Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Wade Wilson

When you make a story, for it to sound truthful enough, you need to go deeper, to the essence of things, to the very beginning. The high points are lighting up the black pit of memory like fireworks – a rain of blood-red peonies, smoldering spider mums of explosions, myriads of tiny sparkles dying in the darkness. But try to remember the time when the rockets and roman candles were just the anthracite dust of gunpowder, and go even further back, to saltpeter and birds’ droppings, plunge as deep as this annoying loud seagull is diving into the water of the bay. And there it will be – the beginning of your inglorious story.

So.

The sky over the bay of Shanghai-III was the color of television tuned to a dead channel, matching the color of the water underneath – the murky liquid, soiled by the sewers of multiple factories and clayey muds of the great lazy river. One can't tell for sure whether the splashes of neon colors on the oily surface were gasoline stains or scattered reflection of the gigantic holo ad of NeoCore, but mister Kahn, who observed the bay from his loft office could bet it was their promising slogan's red and blue “Making the better world” quavering on the surface.

In the depth, though… Mr Kahn rubbed the bridge of his nose and once more looked at the report's sheets scattered on the table like leafs of dying plants in a retro-garden – old spyware-proofed technology, printed in one copy, some graphs and columns filled even more secretively with hand-written rows of numbers. And those numbers told no good news.

Subject S01 parameters were quickly deteriorating after the third grade's procedures, so now they were trying to get as much of good stem cells as possible before incineration, that was due in two days, according to the Protocol.

Subject T01 was still undergoing the second series of initial injections – and was reacting even worse than the usual non-mutant specimen.

Subject U06, a female, that had showed the best results for half year in a raw, now two months after in vivo fertilization (four votes pro, three against) was kept on a life support system and was unresponsive. They even had to cut out all the implants due to rejection and partial necrosis of the surrounding tissue. And despite all the measures, probably they won't be able to keep her long enough, two more months, to extract a functional fetus. He told them in the beginning it wasn't worth the risk! But who would listen to him now when he was not the head of the project, but simply one of the executive board members.

Mr Kahn himself was an ardent believer in the effectiveness of IVF of strictly non-mutants. And supervised by him subject a-U01 was doing good. This U-line was actually the best – superb healing, innate ability to undergo other mutations quite successfully, good strength and endurance. And yet is was the least controllable one: in vitro, when you deal with a bunch of nucleotides trying to clone or modify it, it was always a very volatile process with a low rate of success, maybe it has something to do with its peculiar set of transposons… But if you managed to turn this genetic material into a living thing – well, it was then when true miracles started to happen. The energy level of the creatures in some moments was very high, as above the average as nuclear power plant compared to a windmill. Which was a fascinating and dangerous thing – there were rumors that the Eastern-European lab their original sample was from was destroyed as a result of an accident with one of the subject’s clones. Well, it was impossible now to tell for sure, centuries later, but the rumors were supported by the obvious truth: those were hard to control – no electrical impulses nor artificial neurotransmitters could do the trick… Scientists have to block the neural passes and settle for toying with single impulses. And even the newest generation of neural interface Octo-22 was mostly useless. Still, Mr Kahn’s his future success lies in finding the key to its intricate genome and effective ways to use it... And then they will see who are the insightful genius and who are greedy useless climbers.

He sighed and shuffled the so called “papers” again. He will check on U06’s state in person. It was their best subject so far, almost cooperative, docile, easy to experiment on, – now unresponsive on life support. He must do something, save what was left to be saved!

Every dreadful story like this needs its hero – and he was there, dedicated, deadly, deranged, raising like a mountain over the dirty backside of this particular future, which smelled like burnt flesh and chlorine, scaring away cat-sized rats that was here to scavenge the buckets of medical waste prepared for incineration. “Hey, cyberspace cowboy,” he murmurs. “I’m inside the perimeter. That’s where they burn the stuff, and know what? It stinks. The gas leakage. Very careless, very. One tiny sparkle and they can accidentally blow themselves up. Shit happens. Don’t be too pissed about that”. His commander is as calm and cool as an iceberg, which probably has something to do with the fact that the hero has lost his earpiece and stepped on it, too, some time ago. But, well, anyway, it’s nice for once to imagine pissy Prissy being quiet and approving and on his side. “Wished you were able to give me some directions…” Well, maybe his microphone is not functioning, too, after being plunged in these murky waters. Besides, heroes are always alone, can’t argue with that… Good thing this universal picklock device he was given, kind of, functions perfectly well, the door slides away. Fifty. “Whatever. See ya in an hour.” He rips off the mic, throwing it away, and starts running along the corridor in approximately right direction. He’ll get those fuckers, orders or not. Forty. He’ll do it even if it was planned all alone by the silver fox. Like, seriously, Nate wasn’t aware that some things would inevitably trigger him no matter how hard he tried to obey? True, he didn’t try much. Never was your ideal subordinate type. Even in bed. Twenty.

So, our hero is quickly approaching the so-called research quarters. Maybe he still would be able to put the virus into the computer system, which was the initial idea. Maybe not. Ten. Anyway, his aim are the cells... They all are just a bunch of cells for them… more or less successful experiments. New bio warfare products. Zero.

The left wing of NeoCore building goes down in flames. The force of the explosion smashes him against the wall. The fire extinguishing system starts sprinkling him with drizzling rain, too loud sirens sounds like claws scraping on metal, but the doors stay open and Wade once again thanks Priscilla for the little knick-knack that was left unguarded, so sweetly, special for him.

Unfortunately, the openness always works both ways – so the approaching guards can see him perfectly well for seconds till his smoke grenades add well, some smoke to the already starting fire… And then the hero’s familiar hell breaks loose.

The vision doubles. It’s like time-space has looped back on itself.

There is too much light in the lab and the sensors go crazy. The girl on the table is lying in a cocoon of dense air, her body vibrating and – Wade has seen million times how the wounds heal, his own wounds, but now it is not that, the body is floating in a bubble of silvery light and the next moment there are no injuries, no burnt skin, and the almost severed leg is completely healed. He is blinded by the amount of light and closes his eyes, it makes his head swim.

From far far away Nate lectures him on quantum mechanics and huge energy levels in play, the soldier is bad at science, and all the phrases, Wade sure, are taken from some high-brow book or those are Dr Trask’s words, too complicated and making no sense. But Wade gets as much.

“That’s how… How Ellie could resurrect herself?”

His light-burnt eyes are watering. They will be fine in a few minutes.

For a moment Nate turns into human, squeezing his shoulder with his real hand.  

“We think she was one of the first mutant who was able to make that transition. To go backward. Like a human time-travel machine, with all the energy discharging in the moment of death, returning her back in time when she was alive and uninjured. While Neena can choose between the possibilities, Ellie and her clones…”

Maybe it was the turning point then. Because once – Wade is sure – once is enough. Once is already too much.

Another explosion, it seems, takes place right inside the head. The vision doubles, everything is like a reflection in dark waters, it shatters and wavers. The last convulsions of dying brain. The first neural connections of emerging consciousness.

And then it's darkness lit up with gunfire, punctured by crushing headache and pre-migraine images of bodily terrors, rotting flesh and red wombs cut open, gaping, bleeding into your own searing pain. Again and again and again you were shooting, shouting, running, and the whole damned place blasted out in flames. Broken celldoors, opened gates and a lifespan of burning hell left behind and – if only you'd knew it then – the eternity of it waiting for you ahead.

That's how you'd ended up there – standing on a bleak seashore in northern hemisphere, hungry, dirty, ragged, having all your limbs mostly intact and brains in a total mish-mash, half of your memory wiped out or half of your life missing, listening to the annoyingly loud seagulls cries, trying to recall what you were doing this particular summer, year 2016, if the date on the borrowed phone was right. But of course! You were stealing from grieving orphaned Wakanda. And quite successfully, too, twenty million dollars’ worth of vibranium. Yep, you were right in the middle of it, may be already onboard of Titania, or still on the way to the airport…

Yet now you are here. Baby-toes of the left leg sinking in the beach luke-warm sand, pines rusting in the raising evening wind, seagulls’ cries busting your head to pieces. The teleporter in your belt making these irksome clicking sounds every time you try to activate it. Well, Nate anyway is going to come and get you home if only for the sake of – for the sake of beating the shit out of you? For the sake of telling you the hundredth time how you failed him again? And what if?..

The long walk along the shore brings no calmness nor clarity. All you have is yourself and the tricks of your fucked-up brain cells. There is probably no sense in returning back to the blown facility in search for the discharged future weapons. No, it’s not the right time… And the comm equipment thrown away so easily – yeah, now you are really sorry, motherfucker…

Well, for cases like this you always had this particular number – the party gone wrong number, “please return this head $50k reward guaranteed” number, your one and only, daily and nightly – you might not remember your mother face or how Nessa looked like when you left her in order to collect your Weapon X winning ticket, but for decades in the past you've always remembered it, headshots or not. So, you close your eyes and let your fingers do the magic.

It's night now in Frisco, so the answering raspy voice is audibly annoyed, opposite to the warm wave of happiness washing you from your beat up head to toes.

“Yeah.”

“Hello, cowboy! How it's been?“

“Wade?” Weas sounds like he is getting a call from Gawd almighty himself. “Wade! Man, I was sure you had finally bit it.” He laughs gleefully.

It’s always reassuring when your friends believe in you.

“No, I've beat it. Why?”

“Yesterday that explosion in Brazzaville, I thought you were in the epicenter! Fifty-yards crater… Damn, Wade, you are tougher than... Where are you? The signal is strange…”

“It's not. I'm using some dead guy phone and according to it, I'm naked and shivering in eastern Latveria, three hours by feet to the nearest village.”

“Latveria? How in hell…”

“That’s what I need to discuss with you this evening. Whiskey and meat, if you won’t mind.”

“Man, you're one tough cookie… The load is kinda safe, by the way, it’s with Boar, if you are interested.”

You are probably not that interested in those affairs of the past. And it was Boar who had sold all your group out a month later, if the memory doesn’t fail you.

It obviously fails you.

“One tough cuckoo, you mean… Well, take me home, sweetheart, lead me on my way… I mean, your home. Or Deadhut. And, Jackie…”

“How many times I've asked you not to call me that, Felix Focker?”

“What?”

“What? Nice name, not worse than your favorite Wade Wilson. I’ll sms you the address in Hassenstadt to pick up the passport. As for the village, Netherdorf, it’s on the left if you face the sea, ten miles. Waddya think do they have Uber there? Knees up, knees up, lucky fucker, your flight is in six hours twenty minites. And maybe you’ll make it by today’s evening. It’s beer and pizza.”

“Whatever… Jack, what date is today?”

There is a pause – and a chuckle, over the Pacific Ocean and through North Korea servers, then to Uganda and right to Wade’s Latverian phone – a chuckle or maybe interference on the link.   

“Like, fourteen years together and still kicking?.. It’s August 10th.”

“To hell with the details. What’s the year?”

“Dude!.. Whatever happened, that explosion surely did hit you!..” Weas groans. “Or was you always like that?.. It’s 2016.”

“Thought so.”

You are limping along the beach, memory crumbling as a sandcastle washed away by waves, the terrors of the dying day are dragging in your wake like a long dark shadow, but you won’t look back, one must not look back, and maybe this time you’ll be able to make it right. The evening sun shines in your eyes, and when you close them tightly you can pretend that the light spots on the retina form a figure of a baby – the image dying and resurrecting, turning into a small girl, then into a moody teenager, a woman dying and returning back again and again. Does she remember it like you do? Will she?.. Will you be able to... The sun is shining in your blinded eyes and the shadows behind you are getting longer and darker.

It was during that route-march I’ve found this piece of amber – nice, isn’t it, with this lil spider and all. Of course, it’s real I was told… I mean just look at it how it shines and it’s warm. And what is truth anyway? You think it’s your petty primitive facts of statistics or the image on the lenses of your smartphone? No, the truth lies in in the eye of the photographer, in the intention, in the depth of a dream – that is what gets things moving, realms shifting. And I tell you it is in there. Trust me on this.

Chapter Text

When Wade Wilson first sees Peter Parker (not knowing the name nor the superhero identity) through the night vision scope of his rifle, his only coherent thought is – fuck him.

Fuck this fucking clown, figlio di puttana, clinging to the roof of Francesco Travaglioli armor-plated minivan that is slowly driving up to the back of the small hangar Wade has been closely surveilling for the last three hours. The van stops there, don Francesco and a pair of bodyguards, one of them carrying two sizable metal cases, go inside; the man guarding the back door lights up a cigarette and watches the road while smoking; and the fucking masked red-blue clown jumps to the hangar rooftop apparently unnoticed. Okay, may be not a real clown, Wade shudders shooing away the images of powdered faces and sickly bloodied mouths, but the dude is definitely on the run from a circus – an air gymnast or something, since the leap length is over three meters. In other circumstances it would look not annoying but rather impressive. The fucker then crawls – movements very Ring-like, yay, it's horror movies night, and in other circumstances he wouldn't object – to the far side of the curved hangar roof and Wade can no longer see him from his well-measured thought-over position for an easy hit.

Shit, that complicates things a bit. Whoever the fucking gymnast is, if he is going to cause troubles in less than – Wade checks his watch, gorgeous pink Kitty littered with fake diamonds winks enigmatically at him – twenty-five minutes, the whole perfect plan goes down the drain. Ha-ha, Wade, so much for perfection in your life.

May be he was not so wrong to leave Awesome and Shiny at home, after all. They are too delicate, too refine to deal with the usual bedlam shit he always – always! – has during his jobs. Actually, during some other times, too. Like, almost all the time, to be precise. And tonight, despite all his preparations, is no exception.

So semiautomatic Sassy girl with a suppressor is probably his best date for the prom. Wade sighs and readjust his rifle a little so that he is aiming it at goons at the front exit: there are two mafia guys in bulletproof vests both with AR-15 and a tall man in a black suit – Mr. Mancino’s representative, seemingly carrying a handgun in the inside pocket and probably wearing some armor underneath his suit, too. Yep, Sassy is just the right girl for this shit, 500 yards, and enough dim light to see the scene clearly.

Not that Wade is going to hit them. He has no reason to; his client indeed gave quite clear instructions about don Francesco and his people, which Shady, Wade’s current agent rephrased as – “and do not fucking kill them or we are screwed”. No, Wade is just observant, professional. Efficient – if only this sorry fucker won’t fuck this up… If the goons spot and kill the clown right now the meeting might be considered compromised, but there is still a slight possibility that the freak is here for Mr. Mancino, just as himself.

“Hey, teenie weenie,” Wade whispers, shifting on the cold rooftop of his building, “just wait a little bit, okay, don’t rush it. Let’s wait for my nice clean single shot and then I’ll go get my sweet money and you, for all I care, may just go to…”

Bang! Bang! Bamm! There is shooting in the hangar; one of the guards from the front exit is running inside, as well as the backdoor guy; the man in a black jacket seems to be making a call – so Wade mentally says goodbye to the sorry motherfucker and to his hope to see and hit the NYPD Deputy Commissioner, some corrupted Mr. Mancino, who is obviously not showing here tonight. Fuck fuckety fuck fuck fuck. He is probably exceeding his swearing allowance per page (or, hopefully, per screen minute), but fuck it! Good bye, my good money. Why the only dead presidents he ever sees in his life recently are the rotten and stinky ones instead of newly printed and crispy?.. Screw it all, I’m going home.

Wade stretches his muscles ready to get up, but all of a sudden the action moves outside. The front door flings open and there are fiercely gesticulating don Francesco with some fancy weapon – a sweet one! –  and two goons holding a stumbling unmasked teenager under his arms. The black suit says something, puts his phone away and moves his hand inside the jacket just where the holster probably is, and…

There are moments of exceptional brightness and clarity in every human life, those vipassana like states of absolute awareness, when a person can perceive things beyond the visible form of reality and stay above the stream of time and occurrences. Simply speaking – the moments when you know you are gonna fuck everything up, right now, spectacularly. Wade Winston Wilson just had one of those fleeting freeze frame moments before pulling the trigger and sending the alleged movie into drastic and gory action.

A silenced “pht” – headshot, and the black suit drops dead.

Don Francesco – ribcage; he may be wearing a vest, but falls nevertheless.

Right goon has managed to fire a few rounds in a wrong direction, ha, loser, – headshot.

Left goon jumps back into the hangar, but to no avail, he is perfectly visible, – shot in the neck, just right into the carotid, hell, that was cool. Small fountain of blood splashes all over the hangar doors in a unique pattern. Somehow there is always an accidental beauty when one doesn't seek it, and, on the contrary, while trying the shit outta you to get closer to it, you'll inevitably miss it.

Speaking of misses, – the sprayed body of don Francesco gets two more bullets, just in case.

What about the bodyguards? Oh, but may be the kid is not totally pathetic, give him some credit, and managed to take them out. He’d better, cuz Wade'll need some time to get there.

The kid is laying in a small broken heap on the ground. Wade glances over at the scene one more time, collects the bullets casings, grabs his rifle and runs to the fire stairs – efficiently, professionally.

By the time Wade gets to the place, the kid is still laying down, his breathing is shallow and quick, his eyes unfocused, but at least there are no visible injuries.

“Calm down, princess, you are in good hands now. Just wait till I check my half of the kingdom.”

Wade runs into the hangar and four shots later emerges with the second case, holding it in his hands to prevent it from opening.

When Wade leaves the spot with springy steps, semiconscious teenager on one shoulder, his rifle and a new weapon on another, and carrying a case full of money, he is almost visibly glowing with his recent act of kindness and good will like a fucking fairy godmother.

Chapter Text

The world is wavering and quivering like a shattered reflection in the dark deep waters and Peter is carried – dragged? – by the lazy indifferent waves into the moonlit night, there is this humming sound of tide, and his lids are drooping, he is ready to dive effortlessly, or rather to drop – down into the depth… when all of a sudden he is struck against the shore rocks and everything blows up in the fury of thunder. Then the deafening silence takes place, there is a strange coppery smell and sticky wetness on his left cheek. Someone is kneeling beside him; the glove cups his face, wiping it; a hot hand on his neck, his pulse beats rapidly against the pressed burning fingers. He can't breathe.

The tall man is clad in dark green camouflage and wearing some scarf wrapped all around his head, there is a pair of night vision goggles on the man’s forehead. That eerie green color of lenses triggers a cold wave of panic. It is not that invigorating vibe of spider senses, but some dreadful nightmarish state of mind when you are drowning or falling and can’t do anything about it…

Unaware of his fears, the man easily lifts Peter up and lays him over his broad shoulder.

The camo smells nice, of fresh grass and woodland soil and gunpowder – the smell of hunters, or rangers and great American pioneers; the quick pace is steady and reassuring, too. He is a deer hunter, it’s autumn and the season’s just been opened. He is a lost soldier returning from war. Screeching stairs of an old house, the homecoming after a long deployment… something forgotten and lost, with the everlasting taste of sadness. Those dazed thoughts are strange and distorted, like distant memories.

No times for memories, though. It's always no time for things like that. Peter breathes, in, out; he is alive. Still alive. He was hit… by the mob guy. And then the hitman – that coppery smell… breathe calmly, count, one – in, one-two – out... Yet he is alive, the main witness. Is the man a government agent of some sort or an undercover cop?.. Or… It would really suck to be killed and dropped into the bushes somewhere in these bleak suburban premises. Peter wiggles slightly, trying out his numb muscles. Damn, he is still too weak and disoriented at the moment.

The man slaps his buttocks nonchalantly.

“Non aver paura, mio dolce. Your cavaliere will get you to NYC in a few hours.”

