Gwen got off the bus, pulling on her coat against the morning chill. She barely made it a few steps before sneezing, muttering lowly as she walked down the sidewalk, her eyes scanning her surroundings.
She picked up her phone, checking the message she'd received, and hopefully checking a contact that had been deactivated for weeks now.
Weeks... that was how long Peter had been missing. At first, she thought it was something temporary, but after the first week, she began to really worry about the boy.
It was no surprise that she liked him, and owed him a lot.
She had been trying to stay informed through her father's work - digging through files, listening to conversations between officers - but so far, nothing. No concrete leads. So she did what she could: she visited Mary Jane's house whenever possible. As if somehow she could find out something by being closer to his house.
It would be the first place he'd go when he got back, wouldn't it?
As she approached the house, she stopped when she saw an unexpected scene. On the porch, MJ's mother, Madeline, stood with her arms crossed, her face hardened as she stared at a burly man with rough features. He gesticulated exaggeratedly as he spoke, his voice laced with irritation.
Gwen pressed her lips together. She had never seen MJ's father in person, but she had heard enough to know that he was not a good person.
"I wouldn't have come if you'd fucking answered me! That's my box!" He growled, his voice slightly heavy. Gwen didn't even have to get close to smell the booze.
Drunk first thing in the morning... there was something she couldn't understand.
"I bought that!" Madeline replied, irritated, but it was clear that she was afraid. Of course she would be, he was twice her size.
"With my money!" Gwen felt a shiver run down her spine at the way he clenched his fists.
"Hey, Miss Madeline. Good morning!" She forced a smile and approached as if she had just arrived. They both looked in her direction, Madeline smiled at the sight of her, and the man merely mumbled something, moving away a step or two.
"Gwen. Good morning. How are you? Did you come with Captain Stacy?"
"I'm fine. My father asked me to let you know he's coming, he stopped at the bakery over there. And he's not going to like you calling him that again." She said, only then turning her gaze to the man. "Good morning, sir." Her voice was sweet, but she was just as distressed as Madeline.
However, mentioning her father was enough to stop... anything that might happen there. After all, George Stacy was well known around town.
The man stood there for a moment, his eyes fixed on her, his jaw clenched. Then, without a word, he turned and walked down the porch steps, pushing Gwen lightly on the shoulder as he passed her.
She kept her composure, but felt his heavy gaze on her for a few more seconds before he finally disappeared down the street.
Taking a deep breath, Gwen looked back at Madeline. The woman was massaging her temples, visibly exhausted, but relieved that he was gone.
"I'm sorry you had to see that, Gwen." She said in a low voice, with a sigh.
"Don't worry, does he come here often?"
"Not exactly. But even once is more than he should." Gwen was silent for a moment before finally asking.
"Is MJ here?"
"Sure, make yourself at home, she's upstairs." Gwen nodded and walked to the door. Briefly, she glanced at Peter's house next door, with its closed windows and uncomfortable silence, before entering and climbing the steps.
Gwen entered MJ's room without knocking, already knowing that her friend wouldn't mind. MJ was sitting up in bed, hugging a pillow tightly, her eyes fixed on the floor. She merely raised her eyes to her friend, before sighing in slight defeat and tossing the pillow aside.
"I hate that guy." She said, crawling backwards until her back was against the wall as Gwen sat down next to her. "My mother and I went through hell because of him. And it seems it wasn't enough."
"I know. He's an asshole." MJ let out a nasal laugh.
"More than that. Manipulative, a liar, an alcoholic moron who feels no remorse about raising his hand to his own wife... and still thinks he has some right over my life." MJ snorted. MJ snorted. "I wanted him to disappear. For him to just... evaporate."
Gwen was quiet for a moment, then gave her friend a gentle push on the shoulder.
"He's already gone, so enough depressing talk. How about... our band getting freaking famous?!"
MJ let out a heavy sigh, but a small smile appeared on her face.
"I still can't believe we're starting to really get known. Like... the last song has already hit over 300,000 streams on Spotify!" Gwen said, the excitement quickly returning to MJ and her smile widening elegantly.
"I saw it!" MJ laughed, throwing her pillow up. "Like, I always knew we were good, but I didn't think it would blow up so fast!"
"Me neither!" Gwen threw her body back, lying down on the bed. "But now we're screwed, because classes are starting again and I have no idea how I'm going to balance it all."
"Really! I was thinking the same thing." MJ lay down next to her, staring at the ceiling. "How do we rehearse, write music, record, perform and pass exams?"
"We're going to need a lot of coffee." Gwen said, running a hand through her hair.
"That's up to you. Now, tell me... should we do a new cover or focus on our own songs? Because I swear, I was listening to that demo we recorded last time, and I think it's perfect." MJ asked.
"I think we should release another single. People have realized that we're good at covers, but if we want to be really big, we have to show that we can write our own songs too." Gwen replied, sitting back down on the bed and crossing her legs.
