Well, here's the rewritten chapter! I've left some parts intact (more to do with Gwen and MJ) and paid more attention to the characters' relationships.
Personally, I think the development was much better than whatever the fuck I wrote recently. You know when you watch a movie for the first time and it's amazing, only to watch it two, three, four times and realize that it's awful (cof cof spider-man no way home cof cof except for the green goblin cof cof)?
So that's more or less what happened.
Again, I apologize for the inconvenience, I know you take time out of your day to read something and you want to feel excited and satisfied while reading. Please let me know if you like it, hate it, what I need to change, what I don't need to change, any ideas, etc.
With this change, I hope I've made it clear that there's always room for change in the future.
Besides, seriously, this is just a hobby, like a video game, it's not going to hurt my feelings lol
Thanks again.
The place was damp and cold. The smell of wet garbage and damp concrete permeated the alley, mixed with the steam rising from the sewer grates. Peter was sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall, his knees bent against his chest. His eyes were now fixed on some distant point that only he could see.
Ironic, since he couldn't see anything.
His clothes were dirty and torn, and the cut on his face, already healing, throbbed in phantom pain. The same couldn't be said for the rest of his wounds, which for some unknown reason didn't seem to want to heal.
It was a surprise. Or was it? He hadn't eaten anything in... a while.
Time...
Time was a lost concept for him. Days, weeks... none of it mattered. His mind was fixed on a single point, repeating the same incessant cycle.
Everything was a meaningless blur. Hunger came and went, but he didn't feel like eating. The cold bit at his skin, but he didn't shiver. It was as if his body was present, but not him.
All he felt was a dull, throbbing pain that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep inside him. The image of Aunt May, smiling at him at the dinner table. The sound of her soft voice calling him to eat. The warmth of her embrace after a bad day.
He closed his eyes, trying to push it away, but it always came back, more vivid than ever.
All of it swept away like dust in the wind. Dead. Poisoned. Murdered.
Because of me.
That thought and that thought alone did more damage than the lack of food. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until they hurt. The anger he felt towards himself was like a fire consuming him from the inside.
Marcos and Rosa spoke to him sometimes. Distant, muffled voices, as if they were echoes of a world he no longer belonged to. They asked if he needed anything, if he wanted to talk, where he came from. He didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to, but because he saw no point in saying anything. He was there, but did it matter?
He had failed. Failed as a nephew. Failed as a hero. And now, she was gone, his uncle was gone, what was left for him? He was alone. Without powers. No purpose. Without anything.
He bowed his head. She died because of him. Because he defied the infamous king of crime. Maybe... if he'd let it go... if he hadn't gotten involved in those affairs in the first place, no matter how wrong they were...
He didn't want to think about it.
A hand touched his shoulder, gently, trying to pull him back to the present. He instinctively pulled away, not because he felt threatened, but because he didn't want that touch. He didn't want to be comforted.
Comforted by what? I deserve it...
"Come on, kid." The woman's voice. What was her name again? Rosa? Her voice was calm, but it carried something Peter didn't want to identify. Compassion. He didn't deserve it. He didn't want it.
How many times has it been now? Three? Four? They always came back, why? It didn't make sense.
"You need to eat something." The man's voice now, Michael? No... it was Marcos. His voice sounded a little hesitant, even though it was firm. Peter didn't answer. He didn't even raise his eyes. He just stood there, motionless, as if he were part of the ground.
Rosa sighed, crouching down next to him. The smell of cheap cigarettes and reheated coffee mixed with the smell of old clothes.
"You're going to die like that." She said bluntly, her voice sweet but her words unkind.
But again, he didn't answer.
"I don't think he cares very much." Marcos said with a tired sigh. Rosa, for her part, snorted.
"Well, I do. I'd hate to see a boy starve to death in front of me, I don't need that in my dreams." She said, leaving something next to Peter, who, despite his mild curiosity, remained motionless, making no mention of picking it up.
"Should we take the south side?" Marcos asked, and Rosa stood up, walking away at a slow pace.
