Something Old
Even though The Bite didn’t grant Peter the ability of night vision — and after slipping in Mrs. Hayes laundry detergent last night, he lowkey wished it had — there was still no denying that the dial had been cranked up to eleven with his other senses.
Which, while normally a good thing, meant New York City had a certain… smell to it on some days. And the FEAST shelter downtown was no exception to that.
“Holy cow, it reeks in here!” Peter’s words were nothing but muffled as he yanked the collar of his jacket over his nose, already half-way up the staircase and leaping two steps at a time. “C’mon, let’s make this quick, I’m starting to taste my breakfa—Ned!”
When Peter craned his head around to catch sight of his friend, he saw nothing but empty stairs. Taking the final step and leaning over the balcony railing to better see down below, he could barely make out Ned's figure moving through the crowd. If it had been anyone else but Peter looking, Ned would’ve easily gotten lost in the rows and rows of cots lining the walls, with makeshift blankets stacked on top, along with a cluster of people scattered throughout the shelter.
But Peter saw exactly where Ned was heading. And he gave a hefty eye-roll no sooner than Ned departed into the kitchen, practically skipping there with excitement.
“Dude! We don’t have time for—!”
“Hey, Peter!”
A voice hollered from down below, and Peter had to do a double take to find the source; only locating them once he saw the waving hand amidst the congregation of people. Some of the crowd were staff members, but most — like the older black man trying to catch Peter’s attention — were the unfortunate folks benefiting from the shelter’s purpose.
“Hey, Mr. Lewis!” Peter hollered back, leaning over the balcony railing with both arms crossed over his chest. “Whacha doing here, I thought you had a voucher for a motel over at Franklin Square?”
The much older man, Mr. Lewis, threw his arms out wide with an exasperation that didn’t match his upbeat attitude.
“They sold out! When they wanna sell rooms, a fella like me gets kicked right to the curb,” he practically yelled to be heard over the handful of different conversations taking place around them. Luckily, Peter had no trouble hearing the man — or smelling him. Without much hesitation, he leaned forward and stuffed his nose into the fold of his arms where he was far less at risk for body odor assault, listening as Mr. Lewis went on to holler, “At least I can always count on Mrs. Parker to take me back!”
Peter smiled, even though it couldn’t be seen in the space between his arms. May could go on and on about her undying pride in him, but he swore it was nothing compared to how much he admired her and all she did to help people. He insisted, to this day, that both her and Ben played a big part in all he did — vigilantism, as the city loved to call it.
Helping people, that’s what it was. And no different than all the work Spider-Man did for New York City, people like May stayed on the ground themselves — helping others in their own way.
Ben would always say that’s what life was about. And May kept that Parker Purpose going, long after he was gone.
“Stay out of trouble. Mr. Lewis!” Peter gave a casual wave down to the man below as he hopped-skipped his way across the balcony, taking a sharp turn that led him further away before a response could even be given.
“No guarantees!” Mr. Lewis’ voice dwindled as Peter ran off, turning his own back as he yelled, “Hey, Lauren! Where’s those turkey sandwiches, I’m starvin’ over here!”
The voice of the kitchen staff mixing with Mr. Lewis’ tangent about ‘toilet water tasting soup’ became nothing but distant chit-chat as Peter turned another corner down the hallway. He quickly passed by the large glass pane windows overlooking the downstairs, practically jogging to get where he needed to be.
It was there Peter caught sight of a familiar head of hair, with a long ponytail wrapped into a messy bun — the persons back was facing him, but their voice was audible from down the hall.
“…and the donation truck just arrived so I really need you and Jimmy to go unload that before they get mad at us again — last time the driver chewed me out for taking too long. You know how the Salvation Army gets, they’re on a tight schedule — we gotta accommodate that. We’re lucky they’re even helping us out with this shipment of clothes.”
As May continued to talk to the two employees in front of her, Peter tried to stealthily sneak by without being noticed; squeezing behind her as he made his way through the open doorway the three practically barricaded.
“And don’t forget to put all the coats over in the — hang on. Peter?”
So much for that.
“Hey!” Peter spun on his heels, throwing her two finger guns with a smile that stretched his lips to both ends of the room. All the while, he didn’t let up his pace, walking backwards and further into her office with no intention of stopping. “Won’t be here long. Pretend you don’t even see me.”