The surge of indignation burns down the remains of Peter's panic, but the paralysis prevents him from making a witty retort, or maybe he is just too slow, like usual, so he simply – hangs there, trying to steady his ragged breathing, to think it all over.

The man starts humming in a high-pitched voice something along the lines “who's gonna drive you home tonight”.

Not just a hitman, but a loony one. Parker luck.

“There,” the man stops and puts Peter on the ground still holding him under his arm. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah… thank you,” Peter mumbles half-heartedly, not sure whether the dark man is his savior or potential killer. He steadies himself leaning on the kinda junkyard looking car, which is probably decades older than Peter himself.

The man disassembles his rifle’s parts and packs it with goggles and other gear in a big duffel bag, his scarred hands' moves are assured and precise; after a short inspection the Chitauri stunner gun goes there as well. Peter is disappointed to know that those are still around. It is like trying to patch a rotten barrel under the pressure, you plug one leak and then another one appears immediately. It's something from the statistics, the abominable inherent percentage of bad things. But there must be the way around it. There is a way!..

“Welcome to the family, stunning guy. You’ll like it here. And you,” the man turns to Peter, “are lucky that it was barely charged, this babe will kill off an elephant when set on full force. Mean lil’ fucker, and pretty rare, too. Now, get in the car, unless you prefer riding on top, no innuendo, and let’s get the fuck outta here”.

The weapon, on the contrary, was fully charged; and it took not just one shot but also a fall to the ground to stun and disorient Peter completely, but he doesn’t elaborate on the subject and sullenly buckles himself up in the front seat. With his still weak legs and slow reflexes he is not jumping out of the moving car right now, but later there sure will be a chance.

The car not only looks like a piece of garbage – it also smells like one. But the man still manages to get some impressive 80 mph from it, without the slightest concern for the possibility of the ancient vehicle falling apart at any moment. If Peter isn't gonna be shot, he'll probably end up his life in a roadside ditch, safety belt or not.

“There are chocolates and water in the glove box. Help yourself, but only if you’re not nauseous. God knows this poor Buick has seen enough of nastiness in this life. Got it cheap and thought I might have to burn it down after the operation; a good way to die for a good car – to literally go down in flames, ah, there is that sweet thing about fire... But we went unnoticed. Well, I and that rusty Rocinante... And you were just about to get full service. Who are you working for?”

Oh, there it comes. The talk. Fuck it all. Peter is so full of all this lousy hypocritical adult bullshit, of the way everyone treats him, he is so pissed off and angered with his own stupid failure tonight.

“Okay, so I was trying to find a kidnapped person, right?.. Now is your turn to tell me that it is not my fucking business and I should’ve left this to professionals, police or whatever. And I would’ve done so, hell, I did so! But it was… It didn’t help much anyway… So three days ago I saw this girl, Melissa, colored girl, but that's not the point, and she was buying some stuff from a guy, it’s like spice or something, popular at parties, I dunno, but it doesn’t matter, really… She was... a hooker of a sort, but that doesn’t matter either, does not matter at all! So she’d smoked her stuff, and then she passed out and the guy who sold her the drug put her into his car and drove away. And I knew she was not all right, she was not there the next day, she was not at that guy’s place either, I asked her friends, and they didn’t know her whereabouts… So I called the police, and you know what? They did nothing. They haven’t even asked for details. Just because she is on drugs and a hooker, and, probably, stays here illegally. And it is so wrong! It is like some people are not-existent in our social system. Like, you know, being a prostitute, or a drug addict, or homeless, or with mental condition, or former convict, like being anyone with socially undesirable traits – as if it disqualifies you from being a human, you know? It’s so biased and wrong.”

By the end of his speech Peter is so assured that he looks up right in eyes of the stranger, accusingly, stubbornly – ready to retort or snap. There is a glimpse of thoughtful interest before the man's gaze returns to the road... He is probably smiling under his scarf right now. Goddamn hypocrites, they all!

“Welcome to the society! But I dunno, may be… talking to some people you trust instead of…”

Peter fists clench.

“You think I haven’t tried this, too? There is a guy, well, he is kind of a family… acquaintance? and not a civilian either, some big boss at the law enforcements, he was all like “Oh, Peter, glad to hear you, howdy. Oh, you’ve done so good; why don’t you call the police? Ah, you’ve called them already. Good, they will take care. Yeah, they will, they will. You know, you did really good. Blah-blah-blah, such things truly matter. Oh, sorry can’t talk right now, kid, you know, the press conference, go fuck yourself, take care, I'll call you later.”

The man snorts.

“Oh, they never call back, those types. Where are their high castles and where are the unwashed masses? Bet with that level of bullshit he's going to become the head of the agency in no time, that friend of yours.”

Peter scowls. He feels somewhat bad about being so pissed off with Mr. Stark; and also about himself laying out all this situation now in front of a total stranger, or even worse – a potential mafia hitman. Is he this pathetic lonesome loser?..

“Hey, this brave new world is a shit place, all right, but nobody promised us it would be easy,” the man takes two chocolate bars from the glove compartment. “Here, take a bite”.

Here, doggy, get some treat and stop barking already. Peter sighs and nibs at the chocolate, not really tasting it, wishing the stranger would choke on his bar and spare him some notations.

The man tears the wrapping, almost letting go of the wheel, real smart, and then downs his army green scarf. Out of the corner of his eye Peter sees the man's face – just like his hands, it is all covered in deeply running scars, some are still healing, disturbing and raw, others are covered with thin layers of new skin. As if after a severe thermal burn. And with those unsettling hard eyes and strong features the stranger actually looks like a war veteran from Syria or Iraq. Another soldier who has never found his way home. A soldier?.. Peter stares at the darkened road, his brows furrowed, he has almost caught up this slipping away memory…

“You know, Peter, you might not have the common sense, but I must admit, you’ve definitely got the balls,” the man glances at him with interest. “To pull this stunt all alone. And how did you track down don Francesco? The fucker in the van?”

Peter, less pissed off and maybe just a little bit flattered, shortly explains the steps of his small investigation, omitting wall-crawling and web-flinging details.

“And then you what? Just climbed on the roof of his car without the second thought? Were you even armed? Good physical training is not everything, you know.”

Peter can't really be annoyed with the veteran attitude this time. The guy is used to armed fight and has no slightest idea that Peter goddamn Parker is the ultimate weapon himself, deadly and threatening Spider-man. Yeah, and apparently, this Spider-man simply cannot learn from his mistakes. Super-strength and silk-glands alone are obviously not enough for successful crime-fighting. If only he had his – Starks’ – ah, drop it!..

“I… I kinda rushed into it, okay? But everything went pretty smooth, at least, at first, and…”

“Good tactics. Works for me every time”, the man mocks him with a deadpan honesty. “But one must be immortal to ensure more or less consistent results. Guess, you are not?”

Peter skips the stupid question. The quicker it's all over the better. “And then there were those little windows on the rooftop, and when I opened one and the shooting started… This don Francis fired his weapon – and he missed! But I was holding onto the metal framing and it kinda electrocuted me anyway, and, well…”

“Hm… And what was that gluey substance all over the place and two thugs?”

The answer he first mustered for Mr Stark by now is as smooth and learned by heart as school lesson material. Peter smirks smugly.

“It was actually the gluey substance, you see, I invented it myself. I’m good at chemistry and kind of enhanced the formula recently, so that a can of this sticky liquid, it is instantly polymerized when in contact with air and becomes very strong and sustainable while still staying very sticky, well, a can of it is enough to glue down a few persons, it lasts up to two hours. So I wasn’t completely unarmed…” Peter's throat is dry but he continues nevertheless. “And those guys were technically harmless. There was no need…”

The man's scarred mouth hardens.

“At the moment. Believe me, you don’t want them knocking at your door and gutting your entire family. Neither do I. There was no other way around it. They are tied up with 'Ndrangheta, some are Camorra members… Real tough. I was in Naples once, have seen those mafia kids. Twelve-year-olds with machine guns, damn it!..”

He looks at Peter with brooding eyes, scowling.

“Guess, it really makes a big difference whether you get yourself killed as a hero or as a member of a street gang, right?.. Yeah, none of my fucking business, sorry.”

They ride in silence for some time. Peter slumps in his seat. Still, it's good that he got the talk and not a mafia bullet between his eyes, right? As Uncle Ben used to say, after Peter’s big failures, like getting B for chemistry test, or losing his weekly lunch money (sometimes to a bully), or bending a wheel of an almost new bicycle, “c’mon, don’t get so upset, a living dog is better than a dead lion”, he explained it being about people's infinite capacity for hope and ability to change their future, but the literal meaning seemed now quite appealing, too.

The man's mood seems to shift after a while, his voice is thoughtful, when he says, probably more to himself than to Peter:

“True, they do control some drug and human trafficking, throughout all the eastern coast. The area is large, though, and it is not that easy to track down a particular victim.”

He sounds professional, so Peter is eager to clarify.

“Are you… Do you work for the government, sir?”

The man snorts as if Peter has just made some funny joke.

“Don’t sir me, hate the whole thing. No. Not this time. And even when I do – it’s some real unsavory stuff. Believe me or not, these government fuckers are usually way meaner than your ordinary criminals. They've got the whole system at their service, just like organized crime bosses, and even more – the indulgence, the right to kill… Were I on a government mission, I could have already murdered you and chopped up the body,” he turns to look at Peter and winks, grinning. “Still can, you know. Unless you pass me the water. In the gloves box.”

Peter opens a bottle and passes it to the man. Something inside him squirms, burned by the unwanted truth. And that intentional threat, ugly and mocking, is not threatening, but kind of heart-wrenching. Looking like this the man is used to deal with people’s fear and rejection every single day and he is still able to laugh at it, to some extent. He is used to be thought of as being a murderer. And though he technically is one… yet that bitterness – a vigilante? A desperate Rorschach of a kind? Peter always liked the fiery-tempered guy despite him being a total disaster.

The man drinks the water greedily, his Adam's apple moving, stray drops run down the scarred neck. Guess, what percentage of burn is fatal – forty, fifty? Peter can't stop imagining how it might feel – to be burned alive in a military vehicle in the middle of a torrid desert. For a case you might not even think is right.

“Oh, crap, there is no more water?” The man looks apologetically at the half-empty bottle. “Sorry, dude. I am a terrible host. Want some?”

Peter’s throat is sandy, so he nods and takes the bottle.

“Don’t worry, I’m ugly, but not contagious.”

Peter has no answer to that, too.

“And for your information, that's what usually happens when a common guy gets himself involved in all those superhero games. Fucked up life and questionable benefits. So just… be careful what you wish for, all right? Toute la vie devant soi, ma jeune princesse.”

Peter drinks up the water and drops the bottle under the seat. The knees of his pants are covered in dried blood, shit, he probably has it on his face, too – should’ve saved some water and clean. His heart sinks. All those men, however horrible they might be, got killed because of him and the girl is still missing. A fine superhero he is. Playing stupid games, and people around him dying.

“Damn, I do sound like a preaching old fart, don’t I?” Oh, did the hitman guy take Peter's sunken mood as his fault, and is now trying to cheer him up? Yeah, to think of all the craziness of the last year – it would be just his new norm now…  “Never mind me. I’m crazy, I mean even crazier, than usual, when I’m hungry. Was out there for three freaking hours, freezing my balls on this rooftop... Starving! And want some coffee, too. Are there anything left?”

The man turns on the interior lights and Peter rummages through the glove compartment. A box of ammo? A Swiss knife. A screwdriver. A lighter. A piece of string. A few audio tapes – really, it is not a museum stuff yet? A pack of Pockemon chewing gums. A pink deformed bit of chewed gum. A crumpled – well, it definitely looks like an opened condom wrapper. Peter is not going to put his bloody hands further into this mess.

“Nothing.”

There are a few cheerfully lit buildings further ahead.

“They make half-decent burgers at this joint. Wanna eat something?”

Peter shrugs.

“A bottle of water”.

The man stops the car some 50 meters away from the place, grabs the case from the backseat and opens the lid. Oh. Banknotes lay there in neat straight rows, bundled with colorful strips, Peter has never seen so much money in his life.

“Yeah, the fuckers should have used bitcoins or whatever…” The man grins. “You know, Peter, saving you feels so rewarding. I wished there were more Benjies, though, he was so nice and helpful back then, but I’m not picky.”

The man takes a bundle of bills and examines Peter with sharp eyes.

"No offense, but you look like shit. Ok, I’ll go myself, you guard the booty. If in danger, hoot twice like a barn-owl. I might hear you. Or likely not. On the second thought… There,” he pulls a black gun out of his pocket and puts it in Peter’s lap. “A tough little guy just like you. Fully loaded, ready to fire. Stay in the car. I’ll be back soon.”

And the man is gone, easy like that.

That’s just the chance Peter was waiting for. Now he can jump out and – and run another forty miles to New York? Go hitchhiking with this pretty bloody face of his? Take some money and call a taxi? Steal the car? Well, he knows how to drive, seen million times May doing it...

Damn it, he must do something, anything! And not just sit there and wait for this stranger to come back, because… Because what? He doesn’t trust him? He doesn’t like him? It's so stupid of Peter to believe he'll get a meal and a safe ride home… Nothing in his life ever goes as he expects.

Peter absent-mindedly spins the gun. It is neat, heavy, threatening and still warm, like a living thing, – perhaps because it was stuffed in the guy's pants, eww. And what exactly ready to fire means? How tight one should squeeze the trigger? Peter outstretches his right hand holding the gun and realizes that it’s shaking a bit, damn. The after-effect of the stun.

Hell, at least, he can get out of the car and stretch his limbs a little.

The night air is cool, way cooler than during the daytime. There are no cars seen on the road. In the darkened clouds of nearby trees some birds are singing, though the nesting season is long gone, their careless summer is gone. And there is that faint scent in the air, more a premonition than an actual smell, of a changing season, of a life taking an inevitable turn for something different, unknown.

There is a dark silhouette of his familiar stranger in the brightly lit doorway of the café, waving at him and then returning to the car, growing bigger with every step, until the tall man stands so close to Peter, blocking out all the other things from his view, smiling. Peter’s head is level with his breast pockets. And Peter is once again amazed at how he is not afraid, nor alert anymore.

“Missed me? Now gotta kiss me… There goes your chance to run away towards new adventures. Okay, let’s drive some further and then we’ll eat.”

They get in the car and drive away. Peter passes back the gun.

“You can keep it. It’s clean. And very useful,” the man chuckles, “in our line of business. May save your life next time.”

Peter shakes his head.

“No.”

“No, there won't be the next time? Don't bullshit me, I'm not that stupid.”

“No, I don’t like guns,” and for some reason he goes into explanations. “My uncle was shot dead last fall. It was, it still is a great loss for my aunt and myself. And I can’t… don’t have a stomach for shooting anyone, because they can be someone’s parents, too, or children, or spouses. I know that sounds silly, especially with the huge amount of justified killing done by the state, or lots of other deaths, car accidents, crime victims. But I don’t want to… It seems so wrong in so many ways... I just don't feel like I have a right to...” Peter shakes his head. “That is so fucking naive of me.”

The stranger slowly nods in some kind of approval that Peter really hasn’t asked for.

“Choices. That makes you who you are. I’ve learned to shoot in the army when I was few years older than you. Have never stopped since then.” He takes the gun back and tucks it in his trousers.

“So, the underage drug prostitute to save?” He says musingly and – Peter can’t quite believe his eyes, may be it is just a trick of unsteady light – a flicker of a sad warm smile touches his scarred lips. “I’ll see what I can do. Need a few days. Just no more leeroying around by yourself, okay?”

“Thank you,” and this time Peter says it like he means it. “And thank you for saving me. I’m… I’m sorry I’ve messed up the thing you were doing…” Whatever that thing was – he adds silently, not quite sure that this person was up to anything good.

“Never mind,” the man says cheerfully. “I would’ve probably fucked it up myself anyway… Happens all the time. Guess, you can relate, huh?”

Peter chuckles, half-heartedly, but that is for the first time in the last month, since Vulture.

They stop at the side of the road and eat greasy burgers and drink tepid coffee and the meal is utterly awful and delicious as hell.

“Much better now!” The man stretches up, melting into a seat with a smile of a satiated feline. That’s amazing how a big muscled body can be at the same time so well-adjusted, even gracious. There is a smudge of ketchup on his right cheek. When the man smoothly turns his head to the passenger seat and looks straight back at Peter with mild interest, Peter belatedly realizes that he had been staring.

“What?” The man asks.

“Um, you have sauce, there,” Peter tries to show where, but then simply reaches out and wipes it away. The skin feels very hot at the tips of his fingers, and parchment-like thin and dry, Peter quickly withdraws his hand. Now, that’s awkward, but the man promptly fills the pause, smirking.

“Hey, hey, no getting all touchy-feely on the first date. I’m an old man and not used to it!” He snorts with laughter. “Oh, that look on your face, Petey, priceless. How old are you, by the way, princess?”

Peter is fed and warm and alive – so he smiles even to that quite stupid mocking.

“I am not discussing my age on the first date. And with an anonymous person.”

“The name is Wade. Just Wade.”

“Just wait for what?”

“For when I find your wet wipes, dumbass. Ah, there, welcome. Let me not to wipe the stains on your face in return, there are too many.”

Peter cleans his face and they are driving again. Why the mobs had their meeting so far from the city, anyway?

“The crook from the police I was waiting for lives nearby. Owns a house or something. That was likely his payoff money. You need those presidents? Take some.”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“C’mon, take the money. Buy a new costume,” Wade then smirks, leans closer to Peter and whispers in a low voice, that sends chill down the spine. “Peter, may I ask a real intimate question? You may choose not to answer it, of course. I know that’s extremely personal, but I have been wondering all along, who were your trying to cosplay? Capitan America?”

“What? No. No-o!.. It’s just… just clothes, not a costume,” Peter says lamely, secretly happy that his spider sign, first, has significantly faded over a long course of washes, and second, has got dirt all over it during the car ride. Ok, so Peter Parker fucked up, but at least the better part of him, his newly-born persona will come out of it untouched. On the other hand, costume or no costume, that persona is barely recognized by people. Capitan America, seriously? Well, to think of it, that’s just – hilarious. Who am I without my super-spider costume? Capitan America! Eat it, you jerk. Peter laughs till his eyes are watering.

“That’s a shame. He was my childhood hero. Well, if that’s not a cosplay, next time just wear red, little miss Macbeth.”

“Damn these costumes. All of them. I live the normal life starting tomorrow.”

“Ha! That’s what I’ve told myself some time ago! Have never regretted it yet.”

Peter tries to muster a shocked expression. “So, you are a superhero, after all? What are your super-powers?”

Wade nods in the direction of the money case. “I am rich.”

“Nah, that’s Batman. And besides, you can’t be that rich, still had not enough assholeness in you.” Peter’s known so far only two persons on the scale of Batman’s rich – and they both were, well, Peter would’ve probably been better off if their passes had never crossed. That includes you, too, Mr Stark.

“Think so? You are sadly mistaken, cupcake. I'm well-stocked with assholeness. Not so much with money, though. Well, then, guess, I can be unkillable? Have made it this far. And your super-powers?”

Peter smiles.

“My super-luck, obviously.”

“Yep, worked out right today. For both of us. And that reminds me a wonderful story. I have known a girl which was supernaturally lucky, like, y’know, probability manipulating lucky. And we once went to a casino together…”

Some thirty miles after Wade adjusts his scarf. “Don't want to scare the shit out of those poor surveillance workers.”

“You do believe in these rumors?”