"Great, that's settled then. Only..." MJ began, her voice faltering slightly and her eyes drooping. Gwen turned to her, realizing that she was afraid of something. She looked at Gwen, biting her lower lip, as if she wanted to ask something, but didn't know if she should. "How are we going to do this?"
Gwen arched an eyebrow. "Do what? The coffee? Just put it in boiling water, MJ, it's not that difficult." She joked, and the girl sighed.
"The band. Who's going to do the mixing, take care of the releases, who's going to remix, adjust the volumes, do all that professional stuff? Who's going to make sure our songs don't turn out garbage when they're recorded?"
Silence fell between the two for a moment. "Peter used to do that for us."
Gwen looked away, tapping her foot on the floor. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room.
"Yes... he used to... Do you think he'll come back?"
"... I don't know. I feel so bad for his aunt. Poor Aunt May." Gwen sighed, leaning her elbows on her knees.
"Me neither. He's always been a bit... strange, hasn't he?" she asked, and MJ arched an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"Like... why did he help us? I dated Harper, he did the worst things with Peter. And you dated his personal bully for... I don't even know how long."
MJ was silent. She had thought about it. She'd wondered why Peter had been willing to help out with the band, to teach them some mixing techniques, to make sure everything sounded good. He just... did it. His excuse was that his aunt liked her, but... was that all?
They gave him no reason to like them.
"Maybe he was just nice?" MJ said, but even she didn't believe it.
The two of them stared at the floor for a few seconds, trying to find an answer that didn't exist.
"Well... at least he taught Bea a bit before he disappeared." MJ tried to look satisfied with that.
"Yes." Gwen smiled. "We can manage."
"Come on, let's get something to eat." Gwen nodded, and the two left the room.
They went downstairs and into the kitchen. MJ opened the fridge and grabbed a jug of juice, while Gwen rummaged through the cupboards for something.
"How come you don't have anything packed?" She asked.
"Because my mother has an obsession with healthy food. She thinks anything ready-made will kill us." Gwen snorted and picked up a packet of wholemeal cookies. MJ placed two glasses on the counter and poured the juice, while the noise from the TV became louder as the news started.
The newscast showed images of muggings, gang fights and even kidnappings, while the reporter talked about the rise in crime.
"Crime in New York has seen a significant increase in recent weeks. Since Spider-Man's disappearance, records of robberies, thefts and even organized violence have risen by almost 30%." The report showed images of shoplifting, cars being set on fire and clashes between gangs, with cops visibly overwhelmed.
"Despite the controversial figure of the vigilante, there is no denying that his presence inhibited criminal activity throughout the city. But the question everyone wants to know is: where is he?"
The scene shifted to a studio, where J. Jonah Jameson, with his traditional fiery tone, was debating the issue.
"I say it again and again: this webhead went into hiding as soon as the police started looking at him! And now? Now New York is in chaos because he's decided to disappear! The question is not just WHERE he is, but WHY he's gone! I say this is all his fault! It was all on purpose to screw the people of New York even more." Jameson pounded the table.
"So I ask you: WHERE are you, Spider-Man? Are you scared? Are you hiding? Or have you realized that playing hero isn't that much fun when the city really needs you?" He sipped his coffee. "This coffee is terrible! Just like you, Spider-Man, you're terrible! Wherever you are, stay there!"
Peter didn't know exactly where he was going, following the two good people, he only saw blurs passing calmly around him, but he could feel a certain hostility directed at him, not by his instincts, but by the way the two figures moved around him, as if trying to cover him from unwanted glances.
The two strangers took Peter to a more secluded corner of the city, guiding him through alleyways until they reached a cramped space under a bridge. There, hidden among piles of rubble and old boxes, he realized as he got closer. There was a small makeshift hut. Made of worn tarpaulins and pieces of wood, it was a modest but efficient shelter: the rain didn't reach it and the sun could barely get through the gaps.
Peter sat down on the cold floor, noticing in the distance that the light was starting to recede, it was getting dark. He shivered, but it wasn't just because of the cold, he was affected by... well, literally everything that had happened over the last few days.
Not only that, but the fact that he had mysteriously lost his powers only added to his sense of dread. He could hear the two figures in front of him whispering to each other. He couldn't hear what it was about, however, and now he realized how... limited normal humans were.
Damn... he had forgotten what it was like.
The woman knelt down next to him, while the man sat down on the other side.
"Well, Peter, this place is safe, it's the closest we have to a home." Rosa began, her voice soft, sweet but with a certain care. "If I may ask... How long have you been alone?"
She asked, but was only answered with silence. Peter looked in her direction for a few moments before looking away again. He didn't answer because he genuinely didn't know how long.
Rosa and Marcos exchanged a few glances. The man sighed, rubbing his hands together to ward off the cold.
"Listen, we don't want to hurt you. We just want to understand. Are you hungry?"
Peter shook his head in an almost imperceptible movement. Rosa seemed to pick up something behind her, turning to him again. Half of a Subway sandwich, he'd recognize that taste anywhere. His uncle didn't like fast food very much, but he did like to eat from Subway sometimes.
