Son of a bitch…
You know the worst part of that whole night?
For him, it was like… twenty minutes. Tops.
For me?
Two, maybe three hours of pure, unfiltered ass whooping.
Just getting my ass handed to me—over and over again. No dramatic slow-mo. No epic music.
Just pain.
I probably spent half that time kissing floorboards and the other half choking on my own blood. And the few moments in between? Mostly filled with screaming muscles, ringing ears, and trying to remember how to breathe.
And now? I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at myself in the mirror. As usual.
And I look like shit. Worse than shit.
Like the dictionary definition of "Punching Bag."
Got myself a proper collection of injuries. One nasty black eye—itlooks like someone replaced it with a plum. A broken nose, but hey—It might've cracked straight. Both pinkies doing their best impression of question marks—Still kinda pissed about that.
Enough bruises to share around—Like a human Rorschach test. Cuts on my arms and legs too, thankfully, most are just superficial— butI better avoid lemons though. My hands are forested with splinters—I could build another table with them.
No teeth missing, surprisingly—I thought for sure I'd spit out at least one. But maybe one or two ribs are drifting somewhere in there.
But there are no 'Major' major injuries.
According to my self-diagnosis, anyway.
So, right after the fight, I spent about 30 minutes trying to find some basic first aid tutorials on my phone.
First—The splinters. I picked up a pair of tweezers, and once I zeroed on those micro stakes puckering on my palms, I grit my teeth and plucked—one by one. A shard under my left thumb, two thin needles beneath my right index finger, and half a dozen more dancing between my knuckles. Each one felt like tearing duct tape off of sunburned skin, but when the last splinter came off, there was a small rush of relief—followed immediately by the aching, missing patches of skin. I washed both hands in an antibiotic ointment and wrapped them in gauze.
I glance down at my hands. My pinkies are still question marks, so I popped my knuckles one by one. Right pinky first—crack—a low, horrid pain that sends a jolt up my forearm. My breath ragged, and I shifted my grip onto the left. Another pop, and my vision blurred for a second. Both fingers are back in place, although they feel like wet noodles—but hey, they don't look like hooks anymore.
Next—My nose. It felt like two jagged rocks locked together and refusing to mesh. I cradled my face in both palms. Then, with a sharp inhale through my teeth, I twisted it to the left. It made a nasty cracking sound. And a buzzing pain exploded through my whole temple. I exhaled a "fuck" and pressed the wad of toilet paper against the split to keep it aligned. I should get a professional to check it later—but it lines up well enough that I can breathe through both nostrils again.
Now—That plum under my right eyebrow. I pressed a cold rag against it, whispering my favorite swear words every time the ice kissed exposed skin. It's less "Ice Therapy" and more "Tempting a Frostbite" but it's the best I've got. After fifteen minutes of clenching my jaw, I let it be. The bruise remained, but at least the swelling rewinded enough to go from alien to raccoon.
I tried standing up—big mistake—My ribs protested immediately; each inhaled breath reminded me that at least one rib is not exactly where it's supposed to be. Unfortunately, I can't just grab it and pluck it back where it belongs; I can only ice it and hope for the best.
Toughening it up, I winced and knelt to grab the worst part of the medical kit: The Needle. My arms and legs were a roadmap of crisscrossed shallow cuts. Thankfully, some of them already started to scab. I dump a bottle of antiseptic onto a cotton pad—too much, but I'm not taking any chances with infection. I dab at the worst gashes; one on my forearm that's still slightly oozing, and two on my shin that needed a deeper cleaning. Each sweep drew a flare of agony, like a match against a raw nerve. When the bleeding stopped, I reach for the needle and some thread—sterilized (I hope) by my lighter. My fingers tremble as I push the needle through the skin and pull it tight, knotting twice so it doesn't unravel while I sleep. Stitch by stitch.
Just pain. Lots of it.
But... it's strange. The pain is loud and insistent, and definitely there—I feel it—but it's like… background noise.
If I try hard enough, I can pretend it's not there.
Finally, I checked the mirror. My eye is still swollen, but it wasn't "purple" purple. My nose looked like it might come off if I sneezed. The pinkies were straight again, and the stitches are holding the juices inside. Splinters were banished, and my muscles are trembling with adrenaline withdrawals. Part of me wonders if I went insane—playing doctor with myself—but who cares? It worked.
For tonight, I'm 'fixed'. Tomorrow I'll worry about an hospital visit—and the bill—if I can convince myself I'm not invincible.
---
Now, after spending the rest of the night searching for a sleeping position that didn't feel like torture.
I've got school.