“Do I look like a believing type?.. I have facts, Pete, maps, development schemes. It's starting. All that hassle about Mutant registration, Sokovian bullshit…”

He gets Peter's mask out of his pocket.

“There. Grabbed it on the way out. Right choice, pal. They are trying it with roadside cameras now, will turn on those on the streets in half a year.”

Peter puts the mask on.

“Thanks. I just – I don't know whom to believe. Wanted some privacy anyway…” Something in man’s words bothers him so he decides to ask. “You think Sokovia Accords were a mistake?”

They've already clashed with MJ about this, it started like a simple conversation between the three of them on their pizza night, and somehow the argument went out of control, Peter kind of repeated what he heard before Leipzig, seriously, he did some reading concerning the matter, and not just the internet – some authoritative opinions, too, to add to Stark's scarce explanations. And they both got heated, Mariam called Peter an ignorant bigoted asshole and bolted out of Ned's house; didn't talk to him all August, and never sent even a short message for his birthday. Before this summer he had never thought that politics could divide families and ruin friendships. Yet there he was, Mariam starting talking to him again not long before Homecoming, and somehow warmed up to him only after Liz's leave. Of course, he didn't need her pity, so they still weren't on good speaking terms.

Wade watches the road and just drives silently and when Peter becomes sure that he won't get any answer – but of course, who would want to discuss such things with a teenager – starts speaking carefully.

“I dunno, Petey. With a string of events it's difficult to say which leads to which. It's pretty bad sign, though. All big shit starts with minor adjustments, at first regarding the outsiders, the lowlifes… Ever heard about a frog boiled alive?”

It's like a low blow, good thing Peter is masked. Almost her words. Only she always kept silence on the question of their abnormality and called them – him – minorities and outcasts, which was not much better. And no, he is not discussing this shit again, never ever. Peter wishes he have enough guts to ask to stop the car and just walk the last miles. But he is all of a sudden so tired after this too long day and rough night.

“Oh, she used just the same phrasing!.. By the way it’s a logical fallacy, and all those windows, opinion corridors, spheres, frames, what not – it sounds just as demagogic as… Now to the left, I guess. Queens.”

“Your aunt is into politics?”

“My friend from school.”

“You do discuss this shit at school nowadays? It's not prohibited yet?”

“It's extracurricular.”

“I personally think, kiddo, that mutants should be left alone, if we have a say on that. Or the next logical step of those smart guys will be that in a decade every person be wearing chips in their skulls – a first class prison for everyone, muties and normal people alike…”

Peter doesn’t answer.

“Wanna listen to some music?”

Well, as an alternative to all this shit talk. Peter snatches one of the tapes from the contaminated glove box and even manages to turn on the prehistoric system.

The sound is surprisingly strong and clear, though the songs are old, too. Beautiful woman's voice sings in German, Peter is not quite able to understand all the words – something about love and sorrow, and things gone. Only on the fifth track, Lili Marlen, Peter realizes it might be that singer from the time of his great grandpa. And – wait, is that? Peter looks at Wade who is indeed quietly humming to the tune and winks at him.

“Ancient stuff, right?”

Peter nods.

Last time at the literature class – now he and MJ are always on different teams during group discussions – when he was building a fortress of well-reasoned proofs that old aesthetics was irrelevant nowadays, Mariam, with that expression of superiority on her fine face that only she could muster, told him about true beauty always being irrelevant. That it very purpose was to defy reality, to create another dimension, where the freedom exists. Well, girls. This speech doesn't even make sense, right? But guess what, Mrs Tonelli totally bought the pathetic bubbling, so he, Ned and Anderson got B, while MJ, Gomez and, for shit's sake, Flash all got A+.

And so, what is the purpose of these old songs? They are all about non-existent things. Just words, nice melody and deep velvet voice and yet nothing more...

Sch, kleines Baby, wein nicht mehr!

Die Mami kauft dir einen Teddybär.

Peter listens to the music with some indistinct discontent and when he altogether fails at trying to remember what his own mom sang to him twelve years ago, he simply turns away and looks at the sleeping city – residential areas so motionless and dim in these wee hours. Rare cold streetlights transform the urban landscapes into an unreal set of desolate small alleys, nooks and crannies, appearing one after another from the ocean of silent darkness, like scenes from an old time movie.

Wade lowered the windows some time ago and the chilling wind blows in Peter's masked face.

Honestly, he prefers daytime – and not just because May's suspicions make sneaking out at nights difficult, no, days are simply more fun, people greeting him, stolen cameras snatched back to careless tourist and disoriented thieves glued to the walls waiting for the police to arrive. Next day there are different tourists and pretty much the same pickpockets. Familiar hustle, little things. His habitable simple and friendly routine. While at nights – it’s like with Vulture, the ever-lasting danger, and distress, and fear of the impending failure...  And in the end – the failure.

When the dark shadow of the Forest Park appears ahead Peter listens extra hard: once he saved a girl here from being assaulted, can you imagine, at two p.m. on Sunday. While at nights he has never really helped anybody yet – stopped a drunken fight one time and a few weeks ago called an ambulance for some stoned body. Well, the last one was probably stupid, he looked in frustration from his rooftop how the medic touched the barely conscious body with his boot and suggested to his pal to “leave it here”. To Peter’s great relief after an unheated argument they finally took the guy in, cursing him and the caller altogether under their breath.

At some nights he was waiting there in the darkened corners and on quiet rooftops sensing the looming danger in the humid air, behind the veil of smog clouds, deep down in the rumbling sewers. He tried to stay ready, fully awaken, and yet the threat was too vague, unknown and disturbing, it scowled at him from torn posters and graffiti-soiled arches, laughed like a wild wind in vent shafts. Rattled and weary, he kept his lonely vigil in vain till the grey morning light filled the sky.

“Now turn to the left. The next intersection.”

The car stops on a scarcely lit street a few blocks away from his apartment.

“Here?”

“Yeah.” Peter out of habit looks around the car once more like it’s May’s blue Civic and he is about to forget his schoolbag again, but, well, all his stuff is waiting neatly packed on the nearby rooftop. “I can take out the garbage.” He offers politely, collecting the fast-food bag. Fifty yards away there is a nice secluded corner with garbage containers and blind walls around – a total fuck up of urban designers that Peter loves so dearly.

“Oh, please!” Wade hurriedly starts searching around, managing to retrieve from under the seats few more plastic bottles, a coke cup with smeared lipstick stains and a fancy liquor jug, that looked way better than tasted, according to his words. He stuffs it all in the bag and adds a bundle of dollars on top, “for the service, don’t object, hundred percent not marked, would bet my life on it.”

Peter doesn't really need any mafia money, but, on the other hand, Melissa's friends would be much more open, had he the cash then. It might be handy.

“Well...”

“Well, stay safe during your extracurricular activities, lucky guy.”

After Peter gets off the car and the stranger drives away, he realizes with a sudden sadness that he knows nothing about this man, except the name, and even that might not be real, he didn’t look up the license plate, nor asked for messenger contacts or e-mail. It was one of the life’s unique fleeting experiences that can’t be neither forgotten nor repeated. It is – and the next moment it’s gone – like this glorious summer, with all its good and bad events, gone forever.

He sighs, takes a look around – three in the morning street is as lifeless and desolate as a thriller stage set, except there are no cameras here, well, at least, he hopes there are none – and after disposing of the garbage, starts doing what a spider does – crawling up the wall of the nearest building.

Chapter Text

Peter sleeps soundly and dreamlessly through the most part of Saturday, waking up at noon only to message May that everything is okay. She calls back and he asks her about the conference, have she attended Doctor Octavius lecture? Would she send him the audio, please? May also tells him about a few presentations he might be interested in; in particular, Dr. Phillips from Michigan Tech reported about his use of HPC, high-performance computing, for simulations of chemical reactions while developing antidotes against nerve agents. That’s amazing, Peter agrees, and the most astounding thing is that some people are developing antidotes while others, all at the same time, are working on creating neurochemicals for military use, take that recent scandal around Life Foundation, and both companies are sponsored by the government. That’s, May brushes him off, that’s a long story and not for discussion over a phone. And why he is that moody again, anyway? Has he stayed up late? No-no, he was testing Isaac all day yesterday and, well, not very late. By the way, has he eaten up the roast beef? Oh, yeah, that was very good, thanks!

“I love you, May,” he says and it is not an obligatory nicety. “Take care.”

“Love you, too.”

After the call Peter eats the lost and newly found on the upper shelf of the fridge roast beef, which is a little too salty and dry even to his taste and enormous appetite, sipping hot strong sweet coffee in the kitchen, flipping through a library copy of “Chemistry today” and listening to Rammstein on max level.

Yeah, to think about the future, he must get weighted GPA above 4.7, which means no unexplained absence anymore, and take part in a few science fairs… Damn, one or two more patents could be handy, too, it’s a pity that going to Mrs Jacobson with this question now is not a viable option. Well, anyway, a friend’s mom’s help doesn’t sound right, so it easier to find some intellectual property attorney on the internet. Yep, all these Indian giver’s internships aside, he will find his way to CalTech, Chemical Engineering, closer to his scientific idols. Which are now Dr. Banner (currently missing) and Dr. Richards (currently unavailable due to busy schedule). Well, he’ll send them another e-mail maybe in a few months. Not a big catch, but anyway he is free to choose who to like. Stuff it, Mr. Stark.

On the other hand – robotics… He brushes the bread crumbs on the floor and whistles for Robbie. Nothing happens. The dumbass is probably stuck in the room – right, the app indicates that Robbie is under Peter’s bed, perhaps, got chocked on a dirty sock or crumpled something. That’s new technology for you. “Fuck you,” Peter says expressively to nobody in particular, tries to readjust the magazine on the table at first, then after a moment of hesitation puts there his legs instead, sits back and relaxes in the armchair flipping through the pages. Granted, he loves May, but there are so many advantages of staying at home alone, too.

Perhaps, it was he who benefitted the most from May getting the job as a lead researcher at “Smart tech”. Sure, there are more working hours, with great salary came great responsibilities, but though Peter sees her less now, it’s quality time, again, – they are back to their walks on weekends, or eating out on Fridays, or watching movies together. And in addition to the opportunities a big company offers, May now has lots of other nice little things, like those team-building activities every third weekend or so, and science events all year round, like this three day conference in Atlanta. And maybe, she told a few weeks ago at dinner, looking at him appraisingly, she should take short working trips every now and then, if only Peter won't feel lonely and will be able to care for himself properly, they pay off really well. Yeah, some extra money is always useful, Peter agreed (he would never ever let May put him through university! Never! But she doesn't need to know it right now, God, let's her take those trips, please), he will do his best.

But all his small tricks aside, he is also honestly genuinely happy for May that she can find some solace in her work. There is even that guy, John or Jack, who invited her to join “Smart tech”… Of course, maybe it means nothing, but Peter accidentally saw in the browser history that May again started looking up databases of kids waiting for adoption. She and Ben were thinking about it for a while during previous few years, and even tried to pay off their mortgage early – to get another more spacious apartment, but then that spider-shit happened, the outburst of Peter’s teenage angst, and then…

Peter was slowly separating and going to drift away in a few years or so, and May perhaps still needed to care about someone… Before the bite Peter felt those however small prickles of jealousy and annoyance thinking about the other child that would be living with them soon, and the need to move to a bigger condo or, god forbid, share a room… as for now, Peter is sure he would be fine with it, except for sharing a room part. As for May's scrutinous attention – welcome, take it all. He can’t get that trusting understanding love anyway, with all his recent lies in which he’s got entangled like – like a loser of a spider in its own net, really. It’s a cruel irony that his heroic shiny Spider mask, he is proudly wearing in public, in his private life becomes an unshareable burdensome secret, ruining his relationships.

And even Ned now – with whom Peter unwillingly and quite accidentally shared his identity – even he seems to be sulking about Peter’s reluctance to share more, and he just doesn’t get it that there is nothing more! No cool costume, no superheroes around, usual insignificant shit: stolen bicycles, lost old ladies. Yesterday spectacular fuck up – well, this whole story is not really his to retell it to Ned, if only Peter had someone to share...

Yeah, he was probably too bitter, when meeting Mr. Stark two weeks ago, and his implied “go fuck yourself and shove this costume up your ass” attitude was a bit, well, defiant, if not too obvious… He didn’t just turn down the man with all his despicable dog training tricks – come here, heel, now go away, be a good boy to get the treat – no, he did it with glee and resentment. So, it was partially his fault. But on the other hand, he kinda knew from the beginning, that the so called patronage wouldn’t probably last long, people always come and walk away, and, to tell the truth, neither they need him, nor Peter needs them. But there is no wonder Peter got that “fuck yourself” attitude back when asking about the prostitute girl.

The girl. Melissa. He thinks about Wade and what the man might be doing now. Hunting down the human traffickers? Or spending the sudden jackpot money? Yet another stranger that didn’t stick with Peter. Not that he wanted it, anyway. And he should, starting from tomorrow, to resume the search; ask the other girls about Melissa once more; stick his nose further into the mafia business.

He sighs. At least, there is one good thing that came out of all this disaster, King Harold doesn't feel like partying anytime soon. He writes a message to Harry, who promises to call back later. Is he at Gwen’s?

Two of them making out, Gwen seated on the mahogany table, long legs in black stockings wrapped around Harry’s back… A yellowish pile of barf on the toilet floor, crashed glasses and spilt wine in the living-room. Somebody arguing whether to call ambulance or Louise’s mom. Truly, what starts bad…

There is a sharp sound of the doorbell. Peter jumps, remembering Wade’s notion about mafia goons eviscerating entire families… He tip-toes to the door.

It is his neighbor single mother Laura, asking if he would please turn down the volume, her kid is going to bed. Oh, of course, sorry.

“Mutter! Mutter!” Till is calling in a full voice, and although it’s the saddest and most beautiful song, but not a perfect lullaby for 6-months old girl. Peter turns off the music, puts the dishes in the sink, he will still have time for that later in the evening, and decides that 8 pm is a good time for brushing his teeth and washing his face for the first time this day.

Oh, the costume! It is still soaking in the bath since his yesterday shower… well, not exactly soaking, the water is all drained out over the night and his superhero garment is now plastered as a dried filthy crust on the walls of the dirty bathtub. So, what does he need to get out blood stains? His home-made stain remover, P.Parker’s own formula, did really well last time, but also partially dissolved the bathtub’s acrylic liner; May was pissed as hell and cut his pocket money to pay for the repair. No, he will use something from the store this time. After half an hour Peter gets what Wade meant by calling him “miss Macbeth” – the blood stains don’t get out. He scrubs, and washes with whatever detergent they have at home and finally puts his ruined costume in a black plastic bag, and down the garbage chute it goes.

Totally costumeless. As promised. The bathroom is now kind of messy, too. But it can wait ‘til tomorrow, right?

Peter goes to his room. Robbie complaints from under his bed, and Peter good-naturedly advises him to shut up, which Robbie does, clever boy.

He calls Ned to ask about doing some shopping together. They have nice conversation, but Ned’s unfortunately busy tomorrow, he has some work to do around the house; and all that shit will take the whole day, apparently, uh-huh. Peter suspects that his friend is either planning to visit MJ or going out with her attending a fancy art gallery or something. Or maybe not. Peter is not that good with relationships to make a right guess. And he didn’t ask of course. Whatever.

Phone beeps with a message “Louise is better. I’ve visited her at the hospital. She’ll be released in a few days.” Peter types: “That’s good. Call me?”

Harry sounds as cool and assured as usual and Peter couldn’t agree more with his royal motto: the more shit the life throws at you – the wider you smile. “’Sup, nerd?” – “Chemistry time, idiot!” – “Hey, Professor Parker, no insults, I’m putting this on the record.” – “You’d better.” Peter delivers a profound and passionate lection on alkanes, Harry interrupting him now and then with questions, walking his house up and down fetching sandwiches and milk, collecting pens, notes and previous tests. Sometimes when Harry is in especially grandeur rooms Peter can hear echo over the phone. After the tenth question Peter loses the mood, and they both are ready to give up. “Pete… you know, I’m not that stupid, I’m just not an auditory person…” – “Yeah, no problem. Monday after school? Your place?” – “Sure. What? There are like twelve pages you’ve sent me! Peter? That’s insane!” – “That’s four tests a day. Easy.” – “Let’s make it half and I will give you my essays form sophomore year. They are good. Almost all As. By the way have you made up with her?” – “That’s not!..” – “Peter, don’t be an idiot, you should simply buy a bunch of…” – “Shove this up your playboy ass, okay?” – “My playboy ass!.. Envy, Peter, is a friendship’s dead-end. Later, lover boy!” – “Three test a day or I won’t check them at all, you hear me?..” Harry doesn’t. Peter looks at the phone screen – 38 minutes and 19 seconds of his life lost in futile tries to give the King a piece of his mind. Well, they will see on Monday.

Robbie starts whining again – not that he can talk, only those mechanical beeps and sounds Peter built in just for fun. “Just die there already,” Peter orders. The robot obediently shuts up. After being bitten and dropping out of robotics club a year ago Peter has never had time to make any further adjustments, so Robbie is permanently stuck in its Mark III state till the rust eats up its insides or Peter kicks him accidentally too hard and finally breaks him – it. Well, to think of it – Robbie is just a thing, cold and pure, all meanings and connotations lost to its primitive electronic brains. Peter sighs, orders the dumbass to turn its lights on and crawls under the bed. Robbie is indeed stuck between the box of outdated video cards and circuit boards and that old suitcase from grandma's house they’ve never managed to look through. Ben was too busy at the time with selling the land and what was left of the house and settling all the things with a local nursing home. And then Peter was going through his mutation, and then…

The suitcase still smells of fire and is now covered in a thick layer of dust.

“Come on, buddy,” Peter frees the robot and pats it on its red-yellow back, “go to the kitchen, wet the mop and bring it back to me. Don't fall in the sink like the last time!” He cries to the busily whizzing away creature. “And turn the lights off, just how many times I need to tell you…”

Yeah, he should've added two stronger manipulators or replaced the existing ones, Robbie still have troubles with climbing up the furniture and walls, his itsy-bitsy spider. Of course, Peter made him – it – ages before his body started producing strange silk fluids and he learned to replicate it poorly in the small school lab, so all Robbie can do was to simply mechanically hold onto things, unlike himself, unlike this – Peter smiles, kicks off his shoes and in a half-backflip jumps to the ceiling.

Now the world definitely looks better. There is literally a new angle to everything, like when you are a kid and get lost looking in a mirror or hanging upside-down from a tree. There is this subtle shift of perception and everything is different. Peter, standing on the ceiling, walks his room back and forth a few times. It's a pity he can't do a full-body MRI scan to check the development of his internal organs, cuz something has changed, no doubt. He can spend ages hanging upside-down and be just as comfortable as usual – he can even eat and drink in that position. Once he slept the whole night stuck to the ceiling by all four limbs, it was a little cold without a blanket but otherwise okay.

Ah, if only he had a place to explore all the new possibilities his body provides, to adjust to that kind of living, and not in a house – a bigger space, hundred feet high walls, huge dome, quiet semidarkness cut by the pale rays of light. Some abandoned plant? Or an uninhabited skyscraper? A great shipyard? A cathedral, a church to a sneaky spider-god... Peter closes his eyes. All signals from the outside are lessened and enhanced at the same time, the world turns into the vibrating net of movements, and sounds. Wrapped in the cocoon of life’s incessant humming, he is at the very center of it…

Robbie distracts him by loud beeping. It looks exactly like a mechanical spider when seen from above, Peter outstretches his arm and Robbie, too, tip-toes on his leg manipulators, reaching out for him with the long steel front limb. Their hands almost touch. Peter stretches some more and finally get hold of a drippling grey mop. He jumps down in a flip and wipes the suitcase.

