Chapter Text
“Heroes are made by the path they choose, not the powers they are graced with.” – Tony Stark
The bulletproof west feels warm and bulky under Peter’s clothes. The baking sun stands high in the sky above them, and he wonders how Tony Stark manages to look put together despite all of it. Peter feels sweat running down his back, soaking into his T-shirt, but Tony Stark stands in that black suit, and black sunglasses, a smug smile on his lips as people gather around him.
Peter is twenty-one, a college student at ESU, working on self-sustaining energy, and… he’s poor. He doesn’t have the money or the sponsors to do all his fancy testing or gather the materials he’d need. So, when his professor, Dr. Octavious, recommends that Peter participate in a competition hosted by Stark Industries’ September foundation, Peter follows his advice. A few weeks later, he is informed that he won. His project will be sponsored, and Peter gets to partake in Tony Stark's next weapons demonstrations.
He’d landed in Afghanistan earlier that morning, greeted by General Rhodes. The man hasn’t left his side once since he walked off the plane. They’re in a high-risk zone, and Peter is a civilian.
“Is it better to be feared or respected?” Tony Stark starts his speech, and people stop talking around them. The whole thing seems pretty, Peter doesn’t know, lackluster. Tony Stark is the most famous man walking on earth, but there’s no podium for him to stand on, no microphone to elevate his voice. It’s just him, in the middle of a desert with a big giant weapon. “I say, is it too much to ask for both? With that in mind, I humbly present the crown jewel, of Stark Industries’ Freedom Line.”
Peter looks between the military men, watching as they stare at the air as if they aren’t saying anything. The speech sounds boring, and Peter can truthfully say he thinks he might fall asleep. He pinches himself and tries to push through it.
Getting his project covered was a big help with his studies. It meant he could work fewer hours, in a desperate attempt to gather enough money from this specific metal, or that odd part. The Tony Stark meeting was, well, Peter wouldn’t say he didn’t appreciate it. He just wasn’t a fan. Not like the other people at Peter’s school. Young adults all looked to Tony Stark as if he were a God who would make or break their careers.
Maybe he was.
“They say the best weapon is the one you never have to fire. I respectfully disagree. I prefer the weapon you only fire once. That’s how Dad did it. That’s how America does it. And it’s worked out pretty well so far.” Stark points towards the triple missile system, and everyone's heads follow the direction he points. “Find an excuse to let one of these off the chain, and I guarantee you, the bad guys won’t even want to come out of their caves.”
He gives a single signal with his head and the missile turns into its ready stands. It hums to life. A second later it fires into the air, makes a big curve over the fake battlefield, and when it starts to dip downwards, it splits apart. A million smaller rocket appears from it, leaving tails of smoke in the air, as they rain down over the mountain chain. “For your consideration, The Jericho.” They all hit as he says it, glowing explosions acting like a backdrop. He spreads his arms out, the perfect press photo.
A second later, the blast reaches them. The power of it shakes the ground below them, and the pressure makes Peter’s ears pop.
If this is what they came for, Peter can almost understand that so many soldiers showed up. The adrenaline, the excitement throbs through his veins. Peter isn’t big on weapons, but this? This was almost, kind of cool.
With that, it’s over. People start returning to their heavy-duty military cars. “What did you think Kid? Impressive right?” Stark comes to greet home, throws an arm over his shoulder, and guides him along. It’s awkward. The older man opens one of the cooling boxes and grabs himself a whisky. Its heavy odor makes Peter’s nose itch. “Want one?”
“No thanks. I don’t drink.” But Stark did. The smell of alcohol was clear on him now that Peter was so close to him.
Stark throws at him and takes a long sip of his drink. The ice clicks against the glass. “Rhodey can you believe this? Is this the type of generation young people being now, can’t even drink a whisky?”
General Rhodes shrugs at his first and gives Peter a soft, apologetic smile, “Don’t mind Tony here. So, you’re the winner of the September Foundation, what’s your project? Weapons?”
“G-green energy, sir.” Peter feels his voice cracks as he answers, “Self-sufficient energy.”
Stark snorts into his glass, “Ah, the mini arc-reactor. You know that project always was just a proof of concept. You can’t make it smaller. Rhodey, are we leaving, I’ve got a warm sake waiting at my plane.”
General Rhodes nods a second later. Guiding Peter and Stark towards the cars. Rhodes is about to guide Peter into the same car as Stark when the older man waves over a few other soldiers. “Why don’t we put him in the fun-vee? Teach the kid how to party, would you?”
Rhodes looks between the soldiers and Stark, before looking back to Peter. “Will you be okay with these guys for twenty minutes?” He asks carefully, not putting pressure on him.
Peter gives a hesitant nod. Half relieved he won’t have to listen to Stark on his way back to base. What was the worst that could happen? These were trained professionals. They spend every day of their life fighting and protecting. It wasn’t like General Rhodes would be far away either, just in the car behind them. That was fine.
So, he gets into the fun-vee as Stark calls it, and soon they’re rolling through the desert.
He feels almost like a cool VIP sitting alone in the back of the car. Someone special, like Stark, needs to be protected at all costs. Even if he isn’t. He’s just a stupid kid who doesn’t drink and spends too many hours in a too-small, not properly-equipped college laboratory.
It’s also, a little creepy. The guy beside him keeps looking at him, and the guy in front of him has eyes in the mirror all the time.
“What up with the staring, never seen a young adult before?” Peter attempts to joke.
