Peter didn't want to talk about it.
When he woke to being strapped to a gurney with no wiggle room, Peter knew of his defeat. He thought back to his last memories, but nothing floated back to him. His last memory was of Deadpool and getting ready for a fight. Then—darkness.
Did Deadpool do something to him?
If not Deadpool, Peter knew Dr. Cho did.
After he woke up in a frightened fit, Dr. Cho explained what happened after he was knocked unconscious. They checked him over for ticks and ensured his thumb healed correctly before the operation. Peter's stomach curdled as Dr. Cho described the process of implanting a microchip in his body. Peter panicked and looked to both his arms for any incisions, but saw nothing. Only smooth skin.
Dr. Cho was not eager to share the location of the chip. She promised it was somewhere safe and that it would not interfere with any vital organs. Despite that assurance, she insisted Peter remain in the medical bay for a week to reaffirm his body was not rejecting it.
Peter, obviously, rejected it. In his panic, he cried and begged Dr. Cho to remove it from his body. When that didn't deter her, he declared that she had no right to do that to him. His yells were heard and people rushed in to restrain him, though Peter found it pointless. He couldn't move with all the secured traps locking him in place already.
Any time Peter threw a fit, someone came in with a needle full of... well, he didn't know what the component was, but it always drugged him into submission. He hated feeling weak and vulnerable. The last time he ever felt such frailty was on the streets of Queens, clinging onto a diminishing hope and heartache.
When his stint in the medical bay ended, Peter was returned to his daily activities of schooling and training. Of course, more was added to his schedule. A therapist. Twice a week. No exceptions.
The only other thing changed was his relations with his teammates. Mr. Reynolds, in particular, forgone any attempt at a friendly demeanor toward him. He was harsher, more stern and unforgiving for any struggles or failures from Peter. With Peter's new power level (an eight!), Mr. Reynolds refused to coddle him and expected him to be stronger than the rest of the team (minus, Luke Cage). He was not particularly mean to Peter, but he become more dismissive and nonchalant about his mental state.
Unfortunately, that meant Mr. Reynolds' lack of discipline toward one unpleasant individual. Powers immensely enjoyed Peter's misery. He countlessly mocked Peter for his failed escape.
"How do you fuck up that?" Powers cackled. "How hard is it to get lost in the woods and stay lost?"
Peter ignored him, but Powers continued to mock him for days. Insult after insult, Peter endured it with silence. What could he do? The man was right. He failed to escape. He had nothing.
The others treated him basically the same as they did before; albeit, a bit harder on him. With his new power level status, they no longer felt the need to be gentler with him. Luke made him do heavier weights when partnered together. Jack pushed him to run faster—only because Jack wanted to beat him. Jack was super competitive and the moment Peter received his new power level status, Jack had been adamant about making sure Peter was doing his best to ensure he won fairly against Peter in everything. Lady Deathstrike was aggressive as normal and Silk Fever sometimes shot flares at him, but nothing dangerous. Nothing he couldn't tolerate after a few days of it.
The only two people who didn't act differently toward him were Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons—his teachers. They continued his studies like he never ran off. Leo even brought up a design they discussed during his last class. Leo talked nonstop about it, energetic and beaming over the rough-draft blueprints and Peter felt guilty for not having the same enthusiasm. He couldn't force happiness when he wasn't. Jemma was kind and wasn't necessarily as forceful as Leo to get Peter to engage in experiments. She didn't act overly eager, but she was still all smiles and warm when teaching him biology and chemistry.
Fitz-Simmons never asked what happened to him. They didn't ask how he was feeling or where did he go or why he do it, like some other people in the building. They stayed on topic, refusing to cross any of the boundaries that didn't involve his education. So, Peter remained respectively polite to them despite not having the heart to participate in any of the activities or lessons they assigned. He did what he was told and completed his assignments. That was all Peter could offer to them.
After school and training, Peter normally had some recreation. Time for himself to do whatever he liked, but all of that was revoked. He was no longer allowed to go anywhere by himself. Library, cafeteria, and even walking to and from places, he always had Simon with him wherever he went.
Simon hated him. He blamed Peter for his lowly status as "babysitter", which Peter wanted to tell him off for it. He didn't ask Simon to watch him twenty-four/seven, but Simon nonetheless blamed him. Simon was there when Peter woke up, in the corner of the room during his school lessons and training, sitting next to him in the cafeteria to ensure he ate everything on his plate, and also in the bathroom when Peter had to go. At the end of the day, it was Simon who Peter saw last, because he would check to make sure Peter was locked in his room for the night.
It was annoying to be tailed on a daily basis. He couldn't do anything in private. Everything speck of his life was under constant supervision and if he did anything wrong, well, Peter didn't want to talk about it.