"You look very young. How old are you?" Rosa asked again, her voice as sweet as before.
Peter chewed in silence for a few moments. "I'm going to be seventeen... in August." Silence reigned for a few moments, he noticed the change in her body language. Well, at least he still had something.
"Did you run away from home?" Marcos asked, direct, his voice serious but not really judgmental. Peter didn't answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the dirty floor of the hut, but he couldn't see much.
He thought about not answering. At that very moment, he didn't even know if he still had a home. He had no one.
"... More or less." The couple didn't insist. They had seen too many young people run away, either from abusive parents or from bigger problems than they could handle. Rosa took a thin blanket and draped it over Peter's shoulders. He looked towards her again, who smiled gently at him.
"We don't have much, Peter... but we'll help you in any way we can." She said, and for some reason, he felt that she wasn't lying. However, he couldn't help but wonder why.
Marcos sighed, leaning his back against a pile of old boxes. Dealing with vulnerable people had always been sensitive and difficult, especially at such a young age. They had their whole lives ahead of them, plenty of time to get back on their feet. The problem was that it was very easy for them to end up going down the wrong path and end up getting back on their feet in the worst possible way.
"Do you have... an eye problem? I... I can see that..." He asked carefully, not sure if it was something sensitive for the boy or not.
"Myopia... I had glasses, but... they broke." He answered simply. In fact, the glasses were in a drawer in his closet. But he wouldn't go there to get it, he didn't have the courage, let alone know how to go there when he could barely see his own hand in front of his face.
"Okay, ahm... I take it you don't know how things are here. Well, you're on the outskirts. There's nothing here, no beautiful buildings, no security. The place is run by a drug faction." A faction... Peter sighed.
He had been investigating one before, related to some corrupt cops. But between the mercenaries, the crimes at the center and his life as Peter Parker, he ended up putting a lot aside. Not to mention his own stupidity.
He focused on hunting down only the corrupt, the law enforcement agents who walked outside the law and ended up leaving out part of the root of the problem, the faction itself. For someone so intelligent, that was a grotesque mistake. But honestly, he hasn't heard much from any faction in recent months.
"The guy who runs this place is a bastard called Rojas. He has a few businesses here, small ones, but enough that no one can fight him. He owns brothels, charges for 'protection', controls the traffic that comes in and out of here. Smart enough not to attract the attention of the FBI or the media, but influential enough to keep the police in his pocket." Rojas...
He's already read about him... coming from Mexico, he was born into a noble family, his father, however, was very strict and demanding. It wasn't the best motivation to become a drug faction leader, but he had achieved his own wealth. He remembered.
He remembered choosing the biggest problems to hunt.
"Look, as long as you don't attract attention, you can get out without too much trouble. It's no good staying here, kid. It's no place for you. We... well, we survive here. We had to obey the rules, there was no other choice, but the rules were simple, and problems here with us or with the locals were rare. However, lately..." He paused for a moment, looking up at the cloudy sky.
"Things have changed a bit." Rosa said, hugging her own knees, her back against the wall.
"Ever since Spider-Man started screwing with the city's bigger operations, things have become more... discreet. Rojas has lost a bit... and that's made the rules stricter." Peter looked up, a shadow passing across his eyes as he heard the name.
"What do you mean?" He asked, his voice hoarse, flawed. Marcos noticed the change in the boy, but didn't comment. He just continued.
"Before, they walked around with their chests open, shooting in the middle of the street if they had to. Now? Now they do everything they can not to attract attention. But they make up for it here, with us. Anyone who owes money pays double. Anyone who disrespects an order disappears. And the police? They keep getting paid to look the other way." He said, a certain disgust in his tired voice, mixed with the defeat of living there.
Peter swallowed. It wasn't as if he hadn't known about the existence of that faction, he knew. But which was more worrying? A small faction controlling a remote area of the city or a billionaire spending tons of money on high-tech experiments and armor designed to hunt him down?
Robberies in the west of the city or a trap set by highly trained mercenaries with high-end equipment against the police?
A murderer on the streets who killed one or two people or a politician who allowed hundreds of innocent people to suffer and die just to stay richer? At the time, the choice seemed obvious.
But he should have realized much earlier that evil is evil.
Evil is evil. Lesser, greater, middling... It makes no difference. The degree is arbitrary. If he had to choose between one evil and the other, it was better not to choose at all.
"Do you... blame Spider-Man?" he asked a little fearfully, but both Marcos and Rosa just looked at him with arched eyebrows.
"What? Why do you say that?" Marcos asked, and Peter blinked a few times in mild confusion.
"Because he's made your lives more difficult." He replied.
"No, definitely not." Marcos said, taking a seat next to Rosa. "If anything, I'm a big fan."
"Both of us." Rosa agreed with him, and Peter bowed his head slightly.
