Guilty as Charged
The air in the locker room hung heavy with the scent of sweat, stale towels, and simmering resentment. Peter Parker, already nursing the aches from a brutal gym class, moved through the chaotic space with a practiced avoidance of eye contact.
He wasn’t exactly graceful; his movements were stiff, his shoulders hunched, a posture born of years spent navigating the treacherous social landscape of Midtown High. He knew the stares, the whispers, the silent judgements that followed him like a shadow. Today, however, the shadows had teeth.
Flash Thompson, a human embodiment of entitled arrogance, stood near his locker, surrounded by his usual retinue of sycophants. Their laughter echoed off the tiled walls, a mocking soundtrack to Peter’s simmering frustration.
“Well, well, well,” Flash drawled, his voice dripping with false camaraderie that curdled into malice. “Look what the cat dragged in. Still clinging to that pathetic excuse for a girlfriend, Penis?”
Peter ignored him, focusing on the combination to his locker, his knuckles white against the cold metal. He was already late for his next class, and all he wanted was to disappear. But Flash wasn’t one for subtlety.
“Hey, Parker!” Flash’s voice boomed, cutting through the locker room noise.
“Still think you’re too good for us, huh? Too good for a little… friendly competition?” He shoved Peter hard, sending him crashing against the lockers.
The impact resonated through Peter’s bones, a dull ache that spread through his shoulders and arms. But he held back a groan, a practiced response born of necessity. He couldn’t afford to show any reaction, not with his powers. He couldn’t risk revealing himself.
This time, however, the anger simmered beneath the surface, a volcanic pressure threatening to erupt. He felt the familiar surge of power, the tingling in his fingertips, but he suppressed it, clenching his jaw, his fists. He wouldn't give Flash the satisfaction.
The taunts continued, a relentless barrage of insults and near-miss blows. Flash’s cronies joined in, their laughter a cruel counterpoint to the throbbing pain in Peter’s ribs.
Peter flinched, ducked, and weaved, his body instinctively reacting, but he held back, his powers dormant, a volcano held in check by sheer willpower. He was a punching bag, absorbing the blows, the humiliation burning hotter than any physical pain. Chanting mantras taught by Strange seems to have little to no effect. He tasted blood, a metallic tang mingling with the bitterness of his own suppressed rage. Finally, Flash, satisfied with his display of dominance, sauntered away, leaving Peter bruised and humiliated, his shoulders slumped, his face a mask of simmering fury.
He thought his day couldn't be worse, until Flash decided that he ain't had enough fun.
The principal's office was a sterile, suffocating space, smelling faintly of stale coffee and desperation. Peter sat across from Mr. Davis, a man whose expression suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. Flash, sporting a carefully crafted air of wounded innocence, recounted the incident, his version a masterpiece of exaggeration and outright fabrication. He clutched his arm as if it were broken, a performance worthy of an Oscar. Brilliant! If he really did that, it wouldn't just be broken, it would be torn off.
“He… he attacked me, sir!” Flash whined, his voice dripping with feigned vulnerability. “He just… he came at me, out of nowhere! He was… he was violent!”
Peter’s fists clenched. The anger, previously suppressed, now threatened to explode. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain the truth, but the words caught in his throat. How could he explain his actions without revealing his secret? Mr. Davis, seemed to already be predisposed to believe the popular, athletic student, barely listened to Peter’s stammering attempts at clarification.
“Mr. Parker,” Mr. Davis sighed, rubbing his temples, his voice weary. “I expect better behavior from you. This is unacceptable. Mr. Thompson is a star athlete, a model student. This incident could have serious repercussions for him.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. He felt a surge of bitter resentment. The injustice was suffocating, the unfairness a physical weight on his chest. He tried again. “Sir, he started it. He pushed me first.”
“Mr. Parker,” Mr. Davis interrupted, his tone sharper now. “I’ve heard Mr. Thompson’s account. I’ve also considered your history of… minor infractions. This incident, coupled with your past behavior, leaves me no choice but to…”
The Dean’s words hung in the air, a prelude to punishment. Peter felt a cold dread creep into his heart. He was trapped, his secret a heavy weight pressing down on him, leaving him speechless and vulnerable.
The door creaked open, and Flash’s parents entered, their faces a mask of barely controlled rage. They were the epitome of entitled wealth, their clothes expensive, their attitudes condescending. Somehow, unrelated to the situation he was in, the suit Mr. Thompson was wearing was so flashy his eyes hurt. Mr. Stark could have worn them better. They surveyed the scene, their eyes settling on Peter with undisguised hostility.
“So, this is the little delinquent who assaulted our son,” Flash’s mother hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “This isn’t going to end well for you, young man.”
Mr. Thompson, a burly man with a booming voice, added, “We expect a full apology, and we’ll be contacting your parents. This kind of behavior is simply unacceptable. Flash is a star athlete, a model student! This could ruin his scholarship opportunities!”
Peter’s anger flared, a white-hot inferno consuming his restraint. He wanted to scream, to shout the truth, to unleash the fury that had been simmering within him since the locker room incident. But he couldn’t. He was trapped, so much for being Spiderman, his silence a weapon used against him.
“But sir, I—” Peter began, his voice trembling with barely controlled rage.
“Silence!” Mrs. Thompson snapped. “We have witnesses. Several students saw you attack our son. You’ll be facing suspension, at the very least. And we’ll be pursuing legal action.”
Peter felt a wave of despair wash over him, yeah right, Flash's cronies as witnesses. He was guilty in their eyes, a pariah, alone in the face of their fury. He wanted to lash out, to defend himself, but he was powerless. His secret identity, the very thing that could have exonerated him, limiting his actions. He closed his eyes, the burning injustice a searing pain behind his eyelids.
The room was suffocating, the air thick with tension. Flash’s parents were mid-sentence, their voices rising, their accusations escalating, when a sudden interruption shattered the tense silence.
The door swung open with a sharp crack, revealing a figure silhouetted against the fading afternoon light.
A beat. Then, the figure stepped fully into the room. Tony Stark, in all his arrogant, yet undeniably imposing glory, stood there, a smirk playing on his lips.
He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on Peter, "Hey kid". Shifting his attention to the enraged parents, "Look what we have here" he drawled, his voice cutting through the tension. "Seems we have a little… misunderstanding." He paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "And I believe I might just be the man to clear it up."