But he had to upon his visitations with the psychiatrist.
Dr. Deborah Samson was a highly accomplished child specialist. She graduated from Harvard. She earned multiple awards in psychology, publishing in many journals about child behaviors. Her striking record was the reason they called her first and she accepted it without any hesitation. Peter was not surprised, considering it must be wonderful to be paid handsomely while also getting to study an enhanced child.
The room was small. Not large or lavished with anything fancy. It looked like a typical doctor's office. White walls, beige carpet and grey furnishing with a green plant here and there, along with hotel art décor. Dull and plain.
Dr. Samson sat in one chair and allowed Peter the couch. "In case you need a moment to lie down," she said, taking her seat.
In the corner of the room was Simon. He took his seat and didn't move. There went doctor-patient confidentiality.
Dr. Samson had her notepad on her lap and a recorder on the table between them. "I hope you don't mind. It's for record purposes only. In case I need to go back to our session," she said, getting it ready and clicking the start button.
Peter stared at it. "Okay," he said. What could he do about it? He had no choice in the matter. Not anymore.
Dr. Samson scribbled into her notebook. "So, Mr. Parker, how are you feeling today?"
Typical first question. "Fine."
"How's your day been?" she asked. "Have you done anything today?"
Peter shrugged. "School."
"What did you do at school?"
"Lessons."
There was a loud grunt from the corner of the room. Peter didn't need to see Simon to know he was indignant by Peter's bland responses.
Even Dr. Samson was aware. "Peter—can I call you Peter?" Peter only shrugged, uncaring before he gave a nod of approval. "Peter, therapy is a two-way street. You gotta give to get something. If you want to be better—"
"I'm not sick."
"I didn't say you were," Dr. Samson countered, gently. "I'm saying if you want to feel better, then you have to open up a little bit. Be receptive to the changes and learn to understand them. That's what I am here for. To help you understand."
Peter breathed in resignation. He didn't need help in that department. Life was always changing for him. It was one tragedy after another, and Peter was well-versed in dramatic life-changes. What he didn't understand was why everyone there needed him to be happy and receptive of his predicament? He wasn't and no amount of talking would change it. Peter won't let them brainwash him. His mind was far stronger to let that happen.
"I don't need help in understanding," Peter said. "I get it."
"What do you get?" Dr. Samson leaned back in her chair, pencil at the ready.
Peter looked from her pencil to the recorder. "I get that they need me to be compliant. To stop causing trouble so that they can focus on the more important things."
"You believe you are unimportant?"
"To them, sure," Peter answered. He knew he was more of a hassle than an asset.
"I think you're important," Dr. Samson said. "I also think others here find you important as well."
Peter wrangled his brows forward, frowning. She's been at the Compound for less than a day. She knew nothing about the situation, but he didn't want to get into an argument with her.
"If you say so," was all Peter said.
Dr. Samson sucked in a breath with a hint of disappointment. "You know what? Let's start getting to know each other first. Get comfortable being in each other's presence. Sound good?"
Peter nodded along because, again, he had no choice on the matter.
Dr. Samson went on talking a little about her background. Grew up in the Midwest. Parents were both teachers. Brother a teacher as well. She wanted more. She went onto become a doctor, but found the brain and mind far more fascinating than the body. She got married. Got divorced. Re-married again. No children, much to her disappointment, which was why she works with kids.
"Now—what about you, Peter?" she asked after finishing her miniature biography. "Who is Peter Parker?"
Peter hated that question. When writing out his high school applications, they asked that question: Describe yourself in one page. Peter only ever came up with two sentences. My name is Peter Parker. I like science. That was it. Aunt May and Uncle Ben always claimed he was too hard on himself. He's an incredible child with many talents and a good head on his shoulders. "You're a rare specimen of your generation, Petey," his Uncle once said. "You will succeed wherever you go."
What made him that "rare specimen" Peter didn't know. After the spider bite, he truly believed in Uncle Ben's words. He was finally special enough to be someone, but even that lost its shine after…
Point was… Peter wasn't someone interesting. He was a regular, nerdy kid that got taunted by his other peers for his geek interests and second-hand clothes.
Dr. Samson waited, dissecting him every second with that focus gaze. Peter hated it. Being put under a microscope wasn't something he enjoyed. He liked being in the shadows rather in the spotlight. Attention drew too many problems and criticisms. It's how Flash started picking on him. All because he beat him in academic duel in front of the whole school. Flash had been awful since that day.
He wanted Dr. Samson to stop staring, so he started talking. "Umm… well, I'm fifteen. Lived in New York all my life."
