"Kill them!" growled the voice inside his head. "Kill them, now!"
Peter stared in fear at the people in front of him. His aunt. His uncle. They were tied up and bruised, tossed on the ground like two useless packages. His hand shaking so much that he could barely hold the gun in his hand, he shook his head. "No."
"Yes," growled the voice. Peter turned around warily, overcome with fear for what he would see in front of him. Sure enough, when he looked behind him, he saw hundreds of people and he could feel their fear as the dark clouds closed around them, as their lives were threatened by whatever entity had placed its voice inside Peter's head.
"Kill them," the voice growled one last time, "or I will kill all of these people in the most painful of ways."
Desperate, Peter looked up. He met eyes with Ben, who's brown eyes were wet with tears. "Do it," Ben whispered. "It'll be ok."
"I- I can't-" Peter cried, stumbling over his words.
Ben just nodded. "Yes, you can."
And so, Peter raised his shaking hand and fired it, then fired it again. And he watched as his aunt and uncle bled right in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder once more as the large group of terrified people behind him disappeared with the mist. It was a trap. An illusion. And he had just fallen for it, and killed the two people he loved the most because of it.
Peter ran over to his uncle and knelt down next to him. He wasn't moving. Peter grabbed his uncle's shirt and cried his name over and over but there was no response. He was gone. Tears streaming down his face, he moved over to his aunt. "Please," he sobbed, sitting on the ground next to the limp woman. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
"Please, I didn't— I was just trying to help— I didn't want to—"
And she just gave him an unforgiving glare. "Why?" she asked quietly. "Why would you do this?" She stared into his eyes, her eyes cold and unwelcoming. And then they went empty.
"No," Peter sobbed. And then the voice in his head spoke again. "You are weak."
Peter stood up and turned around, shouting, "I did what you wanted. Now leave me alone. Go away!"
And the voice laughed. A low, gravelly, undeniably evil laugh. "You may have fulfilled my wishes today, but that does not mean I will leave. You will never be free."
And then Peter woke up.
Sweat was pouring down his face, hands clenching his comforter so hard that his knuckles were white, breathing heavy.
One he regained his composure, Peter climbed out of bed and walked down the hall. He had been having nightmares for a while, but ever since his aunt died, they had been awful. First, the nightmares involved him finding his aunt and uncle's bodies. Then, he had to watch them die. And after he moved into the Avengers compound, the nightmares involved him being forced to kill them.
Peter walked down to the kitchen, making sure that his footsteps were quiet against the cool tile floors. Since moving in, it had been made clear to him that he could eat anything from the kitchen at any time. Still, he didn't want to wake anyone else. He didn't want them to know that he was having nightmares, that he was weak, that he would never be free.
And so he snuck into the kitchen and grabbed a granola bar from the pantries. He pulled the wrapper off and took a bite and then a voice behind him spoke softly, "couldn't sleep?"
Peter turned around to see Tony Stark behind him, also chewing on a granola bar.
Peter didn't want to admit the truth so he just mumbled, "uh... no."
Tony nodded understandingly. "I had a nightmare too."
Peter didn't say anything. He wasn't sure how Tony had known that he had had a nightmare, and he was surprised to hear that people as strong and fearless as Iron Man could have nightmares. Maybe Peter wasn't weak. Maybe he would be free, someday. And so he just nodded.
"Come on," Tony said after a moment of silence. "I need to blow off some steam, and from the looks of it, you do too."
—
"You're a good fighter," Tony said. "Is it you or your anger fighting?"
"How about both?" Peter said as he swung another punch that burst the punching bag open. He watched the sand pour out of the hole he had created. "Why did you take me in?" he asked, finally voicing the question that he had wanted the answer to ever since Tony had recruited him.
Tony pulled the bag down front the wall by its chains. "Because you needed help and so did I," he said.
Peter shook his head. "I know that. What I want to know is how you knew to find me, how you knew where to find me. Why you were so willing to help a stranger."
"Kid, I help strangers every day. I'm Iron Man."
Peter nodded, assuming he wasn't going to get the answers he wanted, when Tony continued. "I saw you on the news. A wall-crawling superhero? I wanted to recruit you as soon as I heard about you. But I decided to wait until you had made your mark so that I wouldn't influence you until after you had decided who you were. And then, suddenly, you disappeared. And everyone was saying how Spider-Man had shot a bunch of people? That didn't sound quite right. So I did some research on you, found out a lot."
Peter felt a chill travel down his spine. Did he know everything?
"Your parents," Tony began. Of course, Peter thought. Of course he knows.
Tony continued. "They were abusive? I read transcripts of their court trial. And I learned that after your aunt and uncle got custody of you, the latter was killed. And then, three and a half weeks ago, your aunt died, too. Now, it's possible that you killed your aunt and uncle... but why would you do that? There seemed to be more to the story." Tony hung up another punching bag, which Peter pounded until it was knocked off the wall. The bag thudded to the ground, and Tony smiled. "Well done."
"What do you mean?" Peter asked confusedly.
"Channel your anger into the fight," Tony said, picking up the bag. "Don't let it consume you. Don't let it build up inside of you. Use it as a weapon. I learned that one the hard way." He grabbed hung the bag back up in is spot on the ceiling. "I know what it's like to have bad parents. Mine may not have been as bad as yours, but... you deserve better. I know this because... Well, you got powers. And you could have used them to rob a bank, or get back at your parents for what they did to you. But you didn't. You used them to help people. And even after everything in your life went wrong, you did nothing wrong."
The punching bag was now ready again, but Peter no longer felt like punching the crap out of it. He just stood there looking at it, thinking.
"How are you feeling?" Tony asked.
"Better," Peter responded, his voice laced with a touch of optimism and hope for the first time in a while.
"Good," Tony sighed, "because it's 6:00am, and today we have a lawsuit to deal with."