#a fucking volley against Germany

[hello-paralyzed-world]

What a goal from Kadi 😎🤩

[wingcharm]

Never-Never Land Part 2/3

Thank you so much to everyone who liked, reblogged and replied to the first part of this series! I was blown away!

A few notes: although this story is already written, I wrote it by hand in my notebook while on bed-rest, and have been typing it out on my laptop and editing as I go, hence the delay between chapters. I'm still not sure if the final part of the story will be in one chapter or if it'll read better split in half with the latter part serving as an epilogue, so the final chapter count may change.

Thank you so much for reading!

AO3

------

His phone is blowing up with calls, but he doesn’t bother checking to see who they’re from.

“FRIDAY, call Rhodey.”

The phone rings only once before Rhodey answers.

“Stay where you are,” is the first thing he says, his voice tight. “I’m serious, Tones. I’m working on it. Sam is on his way in now. They’ve been instructed to use non-lethal force only, they won’t hurt the kid. But we don’t know what kind of voodoo shit he’s under, and if you get thrown into the mix–”

“It’s not Peter!” Tony interrupts hastily, before another phrase like ‘non-lethal force’ can send him back into an emotional tailspin. “It’s not him. Someone else is in the suit.”

A stunned silence follows. Then, “Tony, who–?”

“I don’t know. Something’s blocking the comms, I can’t get in. But Peter–” his phone buzzes as another call comes through, Pepper’s face illuminated on the screen. “That’s Pep. I gotta tell her, Rhodey, can you–?”

“Yeah. I’ll keep you posted man, just – stay put, okay?”

Tony doesn’t answer. He switches over to the waiting call. “Pepper–”

“I know, honey. I saw,” her voice is gentle, but it rises quickly in volume until it carries. “FRIDAY, can you hear me? Authorize suit deployment. Access code 73723, Virginia Potts.”

“Authorization accepted. Deploying now, boss.” FRIDAY’s approval is interrupted by the distant thrum of repulsors charging in the garage, metal re-forming from nanotech.

His knees go weak; the crashing wave of relief at the familiar sound and the overwhelming gratitude for his wife renders Tony unable to speak, his throat tight. Pepper goes on,“You have it, Tony. Okay? You have it, but you won’t use it.”

He struggles to find his voice, to steady himself. “I won’t –?”

“Not yet. You won’t leave Morgan alone, Tony. You have to think through this.”

He shakes his head, forces himself to breathe in. “You can come home, you can stay with her–”

“I can’t,” she sounds frustrated, “There’s no getting in or out of the city right now, they’ve closed off the air space.”

He can feel his breaths coming shorter again, can feel the pressure building in his chest. “Someone’s got him, Pep – some maniac got to him, they’re in the suit, I can’t get through!”

He swears he can hear the gears turning in her head, can hear her thinking as she absorbs this new information. Her voice is slow and measured. “Then it’s someone who planned in advance. They figured out who he was, they knew how to trap him.”

“There’s no one. It wouldn’t work, even if they–” Tony clamps down on his own frustration, knows she’s trying to get him to sort through everything, to work the problem. He sucks in another breath and tries again. “No one can take that suit off him, not against his will. Even if he’s unconscious. There’s a safeguard built in, the Child Lock Protocol, it won’t disengage unless he’s–”

“He’s not. He’s not, honey,” her voice is gentle again, calm and steady. “He’s alive. He must have taken it off himself, given it to someone else…” but her voice trails off, and Tony can tell she doesn’t really believe it.

“He wouldn’t. Who the hell would he even give it to?”

“His friend, maybe? The computer expert?” Pepper offers, but she sounds doubtful. “He’s the only other person who knows, and it must have been someone he trusted. What’s his name?”

“Ned Leeds,” Tony supplies automatically, and instantly imagines the way Peter would have reacted on finding out that Tony had never actually thought the kid’s name was ‘Fred.’ His eyes water, and he pushes the thought from his mind.

“Do you have his number?” Pepper prompts, and Tony’s heart sinks.