There was a long pause afterwards that Dr. Samson piped up. "You stopped," she noted. "Is everything all right? Do you need some more time to—"
Peter shook his head. "Err… no. That's it."
"That's it?"
"I'm fifteen," Peter answered with a half-shrug. "I haven't lived."
A deep sigh resonated within the psychiatrist. Her hands folded over her notebook. "Whereabouts did you live in New York?"
"Doesn't it say in my file?"
Dr. Samson pressed her lips. "Not specifically," she said. "Only that you are from Queens. Which part?"
"Forest Hills."
There was some warmth returning to her face. "I've been there. Went to a great restaurant near Austin Road. You may have heard of it—Aged?" she said. "You know of the place?"
Peter nodded. He knew the restaurant. His aunt always stopped outside to look at the menu only to walk away with a click of her tongue. "Those oysters better have pearls inside if I am going to pay that much for a meal."
Dr. Samson smiled a bit more. "The steaks are amazing!" she praised. "Best I ever had."
"I imagined they're good."
The smile faltered a bit. "You never had their steaks before?"
"I never set foot in that restaurant," Peter corrected. "Overpriced. Those oysters better come with pearls if anyone is going to pay that much for a meal."
And the visit dragged from there. Dr. Samson seemed to be in a rut. After the restaurant mistake, she tried to lead him into discussing his upbringing. She deduced he didn't grow up with a lot of money and tried to talk to him about those struggles, but Peter didn't take the bait.
"Money can't buy happiness," he replied to her intellectual pecking.
When time was up, Peter couldn't wait to leave. Dr. Samson gave a quick brief, mostly lamenting Peter's lack of engagement and insisted he tried a few meditation techniques. Peter didn't get the chance to object because Simon spoke for him, telling the good doctor that he would have Peter review them.
Not that Peter performed the meditation or the thinking process she laid out for him. He merely did a little of it only to satisfy Simon's demand. Then, he pushed it aside and forgot about it.
Most of his visitations with Dr. Samson ended the same as the first one. Peter being reluctant to open up to her and Dr. Samson scrabbling to find ways to connect with Peter. The second visit she brought board games—chess, Connect Four, Risk and a deck of cards. She decided rather than talking, they could play a game. She picked one and he could pick the next one. The chess board was all set up, and Peter knew what she hoped to analyze during the game.
Granted, Peter was surprised to learn she was a novice at the game. Almost like she learned the game only yesterday. Another thing Peter noticed was that every more Peter made, she moved into a position for him to win. She was playing for him to win. A favor or a gift. Something to make him feel happy and accomplished.
Peter wasn't falling for it.
He, instead, did the opposite and made sure she won. It threw her off completely.
Once chess was over, Dr. Samson allowed him to pick a game. Peter picked a deck of cards. "It's called Speed," he said to her as he set the game up. "This is how it goes."
He explained briefly and they played a few rounds until Peter won all the cards. Dr. Samson was too lost in the game and without any fast reflex skills, she was hopeless in ever winning. As she piled the cards back into the little box, she watched Peter sitting patiently across from her.
"You play card games a lot?" Dr. Samson asked.
Peter shook his head. "No—not really."
"Oh?" She was mildly surprised. "What about board games?"
"Um… no," Peter answered again. The last time he had a board out was a few years ago. Since then, he has been preoccupied with other things. "I haven't played any in years."
That brought a bummer to Dr. Samson. She looked at her stack of games, realizing it was all rather pointless. "Then what do you do for fun, Peter?" she asked. "I'm curious? What do children in Queens, New York, do for fun?"
"Hang-out?"
"Hang-out and do what?"
Peter didn't know. He and Ned were exceptions to the general population. They were the subservience of their peers. The oddballs. The weirdos—as Michelle called them.
"I don't know. Just… stuff," Peter answered. He missed Ned. He always came up with the better activities to do. He could use his friend right now.
Peter slouched in his seat, hand going through his hair. "Yeah… just do whatever we feel like at the moment."
"And what do you feel like doing at this very moment?" Dr. Samson questioned.
"Be with my aunt."
He shouldn't have said that. She may use it against him. Or think she made some miraculous breakthrough! It wasn't, but she may take it as such. In any case, if she was good at her job, she would already know that would be his answer before even meeting him.
Dr. Samson adjusted her skirt as she lifted her pencil to her small notepad. "What do you and your aunt do? I imagine with it being just the two of you, you're pretty close to one another."
Aunt May was all he had of his family. He loved her. To him, May Parker was his mother as he never got the choice to know his biological mother. That was made for him when his parents' plane crashed. When he pictured what his life would be if his parents never got on that plane, he still pictured it being the same as with his aunt and uncle. Sometimes, he still pictures them rather his parents. And he felt guilty on behalf of the parents who loved him, but—like him—never got the chance to know him.
