Why buy a phone when you can just steal one?

Borrow. Borrowing phones.

Re-Edit on 10/7/14

Chapter Six

Carpe Noctem

I woke up in a cold sweat, breathing hard and heart pounding like I just ran a five mile marathon against a team of hungry velociraptors.

My nightmares had been getting worse.

I didn't tell Peter that, or Gwen or Aunt May. They're the only ones who would know, understand why I would be shaking and crying in the middle of the night, not having a single clue what the hell had gotten into me. I took it to the apartment because I didn't want anyone else to hear me. I didn't want Aunt May to put me into therapy, something expensive the family couldn't afford, selling cook books and freelance photography aside.

It started getting real bad after the Venom incident - maybe if I had been paying attention, I would have seen those little, um...attacks coming. Maybe I could have prevented hurting anyone if only I had known.

Well, it was too late now.

But I've had the occasional nightmare after my mother was kidnapped, a flashback now and then, but maybe that was because the reality hadn't hit me yet – that my mother wasn't coming back, that it might happen to me, too. Those stupid Christmas commercials, with those smiling happy families, with mothers who had picky kids and clueless fathers who didn't know what to get them, and two laughing, innocent kids who were always surprised and happy what they got for presents. And not just one or two, but like five or six or ten –who the hell gets ten wrapped presents for Christmas?

They reminded me of everything I never had. Could never have.

Maybe I was just searching for an excuse. I had to slip out of bed to go to the bathroom. I kept the light off because not only did I not need it to see, but I didn't want to look at my reflection in the mirror. It was always a mess when I woke up in the middle of the night like this. Terrible hair, red eyes with dark bags, an expression of defeat that I winced at.

The fight with Smoke didn't help. I pissed off a friend and now I was probably never going to see him again. Well, he was annoying anyways, so no great loss there. My excellent social skills (NOT) were to blame for that.

Still, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Had I just ruined my only chance to see Bruce again? Would he be able to help me? Stop me from losing control?

I splashed water onto my face, sending chills down my body. It was freezing in here. I couldn't go back to sleep, I feared the images that flashed behind my eyes. Of my mother, screaming at me to run. Of guns being pointed at me, at her. Being thrown out the window. Broken glass, falling. Hospitals.

Ugh. I shuddered. I hated hospitals.

There was no way I could fall back asleep tonight, not without fear of nightmares again. So I went back to sit on my bed and stare at the wall for a little bit. I tried to meditate but all I got were flashbacks of the night my mom was kidnapped and the scene in the Guggenheim. Eventually I just gave up all together.

Instead I decided to clean my room. Nothing in the apartment was ever really neat because I never really bothered, but I couldn't spend the rest of the night doing nothing. So I started picking up my homework, my books, stuff that's been on the floor for weeks that I've never picked up. That's when I found the gun under my bed – how it got there, I couldn't remember, but now I had a completely different idea in mind.

There was no way this thing could be completely unstoppable. It had to have a weakness, some fault I could exploit. Just because I couldn't jam it didn't mean there weren't other options.

The trigger was never an option. I didn't mess with those, even on normal guns. Holding it in place with my mind was a good idea on paper, but there were a lot of variables to consider in real life. How strong the gunman was, how strong the trigger was, how far away the both of them were from me, how unpredictable the situation was. It'd be easier to flip the safety on but the gunman could always switch it back. Keeping either in place required concentration and became a distraction if I was trying to keep a man from firing off his gun if I was in the middle of another fight. Jamming the gun took only a single thought and I didn't have to worry about it afterwards.

But a gun that couldn't be jammed? That required creativity.

First I had to figure out how this thing worked besides making it shoot. It took five minutes of examining it, pressing for buttons, anything to make the weapon discharge its cartridge of whatever ammo it had. I finally got it by slamming the heel of my palm into the handle of the gun, dislodging the grey piece and sending it clattering to the floor.

I picked up the cartridge from the floor, upending it in my hand. Twenty little green cylinders fell into my hand, the size of AAA batteries. There were tiny letters written across the sides: SYNDICON.

I sighed. Of course. Dr. Pigott, the genius at the center of the phantom company, hadn't been able to destroy all of his work when he set his lab on fire and killed himself in the process. The Gray Matter got through, and apparently so did these things. Weapons that would change the field of combat as we know it.

But just because he was a genius didn't mean all of Dr. Pigott's designs were flawless. I could remove this cartridge with my mind, if I wanted to. Those who used these guns wouldn't be so armed and dangerous if they didn't have the ammo.

I let a single cylinder hover in the air, studying it. There was liquid inside of it, sloshing back and forth. I curled my hand into a fist, quick and fast, crushing the cylinder with my mind.

Fwoom!

