PETER I
Queens. Half past five in the evening, something like five-thirty-two. It's cold, breezy, but beautiful in that way only November can manage. New York City especially Queens always had this type of charm to it. The kind you can't fake, can't manufacture. It just is.
Peter is currently atop a subway cart in some abandoned subway stop which was luckily out in the open, not buried in some tunnel where he'd need a flashlight and a death wish. He'd been nervous when he found this place online, scrolling through urban exploration forums at two in the morning when he should've been sleeping. But he's glad he did.
Do Aunt May and Uncle Ben know he's out here? Hell no. He told Ben something about going to the skate park with "some guys from school." His uncle would never let him go within thirty feet of an abandoned anything, and the lie had come out so smooth it almost scared him. Peter's gotten good at lying lately. Too good, maybe.
He doesn't know why, but lately he's been more adventurous. Maybe it's him realizing his life has become stale? He feels trapped sometimes by school, by home, by the four walls of his bedroom where he spends most of his time. But is that actually what it is? Every time he tries to go into that subject, really dig into why he's sneaking out to places like this, his thoughts drift elsewhere. It's like he just doesn't want to admit something. What that is? He doesn't know. But he finds himself enjoying it nonetheless.
His life prior to this new trend and the lies he's told to Uncle Ben and May straight to their faces had been isolated. He has, well... no friends, okay? He's the quirkless kid, the geek, and most importantly the nerd no one talks to at school. Midtown Science isn't exactly welcoming to someone without a quirk, even if it's supposed to be a "merit-based institution." Merit doesn't mean shit when you can't shoot fire from your hands or turn invisible during gym class.
So because of that label, he has no one to really talk to at school. And outside of it? He's tried to, but the thought of just approaching a stranger and starting a conversation makes his stomach twist. What would he even say? "Hey, I'm Peter, I like cameras and old music and I'm completely powerless in a world that worships power"? Yeah, that'd go over great.
So what does Peter do then? Well, he's left with his thoughts. And music too, which helps. He feels less isolated, funnily enough, when he comes out here to these places. Out of all the abandoned sites the electrical grid, the subway tunnel, the abandoned McDonald's with the PlayPlace still visible through broken windows this spot is by far Peter's favorite, though there might be some recency bias in there.
It's nice. And like this city, it has a certain charm to it he can't quite place his finger on. The graffiti on the subway cart isn't the usual tags and profanity. Someone painted a mural here, something with wings and stars and a figure reaching upward. It's faded now, peeling, but still beautiful. Still trying. Peter gets that.
What Peter often does is make playlists for these places. Each location gets its own, its own genre. The electrical grid is all Rage Against the Machine and punk shit that makes him feel tuff. This place, though? This place is different. (A/N ~ I'm sorry for this paragraph but I laughed histerically writing ts)
Which reminds him.
Peter fishes in his right pocket, pulling out a relatively new Starrphone. Ben had gotten it for him a couple years ago at the Stark Expo. He remembers how happy he was seeing all the cool technology on display, especially those holograms. Man, those were cool. Tony Stark himself had been there, doing a demonstration of the new arc reactor technology, and Peter had stood in the crowd for three hours just to catch a glimpse. Worth it.
His fingers press in his passcode his birth year, since he's not that creative. "2119," instinctively. The phone unlocks with a soft haptic buzz.
Around his neck lay his wired earbuds. He couldn't afford the fancy wireless ones, not since he bought the X-T5 camera model. That thing had cost him every penny he'd saved from helping at the bodega on weekends, plus birthday money from the last two years. But it was worth every penny. The wireless earbuds could wait. These tangled, slightly frayed wired ones will do until he finds a real job or something.
He sticks the buds into each ear, the left one always fitting worse than the right, and loads up his music app. The interface glows in the dimming light.
Peter clicks his current go-to song. "Dirty Reggae" by the Aggrolites. He used to find this song weird when Ben first played it in the car, all horns and ska rhythms that felt too upbeat for how cynical the lyrics were. But lately he's been enjoying it. It's strange this is actually where his and Uncle Ben's music tastes overlap. Ben has always been into mainstream stuff, the pop hits and whatever's trending on the radio. But he listens to a couple pre-Ultimatum bands too. The stuff from before.
Peter finds he prefers the more joyful, engaging music of the before. Before the Ultimatum. Before that whole period that changed everything, that killed millions and reshaped the world into whatever this is. Music today isn't nearly the same as it was a hundred and thirteen years ago. It's all processed, auto-tuned, manufactured for mass consumption. The old stuff had soul. It had people actually playing instruments, actually meaning what they sang.
Maybe that's why he likes these abandoned places. They're from before too. Before quirks became everything, before the world decided you were only worth something if you could do something impossible.
The song plays in his ears, and Peter lets himself breathe. Just breathe. The city sprawls out before him, lights starting to flicker on as the sun dips lower. From up here, he can see everything the neighborhoods spreading out like a patchwork quilt, the distant Manhattan skyline, the way the streets form grids and patterns that make sense from above even when they feel like chaos from below.