“Too late,” May didn’t miss a beat. “You’re seen.” As quickly as she’d spoken, she stepped into her office alongside Peter — her brows knitted tightly as she watched him begin to rummage through the various items scattered across her desk. “What are you doing here, I thought Happy was picking you guys up at the apartment?”
Peter didn’t even look her way as he moved papers and trinkets aside, lifting some up over his head while he pushed others far out of the way. “Told him to meet us here instead — oh, gum!”
The pack of peach mango flavored chewing gum didn’t last long unattended. Peter snatched it up as quickly as he spoke, already going to unwrap a piece when suddenly, a head poked in through the doorway.
“Mrs. Parker,” one of the employees stayed put in the threshold of the entryway as he asked, “where are keys to the docking station?”
May twisted around to face him. “Downstairs, in the kitchen, janitors closet, left wall, upper right corner.” No sooner than she finished, she turned right back around. “Peter.”
Peter was already six-chews into his gum, and now rummaging through her desk drawers, when he realized she was talking to him.
“What?” he asked, only looking up when she failed to answer. Turns out the look on her face was the answer. Peter immediately threw his arm out in defense. “Oh, c’mon, it’s been years since I got gum stuck in my hair, it’s fine —”
“No, Peter, not the gum — what are you doing here?” she clarified, and with no ounce of frustration missing from her tone.
Peter noticed. But he also noticed the employee who was just now leaving after asking her about the loading dock keys. If he moved any slower, a snail would’ve passed him by — twice over.
“Doesn’t Dylan usually unload the truck?” Peter pointed a finger at the departing employee, going so far as to pause his chewing as if the gum would hinder his ability to hear May’s answer.
Once again, her expression was the answer. But still, she went on to say,
“Dylan’s late.” Though May didn’t sigh, she sure as hell looked like she wanted to. “Again.”
Peter tried not to smile. He tried, but May, seer of all things, could make out the twitch in his upper lip from a mile away.
“Still not gunna fire him?” Peter asked, growing all too accustomed to May’s tangents and rants about her more problematic staff — the kind that had her constantly pulling double shifts and filling in for coverage last minute.
It wasn’t so much as her staff as it was one particular person, but nevertheless.
“Help is still hard to come by,” May seamlessly answered, all the while folding both her arms across her chest — shifting her weight from one foot to the other and dipping her chin low in a way that spoke sternness. “Now you gunna answer my question?”
A different look crossed May’s face. Peter knew better than to mess with that look — serious-business-May, as he called it. There was no need to spill the truth when it came to serious-business-May; she’d pull it right out of him before he’d even realize it.
It was times like these he was really glad she discovered his secret when she did. There was simply no way he’d have gotten away with hiding it for much longer.
“Okay, so — I figured since we'll already be in the city tonight, I’ll just go patrolling right after the tux fittings, you know?” Peter was still looking around her office as he spoke, pulling open drawers and leaving them open long after he rummaged inside. “But I looked in my room, and then I looked in my backpack, and I coulda sworn I stocked up on web cartridges but I only have what’s on my suit and that’s already low — I guess I used way more than I thought the other night with those muggers on 54th street. And then I remembered, hey, I’m pretty sure I left some here as a backup a while ago, but I can’t remember where exactly I put them —”
“Peter!” May’s hands couldn’t have hit her hips any harder if they had lead weights attached to them. “I asked you not to leave those around after one exploded in the drawer and ruined my Kindle!”
Peter dropped to his knees to look under her desk. “That was before I switched out the layer of shelling with aluminum! The temperature was causing that, anytime the cartridges got too hot they exploded — but I totally fixed that.”
To demonstrate his sincerity, Peter lifted a hand into the air and waved it casually as if to say ‘it’s all okay now!’ It was the only part of him May could see, the rest — tennis shoes aside — climbed underneath her desk and began rummaging through the boxes she kept down there.
“Doesn’t make this any better,” May exasperatedly objected.
When Peter stood back up, still void of success in finding any web cartridges, he saw May had yet to remove her hands from her hips. If anything, her hands managed to sink deeper in the curvature of her waist — making her look even more stern than before.
“What?” he asked, a little too innocently.
May’s next look was hot enough to melt right through that extra layer of shelling he added to his web cartridges.