“No,” he can barely get the word out around the self-recrimination in his throat, “he got a new one after he came back. Pete knew the old one by heart, he was crushed when he found out. He kept trying to memorize the new one, just in case. He turned it into a song to help him remember, he keeps singing it when he’s out on patrol, I must’ve listened to it a thousand times but I–”

“Okay,” Pepper cuts in softly, “it’s okay, honey. You’re spiraling. May will have it, okay? I’ll call her. She’s with Happy–”

And Tony almost laughs, because of course Pepper already knows, but the memory of Peter’s patrols calls to mind something else, something painfully obvious that had been lost to him in the fog of his panic: “His suit feed backs up to FRIDAY’s database automatically. If that freak didn’t start blocking the signal until after he took the suit, I should still be able to play back whatever the kid saw before he– before he lost it.”

Pepper hesitates a moment. “Play back? As in video? Audio?”

“Both,” Tony hopes, now anxious to pull up the footage, to do something useful, but Pepper stops him.

“In the basement, Tony,” her voice is suddenly urgent, “Watch it in the lab. Leave the suit with Morgan, don’t let her see, or…or hear…” and for the first time, he can hear it in her voice: the same fear that rips through his insides, the fear of what may have happened – might still be happening. However sure of his safety she had sounded for Tony’s sake, she is afraid for Peter, too, and her fear propels him out of his own the way nothing else can.

“In the lab, out of sight. Try to find Ned, Pep. I love you. I’ve gotta go.”

The call ends. He turns on his heels and there in the middle of his living room is the Iron Man suit, standing guard over Morgan, who is glancing between the suit and her father as though unsure which to run to. He holds out his arms to her and she throws herself into them and clings, still trembling.

“I heard what you said! You said a bad guy has Petey!”

“Dad’s gonna help him, baby. I have to go down to the lab, and you have to stay up here with Iron Man. That’s how we help Peter right now. Okay?” He brushes a hand over her cheek as she nods, and God, she looks so afraid, and he knows he’s handling this all wrong, but they don’t have time.

He leaves the suit to keep watch over his daughter, and hurtles for the stairs.

–- -

FRIDAY doesn’t wait for him to ask; the screen glows to life the moment he enters the room at the bottom of the stairs, and the first video begins to play.

He’s looking out of the back seat of the Audi through Peter’s eyes. Tony is momentarily stumped before it occurs to him that he must be watching a recording from late in the previous evening, on the drive back from the lake house. The camera pans to the windows as the kid looks through them, and the wall of congested city traffic surrounding them tells Tony they’re not far from their destination.

Peter faces forward again and makes a point of clearing his throat. Happy’s face is just visible in the rear view mirror as he glances up, catching a glimpse of the scene behind him and rolling his eyes. “Aw jeeze, kid, not in the car! Take the mask off, what if someone sees you?”

Peter’s voice comes through clear as a bell. “C’mon, Happy, the tints on these windows are crazy dark! Probably illegal level dark, even. No one’s gonna see in. Did you know this thing records video? It’ll be like my old vlogs back in Germany, remember those?”

  “I try not to. I’m serious, kid, mask off. Or we’re not stopping for that Slurpee.”

Peter huffs a sigh, reaches up to remove the mask, and the video cuts out. Tony releases the breath he’s been holding, unsure whether to feel relieved at the tame nature of the footage or frustrated by its total lack of anything resembling a lead. Before he can make up his mind, the screen flares back to life.

This time, the kid is balanced on the edge of what Tony guesses to be the roof of the Parkers’ new building. The dark sky and lit street lamps are the only indication of the late hour, the amount of time that must have passed.

“Karen, where’s it coming from?” whispers Peter, the camera tilting as he cocks his head to one side like a dog searching for the source of a strange sound. Whatever he hears is inaudible Tony’s ears.

The suit isn’t designed to record feedback from its A.I., but Karen must have replied; Peter chirps out a quick thanks and takes off into the air.