Because if I don't throw on that backpack and pretend to be a normal teenager, I swear I'm gonna lose my frickin' mind.
I need the noise. The routine. Theillusion.
Lockers opening and closing loudly. Teacher's need to prove their authority. Hallway gossip. Annoying classmates. Boring lectures. Lunch that tastes like cardboard.
I need to pretend—just for a few hours—that I'm not beyond that world.
That I'm not someone who can die and come back.
Because the second I stop pretending... it gets too real.
Too heavy... And I'm not ready for that, yet.
Now, finally, I put on my hoodie to hide the worst of it, grab my—mostly empty—backpack.
And limped across the wreckage of what used to be the living room.
My parents are going to kill me when they come home to this. If they ever come home, that is.
Maybe, this time, they'll act like actual parents and ground me? Ha... Yeah.
Anyway, It's another day. But the same me.
---
Can people not just mind their damn business?
Seriously—has no one in this city ever seen a teenager with half his face purple?
I walk three blocks and it's like I'm a freak show.
Kids heading to school. Adults in suits rushing to jobs they probably hate. Old people on their daily pilgrimage to throw bread at ducks.
All of them—staring.
Like I crawled out of a sewer. Great.
As if I wasn't having the worst morning ever already.
I caught a few whispers. Some subtle. Others not even trying.
"Damn... Poor kid."
"They jumped his ass."
"God, look at his eye…"
Yeah yeah, Take a picture. It'll last longer.
I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket and keep walking, hood up, shoulders hunched. Not even limping—shuffling.
And the best part?
It's not even 8 in the morning yet.
My ribs feel like glass. Eye throbbing like it's trying to escape my skull. Pinkies still twitching with that phantom pain.
And somehow, the looks people give me, hurt more than the punches did.
It's not physical pain—This is different.
It's the pity. The judgment. The way their eyes flick over me like I'm some problem to avoid or a lesson to teach their kids.
"See that boy? That's what's going happen to you if you don't study." Fuck off.
Hell, some of them look at me like I deserved this.
Like whatever happened to me was earned. Like I must've done something awful to end up looking like this.
Maybe it's the hoodie. The bruises. Or the permanent scowl I wear when I'm tired.
Maybe I just have one of those faces. "Troubled."
Am I really that ugly?
I don't think so. But maybe I am. Who knows?
What happened to my superhero fame?
Whatever, I just keep walking.
Step after step. Block after block.
Because right now? I have better things to do than to worry about my insecurities.
Now, I need to worry about surviving school.
---
"Math. First period. A special kind of hell",huh?
I still think so—but compared to a "light spar" with Stick?
Yeah. I'll take the numbers.
When I walked into the school courtyard, I tugged my hoodie lower over my face, trying to disappear into the crowd. Which is hard when you look like you lost a boxing match with a semi-truck.
Everyone noticed.
All of them, curious.
A few empathetic—or apathetic—enough to ask what happened.
I just answered with the kindest 'Fuck off.' I could spew out.
They got the message. Backed off.
But they weren't subtle—nudging each other, whispering, staring when they thought I wasn't looking.
Some tried not to stare at all, which somehow made it worse.
And yeah, maybe it has something to do with me looking like a zombie, or maybe it's what happened Friday.
The field trip fiasco.
My little episode didn't exactly end with a round of applause.
People didn't know the details. Just that I had a stroke or something.
And now, because of my previous fame as a 'superhero' combined with my current appearance.
I caught the start of a rumor.
One kid said I got jumped by three mobster. Another swears I'm in some kind of Fight Club IRL.
The best one? That I fought a gang of bikers and came out grinning like I'd just walked out of a movie.
Blah blah blah... Dumb shit like that.
I mean—sure, I'm flattered.
But whatever they believe, one thing's clear.
I'm radioactive, again.
From outcast to hero to outcast.
All the little school social groups—the nerds, the jocks, the theater kids, the weirdos, the wannabe gangsters. Hell, even the teachers won't look me in the eye.
They see me as John Wick or something... Great.
Except the math teacher.
He couldn't give less of a fuck.
He watches me slump into my seat and just says.
"Mr. Warren, early today."
I give him a thumbs-up. Nothing else.
He nods and moves on.
Doesn't pry. Doesn't pity me.
Just lets me exist.
Maybe he thinks I went back to being a bully.
Either way, for the first time all morning, I managed to relax.
But I still feel the look of my classmates.
I slide further down into my hoodie, hiding behind the desk like a bunker.
Waiting for the class to actually start.
Let's pretend—for just one class—that I'm a normal kid.
In a normal school.
Living a normal life.
Even if we all know that's a lie.
