The hours that followed were the most grueling moments of Peter's life.
Aunt May was in a coma. The doctors were unsure if she would ever wake up.
The police showed up 4 hours after Gwen left. They asked a lot of questions, they took him to the precinct and forced him to sleep in one of the interrogation rooms for his own safety, they said.
Peter hadn't protested. He couldn't. The cops said "for your safety," and all he could think was coffee, his aunt, and the last place he saw his uncle alive. They were kind enough to get him some pizza and subs to snack on before he dozed off.
When he woke, they asked him more questions, scrutinizing all his stories from every angle they could—so much so that some of their questions didn't even make any sense.
Uncle Ben a drug dealer? Aunt May helping that assassin murder someone in her workplace?
Ben hadn't done a thing, just cause he was 'too clean' doesn't mean he could be a suspect. And Aunt May was just a witness to the crime, not an accomplice. None of the things they were saying added up.
The assholes were fishing for something, and whatever it was, Peter never gave it to them. Peter kept his story straight, his story was without error, his memory—impeccable.
He poked holes in their theories, tore apart their ridiculous arguments with ease. Nothing the cops did changed his story or his statements.
After a while, the Administration for Children's Services (ACS) came and took over. Unlike the officers, she was actually competent in her job. Her questions and concerns were on point. The woman who interviewed him, Cassy Orlando, was incredibly forthcoming and helpful. She explained to him what procedures the ACS followed and what would happen to him now that Aunt May was in a coma.
There were a number of options he could go with, however, there wasn't a need for him to do anything drastic.
Aunt May had already done that for him. She had signed a Designation of Standby Guardianship where if something was to happen to her and Uncle Ben, a named person can step in right away and take care of Peter until he turned 18.
In fact, that person had come to the police station with Cassy.
After Cassy had a chat with the police officers and filled in the necessary paperwork, she told Peter that they were free to leave. Peter would only come back to the station when his presence was strictly needed.
***
Peter followed Cassy Orlando as she led him out of the precinct.
The doors swung shut behind him as they left.
She spoke words of comfort and tried her best to reassure him, but her words fell on deaf ears. Something else was brewing in Peter's head in that moment and it had nothing to do with getting his life back on track.
They made their way through the car park and finally reached a familiar red SUV parked at the edge.
There was someone smoking there, the person quickly flicked her cigarette away when she noticed their approach.
"Anna?" Peter asked in a confused daze. What was Mary Jane Watson's aunt doing here? Is she? Is she was supposed to be my designated standby guardian? What did you do Aunt May?
"Hey, Pete…" Anna Watson tried, but stopped her attempt halfway.
Peter was unsure whether it was something about his expression that stopped her, although he felt like it was.
Cassy observed them quietly, deciding it was best not to interject.
Anna Watson took a breath before she began. "Your uncle didn't know. This wasn't supposed to happen at all, it was just an idea, a spur-of-the-moment thing when your aunt and I had a little too much wine one random afternoon."
She paused, choosing her words with care. "I can't promise you much, Pete. But I can promise you that I'll try to make this work. What do you say, Pete? Wanna give this a shot? Two years isn't a long time."
Peter was at a loss. He didn't know what to say.
He silently walked by her and choked out a simple 'thank you' as he made his way into her car.
Anna watched him go, her solemn gaze followed his back till he entered her car.
When he finally entered, she let out an exasperated sigh. "God, I could use a New York Sour with extra shots of Bourbon right about now, "
"You know I'm on the clock, right?" Cassy gave Anna a pointed look as she walked up beside her.
Anna gave her once over and replied with a snicker. "You look like you need two."
"Right… How's MJ?" she asked Anna after a long pause.
"She's doing alright, thanks for this, I owe you one."
"Don't mention it, really, I'm happy to help." Cassy then gave Anna a respectful nod as she turned to leave. "Always a pleasure, Anna, you take care now."
