Alright, so things just got a little more urgent.
First of all, Mac Gargan. Scorpion, for anyone that might still be on the conspiracy board connecting dots. Mac Gargan, as portrayed by Michael Mando, who made Vaas Montenegro the iconic motherfucker he was. Forget Scorpion, imagine that dude gaining access to Venom. Or Carnage.
No. Just... just, no. No.
I would literally throw a party in my apartment if you were to not ever, ever do that to me again, universe.
If things would go according to the faintly recalled timeline, I probably had anywhere between three weeks to a month to be ready for Tony Stark to come knocking. I couldn't say I'd be entirely on board with the BS, but I couldn't be entirely sure what'd happen short term if I wasn't there, assuming I could convince a desperate Iron Man to go away. It could go from Winter Soldier and Falcon being free to cause more chaos, to Scott's throwing Rhodes going a little too far and getting him hurt, which could cause Tony to view him with genuine enmity, which could elicit a range of reactions from being a lot more dismissive of him come Endgame, to even breaking his mask then and there, potentially killing him and thus dooming everyone that died in the Snap to, well, die forever, since no one would know the Quantum Realm was the key to getting everyone back.
(I had no idea what'd happen if the mask was breached when Ant-Man was super-huge or super-small, so I could only presume they wore those for a reason and thus assume the worst.)
Long-term, I could strike it out on my own as Spider-Man. I doubted it'd be too hard, even - well, aside from Parker Luck and just the whole balancing act between Student and Spider and arranging and sewing a new costume and new/special iterations of Peter's webs, like the Taser Web, Impact Web, Web-Bomb and cooking up some intel, arranging lookouts, informants...
...Well, it wasn't going to be impossible.
But if there was one thing I hated about Far From Home, it was that there were completely arbitrary and unbelievable reasons for Peter taking on Mysterio alone. Sure, the real-world reason was that it was a Spider-Man movie at the end of the day, but there'd definitely been plenty of other solo outings where team-ups had been done without taking away from the fact that it was that specific hero's movie/comic. It honestly just sounded like the writers' problem that they couldn't focus on Peter enough without taking away from the awesomeness of the other half of the team-up. Even with "Fury" doling out bullshit reasons the other heroes couldn't come shouldn't have stopped Peter from contacting Happy and getting him to see if he couldn't get anyone else to come over (and I saw no reason whatsoever that Rhodes wouldn't help - any jurisdictional/pro-Sokovia Accords crybabies could and absolutely would be shut up by literally five years of Thanos). Even Wanda or Dr. Strange (unavailable = bullshit) since "extradimensional creatures" would've made it at least a sorcerer's fight.
Besides, even if the whole thing wasn't a Mysterio plot, what the fuck was Talos expecting Peter to do against beasts made out of the four natural elements?! He had webs!
...And access to Stark tech, but what good would it do with the shit timeline he got to deal with it and the incompetent version of Fury?
...Actually, what if he just straight-up called a drone strike on that fire elemental? Because if those things were built for another alien invasion and those Elementa were supposed to be extradimensional and - oh. Ohhhh.
My chaotic thoughts slowed to something of a stop due to a sudden case of mind-blowing ramification syndrome.
...Holy shit. Did I just HISHE? Did they seriously pass that House Party Protocol idiot ball from Tony to Peter?!
... No, I would meditate on this later. The point I was trying to make was that the backup would be useful. I wasn't crazy enough to take on the Sinister Six with just spandex, webs, and good old Spidey-Sense. Access to Tony Stark meant I could make more useful tools to supplement those strengths, and even have backup if it was needed. There was no such thing as too much backup, not when you happened to be living the story and not just being the audience invested in the character's suffering.
I couldn't give a shit about the Iron Man Jr. arguments. I wasn't protected by the fourth wall anymore. I would become Iron Lad myself if I damn well had to.
...Not that I'd do that. Spider-Man was and would be all I'd need.
(And nobody said Spider-Man could only shoot webs. Heh.)
Putting on the "suit" and mask was going to be the easy part, to be honest. While the initial plan had been to stash my clothes and food on the roof so I could go on and practice Spider-Manning, Mac Gargan existing in the same building put a total crimp to that plan. Given the whole New Yorkiness of New York, I decided, I would simply look for another convenient building to jump off of - they were, in fact, not in any incredibly short supply.
With the course of my life thus decided, I took the elevator back down, left, explored, and found a handy alleyway to change into while ducked out between a pair of dumpsters. I was lucky Peter was very familiar with the streets of Queens, which made me somewhat familiar with said streets. It was annoyingly disorienting, but also convenient. With that being said... I had to admit - not that I'd do it out loud - for being pajamas with extra steps, it was surprisingly snug. The goggles were a little trickier, but the memories helped with understanding their necessity.
Things were going to get frantic up there...
I tested the web-shooters, finding to my satisfaction that they worked perfectly. I'd look into the possibilities of a more compact design later on in case the Stark Suit was a no-go - something like the modified watches used by Andrew Garfield's Spidey. They also did chafe a little, something solved by sliding the sleeves underneath the shooters, but this was unacceptable - work would have to be done later, if I could figure out the materials. Interestingly, I already had a myriad of different functions depending on how I interacted with the trigger mechanism, so essentially adaptive triggers. Soft, sustained presses got me the standard line shooting out the nozzle at different speeds, harder ones created something more of a net, and hard, quick ones got me thick webs (phrasing!), like the ones Peter used to tie down Tony, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Aaron Davis.
I'd also made sure to carry some extra capsules in case I got carried away and my current payload ran out. Hopefully, I wouldn't find out mid-air.
With all that said and done, I decided it was time to climb up - I wasn't going to test my luck again and risk even more indoor escapades - God forbid, I'd probably run into, say, Flash Thompson or something.
I stuffed my clothes in the plastic, set my food on top, and leapt onto the wall, plastic in hand. Crawling upwards caused a surge of excitement and terror in me - and one-handed, too? My movements were frantic, my breath haggard, my - fuck, his body fighting the epic and futile fight to contain my excitement. Adrenaline spread like a happy poison through my body, easing the strain of my task. I cleared stories in moments, and I felt my heart jump the moment I looked down to see how far I'd come.
I couldn't help my laugh.
I leapt across the alley back to the other building purely for the hell of it and switched hands once I landed. I kept climbing, kept going, and jumped back to the other building, finally clearing the roof and ending it in style - I leapt up, hard, thwipped a line back to the building, and drove myself down in an arc to land on the building, blatantly stealing the move from PS4 Peter Parker.
I couldn't think of a way to boost myself forward from that move as drastically as the game suggested - maybe the timing was a lot tighter than it appeared - but it was exactly as fun as it looked.
I decided to start off by eating up. Finishing that meal was easy - I was no speedster, but Peter's body did need more calories to go on these days than the average person. I could definitely eat for two - and the food was great.
I finished eating up, and with everything done, I fished for Peter's phone and, with a little finagling to get the earphones in without unmasking, whipped up Muse's Butterflies and Hurricanes and secured the plastic to my back via a generous application of webbing.
(Note to self: Web-Pouch plans later.)
Last test. I thwipped out a couple on both shooters, small webs, long webs, brought the body through deep, full breaths. This was about to be the craziest thing I'd ever done. The last time I'd jumped off a building didn't end well for me. It almost didn't for a version of Miles, too, that one time - how could he have possibly thought Spider-Man operated without testing for any organic web at least once? I grunted, shaking off the distraction, my heartrate ascending ever upward. Deep breaths, I told myself, deep breaths. You technically have done this before, so it's totally safe.