Tony can tell by Peter’s speed and altitude that he isn’t intending to travel very far, and by the time he’s two blocks over, he can hear what the kid is after: a man’s voice is screaming for help, begging as though his life depends on it. The camera swoops and volleys as Peter picks up the pace, drawing closer. “I’m coming,” he whispers, “I’m coming, man, just hold on…”

Ahead, the screaming echoes from within what looks to be an old, empty department store – a warehouse, maybe? Tony knows plenty of these ghost town fixtures still remain, leftovers of the post-blip economy crash and subsequent rioting. Peter scales the exterior of the building until he reaches a broken window set high into the wall. He slides through.

The interior of the building is strangely empty, devoid of the usual rows of empty shelving or machinery that might have hinted as to its original purpose. The concrete floor is barren even of the typical detritus which might have indicated the presence of squatters.

The camera somersaults as Peter flips down to the floor, raises again as he lifts his head, searching–

A bald-headed, bespectacled man is illuminated by a sliver of moonlight through the broken window, his face partially obscured, choking and crushed within the grasp of something enormous, something monstrous–

“What the fuck?” Tony and Peter’s reactions are in sync. The camera leans in, and Tony leans with it, because what he’s seeing can’t be real.

A gigantic fist rises out of the concrete floor, its fingers locked tightly around the bald-headed man, its surface rippling and sliding at the outer layer like – sand? Earth? Tony can’t tell.

  “What the hell is that thing, Karen?!”

No sooner has Peter said it than the thing turns round sharply as if suddenly aware of his arrival, crumbling and shifting as it moves. The fingers release their hold on the choking victim who falls hard to the floor, gasping for breath.

“O-okay. That’s, um. That’s something, at least,” Peter stutters slightly, clearly shaken, but raises his voice to a shout as he addresses the man on the floor, “Get out of here, man, run! I’ll cover you!”

The guy doesn’t need telling twice – he books it out of the building as the monstrous hand begins to shift and contort, its material expanding, growing out of seemingly nothing at all until it reaches almost to the ceiling, a pillar of earth – no, a torso, Tony realizes – and advances on Peter, who actually squeaks with fear.

“Call for back-up,” Tony orders numbly, mouth dry, heart pounding. “Do it, kid. Call for help.”

Karen must have delivered similar advice, might even have started to sound the alarm on Peter’s behalf, because the kid yelps, “No, no, wait! Not yet! I can do this, I can–”

The ground to Peter’s left explodes as the thing’s fist connects with the concrete, barely missing him. He springs into action, the camera whirling as he fires webs at the walls, the ceiling – trying his best to get an angle on the thing even as it continues to grow, a hideous face forming out of its rocky surface, snarling with rage.

“Distraction, I need a – Karen, can you deploy a drone?” Peter gasps, dodging a second blow from the monster. With a metallic buzzing, a spider-drone is released from the kid’s suit. It zips around behind the creature, flying purposefully close to its enormous head, which turns to follow its movement, its attention pulled away from its main target.

Peter banks sharply in mid-air, grabbing onto one of the overhead beams with one hand and steadying himself. He fires a web grenade right into the center of the beast – the web streaks through the air, seems to flicker strangely – and passes through the creature without a trace. It explodes against the far wall, brick and webbing sent in every direction.

Peter hangs in place, obviously puzzled. “What–?”

He’s still for a moment too long. The sand monster slams a fist into the ceiling above his head; the spot just above him explodes, huge chunks of debris raining down over top of him. The overhead beam Peter hangs from snaps as it’s swept beneath an avalanche of rubble that crashes to the floor, burying the kid beneath it.

“No!” Peter gasps, and the fear in his voice sets Tony’s heart racing. The camera is covered with dust, impossible to see through.

