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There were people following him, after him, chasing him, something. Had been all day. They were all around him, watching him, and observing him. He couldn’t escape.
He thought he would lose them amongst the five-o’clock rush hour crowd, but they hadn’t been deterred.
He wasn’t in his suit, didn’t stand out one bit, so how were they doing it? How were they picking him out from the crowd so easily?
With eyes constantly on him, he couldn’t change and fight them, couldn’t climb atop buildings or swing from the rooftops. He couldn’t do a single thing besides acting ignorant of their scruples!
The worst part was that he couldn’t even find them. It was all his spidey-sense, warning him constantly that they were coming for him. But he couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them, couldn’t figure out where they were or how fast they were coming or who they even were!
They could be the police seeking his arrest having found out his identity. Or it could be Kingpin coming to finally take him down—having found out his identity. Or it could be someone completely new, someone who obviously wanted to kill him—having found out his identity.
It all hinged around that. Someone knew; someone found out. Who knows how many people knew now. It was only a matter of time before it was broadcast to the whole city, and then to the whole world. And then he’d surely be done for with all his enemies knowing who he was.
He might as well book it now, get out of the city, run away into hiding.
But he couldn’t! They were too busy watching him! He had to lose the tail first, but he just couldn’t figure out who it was!
How was he supposed to run away when he didn’t know in which direction he needed to run?
Impulsively, he ducked into a coffee shop, trying to disappear, and darted straight to the bathroom. If they tried to follow him in, he wouldn’t be immediately in sight. Maybe this would work and they’d give up.
The stall against the wall would hide him best, and he locked the door before climbing atop the toilet to remove his feet from view.
It was quiet and empty, only his own breathing and heartbeat to be heard, but still, there was something wrong, so he searched around, trying to—there! The vent above him!
They were listening through the vent! Probably even watching him too!
Disgusting, who watches someone in the restroom?
Regardless, this showed how well-prepared they were. How did they predict that he would duck into this little cafe? He hadn’t even known he would do that.
What if they hadn’t predicted it? What if they were just that prepared, watching and listening from everywhere. He could have run into the pizzeria across the street, hidden in the office under the desk, and still have been spied on!
He needed to get out of here, get away from everything. There had to be someplace they couldn’t follow him.
Nevermind that, he needed to get out of that stall, out of that bathroom and cafe, and away from the prying camera. That was just sick.
Back amongst the rushing foot-traffic, his spidey-sense buzzed, Buzzed, Buzzed that there was something wrong, people watching him, people coming for him, so he had to GO.
He pushed through the crowd in his panic and spun around the corner, flattening himself against the brick wall in an alleyway.
It felt like they were breathing down his neck in their proximity, and it frightened him.
There were so many of them and only one of him, and he didn’t know who they were or where they were or what they wanted but they knew everything about him. They weren’t just one step ahead of him, they were ten, knew where he would go before he did.
How could he fight this? How could he best them when they know his every move?
The world was tilting, his vision blurring, so he squeezed his eyes shut. He was hyperventilating and he hadn’t realized it—how could his spidey-sense have wanted him when it was warning him about everything?
He needed to better control his breathing, but it was difficult. The impossibleness and utter hopelessness of the situation had gripped his heart and his ever-increasing despair squeezed it.
He couldn’t slow his breathing, and opening his eyes only proved to be a mistake as everything blurred, then suddenly listed to the side as he lost his balance. His fingertips were sticky so it wasn’t hard to catch himself, but his legs were tingling from the way-too-rapid beat of his heart, and he slid to the ground anyway.
The longer he delayed, the closer they came. They were right around the corner, waiting for him to make a move—he knew it. He could feel them—closer and closer, and his heart beat faster.
The dread in his gut rapidly morphed into fear, pure and unadulterated terror, and his legs started shaking.
He’d never been this afraid in his life. He couldn’t move from the fright of it all.
It was pointless anyway. He lost too much time already, leaving himself no time to escape. They would inevitably catch him regardless, so what even was the point of trying to run?
He wasn’t ready.
He didn’t want to stop being Spider-Man, and the city certainly wasn’t prepared for Spider-Man to up and disappear!
He wasn’t ready to go to jail, or become a torture slave, or die…
It was Fisk, he was sure of it, and Fisk would kill him dead.
He was so scared of dying. He didn’t know what to expect. Would it be warm or cold? Fast or slow? Pleasant or awful? Would he go to Heaven or hell?
Any second, a henchman will turn the corner, level a pistol at him, and shoot him through the head. It was only a matter of time.
He was going to die.
He was going to die.
One fist madly gripping his hair, he threw his other across his mouth to stifle the sob, and then he realized that his face was wet from tears.
What would happen to Aunt May? She’s already lost Ben, she won’t be okay if she lost Peter, too.
If he dies, then Aunt May surely dies.
It wasn’t fair!
Why was this happening?
What did he do to deserve this?
All he wanted was to be a force for good, to help people, and to help them become better versions of themselves. He didn’t deserve this!
He sobbed again, and this time, he couldn’t stop the breakdown that followed.
The fear mingled with grief mingled with panic, and his heart rate skyrocketed, his breathing ever increased, and his brain wasn’t receiving enough oxygen.
He passed out from his paranoia, there, in a dirty alley-way at five-thirty-seven in the evening.
He woke in the same spot sometime later when it was dark because that was the first thing he noticed.
Night had come and the city was quiet, so it must have been sometime super late or super early.
He also had a pounding headache and his nose tingled something awful.
His spidey-sense was distinctly absent, indicating that his adversaries were nowhere near.
Odd. They had chased him for miles and hours, and then they just left him alone? He was defenseless and vulnerable. He could have been captured or killed, but they let him go?
And now, there were no threats around, no danger, and no people.
He checked his phone to find seven missed calls, two voicemails, and five unread texts, all from MJ
He opened the texts first and suddenly remembered what had happened.
He laughed, although it was not funny at all.
He just discovered he was extremely allergic to MJ’s new perfume, because yesterday, as soon as he had dumped it all over himself, his spidey-sense had gone haywire, and the headache he had was definitely because his clothes still reeked of the smell.
It was a nice perfume, smelled lovely on MJ in smaller doses, but absolutely did not play well in large quantities.