hold on to your heart

It takes me two hours to get back to the church.

I’ve developed a deep paranoia, constantly checking my surroundings to make sure I’m not being followed, by either the cops or the Avengers. Between that and the insufferable sting in my abdomen, my journey is slow.

When I finally slip back into the boiler room, I welcome the warmth that the stuffy space brings. The night is cold and bitter, with a wind that cuts straight through my t-shirt. I had considered putting on my sweatshirt to help shield me from the cold, but even though it’s past two o’clock in the morning and the city is asleep, I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing me in a blood-soaked hoodie.

I toss my backpack into the corner. While the pack is still full of invaluable goods— the only items I own— the two items that were the most valuable to me have been confiscated by Tony Stark and his team of lunatics. That gun was a guarantee that I’d always have a way to get more money, and the bag of cash was the only reward I had after my near death experience with the cops. Now I’m back in the boiler room, poor as ever, with no way to get what I need. I take off my t-shirt carefully, trying not to think about the fact that I took a bullet for nothing.

I pull the bandage gently away from my skin, and examine the wound. The surrounding skin has been cleaned of any blood and dirt. The actual stitching is very impressive— ten times better than anything I could’ve done. The stitches are tight and neat. Thanks to the quality of the needle work, this injury will likely leave a minimal scar. There’s bruising around the site, but that was to be expected. 

I stretch my arms above my head and twist my torso side to side. I bend over to touch my toes and run on the spot experimentally. There’s pain with each movement, but nothing that can’t be managed. Nothing that will keep me down.

“Good,” I mutter, replacing the bandage and slipping my shirt back over my head.

I think part of me still can’t believe that my life was saved by the Avengers. It all feels a little fuzzy. Maybe it was the blood loss or adrenaline making it seem that way, but the whole ordeal feels like a fever dream.

By my guess, it’s been two days since I face-planted on the Avenger’s lawn. Two days since I held a gun to an innocent mother’s head.

She was brave. Even facing death couldn’t scare her into being complacent with my crimes.

I wear a mask and threaten others so I can take what I want. And normally, that doesn’t bother me. This world has been a cruel place for as long as I can remember. But after having my life saved by superheroes and being granted my freedom on nothing more than good will, I don’t feel brave. I feel like a coward.

And I feel hungry. Without my gun, it’s back to dumpster diving behind bakeries for me.

I shiver at the thought of the stale winter air. I sit in the corner, leaning against the wall, and pull my bag into my lap. I’m sure I have another sweater in here somewhere. If not, my first stop will have to be a clothing store.

I zip open the backpack and toss my stained hoodie off to the side. Eventually, I’ll find some way to clean it. But for now, it’s unwearable. I pull the bag open wider, but my hands quickly stop moving. At the top of my bag is a jacket, but not one that I recognize. 

My fingers touch the fabric gingerly. It’s high quality— definitely not something I would’ve taken the risk of stealing. I lift the jacket out, letting the material unravel. It’s almost completely black, besides the silver zipper. There’s pockets and a hood, and it appears to be my size. I set my bag aside and stand, carefully maneuvering into the jacket. 

It fits perfectly. The material is lightweight, but sturdy. The wind-breaker style jacket is effectively thermal— I can already feel the heat of my skin getting trapped inside. It looks and feels expensive.

It’s not mine.

Where did this come from?

A thought occurs to me. Following the feeling, I dump the contents of my bag onto the ground. Dozens of items spill out, only some of which I recognize.

I sort the objects eagerly, first grabbing the ones I know to be my own. My spare clothes, a ziploc bag containing my few remaining dollars, my passport, and other trinkets form a pile. But besides these few belongings is a collection of others that came from somewhere else.

I examine them one by one. Black thermal pants, made of the same fabric as the jacket. A few pairs of white socks. A pristine pair of gray running shoes, in my exact size. A box of chocolate flavored protein bars. A fully stocked first-aid kit. A roll of bills, secured with a rubber band.

At the sight of these luxuries, my stomach turns. There’s only one way this stuff could have gotten into my bag, and knowing the source of this kindness leaves me at war with myself.

If I wear these clothes, I’m accepting their pity. If I eat this food, I become weak. If I use this money, I’m admitting that I need their help. 

And I don’t want to. I don’t want to need their help. I wish I had never stumbled onto the compound, because now I owe them. Even if I throw this bag full of extravagance into the trash, I still owe them my life.

And yet, if I reject their gifts, I remain hungry and cold. And within a few days, I’ll be back on the street, stealing again.

