Peter III
P e t e r
A week after finding David Swan’s decomposing body and seeing Red Suit on the CCTV, Peter found himself outside earlier than usual after Mr Davidson threw a glass at him for interrupting their television programme. He’d calmed himself by fetching his suit and doing some somersaults to stop his hands from shaking. He then got out of Brooklyn as fast as possible.
The police had done the check on Mr Swan, had found his body, and had told the newspapers. Peter had informed Ned when he returned to his house for New Years about the entire situation. Ned, who seemed intrigued about the mystery surrounding Swan, seemed slightly worried over Peter’s intentions. Peter was grateful he’d avoided his confrontation with Mr Davidson, as Ned seemed one worry less of a heart attack.
As it was, Peter – after he’d shaken the glass out of his hair – found himself at the very north of Queens, at the docks that looked toward Ryker’s Island. He had thought, after returning to school two days before, that the Davidson’s volatile behaviour would calm down somewhat. It had apparently made no difference. Considering he’d only lived with them for a month, Peter thought their behaviour was rather alarming. Miss Moore was meant to arrive tomorrow, and the Davidsons had threatened some hefty repercussions if Peter said anything out of line. Which was the reason he’d had a glass thrown at him, because he’d said, “like what?” sarcastically, which they’d caught onto immediately.
He swung himself onto a building site, trying not to sigh. Good thing, too, as far below him, there was a group of people shifting about, apparently waiting for something.
Suspicious men in balaclavas, Peter thought, edging across the scaffolding.
It was a square area, the steel bars still awaiting the walls, and the floor only half-completed. In the corner, cement mixers were still moving. Peter could observe about fifteen people milling around in different spots. Two people were directly below him, looking bored.
“I thought we was getting a shipment next Friday?” said one.
“We still are – apparently, it’s a different supplier, so the Boss changed these lot to today. Means there’s two shipments, and we’ll be all the more richer.”
“Huh, that’s why it’s here, then, is it? Cos Larry told me we was meeting near the airpo –”
“Keep your voice down. But yeah, that’s the Friday one.”
“Wish it was just next Friday,” muttered the first one. “It’s our anniversary tonight, my wife is fuming.”
“Who would you rather face, the Boss or your wife?”
The two men chortled together before being roped into lugging bags of cement across the floor. Peter waited in the shadows for about half an hour before a new group entered the building site. They were carrying lots of boxes.
“Williams,” said one of the men.
‘Williams’ looked irritated. “Don’t say my fucking name, idiot,” he snapped. “It’s Snake, remember?”
“Snake,” cackled the man. “Jesus. Alright, Snake, here’s the shipment.”
Williams yanked one of the boxes open.
“All here, is it? Boss won’t be happy if you didn’t fill the orders again.”
“What orders?” snorted the man. “It’s all fake anyway.”
“Still gotta look real, numskull.”
“Whatever. You got the money?”
Peter, who had started to get a bit numb hovering on the scaffolding for so long, nearly fell off in surprise when Williams whipped out a pistol and shot the man in the head. The rest of his group followed suit, until every last one of the people with boxes were on the ground.
“Sorry, Boss doesn’t like paying the same people twice,” said Williams, his face flashing. “Clean them up.”
It seemed they owned the building site – or certainly operated on it – as all the bodies were dragged over to the part of the floor that had not been completed. After shoving them in, several more members dragged over the barrels and poured cement over the top of the deceased until completely covered.
Peter, who had wanted to go in when the two groups were talking but had realised he would be utterly outnumbered, decided to make some stealthy attacks first. Fifteen people who just murdered about twenty others were not to be trifled with. So, he crept over the scaffolding and various bars, hoisting up the members of the gang who were on guard before they could shout.
He was just finishing off a seventh person when someone finally noticed.
“What the fu – Spider-Man!”
“Hello!” said Peter, giving a wave. He was rewarded by about ten bullets, which he dodged by jumping to the ground and yanking a gun out of a surprised member’s hands. “Thanks, Mister!” he said, before whipping him around the head with it.
He hadn’t fought properly in a while, he realised, as he battled his way through the melee. His surprise attack certainly helped; with the one he whipped with his gun on the floor, it was only seven who remained – and some of them had to run across the building site to join in. So, when he’d webbed three, threw one of the cement mixers at two running across the floor, there were only two left – including Williams.
Using the bars above him, he launched himself into the air before grabbing the last gang member and whipping him up before Williams had a chance to reload.
Shooting two bits of webs to lock Williams in place, Peter walked over to the opened box. Feeling more like himself in weeks – and superbly smug that he had managed to take on the gang with no current injuries – he investigated.
