Okay, remember I warned you that there's a cliffhanger this week. Have fun with that. My beta says this is when you who don't know me from other fandoms get to find out that my cliffhangers aren't necessarily good for your blood pressure. Compared to some of my other stories (and what's to come later in this series) this one is what I would consider to be mild.

Take that as you will.

The song for this week is "Just Like You" by Celldweller, the Tom Player remix version. If you haven't been listening to my songs all along, let me suggest you try this one for sure. It's got ambiance. And multiple meanings. Especially towards the end of this chapter.

Speaking of which, if you out there have a song or several songs that really makes you think about the Avengers as a team, or a specific character, or a dynamic between them, or whatever is relevant to this story and its sequels, drop the info in the comments for me! I have a few chapters coming up in later works that could use a good song. Plus, I always love music recommendations.

Okay, onto the chapter. Enjoy!


Chapter 7: Drowning to Silence


By the end of September, Peter had started figuring out the rules of how to survive in the robotics club. Johnny Lawrence and his friends seemed willing to tolerate Peter's presence in the room with them as long as he stayed completely out of their way, never spoke to them, never touched or used anything they might want to use, and kept his head down. Peter knew he probably shouldn't be cowing to them like a beaten horse, but he wasn't sure what else to do about it. Doctor Kreese-Silver didn't really involve himself beyond supervising from his desk, and as long as no equipment was being misused or damaged, he didn't care much how the boys treated one another.

Peter borrowed a few tools from Mister Carbonell — with his permission, of course — so he wasn't stuck waiting around for a screwdriver for an hour, and he made sure to keep all his plans and notes with him rather than leaving them in the classroom after his first diagram 'mysteriously' disappeared. But the actual parts he was building were left alone because Doctor Kreese-Silver himself put their active work on a shelf and even Johnny's friends weren't going to sabotage it.

At least for now. Peter had a feeling that would change if they decided what he was making was a threat to them.

At least the rest of school was going somewhat better than the robotics club, even if it wasn't much comfort. Peter had banded together with the other three new kids in his homeroom for lunch and gym class in particular. Estrella was quiet, spoke with a soft Mexican accent, and always brought her own lunch from home which inevitably smelled and looked infinitely better than anything the cafeteria churned out. E-bit used they/them pronouns and had transferred schools after some combination of fighting and being bullied, leaving their approach to others somewhat caustic; E-Bit was also fiercely protective of people who accepted them, and after the first day of their new kids alliance, didn't allow anybody to mess with Peter in gym class. Nkosi was tall and thin, nerdy the same way Peter was, and had an abiding love for D&D. Under other circumstances, the four of them might never have connected, but Peter was glad for their friendship anyway.

Besides, Estrella would often share bites from her lunch which was well worth trading a cookie, and Peter was starting to get interested in Nkosi's D&D campaign and the math behind building a good character, and E-Bit could be wicked funny when they were in the mood. Peter helped them all with science homework, leaned on Estrella for Spanish, and felt safer if he had to leave his stuff unattended in classes they shared because he knew they wouldn't let anybody mess with him. It wasn't quite the same as having Ned watch out for him, but it was close.

The biggest problem was the school hallways. Although the eighth graders' classes were mostly on the top floor and the seventh graders spent their time one below, there were enough classrooms that were shared that Peter found he crossed paths with Johnny, Dutch, Fred, and Bobby several times a day. When teachers were around, they kept their distance, but if he was on his own or just with his friends, the robotics club seemed to take that as an invitation to interact with him.

It was nothing obvious. Nothing big. Just an elbow in the side, a foot sticking out to trip him, a hard yank on his backpack or his books, or even a smack to the back of his head. Nothing that stood out in the crush of students moving around, nothing that left a mark, nothing Peter could take to a teacher as a complaint. Even Estrella, who witnessed it more than once on their trips to and from band, didn't see any options.

"If you tell someone, I'll go with you," she said the second time it happened, "but they'll just say they were kidding around and there's nothing anybody can do about it."

"And it'll get worse from there," Peter finished.

"Probably."

So he just tried to stay near his friends, keep his eyes open in the hallways, and otherwise make it through the days.