“FRIDAY, switch to the drone cam,” Tony orders, and the picture re-appears, this time from a bird’s eye view. Beneath the drone, Peter frees an arm and paws ineffectually at the eyes of his mask, struggling to clear his view.“No, no, come on–”

He’s panicking – Tony can hear it in the frantic, too-quick breaths still audible through the speakers. He can see it in the way the kid remains pinned on his back beneath the rubble, fighting wildly to free himself, staring up at the beast as it raises its fist again, preparing to strike–

The beast’s roar is interrupted by the whirr of repulsors, and Tony’s head snaps towards the stairs, towards Morgan and the suit– but the sound isn’t coming from upstairs. It’s coming from the screen.

Iron Man bursts through the broken window of the warehouse, repulsors raised threateningly at the creature still looming over Peter.

“I’m here! Tony, I’m down here!” Peter’s relief is palpable, and it hurts, because now, at last, Tony can see what’s happening.

The understanding of what he’s seeing – what it means, and what must be about to happen next – crashes over Tony all at once, sliding like ice down his spine.

This is Stark tech. This is his own technology. Incredibly vivid projected images, probably backed by some sort of weaponry to cause the explosions. Smoke and mirrors in dazzling technicolor, the early stages of an invention he had molded into a therapy tool once he realized the hideously dangerous potential it held for anything else; at the time, he’d pictured large-scale government sponsored hoaxes designed to stir a country into war, or corrupt officials re-framing their own misdeeds, manufacturing false alibis…

He’d never imagined it would become a torture device to be used on his own kid.

On the screen, the threat of the repulsors is enough to cause the sand monster to retreat. It crumbles in on itself like a sinkhole before vanishing entirely, leaving no trace of it behind. The spider-drone’s camera follows Iron Man’s movements as he crosses the floor of the warehouse to where Peter is still trapped. Tony watches as the fake Iron Man lifts away the support beam the kid is still pinned beneath, straining his eyes for evidence of the machinery which must be at work creating the illusion – but now that he thinks about it, how is the fake Iron Man able to physically move anything? Real objects should pass right through the projection, just as Peter’s web grenade had flown through the “beast.”

He’s only just begun to consider whether it might be possible to overlay a projection on a human being as a sort of digital costume when the Iron Man suit opens, and Tony fucking Stark steps out of it.

The kid removes his mask as he scrambles to safety, and the expression of relief on his face is in total contrast to the dread in Tony’s gut.

“Tony!” Peter’s voice is brimming with gratitude and adoration as he lunges towards his apparent savior and all but crashes into the doppelganger’s arms. Tony’s body actually twitches with the urge to return the embrace the teenager is clearly expecting.

Not-Tony, however, is rigid and ramrod straight; his hands grip Peter’s shoulders without their usual warmth, and Tony can see the moment Peter realizes something is wrong – the kid freezes in place half a second before Not-Tony uses his grip to push him violently away.

Peter stumbles backwards with the force of it, and Tony finds himself taking an instinctive step forward as though to steady him before he remembers himself. Any embarrassment he might have felt at his blunder is wiped away by Peter’s expression: pure, defenseless hurt.

“What the hell were you doing out there, Parker?” Not-Tony’s voice trembles with anger, and Tony watches as Peter seems to shrink in on himself.

 “I – there was – I heard someone screaming and then this thing, it just…it attacked, and I– I wanted to help, so I–”

Not-Tony cuts in sharply, “You got involved in a mess you had no business being any part of, and forced me to swoop in and save the day. ”

For a split second, Tony can see Peter’s brow furrow with what looks to be doubt.

 “But – but you said I should–”

Not-Tony switches tactics.

 “Or maybe it was on purpose? Was it just that you wanted to see how fast I’d come running if you were in danger? Was that your game?”

Tony, who has always loved the way Peter wears his heart on his sleeve, now wishes desperately that the kid had a better poker face; the way the color drains from his cheeks makes it clear that Not-Tony has struck pay dirt.

“N-no! Please, I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I didn’t mean to – you don’t have to–” Peter’s stammering protest cuts through Tony like a knife.

“You’re right. I don’t.” Not-Tony remains as cold as ice, and Tony feels a sudden dread creep up his spine. “I think this relationship has run its course, don’t you?”

