Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in….
Breathe in….
Breathe in….
Breathe in –
Peter slammed his fist against his chest.
– breathe out….
He repeated the mantra for another ten minutes, doing everything he could to slow his heart beat from one hundred and eighty beats per minute, back to its regular ninety-five. How did he know that it was exactly one-hundred and eighty – now seventy-six – beats per minute? Because he had counted them – because he could hear every single beat of his own heart in a way that he never could before, his ears taking note of every little movement of his heart, of his right atrium moving blood into his right ventricle; of his left atrium moving blood into his left ventricle; of his lungs expanding and detracting, of the little heartbeat in the cat fifteen feet away from him, of the lady singing in the shower on the third floor two blocks away, of the hundreds upon hundreds of feet hitting the cement as they walked on the streets all around him, of the cry of a bird a hundred feet above him, of people shouting and talking and yelling and screaming and –
One-hundred and ninety-five.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
Peter didn't know how far he'd run or even where he now was. All he knew was that it felt as though someone had taken his ears and set their volume intake all the way to the 100 and beyond, breaking the dial and now bringing in thousands of sounds he'd never been able to hear before.
The thing was that it wouldn't stop; everything – all these noises, this conglomerate of chaos – it wouldn't let down. He was trying everything he could think of to ignore them, to mute them out like he'd learned to do when he'd first gotten the bite, but none of it worked. It was all happening too fast. Any attempts he made to stop them were interrupted by another noise, another scream, another car horn, another heartbeat, another –
"Hey kid, you all right?"
Peter jumped, his head snapping up and his eyes wide, startled. It was then that he realised that he was sitting on the ground with his back against a wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. His hands were still around his ears, his fingers digging into his skin and twisting through his hair.
A thin, drug-pocked woman was looking down at him, a scarf around her neck and an over-sized coat hanging off her shoulders. She was looking down at him warily, but also with concern. A tall man stood beside her, as equally skinny and bedraggled; drug addicts, Peter's mind whispered. He was trying to pull the woman away, but she only took a few steps before stopping again.
"He's high," the man said, waving his hand dismissively. "Forget about him, let's just go."
"Maybe we should call someone," the woman said, looking back at Peter uncertainly.
"He's just havin' a bad trip, he'll come out of it. Let 'im be."
Still, the woman hesitated. The man finally let her go and started walking without her, huffing angrily. The woman stared at Peter a moment longer, before walking quickly over to him and crouching down. "Here," she said, reaching into her coat. She pulled out a half-eaten loaf of bread and set it down in front of him. He tried to focus on her voice, but he could barely make it out amongst the rest of the clang and clamour that was ricocheting through his ears.
He watched as the woman reached into her coat again and this time pulled out a couple of cigarettes, and a lighter. "There's not much left in it," she said, nodding at the zippo, "but I found another one that's completely full, and it's much bigger, and… well…." The woman swallowed, looking up at Peter with a small smile. "It'll take the edge off, when you have bad trips. At least it does for me."
Peter didn't say anything, he could only continue to stare at the woman with wide eyes, his hands still over his ears.
The woman waited one more moment, before giving him a last smile and standing back up. "I hope you feel better soon." She ran back over to the man, who was waiting for her impatiently at the alleyway's edge. With one last glance towards Peter, the two disappeared.
Peter stared after them for a long moment, before eventually looking down at the small bundle the woman had left behind. He slowly picked up the piece of bread, brushing off the dirt and flecks of snow that had gathered on it. As though his stomach had just woken up at the smell of food, he was suddenly ravenously hungry. In a matter of seconds he had shoved the bread into his mouth and swallowed it all.
The bread, however, seemed to only have fed the realisation that he was starving, and Peter was left feeling even more hungry than before.
The noises in his ears still clamoured to be heard, but Peter finally had something else to focus on. He had to find food, and he had to find it now.