“You can’t keep…that stuff here!” May half-hissed, half-yelled. The flappy motion of her wrist, finally disconnected from her hip-side, said every word she didn’t speak.
Peter heard it, loud and clear.
“Nobody’s gunna know what they are!” he insisted, both arms out wide in defense. “And besides, this way I have some no matter where I go. Like your chapstick.” Peter dropped one arm but used the other to point a finger up ahead. “You keep chapstick everywhere, May.”
May’s brows slid up her forehead. “This is nothing like my chapstick.”
Peter gave a hefty shrug. “It kinda is.”
For a brief moment, Peter stood frozen like a statue — arm outstretched, with his smile wide enough to give him crowsfeet he was too young to have. All the while his defense, and subsequent puppy-dog eyes that followed, easily chipped away at serious-business-May.
Finally, she met Peter’s finger with her own. “If any of those cartridges explode over the new Starkpad that I just got —”
“You didn’t just get that Starkpad,” Peter interrupted, immediately resuming his search — this time across the office and through the file cabinet against the wall. “You got it like, seven months ago—”
“—I will ground you until you graduate high-school,” May easily steamrolled him, and for a blip of a second, she was more serious than serious-business-May — if that were even at all possible.
Peter was too busy being elbow deep into the third file cabinet drawer to notice. “It’ll be fine! Seriously, the new aluminum shell cases can withstand a lot of heat. Like, six hundred degrees Fahrenheit . That's like, fire, May. I promise you, wherever they are—”
May groaned. “Good God Peter, you don’t even know where they are—!”
“They’re around!” Peter squatted down low to look inside the very last file cabinet. “Somewhere. I’m sure of it. I just gotta remember where—”
“Is he losing things again?”
The voice came at a distance to Peter, but that was mostly because he’d stuck his head behind the file cabinet to see if anything happened to wind up back there.
When he looked back around, Happy was already inside the office, both hands stuffed casually inside his pant pockets.
“Of course he is,” May answered easily, watching with a straight face as Peter began looking through the bookcase pressed up against the wall. When he started pulling out books, going so far to open them up to see if anything were between the pages, she simply rolled her eyes.
“Not very responsible sounding,” Happy’s answer was just as simple, earning a honest chuckle from May — and a clap of her hands that followed suit.
“Alright Peter,” she said, clapping two times in total, “you’ve torn apart my office enough as it is. Happy’s here — go, get out, you don’t have time for this.”
“Give me a minute!” Peter shoved a handful of books back into the bookcase, standing on his tippy-toes to see the shelf that hung above it. “Just a minute — I’ll find it, I just need to…”
No sooner than Peter trailed off did he twist around, grabbing the cup of pens and pencils from May’s desk and dumping the contents out completely. When that gave him nothing, he went looking inside her box of tissues next.
Happy noticeably arched an eyebrow at the scene up ahead. Though he kept his comment to himself, he had to shake his head to look away — more than once, at that — but eventually, he turned to face May, all the while pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
“You know you’ve got a truck driver outside yelling something about limes…?” he drifted off, sounding confused at what he said.
May finally let out the sigh she’d been working so hard to hold back.
“Time,” she corrected him, rubbing forcibly at her temple. “He’s not yelling about limes, he’s yelling about time — he has an accent, and I told the guys they needed to bust their butt unloading that truck!” May marched forward towards her desk only to change her mind last minute, spinning around and already making it halfway out of her office. “I don’t have time for this — I really gotta get going to this parent-teacher conference before I’m late.” May threw her one arm in Peter’s direction while the other reached for her purse sitting on a nearby chair. “Peter! You also don’t have time for this —”
“I know, I know, I’m going!” Peter dropped the tissue box with a large sigh, going to scratch at his scalp with his eyes tightly clenched shut — racking his brain a mile a minute as he mused out loud, “I swear I left them around here somewhere…”
Happy just barely resisted a snort.
“Well, that sounds familiar,” he dryly mumbled instead — not quiet enough that May didn’t hear, but not loud enough that Peter could start a defense on how he was totally responsible with his belongings and definitely didn’t lose his backpack once a week.
Even if Peter had started that defense, it would’ve been negligible — there was no way of making himself appear responsible as he hurriedly made his way to the fake fig tree in the corner of the office, bending low so he could start digging through pebbles and rocks that filled the pot.