The month of October was still warm in New York, even as stores sold every possible food (and some that weren't) with pumpkin spice flavoring and bats and ghosts began making an appearance everywhere. Peter learned there would be a school dance the last Friday before Halloween complete with a costume contest. He missed Ned painfully, because the two of them would have gone as Jedi together like they did in the past, but Nkosi, E-Bit, and Estrella weren't into Star Wars and weren't planning to attend the dance anyway. He decided not to bother with it either.

"Besides," he told May when she asked about it one Wednesday after a school handout came home, "Friday is the night we hang out."

"Oh, Peter. It's fine with me if you want to take a night to spend with your classmates. Maybe you can even solidify a few friendships."

But he shook his head.

"Nkosi is planning a D&D session with his other friends, E-Bit says they get enough socialization in school, and Estrella has something with her grandmother. It's fine."

Aunt May did not look convinced.

And therefore, it was probably no coincidence that Mister Carbonell asked him about the dance the next day while they worked in the shop.

"Halloween dance next week, huh? You going?"

"No, I don't think so."

Mister Carbonell raised an eyebrow. "Any reason why?"

"No." He sighed. "Just...a dance is only fun if you really like dancing, which I don't, or if you're hanging out with people, and nobody I want to hang out with is going to be there."

"Hmm." The man studied him for longer than Peter liked. "You know, you talk a lot less than you used to. I thought for sure I'd be hearing everything you learned and every time you corrected your science teacher on a daily basis. Not this. So what's really going on, Underoos?"

"It's nothing, Mister Carbonell. Just...a new school is hard." And that was true, so he hoped that would satisfy his grown-up friend as well as it did Aunt May.

"Hmm," Mister Carbonell said again. But he didn't ask any more about the dance that night.

On Saturday, however, when Peter arrived at the workshop as usual, he found Mister Carbonell waiting for him with a box on the big table.

"Look. I know you said you don't want to go to this dance thing, and I'm not trying to pressure you. There will be lots of dances and probably better ones you'll enjoy a lot more. But if you're not going because you're scared, then we gotta talk about it."

"It's not...I'm...it's fine," Peter snapped. "I just don't get along with people, okay?"

"See, that's the problem." Mister Carbonell crossed his arms against his chest. "You do get along with people, okay? You get along with everybody. It's kind of gross and impressive at the same time. So if you're not getting along in your new school, that can only mean one of two things."

He held up one finger.

"Literally every single person in that middle school is evil or a robot person."

He held up a second.

"You really don't get along with some specific people, and they're making your life crap every chance they get. Now, which one is it? Because I think I already know."

Peter's heart hammered in his chest. "I…"

Mister Carbonell stepped forward until they were close enough for him to put his hands on Peter's shoulders — and only then did Peter realize they were trembling.

"Who's hurting you, kid?" And he asked it so softly, so earnestly, Peter felt his eyes get teary.

"The...the robotics club," he whispered. "The eighth graders, they…"

Mister Carbonell's face went dark as his grip on Peter tightened. "I'll call the school."

"No!" Peter shook his head. "No, you can't...there's nothing you can do. They...they're mean but they don't exactly break rules. They don't say anything that would get them in trouble and they don't really hurt me. They're just...always there."

"Kind of concerned about the 'really' you put in that line about them not hurting you, Pete."

"I know." Peter reached up and rubbed at his eyes, willing them to dry. "It's...it's not that different from my old school. It's just… when I was there, I had Ned and others that I'd known for a while, and I knew that it wasn't going to get better, but it also wasn't going to get worse."

Mister Carbonell nodded. "And here, you're waiting to see what else they're going to do. If nasty remarks and some shoving is the end or just the beginning of it."

Peter looked at his feet.

"This isn't really about the dance. You're trying to stay out of their way so you can handle being stuck with them on Mondays in robotics club, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"Okay. Well, I was gonna offer you something for the dance, but maybe let's worry about that later." Mister Carbonell released Peter to run a hand through his hair. "Come on, kid. Let me help you out here somehow. Want me to put a bug in your teacher's ear?"

"No." Peter shook his head.

"Want me to talk to May?"

"No!" Peter's head came up. "Don't tell her, please! She'll freak out, and when she freaks out, I freak out. And I don't want her to worry, and she's not very good with talking to my teachers when I'm in trouble because she gets upset and yells at them and…" The air rushed out of him in a painful breath. "Uncle Ben used to do that stuff."