He stood to his feet, his knees wobbling as he did. It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn't remember when he had sat down in that spot, or how long he had been there. As he moved his foot, something moved in the corner of his eye, and Peter looked down to the see the two cigarettes and lighter that the woman had left him.
Peter stared at them for a long moment, before leaning down and picking them up. Her words echoed in the back of his mind, and not knowing what else to do with them, he put them in his pocket.
Now he just had to find food.
It was cold.
Peter shivered as the north wind bit angrily into his skin, and he rubbed his hands against his bare arms. Everyone around him was looking at him as though he were mad – and he supposed he was. Somehow winter had fully arrived without him realising it, and he hadn't been ready. The jacket he'd worn the last two years was still tucked away in an alcove in the ceiling of his attic – he'd learned you had to hide things, even when you thought they were safe – and at the moment, he had no clue where that attic – or even that street – was.
He'd gone to seven separate food places already – restaurants, bakeries, fast food joints – asking if they had anything they could give him, but each of them had either firmly said no, or had all but thrown him back outside. He'd started going through dumpsters again, trying to smell if anything was there, searching for anything he could find – he was just so, so hungry, he didn't think he had ever been as hungry as this before – but he had only found a few more pieces of bread and a bag of leftovers even he couldn't identify.
He'd have to beg. There was no other choice. He'd have to literally go up to people with his palms open in front of him, begging for food. Pleading for them to give just an inch of kindness, hoping that even just one person in dozens would give him enough money for a couple burgers, or a full loaf of bread.
He didn't want to. He had only had to do it two other times, and both had been miserable and humiliating experiences. He had vowed to do everything in his power never to have to do that again. But right now, it didn't seem like he had any other choice.
The first person he approached – a woman, appearing to be in her forties – was on her cellphone. He had hoped that maybe her distraction would make it easier for her to give him something, even if it was just to make him go away. But as soon as she caught his eye she frowned, then stepped away, quickly melting into the sea of people as they walked away.
Peter swallowed, taking a moment to steel himself, then tried again.
The next person had been the same, and the next one after that. The third one he'd managed to whisper out a quiet plea, asking the man if he had any spare change. The man – also on his cellphone – gave a look of disgust as he shook his head. "Sorry George," Peter heard him say as he walked away, "some street junkie is asking for money…. No, he looks like shit. Probably still high on some drugs of who-knows-what. Now what were you saying…?"
Peter stared after the man for a moment, his hands still outstretched, before he finally blinked through the now-falling snow and turned back round. Time to try again.
He continued for another fifteen minutes, but he didn't make a single dime. He was surprised; he thought at least one person out of the dozens he had asked would have given him something, but it seemed as though people's hearts were as cold as the air.
He had to go somewhere else. He had to find another street to panhandle on, and hope that maybe the people there would be better. He'd have to do it soon, because if didn't find something to eat he thought he might actually pass out. The hunger had started clawing even deeper against his insides, his muscles twisting and cramping in protest, his body demanding – needing – something that he just couldn't give it.
Maybe he should start looking for a soup kitchen, or a shelter, except that he still didn't know where he was – the sky was overcast and low clouds, he couldn't make out the tops of the buildings. He didn't even know the time of day or even the day of the week, and whether or not the soup kitchens would even be open, or – or –
"Peter?"
Peter nearly jumped out of his skin as the low, familiar voice rang out above the rest of the noise of the people that were around him. He spun around and came face to face with Joe, who was staring at him in bewilderment, as though he couldn't really believe what he was seeing.
"It is you! Peter, what – what's going on?"
Peter blinked rapidly, trying to take in the realisation that Joe – someone he knew – was actually standing in front of him.
"J-Joe," Peter finally managed to say. "I… I…."
Joe stared at Peter a few moments longer, his eyes looking him up and down. In those few moments a decision seemed to have been made, as the confusion in the man's eyes disappeared, and was replaced with a resolved determination. "Come on son," he said, reaching out and taking Peter's arm, "let's get you out of the cold and somewhere warm, okay?"
