Dear Readers,
I had another totally crazy spider-man dream last year that I wrote half-of and then forgot to finish. I'm finally finishing and posting for the audience's hungry gaze! Haha! If any of you are fans of Avenge the Departed, there's some funny and weird similarities with Peter being an undercover narc in this one too.
One of the funniest things about this dream was the insane plot twist at the very end. Yes, my brain gives me plot twists while I'm asleep. In this dream, Peter's "father" is alive and well - but his dad is not Richard Parker. I'll leave the actual identity of his dad as a surprise.
Right after the "arrests" scene is where I woke up, but I couldn't just leave it with The Bad Guy getting shoved into a cop car and screaming obscenities, so I wrote a sort-of ending that felt on-par with the rest of the dream. It does still end sort of abruptly though, there's not an easy way to end a story when you dreamed it and woke up before it felt over!
So… enjoy the craziness my brain comes up with while unconscious.
- Pip
...
WARNING: Rated T/M for detailed drug use and language. For the record, I've NEVER done drugs, but my sleepy imagination seems to have a pretty good handle on what it might feel like. I did some research on a subreddit rabbit hole of confessionals to fill in the gaps.
Peter Parker Goes Undercover
...
So I am walking through the city, dressed in normal clothes, (boy's clothes… technically what I'd be wearing on any given day, anyway). My hands shoved in pockets, a messenger bag tucked over one shoulder. I kick a piece of trash aside, sort of just shuffling along. I'm feeling down. Not sure why yet. It's just - cinematically - that moment the young hero has some serious inner debate while taking a solitary walk. I know I am sort of weighed down from the dread of walking towards where I am walking - a place I don't want to go, but I know I am supposed to be there.
It's not a great area of town, large, barren sidewalks and wide asphalt areas for parking that no one ever parks in. There is a huge overpass running high above me (probably an obscenely large freeway), over my head and running off towards my left, going over a river and into another area of town with skyscrapers twinkling in a cold, dead winter sun.
There's a lot of warehouses nearby, and old buildings in white and gray that look like they haven't seen an update since the sixties. The sort of buildings in weird shapes that could have been an old automobile repair job combined with a soda fountain, but now sells old vacuums. There's some storage units, fenced off areas, gravel pits where the supporting columns of the freeway above are planted. There's exposed train tracks in the road and the typical railway signage that accompanies it.
A/N - As I'm walking by a window, I notice my reflection. I realize I'm not me, I'm dreaming from someone else's perspective.
"HOLY SHIT," I think. "I'm Tom Holland!"
I nod solemnly, like, okay, I can't screw this up. I must be Spider-Man. Time to… do whatever is I'm supposed to be doing. And I continue walking.
I'm Peter Parker, this is New York City, the river is the Hudson, I have no idea what bridge is over my head. But I am heading for the warehouse nearby. It's nearing dusk but not quite there yet. Then I remember: I'm supposed to go to the warehouse for a party. Not because I am super into parties, but because I've been employed as something of a… a mole.
I'm a narc, to be honest. I really hope no one from school is there. That would just be… awkward.
The backstory starts to come to me at this point. The police… but, not the police - not Shield, either - but some super-secret agency dedicated to eradicating abused substances in New York from teenagers. Like the Hawaii 5-0 task force on tv, except the war on drugs is in concrete jungles, not the kinds of palms and bamboo.
I'd been recruited - apparently I came highly recommended from my connection with the Avengers. Somehow they find out about a Midtown High teenager interning for Tony Stark and they're like "hey! Let's borrow the kid who gets the Avengers their coffee and get him to spy for us on the other teenagers in his hometown to stop drugs!"
Like I need to be ostracized any more.
The instructions were clear throughout the last four months of preparation for this operation.
One, befriend the wrong crowd. Hang out with them as much as I can.
This was the worst - living a double life. A double life was actually fun while I was Spider-Man and saving people and doing good things. It's not like I was doing horrible things - It's just… just not doing anything worth anything at all.
Usually I was sitting around playing video games with main group of six or seven guys (sometimes a girl or two) while they moved around in an unusually crowded apartment, smoking, snorting, drinking, and hosting dark secretive meetings in a back room. Sometimes it was just on a street corner, politely declining cigarettes. I'd scoot back and forth on a skateboard, acting as a watchdog while they broke into the nearest car and stole a stereo. I hated passively standing by and letting crime happen. But I reported everything in exquisitely detailed reports to the police, so, at least I was reporting the crimes, right? Which made me less Spider-Man and more Peter Parker.
Two, secure an invitation to a party.
Eventually I prove my mettle.
"Me and a couple others are down at the waterfront hangin' out for a big ass party," it begins, "some good stuff there if you're interested. We've enjoyed havin' you around. We might even be lookin' at keeping you more… full time. It's sort of an opportunity for ya, ya get it? Don't embarrass me."
Three, go to the party - unwired.
This is highly dangerous, but they'll check for wires. They won't care if I have my phone in my pocket.
Four, when they offer me drugs, accept. Offer to pay what little you have if you can. If they accept the money, great, that's another charge. If not, that's okay. Act grateful.
Apparently it's a lot easier to make charges stick with drug possession if they are guilty of contributing to the delinquency of a minor.
