Chapter Text
It had been four years and five months since the Departure. Johnny Storm, a once-beloved symbol of humanity, was nothing but the scraps of the real. Real heroes. Real power. Real change. The eighteen-year-old stood for nothing but failure now. His name laced with the bitter taste of hatred. He wasn't a mutant. He was born human, but it made no difference now. There were only two sides of life and of war: human and other. Johnny held onto the Baxter Building, the toys of the "Fantastic" Four, only driving himself further from the new humanity. He made his choice. He was already different, but it was emphasized now. A weird child made for nothing more than to be a weirder mutate. The rest of his family, his team, and his fellow powered vanished a year after the others. They offered no explanation, no comfort. A hug, a sorrowful expression, and the next day Johnny was alone. It repulsed the citizens; he was discarded. His omission only amplified the hate in their hearts. They were in danger. They were under attack, and the only act of consolation was a teenager. A teenager that was destined to burn everyone in his presence. The people would choose their heroes. Johnny Storm was not a hero.
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A sharp crack split the air.
Followed by the sound of flowing water.
Peter had felt it coming, sensed the movement in the air and the stench of emotion flowing from the culprit. He was eighteen now. He was much younger when it began. It no longer fazed him. He understood his city more than anyone. He would never shame them for their misguided livelihoods.
Another day without those who had mentored him meant another day of broken windows and rocks covered in pig’s blood.
It had become a familiar scene. Peter, alone in his apartment, feeling the crush of glass under his slippers, spending hours scrubbing the blood off his floor. Chicken blood was most common—cheap and effective for antagonizing teenage boys. Cow’s blood was the worst. The inexplicable chunks made cleaning ghastly. He had thought about moving plenty of times, but it never came to be; he was too attached to his home. He couldn't complain, though. The mutant family that lived on 21st Street had it worse. Their pink skin was impossible to hide and provided an easy target. Just last week someone had slashed all their tires before attempting to set fire to their garage. Many still loved Spider-Man. He was human… mostly. His powers were relatively harmless compared to the freaks that were a startling antithesis to his friendly-neighborhood persona. Spider-Man was human. And he was chosen.
It was hard days and even harder nights. Those were frequent as of late. Balancing passions and the ability to help others, albeit alone, was more difficult than a 15-year-old Peter Parker had fully imagined. Not to mention the amount of aversion he was met with when trying to save lives. It got worse with each passing day. That Monday, a man he had saved from being pummeled to death by a freight train had waited until he turned around to throw an empty beer bottle at his head. Though Peter was sure it had healed, it throbbed at night and kept him awake. He never blamed them; he was insufficient at handling every new powered human. At least three had escaped him and were still missing.
A small bam.
Not the sound of broken glass and blood, but something softer had flown through his open window.
A rock covered in paper lay in the middle of his living room. One question, no blood.
"Everyone is aware of the war, Parker. Which side is Spider-Man on?"
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Johnny was starting a new school for his senior year. He had refused to graduate because of how much he missed the previous years. With his intelligence, he would have easily been accepted into any prestigious college around the world, but he knew if the others were here, they would want him to get the full "teen experience." He was beginning his first day at Midtown High School.
Half of third period had passed before his new deskmate arrived. His head was leaned over the desk, his eyes closed as he imagined where he would go after graduation.
A slam of books made him regain his connection to the world around him.
"Fuck," a stammering voice came from his left.
Johnny rose his head slowly as his eyes traced the outline of the small, brown-haired boy. He looked like a nervous wreck. He had carried most of his books in his hand while fumbling with a tearing strap on his checkered red JanSport. He was tumbling over his own feet trying to place everything down.
Johnny had given up on saving humans. Helping them. He spent his time trying to decipher the biological shift that made him different. On a completely ordinary day, he said something he hadn't in years.
"Need help?"
The boy shifted almost immediately, as if he hadn't noticed Johnny earlier.
"No, I'm fine!" He stammered over his words. "I was running a little late this morning and then I had to drop off food to my friend, but his door ended up being locked, so I had to—sorry, you probably don't care about that."
Johnny didn't know it was possible for a human to talk so fast; he was awestruck.
"Uh, I hope it's better tomorrow?"
"Probably! Oh, I totally blanked and forgot to ask your name."
"Johnny. Johnny Storm."
He waited for the look of recognition in the boy's features, the hint of awareness that he was different, but it never came.
"Cool."
It was an awkward pause for a minute or two, leaving Johnny to wonder if he had imagined the entire interaction.
"I'm Peter Parker!" A sudden burst of energy came jumbled with the boy's—Peter’s—words. His brown eyes found their target, and a smile Johnny was sure could kill diseases erupted.
And for some strange reason, Johnny smiled back.