So for once, I decide to accept the help that’s right in front of me. I change out of my filthy jeans and slip the warm pants on. I trade in my ratty sneakers with the stained laces and a tear in the toe for the exquisite pair that I could never afford. I tear open a protein bar, and start counting the money.

Five-hundred dollars. Enough to last me over a month, if I’m smart. 

Under different circumstances, I would be repulsed at the thought of accepting such pity. But down here in the boiler room, the growls of my stomach lessening with each bite of protein bar, I have no such reservations. No one will ever know that I took these gifts. 

And although some small, timid part of me is grateful for their kindness, I hope I never see the Avengers again.

***

“Shit!”

The word escapes me in a strained hiss as my jacket catches on something, and I feel the fabric rip wide open from my wrist to my elbow. I feel something scrape across the skin of my forearm, and force my feet to slow.

A dozen sheets of plywood are leaning against the side of the building, all of them punctured by bent and rusted nails. One of the projectiles is the culprit of the tear in my sleeve. I tried to take the corner too sharp, and my flailing arm scraped against the nail. I can feel the chill of the air seeping in through the gash, and the sting on my skin where the nail made contact. I twist my arm in an attempt to get a better look at the scratch, and decide whether or not I need a tetanus booster.

“There she is!” a deep voice howls from behind me, and I suddenly remember why I was running. I drop my arm, lacking the time to examine it, and break back into a sprint.

Alleyways always seem like a good place to lose a pursuer, but I’ve tried this tactic before. It didn’t exactly end in my favor. 

I round corners carefully, doing my best to avoid any rusty nails, weaving my way back towards the street.

It’s eight o’clock at night, and even with the thick darkness of the winter night, the city is alive. That’s what you get in the heart of New York City. The sidewalks are packed with people, and the roads are lined with bumper-to-bumper traffic. The conditions are both a comfort and a source of anxiety— the busy streets provide better cover, but also increase the chances of creating a scene. If the wrong person sees a young girl being chased by a group of big guys, they might call the cops. And as much as I dislike my current situation, bringing the police into this is not going to make it better for me.

I’ve been dodging cops since I left Upstate three weeks ago. The money is gone. The socks are basically worn through. The protein bars are ancient history. The clothes have held up well— they’re practically still in perfect condition, most likely due to their high-quality build. Well, they were in perfect condition, until I got too close to a well-aimed nail.

I burst onto the street, creating a flurry of surprised yelps from the citizens I crash into as a result of my whirling momentum. “Sorry,” I pant, stumbling through the crowds. “My bad.”

I don’t stop at the edge of the sidewalk. Instead, I slip between two cars that are stuck in the persistent standstill, earning myself a honk from the surrounding vehicles. I cross the street as quickly as the maze of cars will allow, only hesitating when I reach the other side. I spare a glance behind me, realizing with disdain that I haven’t lost my pursuers. 

Four men wade through the street, their eyes locked on me. “There!” one of them shouts, pointing at me. 

It’s almost hilarious how similarly they’re dressed. Nearly identical black jeans hang off of their hips, topped with black leather jackets and varying forms of obscenely large golden jewelry. 

I had seen a pair of cops patrolling the street, and I got spooked. If I had known a drug deal was going down in there, I would’ve picked a different warehouse to hide out in. 

If I was a little smarter, I wouldn’t have grabbed the stack of cash on the table before making a run for it. 

The journey through the rows of cars was easier for my smaller frame. They’re slowed down by the obstacles, but once they get through, I won’t have that much of a head start. If I go either way down the sidewalk, they’ll be able to cut me off.

So I turn and sprint into the alley behind me, delving back into the darkness.

It’s not long before I hear their footsteps and their shouts behind me. A sweat breaks out on my forehead. When I was running from the cops, the worst thing that could’ve happened was getting thrown in a cell or taking a bullet. I have a feeling my fate will be much worse if I get caught by these guys.

I pour on the speed. I shouldn’t have grabbed the cash, but it’s too late now. I made my stupid choice, and now, I have to live with the fallout. But I haven’t come this far just to get pinched by some random drug dealers. I haven’t spent the last decade of my life running to get run down in this alley. If they want to catch me, I’m going to make them work for it.

As I fly across the pavement, I say a silent thank-you to Stark for the running shoes.

“You’re dead!” a voice threatens behind me. “Do you hear me? When we catch you, you’re dead!”

I let the worry out of my body with an exhale. They won’t catch me. I won’t let them.

“Up here!”, a new voice whispers above me. I push my feet faster but spare a glance upwards. All I see is the metal stairs of a rickety fire escape on the side of a brick building, and beyond that, the night sky.

