Snapshot (фотография)

XX

Peyta's fingertips turned white as he clenched the paper that told him of his new target. He'd smiled disarmingly at the librarian as he checked out the book on the Holy Grail, participating in the necessary small talk until he could leave. The information was folded carefully and placed into his pocket in case of emergency.

He whispered her name in Russian, wondering if that would make it seem more real. Perhaps he was hoping that he could distance himself from this name, but he couldn't. It was May Parker, Peter's aunt and the wife of the police officer who had been killed. Peter hadn't been in school for a week. Why would they want him to kill her? He searched any databases that he could, hoping to discover some trail. He decided on attacking during the weekend, spending time to gather information on May Parker and her habits.

He read all about Peter, the boy who had gone missing at the Stark Expo back in 2009. Peyta tracked down the interrogation tapes of May, watching for tells. Paranoia slipped into his head and anxiety screamed at him from his shoulder.

Something was wrong. He knew this woman. He knew the story she was telling them. Peyta was many things, some he'd labeled himself, some labeled by others. A killer. A monster. A child. A weapon. But the one that resonated the most with him, the one he most believed to be true was perhaps one of the very first things he'd ever called himself. A liar, and he knew one when he saw it.

Peyta was struck with a memory that seemed to be from before. He wasn't sure if it was the paralyzing hope of knowing something, anything, that substituted May's face in the blank canvas of the woman laughing in his memory. Hands shaking, Peyta looked up Peter Parker on the computer that he had fixed up, his eyes frantic as he clicked on the image tab.

Staring in horror at the old school photo of a little boy whose eyes reminded him of his own, Peyta slumped back against the wall of his small room and covered his eyes with his hands, wishing he could erase what he had just realised.

"Peter." The more he said the name aloud, the more real it felt. Flash had taunted him with that information, hadn't he? It'd been right in front of his nose. May had sold Peter- him, her nephew- to the Red Room for what? To pay off debts? Who knew.

Peyta went out on the street, walking towards the subway that he could take to the Parkers' apartment. He gave a bitter little laugh as he realised the irony of his self-given name. Maybe a part of him always knew.

He was getting ahead of himself with dreams of before. It wasn't confirmed, and he knew better than to assume things without substantial proof. Peyta let his fingers fiddle with the web shooter bracelets on his wrists when he boarded the train, ignoring the avoidance of looking at his face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection as he swayed like a tree when the subway train began to move.

Peyta took a deep breath as if to stave off the irritation that came from drawing attention. Flash had left his mark with the knife that day, and the result was two long, jagged, puffy scars that traced the right side of his face and marred his eyelid. He wasn't able to fully open his right eye, something he'd had to adjust to. Most people were nice enough not to mention them, save for the occasional little kid who got curious.

On the outside, he must have looked like any teenager on his way to a friend's house, illuminated by the harsh yellow of the lights. Peyta was a teenager, alright, and his insides swirled with emotions that would send disgusting shivers down your body and draw a nauseous boiling into your stomach.

He exited the railcar, adjusting the backpack on his back. Trying to avoid bumping into strangers, he squinted at the scintillating streetlights, taking in his surroundings. For as long as he could remember, he had been a number. Just a number. Nothing more in their eyes. They thought him to be a tool at their disposal. He was useful. More than useful, out of all the captives in the group, it was an unspoken knowledge that he was the best. And that knowledge came with certain benefits. He had long ago decided that if they thought him not worth a name, he would give himself one. Now that he had his real name, he wasn't sure how he felt.

His identity had been based on the fact that he created it himself. He was the one who persevered and fought through the training, beat the odds and that he was still alive. The boy had forged himself a name, a person out of the ashes, and when he was most broken down, he'd chosen to become Peyta and succeed.

Who was he now? Was he somebody's nephew? Somebody's son? Was he really Peter Parker? Could he truly be able to live a quiet life without looking over his shoulder to appease the demon that haunted his memories? There were so many questions and barely any answers.

It didn't matter if he had been named Peter once. He couldn't be that innocent teenager who just wanted to be good. For goodness sake, he was being sent to assassinate his alleged Aunt!

"Hey, Ned." Peyta said after pressing on his friend's contact photo. "I'm worried about... Peter."

It felt strange to refer to the other boy as Peter, knowing what he did now. He'd drawn the conclusion that if Peyta really was Peter Parker, "Peter" was most likely a local boy who fit his general age and body type that they then tortured and planted as a red herring. Peyta was the name he had given himself, and he didn't need to be called Peter to be true.

"Yeah, dude. I am too." Ned agreed quietly, rustling sounds coming from his side and small clicking.

"What can you find on his background?" Peyta could hear Ned furiously working at the computer. Thankfully, he didn't seem to question why Peyta wanted to know this.

"Oh, shit."

"What's up?"

"He was kidnapped." Shock permeated Ned's voice through the phone.

"When did he go missing?" Peyta pressed for information.

"The Stark Expo back in 2009. Dude, that was almost ten years ago."

"The question is, where is he now?"