Five, go to a hidden place.
A bathroom so covered in graffiti I can barely find the mirror.
Six, Call your dad.
He's the kind of guy that kicks down your bedroom door if he thinks you're looking at something you shouldn't online. He's the kind of guy that storms into your classroom because a twenty dollar bill is missing from his wallet. He's the sort of person who shows up in the middle of a date and gives you a talking to about safe sex.
I should clarify - he has literally never had to do ANY of these things with me, he's just intimidating enough to warrant the examples. I am sure he would do these things if he ever had a reason to - but - I'm a good kid, hence, he hasn't. I hope I never give him a reason to. He scares Ned to death.
Seven, we'll be tapping the phone. This is their signal to storm the place - the call won't actually reach my dad, they just want it to look that way so if someone looks at my caller history, I won't look that suspicious. It's going to get intercepted.
Eight, get low. Stay low. When the police storm the place, they're not going to know friend from foe - well, technically they will, but they're not going to out you, either. Hands behind your head - down on your knees, face in the floor. Handcuffed and led out with the rest. When they're gone, get unlocked, make a final report.
Everyone goes home happy.
(I picture about 800 Happy Hogans walking away from the warehouse, whistling. This makes me snicker).
So when I finally get into the party, I'm nervously sweating. It's a nondescript old store, shut down. Looks like it used to be a laundromat or a salon. I had to walk around an empty parking lot, slip between a chain link fence and the side street, to get to an old, gray maintenance door which now makes the entrance.
There's cardboard over windows, which rattle from the music pulsing within.
I know the bouncer, it's one of the guys I've been hanging out with for four months. He grasps my hand and pulls me in for a man-hug and pounds me once on the back.
"Glad you could make it."
Then he opens the door for me.
I get inside and the music is so loud it physically hurts. It's dark and very, very crowded. The lights are from the neon strands stapled to the top and bottom of the hallway, a sort of dark red guide. It could almost pass as a hallway from a spaceport tavern in Star Wars.
There's so many people I don't know. A lot of people my age, but luckily, no one from school. There's also a lot more older people than I expected - not like the young adults I'd been hanging out with that weren't all that bad, just ruffian criminals who suffered from addictions.
These were men and women that were in the industry of trafficking. You could see the pain inflicted on others reflected in their eyes, lives destroyed in their tattoos, a disregard from human life in the way they spoke and interacted. These ones were bigger - leaner - harder - and way scarier. The neon lights, from the strands and the battery operated strobes stashed in corners, flash against their faces, a horror like effect on the stop motion animation of their expressions.
I invisibly tried to maneuver through the crowded hallway where people were laughing and smoking and talking over the music. There were literally broken pieces of drug equipment and paraphernalia all over the floor. Graffiti covering every surface. It sort of smells like piss.
I finally spot someone I know and actually smile with relief. They wave me over where they sit in the main room, which probably used to be a lobby (since there is a reception counter in the back, now being used as a bar instead), but instead of waiting chairs and potted plants, there's old, torn up couches, and gross coffee tables.
I would literally gag if I thought too hard about what this room would look like under a blacklight.
One of the guys, Gino, hands me a drink. I accept with a thank-you and immediately take a sip, gritting my teeth to keep myself from making an expression of horror. Being a teenager, I don't know how to identify what I am drinking. Probably vodka, if I had to guess.
Instead I just accept placidly and stand, refusing to sit on the crowded couch. One of the corners is occupied by a couple three minutes shy of "finding a back room". The others are just talking loudly about things I can't even comprehend.
I miss the simple days when the only language I had to decipher was calculus.
"And I was like, fuck man," says one, "And then this motherfucka pulls this shit a second time - and he got completely nailed, man…"
"Shit," replies his audience.
"Yeah," he replies, "Right there in front of God'n ev'rybody."
I cough on the alcohol and try to mimic what people around me are doing. If they laugh, I chuckle politely. If they shake their heads in sympathy and say Fuck dude, I nod along with them, my haphazard "damn" popping out a few seconds later than everyone else. I finish my drink and begin on a second.
Someone I recognize steps into my line of vision. Oh my gosh.
It's Michelle.
She, too, is pressing through others in the hallway, but from the back end of the building. She has a red solo cup in one hand. She doesn't look like she's having much fun - in fact, she looks pissed.
She makes eye contact with me.
For a moment we just stare at each other in shock. I can't imagine what she is doing here - how she knows the right kind of people to get in here. The only reason I know these people is because the agency helped me orchestrate a "random" meeting between myself and a person of interest named Gino. They made it look like I was the person of interest, and when the real guy was nearby, I "bumped" into him on my way into a well-known area of frequent drug sales.
Like magic, Gino offered me a place to "chill" until the feds weren't following me anymore. I followed to an empty house n the Bronx totally destroyed by squatters, visited only by those that wanted a private place to get high and overdose in peace and quiet.
I felt like an asshole while he was offering me shelter, I began the great manipulation of trying to become his friend.
I tug awkwardly at the strap of my messenger bag, trying to decide whether or not I should approach her… say hello…
Michelle's eyebrows are furrowed together, as if she's trying to figure me out. Then she makes an expression of disgust and turns away.