“What is this?” said Peter, letting out a little tut.
Williams bared his teeth. “None of your business.”
“Well, considering you did a very bad deal –” here, Peter eyed the fresh cement. “And you’re in my neighbourhood.”
“The fuck are you going to do, Spider-Man?” cackled Williams. “Bored of cats, are you? Ready to take on the big boys?”
“Well, not sure what you mean about ‘big boys’,” said Peter pleasantly. “But certainly a step up from cats, though I do still make an effort. You know, a lot of people’s cats are like their kids – and well, you wouldn’t want your kid up a tree now would you?”
Williams didn’t seem to know what to say to that, which was what Peter had intended, as he was busy looking at the package.
“Now, I assumed this was a nice regular drug deal until you shot the dealers,” said Peter, unfurling a container of tablets. “But I have a feeling it’s not quite as easy as that.”
“What, know a lot about drugs, do you?”
“No,” said Peter. “I know a lot about diseases. Especially ones with no cure,” he held the container aloft. On the side it read ‘3 tablets a day, advanced liver disease’. “Now, unless they’ve done some remarkable progress, I don’t recall liver disease being curable.”
Williams just smiled.
“Huh,” said Peter. “So, you’re selling fake medication to people who are actually dying.”
His anger, it seemed, had reached a different plane of existence.
“They’re dying anyway,” said Williams. “What’s a little hope?”
“Not much, if you’re scamming them out of money,” said Peter. He rifled through the box. There were a bunch of tablet containers which said ‘5 tablets a day – cancer’ with a note attached to the bag: ‘Snake – add the types only after being ordered.’ “Isn’t that nice?”
Underneath all the bags of tablets, there was a suspicious box which contained five needles, all with a weird looking yellow liquid inside.
“What, branching out, are we?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Williams said. His eyes darted to the needles.
“Hm,” said Peter. The needles felt different to the tablets, for some reason. Before he could take one – in order to observe – there was the unmistakable sounds of sirens. “Ah. Out of time.”
He webbed Williams’ mouth shut before hoisting all those on the floor in a big net of webbing. Leaving a note next to the boxes, he managed to flit away before the first police officer entered the building site, gun already in hand.
His mind was left reeling after the encounter at the docks, so much so that even Derek asked during English the next day whether he was on something. When Peter had told him no, he was just sleep deprived, Derek looked slightly happier.
“Wouldn’t want you going to someone else,” he said. There was an odd undertone to it.
“Never,” said Peter. Ten minutes later, whilst the teacher was talking to a student outside the classroom, he decided that if anyone knew of the weird looking drug he’d found, it was the boy next to him. “Hey, Derek?”
“Mm?” Derek, who had been doodling on the desk, looked up.
“You ever see a – um – well, a needle with yellow liquid?”
Derek made a small, disgusted face.
“Yellow liquid?”
“Yeah, in like a big tube with a needle.”
“Thought you said you didn’t go to someone else?”
“I didn’t – I saw it on the way home, alleyway. Looked weird, so wondered if you knew.”
“Huh, well I don’t really do needles, Parker, that shits a bit heavy,” said Derek. “I can look around – you interested, or something?”
“No,” said Peter, fiddling with his hoodie sleeves. “Just, was, uh, neutrally interested.” Derek snorted at this. “Didn’t want anyone – er – messing with territories or whatever.”
“Aren’t you sweet?”
Peter shrugged, pushing up the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Fucking hell,” said Derek.
Peter looked at him. Derek’s eyes were trained on his arm, which was still mottled from the night before where someone had landed a punch. He shoved the sleeve back down.
“Rough,” said Derek. His eyes still remained on the sleeve but seemed rather unsurprised. Peter was weirdly grateful it hadn’t been Ned, who would have freaked out.
“It is what it is,” said Peter.
“I get it, can’t say I haven’t been there,” said Derek. He used his chin to point at a boy five rows in front. “That dude is named Will, and one time he came in after his stepdad beat him, and the school actually had to call CPS. And they –” he pointed out someone else. “Got in a skirmish in the playground with their brother about money. Didn’t see them for like two months.”
“So, prevalent here, is it?” Peter asked.
Derek snorted. “That’s one way to say it.”
Peter let out a grin, too, though he was pretty sure it was more of a pained grimace.
“Anyway, I get topped up next Friday, I’ll ask then,” said Derek, stretching out as the teacher walked back in.
Next Friday, went Peter’s brain, like a microwave ding.
FridayFridayFriday.
