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For once, Peter Parker was the important one, not Spider-Man.
Not that he wasn’t ordinarily important. No, he was a firm believer that everyone, no matter how small, was important and could change the course of the future—Just look at that lil’ ole’ spider that lived all of three days and bit him. Super small fellow.
It was six-thirty in the evening, and Peter was delivering some Italian subs from Mick’s. MJ was chasing a story he was very interested in—Peter, not Spider-Man.
It was more of a mystery than illegal and criminal activity—well, that was a bad way of putting it. It was illegal, but more of a Sherlock Holmes kind of mystery.
James Reynolds, a famous ventriloquist, celebrity impersonator, and stage magician, was in town for a three-night show before moving on to NYC. He was found dead in a hotel room, and the weird part was that he hadn’t booked the room or any room to be precise. Not at the Baccarat. Not at the Surrey. And especially not at the Mark where he was found.
It was funny to Peter that he had been found there because Pete had just delivered a pizza to a room on the eighth floor only ten minutes before the body had been discovered. All he knew was that the cause of death was still unknown, no blood was found at the scene, and Reynolds had been tucked peacefully in a bed that wasn’t his.
MJ, as an up-and-coming reporter, was hoping to get in on the story and follow it as a short column on page five of the paper, so she’d been interviewing the police and witnesses all night yesterday and all day today. She’d missed movie night at Harry’s, leaving Peter and Harry to speculate wildly about the mystery instead of actually watching John Wick (they had, of course, seen it before, but MJ hadn’t, so now, they’ll get to watch it again next week).
Pete knew that when she dived into a story with this much excitement, she tended to neglect herself, so he and Harry were going to force food and water into her for dinner, but both knew she wouldn’t take a break, so Pete was bringing the sandwiches and Harry the Starbucks (and water. They both knew she needed water, but the allurement of Starbucks would persuade her to take the much-needed break).
It was Pete’s off day, so he’d been swinging around keeping watch all day and he hoped his friends wouldn’t comment on his flat hair—curse of a full-head mask made of spandex.
Harry was putting together some research for one of their research stations, but it was fickle studies that Pete didn’t think would ever take off. Interesting, but useless.
They were both eager to hear about this local mystery and timed their entrances perfectly, Pete from the stairwell and Harry from the elevator. They nodded to each other and approached MJ simultaneously.
Harry spoke first, “Hey, MJ, we brought gifts!”
She was at her desk in the corner against the wall—not very popular yet—and twirled in excitement when she heard Harry’s voice. Her smile was happy, and her eyes were bright, but the bags under her eyes were dark and her hair drooped. She hadn’t slept last night. Of course not, she was on a story!
“You guys!” She began, then hesitated, and Peter took the opportunity to stop her.
“Don’t even start, these are actually bribes,” he set the bag of sandwiches on the desk across from hers (Harry did the same with the drinks), pulled two chairs around (for him and Harry, MJ had her own right behind her), and sat, “Tell us what you know!”
He couldn’t help having thought about it all day. Poison was the obvious answer, but why had Reynolds been in a room that wasn’t occupied? How did he even get in? Who were even the suspects? He had so many questions!
“Nah uh, Pete,” she reached over and grabbed the frappuccino, “You hafta answer my questions first!” She twirled again to grab her notepad from her desk, spun her chair around, and plopped into it.
“You’re a suspect, you know."
Harry actually answered before he could, “What?”
Peter smiled in confusion, leaned forward, “It’s about time someone figured that out.” He paused—joking, of course, it’s his default state—grabbed the mocha, and took a sip, “I’m the one who killed him.”
Harry laughed and sat, grabbing the remaining drink, a purple-looking tea, most likely dragonfruit—they’ve had this thing going for a while now when someone makes a Starbucks run as a surprise, which was all the time, all three drinks were random, chosen by the barista. Harry said it expands his tastes, and MJ was always trading hers for one of theirs, liking everything she tasted.
His friends knew him too well; he wasn’t funny anymore. He needed a new friend group, one that appreciated his humor.
“How am I a suspect?”
MJ smiled, “No one knows this besides me, and that only because I am your friend. You delivered a pizza to The Mark last night, right?”