Nothing has been the same since I got here, but this one thing, this one moment, this one minute, this one jump...everything changes.
People always said I had the potential to do anything, no matter how much I kept telling them how bullshit that was. Now, I wonder what they'd say if they found out 'anything' included becoming Spider-Man? I laughed at the thought. They'd all freak out.
I forced myself to hop once, twice, to force movement into the body. A hop turned into a step. A step, to steps, to a jog, to a sprint for the edge. The void called again, the old lover, but I leapt beyond her.
Falling was terrifying.
Your body had absolutely no support in the air, no leverage. And as high as twelve stories was, it wasn't enough for a proper imitation of skydiving, only a proper bout of screams and howls of abject terror. The body, battered by the very atmosphere itself, could fall end over end, the panicking human neither knowing of nor exerting any control over the method of their fall. It was never the fall that killed - it was the anticipation of the sudden stop soon to come, and the very stop itself. That stop hurt, and it hurt like nothing I had ever known until that moment, the body fighting and failing to express its rictus of unshakeable, overwhelming agony, failing and fighting the reality of being dead. I remembered that pain. It was the last thing I'd ever carried with me, and it carried me here.
Was it the fall or the pain that brought the most fear into me? I'd never know.
Either way, falling was terrifying, dangerous - and danger sharpened Peter Parker, honed him.
It didn't hone me. It just killed me.
I wasn't long for terror this time, though, a spasm of alertness jolting through Peter's body, screaming information at him. The exact building, the exact angle, the exact corner, the exact swing, the exact path to take to save my goddamn life right now.
I compulsively reacted to that warning, an arm thrusting out, slinging web out and diverting my momentum to an arc. The world rushed past, and I let go without thinking. The momentum drove me on, air rushing past and slowing me down fractionally.
I lost the momentum, and the warning screamed at me once more - another building, another angle, another arc, and I thwipped away once more. If my heart had been fast before, I'd probably have Hulked out if I'd a drop of receptiveness to gamma radiation. My body shuddered, a delirious mix of terror and the unrefined, chaotic adrenaline rush. I could barely breathe, but the body was in full focus, singing the song of thwip-swing-release, thwip-swing-release, six months of experience fighting the terror and excitement of the newbie now driving that experienced body.
It didn't take very long before I let out an excited holler.
"Whoooo!" I roared. "Yeah!"
I swung around Queens for a while, just reveling in it. I was fucking Spider-Man!
Web-slinging, after the initial pants-shitting terror (why in the name of everything rational did I even start off so high anyway?!), was the most awesome thing on Earth. Flying was awesome and everything, but there was nothing in the world like playing with gravity, momentum, and sheer badass acrobatics. I swung around a corner, just letting the weblines take me where I wanted to go, strumming on the fine line between some control and none. It was all about the momentum, like Insomniac preached, and how I used the body to gain or lose it. Speaking of, I pulled off a single, somewhat clumsy-feeling Helix spin to kill a little momentum and so tried that web-zip maneuver - it didn't take me as far as I thought it would, but it did direct me towards the wall. So, realistically speaking, web-zipping was theoretically functional, but with consideration for my weight, the air resistance and the angle of the building, I'd have to sling over twice. It was probably easier to use roof edges and streetlights as zipping points, which was why Insomniac Peter did it all the time.
Got it. Noted. This was all a learning process.
I tried webbing myself on to the building to bounce off it anyway -
Clik.
"Wha -?!"
...Then I ran out of webs.
Oh, motherfucking tittysucking -
"Shit, shit, shit, shit!" I screamed as my forward momentum carried me on... and down.
Since I was aiming to web-zip and wall-run the side of a building and start trying to incorporate proper flips and twists into the routine for exercise and the hell of it, I was lucky not to fall - not directly onto the street, anyway - but falling a few stories was still a terrifying experience. I only just grabbed at the building with a desperate, bruising grip, the reality of just how high up I was batting me over the head like a mousetrap. My momentum yanked at me violently, dying off quickly and painfully - that was the only thing I wanted dead at the moment, so that suited me just fine. My - Peter's - fingers, on the other hand, had different opinions - ranging from "Ow" to "We oughta sue your abusive ass". I wanted to throw up.
I winced. Hopefully the hands wouldn't bruise, that would actually make that little court case a lot easier.
What the fuck!? Couldn't the Spidey-Sense have warned a guy on that one?!
I clung on there for a few more moments to settle my nerves and clambered on up the building.
I found the top after a bit, and sat on the edge to think. For all of how much I'd wallowed in my shit for all of seven years, I'd actually forgotten that thinking was exactly what got me killed.
The adrenaline started flushing itself out, and with my lack of interest in fight or flight came sheer panic.
I could've died. I really could've died back there, just like that. I could've killed Peter, and that would be it. I'd have murdered him because of my stupid, fucking moronic carelessness.
I shuddered - now for an entirely different reason. Some instinct drove me to a crabwalk away from the edge of the roof. "Oh god," I whimpered. "Oh shit. Oh f - oh, shit. Wow. F... Bloody hell."
I panted haggardly. When had I gotten into the fetal position? Why was I so scared? Why couldn't I just - just had to... "Just have to... you have to reload - you know what you have to do, you have to reload the webs. Have to - oh, oh...! R-Reload - reload. Get up. Do this thing. Get up. G-Get up, you... pathetic..."
I lay there for several minutes. It was only when I heard the roof access door that I was spurred into action with a gasp and frantic movement - I couldn't let whoever that was see me. I skedaddled over the edge and crawled down, just enough to hide. I didn't look at anything. I couldn't look at anything.
"Are you sure you saw him?" an unfamiliar, masculine voice said.
"Yeah!" his companion - female - replied. "I thought I'd catch him. I just... I swear, I saw him."
"Looks like he left, then. You know how fast he moves."
"... Yeah. Guess you're right. Get back in?"
"Yup. I gotta know how this one ends for Gary."
I sighed, opened my eyes, and reloaded the webs. Simple motions - unlock cartridge latch, eject cartridges, reload new one, latch on, test, and...
I looked out to the world.
... And move. Go home. Think.
...Move.
"Move," I told myself, stubbornly sticking to the wall. "Move, damn you."
Nothing.
"You're not going to stick around here forever -"
I held up and hummed curiously at a sliding sensation on my back. Of course, the moment I realized what it was turned out to be the exact moment the wind caught the plastic with my clothes and blew everything everywhere.
"I thought this thing lasted two hours!" I exclaimed - and, of course, only then remembered that the properties of Peter's webs was an iterative process. That was why I ran out so quickly, and why the webs didn't last as long as I thought they would under the stress of my webslinging.
"Dammit."
Get moving, the universe seemed to tell me.
I scoffed and leapt off again.
I managed to get everything. It wasn't even that hard, actually - the awkward part was sticking the paper bag on me again - I couldn't stick it onto my back because that required awkward maneuvers I wouldn't pull off in the suit itself, so I just taped it onto my leg. I had no idea how long it took me to swing on home - on a lower level, sticking strictly to the basics of it, thwip, release, all that. It was still a rush, but somehow, the excitement was entirely subdued. I faintly remembered catching a balloon for a kid on the way home and giving him a high-five, but nothing much other than that. One thing, just the one question flickered all over my mind...