I start to wave her down, but I hesitate. I can't blow what I am about to do.
She sips the last of whatever she is drinking, drops it on the floor, and walks right out of the building.
"MJ," I start to say, but bite it back. It's better that she leaves. She's safe if she's gone.
How long was she here before I was here? Did she leave because of me? Was she leaving anyway and she's mad at me for staying? Maybe she's totally innocent here - maybe a friend was like, come to this party, and when she got here she was as disgusted as I was. Maybe she was just disappointed in me as a person for being here of my own choosing.
Gino looks up at me. "You need to relax, my lil' man," he says, gesturing me to join him down on the couch and points with a flourish at the coffee table.
My stomach turns over at the small lines of white powder in a row on the table's surface.
He sees my face and laughs. "First time for everything."
"Yeah," I say. Stay calm, stay cool. Just a tiny bit. Then laugh it off and say no more for me, thanks. "Isn't that," I say, coughing, "Isn't that - a lot? I don't know, man. I'm like - really poor. I don't have much." I pull two twenty dollar bills out of my pocket apologetically.
He waves me off. "Put that shit away - first time on me."
I sit next to him on the couch. I was just supposed to buy drugs, not do them in front of everyone. Holy shit. Oh crap.
If we were literally about to do anything other than FREAKIN' COCAINE, Gino's reactions with me would almost be kindly, friendly, even.
"Look, ya git nervous your first time, I get that," he elbows me. "Look, I go first, show you how it's done - okay? Then you go."
I gulp and nod, watching with a passive expression - but my insides recoiling with an uncomfortable gut instinct screaming 'help'. Gino runs his nose along the edge of the table with an inhale, plugging one nostril and half the white powder disappears.
Then he sits back with a satisfied "Ah!", like a Got Milk commercial.
When I hesitate, his eyes change slightly from gratefully high to an expression of stern annoyance. "Don't be a pussy," he says. "What'd the fuck did you come for anyhow?"
So I lean down and try to do what he did. It's either that or blow my cover. I won't do much. Maybe I can sorta fake it.
I barely sniff up any of the white powder before I sit back immediately, fighting a sneeze and coughing, squinting my eyes and blinking rapidly.
Gino and the others are laughing way too hard and pounding me on the back.
"I - need - to - sneeze," I exclaim haltingly.
"You did it wrong," Tony says, "Switch nostrils, try again."
My senses are pounding in every sense of danger, stop, don't, bad, stay away - but I do as he says. This time I don't need to sneeze. I sit back slowly and sit quietly, my gaze zoned out as I nervously wait to feel anything at all. Gino and the others laugh, point, and wait for me to react.
I press my hand to my face.
"My face is going numb," I say.
"That's the good stuff!" they howl with laughter and congratulations.
"I gotta - is my face still there?" I press both hands into my cheeks. Nothing.
Everyone is still laughing at me. "Shit's still there, bro," Gino says, pounding my back. "Go look in the effing powder room if you need to see for yourself."
"I'll be right back, I swear," I plaster on the fakest smile for good measure. "I want to try that again."
I NEVER WANT TO DO THAT AGAIN.
"My man," Gino says in a congratulatory tone. He immediately loses his focus on me and goes right back to the drugs. The others are pining for a turn. No one notices me as I stand up, slightly wobbly, and walk towards the bathroom.
I turn into the darkened hallway. There's only one bathroom, a tiny little employee restroom, and there's a line to it. Girls in busty, short dresses, with heavy make-up and smoking and hanging on the arms of the ones next to them. A few dudes adjusting their profoundly low pants and knocking on the door every so often, screaming at whomever is inside to hurry the fuck up.
I get to the back of the line, keeping my head low to avoid meeting anyone's gaze.
While I am waiting, I start to feel something. Not quite what my handler and the 'drug professional' said might happen, should I be forced to try anything to maintain my cover. Of course I think they only had to give me that information to avoid getting sued, I don't think they ever thought for a moment I might actually be asked to do drugs with no way to back out.
In addition to the numb sensation, I start to feel a gross taste at the back of my mouth and throat, but I'm sort of happy about it.
No, not happy. Joyful, oddly enough.
I'm self aware enough to just say I've hit some sort of high. I don't know if it's the sort of euphoria that my handler said people have when they do cocaine. In fact, no one expected me to try anything stronger than sneaking some weed from Gino - which, technically, is more of a common thing and they aren't worried about health effects.
For the record, I never smoked anything, and when Gino offered, I said no. It wasn't as big a deal then. But today, trying that stuff was some sort of test - one that I passed.
They underestimated how much the guys I'd been hanging out with trusted me, I guess. They thought I'd maybe smoke a little weed and that would be that. They probably didn't even fathom a guess that Gino and the rest would offer me cocaine the first time I ever go to a party. This scares me. What exactly gives them any right to rope me into this, anyway, then put me in a situation where they hope I buy drugs, but it turns out they want me to SAMPLE it first, and the drug of choice is cocaine?!
And why the hell did I agree to this anyway?
I should have employed the playful banter that better appears when I'm Spider-Man. "Gee, guys," I should have said, "I'd love to help, but I just - don't want to. Bye!"