As the music continues, Peter finds himself instinctively opening the news app. The Daily Globe. He doesn't know why he tortures himself with the news. It's always bad. Always some new corruption scandal or villain attack or political bullshit. But he can't help it. He needs to know what's happening, even if it pisses him off.
He cycles through the recently published articles. The usual stuff quirk discrimination lawsuit in Brooklyn, Avengers respond to hostage situation in Hell's Kitchen, local hero saves cat from tree (seriously?). His thumb scrolls, almost bored.
Then his mouth falls open at the title staring back at him.
"FISK? OR KINGPIN?" - By Clark West
Kingpin. That name hits him like a punch to the gut. That crime syndicate from thirty years ago... is? Is or was... the president?
His heart starts hammering. He hurriedly clicks the article in anticipation of reading it, but his data is slow out here, which is the one downside to being in an abandoned place. No cell towers nearby, no Wi-Fi to leech off. He watches the loading bar circle again and again, that little spinning wheel mocking him.
"Come on, come on," he mutters.
Finally, it loads.
Peter skims the opening paragraph, then goes back and reads it slower, making sure he's understanding this correctly.
"Wilson Fisk, 74th President of the United States of America, has long been a figure of debate in this era of quirks. To his supporters, he is a man who rebuilt New York City following the tragic event which was the Ultimatum. To his enemies primarily the Demo-Republicrat coalition, led by pragmatic Matthew Ellis he has long been suspected of hiding something sinister beneath the Fisk Administration.
Over the years, Ellis quietly funded several private investigations into Fisk Industries, the company known for backing smaller construction firms like Ironwood and Fireside. Recently, an investigator by the name of Jaime Madrox failed to report in. It was assumed he was killed, though no body has been recovered.
What Madrox discovered before his disappearance, according to sources within the Ellis campaign, was a paper trail connecting Fisk Industries to the Kingpin crime syndicate that controlled New York's underworld in the 2100s. The same Kingpin who was responsible for countless murders, drug trafficking, and extortion.
The same Kingpin who, according to these documents, never actually disappeared. He simply... evolved."
Peter's eyes widen.
He keeps reading, his hands starting to shake slightly. The article goes on, detailing shell companies and offshore accounts, witnesses who recanted testimony, journalists who stopped investigating after receiving "warnings." It's all there, laid out in careful, precise language that somehow makes it worse. Clark West isn't sensationalizing. He's just reporting facts, and the facts are damning.
There are quotes from Ellis: "The American people deserve to know who they elected. If Wilson Fisk is indeed the criminal mastermind known as Kingpin, then we have not just a corrupt president we have a crime lord in the White House."
And a response from Fisk's press secretary, dismissive and cold: "These allegations are baseless conspiracy theories from a desperate political opponent. President Fisk has always been transparent about his business dealings."
Transparent. Righhhhhht.
Peter sets the phone face-down against his knee. He stares out at the skyline, his teeth clenched together in boiling anger. The music still plays in his ears, but he's not hearing it anymore. Just the rushing of blood, the pounding of his pulse.
Sure, Peter figured Fisk was corrupt. He's always known it, even though May didn't want to admit it. She'd voted for him twice, believed in his promises to rebuild, to make New York safe again. But Peter had always known, had felt it like the way you feel someone watching you without seeing them. That gut instinct that something was wrong.
But seeing it laid out like that an investigator was "dissapeared" on purpose , a paper trail connecting a sitting president to organized crime, his damn company name attached to construction firms that probably cut corners and paid off inspectors it makes it a whole lot worse. This isn't just corruption. This is something else entirely.
He closes his eyes and takes a breath in, letting the anger leave him as he inhales. As he exhales, it evaporates. Not completely it's still there, simmering under his skin but he's less pissed than before.
He opens his eyes.
Peter stares at Fisk Tower off in the distance. It rises above Midtown like a middle finger to the sky, all glass and steel and arrogance. The Fisk Industries logo gleams even from here, catching the last rays of sunlight. The building is beautiful, he'll admit that. Stark and modern and powerful.
Just like the man who built it.
New York has always had shitty, corrupt politicians. That's nothing new. But even though he hates to admit it, Peter loves this city. No matter how many mob bosses it creates, how many drug addicts stumble through the streets, how many crackheads yell at pigeons in the park he still loves it. Not in the I-Heart-NYC way that tourists wear on their shirts, but in a genuine way only someone who's lived here their whole life could understand.
How could you not? New York City is where all of his favorite spots are. Bodega's Subs with their chicken parm that's too big for the bread. These beautiful views from forgotten places. Skateparks where kids with quirks and kids without all eat shit on the same half-pipe. And above all else, the heroes.
Heroes had defined his childhood in more ways than Peter liked to admit. He's quirkless, which may be in part responsible for his isolation, but he'd always found comfort in the heroes. Sure, he'll admit Japan has some cool heroes they have All Might, Miruko, Hawks, and Endeavor. The heavy hitters, the ones who smile for the cameras and sell merchandise by the truckload.
But Peter believes the US is better for one simple reason.
The Avengers.
In his opinion, they'd always been the best. They'd always lived up to what a hero is. Each member made up a part of what constituted a hero, like pieces of a puzzle that only made sense together.