Answer your email.
One time, when Peter was seven, his Uncle Obie locked him outside in their backyard all night. He knocked and knocked and knocked, but when the lights to his uncle’s bedroom finally turned off, he resigned himself to sleeping on the porch. His uncle, however, perhaps expecting this, had sprayed it with a hose before going inside. Since they lived in Colorado and it was late October, it iced over fairly quickly. The only other option Peter had was an old dog house his uncle was holding onto for a friend. So Peter grabbed a couple of newspapers from the recycling can, stuffed his shoes and shirt, and crawled inside. When he was discovered in the morning, his uncle couldn’t stop laughing. After apologizing for not hearing him the night before (“Jesus, Peter, quit whining about it. I just didn’t hear you, dummy. It happens.” ), he called him Rover for the rest of the week. When Uncle Obie’s friend—Mr. Beck—finally came over to pick up the doghouse, they both got drunk and made Peter bark for his dinner.
All this to say, Peter was not picky about where he slept (number eight on the List). And in the Forest Hills branch of the Queens public library, that ended up being between dusty stacks of medical reference books and old Times magazines. Peter was scrawny, unassuming, and really good at squeezing between shelves (number twelve, thank you very much).
After his nightmare (memory?) about his parents (which seemed to be picking up in frequency since making the decision to come to New York), he waited for the woman manning the Project SAFE desk to open up the showers and slipped into line between two other “in-crisis” teens looking for help. After showering, he thanked her, left $10 on her desk, and ran out before she could give it back to him. He had to hand it to the Maria Stark Foundation—it would be a pretty helpful program if he were someone who needed it.
Hoisting his backpack on his shoulder, Peter mentally walked through the list of things he needed to do that day: fix the computer, convince Mr. Gargan to hire him full-time, figure out transportation, and, finally, find a new library to sleep in. (He had a rule that served him very well on the road: never stay in the same place twice.) He had about $2 and change left, but he was getting $100 today. That would be good—and hopefully indicative of what Mr. Gargan could pay in the future. Heck, if he ate every other day, and Mr. Gargan had multiple computers to fix, he’d be able to blow this popsicle stand in record time. It was enough to make him absolutely giddy on his walk to the warehouse.
“Fuck, kid. Quit smiling like that; you look like a deranged clown.” Mr. Gargan looked him up and down briefly, and then spat on the hot asphalt. Peter took that as approval and followed him quickly to his office. The foreman grunted and gestured to the computer, leaving Peter alone again almost immediately.
Peter let out a sigh of relief. He knew it was so stupid and ridiculous, but his body always broke out into hives and got shaky whenever he was around certain types of people. There was no rhyme or reason to it either—probably just more evidence that his body was as much of a freak as he was.
Peter unplugged the computer and set both the monitor and the tower on the floor. Sitting cross-legged, under the table, he used the screwdriver set Mr. Gargan practically threw at him before leaving. Peter whistled absently and let himself fall into the trance of repairing the computer. In what felt like no time at all, he was screwing everything back in and pressing the power button. The screen flicked on and Peter tested everything out. He installed a new router he found in the Electronics Express dumpster earlier that morning, and opened up the browser to test the speed. It didn’t crash. He logged onto his burner account to make sure everything worked before finding Mr. Gargan. The man with the large neck and even larger tattoos didn’t seem to be the kind of person who was understanding of mistakes.
>>>>>>>>>>to: spider man, august 11th, 11:49 PM : from: gitc
P–where r u? U missed our last 3 check ins. I think I did something stupid. Pls, report? Did you get the ticket? R u in italy? Need update ASAP. —N
Oh! And HBD!
>>>>>>>>>>to: gitc, august 12th, 1 min ago : from: spider man
i’m fine and in ny. chill, dude–you sent over 100 messages. Can’t see you—too risky. I’ll check in next week, I promise. Stop worrying. wdyd? —P
>>>>>>>>>>to: spider man, august 12th, 5 seconds ago : from: gitc
nothing! I can fix it. Dw. be safe. —N
>>>>>>>>>>to: gitc, august 12th, 3 seconds ago: from: spider man
fix what? —P
>>>>>>>>>>to: gitc, august 12th, just now : from: spider man
N???
Peter heard voices outside of the office and quickly logged out, clearing his cookies, and scrubbing his location. He raised his head as Mr. Gargan burst in, looking angry and agitated.
“It’s ready, then? Good. Get out of my sight.”
Peter stood in the doorway, unsure. “Um…Mr. Gargan?”
The foreman growled as he sat down at his desk and typed into the browser. “Why are you still here?”
“Um, sir. You…you said you’d pay me $100.”
Mac Gargan grunted and kept checking his email. Peter didn’t know where to look, so he opted for his feet, keeping his arms around his chest. (Because Peter knew, better than anyone, that the chest was the weakest part of the body.) Ten minutes later, the foreman acknowledged him.
“Ok, runt, get over here.” Peter walked closer to his desk and did his best to not flinch when Mr. Gargan handed him a small package with the word fragile written in sharpie. It was wrapped in brown paper and had no other markings on it. “Deliver this to this address,” he handed Peter a slip of paper, “and bring back whatever they give you. Keep it hidden in that hideous jacket you're wearing. If you do this, I’ll give you your money.”
“Wait.” Peter began to panic, “You said I’d get $100 for fixing the computer. I fixed the computer.”
“You want money?” The foreman handed him a $10 bill. “You’re free to take this and leave. Walk away and don’t think about coming back or near this place ever again. OR, you can do what I ask you, and I’ll make it worth your time.”