---
Obviously, Peter noticed immediately...
Nudging my shoulder, as he sat down beside me.
"Hey Wade, heard someone talking about—Damn! Who made you uglier?"
He winces mid-joke. "Seriously though… you okay?"
I shrug like it's no big deal.
"Yeah, yeah. Just… some drunk guy going off on someone last night. I stepped in. Got my shit absolutely rocked."
He blinks. "Wait—what?"
"Oh, and I was detained by the police too." I add, waving it off like a punchline.
"Overall? funnight."
Peter stares at me, somewhere between impressed and horrified.
"...You're joking, right?"
"Wouldn't that be nice?" I mutter, pulling my hoodie lower.
"Look, I'm having a rough day, but I'm alive. That's what matters. Now, can the topic of my shitty face wait till lunch, please?"
He doesn't know what to say. Maybe he's still processing, trying to line up this version of me with the one from yesterday at his house.
But what am I supposed to tell him?
The bell rings. And the class finally starts.
---
Y'know, I actually kinda like math.
Yeah, controversial take, I know—I'm so unique and different.
But there's something satisfying about it.
Firm rules. Definitive answers.
You follow the steps, and boom—you solved the problem.
No gray areas. No hidden traps.
Why can't life be like that?
Why can't this world—and mine—just make sense if you work hard enough?
Why does everything have to be a fight?
I stare at the whiteboard, pretending to focus.
But my thoughts drifted... Back home.
I've been in this world, in this body, for almost 3 months, and it's finally starting to feel like it's mine.
Genuinely mine. Fitting. Familiar.
But still...
What are they doing now?
Mom… Sis...
Are they okay?
Do they miss me?
Do they think I ran away?
That I died?
Do they even know I'm gone?
My stomach tightens.
Okay. Nope. Bad Wade.
No zoning out.
I blink hard. Grip the pen tighter.
Back to math.
Numbers. Don't ask questions you don'twant the answer for.
---
Lunch, finally.
We were in the cafeteria line, just grabbing our trays, when Liz Allan tapped my shoulder from behind.
"Hey, Wade?" I looked back, and when her eyes landed on my battered face, her smile dropped instantly. "Oh my God—what happened to your face?"
She said it like I was missing my skull. Guess she either didn't hear the rumors, or just didn't think they were true. "You look like you fought a bear..."
"That bad, huh?" I said, with a half-hearted grin.
She winced a little. "Sorry. That came out mean. I meant, like… Are you okay?"
Peter opened his mouth—maybe to take the opportunity of explaining to be able to talk to her—But Liz cut him off.
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I just—sorry, I was worried. You disappeared on Friday, and now you look like... this."
She reached out instinctively—maybe to touch one of the bruises near my temple—but pulled back at the last second, flashing an awkward smile.
"It kinda gives you a bad boy vibe, y'know?" she said, a little too cheerful for the topic of me looking like absolutely shit.
She's... very talkative. Maybe she liked Wade beforehand, or just now that Iam Wade, which… Ew, Cooties, no?
No, seriously. Ew.
It makes me feel like a pred.
She glanced at Peter, and suddenly her tone got lighter, friendlier. Complimenting him.
"And HiPetey, looking good without your glasses! You using contacts?"
I nearly dropped my tray.
Almost snapped my neck looking at Peter, did I really not noticed that? Am I that much of a bad friend?
Oh—and Peter, being Peter, went catatonic and just awkwardly smiled at her for 2 full minutes, without saying a word.
Second-hand embarrassment so strong, It had AOE.
"Oh-key...?" She noticed neither of us responding like a normal human being, so she just giggled.
"Anyway. You guys should sit with us today. I mean, if you're not, like, busy? or anything."
Peter looked like he'd been hit with a taser—Opened his mouth, made a sound, closed it—then just smiled.
I stepped in.
"Rain check, sorry." I said, forcing a smile. "Peter's helping me with some homework. Thanks though, maybe next time."
She looked a little disappointed, but nodded. "Okay... Catch you later then."
---
We sat down at our usual table, and the moment our trays hit plastic, I hit him with the question.
"So... where are your glasses?"
Please, please, please tell me you're gaining your powers, dude.
Peter blinked like he hadn't even realized.
"Oh, that? Yeah, I don't... I don't know. This morning, everything just looked clearer without them. A miracle, huh?" He laughed weakly. "So I figured... why wear them?"
Excuse me? A miracle!?
Y'know what? Fine. Whatever.
The spider-puberty is here.
It's slow. Painfully slow.
Just fixed his vision—which is still cool, no?
But no growth spurts? No wall-crawling? No webs? No Spider-Sense?