"Aw, kid." Mister Carbonell sniffed. "Okay. For now, I won't say anything to May. Unless she asks me. If she comes looking for a straight answer, I'm not gonna lie for you. Fair?"

"Fair."

"I guess technically I can't talk to the school anyway since legal stuff, but I could always accidentally bump into somebody in a coffee shop." At Peter's panicked look, he waved it off. "I won't if you ask me not to, but you gotta give me something."

"You can help me with my project for the school exhibition in the spring."

"Already doing that. Try again."

Peter wracked his brains. He needed to get Mister Carbonell off this idea as quickly as possible — the last few months had taught him that the man was dogged about following through on things when he thought they were important. If he didn't give Mister Carbonell some way to help, he'd find one. And as much as Peter didn't want anybody making things worse, he also didn't want Mister Carbonell to go out of his way for him, either.

"If I let you help me go to the dance, will that be enough?" he asked finally.

Mister Carbonell looked skeptical. "How does that fix your bullying issue?"

"If...maybe it would be easier if I was less scared," he said, and found it was true. "They haven't...they're mean, but I can ignore them. I can. I just hate feeling scared. So, maybe if I go to the dance even though I'd be alone, maybe I can…" He closed his hands into fists. "Maybe I can't stop them, but maybe I can show me that I don't have to."

"So...build up your confidence and then see about taking them down later? It could work." Mister Carbonell still didn't look convinced. "Frankly, kid, I'd be glad if you just kicked them in the shins or something. I hate seeing you all beaten down."

"Yeah, me too." Peter said it with real feeling.

"Well. If you want to use the dance as your own little statement of courage, I do happen to have just the thing for it. It'll take a bit of work, but I think we have time before Friday to finish if we get started today."

He turned back to the box sitting on the table.

"Don't get excited. This is something I threw together when I wasn't sleeping last night and it's still rough. But…"

From the box he withdrew a helmet.

Peter felt his jaw drop. "Is that…?"

"No, just a good fake," Mister Carbonell grinned. "And there's nothing fancy inside it, either. But, you gotta admit, from the outside it does look a lot like the real Iron Man, doesn't it?"

The signature face-plate was shaped a little strangely, probably because it was sized for Peter's head instead of a grown man. The eye slits were empty rather than glowing, and the line of the mouth was open, too. It hinged on the top like Peter's old one had, though. And it was pretty close to the right gold and red colors.

Peter didn't realize his feet were carrying him forward until he felt Mister Carbonell set it in his hands.

"I started on a couple of other parts, too. Modified some sports pads for the joints, that kind of thing. If you wear black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt, that will hide the places where the individual bits aren't fused together. And I got no idea what to do about boots, so you're on your own for figuring that out. But if we work together this week we can get the rest of it painted and fitted, I think."

Peter couldn't help it. He threw his arms around Mister Carbonell, banging the man in the spine with the helmet.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Mister Carbonell hugged him back. "Not a problem, kiddo. Now, let's get to work making you the best Iron Man ever."

-==OO==-

The week passed in a blur to Friday — Peter didn't even really notice the treatment of the robotics club members on Monday because he was too busy thinking about all the work he had to do for his costume. Ned came over on Tuesday dying to see it, and had gushed appropriately over it. He had decided to convert a Jedi uniform into something that could work for Thor so the two of them could go out to celebrate Halloween together as per tradition.

"Mom says there's a whole block party in Forest Hills complete with an Avengers theme," Ned said, "so we definitely need to match!"

Peter wasn't convinced that the brown Jedi robes were going to really capture the look of Thor's swirling red cape, but it's not like there was any other option on such short notice. With Halloween falling on the following Thursday, all the best block parties, parades, and haunted houses would be on Saturday, the day after the dance, and Ned had to rush.

Apparently May said something to Mister Carbonell, because he found a piece of metal somewhere that bore at least a passing resemblance to Thor's chestplate and handed it to Peter on Thursday as they were putting on the final touches.

"Won't help with brown robes instead of a red cape," he said, "but it's better than cardboard."

Peter repaid him with a huge grin and a promise to have Ned's mom take a lot of pictures of them together so he could see the final product.

Wednesday was the low point of the week because that's when Peter and all three of his friends had computer class on the top floor right across from a room where Dutch had a class at the same time.

"He's a jerk," E-Bit said as the four of them tromped up the stairs. "If he gets near you, I'll accidentally kick him to make him sing soprano."

