Chapter Eight
✭

My nose continued to drip blood all the way to the hospital.

It was a short ride, thankfully, but a tense one. It felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life, waiting there in silence, trying to keep a lid on my fluctuating panic. One minute I felt like I was in control, the next I was terrified I'd completely lose it. I didn't want to break down into tears in front of everyone. Even if Noah had turned on the radio, it would've made for a small, helpful distraction. But he didn't.

The emergency room wasn't very busy at this hour, sullen and sedate with a few people huddled on chairs, cradling a broken arm or propping up a swollen knee. A child that looked like he'd caught the flu, half-asleep nestled against his mother's side. I didn't have a long wait before a nurse came for me, and I tried to do my best to give an accurate account of my physical state. My nose, my arms, the scrapes on the bottom of my feet. But when I shrugged off Matt's jacket, it only revealed unmarked arms - skin an irritated pink, but otherwise unblemished.

No darkened veins, no fern-like pattern crawling up my arms.

Nothing.

"…How did you say they looked like?" The nurse asked, frowning up at me. Giving me the vaguest benefit of the doubt.

Aside from a slightly unusual redness, there was absolutely nothing remarkable there. Except maybe my old scars, which probably caught the nurse's attention more than anything else, and what I did not want to comment on. It wasn't relevant. It wasn't what I saw. What I felt.

My mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment. What happened? "I don't know... I just had this weird redness, like my veins — it stung. It was just there a moment ago, in the truck…"

At this, both I and the nurse turned to Matt in unison. He'd been there, up close, he gave me his jacket. He had to have seen. He had to.

Tilly and Matt stuck with me in the little examination room while Noah went out to find May and Peter, who'd just arrived. I felt better with their presence, until now, feeling like I was now the center of a stage play where I was about to be judged for my performance. Wondering how I could ask them to leave because I wanted to request yet another rape kit. Not that I believed it happened, the only thing that felt off about me were my arms. But still. The last thing I trusted right now was my own judgement.

And there was nothing the hospital could offer here that could fix that.

At our staring, Matt flushed, glancing away and shrugging. "It was too dark, I couldn't see much."

There was a second of silence where their answers just hung in the air. Matt looked at me and flinched, as if he had realized he said something wrong. "I'm sorry."

Then I looked to Tilly, hopeful. But her eyes averted in embarrassment. "I don't know, I wasn't paying attention. I only saw your nosebleed, it freaked me out."

She might as well have punched me in the gut. Neither of them noticed? But then, I realized, of course. I could see better in the dark then they could. If I had even seen anything at all. And I understood, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that if the injury had been light enough, I would've recovered quickly.

The nurse inhaled, nodding slowly but said nothing. She looked over my arms again one last time, perhaps just to mollify me. But I knew and she knew and we all knew that she wouldn't find anything. Whatever it had been, I had healed too fast for there to be any evidence of injury or attack left behind.

If there had been any at all.

There was a cop outside the door, too, they had been the first to arrive. A few preliminary questions before the nurse threw her weight around and got me to herself; probably felt bad for me to allow Matt and Tilly to stay. Still, as she began her basic check-up, I couldn't help but overhear the cop outside speaking in a low tone to another officer.

"Just like last time. Claims no memory of the event... Barely anything to put on the report …could be maliciously missing…"

"… just another runaway?"

"… possibly…"

My stomach twisted in on itself. The noise, the PA system, the bright lights, the smell, it was all too much. I actually ended up retching in the bathroom, but apparently, I never got that hotdog because my stomach was completely empty.

Something had happened to me. Again. Once more, out in public, surrounded by people. The lady cop had told me that I was last seen on camera in the football stadium, climbing up those damn steps. But like those cameras, my memory had no further clue of what happened after that.

"You're lucky your cousin was on the ball," she said, clicking her tongue as she scribbled something down on her notepad. "Got half the neighborhood looking out for you, Miss Fletcher. Not every kid has that."

Lucky. I didn't feel lucky. Grateful, perhaps, for Peter and Noah and everyone else who took it upon themselves to go looking for me. Matt, who probably lost out on a lot of post-game celebration (he revealed his team won with a sheepish look, and I felt bad for stealing that thunder). But lucky? Lucky to be alive, maybe. In one piece. Lucky it was only a few hours.

But not lucky that it didn't happen again. Not lucky that I still had no answers.

Feeling like I was starting to lose my mind a little.

