A bit of an earlier upload before I take off for a small Christmas vacation! Chapter 14 will come the 26th and Chapter 15 will come the 31st, though!
The Compound was much larger than Peter had originally thought when looking over the schematics and staking it out a few weeks prior. He hadn't gone out to visit the other surrounding buildings since he was limited to the wheelchair and didn't quite feel up to running into strangers, but the main building was plenty enough to explore. In the quiet early hours of the day, he'd taken to silently wheeling around. Sure, it meant he got little sleep, but it also helped avoid the nightmares and the memories he was desperate to leave behind. With FRIDAY guiding him, he hadn't gotten lost; he just made sure he was quiet enough to avoid disturbing anyone that might've been in a room he passed.
The Compound itself seemed to be comprised of three separate groups; SHIELD, the Avengers, and Stark Industries. From what FRIDAY had explained to him, the large building he could see from the main entrance belonged to SHIELD, where they stored their own equipment, ran their own training, and had their offices. Stark Industries, after the Avengers Tower had been sold (he hadn't been personally aware there had even been an Avengers Tower, but it was something FRIDAY had brought up when explaining the layout of the grounds), inhibited the buildings that stood opposite of the SHIELD building. They were smaller in size but more plentiful.
That left the building he was currently in, and the buildings behind it, as the Avengers Headquarters. The main building consisted of five floors, with a large ground floor and four smaller floors. Most of the private offices, meeting rooms, and all of the housing rooms made up the upper floors, with workshops, labs, a gym, a kitchen, and a living room on each. Since the med bay was on the ground floor, bordering the rehabilitation room, Peter had spent most of his time exploring as much of the main floor as he felt up to. It was by far the largest. He'd found the Hangar, a screening room, the Natatorium, the main gym, the shooting range, the foyer, the main bathrooms, and spotted several entrances to the underground network of access tunnels. He wasn't able to go down thanks to his limited movement, but he wasn't quite enthusiastic to be down there, either.
The main conference room, the common area, the lounge, and the main kitchen also happened to be on the ground floor, in the west wing of the building, directly opposite of the med bay, separated by the foyer. It was a tad eerie to wander through the darkened, large building in the early hours of the morning that he'd chosen, but it avoided all of the staff and most of the personnel that kept the building running in the background. He knew from when he spent a few days monitoring the building that the amount of people employed under the three groups that maintained the grounds was large, and that a few people took night shifts. It was easy to skirt around them with FRIDAY's help. Peter was earnestly thankful for the AI's guidance in the unfamiliar building.
His quiet wheeling slowed as he moved away from the east wing and entered the west wing. The wheelchair slowed to a halt as he stared at the large lounge, kitchen, and common area, eyes landing on the signs of new repairs and renovations. He felt his thoughts slip to the holds of his memories, and as the memory played, his head turned to follow movement only he could see in his mind's eye. He could remember the walls he had landed on, the objects he had destroyed in his ambush, the position of the furniture that had to be worked around. Slowly, his gaze tilted to stare at the carpet and marble flooring, trying and failing to spot any remains of blood that had marked the sight of the attack. Nothing. There was hardly any sign that an attack to kill had occurred in the room whatsoever.
Look how quickly it was brushed over. The dark, cynical voice at the back of his head whispered. As if you were nothing but a minor distraction.
Why would they keep the damage around? He shot back, slowly wheeling over to the kitchen to get a drink. That would be impractical.
They all recovered so quickly. The voice continued, unfazed by the logic. So why can't you?
What? His hand stopped dead from where he'd been about to hoist himself up to snag a cup from the upper cabinet. It faltered, shaking slightly.
What we did was nothing to them. A wave of the hand, and all the damage got hidden away, forgiven, forgotten. They even want to keep us, despite knowing we were willingly going to kill them not even a month ago. It crooned back. All of the damages, gone. All of the ill will, vanished.
What point are you trying to make? Peter shot back, edging on annoyance.
Why is it so easy for them to move on... and so difficult for you? It asked, before adding, You're getting held up on the thought that you could have killed them. You were feeling guilty that you had helped contribute in the destruction of a room in the building you're now seeking refuge in. You needed the validation that you could fix one of the wrong things you had done with them. But... in coming here, there's nothing to fix. It's already done for you. They already let go. So why are you still clinging onto the guilt?
Peter's hand slowly dropped back into his lap, a fine tremor coursing down his skin. I... He struggled to think of the words, letting his gaze drift back to the room. It... it's hard to let it go. His foot dropped from the resting spot on the wheelchair to touch the cold floor. I could've killed them. I tried to kill them. I hadn't really wanted to, but my body still... I still... and they were hurt... and some of their stuff was ruined...
You're afraid to let go, aren't you? The voice whispered.