“Good boy. Make yourself useful and I'll install a voice box and some speech processor to swear back at me.” Peter returns the mop. “Go away, do some cleaning.”

Now, Wade's case was full of money, Peter's is… He braces himself and opens it.

Oh… that! No wonder Ben forgot about the suitcase. Parkers' glorious military history lays in front of Peter – colorful ribbons and golden embroidery, dim glitter of medals – those of his great grandfather for Overlord, and grandpa Peter for Rolling Thunder. Like father like son both ended their careers as majors, though Major Benjamin Parker would’ve probably achieved more if his Marauder wasn’t shot down in August 1944 over Berlin. Peter slowly looks through stacks of old letters and faded postcards... And there is, oh, oh!.. – he touches it lightly, strokes the hardened leather – the pilot cap that belonged to his great granddad. It’s real and old and maybe it even keeps the warmth of a small boy’s unruly brown hair… Peter remembers great-aunt Marge stories about young Dick always wearing it, even to bed, and dreaming of becoming a pilot… Unlike Ben, he loved the family military past.

The smell is old leather and house-fire, so Peter decides against wearing it and puts the cap aside.

There is granny Ann’s school album and some wedding cards, birth bead bracelets with Ben and Dick’s names… And this one he remembers – a big framed photo of granny and granpa, they are in their sitting room, near the table, Peter can close his eyes and see the white starched tablecloth, and dried lavender bouquets, green wallpapers, pictures on the wall… their quiet old house with creaky stairs.

It's terrifying how easily some things can be broken.

Peter carefully packs all stuff back into the suitcase, then shoves it under his bed. He'll ask May what to do with it later. It’s father’s birthday on Friday. Maybe it will be a right moment to look through all these once more. Although, considering that she met Ben at anti-war protests in 2003, May almost certainly isn’t fond of military stuff, too.

They don’t talk much about his parents. Nor about Ben. That’s their silent way of grieving, of coping with things. They visit cemetery twice a year, before Easter and sometime around All Souls’ Day, though nobody in their small, too small now family is religious; it’s a tradition of a sort, and with Ben’s death it hasn’t changed. May and he are okay, Peter thinks. He is okay.

It’s raining in the evening and Peter sits near the open window, and reads, and listens to the music, in headphones this time.

Erst wenn die Wolken schlafengehn Kann man uns am Himmel sehn. Wir haben Angst und sind allein. Gott weiß ich will kein Engel sein.

He goes to sleep long after midnight and all the night he breathes in the smell of rain, pine needles and gunpowder, foliage and wet roots, and that subtle smell of musk, of wary and strong wild creature, and he wakes up not knowing whether he is a hunter or a game.

Chapter Text

The day is windy and cloudy and Rockaways is a nice place if not for shopping per se, then for an afterward stroll along the beach.

After a torturous hour of mingling, mixing and mimicry Peter manages to buy two pairs of pants, one is blue and the other is, well, red, perfect color for superheroing, according to Wade; old habits die hard. He is thirsty and already tired and his only wish is to get away from the crowd. When he is finally on his way to the beach, choosing small secluded streets, leaving most of the people behind, hands in his pockets, music roaring in his headphones, he sees from the corner of his eye that there is something wrong going on.

There is a fragile old lady in black glasses and with a white cane in the middle of the road and a black Jeep is quickly approaching, about to hit her. It’s a knee jerk reflex, Peter jumps forward and then it all happens in a split second, through the sound of the music Peter hears the squealing of the tires, the car goes into the skid, the old lady steps on the pavement unharmed, and Peter lands graciously right onto the car hood and then rolls off under the feet of the old lady. The Jeep stops into the nearby lamppost with a crush sound that is even scarier than the world's current misery of forceful unification.

Peter jumps to his feet. Well, at least the old lady is ok, he is ok and even his phone and headphones are ok, too. “We all living in Amerika”, Lindemann manages to inform before Peter unplugs him, “Amerika ist wunderbar.” The only person, who is not happy with the whole situation, tough – is that big tattooed third-world guy, getting out of the crushed car and heading in their direction. He is cursing with East European accent and looks like a member of the mob; from the mushed stream of swears Peter is able to pick up that the man wants a compensation for the damaged car.

The old lady cocks her head. Peter moves to stand between the lady and the menacing man. Time for your excellent social skills, Peter.

“Uhm, look, I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, but it is a crosswalk here, and you were basically breaking the rules… so let’s calm down and all go about our business… the insurance company will surely compensate you…”

Oh, no, the guy obviously doesn’t have the best coverage, because he even more aggressively steps closer and starts bellowing:

“Fuck your compensation! Fuck your insurance! No cameras, no witnesses, you or this old bitch owe me the money, three grand, no less!”

And the road is indeed pretty empty, there are some pedestrians far away. All of a sudden the old lady steps forward and with a quick movement of her white metal cane hits the man between his legs. He utters a high-pitched wail and drops to the ground, grabbing his crotch, the blood is seeping through his crooked fingers. Heck, was there a hidden blade or something? Peter cringes and fights the natural for every male urge to kneel down and do something to help, god, being stabbed in the balls is too much, even for a homicidal criminal. The man is sobbing, tears running down his crumpled face as freely as blood from his nether regions. Should he call the ambulance? Or the police? The lady…

“No cameras, no witnesses, motherfucker,” she takes Peter by the hand and orders. “Let’s go, young man, quickly”.

And darn it, for a superhero, even a beginner one, Peter is too eager, to his utter shame, to take orders from a little old lady.

They duck into the first small street, then into another, the white-headed lady is astonishingly resilient for her age, not only she isn’t completely breathless from the fast walk, but she also educates Peter in the ways of dealing with such situations.

“Never negotiate with criminals, spare your breath. You talk to them and they take it as a sign of your weakness. And usually those scums have balls to threaten only those they consider to be harmless. So you need to act first and be brutal. Served him right. Wait a second… I need to rest a little”.

She sits down on the bench and takes out her phone.

“Siri, call douchepool. Hello. And where is your bar? Oh!.. What commemorative value, dear, you are just obsessed with pussies, already find yourself some... I’m all right, will be there soon. The hell you were!..”

She turns his head to where Peter is silently standing.

“Young man…”

“Harold.”

Fuck, the name slipped accidentally. Well, it’s anyway a one-time thing.

“Harold, nice to meet you. Would you please walk me to the bar called “Octopussy”? It’s somewhere around this area.”

Peter googles up the place, gets the lady on his arm and a short walk later they go down the stone steps and, after Peter quickly appraises the neon pink octopus figure decorating the door – it slightly resembles the Hydra octopus’s logo image, only in pink, and it has seven tentacles instead of Hydra's six; really, has any of the evil designers had some slightest knowledge of nature? – enter some dim lit and rather empty bar.

There is a tall blonde guy sitting at the nearest table, watching the door, his long legs crossed; his handsome face twitches when he sees them coming in. He briskly stands up and comes closer in two big steps; hugs the little old lady.

“Hello, angel! Later, all talks later. Hey, waiter, take the lady to that table in the corner, yeah, near the kitchen door.”

When the lady is led away he looks at Peter intensely with his green, or rather brown eyes. His face is distorted with rage. Again, Peter sighs silently. Just how many menacing strangers will he manage to piss off today?

No, not rage. There is something wrong with the man’s twitching face. And there is also something familiar about him.

“What?” the man’s taunting grin is trembling, but the voice is strong and self-confident; Peter can’t quite pinpoint, but the intonation, the timbre... “Something wrong with my face?”

“It’s flickering, kinda…” and Peter is suddenly struck with the wildest guess. “Wade?”

“The fucking device has never worked right,” the man presses something on the lapel of his army green coat and the holographic head fades away. It is indeed Wade. “Hello, lucky guy. What a coincidence!”

Peter grins, shaking the offered gloved hand, but then notices that Wade’s real face is rather grim, too, his eyes watchful and the other hand is still in his pocket. Gripping the tough little guy, no less. Oh, crap.

“Wade, I know, it looks suspicious, but honestly, I wasn’t stalking you or something. Just was buying some red pants and then went for a walk and saw this lady crossing the street, and then that car accident happened. I thought she might need my help.”

“What accident?”

“Well, there was actually no accident involving this lady, but for a moment I thought that a car might hit her and tried to help… but it all turned mostly all right in the end…” Peter’s speech quavers, just how much can he say on this quite delicate subject?..

“I see,” Wade smirks as if he understands. “At least, nobody’s got killed?”

There were people around. Sure thing, someone called the ambulance. And...

“N-no. No, I’m sure.”

Wade looks him in the eyes and then, as if satisfied with what he’s seen, pulls the other hand out of his pocket and pats Peter on the shoulder.

“So, Peter the lucky. Al is gonna be mad we’ve made her wait for so long.”

Al is actually quite content, already eating a steak and fresh vegetable salad. There is a glass of beer beside her plate. There is also a big cup of something covered with whipped cream.

“I’ve ordered hot chocolate for the young man. He is probably shaken. Harold?”

“A-ah… It’s actually Peter Harold, a double name, you see, and to be honest I prefer people calling me just Peter… you know, Harold being too pretentious and all…”

“Well, Peter, your chocolate…”

“Thank you.” Peter is fully occupied by whipped cream, eating it with a spoon, looking how it slowly disappears.

“What happened, Al?” Wade asks with amusement. “Peter-Harold didn’t feel like going into details.”

There was one article in Popular Biochemistry – Once a liar, always a liar, it was titled, explaining how the brain rewires itself every time a person is making stuff up, how it’s getting easier and easier and finally becomes a pattern imprinted in certain brain areas. On the other hand, what he is doing is more like concealment – it won’t affect him that bad, obviously. Peter sips thick chocolate drink, inspecting small bubbles on the sweet surface.

“Because he is a decent person, unlike others. Nothing’s happened, really. I was crossing the road, and Peter, too. He almost got hit by a car and that moron stopped into – what was that, a lamppost? He wanted money, I told him to leave the kid alone. That’s about it, dear. Right?” She turns her head in Peters’ direction.

Peter’s blushing cheeks are perhaps visible even in the surrounding semi-darkness, but, well, it doesn’t matter anyway, Wade roars with laughter. Humiliating.

“Sunshine, you are amazing! Twice in one weekend. Where did you get your super-luck from?”

“The faery was really pissed off with me.”

“Must have been a very naughty boy, eh? Wanna eat?”

“A sandwich, thanks”.

“A few sandwiches and three bottles of water, preferably, sport drinks,” Wade calls.

Al reaches for his face with her thin hand, a quick touch, as if she is trying to actually glance at Wade through her pale fingers.

“Got shot?”

“Got shit,” Wade scowls. “It’s nothing. By the way, Petey, hope your girl is all right now… What’s her name, Nissa?”

“Melissa. You’ve found her? When?”

“Oh, look it on the local news. Near Eastport. Tonight. Guess, she was among them. May visit her at the hospital.”

“Is she alight?”

“More or less.”

It doesn’t look like Wade is going into explaining things further. Peter considers whether it is polite to google something up in front of the people you are supposed to be talking to; may be if you use the headset… Ah, damn it. He excuses himself and goes to the restroom. There he sits down on the toilet lid, and in comfort and privacy of a closed space googles up a dozen of fresh articles and a few videos “police took down the human trafficking ring”, “large amount of heroin seized during a drug bust”. He taps on the first video – there are a few ambulance vehicles in front of a big country house, and people are carrying out what looks like black plastic bags, some of them too small to contain the whole bodies. A disheveled journalist, unshaved, with tired eyes, is reporting in annoyingly energetic voice.

“Police operation ended in a gun battle this night in the Suffolk County during anti-mafia raid. Though it seemed to be a violent shootout no police officers were injured. It is reported that at least eight suspects are dead and five arrested. Presumably all of them are members of a criminal organization involved in human and drug trafficking. The police seized more than 500 pounds of heroin and cocaine and rescued seven victims of sex trafficking, aged from 6 to 20, which are taken to a local hospital for assessment. SCPD officials released no further information and say it's an ongoing investigation. Stay with us. It was Edward Brock on Fox 5 News Live.”

Peter stops the video and stares into space. His stomach churns, whether because of the dead suspects or a six-year-old victim… Well, anyway, it was not his choice, and he probably should be thankful for that.

He is about to tap on another video when all of a sudden the spider sense rings and the unlocked door flings open, missing Peter’s head by mere inches, and there is this beer belly in a tight blue shirt, that belongs to a tall 60-year-old grandpa with a moustache and small angry eyes and a look of strong disapproval on his apoplectic face.

“Hell, do you kids ever put away your damned gadgets? It’s a public place, for god’s sake, watch your freaking porn somewhere else!”

“I haven't even got my fly opened, you dumbass!” Peter blurts out to his own surprise and walks away, chin raised.

There is a plate of croissants sandwiches on their table and a few bottles of sport drinks, Wade and the old lady are briskly discussing something; when Peter returns and sits down, they both fell silent for a moment.

“You look unhealthy,” Wade notices. “There is a pharmacy nearby.”

“I have laxatives, if you want,” Al kindly offers and adds with an accusation. “The food in this Alzheimer Asylum is an absolute shit. Almost everybody is constipated.”

“Nah, judging by the look of him he probably needs the opposite… Peter, you sure there are no internal injuries? I know you are a tough guy, but being hit by a car?..”

“It didn’t hit me, I jumped on the hood. Anyway, I’m okay,” Peter stops the speculations, pours himself a glass of water and drinks it up in one gulp, the bile tastes unbearably bitter in his mouth; Wade is about to say something, but then drinks up the rest of the water from the bottle, cringes, stuffs the sandwich in his mouth and turns to Аl.

“Look, Al, if you don’t like the place – I’m kidnapping you,” his big scarred palm caresses the old skinny fingers. “I have a nice house now; you’ll love it. The stairs, the basement”.

“Ah, Wade, fool me twice… No, it’s not the worst place for getting older and ready to die. May be it’s even nice. I think I just don’t like the whole idea of dying. Besides, haven’t you paid ahead for three years? To spare yourself the trouble of cleaning shitty sheets and all?”

“We can take their TV set for that. And your exercise bike. And that drooling guy you like.”

Half-listening to their conversation, Peter nibs on his sandwich obligingly, all appetite gone, the bitter taste in his mouth persistent, even after he downed his cocoa... Blood still roars in his ears and stomach flips. Parties ending with calls to an ambulance, people butchered like pigs and raped six-year-old kids – welcome to the society…

“You better take me to some redwood parks for my birthday. I’ve always wanted to see them, the ancient trees; it never was the right time. And now I myself is ancient and the time is just… not an ocean anymore… Wade, I even miss San Francisco, all good and bad alike.”

“Deal. We can visit it, too. It’s December 21st?”

“22nd. Good to know you are still lucid.”

“I’m not,” Wade chuckles; he takes out an envelope and gives it to Al. “Here. Some cash for a taxi and a bag of the yesteryear snow. Pretty pure stuff, so snort responsibly. And don’t you dare to die in the next six months; I’m broke, and all that graveyard shit costs like it’s made of gold.”

“Wade, who the hell needs anything, gravestone or not, after their death? Not me.”

“I do, Al. I need a place to go to sometimes. A piece of land and a stone, all solid and real. Not my fucked up memories. And we’ll make some nice engraving, too, that you are dead, and not by my hand, and I loved you till the very end, making your last years on earth the living hell, so whatever imaginary place they’ll assign you after, it will be a piece of cake, you'll fight through it in one sitting, angels and devils alike, and come back to me as a bright-eyed baby...” he gulps down the water from the second bottle and throws it in the corner. “Let’s go outside. This shithole is depressing. No pussies, no other MI6 hotties, what a shame.”

Wade offers his hand to Al and they slowly walk along the beach, Peter obediently and absent-mindedly plods along; after the stuffiness of the dim dingy bar, it’s nice being outside. Dark clouds on the horizon are edged with silver linings. The sea is grey and rippled with gusts of autumn wind. The only other living creatures on the shore except them are seagulls – those with ash colored wings and the smaller ones with black heads, some of them floating on the waves, others are flying low over the tideline and their incessant cries sound disquieting and sad.

Wade tries to stifle a yawn.

“Still have the dreams?”

“Fuck, yeah. But I’ve ordered some real silver hollow-point bullets, probe and all. It may help, right? Waddya think, do I need to draw some pentagrams or other occult shit on the tips? And should it be parietal or occipital lobe? I mean, what stuff the dreams are made of? Honestly, all that demonic shit is just weird as hell. Why can’t I have a week of Brazzers or Golden Girls for a change?.. Oh, I would have totally sold my soul for...”

Peter’s mind is buzzing while trying to invent a phrase with which he can excuse himself and inconspicuously slip away, but the vigorous old lady gets ahead of him, again.

“Wade, the curfew hours…”

“Ah, you mean it’s your favorite soap opera time. What’s it, Al? Tell me! Al? Well? Althea?”

“The game of Thrones,” she admits reluctantly.

“That crap? They don't even have enough coherent dialogues to listen to. And the way it ends it's just…”

“Don't!..” She waves her cane threateningly.

Peter grabs Wade's other elbow and it distracts the man's attention, thankfully.

“What, princess? You think we should leave Al and her little guilty pleasures alone? No, I myself really hate guys who make spoilers, even killed a moron or two, but the thing is – mine guesses are basically harmless like fifty-fifty. Sometimes less. And the fucking future just changes with every breath you make….”

Wade's body radiates heat even through layers of clothes, it is like sitting near the fireplace in the old big house in winter, bathing in the waves of cozy warmth and hearing silver chimes of laughter, woman's merry speech intertwined with strong and deep man's voice. Wade and Al's familial banter sounds like from miles away, melding with those slipping away memories.

“Al, girl, you’re descending into senility at supersonic speed, without me being around. Well, the good thing is you at least have no troubles beating your fellow droolers into your tastes nowadays… I can give you a ride to your Coronary Cove.”

“Thanks, but I’m ok with that crazy taxi of yours. And you have fun, boys.”

“Good.” Wade is texting someone. “In ten minutes.”

“Ask them to turn off that Indian stuff.”

“Sure. Now that I’m an honorable shareholder I can make them play Koran suras all the way, if you wish.”

“An honorable shareholder?”

“It’s like you pay fifty grands and have the say in the stuff like music or design, and get free rides whenever you want… Oh, and the payouts, of course. Yeah, like annually, starting next year… It's cool. By the way, Gita invites us next Friday, for, I dunno, Godh bharai?.. Their traditional shit. Guess, we are supposed to bring some nice presents for her and her little alien embryo, and then sing and dance – and as a result we’ll probably get another Bollywood masterpiece filmed… Well, the sword dance is obviously mine, but you can think of something else, chair yoga, paraplegic dancing.”

Peter looks at Al and she turns to face him, slightly shrugging her shoulders.

“He always acts like an obnoxious asshole when he is overflowed with emotions, too afraid to look nice, so you just…”

“Hey, hey,” Wade interrupts, “Peter here is not asking for any relationship advice.”

“But he probably needs to know some things, since he is your new superhero sidekick.”

“What? I am not…” Peter starts, finally letting go of Wade's elbow.

“Nah, he is not a superhero,” Wade readily elaborates. “Just some lucky loser. Met him on a mission, as usual, only I wasn’t hired to kill him, he was a collateral gain, so to say; well, we were stuck together in the end. He is like – like our Rincewind Bob, only with switched polarity, with morals and all that shit, and courage on the verge of stupidity. But I can tell, Peter is a natural-born survivor, too. I love the type, it usually means they are gonna stick around for more than a few issues, may be for the whole story ark, right, Peter?”