You’re going crazy, Violet. It’s entirely possible. I haven’t eaten in days, and I’m not exactly in a calm state of mind at the moment. I shake away the words, chalking them up to be a hallucination.

“Hey!” The voice comes from above me again, and this time, my steps falter slightly. “Come up here!”

The hushed words are barely audible over the pounding of my feet on the pavement and the pounding of my heart in my ears. You’ve lost it, my brain insists, but I still look up again to be sure. It’s dark, but the glow of the city provides enough light for me to tell that there isn’t anything other than bricks and stars up there.

A deafening bang sounds behind me, and I bite back a scream, recognizing the noise. Gunfire. The bullet finds its mark in a dumpster to my right with an ear-piercing clang. I force my legs to move faster, but I’m running out of energy. My toe catches on the asphalt and I stumble, more bullets cutting through the air around me. I regain my footing, gasping.

I feel an odd sensation on my wrist, like someone has looped a rope around my arm. Before I can lift my hand to examine it, my arm is yanked above my head. There’s power in the movement, and a scream escapes my lips as my feet are ripped away from the ground.

I’m launched into the air, drawn by the force on my wrist. The sky grows closer and the metal stairs blur past. I curse loudly, my chest constricting with panic, my body flying through the air.

The movement changes in a moment, pulling me sideways and towards the bricks of the building to my right. I soar over the ledge of the roof, feeling light-headed as the air is sucked from my lungs.

I feel my ascent slow, and before I can worry about crashing into the cement, something wraps around me and halts my movement. I instantly recognize the feeling as arms around me— someone has caught me. But before I can thrash away and scream for help, a hand closes over my mouth, and I’m held low to the roof by irresistible strength.

“Shh.” The sound comes from the person holding me, the same voice I heard in the shadows above. It’s a masculine voice, but higher than a man’s— younger. I struggle to find a breath, writhing against the arms. “Wait,” he mutters. “They’re almost gone.”

My ears pick up on the confused yells and the scrambling feet below. After a few seconds of turmoil, someone on the street below commands, “This way. She couldn’t have gone far.” The sounds are carried away, fading as my assailants follow a false trail. 

I let out a breath of relief, then throw my elbow back into the person holding me. It connects with something soft, and by the pained exhale that follows, I’m guessing I landed a solid hit to the stomach. His grip loosens, and I take my chance to break out, rolling away from him. My hand goes instinctively to the knife in the waistband of my jeans. It’s nothing more than a beginner’s hunting knife that I lifted from a shop a few months ago, but without my gun, it’s the best I can do. I spring to my feet as he stumbles to his, and on instinct, I fling the knife towards his chest.

His hand snakes out and catches the blade by the handle. His movement is faster than it should be. Inhuman. The feat leaves me speechless, freezing in place while I wait for his retaliation. 

All I can make out clearly is his hand, completely covered by a black material. Similar to a glove, but hugging tightly to his skin and extending down his forearm. The rest of him is lost in the shadow of a neighboring building, but as he steps forward, I get a closer look. 

The dark fabric continues down his arm, and as he emerges fully into the light of the moon, I can see that it doesn’t stop there. His whole body is covered in the skin-like material, head to toe. The color appears to be more of a deep charcoal. Where his face should be is covered, too, with strange, slanted shapes that faintly resemble eyes. The eye-like patches are white, but almost transparent, and I get the feeling that he can see me just as well as I can see him.

The tip of my knife is hovering inches from his sternum, the weapon still caught in his grasp. Where the blade would have made contact is a whisper of a design across his chest. Darker than the rest of the suit, with strands reaching out from a center.

Almost like a spider.

I wait for the knife to come hurtling back at my face, and knowing I don’t share his supernatural talent and won’t be able to catch it, I just brace myself for the hit.

But it doesn’t come.

He lowers the knife, examining it, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. “Seriously?” He turns the knife over, waving it at me. “Is that how you say thank-you?” He tosses the knife to the side, the metal skittering against the roof. 

I chew my lip nervously, quickly realizing that I don’t hold the upper hand in this situation. “Look,” I start. “I was just defending myself. I don’t want any trouble.”

He throws his hands in the air. “Neither do I!”

“What?”

“I was trying to save you.” He shakes his head, gripping his side where I hit him. “Ow,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry, am I missing something here?” I step towards him. “You yanked me onto the top of a building and held me down with your hand over my mouth.”

“And if I hadn’t, those guys would’ve got you. They were catching up.” He glances down to the street. “What did they want from you, anyway?”