Peter stilled. He knew where – he hopefully knew where, he amended – he could find some. Didn’t those members say there was another shipment coming? A different buyer, a different dock. There weren’t that many docks that could hide a deal going down. And didn’t they say it was near the airport?
LaGuardia, thought Peter.
“Er – Parker?”
“Huh?”
“I said, the class is over,” said Derek. He stood next to his desk. “You sure you’re alright, Parker? Foster parent hit you in the head or something?”
“Something like that,” Peter forced a laugh. “Thanks, by the way.”
Derek shrugged. “No problem. Besides, I’m as interested as you if there’s something new on the market, whether I sell it or not.”
Peter fervently wished the next shipment was that Friday instead of the week after. January had started cold and miserable, along with Peter’s mood. The only thing pulling him through was the jittery excitement he held over the fact that he’d soon do his very own stakeout – and, of course, a nice weekend at Ned’s. Not that the Davidsons were aware, though they would figure it out when he eventually came back on Sunday. Peter wasn’t looking forward to that. The day after his chat with Derek, Mrs Davidson had tried to cuff him round the head when he’d overcooked some vegetables. His spider sense had reacted before he could – dodging out the way in a behaviour no normal person could pull off. It meant, after a scowl, that he had to ignore every nerve in his brain when she tried it again.
She hit hard, too. Which meant that on his return Sunday, she’d probably hit him again.
Not that Peter worried about it (much). At Ned’s, it was normal. There wasn’t any yelling, nor was there a steady stream of beer bottled entering the house because someone’s job was on the line (that, too, had put Peter’s nerves on edge).
They spent the entire time gaming, building legos, and seeing how much Peter could eat. Then, on Sunday, Peter did a day shift of Spider-Man circling the Lower East Side, which he hadn’t done in a while, and because Ned was visiting his cousin and was heading into Manhattan anyway. It was a lot more fun using the higher tower blocks than it was in Queens and Brooklyn, and to reiterate that Spider-Man was here for all the little guys, not just those in Queens.
There hadn’t been much crime that Sunday; a kid had walked off from his dad, and thankfully reunited, some tourists asked for directions, and a man had tried to steal a moped. There had, however, been a gang attempting to abduct an apparently unpaying customer in an alleyway. Spider-Man had sorted them out, but Peter had been kicked in the face by a rather flexible member (who had looked as shocked as Peter had been).
His bravado as Spider-Man vanished when re-entering the Davidson’s house late afternoon. The air was tense as he walked down the hall, making his nerves prickle.
A shadow fell on him as he attempted to get to the stairs.
“I thought I’d told you that you cannot leave without permission,” Mr Davidson’s voice was slightly slurred.
“You can’t control that,” said Peter. Sometimes, he wished he could ignore things.
“What happened to your face?” Mr Davidson asked abruptly.
Puzzled at the sudden change, Peter looked at him.
“What?”
Very quick for someone who had obviously been drinking all afternoon, Mr Davidson lurched forward and grabbed his chin.
“Black eye,” he said, poking at Peter’s eye. Peter let out a pained sort of grunt. He’d forgotten about his face being kicked. “What the fuck have you been up to.”
This would have been a concern from a lot of people – Ned would have known why but still would be worried, and May would’ve wanted to go after the gang herself – but Mr Davidson seemed to sound rather gleeful.
“You’ve been fighting, haven’t you?” Mr Davidson shook Peter’s head, still in his grip. “What, need the extra cash?”
Peter, grasping at the excuse without thinking, nodded slightly.
“Hah,” said Mr Davidson. “Well, then. That gives me all the more reason to do this.”
Letting go of his chin, and allowing Peter to take a step back, Mr Davidson raised his fist. Peter’s spider sense realised what was happening a second before he did.
The fist connected to his cheek. If Mr Davidson had been sober, Peter was sure it could have been harder. As it was, it still hurt like a bitch, but it hadn’t been his worst punch. It did leave Peter blinking in rapid succession, which he guessed was shock.
He’d never been hit as Peter Parker before.
“There,” said Mr Davidson. “Now it’ll match.”
He raised his fist again.
“Paul,” snapped Mrs Davidson from behind. “Leave it.”
“What?”
“He’s got school tomorrow.”
“Whatever,” Mr Davidson lowered his arm. Peter did not relax. “Just go to your room.”
Trembling slightly, Peter walked as carefully as he could up the stairs without breaking into a run. He didn’t – he couldn’t – give them the satisfaction that they’d won. Without turning on the lights, Peter sunk onto the single bed and sat staring at the wall.
