Frostbite

Peter

He finished his Pre-Calc homework cross-legged on the ceiling, a block eraser between his teeth and a pencil flying through equations on the paper held up by his forearm. A half-eaten sandwich was squished in his free hand and beside him were three capri-suns dangling from webs just within arms reach. There was no AcaDec practice today, meaning Karen had just finished reading the entirety of The Great Gatsby on double speed while he took notes for AP World History. Finish this week's notes, show all this section's work for the math packet, write that essay for the American Dream unit in English all before they were let out for winter break...

"Oh, shoot," Peter groaned. "I forgot to leave Happy a voicemail after patrol yesterday!"

He webbed his phone from his bed and dialed Happy's number—it was kind of embarrassing he had it memorized but, you know—and put it on speaker.

He let the rings pass. They always did.

"The number you have called is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone."

Beep.

"Hey, Happy! It's Peter." How many questions were left? Fifteen? Ugh, why was Mr. Dallas such a hard-butt? "Sorry I didn't call after patrol yesterday! I was caught up with a few things after and ah—" He'd stopped by the bar for a bit before he went home, something about Mr. Weasel needing him to get measured because some dumb merc needed a disguise for a job and couldn't get a real three piece suit to save his life and Peter was close enough to his size anyway— "yeah. I stopped a robbery at a shop next to May's favorite bakery, stopped a car from falling off an overpass, and stopped a bus from running over a bunch of pedestrians when its brakes gave out. Lots of stops, huh?"

He didn't mention how he'd seen Genevieve-from-the-bar staking out from a cafe across her target's workplace. She came down every now and again, always asking for extra cheese on her nachos and never cleaning off the blood from the toes of her boots.

An executive assistant died that day. Murdered. And all his money laundering and labor racketeering came to light in the papers the very next morning.

"Anyway I'll, uh, stop taking up so much of your time. Patrol wasn't that busy yesterday, so." He tapped his phone screen and a bright 6:18 pm stared back at him. "I'm gonna be late! Bye Happy, have a nice rest of your day!"

He flipped onto the floor. It was a bit early to be heading out to Sister Margaret's, but it was a big shipment day and Mr. Weasel definitely couldn't haul all those firearms into the break room all by himself. There were also a couple swords coming in too, apparently? Not that it was really his business, but inventory-ing swords sounded awesome.

He sucked down all three capri-suns and tossed them in the trash, stuffed his homework in his backpack and threw it all onto his bed, snagged his wallet and keys, shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth as he tugged on a beanie and slipped on his thicker jacket.

Peter picked up his black Vans and laced them up on his chair in record time and just before he left, he caught sight of that round wooden box sitting innocently on his desk. And he stopped.

He hadn't touched the necklace. Hadn't even opened the box again since reading the note and suffering a minor freak out that had him slamming the top shut and pushing it to the far side of his desk where it was too easy to pretend to forget about for a few days.

'And what about the obviously not normal way the box just straight up glowed and opened?! What about that, Parker?!'

So maybe that was part of why he didn't want to get anywhere near that thing again.

If you wish to meet me, wear the necklace and I will find you.

Like that didn't sound vaguely threatening, but okay.