"No, too busy. Do you have to go back to the shed this afternoon?" She asked, and they walked away, their voices getting further and further away as Peter was left once again, alone.
He didn't move a muscle for a while, so absorbed in his own world that everything else became muffled, left in the background.
For hours, he could only hear people coming and going, distant voices shouting something inaudible, or closer but muffled voices talking about various subjects, work schedules, future affairs. For hours he only saw blurs passing in front of him, several blurs, a lot of movement.
With that, he realized how limited he really was. No super hearing to hear distant voices and figure out if someone wanted to rob him or not. No super vision to spot when someone was armed or the slightest hint of body language that indicated something dangerous. No sixth sense to sense the space around him.
Just Peter Parker... oh, and how weak he was.
Humans were weak... so limited. He had forgotten what it was like.
The hours passed, and he ducked his head as his stomach churned with hunger. It hurt, yes... but if that was the price he had to pay, so be it.
He shifted slightly, feeling his back protest at having been in the same position for so long. Only then, as he did so, did he remember what Rosa had left beside him. It was a package, something soft wrapped in thermal paper.
He picked it up and unwrapped whatever it was, and only then did the distinctive smell of a sandwich invade his nostrils. He blinked a few times, feeling his mouth salivate and his eyes moisten. His uncle never liked fast food much, but he occasionally ate at Subway. He would recognize that smell anywhere.
He bit into a large piece, feeling a sense of relief as he swallowed his first real food since he had stopped in that situation.
The sandwich didn't last seconds, he was starving. He wiped his mouth and sighed again, almost immediately regretting it as he felt a twinge in his ribs.
He ran his hand through his hair and slowly lay down on his side, right there on the cold, dirty floor, hugging his own body, and there he stayed.
Time passed, a day or two perhaps? Maybe a little longer? Peter remained in the same corner as always, huddled against the wall, his threadbare coat serving as a makeshift blanket. He didn't know exactly how many days it had been since Marcos and Rosa had started showing up.
His body was weak, the smell of sweat and dirt was starting to stick to his skin, but he didn't care.
Still, they kept coming.
Marcos and Rosa never insisted, never demanded anything from him. They just showed up. Sometimes together, sometimes one at a time. Sometimes in the late afternoon, sometimes just at dawn. But they always came back.
They stopped trying to talk to him directly. Something for which he was grateful, and at the same time, slightly annoyed.
And that day was no different.
"That wooden bench is killing my back." Marcos grumbled, stretching and letting out a grunt.
"Do you think this is the worst part of town?" Rosa asked, leaving something next to Peter before simply continuing on her way. "I almost like it. The guy at the bakery always gives us some stale bread." She said, the boy smelling what was inside the small bag.
"It depends. There are some quieter places... Like that abandoned shed at the end of 52nd. The structure is more or less, but at least there's clean water. Argh..." He grumbled, cracking a few of his bones. "You know what, I'm going there tonight, nobody stays there anyway."
And so they went, not a word to the boy, nothing.
"Oh, and we can get those foams from behind the dump shed. I mean, it's a dump, no one will miss anything." Rosa said, their voices now far away from each other.
Peter didn't know where they went every day, but they always passed that way. Peter wasn't stupid, he might not have been on his best days, but he wasn't stupid.
He was... just... a very intelligent boy who hid within himself a cruelty that even he didn't know he was capable of.
The flames still danced in his mind. The smell of smoke and burning flesh, the crackling of wood and steel, the screams. The fire reflected off the broken glass, engulfing the structure in slow, deafening collapses. The beams twisted, the upper floors caved in, and the bodies... the bodies inside...
He didn't know how many had died. He didn't want to know. But they were all part of Fisk's dirty empire. They were all guilty... right? Or maybe not? Maybe some were just tools in a bigger system, maybe they were just there to survive, like him now. The thought made him want to vomit.
Revenge or justice? The words jumbled together in his mind. He didn't see himself as a murderer. But the image of the Kingpin burning alive wouldn't leave his head. Could he have done something different? Given him a different fate? Fisk deserved to pay. He deserved to suffer. But what about Peter? What did he deserve now?