I finally get my turn in the bathroom. I shut the door and lock it, leaning against it and slamming my head back a little too hard on the black paint. But I don't hurt my head, because I'm still numb.
With anxious hands I pull out my phone and call my Dad's number, expecting to hear my handler on the other line from the surveillance van.
Ring, ring.
"Peter," my Dad's intimidating voice is not lessened by the tinny feedback of being on a phone. "Where've you been all afternoon?"
I feel like I'm going to throw up. He wasn't supposed to answer.
Did something go wrong with their tech? Are they even listening to the call? Wasn't my call supposed to reach them instead?
Before I can panic, my brain kicks into some weird, overly confident decision that I - Peter Parker - am such a talented narc, I can just roll with the punches. Stick with the script. Still help save the world - even if my certifiably insane dad is on the other line.
"Can you come pick me up?" I ask, my voice hitching. I hate how I feel right now - so blissfully la-dee-dah that it strikes me in a weird way, where I acknowledge I should be feeling guilty right now for what I am about to say but just… not.
"Are you at Ned's? Can you tell him to turn that god-awful music down for a second?"
"I'm - not at Ned's."
"Where are you?"
"The abandoned building under the overpass on Waterfront Avenue. The white and gray one. I don't remember the number."
"What the hell - are you - doing there…" he slowly stops and seems to change tactics. "Where is that music coming from? Who's with you?"
I suddenly feel a rush of exceptional heat pass from the top of my head throughout my entire body, like adrenaline, only warmer and weirder. After the sort of weird flushing sensation trembles on the back of my neck, my arms, my lower back, I just feel nauseous.
"Peter! Answer me!"
"I'm really, really sorry," I say. "I'm…at a party. And I'm... high."
There's a stunned silence. For a moment, I'm afraid he might hang up on me. In fact he should. Let him hang up on me and let the cops and the agency do their jobs. He wasn't even supposed to be involved! The call was supposed to be fake!
"What are you on?" he asks.
I hesitate.
"Answer me."
"Uh… cocaine? It's not very much - I swear, I just had a little bit."
I am not helping my case much. I just hope the agency can explain it was a necessary evil and I am really a hero and they needed me to get high so I wouldn't blow my cover.
"I'm coming," he says in the darkest tone I have ever heard him use. "Stay there. Don't move, don't talk to anyone, stay put. If you do anything else or call the cops or something stupid I swear I will fucking kill you myself. I'll call you when I'm outside."
Then he hangs up.
I blink for a moment, dropping my phone in the sink, and slumping over the porcelain edge. My bag feels too heavy for a moment, so I slip it off one shoulder, check to make sure it's still only filled with school books, and not half a dozen bricks made out of sparkles and glass and vibranium and…
Whoaaaaah. Where is that coming from?
Dad is mad. REALLY mad.
Yikes. I am definitely getting grounded - but... I'm saving people from … uh… future drug deals. Right. That's the objective.
Wait… did my own dad just threaten to kill me?
This should hurt my feelings.
It hurts somewhere deeper, in my belly. Maybe that's not my feelings. That's mY INjeStED DruGs.
I have no feelings. Yay me.
I tilt my head in a sort of circle, winding my neck around and feeling the bones pop. I replace my phone in my pocket and stumble a little at the door, opening it and practically falling out. This is weird. I wasn't prepared for any of this. What does one do when barely - slightly high and feeling brazen and noodly and unsteady and like showing off your exceptional super-human talents?
I consider a few options. Walk up the wall? Swing from one of the upper lights? Punch through a wall? Take a punch? Challenge someone to a fight?
I know for a fact I could beat anyone here three times over. No one would be a match for Spider-Man.
I bounce off a few people unexpectedly, not really aware of spatial differences. That'd probably be from the alcohol. I had forgotten I was on my second drink before snorting cocaine. I can't believe I can say that now. Snorting cocaine. Geeze!
I feel like the room is slowly tilting. I lean against the wall to avoid tipping over.
I decide to avoid Gino and his group. I already committed to trying cocaine again, so let them think I am in the bathroom staring at my reflection for a strange amount of time.
Instead, a girl comes up to me with a tray of shots and offers one to me. I take one and let out a surprised ACGH when it sets my throat on fire. Another flash of warmth leaks through my limbs and makes my heart start pounding extra loud. My palms feel clammy.
Maybe I'm not that high, I hope. Maybe I'm just tipsy. I'd rather be tipsy than high.
I try to make my way to another of the bigger rooms, not too far in the back where there's too many curtained spaces for my liking, but somewhere in the middle where maybe it used to be a large enough office space for three or four cubicles. It has since been totally trashed, there's a tv set up and a half-kitchenette and a table and chairs. There looks like there is a very intense poker game going on, and someone is counting a stack of one hundred dollar bills.
I find a slightly empty space along the wall and my back hits it with a thud. I slide down to the floor and hug my knees, blearily looking up at the ceiling for no reason.
One of the poker players turns slightly in her chair and looks at me, her heavily wrinkled and meth-damaged face covered with thick make-up and dyed blonde hair.
"Dafuq's wrong with you?" she asks.
I look at her and blink twice. "Bad… bad trip," I try, hoping the slang might come in handy.
"First time swimming?" she asks.