Peter found his supermarket job a saving grace on the lead up to Friday night, mainly due to him being able to leave the house without getting hit for it. Though he could only work very limited hours due to his age (which bugged him to no end), and only a few times a week, he still pretended he worked overtime in order to stay out later. Mr Davidson’s job had been reduced to part time after he’d hit Peter round the face. At school, Derek had given him a little bag of pills (“No charge,” he’d said), which Peter had slipped into his pocked without looking at it, and continued trying to hide his face with his hood. His main concern was that the black eye would be gone the next day, along with the bruise along his cheekbone. After school, Mr Davidson was so angry about his job that Peter had turned and walked straight back out, regardless of the repercussions later.
At the supermarket, everyone left him alone to stock shelves, which was perfect for Peter, who could keep a low profile and clasp the nice amount of cash in his hand at the end of every week. He had begun to worry about Mr Davidson sniffing out the money now that his job was gone, especially if he thought he was fighting for extra cash. Since the beginning of the job, he’d shoved the earnings into the ceiling with his Spidey suit. So not to arouse suspicion if someone did come snooping, Peter put $20 for each week he’d worked in a drawer. Just in case.
He managed to piss Mr Davidson off on Friday evening so he would get pushed out the house early again. After rubbing his cheek sourly for ten minutes, he’d then scoffed a hot dog a vendor gave him for free on the way over to the docks – and tried not to get indigestion from swinging.
The docks near the airport were mainly full of shipping containers. The containers made corridors handy for dealings, especially at nighttime, with very high stacks that allowed Peter a good vantage point. Peter used his stealth to not make any noise as he slunk over the containers, watching for any signs of movement. He climbed up higher towards some platform with large, thick railings.
In the end, he needn’t have worried, as the dealers had not yet arrived. Who had arrived already made Peter’s heart go clunk in his chest as everything came back. In his interest over the weird drugs he’d found, Peter had forgotten about the footage he’d seen of the car crash. Now, however, it was thrust right back.
Right in front of him, and bold as brass, was the red suited man from the CCTV footage. He was tall, taller than Peter and Mr Stark, with black marks around his eyes and scattered along the suit’s torso. Similar to Spider-Man, yet completely separate at the same time. There were two swords strapped to his back, and Peter could make out a disconcerting number of knives and guns strapped around his legs.
This man had killed people, that much was obvious. The man in the alleyway had not been a one-off, spur-of-the-moment I-accidently-shot-a-man deal.
Spider-Man had never – intentionally – killed anyone. Peter supposed it was some sort of naïve desire that killing would not solve anything (when had it? It hadn’t helped the man who shot Ben in the bodega. It hadn’t helped the assailant who killed May. These were somehow forgotten in Peter’s current mood.). Now, however, with the glaring light of realisation glinting in his eyes, contending with the burning rage over May’s death, Peter looked toward the red-suited man with an openness he had not thought possible. This man was, potentially, the answer.
Not that the man had seen him yet; whatever powers he had, it certainly wasn’t hearing abilities like Peter. He was sat on the railing fiddling with something on his lap, his legs swinging to and fro. It was a strange juxtaposition to the variety of weapons attached to his person, but who was Peter to judge.
Edging forwards, Peter deliberated over how exactly to garner the man’s attention. He didn’t exactly want to surprise him in case a gun would be unceremoniously shoved in his face, but he’d already been watching him for far longer than normal. Instead, he moved quietly back up the wall in the middle of the platform to the roof of it. Scuffing his foot on the floor to make noise, Peter then launched forwards and landed, quite expertly, on the railing a few metres down (close enough to chat, but far enough not to be the receiving end of one of the swords).
In fairness to Red Suit, he did not react too much to Peter’s sudden appearance. He did, however, drop his crayon. They both watched it fall over the side and tumble towards the ground until Peter flicked his wrist and yanked it back up with some webbing.
“Oh good,” said Red Suit. “That one is my favourite.”
Peter stared at the red crayon in his hand before throwing it back to the other man.
“Do you like my drawing? I made it specially,” said Red Suit. He held up the piece of paper he was holding – the thing, Peter presumed, that had been occupying his attention. The paper had a cartoon drawing of Peter as Spider-Man and the Red Suit man hugging. A speech bubble popped out the top of Red Suit that said: ‘best buds!’.
“I was thinking matching T-Shirts,” said the man.
Peter stared at him.
“Matching badges?”
Peter’s mouth opened slightly.
“No? Handshake? Smoothie dates? Give me something here, kid,” said the man, swinging his legs again.
“Who are you?” asked Peter instead.
It was hard to tell, but the man looked delighted at this.