By the time Aunt May and Peter arrived, I had gone numb. The shock and confusion and spikey panic faded into a dull throbbing in my head, sounds muted and textures distant. The lights of the hospital, still too bright. I thought I was imagining it when I saw the deep red hair of Natasha Romanov bringing up the rear, but no, it was her. Her solemn expression unchanging. I guess it was better than the alternative. No FBI agents this time.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Aunt May had asked me, for the millionth time. She flanked one side, Peter the other, with Natasha leaning against a nearby column, like a sentinel on guard. Her eyes were watching the halls, but I knew she was listening to this conversation. Aunt May's hand combing through my hair brought my attention back to the moment. "Noah said he found you in an alleyway in Brooklyn, your shoes —"

"I don't know what happened to them," I mumbled. I had on a pair of fuzzy warm socks with little rubber paw prints on the soles to prevent slippage, courtesy of the hospital. I still felt frozen inside. "I just woke up in that alleyway…"

"Noah said you just stepped out right in front of his truck!"

"I did?" That wasn't how I remembered it. I thought I had been standing there for a while before the truck appeared. But now I was starting to question just what I could recall. I shrugged weakly. "Maybe I did. I don't know. I've got such a headache…"

My head hadn't stopped pounding, and the hospital's atmosphere only made it worse. I hated being in these halls. This particular facility was unfamiliar, but in the macro they were all the same, and it made me nauseous just to be here. All those memories of being hooked up to IVs, being rushed to the emergency room, lying frozen and scared in an MRI machine while it clanged and boomed ominously around me. The cloying smell that somehow stuck to the back of my throat for days after I'd already left.

"I'll go see if I can find you something," May said, with a sigh. We all knew there was no medication for this. "While I finish up that paperwork…"

I felt immensely guilty as she got up, purse under her arm. Hospitals weren't cheap, even for a short visit like this where nothing even really happened. Aside from another testing kit, all I got diagnosed with was dehydration and dry nose, and possibly some kind of mild allergic reaction for all my arms revealed. Not even a band-aid. But would our insurance cover this? Could we afford to pay out of pocket?

Peter, as if sensing my concern, put a hand on my shoulder and said in a low voice, "Don't worry, Mia. It's not going to cost us. Ms. Romanov said she'll take care of it."

(Natasha, who had followed May to provide assistance, started waving a credit card around that looked like it had been stolen from Tony Stark's wallet).

"Really?" I said, surprised. But maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe I was lucky. Or fortunate. Grateful. "Guess I should write her a thank-you note, huh?"

It was a weak attempt at levity, but Peter flashed a smirk anyways. "Aunt May might even let you use her nice stationery."

"Yeah, I can ruin it with my handwriting," I said, and we shared a laugh. A little strained, a little uneasy. Carefully dancing around the elephant in the room. But I didn't know how to address it. I didn't understand enough myself to even begin processing. I was just tired and hungry. I wanted to sleep.

Once it becomes clear that May wasn't coming back anytime soon, Peter went on a quest to find something to munch on. There wasn't a vending machine in sight, and maybe I relished the chance to be on my own for a little bit.

But my solitude wouldn't last long.

It was all of a minute before someone sat in the seat next to me once more. Was I never going to get this bench to myself? I looked over, unsurprised to see Nat sitting there. Perhaps she had been waiting for an opportune moment to speak to me privately, out of earshot of concerned familial figures.

"It's been a long night, huh?" Natasha asked, arms resting along the backs of the chairs, way too casual. But that was how she worked, disarming you before getting to the meat of things.

"Yep," I wasn't sure what she hoped to get out of me, after multiple rounds of questions by everyone else got the same answers. It all amounted to nothing much. I doubted any progress was made at all in the previous incident and I doubted this would help it any further. It only added to the deluge of questions. "I think the police think I'm yanking their chain."

"They don't see what we see," Natasha said, although she looked distinctly unimpressed. "And they don't have our resources, either. We're still looking for clues, Mia, even if they aren't."

That was one small concern out of the way, but didn't make me feel better in the grand scheme of things. That the police might not take me seriously in the future in case this happened again. And I was really afraid it was going to be now. So, I had to ask, I had to know what the professional spy made of this: "What do you think this is?"

Nat pursed her lips, then shook her head. "I don't know. But we'll figure it out."

