Chapter 2
We watch from a rooftop as the cops finish up and pull the last of O'Mally's men into their vehicles. O'Mally's taken on a stretcher, with a nurse by his side and ready. That's still the law in this country - scumbags like the Irishman still have rights.
I know that it was Peter that had called it in, medical emergency and all.
I look to him, every inch the Spider-Man, perched up at the ledge, intently watching the situation below. He's the very image of a superhero, with all his flaws. I look at my legs, dangling in the air as I eat. Tony had loved these cheeseburgers. That's all that crosses my mind.
I'm not the very image of a superhero, am I?
Peter is beyond angry. I can literally feel it, the fury thick in the air around us. He has every right to be furious, I suppose. He had let his guard down and I went and killed the guy he'd begged me not to. It's betrayal, in a way. I know this, and a small part of me feels guilty for betraying him and hurting him. He is the one person that could never deserve that.
But I don't feel guilty about killing the Irishman.
The police are long gone by the time we speak again. He's still perched up, still looking down at that warehouse, because I know he's so full of everything and so riddled by anger and fear that he has no idea what to say. I understand that, and my heart aches for him. But I cannot help him.
''We need to get you checked out,'' he finally says, after an eternity, after eons have passed from there to here, stepping off the ledge.
''I'm fine,'' I say, crumpling the paper-wrap, ''They just beat me around a little bit. Cuts and bruises.''
Peter doesn't say anything, he just sort of stands there, looking for words. Then he pulls off his mask, and the sight of him completely disarms me.
The brown locks of his disheveled hair falling into his face somehow make him look younger again, like the Peter I knew back when he was still in high-school and he had just joined the Avengers and Tony had just given him a new suit - he was nothing but excitement and eagerness then. You could see it in the very way that he walked. He would change the world and nothing would stand in his way.
But his eyes show me the real Peter, the Peter of now. They're as brown and as warm as I've always known them to be, but they're so full of everything. He is so tired, so exhausted. And angry, and worried, and completely disillusioned.
But that's always been the big difference between me and him - he doesn't let that disappointment get to him. He's never stopped being Spider-Man. I admire him for that.
''Are you okay?'' I ask him, ''You took on a dozen of them.''
''I'm fine,'' he says, wiping some of his blood off his brow.
Silence. It's so deafening between us that it even seems to swallow the ever-lasting buzz of NYC. I can't seem to hear anything but my own blood pumping.
''Now what?'' I ask, stupidly.
''I'm asking you that,'' he says, ''What, you're gonna go home, sleep it off, then get right back to it the next day? When does it stop?!''
''Peter-''
''Reports of a robbery on 46th and 8th. Shots fired. Three suspects, en route.''
''You're using FRIDAY?!?'' Peter asks, absolutely scandalized.
''It's a safe server, of course I'm using F-''
''For this?!'' he interrupts me, looks at me in an almost accusatory way, like I should feel guilty - no, filthy - about it.
''Come on, we have to go-''
''You're not going anywhere,'' he zaps me with a web in warning, ''Stay here. Or go home. Just don't come.''
''Peter-''
''No,'' he says, this time with such authority that it even makes me freeze for a second, ''I'm going alone.''
''You can't keep me from going,'' I step up to him defiantly, sounding too much like a petulant child to my own ears.
''Well, we can test that theory, but I'd rather not waste time.''
''Peter-''
''What the hell do you want, Anna?! Huh?!''
I almost stumble back. Peter's never raised his voice at me. If he were anyone else, I'd have already broken his nose.
''One murder's not enough for tonight?!'' he growls, then winces, like the guilt came a second too late. Knowing him, he probably does want to take that back. And I want to argue and yell that I'm not a murderer and how dare he, but I feel like that would be a lie.
''You know what they've taken to calling you around Hell's Kitchen? The Punisher,'' he says, ''You know, like the guy that wiped out half of New York years ago? Yeah, that guy.''
''Frank Castle never laid a finger on an innocent soul in his life,'' I argue, ''You should know this. Weren't you in primary school then?''
''Don't bullshit me now,'' he throws back, ''He was a man who thought himself authority enough to decide who gets to live or die. Is that who you are now? Judge, jury and executioner?''
''I'm sorry, but I'm not having this discussion with you right now,'' I storm past him, bumping his shoulder on the way. I'm not sure myself how much of that was on purpose, but it felt good to lash out on someone, even for a tiny bit. I want to yell at him, argue with him, punch him on his stupid, righteous chest. But there's no time for any of that. There's never time for any of that.
''Talk to me, FRIDAY.''
I leap off the ledge onto the next roof.
When I first met Tony Stark, I was an army recruit fresh out of high-school. I'd had no idea that in barely a two years' time, I'd be fighting the biggest threat the universe had faced yet - and if you'd told me that back then, I probably would have socker punched you for busting my balls.