“Well, well, Spider-Baby,” he said. “I’m Deadpool.”
“Deadpool?”
“Sexy, huh?” Deadpool cocked his head. “Never heard of me?”
“N-no,” said Peter.
“Well ain’t that a kick in the balls,” replied Deadpool, stretching his arms above his head, before flipping back to land on the platform. “And here I thought we were already friends.”
Peter blinked at him, looking him up and down.
“Uh, should I have heard of you? Has anyone else?”
“I am a man of mystery,” said Deadpool. “No one knows who I am.”
“I thought you were called Wade,” said Peter.
“What’s that now?”
“It’s on your cassette player,” said Peter. He pointed at his belt.
“Well fuck,” said Deadpool-slash-Wade. “There goes my anonymity.” He didn’t sound that fussed, and Peter couldn’t quite make out if he was joking. “Anyhoo, I’m currently investigating, so shall we chat whilst working?”
“What are you investigating?” asked Peter.
Deadpool tilted his head. “The same as you, I guess. People in balaclavas unloading some sketchy shit? Doing some dealsies?”
“Um, yeah.”
“A-may-zing,” said Deadpool. He fished out two handguns. “Now, I’ve got these bad boys for the first instance, which suit me alright. You good?”
“I don’t use weapons,” said Peter.
“How altruistic,” said Deadpool. “Suit yourself.” He held his guns in the air. “Now, this gives me a sense of déjà vu, like the writer didn’t realise she was repeating the first scene of my movie.”
“What?”
Deadpool shrugged. “Different bad guys, this time. I’m still dealing with the others. This is like, a movie in a movie that happens on the side of the first movie. Does that make sense?”
“No,” said Peter.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Deadpool.
Before Peter could question Deadpool’s sanity, the man jumped off the railing and landed on one of the ship containers with surprising grace. Deadpool gestured him over enthusiastically with his hand, even though he was still in speaking distance. Peter hopped off the railing too.
“Do the webs come out of you?” asked Deadpool.
“No,” said Peter. “Why would you ask that?”
“Just trying to figure out which one you are,” said Deadpool. He was busy lying himself on the top edge of the container in a position remnant of Rose in the Titanic. “Now get busy, we need to ask some questions.”
Peter didn’t really know what to do, so sat down on the edge of the container.
“Ugh,” said Deadpool. “We’ll work on that when we do the next team up.”
“Who are we waiting for?”
“Baddies,” Deadpool shifted his position. “I think we’ve got a few minutes. What did you want with me, spandex?”
Peter ignored the fact that Deadpool also was wearing spandex, and instead focused on his task.
“Why did you shoot the man who crashed the car into Volpe’s supermarket?”
“Oooh,” breathed Deadpool. “Has Spider-Man been investigating me?”
Peter wrinkled his nose under his mask. “Why did you shoot him?”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Deadpool, running a finger up and down the edge of the container.
“Because that car killed my a – someone close to me,” Peter said through gritted teeth.
“Oo, a mystery,” said Deadpool. “Well, if you must know (and you do, for this story to get a move on), the guy who stole the car was someone I was following –”
“Following?”
“I wasn’t pursuing when he was in the car,” said Deadpool, sounding insulted. “I was merely following by the rooftops. Anyway, he’d stuck the accelerator down so it would crash. A way to destroy the evidence I was looking for.”
“Evidence?”
“They’d used it to kidnap this girl I was trying to find. Hence,” Deadpool paused at ‘hence’ and gestured to himself. “I must investigate.”
Peter frowned.
“Kidnapped girl?”
“Mm it’s when a person – in this case, a girl – is taken withou-”
“I know – Jesus – I know what it means,” Peter interrupted, rolling his eyes beneath the mask. “I mean – what are you talking about? There was no mention of a girl.”
“What, in the police reports? Don’t make me laugh,” at this, Deadpool let out a very loud, fake laugh. “You’re a goody two-shoes, aren’t you? Do you believe everything you read in the news, too?”
Peter bristled. “No,” he said, unconvincingly.
“Cops couldn’t be bothered to do shit,” said Deadpool. “The car was used a year ago for the kidnapping.”
“But the car wasn’t stolen a year ago, it was stolen in October.”
“Ah, you’ve been investigating too, haven’t you?”
“Something like that.”
Deadpool wiggled slightly to get comfortable.
“So, you’re here for the girl?” Peter asked, struggling to maintain conversation. “I thought you said you were here for the dealing.”
“No,” Deadpool pause, cocking his head. “Well. Sort of. Let’s say that they might have information I can use to take down a bigger operation.”
“You mean the fake medication?”