"Peter?" Dr. Samson called out to him. He must have been quiet for too long. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Peter responded. "Just... thinking. We, um... we just hang-out."
That brought another round of disappointed sighs from Dr. Samson. "Like watching movies, maybe? TV?"
Peter shrugged again. "Yeah. Sometimes," he said. "We do ordinary family things."
The visit ended very similar to the first one. Dr. Samson disappointed by the little information Peter offered and Peter dying to get out of the room. He never enjoyed the nitpicking of someone's mind and even less so when he was aware that her responsibility fell more align with brainwashing him to be happy of his situation.
The majority of visitations with the therapist went more or less like those two visits. Dr. Samson tried her best to connect with him, and Peter did little as possible. He wasn't rude, but he want to establish a connection with her. Not like the old therapist he used to meet after the Horrible Night. He was much more sympathetic and compassionate to Peter's dilemma. He never looked at Peter like a big career win or a golden opportunity to step-up in the world.
And, he didn't hold him hostage. That was a big bonus.
Still, Dr. Samson never gave up. Some days, the doctor spoke little. Other days, she brought in activities for them to do together. One time, she brought in her laptop to watch a TV show of his choice. Peter picked the first one he saw on the line-up: Gilmore Girls. He thought they talked too fast, but Dr. Samson heard every word and enjoyed it. Peter—not so much.
He gave Dr. Samson credit for trying to engage with him. Even Simon tried to force him to participate, but Peter wasn't going to spill the beans to a stranger. Especially to a person who clearly had more interests in him rather than helping him. He wondered what she did with the recordings at the end of each session, and he speculated what she did with the information. Was she writing a book? A Tell-All? Or maybe it was to give it to someone else. Like… Mr. Stark? Dr. Cho? Mr. Reynolds?
It was a curiosity that kept scratching the back of his mind that he decided to ask at the end of one of their many visits.
"Dr. Samson?" Peter asked as she began to put away notebook and pencil. "May I ask a question?"
That certainly lit Dr. Samson's face up. She even pulled her notebook away from her purse and back onto her lap. "Of course, Peter! You can ask me any question."
"Do you talk to Mr. Stark about these sessions?"
"Excuse me?"
Peter nudged in the direction of her recorder. "The recordings. The notebook," he said. "Do you report it all back to him?"
Dr. Samson shifted. She tried to subtly look to Simon, but Peter saw it. She looked unsure if that was a question that could be answered. Which, in turn, gave Peter his answer.
"Thanks for letting me know," Peter said, getting up from his seat to head off to his mid-afternoon practice.
Mr. Stark knew everything. Peter found it a bit hypocritical of the man to not want anything to do with him, and yet, goes to extreme efforts to keep him lockdown in the Compound and asks for his psychoanalysis reports after each session. It unnerved Peter that Mr. Stark dismissed him as nothing; and yet, controls Peter's life with an iron grip. What the hell was that all about?
As he walked back to his room to change, Peter turned to Simon. "Why does Mr. Stark care?"
Simon didn't even bat an eyelash. "Mr. Stark cares that everyone here is in their best shape," he responded. "Including you."
"He didn't seem to care that much at the beginning."
"Don't mistake his interests with caring about your well-being," Simon rebuffed. "You are simply another enhanced person. That's it."
They reached the door and Simon shoved Peter right into the room. "Now—hurry up and change. You're late anyway."
Peter was on auto-pilot, moving from one place to the next. Routine was the same. Wake up, breakfast/pre-morning workout, school, lunch, therapy session, afternoon workout, dinner, doctor's visit, evening workout and finishing with falling asleep. Depending on the day, the schedule changed up a bit. It didn't confuse Peter. After weeks of doing the same thing over and over, he fell into a pattern without needing to know the days. Nothing changed. Time passed and Peter held everything together. He refused to break-down, but they often pushed him to the brink. Particularly Powers, who was no longer tethered to a leash like he was at the beginning.
The only time he felt relaxed was when asleep in his-appointed room or when he was with Leo Fitz or Jemma Simmons. While he didn't engage much with them like he did before, it was nice to be around others who were similar to him. Fascinated with gadgets and science. Leo sometimes brought him treats. He swiped them from the "upper-class" break-room as he liked to call it. The treats were far more gourmet than Peter was accustomed to. Unfortunately, Simon didn't like that and if Peter wasn't quick enough, Simon took the goodies away from him. Leo would get annoyed on his behalf.
"Why you stealing it from him? C'mon—he can have one little piece of candy," Leo argued.
Simon was relentless. He refused to back-down. "The kid's on a nutrition plan," he said. "This will upset it."