She glanced at me and smiled faintly, reaching out to tuck a loose lock of hair behind my ear. "You're not alone in this, don't worry."

That was probably meant to be reassuring, but it only reminded me that these events, events I had no control over, were hurting my friends and family. And there was nothing I could do to fix that. Still, I mumbled a thanks, before asking, "And my dad?"

"He knows." Natasha said quietly, her eyes casting about as if she feared the walls had ears. Maybe they did. "He'd be here but, well, you know…"

"Yeah." I sighed, resting my chin on my arms. Police presence was a good way to ward off Dad. And I understood, but that didn't mean I missed him any less. Wanted that sense of comfort and safety. I hoped I'd see him soon. "And Steve?"

"On mission," Nat replied, not saying what exactly that mission was. "But he'll get the message I sent. I'm sure he'll call you soon. When your phone charges again. Any idea why it lost power?"

"Yes," I said, and pulled it out to show her. Show her the battery pack in the back; Nokia was very nice in making this particular brand come with replaceable batteries. Which also made them easy to pop out a little, cutting off all power and all possible tracing techniques. Can't track a dead phone. I hadn't noticed it until after we reached the hospital and Matt noticed it while I was trying to find a charger. The screen now shone brightly, revealing a dozen unread messages. "That's all it took."

It was something I could've done myself. Undetectable for those few hours I was missing, yet leaving myself a lifeline in case I changed my mind. Just pop the sucker back in and I was good to go again.

"Hm," Was all Natasha said, studying the phone with a frown.

I wondered if she was thinking the same as I was, that I had done this myself. It definitely wouldn't take a genius to figure it out. When she opened her hand to it, I let her have the phone, study it for herself. Snapped the battery pack in and out just to test it, before returning the device. "Well. If there is someone else involved in this, they sure know how to keep us off their trail."

"And if it's not?" I asked. "If it's me?"

Natasha didn't meet my eyes, studying a far corner of the room. "Then this you, this other you, is very determined not to be found. And if so, we'll just have to figure out why that is."

The other me. The Soldatka. That was the only other version there was that could be in control of my body. To be honest, I didn't think I — she — would need a reason to do this. She was just too paranoid, too cautious. It was in my protocol to avoid ever being detected. She would do it because it was merely routine.

But that didn't sound particularly hopeful. And there was a chance Nat may have figured that out for herself, so I said nothing.

And I wondered what the other me was doing.

~o~

There was no avoiding what came after.

School that Monday was awful. If I thought my first disappearance caused waves, the second time made an even bigger splash. I did my best to ignore it. My friends pretended everything was okay. Yet I was never alone, and I was convinced they could hear the same things I could.

"...you hear? Mia Fletcher ran away again…"

"...heard she got in trouble with the police…"

"...mom says she's trouble. In a gang or something."

" — oh, definitely. You see that tattoo?"

"Forget the tattoo? You see those scars?"

"... said it was only a matter of time…"

They followed me everywhere. In the classroom. In the halls. I'd get my textbooks and hear some kids giggling and whispering down the hall, watching me with round eyes. Then my head would snap around and I'd look them directly in the eye and they'd scattered like lemmings. But it only made the rumors worse.

That I was dangerous. That I was a criminal.

All because I'd gone missing for a few hours.

Maybe these rumors had always been there, thoughts and assumptions lying in wait for the fires to be stoked. The catalyst to set the ball rolling. Even Midtown Conspiracies played a role, some kids thought it was an excuse for me to break into buildings. Which, you know, I did, but for a greater cause. Hunting ghosts was serious business.

MJ defended me to the very last, bless her heart. Spending afternoons working on stories, filming and editing, it was a nice reprieve. Hiding in that closet space and getting lost in the wild stories of others. Answering comments on the YouTube channel and answering fan mail. Which we didn't get a lot of, but have since started to recognize some usernames. One of whom I was fairly positive was Tilly and/or Matt.

At least the fans didn't think I was a criminal. Possibly a supernatural entity. But nothing weird.

And I found I could no longer refuse Howie's offers for help. Now that it's happened again, what could I do? All search for answers had gone nowhere, so it was down to his super fancy machine in Avengers Tower. When I showed up after school that following week, Howie was practically bouncing. If I hadn't known better, I'd say he was just excited to show us his new toy than just to help.