"Fans? Even after that?" He asked. "He's made life harder for the people here. You said it yourself, the rules are stricter. He's made things worse. And for a man who can hold a helicopter with his bare hands, he hasn't done much for this place." He said, his voice slightly altered, but without looking at them. His words came out of his mouth like self-criticism.
Marcos and Rosa exchanged a few more glances.
"You... don't seem to like him very much." Rosa said, and Peter blinked a few times, pulling himself together, calming down.
"No... it's not that I don't like him." He picked up his mask, the same one he'd worn against Fisk. "It's just that... listening to you... I see that, well, I know now, that he could have done some things differently."
He said, staring at the mask close to his face.
"Spider-Man is amazing." Rosa said, her voice sounding slightly distant. "There's no other word I can use, really. He's not afraid to go against the system, he's not afraid to break into the house of a corrupt politician and simply take him to the police station, even if that doesn't get him arrested, it's still enough to inform the population."
"But that... isn't enough to put things right." Peter said, and Marcos let out a slight nasal laugh.
"Peter, Spider-Man does things that no one else in the world can do. But this city has millions of people, tens of millions. And no matter how strong he is, or how fast he moves, he's just one man. It's impossible to save everyone." Marcos said, resting his arm on his knee. "Things got a bit worse here, yes, but things elsewhere got a lot better, and some of the people suffering like us were able to stop suffering."
Peter was silent for a few moments, processing his words.
"Yes, but... it could be you. Doesn't that make you, I don't know... frustrated?"
"Some around here, maybe." Rosa said. "But someone wins, someone loses, that's not a consequence of Spider-Man, it's a consequence of life. With Spider-Man, without Spider-Man, this very principle remains the same." She said, and this time Peter didn't reply, he just remained pensive, staring at the mask in his hands.
"Why are you still here? Why don't you leave? Try something, at least a little better, somewhere else?" he asked after a few minutes in silence. Rosa let out a short, tired laugh. She looked at Marcos for a moment before answering.
"Because he can't." Peter frowned. Rosa sighed and sat down next to Marcos, holding his hand carefully. "He's sick. He needs surgery, but you know how it is... No money, no help. So he lives on medication, the only kind that relieves the pain."
Peter shook his head and sighed in slight exhaustion. It didn't take a genius to know the answer. "Medicines that he can only get through the faction... I presume."
Marcos was the one who laughed this time, a laugh that concealed desperation. "Exactly, in exchange for work. That was the deal I made a few months ago." He said, and despite wanting to, Peter remained silent. He didn't ask what the job was, he didn't need to know.
"And you?" He looked at Rosa. "Why are you staying?"
She smiled slightly, as if the answer was obvious.
"Because I love him." Peter opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He had no choice, she did, and chose to stay with him.
He understood...
"Like I said, kid, if you've got somewhere to go back to, go back, whatever problems you've got aren't worth staying here. These guys, this place... they'll consume you completely. But if you have no choice... we'll help however we can." Marcos said, nodding gently to Peter, who just remained silent.
Rosa smiled too, and Peter bowed his head. "... Thank you."
That night... he couldn't sleep again.
But he remained thoughtful... he was now powerless in an unfriendly environment, dependent on people who had no choice or freedom, and who were probably forced to do criminal acts to make a living. He wasn't stupid, he knew that a teenager like him would only get in the way, especially in the state he was in.
Maybe it was a motivation, maybe it was his great desire not to think about the days gone by, not to let himself grieve, it wasn't time, he couldn't.
But he couldn't control his thoughts either. He didn't know exactly why. Maybe it was because he had eaten something in a few days, maybe it was because he had a real roof over his head after weeks of sleeping under the open sky.
But he cried. Softly, quietly, curled up in his corner. His mind couldn't stop thinking, and guilt was eating him up inside. Not for killing Fisk, no... he was shaken, of course, he heard his screams in his mind almost every day.
But the guilt he felt was that he hadn't been there when she died.
Aunt May... always so sweet, so kind to the people around her, always so caring despite her own compromised health. More than an aunt, a real mother.
Aunt May and Uncle Ben... both played a role that wasn't theirs, and both left unfairly.
Why? Frustration and anger grew in his chest, and he bit down hard on his finger to stop the sobs from escaping. His uncle hadn't hurt anyone.
His aunt especially. She wouldn't hurt anyone even if she could. Her death was slow and suffocating, unfair!
She died because of the business dealings of a moron in a tie who thought he was bigger than God. He died screaming and he would make a point of dancing on his fucking grave!
... he was angry. But so, so tired. His stomach roared with hunger, his not yet fully healed wounds more than bothered him.
The sun had barely risen when hoarse, impatient voices echoed through the alley. Hard knocks against a piece of wood improvised as a door startled Rosa, while Marcos just sighed. Peter remained where he was, merely raised his head, surprised to see that it was already dawn.
That night... passed more quickly than the others.
"Marcos!" A deep voice called out. "Get out of this fucking tent, we need you." He rubbed his face, trying to shake off his tiredness, and stood up slowly. Peter watched everything in silence, sitting against the wall, his eyes squinted. Rosa looked at Marcos with concern, but he just shook his head, indicating that everything was fine.
