A Stark Contrast

Peter Parker had never been one for religions, but he still knew that he was going to Hell. He was going to spend his afterlife—if it was real—suffering in the fiery pits of doom.

He figured he deserved it.

Besides, if Hell was supposed to be where sinners got to suffer for their undead life, he had already gotten used to it. Being Spider-Man didn’t pay the bills, and he was living, or rather, trying to live, on New York rent.

He was still homeless. Well, technically he was living somewhere, but it was an abandoned building that had yet to be torn down. It was pretty disgusting when he found it, but it was still better than nothing.

He decided to call it his home, for now.

Peter didn’t really mind, though. He had run from the orphanage quite a while ago. They had even stopped putting up missing posters. He assumed they thought he was dead.

I wish, he thought.

He had managed to survive so far by begging for money or food. If he couldn’t get anything by begging, then he would steal if he needed to.

Sometimes, though, people just looked at the small seventeen-year-old (the lack of sufficient nutrients had stunted his growth a little bit, and he was definitely way more skinny than he used to be) and gave him things because they pitied him. Peter oftentimes woke up to find a jacket on top of him with a couple dollar bills inside the pockets. Someone had even given him fifty dollars once.

He had spent some of it on a bottle of vodka, a water bottle, and some granola bars (with chocolate chips, obviously—he still wanted something good). He pocketed the rest for later.

At the moment, he was sitting on a Central Park bench. He wasn’t doing much; he just wanted to watch the people, maybe stop a criminal or two if the situation arose.

He kinda hoped nothing bad happened. Peter didn’t want innocent people to get hurt. He didn’t want for innocent people to have their things taken viciously or for them to be attacked.

Funny, Peter remarked to himself. Don’t you steal from stores?

He waved away the thought. It was okay, he had reasoned to himself multiple times prior: he never attacked anyone, and no one in the stores was ever aware of it. Plus, he had been stealing a little bit less. He tried to pay for as many things as he could, but he also always stashed away about half of the money he received through begging. It was going towards getting himself an apartment and then a suit once he turned eighteen.

“Hey, you okay there, bud?” A girl’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up at her. She looked about his age, and she had long, curly, brown hair. She looked almost as disheveled as he did in her slightly oversized black jacket, white T-shirt, and almost-pastel green pants.

“Yeah, I’m A-okay,” he responded. “No need to worry.”

“So then if I sit there, you won’t mind?” She gestured at the spot next to him on the bench where his backpack was. Peter shook his head and put it on the ground in front of him. “Coolio.”

The girl pulled out a small paper bag from her coat pocket. She reached into the bag, and Peter tensed for a minute until she pulled her hand back out and threw the bread crumbs onto the ground. Some birds flocked over to the crumbs, and the girl smiled a light smile. She then pulled out a small notepad out of her other pocket, as well as a pencil. He watched as she sketched the birds.

“So,” she said, not even looking up from her drawing. “What’s your story?”

Peter hadn’t really expected for anyone to ever ask that, surprisingly enough.

“Uh, I’ve kinda been on my own for the past year.”

At that, she did look up.

“No way.” She was shaking her head at him. “You’re at most, like, sixteen.”

“Seventeen,” he corrected. “And yes way.” He lifted up his dirty hoodie to show her the grossly skinny state of his torso. “See?”

“Damn, dude.” The girl looked back down at her drawing, and resumed sketching while she took a moment to think of what to say next. “What happened?”

Peter shrugged. “All my relatives died, and I couldn’t stand the foster system for very long.”

The girl scoffed. “That’s fair,” she said. “From what I hear, it sucks.”

Peter chuckled. “Yeah.” Peter frowned. “At least there, though, I might not be hungry right now.” Peter shrugged again. “Oh well.”

The girl looked at him again. “Dude, you’re weird.” She chuckled, put her pencil down, and stuck out her hand. “Michelle, but you can call me MJ,” she greeted.

“Peter.” He took her hand and shook it. “So, how old are you?”

MJ looked down at her drawing again and continued to work on it.

“Seventeen, same as you,” she answered.

Peter nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.

“And what’s your story?”

