The Only Living Boy in New York
Tom, get your plane ride on time
I know, your part will go fine.
Hey, I’ve got nothing to do to-day but
Smile, and do-and-do-a-dee-do
And here I am.
The only living boy in New York…
Half of the time we’re going, we don’t know where, we don’t know where…
Here I am.
Here I am… Here I am.
Here. Where exactly is “here”?
Peter frowned at the thought. He wanted to keep his eyes shut, and he really didn’t want to know where “here” was. Peter was certain it would not be pleasant.
But he couldn’t feel his fingers, so he had to open his eyes.
The reason why Peter (as far as he could deduce) could not feel his fingers was because proper circulation to his hands was being cut off by the thick chains wrapped around each wrist, suspending his arms uncomfortably over his head. Annoying, but fine. He could deal with that. He wiggled his fingers experimentally and a tingly, warm feeling spread through them. No need to amputate any fingers! Yay!
Back to the original question. Where is “here”?
He seemed to be in a cell of some kind. The walls were made of metal and unpainted, and there was a reflective glass mirror wall across from where he was situated, like in the movies. He tried not to panic, because one-way glass like that meant he was probably in one of those interrogation rooms, like on Brooklyn 9-9. But Peter was certain that whatever cop came to interview him would not be as good-looking or friendly as Jake Peralta.
The room was otherwise bare. It was boring, and there was no way of knowing how much time had passed. Peter tugged on the chains experimentally, but they didn’t budge. That’s… not fun. Not good at all. Shit. What the hell did he get himself into?
The wall slid open just then. Peter jumped a little. The person who entered the room was unfamiliar, with one of the most forgettable and undeniably government-issue faces Peter had ever seen. This guy looked like every other white guy ever. Full-on ultra-white goyishe Tucker Carlson unseasoned Methodist mayonnaise. Peter almost laughed. This sure as hell was starting to feel like Brooklyn 9-9 at the least. This guy even had on the classic black business suit and sunglasses even though they were indoors.
The man stood inside, not removing his sunglasses. He just looked at Peter, who hung there uselessly, gaping dumbly at the man whilst dangling by his wrists. Then the man smiled. “Peter Parker. It’s good to finally meet you.”
Peter couldn’t resist. He widened his eyes with false surprise. “Did- did the mayonnaise just talk? Did you guys see that?”
The man’s smile didn’t falter. “I want to ask you some questions.”
Peter rolled his eyes and tugged on the chains again, more to make a point than to actually attempt to break free.
The man continued. “Where is James Barnes and Samuel Wilson?”
“They didn’t do anything wrong. We were framed.”
“I asked you a question!” the man shouted, his smile dropping from his face all at once. “Answer me. Where are Barnes and Wilson?”
“I won’t tell you!” shouted Peter in reply. The man pulled something from his pocket - Peter couldn’t tell what it was in the relative darkness - but suddenly the room was flooded with intense light. Horrible, loud scraping sounds emitted from everything, and Peter couldn’t see and he couldn’t hear and everything was screaming at him and grating his ears and was that blood on his cheek? and Peter screamed too and everything echoed but the screaming made it worse and worse and worse and worse-
It all stopped at once. Peter let out a choked sob of relief, but the ordeal was far from over. The man still stood there, sunglasses still over his eyes. Peter understood why he wore them now. He wished he had a pair at the moment.
Blood trickled down his cheek, from his hair. It was dripping onto his head courtesy of his fingernails, which had dug so deep into the palms that blood was dripping onto his face. He moaned again, pitifully.
The man - the evil, horrible man - took a step closer. He held the small thing from his pocket up, and waved it around menacingly. “Answer the damn question, kid. Or I’ll use this thing again. And I don’t think you want that.”
He shivered. “Please- why the hell do you think I walked into the goddamn New York field office of SHIELD? I have proof that we are innocent if you’ll just listen to me-”
The lights and sounds turned back on all at once. Peter blacked out from the overload.
He awoke later. He didn’t know what time it was, or how long he’d been there. He still had his arms hanging above him, and he wiggled his fingers again. Good, there was still circulation. He was hungry; starving, actually. He hadn’t eaten since dinner with Sam and Maggie and Bucky. He missed them, but he didn’t regret what he’d done. Thank god it was he who was getting the heavy interrogation. Thank god it wasn’t Sam or Bucky. He wasn’t sure what the hell he would do if something happened to either of them again.
The door opened, allowing some light into the dismal cell. This time it was a woman, with her hair pulled back in a bun. She wore sunglasses too, but pulled them off as soon as the door was closed. She didn’t smile, but looked appraisingly at the teen with blood on his face and arms, dangling an inch above the floor from his wrists. Jeez. Now that Peter thought about it, he must look pretty bad at the moment. That would only help his case, however. He still had to find a way to communicate with these sickos.