There is a long pause in which Peter desperately searches Not-Tony’s face, and Tony knows what he’s looking for; he’s seen enough footage and photos of himself with the kid. But the usual warmth and affection that lights up Tony’s eyes whenever he looks at his family is absent in Not-Tony.

“Run its…its course?” Peter’s voice is hoarse and disbelieving. Tony has never heard anyone sound so crushed, and it makes him appear somehow younger. His head swims with the sudden and overwhelming desire to reach out and comfort the kid.

 “I had a pretty good thing going for a few years, you know. A wife and a kid. Nice little retirement. Maybe it’s time to get back to that. Think I’ve earned the right to some peace and quiet, don’t you?”

Peter’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He nods.

Not-Tony’s tone is ruthless as he continues, “Saved the universe, didn’t I? I brought everyone back. I brought you back. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.”

Tony’s stomach seems to plummet and lift so quickly he tastes bile in his throat, because God, those words spoken in his own voice area nauseating, but this is where Peter will see through the farce. This is where the kid will realize something is up. Because Tony could never regret saving Peter. There is no version of Peter who could fail to realize that.

Peter’s mouth opens as if to speak, and Tony feels a surge of victory.

It’s extinguished with the click of Peter’s teeth as his mouth closes. His face is colorless. His gaze drops to the floor.

“No. No, come on, kid,” Tony has taken several steps forward without realizing it, “That’s not me. You know that’s not me.”

Not-Tony’s expression borders on smug. “Can’t deny it, can you? You’ve had your fun. Had a nice time playing superhero, milking me out of millions of dollars worth of gear, swanning around my home as if you think you’re my son. Taking me away from time with my family. My daughter. That’s plenty. That’s enough. Don’t you think?”

Peter looks up again, utterly stricken.

 “I – sir, I’m so –”

Not-Tony advances on Peter. Peter cowers.

Something in Tony’s chest pulls as taut and unforgiving as a bowstring, and he is forced to turn his back on the grotesque display before the pressure can snap it in two.

Behind him, the spectacle continues to play out. Not-Tony’s voice drips with contempt.

 “You agree with me, don’t you? Spider-Man?”

Peter’s reply is almost inaudible. He sounds as though the wind has been knocked out of him. He sounds as breathless and gutted as Tony feels.

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Yes, sir. Perfect. Then you can get the hell out of my life. Door’s just behind you.”

There is a sharp, reedy sound like a sudden intake of breath followed by the soft rustle of fabric hitting the tile floor, and Tony knows without looking that Peter has dropped his suit and tracker. He can’t see it, but he can imagine the trembling in Peter’s shoulders as he turns to leave – the tightening at the corners of his eyes that only happens when the teenager is trying not to cry. The kid’s footsteps are slow and methodical as he makes his way to the door of the warehouse, and Tony wills him to hurry, to leave before his hideous doppelganger can deliver the killing blow –

Instead, there is a shuffle of footsteps as though Peter has turned on his heel.

“Wait! Wait, please – please don’t do this. Please. I’ll – I’ll do better, I promise I will! I’ll – you can have the suit, you can keep it, just – and I won’t, I – I’ll stop coming over so much. I won’t bother you, just please, Tony. I just – I need you, and – ” Peter’s tone is familiar in its desperation. But the last time Tony heard it, the kid was turning to dust in his hands. Unconsciously, he raises his hand to his mouth as though to keep from being sick.

Not-Tony snorts derisively. “I should’ve left you for dead when I had the chance.”

The roaring in Tony’s ears drowns out any reply.

– – -

 Ten hours earlier

–

Peter is freezing. He’s never been able to tolerate cold well, and his only clothing underneath the suit had been his shorts and vest. But the prospect of asking Tony for clothes – for anything at all – hadn’t crossed his mind.

It’s as if the realization of his worst fears, his worst insecurities, has short-circuited something in his brain. He feels numb beneath the cold, can focus only on taking the next step, the next step, the next step…

So he walks.