In better terms, it was Simon's way of punishing Peter for making him become his babysitter. He was on a strict nutrition diet, apparently designed to keep him healthy and energized, but that didn't mean he was denied sweets. Again, Simon's punishment to make Peter miserable. Nonetheless, it didn't stop Leo or Jemma from trying to sneak him some kind of treat for him to enjoy every now and then.
Peter assumed it was their way of apology. They cannot help him, but maybe they can make his life a little less depressing. It kind of worked, but it didn't last long enough.
Mr. Reynolds remained passive toward Peter. Strict teacher, showed little emotional support and always expected better from him. Nothing was good enough to please him. He put him through rigor exercises that left him in a crippling exhaustion.
One of his favorite exercises was pitting two of them together, hand-to-hand combat only. Peter wasn't good. As Spider-man, his fighting technique was fight from afar and use his web-shooters. Peter was beginning to see he relied too much on his web-shooters. Every fight resulted in him losing. He never won. Not once.
"Mr. Parker?" Mr. Reynolds called from the group. "You and… Mr. Powers."
Peter painstakingly groaned to himself. Powers always enjoyed beating the crap out of Peter. While Peter was far stronger than Powers, his lack of fighting technique left Peter vulnerable and confused, giving Powers the chance to beat Peter down.
They both took to the mat. Peter swallowed as he faced Powers' gleeful face. The man was eager to get the fighting started.
Mr. Reynolds called out the directions and warnings before he commanded them to go.
Peter took no pleasure in fighting. None. Violence was a last resort for him. Best to disarm and secure the bad guy. For Powers—not so much. He wasted no time slamming his whole body weight right into Peter, nearly knocking the breath out of his lungs. Peter recovered from the action in time to catch Power's fist and twisting it out of his way. But, Powers took his other fist and pounded right into Peter's side.
Peter winced sharply, his grip loosening that Powers freed himself and brought his fist back to Peter's face. Peter narrowly missed the fist, turning his head away to avoid impact. Powers grunted at the sound of his knuckles hitting the mat. With his other hand, he snatched Peter's neck to choke and hold him still.
"That's enough!" barked Mr. Reynolds and Powers, hesitated in whether to ignore the command or not. "Let him go."
Peter felt his throat release and he hacked up a choked cough. Mr. Reynolds strode forward, yanking Peter right to his feet. "That was pathetic to watch."
Pathetic it may be, but Peter found it excruciating. Already he sensed a bruise forming around his ribcage.
"Focus this time," Mr. Reynolds ordered, backing up to restart the match. "Go… again."
Peter was ready for Powers this time. As expected, Powers threw the first punch. Peter caught it and shoved it hard to the left, throwing Powers off balance. With that momentum, Peter kicked his behind the knees to bring him down. Only Powers used his low position to elbow Peter right into the abdomen. The blow keeled Peter over, giving Powers another advantage to snap his head back right into Peter's forehead. He felt a lump growing on the middle of his forehead.
Peter retreated a bit, trying to regain his composure. Powers left back to his feet, still bearing that awful grin of his as he paced in eager anticipation. He devoured the thrill of a fight whereas Peter dreaded it all.
"This isn't a staring contest, gentlemen!" Mr. Reynolds impatiently called. "Get moving!"
Powers charged and Peter acrobated over him. Powers' nostrils fumed at the lack of contact, drawing his anger right to Peter. "Is the little boy afraid?" Powers mimicked a disgusting baby-voice. "Need your mommy?"
Peter kept moving, circling away from Powers. If he wasted enough time keeping Powers away from him, then their turn would be over. At least, Peter hoped it would be over.
Powers faked a move, causing Peter to over back-flip away. It made Powers go into a rage of giggles. "Did the baby shit in his pants?" he heckled toward Peter. "Need a nappy? Diaper change? Where's your babysitter? Should we get him over here?"
"Enough chit-chatting, Powers," Mr. Reynolds warned. "This is hand-to-hand combat training. Not insult spewing."
"Fair enough, Reynolds," Powers said. "I'll stop talking and start punching once Petey here fights like a man."
Peter kept his distance, happy to stay where he was. Mr. Reynolds glanced over at him with a heavy sigh. "Peter—get back to it," he commanded. "You can't keep avoiding the fight. Don't be a coward!"
Peter flickered a look from Powers to Mr. Reynolds and the others. "I'm not avoiding, sir," he said as he kept watch on Powers' movements. "I'm winning it."
Powers stopped, gaped at Peter before he tipped his head back and ripped out a roar of laughter. Mr. Reynolds scowled at the obnoxious reactions before he stomped over to where Peter stood. "You get out there, soldier and you fight!" he berated. "Avoidance doesn't stop your enemy."
