Snapshot (фотография)

XXV

The screams still echoed in his ears; the blood still dripped down his face, but Peyta sat there on the edge of the building like a statue, waiting for someone to come. His eyes were lost and full of longing as he stared at the photo in his hand, wondering where things had gone so wrong.

Just below him, there were people resuming their daily routines, unaware of what was going on above them. The sounds of cars bounced from building to building until they harmonized in a crescendo and escaped from the top. People greeted each other on the streets, ignoring their daily problems as they escaped into a good conversation. He heard the sound of someone landing behind him, the clanking of metal hitting gravel and closing up.

"You must be Spider-Man." The voice of Iron Man said. "Nat profiled you to have sociopathic tendencies, so why are you sitting on the ledge like you're about to kill yourself?"

He shifted slightly, uncaring about whether or not he was caught. He'd killed May Parker that day, but he'd also killed Peter. Who was he now? He knew that he was no longer somebody's nephew, somebody's son- he'd lost that chance a while ago. Was he really all that they had made him? Was he really what May had accused him? A killer. He deserved to die.

"Where's the cavalry?" He asked softly, turning around to look his childhood hero in the eyes. The voice from the suit took a deep breath and moved back.

"Geez," Tony Stark said. "You're just a kid."

"If you cared, you'd actually be here right now." Peyta laughed bitterly in an almost sullen tone of voice. He wasn't sure whose character he was mimicking then. Surely not his own, though he wasn't sure who he was. The armour opened with a 'chink', and the man himself was exposed. Peyta clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to finish the job he was supposed to do months before. He was devolving, and he knew it. Ending it all was safer for everyone.

"My aunt blamed you publicly for my disappearance." He revealed, no longer caring what he exposed.

"The Expo, right?" Peyta nodded, his eyes sad, though Tony couldn't see the regret he held. He had taken May's gun from the apartment, and in one movement, Peyta stood up and removed his web shooters from his wrists, placing them down on his feet. The hero seemed to recognise his intentions and raised his hands in the pose from the posters Peyta used to have in his room.

The gun was raised to his head with shaking hands, the betrayers on his operation. He clenched his jaw, turned around to face Tony once more.

"Underoos, just put the gun down." Tony said in a desperate voice, almost as if he knew Peyta. He was reminded of Harley by this boy. Peyta had been moulded by his experiences. Some people fight hard, face the trials, but others give into the tsunami they are faced with.

"I'm sorry." His finger pressed against the trigger, and the repulsor shot. It hit on his heart, and Peyta looked down in shock, a peaceful smile spreading across his face. He had been spared of having to commit one more kill: himself.

"Wait! Kid!" Tony cried out in horror as the figure dove off the roof with a smelting wound by his heart. The hero dove after the boy, wondering if this was the day that he would call himself a murderer once more.

"What's your name? I need your name!" He yelled, desperately pressing his fingers against the boy's ribs in a futile attempt to save his life. He removed the mask, staring at a reflection of a face that seemed to be like his own. He was so young, terror filling his eyes that had already started to fade.

"Peter." The boy coughed, a slight Queens tinge to his words. "My name is Peter. I-I just wanted to be better."

"Better?" Tony stuttered, realizing that he couldn't save the boy.

Death is a caring god, kind, patient and inevitable. Death needs not fight against you, but will often fight for you. It will gather you home eventually. Death was beginning to carefully pick Peter up. 'You've done all you can,' Death whispered. Tony felt a moment of loss and grief. He'd rebelled at the very idea of it, terrified into silence by the apparition of yesterday's messenger. He looked down at the dying boy. The spider who faded into the shadows to survive, who did not choose this life, but decided to live despite it.

"H-How'd you like to be an Avenger?"

The light was beginning to fade from the young boy's eyes, but he nodded eagerly. Are people born wicked, or do they have wickedness thrust upon them? Tony, his eyes full of tears, took his hand and knighted him as if Tony himself was the king. Icarus died with the feeling of sun on his lips. Peter would die at night, the sun not daring to peek up for him. He would always think that maybe Peyta wasn't enough. Peter could have been.

"I-I think I'm ready to go, Mr. Stark." Peter said. All was forgiven in that moment. Forgiveness wouldn't take the wounds from his body, but hopes and prayers wouldn't heal them either.

Sometimes better is enough, but Tony never got to tell him that. Sometimes, better is all you can ask for, and Peter knew that. He accepted his fate. Sometimes, better is everything, but all you have left is a snapshot of what used to be.