He came out of the hut to find three men standing there.
"Checking and packing are behind schedule. I know you don't usually do this, but Dean's been arrested. You're the only one left. Move it." One of them, tall and with a tattoo on his face, said.
Marcos hesitated, glancing at Peter. They had seen him, there was no chance of hiding him now. Shit!
"Can I have a day? The kid's only just arrived, he needs to get to grips with things."
The three of them looked at each other before letting out short, dry laughs. "The boy goes along. After work, you can do whatever you want." Rosa squeezed Marcos' arm, clearly against the idea, but he had no choice. He nodded slowly and looked at Peter, who remained silent.
"I'm sorry, Peter. Look, it's not... just stay close, okay?" Marcos said, clearly displeased, and Peter could do nothing but nod.
The boy sighed as he hugged his own body after feeling the cold morning wind hit him, the damp environment not helping at all. Peter and Marcos walked through the cramped streets of the outskirts. The smell of damp and dirt permeated the air, mixed with the bittersweet stench of old food and urine.
He would say he was getting used to those unpleasant smells... and frankly, it was strange not having his super sense of smell anymore. Marcos walked ahead, the torn hood of his sweatshirt hiding part of his face. His pace was calm, but he seemed attentive.
"Stay close, Peter. Be very careful around here." He pointed to a three-storey building, the façade covered in graffiti from a local gang. At the entrance, a group of men smoked leisurely, their hands always hidden inside their baggy jackets.
Peter saw nothing but smudges, but tried to pay attention to the patterns that stood out the most.
"Don't stare at anyone for more than two seconds. Don't talk to the girls over there..." He discreetly pointed to some young women leaning against the wall of a dingy bar, their gazes empty. If Peter could see, he would see the syringe marks on their arms, see their features, too young to be in that situation. "Just keep your head down and follow me... these guys aren't usually forgiving."
Peter just nodded, his jaw clenched. Keep his head down. That's what he was doing now. He went back to the days when he was bullied at school. Walking among criminals and doing nothing.
They continued walking, crossing alleyways where the sound of falling syringes echoed, mixed with heavy coughs. Peter heard doors slamming shut as they passed, dogs growling behind rusty gates, a radio playing muffled hip-hop in some cramped apartment. In an alleyway, a man slept wrapped in a filthy blanket, a skinny dog lying next to him.
"This is the drug house." Marcos pointed up a set of stairs that led to a metal door, where two armed guys stood guard. "Only those who have the signal get in."
"Sign?" Peter asked, his voice so low it sounded like a whisper.
"Some shit that Rojas gives to anyone he lets sell or buy. A bracelet, a ring, sometimes a little string with the faction's symbol on it. Whoever goes in without one, comes out without a tooth. Or without their life." Peter swallowed.
They turned a corner and finally reached the warehouse where they would be working. The walls were sooty and the smell of rust and oil permeated the air. The gate opened with a dry creak, and Marcos only cast a quick glance at Peter before entering.
The warehouse where the operation was taking place was stuffy and smelled of chemicals mixed with mold on the walls. Men worked at makeshift tables, sorting, weighing and packing the packages with quick movements. The place was surrounded by armed men who checked the work, monitored cameras and kept an eye on the warehouse. Marcos showed Peter what to do, instructing him to act carefully.
"Look, these guys don't take it easy just because you're young. And they definitely don't like to see anyone doing nothing. I'll be right next to you, so if you have any questions, you can ask me." Marcos said, trying to reassure him. Peter merely nodded, following him carefully so as not to accidentally bump into anyone else.
It was a simple job, checking the weighing, sorting, packing and taking to the truck. At first, it was very quiet. No one said anything other than what was necessary
Marcos watched him for a few moments and nodded before focusing on his task.
Peter, without saying a word, just nodded and began to help, picking up one of the small packages and trying to seal it the way he had been doing before. However, with hands trembling from hunger and the pain of his unhealed wounds, he applied too much force. The thin plastic tore, and a cloud of white powder spread through the air before falling to the dirty floor.
The sound of the drug falling to the floor was like a trigger for the tension in the room. Before Peter could react, a violent impact hit his ribs, knocking him to the ground. The pain radiated through his body, cutting off his breathing.
"Son of a bitch!" growled one of the men, pointing a gun at Peter as he grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him along the ground. "You just wasted hundreds of fucking dollars!"
Peter could barely react, the world spinning around him. But before he could be led away to a more secluded corner, Marcos stood in the way.
"Wait, wait!" He held up his hands, his voice laden with despair. "He's young, he didn't know, he can't see well! It was an accident!"
The man stopped briefly, but his features remained rigid.
"Marcos, you know the rules, get out of the way." The man pulled Peter once more, but Marcos held his arm.
"I'll pay in his place." He pleaded, and the man sighed in mild irritation, but stopped once more. "I'll take the blame."