“Peter? Is that you?” A familiar voice calls out from behind him.

Almost mechanically, Peter turns to face the man.

“Oh. Hi. I was just…” His lips are numb, his voice flat. What is he doing? Where is he going? He can’t remember.

His physics teacher frowns, glancing both ways down the street before jogging across to meet him. Peter waits politely for him to catch up. Now that he’s still, he can’t seem to find the desire to move any further.

“I was just at the bar across the street, thought I heard a commotion – Peter, are you okay?” The man reaches out a hand to clasp Peter’s shoulder.

For some reason, the simple touch is his undoing.

“No,” he croaks out. His eyes begin to burn and he drops his gaze, humiliated.

His teacher squeezes his shoulder once. “C’mon. I live close by.”

– – -

Peter allows himself to be lead just two blocks down and into an alleyway where a dilapidated walk-up awaits them. He wonders, in a detached kind of way, what kind of meager salary Midtown pays its faculty – by the looks of this place, they can’t afford much in the way of rent.

They enter into a dimly lit kitchen where the man gestures for Peter to take a seat at the tiny round table in the corner of the room and reaches for the coffee machine, which seems to have a pot already waiting; Peter wonders whether the man was expecting company. “Sit down, Peter. How do you take it? Cream? Sugar?”

“I – um, both?” Peter’s never been much of a coffee-drinker, but it’ll give him something to do with his hands at the very least. “Um, thanks for doing this, Mr. Rio. Tonight – it’s been – well, thanks.”

“Please, Peter. We’re not in school. Call me Quentin,” His teacher smiles as he passes Peter the steaming mug. “Tell you what, I’ll grab you some clothes while you drink. You can’t walk home looking like that. Wait here, okay?”

Quentin disappears out of the kitchen. Peter takes a few gulps of his coffee, savoring the way it burns away at the lump in his throat on the way down.

 I think this relationship has run its course, don’t you?

The words play back endlessly through his mind. His skin is crawling with it.

 I brought you back. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.

He takes another long sip, hoping the steam will clear out the sudden congestion in his sinuses before he has to speak to Quentin.

On the wall, a dusty clock tells him it’s nearly 2AM. May will be at her night-shift until morning, and won’t meet back up with Peter until the afternoon. There will be no morning message from Tony to answer.

 Get the hell out of my life.

He drains his mug in one long gulp.

On a small table by the door, something catches his eye: a newspaper bearing a familiar photograph. The New York Times had done a feature on Tony after his incredible victory. On its cover, the photograph depicted the man himself, surrounded by his family: Pepper, Happy, Rhodey – and Peter.

 Swanning around my home as if you think you’re my son.

He remembers the way Tony had flatly refused to allow any publication of his daughter’s face – he’d said he didn’t want her growing up in his shadow the way he’d grown up in Howard’s, always to be compared and scrutinized by a merciless press.

But he’d allowed Peter to be in the shot – had even thrown his arm around him. Like he was proud. Why?

The grief is threatening to overwhelm him now, is clouding his mind. He feels strangely heavy with it. Heavy and weak, and so, so tired.

“It’s a nice picture,” says Quentin from somewhere behind him.

Peter turns to look at him. It takes longer than it should – he feels as if he’s moving through sludge, wading through sand…

“I couldn’t believe my luck when I first saw it. There I was, dreaming up ways to make him pay for what he did, and what do you know? The guy is stupid enough to let a major news outlet run a story on the private life he’s hidden for years. All the people nearest and dearest to him.” Quentin smiles.

For the first time, it dawns on Peter that the prickling on the back of his neck – the crawling of his skin – is not down to emotion.

“Thing is, most of them are just impossible to get to. Can you imagine trying to kidnap the C.E.O. of Stark Industries? Or a bunch of ex-military guys? Never gonna happen. But you–you were perfect.”

Quentin draws closer, and Peter tries to rise from his chair, but his legs won’t support him – he crashes hard to the linoleum floor. His teacher is still smiling.