"I'm not avoiding!" Peter said, although, he was, in a certain way. "You don't fight fire with fire and expect it to go away. I'm fighting violence with non-violence." Peter snuck a look back to where Powers kept slapping his knee in grand humor. "Besides, only the incompetent resort to violence."
That silenced Powers quick enough. The man's eyes glowed in red-hot anger. His hands curled to fists and he growled. "What did you say?"
Peter opened his mouth to rebuttal, but Mr. Reynolds took the moment to shove Peter back into the fray. Peter stumbled back onto the shared mat and Powers made his move. He dove right for Peter, punching him hard right underneath the ribcage that Peter choked and keeled right into Powers. He wiggled to roll off Powers shoulders and circle around him, but Powers snatched his shirt collar and pulled him back, exposing his face to a burst of light.
He only got the chance to blink before a fist pummeled right into Peter's face, knocking the lights out.
"The swelling should go down by morning," Nellie said as she handed him an ice pack for his bruised face.
Peter woke to Simon carrying him to the medical bay. Apparently, Powers didn't enjoy taking insults as much as he loved throwing them out. Powers managed to punch Peter three times before Luke Cage and Simon jumped him to stop the abuse. Peter was already out after the first punch and fell to the matt in a jumble of limbs.
Nellie checked him out, reporting that his cheek was busted, along with his lip and eye on his left side face. A bruise formed above his eyebrow, sinking into the eye socket itself as it turned from purple to black in multiple shades. Lip was busted and splintered, blood crusted over his parched lips. Nellie also applies a few wound coverage band-airs on small cuts to his cheek and eyebrow. Minor wounds, but treated nonetheless.
"Keep that icepack over your eye, but don't add pressure to it," Nellie warned. "Hold it there for at least ten minutes."
"Okay."
Nellie paused, leaning down to catch his eyes. "You got hit pretty hard," she said. "Best you take it easy. Let me know if you experience blood in the eyes or nose, or if you have any vision problems. Okay? I'll be back later to switch you with another pack."
Nellie got up and left the room, leaving Peter on the chair with an icepack to his busted face. He wondered if Powers would get in trouble for his actions. Doubtful, but Peter hoped. After all, Powers performed exactly as what Mr. Reynolds wanted. A real hand-to-hand combat with a winner and a loser.
Peter happened to be the loser. Whatever. If Peter really wanted to fight him, Powers would be floored with Peter standing over him in victory.
A knock disrupted Peter's thoughts. "You can come in."
He thought it was Simon. Nellie asked Simon to wait outside as she revered the doctor-patient confidentiality. Simon obliged and stayed outside the room. Peter figured it was Simon returning to fulfill his duties to keep an eye on him.
But it wasn't Simon.
It was a woman. Slender and athletic built with short, vibrant red hair and inquisitive green eyes that narrowed right at him upon entering. She walked with confidence, closing and locking the door right behind her. She looked familiar.
Peter lowered the icepack to get a better look.
The woman low-whistled. "That's one hell of a shiner," she commented, strolling up and stealing Nellie's old chair. She took a seat, arms crossed. "Concussion too?"
Peter stiffly nodded. "Sorry, but… do I know you?"
The woman's lips peeled into a soft smile. "My name's Natasha Romanoff," she introduced. "Most people know me as the Black Widow though."
Peter's heart surged and the icepack slipped right off his palm. "You're… you're Black Widow?"
She nodded. "Heard you got sent to the doctor's again," she remarked. "Something about getting the shit kicked out of you."
Peter embarrassingly remembered his black eye and took the icepack back to his face to hide it. "It's nothing."
The Black Widow reached her hand up, hoovering it near his face that Peter flinched away.
She noticed. "May I?"
Unsure what to say or do, Peter let her fingers take the icepack from him, revealing his bruised and battered face to her. Peter said nothing as Black Widow took in the broken sight with a hardened, but unreadable expression. It seemed like minutes passed before the icepack was returned to his face.
"Someone wanted to beat you to a pulp," she observed. "Got a name?"
Peter rolled his lips in. Not that he wanted to protect Powers, but it felt more like a test. He opted to say nothing and wait for Black Widow to come to her own conclusion. After all, it was basically public knowledge who beat the crap out of him. One only needed to ask Simon or Mr. Reynolds for the name. Or look at the video recordings from the training room.
Black Widow pressed her mouth a little thinner. "How often does this Powers fellow beat on you?"
So, she already knew. Of course she did. The world's most dangerous spy would know who beat up a fifteen year old at the Avengers headquarters.
"It's fine," he muttered. "Nothing I can't heal from."
A sadness dimmed the light in Black Widow's gaze. "You shouldn't have to heal."