"What's this place called again?" I asked, standing in the middle of a blank white room. When Howie mentioned a machine, I imagined something like a computer, but nothing this… big? I felt like I was in a white void, if it weren't for the fact that everyone else was in here, too, and the one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. They pulled away to allow open access to the hallway beyond, and apparently for the invisible audience that wasn't here right now.

"We call it Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing," Howie answered, fiddling with some controls on his tablet, tongue sticking out. "Or BARF for short. Dad developed it as a therapeutic device, but using proprietary technology. Its main purpose is to take your memories and bring them to life, play them out as they happened, or even change them. Not in your head, exactly, but you could play out different possibilities. Say things you didn't get to say before, get a reaction that wasn't there, that sorta thing."

"That's amazing," Peter said, looking around in awe. The walls were nothing more than white glass, filled with untapped potential. "This could have so many real-world applications."

I had not come alone, of course. Peter was now making a concerted effort to accompany me everywhere, and no longer making it super subtle. Maybe even cutting into his Spider-Man time to do so, which I felt bad about. Wanda and Pietro were here as well, an excursion into the city on an excuse to sightsee and shop for new clothes (Pietro loved that men's sports shoes were a statement thing, if only he didn't burn through them so fast), but they weren't fooling anyone. They were here for the same reason Peter was. I was convinced Peter may or may not have a secret chatroom where they discussed babysitting schedules for me. But maybe that was just my paranoia talking.

"We know," Howie nodded grimly. "So many, we haven't released it yet. Not until we have a good idea just what exactly it can be made to do. Dad's keeping it under wraps till his dealings with the Secretary are over."

"What does Tony use it for?" I asked, wondering what could motivate a man to build what sounded to me like a giant trauma-reliver.

"A lot of things," Howie shrugged. "Mostly about his dad. My grandfather. He died in a car crash a long time ago, along with Dad's mom. He wanted to see them again. Talk to them." His cheeks pinked, and he looked away. "Wanted them to meet me."

"Aww." We said, which made Howie flush harder.

"If I saw my father again," Pietro said, glowering into a corner. "I'd break his nose."

"Pietro!" Wanda admonished.

"I can make that happen!" Howie piped cheerfully.

"No," Wanda cut a hard look at both of them, before gesturing to me, "We help Amelia first, yes? See if there's anything we can find."

"Then can I punch Dat?" Pietro asked.

She sighed, hands on hips, hanging her head. "Yes. As many times as you want."

"Yes! Let's do this."

"I'm glad we can appeal to your charitable nature," I tried to smile good-naturedly, but I was not looking forward to this experience. I was afraid it was going to involve something invasive, maybe needles or some shit, but Howie just handed me a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses and told me the computer would do the rest. I still did not see where the computer was. But I put on the glasses. "How will it pick up on the right memories?" Or lack thereof?

"Luckily, I just have to find your most recent memories," Howie said with a faint smile, and started tapping on his tablet. At the same time, I felt a little tingling behind my ears, where the wings of the eyeglasses pressed against my skin. Whatever was on his little screen, it had Howie frowning. The other three peered over his shoulder to see what was going on. "Well, you have a corrupted data file right here. Let's see what BARF can do."

"You really gotta change that acronym," Peter said.

"I know," Howie sighed.

Then, blue planes of light flickered across the room, emanating from small cameras situated in the furthest corners. Grids appeared, taking the form of vague objects, and before me appeared a human silhouette, quickly rendered into something familiar. Myself, only blank-faced, wearing the clothes I'd worn that day at Matt's football game. It was startling to look into my own face like that. Was this me, or the Soldatka?

"Where's everything else?" I asked, when the rest of the room darkened, but nothing came out like my reflection did. There were a few odd shapes, what looked like to be the idea of buildings or furniture, sharp vertical and horizontal lines. "Does it normally look like this?"

"No," Howie said, moving around to get a better idea of the scene playing out before us. I watched as my holographic reflection moved jerkily across the room. "Usually, BARF recreates everything to lifelike clarity. Not like this, like a… dream. I can add details and fill in the gaps, but it won't be your memory anymore, just a simulation of something else. We only do that if we want to play out different futures."

Well, I wasn't interested in that. The five of us wandered around the room as my reflection walked in place. It seemed glitchy, and while I didn't appreciate Howie talking about my memory like it was a faulty computer file, I could see the merit in the description. It was broken, corrupted, by something none of us could determine.