The room felt like it had been sucked of air. Peter felt chills dance up and down his spine. He was not the smartest tool in the drawer, but he knew enough to know what this man was asking him to do—to become. He looked around and found himself stepping back. Mr. Gargan stayed seated. He looked bored, but his hand was dancing near his cellphone, and Peter remembered all the men yesterday who seemed to be extremely loyal to their boss.
“I…I don’t have any way to get places. I mean, I would love to do it, honestly, but I have asthma and I have to be back home before six every night or my mom and dad will get so, so mad, so you can totally see the bind I’m in.”
The man laughed, his scorpion tattoo bouncing on his neck. “I like you, runt.” He stood up. Handing Peter the package, he put his large hand on his back and pushed him through the office door towards the loading bay. A bicycle lay on its side.
“Our last…employee…no longer needs this. You can use it. I expect you back here by 7. I trust you understand why it would be important to not keep me waiting.” He slapped Peter on the back so hard, Peter knew he’d have bruising there.
“Yeah, um, ok. Sounds great. Do you have a helmet? You know half of all accidents in America are caused by improper safety gear…”
Gargan laughed again, and pushed him over to the bike. “Christ, you’re a scream. See you tonight, runt.”
Peter’s exhausted “yeah” wasn’t even heard.
Meanwhile...
Gathered around the conference table, the Avengers sat in a tense silence, reading over the files Natasha had passed over to them. Tony and Pepper walked in, having just put Morgan to bed, and the team shifted seats to make room for the couple. Tony had bruising around his eyes—deep bags from too many sleepless nights. Pepper’s only tell of complete exhaustion were the sneakers she had exchanged with her heels a few hours earlier. Tony cleared his throat.
“J, can you play it?”
“Certainly, sir. This is the audio log from the call the hotline received on the 11th:”
A young voice filled the room.
“H…hello?”
A friendly hotline worker spoke back, “Hello! Thank you so much for calling us. Can I have your name and would you like to tell me where you’re calling from?”
“Um..no–no. That’s ok. I…I saw Mr. Stark…Mr. Iron Man, I mean, had a picture—the picture? Of Pete…of his son, I mean? And I think, I mean, I don’t know if this is helpful at all, shoot, he looked familiar, you know, and I thought maybe I could help point you in the right direction in case I’m right and he needs help. I mean, I don’t know if he needs help, or if it’s really him, you know, there are a lot of doppelgangers in the world, more than you’d think, really, but maybe it might be and if it was and he really did need help, it might be good to get to him before anything happens?”
The voice trailed off. In the background, keystrokes could be heard as the worker took notes. “Ok, thank you sir. This is very helpful, we absolutely welcome calls like this, I’d like to get some more information from you though…could you describ—”
Interrupting, the voice sounds panicked, “Frick. I don’t know if this was a good idea. Listen, he was my roommate at Horizons, in Colorado. He…he ran off six months ago. I…I have no idea where he is now, I just thought it might be a lead, you know.”
“I understand that sir, and we are so grateful for this. Just a few more questions—can you tell us more about him? What is his name? Can you describe him?”
The caller sighs deeply. “Young? I don’t know. He kept to himself. I don’t know his name, I mean, I know his name, but I don’t remember it. I barely knew the dude. We didn’t even talk. Listen, I have to go, this was stupid, please erase this, don’t send this to the Starks—I don’t consent to being recorded.”
“Wait! Do you want to give us a callback number in case you qualify for the reward?”
“No! Just forget this, please. It didn’t happen. These are not the droids you’re looking for…*garbled voices in the background*...shoot. I have to go. Forget this. Bye.”
The room descended into silence. Tony raised an eyebrow at Natasha who nodded once. She gestured to the papers she put in front of them.
“The number associated with this call came from a multi-residence home in Jamaica, Queens. The phone bill is registered to Sandra M. Leeds. Sandra is the paternal grandmother of Edward Leeds, who turned fifteen on July 14th. He commonly goes by Ned. A year ago, Ned’s mother and father sent him to Horizons School for Troubled Youth at the behest of a juvenile court judge after being caught hacking into several government sites. Ned spent eleven months in Horizons and was part of the group we rescued last month. He was put into his grandmother’s custody, after the state discovered his parents accepted money from the judge not to sound the alarm about what was really happening there.”
Sam let out a low whistle. “Poor kid.”
Natasha nodded. “In exit interviews, Ned never mentioned a roommate, and none of the other kids talked about another boy. But most of them haven’t been very forthcoming about their time there, and we still can’t find the person or organization who was bankrolling the operation. The director isn’t talking.”
Tony rubbed his hands over his face wearily. “Do we think it’s credible?”
Clint took over at a look from Natasha. “The most credible we’ve had in awhile. The kid didn’t call for a reward, tries to back out when he loses his nerve, and seems sincere. He definitely knew more than he let on.”
Jarvis interrupted. “Sir, I’ve been running an algorithm on the street photos taken in Grand Junction six months ago per Mr. Leeds's tip. This might interest you.”
A hologram popped up in the middle of the table. Under a street lamp by a bus stop, a small—god, way too small—figure held onto a ratty backpack. Zooming in, Tony could make out a bruised, bespectacled face and curls peeking out of a baseball cap. He was wearing the same “uniform” the boys they rescued last month had—gray sweatpants, gray sweatshirt, and a bright orange bracelet. The next picture Jarvis popped up showed the boy shoving pliers and the broken bracelet under the station bench before stepping onto the bus.
Pepper inhaled sharply and squeezed Tony’s hand. Rhodey let out a broken, “Pete.”
“J–”
“Yes sir?”
“Please invite Mr. Ned Leeds to the Tower tomorrow.”