

Peter pulled the fur closer to his cheeks as he walked through the dark, cold hallway. He was supposed to meet the other men here, in the heart of this abandoned house. He knew it had to be a secret, this meeting, but did they really have to keep it so cold?

Finally reaching a central room within the broken down Siberian mansion, Peter paused in front of the doors. Reaching up, he checked and made sure that the black leather mask was still in place. Though it was rimmed with yellow fur, it did much more than just keep his eyes, nose, and cheeks warm.

Finally, reaching in front of him, Peter pushed open the once-grand double doors with both hands, opening them forcefully into the large dining room. It was already full, and all the men within the room turned to gaze calculatedly at the strange man.

Peter strode into the room, trying to keep his back straight and to look confident despite the many questioning eyes on him. His coat was in shambles, but that did not make it any different from the rest of the room’s occupants; in Russia, you were either very rich or very, very poor. What drew the men’s eyes was that it had been hand-dyed a deep black, and had yellow-white fur sewn into the collar and sleeves. His cap, too, was made of the odd fur, and his gloves were dark leather, finer than anything any man in the room wore. He would have been an odd enough character without the mask that graced his face, covering any recognizable features.

There was a silent moment where the members of the room sized up the strange man, before he clapped his gloved hands together, making the party jump in their seats. 

“Right,” said Peter, sounding younger than the men had expected. “Shall we get started, then? Revolutions don’t plan themselves, you know.”

One man in the corner, sporting a large black beard, rose from his seat at the head of the table. “Let’s not get away from ourselves, comrade. You were invited here, tonight, as you have made your goals known. But you are in no way apart of this enterprise yet, da?

Peter remained silent for a moment, grinning widely behind his mask. The men, unable to see his expression, shifted uncomfortably in the silence.

Peter casually stepped up onto the table, with little regard to how his snow-covered boots made puddles on the dusty surface. He was looking ever so forward to proving himself to the Bolsheviks, but was unsure if he would have to. He approached the man at the head of the table, his grin growing every time the much larger man twitched.

“Ivan,” Peter said softly, crouching in front of the leader of the Bolsheviks. “I have made my goals known. Do they not clearly coexist with yours?”

Peter straightened, grasping the old chandelier just above his head. He pulled himself up onto it, hanging from the metal frame by his toes and fingertips. “And was it not you who invited me here, comrade? And yet I must say, you make me feel quite unwelcome.” Peter went to cross his arms, but at the last moment shot one arm out in front of him, his two outer fingers outstretched. Before any man could even think of reaching for his gun, a gossamer thread had wrapped itself around the thick scarf wrapped around Ivan’s neck, and he had been pulled off his chair by the surprisingly strong spider webbing.

Face now level with the mask, Ivan tried in vain to see into the man’s eyes, but they had been covered in dark glass lenses. 

“We are going to be good friends, Ivan,” said Peter. “Possibly great friends. But right now, we are business partners, da? And you have your end of the bargain to uphold.”

Peter began to slacken the webbing, allowing Ivan’s feet to slowly return to the floor. The other men had seen Ivan kill many soldiers before, with no expression or guilt. But even in the dark room they could still see Ivan’s fingers trembling within his thick gloves.

Finally releasing Ivan’s neck from his webbing, Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “I will help you kill the Tsar, but I want to be the one to pull the trigger. I want to have him dead by my hand,” he stroked the scarf around his neck, the only article of clothing he was wearing that wasn’t black, though the light blue fabric was stained with suspicious reddish brown patches. “He owes me his life.”

Rubbing his neck and still shaking, Ivan answered.

“Of course, Spider-man. That is doable.”