"Don't," Nkosi said. "I mean, I get it. But the teachers will get you in more trouble than him."

"And we like you," Estrella added. "Please don't get suspended or who will hang out with us at lunch?"

Peter felt warm at the protection, but he hated that it was necessary. And he knew E-Bit was absolutely not joking about kicking Dutch, and he really, really didn't want them to do it. E-Bit already had stuff in their permanent record about fighting (even if it had been in response to bullying). Peter didn't know how all that worked, but more strikes wouldn't be good.

"I forgot something in my locker," he said suddenly. "I'll run back for it. You go ahead."

Before they could stop him, Peter ducked back down the stairwell.

He really only went down one level and counted to one hundred before he headed back up. He didn't actually want to be late to class, but he also didn't want his friends in the middle of this anymore.

On the plus side, his plan worked.

On the down side, when he got to the top of the stairs and started for the classroom, he saw Dutch's head poke out of his classroom.

"Oh, good. I thought I missed you." Dutch stepped into the emptying hallway as other kids darted into their classrooms to avoid being late. "It's rude to stand up somebody waiting on you."

"Leave me alone," Peter said.

"Leave me alone," Dutch mocked in a high, whiny voice. "Why should I?"

"What did I ever do to you?" Peter asked, holding his binder close to his chest.

Dutch shrugged. "You've got a stupid face and you keep shoving it in mine."

Bile rose in Peter's throat. He had to get past Dutch to reach the classroom, and he could almost feel the seconds ticking away before the bell would ring. He took a couple of steps sideways, edging along the lockers towards the door of computer class and safety.

Dutch made a sick smile at him and lunged.

Peter's back hit the lockers with a bang, and Dutch's hand hit his binder, spilling it from his arms and sending his papers (which were not always neatly snapped neatly into the rings because he forgot sometimes) flying.

Peter was sure something else would happen, but Dutch turned around.

"See you around, princess."

Peter dropped to his knees and started scrambling to get his stuff as quickly as possible. He heard a door open and saw Miss Roberts, the teacher for the computer class, stick her head out.

"Peter? Everything okay?"

Peter swallowed and willed his racing heart to calm down before he made everything worse.

"Yeah. I just forgot something and then I was in a hurry and dropped my stuff."

Miss Roberts was a nice person, and she smiled. "Take your time. I'm not going to mark you down late because your binder went flying. Join us when you can."

"Okay. Thank you."

She shut the door and Peter paused for a moment. He shut his eyes, feeling the cold of the fake tiles under his palms. He ran through his breathing exercises slowly, and the burning in his throat, and his eyes, and his shame all started to calm down.

When he was sure he was okay, he finished piling up his papers and headed into class. And if his friends looked at him a little too closely for the rest of the day, at least they didn't ask.

Friday after school, Peter rushed home to find both May and Mister Carbonell in the apartment, the pieces of the Iron Man costume spread out on the table. May's face was doing something odd, somewhere between exasperation and amusement, but just ruffled his hair and said, "Well, now at least you have a new helmet to protect you. The other one certainly did its job."

They ate pizza together while Mister Carbonell fussed with a few tiny details Peter was pretty sure nobody would notice.

"I'll notice," Mister Carbonell said, offended, and Peter laughed.

"You just want to make sure I win the competition."

"That, too."

Peter smiled. "Thanks, Mister Carbonell."

"Kid." He quit his fussing and looked up, exasperated. "I literally made you an Iron Man suit. Don't you think we're friends enough now that you can try calling me Tony?"

Peter shook his head and shoved more pizza into his mouth, embarrassed.

"Seriously?"

"Tony, leave him alone." Aunt May threw a balled up napkin at him. "Peter, if you feel more comfortable calling him 'Mister Carbonell' until you're thirty, it's fine. Don't let him tell you otherwise."

Mister Carbonell grumbled something under his breath and glared at the piece in his hands.

Peter shot May a grateful smile. She grinned back.

"So, ground rules," Aunt May said. "Keep your phone on and with you at all times. If you want to leave before the dance ends at ten o'clock, just call. Otherwise, one of us will be waiting for you outside the gym at ten."

"Okay, Aunt May."

"Make sure you bring every single piece of the costume home with you," Mister Carbonell said, wagging a finger. "No matter who thinks you look cool, no trading away bits of our masterpiece."