"What's up with you, Marcos? You haven't had any problems since you arrived, why would you do that?"
"Dude, look at him. He's just a kid, he can barely stand on his own." There was silence for a moment. The thug looked at Peter with a certain contempt, but then let him go.
"That won't happen again, Marcos. Next time, the boy pays, whether he likes it or not." The man said, approaching Marcos as Peter tried to get up.
"Marcos-"
"Stay down, kid. It's okay." Marcos interrupted him. Without warning, the man raised his gun and struck Marcos with the handle, hitting him in the face and knocking him to the ground. A second blow came against his ribs, followed by a strong kick.
Peter, still lying down, watched everything, his chest rising and falling rapidly, feeling the panic rise once again. He wanted to do something. But without his powers, hungry and weak... he was nothing.
Marcos coughed up blood, but didn't complain. He just cringed as the blows continued. The surrounding workers just carried on working, barely raising their eyes to check the situation, keeping their heads down, afraid of the other armed men making them targets too.
The man bent down, grabbed Marcos by the jacket and started to walk away, but before he did, he turned and looked at Peter. "Get back to work, and if you damage any more merchandise, I'll cut your fingers off."
He said, turning and dragging Marcos with him to a room at the end of the warehouse.
Suddenly, Peter felt grateful that he didn't have his super-hearing, but at the same time, the guilt he was already feeling developed and consumed him.
The hours dragged by until Rosa finally showed up to pick Peter up. He was still in shock, feeling the throbbing pain in his ribs where he had been kicked. Right in the huge purple bruise from the fall he had suffered weeks ago. How had it not healed yet? He had no idea.
He was afraid to look into the woman's eyes. He wouldn't see her gaze clearly, he knew, but still. When she touched his shoulder, she barely said his name before she turned and started walking.
He felt a sense of anguish in his chest, but he followed her quickly, staying close with his head down.
When he entered the hut, he could recognize a figure lying in the corner. He didn't need to be a genius to know it was Marcos. He approached, fearful.
The man was pale, his eyes squinted with pain. His face was swollen from the blows, a dry cut marked his cheek... as far as he could see. But what was rather clear was his hand, resting on his stomach.
Peter swallowed when he saw the makeshift bandage on Marcos' hand. The little finger was no longer there. He clenched his fists, feeling his chest fill with a suffocating weight.
"I... I'm sorry..." His voice came out weak, almost a broken whisper. Marcos opened one tired eye, studying Peter for a moment before letting out a weak, humorless laugh.
"It wasn't your fault, kid... just... next time, be more careful." Peter felt a knot tighten in his throat, tears beginning to pool in his eyes.
"Of course it was." He said, lowering his gaze to the floor. Marcos watched him for a few moments, occasionally glancing at Rosa, who remained silent.
"But why?" he finally asked, his voice trembling. "Why would you do that? To end up in this state, to risk so much... for a stranger?"
Marcos took a deep breath, as if considering the answer. Peter heard Rosa mutter something, but couldn't make out what it was.
Marcos opened his mouth to say something, but after reconsidering for a few moments, he just closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh.
"I have my reasons..." He just said, and didn't say anything else for a while. Rosa watched Peter with a soft but tired gaze. She didn't blame the boy, but she hated seeing Marcos like that.
"You're not the first person we've helped," she said simply, as if that was all he needed to know. "Or that we've tried..."
Peter frowned, still wanting to understand, but before he could press her, Marcos grumbled.
"Enough of that. We don't need any more worries." There was a harshness in his voice that didn't match his usual manner. Peter realized that insisting would lead nowhere, so he just shut up.
It was clear that this was a rather delicate subject.
He just sat down in the opposite corner and hugged his legs. He would have to work in Marcos' place the next day. He looked outside, noticing the last rays of sunlight disappearing over the horizon. He ate nothing but the food they served in the warehouse. A plate full of beans and unseasoned meat.
He felt his strength going away, it didn't satisfy him at all.
He lowered his head, guilt eating him up inside. He tried to push away the weight of his grief, but his aunt's death always came back to his mind, to his chest. The only good thing that happened that day was that the forced labor took his mind off her death.
And that... well, it helped. He couldn't change the past, but maybe he could do something now.
"Rosa, is there some kind of junkyard or dump around here? A place where I can find electronic parts?"
She arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question.
"There is a place... it's used as a dump. A little less than a kilometer down the road. Why?" she asked, and Peter stood up. Although he couldn't see much, he was confident that he could reach this place.
All he had to do was keep his head down and not bump into anyone or enter any street he shouldn't... simple enough.
"I'll have to replace Marcos... without working, he won't be able to get the medicine, right? I can't go on without seeing." He said, walking to the door.
"What? Peter, wait, it's night, you can barely walk on your own, you can't-"
"Rosa." He interrupted her gently. "Look, I appreciate what you've done for me, and I can't stay here messing up your lives, okay? I have to do something."