Peter shook his head, biting his lip. No, no! I-it's not that. It's not. I-I'm glad they genuinely seem to forgive me for that. I... I can let go of the guilt! I... I... He frowned, feeling cold despite there being no change of temperature. He could still remember the flash of metal, the lines of blood, the exchanged blows, the destroyed furnishings. Even if the room no longer reflected it, his mind did with near perfect clarity. With the memory came the feelings. The frustration he had felt at H- them for making him take on such an impossible task. The hint of pride for managing to override FRIDAY and take them by surprise. The rush of adrenaline that always came from fighting an opponent that could fight him on even ground. And, underneath it all... It's because I wanted to take them down.
The voice seemed to agree with him. Deep down, you knew how proud they would be if you succeeded. How fantastical it would be, to be the one lauded for taking down Earth's most famous and powerful enhanced. You craved their validation for your victory, desired to reach it without needing the back-up plan. The world would lose its defenders, but you would gain the affection you had spent years seeking from your captors, even if it was just making them happy that you had succeeded. It seemed to get closer as it sneered, And now you're afraid to let go of that thought, of that feeling, because you think it needs punishment. Because you tried to do something terrible for a selfish and terrible reason and can't stand the thought of there being no repercussions, because there's always been repercussions.
A numbness clung to his limbs as he stared blankly at the room, a tight feeling building in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. He hadn't been able to place the exact reason for the guilt that had started creeping into his veins since his formal freedom from captivity before. Acting in the moment and thinking on it later had become the coping habit during his ten and a half year sentence, and he'd found that after missions he would get hung up on something that had bothered him about it. He had never been able to place what it was until a while afterwards. Most of the time, it was usually how he could've done better; how he could've avoided an unnecessary casualty, or a different route he could've taken that would've been more efficient. Sometimes, it was information he had heard or picked up about the outside world; a business deal, or the person's job, or their family. And, in the worst moments, it fixated on the blood on his hands, on the crimes tied to his name, and the deaths. The deaths were always the freshest in his mind.
He tried not to feel on missions. He'd tried giving it up long ago, in the fear it would give him away, backed further by the one time it nearly had. But he couldn't escape his own flesh, and his thoughts couldn't escape the hellish landscape that his brain had become. He could try all he wanted, but Peter had never been able to avoid the emotional backlash after a hit. Guilt would choke at his lungs and claw at his eyes, and it bled into his heart, twisted at his mind.
Peter clenched his eyes shut, his hand forming a tight, white-knuckled fist. Even though the damage was gone, he knew he'd never forget it. He knew he'd never stop feeling bad for what could have been, had fortune been less benevolent. While his new handlers had forgiven his discretion, the assassin knew that he would always feel guilty for wanting to have accomplished the deed.
Drink forgotten, he wheeled out of the west wing, before a frown crossed his face. Had he-? His brow furrowed as his train of thought finally latched onto the realization that he'd subconsciously thought of the Avengers as his new handlers. They weren't his superiors, they didn't want his complete and total obedience, they didn't want to use him as a tool, they weren't going to hurt him for being like this. They were just the people watching over him, providing him shelter, and taking care of his injuries.
Just like your handlers did. His mind oh so helpfully jibed.
He needed to sleep.
Peter lifted his head, not quite pondering what he'd just heard. "We're... what?"
"Designing your new prosthetics." Tony reiterated, moving around the lab, toting around a toolbox and chunks of metal. He placed both on a table, before frowning. The billionaire rustled through several cabinets before finding the wires he wanted. Satisfied, he brought them back to the table, letting the simple wires join the clutter of metal and technology that covered the work station.
Peter wheeled closer to the work station, frowning as the mountain of objects seemed to grow ever higher thanks to the philanthropist. "Why do we need all of..." he gestured to the pile, before extending his arm out to the side. "...this? It seems rather unnecessary."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Oh, c'mon, spiderling, you're getting to design your own arm and foot! You can add a lot to those bad boys! Like a gun, or an MP3!"
A conflicted, confused look crossed the mutant's features at that, before saying quietly, "Those are two vastly different objects, Mr. Stark."
"So what? You never know what you need." He said in way of reply, finally satisfied with what they had available. He pointed a screwdriver at Peter. "By the way, kid, your voice is already sounding better. You're a bit quiet, but at least you're able to get through your sentences easier! What's it been, thirteen days since you started using your voice again?"
The mutant clicked his tongue quietly. "It's been..." he paused to clear his throat as his voice started fizzing out on him. When it made no sign of returning, he simply fished his phone out and finished with the TTS, "'...difficult getting it to stay long. At least the itchiness takes longer to arrive the more I speak.'"
"You're warming up your vocal chords again. It'll take time. Still, it's doing well for being unused for years." The man flashed him a vibrant grin. "That's something to be proud of, kid."
It was getting too mushy for Peter's comfort, so he directed the conversation back to the discordant table. "'So why do you want my help with the prosthetics?'"