Deadpool did a comical turn to look, hands on either side of his face.
“You already know?” He cocked his head. “Wait. Does that mean you weren’t here to see me?”
“I – I didn’t even know who you were,” Peter reminded him. “But, I saw you on the CCTV footage. I didn’t realise you’d be here today. I stumbled upon a shipment and they mentioned Friday.”
“Interesting,” said Deadpool. “So, I –”
“Sh,” said Peter suddenly. His back went rigid. “They’re here.”
“I like that,” Deadpool said, gesturing towards him. “What is it? Like a little sensy-thing? Oh-my-god, Spidersense.”
“Er – yeah,” said Peter.
“Shh, they’re coming! Get to your places!”
Peter, not knowing what to do, stood awkwardly behind Deadpool as he laid himself back out again. He assumed that a stealth operation was not on the cards this time.
His brain was slightly fuzzy with half-given information, which was rather distracting in the face of an impending fight. He twitched slightly as his brain tried to put everything together. Deadpool, the man who at that very moment was apparently trying to sort out a wedgie, was investigating a year-old kidnapping of a young girl – well, Peter assumed she was young – who … Peter didn’t know that yet. David Swan’s car had been stolen by the man who crashed it, who was in turn purposefully crashing it to destroy evidence … from Deadpool, who was … investigating the a year-old kidnapping.
Peter’s brain started to hurt.
But, it told him. Deadpool still knew about the fake medication.
So, somehow, the man who had crashed the car – and potentially had kidnapped the girl – had links to the fake medication situation that Peter was attempting to figure out. Deadpool had somehow known about the fake medication too, and known about the shipment.
The footage from the CCTV rose unbidden into his mind. Deadpool shooting the man in the forehead and tossing him into a dumpster. This guy killed a man at point blank range. Peter’s brow furrowed. But the man killed May. He was just too dead to realise. The memories didn’t stop, instead, Deadpool was replaced by Uncle Ben, bleeding out and trying to tell Peter something he was never able to. May was there, too, resting against the rubble and dead before Peter could even speak to her one last time.
Breathing getting rather heavy, Peter thought about the men that were just arriving. They were walking around the containers towards them. Deadpool will murder them. He will kill them all after getting information. Peter’s brain short-circuited and – forgetting his thirst for revenge – started freaking out. It felt as though his asthma was back as he struggled to take in a breath. Deadpool, who had seemingly got bored waiting for the men, glanced over at him. If his mask was off, Peter guessed it would be concerned.
“Don’t kill anyone,” Peter said, slightly desperately. “I can’t – I don’t – that’s not my MO. Well – not, it hasn’t been –”
“Jeez, calm down, Spidey,” said Deadpool, sounding rather perturbed by Peter’s sudden panic. “OK. I’ve dealt with your kind before. Take a breath, baby.”
Peter let out a big sigh and tried to control himself. What was going on with him lately? He’d never freaked out like that as Spider-Man before. He gave himself a little shake. Get yourself together, Parker.
The men turned the corner towards them. Only seven, in total, which was rather peculiar considering the amount from the other night. None of them were talking much but had their guns out pointing around shadowy corners. They walked right below where Deadpool and Peter were without noticing.
“The shipment is in that one,” one of the men said, jutting his chin towards a blue container. “Watch out for Spider-Man.”
“Er, if we’re looking for Spider-Man, shouldn’t we be looking up?” said another man.
As one, each member looked up.
“Hello!” said Deadpool brightly.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Aw, man, come on – surely you know me!”
“Spider-Man’s behind him!”
“That is so unfair,” Deadpool complained. A second later, a bullet lodged itself in his stomach. “Ouch!”
Peter jumped up to avoid the rest of the bullets and fired two webs towards a lamppost. The men tried to shoot as he shot over their heads, but Peter sailed over too quickly. Coming to a rest on the top of the light, he called down.
“We’re just here for information!”
Another shot.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” Peter continued, jumping off and swing around, kicking one man in the chest as he went. “We just want to know who makes this stuff!”
Deadpool, who had knocked out two guys by pistol whipping them, nodded in earnest. “And, you know, a kidnapping. Easy answer stuff. Multiple choice! Yes, no, and … well, dead, I suppose.” He slammed his face against a large man’s nose. Peter wasn’t sure how he was fighting after getting shot in the stomach, but didn’t think much of it as he was busy punching someone in the face.
The rest of the men didn’t respond; evidently, one of them had a radio they’d used to call in backup, for moments later a much larger group came charging round the corner.
“You’re going down, Spider-Man!” shouted one.
