String Theory

Chapter 3

The man's eyes dart from Peter to the guards. He only gets more panicked, and starts shaking his head, backing away. "Orthus is going to kill you. They know you. I saw you on the news."

"News?" Peter asks, and his heart skips a hopeful beat. "You know who I am? —Tony Stark?"

The man's gaze is flicking between the guards, the street, and Peter. He licks his lips. "You have to help us," he begs, voice trembling. "Take us home. Please."

Uneasy, the guards raise their guns, maneuvering into a half-circle around the man. "Come with us! Now! "

The hair on Peter's neck stands on end, and the man gives him a panicked look. "They're going to kill you—"

His foot slips off the curb, and he tumbles into the street, falling hard. The tingling in Peter's fingers rushes up his spine, and he gives a shout of protest, rushing forward to help the stranger. The sound of tires squealing meets his ears, and before he can cross the distance between them, a car slams into the man with a sickening crack, sending his body skidding away into the street. Peter stops in his tracks and slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Blood stains the car's bumper, and begins to pool around the man immediately. His head's twisted at an unnatural angle.

"Oh, god," Peter breathes. "Oh, god, I'm sorry—"

The guards shove past Peter to get to the man in the street. More burst from the building, and traffic comes to a stop in the street- sirens start to wail in the distance. Peter's head and hands aren't tingling anymore. Instead, they're numb, and heavy. After a few moments of staring, he takes a hard step back. His mouth feels dry, and his heart is pounding hard in his chest.

"Karen," he murmurs. Only the bustling sounds of the city meet his plea, though. Karen isn't here. She's at the compound. I'm on my own, he realizes, and does his best to strangle down the sob that's rising in the back of his throat.

Peter barely has time to comprehend this. One of the Orthus guards has turned to face him, white-knuckling the gun at his side. "You!" he shouts. "Tony Stark! You know it's against the law to interfere with Orthus medical. Put your hands where I can see them!"

He sticks his hands in the air quickly, backing up as the guard approaches him. When a few more guards join the first one, Peter can feel the panic starting to build up in his chest. They're raising their guns, and his voice pitches up in alarm. "Whoa- whoa, hey! Guys, come on, there's no need for you to—"

The closest guard lashes out with the butt of his gun, striking Peter in the eye, hard. Peter gives a sharp cry of pain, and his knee gives way beneath him, taking him to the ground. The guard lifts the gun to strike at him again, and Peter rolls, scrambling to his feet and away from the Orthus guards that are gathered there. His eye is cut badly, and already starting to discolor and bruise. Blood dribbles down his cheek. There's a moment of tension; dozens of pairs of eyes on the standoff, sirens wailing in the distance, the man's body crumpled in the street. Peter gives the crowd a glance. They look uncomfortable, glancing from him to his attackers. A few of them have their smartphones out, recording.

Just from their posture, he can tell that if they're asked to testify, they'll say exactly what needs to be said. Peter can hear it now: Some crazy kid pushed him in front of a moving car. Forty witnesses who don't want to be on the wrong end of an Orthus gun are all going to say the same thing. That's first degree manslaughter, ten years minimum in jail.

No thanks.

And then the tingles are back, shooting from his fingers to his arms, and one of them fires. He doesn't recall jumping, and he doesn't process arching his back and twisting in order to get over the purple blast of energy — Peter only realizes that he's done a backflip when he glimpses the world upside down for split second, before the concrete meets his feet again. A few of the guards lift their heads from their scopes, eyes wide with surprise.