"I killed him." He thought, his fingers trembling slightly. "I killed him, and I liked it."
That made him a murderer.
How many lives had he taken, even indirectly?
This thought was slowly killing him, not just because of all those people in the building, but because his aunt's life was among those he had taken. He just hadn't realized it before when he sought...
Revenge.
The next day, at the same time, he heard their voices passing by again, right in front of him. With the same conversations that seemed random.
Honestly, he wondered why.
"We've missed the time again. I can't believe he took everything." Rosa's voice rang out across the street, which, strangely, wasn't that busy.
"I know what you're trying to do." His voice sounded hoarse, low, a certain discomfort in his throat from speaking for the first time in a while.
They stopped, both with a piece of bread in their hands. Marcos looked at Peter for a second, then exchanged a quick glance with Rosa, before letting out a tired sigh.
"And what, exactly, are we trying to do?" Marcos asked. Peter looked down at his hands, barely able to make out the dirt and scars that had long been left there.
"Trying to stop me from dying. Who knows why. Stop it. I'm not your problem."
The silence hung heavy for a moment. Rosa looked away, but Marcos continued to stare at Peter, assessing him as if trying to see something beyond his broken shell.
Then he laughed. A short, dry, mocking laugh.
"If you want to die, I know where there's a very tall building a few blocks from here. I'll take you up to the roof and push you off, if you want." He said, receiving a slap on the shoulder.
"Marcos!" Rosa scolded, but he didn't even look at her.
"But I don't think that's what you really want." Peter looked at him, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of anger and confusion.
"How do you know what I want?"
"If you really wanted it, you wouldn't have eaten the food we brought all these days."
Peter felt a knot forming in his throat. He wanted to argue, to say that Marcos was wrong, but the words wouldn't come out. Instead, he stared at the floor, his anger dissipating in a wave of exhaustion.
He remained silent for a few moments, not really knowing what to say, or if he should say anything at all, in fact.
"I don't understand." He said, shaking his head slightly. "Why do you do that? You don't even know me. I haven't thanked you once, I haven't spoken to you at any time. Why?"
Rosa looked sharply at Marcos before she smiled and crouched down in front of him. Although he couldn't make out any details of her face, Peter had the feeling that she was... young. Younger than the tiredness in her voice sounded.
"As I said, I wouldn't want to see someone so young starve to death when we can help it. Besides..." Marcos approached, putting a hand on her shoulder. "We've seen a lot of kids like you. Not all of them had a good ending. I mean... I don't think any."
Peter kept his eyes down, watching the water trickle between the broken cobblestones.
He understood more or less what she meant. Well, kinda. He still didn't think it was a very convincing reason. Perhaps he had become too suspicious because of his time swinging around buildings. Or he simply wasn't used to kindness from a stranger anymore.
Who knows?
He sighed... honestly, he didn't have much choice. Wherever he was, he would still be the same, alone. Whether it was on that filthy street in that depressing neighborhood or at his aunt and uncle's house. Haunted by his own ghosts and his own guilt. So, if he was going to be miserable, what did it matter where he was?
And then he stood up. His knees gave way slightly, but he steadied himself. Rosa glanced at him, then looked away from Marcos, as if she feared that any excessive attention would make him flinch.
Peter turned without a word and started walking in the direction they always went, with slow, weak and unsteady steps.
Behind him, Marcos smiled.
"Look at that. The boy can walk."
"Don't push it." Rosa said, standing up. But even so, Peter felt the brief touch of her hand on his arm, like a warning that she was there if he needed her.
He wouldn't need it.
And yet he followed the instructions he had heard in the alley, guided by the woman's almost unnoticed grip. Two streets. The repair store. The fountain. He didn't know why he was going there, but... well... cleaning himself up didn't seem... bad. And drinking some water would be a welcome action. It was a primitive desire, much easier to fulfill than the unbearable urge to simply disappear.