“Jackson, stop scaring the kid” the driver, a woman, comments from the front seat, “Don’t mind them. Mr. Parker. General Rhodes are just, concerned about your safety. Bad press, you know?”
Peter nods and sips slowly from a water bottle he’d been offered earlier. His mouth feels dry.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Mr. Stark's kids, right?” The man in the front seat asks suddenly, “I mean, same hair, same eyes, clearly smart, the only kid to ever be brought to the base, Rhodes being protective…”
“Uh, no… just, competition winner.” Peter feels his cheeks blush. The awkwardness of everything hits suddenly, and he wishes he was back in the car with Rhodes. Even if that meant being in the same car as the man who’s known for making weapons and being too drunk to show up and get his award. Because yes, Peter had seen that all over social media.
He doesn’t have much time to feel the award energy though. One second, they’re driving towards the base, the next there’s a fire in front of the car and it’s shaking, and Peter feels sick to his stomach. Watches as the front doors open, and soldiers stumble out, trying to find and take out the attacks.
Outside gunfire echoes around the car, and Peter’s ears are ringing. Not because of the sound, but because of the memory. Blood against concrete. Cold skin. Pain. Screams. Fear.
“What’s happening? Why are they attacking?” The guy in the back with Peter pulls him down to the floor of the car. It’s not clean, but it’s safer.
Peter tries to make himself as small as he possibly can. His heart is racing. A bullet cracks the front window, and another shatters it. Glass falls in over him and the soldier. There’s glass in his hair, and under his t-shirt, but he stays there. The soldier covers Peter’s head with his hands the best he can, trying to prevent further injuries. “Okay Mr. Parker-“
“Peter” Peter grasps out, “Just, Peter, please?” Please…
“Peter” Jackson nods, “I’m going to have to go out there. You don’t leave this car, you don’t get up unless you have no other choice. You hear me?” Peter gives a stiff nod. The soldier pulls a dark hoodie up from the back and throws it over Peter’s head and back, hiding him. “Someone will get to you when things clear up. General Rhodes will get to you. Nothing is going to happen to you. You have my word. We won’t let anyone hurt you.”
The door swings open, every sound grows louder. It feels like he’s standing out there, bullet flying around his ears. A moment later Jackson slams it back closed. Peter can’t see what’s happening out there, and can’t hear anything anymore. Just bullets and screams and shouts. He wonders if General Rhodes is out there.
He hadn’t wanted to go at first. He hated weapons and was only in it for the money. He wanted to change the world for the better, and was there a better way to do that, than science? Because this fight only brought people in danger. It was May, oh god May, who’d convinced him to take the opportunity in front of him. Now… he’d never see her again.
Something loud explodes outside, and the remaining windows of the car shatter too. But not just that, the whole appears in the metal car. Big, scary holes. Peter could fit his phone and hand through one of them.
There, he sees someone running towards the car. Their head is covered by a mask. He isn’t there to save Peter, he’s there to kill him. To kill the whole group.
Peter grasps for the door handle in his side of the call and stumbles out and away just as the man opens the car. It’s a battle zone, bullets are flying, the air smells like death… and Peter runs towards the first and best safety spot he can find. A small rock formation. It would have to do, for now.
He almost slips as he gets there. Falls on his knees and presses his back against the desert stones. Trying to make himself invincible.
A part of him wants to dig through his pockets to find his phone. Wants to call the emergency number General Rhodes had given him, beg for help, beg for someone to find him. Blood. Concrete. Cold. Fear. Scream. Another part of him wants to call May… wants to say goodbye.
Peter does neither, too scared to move anywhere. Too scared they’ll spot him. They know he’s here… they know… they know… Something comes crashing to the ground beside him. If he reaches out, he’d be able to touch it, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to run. Run, run, run. Run, where? Doesn’t matter, get up, run, getaway.
Because besides he lays a bomb. Dark green, except for two words printed down the side… Stark Industries.
He barely gets up, barely makes it two steps, before it explodes. Before his lungs are filled with fire and ash, he’s thrown backward. His head hitting the rock formatting hard. Dark spots are dancing in his vision. He feels dizzy. His ears are ringing, louder now. Not because of memories, because of pain and sounds. Or late of sound.
His brain tells him to get back up. To run. To get away. That the next attack will happen in just a second. That someone will come, and they’ll shoot a bullet through his head. That’s it. End of Peter Parker. But his body doesn’t respond to anything. He can barely lift his arms, because it feels like an elephant is sitting on his chest.
There isn’t. There aren’t elephants in the desert.
Peter’s t-shirt feels wet and warm in a way it shouldn’t. His hands grasp at it, trying to get the weight off his chest, allowing air back into his lungs, allowing his heart to beat again. It’s torn, the T-shirt, and when Peter’s hands leave it they're covered by blood. His blood. Its metallic smell combines with gunpowder in his nose, and he’s sure he’d throw up if he could. But he can’t.
He manages to tear the front of the t-shirt open and catch a glimpse of a hole in the bulletproof west that General Rhodes had helped him get on. See the blood seeping from his chest.
Peter knows this is the end. Knows nobody will get to him in time… he’ll bleed out, in the desert sand. Alone.
His eyes feel heavy and slowly he closes them. Tries to breathe, knowing he can’t. Tries to forget the pain, but he can’t do that either. It digs through his chest, not like a bullet, no… It’s sharp and hard. There’s not one, there are a million. A million little things in his chest. But he can’t see them.
And soon, he can’t see anything, but darkness…