“Oh, it’s nothing personal, Pete. You’re a bright kid! You would’ve had a bright future.” Quentin shakes his head as though disappointed. “But you won’t be the first person to have their life destroyed by Tony Stark. I used to work for the guy, did you know that? Me and some of my friends. You’ve met one of them already – he’s a better scientist than he is an actor, but his screaming got you to turn up all the same, didn’t it?”

Peter tries to move, but it feels as though he’s buried under rubble again. Every hair on his body is standing on end. “How…?”

“Oh, how did I know about your little alter-ego?” Quentin asks. His eyes are bright and eager at the question. He looks as if he’s enjoying himself. “Well, that’s the thing, Pete – I didn’t! Not until your buddy Ned went and bragged to his little girlfriend about his pal Spider-Man right smack in the middle of my classroom. The look on your face when he said it!” He laughs. “God, kid, how have you kept it secret this long? Anyway, it works out great in the end. Makes my job a little easier.”

Peter isn’t sure whether it’s because Quentin is purposefully toying with him or because whatever he’s been drugged with is slowing his thinking, but he can’t connect the dots. He tries to ask, but finds that he can no longer open his mouth to speak – he’s paralyzed.

Quentin chuckles as though he sees the question in Peter’s eyes.

“Jesus, kid, aren’t you supposed to be smart?” And then his face falls, and he looks almost remorseful. “Aw, man, I’m sorry, Pete. That was mean. Look – I’ve really enjoyed being your teacher. And this whole superhero gig you’ve got going – it’s admirable, it really is. But your friend Tony deserves to pay for what he’s done, and there’s no way I’m getting close enough to the guy to kill him myself.”

Even as he feels the muscles in his face go slack, the alarm bells in Peter’s head are blaring, and his eyes dart frantically between his teacher’s. Quentin nods, smiling again as though pleased.

“Yeah, see? You figured it out, right? Knew you’d get there eventually. It’ll work like this: I’ve got your suit. I get to play the role of the Amazing Spider-Man, but – uh oh!” Quentin steps closer. “Spider-Man’s lost it! He’s blowing up buildings, he’s killing innocent people! Tony Stark’s little side-kick is out destroying his reputation!”

Peter tries to yell, but nothing escapes his vocal cords. Horror is clawing at his throat. Quentin carries on.

“See, as soon as Stark sees Spider-Man on a rampage through the city, he’ll zoom right in out of retirement to save the day. But Iron Man won’t lift a finger against Spider-Man, will he? Tony would never risk hurting Peter Parker.”

Quentin drops down beside Peter, and he catches a final glimpse of the savage pleasure on the man’s face as he reaches to gently close the eyelids that are frozen open.

“Easy peasy, right? Spider-Man will have no trouble killing Tony Stark.”

Peter’s eyes are closed, and the world goes dark.

“And once it’s all over, Peter – once Iron Man has fallen and the world is closing in on Spider-Man…he’ll fall, too. Right off a building, and down to his death. And for that, I’m going to need a body.”

The darkness pulls Peter down, and he knows no more.

[shinelikethunder]

Historical perspective is a weird thing, and one of the other things I’m only beginning to understand is how monumentally the Bush administration fucked up by invading Iraq. Like, yes, I was screaming against it at the time, with all my 15-year-old might. I was screaming about quagmires and dystopias and apocalyptic consequences, and the thing is, when you’re doing that, even in your head it sounds like hyperbole. No matter how historic the shit you’ve lived through is, you experience it at the time as yet another volley of slings and arrows and politics.

But stepping back and looking at it... fuck, it was the most pointless goddamn naive, hubristic blunder since the lead-up to the first world war. And the consequences are going to keep unfolding for at least as long as the grief caused by WWI, including what that led to in Germany.

It’s almost poetic, in a really grim way. That this godawful moment of “history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes” was set off by a foolish rush to war that, almost fifteen years ago, blew the lid off the entire Middle East... and finally reaped the dividends of the Peace to End All Peace.