Sokovia and Spiders

Chapter 4-Injuries

The first rays of sunlight reach the city, turning the sky a kaleidoscope of colours, a soft pink that merges into a warm orange, pushing away the deep blue that the night brought. Overhead pigeons are beginning to emerge, screeching black specks in the blue sky. From their vantage point, the city is a labyrinth beneath them, a wild urban maze of brick apartments, shiny skyscrapers, and shops. Streets and alleyways separate them.

Amongst it, there's a small alley, a rusting fire escape nailed to one wall, and a stark bloody handprint stamped across the highest window, crimson contrasting against white. Peter had crawled through the window in the earliest hours of the morning, face wet from pained tears. Wincing as he crumples onto the wooden floorboards, half expecting the familiar sound of May racing to his door. Two months ago, she'd discovered his suit hanging in the wardrobe. After three years you would think I'd have found a better spot to hide it. Both of them were yet to settle into a life where his secret was out.

Lead legs manage to get him across his room, to where a red box pokes out from under his bed. His fingers tremble when he grips the handle, yanking it out into the open and ripping its lid off in a swift movement. There's a couple of greying bandages, his old glasses, one lens chipped, and little packets of various tablets. The content of the box was more for bruises and scrapes than serious injuries but it would have to do. At least he's never had to dig out a bullet. Knock on wood.

His medical knowledge was at best limited, which wasn't ideal for a vigilante like him. Most of the things he's picked up came from car crash shows involving road accidents and ten-minute YouTube clips. Fortunately, he was blessed with a sped-up healing factor. It's not as effective as impenetrable skin, cough cough Luke Cage, but he makes it work. Digging through the supplies he finds a couple of scrap pieces of paper buried beneath, smudged sketches of suit ideas. For a while he had been debating adding extra robotic legs to the suit, even got to designing the schematics before he remembered he was a broke high school student.

Eventually, he finds some burn cream, the off the shelf type from the local shop but anything was better than nothing. As he found it the smell of burnt latex had begun to clog his synesis, the stench made worse with his heightened senses. Clearly, some of the suit had begun to melt away during the conflict, leaving his skin visible and vulnerable. Salt pricks at his eyes once more as he wriggles out of what remains of it cursing his idea to make it from skin-tight latex. When his hand brushes against the burn he can't hold back the pained cry that echoes around his room. Aunt May can't be heard so it was safe to assume she'd picked up some more late shifts. Just as well as the situation was bound to get worse before it could get better.

Finally, with the suit peeled off laying in a blue and red heap on the floor he can assess his injuries. Spinning around quickly, he tries to look over his appearance in one go, like how a band aide is ripped off. Instead, he reels back at his reflection. Whilst his chest is a mirage of purples and his left cheek prods out of his face, smushing his left eye in the process, it's the burns that turn his stomach. Blisters already formed at the sharp edge of his collar, red and angry. They're painful to see, agonizing to touch.

Stumbling over to the bathroom he manages to shuffle out of the rest of his clothes without incident. Dizziness grips him for a moment as he steps into the bathtub, one outstretched hand fumbling for the tap. He stumbles backwards when the first blast hits it, scorching his white skin a light pink and sending dark spots across his vision as it grazes his burns. He scrambles to twist the tap the other way, sighing when the waves of pain turn to relief.

He doesn't bother with soap or shampoo, simply allowing plain water to strip away the filth and pain. Both arms braced against chipped tiling, his knuckles turn white as his hands form tight fists. Casting his eyes down, the water disappearing down the drain is tinged brown. His muscles begin to tremble under the frigid water but he stays until his burnt skin turns numb. Only then does he stumble out, feet skating across the wet flooring, droplets cascading down his back, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Having wrapped a towel around his waist, he squeezes a dollop of burn cream on his finger, massaging it into his reddened skin before he can hesitate, hissing as it makes contact. Leaving his phone perched on the sink he limps back into his room, bandages tucked under one arm. Still damp he collapses on his bed, wincing as something sharp prods his bruised ribs. Digging under the cover he yanks out the remote, clicking the on button in the process. Shielding his eyes from the onslaught of light, he spares a fleeting glance at the TV.

Blips of movement and dashes of colour flash across the small screen, vivid through the dust. As the imagery comes together Peter's brain sluggishly catches up. There's a man on the screen, his vast form squeezed behind a small desk. Rounded glasses perching halfway down a pig-like nose, they bounce up and down as each spittle-saturated word fires out of his mouth. Opposite him sits another man, goatee and hair cleanly cut, he's grinning but in a way that says he's uncomfortable with the company and trying to hide it. The other man is Tony Stark, decked out in a charcoal suit and tie rather than in red and gold.

Comparing the polished version against the ragged man he'd seen a few hours earlier, Peter misses the words they're saying. Fortunately, there's a banner below them, the words written boldly.

BREAKING NEWS- SHIELD INTERVIEWS KEY EYEWITNESSES IN THE HUNT FOR ILLEGAL VIGILANTE SPIDERMAN.