Peter Parker would face Shocker, the Vulture, two of the Black Order, Thanos, the Black Order whose ass he was about to kick again, a shit-ton of Thanos's army, grief, more grief, the Tracksuit Mafia as part of a side quest before his vacation, Team Mysterio, and whatever the hell else he was going to face - I had no idea, I was too dead to see the sequel.
And I lost my shit because I ran out of webs and fell.
If that little danger freaked me out like that, was I really cut out to be Spider-Man?
"Something's bothering you," May's voice suddenly spoke up.
I startled. "Huh? What?"
"Yeah, something's definitely bothering you. You haven't been eating, and this is the third time I had to get your attention - like every time, say what I'm trying to say to you, wait, and repeat. So weird." She ate a spoonful of lasagna - only slightly overcooked, but otherwise delicious, which was when I realized it was dinnertime and I'd only eaten a little, yikes - while I absorbed her words. "I haven't seen you look this intense since you were figuring out how to get Murph off that tree when you were ten years old. You got the ladder before any of us even figured out what happened and then got yourself stuck on the tree too -"
I laughed in the middle of the tale, at least to help the lingering embarrassment if not purely for my own amusement over the memory. "Come on. I was - I was ten years old. That was decades ago."
"Exactly. You haven't had that look in decades. Did Murph get stuck again? I mean, it'll be easy for you this time, considering..." she waved her fingers at me, as if she was trying to spook me or work some magic. "How does that work, exactly? Do the... I wanna say, do the webs come out of you? Like - like with an actual spider..." She pointedly gestured jerked her head back, and I stared at her, confused, then looked around to see what she was pointing me towards. When I turned to face her, she was pointing at her back.
In an absolute dumbo moment, I turned to try to look at my back before the coin dropped, then went red with incalculable embarrassment when I finally got it.
"W-what?! No!" I stammered. "No! Jeez, May!"
"I mean...?" she gestured helplessly. "You're Spider-Man. Spiders spin their stuff out of their abdomen, so I thought..."
"No, no..." I couldn't even look at her anymore. A picture of Tom Holland spinning webs out of his butt was making the rounds in my imagination. Great. Thanks, May.
"God, it's in my brain now..." I groaned quietly.
"- just did it so fast that we couldn't actually see you do it, then swung with your hands. What do you use to stick on walls? Is it natural, or you -"
"No, that's not possible for me - I made them."
"You made stickers?"
"I'm sorry?" I leaned forward, still processing what she was saying. "No, no, I-I made the webs. Let me show..."
I made to get up, and stopped when she pulled out one of the web-shooters and put it on the table.
"How did..."
"You left them by the TV," she explained. "I was just messing with you, Petey."
"... Oh."
"Like I said, something's bothering you." May slid the shooter towards me. "You wanna lay it out? Just -"
"Do you think I could actually do this right?" I blurted out. "This... being Spider-Man?"
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes boring into me. I had no idea what was on her mind -
"What brought this on?" she asked. "You've been at it for a while."
"I..." I paused, trying to think up some quick lie - I did not want to tell her I almost got her nephew killed. I heard someone talking about Lagos on the TV, and turned my head towards it. A guy on the media - no idea what his name was - was going over the immediate aftermath of the explosion in Lagos.
"Is that what it is?" she asked.
I could hug this woman - she just gave me a ready-made, technically truthful excuse. "Yeah." I sighed, both for the relief and to try to appear more sincere about the whole thing. "It just had me thinking. I did a lot of training to get used to this, but... what if I mess up and somebody..."
"You get it," she said, giving me a more serious look. "That's the point. That's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of everything that this Spider-Man thing could do to you."
I nodded. "Yeah."
We looked at the TV again, taking in the criticism of the Avengers.
"You could make one mistake and they'll turn on you. Being in the public eye is... I don't think it's a blessing like everyone thinks it is. It changes you, changes them. Look at that. Four years ago, they were our heroes. Then they got careless."
"They did," I nodded. "Maybe it just comes down to that they didn't talk to people often enough."
"It's not just that," May said. "I saw you help that kid."
I blinked in surprise. "Y-you did?"
"I was across the street, actually - just on my way to the bank. The kid just caught my eye. I really felt for him, and then you showed up and got his balloon. You saw his face - you made his day."
"He was really happy," I said, still avoiding eye contact. "Said he got the balloon from his dad on the rare visit. It was pretty awesome. The high-five made his week."
"And then when you left, he was like, 'Thank you, Spider-guy!'" she finished, pitching her voice to imitate his.
"Spider-guy," I repeated with a rueful smile, and we both shared a chuckle.
"So I'm just thinking," she continued... "I think you could try."
That got me; I looked at her. What? So fast? I knew she'd end up being totally cool with the Spider-Man gig at some point, but... so fast?
"Really?" I frowned. "That fast?"
"What I saw clinched it," she told me. "Don't get me wrong, this is going to be difficult to get used to, and we're definitely laying out rules - but do you see this?" She pointed at the web-shooter. "This is a gift, from somewhere, to you, to bring happiness. You've been given a great power, and with that power, you do have a great responsibility. You understand that?"
I nodded solemnly, not trusting myself to say a damn thing.
"The rules are simple. Always check your equipment and make sure your webs are at least full enough to get you to the ground safely." I tried not to react at that - and yet, my head nodded jerkily. "Take breaks, make time for Ned, or any other friend you'll have. Curfew's at seven - five or even when you have homework. This absolutely does not take any priority over school. You skip school for this, you're done. Let the police and Fire handle whatever emergencies there are. And please don't go fighting gun-toting maniacs or..." she threw a finger at the TV, "anyone with bombs, or anything too big until you actually have a few years of experience, at least. That's all."
I decided not to tell her about the Spider-Sense. It was too early, too inconsistent, too underdeveloped - wouldn't help me actually dodge bullets.
"So, you have my tentative permission." She reached out for my hands, and I let her take them. "One last thing I want you to remember - this is very important, Peter: you can't save everyone. That's impossible. So don't go putting that kind of weight on yourself, you hear me?"
"Yeah." I nodded. I wasn't sure, despite all this, if I was even worthy of this mantle. "Thank you."
She smiled. "At least saving Murph again will be a piece of cake."
"I don't think she'd be a huge fan of the mask." I grinned weakly, going back to the lasagna and taking more bites out of it. This was my favorite meal as a kid - and not as Peter Parker, but as me, in my old life - I'd longed, for years, to eat it again. Yet here I was, too distracted by my own shit to appreciate this... was it a blessing? Maybe, but... not for the price of taking Peter away from everyone that knew him, and supplanting him like this. I hated it.
"Yeah, this?" she curled her hands and peeked through them in a poor imitation of the goggles. "No. Not a fan either."
"But they help me focus. It's pretty intense up there."
She shrugged. "That's kind of what I'd expect from throwing yourself all over the air. Couldn't you salvage old sunglasses or something?"
"... I couldn't find any that weren't totally broken."
"What's your budget looking like? You're definitely gonna have to make a few upgrades..."
I dug around Peter's memories. "Uh... Something close to three hundred, so far. I figure I could sell the PS2, maybe get a little boost out of it. I'm sure there's a vintage buyer somewhere."
"You sure? I don't want you crying yourself to sleep about how much you miss that old thing."
"Hey, I got it for free. People throw everything away these days. I'll find something else."
I was always more of a PC gamer anyway...
Yesterday made it easy to forget that Lagos already happened. Life and Midtown High, on the other hand, had absolutely no problem reminding me of it.
