Hope.

Chapter two. 'Masked men and terrorist attacks?'

"PETER!"

"It's alright babe, I've got you." His hands grasp firmly against my waist as he holds in a laugh.

"No, no it's moving to fast..." I whimper.

"Gwen. The boards standing still. You're not going anywhere." He plants a kiss on the top of my head before backing off slowly, his arms held up signalling that everything's fine.

The walls of the abandoned warehouse we're in are covered from top to bottom in graffiti- buckets of paint lie across the floor; with the ceilings reaching high above our heads to huge openings where glass must have once been.

"Say chee-ese" Peter flashes me his teeth from behind the camera, and I try to force my lips into a pathetic grin. He looks at his camera before glancing up at me. "Perfect!"

Jumping down from his skateboard I glance over his shoulder at the camera in his hand. The picture of me wobbling around surprisingly looks pretty good; he's got a real talent for photography.

"So- is that going into the school newspaper?" I ask him.

"This? No, no... this ones kinda... kinda just for me." He looks up at me through his lashes, trying to look as innocent as possible as he places the camera back into his bag.

"What percentage of the photos you take of me, saying that they're for the school, actually get published?" I tease him, knowing full well that his constantly changing phone's background is always pictures of the two of us. Peter looks at me sheepishly and dodges my question.

"So erm," He scratches his head, "do you wanna maybe grab a bite to eat before we head back to Aunt May's place?"

My stomachs' growling for food but still I have to say no.

"She'll have finished her shift already I think, we should maybe get back there as soon as we can..." I tell him.

I've been having dinner with Peter and May for the past week or so now. She's been a sweetheart- asking Peter to invite me over whenever I'm free- claiming that she likes having another mouth to feed. I suppose she misses having three people in the house... Now that there's just the two of them.

"I asked her to cook her meatloaf for us tonight- it's gotten pretty good lately I promise!" Peter tells me.

"You sure it's fine for me to come right?" I ask, answered with a furious nod of Peter's head.

Picking up our bags Peter pops his board under his arm. "If we head down 5th street we can stop to pick up some ice-creams? I'm starving!"

I give a husky laugh agreeing; getting ice-cream togethers kinda become me and Peter's little thing. We walk together in silence for a short while, passing by countless newspaper stands.

One short Italian man with a heavy accent shoves a paper into my face as we walk by, hoping to sell it to me. Peter flashes him a stern look, his grip on my hand tightening. The headline catches my eye though- it read something to do with a 'Masked Man in Red... Protecting Manhattan...'

What interests me is a comment below about the police force and, 'their inability to prevent criminal activity;' and 'whether there is a need for people to take crime fighting into their own hands.'

-I remember my dad talking to my mum and brothers about some new media issue that's trying to be covered up regarding the efficiency of the NYC Police Force.

Grabbing the paper from the Italian man, I hold it up for Peter to see. "Dad mentioned something about this... I wonder whether he's seen it yet?" I'm trying to skim the article that's made front page but I can see Peter's face above it hardening. His eyes seem to dart frantically around at the piles upon piles of newspapers lining the streets with some blurry picture of a figure perched on top of a building wearing what looks like a skin-tight suit. Pulling out a dollar from his pocket, he hands the newspaper salesman the money before hurrying me down the footpath.