"If there's time, I'll stop by Pedro's shed. He always has some leftovers around the end of the day," Marcos said on the way, patiently following them two steps behind.
Peter didn't say anything... they were probably saying that to him. But how would he find this shed when he could barely see his hand in front of his face?
"If you want... we'll take you there one day." Rosa said. Perhaps the uncertainty was too obvious on her face. "I wish I knew where he found all that stuff. I still don't understand."
"He has his contacts. But there's never much good food left. Can you believe I saw a guy there last week and he was carrying a cereal bar? A bar, can you believe it? I was about to jump him."
"I wonder who he stole it from?" Rosa laughed, stretching.
It wasn't long before they reached the place. It was cold, it smelled musty... but it was much quieter than the street, away from all the noise.
The water was freezing when he dipped his hands in and washed his face, feeling the remnants of dirt wash away. The shock of the icy water sent a shiver down his spine, but the feeling of cleanliness, however temporary, brought a tiny bit of relief. For the first time, the constant nausea inside him subsided a little.
When he looked up, he realized that Marcos and Rosa were still there. They were sitting on the dirty floor, sharing something, probably a piece of stale bread from what he could deduce from the smudges. They were talking about something - about an old dog that Rosa used to see wandering around the market, about the fight that Marcos had almost gotten into the day before. The conversation floated around Peter, but it wasn't directed at him.
Peter closed his eyes and plunged his trembling hands into the icy water of the system that ran down the street. He was in no hurry, enjoying the sensation. When he stood up again, Marcos was standing, a little closer now while he seemed to be fiddling with something on his shoe. Rosa remained in the same spot, glancing at him.
Peter sank his hands into the water once more, saying nothing.
They were still there.
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 days now.
A week and a half... 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 remained 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. Gwen merely shook her head.
"You said... you mentioned once that... Flash started accusing you of something. Didn't you?" she asked, her face serious as MJ arched an eyebrow.
"Yes, we were arguing. It was just a way for him to try and somehow put the blame on me. Argh, I'm so angry with him." She said. Gwen, for her part, remained silent, her eyes falling to the floor.
It was something similar with her. A photo with Danny sent to Harper, compromising from the angle. Anyone could have taken it, they were in the yard, but it didn't make sense. The timing was too precise... too coincidental.
Not to mention what Harper muttered about it. "What's the matter with you?" when she said he'd called her.
Didn't he?
He did call, didn't he? It was his number.
She'd been getting that strange feeling for a while now.
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 said after a while, trying 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!"
Gwen was sitting at her desk, the dim light of the desk lamp barely able to illuminate the plate of food that had long since been put aside. In those two weeks, she had asked herself several questions, several times.
For example. How could she let someone like Peter Parker into her life so intensely, without knowing anything about the boy? She barely knew that he had a sick aunt and that his uncle had been killed by a corrupt officer. She knew he was intelligent and liked photography... but what about the rest?
She scrolled as she checked his Instagram profile. It had been two weeks since Peter had disappeared, and so far, nothing, no information about him. As far as she knew, Aunt May's body was being kept on hold, but that usually only lasts 30 days.
He would be back for the funeral. Right?
His profile appeared at the top. Profile picture: a blurry image from a microscope on a messy table. No personal photos, just a mosaic of images of New York, of the sky reflected in the buildings, of busy streets and hidden alleyways that would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn't paying attention.
Gwen looked through the photos. Some were impressive. He was good. Very good.
She scrolled down, looking at the feed. Between one photo and another, a post was marked with the Daily Bugle logo.
She blinked.
He works for the Daily Bugle?!
Peter had never mentioned anything about working for a newspaper. But it made sense, in a way. His photos were amazing.
Curious, Gwen clicked on the link associated with his profile bio and ended up on the official Daily Bugle page. There, she found some photos signed by him.
That... was cool. Why hadn't he ever said anything?
She went back to his profile, checking the remains of the photos. When she reached the end, she merely frowned when she saw the three photos lined up, all showing an award in the center.
His name was there, highlighted. Peter Parker, awarded for his technological innovations in robotics and mechanical engineering.