Peter took a few steps, then faltered, coming to a stop. "Um, J-Joe?" he said. His teeth were starting to chatter. "I-I'm really… I'm r-really hungry…."
Joe stared at him for a brief moment, before giving a nod. "All right, we'll stop by McDonald's on the way back."
Peter followed the bigger man for a few blocks, until they eventually came to a McDonald's. Joe bought them both a few burgers – and a few burgers more, at the look on Peter's face – with some fries and drinks. Unable to stop himself, Peter had already started eating one of them before they'd even left the building.
They came to an entrance way for the subway and began walking down the steps. They sat on the train for twenty-some minutes, before eventually departing and walking back up the steps and into the frigid air once more. After that they walked only a few more blocks until they arrived at an apartment complex. Seven floors up and a walk down the hallway, and they had arrived.
Joe opened the door and they walked inside.
"Honey," he called out as he closed the door behind them, "I'm back."
"Hey hun," a woman's voice called out. Peter heard footsteps coming closer and closer until a woman appeared in the kitchen. "Did you pick the groceries for toni –." She stopped in her tracks, her voice trailing off as her eyes fell on Peter.
Peter was suddenly very aware that he was standing in nothing but a torn and ragged shirt and jeans, holding a crumpled paper bag of half-eaten fast food in his hands. He could feel his heart begin to beat a little faster as the woman stared at him in stunned silence, her eyes flickering between him and Joe. He scratched at his wrist nervously.
"Joseph, honey," she said, her voice deceptively light. "Who is this?"
"Hello Martha," Joe replied, taking his shoes off. "This is Peter. He's going to be staying with us for a little while."
Martha's eyes continued to switch between Peter and her husband, her back straight and her mouth set in a small, tight smile. "Oh," she said. "Okay then. Well why don't… why don't you both just come inside then? Just take off your shoes and…" her eyes looked down at Peter's bare feet, and she swallowed. "… and come inside."
The food that Peter had eaten had pushed back the hunger and fog that had settled in his head, and he began to realise just what kind of situation he was in.
He shouldn't be here. How had he come to be here? He had never meant to actually come to Joe's home. It had all just happened so fast, and….
Guilt washed over him. He was an intruder, an interloper, a clearly unwanted stray that had been brought home to unwilling hosts. He should excuse himself, he should leave, he should turn around and walk right back out that door, and….
Except that he was warm. And he had food in his belly, with the promise of more. And he was sheltered, in an actual, heated apartment, and not the cold, damp room of a forgotten attic –
"Just follow me, Peter."
Joe's voice interrupted his thoughts and Peter blinked. He stood for a moment longer before following Joe into the rest of the apartment.
They came to a living room and Joe sat Peter down on one of the couches. "Here," he said, passing him a blanket. "Warm yourself up. I'm just gonna go talk to the missus for a moment. I'll be right back."
Peter watched as Joe left and disappeared into the hallway. He heard a door shut a moment later.
These were times that Peter wished he didn't have the hearing that he did. He would much rather have just sat wrapped up in a warm blanket, doing anything else but listening in on someone else's conversation.
Usually he could focus his hearing, could mute out the unwanted voices and things that he didn't want to hear, but for some reason today he just couldn't do it. For some reason his ears just wanted to pick up every single noise that could be heard, and he would have to hear it whether he wanted to or not. He scratched his arm, trying to ignore them as best he could.
"Well?" he heard Martha say. "What on earth is all this about?" Peter could hear her heartbeat rise, and he could sense the rising anger that was heating her skin.
"Now Martha," Joe said cautiously. "Don't get upset. His name is Peter, and –."
"'Don't get upset'," Martha repeated. "That's what you have to tell me? Don't get upset? Why would I be upset, Robbie? Why would I be upset that there is some strange boy in my home, who's wearing nothing but a shirt and jeans in the middle of November? Who looks as though he's been run over by a truck? Who looks like he's just finished doing another round of drugs, and –."