"Y-y-eah." Swimming means trying cocaine, right? Or does it mean doing drugs in general? What if it means something else? I don't remember if we went over this one!
"You're too young for this shit," she says, annoyed, turning back in her chair.
I receive a text from my handler's number. Confused, I read it a few times.
Tell him to come inside.
Tell who? And why are they texting me directly? They didn't want things to look suspicious if someone took my phone, much less have an ongoing texting conversation from the guy in the surveillance van.
Then, I get a text from my dad.
I'm outside.
With shaking fingers, I text back. Can you come get me please.
What's wrong?
This gives me pause. What's WRONG? I told him already.
I get another text from my handler.
Tell him to come inside.
I start crying and I don't know why.
Dad, I write, please come inside and get me
Are you hurt? He asks.
If he thought I was hurt, I wonder angrily, why ask? He's my dad. I thought that whole unconditional fatherly love overrides all anger and curiosity. Why isn't he storming in here? Asking drug addicts where they've last seen his son?
If he truly worried… if he truly loved me…
I don't allow myself to finish that train of thought and I decide not to answer. Maybe this is how they build their case somehow and make sure I don't get hurt. Maybe as long as I am with my legal guardian when the arrests are made, maybe the police can check something off a long list of necessary items they need for pressing charges. I'm just a kid. I'm not a detective, a cop, or even a good narc. In fact, I think I suck at being a narc for the sheer fact of taking drugs my first time in a true sting operation.
I text Dad back.
Please help me
And I leave it at that. His stern face appears in an icon as he tries to place a call to me. I let the phone ring on silent and let it go to voicemail, standing uncomfortably. Maybe I should text my handler back?
That's when I hear the bang out front of the door opening and the angry shouts of the patrons in the front hall.
The door beside me slams open, and I hear more shouts of others yelling Cops! Clear out! Gino and a few of the others I know book it past me. The others jump up from their poker game. They're all aiming for an exit door in the wall with a burnt out sign above it.
But the exit door blasts open, and there's a loud boom sound. Cops come pouring in with guns, their voices all blending together in shouts of Police! Hands in the air! Show me your hands! Down on the ground!
I do what they ask, unable to check the tears still pouring down my numb face. Part of me realizes I could probably take out everyone in this room. The other half regresses to the age of eight and wonders I want my daddy. Where is he?
I lace my fingers together behind my head and face the wall as I ask, and a cop comes up behind me and pats me down, and then suddenly kicks the back of my locked leg, knocking me to my knees, my bag hitting me hard in the hip, which the cop quickly rips open and checks.
He shoves my face into the floor while he jerks my arms from behind my head to my lower back, cuffing me. I let out a surprised yelp of protest that I quickly bite back.
Then he uses my wrists to pull me back to my feet, my shoulder sockets straining painfully. "Come on," he says harshly, pushing me back through the inner door towards the middle room, where the room is being cleared. People are mirroring our movements - pinned to the ground, hands cuffed, angry words shouted, some trying to run and getting knocked down. Someone near the bathroom pulls a gun, and I hear a single shot.
Shot fired.
The rest of the others scream and duck in place. The cop behind me shoves me to the ground again, and there's more screaming - but this time, it's not panicking partiers, its the cops shouting instructions to whomever pulled the gun. My face is pressed into the carpet. It smells like body odor and whiskey.
A staticky voice comes onto the radio of the cop holding my wrists. Shooter in custody. Proceed.
I march like I am heading for the hangman's noose.
I'm filed out with several others in a sort of stream, out into the fading evening light, gray and lavender above, and a strip of bright white where the sun considers the upstate hills visible in a smoggy distance. The river glitters beyond the industrial wastes.
"PETER!" I hear a voice coming from my right. It's my dad.
He's struggling with another cop, looking over at me.
The cop is pulling his arms behind his back, pushing - forcing him - over the hood of one of the cop cars in order to better cuff his hands.
"That's another charge of resisting arrest if you don't calm the fuck down," says the cop.
"Wait, wait, what?" I call out. "Dad?"
My dad's face turns on the hood, facing me again, his cheekbone mashed into the metal. He's not worried, and he's not struggling with the cop to get to me.
He's glaring at me, like he wants to kill me.
I've never seen so much hatred in someone's eyes before. I mean - I've seen a lot of anger from him. Some dislike. Casual threats disguised as stern parenting.
But I never thought he didn't love me before.
"Dad?" I call again, and the cop behind me nods to the cop holding down my dad.
"Adrian Toomes," he says, "You're under arrest for drug trafficking, drug distribution, contribution to the delinquency of a minor, Airplane Hijacking, Armed Robbery, Assault with a Deadly Weapon, Assaulting or Killing Federal Officer, Domestic Terrorism…" he pauses. "Am I forgetting anything?"
"...the murder of Jackson Brice," says another cop nearby, with a smile on his face. "Illegal Possession of Firearms, Sale of Stolen Vehicles, Use of Weapons of Mass Destruction."
"Dad," I whisper.
"Oh, shit," says the cop, realizing I'm there. "Get him back to his handler."
The cop uncuffs me.
"For real?" I hear Gino exclaim nearby. "Fucking NARC! You fucking asshole! I'll fucking kill you!"