May shook her head as she swung her purse over her shoulder, giving Peter that look all the way out of the office — stopping short of the entryway where Happy stood.
“I gotta go,” she told Happy, suddenly grinning ear-to-ear with a positivity as fake as the plant that Peter was now tearing apart. “Hey, maybe I can find some reliable help on my way to the school since Dylan never wants to show up for his shifts on time.”
Happy met May’s false enthusiasm with his own genuine seriousness. “You should really fire that guy, you know.”
May looked like she wanted to say something witty, only to stop a second short of a snappy retort.
“Later,” she decided to say in lieu of anything else, laying a relaxed hand against Happy’s arm. “Right now I gotta make sure the school isn’t going to nail me for truancy with how many absences this kid’s ranked up this year.” May patted that same arm before lifting herself slightly high on her tippy-toes to reach him. “Be safe. Don’t have too much fun.”
The peck on the lips they both shared happened to come at the exact same time Peter stopped digging through the pebbles and rocks — and the expression that followed as he turned to look at them contorted his face into something he wasn’t sure his muscles were capable of.
“That’s…never not gunna be weird,” he flatly mumbled — a handful of pebbles still clutched in his fist, and the fake tree offering no success to his search.
Though she wasn’t looking at him, Peter could see May roll her eyes.
“Lock the door on your way out, Peter,” May said as she took her exit — Happy elected to turn away entirely, finding the situation as weird as Peter had. He cleared his throat multiple times as she left the office, with her holler heard down the hallway. “And I meant what I said about grounding you! Until graduation, mister!”
While Happy waited a good amount of time before turning back around to face Peter — right about the time that the heat left his cheeks and the pink blush across his skin became far less noticeable — Peter used that moment of painful, awkward silence to replenish the pebbles and rocks he’d taken from the fake plant.
He basically tossed the handful back into the pot, sighing hard enough to blow out both his cheeks as he did, but they were returned.
And he was still without any web cartridges.
“Whatever you’re looking for,” Happy snapped his fingers, throwing on a stern face that was more of an act than anything else, “make it fast. Tony rents out these places by the hour for privacy.”
Peter made a face as he turned around to look at Happy.
“I’m sure Mr. Stark’s bank account will be fine if we’re a little late,” he said, stopping halfway into his eye-roll when a thought suddenly struck him. Somehow, Peter managed to look as excited and giddy as the day he first took a private jet to Germany. “Wait, are we riding your bike there?”
Happy’s look of sheer exasperation did nothing to negate Peter’s enthusiasm — as if all his frustration about his misplaced belongings was as lost as the item themselves.
“Really?” Happy derisively drawled out, cocking his head to the side with an annoyance he was all too familiar with, and yet never quite acclimated to.
It may have been one full year that Peter had known Happy, and vice-versa, but Peter still went on to ask — all too innocently,
“Are we?”
For a long moment, Happy just stared at Peter.
Peter didn’t seem to get the hint.
“Yeah, kid, great idea,” Happy couldn’t have been anymore sarcastic had he actually invented sarcasm. “You, me, and the big marshmallow of a guy are gunna ride a one seater cruiser all the way into the city —”
“We’re gunna ride your bike again!?”
Ned’s ecstatic shout came from behind Happy, so loud that Happy nearly fell over when he spun around — clutching his chest dramatically with an open palm and fingers spread out wide, each pressing deep against his button-down shirt.
“-esus Christ!” Happy cursed, his eyes wide enough to bulge out their sockets as he looked Ned up and down, clearly startled at his sudden appearance.
The shock wasn’t shared. Ned simply stood idly in the doorway, continuing to eat his turkey and cheese sandwich; the chewing working his jaw in a frantic circular motion. A bit of mustard dropped to the ground, but aside from using the toe of his shoes to smear it away, Ned didn’t break eye contact with Happy.
Like Peter, Happy proceeded to stare at Ned for some time.
And like Peter, the hint wasn’t received.
“Car. Two minutes,” Happy’s voice was dry as dust as he passed by Ned, already making his way out the door and down the hallway. “Or else I’m leaving without you.”
Having known Happy for a year now, Peter had no doubts he meant that.