Peter listened as they continued to argue for another five minutes, Joe arguing in his defense as Martha panicked that he was a drug addict. He turned his head away, trying to ignore them as best he could.
There was a silence, followed by a frustrated huff. The woman's heartbeat had begun to slow down, and the heat in her body had started to ebb. "All right.," she said. Peter heard movement and the turning of a doorknob. "I'll make him some food. I know he just ate, but I know what a hungry boy looks like, and this one looks like he'd eat my furniture if he could."
The door opened and Peter listened as footsteps walked down the hallway, before Martha appeared in the living room, the smile on her face still uncomfortably forced. She gave him a brief nod before moving into the kitchen.
He sat in silence, listening to the clang and clatter of pots and pans as Martha began to make food.
A moment later Joe walked back into the living room, a fresh pair of clothes on and a smile on his face. "Hey Peter," he said, sitting down on a chair across from him. "How you feelin'? Any better?"
Peter was quiet for a moment – it was difficult to gather his words, for some reason – before responding. "Yes, I… I'm feeling better, thank you."
Joe stared at him for a long moment, before forcing his smile back onto his face. "So… what have you been up to, lately?"
Peter frowned, scratching at his arms as he began to think about the question.
Now that he thought of it, where had he been? How had he ended up in the alley like that, cold and shivering and beyond starving? How had he strayed so far from his attic? How had he managed to get so lost? In fact, he was pretty sure he still didn't know exactly where he was. Usually he was so hyper-attentive, always aware of where he was, what street he was on, what district he was in. Why was it all of a sudden so difficult to –
"Peter?"
Peter's eyes snapped back up to Joe, who was looking at him with poorly disguised concern. "Um, I… it's been hard to, uh…." Peter swallowed, his mouth speaking whatever words that came to his mind. "It's been hard to find food, lately, for some… for some reason. I was hungry. I was really…. I was really hungry."
"Okay, well, then… what were you doing so far from home? I thought you said you usually stayed in the same area in Manhattan. What were you doing all the way out in Queens?"
"I –."
Yellow flashed behind his eyes and Peter faltered, his tongue stumbling to a stop.
Images appeared before him every time he blinked. Two men, a white room, glass all around him. Fear. He had been afraid. But of what? Why would he have… what were they doi –
A blinding flash of pain broke behind his eyes and Peter keeled forward, grabbing his head with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Peter! Peter what's wrong, what's –."
"Nothing," Peter ground out between clenched teeth. The pain subsided as quickly as it had come and he sat back, blinking rapidly as he tried to figure out if he were okay. He sat straight in the chair and put his hands down, looking up at Joe. Seeing his worried face, Peter quickly shook his head. "I'm fine, really. Just a bad headache, that's all."
Joe stared at him as though trying to determine whether or not Peter was actually telling the truth. Seeming to accept Peter's argument, he started to get up. "Well here, why don't you go lay down for a while? If you want to, that is. You look… you look tired."
If what he looked like was anything near what he felt like, then tired was a light way of putting it. Suddenly wanting nothing more than silence and to be alone, Peter nodded.
Joe led him to a room at the back of the apartment. Inside there was a single bed, a dresser at it's foot and a desk on the other side of the room. Joe led Peter to the bed and sat him down. "Get some rest," he said, walking back to the door. "Martha will have supper ready in an hour. We can talk about things then."
Peter nodded and watched as Joe closed the door, listening to his footsteps as he walked down the hall and back into the kitchen. Thankfully, this time he and his wife didn't talk, and Peter was left with silence.
Peter leaned back against the wall, pulling his legs up to his chest and pressing the palms of his hands against his temples. God, but did his head hurt. He felt as though someone had taken a sledge hammer to it and hadn't stopped.