Wade nudges him and Peter mumbles something indistinct under his breath. He has no slightest idea what the man is talking about, not even sure whether to be flattered or offended by this off-hand characteristic. He decides to be flattered, though, after all, an honest affection is what it is, it can't be bad or offensive, right?..

They get on the road and help Al to get in the cheap-looking silent taxi. Wade waves enthusiastically and then turns to Peter.

“So, what is your definition of having fun?”

And maybe Wade was lying about not being contagious, because Peter has caught up this easy and crazy attitude, he suddenly smiles and squints.

“Falling free off, say, some skyscraper almost all the way down and then at the last moment flying upward, higher, and higher, the sun shining in your eyes, the wind whooshing in your ears and the world around is a golden-blue whirlpool of speed and excitement… Well, something like that. Always wanted to try.”

Yeah, he is definitely doing it tomorrow – ah, crap, the day after tomorrow. No patrolling, just for fun; to unwind, to feel happy and excited. God knows, he needs it.

“So, something like bungee jumping, I see. Sounds nice, though I personally never managed to get to that second, flying upward, part… And in the end always wished I had a chute like in the old commando days…”

“Marines?”

Peter’s speech sometimes is faster than his thought process. Damn. Wade looks at Peter appraisingly yet clarifies without much enthusiasm.

“Special force, then Black ops… Ever tried skydiving? There is a place nearby, may be next weekend?”

“Dunno”, Peter sighs. “See, I have this piece of land and gravestones I usually visit around that date. Not that it helps much… but it's a tradition. May be the weekend after?”

“But that will be Halloween. No way I’m missing it out. That’s the only time of the year my sexy looks are appreciated and I win prizes for the best make-up. Without any efforts, see? Oh, the dubious pleasure of fitting in.”

“Let’s try next Sunday. I can’t tell for sure, though.”

“8 o’clock, on that corner of yours. If anything changes…”

Peter offers his phone and gets it back with a typed e-mail [email protected], that totally sounds like a porn board username. Though Peter honestly doesn’t know for sure, he is not into this dirty stuff...

While talking they have walked quite far along the beach. Wade yawns once more and, spotting a bench nearby, trots towards it and happily plops down with a determination of a – tired man? Did he spend all that time looking for the girl? Peter sits down on the edge of the bench. It really looks like Wade’s incessant stream of energy is all drained out now. The man stretches his broad shoulders and leans back, trying to get himself comfortable and watches the sea, eyes lazy and distant and as greyish and dull as waves. He is sleepy, and yet doesn’t shoo Peter away, as if he is glad to have company or maybe expecting something. Of course!..

“Wade. I owe you for...”

“Oh, stop it! Though...” Wade looks straight at Peter and his grin, despite the tiredness, is still mischievous. “Really wanna pay me back, princess? Have me in your lap! I mean let my fucked up head rest on your lap, mm?..”

“You haven't slept since Friday… Wait, I'll roll a pillow.” Peter reaches for his backpack stuffed with superhero pants.

“Nice colors. So you do listen sometimes.” Wade takes off his jacket and covers Peter's shoulders.

“You won't get cold?” It's only thin black turtleneck underneath.

“Nah, the hottest man this side of Atlantic.” Wade shifts and wriggles, laying down on the bench, head upon Peter's lap, face turned to the sea, to the cold waves and silverish light, that seeps through the ragged clouds casting shimmering colors and deep shadows all over the beach, making it look like a surrealistic painting from Mariam’s art books. Finally, Wade calms down.

“'Tis nice.”

“I really don't know how to repay...”

Wade yawns.

“You owe me nothing, kiddo. Let's say I'm paying my debts. Trying to balance things out a little. Though guess what, life taken and life saved never weight the same... Like – Al is dying anyway, six month or six years from now – those are just fucking numbers... And you being obviously suicidal, how much your life may cost? How long will it last, huh? The girls, too – at least half of them are here illegally and will be departed to their shitholes soon, same goddamned abusive life... and the others are addicts. In the end it's maggot-pie and worms' writhing, all this.”

Peter is aware that sometimes he contradicts and disagrees with the obvious things only due to his natural-born stubbornness. Honestly, he doesn't know the reason behind it, but now he tries to sound as assuring as possible.

“No, Wade. It makes the difference. I know it does.”

“Some choose to believe...” He stifles another yawn and closes his eyes, summing up the conversation. “For whatever stupid reasons...”

Peter puts his hand on Wade's shoulder and strokes him lightly through the fabric, the skin there is scarred, too. It's not just the skin, he thinks, war wounds are never flesh-deep. Was it napalm bombs? Like those his grandpa was dropping over North Vietnam? Or, more likely, that new kind, invented by Stark senior in 1980s and now produced world-wide by the terrorists due to the massive data leakage in 2000s? And yet there is more to it than just senseless suffering and betrayal. There should be more.

Soon Wade's breath becomes deeper and slower – hopefully he’s in the tender darkness of dreamless sleep. And Peter belatedly realizes that he cannot reach for his phone without risking to wake him up. Oh, that's bad. He isn't used to spend much time without doing anything: he is always reading, studying, researching, inventing, upgrading, in one word – preparing himself for some brighter better future – higher, faster, stronger, and it seems that if you stop even for a moment, if you halt as little as looking back at the lesser place from where you've come from, you'll immediately drop down into the abyss of worse, worthless, writhing worms, as Wade called it, into the miserable fate of being nothing.

I'm not that. And I've never been.

Peter looks at the running waves with watery eyes and after a dozen minutes of staring at this endless aimless movement his head is kinda heavy and dizzy as if he is carried in someone’s strong hands, lulled by the steady rhythm of steps, calmed by the voice whispering about coming home soon, to the warmth and love and hope, we are almost there, Pete, just a little longer, just that turn of the road…

And then his phone is beeping with a message… and another one. And another… Peter is jerked awake from his vague musings and opens his eyes in a dim light of a falling twilight, Wade shifts and smiles, looking upwards at him “Morning, sunshine. That for you?” Peter reaches for the phone and, oh, no, why now for chrissake? No, it’s actually cool that aunt May have decided to tell him in advance that she’s at the airport now and Jake’s driving her home, but the traffic’s very dense, so she would be home later than expected, in two or three hours… Peter groans.

“Shit! She is coming home tonight! And all the mess!... The bath is still bloody!”

Wade's rested brain wires up real quick.

“Need a ride? Parked Granny nearby,” he jumps and grabs Peter’s hand. “That way.”

Oh, as short as an hour and Wade is overly energetic again: he is running – and chatting, spewing the endless flow of words without stops or pauses. Just how one can keep enough breath to… no, no, Peter is not judgmental, but really, does he, too, sound like that sometimes? All the time?

“You know, Petey, think I’ll keep her. Need some work done, but after that she'll be swell. There is that feeling about ageing, old people or old things… Sabi, they call it in Japan… I didn't quite get it then, but now... Buckle up! She was amazing back there in Zair. Damn, I almost fell in love. I honestly start to believe there is something special in the way you see people through the scope, that clarity of perception, of course, when you need to be precise, and then the presence of death makes them all look bright and beautiful, as fragile as fleeting cherry bloom. And the death herself – the long-legged blondie… Oh, you fucking idiot, watch where you are going!”

Wade is erratic on the road and at the same time strangely focused. He is not looney or totally chaotic, but still there is something slightly askew, something unconventional in his perception of reality; it's like listening to a well-known song played on a not tuned instrument, familiar melodic patterns sound strange and haunting, you're following it further and further in a futile hope of solving the mystery, of gaining your forgotten memories back. And then you are lost in a haunted wood and a magical beast with shiny eyes is circling you, swiftly, tenderly, deadly.

“Fifteen minutes. Am I good?”

“The best. You've saved me again, Wade. There is something about you…” Peter shakes his head, unable to find the words, and just smiles. “Guess, I’m staying for the next, what, chapter?”

“Weekly issue of our fantastic comic series. Good. Sunday 8 o'clock. Don't chicken out.”

Peter unbuckles his seatbelt and looks at Wade once more, meddling, it's like the whole picture of today's evening needs some final stroke, the last touch.

Wade ruins it with a broad smile “What? Wanna give me a good bye kiss? Next time, you've already late, Cinderella.”

Peter bolts from the car, runs to his apartment, and starts doing his chores with amazing vigor, seething. And smiling. Crap, he forgot to look up the plate number on his goddamn pumpkin. Again.

Chapter Text

So there he is, on their corner, a quarter before eight, waiting and fretting. Was it worth it to get up at six o’clock, to recheck his emails like ten times, cook the breakfast and burn the coffee, eat his portion of omellette sprinkled with cinnamon powder instead of black pepper and realize it only by the last forkful, spend in shower less time than looking in the mirror and then change his clothes twice for more comfortable? No it wasn’t. And no freaking pants were comfy enough, even the brown ones, for doing what he was gonna do.

Well, at least, he had time to look at the photographs once more and plant a clumsy farewell kiss on May’s warm sleep-wrinkled cheek. He left her in a zombie-like morning state, musing over the fragrant fried eggs, and she just wished him to have a nice field trip and didn’t even come to the hallway to wave him the last good bye, poor unsuspecting woman. Peter quietly slipped out of the door feeling a slight surge of jealousy about her future life with Jake and that adopted baby.

And nevertheless, he was totally gonna do it; Wade was right about him having the exact courage to stupidity ratio for doing things like that… The hard part of today’s so-called adventure, though, was not the action itself, but this prior knowledge that you had to do it. It was not that he had doubts, no, but there was definitely some mild reluctance, some awareness… May be that was how real heroes were supposed to feel before taking any action? What Mr. Stark tried to tell him in his own self-righteous way?.. No, that’s bullshit. And Peter was doing great, during all this week having no slightest wish of calling Stark or messaging Hogan, his life finally being too busy for that.

Peter checks his mailbox one more time (at least he was not as pathetic as asking for delivery confirmation) – nothing. Is Wade showing up at all? Probably, not. Oh, who are you trying to fool, the guy just might be as reliable as a rotten chute strap or some lousy aircraft engine stuttering midair... Wrecked steel and broken pieces and not enough body parts to bury… And yet – does he want that strange dude around? He has no reasons to, actually, hasn't he learned not to… So ten more minutes and he'll leave for – for whatever his future is preparing for him. He is done with waiting for people. He really is.

Peter looks around trying to spot the car in the shallow trickle of vehicles. The city is glowing in its Sunday morning glory; the grayish shades of the night are replaced by the subtle newly-born smog, that smoothes out sharp edges of the urban landscape and makes the concrete surroundings look more habitable. Some ill-fated passers-by are hurrying to their work, the others, even more discontent and gloomy, are returning to their lonely homes after the night's morbid excessities. The drowsy hum of the early traffic is – cut by cheerful “Guten Morgen, Prinzesschen!”

“Wade! You've got it cleaned. It's nice.” Peter dives into the familiar angular atrocity. The old Buick Grand National, if Peter has deciphered “Granny” correctly, is now fresh as a forest after a heavy rain and even smells like that – ozone and herbs… and strong morning coffee, too, – there are two cups in the cardboard holder on the backseat.

“Sweet babe, ain't she?” Wade starts from the streetlight with a roar, pressing turbo and adding into the city miasmas a good amount of exhaust gases.

“Totally,” Peter lies with ease. Well, it was probably kid Wade's dream, back there, in ye olde times when muscle cars were still popular. Who is he to judge others, anyway? He is not prejudiced.

“Damn I should've driven my hybrid. You just don’t get the appeal of it, right?.. Look, this car – it's like getting to fuck your favorite childhood pornstar when you are thirty-something and finally can afford it. Still exciting and also kind of, I dunno, nostalgic, charming?.. Get it?”

“Mm…” Peter feebly agrees.

Wade side-glances him with pity.

“You modern kids don't even have favorite pornstars nowadays, right?” He shakes his head. “And can you imagine, some few hundred years from now, they've seemed to simply stop lusting after each other altogether. Trying to woo those uptight prudes is like making out with a steel bullet proof safe. Totally not fun. Er hat keine lust. They live like in a war zone, and act like fucking plastic dolls. Assholes.” Wade yawns. “Gib mir meinen Kaffee, Katzchen?”

“Which one?”

“Der normale? The other is yours.”

Wade takes a pill bottle out of one of his numerous pockets, pours some gelatin capsules in his mouth without counting and drinks them up with what seems to be latte.

Peter thanks Wade and sips his Frappuccino without enthusiasm. Talk about bias here.

“Ah, and the music. Got the stereosystem installed!” Wade smirks and starts some German girls. “You'll probably like it. True, they are no fucked-up Männerwölfe you are so fond of.”

Männerwölfe, ha, that pinpoints it, but how does he…

“How do you know I like German music?”

“Ah, it was three in the morning revelation. I was amidst a dreary dream about some medieval castle, a labyrinth of dim dungeons and cold corridors, invited to a court procedure or something... Guess, I was divorcing the bitch, – Sheila? Shiloh? Whatever, – finally, and the whole pack of her daemons and vampires, too, was about to tear me apart and then…”

Wade changes tracks on his flash drive. Quiet long atonic notes dance around each other in their lonely mourn. “That's your zen stuff, that's shakuhachi, too… another flute tune, you were absolutely right about it helping to fall asleep. I've actually fell… And once, you know, I spent dreadful few months in the mountain temple, but instead of the mind clarity… Oh, there!”

Peter's heart sinks with the sound of familiar short electronic intro… shit, had he really sent it accidentally among other tracks? “Some music that helps me to relax”, damn it!

Peter has no time to view once more his late night e-mail to Wade, when heavy guitar riff roars, filling the closed space with pulsing energy. Wade, it seems, put the volume on maximum and is now enjoying himself singing along the lines without the slightest hint of accent, good growl included.

“Feuer Frei!”

“Wade! I'm so sorry! It was...” Peter starts mumbling and he is probably inaudible, but Wade guesses anyway.

“Cupcake, it was hell of а song!” He cries with joy. I think I was dreaming I had Bertie and Reg with me at the moment!.. And I gave those infernal bitches a fucking good party, like good old times. Feuer Frei!  It should have been my theme, not those triple x. Bang! Bang! And with the new silver bullets – ah, sweet!..”

Wade again is driving on turbo, and Peter discreetly checks his seatbelt. He will die a hero and on the plane, not in this car.

“Hopefully, the dreams now will move on. You know, they might be even nice sometimes, quite rarely, though...” Wade shuts up for a quick moment, as if recollecting, but seemingly decides against sharing. He turns to Peter and tries to shout over the pulsing music. “So, how was your week?!”

“Good!!” Peter hollers.

Wade turns down the volume a bit.

“It was actually surprisingly good. You know how sometimes you pull the thread and the whole sweater got unraveled? It was like that only the other way round.”

“So you've now got an ugly sweater two month before Christmas?”

“Kind of. I've all of a sudden invited my aunt's colleague to join us for dinner and got myself another…” Wait, isn't he too optimistic here, again? “And probably got an internship. Doctor Octavius. Robotics, or, rather, bionics. At M.I.T.”

“Cool,” Wade grins. “Congrats.”

“No, that might be… just the usual nothing. And then there was that psychology… psychotherapy thing I was dreading,” Wade raises what would be his brows if not the injury. “See, my aunt dropped out of this support group a few months ago due to the busy working schedule, but she's already paid for it and she thought it was fun and helpful and, what is that their favorite word – inspirational. Yeah. Inspirational. So I had no choice but to try this. And it wasn't actually all that bad.”

Quite tolerable. And three times a week. He asked Mrs Kattner to attend on Thursdays and now have Monday evenings and Saturday mornings for… for his own business. Hopefully, May being also too busy to doubt him and recheck his real attending hours.

“Good. Anything else worth mentioning?”

Peter is overwhelmed and slightly concerned with this sudden interest to his humble persona. And not just from Wade, this whole week was – eventful, at least. Not that he is going to retell all the things to a stranger. About Harry – definitely nope, this being too close to Oscorp, to his bloody secret.

“Like what?”

“Like, well… Going with your girlfriend from the first to fifth base in one evening? Fucking your PE teacher?”

“Whaaat?” Peter's perplexion is beyond the worry about the weird direction their conversation is heading to. “No, why would I? Mister Wilson is just… ewww…”

“Really, why would you…” Wade immerses in his own thoughts, but then swings back to reality. “Mr. Wilson, huh!.. Well, you ever wanna fuck a yucky Wilson – I'm at your service.”

“Wade Wilson?”

And this time Peter got the plate number, too.

“Yeah. It totally sounds like a made up name.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Well, mine is similar... and it doesn't.”

“Let me guess… Potter?”

“Are you a fan?”

“No,” Wade is suspiciously quick to answer. “Pan?”

“Really?”

“I mean on steroids… nope? Pevensie? Not a fan, either!.. Piper? Pepper? Pirrip? Poker? Porker?”

Peter shakes his head, laughing.

“Porker, really? I'm lucky I was never called that, even in kindergarten. Close enough, though.”

“Like – Parker?”

“Yep.”

“Peter Parker, schön. An adolescent novel hero, don't argue. Or worse, comic book name. So where do you wanna do it for the first time? A nice public place or the abandoned shithole?”

“Do what?”

“Oh, don't tell me you did consider fucking as the other option... Your jump, of course. There are a few posh popular well-equipped drop zones, comfortable and crowded, with hours of waiting ahead, Wi-Fi, video-footage of the jump and free coffee. There you'll probably need a written consent of your aunt, guess, we'll have to forge it…”

“No, I've already – got it. From my aunt, of course. And the shithole?”

“Well, an abandoned air field, an old Cessna or something like. I've got all the gear we need with me, just in case. Complete anonymity, no service whatsoever, they won't even scrub you off the ground if anything goes wrong… But I will, I will, don't you worry, I'm the type who cares of his own. So, waddaya choose?”

Isn't it obvious? “The shithole?”

“Thought so. We are almost there.”

They turn on a side road and the smooth asphalt is soon replaced by gravel and then by dried dirt. The trees, which at the beginning of the track were feeble and sparse like some miserable hairs on an aging CEO temple, are now growing in thick bursts here and there, not complete wilderness yet, but not a tamed park, either. And there is no mobile network. Peter sighs and puts his phone in his backpack. It's like he is deemed to be stuck with Wade in some shitholes – of all possible places. Who would ever think that those godforsaken areas exist in close vicinity to the normal life. On the other hand, what is the normal life – that of a drug prostitute, of a wounded soldier with PTSD, of an accidentally mutated loser? No, there are no simple answers. And the forest gets darker.

“Why are we doing it at all?”

He did tell this aloud, because Wade looks at him for a few long moments.

“Stupid risky senseless things? The price for having an Y chromosome, I guess, the burden of a manhood. Second thoughts?”

Peter is determined. He was berated for not having second thoughts, he even fell from heaven's grace because of it, – so he is not, for freak’s sake, having second thoughts now, goddamit. “Never.”

Then there is a clearance, and another one, and in short time they are driving along a vast field covered in tall weeds, yellowish and bristle, and scattered bushes. A few hairclogs of rusted barbed wire stick out of the grass here and there. On the farther side of the field there is a concrete patch of a narrow runway surrounded by watch posts and an old-looking hangar. A small aircraft is standing outside, it’s propeller spinning slowly.

Wade stops the car and opens the trunk. “A mask?”

Peter shrugs.

“You don’t have it with you?!”

“Well… I told you I was gonna give this up...”

It’s laying in his backpack, of course, in the car – he doesn’t need it now, who will see him, the pilot?