“Can I help you?”he grunted. The woman just frowned.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. She seemed vaguely concerned, but other than that unemotional.
Peter let out a sigh. “Yes. I would love some food. It would also help if you let me down from here.”
“Okay.” The woman started forward, and he flinched back, expecting her to hurt him. She didn’t. She just untwisted the metal from his wrists with a key from her pocket, which he eyed hopefully, but wasn’t able to grab. Once he had been let down, he dropped to the floor ungracefully, rubbing and swinging his arms to restore the feeling in them.
He glanced at the woman as she pocketed the key. “Thank you,” he said quietly. She nodded curtly and left the room, leaving Peter sitting on the floor. She returned a moment later with a tray of food.
Peter smiled. “So the two of you are playing good-cop-bad-cop, huh?” He began to eat.
“No. I’m just a nice person.” She smiled right back at him.
He grunted again and surveyed the contents of the tray. He’d just wolfed down the lumpy mashed potatoes, and there was still a small bowl of soup (French onion, by the looks of it), a roll of bread, and some sad-looking carrots. He started on the carrots greedily. “Do you have any water?” He didn’t care if this was some interrogation strategy, he was gonna milk it for all it was worth.
The woman left again, and returned moments later with a disposable plastic water bottle in hand. He chugged the whole thing double-quick.
The woman watched him eat. “I have some questions.”
“Knew it. Here we fucking go.”
“Why did you turn yourself in?”
That made Peter pause. This whole damn time, no one had stopped to wonder that question. No one had even bothered to think that maybe, just maybe, people could do the right thing for once. Innocent until proven guilty, and all that. “There was no other way. Besides, you guys probably wouldn’t hurt a child too badly. Probably.” He gestured to the dried blood that ran down his arms, and the cuts in his palms and around his wrists from the restraints and the sensory overload.
“Riiight. Sorry about that, everyone was a bit stingy about the whole situation.”
Peter scoffed in reply, halfway through the bowl of soup. “Are you gonna let me talk? I’m not gonna tell you anything you want to know, but once you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll hopefully be happy.” He paused, finished the bowl of soup, and set it down on the tray. “Oh, actually, you probably won’t be happy, because it would mean that you guys were wrong. Like, massively wrong. About a lot of things and a lot of people. Jesus fuck, this is gonna turn the government on its head almost as badly as the scandal with the Hydra infiltration of SHIELD ruined the American intelligence community.” He laughed. The woman looked, for the first time, concerned.
“If you can properly explain to me how you were framed, maybe I’ll listen. Maybe my colleagues will listen.”
“Ok. But first, a deal. If I tell you this now, you gotta promise to stop hunting down my friends. Barnes and Wilson.” He stared at her. “Please.”
She sighed. “I’ll consider it, if what you give us is any good.”
He nodded gratefully. This was something. He’s getting somewhere. He’s achieving the thing that he came here to achieve. “It all started a few months ago. Sam Wilson received a note from someone named the Power Broker, threatening to shut down electricity for the entire East Coast if he didn’t comply with their rules. The Power Broker, by the way, is a Madripoorian crime boss who gave the super serum to the Flag Smashers. Sam had to meet up with the Power Broker, and so he brought along me and his friend Bucky.
“We were trying to negotiate a deal with the Power Broker’s henchmen, but they attacked us, so we attacked back. Those were the people who you found dead. They weren’t innocent civilians. They were bad people, and we didn’t kill them. The Power Broker killed them to frame us in retaliation for going back on our agreement. One thing led to another, and now I’m here.” He let out a breath. That was tiring. He wanted more water.
The woman looked at him for a long moment, appraisingly. He watched her expressions carefully, trying to judge her next actions.
“That’s an awfully complex story,” was all she said.
“But do you believe it?” he replied earnestly. Hopefully.
The woman seemed to be at a loss. “I can’t. Not yet. We have staked too much on this manhunt for it to be… all for nothing. I want to believe you, Peter, I really do. But I can’t.” She appeared to be genuinely sorry. She stood up, and pulled the key from her pocket again. Oh no. That’s not good. That’s not good at all.
She gently took his hands. Peter wanted to cry. “No- no no no. Please- no! I don’t want that!” Now he was crying as she pulled him over to the back wall again, with the chains that were too tall for him, and as he struggled mercilessly, her grip grew stronger on his wrists. “No! Stop! Please, dude, please-” Peter cried out, but she didn’t stop until he was secured back in the restraints. She left, with another pitiful glance back in his direction.
He didn’t understand. He did what they asked- he did what she had wanted! She was supposed to be the nice cop. Why was this happening? Why wasn’t anything going according to plan? Ever?