Gwen blinked in surprise. Three awards? She clicked on the link in the description of one of the photos.
The articles talked about projects he had developed, from improvements to mechanical prostheses to experiments with non-Newtonian fluids.
"Why didn't he ever talk about this?" She muttered to herself, opening another tab on Google, where she searched for his name. Google returned some old news about science competitions and photography, nothing recent.
There were a few articles, though. Where she discovered that he had won several awards over the years, all related to technology and science. There were mentions of artificial intelligence projects, sustainable energy systems.
Peter was a genius, but she never really thought about how deep that term would go.
She leaned back in her chair for a few moments. She knew he was clever, he had built an entire audio system with nothing but junk. He clearly knew how to invent, build, various devices for various purposes.
Her arms crossed in front of her chest.
Ever since he'd joined the band, she'd felt a bit... awkward around him. It was a question on her mind, but one she didn't want to ask when she saw that he was more than just a help.
It was perhaps a selfish feeling on her part, but she was afraid that if she asked, he wouldn't help anymore, and the dream of having a band would become incredibly distant again.
Why was he helping them?
She remembered her school days, the bullying he suffered, and the occasional times she thought it was funny to see him like that. Something she regretted now, yes, but it didn't change things.
She remembered when rumors started spreading out of nowhere. Compromising messages and pictures, sent from one to the other, as if they were unquestionable proof of betrayal and lies. It only took a moment for their fragile friendship to completely disintegrate.
Her face still stung from that slap. If she hadn't made up the excuse that she'd been hit in a game of tag, who knows what her father would have done to Harper.
Gwen wondered why she was thinking about it now.
But she remembered the brief moments when Harper had been confused, as confused as she was by some of the information. She remembered MJ mentioning that Flash blamed her for something she didn't do...
She shook her head and leaned slightly forward again. It was just a stupid thought, right? That's all it was.
Well... somehow, she doubted it. Maybe she could talk to Flash about it.
Peter stared at his reflection in the foggy glass of the window. Damn, there was someone he hardly recognized. His eyes were deep-set and dark circles marked his face. He wasn't as dirty as before, but... he was unpleasant to look at.
But at the same time, it was curious. Under his jacket, he touched his own arm. Still big, still with muscle, a little softer than before, he admitted, but his body had hardly changed at all since he was bitten by the spider, even without food.
And it was only then that he realized it. He had gone days without eating, days without drinking, many days, and despite the great hunger, the weakness, he hadn't collapsed, he hadn't crashed for lack of energy. His body barely changed.
That meant that inside him, somewhere, his powers still existed. Right?
He swallowed some saliva. Should he confront the question that had always surrounded him, but which he had never paid any attention to?
Why did he lose his powers?
It had been sudden, without any warning or sign. He hadn't been weak days before, nor had he felt any kind of strange sensation.
So why?
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Rosa's low laugh. They were still there. They always were. They didn't say anything about the way Peter just existed, without interacting.
He turned to them, feeling something for the first time since falling hundreds of meters.
"Who are you, exactly?" Peter finally asked, his voice hoarse, low. They both stared at him with slightly wide eyes, surprised to see that he had, after who knows how long being silent, asked the first question.
"Look at that, Rosa. He talks." Marcos said with an amused laugh, and Rosa shook her head.
"Well... I'm Marcos. Ex-mechanic. Miss of the evening over there is Rosa. Former I-don't-know-what."
"Former florist." She corrected him, giving him a gentle push on the shoulder.
"See, you always learn something new." Marcos smiled.
"You always ask, and I always tell you the same thing." She retorted.
Peter blinked, confused. He hadn't expected such a casual tone. Perhaps that wasn't the best definition. Marcos was... playful.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
A... peculiar question, considering it was obvious that they were homeless.
"Surviving. What else is there to do?" Rosa replied, shrugging.
"I don't think that's what he meant." Marcos said.
"Well... I lost my store because of an absurd rent agreement. Marcos lost his house because the company he worked for decided to cut costs and threw half the staff out on the street. We met later. Then we helped each other. It's as simple as that."