“That one,” said Peter, launching himself back up in the air. “That is the one. The original line that takes the cake today. How did you get so inspired, sir? Can I get your autograph for my book of completely-original-and-not-at-all-cliche one-liners?”
The man yelled gibberish in response.
Peter grinned underneath the mask. It was much more fun fighting groups than saving a cat. He just wished he was better at hand-to-hand combat, like Deadpool evidently was, as he had to remain in the air to make sure he wasn’t overcome easily. He was doing a fine job, though, if he did say so himself. Deadpool, too, was managing not to murder anyone as he slammed his way through.
“We’ll take these two,” Deadpool said, as though in conversation, when there were only three remaining. He pointed at two men, one of whom was slightly weedy and sweating profusely. The third man did not look pleased.
“What do you mean –”
Peter roundhouse kicked him and webbed the two Deadpool pointed at.
“Nice,” said Deadpool appreciatively. He took his katanas out of their holsters and meandered up to the struggling men. Focussing on the weedy one, he placed the blade against the man’s throat. Peter tried very carefully not to squeak.
“We’d like some information from you,” said Deadpool, his voice lowering to something dark and sinister. “And my buddy over there doesn’t like killing people.” The weedy one looked relieved. “But,” Deadpool continued, and Weedy’s face dropped. “He didn’t say nothing about maiming.”
Peter’s stomach dropped very suddenly as a thin red line appeared on Weedy’s throat.
“What – what do you want to know?” gasped Weedy.
“The group that kidnaps those who can’t pay – I’m looking for a man named Paul Hawkins,” said Deadpool. “Any ideas of where I can find him?”
“N-no! I’ve never heard of him. I – I don’t know about the kidnappings, I just do deliveries!”
“Hm,” said Deadpool. In a flash, he stabbed Weedy in the shoulder. Weedy shrieked. Peter tried not to throw up. “Remember anything now?”
“No – I told you, we don’t know!” Weedy wailed. “I’m not even meant to do the deals! I don’t know why I’m here today!”
“Then you’re fucking useless!” Deadpool punched him in the stabbed-shoulder, and then proceeded to knock him out. Weedy crumpled.
The other guy, who had rather big ears, seemed to be trying not to cry.
“Do you have anything for me?” Deadpool asked. “Maybe what’s going on here, and the medication situation?”
“No – I don’t – we don’t know –” said Big Ears. “We just know the locations. I don’t normally come either, I’m like the back up of back up. The bottom of the barrel!” Deadpool made a move towards him. Big Ears carried on hurriedly. “Most are constructions sites. They’re across the whole city, not just – well – it’s spread out.” Deadpool grabbed his throat and began to squeeze.
“Where’s the next one?”
“O-over in Battery P-park,” gasped Big Ears as Deadpool squeezed harder.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve barely been helpful.”
He slammed the handle of the katana against his temple. Big Ears went down without even a grunt.
“Well this was rather fun,” said Deadpool, turning away and skipping through the bodies. “Though, it’s much more fun when you get to kill people.”
“How is that more fun?” Peter said, still shaken from the interrogation. At least it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be.
“Have you ever killed someone?” Deadpool asked. “Because it feels fucking fantastic, you know.”
“I’ll keep with apprehending,” said Peter.
“You reaaaaaally should punch harder,” Deadpool got quite close. “I know it’s in you somewhere.” He said in a sing-song voice. Peter tried not to shiver. Deadpool did not seem to be … well, he was downright insane. He watched him warily, but Deadpool had continued skipping, now humming Dancing Queen. He seemed to be rifling through each person’s belongings and running commentary on them.
Peter looked into the shipping container. It was empty apart from a table. He frowned. That was weird, right? They said they were picking something up.
Deadpool said something from outside. Peter usually heard a lot, but as he wasn’t concentrating, he had to leave the oddly empty shipping container to ask again.
“I’m off!” Deadpool shouted from the other side of the empty area, the bodies between them. He’d apparently finished his looting.
“Wait – wait,” Peter swung over. “You barely told me anything!”
“Didn’t I?” Deadpool kicked one of the unconscious men’s hands.
“No! You just said about a girl –”
“Oh yeah,” Deadpool stood on the man’s hand. There was a loud crunch. “These guys didn’t know shit, did they? Typical. Only got one more to find.”
“One more to find? I thought you were looking at the medication –”
“You can do more than one thing at a time,” said Deadpool. “I’m out of the nice-y nice today, Spider Baby. We can do this again,” he gestured to the unconscious men. “In Battery Park. Maybe I’ll give you my number.”