True, but unless they let him go, it was all he could do. "It's all fine."
Black Widow didn't accept that response. "I've been watching you," she admitted, causing Peter's eyes to widen. He never noticed her around. Ever. "Ever since you've arrived here and I noticed a lot of changes. For instances—you don't engage with anyone. Not even Fitz-Simmons and even they noticed.
"Then there's your rebellious spirit, which seems to have been zapped out of you," Black Widow observed. "What happened to the boy who was willing to jump out a window without anything to catch himself with?"
He was beaten, Peter measly thought. Beaten and dragged all the way back to his prison cell. Trapped and secured away from all he knew and loved. No amount of begging, pleading or bargaining did anything to get them to acquiesce to his requests of either talking to Mr. Stark or getting in contact with his aunt. He was surrounded by adults, who were instructed to care and help him, but they didn't care about him. They didn't listen to him. Or even acknowledge him. All they wanted from him was to be a good solider and not embarrass them in front of Mr. Stark. He didn't matter. He was one of many, and that made it even worse.
He wished they threw him in the hole. Better to be lonely and sad alone, than with others.
Black Widow let out a sad sigh before rolling her chair closer to him. "I'm sorry," she said and Peter looked back to her, catching her distress. "You should never have been brought here."
She sounded sincere. Her remorse genuine. Peter became confused. Wasn't she working with Mr. Stark? Didn't she joined him on this crusade? It was odd. And more odd that she came to visit him. What did she want? Was it all another ploy?
The courteous side of him wanted to accept the apology and move on from it. What's done was done, but the other side wanted to scream and lay blame at her feet. It was her fault as much as Mr. Stark's and Deadpool's and Vision's that he was stuck in this little room, far from home and isolated to loneliness. Her apology was empty because being sorry didn't change his situation. Her pity only agitated him.
"You have the right to be angry," Black Widow spoke up, looking straight at him. "I would be if I were you. Hell—I wouldn't stand for it at all. Fight my way out if I had to."
He already tried. Twice. Didn't work.
"I was rooting for you when you escaped over the fence," Black Widow murmured loud enough for Peter's sensitive hearing to pick up. "I didn't want you to come back."
That… was not what he expected to hear from her. It made him all the more confused as to why she sat in the same room as him. What was she trying to say to him? "What do you want, Ms. Black Widow?"
Black Widow arched his brows in surprise at the title. "It's Nat," she corrected him, "and I don't want anything. Not even your forgiveness."
"You want something though," Peter perceived. "Otherwise, why are you telling me all this?"
Black Widow—Nat—shrugged and leaned back against her chair. "Guess I wanted you to know."
That wasn't a good enough response. "Why?"
"I worry about you."
Peter snorted and pulled the icepack away from his face, revealing the abuse. "Noted."
Black Widow sucked in a breath at the sight of his injury, before she pressed her mouth close in acceptance of what was already known between them. Her concerns for him and lack of action did little and he could not offer her the clear conscious she sought.
She wore an apologetic expression, her mouth a stressed line. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know it's not enough and you deserve far more than a simple apology."
He deserved his home. His family. His friends.
Peter put the icepack back over his face. "I get it," he muttered, mutely. "You can't do anything against Mr. Stark."
He saw a quizzical light flash passed Black Widow's eyes. "That's a little insulting," she said. "I didn't get my name Black Widow for being docile."
"I didn't mean to be rude," Peter said, truthfully. "I only mean that you would be punished if you did. No need for you to get in trouble on my behalf. I can do that myself."
Black Widow smirked. "There's the spunk again," she quipped. "And as for Stark—I'm not afraid of him. Nor should you be."
"He controls my life. Everything I do is monitored by everyone," Peter reminded her. "I can't do anything without someone else's approval or disapproval."
He saw a flicker of confusion flutter through her eyes. "It's your life, Peter," she said. "You decide how you want to live it."
"Easy to say when you aren't hooked up to a microchip that can send you unconscious in a single second," Peter retorted. "Or being followed constantly, wherever you go.
"And there's the fact I don't know about my family," Peter said as his throat constricted. He thought of his aunt and remembering Mr. Stark telling him they would take care of it. Take care of her. "Are they safe? Are they captured? Are they hurt? No one will tell me anything."
Peter slumped, depleted of all hopes and dreams. "I'm stuck here," he muttered. "I'll never be free again."
There was a swell of sadness puddling in Black Widow's eyes. No tears, but they shined. "Peter—about your aunt."
Peter snapped to attention, heart drumming excessively in his chest. Each beat brought a dose of hope back into him as he nearly climbed off his bed to get to Black Widow.
"What about her? Is she okay? She's not hurt, right? Is she—"
He was cut off when the door reopened and Nellie returned with a new icepack and a heat compressor.