Everyone was fucking talking about it - everybody, even the people that, from Peter's memories, I didn't think had any interest in superhero shit. Even May made some comments about it, but she did say she was in a weird position about superheroes at the moment - on the one hand, even if they saved lives, they were reckless and just did too much damage; on the other, I was one of them, so shittalking was not on the table - though she did tell me to do my absolute best to avoid messing with anything that could lead to an explosively bad day. The speculation was just off the charts. I wished I could shut them up.
The kids, that is, not May.
"I still can't believe it happened," Sally said. "I don't..."
"It's not the first time, though," Cindy - right, as in Cindy Moon and holy shit - "they've caused this kind of stuff before. We just didn't pay that much attention to it before."
"We were kids," Ned said. "I think everyone else had no problem remembering. Greenwich, that town in Africa, whatsitcalled, then Sokovia, now this..."
"You're thinking Richards' Bay," Abe filled in.
"Richard... what?"
"That place in South Africa? Richards' Bay."
"Oh, thanks."
"Guys," Charles spoke up, holding up the flash cards Liz gave him. Smart kid, but unfortunately he didn't exactly exude authority. "Can we just -"
"Why are you leaving out New York?" Cindy asked.
"New York was totally not their fault," Flash defended. "That's crazy. Nobody asked to get invaded by aliens. You can't just blame that one on them."
"I'm not...!" Cindy worked herself up to an argument, then cut herself off with a sigh. "I'm not. Look, either way, I don't think this'll be taken all that well. We don't have a lot of the details, but why would they operate right in the middle of public, in a marketplace no less, and not expect whoever they were chasing to just, I dunno, do anything from taking hostages to blowing everything up?"
"Guys -" Charles tried again.
"You can't expect that to happen!"
"Nobody's going to care about that," Michelle spoke up.
"What do you mean?"
"The honeymoon phase is long over, Flash," she told him. "Who were they fighting? Humans. Not aliens, not Terminators - just people So what was so special about them, that the Avengers felt they needed to act personally, within international borders, most likely without Nigeria's permission?"
"It's a huge hit to whatever little PR they had," I continued on her tack with a loud, clear, and firm voice, attracting everyone's attention. "Whatever happens from here, they'd need another alien invasion to regain any public favor. That and maybe Glenn Chambers."
"As it is," she concluded, "they're done. There'll be consequences this time."
We shared a small glance; I gave her a small, approving nod, and she did the same after a little hesitation. At least somebody was thinking practically around here.
"Wait," Abe raised his hand, "who's Glenn Chambers?"
"You're just talking out of your ass, Parker," Flash snorted. "When Greenwich happened, nothing happened. Same with Sokovia; nobody cared -"
"Guys," Charles sighed, and I decided to take pity on him.
"Nobody cared?" Cindy repeated incredulously. "Are you kidding me? You -"
"I'm sorry," I interrupted, looking away from everyone, "can I just butt in for a sec? None of this is relevant to what we should be doing right now."
"Oh, would you -" Flash started, but I didn't let him gain any steam.
"Vice-Captain's not going to be too happy we're letting ourselves get distracted." I raised a hand apologetically to a glowering Liz Allen. Focus, she mouthed sternly, before going back to practice with the others. "You know she hates distractions."
"Charles?" Michelle raised her eyebrows expectantly. Yeah, I could see why she'd end up as our Captain.
"Right, right," he held up the cards again, grumbling underbreath about our attention span. "So, um, name the principles governing..."
Nothing much happened for the next couple of days.
School, hanging out with Ned, then pussyfooting around with the idea of being Spider-Man and hating myself for it because I knew I was on the fucking clock, then homework, then sleep. Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat.
Then it was Friday. We got out thirty minutes earlier. I decided to chill out at Ned's place. His gran was a mean cook and loved accusing me of not eating - no wonder he was a bit on the chubby side of things.
As for what we were doing for the day, Ned was trying on a very behind-closed-doors second run-through of The Witcher 3 (acquired surreptitiously) - now with Hearts of Stone finally installed. Instead of continuing with his previous playthrough, he decided to start afresh, but he told me he was in Velen and found out he was massively under-leveled, so he decided to return to White Orchard to grind some XP...
"Crap!" he groaned as a trio of surprisingly aggressive ghouls - not alghouls, standard run-of-the-mill ghouls - surrounded him and absolutely ate his health in two seconds. I checked - his armor wasn't damaged enough for the game to warn him, so what...?
"Actually, what difficulty are you on?" I checked, sidestepping his offer to let me take a turn. He was playing it on his HP Omen with a controller - he hadn't gotten a mouse for it just yet, so I was bound to mess it up for him.
"Death March," he said, as Geralt respawned at a familiar place - ah, I realized, those trees where Geralt and Vesemir were talking about Geralt's dream at the start of the game. But he was by that locked gate a few miles north with the ghoul nest and the Place of Power, what gives...?
"No!" he moaned. "I forgot to save before going in on that ghoul nest! Now I have to go kill the ones down there all over again! That crap took me forever!"
"Death March, right off the bat? Weren't you playing it on Story and Sword before this?"
"Yeah, but... I dunno, dude, I wanted to challenge myself."
"Got any..." I closed my eyes, recalling the term and my previous playthroughs in my old life. Loved this game. "Any necrophage oil?"
"Any what?" Geralt stopped moving, and Ned looked at me. "Oh yeah! But that didn't make as much difference as I thought it would. So I just blow them up, slash them once or twice, run, hit them again and run, rinse and repeat until there's enough left that I can stand my ground."
"You have to game the system, Ned," I told him. "Every advantage you can get, you take it. Stack effects, take it slowly, and always keep ducking and waiting for a clear strike."
"How?"
"Use the explosive one -"
"Grapeshot? Yeah, I got that one."
"But have you combined it with... Dragon's Dream?" I remembered getting Dragon's Dream pretty early on, thanks to...what's her name...Tomira. "Use Quen before going in, hit them with fire and bombs to do the most damage, keep moving, wait for your opening and hit when you're good. If you just bum-rush them and try that hit-and-run tactic, you're just begging them to flank you and eat you."
Ned stared at me. "... Are you sure you don't want to play this yourself?"
"On Death March? This far into the game? No way, bro. You could always reduce the difficulty, though."
(Besides, if I was going to play The Witcher 3 again, it would be in my own time, on my own system, with all the DLCs and expansions. Blood and Wine would be coming out in, what, another month or two?)
"No way." Ned turned back to the screen, bringing up his inventory. "This is a standard I set for myself. I want to conquer it exactly like this. Nothing in life that's worth any effort is actually easy, dude." He nodded as he equipped Grapeshot and Dragon's Dream alongside each other. "If I can beat this, like this, then I can totally take on anything. I'm not ever gonna take it easy!"
I frowned. "Yeah, you... you're right."
He had a point. And it wasn't just about the Witcher.
I was running away from being Spider-Man, telling myself I wasn't worthy of it. This was a thing I kept doing. I kept telling myself I was worthless, that I couldn't do anything worth a damn, that I wouldn't do anything worth a damn because it was all the same in the end - it was destined to end in failure. I held myself up to impossible standards and didn't even bother trying to reach them. Because it came back to the same thing that I killed myself for - I was my own worst enemy.
Nobody had time for my bullshit. Tony Stark was coming. Thanos was coming.