Peter shook his head. "No way. I need it for tomorrow!"

The two adults exchanged smiles. "Well, then let's see you in your costume!" Aunt May said.

Peter ducked into his bedroom to put on the dark trousers and the long-sleeved shirt. The boots had been drying on his windowsill after a last application of paint — it was amazing what you could do with a steady hand and cheap second-hand shoes. Certainly better than buying actually gold boots. Then he returned to the main room.

"Time to suit up!" Mister Carbonell was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "And here's hoping it's not too heavy."

"It isn't," Peter said quickly. They'd had this conversation just about every day. "It's not any worse than a snowsuit and a backpack and I did that all last winter when it was really cold."

It took all three of them to get him into the outfit. The pieces were modular and attached to each other by various clasps and hooks usually with a gap between for ease of movement as well as breathability. It reminded Peter of the pads he saw hockey players or football players wear.

"You can, um." Aunt May looked uncomfortable. "You can go to the restroom, can't you?"

Mister Carbonell laughed. "Yep. He just has to let down the two in front and he'll be fine."

She gave him a wry look. "I'm glad someone is thinking about practicality."

"Oh, trust me, no Iron Man suit is any good if it isn't practical."

"Yeah!" Peter added. "Otherwise how could he be ready to fight things? They're not just for show!"

"No fighting in this one, though," Aunt May was quick to say. "Just show off your costume and enjoy yourself."

Mister Carbonell set the helmet on him last, flicking closed the little connectors on either side of his head just beneath the ears. The eye-holes were wider than on a real Iron Man mask so he could actually see pretty well, and although he had been warned about feeling trapped, he didn't sense any sort of claustrophobia sneaking up on him. Knowing he was armored, that he looked like Iron Man, that Mister Carbonell had built it for him — Peter felt as safe as he ever had.

Mister Carbonell's face was doing something weird now, too. Peter wasn't sure, but he thought maybe the man's eyes were a little wet.

"Well," he said finally, "if I'm being honest here, I think you are an improvement upon the original."

"No way!" Peter protested.

"I think Tony Stark himself might agree," Aunt May said. She leaned over to pat his head and he felt it through the metal. "Maybe someday you'll get the chance to ask him."

"Okay, enough emotional content," Mister Carbonell said, jumping to Peter's defense. "Time to head out."

Aunt May had planned to drive him, and Peter found he was okay with that. He did want to show off, but maybe not when it was still pretty light out and there were people on the street not in costume. Besides, it was warm enough that he might get too hot walking all the way to school.

"I'm proud of you, Peter," Aunt May said as she pulled the car to a stop out front.

"How come?"

"I know you're having a tough time adjusting even if you don't tell me everything," she said, "and this is a step in the right direction. Even if you don't think you have any friends, this is how you start finding them. And...it's really good for you to branch out when you get the chance."

Peter wasn't sure what to say about that, so he settled on, "Okay, Aunt May. Thanks."

"Have fun, kiddo."

Peter knew the minute he'd been spotted once he reached the gymnasium because people started talking and pointing. There were others with Avengers costumes, but all of those looked store bought and made of fabric and foam. Other costumes that were more realistic included army surplus stuff or sports gear, and there was at least one zombie or vampire for literally every other costume present. He did see a few Star Wars folks, and some fantasy outfits as well, but not on anybody he knew well enough to compliment.

But he was also pretty busy fending off attention on his own. With the helmet, no one knew who was wearing the Iron Man getup, and Peter decided on a whim to keep it that way. He introduced himself as Iron Man 2.0 and got a lot of laughs for it. Other students from all three grades wanted to see how the costume was put together, whether it was really metal instead of plastic, and find out where he'd bought it.

"I made it with help from a friend," made him warm with pride every time he said it.

And if he happened to spot Johnny Lawrence and his friends all dressed up like skeletons with white and black face paint and the outlines of bones on their clothes that glowed slightly in the dark of the gym, he made every effort to stay away from them.

The costume contest was scheduled to happen in the middle of the evening so that younger kids with earlier curfews could participate, and Peter couldn't help but feel his heart thumping as he joined the crowd entering themselves in the vote. There were two prizes — one awarded by the teachers and chaperones attending the dance and one by a popular vote from the students. Peter found himself standing on the stage at the far end of the gym with about fifteen others.