Nellie was shocked to see Black Widow in the room. "Oh! Ms. Romanoff!" she squeaked. "I-I didn't know you were here. Does, um, Mr. Stark—"
"Nope," Black Widow responded, all traces of emotion vanished and replaced with a blank canvas. "I only came to check on my fellow spider. See if he was doing all right."
She rose up from her seat, standing a height with Nellie. The nurse somewhat coward away from Black Widow. Her reputation drove fear into many. Nellie gulped as she tried to bring up Peter's health on her tablet.
"Mr. Parker is doing well, Ms. Romanoff," she said, her voice still squeaking that it hurt Peter's ears. "I can print out his—"
"That's not necessary," Black Widow assured her. "We chatted. It's fine." She turned back to Peter, a faint look of repentance crossed the shadows of her face. "Peter?"
Peter looked back to her, hope floating within him. Please don't leave. Not without telling me about Aunt May.
She looked over at him, seeing his desperation to know. All she offered was an empty hope. "Hang in there, kid," she said. "None of this is forever."
And Black Widow left and all of the tension in Nellie wiped her out onto a chair. "Dear god!" she heaved. "She's scary, isn't she?"
It was a few days since his weird meeting with Black Widow. Peter hadn't seen her since, despite his effort to find her. He kept an eye out wherever he went, especially now that he knows she's been watching him. Yet, he never found her anywhere. There was no word about her either through the grapevine. She simply disappeared since that encounter and Peter contemplated if it was his fault she went missing.
Or perhaps, she purposefully stayed away. She looked uncomfortable in discussing Peter's aunt with him. Maybe she thought it was best to stay away from him and avoid the topic of conversation. After all, he doubt he was supposed to be made aware of his aunt's whereabouts and state of mind.
Nevertheless, Peter kept his eyes and ears opened. He hoped to find her and learn what she knew about his aunt.
Late one evening, Peter woke to his spidey-sense tingling the back of his head. He sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes as the tingling turned to full vibration. Scuffling could be heard outside his room along with muffled sounds of different voices that he could not pinpoint. Commotion after commotion could be heard beyond the door.
His senses triggered into hyper-alert. Something was happening.
Muffled sounds cleared into words he recognized. The Compound was on a lock-down, systems on red alert and the residence center was closed off and secured. More footsteps were heard in the hallway and Peter tiptoed to his door to listen.
"Sectors 20-26 are on high alert," announced a gruff individual. "Weapons set?"
"Kill orders?" questioned another person.
Peter sucked in a cold breath. Kill? It was serious! Someone must have infiltrated the Compound.
"Only if necessary," answered the first person. "Otherwise, resort to disarm and restrain."
Another clap of boots walked in the direction of Peter's room, stopping just short from his door. "Asset contained?"
"Inside, sir."
"Are you sure?"
There a long pause before Peter heard the dialing of a code. Suddenly, the locks on Peter's door sprung free. He jumped back in time as the door opened to reveal a burly man in uniform. The gigantic man filled the doorway, almost the same size as Simon. Peter scuttled back and tripped on his bedpost as the man glared down at him.
"What are you doing out of bed?" accused the uniformed man.
Peter swallowed thickly. "I-I heard noises," he stammered his excuse. "Is everything okay? What's going on—"
"Nothing concerning you," he grunted his response, nose upturned as he backed out of the room. "Go to bed."
The man slammed the door shut and the locks reignited, sealing him back into his miniature cell. Footsteps didn't disappear and Peter realized they were standing guard at his door. With nothing else to do, he settled on the bed, but didn't fall asleep. He watched the door and listened to the brief conversation of the men outside his door.
Based on their conversation, the hunted individual got away and Peter was undeniably jealous of their success. Whoever got out, he wished they took him with them. He wondered who it could be, listing off possible candidates in his head.
The patrol outside his room mentioned asset. Something about an asset being contained before one of them opened the door to his room. Did that mean he was the asset? How was he an asset? His recent black-eye demonstrated his lack of skills. He was basically a worthless soldier.
Yet, they were worried. Who escaped that got them rushing to his door in the middle of the night, worried he would be gone too?
It prickled Peter's brain, deeply troubling him. Something wasn't right, but Peter couldn't put his finger as to what it was. He toss and turned throughout the night, mind racing with so many questions and no answers. It also didn't help that the men stayed outside his door for the rest of the night as well.
When morning came and Peter no longer needed to stay in bed, the men were gone and only Simon awaited him.
"What happened last night?" Peter asked of Simon.
Simon rolled his eyes and took Peter's arm to drag him to the locker room. "Nothing. Get dressed," he ordered. "Busy day."