I would absolutely suck at the beginning. That had to be a given, right? Tony made a suit of armor in a cave with a box of scraps, and it couldn't fly worth shit compared to what he had now. Even his first proper suit had issues - but he kept improving it, coming across new weaknesses and correcting them with each iteration. Whiplash nearly killed him with those electric whips, and he made a suit that could take that kind of energy, and it helped him hold his own against an Asgardian prince. He fought aliens, and then came up with combinations and combinations of suits that would help him in different situations against different hypothetical aliens. He found other issues, and just kept improving, getting better.
Ned was setting the same standards for himself. This motherfucker deserved to be Spider-Man a lot more than I did.
I was ruining things for Peter by being me. That had to stop.
I needed to be better. To be greater.
The job chose me. Maybe there was a reason for it, one I couldn't see.
I had to find it.
I had to be it.
"Peter! Peter!?" Ned hissed, being overwhelmed by the ghouls again. "How do you - no! Not again!" He groaned and reloaded his last save.
"You're over-excited, Ned," I told him, getting behind him and rubbing his shoulders. "Relax, dude. Keep your distance when you need a break. They're not as aggressive as those other ones unless you let yourself get too close. Hit them, get a little distance, eat up, and hit them again..."
So, the plan was simple.
I practiced, familiarizing myself with the process. I found it was much smarter to use one cartridge for a full session of web-slinging at a time - using both like I'd done a few days earlier was stylish (for a certain definition thereof), but it was also asking for the cartridges to run out on me mid-air. With the knowledge that I was doing things more safely came the freedom to enjoy the process once more, and it wasn't long before I was hollering for my life again.
I helped an old lady across the street and got a lollipop - which I gave to a kid whose mom was running a bit late for the pickup, and played some b-ball with some teenagers. I, uh, didn't do all that badly, for a beginner. The long and short of it was that I definitely could go pro if I wanted to, as long as I worked on my shooting - but sadly, that would be cheating.
After that, I decided it was time.
I needed to go see the Ancient One, stat. She was still alive, so I had time - but I needed to set everything in motion, tout de suite.
The plan was simple.
Three o'clock. I needed to go immediately, to have enough time to meet her and still stick to my curfew.
I leapt off the court after exchanging goodbyes with the guys, thwipping off a line to that pole so I could -
Things got incredibly difficult, and I started meeting a ton of resistance, and the sounds dropped into a lower, slower pitch, as if the world was just a big machine being shut down. What the hell's going on?