"What's going on," I blab loudly. "Dad, you didn't kill anyone…"
Dad looks up at me, looking a little saddened by my statement, but not because I'm telling the truth. Because he disagrees with me. The only way he'd do that is if…
"My dad didn't kill anyone," I bawl, but I'm less certain this time.
I feel a hand grip my arm. It's my handler, trying to move me away from where they are currently arresting my dad - shoving him away - putting him into the back of the car -
But he's still struggling.
"Okay, and a charge of resisting arrest," exclaims the cop with annoyance.
"Come on, Peter, you did good," says my handler.
"It was all a LIE?" I exclaim. "You were just using me to get to him?"
"Shut UP, PETER," my dad suddenly roars. "Just shut the FUCK up, okay?"
"Get the fuck in the car," snaps the cop.
Dad's shoving the officer with his elbow, keeping his upper body out of the car, trying to look at me over the back door.
"Dad," I say helplessly, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry… I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know."
"I'll fucking kill you myself, you fucking disappointment!"
I hear his words, I see his mouth moving, I see the anger in his eyes, but I hardly believe what I'm hearing.
My knees start to give out, and I finally let my handler drag me away.
Dad disappears into the cop car. They shut the door. The others are getting loaded, too. Sirens turning off, but the lights continue to rove. The sun dips below the horizon, streaks of yellow and red, like bloody, infected wounds, rip across the sky.
My handler parks me on the bench, adjusting his belt. His portruding stomach usually looks as if it's about the pop the last two buttons of his suit, but it never does. "What the hell happened in there?" he asks.
"You're asking ME?" I exclaim. "What the hell happened to YOU? You said you were going to intercept the call. It went right to my dad and he came to get me."
"He was already here," sighs my handler. "We needed him inside. We can't arrest a guy for sitting in a parked car."
"What about those other charges?" I demand, tears filling my eyes. "Those aren't… they're not…"
My handler pauses, hesitating before answering honestly. "This was always about building a case against your dad." He sighs and drops onto the bench next to me. "He's a dangerous criminal. We haven't been able to catch him red-handed in anything, which always looks good for a jury. We had to get him in a sting operation, and the other charges will be easier to prove with the evidence…"
"What evidence," I reply, my voice giving out. I wipe my nose and look away. Sniff, wipe. Sniff, wipe. I'm crying, but my nose feels weird, too. I feel weird.
Like I'm walking on rainclouds upside down and I'm grinning in my brain, but my face is sorrowfully drawn.
"Shit," my handler exclaims. "Did you TAKE something?"
I pause. I don't trust this guy. Not anymore.
"No," I lie. "I'm crying. That's what this sniffing is. I'm sad. You tricked me so you could arrest my dad for stuff that… that…"
"Stuff you didn't think he did?" he fills in. "You sure about that?"
I watch the car with my dad in the backseat drive away.
As they pass us, sitting at the abandoned bus stop bench at the side of the road, he stares at me through the window.
He stares so hard it makes me shudder - it's a look that could murder me if there wasn't a window between us.
Suddenly I realize he would if he could. If not now, maybe in the future. Maybe a downhill spiral of verbal abuse, drinking and drug use, his criminal life becoming more and more apparant, until one day I get home from school and he's waiting angrily at the kitchen table with a gun…
I open my mouth, and shut it again, and then try. "I don't know anymore. I never saw anything. Heard anything."
"Yeah, well, those long business trips weren't to Tokyo," my handler sighs. "He was right here in New York, blowing shit up. Remember that plane that went down on the beach awhile back?"
I blink.
No.
No… way.
Spider-Man brought that plane down - because the Vulture was trying to hijack it from the Avengers.
The Vulture.
The masked, aviary figure in black and brown leather, with a mask like a steampunk nightmare. I've never seen his face, only those red-light eyes in the aviator's oxygen mask.
I've never heard his voice, except through that ventilator.
But Spider-Man has fought him, brought him down in that plane crash to keep him from stealing important artifacts from the Avengers.
The Vulture managed to fly away.
I always thought of him as my personal Carmen Sandiego, that arch villain that always gets thwarted at the last minute, and then escapes at the very end.
"My dad is the Vulture?" I ask, in absolute horror.
"OH, so you HAVE heard of him," my handler says.
"Only from interning at the Avengers," I reply shyly. "You know. Why you wanted me in the first place. Because people like Steve Rogers and Tony Stark trust me to bring them coffee."
"Well, we lied about that too," he shrugs. "We had a suspicion that Adrian Toomes was the Vulture. We figured his son could ignorantly help us get to him. Finding out you were an Avenger-lackey was just an added bonus when we…"
I stand up abruptly. "I'm done."
"Wait…"
"No. You don't get it. I'm done. You tricked me. You lied to me. I thought this was just about cleaning up the street crime, getting drugs away from kids like me, like - good things. Arresting my dad was never part of the deal."
"You'll be expected to testify…"
"I'm not testifying against my dad."
"Because he's such a great dad?" he replies nastily, mockingly. "I heard what he said to you just a minute ago. He threatened to kill you. Believe me, that's going in his long, long line up of sins. He's going to be put away for a long time."
"Then you don't need me."
"Yes, we do…"
"I said NO!" I wrench away and begin walking quickly down the street.