“My bad, haven’t told you… Okay, let’s see… Here, have mine,” Wade hands him a worn pair of black goggles. “And remember, in this life you need protection from basically everything. Maybe except for some kinky sexual… no-no, for that, too.”

For himself Wade gets something that looks like a night vision goggles, but the different type than the one he was wearing on their first day and not like Vulture’s. It’s so not right to be interested in all that stuff, Ben hadn’t allowed Peter as much as a Swiss knife of his own and yet here he is – thrilled by all this army equipment.

“What about you? Don't you need a mask?”

“Ain't I scarier this way? As you wish, Prinzesschen.” Wade turns to a car mirror and presses a button on his collar. That’s an interesting holo projector, Peter googled it up but was not able to find anything close – might be a secret military tech. Will Wade share the info if he asks politely? Faces switch like channels on a TV: a black man, some sleek Asian dude with trendy haircut, an old Indian, a young Latin American with dreads.

“PC Prissy, damn, worse than in Hollywood nowadays, guess, there are even chicks – oh, right!..” A blue-eyed woman with blond hair and broad features winks at Peter and cooes in a made up thin voice. “Is that good, sugarcone? Know what, I once almost won a stiletto run, that was…” the images changes and now it's a man in his early fifties, with strong jaw-line and silver crew cut. His handsome square face looks pained in the mirror. He flinches then turns to Peter and smiles crookedly with lips only, sort of. “What do you think about this one?..”

“It's… He is very unlike you.”

“Right.” Wade turns off the image inducer. All of a sudden, he looks serious now. He gets Peter what seems to be a compact backpack with a chute in red and blue merry colors, odd stars here and there, pun probably intended; takes the big and worn grey one for himself, then closes the trunk and locks the car.

“You won't mind a little walk after the jump?”

“I would be happy to walk after the jump!”

Like, to be able to. Wade somehow gets that second meaning, too.

“Oh, you'll manage it, no worries. You have the best skydiving instructor in the world. Nobody had ever… I mean, I wasn't their instructor when all that… never mind! Look, we'll drop over there, and land somewhere here at three o'clock, then walk a few miles and voila, we are in our car driving back. It all will take a few hours at the most.”

Wade checks a small backpack with his personal belongings. “Guns, condoms, toilet paper – everything a man can ever need in the wild. Especially toilet paper, they always forget about it in fiction. Wanna add anything essential? No? Let's go, then. So. The first tricky thing is to get past the regular Cessna door, but I'll help you with that…”

Wade explains their actions step by step and makes Peter repeat it a few times. Then they stop and he helps Peter to put the backpack – the rig – on, checks the fasteners and turns on the device, Cypres, that will deploy the second chute in case Peter fucks up. All the gear seems to be sound and fool-proofed, and apparently brand-new. That’s reassuring.

“Ever been on a plane before?”

“Took a ride once on a private jet to Europe and back. It was all rather blurred, though…”

Wasn't in the right mind then and almost pissed his pants in excitement. Had no time to be afraid or worry about an engine failure or anything like that. But, honestly, it is usually not engines that fails you. It's people.

Wade nods. “With that mofo executive of yours? We-el, today will be different.”

It is different, indeed. As soon as the crumpled roll of bills changes hands and they get inside the old aircraft Peter is suddenly able to hear the beating of three hearts – his own rapid pulse and the static interference noise of his bloodstream over everything else, Wade's lazy reassuringly strong lub-dubs, sloppy sound of pilot's fifty-something years old muscle – and it all is wrapped in smooth strokes of engine, vibrations of plane's mechanical parts, the sound of the propeller tearing through the calm air, the rustling of the running wheels... And then the murmur of the rubber on the concrete is gone – and they are airborne. The ground quickly becomes more and more distant and yet the sight is so bright and clear, it seems Peter is able to count – at first all the boulders on the edge of the runway, then all the trees surrounding the field, the tiny houses on the horizon. And then they are so far above that the thin veil of haze starts to hide the details. The cloud of greyish fumes, that is NYC, is visible at five o'clock. The sky is blue and clear and very empty.

Wade lets go of his palm – oh, just when had that hand-holding thing happened? and thank god his sticky fingers didn't get out of control – wraps his hand around Peter’s shoulder and leans closer to show the direction and repeat the instructions one more time. Their destination is a tiny spot far far below. The hairs on the back of Peter's neck stand up and his breathing quickens. Wade squeezes his shoulder lightly and it is not helping much.

“Peter, it's at its ceiling, fourteen thousand. All cool in the pool? Let's go?”

He sounds almost tender. Peter nods.

Wade stands up, slides the unoccupied front seat forward, barks the instructions to their pilot and when the plane takes turn to the right pushes the door open with one hand, the other hand is on the door frame, and smiles at Peter.

“Go, go, go!..”

Carefully, as to not get entangled in belts, straps and toggles Peter ducks under Wade's hand and before stepping out into the nothingness hears his inaudible excited whisper:

“Spring für mich, spring ins Licht, spring.”

So Peter jumps. And his breath is immediately taken away, because the fall is – flight-like, serene, ecstatic. The empty air holds him, hugs him softly, carries him like strong loving hands. He was born exactly for this, his body adjust easily into the right position, he is so confident and calm that after a few long moments carefully tries to move, rotate. The sky and the ground change places, Peter sees the tiny plane flying away and a small human figure – Wade, and the air whooshes around, the sun is shining in his eyes, the wind is piercing and merry. He laughs. He cries with joy. Something inside him unleashes, he moves more freely, goes into a few slow deliberate somersaults, dives head down, rotates again, then stabilizes himself into a plain belly-flying. The speed is incredible and the ground is already pretty close.

Wade is flying some hundred feet apart with a toothy grin and thumbs up, he is making a sign for canopy deployment. Peter pulls the handle and counts waiting for the snatch. And, damn it, he does embarrass himself: the moment he feels the pull the muscles in his arms and wrists get tense involuntarily and the sticky wetness oozes from his glands into long sleeves of his parka. This time it is not a big deal, though, and definitely better than a stiffy in a public place; anyway, it will dry up by the time of landing. So he relaxes and glides peacefully towards the field, the thicket – just where they are gonna land? Wade's chute is bigger so he is still floating above.

Well, Peter just lets it go and with a little steering done lands on a nearby small field. He unfastens the rig and tears off the goggles, and lies down on a smooth red-blue nylon fabric, looking up at the sky, inhaling the rich warm smell of dried grass. Wade waves at him, still gliding under his grey canopy, lands nearby, walks to Peter and lays down by his side. They just stare up for a while into the high autumn sky with slow milky clouds. It's difficult to believe they were flying over there mere minutes ago. Only this stinging, singing, overwhelming sensation in his chest proves that the flight was real.

Still ecstatic in the afterglow of the adrenaline rush Peter lazily turns his head – and it's like he sees, notices Wade's eyes for the first time. They are bright blue and so close he could distinguish the pattern of pigmentation: myriads of thin interweaving lines fall into wells of perfect blackness; two pulsating black holes, expanding, sucking in blue nebulas.

Then Wade blinks and they both as on a signal move into sitting positon, Peter turns away and secretly checks his wrists, clean and inconspicuous by now, and Wade pats his pockets and eats some more of his pills.

“So, how was it, good?”

“Intense.”

Wade grins.

“Peter the boy wonder. That was incredible. You attend a ballet school?”

The bliss never lasts long. Peter floats back to his senses.

“Uhm… you mean the…  that's nothing, really. Was born like this.”

Wade waves his hand.

“Yeah, I’ve got it about being born that way, it's totally okay with me, been there, done that. You are a great guy, anyway. But I mean the movements? Where have you learned to move like that?”

What’s wrong with being born flexible? Does he need another excuse?

“Nowhere. It just came naturally,” Peter’s mind finally wires up. “A few years ago, though, I attended some yoga lessons, guess, it helped.”

It only helped his aunt to realize that Peter was as agile and flexible as an old log, and had no slightest active desire to change that, so probably he was better off crouching over his books and circuit boards than going into sports. And she left him alone with it. But he did attend yoga classes for about a month, so technically it's truth, sort of.

“Damn! The yoga classes. I should've joined it with Al, when I had the chance…” Wade is silent for a short moment. “Well, if the legs are not wobbly anymore – the boring part, packing…”

Peter’s legs are still a bit weak, but he complies. Wade shows him the basics and expertly packs his own chute, too quick for Peter to remember, so he doesn’t even put any efforts in his half-assed tries with his star-spangled canopy.

“No-no, you hold it like this, see? No, the other way! And this shit goes in with that shit… Oh, give it to me already!.. Yeah, this whole skydiving business is like teenage sex, millennia of freaking out before, tons of issues after, and just a few minutes of glory in-between.”

No, Wade just can't keep his witty observations to himself. Peter is sometimes like that, too, it's true, but at least he is always decent, so he has a right to snap at the stupid joke.

“Yeah, that’s the very reason why we are not doing it anymore nowadays. So all that talk is kinda lost on me, y’know.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Wade yawns.

He rummages through his belongings, finds a bottle of water, drinks like half of it with big greedy gulps and puts it back, takes out the tough little guy and shoves it into the inner pocket of his army jacket and hands the backpack out to Peter. “Okay, now it weights almost nothing. So you take the strategic stock of toilet paper, I’ll carry the rigs. Iku zo.”

And without waiting for Peter he turns around and starts strolling light-footedly towards the trees.

The tall figure in green camouflage walking away. The recollection is as sharp and sudden as the surge of pain in Peter's chest. For a second or so Peter is on the verge of holding out his hands, and running along to catch up with the tall man, and calling out to him… “Dad”, he whispers. “Dad…” And just like twelve years ago his dad would stop, and walk back to him, pick him up and carry all the way home where his mom is waiting for them. “Richard! Peter is so… look, he is almost asleep, I'll put him to bed. Come here, dear...” The strong hands are holding him and mom’s touch is so soft and warm… the wooden stairs are creaking when dad carries him to his bedroom. “Mommy, we didn’t kill any birds today,” he confesses before falling asleep, “cuz dad fired and fired at the sky, ‘twas so loud, and he missed all the time. The geese flew away… Dad’s a bad shot and can’t teach me… Maybe granpa can?.. There were so many birds, thousands of them, and they all flew away…”. Mom tousles his hair and kisses him, and there is wetness on his face. “Mom?” “Good night, Pete. I love you so much… And someday we will fly away, too, and will live in a nice house together, all four of us.” “And you and dad will never go away again?” “Never, I promise.” And he is calm and comfortable, drifting into the tender darkness, smelling of gunpowder and pine needles and old wood.

Wade is standing on the far side of the field, waving at him, what was brows before the massive injury arched in an impatient question. Thankfully, it is too far for him to see Peter’s face. Peter waves back and starts walking slowly, well, he has more than four hundred feet to put himself together, he’ll manage. Wade leans on a tree, hands crossed, waiting.

There is the water in the backpack. Peter decides against washing his probably already puffed eyes and drinks some – the taste in his mouth is unbearably bitter. Apparently, aunt May was right about fast-food being bad for his pancreas… or wasn’t she? Peter makes another slow sip. Is it – is it the water? Wade waves and gesticulates enthusiastically. Peter irritatedly quickens his pace, trot, trot to Boston…

“Hey!” He is finally here “Sorry, got stuck in my thoughts.”

“Hey, that’s mine!” Wade grabs the bottle. “Just – ask next time. You okay?”

“Are sports drinks supposed to taste like that? That bitter?”

“No,” Wade smirks. “But molly is.”

“What?”

“Molly. MDMA? Aren’t you major in chemistry? Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.”

“A drug?!”

“Ecstasy. Hey, it's legal!”

“Holy sh..”

“Holy molly, yep.”

“…shit! Shit, and that time in this freaking pussy? Does it mean I was high since the last Sunday? This whole week?” Peter groans. “Am I high right now?”

“Dunno. You are the chemist here,” Wade evaluates him. “You look pretty normal to me. I usually use horse dosages, though. And it has, like, afterglow. Feel warm and fuzzy?”

“Shit! And you didn't even warn…”

“Look, you were all too quick to grab and drink other people’s stuff. Like, without permission. That first time in the car when I offered the bottle – offered it myself, mind you, it was plain water…”

“But in the bar – you might have told me after!..”

“There is no sense in telling something after. Besides, it did no harm.”

“Ah, so your questions about my well-being…” Peter once more had a recollection of the eventful week. Damn! And he was wondering how did he manage to achieve all that – that's how...

Wade tries to point out the good things.

“Well, at least, you haven't fucked wrong Wilson. Nothing unrepairable, right? On the contrary…” Wade shakes the bottle. “Want some more?”

“Of course not,” Peter is firm. “We don’t have pure water, do we?”

Wade opens the side pocket of the backpack and offers a small bottle and a chocolate bar.

“I’m stupid,” Peter sighs. “Thanks.”

“I still like your attitude: jump first, think later. And you never told you were afraid of flying. You just did it. That was cool.”

“I’m not afraid of flying per se, I’m just too aware of possible crushing,” the last piece of chocolate melts in his mouth and he washes it down with nice fresh water. Yet some acidic bitterness is still eating him from the inside. “I was at the cemetery yesterday. Double headstones, the same final date… And they didn’t even find them – the bodies. They were reported as missing, and we lived like that for half a year and then get it all – the news, the empty graves. It's bullshit – to have a grave…” Peter crushes and folds the empty bottle in his hands till it's a crumpled ball of plastic, then puts it in the backpack pocket. “But thanks für der Sprung. It was cool.  Let’s go?”

Chapter Text

Wade walks through the wood easily, effortlessly bypassing tree branches and bushes, threading between occasional hummocks and stones like it’s a nice pavement, stepping over fallen trunks without even slowing his pace. His movements are full of lazy fluidity of an aboriginal.

Peter, who despite his spider senses and all that good balance is really trying here not to stumble and is extremely aware of every living obstacle on his way, crawling root and slapping branch, is, firstly, awed by Wade’s innate familiarity with the wilds, and, secondly, envious. So the question slips without much consideration.

“Have you ever hunted?”

“Animals? No, never.”

The answer has some very unpleasant after-taste of untold implications, so Peter is kinda glad when Wade continues to talk, filling this bottomless pit with words and words and words.

“Dunno why. Pitied the poor things, I guess. But I like fishing. When I was a kid we used to catch trout and pike, sometimes cod. It was nice to go camping for a day or two in summers. And once I talked my friend into running away, he gave up on the second day of freedom and I lived alone for more than a week in an old fishing hut before breaking the rod, losing all my hooks and finally running out of food. Also strained my leg.” Wade holds a tree branch to free the pass for Peter. “Thought my father would beat me to death, but no, when I showed up on the porch he didn’t even turn off the TV or put aside his beer, didn’t even fucking look at me, just hollered into my back that I have to clean the house, cuz it was Saturday… and lashed out only later when I shattered some stupid vase in the process… A fucking garage sale vase, neighbors’ present! And he never noticed that I took the only mom’s photo with me on the run…” He breaks another branch that is in their way. “Guess, to have a true adventure, I should’ve stowed away on a boat and get to the mainland.”

“You grew up on an island?”

“Nah, lived there only for a couple of years. Newfoundland.”

“Wow.” All Peter can answer, trying to imagine the northern shores, vast spaces, icebergs in winter and miles after miles of golden moss with running herds of reindeer in summer. That sounds like Wade was raised on a different planet.

They co-exist on different planes of reality.

“I get it, you are New York City boy?”

“Yep. Spent only a year in the countryside. My parents had to travel a lot because of their work, some import-export business, so I lived with my grandparents in Marienville, Pennsylvania, when I was four. Few dozens of isolated houses, every single neighbor older than me and the most noticeable thing was a state penitentiary.”

Wade nods, maybe agreeing that it’s indeed dull, or maybe stating that he is well-aware of the existence of this institution. Peter decides against asking – he is not at all that curious, not when the ground is so shaky

“By the way, there are some ruins nearby,” Wade waves a hand, “Either a military facility, nuclear bunkers, or an old prison… Built during the cold war and now abandoned. Wanna see?”

“Let’s go. Ruins are terrific”, Peter decides. Yay, it’s ruins week. His palm clenches as if he is still trying to hold on to Harry for dear life. Well, since it’s not an abandoned port crane this time, nothing can probably go wrong. He trots obediently after Wade, staring at his broad back and long legs moving evenly, military boots stepping soundlessly at just right places.

He knows that – stature, figure, uniform. He remembers it now clearly. To ask or not to ask...

“You know what, Wade...”

“Mm…”

“No, that's silly…”

“What? Spill it!..” Wade doesn't slow down his pace, though.

“You… you’ve reminded me of my father and… no, drop it!”

Wade stops at full speed – so that Peter almost bumps into the rigs – and turns back to look at him in mocking horror.

“What?... No! No-no-no! I'm sorry, I really am... you are a great kid… But I’m not your father, Luke! It’s already filled. Last months I’ve checked every single possibility and recounted all billions of spermziods spilt and there is just no way…”

“What?” Peter laughs. “No, man, not that!.. god, that would've been… I was gonna ask you about the uniform…”

“Oh… Stormtroopers outfit?”

Peter raises his hands and touches Wade’s shoulders. If he closes his eyes he can almost invoke this snuggle feeling, the sensation of the rough fabric under his fingertips.

“It’s military?”

“Kind of… Army combat uniform… But they are easy to buy. You want one?”

“I remember my dad wearing one…” He slowly trails with his palms Wade’s arms and chest. “There should be some signs here, and here, too… embroidered letters…”

“Yeah… Insignias… name, rank and branch tabs…” Wade clears his throat. His heartbeat is so strong it’s almost vibrating through Peter’s palm. “What branch he was in?”

Peter steps back and shakes his head.

“The thing is – he was a civilian. May be it was grandpa’s – he served in Vietnam.”

“Maybe. But those old unis were different. Saw it a lot on my sorry fuck of a father...” Wade resumes his walk. “But you know what, there are databases, archives, so if your dad ever served – with the full name and the exact date of birth you can found the information for sure.”

Right. Peter nods. He doesn’t even need to hack anything – can make an official request, in pursuit of those vague memories. Maybe it’s something unnecessary now, like that suitcase under his bed. Just some things of the past. Facts and numbers that are not in play anymore.

Few years after they had learned that Peter’s mom and dad not just went missing, but had died in an airplane accident, he had those dreams – it was an airless space, cold and transparent, and he saw his lost family – sometimes only two of them, other times three, they were floating away, faces calm, limbs limp, sometimes his mom or dad did as little as waved at him, a tiny gesture in his direction, and despite his desperate efforts and voiceless cries – or maybe because of it – he couldn’t reach them, space around them getting dimmer and more dense and obscure with his every try to get closer, till he finally couldn’t distinguish them at all, waking in terror, gasping for breath. May usually gave him warm milk, and hugged him and tucked back in bed. He never could explain to her what had scared him so much.

He was haunted by those things then. He no longer is. Still, he can look for the information.

“Yeah… Thanks, Lord Wade.”

“That’s Dark Lord of the Sith Wade for you, flyboy.”

“Flyboy? I thought I was quite the opposite.”

“Crawlboy? Nah, you should’ve seen yourself flying. Do some sport, really, you’ll be super-good at it.”

Chatting and joking they make it to the woods edge, and there it is.

In the middle of a greyish field of dried grass surrounded by concrete fence with tangled strands of barbed wire there is a ruined concrete building three or four stores tall, one side almost completely collapsed, two other walls still standing. And in the middle of it two wide rusty girders, not less than thirty feet each, intertwined, bended by an immense force, tower above the abandoned place.