He nodded, “Yeah, hadn’t gone in there before. Way fancier than Harry’s place.”
Harry snorted as MJ continued—reporter-mode activated—“What floor and room number?”
Was she implying that Peter could have come into contact with the murderer? No way!
“Uh, I think—eight—“ he squinted, drawing the word out, trying to remember the door number.
He could see it, the elevator doors opened and on the wall was a sign:
<— 801-820
821-840—>
He had turned left, and he remembered that the door number had no 1’s, so it must have been 820.
“—twenty? I think it was eight-twenty. Why? What do you know?”
She smiled mischievously, knowing something he didn’t, so he glanced at Harry who looked as confused as he did.
She smirked, “What kind of pizza did you deliver?”
Oh man, he just wanted her to tell him the story! How was he even involved? She made it sound like he had delivered the pizza right to the murderer’s door.
“Um, the standard pepperoni, large, $14.73.” He paused, watched as she tried to hide her smirk and failed.
Harry lost his patience, though, “What is it, MJ? Just tell us!”
“Hold on, I have one more question—” She had them both on the edges of their seats, “What time was it delivered?”
He remembered that one easy because of the clock in the elevator. He’d never seen a clock in an elevator before.
“Six-twenty-five.”
She took a sip before dropping the bombshell that Pete and Harry were already forming in their heads, “The body was found in room 820, open pepperoni pizza box from Joe’s, and the time of death is supposed around 6:30 in the evening.”
Having it all spelled out like that was super freaky. He’d gone inside the room, had set the pizza on the fancy round table, had grabbed the cash from the small table by the door, and not once did his spidey-sense tell him something was wrong.
That was just freaky.
He could have been five feet from the deceased, and he hadn’t even known it.
“Pete, you’re a solid suspect. That hotel has cameras in every corner. It’s only a matter of time the police come knocking, and honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t already.”
There was no way the police actually suspected a simple pizza delivery guy of murder. Porn maybe, but not murder.
He was genuinely freaked out, and while he knew he hadn’t murdered anybody, the police don’t and neither does Aunt May—yeah, yeah, of course, she wouldn’t believe that if Peter himself confessed, but the Police knocking on the door asking for him would definitely be cause for alarm.
MJ, ever inquisitorial, prompted him, “Pete, you gotta tell me what happened. How did it go? Did anybody open the door?”
Harry looked like he was completely enthralled in the newest Sherlock season.
“Uh, well, I got there, knocked, and said I was there to deliver the pizza, and nobody opened the door, but a guy yelled that I could come inside, so I did.” His eyes widened with this realization: “Oh, God, my fingerprints are all over that door handle!”
MJ was scribbling, and after taking a long swallow of his very hot mocha and scalding the roof of his mouth and throat, he continued, “Nothing was out of place or wrong, my spi—uh, my—my sixth sense didn’t go off or anything. The same voice told me to grab the cash from that skinny table rich people keep by their doors, and—“
Harry interrupted, quietly so it wasn’t really an interruption, “Entryway console.”
Buddy wasn’t even ashamed of being rich and knowing that. Even rich people didn’t know obscure terms like that. Come on.
Anyway, Pete continued, “Yeah, entryway table, and now my fingerprints are all over that too because it was glass, and I definitely slid my whole hand across it to scoop the change up.” He grit his teeth and cringed. MJ just kept writing, hunched over herself, drink forgotten, and Harry’s eyes were wide, frightened as if Peter could actually be the murderer and was in fact sitting right in front of him.
When Harry gets into something, he really gets into it.
“He told me to put the pizza on the table, so I set it on the entryway table, before coming to my senses and taking it to the actual table by the obnoxiously-large, rich-people, hotel kitchen. There was a glass that fell off somehow because I swear I didn’t touch it, but I caught it anyway, and now my fingerprints are all over that. Yay.”
Harry was even cringing. Peter was definitely the murderer.
“I said sorry, and then left. Long story short, it was a normal delivery, and the room looked completely normal. I couldn’t see the bed at all, so no, I didn’t see the body.”
MJ laughed and looked up, “I’m sure if you had, we’d have heard about it by now.”
