Rising Fatality (Ultimate Spider-Man Fanfic)

| Cheliceri

Peter Parker POV

The talking of the crowds came in like waves. Words that rolled and tumbled over each other, falling under the next syllable, tumbling and tumbling before hitting the floor in a great upheaval that was only drawn back to the receding sea of people where the process could start over again.

Only difference was that Peter liked the beach.

He didn't like crowds.

The smell of sweat and personal musk clung to every person in the intermingling crowd, producing a smell as powerful as it was unpleasant. Elbows bumped, skin rubbed skin, and it was so LOUD. It was water rushing in through his ears, riding clear up his spine where it weathered away his skull and left his brain soggy. For, what was probably the dozenth time, he wished he'd been given a different assignment. Somewhere more recluse and away from people, like in the middle of a jungle, or on top of a roof in the city where he could watch the crowds without having to suffer through it himself.

Unfortunately, he didn't get to decide his jobs. He did what he was told, and that was that.

So, gagging back the smell and keeping his expression as one of "boyish excitement," Peter allowed the waves to pull him back in. It was hot in Tuscan, Arizona. A lot hotter than the cooler temperatures back in New York. His own sweat was soaking his clothes and making everything itchy. Due to spending so much of his time outside getting rid of the stench of body odor, he had perspired almost completely through his suit. But at least he fits in with everyone else.

Politician, James R. Bushwick, was the one hosting the shindig Peter was suffering through now. Of all the days to hold the first public meeting of his program, he had to pick a day with the sweltering heat of 103 degrees. It was terrible. But, as he walked back inside after freshening his lungs, a cool brush of cold air swept over him to ease the flush on his skin. Most of the windows were open to compensate for the heat, and the air conditioners were going wild. The Westin La Paloma Resort, with its thousands of packed guests, were doing their best.

Huffing irritably and tugging at his collar, Peter glanced idly at his watch as he walked up the marble stairs leading to the main lobby. 10:52. The meeting would begin in 8 minutes.

He smoothed the navy jacket of his suit and surveyed the room, nonchalantly glossing over the hoards of people standing around. A few octogenarian friends were chatting at one of the tables, while the other was occupied by a nervous group of high schoolers, each sporting the same FSAP badges as Peter. In the little waiting lounges below them, more students lingered, each buzzing with excited chattering and nervous twitching, alternating between fanning their faces and sneaking glances at their watches and the clocks on the wall.

Peter wiped a dot of sweat from his forehead and mimicked their nervous fidgeting by tugging at his jacket and glanced at his watch again. 10:55.

5 more minutes.

He watched as the anxious students reached the same conclusion as he and began packing up their things. Peter followed their example, taking deep calming breaths as he grabbed the small string-back pack provided by the cooperation, sporting the rocket-ship logo of FSAP, and merged in with the growing crowd of teenagers heading toward the conference room. The buzz in the room escalated. Peter tried not to let it bug him.

The closer to the doors he got, the more the crowd swelled, the more feet he accidentally stepped on. He stumbled, tripping slightly over another's foot, but caught himself on the arm of the girl next to him. She whirled around, pulling her arm back, and Peter grinned sheepishly.

"Oh, sor - sorry. I - I tripped."

She caught her gait again smoothly, nerves breaking way to reveal a kind smile. "Oh, that's okay. You're fine." She told him. He thanked her and they walked on. After a moment of glancing at him through the corner of her eye, she gave a small smile and asked, "Nervous?"