Snapshot (фотография)

XVIII

Peyta watched in strange, childlike wonder as the twine burned, the flame eating at the strands. The blood hissed and disappeared in clouds of vapor that disappeared into the smoke. Crashes and screams came from the hubbub inside the building next to the alley, and he thanked his self-preservation instincts that he found jobs outside of the merc bar.

The blood dripped onto the paper in his bag. He swore, trying to blot it away, but it was no use. It was the corner, anyway. There really was no need to panic. That's what he told himself anyway, ignoring the burning evidence of his latest kill to swear and try to finish his chemistry homework. The name was partially obscured by red now, and he waited until it dried to rewrite 'Arthur'.

He made his way back into St. Margarets, taking his place behind the bar to begin his shift that he worked in exchange for boarding. Weasel slid a beer down to him that he passed to a scarred fellow that they called Gunther. He gave a weak smile, playing into the idea that 'Arthur' was just a kid from Queens who needed a job.

Peyta had been taught how to manipulate perceptions and probability to his favour. If he won over most people in the bar, he wouldn't have to worry about his back. These guys would have it, even if they didn't know who he really was and what he was capable of. He continued to clean the bar, keenly aware of his surroundings and the approaching man.

"I'd like a blow-job." A voice whispered to him. He didn't bother looking up, continuing to wipe down the scratched and slightly burnt wood bar top.

"Sorry, you're not my type." The response came easily after a few months of practice.

"No, no, I'm gonna give it to Barry and say it's from George." Wade said, leaning on the ledge. Peyta shook his head, letting his eyes twinkle with mirth as he complied and enjoyed the bloodbath of the ensuing fight. He finished up his shift by three in the morning, tidying up and mopping the floor.

It was a strange way of life, something he had never had to do with the Red Room, but he found that he quite enjoyed the stability of having somewhere to go, something to do, no matter the instability of everything around him.

The burner phone that he replaced every week or so beeped in his back pocket. He flipped it open as he walked to his apartment that he shared with a few guys from the bar. A job offer. Intrigued, Peyta dialed the number, lifting the phone to his ear.

"Тень." The voice on the other end spoke in a slight Ukrainian accent. They spoke of a woman who had failed to send her monthly to the mob. Her husband was a cop, and she had taken loans out with them during the recession. They would drop off the file on her at the library. "I heard about a new study on the Holy Grail."

More information was to follow, so Peyta spent the night finishing his preparation. He indulged himself in the fantasy of being a normal teenager by finishing up his homework and sleeping an hour or so before he had to get up early enough to make the short commute from his apartment in Hell's Kitchen to Midtown Tech.

"Hey, Arthur!" Ned called out as Peyta joined the homeroom. Peter gave him a small smile, but he could practically taste the suspicion off of the boy. MJ joined them, sketching in her journal. They had reached an unspoken agreement that Peyta would not join the faces in that book.

Sirens screeched up and down the street, and Peyta checked his watch. He still had fifteen minutes until the bell rang. Pulling out his phone, he searched for the news, discovering that it was an armed robbery in progress. He'd better get out before they went into lockdown.

"I'm going to the bathroom." He whispered to Peter, slipping out of the classroom and running to the boy's locker rooms where he had hidden his makeshift costume before running out into the sun to be Spider-man.

As he was swinging along, Peyta remembered the day he had decided to use his powers to help someone. He had just found a job, an apartment and was forging his background and information to apply to a school. A girl had her cat out on the windowsill, and he had reached out from the fire-escape to grab it for her. The joy he felt as they thanked him was something that could not be measured, so he resolved to continue it and make up for the people he had killed.

"Spider-man!" A police officer cried out. There was a gun held to his head by a panting man in a mask. Peyta approached slowly, dropping to the ground behind the ring of police cars. He kept his hands up, knowing if there was any sudden movements, the man would shoot.

"Alright," Peyta said. "Can you put the gun down for me, buddy?" The robber's hand shook as he yelled out some unintelligible sentence. The blood pounded in Peyta's head as he tried to formulate what to do. The officer choked as the man's arm tightened around his neck.

"Seriously, man. It doesn't have to end like this. You did something stupid. We'll work on it." He tried to talk the man through it, his voice shaking. Peyta had never been this close to losing someone. He was usually able to joke as he took care of petty crimes.

"I-I can't go back. I owe money." The terror on the man's face was reminiscent of those that Peyta used to see on his targets. The man fired, and shots rang out across the block. Both men dropped to the ground, Peyta standing paralyzed as he stared at the blood pooling on the sidewalk.

He used to live for that look, dream of the adrenaline rush that he could when someone's life was in his hands. Why was it making him so queasy now? Maybe it was a testament of his humanity. Before that, Peyta wasn't so sure he had any at all.

He caught a glimpse of the officer as they took him away on the stretcher. It was the man who he had run into on the Subway so long ago. Parker. Peter's uncle. The name hit a pang in him that he didn't seem to recognize. The sounds of the city around him blended together as he focused in on his breathing, disappearing into an alley.