Harry shook his head, “Man, Pete. You’re definitely going to jail for, like, fifty years.”
MJ mock-scowled, “That’s not how the justice system works, dumbass.”
Her scribbling filled the void of speech, but there was also a TV on across the room, volume low so Harry and MJ probably couldn’t hear it, but Peter could.
“Do we know of the cause of death yet?”
It was about Reynold’s mystery!
“Yes, as of an hour ago, we’ve ruled the cause of death as poison. Of what variety is currently classified. I cannot divulge that detail.”
Peter turned around to see what was going on.
A reporter stood on the left holding the microphone to a police officer on the right.
The officer continued talking, “We found traces of the poison in his stomach, on the half-eaten pizza by his bedside, and inside the glass on the table, which leads us to believe—“
Harry noticed where Peter’s attention was turned, but he couldn’t hear it, so he grabbed the remote and increased the volume for them all to easily hear. MJ looked up to watch.
“—that not only was his pizza poisoned but also his drink. There are clear fingerprints all over the glass, the table, the table by the door, and the doorknob—“
Oh, crap.
Oh, crap.
Not good. Those were definitely his.
All eyes in the room were on him, and his were definitely as wide as saucers.
“—which lead us to believe that this was a hastily planned murder orchestrated by an amateur.”
“Are you saying that the one to whom those prints belong is the killer?”
“It is very likely, yes.”
“How did the poison get on the pizza?”
“Due to information that I cannot yet disclose, we have reason to suspect that the one who delivered the pizza applied the poison themselves. The—“
Okay, yeah. He was definitely a suspect.
He was a legitimate suspect in a murder mystery. This was concerning. This was very concerning.
“—camera footage shows them arriving at the door at six-twenty-five with the pizza, and the body wasn’t discovered until eight o’clock. That was plenty of time for the—“
Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he had unknowingly been high-strung enough for that to startle him, and he jumped, startling his friends who all turned back to him.
It was Aunt May calling, so he breathed in deeply to clear his head before answering, “Hey, May.”
“Peter?” She was worried. Something was wrong.
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine, dear,” she paused, oddly, then, “can you come over, please, Peter?”
Something was wrong, Pete could feel it. She sounded as if she was deliberately trying to not be worried, which was worrisome—it sounded as if someone was in the background, telling her what to say. Sounded as if she was following instructions, so he listened harder.
“Of course! What’s the occasion?”
Whispering in the background, faint and indiscernible, but definitely there.
“Let’s just have dinner together.”
What an odd way of phrasing that. But, yeah sure.
“I’d love to! Should I pick something up on my way?”
He knew she didn’t have enough food because he was just over there a couple of days ago and had eaten most of it, and her grocery day wasn’t for two more days. If she said yes, he wouldn’t be as concerned. She probably had some bad news—unrelated to the news—but if she said no, then she probably needed him to come over immediately—whoever what there with her needed him to come immediately—and there were only two options for whoever was there: good guys or bad guys.
The list of good guys was short: the police. But the list of bad guys was very long.
For this whole murder thing to be going on at the same time couldn’t be a coincidence, so it was most likely the police, which meant he needn’t be concerned for Aunt May’s safety and should absolutely not do anything Spider-Man related. The police still hated him and had it out for him. Spider-Man’s arrest would take the covers instead of this murder mystery—which would be a shame because he really wanted to know what was going on.
He got his answer: “No, I have food here.”
It had to be the police. Had to be.
“Cool, on my way! See you soon.”
She hung up without saying bye. Unusual. But she hadn’t sounded hurt, so that was comforting.
MJ and Harry were watching earnestly.
“Just May, inviting me for dinner.”
MJ narrowed her eyes, suspicious.
Harry pointed out the obvious, “Pete, you said ‘sure’ but have food right behind you. Are you stupid?”
He smiled, “Oh, yeah! I forgot I had plans with you guys, right here and right now!”
He stood up, continued, serious this time, “She sounded off, and that conversation was definitely messed up. I bet the police are there trying to find me.”