His thoughts turned back to questions of what had happened before he'd woken up in the alley. Again, images of men in lab-coats and glass walls all around him flashed in front of him and Peter squeezed his eyes even harder, trying to push back the pounding headache that was beating through his skull. Eventually he laid down, curling into himself as he fought to keep breathing against the pain.
He didn't know when he had fallen asleep, only that one moment it had been light outside, and the next it was completely dark. His nose twitched, picking up the smell of vegetables and meat. Looking over he saw a plate of peas, chicken, and potatoes sitting on the bedside table. Without even really thinking he sat up and reached over, huffing the food down his throat as he scooped it into his mouth.
In minutes he was done, and for once the seemingly endless hunger that had been clawing at his insides seemed to have been – at least, momentarily – quelled.
But his headache still remained.
Peter scratched his arms then brought his hands to his head once more, this time digging his fingers into his eyes before moving them to his temples. As he pressed his palms against his cheeks, he slowly became aware that they were wet.
Great, Peter thought angrily as he started to move his hands to wipe the tears away. Now I'm crying. Everything aches, my head hurts, I don't know what the hell is going on and my stupid wrists won't stop itching. Is this what girls feel like, when….
Peter's thoughts trailed off as he realised that the tears weren't drying away. In fact, they were only spreading across his face. Frowning, Peter took the edge of his shirt and brought it up, wiping it across his cheek and –
Something white reflected in his eyes and he stopped what he was doing. Slowly he pulled the shirt down and he watched in growing confusion as multiple, goo-like strings pulled away from his face.
Peter stared at them for a long moment in the moonlight, unsure what they were.
These weren't tears. These were definitely not tears. But then what… what were they…?
Peter went to touch them with his other hand, but doing so only made them spread further. He let the shirt go, expecting it to fall back down against his chest, but it didn't. Whatever was on his shirt was now sticking to it, and sticking to his hands, as well. He started pulling at the goo – at the strings, he began to realise as he pulled at them, they were like sticky strings – but pulling at them only entangled them further together.
What the hell?
He tried wiping them across his shirt, but this only furthered the mess. Without warning his wrists began to feel as though they were on fire and Peter swore, automatically moving his fingers to start scratching once more on his arms. Finally he managed to lean over and turn on the bedside lamp.
The soft light lit up the area around him, finally showing Peter what was going on. His eyes grew wide, and he could only stare in stunned, shocked silence.
The strings – or whatever they were – were bleeding from his wrists. The skin was red and inflamed from where he'd been constantly scratching, and upon closer inspection he could make out two holes on each arm, where the translucent, silver goo was eking out, gathering on his skin like pools of blood.
Peter shot out of the bed and stood to his feet, his heart beginning to beat faster as panic began to rise.
He wanted it off. Whatever it was, he wanted it off. He wanted it off, he wanted it off, he wanted it off. He frantically began wiping his wrists against his shirt, but the silver goo just kept on coming. The pain in his wrists started intensifying, and Peter began digging his fingernails into the skin around the holes, wanting it out, to get it out, get it out!
Finally, as the string-like goo began to gather on the floor, Peter wrapped his fingers around his wrist and squeezed.
The throbbing stopped.
Peter stared at his arm as the endless stream finally came to an end. After a long moment he slowly let go, making sure the… bleeding… didn't re-start, before doing the same to his other wrist.
Peter stared at the mess that was left on the ground with wide, horrified eyes. What the hell had just happened?
After a few, deep breaths, Peter brought the substance close to his face.
As he had thought before, they were like strings. They were long, gooey, and sticky, refusing to let go of anything they touched. They looked oddly familiar, the way they twined into one another, almost like they were….
A chill went up Peter's spine.
Almost like they were webs.
That's what they looked like. They looked like webs. They looked like spider-webs. They looked like the spider-webs that he had tried to replicate when he'd first been bitten, when he'd first gotten his powers, and –
But how? How could this possibly be? How could he just suddenly have these coming out of his arms? How could – why – when did –
"You're special, Mister Parker. You're very special indeed. You have something many people will want; which is why I'm taking it first."