He said, not waiting for her to say anything else, and left the hut at a fast pace. Rosa was at a loss as to what to do for a few moments, caught between her extremely wounded lover and a practically blind boy without glasses wandering alone through one of the most dangerous streets in the city.
The moon barely illuminated the alley where Peter was hiding. It was cold, but he hardly felt it. His eyes, tired and blurred, could barely make out the shapes around him. Everything was a blur. But that would soon change.
With trembling hands, he rummaged through his small pile of junk. He had spent hours rummaging through it, all that time, of course, because he couldn't distinguish many of the things he had picked up. But he did find the remains of a broken pair of glasses, the lenses completely wrong for his vision, but a start nonetheless. He also picked up the pieces of glass he had collected from a discarded magnifying glass and began to carefully scrape them with a smooth piece of concrete, trying to shape them to the right degree.
His fingers hurt, they were cut by the sharp edges. With each new attempt, a mistake. With each mistake, a frustrated sigh.
"Come on, fuck..." he muttered to himself, taking a piece of copper wire he had taken from an old radio and starting to twist it into a frame. He'd practically been at it for hours.
His breath came out in small fumes as he worked. When he finally managed to fit the improvised lenses into the frame, he put the glasses on his face.
Blink. Once. Twice.
The street was still a blur, but... a better blur. He could make out a flashing sign on the corner. The shapes were less shapeless. It was something.
A sob escaped his throat. He would continue there, looking for more pieces now that he had a decent view of his surroundings. But it was very late, and he would probably have to work early tomorrow.
Well, at least he could see where he was going now.
The sun hadn't even risen yet when Peter got up from the thin layer of cloths that served as his mattress. His body ached and he felt incredibly weak. As he had never felt even before he received his powers. He crept out of the hut quietly, leaving Rosa and Marcos sleeping.
He did the same as last day, walking with his head down, now careful to avoid bumping into anyone he shouldn't, trying to ignore the noises that bothered him. He always had to remind himself, he wasn't Spider-Man anymore... for who knows what reason.
He stopped walking at a corner, raising his face to look at the street. He could leave, go back to his house, see what would become of his life. Despite the uncertainty of his future, he had a suspicion that they wouldn't let him live on the street, he was underage.
Well, he didn't doubt the government at all, they could take his aunt's house, which was his by right as it said in her will, and kick him out.
He shook his head and continued on his way. He wouldn't do that, not after what he'd done to Marcos.
He walked alone to the warehouse, noticing the place was already busy despite it being morning. Peter kept quiet. He didn't want to attract attention, even though he knew they were staring at him, probably in case he fucked things up again.
Work began soon after. He was placed in the far corner, where small packages were being prepared. The process was repetitive and meticulous: folding, weighing, sealing. Peter kept his hands steady, his movements precise and unhurried.
More people arrived shortly afterwards, all fearful of being late. Who knows what kind of punishment they would receive. Just like the day before, no one said anything more than was necessary, nor did they lift their eyes from their boxes or their work.
The hours passed slowly, the chemical smell permeating his clothes, his skin. He felt the gaze of the others on him, testing, waiting for another mistake.
Some time passed, and only then did the place become fully illuminated by the sun.
The sound of tearing plastic echoed in the stuffy warehouse, making everyone there raise their heads towards the sound. One of the men bumped into the wrong pile, and packets fell to the floor, cracking open like eggshells and scattering white powder across the dirty concrete.
The warehouse fell silent for a moment, just like the day before. Peter widened his eyes slightly, knowing what this meant.
"What the fuck? again." One of the supervisors muttered, before standing up and walking over to the man in charge.
The man who had knocked over the goods was shaking, trying to gather what he could, his hands trembling and his gaze desperate.
"I... I'll pay. It was an accident..." The answer came in the form of a dry punch, straight to the stomach. The man choked, folding in half, spitting out air as if his soul was being ripped from his body. Another blow came, this time to the face, knocking him backwards.
Peter watched. His heart was beating fast, and his hand closed into a fist. An accident, that's all, nothing to justify that aggression. Part of him wanted to intervene. To jump on that man's back and smash his head against the floor.
But he didn't move. What could he do? He had no strength, no speed, nothing but fragile bones and muscles that ached with every movement.
The beating continued. Kicks. Elbows. The dry sound of the blows mixed with the fallen man's muffled grunts.
Peter clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He could feel the anger growing, boiling, burning inside him. But all he did was swallow and lower his head, staring at the ground.
He was useless.
"Let that be a lesson to you, little prick." A voice came from behind him, and he suddenly turned around, startled. The same man from before, who had beaten up Marcos, was staring at him with such disdain that anyone would think Peter had killed his family or something.
"Marcos didn't come because of you. That..." He pointed at the man in front of him. "That's the least that can happen to you. No, you're young, probably a virgin." The man said, giving a nasal laugh.
Peter didn't look at him, quickly looking away, but he felt his heart beat even faster and a cold sensation run through his chest as he understood what he meant.