I tried looking around, realizing even moving my head was asking too much for some reason. I tried my best to move my eyes at least, but could only use my peripheral vision - and that was when I realized that somehow, time had stopped moving, and the world was a picture - frozen and silent. A pair of pigeons were completely frozen mid-flap, and I could just make out my left hand shooting out a web - the line went beyond my sight, but if I strained, I could see how it went from liquid to elastic solid, and I could see its strands winding around each other and splaying out at the end for extra grip.
I was so painfully aware of my utterest inability to move, and a sharp pain in my head began to build and buzz. What happened? What was going on?
Did someone just stop time? Did something happen at the Sanctum?
I can't move. I can't move - fuck! I have to move, I have to - have to do something. What the fuck is going on?!
I couldn't even tense my muscles. Any struggle at all, any, even a single twitch of a muscle, I would prefer to this entrapment. I couldn't move. I was aware that time had frozen, and even the Spider-Sense, weak as it was, was somehow going off despite everything. I couldn't know where the danger was, I couldn't -
H̶̢̞̲̺͆̚͜e̶̲͎̞͇͛̽ḽ̴̣̀̐͌͗̌̿̃ḻ̴̭͙̿̾̋̌͛͛͝͝o̴̭̳͒͆̕͝ ̵̯̀̄̇̈͋̏͝t̴͔͐̌̑̀̀̐ḣ̷̰̠͎̭̎͆͝͝e̵̢͖̼͙̞̯̝͐̚r̴̡̛̙͔͙̝̞̍͊̌͒̃̎̚e̴̖͓̘͔̓͛͝ͅ!̴̡̪͇̅̒̍̈͘ͅ C̵̱͕̍͐̂̽̄h̴͙̫̿̇͘͘͜e̴̩͖̺̩̒̾̒c̶̨̻͇͌̒̿̊͆ḳ̴̨̦͂͆͐͝ ̶̩͉̠̰͠í̴͚̗̓t̵̡̉̃̈̒͜͠ ̵̧̲̐͑o̷̼̙̼͕̻̍̈́̈́ụ̵̘̦̣̜́̑̊̓t̸̨̗̘̄̚,̷̧͚̰̞͗̍͘ ̶̤̜͈̭̈̂̆k̵̫̻̺̤̈́͘ǐ̸̧̧͔̮̗͋̆͠ḑ̷̫̼̣̓̈͋ ̷͖̹͐̏̈́͘-̶̧͎̬̺͋̔̍ ̶̨̘̤̯͑͜͝t̵͔͓́̈́͌̇͝h̴͎̿̆ḙ̸̳̲̌̌̅ ̸̛̯̜ẉ̴̨̗̦̂̓̔ô̸̢̆r̴̡̘͖͗ͅl̶̛̥̲͐̈́̋ď̸̼̘̉͌̈ ̵̡͙̘̩͂͛͊i̸̞͍̙̽́̈́͊͘͜s̵̙͐̊̊̿͝ ̶̢̆ạ̶̘̟͂̄ ̴͎̬́̄̔͝͝s̴͙͂̽̕ụ̸͉͂̚d̴̟̐d̷̛̦̝̀͛̏͠ȩ̵̡̘͘n̸͔̍̑ ̵̝̍̀̆͊̕r̶̝͇͖̿̓̊͜ù̸̡͈̮̒̄̈́s̴̳̣̍́̒̾͠ḩ̴̪̦̩͒̉͆̒̈́ ̸̡̛̹͂̃̇o̸̡͚͂̍̇̄f̴̱͑͛̉ ̸̢͔̤̖͂s̶̨̭͒͂m̵͎̼͓͌̿è̴̢͔̫̞̃̌̈́͊l̵͎̰̈̇̃̇͜l̸̜̟̄̇͆̚s̵̯̞̹̓ͅ ̵̰̖͑̑̈͗ã̸̢̤̪̟̝͒͐̈́ń̸̢͔̝d̴̦͓̈́̈́͠ ̷̼̊͑̂͋̐͜t̶̝̱̍̌ͅå̸̱͔̰̀̓͒̍͜s̸̛̗̱̪̬͋̃͒t̷̲̠̬͙̉̅͗̔́é̴̊̄̄͜s̴͕̫̗̊̈́̂ ̵̢̐́a̵̮̩͉͋ń̴͙̺̻̱̬͐d̴̡̛̪̤̦̆͂͜͝ ̶̢̣͓̤͝s̴̱͉͋̃̌î̶̹̞̝̞̬̅̐ģ̵̜̜̈́͗h̴͓̺̺͈́̃̚͘͜t̶͓͚̠̽̈́s̸̪̞̻̟̀̚͝͝ ̸̹̟͓̩̈́̂̑͘a̷̡͕̘̱̘͝ǹ̷̮̹͕͠ḑ̴͍͙̲̬̀̒ ̸̡̬̬̥̋ň̶͇͌̔͠ŏ̸̖̽̈́͒ḯ̵͕̳̰̺͘s̴̘̦̦͝e̷̢̼̤̽ Ń̷̨͉̜͚̻͈̩̮̭̤̺͑ȩ̷̳͂̊̽̈́̓̍̌̇́̀́͋͝w̷̹͖̻̘̼̞̺̼̦̖̓̔̓̌̉͂̀̑̌̇͜ͅ ̷̛̹̰̉̿́̈́͒͑̽̾̒̑́͋͝͝Y̷̡̨̢̥̲͇͍̼̤̜̰̣̥̺͈̦̤̐o̷̡̭͚̯͇̤̠͋̋̐̒͛͌͊̽̾̽͆̄͊̕r̵̖̤̖̂̉͋̇̀̐̌͘k̸̛̦͙̮͕̪̤̘͓̲͓̥̼̖̯̳̋͊̂͜ͅ ̶̯͙͙̻̘̘̳͎͓͍̝̩͐̕ş̵͓͈̭̩̦̻͛t̶̨̡̺̖̬̙̥͔̦̜̝͓̔͒i̵̢̧̯͇̜̼̭̹̫̺̫͙̩̒̐̀̑̃̑͊̚n̷̨͎̥͖͍̞̙͓͚͉̫̮̦͓̈́k̴̨̛̞̱̺͓̖̖̲̼͓̰͍͉͛̃̿̽́̾̀̇̏̽̈͘͘͝͝͠ṣ̶̢͈͕̍͊͆̀̍͂̈́̋͛͗͘͜͠ ̵̭̓̐̀́͐̓̿̍̃͐̉̅́̚̕͝͝m̴̛̠͚̩̣̻̉̈́̑͒̐ą̵͛́̾̈́̅̌͛́̅̾̒͛̓̕̕͝n̶̯͚͇̥̆͆ ̷̨̺̄́̂̽h̷̨̛̙̘̦͖̲͚̻̘̳̬̣̀͋͋̋̈́̿̓̈́̇̏̉͛͘͜͜ǒ̵̢̨̡̻̠͙͍͚͖͓̪͇̼̫͍̝̘̈́͆w̷̢̢̪̖̗̜̦̬̗̼̒̽̔̈́̄́̌̓̀͐́̉̿̉̒͜ ̵̧̧̥͍̝̲͎͈͓̣̣͍̼̭͓̅̎͒͝ͅͅd̵̡̡̫̻̞̯͚͙̟̖̺͓͚̲͂͐͌ͅͅǫ̵̧̧͖̳̠͕͖̪̳͂̇̑̊̃̈̇̐ ̶̡̤̞͇̪͉͍̭̤̲̹̦̞̠͙̹͑̎̋͗͑͑̾̀̑̔̕͝ͅy̶̦̞͔̠̘̙̯̼͉̘͍̬̖̩̰͆̓̈́̀̒̎́͝ͅǫ̸̩̣͈̟̱͔̘̰̰̻̟͙̼̭͖͇̆̀̈́͆́̽̂̒̓́ư̶̧̗̰̦̲̣̗̜͍̬͎͓̳̹̜̂ ̴̛͙̭̟̠̑̒̾̈́͒̾̀͊̈̃̑̏͘͠͠ͅp̸̡̛̦̻͗͆̂̃e̸̡̡͇̞̻̖̰͈̩̻͕̦̳̝̙͒͜ò̸̗͈͍̻͔̭̮̪̤̞̐̎̓͊͛̿̀͜͜p̷̜̈́̀̿̊͘ͅĺ̸̖̰̤̜̱̄͒̎̇̎́̈́͊́̄̎̓̂̔͛̀e̶̲̟̾͒̆̆́͗ ̵̢͈̺̘̗̟̱̙̜̥͓͚̯͙̙̉̋̓́̾̓͂͗͆̍̚͝ͅs̷̘̭͔̗̦̼̰͉̾̒̂̄͜t̶͈͙̣͖͕̳̺̟͌͂̊̓̋͗͋͌̊̍̀̈́́̚̕̕ͅà̶̡̨͕̤̘̥̪̩̼̬̇n̴̨̡̛̜̞̼̗̭͈̩̱̼̈̓̒̿ḑ̴̧̯͔͙̬̠̳͚̹̀́́̓͒̃̎͗̋̍̐͂̄̈͋̀ ̸̹͇̦̟̻̬̯͚̽͋͊̈̍͊͛̾̓̐́͆̚̕ţ̶̟̯̩͎̣̥͆̓̀̌̌͊̎͛̾͋̄͌̾̕͘ḩ̸̯̜͎̞̺̳̣̤͉̻͉̘̰̀̓ḭ̵̛̪̳̫̠̼̲̖̀̂̕ș̵̛̹̙̣̊̔̕͠͝ ̵̪̙̦̦͉̬͊̅͗͜-̷̧̭͙̥̭̭͙͖̥̆͑̏̊͝ ̸̧̧̪̖̯̙̰̻̺͓͈͕̪̦̏ă̵̝͊̈́͊̓̏̔̒̈́̓̌͝a̷͙̹͕̭͎͎̦̻̠̱͓͓̋̈͂a̴̙͙͙͉͛̎̎̂̈́͋͜n̴̲̝̪̤̼͊͊̐̐̄̑̈́̎̽̀̈́̕̕̕͝͠d̸̜͍̣͉̳̈̈͌̉͊̌̆̏̏͘̚͝ ̵̢̛̻̮̜͕̦͂̀̓͊̃̌̒̂̕͝h̷̨̬̝͖̘̪̜̬̦͒̈́̌͘͘ͅo̴̺̩͉̫̝̝̠̻͑͒̋̉̓͒̾͜l̵̤̹͈͆̋͆̔̏͐̄̓̒͜͜͝͝͠͝ͅd̷̤͓̮͖̑̂͑ ̸̜̀͐̓̐̄̾́̿̄̍͋̎̓̍o̶̬̤̾̀̈̀͂̂̀͝n̶͍̓̍ ̶̛̙̟͖̈́̏̑͐̇͆̊̐͗̈͂̊ä̶̧̛͕̮̥̲̖̭̬͙͖͖́̈́̀͑̊͊̌͋̈́̍̆͂͐́̕͝ ̶̡̛̬̒̈́͌̉̿̈́͐͊͋̅̈́̈́͂̒͠s̴̛̺̏̂́͐́̀̀͐͗ê̵̺͇̑̀̉̈́̌̾͐̃̑̚͝͠͠c̴̢̧̗̪͈͍͈͉͓̫̤̖͕̘̥͚̿͛̂͒̽̈́̇̅̉̎̊͗ ̶̼̱̬̘͚̤͒̽̑̿͂̀́́̀̇̌̚̚͝͝͠-̶̢̛̣͆̀̅͛͌̈̄̓̑̐̔͜ ̸͓̮͈̯̳̼͖̦͍̫̾̍̅͑̎͗̅̌̑͑̄̔̆̅̎̔͝y̸̛̳̤̰͖̘̟̹̖͕̱̺̎̔͋̕̚͜ơ̵͈͇͕͉̟̲̤̼̍͂̈́̑́̈͆̍̕͝ŭ̶̡̧̬̼̤͕̖͍͇̰̙͑͌̃̑͆̏̆̀̉̀͘̕͝ ̶͓͇̝͉̓å̷̧̓̆̆̾̅̍̍̄͒͘̚͝ȓ̵͎̝͍̰̬̙͖̲̙̝̪̦̈́̎̋͋̃̑̾̌̽̒́̀̅̔̚̚͜͜ͅè̷̺̪͛̉͠ ̴̧̛̼͇̅̅̈̐̈́̆͐̍͌̀͘̕̚͜ņ̴̡̗͎͖̭̟̰̙̾̉̊͌̈͝͝ͅo̶̢̹̘̘̮̰̙̩͆̀̑́̑̍̿̆́͂̎̚͠͝w̵̨̨̼͍̬̻͍̭̪̬̘̟̘̣͆͆̿͊͛̎͗͑̂͋͊̒͂͑̂̕͝ͅ ̵̢̨̺̗͉͔̖̹̯̠̫̗̣̘̲̗̋́͜ĺ̷̤͙̰̼̭̼̝̹͙̣͙͋ͅĩ̴̡̳̑̃͂̉͌̓̈́͑͑͛̓v̷͚͇̺͚͂e̸̋̈̎̀́͒̔̈́͒͌͆͒̈́̇̕ͅ,̷̣͎̝͍̖̠̋̂̓͑̚ ̵͓͍̫̌̊̃̅̐͐̾̓̐̂͊̈̎̈́̇̔̚ţ̶̣̹̭͓̙̳̌h̵͖̗͉̓̔̔̅͋̽͗w̴̨̨̘̬̣̲̠̬̹̣̲̌́̿͂̂͒̒͐̿̈́̀͋͆̚̚͜͠ͅį̷̬̻͔͕̠̗̲͎̺̯͙̹͒̉̉̀̍̋̈͐͒͘͜ͅp̶͖̼͊͊̽̍̆̾̀̈̉̐̓͘͠p̴̡̢̺͔͕̮̪̝̣̘̞͚͍̪͎̻̿̅͒̂̀i̶̩̙̺̜̬̯̝͍̯͍̱͝ń̸̥̯͂g̵̨̛͔̮͎̱̙͙̙̥͆̔̇̈̎̈́̅̒̆̊̕̚͘͝ ̵̡̩͓̯̟̥̫̺͚͉͚̑͆u̶͕̮̪͍̗͓̣̳̽̒͛̈́͑̈́̈́͆̚͘͝p̵̤̠̻͕̪̽̿̅̐̔̑̈͒͑͝͝ ̸̨̨̬̞̘̱̤̘͚͖̗͓̩̳̦̞͂͌̾͒̒̍̊͊̆̇̂͗̓̍͝͝ͅa̸̲͕̼̙͇̅͒̍̉͐̈́̍̒̌̊͠ǹ̶̨̧̡̹̼͎̩̞͎̟͕̙͙̲̆̍̔̔̾̑͗̎̀̐̚̚d̵̗̻̟̹̰̖̗̪̜̣͎̈́̀͂̀̀͝ ̶̨̧̭̺̰͎̫̤̻̪͚̖̮̖͎̖́̓͗͆̋̃͘͜à̷̧͙̭̬̖́̊̽͒͆͑̃͝w̶̹̻̓̒̉͐̋̑a̵̰̞̭͕̤̱̝̝̟͓͕̣͗̓͒̌̿̈́̄̓̕̕ỹ̶̨̗͙͖̗̞̘̖̹̤̼̘̮ ỏ̶̻̠̙̗̄̀̓̑n̴̻͈̦̳͈̋̃ë̸̜́̒-̸̲̠͎̣̺͌̈́͘͝t̶̯̜̠̙͔͑̅̈́̈́͠w̶̢̫̯̌o̷̧̒͒̓̃̂-̸̱̻̞̬̼͒t̴̺̺̺̣͎̑ĥ̶̛͍̹͓̇͝r̵͍̯̆͐̍̍̌ͅe̸̛̥͗͗̓ë̸͔̐͘͝ ̶̛̣̀̒͛͝ạ̶̛ ̶̫̫̟͚̓ś̸͍̗̆͆̊̇ţ̸̢̟͉͍͆̾ã̵̡͎͙̟̰̌̌c̶͙̩͍̰̈c̷̺͙̣͋̅͊̏ā̴͔̿t̴͙͑̆́o̷̢̳͚͂̇͋ ̶̳̭̻͕̾o̸̮̳̽͜͜f̷̨͕̫͋̌̈ ̵̦͛͌w̸͇̦̑̎͠ë̸̬̳̜̱̗́̀̐̈́̋b̵͚̻͆̃̄s̸̫̫̘̓͝ ̸̡̱̩̜̘̈́̈̍̾d̵̮̣͕̪̋͒̓̂̅ȓ̷̙͉͈̏i̵̛͙͖̦̜̐̓̑̈́ͅv̴̢̢͇̟̀̈́̒̐̕i̵̖̾̂ņ̶͍̲͌̄̂g̴̝̘̳͂́̈̿́ ̶̤̟̤̳̇̓͋͐ţ̶͙̆h̸̥͓̱̼̑͜e̷̡̻̪̣͆̊͝ͅ ̵̪́͒̽̿̑b̸͚̱̟͙͆̈́̓o̶̭͙͒̈́͒d̶͉͔̜͋̓̓́̕y̴̙̩͑̿́̕ ̷͉͙̟͒̂́ů̶̧̦̻͗́̑͝p̵̡̫̤̗̌̓͘w̴̧̞̭͌͋͠a̷͈̼͙̦͜͝r̸̝͖̉̓̉͠d̶̡̄͊̇s̵̜̗͑̉́͑ ̶̡̩̼̬̱̇͊͑̕a̴͈̬͎̅̃́ň̶̞́́̔̾d̴͉̆ ̴̫̳̾͝ȏ̴̜̻̩̗̫͌̏n̵͈̞̆̃́͝ ̸͂̂̃͝ͅä̴̩̭̝́n̵̠͓͈̒͋͂̓͜d̵̹̜̞̊̕ͅ ̴̨̟͓̬̳̄͆̾̓̓o̸͉͛̄́͝͝ṇ̶̳̹̆ ̸͔͇͎͌ą̵̣͕̯͎͒̋n̶͇̜͔͊̓̕ͅd̸͖̮͇̺͍͋̾ ̷̻̂̊̓̚͘͜ỏ̵̯̞̜͚͒n̵̬͠ s̴͉̟͉̞̲͔̥̪̐̀͜ͅť̷̛̛̗̱̽̊͌͆̊̒͜r̶̢͓̺͕̳̟̞̾̃̔̇̓̃̚a̸̯̍̏i̷͚͍̯̭̟̬̲̚͝͝g̵̨̦̺̪̫̖̝͙̋̋͌̕h̶̢̰͕͖̩̞̋̾̀̍̂̋͐͘͝ţ̷͚̯̝͉͛͒̒̌̕ ̵̢̝̭̝͎̱͖̹̤̓̐̀̍͛̿ţ̶̡̢̨̛̛̙̰̮̝̠͕̄͗̄́̉̔̕ō̴̞͊͑̓̋̂̈͂̾w̸̮̪̱̘͉̏͑͐͝͝a̶̧͉̝̬̖̱͉̫̓̀͊r̵̢̟͕̳̠̂̎̃͋̔̔̊̋͗̍ḑ̷̧̞̬͍̜̘̲̓̐̆̽̂̋̂s̴̡̗͇̪̱̓̍ͅ ̷̧̬̦͍͖̮́̍̀͊̽̈̑h̴̡̢̗̱̱̫̹̓̿̇̋͗͑ó̵̲̊̓͐̽͝m̸̫̤̣͓̫̫̦̌̎̎̿͗̄̑̿̂ė̷̛̼̖̇͋͌̈̀̄͠ ̶̯͊͐̈́̔ẏ̷̦̖͚͊o̷͕͈͎̮͗̿̆͝ử̷̙͉̭͙̥͛͆̒̅͛̍ ̶̱̭̗̳̞̉̃̎a̴̺̗̥̬̮͔̖̲̙͊̿r̸̢̖̗͕̲̜͐̒̓̎e̴̯̭̬̍͂̈́̀̃́̈́͝ ̷͓̗̠̈̌̐b̷̨̲̤͕͓̬̱͖̩̪̅͒̓͛͊̑̚e̴͓͇̊͂̀͌̏͊̕i̷̧̜̩͇͌̀̀͊͐n̴̢̘̬̫̜̝̤͔̩̦͗͋̈͛͋͛͂̕͠g̷̡̟͉̫͚̮̳͊̆̐̀̈́͛̂͘͠͝ ̷̮̉̓͑ä̵̗̳̮̥͙͇́̎͊͗̿͊͋͐͗͝ͅ ̶̮͐n̶͓̯̒͂̾̈̅͗ă̵̧̩̩͐̔́̔̀́͆͗̓u̶̖͕̻̔g̷̥̽̆ḧ̵̯̳̪́͗̈́t̸̫̎ÿ̵̢̡͎̱̗̯͎̟́̂ͅ ̵̖̪͇͕̭̠̟̦͑̃́̏͐͗̒̅̚̕ḅ̶̢̛͚̞͓̦̳͉͜ọ̸̡̘͔͚̔̈̉̈́̿̀͌͊͆̕y̵̧͕͙̟͐̏̔̊͊̿̓̃ ̸̹͇̠̖̳̔̇̐͠g̷͓̖̺͍̩̠͊̓o̷̼͇̲̐͜ͅi̷̖͚̮̹͛͠͝ņ̴̡̟͍̜̠̝̟̺͙́͂g̸̼͕̠̣͚̣͇̣̀̆̄̓̑̈́̆̄̏͝ ̶̡͓͍̣͓̭̕ẅ̷̛̺̱̈̔͂̐̆h̸̛̠̭̣͉͙̞̹̹́̒̓̎̃̾̎ȇ̵̺̉̉͐̌̿̿̕͝r̶̡̧̖̭̱̲̦̹͎̗̎͋̆͌͐̚e̶̛̟͉͓͓̤̱̠̯̓̈́̇̍͑̾̕͝͠ ̸̱͎̜̗͔͚͈̿̓̄́̿̿͝ỹ̴̧̧͖̰͉͈̞͙̫͙̀̓͊̚͠õ̷̻͍̠̿͆̒̀̍̆ͅû̶̙̤̻̒͗̓̇͆̄ ̵̣̬̺͖̠̝̙̳̏̊̉̐̈́̌̂ͅs̸̨̤̟̱̈͜h̴͈̩̟̠͇̹͉͇͖̲̏̉͌ơ̷͉͙͖̰̻̱͓̻̍̈́̌̈́̄͘͝u̶̞̺͙͍̅̏͂͌ľ̶̬͉̪̜͓̇̈́̒̀͊̄̈́d̷͇͙͐̂͆͗̎̾̕n̶̡͉̙̩͔͕̙̾̒͑̊͂͜'̴͓̈́ͅt̴͖̹̽̓̆̍̃ ̵̖͆̌ŗ̸̝̣̠͉̦̘̟̲̓i̸̡̦͙̩͗̅͆͛͗̎̉̐̃͠g̶̛̰͎̟̦̪̺̠̳̙̑̈́̓͘h̸̺̤͊̃̌̇͐̇̚͝͠t̶̖̹̳̜̩͈̮̪̼͋̀̈́̀͗̎͛͝͝ ̴̨̻͙̝͉̹͇̟̓͊̉̌͛̉̀̓̐̔n̵̖̩̙̜̈́̈́̐̊͑͝ǒ̵̲w̷̯̮̫̮̯̘̼̦̳̎̔̕ GO HOME.