The room flashed with light as the cylinder, and its contents, exploded upon contact with the air. I turned my head away before I could get a face full of hot cinders. Hmm, highly combustible material rendered into projectile form. Convenient.

Did Dr. Kane know about this? Could she be feeding the White Rose weapons? I didn't want to think so – she hated them, wanted to take them down and replace them. Or perhaps that she wanted me to think. Maybe she's giving them the guns in the hopes that my inability to jam them will be enough of an advantage to kill me. Or maybe she knows I know she knows and is just pretending she doesn't have anything to do with it, while secretly reaping the benefits. That kind of reverse-psychology was really screwing with my head right now.

I scowled and grabbed the gun, pushing it between my two open palms. The metal bent and twisted under the force of my strength until the gun was flattened to some alien object, completely unrecognizable from its previous shape. My mind was stronger than what my physical body was capable of, but it felt satisfying to use my hands for once. To know that that gun could be someone's head or something, that I was stronger than I looked.

That I could be unstoppable.

OoOoO

Detention again. Woof.

Classes itself did not go well. Astor Sloane was back from the hospital, with a bright pink cast on her arm and a chip on her shoulder. I mean, I wasn't afraid of her or anything, but she proceeded to make my life miserable in the only way a vengeful teenage girl off field hockey season could: with passive aggression.

For example, I was walking behind her when entering the girl's bathroom to gym class. Most decent people would hold the door open for the person behind them, but Astor made a point to slam the door in my face. I wanted to be petty and tell Coach Bronson what she was doing, but after breaking Astor's arm, I didn't want to look like a hypocritical, whiny brat in front of everyone else. No one would feel sorry for me.

After that, during the class itself, no one would pass me the ball during a game of basketball. The first couple times I figured I was either in the wrong place or they didn't see me, but there was a point when I was wide open, with no enemy players around me, and Tracy Johnson decided to toss the ball to Gwen Stacy.

Who was on the opposite team and was as graceful as a drunk cat.

I was also pretty sure Astor was spreading rumors about me. At my locker, Peter asked me if it was true whether or not I took steroids. We both knew I didn't and I asked him why he'd ask such a stupid question. He replied that he heard a bunch of girls talking in science class about it; how that was the only way I could've hurt Astor, a girl far bigger than I was.

(No, seriously, she was a full head taller than me).

Peter wanted to know if everything was all right, and I think he meant in way that was not school-related. But with everyone around I couldn't really say anything, so instead I asked him when he was going to talk about the kiss he had with Gwen. Peter made some weird noises, like he still didn't know what to say, and made himself scarce when I looked away.

My rumor theory was confirmed when I walked into the girl's bathroom on the third floor. There were already five girls inside, clearly skipping class and gossiping, not actually using any of the stalls.

They were the 'preppy' sort, I guess, I don't really know what the hell they're called these days. They were the kind who weren't cheerleaders, necessarily, but they loved pep rallies and fancy purses and putting on make-up in a place where no one cared. I mean, I didn't give too fiddlesticks about lipstick or eye shadow or whatever. I really didn't have the kind of lifestyle that would make cosmetics very useful – half the time I'm sweating in a gym or on the street trying not to die; I really didn't have the luxury of stopping to powder my nose.

Maybe I was ugly and should try make-up; maybe people wouldn't think I was so weird or antisocial. Or maybe they'd think I was trying too hard. Maybe I was such a freak that nothing could ever hide it. Maybe I just shouldn't bother.

And these girls judged me for it, I could tell. As soon as they saw me, they stopped talking and looked in the mirror, or at their phones. Just standing there, like nothing was weird at all, glancing at each other when they thought I wouldn't notice. Their attempt at subtlety left something to be desired.

I decided to play on their fears and glare at them for a full ten seconds. They all chickened out and ran, leaving me by myself with a satisfied smirk on my face. Well, if they wanted me to be weird, then I was going to be weird. I didn't even use the bathroom.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, detention.

After skipping out the last couple times, the woman wasn't going to take any chances. She kept checking on me, as though I might suddenly disappear while she wasn't looking, and kept me busy by writing an essay about respect and discipline. I only gave a half-hearted attempt at it before deciding that getting out of here would be the much better solution.

So I raised my hand – the only way Mrs. Murphy would acknowledge a student, and sometimes not even then. It wasn't exactly, necessary, since I was still the only kid in the room, but talking to her directly would only earn me more work to do.

It took Mrs. Murphy a full two minutes (I know, I counted) for her to finally look up and squint at me. "Is there a problem, Miss Fletcher?"

I kept my eyes focused straight ahead and my expression devoid of any emotion when I asked, "Can I go to the bathroom?"