But at nineteen years old, I sat in Tony's lab, trying to help figure out the riddle of Vision - me, the worst possible person for the job, who without Tony's AIs and Shuri on the line wouldn't have known how to do jack shit without somehow putting the whole of Wakanda on self-destruct mode. Tony was up in space and Peter was God knows where and he was seventeen and I was nineteen and we both died, and I didn't even know it - I didn't know who else was dying, all I knew was that it was done, it was over, and I was breathing my last.
That wasn't the first time Tony had brought me back from the brink.
''Happy?'' I ask Peter, hands put up in surrender. We've done it his way, and besides, I don't peg these guys as anything other than petty criminals. They're all bundled up, swinging slowly from a street lamppost, waiting for the cops to cut the cocoon down.
Instead of arguing, Peter wraps an arm around my waist and zips us out of the street.
''Hey!!!! God damn it, Parker,'' I have to literally shout over the wind, punching his bicep for good measure, ''You know I hate it when you do that!!!!!''
We land flawlessly on top of a nearby building, without so much as a stumble. I shove him as he lets me down, pressing a hand against my chest.
''Jesus Christ!'' I hiss, my heart refusing to go back to normal, ''A little warning next time?''
''You really can't stand not being in control, huh,'' Peter says, pulling off his mask again.
''Nuh uh. You're not making this about me right now,'' I shake a finger at him, still trying to catch my breath, ''You're the one snatching people up without their consent.''
''Only when they're a danger to others,'' he replies instantly, almost too fast. I stare at him. He stares back. Silence. Too long.
''You think I'm a monster,'' I hear myself say, but barely recognize my own voice. Maybe I am. Maybe I am.
''I don't think that-''
''You do,'' I say, more firmly this time, standing more solidly, stepping up to him, ''Maybe you don't know it yet. But it's there, somewhere deep down. Sooner or later, it will swim up.''
''Stop,'' he says, hisses almost, grabbing my arm firmly, ''Don't do this. It's already gone on for too long. You can stop this. Turn it around. Come back.''
''Come back where, Peter?!'' I tear my arm away, backing off, suddenly feeling dangerously too close to tears, ''Come back where?! Huh?! What is it that you want me to do exactly?! There's no home anymore, Peter!!! Okay?!? It's gone!!! Accept it!!!''
''Don't say that-''
''What do you want me to do - d'you want me to move back into the compound?? Into the- the haunted horror-house?!'' I'm yelling now, yelling and laughing hysterically so I don't cry, ''Pretend like everything's okay?!? How do you bear the nightmare, Peter, huh? How do you do it?''
''Anna-''
''Do you train there? Every day?'' I step up to him, ''In the same room where Natasha taught us everything we know?''
''Stop-''
''No, Peter. There's no home, there's no team, and there's nothing to come back to. There's only the work now,'' I say, moving past him and getting to the ledge, ''And I'm doing mine.''
''You don't have to do this,'' he calls out to me, hopelessly.
''Yeah, I do,'' I say, looking only at the street below. If I look back at him now, all of my resolve will be gone.
''We're their legacy,'' he finally says, ''Have you ever thought about that?''
I don't dare reply. I just stare at the traffic below, willing the tears to go back to where they God damn came from.
''We're their legacy, Anna,'' he says again, ''We get to continue what they started. They died for us.''
''No, they died because we didn't shoot first and ask questions later!'' I shout, angry now as I turn back and shove him again, ''They died, because we played good guys while the really bad guys plotted total destruction!!! They died because we never eliminated the God damn threat as soon as we saw it!!! That's why they died!!!''
Peter doesn't say anything, he doesn't even flinch. He lets me scream, swallowing it all down.
''And you know what, Peter? I'll be the monster,'' I say, ''I'll gladly give my soul to the devil to make sure it doesn't happen again. Because the bad guys always come back, Peter. They always come back.''
''Thanos is dead, Anna,'' he tells me, desperately, almost with pity, like this is about me, like I never left the war. I hate his pity, I hate it so much, I hate him so much in this moment.
''What he did isn't,'' I reply instead, voice surprisingly steady, ''There's always another Thanos, big or small. You know this.''
''Anna-''
''And you know what the best part is? He may have even been right,'' I tell him, face to face now, ''He'd just picked the wrong damn people.''
This time, it's Peter that's possessed by fury. There's a dangerous glint in his eyes when he grabs me, the veins on his temples pulsating like ticking time-bombs.
''Take that back,'' he growls through his teeth, shaking, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. And it instantly breaks my heart. It's like he hates me - I swear, he looks like he hates me the most in this world - and it's the ugliest feeling in the world. But it's what I've wanted, right? I need him to hate me and let me go. Obviously, I didn't mean a word of what I said, and as much as I want to admit that to him, I hold my tongue. This needs to happen. This is what I've wanted. This is what I've wanted.
Yet the look in his eyes completely shatters me. What am I, if I can turn someone so beautiful into this? The sweet, kind Peter Parker. The boy who was always so gentle with me, so loving.
Once again, I tear my arm away from his grasp, but this time his hand goes completely limp. He's resigned.
''It's over, Peter,'' I tell him, ''Don't come after me.''
And before he can see my tears, I break into a sprint down the next rooftop. I have to get away. Far far away.|
I should leave New York.