"Need I remind you that you're a minor and it's going to be dark soon…" he calls after me. "We have to be in touch with the guardian who can take you in. May Parker, correct?"
I stop.
Aunt May. I'll have to go live with my Aunt May until this gets figured out. But… she and Uncle Ben… they always loved me, and all, they always said they wanted kids but "couldn't possibly afford them"... My mom used to send them regular care packages before she died when their money was really tight.
Dad never took it up after, and I always wondered if it was because he was grieving.
Maybe it turns out he just wasn't a good person at all.
And my Uncle Ben just died last year - Aunt May was still grieving. Surely she wouldn't want me around to interrupt that. Won't she be upset that she's being shouldered with this?
"My Aunt May," I say resignedly. "She gets off work tonight around eleven or midnight."
"We'll be in touch with her then. You'll have to wait at the station for her to pick you up."
I can't handle the thought of waiting at the police station for the next… 5 or 6 hours.
"I have somewhere else I can go," I say, putting my hands in my pockets. "You can tell her I'll be at my internship, and I'll go to her apartment on my usual bus."
"Peter, that's not how that works… you need to be in custody of someone cleared to…"
I walk away, and I sense my handler's hands drop to his side, finally giving up. At least he doesn't try to chase me down, handcuff me, shove me into the back of a cruiser like they did to my dad…
"I'll fucking kill you myself, you fucking disappointment!"
As soon as I'm in an alley far enough away from the sting, I shrug out of my messenger bag, open the flap, and begin to remove my clothes and shove them inside. Underneath my civilian clothes is, of course, my Spider-Man uniform.
I tug the mask over my head, and slam my palm on my chest.
ZILCH. The suit tightens up, and I throw the bag back over my shoulders, press my fingers to my palm, and watch the stream thwip up to the nearest cornice.
I retract and swoop up into the air, running briefly up the brick walls and catching the edge with both palms, swinging up and over, flipping over my head and landing, feet first, with a huff inside of the roof.
I take a running start across the slanted roofline ahead of me, ignoring the view, ignoring the falling light, the golden sunset glinting off the building's edges.
The roof looks like it is tipping over on it's side, and my feet turn into paddle boards.
My heart aches, and tears flow, my nose feels weird, and my head is still ballooning in a drunken sort of cloudy stupor. I thought watching my dad get arrested was 'sobering' as the saying goes - it wasn't. It was just distracting.
Now I'm still feeling the effects of two drinks, a shot of something, and a snort of… cocaine.
Holy shit, I did cocaine.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I skid to a halt, my feet grinding through that weird gravel material they deposit inside rooflines on apartment buildings amongst the exhaust pipes and chimneys.
"Um," I say awkwardly. "Call Tony Stark."
Karen puts the call through. It rings only once.
"What's up, kid?" Mr. Stark answers cheerfully. "How goes the neighborhood… friendly… whatever?"
"I… I don't know how to tell you this," I say hesitantly.
"Uh - maybe don't, then. I don't know if I can handle this today." He's joking, clearly in a very good mood. I hate being the one to bring that down. "I'm sure whatever it is, we can take care of it. Did you hit an old lady with a spoon?"
"Karen, can you send Mr. Stark a read out… of… me?"
"Sure thing, Peter."
"Why are you sending me your vitals right now?" Mr. Stark mumbles. "What am I looking at, here?"
There's a pause.
And then there's a crash.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Peter Parker." I hear a scrambling of… something. I don't even know what. "What the fuck am I looking at? Dear god, in Heaven, please tell me this is some sort of hacking prank and your friend Ned Nederlander is just screwing with me."
"No…"
"So according to your blood-alcohol level, you're drunk."
"My powers are keeping that at a minimum, I think it's tipsy."
"And what is this percentage of toxicity here?" another pause. There's a thump, like he's sitting down heavily in a chair.
A long, long silence.
Too long.
"Mr. Stark?"
"Don't say it."
"It's…"
"Nope…"
"I did something…"
"SomeTHING. Not just any THING."
He pauses.
"Cocaine. Please tell me I'm wrong."
"Um," I whisper, "No."
"I'm at a loss. I have no words. Let it be known that - this - this is how I die. Shock and the inability to speak."
"Mr. Stark," I say slowly, and my voice cracks. "I know this - this looks bad. But it's not what you think. I'm… I'm a narc."
"Yeah. Okay. Sure."
He doesn't believe me.
"It's true. I'm undercover. Or I was."
"Jesus Christ. I'm coming to get you right now. And I'm driving you straight home and we are talking with your father. You are benched, kid, at least until I talk to my guy in the PD… figure out what the hell they were thinking…"
"Back - back up, Mr. Stark. We can't do any of that."
"Why the hell not? I'm calling your dad right now."
"Don't…. Don't do that."
"That's absolutely not an option. You're a minor. And you're plastered."
"He's not going to answer."
Pause.
"Hmph. He's not answering." I hear him take a deep, yoga-like breath. "Let's rewind a second. I need you to explain narc to me."
"Part of an undercover operation with the NYPD. Well, part of one of their task forces, anyway. At least I was. Kind of."
"And why in the world were they interested in Peter Parker? Do they know about…?"