Mrs. Murphy just fixed me with a frown, "You know the rules, Miss Fletcher. You can go to the bathroom after detention is over."

"But," I knew this was about to happen and I had to force myself to think fast. I knew about the bathroom rule; I'd just been hoping that I'd get lucky and she'd forget. But obviously that didn't happen. I winced and lied, "It's, uh, it's a feminine issue. You know?"

Mrs. Murphy pursed her lips before finally saying, "All right, fine. But take the bathroom pass. I want you back in five minutes, no more."

"You got it," I said, giving her a quick salute and dashing out of the room with my backpack.

I headed straight for the girl's bathroom, like I said. There were no cameras in there and with no after school activities on this floor, I knew I wasn't going to get caught.

What I didn't tell Mrs. Murphy was the little detour I took.

When you go to Midtown long enough, you usually hear about the blind spot on the second floor, the small inlet between two walls of lockers that's completely hidden from all camera angles. Most kids didn't have need of it, unless they planned on sticking there for an entire class (not fun, there isn't enough room to sit), or to trade cigarettes and other miscellanea not allowed on school grounds.

It was also the perfect spot to steal a cell phone.

Borrow. I meant borrow.

Slipping into the blind spot, all I had to do was pry the back corner of the nearest locker to gain access inside. Some telekinesis helped, and my luck finally played out with whatever kid forgot their phone here at school.

I'd only use it for one call. I'd delete it afterwards. The owner would never even know it was gone.

I slipped back out from the blind spot as cool as could be. No one would know.

I hid in one of the stalls, closing the door and standing on the toilet with my backpack on the hook. The walls were so high on the stalls that I couldn't even see over them, not even on top of the toilet. It was discouraging but right now it didn't matter. I took out the borrowed phone, finding it locked but getting through because the oil from the owner's fingers left on the surface of the screen revealed the path of the number password.

After a few tries, I got in. I felt a kick of glee in my chest as I quickly dialed the number I wanted.

The phone rang and on the other end Peter picked up. He sounded breathless and a little annoyed, "Peter Parker, who is this?"

"Pete, it's me, are you busy right now?" I asked, cupping my hand over my mouth in case someone in the hall overheard me. "I need to meet up with you later."

"As a matter of fact, I am busy," Peter grunted. I could hear static the wind was creating on the other side of the phone. So he was already swinging through the streets. "I've got a crazy Russian maniac on my heels and he's trying really hard to turn me into a stuffed head on a wall. How are you calling me, what phone are you using?"

"A cell phone I got from someone's locker." I said, glancing up when I felt someone approach on my radar. I still had time, so it couldn't be Mrs. Murphy, unless she lied or got suspicious.

"You stole a cell phone?" Peter said, alarmed. There was a loud scratchy noise as if he just narrowly dodged an explosion. "And you complain about that thief guy who always give you grief. Hypocrite, much?"

"Hey, I'm just borrowing it! I'll put it back." I snapped back in a hushed tone. The presence moved away, probably a janitor or another teacher. "So, I'll be out there in like ten, okay? I just have to get out of detention first."

"Uh, sure," he replied, sounding doubtful. "But Mrs. Murphy doesn't let kids out early. How are you gonna manage that? Where are you now?"

"I'm in the girl's bathroom," I whispered, stepping down off the toilet and opening my backpack. I reached for the helmet inside. "I just have to wait first."

"Why can't you just leave?" Another loud crunch, like a car being smashed by a teenager in a blue-and-red unitard.

"Because I don't want to get more detention, duh," I said, pulling off my hoodie and kicking off my shoes. "Mrs. Murphy is onto me. But I've got an idea. Don't worry, it'll be a cinch."

"You won't get caught?"

"Come on, you know me," I snorted, stuffing my civilian clothes into my backpack and swinging it over my shoulder. "They won't even see me on the camera."

I hung up and stuffed the phone into the outer pocket on my backpack. The kid would just have to wait until tomorrow to get his phone back. I felt bad, but supervillains in Manhattan took precedence. I closed my eyes and concentrated, letting my radar expand until I found a fire alarm.

The security cameras would not catch me. They would not see the girl who went into the bathroom come out when the lights started flashing and the ear-piercing screech filled the halls. My radar recoiled from the shrill noise, making me dizzy and disoriented. I wasn't sure if I'd ever adapt to that, but for now incredibly loud, piercing noises were a weakness I had to deal with. It was one of the reasons I didn't party much.

The other reason was that I didn't like parties. Obviously.

I left through the tiny window at the top of the bathroom wall. I wasn't sure what was going to happen tomorrow – would Mrs. Murphy figure out it was me? How many other people were in this school right now? Would I get another detention for not serving this one out?

But I knew one thing. School tomorrow was definitely going to be a lot more interesting.