I̴̡̬̻̼̮̊ ̴̢͎̟̲̬̮̲̓̾̊̕ͅR̶̟͖̤͚͇̈́̔̀̅͑̉̕̕Ẹ̶̑̆͊́͆͠P̷͉̖̋Ė̸̫̗̘̈́̋A̴̛͓̩̙̦͐̏̑̕T̵͍̗̙́̀̏̍̿͘ ̷͚͎̞̥̏́̋̈́̕͝͠U̵̮͎͓̘̼̗̒̌̒́̃ͅŃ̸̛̳̜̖̣̘̮̺̈́̈́͂̀̕Ţ̸̥̱̹̯̯̱͚̂͑͛̊͛̀̀Ö̸̫̠̬͖̥̇̆͘ ̶̙̱̭̊͘͝Y̶̲̹͛̀̋̐́̕͠O̴̡͈̥̪̎̾͊Ù̷͚̜̀̈́̇̊͝,̸͙͖͉̒̀̓̌̀̏̊͜͝ ̸̨̦͈̈́̎͗̽̌̓̓̄G̷̫̠̿̈́̐̚Ó̴̯̐̽͋͒̒́͋ ̶̬͖͔͙̓Ḧ̶̟͚̦̥̦͒̓̆Ó̵͖̮͉͔̰͖̠̒̏̓̿̈̐ͅM̶̭̫͉̥̞̣̳̉̆̄̉̽͗͠͠E̴̞̬̝̝̱̜͇̊͑̀͋̚.̵̬̅̍̃͌͠͝
Peter's body asserted a control over me I did not even know existed. How could I describe being unexpectedly puppetered? How could I describe jerky, yet crisp, clearly expert movements I was subject to? The body moved with incredible finesse, pulling off stunts and movements that boosted my momentum just so in ways I did not even know were possible, kicking upwards at the end, finding the right time to kick off a building and towards the railway, latching a web onto the three o'clock train and letting the elasticity on the web build up to fling me forward with incredible speed, climbing ever higher and higher, towards what I would realize was 20 Ingram Street, Forest Hills. Home. Swinging up the building and onto my window in two smooth motions had never been easier for the body, so much that I had barely realized I was even home until the body shut the window and locked it.
Then the body turned towards the bed and relaxed.
I was already falling when I realized I had control of the body once more. Next, I was on the floor, on my face, reeling from the feeling of just being fucking Mastered and puppetered home without warning. Who did that? Why? How? What was all that garble I'd heard before I got bodyjacked?
What the fuck just happened?
Notes:
First of all, over a hundred favorites! Holy shit! That's a great way to start the week, you guys. Thank you all so much! I love each and every one of you for this, this is insane and greatly appreciated!
So, for why I took so long for this... I had issues with my PC have been since fixed. Sorry for taking so long, I just didn't have the tools to crack my computer open to figure out what the fuck happened. Left them at my old home all the way on the other side of the country, so I had to find time off work to go get them (I'm the only one around here that would even think of opening up a computer around here, everyone else prefers cars), then come back all the way over here to fix this thing and clean her up. I tried announcing it via a guest review since I couldn't log on with my phone for some dumb reason, so, again, I apologize for the wait. She's fine now, so everything's fine now.
And in even worse news, this job is demanding a lot. I only get one day off and a couple of hours a day to work on this story. So, chapters will be updated weekly, on Monday evening, Joburg time. Retroactive edits and fixes to other chapters will be done later down the line when I can free up more time.
Alright, I have a headache and I have to go to sleep, so I hope you enjoyed, throw me some feedback if you want to, and I'll see you next week.
(Thank you!)