A red, noxious gas began pouring into the chamber, filling it up entirely until Peter could see nothing else. It entered his nose and his mouth, filling his lungs until he was suffocating. He bucked, his body smashing against the iron bonds that held him down, the iron cracking under the pressure, and –
The Goblin.
The memories came rushing back like a tidal wave, crashing over him and leaving him with barely any room to breathe.
It was the Goblin. The Goblin had attacked him – had kidnapped him; he had brought him back to his laboratory – his cage – and had strung him up, had spoke endless monologues about powers and things that he wanted, about things that Peter didn't have, about things he was certain Peter did have, so certain that he was willing to tie him down and take a knife and cut him open and –
He had escaped. He didn't know how, but he had escaped. He'd finally managed to break through the binds that were holding him down and smashed through the glass, throwing the man – the Goblin – across the floor, and….
He'd been shot.
Peter's hand snapped to his shoulder and he pulled the edge of shirt down. His eyes widened.
Angry, red skin surrounded a hole that sat a few inches below where his shoulder met his collarbone. Skin had started to form around it in an attempt to heal, but it was clear that there was still something in there. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed it before now. How he could have possibly been walking and moving around without screaming in pain, was beyond him. How on earth had he managed to get shot, and why hadn't more –
Another image flashed behind his eyes, and Peter blinked.
The rat – Doctor Stromm – had shot him. And he'd tried to shoot him again, except… except….
Except Peter had stopped him. Peter had shot a – a web, out of his… out his wrist, out of his arm, and he'd caught the gun and pulled it out of his hands, and –
Nausea began to rise in his chest.
What the hell had happened to him?
The goo began eking out of his left wrist once more, and Peter's ears twitched as the sounds of someone snoring quietly seven floors above him reached his ears.
What was happening to him?
Looking at the pile of strings – of webbing, the back of his mind whispered – that lay on the floor, Peter swallowed. He looked up at the door.
He had to get out of here.
Whatever this was – whatever was going on – it had to not happen here. Whatever was happening had to happen somewhere else, somewhere far away from any other people, away from Martha, from Joe –
Peter stood back up. He spotted a piece of paper on the desk along with a pen, and after hastily writing two words – thank you – he turned off the lamp, kicking the pile of now-crumbling webs underneath the bed. He walked quickly over to the window and opened it, the biting cold of the north winter wind quickly surrounding him and hungrily biting into his skin. Ignoring the chill, he grabbed hold of the top of the window and steadied himself as he stepped onto the sill, pausing only a moment before pressing his hand against the wall, and fully moving outside.
He pulled the window back down, closing it quietly against the sill.
He paused, taking a deep breath before turning his head around to look back.
The city was aglow with lights, the sounds of cars and trucks honking and brakes screeching to a halt reaching his ears. He looked at all the buildings, trying to gauge which ones they were, and where that meant he now was. Joe had said he'd found him in Queens, but his attic was down in Manhattan, near the Daily Bugle.
He could see the lights of the World Trade Center far in the distance, which meant that he had to be at least a two-hours walk, if not three-hours away from home. Well, from his attic, at least. But that was where he had to get to. He had to get back to his isolated and secluded attic, so that he could figure all of this out, and try and figure out exactly what they had done to him.
With a deep breath and as equally deep a sigh, Peter began to crawl.
He had only moved six feet down the building when his fingers suddenly lost their grip, and he began to plummet to the ground.
The scream was sucked from his throat as everything spun around him. He wasn't high up to begin with, he didn't have that long to fall, so he had to do something, he had to find the edge of the wall or –
Instinctively Peter reached his hands out, flailing them around, searching for any purchase, for anything to grab, for –
Out of nowhere something shot from his arm, and before he even knew what was happening he had suddenly jerked to a stop, and Peter suddenly found himself flying through the air.
