Peter's Journal

Intervention

**TW: Domestic violence, blood, mention of rape

It was a loud and noisy night in Manhattan. Cars and taxis honked at each other at every intersection. Every now and then, groups of people would pass by laughing obnoxiously loud. Thunder would crack and my feet splashed in a the puddles of the sidewalk.

It wasn't that far from my apartment as it was down the block. My clothes were completely drenched, my suit just stuck to my skin, and the chilling atmosphere didn't make it any better. I was miserable in this state.

I couldn't web swing to my apartment because I ran out of web cartridges; to add on to that, I'm flat out too broke to afford a cab. Although I could still hop around buildings like nothing, I'd rather avoid slipping and dying.

Just a few steps down, and you'll be at the luxurious penthouse with the lovely Mary Jane Watson Parker.

It was not a penthouse and no one was waiting for me there.

However, I had my tiny and concerningly unorganized desk set up with my lab station, laptop, and a sketchpad filled with cosmetic designs for my gadgets and suits that I'd like to have the money to create.

In front of the complex, vendors stood selling food which made no sense because no one wants a wet hot dog. Believe me, I've eaten a wet hot dog before and it's gross as hell. (There wasn't really much around that day, but I needed a snack before a stakeout.)

Tossing my umbrella and drenched olive green coat on the ground, I drop onto the bed and let out a sigh. My muscles ached and my tendons were stiff. Underneath my button up shirt, squeaked the spandex with a tightened grip.

The clock said 10:00 PM, but the bag of chips and bottle of Coca Cola shouted, "Chow Time." After my crappy week, it was about time I treated myself to a little something anyway.

After changing out of my clothes, I open my treats and pull out the chair at the table. I gather my sketch pad with Copic markers, and I continue on a mask design that's I've been very on the fence about as I eat. It goes with a trench coat I've had for a while that some designer gifted me, but I haven't been able to whip up something for the mask.

Just as my pencil was about to hit the paper, the telephone rings. It's Matt.

"Hello-"

"You need to come over here, right now," Matt sternly commanded, "I'm about to do something, and I need you to keep someone safe."

Beginning to sense that he's considering going back to his old ways, I ask, "What's going on, Matt?"

"I'm putting an end to something. That's what's happening, Parker."

I exhale heavily and respond, "Oh geezus. Stay away from that box, Murdock."

"Then help me out, now."

Judging by what happened last time, I can't trust that an incident as serious as last time won't happen again.

"I'll be there in ten minutes." I reply and hang up.

Looking outside, I mutter, "Ugh, it's still raining." I didn't want to drench myself again. That's when the trench coat caught my eye.

Maybe I don't have to.

I throw on a plain mask with just lenses and head over to Matt's apartment down in Hell's Kitchen.

What could've riled Matt up so much? I thought I had already discouraged him from continuing any of this anymore.

"And putting an end to what?" I continued thinking, out loud.

I land on the balcony of his apartment and slide open the glass door. His place is dark. The only light in the room is the strong glow of the neon sign right outside his window. It flickers ever so slightly as I look for him.