Tony frowned. "Why wouldn't I want your help? Shouldn't your input be necessary? They're going to be your limbs, after all."
Peter's nose scrunched, and he typed the words before he could really process what he was having the TTS say. "'Doctor Bloom, I know nothing about prosthetics. Why are you having me design them?'" When it was read aloud, though, he finally caught on to what he'd just written and had spoken for him. His eyes widened slightly, and his blood ran cold.
Tony paused, turning to look at the kid that now seemed frozen in place. The name seemed familiar, and then it clicked; someone by that same name had been the one listed under the maintenance logs for any repairs and upgrades the kid had needed in the past. He also was the one who ran the tests, from what he could recall of the records. The kid's words sank into his skull, and a realization came to fruition, backed by the remembrance of what the kid had said about his knowledge. Had the kid been forced to help make his own limbs to replace the ones HYDRA had taken from him, all while the doctor behind it picked at his brain to see what needed to be kept around and what needed to go? The thought made him sick, thinking of Peter as a child messing with dangerous tools and technology while adults schemed what parts of his mind were threats to their operation.
The silence was charged with unspoken emotion on both fronts, and Peter was despising it. It was uncomfortable (you made it uncomfortable, Peter, great job), and the mutant wanted to break the tension that had come over them. He didn't mind helping make his own prosthetics, really. Inventing was one of the few things he could hold dear to his chest; it just happened to be that this particular activity was soured in his mind. With a grunt, he attempted to stand so he could better reach the counter that was higher than his seated wheelchair position, wanting to move past the stilted awkwardness as swiftly as possible.
Tony caught him before he could biff it, snapping out of his stupor when he noticed the boy stand to move. He acted as a support for the mutant while he crawled onto an empty part of the work station with all the grace of a cat, despite missing a foot and hand for controlled movement. It seemed Peter still wanted to participate, despite his earlier reservations. Tony made a note to ask Peter before assuming he would want to help with any future projects.
"FRIDAY, let's get some music playing." FRIDAY turned on AC/DC at a much lower volume than normal, and Tony clapped his hands gently, so as to not startle Peter. "Okay, spider-boy. Let's see what we can turn this hunk of vibranium into."
They had finished Rhodey's leg braces (Peter hadn't realized the man was paralyzed from the waist down, and made a note to ask him why later should it ever come up in conversation) and Bucky's prosthetic arm, and had gotten two thirds of the way through Peter's prosthetic foot when the notice came. They'd been working on the metal limbs pretty consistently for two days, broken by visits from passing workers and Avengers. Bucky had stopped by to offer thoughts on what he wanted from his latest arm; no major changes, just slight slimming to make it more aerodynamic. Since Tony already had the schemes for Bucky's arm saved in the Compound database, making the parts and placing them together had been easy. It had taken eight hours from start to finish to give the former Winter Soldier a new arm.
It was taking much longer to get Peter's done, largely due to the fact that they had to start from scratch. The old prosthetics were no longer around to use as reference (which, Tony noted, Peter had seem relieved to be the case), so measurements had to be made using his flesh foot and flesh arm as the foundation for the replacements. Tony was also quickly finding that Peter's prosthetics had been more advanced than Bucky's; they had been built to accommodate his spider-like abilities. When Tony had asked how it had worked, Peter had been eager to elaborate on the technology behind the suction he had helped design into the sole and palm to give the metal limbs the same gripping capabilities his flesh hand and foot possessed ("'There were really small suction cups embedded in the palm and fingers of the arm, and the sole and toes of the foot. The strength of them was adjusted over time, through five different versions. The last one I had was the sixth. They had to be adjusted to account for my weight, and the stickiness had to be adjusted so I didn't tear off a chunk of whatever I gripped. It took a while to get the hang of it, but I balanced it somewhat with my natural abilities. It could've been better I suppose, but it worked for what it was.'" He'd had the TTS dictate). He had also taken off the small metal band he wore around his wrist and had explained the mechanics of the web-shooter, and how he'd implemented that into the prosthetic arm. Tony had never seen him enthusiastic, so it threw him for a loop when the kid babbled about the inner workings of the technology he had helped design, narrated both by the droning TTS voice (he made a mental note to add FRIDAY or an AI to Peter's phone so the TTS could actually be anything but monotone) and his broken, quiet English.
They were soldering the heel into the foot that would allow it to be screwed on and off when the music cut off. FRIDAY came on before Tony could ask what came up. "Sorry for the interruption, boss. It's Fury. He's in the common room with the others and asked for your presences."
Tony frowned, glancing at Peter, who wore a similar worried expression. Turning back to the ceiling, he asked, "Did Fury say why we're needed?"
"He said the UN had held off long enough and were now demanding they meet. They want to give Mr. Parker a hearing."
Tony cursed under his breath. "Thank you, FRI. We'll be right over."