“Crap,” Peter hissed, quickly looking around May’s office — left and right and a complete circle around — all while rubbing harshly at the back of his neck. “I know I left some here! I just can’t remember —”
“Did you check the plant?” Ned asked from the doorway, his words practically indiscernible between garbled bites of his sandwich.
Peter didn’t even look his way as he pulled another drawer open in vain. “Yeah, I checked—”
“The file cabinet?” Ned swallowed, hard, and then again to clear his throat. “Maybe there’s some in the —”
“Yeah, dude, I checked —”
“Behind the curtains?”
Ned was already making his way to the windows before Peter could mention how ridiculous it would be to keep his web cartridges there.
Still, he let Ned to check behind the curtains. If only because he didn’t know where else the darn things could’ve gone off to.
“Nah, they aren’t here,” Ned gave the answer Peter expected to hear. Not a second later and he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small bag of snacks from inside. “Want some Cheeto’s? The kitchen lady snuck me a bag.”
The crinkling of plastic accompanied Peter’s sigh as Ned ripped open the bag of cheese puff’s. He pulled out a single cheese curl to offer to Peter, only to stuff it into his mouth when Peter declined.
Admitting defeat, Peter slammed the desk drawer shut, the items inside rattling around as he did so.
“Come on,” Peter said, apathetically slamming the desk drawer shut. “Forget it, I’ll just have to keep patrol to a minimum tonight. Let’s go before Happy leaves without us.”
As Peter quickly made his way out of May’s office, Ned followed close behind.
"Hey, you think if Captain America is gunna be there, he'll let you ride his motorcycle?" Ned asked, taking large, hasty leaps forward to catch up with Peter.
"Dude. Come on," Peter's voice became distant from afar, blending in easily with the trivial chit-chat taking place all around the shelter. He didn't let up his pace as he left the office, hurriedly making his way down the hallway. "That's crazy, I'm not riding Captain America's motorcycle— "
"Okay, but it'd be so cool— "
"So cool!"
As Ned hurried out of the office, stuffing the bag of snacks back into his jacket along the way, he left the door wide open in their departure.
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
ɿɒHar
Go...
Go...
Go...
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
ɿɒHar
₥͟Ø͟V͟Ɇ͟
Ήλяя𝘢̸𝗿⃥
o͎̣͆n̶̴̨̟͎̹̯̪̻̭̊ͤ̉͛̕͝iɿɿɒH͎̺̆̾͠a
Ή͟λ͟я͟𝘢̸𝗿⃥
Go...
His feet burned.
They ached and throbbed with muscles that spasmed and toes that curled inward with agony. And they burned, skin blistering away in the steam that poured out of his pores, wisps of vapor that drifted up his legs and circled around his calves. His toenails chipped away into ash, black and crisped like coal. The veins under his skin, throbbing to the beat of his exhausted heart, pulsated with the after glow of sage beneath the tint of blue.
Norman kept walking, the voices guiding the way — his legs moving far beyond his conscious control.
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
ɿɒHar
𝙵𝕺Ʀ𝕸𝚅Լƛ
Fix
Go.....
The morning sun shined brightly on the graffiti walls he walked past, and yet he kept his head low and to the ground — not looking up, not even looking at his surroundings. His body functioned on an autopilot; the hands on the wheel not his, and the behavior not anything he could resist.
His movements weren’t his own. But he allowed them, nonetheless.
He knew to move.
Don’t stop, keep moving.
There was nothing else of importance besides that.
The city traffic screamed all around him; cars honking every second, people chattering in groups of three or four — some using cross walks, others passing by random directions in the street. In the distance, the roar of a train speeding by on the tracks could be heard, sending vibrations through the ground, and shaking away the brunt ash of nail across his toes.
Norman’s eyes, blood-shot and exhausted, barely flickered in the direction of the sound. The train passed by, and he kept walking, with the hood of a purple coat concealing his features from those around him.
One foot after another, and the residue of his own skin trailing behind him — his feet wearing thin to the muscle.
He kept walking.
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
Ήλ𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥
ɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶GOFOƦＭ𝚅Լƛɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶F
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖
The chill of a crisp, autumn day blew the steam off his skin. But the heat lingered, burning holes through the wool of his coat and blistering his skin raw.
The train dwindled in his right ear, exactly at the same time Norman took a left corner and —
“Whoa, man!”
Two hands pressed firmly against his chest, only to recede just as quickly.
