anti-hero ━━ peter parker

05. trouble

chapter five
stark tower, nyc

Sometimes, Brenna had nightmares.

They were more like memories, ones she had to relive when she wasn't able to run from them.

     That night, she was in Madrid, and she was seven years old.

      Brenna felt the rough comforter with her fingers. She was used to it—every cheap hotel had the same one. Her feet dangled over the edge. She kicked them, watching as her father raced around the room, stuffing clothes into a bag.

"Sweetheart—get up! Get up, Brenna!" He told her in passing. Bruce suddenly stopped, frantically patting his pockets. "Glasses..." he mumbled. "Glasses...Bren, where are Daddy's—"

Brenna was frozen, except her legs. They kept kicking. She reached over and grabbed Bruce's glasses from the side table. He took them from her, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "Get up," he repeated, softly. "We gotta go."

"Why?" Brenna said, gripping the comforter a little tighter. The window was open—she could smell cigarettes and hear loud music and the bustle of city's nightlife.

"Because, it's time." Bruce lifted her up and onto her feet. "Get your backpack."

She loved her backpack. It held everything she owned. Bruce had bought it for her at a flea market in Tulsa: green with butterflies.

Her father was at the window, and Brenna knew what it meant when his brows furrowed. He was waiting, listening. Something was starting to drown out the music. It was a sound she hated, and dreaded: the whirl of helicopter blades.

"D-Daddy?" she said tentatively, clinging to the back of his pant leg.

"Get away from the window, Bren." Bruce was eerily calm. He nudged her off him.

The military chopper came into view, level with the window: a black Apache with turrets mounted on it. A floodlight turned on, filling the room with light and effectively blinding the two of them. "Go, Brenna—now!"

She started for the door but tripped a little. Bruce scooped her up, grabbed a bag and threw it over his shoulder. He burst out of the room and down the dingy, winding stairwell.

Brenna clung to him the whole way, burying her face in his chest.

The closer they got to street level, the more they could hear the sound of truck doors slamming, men shouting, and tires screeching.

The calvary had arrived, and soon they'd run right out and into their arms. Bruce stopped, catching his breath in a recess of the stairwell.

Brenna was crying, her tears staining her father's button down. "D-Daddy, I don't wanna go—I-I don't—"

He rubbed her back, consoling her the best he could. "Listen to me, okay? Listen, everything—"

A loud boom shook the foundation of the building. Voices and comms—weak, but getting louder. And footsteps, the clinking of body armor and the sound of weapons being switched off safety. Bruce dared peer down over the edge of the railing, where the stairs led below. A dozen or so soldiers with semi-automatics were waiting at the base of the stairs, ready to make the climb.

Bruce set Brenna down, crouching to her level. He gingerly wiped her tears, cupping both cheeks. "You're being so brave, Bren. I'm proud'a you."