The New Avenger

The End

Four Months Later...

Percy's POV:

"It wasn't supposed to end that way Annabeth, not for any of them." I can't look her in the eyes. 

"It wasn't your fault Percy." There's such fierce conviction in her voice I nearly look up. But I don't.

"If I hadn't pushed Joselyn out of the way of Peter's bullet it wouldn't have hit Ms. Parker. She wouldn't have died."

"But Joselyn would've."

"Joselyn died anyway."

"You know what Percy, it was an impossible situation. You tried to save Joselyn and in the process Ms. Parker and Joselyn got killed. You couldn't have planned for it. You were doing the best you could with what you were given, even though there was no good way out." Annabeth tries to comfort me, tries to make me feel better. But there's nothing she can do.

There's nothing anyone can do now.

It's been four months. I haven't spoken to my mom, I haven't seen her. How could I? How could I after this? New York isn't in chaos, but it isn't as safe as it was, either. The people who said Spiderman was a menace, who said he needed to be stopped? Their eating their words now. The ones who hated him the most are practically begging for him to come back. 

And history is repeating itself. Another Stark is looking for another young super-powered boy who's lost. Except this time he doesn't want to be found. 

If I were Peter I wouldn't want to be found either. I'd want to hide on the most isolated island in the world, never to be seen again.  Even though I didn't lose what Peter did, even though I lost nothing more than a few friends I'd hardly made and two innocent people that I barely knew it was enough. Enough to make me want to leave. Enough for me to fall back into the pit of my mind; deeper, darker, and much for terrifying than Tartarus could ever be. Because the higher you rise the farther you have to fall. 

"Percy?" Annabeth tries to speak to me but I turn away. This place isn't a sanctuary, it's a prison. But everywhere is a prison when the real cell is within your own mind.

I'm just walking. Walking walking walking. Going nowhere, coming from nowhere, trying to forget the earth under my feet. Trying to pretend the sound of gun shots don't resound in my ears even now, so long after. Trying to remember that four months is more than long enough for physical blood to wash off my hands.

But there's still blood on my hands. There are still gunshots in my ears. Copper in my nose, regret on my tongue. The hurt of the ones left behind pumps through my veins.

Maybe that's what it feels like to be a god. Unable to look at your hands because of the blood you didn't mean to spill, always shifting form, changing, adapting. Always hoping to find a body where the regret can't follow.

Or maybe Peter is like a god, left behind. Everyone else being gone. The questions. The "if they're gone then why am I not?" The running from city to city pretending that there chaos in your wake. Trying to live when living is impossible. Except it isn't living that's impossible. No, for you it seems like dying is.

The warehouse is dark and dust filled, the air heavy with something thicker than air. It's pain. It's fists being slammed against concret. It's sobbs for her not to be dead. It's apologizes given a lifetime to late. It's family dinners and I love you's and don't forget to do your homework and I'm so proud of you and I will always protect you no matter what dying. It's love that has nowhere to go, so it has to turn to grief. It's pure, undiluted anguish. It's heartache but it's more than that. It's heartbreak.  

It's Stark finding the body of his friend, shot execution style, just out of sight. It's a son who already lost his father losing the person his father admired more than anything else in the world. It's a petty feud ended because in the end death come to us all, but for some people it comes to soon.