For the first time in days — weeks? — Norman looked up. His feet found balance as he came to a stumbled stop, his neck audibly cracking, sounding like twigs breaking in two. If the bones actually broke, he would’ve known no different.
Move.
Keep Moving.
“Move.” The word split from his dry and cracked lips without his intent, his tongue so parched it split in sections as his voice muscled past his hoarse throat.
It hurt to speak, like the fire that once engulfed his body had found a home in his larynx.
It also didn’t matter.
Move. Keep Moving.
That’s all that mattered.
“Bro….you okay?”
The voice could’ve been pure, raw oil compared to Norman’s. Each word was smooth as butter, rolling off the young man’s tongue with simple ease.
“No offense but you, uh…you look fried.” The same two hands that had briefly touched him began to wave at a brisk pace, frantically motioning up and down to create a draft of wind. “Like…literally, my dude.”
A tight frown narrowed his eyes. Norman could feel the crease in his forehead, watching intently — puzzled — as the figure in front of him waved and wagged his hands in an floppy, frenzied motion.
The weak breeze created barely had an effect on the steam that coiled his body.
“Where…am I?” Norman’s head titled to the side, cocking with an odd expression of weary confusion. Each word emerged from his throat as if they were laboriously dragged from a well of gravel, holding the raw edge of friction.
The person who stood in front of him — the source of the draft of air, the man with a voice as smooth as silicone compared to his — suddenly stopped all movements. His hands abruptly froze, right around the same time his head looked down, his eyes suddenly growing wide with worry.
“Your feet are…smoked, man,” he said, the change in tone from casual to concerned quickly becoming apparent.
Norman followed his eyes, albeit far slower — the bones in his neck cracked once again, and though he could feel the vibration go up and down his spine, it brought him no alarm.
He stared at his feet. His big toe twisted, and more ash fell off, just becoming more dirt on the already dirty streets of the city.
“I’ve been…walking,” Norman slowly pulled the words from his mind, forcing them to sound between his lips. They bled at the edges, fissured and irritated from exposure. That didn’t bring him any alarm, either. “From…upstate. I — I think.”
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
Ήλя𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥
₣łⱤɆɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶FＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶F₣łⱤɆ
“There was…there was a fire.” The words came without his bidding. Norman suddenly looked up, not catching the gaze of the young man in front of him — he was still too preoccupied with Norman’s burnt and blistering feet to look anywhere else. “I think…I think there may have…have been a fire.”
That seemed to be the thing that got the young man’s attention. His head snapped up, pieces of his long blond hair falling in front of his face before he tossed his whole head back to let gravity sweep them away.
“Yeah, man,” he tried not to laugh, but a nervous chuckle still broke through against his best efforts, “I, too, think there may have been a fire.”
Norman tried to swallow, but the soot in his throat took his next breath. The fire was still fresh, he could still taste it on his tongue. Yet it’d been days, he was sure of it. More than that, more than days — time had taken him captive, and the fire from a blazing inferno had long since passed.
Now, he could only feel it from within. The heat of his body could be felt far beneath his muscles, deep into his bone marrow, circulating his very nervous system.
“I don’t think…”
With each additional word spoken, clarity returned to Norman’s voice. His tongue stayed dry and his voice hoarse as sandpaper, but a strength gradually began to return. As if he’d begun to clear the cobwebs after so much time spent without speaking.
How long had it —?
M̸͓̪͌͒͗́ͨσνɆɘ̶ν̶σ̶м̶
Mσ̖͖̳̑̀͆ͦͫͭͩν̤̩̱͈̅͗̆͆̋̚Ɇ̓̉ɘ̥̅́͆̍͑ν̜̠̳̅͌͒̄ͬσ͆͊̔͗м̺̗̮͚̲̦̼ͩ̔ͬ̃̓͒
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
₴₱łĐɆⱤ
₴₱łĐɆⱤ
₴₱łĐɆⱤ
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
ᕼ卂ᖇ丂ᕈ丨ᙃ乇ᖇ
fɆ̶Sʅ̶₱̶₴̶я̶λ̶Ή̶
Ήλя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
“Harry.” The name hung in the air like a ghost, a whisper of a memory that merged with city traffic; honking horns and yelling pedestrians lacing into the two simple syllables that crossed his lips. “I — I need…”
M̸͓̪͌͒͗́ͨσνɆG̯̮͉̥͎͒O̞̐̌̏͒ ɘ̶ν̶σ̶м̶
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆é
𝙵ＯƦGOＭ𝚅Լƛ
ᕼ卂ᖇ丂GOᕈ丨ᙃ乇ᖇ
SɆ̶ʅ̶₱̶₴̶я̶λ̶Ή̶
ΉλvoMя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌₴₱łĐɆⱤo̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟ F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝ F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖
Frustration felt as hot as the fire that burned inside of him. Norman clenched his head, grasping onto the scratchy, dirty wool of the hood that hid him from view.