A tight ball knotted in Peter's chest, and he quietly said, "They don't sound happy."
Admittedly, Tony had nearly forgotten the UN wanted to do a hearing in the first place. Between healing, getting to know Peter, and helping get gear back in order, it had all but slipped his mind that the world's largest intergovernmental organization wanted to know what argument they could supply to keep Peter from being convicted of the crimes HYDRA had him do. A wave of anxiety nearly caused his knees to crumble at the realization that the hearing could go so, so wrong. It would take all of the sweet-talking and ass-kissing they could muster to get the UN to give leniency in the face of a mass murderer. One misstep and the kid would be taken away. Tony didn't want that at all.
The two made their way out of the lab and into the common room, where the others were already gathered. None of them really seemed ready for the occasion, more than likely having been ripped from their casual activities for the pressing issue. Nick Fury was the only one dressed formally, and that was just simply how he always looked. He nodded in their direction when they joined them, with Tony quietly panicking and contradicting feelings of remorse and nervousness budding in Peter's chest.
"The UN refused to hold off longer. They want to conduct the hearing tomorrow at 10 AM. They blocked out the entire day for this hearing," Nick stated, before quietly adding, "...Though it's less a hearing and more an informal trial. Faulers said they were pretty upset with the news they were given." His one-eyed gaze fixed on Peter. "You better hope fortune favors us, Mr. Parker. We will do our best to give a fair argument back, but they, ultimately, decide your future."
A bitter feeling began to grow in Peter's chest, constricting his lungs. Was his fate being pawned off to total strangers again? Hadn't he already had his future stripped away enough? The resentment that began to bud behind his eyes grew louder, enhanced by the repressed anger towards his situation that the dark ink in his head loved to prey on. The impulse to take that frustration out and let it run wild sang cacophonously at the back of his thoughts, but it was vastly outweighed by the immense weight of the guilt that he had harbored in his form for ten and a half years. That part was quieter than the bitterness and the anger, but it was also more rational, more effective.
Why are you upset about being convicted of our crimes? The voice questioned curiously. If you're sentenced, we'll pay for the torment we've caused. Would that not get rid of the guilt smothering your every thought?
But if I'm convicted, I'll be taken away from the Avengers. I won't get a chance to start anew, the thing that Carmen and Omen both died for. Wouldn't they want me to try to be normal? Peter rationalized back.
Were you ever normal in the first place? The voice chided, unimpressed. We consciously chose to commit those crimes and do those murders. You chose to escape the true defense of being completely brainwashed in favor of holding a selfish, childish desire to retain your old identity. I may have done it because they wanted us to, but we still willingly carried it out. They don't know that. None of them know you were consciously aware of all of those murders. It pressed further into his mind, a cold, twisting feeling. Face it, Peter. You will never be able to forget what we did. Evading consequence only delays the inevitable. It'll make the guilt worse. It filled his head, the only thing he could focus on; cold, inky murkiness that clogged his senses and suffocated any other thought he might have. Y͘ou ͠d͜on̡'̸t̛ ̴wa̧nt the͘ g̀u̵ilt t͝o g̸et ͢ẁorse,̧ do̶ ̷ỳoų?͞
The guilt threatened to swallow him whole, to erase his rationality, to let his fortitude cave in to the wave of torment that clouded his muddled, broken head space. He'd convinced himself that the only way to relieve his guilt was to get punished for the misdeeds he'd done. He lost sight of the logic, and the optimism, replaced instead by the hurricane of grief and misery.
No. He'd tuned out the real world at this point, but if he were paying more attention, he would've realized the conversation had already ended, and that he was one of the last people left in the room. He paid no mind to that, completely trapped in the ink. I need to atone for the pain we caused.
T̷͜h̸e̛͟͠ņ ͟y̶̡̛o͞͡ú͝ ̧͜kno̷͏́w ̴͜ẃ̛h̕͝a̕̕͡t̕͡ ҉̢ỳ̀͞o͘͠u̡ ̨́n̕ȩ͡ę̛d̴̀ ̵͡͞t͝o̷͘ ̷d̶o̡.̸̨
He did. He would wheel into the building, become the center of attention for nearly 150 different countries he'd upset. He knew somewhere in the back of his thoughts that the Avengers wouldn't be pleased with what he wanted to do, and a small part of him reasoned that he would just get hurt worse. That thought was quickly shut down. He would be before hundreds of powerful people. He would muster his thoughts, he would gather his courage, and he would force his broken vocal chords to cooperate.
And he would confess guilty to every single crime.
Guilt sucks, don't it?
I.D.'s Fantasy- He just needs a lot of support honestly, it's just gonna take him a while to actually accept and warm up to it. Give him a while and he'll accept the hugs :D
merendinoemiliano- You're fine! I'm glad you're still enjoying the story.
Next time on OWOW: The verdict is given.
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