“Wow! That’s… impressive.”

Wade nods and starts to walk slowly towards the broken gates. Peter follows.

“You don’t have a camera? I left my phone in the car. Terrific sight!”

Wade shakes his head.

“Pity… What do you think it was? A prison? A plant? A testing ground?”

“A bit of everything…”

They go inside the fence. There are debris here and there with rusted rebars sticking out, a few smaller bunkers and low buildings are scattered around the big ruin, some caved in, others intact.

Wade drops the rigs under the wall.

“How old could it be? Fifty years? Or less?”

“As old as mankind,” Wade climbs the pile of concrete rubble to the spiraling corroded beams. “It have been like that since 2000.”

“Oh, how do you know?”

“Wild guess.” Wade stands there and stares at the horizon. Against the clear sky the place looks like a weird memorial to a lost war. Peter can’t do anything but try to memorize the shot he will never do.

“Let’s take a look around?”

“I know why you wanna hate me,” Wade descends down in two big jumps. “I know why you wanna hate me.”

Peter furrows his brows.

“Cause hate is all the world has even seen lately,” Wade pats him on the shoulder. “Old doesn’t mean outdated, okay?..”

They go into one of the smaller houses, inside there are rooms with plaster falling down and pieces of glass scrunching under their feet, a pair of rotten chairs and broken tables, a few empty metal file cabinets with boxes pulled out.

Then they try one of the bunkers – its’ metal door is jammed and Wade uses all his strength to pull it open. It’s dark inside and smells of mold and some thirty feet down the damp corridor the ceiling is collapsed and they can’t go further.

“Well, nothing really interesting…” Wade shrugs, squinting his eyes in the daylight.

“Wade, look!” Peter points at what had been a military vehicle squashed and twisted as if by a giant robot, the car is so rusty and old that couple of short trees grew through the broken metal. “I wonder what happened here?”

“Some shit went wrong. Speaking of which…” Wade takes the backpack from Peter and gets a roll of toilet paper. “I suggest we split up and you go search through that building on the left and I explore what is on the other end. Will meet near that autobot’s corpse.”

“Okay.” Peter watches Wade quickly hiding behind the concrete wreckage and walks to the suggested building. It’s half destroyed, and what is left has been seemingly damaged by a fire. Grass and low shrubs and young trees grow among the piles of rubble, covering them little by little, taking back what once was their space. If only he had a phone with him or a camera – time would fly in a moment! Peter wanders around, waiting for Wade. Some broken pieces look like parts of ancient devices, and here is an old bullet case.

He returns to their small backpack and waits there some more. Finally, he picks it up and resolutely marshes in the direction Wade disappeared. The place is so desolated and quiet that his enhanced hearing doesn’t help much – only the wind rustles in the leaves and – Peter turns his head abruptly to the source of a barely audible sound – and a tiny sparrow-Iike bird looks at him with its beady eyes and then flies to another small tree. He himself is making more noise walking on all this remnants of human civilization.

There is no even a slightest movement except trembling of bushes and grass. Wade is not visible through the broken windows of two other low buildings, but Peter still gets closer to check. One of the buildings he can see through and it is indeed empty. The other has on it a strange sign painted with a black color that is now faded to rusty – something like a double spiral of a DNA. Peter hastily walks through it – might have been living quarters back then, some rotten rags and mattresses, gas masks, a few ravaged med kits. No Wade either.

The sun is still high and it’s difficult to say in what direction the car or at least the road is. Peter looks around once more – the only things left unexplored are some debris on the right and a high round hill, maybe too round to be a nature’s creation. When Peter approaches it from the backside he sees that it is, indeed, another bunker and spots a white roll of toilet paper near the rusty door. Well. That’s something.

The metal doorframe is bended and the door is stuck all too well, Peter pulls it to no avail. With his spider-strength he could probably break it open, but it doesn’t look like Wade used the door. Peter jumps on the top of the bunker and – bingo! – among tufts of grass and dried-up moss there is a recently opened hatchway. He glimpses inside into the narrow shaft that goes straight down for ten feet, then there is a kicked down vent grid and then the shaft turns. Was Wade like a cat able to squeeze through that? Apparently. There are fresh prints on the concrete dust. Detective Parker kicks off his beaten sneakers, dust the soles with a sleeve, stuffs them in the backpack, put it on his front and slowly crawls inside.

The shaft leads to a concrete tunnel ten feet high, on one end of it there are stairs leading to the jammed door on the surface and in the opposite direction there are rows of cells without doors on both sides. Peter’s eyes adjust soon and he moves forward without hurry, peeking from the ceiling in every doorframe he is crawling by – smaller and bigger cells are stuffed with rugs, gas masks, rotten plastic suits, broken kits with biohazard signs… Some had twisted metal bed frames or metal tables. In one spacious cell there is heavy construction on the ceiling with broken huge LED lamps. Were there other equipment present Peter would call it a surgery room – a strange thing to have it down here, underground…

Then the tunnel turns to the right and Peter crawls to the comparatively big hall with a big pile of bend metal doors blown off their hinges and broken furniture pieces. And Wade is here in the far corner kneeled beside something.

Peter retreats back behind the corner. He’s found the man. Now he can discreetly return to the surface and wait there or… Oh, there are always those second or third options in his life… Or. That’s called intuition, not stupidity.

So Peter hesitantly calls: “Wade? Wade, you here?” and jumps down with a loud bang. Wade has this Glock with him. Maybe he is not a murderous guy that will shoot immediately in the direction of the slightest noise, but Peter just doesn’t want to startle him, get a bullet through his skull and be disappointed in the man even further.

“Peter?”

Wade is in the middle of the hall by the time Peter slowly turns a corner. Tiny infrared led lights of Wade’s goggles glow like spider-eyes. He holds no gun indeed.

“Why haven’t you waited?..”

Peter shrugs “Dunno. A magic roll of toilet paper just led me here…”

“Oh, you’ve come here looking for me? Was worried about old Wade? Sweetcakes.” Wade pats Peter on the shoulder. “And took the backpack, too! Swell. A flashlight will be handy. It’s as black as Fury’s uptight ass…” Wade takes the backpack and the first thing he founds there are, of course – oh!.. “Oh!..” Peter can’t see his eyes behind the goggles, but may swear they are bulging. Wade looks at the sneakers and then on Peter’s feet in socks. “Do you always take off your shoes before, you know, entering foul dirty unknown places?..”

“I… I was afraid to make too much noise”. Peter leans on the wall and puts his sneakers on. Well, nobody can calculate everything.

“Course you’ve made noise, Cinderella! Stumbling in the dark like that. Next time…”

Wade turns on the flashlight. Peter closes his eyes aching from the bright light.

“Next time just be honest and tell me to stay the fuck away. I’ll understand.”

“No, you won’t.” Wade smirks. “And that’s the most awesome thing about you, kiddo. Maybe it will get you killed one day, but, well… Don’t’ let others bullshit you. Come, there is another passage over there. Watch where you step.”

The sight is even more terrible when quavering flashlight reveals the details of destruction: bended sheets of metal, rusty bars sticking out of the walls as if pulled out by some brutal force.

“What happened here? Some kind of explosion? Was it a lab?”

“MuLF happened, I guess… Some assheaded mutants got the shit fucked outta them.”

“I… I don’t quite get it.”

“Good for you. Do you remember, I mean, you’ve heard maybe about that guy who in 2000 almost crushed a stadium on the White House?”

“It was…” Peter hesitates. Unlike Ned or MJ he was never into politics. Kennedy stadium? It wasn't in school program. Has Ned told him? Or maybe he read it on the internet or printed in some footnote in microscopic letters. It wasn't widely mentioned in the books, either, due to the Antiterrorist law. “Wasn’t it a terrorist attack?”

“Yeah, right. They classified it like that after the fucker stopped half-way and later got caught… So that year right after he’d fucked everything up they renewed the old military program – like with super-soldier serum, only they experimented with human genome… Controlled mutations.”

“But that’s…That’s illegal in the most countries! It can’t be true.”

“Believe me, since 2000 there were dozens of secret labs created all over the world… Some were destroyed by Mutant Liberation Front till this magnetic guy get a plastic bullet through his brain few years later, some had accidents and got closed… But I could bet my head there are still plenty around, even here in the country, though mostly they are outsourced now like all other mass-consumption shit – in Asia, Middle East… The USSR has their program running since 1930s and never stopped for a day.”

“I dunno.” That craziness sounds exactly like the yellow press Ned is so fond of. It might have been one of The Daily Bugle favorite themes, alongside with aliens, fabricated elections and huge military spendings. Except that mutations and genetic engineering are not on the media for whatever reason. And Peter did research everything available during this year: so far there were successful experiments on mice and, well, spiders. “Wade, how do you know it’s the truth? I mean, there is this place. And your guess. But we don’t know for sure what’s happened back then or what is happening now. It’s not that people suddenly go missing or anything.”

“Blessed are those who believe… You what, think I’m making this up?”

“N-no…”

Wade is obviously experiencing one of his mood swings again. Peter is not sure amphetamines are any good for curing whatever it is that Wade suffers from.

Wade gives the backpack and flashlight to Peter and tries to open the small wooden door in the corner of the hall.

“Shit!” he swears, when a protruding nail scratches his hand. “Look at this!.. Every fucking nail were moved!... With that power! And he got half of his kind killed, the fucking cunt. Lost everything. And you normal folks should thank him for your free nationwide DNA sequencing program. Stand back!..”

Wade kicks the door with his leg full force and it goes off its hinges.

He spats; then bends and squeezes himself through the narrow doorframe. Peter follows. Behind is a high chamber with pipes and valves and rotten cables.

“You see, you don’t negotiate with a bigger force. He shoulda dropped it on those fuckers! A cornered rat has at least a slim chance if it fights back fiercely. A collaborator will never stand one.”

“Wade, that’s terrorism you are talking about!”

“Terrorism, huh?!” Wade turns abruptly, he towers above Peter, teeth bared. They stare at each other during long ringing moments and Peter senses with his skin how Wade’s fists clench and muscles tighten, how his own body is getting ready to strike. Then Wade huffs and everything is getting away like an air from a punctured balloon. “That’s life, kiddo.”

Wade backs off, his unfocused gaze wanders around the room, not staying on anything for too long.

“There are DNA tests now, a surveillance network with a full coverage in the next few years… In 2021 the second amendment went down the drain, and even the skyrocketed prices tasted somewhat sour…” Wade closes his eyes, his voice is even. “And in 2022 they almost agreed upon putting a personal chip on everyone, half of the senate was supporting the Kelly law. The next century was full of violent conflicts and ended up in a war between muties and normies. Bright future, indeed.”

The right thing now is to ask about the time, state it’s late and suggest to go back. It’s not PTSD. It’s probably not MDMA either. The guy is obviously unwell in psychiatric department. And the idea to stay together in this tiny closed space for any longer…

“Weeeel…” Wade points at the vent shaft twenty feet above them and looks straight at Peter, smiling crookedly. “Still wanna go further with me?”

Peter puts the backpack on and hands the flashlight to Wade.

“Do I have options?”

“Always.” Wade assures him, extending a hand, probably wanting to help him to climb those pipes. “But only if you fight for it.”

“No, thanks.” Peter mutters. He jumps and climbs the rusty pipes hastily, all be damned, slips into the vent shaft then watches how Wade expertly climbs up in a few seconds without even breaking the old fittings and falling down and cracking his crazy skull, bastard.

They crawl forward. Is Wade staring at his, well, back, right now? Can a person, like, feel a stare? Wade whistles.

“What?”

“Are you even old enough to take the test, Luke?”

“Of course! You freaking ageist!”

“This year?”

“Took it last year!” He got the first one of the series of obligatory National Health Tests on regular schedule, right after his fourteenth birthday. Then the spider bitch bit him exactly three weeks later. And Peter was already badly sick, probably with the virus, if it was the case of his mutation, when the results came through in the end of September, the black ants of numbers and percent were running all over the sheet, green snake logo wriggling and eyeing him mockingly. He was all right, the test stated. Yet he obviously wasn’t.

“And? Imperia or rabid rebels? Imperia, of course.”

Rabid rebels, asshole. Spidery spies. No. Those are delusional mind-fuck games. Trash magazines’ stuff – mutants, secrete surveillance… Sure, DNAnalyse Med is somehow affiliated with the government – but that’s for money, the idea that it could be used for – no, just no.

“Wade, those are ordinary medical tests! Believe it or not. Risks of hypertonia and type two diabetes. No genetic disorders found.”

“At least, it can prevent cancer and shit.” Wade growls.

“We are almost through.” Peter warns him. The shaft opens into another wide whatever it is – a passage, a room?.. He peeks out, looking around. Wade lifts the flashlight. Peter’s own giant shadow darkens the view, no spider vision nor human one being able to adjust yet. “It looks like the ceiling is collapsed. There is no way through… Oh!..” Peter fells silent. Right down beneath the wall…

“What? A dead-end? Are we turning back? Peter? Pete? Ground control to Major Parker!”

“Wade.” He whispers. “There is a corpse.”

He jumps down and gets closer. Crouched against the wall there is a skeleton, size of a small child. Wade’s distant flashlight makes shadows look deeper, so the pits of empty eye sockets are very black and the bones are very white, and the rotten rags are of dull indistinct color. Half of his teeth are missing and he has no shoes. The tiny bones of his toes lay scattered on the ground.

Wade swears under his breath and jumps down, too. The circle of light dances around, exposing crashed walls, dirty floor, a battered chair under the shaft opening.

Wade bends down, picks something up and hands it to Peter. Startled, Peter makes a muffled sound and is about to withdraw his hand, but what Wade’s giving him is not a bone – it’s a thick plastic tag with Δ-05 engraved on it.

They stay there in silence.

“So, that’s a dead-end.” Wade finally says. “Back to the world?”

He presses the flashlight in Peter’s free hand, walks closer to the chair as if wanting to stand on it, but then simply leaps, hangs onto the shafts edge, pulls himself up and crawls inside without turning back.

Peter stares at this goddamn chair for a while. If he was a normal teenager, he would probably have to stand up on it and then jump to reach the shaft. And after a few tries he would’ve succeeded unlike the…

He glimpses at the curled up skeleton once more. From that angle a part of the skull, round and accurate, looks slightly different in color. Was it from a brain surgery? He is not curious anymore to get a proper look.

If he was a giant monster full of rage and hate he might have cried so loudly that all the walls would fall down and the whole place would be razed to the ground. But he is just a little spider.

He climbs up the wall.

Wade is waiting for him on the pile of twisted doors. Near the last vent shaft that leads to the surface he squats.

“Climb on my shoulders. Circus time.”

While Peter just stands here Wade hurries him up. “What? Can you do it on your own?” So Peter does as he is told and Wade straightens up and pushes him higher and Peter awkwardly climbs into the shaft. Damn, this pretending is even worse than school PE. But he may look pretty realistic if Wade is so eager to help.

When they finally are outside, vile underground air washed away by the fresh wind, Wade closes the hatch door then rakes some moss and soil over it with his boots.

“Sleep well, girl, nobody will ever bother you."

“Why do you think it was a girl?”

“Maybe a boy… Dunno. See, men are usually expendable, milk them if needed, try this and that, then when he’s done, incinerate the body and start with the next one. While with women – they like to have a supply of oocytes handy... And we are still hundreds years away from an artificial uterus. Women are the soil and the blood of these butcher facilities...”

That still sounds like a delirium of yellow journalism. A lot of mental illnesses cause paranoia among other symptoms… Yet the little skeleton... Peter squeezes the tag in his pocket.

“How have you learned about all this?”

“As I always do – the hard way, kiddo. You? Google it up. Sneak into some government sites… Ask questions. Compare the facts. Well, if you need to know it, of course. It’s more dangerous than drug dealing business.”

They return to their rigs and swiftly walk back the way they come. Peter stumbles and lets a few tree branches to slap him in the face. Whatever.

“Is she still in the hospital?” Wade suddenly asks.

“N-no. Her mom took her home last week…But how…”

Peter has never told anyone about what happened at the party, about Louise. Wade just can’t know… Then it hits Peter that of course Wade is talking about the other girl!

“Oh, you mean the prostitute girl!..”

“Melly. Being a prostitute doesn’t define her, as you assured me earlier.” Wade sneers.

“Yeah, sure, I just…   Wade, I don’t’ know her, we are not friends or something… I’ve seen her once or twice… like total strangers aren’t probably allowed to visit…”

“What’s her full name?”

“Melissa Ramos.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

“Where is she from?”

“Mexico.”

“And you are telling me you can’t forge a driver license of, say, some Mexican guy Gabriel Ramos, her cousin?”

Peter is appalled.

“Do I look like a young delinquent?” Not to say – a Mexican one…

“No,” Wade shakes his head. “But you act like one. And anyway, there are always windows. If I were a cat-burglar I would totally take you into the business.”

“But… She doesn’t even know me…”

“Well, if you wimp out now, she’ll never have the chance to know you. You like her, right? Then check up on her… It’s better than all your sterile Tinder relationships. That’s real.”

Peter can’t quickly think of any witty retorts to this arrogant guru bullshit, so he resorts to subtle insults.   

“You are just too old to understand social media and new communication strategies.”

“Bite me.”

Well, maybe he was not that subtle. Besides, Wade probably wishes him well with all those unasked for advices. Then it dawns on Peter.

“Wait, is that what you are doing?”

“What?”

“Checking up on me…”

“Just look closely at this thing, see?” Wade points out some kind of a bird making wide circles over the trees.

“Yeah? It’s… What’s that?”

“It’s a flying fuck I don’t give for your fucking well-being.”

Peter watches the small bird hovering over the haunted wood. From over there it perhaps can see not only the two of them walking towards their car, but also the airfield with the old Cessna and the mutant girl’s enormous grave. The thin air holds the bird just as it held Peter – tenderly, reassuringly.

Peter catches up with Wade and brushes his hand against Wade’s in a fleeting touch, without thinking, without meaning anything. Well, maybe meaning some kind of a thank you, but for what, really? All this is just too… whatever.

“But for real… What is it?”

Wade smiles.

“A kestrel.”

They walk the last mile in silence and after crossing another small field they are on the road; Granny is parked a few hundred feet away.

“You nickname all your possessions?”

“Only the most precious ones, Prinzesschen. Get in the car.”

“So what have you decided about visiting your honey?”

“Maybe you are right. I’ll check up on her.”

Wade rummages through his backpack, really staring there with no attention to the road and barely holding the wheel with one hand. And who knows how many Wades are out there on the roads, driving freely. Peter silently gives an oath to always fasten the belt and never break the speed limit when he’ll get the license. And yeah, speaking of which, it’s interesting how he is supposed to forge one? Robotics class has 3d printer, but now thanks to him, personally, it has cameras, too.

“Wade, maybe if you could help me with the license I’ll be able to visit her earlier, like tomorrow?”

“Deal. Send me the photos tonight. The nudes will do. Need help with locating her?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Well, maybe I won’t manage to hack Pentagon yet, but some local police network… Phew.”

“Cool. My bestie hacked NASA once.”

“Wow. Is he still free?”

“Nah. He is mine. Though if you want a piece of his mind… Which shit do you use for messaging and calls?”

“Hm… the anonymous ones?” Peter actually has several apps for his own reasons.

“Try this.” Wade sends him a file via Bluetooth. “My pal created it for secure calls.”

While Peter is installing the app – is he sure that it’s from a trusted source? Nope, not in the slightest – Wade finally founds what he was looking for – a doll. A pretty doll in some national long dress with bright yellow-blue-red skirt.

“For the girl.” He gives it to Peter. “They have good child psychologists, she gonna be all right after a while.”

