Peyta tried to ignore 'Peter's absence. He had noticed it on his first day of surveillance. Did someone figure out that he was not the real Peter Parker? May Parker had seemed to become more and more paranoid throughout the past week. She kept her blinds closed, her lights always off and her doors and windows padlocked. She went to work for the first few days, continuously looking over her shoulder in a panic.
She had bought a gun, and had stayed inside her apartment, ordering groceries to the door. He had considered trying to enter that way, but he knew that it would be suspicious if the delivery boy was the last person they had seen. The apartment was higher up on the building, and records showed that the Parkers had lived there for nearly twenty years- they knew all of their neighbors. It wouldn't make sense for him to pretend to be one of them.
He'd regretfully given up the job at St. Annes, choosing to stay in an alleyway for the past two weeks. Any of his flatmates would have given him up in a moment if questioned by police to save their own hides- even if they didn't really know who he was. That would help create a paper trail, exposing his clients and contacts. He'd been sure to clean out his space though and leave no fingerprints behind.
Swearing slightly, Peyta dodged between passersby. The distant sound of trains swelled over the top of the steadily dwindling traffic outside, car doors slamming, and teenagers shouted exuberantly at one another with the energy that has not yet been leached from them by the pressures and crushing disappointment of adulthood. They were so carefree, living through the night as if there wouldn't be another one.
He pushed his way to the bathroom, keeping a handle on the backpack that carried everything he owned. Dashing into an open stall, he locked it quickly, hanging up his back and starting to change. He grimaced at the Spidersuit being revealed, trying to speed up as he pulled the khaki pants up and fixed his wig. A sweater was pulled over his head before he fixed on the itchy grey wig and began to laboriously pin it in.
Suspenders were fastened on and lay tight over his tense shoulders that he hunched to give the facade of an older gentleman who had once been strong. Pursing his lips, Peyta opened a small box in his bag and applied the mask over his face, switching it to that of an older fellow he had copied before changing. Checking the mirror in the bathroom, he reversed the fabric of his jacket into the tweed side and placed glasses on his face.
No one seemed to notice him, all too occupied with their own lives. If they could even catch a glimpse of the thoughts inside the little old man's head, they would be horrified. Peyta stopped into a late night Duane Reade after exiting the subway stop to grab a walker, making small talk with the cashier who obviously tuned him out. His backpack, which contained the evidence he had gathered against May.
"Animals." Peyta muttered to himself, hunching over as people avoiding eye contact with him. He slowly made his way down the boulevard. The papers in his bag felt heavier than the world, and he likened himself to Atlas with his posture and shoulders. He carried the weight and baggage of the things he had done, the things he had been made to do. How culpable was he really? Was he to blame for the murder of somebody's father, somebody's son? His was the hand that had wielded the blade, but it was another that had shown him how to cut.
"Hello," He greeted the man at the door as he used his knuckle to buzz up to the Parkers' apartment. Hobbling to the elevator, he was consumed with planning, suddenly feeling as nervous as he was when he had broken into Stark Tower.
"I will not be a fool." Peter whispered to himself in Russian, missing the company and assistance of Karine. He shied away from his reflection in the elevator, purposefully choosing a different floor than his destination. There would be a stranger staring back at him, one with a different face than his own and stark grey hair that was strictly gelled back like a debonair old movie star.
Even if it had been Peyta staring back at himself, he wasn't sure he'd be able to recognise the man in the mirror. True, he'd still see a killer, but would he see Peter Parker or would he see Peyta like before? He seemed both the same and different – power and some degree of ego, sure, but tempered so much by a desire to do good above all else that his adopted showmanship and arrogance as Spider-man seemed to be more of a front to give people what they expected than anything else.
The elevator gave a ding, so he gathered himself as if he was marching off to war. His head held tall, Peyta began wondering if this was the day that everything changed in his life. He'd learned so much of before, no longer wondering what it was. Though, he still didn't remember. Flashes of a long lost waltz, a flicker of a woman's laughter, and the smell of old books haunted his mind. All he could recall was a flicker of light and waking up in a nightmare full of blood and sharp teeth.
How long would it be before they came for him? He had been careful to leave enough at the scene that it would hopefully distract them for long enough for him to get away. He was sure that they might have figured it out, and when they did, they would leave no survivors. It felt odd to leave his back open for anyone who could come along down the hallway.
With a deep breath, Peyta realised that he was standing outside of the Parkers' door. Reaching up, he instinctively gave the three sharp knocks that warned of danger. His senses open, Peyta kept the knife palmed in his hand, waiting for his target to arrive. When had he gotten so soft? With a soft and familiar gasp from the door, he was staring into the eyes of his past.