Peter assumed he winked under the suit, which made him uncomfortable, but before he could respond, Deadpool sprinted down the corridor of containers. It would have been easy to catch him, but Peter didn’t particularly want to – especially when he’d just said his nice level had disappeared.
Instead, Peter webbed up onto a container and watched the planes come into land as he caught his breath. He could see Deadpool in the distance, running out from the containers and diving head-first into a waiting taxi. How peculiar.
Heaving a sigh, and realising he wasn’t any wiser than this morning – even with meeting Deadpool, the crazy man from the CCTV – Peter began a slow swing back to Crown Heights.
Peter had never seen so many bottles in the trash before. He’d been tasked with lugging them outside for bin collection – one that would be pretty hard for a regular fifteen-year-old, considering there were about ten bags. Peter had to pretend to drag them across the floor as Mrs Davidson sneered at him, as though he’d been the one who drunk them all, and not her husband, who had passed out on the couch. At least it hadn’t hurt – it was more of an effort to pretend to suffer than actually dragging them, but Peter did a rather good job. Mrs Davidson looked smug at the end, at least.
He was pretty sure Mr Davidson had been turning up to work drunk, which Peter didn’t think was a sensible plan if the job was already on the line.
Whatever, doing the job meant that he could meet up with Ned – who was actually coming to Brooklyn this time. Ned knew that the Davidsons weren’t great – considering the change of school – and that Peter had very firmly said he couldn’t come round, but had suggested a café nearer Crown Heights so that Peter didn’t have to travel to Queens. It was also because Ned had family over at the weekend, meaning Peter could not stay and Ned obviously felt extremely guilty.
When Peter arrived, it was bustling, which suited him fine. Ned had squeezed himself into a small booth right at the back – hopefully meaning they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Dude,” Peter said, after they’d been given their bucket-sized hot chocolates. “You won’t believe who I met yesterday.”
Ned, of course, perked up at this.
“Ohmygod who,” he said eagerly. He paused. “I thought you’d met most of the Avengers.”
“No no, not that calibre,” said Peter. “It’s more on my line, vigilante style. Except,” Peter frowned slightly. “I hope.”
Ned’s eyes lit up anyway. “Who?”
“Have you ever heard of a guy called Deadpool?”
Ned’s eyes widened, though Peter did not know if it was fear or excitement. Knowing Ned, it was probably both.
“Deadpool?” Ned squeaked.
This time, it was Peter who perked up.
“You’ve heard of him?”
“You haven’t?” Ned’s face was a mixture. “He’s like, scary, man. Like, he kills people.”
“Like the Punisher?”
Peter and Ned had watched in morbid fascination the Punisher/Frank Castle case. As well as the things the Punisher had done. It had made Peter rather sick, in the end, that May had stopped them from watching it. Ned had continued his investigations, and often made off-hand comments about either his kill count, his court case, or his lawyer being extremely cool. Peter tended to tune it out, even though he
Well, when they’d been at Midtown, anyway.
“Yeah,” said Ned.
“Where does he normally patrol?”
Ned shrugged. “No where specific. A lot of people have guessed he lives in the Bronx area though. He’s kind of an enigma.”
“Interesting,” said Peter.
“Why were you meeting Deadpool?”
“I told you about the construction site last week, right? Well, I remembered them mentioning a shipment on Friday, so I went to stake it out. Deadpool is also looking into it – something about a missing girl. He knows about the fake medication, too. Seemed to be quite personal.”
“Did you find anymore of the needles?”
“No,” Peter furrowed his eyebrows at this, taking a sip. “It was weird, really. There were barely anyone involved – and even with back up we knocked them out really quickly. Deadpool kept two for interrogation. One of them said he never does deals normally, and the other said the next one is in Battery Park. He never said when, though. But the weirdest thing was that the shipping container was empty.”
“Were they there to drop something off?”
“They can’t have been, they didn’t have anything on them.”
Ned looked slightly concerned.
“That sounds pretty dodgy,” he said. “Is it – er – safe to keep investigating? Especially with Deadpool in the mix.”
“Why wouldn’t it? I’ve only seen the medication once. I’ve barely got any evidence.”
“Maybe you should tell Mr St –”
“Come off it,” said Peter. “He didn’t believe me last time, and that was when he was in ish contact with me.”
Ned still looked troubled.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” Peter said. “How’s Decathlon?”
Ned shrugged. “Flash took your space, he’s back to being a dickhead again.”
“He’s not causing you problems, is he?”
“No,” said Ned. “MJ sorts him out anyway. She’s cool.”
Peter smiled and, for a little while, pretended that everything was absolutely perfect.