As he began to swing upwards instinct took over, one that Peter was terrifyingly familiar with, but which he hadn't expected to feel again. Before he could think twice he had reached out his other hand, hoping beyond hope that what had happened before would happen again, that a string – a web – would shoot out and grab hold of the other building. He reached as his momentum began to slow, stretching his hand farther and farther, hoping – hoping –
Another web shot out. It latched onto the next building, and Peter barely had time to let go of the last web before he was swinging back down, soaring past windows and balconies. He reached out again a third time, and again, another web shot out and caught the next building, and he was soaring once more.
It felt just like before. It felt just like when he had his web-shooters, when he would be swinging past the buildings, up and down and soaring around the corner, like the best roller-coaster he'd ever been on –
Peter went to hold out his hand a fourth time, but nothing happened. With his momentum lost, his stomach began to rise into his throat as he began to fall backwards.
No. No no no, he couldn't – if he crashed back into the building at this speed, he would surely –
He threw out and aimed his wrist in as many ways as he could, desperately hoping that one of them would work, that another web would suddenly shoot out, and –
Peter hit the side of the building with a loud bang, a piece of brick breaking off and clattering to the ground below. His body was sent careening off into another direction, spinning round and around until finally he came to a stop.
Breathing heavily, Peter hung by the web, slowly swinging back and forth. He stared at the web he was holding, where the silver string met his wrist, his eyes wide as he fought to get back his breath.
Somehow, no one appeared to have heard him. Whether they were used to the different noises of the city or just didn't care, Peter didn't know. But it meant he had another chance.
Leaning over, Peter ran his hands against the brick side of the apartment building. His fingers stuck for a moment, then lost their grip again. He looked down. He could try climbing back down the wall, but it was more than likely he'd slip again, and whether he'd be able to catch himself in time, or….
Peter tugged at the web.
It was strong. Whatever it was made of, it was as strong as the solution that he used to make. He wondered if it was even stronger, if it could –
No. Not now. He could experiment with whatever the hell it was later, but now – now he had to get out of here, especially before anyone saw him. He didn't think he'd be able to explain how he was hanging off the side of a building with only a thin, silver rope to hold him.
Looking round, Peter tried to figure out what he should do.
He could try and shoot another web. Except he'd already tried that, and nothing he'd done had worked. He could try climbing down, but there was the distinct reality that he would fall; and he didn't exactly feel like slamming his body into concrete tonight.
Which meant the only other way out was… up.
Gripping the web in his hand, Peter held it only for a moment, before he began pulling himself up; he moved inch by inch, then foot by foot, faster and faster until suddenly he was at the top of the building and climbing onto its edge. He rose to his feet and peered back down with wide eyes at the ground, twenty floors below.
His heart was racing and his arms were on fire in a way they had never been before. Adrenaline continued to pump through his veins, as he took in the realisation that he had just stopped himself from falling, not by grabbing onto the side of the building, not by using mechanical web-shooters or a suit, but by real, actual webs, that had shot out from his arms –
Peter swallowed and looked up, fighting against the panic that was trying to rise once more. He could think about of this later, when he was back safe and alone in the attic. But right now, he had to get down from this building.
Finding a fire escape, Peter carefully made his way down. His fingers slipped every so often, but for the most part they were starting to hold better than before. Finally Peter's feet reached the pavement, and he let go.
Peter stared out towards the lights of the World Trade Center and the Empire State buildings. If he could reach them, then he would know how to find the rest of the way home. All he needed was to start walking.
A cold breeze whispered around him and Peter shivered, but he didn't feel as quite cold as before. In fact, he felt more awake than he had all day.
Looking round, he spotted a piece of fabric hanging out of a nearby dumpster. Walking over, he opened the lid quietly and pulled out a torn and musty old blanket. He wrapped it around himself, ignoring the way the smell stung in his nose. Looking up, he took a breath.
He had a long night ahead of him.