"No, they don't know I'm Spider-Man."
"Then why, Peter? How do you expect me to believe that? Peter Parker is a good kid. Why do they rope him into undercover work?"
"I thought it was because I interned for you. It meant I was trustworthy."
"Thought," he repeats. "Past tense. What changed?"
I groan slightly. I feel sick to my stomach. Alcohol is gross. How does anyone drink this stuff on purpose?
"I'm having a hard time thinking comprehensively right now," I mutter woozily.
"I'm on my way," Mr. Stark says, a little less abrasively. "Just sit down wherever you're at."
"On a roof at the corner of…"
"I pinged the suit. I know where you're at. Just sit the hell down before you fall off the goddamn thing."
I sit.
"There. Now sit. Stay."
"I'm… not a dog."
"Well, you're going to sit and stay anyway." I hear a car motor start. "Go back to the beginning. Why are you high as fuck right now?"
"I thought it was part of my cover. I was at a party my handler told me to go to. I got scared. I thought I had to. So they could press charges."
"What the actual fuck?" he pauses. "Press charges on who? The person with the drugs? You?"
"It was all a lie to begin with." I unexpectedly let out a sob. I thought I was all cried out, but, there it is. "They weren't even after the drugs. They were after my dad."
There's a squeak of brakes.
"Red light," I hear him mutter. "Come on, let's GO. GREEN means GO." Another sigh. "What does that mean? AFTER your dad?"
"They made me call him, ask him to come get me. Turns out he was waiting outside the whole time. When he came inside they arrested him."
"For what? Picking his kid up at a bad party? What the hell?"
"No… for… murder, and a lot of other stuff." I cry softly and wish I could take the mask off, but I'm using the line in my suit, not the phone. I have to keep it on for now, but the saltwater makes my face itch. "I guess my Dad is… the Vulture."
I hear traffic below me, and on Mr. Stark's end.
"Dear god."
The engine revving, a little faster.
Nothing but the car driving for a moment.
"I didn't know," I cry quietly. "I never knew anything about it. I didn't know."
"Kid. I'm so sorry. I don't even know what to say."
"Don't say anything," I say, maybe a little harshly. "He's been… um… after the Avengers… and, me, I guess, Spider-man… for so long… I thought you should know."
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know. I'm high."
"Wrong question. Instinct. Uh. Jesus Christ, kid." He huffs a bit. "You know being tricked into being bait and everything… you know that's not your fault, right?"
"I don't know."
"I know catching bad guys is what we do. But. You shouldn't have been forced into a situation where you're put in a position to catch your own dad. That's fucked up."
"I don't know what to do."
"I'm assuming you'll stay with that aunt of yours."
"They said as much."
"She's still working late shifts?"
"Yeah."
"I'll put Happy on getting in touch with her."
Silence.
"Do I have to go to the hospital or something?" I ask meekly.
"Why?" he asks slowly. "Do feel okay?"
"I feel fine, just sort of weirdly euphoric. I didn't know if I was supposed to."
"I don't want you to move. I want you to stay." He pauses. "Wait. How long ago did you take this stuff?"
How long ago? How can I tell how much time has passed? I feel like my entire life has collapsed in some way since then. I took the drugs, snuck to the bathroom, called my dad, hid in the kitchen… the police swarmed, he was arrested, and I climbed up here. I check the timestamp on my phone and sigh.
"Peter."
"Only twenty two minutes ago." I giggle.
"What are you giggling about?"
"My phone just turned bright pink." I pause. "Whoa. No, my hand is pink. My phone is melting."
"The real-deal hits about fifteen to thirty minutes in," Mr. Stark explains slowly.
"And how do you know?" I ask.
"Grown-ups know grown-up things."
I sigh. "I'm sorry."
Silence.
"Don't apologize, Peter. You're young. You didn't know what you were doing. They sure as hell didn't know what they were doing, otherwise you wouldn't be sitting on a rooftop right now watching pink elephants on parade."
"Was… was that a Pinocchio reference?"
"Dumbo, actually, smart ass." I hear a smile in his voice. "You're going to be okay. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you."
"No matter what happens. With your dad. Or your aunt. It's going to be okay. We'll make sure it's okay. If Aunt May needs money for an attorney and get custody, we can help with that. I'm rich and pissed about it. Okay?"
I almost want to cry, but I laugh instead. "Yes, sir."
"I'll be there in two minutes. I'm on your street."
"Okay. I'm waiting right here."
"What are you seeing right now?" he asks, curiously.
"Um - well - the clouds look like pink elephants, to be perfectly honest. And my vision is wobbly."
"Good news is, that's not a hallucination. That little bit of smog and pollution is going a long way."
I smile at the horizon. "It looks nice."
"That's New York, for ya."
"Yeah," I say.
That's New York for ya. That's home. Maybe my dad has given up on being a dad - hell, he may have given up long ago. But I'm not going to give up. Not on Spider-Man, not on New York. They're stuck with me for awhile.
"Kid? You still with me?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Stark. Still here. I think I'll stick around for a long time."
...
...
THE END
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SEE WHAT MY BRAIN COMES UP WITH WHEN I'M ASLEEP? I have serious dream weirdness, guys! Please leave a review if you enjoyed!