"What's this?" Wanda pointed to something, and for a moment, none of us could figure out what she was pointing to. It just looked like a blank space against a holographic wall. But then, standing next to her, I could see it. A plane of image coming through only at this angle. Another silhouette. "Is that your shadow?"

Immediately, I knew it wasn't. It was too broad, too stout, and the head was of someone with short hair, not long and curly in a ponytail, like I had been wearing. "No, that's something else."

"Someone else," Pietro corrected, peering over my shoulder. "That is weird. How come you can only see it at this angle?"

"Maybe it's like a video game element?" Peter suggested, and at a collection of bemused looks, he explained, "Like, in a game, each object in that digital 3D space needs data to exist. And if that object, say, emits light, or casts a shadow or a reflection, that's a different element entirely, done by a separate program. So even if the object doesn't exist anymore —"

"The reflection remains!" Howie completed, grinning, barely containing his glee. He was already typing frantically. "Oh, this is fantastic! I've never considered just how BARF would interpret an incomplete memory sequence. I'll have to save this for further exploration..."

"Maybe there's other stuff like this," I said, and like a spark, it sent everyone in motion. Moving around, turning in place, looking for any secret planes or glints of reflection for something that wasn't there anymore. I remained in that spot, studying that first element that Wanda found. Trying to find any discernible characteristic in a flat image, the mere outline of someone. Trying to match it. All I could determine was that it was male, and shorter than me. Possibly wearing a long coat which hit everything from beneath his neck to above his knees. It didn't match the silhouette of any man I knew, not Dad, not Steve.

I glared at it. This someone. This someone who saw me, who had been there. What were they doing? Did they try to help? Or were they somehow the cause of this?

"Oh, got something!" Pietro called out from across the room, and pointed to something in the corner. Like before, we all gathered around in a tight cluster, angling our heads just so. And indeed, there was something. A flicker of light, like electricity, sparking back and forth in a looped image.

"What the hell is that?" Peter scowled. "Looks like something short-circuited."

"Maybe you were working around or near a power source," Wanda suggested, reaching out to touch the image, hanging at about knee-height. About level with where a wall plug would be, I supposed. "Or a building with faulty electricity."

"That only narrows down half the city." I muttered. Where could I have gone in those three hours? This was feeling rather hopeless, only small clues to be found, but nothing concrete. Nothing I could use. Maybe I felt slightly less crazy. But only slightly. I wanted to keep looking, wanted to look at my memories from the first time.

I didn't get the chance to ask.

"The hell is going on here?"

All five of us jumped and looked around. It must have looked comical, the way we were all standing in a tight-knit group, heads swinging around in unison to stare at the man who had just walked in. He was tall, stately, a navy suit, white hair and bushy mustache, late sixties perhaps. I didn't recognize him right away.

He scowled at us, and I noticed the little American flag pin on his lapel that immediately pegged him for politician. "I didn't realize Stark let a bunch of kids play with his dangerous experiments."

"We're not playing," Howie was the first to pipe up, scowling in indignation. He raised his tablet as if to indicate the very real, very hard work he was doing right now. "And it's not dangerous, Mr. Secretary. I'd never make something like that."

The man peered down at Howie, dubious. "You're Tony's boy. Howard, right? Didn't you make a bomb that shook up half of Sicily?"

Howie's cheeks pinkened and he ducked his head. And as we stood there, glaring back at him in Howie's stead, it hit me. "You're General Ross."

"It's Secretary now," The man's sharp blue eyes fixed on me, and a chill went down my back. I was wrong about the politician part, I realized. Warmonger was far more appropriate. "And you are?"

My mouth shut, unwilling to answer. Not to the man who had made it his life's mission to hunt down Bruce Banner to the ends of the earth, who had a hand in tearing up Harlem years ago in an unnecessary battle. Who took up the late Alexander Pierce's job after the man died, quite ignominiously. Safe to say I didn't trust anyone who got hired for that job position now. And that was before Ross had started another personal crusade to find every last trace of HYDRA and destroy it. Including the Winter Soldier, who as far as anyone knew, was still on the run.

"Ah, let me guess," Ross raised his chin, a knowing glint in his eyes when I failed to respond. "Rogers' little protege, right? What tale are they spinning now, that you're his little sister? Because he can't possibly be your father."