"What?" Anna looked offended as she asked. "You're not even gonna ask if I'm alright? No, hey Anna, how are you? Still an alcoholic party animal? How's the AAA meetings I signed you up for? Haven't seen since I dropped your dead sister's kid on your doorstep. How is life?"
The edges of Cassy's lips curled into a sardonic smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared. "If you haven't seen me, then that means you've been doing something right with MJ…"
She paused and turn to look Anna in the eyes.
"Take care of him, Anna, he's a good kid." With that said, Cassy Orlando left Anna to her thoughts.
Anna watched her back in silence.
"Bitch," Anna Watson could only grumble under her breath as she walked back to her car.
When she entered, she found Peter sleeping with his head leaning against the window.
"Poor kid, must have been tough, huh?"
She took a glance at her dashboard, then reached over and grabbed the new packet of cigarettes she had just bought.
Anna glanced back at Peter, then without pause, she threw the packet out of her window and started up her car.
This was gonna be a long drive home.
Oh right, what the hell am I gonna tell MJ… Anna thought as she put her car in reverse.
***
The days that followed were a blur.
Peter had since moved into one of the spare rooms at Anna's place, MJ's absence made things easier for them.
Since they were right next door and he was allowed to sleep in his home whenever he felt like it, things actually transitioned smoothly. Anna had temporary custody of all assets until Peter came of age. She was kind enough to register Uncle Ben's car, a yellow sedan under his name.
The school gave him time off to handle his grief and personal matters.
Peter had buried his uncle two weeks ago. There were only a few people at his funeral. Uncle Ben's workmates had shown up along with some of their neighbors.
He was the only teen there. None of his friends, not even Gwen, showed up to show him some support.
MJ's aunt was there. Their relationship was awkward, but it was a good kinda awkward. She left him with his space, she didn't ask when he came home late or when he slept in.
She told Peter that MJ accompanied Gwen somewhere out of state for Captain Stacy's surgery. Apparently the captain was on a miraculous road to full recovery.
Not only that, Harry had booked the Gwen's band gigs everywhere. The rich Osborn wanted to pay for the surgery, but Gwen, being Gwen decided to raise the funds on her own. The Mary Jane's as they were called, featured Gwen Stacy, Cindy Moon, Mary Jane Watson and Liz Allen, they sold out tickets faster than boys could buy.
Their shows were sold out weeks in advance despite their first official tour beginning a week ago. The families of local police officers and many others caught up in the tragedy of the Lizard man's attack flocked to them to support them.
Peter hadn't seen Gwen since the hospital incident. He was quite sure they were never going to see each other for a while, and even if they did, going back to the close friends they used to be was off the table.
He had often wondered if she ever found out why he was in the hospital in the first place and if she ever found out about his aunt and uncle. The fact that she never showed up to Uncle Ben's funeral told Peter all he needed to know.
Besides, she had better friends now. Friends who were richer than him, who cared for her and—most importantly, friends who didn't put her dad in the ICU because of their delusions of becoming a hero.
Some part of him could relate to her though, with the guilt part at least.
As much as he tried to, he couldn't bring himself to hate her. Gwen had done something for herself, changed her life around. She was helping her dad and doing an incredible job at that.
If anything, Peter was happy for her because as time passed and everything came into perspective, he started to realize that he was the one with the problem.
His jealousy, anger and frustration—all of it led to desperation—he felt cornered, he wanted to matter again to her, to prove to his bullies and what little friends he had in school that were wrong about him. He wanted to be something his uncle and aunt would be proud of.
Everything eventually led to him making and injecting himself with the serum.
He had a lot of time to himself these days, too much time to think about everything.
Two weeks of silence had changed something in him. The grief was still there, but it had hardened into something else. Something colder
Peter realized he was too focused on meaningless things like his social status, popularity, and likability. He had been trying so hard to be liked by these fake idiots, seeking approval and validation from these nobodies when he should have realized that none of them could give two shits about him.
He had nothing to prove to anybody, only himself.
That was why he was here right now. Driving around at 4:30 AM to get to a parking spot and wait for his suspect to run by.
