Lying Heart
Peter's initial reaction is to laugh. At first it's just a chuckle. "Me?" he deadpans, and then he sees how serious the man is, and it turns into full on spasm. "That's … that's ridiculous, what, what does that—how could he even—I mean, come on, how do you hide a formula in a person?"
The man does not seem at all surprised by Peter's incredulity. "You were only six years old," he says.
Peter's laughter dies down. He tries to calm himself. "I would have remembered if somebody—what, what did he do, what are you even saying?"
"Your DNA has been altered since briefly before your parents' deaths. It was probably an ill-advised maneuver," says the man, his gaze uncharacteristically flitting to the floor for a moment, "but your father seemed to think it was appropriate, that his own son would be the premiere carrier of a formula that could change the world." The man looks back up. "He was arrogant. Foolish. Didn't foresee the consequences, didn't understand that they were all yours to face."
"Don't talk about my father that way," Peter snaps, "who the hell are you, that you know anything about him, about me—how dare you?"
"I was working at OsCorp, helping develop the formula all those years ago," says the man. "I worked very closely with your father. I know your family well. And even though he never said in so many words what he did to you, I knew."
"You're not making any sense," Peter says, his eyes wild. "You're not making any sense."
"The alterations to your DNA weren't supposed to be activated. Your father at least had the good sense to let you have a normal childhood, or as normal as it could be as an orphan. Perhaps he only ever meant to test the DNA splicing on you for safekeeping, perhaps he knew he would never release the true formula and he needed some evidence of his work to validate himself, but either way, supposedly he should be the only one with the key to unlocking your abilities."
"My father wouldn't—I don't believe you." Peter backs away from him, toward the stairs. "You're crazy. You couldn't have known my father. He wouldn't just—I wasn't some sort of science experiment!" Peter bursts.
"No, you weren't," the man agrees. "Not until that spider bit you. And for whatever reason, it was just enough to unlock something that has been dormant in you for years."
Peter blinks, hard. It feels like the ground is suddenly uneven, as if the walls are at all the wrong angles and the world is tipping. He tries to remember his father, anything he can remember, but his memories are few and sparsely-detailed. He remembers stupid things, like driving to the beach, or eating breakfast, or waiting at the bus stop. In these memories his father always seemed like an ambiguous figure, someone sturdy and warm and strong, but now Peter wonders if he really ever knew anything about his father at all.
Be good, his father said to him before he left. Not I love you, or I'll be home soon, but Be good. Peter stares down at his hands, his hands that have climbed thousands of feet and swung biocables across bridges and punched through steel. Be good. As if his father had known this was going to happen, as if it had been predestined for longer than he ever knew.
It's an unbearable thought. It was so much different when this was chance, when it was a happy accident, when Peter thought that he was chosen in some way to defend the city, to use his abilities to do good. But this changes everything. Yes, he was chosen, but by the hand of a man who was supposed to love him, by the hand of a man who should never have wished anything like this upon him.
He blinks again. His eyes are stinging. "You're lying," Peter says through grit teeth, because he just has to be wrong.
"I wish I were," says the man, sounding sincere. "But it is the only plausible explanation for your abilities. Did you really think a mere spider bite would have such a drastic effect on your nervous system?"
Peter's face burns. "I didn't—I didn't know what to think, how could I have possibly thought that—that my father—" He hangs his head, trying to compose himself. A few seconds pass and his head snaps back up, his rage cracking like a whip. "No. No. You thought you knew him so well, then tell me this—why would he leave?" Peter's entire body is shaking, his shoulders so tensed and rigid that they ache. "If I wasn't enough, surely his precious formula was enough of a reason to stick around. So how the hell do you explain that?" Peter demands.
For a long time the man doesn't say anything. Peter is practically panting by now, his heart hammering in his throat. His eyes are glued to the man. The fragile balance of his universe hangs on whatever he says next.
"I don't," says the man. "I can't. Your parents never consulted me before they fled that night."
Peter lets out a clipped, angry snort. He walks away from the man, toward the opposite wall. He wants to throw his fist through something. He wants to scream. It is not unlike the anger he felt this morning, but now there is no doubt in his mind that he has earned the right to it.
His voice is quiet when he speaks again. "Why are you even bothering to tell me any of this?"
"I helped Richard develop that formula. I can't help but feel some responsibility for your current situation. Which is why I have to ask you again, before I finish a method to dissolve the counter-serum in your bloodstream: is this really what you want?"
There is a world Peter can imagine, a world he has imagined many times in the past few months, where everything works out for the best and he gets everything he wants in life. But he has had a week's worth of chances and if anything, he has only made his life worse. And even if he hadn't just lost his shot at happiness, even if that perfect world were attainable, it doesn't change the truth.