I shrug. “Who knows,” I lie. 

“Who were they?”

“Drug dealers.”

His head snaps back to me. “Drug dealers? Are you crazy?”

I scoff. “Are you? What kind of person waits on a rooftop to save strangers?” I shake my head in an attempt to clear the confusion. It doesn’t work. “How did you even do that?” I raise my arm in front of me, remembering the feeling on my wrist right before I got dragged into the sky.

Stringy fibers stick to my skin, wrapped around my forearm like a bracelet. Under the moonlight, the substance looks almost clear. It has a fluid appearance, like wet twine. The fibrous goop trails off of my skin, extending into a twenty-foot long rope that dangles from my arm, the length of the strange string tangled in a pile on the roof. The opposite end is attached to his own wrist, to some type of intricate mechanism.

I touch the string gently. It’s soft, like silk, but it adheres to my fingertips like glue.

My eyes flick back up to the symbol on his chest. The realization dawns on me, and I sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?”

I cross my arms. “Spider-man, right?”

His shoulders tense with visible discomfort. “What? No. I’m not— I mean, he’s not…” He scratches his neck, then awkwardly crosses his arms to mimic my stance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, whatever.” I hold out my arm, covered in his web fluid. “Get this off of me.”

“Well, I could, if I was Spider-man. But I’m not. So I can’t.”

I grab the length of sticky string, giving it a hard tug towards me. His arm is pulled forward, the web still attached to his own hand. “Right,” I say. 

He curses quietly, pressing the mechanism on his wrist. The web severs, floating down to the ground.

“What’s with the new suit?” I ask, pulling experimentally at the web on my arm. It doesn’t budge. “Are you evil now or something?”

“What? Of course not. This is just my stealth suit.” His eye patches widen, and I assume it mimics his own eye movements. “I mean, Spider-man’s stealth suit.”

“So you stole it?” I try to slide my finger between the web and my skin, but it’s practically super glue.

“No, I…found it?”

“Sure.” I walk a few paces to where he threw my knife. The blade glints in the moonlight, and I pick it up.

“What are you doing?” he asks, an air of caution to his voice.

“Relax,” I assure him. “I’m not going to use it on you.” I lift the blade to my forearm, flattening it against my skin. I push the tip forward, trying to cut the webbing away from my arm.

“What are you doing?” he repeats, more alarm in his words than before. He comes towards me, but I flick my knife upwards so it points at his face, keeping him at a distance.

“I’m getting this off,” I explain. “Unless, of course, you know another way?”

He hesitates, knowing that if he stops me from cutting off the webbing, he’s admitting that he’s Spider-man. Not that it matters, since I already know.

He huffs. “Just…don’t do that,” he mutters. He pushes my knife away, and I slip it back into my jeans. “You’ll cut yourself.” He presses on his wrist machine again. Up close, I can see that it’s formed like a cuff that surrounds his arm. The cuff expands, connecting to a disk that sits in the palm of his hand. As I watch, the disc lifts a few inches away from his hand. It slides to the side, and a new disc appears from underneath. They swap places, the old disc disappearing beneath. His ring and middle fingers curl into his palm, connecting with the disc. He angles his hand away and presses down. A fluid spurts from some unseen opening in his wrist cuff. He sprays it a few more times, as if he’s making sure that it works.

“What is that?” I ask.

“A dissolvant.” He sprays the liquid onto my arm, where the web connects with my skin. A strangle tingle spreads across the area. “This stuff is strong enough to stop a moving car. A knife isn’t going to work.”

“That’s impressive. Who made it?”

“I did.”

We both watch as the webbing slowly starts to separate, falling away in gooey sections. He wipes his hand along my skin, scraping away the rest of the mess. He flicks his hand towards the ground, and the remnants of the dissolved web fall into a squishy mess on the roof.

I run my own fingers across my arm, the skin feeling perfectly clean. “Thanks,” I mutter. 

I never imagined that I’d be saved from a group of drug dealers by Spider-man, but then again, I never thought I’d be saved from a bullet by Iron Man. I guess it’s just my luck.

Unless…

Luck had nothing to do with it. I begin to realize that while landing on the compound was pure chance, it’s no coincidence this time. His presence here means I never really escaped the Avengers in the first place.

“What does he want?” I ask.

The suit blinks. “Who?”

“Stark.” 

He stays silent, making only a few choked noises that tell me he’s struggling to come up with another lie. 

“I mean, that’s why you saved me, right?” I ask. “He sent you.”