Peter puts away the doll and stares in his phone.

“Should I type my account name here?”

“Yep. Mine is WWW.”

“Have you mistyped XXX, really? Mine will be Webs, then.”

“Skynet got us hooked.” Wade tinkers with his phone and his name shows on Peter’s app screen. “That’s it. I hope my genius set it up right this time and I won’t get six-digit number bill from Uganda like the last month.”

They chat a little on their way back, but mostly listen to the music. Wade has a strange assortment on his flash drive, now with some German songs, too. At the sound of “Ohne dich” he is about to change the track, but Peter asks to let it play. Wade quietly sings along the lines, his voice surprisingly deep and strong, and Peter looks away in the window.

When Peter walks home, May is already cuddling on the sofa with her favorite raccoon pillow and a mug of gluhwein, flipping through the channels. Oil prices, Dow-Jones index and assassination of Venezuelan president dominate the news for the past few days. No, they’d better choose some movie for dinner. There was a soundtrack on Wade's drive…

“How was your field trip? Had fun?” She looks up at him “Oh, my...”

“Too much fun.” Peter grins. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken wok and roasted pork. But go take a shower first. Peter, you have cobwebs in your hair!”

“Not only in my hair! And we walked like twenty miles. Climbed all kind of things.”

When he undresses in the bathroom they fell from his pocket – the bullet case and the plastic tag. He sneaks into his room and hides them in his “things-of-the-past” suitcase.

Chapter Text

While the movie is uploading (Pete, I can't believe we are doing it… Should've taught you better. – May, it's a rare thing, you can't buy it anyway. Think of it like we are borrowing it. – From a blocked site? – You know what MJ says? People's opinion cannot be blocked, art cannot be blocked, too. She told the art was freeing. Think she is right?.. I don't see it like that), Peter, his hair still wet from the shower, tries to make a good shot of himself.

“How can I look older?”

He changes his t-shirt for buttoned shirt. Then puts on Harry's give-away black blazer. Shuffles his hair. Combs it forward and then backwards.

May is watching him with amused eyes.

“Peter, you don't need to look older, do you? You look all right.”

“May. If I'm gonna make it this year, and I sure am, I don't wanna look like the youngest guy on the campus.”

“I was the oldest. It didn't matter.”

Peter puts his old glasses on. Now he can't see a thing.

“Will you?..”

Now they mostly use smartphones. While Ben was alive – Peter often asked for his Leika or Canon and experimented with lenses, light, different filters. And May used to take a shot or two during their weekend walks; she was fascinated with the detailed macro images of tiny things.

“Full view?”

May makes a few shots and sends him the files, snickering. Peter takes off the glasses. Well, he definitely looks great in blazer and briefs, a prodigal IT guy working from home, goofy, happy.

“Headshots.” He asks. And frowns, unable to block off the memories. And he is like that on the photos – strained, brows furrowed, lips in a thin line.

“Smile!” May demands.

“That will do.” Peter resends two headshots to Wade.

May makes him hot masala chai and refills her glass with spiced wine. He brings the tray of food for them and wraps himself in a blanket.

“Stolen movie time?”

“Seems to be an interesting one.”

Peter nods, working his chopsticks on chicken wok.

When the music caught his attention among other tracks, Wade told it was from the old soviet movie, and by the way, most of its actors, cameraman and the director himself were dead shortly afterwards by some mysterious illness. Then Wade constructed a fine delusional theory that it was filmed near a mutant-research facility – thus some strange events was happening at the location – and later all the unintentional witnesses from the movie team were poisoned. Peter wondered if Ned, an ardent believer in some fishy cases, would turn into Wade's like in some twenty years... All those conspiracy stuff surely effecting the brains. “Was the movie good?” – “Boring!”

Still, Peter wanted… wanted to make sure that there was no hidden information? Which was ridiculous and yet…

The movie is slow-paced, pretentious, and a little bit boring, too. Peter has also eaten up what was left of May's portion and is a bit sleepy. The ending, though, makes him alerted and freaked out – it is obviously about the future mutantkind and superpowers, the girl with telekinesis is the direct allusion to his own abilities. Why in hell had Wade laid out his crazy ideas about mutants in front of him, of all people, – a teenager he barely knows?.. He couldn't suspect Peter of being a mutant, could he? Is he just that – has he got nobody to talk to about that stuff?..

“Well, it was not your typical teenage movie”. May smiles, turning off the TV and stretching her back. “MJ's choice?”

Peter mumbles something about an “old pal”, and that's technically true in “old” part. Kind of not a total lie, right?

“It was a good one. What do you think it's about?”

Peter tried to give as vague an answer as possible. “About progress and human evolution? What do you think?”

“About human nature and how it actually doesn’t change or evolve at all… about how we don’t even know what we truly wish for and why we are doing this journey through the life. And about faith. What’s with evolution? You mean the disasters of technological progress? The argument between the Writer and the Scientist?”

“No, not the disasters! The girl, his daughter! She moved the glass with the power of her mind only!.. She is affected by this Zone, she is different! Like – she has a new human genome or something! There are so many possibilities.”

“Oh… And I thought it was the train passing by. Noticed how their shack was rattling in the end? With glasses falling on the floor.”

“Oh, so it was the train…” It is pretty much obvious to him now, yet Peter has never seen it from that angle.

“No, it really might be the gift. The miracle. It's open to interpretation. Depends on whether you can stretch enough that strange muscle in your soul that is responsible for faith and desire.”

“Like wishful thinking?”

“Like that and more. You know, what we discussed with Jake last week, how the greatest inventors envision things…”

“I’ve downloaded Wayland's article, by the way. Here, have sent it via Telegram.”

“Yeah, and look what Jake gave me”, – May shows him a shabby looking book. There is that old drawing of a well-proportioned man inside a circle and a square on the paperback cover. – “The first edition, with autograph, so please, don't read it while eating.”

“But I never… okay, I won’t.”

Peter loads the dishwasher.

He studies his face in the mirror while brushing his teeth. He will look the youngest on the campus. He'll get it again, full cycle, with fellow-students, with professors. May – she wasn't like him, she was lovely.

But maybe it'll get better over time.

“I'll be late tomorrow.” He reminds May. “Your psycho group.”

“You told you liked it!”

“I'm lovin it.” He grins, checking his teeth. “New beautiful faces. And girls, too! Who buys the dinner? That pad thai from your cafeteria was the best.”

“Will take double for you. Could you order groceries for Wednesday?”

“Sure. Night.”

“Sleep well.”

Peter locks the door of his room. It was ages ago – last time when he slept well for several nights in a raw. And now – another long midnight session.

After the bite Peter used to look through police servers, learning about local crime stats, places, faces.

The first file he uploaded was about the murder of Benjamin Franklin Parker, male, Caucasian, 50 years old. His hands were trembling and sweaty and heart pounding like a drum, and he was very well aware that he was committing a crime of a kind, but it didn’t matter – he had to know.

He wasn't able to solve it, to find Ben’s murderer, he looked through hundreds of other files, other cases. And then one evening he saw a familiar face on a dark street. Rape and attempted murder, he remembered. He took off his boots and put on his hood and quickly climbed to the rooftop – for the first time he did it right in the city. He followed the guy for an uneventful hour, cursing himself, feet cold with the dribbling rain. But in the end he happened to be right and had to use his webs on a person, for the first time. The shrieking girl snatched her purse back from the perpetrator and run away almost as fast as Peter fled the area. On the next evening he read in the police report that there were two robbers, one of which escaped from the crime scene, the other was found stuck to the wall glued by some unidentified substance. Fortunately for him, the victim was not able to describe the second criminal. The next few days Peter spent sewing a mask. Silk-permeable boot soles and gloves were another problem. By the end of the month he was well-equipped and swinging around the city.

He forgot about the police servers for a long while then and it was only because of Toomes events he and Ned, friends in crime, now had to watch closely their case: “Washington Monument Elevator Explosion” – at first classified as a terrorist attack, but now the investigation was leaning towards elevator electrical malfunction version. Still the possibility of a schoolkid creating a bomb was not rejected. The whole Decathlon team was talked to by the police, some unlucky students up to five times. Peter and Mariam were invited to the police station only once – they were not in the elevator and had nothing to say.

Before Peter starts, his phone vibrates with a message: “Right there waiting for me?” Peter sends back a smile and gets a code for a parcel locker box and its coordinates. He writes it down on a piece of paper and watches the letters fade – almost like spoken words: one moment you hear them and then it’s all-embracing silence again. All messages are automatically deleted from the server after three minutes, whether you’ve managed to read them or no. Peter might be not a very open guy himself (usually hacking the police using public library network, better safe than sorry), but that level of security is somewhat disturbing… One could have used it – for all kind of things, like – life-sentence worth kind of things… And he is willingly – even gladly! – jumping into it… On the other hand, there is nothing wrong in saying “hi” to a girl… “Got it, thx”, he types back.

And there is no answer, as usual, so Peter sighs, starts the soundtrack for the movie in his headphones and connects to Calcutta University servers. That’s not Soviet or North Korean proxies of Wade’s pal, but, well, it’s at least something… to keep him away from a sentence.

He gets the address thirty minutes later, St Catherine Hospital, Meadow Road, 50, and still listens to the calm and lonely music while falling asleep… He sees himself and Wade in those underground spaces again, and the metal frames are trembling, reality is falling apart, crumbling like concrete walls. Nails and bullets are flying around them as if caught in a violent tornado – bright splashes of shining metal and drops of blood that smell like rain…

He overslept and missed a school bus, it was May who woke him up and offered to give him a ride, so Peter is absolutely unprepared for it.

The school is humming as a stirred up hornet’s nest. Groups of students here and there gesticulating, arguing, arms crossed, cries of anger raising as tidal waves. The level of the noise is like on his first days of being a spider-man, without knowing it yet… Nauseating.

Cameras. There are cameras everywhere, in every hallway, class, lab or lobby. Even in toilet stalls. So it was not just rumors. Now students ask each other with accusation whose parents supported the idea, blaming each other, making it all personal.

And of course, there are people who are eager to curse the decathlon team – it's because of their misadventure of being in a wrong place at the wrong time – the whole school now has to suffer.

“That’s illegal! My parents haven’t even known!..” Peter hears Mariam’s clear voice; Ned is loudly agreeing with her, full of indignation. But of course, Peter thinks, whoever did this wasn’t willing to face Jacobsons’ Attorney Bureau and especially MJ’s mom, even having the power of Osborn behind them. That fierce family was just… MJ catches Peter’s glance and turns away, tossing her curly heavy hair. Yeah, they are just like that. Demanding at least respect or a total surrender. Ned waves to him, yet doesn’t leave her side. Totally whipped.

Peter looks around. In the farthest corner Eugene, it seems, is trying to talk other students to break the cameras – oh, it is so like Flash, to have his chestnuts pulled out of the fire by someone else… Peter nods to his classmates, shakes his head, yeah, that’s total shit, and brushes off not very insistent Ned with “later”.

There. He walks to where sour-faced seniors are grouped. Harry – he doesn’t look lost, he actually never looks out of place, always quite the opposite – but today there is something in his face… Maybe it’s because Peter knows he thinks he is seeing it. And just like during all that week – he feels the urge to get closer, to stay by his friend’s side.

“Hi, Pete.” Harry makes a gesture with his hand. “That’s…”

“That’s chemistry time.” Peter pulls him to the nearest bench. There are still twenty minutes to the first class. “All that shit – just don’t pay attention, all right? Where were we? Ethers?”

“Alcohol” Harry smiles crookedly.

“Not again!..” Peter flips through the shabby moleskin with his notes and all of a sudden a bright idea gets into his head. “You know what? Amines! I’ve learned a lot recently…”

“You?.. Really?” Harry is indeed distracted. “How in hell?..”

“Long story.” Peter chuckles. And the thought that he might tell Harry eventually – of course, with changed details, but, well, isn’t it good anyway to talk, to share – the very thought is alluring, warming… Harry is looking at him as if waiting for a revelation. Cameras, dude! Peter smiles. “So. Listen carefully. They are derivatives of ammonia, with a replaced hydrogen atom. There are primary, secondary and tertiary amines…”

Harry even takes notes, which is a rare sight. He looks more like himself by the time the bell rings. Yet before leaving for physics he once again starts “So you don’t think it’s…”

“Nah. Look, nobody is to blame for rain or snow, it’s just – a natural disaster, the shit that happens no matter what.” Peter sounds adamant. “Besides, to think of it, it might be even a good thing, at least those jerks like Flash will be kept in line.”

It seems that Harry is finally convinced, he shrugs nonchalantly. “Well, maybe.”

“Look, about today...” But before Peter asks for rescheduling Harry starts apologizing:

“Peter, I’m so sorry, I can’t! I’ve already promised Gwen and… It’s her only free evening this week… Is tomorrow okay?.. Or Wednesday?”

“Yeah”. Peter puts away his notebook. “Yeah, sure. See you tomorrow.”

Peter watches Harry leaving for his class, typing on the way, all attention drawn to the cellphone now. Those tailored blazers suit him so well – the fine silhouette of his back is like one of a model. They are in fact a beautiful couple, Harry and Gwen. Both are good-looking, intelligent, easy-going. They have a lot in common, share some basic things, and Harry always laughs in her company.

So, Peter wanted to reschedule their meeting, and he did it. Why the hell he feels like shit?..

At 3 p.m. Peter is in front of St Catherine Hospital, gaining his courage. Basically, it's like visiting Louise, only he is not a classmate, without Harry this time and doesn't know a shit about what to say and how to give them the fucking money and everything...

He didn’t hesitate to jump on the top of Don Francesco van, yet there he is, meddling, afraid of – what, talking to a girl?.. So stupid!

What Wade would do? Or Harry? Or even damned Flash?

Well, he saw Harry in action. He might say, it went pretty smooth. So Peter, too, brought some flowers.

To think of it, he can probably discreetly dump all this shit without being noticed. Okay, stop worrying, go, go, go!

Peter doesn’t take off the sunglasses and walks into the lobby with determination. There are only a few people inside and he smiles to the motherly lady at the reception, who doesn’t look Hispanic:

“¡Buen día! Estoy visitando a mi prima… my cousin Melissa Ramos. El terrible tiroteo... Habitación de hospital número sei… room number six?”

Now it’s time to put the sunglasses on top of his head and make the eye contact. Damn, he probably looks pitiful enough even without much trying. And he feels like a total idiot, too, and – bingo! – the lady starts speaking to him like he is one, slowly and loudly, that they have to write down his name, that’s the police requirements, so his name is?..

“Me nombre? Gabriel Ramos.”

She writes down the information from the drivers’ license and even decides to show him to the room – there is a small five-stores block behind the main building, small hallway on the third floor watched by a middle-aged policewoman

“He is visiting his cousin. Gabriel Ramos, 19 years old.”

The policewoman nods. She looks into his backpack without much interest.

“College libros.” Peter explains and with a polite “Gracias” to both of the women he slips into a small white lobby with few doors on the both sides.

Three girls there are watching TV sitting together on a shabby sofa. Without make up and in hospital clothes they look very young, inconspicuously normal. Like senior students from his school.

But they are normal, Peter reminds himself. Looking at him, too, nobody would guess he could stick to the walls. Yet what happened to him – to all of them – it doesn’t define them, not in the slightest. They are still as good people as any.

They eye him up and down and without speaking two of them turn back to the show, Spanish speech is too fast for Peter to comprehend. The blond one with a smartphone raises her brows.

“I’m to see Melissa.” He waves his flowers.

“Second room on the left.”

He thinks he hears inaudible “motherfucker” behind his back, spider-hearing be damned.

His heart starts singing when he catches the sound of the shower behind the door. Drop and leave – mission complete! He knocks and slips inside without waiting for an answer.

Melissa, paler and thinner that he remembered her, is sitting on one of the two unmade beds and watches him closely.

“Hi!.. I’m Gabriel… You don’t know me…”

All audacity gone, Peter is mumbling under his breath his another almost-true-story, this time it’s modified even more. No party at Osborns’ and Louise overdose, no mention of him tracking down the heads of local drug dealers, no mafia – just clean, lame babbling of a nerdy loser… Peter now knows enough about Melissa to tell her a likeable enough lie: he saw her about a month ago in front of the Citadel cinema with her friends, she was in a big company with his acquaintance Pablo – that tall guy with dreads who was with Wendy… And he liked Melissa at the first sight, but didn’t get the courage to say hi… And then she was gone, people were worried… And later it become known – all that… It’s terrible… He is so happy she is safe.

Melissa it sitting on her bed with flowers in her lap. She absent-mindedly stares at the bouquet: bright red and yellow mums look stupid and out of place here in the impersonal hospital room. Just like his lies.

Peter sits down on the only one of three chairs that’s free of clothes.

“I… I know I’m nobody to you. And to the other girls… I just wanted to help… I mean I can’t do much, but… just… take this, please.” He gets out the doll. “It’s for…”

She shakes off some of her trance and takes the doll without saying a word.

“How is she?”

Melissa shrugs. “Her mom died this spring… She is all alone. They will take her to a foster home. Maybe together with Isabel, she’s fourteen.”

“And you? Will you be okay?”

Melissa shrugs again.

Now, you can’t give thirty grands to an unknown girl and still look inconspicuously. He thought he’d slip the envelope under the bed or something… Fuck Wade and his fucking generosity. How in hell is he supposed to do it?..

He’ll ask to use the bathroom when the other girl is finished and leave it there.

“You’ll be all right.” Peter assures Mellissa. “The bad stuff is over.”

She stares at him, calmly, non-questioningly, with quiet indifference of an animal.

“You can call me and leave a message if you’ll need help”. Peter puts the piece of paper with a phone number on the bedside table, on top of sheets of recipes, torn DNAnalyse green envelopes and pills’ packs…

Why would Wade have such a number? And why is he giving it to the girls? Does he think they are still in danger?

Melissa roommate stops showering.

And then – Peter feels it first with his skin, even before the lights go out – the power is down.

“Fuck!” The girl in the bathroom swears. “Damn! It’s the third time today. Am I cursed or something? Mel…” she opens the door and sees Peter, who catches a glimpse of her huge belly not covered with a towel, before she backs off… “Oh, shit, I’m sorry… Haven’t known you have a visitor…”

Melissa turns her head…

“He is not my visitor.” She explains.

In a second Peter shoves the envelope with money under her bed, near her slippers and jumps off his chair.

“No, no, I’m sorry… I already have to go…”

The light goes on again and Peter, eyes aching, leaves the room quickly.

The girls in the lobby are looking for the remote, all TV settings reset now. The policewoman is busy calling someone, complaining about constant power failures.

Peter slips out of the building and leaves the hospital territory through the car gates at the same time when the lab van with a huge logo on its sides – blue and green snakes forming helix – is driving inside.

On the bus stop he writes to Wade about his little success and watches how the words in the app fade, unread. Well, at least, the truth should be consoling – with Stark he had never known for sure that the man didn’t give a shit till few weeks ago. Being on his own must be freeing. That’s a good thing, after all.

He closes the app and starts the audiobook; ironically, it’s Orwell’s 1984. Despite the double speed he’s bored enough to let his own thoughts run amok for a while. Could the USSR have a special mutant program for real? If so, what about the USA? There was that Super-Soldier program during the war time, but then the data was lost… Or they said so. Nowadays anyone can say anything. There are rumors about political killings, re-education camps. But that’s what happens to other people in other countries.

On the scene of Winston’s mother sinking with a baby girl in her arms, he stops the book and sits with his eyes closed for a long while and then switches to chemistry lectures.