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⋆ seventeen ⋆
The first thing Xara registers is the pain.
The second is Peter.
The gasping tears through her throat, hoarse from sobbing and screaming. All the senses dulled in her unconscious state come rushing back, along with the pain and agony that hits her full force.
It's okay. It's okay, I've suffered worse than this.
Over and over, Xara repeats the words in her brain, as if it'll help her fabricate memories to support it. But when has it been worse? How could she pretend this isn't tearing her from the inside out? Multiverse people, all rampant. Someone she thought she could trust being a villain. The world hating Peter Parker for being Spider-Man. Rejected from every college she applied to. How could this get any worse?
No. It can get worse. Because she left Peter behind.
"Peter. Peter."
A new mantra starts. Her just repeating his name, picturing his face in her mind. The good memories. The moments on the hill. At Delmar's. At her house. Christmas together. Summer. Just Dance. Brielle's birth. Video calls. Good morning texts.
The pain still results in a scream when she reaches a hand out, grabbing one of the larger pieces of rubble and using it to pull her forward a little. Without realising, the tears start once more, creating clean trails on her dust-and-ash-covered cheeks.
The dust and debris is still kicked up in the air from the destruction around her, coating her entire body in a thin layer, burning the cuts. The cuts... the blood...
No. I need to get out. I need to get to Peter.
It becomes a little easier to pull herself to her feet with the aid of a nearby boulder, leaning against it momentarily as she tries to assess the damages. Sharp inhale. Slight pain. It can't be a broken rib or it'll be worse - probably just bruised. Pulled muscles, but she can manage it. The blood... ah.
Her breaths speed up a little in panic, sending more streaks of pain in her chest, before she clenches her jaw painfully. No. She forces herself to calm down, shutting her eyes, and just thinking of Peter. Cuddling on the couch. Watching Harry Potter. Dancing at Winter Formal last year.
One foot in front of the other, then another, then another. She forces herself to keep going, more and more and more, till she's already halfway down the block. The movements become automatic before long, numbing her mind and body to it as she glances around hurriedly, trying to spot a pharmacy.
There's no way over-the-counter meds will be that useful, but it's better to jack herself up on drugs than fight like this. Because in the end, the fight isn't over. Nowhere close.
"Tragedy. What else can I call it? What more need be said?"
There's a familiar voice. Staggering a little, Xara manages to turn her body to face a nearby digital screen covering the expanse of a warehouse. It's Jameson, Xara's old boss. Just seeing his face is enough for Xara's expression to harden.