What the fuck. Did he know? Did he know who my dad was? Now I was terrified, especially considering that Ross was now standing in the middle of one of my own damn memories. This was way more of me than I ever wanted this man to see. His mild threat did not go unnoticed either, with Pietro carefully sliding in front of me, the only one tall enough to render me harder to see. Wanda tapped Howie's shoulder, maybe whispered into his mind, because he was quickly swiping the screen, and the room returned to its previous blank white state.

"Ah, and you must be the Mutants," Ross looked around, smirked, before fixing his gaze back on us. "Funny how Stark managed to find a clause to keep you two out of sight. Won't last for long."

"Must be a real pain in the ass to follow the Geneva Conventions," Peter was the first to speak, a solid quip that had the man scowling. But we were just a bunch of kids in a room, being judged by a man who was negotiating with our fates. "How many laws have you broken now?"

"That was war, boy," Ross seemed to study Peter the longest, unable to place him anywhere. "So, what is this, the Avengers After-School program? Are the adults not causing enough problems, you five have to add to the chaos?"

"We're not even doing anything!" I protested, throwing out my arms and speaking over Pietro's shoulder.

"For now," Ross said, his gaze casting about over the five of us, as if already picking out our prison uniforms. He stepped back, tucking his hands behind his waist and said, "The days where the Avengers, all these so-called superheroes, operate with impunity, are coming to an end. And if anyone should learn their consequences have actions, it's children."

And with that, the Secretary of the United States, and the man who penned the damned Sokovia Accords, walked away without another work.

"After School Avengers, pfft," Pietro scoffed, derisive. He spat on the floor, only to apologetically scrub it away at Howie's scandalized gasp. "Sorry. What is he doing here anyways?"

"Trying to take control of the Avengers," I said. Steve had spoken to me a little about it, always with a stormy expression that meant trouble. I had asked to see a copy but he had yet to deliver, which meant it was probably pretty bad. "The Sokovia Accords. It's been on the news."

I would've been surprised if they somehow managed to avoid it entirely. The upstate facility must have TV, right? The twins exchanged a dark look, perhaps displeased that the name of their home country was used in such a way. "What happened in Sokovia was…" Wanda began, then shook her head. "It could've been worse."

"It could've been better," Howie added, and to everyone's shocked expressions, he quickly added, "I mean, that's what Ross thinks. If the Avengers had oversight, maybe it would have been avoided entirely."

No one said anything for a long moment, considering the possibilities. The grim reality of the situation. So many people hurt or killed, over a stretch of months last year. Our parts we played in it. Peter looked at the younger boy. "Do you know what they're talking about right now?"

Howie could only shrug. "I'm not allowed in the boardroom. But they're loud. Everyone arguing with Ross. The Avengers arguing with each other. Everyone's afraid of another ULTRON happening again. Or worse."

I didn't want to imagine what worse than ULTRON was. Even HYDRA would be in tough competition with that. But I also doubted that something that big, that bad, would be completely avoidable if we just put guys like Ross in charge. It couldn't be that simple. It would never be that simple. "The last time there was oversight, the World Security Council tried to nuke New York. And then we found out SHIELD was infected from the inside."

Howie nodded. "I don't know what the right answer is. I just know I don't want to make things for Ross."

Peter looked shocked. "Is that what's on the table for you?"

At Howie's nod, Wanda looked furious. "They can't get away with this, can they? The Avengers won't allow it to happen."

"Well, if worse comes to worse," Pietro joked, throwing up a hand. "We could always go back on the run. Ow!"

Wanda had punched him for that, not receiving it well. "No. We already built so much for ourselves. Why do we have to give it up just because men like Ross do not like what they cannot control?"

The room had gone uncomfortably tense, and my personal problems had fallen to the wayside. Which I wasn't resentful about. Whether or not I solved the mystery of my brain, Ross was now a problem percolating in the background. And I knew I was classified as a potential threat in his eyes, whether or not he knew who my father was. If I couldn't be used as a weapon, then I was dangerous, a loose cannon. And there was nothing authority hated more than a loose cannon.

"I do like the idea he's scared of us, though," Peter admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He cast a playful look at the group. "Just a bunch of teenagers. And one small person." Howie scowled, and Peter ruffled his immaculately-combed hair. "I'm kidding. Mostly. Not about the scaring Ross part, though."

"That does sound tempting," I agreed. Threat or not, at least I wasn't alone. "Too bad he has no idea who the fuck you are, Peter."

"Yeah, sucks to be him, right?" Peter grinned. "Can't wait until he finds out Spider-Man has a Twitter."