MJ nodded, “I suspected so! I bet they already raided your apartment.” Then she smirked with a naughty gleam in her eyes, “Hope you don’t have anything to hide.”
His eyes widened, remembering that he left his Spider-Man suit on his bed to remind him to sew up the rip in the knee. And the rest of his Spider-Man gear scattered around the room. And the flash drive with all his Spider-Man data.
Oh, shiiiiiiii—
He had to go!
If the police knew he was Spider-Man, then they probably suspected him of the crime even more now. If they didn’t, his situation wasn’t any better; he would still be on the run from the law.
He needed to head to May’s but first, he needed to check on his apartment. He needed to know if they knew. His actions and reactions would completely change with the results of this venture.
He glanced between MJ and Harry, “I’m gonna go ahead and go. I didn’t do it, so they’ll have no reason to harass me, and I can’t just…” he paused, not searching for the words, but working himself up to say them, “…run from the law. They’ll hunt me down.”
MJ narrowed her eyes again, knowing that wasn’t entirely true based on her knowledge of the situation, suspecting Peter of hiding something very important to the case.
Peter caught that gleam in her eye, so he said to Harry, “If I’m caught and arrested—“
Harry just nodded, interrupting, “Don’t worry about it Pete, I’m sure my dad won’t let you rot without bail for more than three weeks!”
Pete shook his mead with a smile and backed out towards the elevator.
He sighed, still watching his friends, “This is a weird situation…”
Instead of walking or taking a cab to May’s, he turned to the left and into the adjoining alley, then in the dark where no one could see, up the side of the building.
It was almost seven o’clock in October, so it was already dark out. He wasn’t worried about anyone seeing him, and he knew the Osborn’s didn’t have cameras on the outside of the building.
He wanted to make good time, so swinging between the buildings would have to do. He’d need to go high enough so no one saw him—no one saw his face, at least.
If the police had, in fact, raided his room, they’d for sure still be there and definitely be in the hallway keeping watch. He would just crawl around the outside and peek in through his window. He always kept the curtains pulled back, made diving out faster—and one time the edge of the curtain wrapped around his foot and he smacked the building. That wasn’t fun. The main reason he didn’t have a cape.
He landed on the roof, atop the stairwell landing on the east side. His window was on the west side. He would need to crawl down quickly and quietly, still needing to hit up Aunt May’s house and set this whole thing straight.
If the police knew, they might have told Aunt May, but that wasn’t guaranteed. He had no reason to believe that had, and none to believe they hadn’t.
He would need to eavesdrop a bit to figure out what she knew before announcing himself.
If she knew, he would appear as Spider-Man, so that any onlookers wouldn’t be suspicious.
If she didn’t know, he would appear as Peter, so hopefully, she wouldn’t find out. He hated deceiving and lying to her, but it was for her own good. He had just too many enemies out for his blood. If one of them went after her, she could deny everything because she knew nothing.
He hopped off the landing and—and immediately, his spidey-sense warned him of danger.
From his right came taser darts that he dodged easily. A policeman was there waiting—Peter hadn’t considered that they’d keep an eye on the rooftop, too—and another beside him, shot his own darts at the same time that Peter twisted right into.
Tasers affect him much the same way they affect normal people, simply because he was made of the same flesh and blood they were designed to affect. He collapsed into a twitching puddle, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched hard, trying to just ride the shock waves out.
But they weren’t leaving. They weren’t stopping. His muscles were tiring and starting to ache, and he felt his body being maneuvered, so he opened his eyes to slits.
The policeman without the taser was rolling him onto his stomach and tying his arms behind his back. They were smart, to be completely honest. Ambushing him on the roof, keeping him out of commission until they secured him. They were taking no chances.
But the pain was notching higher with every second this treatment wore on. He was losing his focus, the pain demanding the attention he didn’t want to give it, and it felt like fire—fire that increased in temperature with every second.
Even spiders had a melting point. No one could survive lava and magma, and his blood was starting to feel like a volcano.
He couldn’t help the whimper that left his mouth, had to close his eyes again, and couldn’t help the increased jerking of his limbs, but finally, the officer had him secured and stepped back. The second officer released the taser to allow Peter to slip into unconsciousness.