MJ sighed. It wasn’t a sigh like she was bored or irritated. It was more like she had… forgotten to breathe?

“I’m pretty normal, I guess. My parents are both still alive, so I live with them. Uh, I go to this fancy smart kid school, but it’s often pretty boring.” She paused for a minute. “Don’t really have any friends there, except for this one guy who’s pretty okay, I suppose.”

“Doesn’t sound nearly exciting enough for me,” Peter laughed.

“Oh, yeah, it’s definitely not like starving in the streets.” MJ looked at him and smiled. “High school’s definitely worse.”

“Yeah, sounds about right. Then again, I only went for, like, two years, so what do I know?”

MJ laughed. “Well, my third year ends in about a month.”

“Fun,” Peter remarked.

“Yep.” MJ continued drawing.

The two of them sat on the slightly splintered park bench for at least another forty-five minutes, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in silence. Peter sometimes watched as MJ drew, the sketch now being made from memory as the birds were long gone by then. She was almost done, he noticed, and he felt a little disappointed. Not disappointed in the drawing or anything, but disappointed that she was going to leave, and she seemed interesting and was one of the only to talk to him like he was a normal person and not some little boy to be pitied.

He appreciated that way more than he realized.

“And,” she began, drawing the word out, “there we go!” She took the notepad off her lap and held it up to show Peter. He noticed her drawing style was a sort of mix between realism and cartoonism.

He liked it.

“That’s really good,” he smiled.

“Thanks.” She put it back in her lap again and started to write something on it. Peter frowned in confusion. MJ put her pencil back in her pocket and then ripped out the paper. “Take it.”

“Really?”

A drawing was probably the most unique and weirdest thing someone had given him since he ran away.

“Yeah,” she told him. “Just a sec, though.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out her wallet, and got out a ten dollar bill. “Take this too. Buy yourself some damn McNuggets or something.”

Peter chuckled and accepted both things.

“Thanks, MJ.”

She smiled and nodded at him before standing up. She stuck out her hand and he took it.

“See you ‘round,” she promised.

“Maybe,” he replied. He hoped he would see her. MJ waved at him before walking away, and Peter watched her walk a couple feet before he looked back at her drawing, and he finally noticed what she had added at the last second.

If you ever need any help, give me a call: 718-555-3749. Don’t call during school hours though, or I will fight you next time I see you. - MJ.

Peter laughed. He folded the paper and put it in his pants pocket, making a mental note to make sure he took it out when he got back to his hideout. He leaned over and grabbed his backpack, putting it over his shoulders, and he started walking home.

On his way, he passed by a McDonald’s and decided what the hell? He bought himself a twenty piece McNugget with the money MJ gave him. Peter decided that, since it felt much nicer in the restaurant than outside, that he was going to sit down and eat his nuggets while they were still nice and hot.

Peter was just oh-so-lucky that someone had decided to try to rob the restaurant with a gun before he had even gotten halfway through his nuggets.

Typical, he thought.

A majority of the customers immediately swarmed to the exits, while some simply ducked down under the tables and continued to eat their meals in awe and shock. Peter, in the commotion, ran to the bathroom and took his Spider-Man suit out from his backpack.

“Why did it have to be this McDonald’s?” he muttered to himself.

Once he had changed and left his civilian clothes and backpack in the stall, he hurried out of the bathroom.

“Hey man!” he said to the robber. “If you want their money so bad, why don’t you get a job? I mean, I know it’s only minimum wage but…”

Peter shot a web into the robber’s face, and while the man struggled to remove it, he shot another web at the gun and pulled it out of the man’s hand. He then walked up to the man and stared at him in slight disgust.

Peter punched the man in the face and then webbed his hands together.

“Call the cops,” he told the wide-eyed and terrified employee. The employee nodded and went towards the back.

Peter punched the man again.

And again.

And again.

The employee returned. “The police are coming,” he told Spider-Man.

“Good.”

Peter put the (now unconscious) robber in a web cocoon and hung it from the ceiling. He then went to the bathroom, grabbed his things, then came back out and got his chicken nuggets.