He brings his hands to his head, sighing. “You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t even supposed to see me.”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, and starts pacing across the roof. “I was just supposed to keep an eye on you. I wasn’t supposed to step in, unless it was life or death,” he rambles, more to himself than to me. “I really thought you were in danger. I had to step in, or they were going to get you. I should have just— oh, Mr. Stark is going to kill me…”

His words strike me. “Hey,” I start. “Spidey.” I snap my fingers in front of his face to break him out of his daze. “How long have you been following me?”

He shakes his head. “No. No, I can’t—”

“How long?” I demand.

There’s a breath of silence. “Three weeks.”

Three weeks.

“Just at night,” he continues, but I’m not really listening. “He told me to keep an eye on you on my nightly patrols. But I was supposed to wear the stealth suit, and you weren’t supposed to see me. He said if you did that you’d know why I was there.”

My heart starts racing. How? How have they been following me for three weeks? There’s no way that Spider-man has been tailing me for that long, especially if he was only instructed to at night. Has someone else taken over the watch during the days? Or maybe…

Oh my god.

The bag.

The bag that was full to the brim of extravagance and kindness and gifts that I could only ever steal. The bag that they rummaged through to find my passport and my name. 

“And you did,” he goes on, sounding distraught. “I am so dead. I had one job.”

I drop my backpack off of my shoulders, unzipping the pouch and dumping the contents onto the ground. I inspect each item, running my fingers along every crevice of every pocket. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

I set my jaw. “The tracker.”

He grabs the sides of his head. “How do you keep doing that? I’m not even telling you anything.”

“Where is it?”

He sighs in defeat. “I don’t know. But it’s somewhere. That’s how I’ve been following you.”

I throw my bag down. “Why?”

“I don’t—” 

“Don’t you people get it? I don’t want your help.” I unzip my torn jacket, and throw it at his chest. He catches it in surprise. “I don’t want your presents. And I sure as hell don’t want you following me everywhere I go.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He looks down, then back up. His hand extends, gesturing towards my own. “The ring.”

Stark’s words come back to me. Your ring. Who gave it to you?

Why does it matter? It’s a piece of junk.

That ring is rare. I’ve only ever seen two others like it. If you know where you got this, you need to tell us. It’s for your own good.

I look down at my hand, twisting the infernal piece of jewelry around my finger. “What is the big deal about this ring?”

“It’s important,” he explains. “I don’t know why, but I know that it means a lot to Mr. Stark. He can’t let it out of his sight.”

“Does he want to take it?”

“I think if he wanted to, he would’ve taken it when you were unconscious.”

A fair point, but it still sends shivers down my spine. The only thing that I’m sure of in this world is that this ring has to stay on my finger. 

My ears begin to register a noise. Faint at first, like a distant plane. But as it grows louder, it becomes more familiar. Like a jet engine, but quieter. Cleaner. The high pitched whining, the sounds of air rushing, metallic scraping, and then…

BANG

Iron Man lands on the roof in front of me.

I stumble back, startled. Spider-man looks even more surprised, and for a moment, it looks as though he might try to hide. 

Stark’s helmet dissolves in that magical way, the metal melting away. His eyes are on me, on the mess of belongings that litter the ground around me. For the first time since taking off my jacket, I feel the chill in the air.

But he doesn’t speak to me. He turns towards Spider-man. “You had one job.”

“I know, Mr. Stark. I’m so sorry—”

“What did I say?” His tone is patronizing, yet unsurprised. Like he expected this would eventually happen. “Keep your distance. Make sure she’s safe. Only step in if it’s life or death. You remember that, right?”

“But she was in danger! She was getting chased by drug dealers!”

Stark looks to me for confirmation. “Is this true?”

I shake my head. “Look, I don’t really care.”

He nods. “You’re right,” he says, looking back at Spider-man. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“No, you don’t get it,” I interject. “I don’t care why you’ve been following me for the past three weeks. I don’t care why there’s a tracker in my bag. I don’t care why you feel the need to protect me.” I hold up my hand. “I don’t even care about his ring.”

He tilts his head. “Then let me have it.”

I can feel the color rush into my face. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It…was my mother’s,” I mutter, hoping to steer him away from the truth.

I don’t know why I can’t take it off. I hate this ring more than anything in the world, but I’ll die before I let it leave my finger.

“Right,” he says. “Well, here’s the deal. That ring is a very powerful, very dangerous artifact. I can’t have it falling into the wrong hands. And by the sound of things, the wrong hands are yours.”

I step towards him. “You have no right to this ring. I don’t care what it means to you. It’s mine, and it’s not leaving my finger.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to come, too.”