"Usually, young boys like you are sent to another job. But Rojas wasn't against having you here. But here's the thing." Peter swallowed some saliva when he heard him take two steps closer. "You're cute, young fella. If you screw up in any way, we're not going to beat you like an animal. No, we're going to take you to a secluded room, cut off your balls, put a pretty little dress on you and sell you to the degenerates who come to us every night."
The boy squeezed the box lightly, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his skin crawl.
The man only stayed for a few moments, but it was enough to make him distressed, panting.
Fuck...
He was terrified.
The man's screams seemed to become muffled in the background, and with trembling hands, Peter went back to his work.
The days passed. Marcos hardly said anything, the food they received was little, and Peter had the slight impression that these guys gave him less than usual. Rosa did everything she could to make money, but it was obvious that she was getting too exhausted.
Again that day, he left early. He retraced the same route that, by now, he was more than used to, always keeping his head down.
He arrived at the warehouse exactly eleven minutes after he left that tent. He entered the place and moved to his workstation, as usual.
This time, however, it seemed that things would be different. His heart raced when he felt one of the men grab him by the arm.
"You don't work here today, kid." The man said, his voice low and hoarse. Peter looked at him for a mere moment, but it was enough to know that he had probably been up all night... or up for the last three days. "Follow to the end of the alley, there will be a van waiting for you with a small group."
The man said simply, not even giving Peter time to ask why he was moving or what the job was.
But it was wiser not to stand there thinking about nothing. He followed the man's commands, passing through an alley which, surprisingly, didn't stink like the rest of the area.
When he reached the place he had mentioned, the first thing he saw were two men leaning against the wall with pistols in their waists, a man smoking with his back against the van and, to his surprise, Marcos.
"Fucking finally." The man leaning against the van said in an irritated sigh, throwing his cigarette on the ground.
"Get in, kid, you're late." One of the men leaning against the wall said, and the guy in the van snorted in annoyance.
"And whose fault do you think that is? If you'd gone to call him, we'd be there already, you morons!" He grumbled loudly, slamming the van door shut with some force.
"Fuck you." The man replied simply, opening the back door and practically shoving Marcos inside. Peter was next, biting his lip so as not to say anything he shouldn't.
The van sped along the dirt road, swaying with every pothole. The smell of burnt oil and a strong odor of iron permeated the interior of the vehicle.
Peter was holding onto the side of the vehicle, staring at Marcos with an expression that mixed incredulity and indignation. The makeshift bandage on his side was stained with dried blood, and his body looked thinner than before.
"What are you doing here?" Peter asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, but firm. "You're still hurt."
Marcos didn't look at him, just continued to stare at the road through the dirty window. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, a nervous tic or just a reflex of pain. Until, after a few moments, he let out a humorless laugh, without looking away from the road.
"To eat, I have to work. To get my medicine too. I don't have a choice, kid."
Peter swallowed the answer he wanted to give. He didn't want to start an argument, especially when the driver looked like he was going to kill one of them just to try to relieve his anger.
Not to mention that, in Marcos' world, it was work or death. He swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth.
The van stopped abruptly in front of a wooden hut in the middle of nowhere. The place was sunk in silence, surrounded by dry trees and a strange smell in the air-something Peter didn't want to identify right away. He felt a shiver run down his spine before he even got out of the vehicle.
One of the men waiting for them opened the back door of the van, revealing dark, poorly sealed plastic bags. A thick, dark liquid was oozing out of one of them. The smell of rotting meat hit Peter like a punch in the stomach, and he had to breathe through his mouth to keep from choking.
"Come on, get out and do the job. We're late." The driver said as he switched off the engine.
Peter, with his hand over his mouth, moved to get out, but then faced Marcos when the man put a hand on his shoulder. His tired eyes looked at him with a certain regret, a certain anguish mixed with despair.
"This... this is what I do. This is my job around here. It's not pretty, Peter, but I ask you... hang on tight." He said quickly, in a low whispering voice, before getting out of the vehicle, already picking up one of the black bags.
"Take one and follow me."
Peter hesitated for a second, but then did the same, feeling the soft, icy weight of whatever was in there. His brain screamed at him not to think, not to imagine, but it was impossible.
They walked to the back of the hut, where a wide, badly dug hole waited. Peter saw the bodies in there - some were already little more than bones and rotting flesh, but others... others still looked like people. Swollen faces, clothes smeared with dried blood, stiff hands that seemed to have tried to grab onto something at the last moment.
Peter felt his breathing fail.
"Come on, Peter... try not to think too much, come on." Marcos said, a certain desperation in his voice, as he threw his bag into the pit.
The boy closed his eyes. The smell seemed to have gotten even stronger now, Peter swallowed, but it was no use. His stomach churned, bile rising up into his throat.
"Kid, if you don't move now and start putting these bodies and remains into the bag, I'm going to throw you in there myself." The driver said, already pulling out another cigarette.
Peter blinked, forcing himself to breathe. And once again, there was nothing he could do.