“See ya,” he said, saluting the employee. Once he had walked out the doors, he sighed and put his (now cold) nuggets in his book bag and swung away. He swung for about half the distance between the restaurant and his home. At what he thought was the midpoint, he landed and looked for a store to change in. There was an electronics store at the corner a couple hundred feet in front of him.

Perfect, he thought.

He ran in, changed, and was just about to leave before the TV screens caught his eyes.

Peter—well, Spider-Man—was on every single one of them.

Apparently, someone at the McDonald’s had recorded him and sent it to a news station named The Daily Bugle. Peter was surprised that the news anchor had already made it into a story. A small group of people gathered around the TVs and they watched with Peter as Spider-Man beat up the robber. The video ended with Spider-Man stringing up the man and then leaving with his food.

“You see, folks, this is why I say Spider-Man is not the hero everyone seems to think he is. Yes, yes, I will agree that sure, the webbing of the man’s face was a decent thing to do. He had to get the gun away so no one got hurt.”

Right, Peter thought.

“But, there was no reason for Spider-Man to punch him, not once, but four times! He knocked the man unconscious! Next thing we know, we’re going to hear about how Spider-Man, the oh-so-great masked ‘hero’ has killed somebody!”

Peter chuckled darkly. Too late.

“This, my dear watchers, is why we do not need the Spider-Menace!”

Spider-Menace? Really? It was a dumb name.

“And, right here with me in the studio today, we have none other than Secretary Ross to speak about where this ‘hero’ falls under the Sokovia Accords!” The camera and the anchor turned to reveal a man sitting at the table with the anchor. “Good evening and welcome to The Daily Bugle, Mr. Secretary.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jameson,” the other man greeted. He was an old man with gray and brown hair. Ross wore a navy blue suit and black tie with a white shirt underneath. The man looked vaguely familiar, though Peter was sure he had never seen him before.

Right?

“So, Mr. Secretary, where, in your expert opinion, does the masked man fall under the Accords?”

“Well, from videos that people all over New York have taken, he clearly has superhuman abilities. Spider-Man has been stopping speeding cars and walking on walls. Last I checked, your average person can’t do that.”

Jameson laughed. “I sure can’t.” Jameson sobered. “So, doesn’t that mean that Spider-Man should be documented? Shouldn’t he have to sign?”

“Yes, that’s correct. If Spider-Man is indeed an enhanced individual, like we believe, then his signature is required on the Accords.”

“So, then he’s working illegally?” Jameson leaned towards the Secretary eagerly.

“Yes. Spider-Man is working illegally due to the vigilante aspect of what he does, especially if he is an enhanced individual; it’s safe to say that he is."

Jameson near exploded in his seat.

“You heard it here first folks! Not only is the Spider-Menace working illegally by taking the law into his own hands and not letting our great police force handle it, but he’s also violating the Accords by doing so! If this so-called ‘hero’ really wanted to help clean up the streets of New York, he’d turn himself in and reveal his identity to us! He would put his name on the Accords, and he’d let the United Nations decide what to do with him!”

Peter rolled his eyes.

Like that would ever happen.

On the TVs, Jameson turned back to Ross and shook his hand.

“Thank you for coming on the show, Mr. Secretary.”

“Thank you for having me, Mr. Jameson.”

Jameson and the camera both turned back to the original position they were in.

“There you have it folks: Spider-Man is not the hero you think he is.” He smiled a tight-lipped smile and nodded at the camera. “Goodnight, everyone, and thank you for watching.”

The TVs all switched to a commercial at the same time. Peter listened as people muttered to themselves or to the people they were with.

That’s what I’ve been saying all along.

I don’t believe it. Spider-Man’s a hero!

Come on, Maurice, didn’t you hear him? He’s even more illegal than we thought.

Who cares if he’s acting illegally? He’s at least doing it in a way to help others.

Spider-Man needs to be arrested.

Peter sort of agreed with that last one. After all, he was actually working outside the law, and he had also killed people.

Sure, they were bad people, but they were people nonetheless.

Peter sighed.

Peter went home.

Peter went to sleep.

He forgot to take MJ’s picture out of his pocket.

Oops.