***
It was accidental, the way he found the person who shot them, just looking at the right thing at the right time.
Here, the right thing was the TV in the waiting room, and the right time was after Gwen.
That was when he saw it. The tattoo just below the back of his palms, his right hand, right under his sleeve.
A bulls-eye.
The same tattoo in the exact same place, looking exactly like he remembered from the shooting, how could he forget that? When he spent every waking moment agonizing over it, replaying the memory over and over until it was the only thing left in his head.
When the news played that scene, he first thought he had made a mistake, but it just kept on nagging him, then he decided to check, and that was when everything made too much sense.
The man he had seen on TV was named Benjamin Poindexter—an ex-FBI agent now working in private security.
The cops weren't helping him, either. They gave him a look and simply told him, 'Go home, kid, it's just a tattoo' He pressed on anyway and tried to collect evidence, searching every little thing the Internet could give him, going over every minute detail.
The NYPD database wasn't hard to crack, especially when one had enough time, drive, and an obsession with answers—Peter had all three.
He managed to connect the dots.
Benjamin Poindexter worked for Wilson Fisk, and Wilson Fisk was a generous business tycoon who annually donated millions to the city, mostly to Hell's Kitchen. He also had some shady connections if the dark side of the internet had anything to say about it, it was a stretch, sure, but it made sense.
Not only that, but the facts actually match up. Stanley Eastwood was on the city council in Hell's Kitchen, he openly spoke out against Wilson Fisk, often slandering the man on public television about his 'blood money' and how the city didn't need it.
Three days before the incident at the park, he got into a car accident, and instead of going to the local hospital in Hell's Kitchen, they drove all the way here—only for him to die at the hands of a murderer and for Aunt May to be the only witness to the crime.
This all led to the shooting in the park.
Either he really was crazy smart, and this all was starting to make sense, or he was just going insane and after this, he would be in a nuthouse.
He had this messed-up idea to refine the serum and harness its healing capabilities so he could heal Aunt May. He had almost gone through with it. Until he realized what that would lead to.
What if he fucked that up and Aunt May turned into what he became, he quickly squashed that idea, nipping it in the bud.
There was also the fact that he had no way to do that anymore. He was banned from Oscorp and fired from his internship after evidence was found that he was tampering with their more expensive equipment after hours.
A little late for that, since he already made the serum, that was what he thought back then. He found it funny how that came back to bite him in the ass.
Not anymore, though. Peter finally knew he had something figured out. He had unwittingly discovered his uncle's killer.
Something had to be done about that. The cops were tied by a lot of red tape, so clearly probable cause wasn't enough for someone like Benjamin Poindexter, especially since he worked and was allegedly the left—hand man of a tycoon like Wilson Fisk.
No.
Peter had to smart about this, if the normal way doesn't work, then he just had to get creative.
It wasn't like he'd never broken the law before.
After all, what was one man's life compared to the dozens he had taken when he was under the influence of the lizard serum?
At least this time… This time, Peter was sure that his 'victim' deserved what was coming to him.
***
Peter checked his watch. 5:30… He noted.
Peter carefully rolled down the glass of his 1972 Oldsmobile Delta 88 and pulled up his camera close to his eyes so he could zoom in for a clear picture.
The light yellow sedan was parked in the shadow of a tree by a park.
This was Benjamin Poindexter's usual morning route. Like clockwork, the private security guard would run by here, pause by the railings to do a few stretches, then he would continue on for the next 30-40 minutes before he reached his home.
Peter's Yachica Electro 35 clicked as he took pictures of the tall, lean man running across the sidewalk.
He then started put his camera aside, got out of his car, locked it and followed the man closely on foot.
Peter had a pocketknife tucked behind him. He had a taser in the left pocket of the hoodie he wore, and on the right was a roll of duct tape.
Peter clenched his fist as he ran. He could feel the taser and duct tape bounce against his abdomen, the objects felt a little heavy now.
Peter shook his head and mentally prepared himself for what was to come.
He would get his answer, one way or another.
Chapter End