Glow in the Dark Stars

Chapter 3: Little Machine

Peter doesn't stay for the rest of the party; he doesn't think he can stomach it, even if he tried. But if given the option, he'd prefer seeing the angry, disappointed faces of his friends over being called into Norman's office, which is where he finds himself now.

Shoulders back, head up, back straight – the perfect little soldier. Norman sits at his desk, rifling through a few papers as if Peter isn't there, but Peter's seen this move before. It's a power play. Keep him waiting so he knows he's not a priority.

Peter doesn't complain, and he doesn't move it along. He learned that lesson a long time ago. Norman talks when he wants to talk, not when you decide.

So Peter stands and waits. And waits. And waits. The room is dark, the only light being a single lamp on Norman's desk, lighting the papers he's using to ignore Peter's existence. It's all very similar to the first time Peter walked into this room 5 years ago. Of course, back then Peter had been a small 15-year-old boy, unaware that he was walking into the lion's den.

There hadn't been a party downstairs, and he wasn't wearing a suit, but the terror was the same. Peter suppresses a shudder, remembering when he walked into this room, the darkness broken by light from the neighboring buildings and a news report playing on the TV pinned to the wall. A red and blue figure hopped around on the screen, weaving through metal appendages wielded by a man with a bolo cut. Norman seemed to materialize behind him, voice dark and amused. "I hope you got it out of your system."

"Explain to me why you were associating with him," Present Norman says, snapping Peter back to the here and now. His heart races and the urge to shuffle his feet on the hardwood floor is stopped only by years of learning to stay perfectly still. Norman puts down his paper and stares at Peter, steepling his fingers together.

Peter swallows. "I was just...I bumped into him. It was an accident."

Norman's eyes narrow. "You accidentally walked to the dance floor then, too?"

Peter fixes his eyes on the vase behind Norman. "I was just asking how he was doing. I haven't seen him in a while and I-" a tingle dances across his skull and Peter stiffens as Norman rises to his feet, smooth and easy, as if he were just greeting a member of the board of directors. He walks up to Peter, straightening his tie and fixing the cuff of his sleeves as he goes. Peter keeps his eyes on the wall over Norman's shoulder. The tingle plays over his brain in a steady stream, not spiking with immediate danger, but the promise is there.

"Don't do it again," Norman says slowly, as if giving a child a very simple command. Peter's jaw tightens. "He's no longer a part of this family."

I'm not a part of this family, Peter thinks.

"Yes sir," he says out loud. "Sorry."

Norman doesn't encourage him to apologize to anyone, unless that person was him. Admitting that he's wrong, and that Norman is so obviously right, fed his ego better than any compliment could. Peter sees it working now, smoothing Norman's ruffled feathers and giving him a perch to look down on Peter from.

He neither accepts nor rejects the apology—he never does—but steps back with a faint smile. "Head down to the labs." He strides back to his desk. "I'll be there shortly."

Peter freezes. His clasped hands turn white with tension and his heart patters nervously against his ribcage.

"Sir," he says, fighting back the tremor in his voice. " I'm sorry. I won't talk to Harry again, I promise. I-"

"Head down to the lab," Norman repeats, firmer. "I will be down there shortly. Don't give me a reason to prolong this. You remember what happened last time?"

Peter does. He's woken up in the middle of the night, drenched in his own sweat from memories of what happened last time; phantom pains that dug bruises into his skin and etched deep in his brain. He releases his hands and clasps them again to get rid of their shaking, grateful they're hidden behind his back. Norman is not kind to weakness. It makes him push Peter harder, beyond his limits, beyond his capacity. To "build his character." To help him grow stronger. To teach him a lesson. A meaningless list of excuses that do nothing but float around his head and take up space.

He's tempted to argue. To beg to just go to his room. To go back to the party. To do anything else. But that'll only make it worse.

Norman is back to ignoring him, and if Peter doesn't move soon he'll be in even more trouble, so that's what he does. One step in front of the other. Trained. Efficient. A machine built by and for Norman, created for fulfilling a role and doing as it's told.

His hand closes around the doorknob, twists it open, and closes it again. He pushes the last button in the elevator, the one that's unlabeled, which asks for a 10-digit password that Peter provides. His hands clasp behind his back again, still shaking.

In a desperate attempt to think of anything else, his mind turns to Harry and MJ. They both looked great tonight. They looked like they were doing great. He doesn't get to check on them often, and when he does, he's careful to keep it from Norman. He's stayed up late some nights reading Mary's articles, watching her progression through journalism from afar. He doesn't know what Harry does for a living, but he looks the best he's ever been. He's grown a lot. He's taller. He looks...healthy. Happy.

Peter closes his eyes, listening to the soft beep of the elevator as he descends to the belly of the beast. As their descent slows, he steels his shoulders, straightens his back, and opens his eyes as the door slides open.

He walks out, holding the memory of his old friends close to his heart.