It's as simple as that.
"... Where am I?"
Peter asked, sitting down on the floor, a little away from the two, who in turn looked at each other with confused expressions.
"What do you mean? In New York?" Rosa replied/asked.
"I mean the place in New York. What neighborhood is this?" Peter asked, hugging his knees.
Marcos merely arched an eyebrow. "You're near the Willets Point neighborhood. Do you know it? That area full of junkyards and machine shops."
Peter frowned, trying to remember. Willets Point... he knew the place. It was an industrial area, full of abandoned warehouses and bumpy streets. It was close to Citi Field, the baseball stadium, but it was also known for being close to gang-controlled territories.
It wasn't exactly the kind of place anyone would want to stay.
"Those guys you bumped into when we saw you? Gang. Small, but annoying. They hang around here sometimes. You're lucky they didn't kick you in your sleep." Rosa explained.
"Willets Point?" Peter repeated, his voice laden with surprise. "How did I end up here?"
Rosa shrugged, sitting down on a pile of old boxes. "You were a bit... lost when we found you. We were going to leave you alone, but then we saw your clothes, your condition."
Peter looked at her, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. He didn't remember walking so much, but the last few weeks were a blur in his mind.
All he knew was that, at some point, he had started walking, aimlessly, without purpose. His thoughts were interrupted when Rosa threw something in his direction. An old loaf of bread.
He tried to catch it, but missed badly, letting it fall to the dirty floor.
Marcos and Rosa looked at each other.
"Ah. Now it makes sense." Marcos said.
"What?" Peter asked.
"You can hardly see, can you?"
Peter remained silent. Well, without his glasses, he was practically blind.
He looked down at the floor, his fingers playing with the edge of his threadbare jacket.
Marcos leaned on one knee, tilting his head slightly.
"And while we're on the subject... I ask you the same question. Who the hell are you, kid?"
Peter stopped.
He felt his chest tighten. What would he say? Who was he now?
He was no longer Spider-Man.
He was no longer Peter Parker, Aunt May's nephew.
So... who was left?
He was silent for a while, and his expression of confusion and dread was more than enough for them to know that he wouldn't answer.
"Well... you seem quite young. Did you, uh... run away from home?" Marcos asked again. Peter closed his eyes and swallowed some saliva. He didn't have to answer these questions.
"... No." He answered, almost inaudibly. "I don't have a home. Not anymore." He said.
The silence returned, slightly uncomfortable. Marcos and Rosa were at a loss for words. They had seen many people in the same situation. Well, they themselves were good examples.
But someone so young? It was very easy to fall into the wrong path.
Easy to manipulate.
They knew...
They've seen it.
They've already done it.
"Well... Peter. You're young, you've got plenty of time to sort yourself out, find your way." Marcos said. "If you have a place, even if it's not your home, a person, I highly recommend you go back to them. But until you decide, we'll... ahm... we'll stay in the area, you know? In case you want help." He said, although he seemed a little uncertain of his own words.
"The streets aren't the place for you, Peter. But we'll help you. You know, stay out of trouble." Rosa said kindly, a little firmer with her words. "But I want you to know that as long as you stay in this place, you're going to have to contribute."
Peter arched an eyebrow.
"This place is... well, shared, you know? It's a good place, covered, hidden."
"... You said no one came here." Peter said, his voice neutral, still low. Marcos ran his hand over his head a few times.
"Did I?"
"Well, if we told you that this place was visited by homeless people looking for shelter on busy nights or rainy days, you wouldn't have come." Rosa said, and from the tone of her voice, Peter could tell she was smiling. "It doesn't have to be a big deal. Contribute with whatever... anything you can. There's not much here anyway."
Peter looked at her, trying to make out her features for a few moments, digesting her words. He didn't see the point in much of anything anymore. He felt numb, moving robotically.
But... it was good not to wander around aimlessly. Maybe, at some point, he'd have some idea of where to go.
He doubted it.