One by one, they stepped forward to show their costumes to the judges and the kids on the floor. Peter, after a gulp of sheer terror, stepped up and made a few signature Iron Man poses, flicking on the lights in the palms of his gloves that Mister Carbonell had made to feign the repulsors. There was a light on his chest that lit up, too, though it wasn't quite the right color of blue. He ended in the one-knee position with both hands out and the kids around him cheered.

After that, he just had to stand to one side while the other kids showed off their costumes. Peter wasn't the only one who was unrecognizable — he had entered as "Iron Man 2.0" while giving the teachers his actual name, of course — so at least some of the judging was fair. But it was still nerve-wracking to stand around watching others take their turn and wondering.

Finally the teachers asked the competing students to step forward. One moved behind them with a little trophy, holding it up over each head and asking for the crowd to vote. Because of the helmet, it was hard for Peter to see anywhere but straight in front of him, so he never could tell when the teacher was behind him as opposed to someone else on the line.

But the crowd was adamant about one person in particular.

"The clear winner is...Iron Man 2.0!"

Peter rocked in surprise.

"Take off your mask so your classmates can see your face," the teacher said as she handed over the trophy. Peter had to juggle it to get it under an arm since it took two hands to unhook the helmet.

With his bare face before his peers, Peter felt exposed and uncomfortable. No wonder Tony Stark was able to be so brave when no one could see him! But he smiled and waved and tried to forget about all the eyes on him that had failed to see him in the hallways for two months.

After the teachers announced the other winner — someone in a handmade jester outfit with really elaborate face-paint — Peter retreated backstage to catch his breath and put his helmet back on. He thought about pulling out his phone so he could text Aunt May and let her know, but ultimately decided to surprise her when he got home.

By the time he had his helmet situated again, the other students and teachers who had been on stage were gone. Peter blinked, suddenly realizing how dark it was back here.

How do I get back to the dance part?

He hadn't been in this area before; the gym's locker rooms were on the other side, and this was apparently where the school stored equipment, sports supplies, and leftovers from plays and performances going by the random items stacked in every available spot, including the hallways. He passed folded-up risers, bags of basketballs, and piles of folding chairs and tables, trying to figure out how to navigate back to the main part of the gym.

Why are schools so weird?

Being lost was so much worse because he couldn't really turn his head to see to the side — he had to turn his shoulders, too. And sounds were oddly muffled, so following the music from the dance only led him back towards the stage, not the hallway he needed.

Peter was just about to take his helmet off to see if he could hear better when he felt something hit him in the back.

"What?"

It felt like someone had grabbed him by the back plate, someone taller than him and stronger. He felt another pair of hands grab on, too, and felt himself shoved forward.

"Hey! Who's there?"

There was a muffled laugh, but no one answered.

Peter was flooded with fear.

"What's going on?"

He couldn't turn, and he couldn't really reach behind him, either. He was propelled forward, barely keeping his feet, while more than one voice snickered behind him.

Peter was so focused on not falling down and on trying to pull away that he stopped paying any attention to his surroundings at all, only aware that it was getting darker and darker and the sounds of the dance were farther and farther away.

Suddenly he felt a hard shove in the middle of his back and the grip holding him disappeared, leaving him to crash to his knees on the floor, barely catching himself on his hands.

Before he could turn or start to get up, something unbelievably heavy came down on his back, driving him to the ground.

"Help!"

Another weight fell across him, pinning him down. He could kick his feet a little, and move his hands a bit, but that was it. The weight on his back had settled high across his shoulder-blades, enough so that it was on the back of his neck and his head, forcing his face to the floor.

"I can't move! Help!"

There was silence.

A sound of breaking plastic came from somewhere beside him, and he realized that the trophy he'd been carrying must have been stomped or smashed somehow.

He was about to cry out again when he felt something drive into his side — hard. He didn't feel much through the Iron Man costume, but he knew he was being kicked.

"Stop it!"

The kicking went on, and started up on his other side, too, and he tried to thrash under whatever was pinning him down to roll away, but he couldn't move so much as an inch.

"Leave me alone! Somebody, help!"

Finally the kicking stopped.

Then he heard a door shut, and what little light there had been vanished entirely.

He felt like he could barely breathe.

He was trapped.

Peter was barely aware of the tears that flowed freely as he started to panic.

"I can't...I'm stuck. I'm stuck! Help! Please help me!"