Peter is Spiderman now. Spiderman has to exist for Peter to exist. He cannot stand in the sidelines and do nothing, not after he has had this sense of purpose, of belonging, that comes with slinging webs all over this city. He can disregard his father's request to be good, but he can't disregard his unspoken promise to live up to Uncle Ben's sense of morality, of his duty to do what is right.
"Yes," says Peter, his eyes steely and hard. He didn't choose this, but he chooses not to run away from it anymore.
After a moment the man nods solemnly. "I was afraid you'd say that."
"I don't understand," says Peter. "Why do you even care?"
The man adjusts his sunglasses. "Your life is about to become even more complicated than you can imagine. The man responsible for the robots—while he is not aware of the details of your creation as well as I am, he knows enough to come after you. And I fear that by deterring his earlier plans, you have become his new target."
Peter digests this. "But you know who he is. Can't we stop him?"
"It won't be that simple."
"What does he even want with me?" Peter asks.
The man's eyebrows raise. "You have highly-coveted abilities that have, as far as he knows, outwitted his best machinery. He doesn't know of my involvement or my return to New York yet—my interference reactors prevent any communication between the robots and their creator, so as far as he knows, it is you who has been destroying them every time."
"So you do need me," says Peter, this time without any trace of smugness. "To distract him. Because you know of a way to stop him."
The man nods grimly. "We just have to find him first." He looks at Peter. "That's where you come in."
"I can't—I wouldn't know the first thing about how to find this guy, are you kidding?" asks Peter.
"During the next attack—yes, I am certain there will be another," the man says at Peter's expression, "I will need your help distracting whatever he sends. If you can keep it in motion for long enough, I can use wireless technology to override its security systems and find his location." His eyebrows raise. "I've been trying to do this from the second attack. It was all too evident that they were going to kill you, though, so both times I have had to make an executive decision to shoot them down instead."
Peter tries not to roll his eyes at this. If the man had just told him this from the beginning, when Peter first offered his help, it wouldn't have been a problem. But he's been struggling with the police on the same matter for god knows how long so he is used to this kind of condescension from adults.
"Thanks, I guess," he mumbles instead. "But how are you proposing I keep them distracted any longer than before? The robots get more powerful every time."
"I have a few ideas. But right now, I have somewhere to be."
Peter watches him walk away, stunned by how abruptly and unexpectedly he leaves. "The serum," he calls after the man. "When are you going to fix this?"
"Meet me here in three days. Same time. I'll be ready to discuss our options with you then."
Peter doesn't realize that there was no cell reception in that basement until he emerges to two texts from Aunt May asking what he wants for dinner and how late he'll be home, and a missed call and voicemail from Gwen. He has a thousand more important things rattling in his brain, but curiosity gets the best of him and he suppresses the unbearable noise of everything else to hear her message.
"Peter, hey." Her voice is quiet, as if she has stolen away to an empty room to leave the message. "It's Gwen. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left the way I did. You didn't do anything wrong." There's a pause. "I really want to know what happened when you disappeared, I really want to know the truth about why you haven't been on the streets at night. There's something really wrong, isn't there?" He can hear her press the phone closer to her cheek. "Please tell me, Peter. I know you can't talk to anyone else about it, and … maybe I can help."
He wishes so badly he could tell her everything. He really meant to, once he had gotten past the humiliation of it. He trusts Gwen the way he thought he could only ever trust his aunt and uncle. He aches for her—the way she can just sit next to him and feel at ease, the way she listens with watchful eyes, the way she always seems to know the right thing to say and offer the soundest advice when he is tossing in a sea of indecision.
But it isn't an option anymore. He doesn't know why the sight of her kissing Richard has changed everything so significantly for him—he knew a while ago that they must have been intimate if they were dating for this long. But seeing it makes it permanent, makes it irreversible, unforgivable.
Seeing it makes Peter face the facts: Gwen may be happy with him, but she can also be happy without him. And if there's a chance that she can be happy without him, happy and safe, he has no right to interfere. It is no longer a matter of her father's dying request. It is plain, it is simple, it is right and wrong, and for the first time, this isn't a difficult decision for Peter to make.
Maybe this means he is finally growing up. He just didn't think it would mean feeling so alone.
I'm posting early today because I have a GIG opening for this kind of locally famous country singer tonight that I have to drive to. So. Be excited for me. Also, in celebration of this gig, and the fact that Andrew Garfield will never love me, I'm going to tell you all about the most shameful thing I ever did on the internet (and no, it's not posting this exceedingly long fanfiction). I wrote Andrew Garfield a song last January and put it on You Tube. If you search "the andrew garfield song", I'm the girl with the pink guitar and the awkward lyrics who should be clubbed in the face.
Sadly, it has more views than any of my legitimate attempts at making music. But that's what being a soon to be homeless musician is all about!