Wishing
Prologue
The path stretched on and on, with only a small light at the end. Steve ran as quick as he could, unable to overcome the unease of this strange, empty space – all that was here was the cobblestone path under his feet, and a strange oppressive darkness. There were eerie whispers all around, and the smell of gunpowder and ballpark peanuts making a bizarre mix. He could hear his own wheezing in his ears but didn't dare stop. Rats scurried across his path and even across his feet, despite the speed with which he was running. All he knew was that he had to find Peter, and fast. He shuddered to think about the little boy, lost in such a place.
He finally stumbled out into open air, but this was hardly better. The sky was filled with seemingly levitating gears, turning and grinding on each other with a hellish noise, and still that terrible scent, and now, the sound of shrill laughter (or was it hysterical crying?) and a chilling cold. It almost seemed like he was in the eye of a hurricane – all around there was a wall of dark clouds. The city around him was in ruins, and Steve tripped over the rubble. There were still rats everywhere, and if Steve had ever been as afraid of them as some of his friends, he wouldn't be functioning anymore.
He froze, not knowing what he should do, until he spotted the boy. A slight, brown-haired boy of Steve's age, but he was wearing a three piece suit that made him seem older. Seemingly teleporting from place to place, setting off … bombs? Grenades? Something, against the gears and the black entity that pressed around the little area of city Steve had emerged into. But the thing fought back – long, sticky black tendrils emerged from the cloud and wrapped around the boy and threatened to pull him apart, and gears threatened to pull him in and crush him. The boy was bloody and battered, but showed no signs of giving up, even as the black tendrils started to pull him into the mass of the entity.
"You can help, you know," a man said. Tall with long straight black hair and a red suit. He didn't seem affected by the horror all around him – he just stood there and smiled.
"What can I do?" Steve asked, both out of disbelief and a desire to help in any way he could. "What can I do, against all of this?" And now the boy was screaming, fighting even harder against the tendrils, but Steve didn't understand what he was saying.
"Make a contract with me, Steven, and join the fight against monsters that threaten our world."
"Yes – anything," Steve said, and extended his hand.
Steve started awake at the sound of something like a firecracker or a car backfire, but that he knew wasn't. "Was that a gunshot?!" Bruce asked. Peter started to cry in his crib. "Yeah it was," Clint said softly, stirring slowly. The sound didn't even jar him awake anymore.
"Boys? Are you okay?" Mrs. Parker called into the room.
"We're fine," Steve called back, more worried about whoever was outside. It was close.
"Should we call the police?" Mr. Parker asked loudly enough they could hear it.
"Yes, Ben – you should call right away. Boys – are you decent?"
"It's okay, I've got Peter, Mrs. Parker," Steve called quickly, and he went to the little one's crib and lifted him out with some difficulty considering the boy was almost ready for a "big boy bed." Peter, the only one of the boys biologically related to either of the Parkers, always stopped crying as soon as Steve held him – none of the other boys had such luck.
"What do you think happened?" Clint asked, finally sitting up.
"I don't know," Bruce said, and his tone said he didn't want to hear any speculation from his younger foster brothers.
"Do you think someone's dead?" Clint asked.
"Clint, hush, you're going to scare Peter," Steve whispered, even though the boy was already plenty worried. So was Steve – it was a big gun, whatever it was, and it was unsettling to hear, here in the relative safety of his foster parents' neighborhood.
"Like do you think there's going to be cops and everything?"
"Probably … I think they have to respond to something like this," Steve said, realizing he wasn't going to get his wish that Clint would be quiet, and he could only hold the little boy and try to comfort him.
"Do you think they'll ask us anything?"
"They're going to have tons of people, lughead, they won't need you. Go to sleep," Steve said grumpily, as Peter started whimpering. "It's okay, Peter, we're safe here," he whispered soothingly. When the boy had calmed down Steve put him back to bed, and went back to sleep himself, hoping the day would erase the fear stirred by the shot.
"Oh hey … happy birthday Bruce," Steve said before he dropped off, realizing it must be after midnight. But the older boy had already fallen back asleep.