He couldn’t get his thoughts straight.
He couldn’t make his thoughts his own.
“Whacha need, my man?” The voice asked him with the same easy smoothness as before — set up against Norman’s and it could’ve been the sound of silk.
MoveɘvoM
Ήλя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
Go.....
Norman caught his gaze, head-on.
“Spider.”
He wasn’t sure it was him speaking. He was sure the words weren’t said by the young man in front of him, not with the way his throat swelled and spasmed as the sound hit his ears. And yet, he didn’t feel like it was him saying what he heard.
He didn’t feel in control.
“You…need a spider?” Once again, the young man tried — and failed — at keeping his nervous laughter at bay.
Norman remained unaffected. He shook his head, hard enough that the hood nearly slipped down.
“Harry,” he croaked out.
The young man lifted an eyebrow high up his forehead. “You…need a harry spider?”
Somebody yelled down the street, followed by the sound of two other voices joining the argument. Only the young man directed his attention to the scene — Norman remained fixated on his gaze straight ahead, an empty and hollow stare that drifted further away with the passing seconds.
“I need…” Norman swallowed, hard. His face grimaced, tightly, at the discomfort. “I need to fix it.”
Sǝʎ
Ｙ𝐄ѕ
Ήλя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
His lips split apart with the moisture of fresh blood, oozing from cracks of dry skin.
“It’s missing something.”
Ｙ𝐄ѕ
The young man noticeably took a long pause, and even more noticeably took a large step back.
“Okay…” he drawled out, raising both hands in the air, open-palmed. “Hey. I got an idea for you, my dude.”
Norman nodded, so frantically his hood began to slip. “Fix it.”
The young man cocked an eyebrow even higher up his forehead, but ultimately nodded along with Norman — at a far slower pace.
“Yeah, yeah…we’ll fix it. We’ll totally fix it,” he said, all the while gesturing his thumb over his shoulder. “You come with me and I promise to get you a big harry spider, okay?”
MoveɘvoM
MoveɘvoM
M̸͓̪͌͒͗́ͨσνɆG̯̮͉̥͎͒O̞̐̌̏͒ ɘ̶ν̶σ̶м̶
Go.....
Norman blinked — more than once, plenty of times that the moisture in his eyes should’ve replenished. They remained as dry as his voice, and as hollow as his tone.
“Move.”
It was all that mattered.
“Come on, man, you need help,” the young man sounded both exasperated and sincere, and even hastily reached forward for Norman — kindly taking his arm and leading him away. Norman stumbled sluggishly with each step taken. “I know a place. It’s a good place, they’ll help you. I’m heading there right now. I’m actually —”
Another nervous laugh shook his back as he guided Norman down the sidewalk, passing by more graffiti walls along the way.
“I’m actually late, my boss is gunna kill me.” The young man turned around when he saw Norman was a few feet behind him. He grabbed onto his forearm again and held it there, keeping him walking forward, giving him a firm pat on the back along the way. “But when you see two-for-one hot dogs for sale, you don’t say no, am I right?”
Each step forward scrapped against the raw and exposed tissue of his feet, his heels dragging against cement and leaving thin lines of his blood along the way.
Norman let himself be led, giving himself the means of direction when before he had none.
“Follow me,” the young man gestured for him to keep up, “we’re not far.”
MoveɘvoM
MoveɘvoM
MoveɘvoM
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
₣ØⱠⱠØ₩....
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Move.
Keep moving.
It’s all that mattered.
Norman kept his eyes locked straight ahead, following the young man in front of him — the head of blond hair whipped around, and he pushed a few loose strands away from his eyes so his whole face could be seen, smiling compassionately along the way.
“My name’s Dylan, by the way.”