Nothing but a prescription refund.
Still.
Spider-Man is gonna happen, baby.
"So…?" he said, half-mumbling, not even looking up as he scribbled formulas in his notebook.
"So, what?"
"What happened last night. Explicitly."
I paused mid-chew.
Ah. There it was.
The shift in his tone. Calm but sharp. Like he already knew I wasn't telling him everything.
"I told you already." I said, swallowing. "Some guy was getting beat up. I stepped in. End of the story."
Peter finally looked up. "You said the cops detained you."
"They did—"
"And the bruises?"
"—n't."
He raised an eyebrow.
Okay, fine.
I may have also been trained/tortured/killed by a fossil who is also a blind ninja that goes against a group of evil ninjas.
But do I say that? Do I drop that on Peter in the middle of lunch?
No. Ofcoursenot.
So I shrugged.
And sipped my juice box.
Peter squinted at me like he was trying to x-ray my brain.
"Look, man..." I sighed. "It was a long night. Stuff happened. I'm fine. Alive. Can we just NOT talk about that?"
He was still staring. But after a second, he nodded.
"...Fine."
He turned the page in his notebook, showing me his ideas. "Ok so, to make the suit as fireproof as possible, I need something called aramid fiber, but it's expensive.
I was thinking, maybe we will make do with a firefighter jacket for now, and we modify it little by little. What do you say?"
I nodded, trying to act like I know what aramid means. "Sounds like a plan to me."
---
I caught my reflection in the back of my spoon—distorted, but clear enough to make out a face.
My face.
There's the black eye, the crooked nose, and the rest it's just my ugly mug.
Hair's still a disaster, too. I've tried flattening it, combing it, styling it—The thing has a mind of its own.
Might need a haircut. Or a cap. Or a bag. Something, anything.
I look like a mutt. My mom would've killed me if she saw me like... this.
...Fine. You want to go there, Wade?
Let's do it, fucker.
It still doesn't feel real. Not completely.
Every time I see this face, it almost registers as mine. Almost.
It's just that... the old one's still there, buried somewhere in my head. Same with the memories. Same with my family.
I can still picture their faces—my mom, my sister—but it's... fading.
Every day I hold onto less. Like static eating through my psyche.
And it's awful. Worse than any torture or pain, worse than dying.
Just forgetting them… just like that.
No warning. No fight. No closure.
Just gone.
It's soul-crushing.
I mean… we weren't perfect. Hell, we weren't even that functional.
But they were MY family.
Always discussing over dumbshit, yelling over dinner, laughing at dumb movies.
Just us, Against the world.
There's so much I wish I would've done.
Should've done.
Said thank you. Hugged them more. Told them I loved them. Just once...
But I didn't.
I was too busy being a dumb fuck, thinking there'd be more time.
...
Fuck.
You can't just drop that on yourself, Wade.
You don't get to play the victim now. You can't.
You've got enough on your plate as it is now without another existential dread.
So do what you always do.
Thug it out.
'Cause if you don't—if you actually feel this—
You're not coming back from it.
---
We were heading out of the building—just the usual chatter echoing down the halls. Except for him...
Flash.
He waited for the hallway to thin out, then walked up to us, kind of stiff—hands in his pockets, eyes moving left and right like he was checking if anyone was watching.
I knew that body language.
When he got see my face—the bruises—he winced. Not mockingly. Just… surprised.
"Hey, uh… Wade. Peter."
I up-nodded at him. "Flash, hey."
Peter glanced over too, confused, but quiet.
There was a pause. The kind of silence that stretches tight like a high-tension wire.
Flash scratched the back of his neck, then took a breath—like it physically hurt.
"Wade. Look, about that Monday. I, uh… ugh. Thanks. For... saying that."
The words barely go past his throat. He looked at the floor and groaned, clearly disappointed of himself for not being more eloquent.
Then he looked up again—this time at Peter.
"Peter. I've been a real dick to you, man. For a long time. I wanted to say I'm sorry. For... Everything."
Peter blinked. That caught him off guard.
Flash was being awkward, but honest.
And maybe that's why he made sure we were alone when he said it.
No audience. No ego. Just him.
Peter didn't respond right away. I could see the gears turning. He even shot me a quick look—maybe weighing Flash's apology against mine.
"You've done a LOT of shitty things to me, Flash." Peter said, voice calm. Not bitter. Just honest. "But… if you're really trying to mean this, I guess... that has to count for something. So, I guess, I can try to forgive you. If that's cool?"
Peter offered him a handshake, a little reluctant.
Flash blinked like he didn't expect it—then grabbed his hand with way too much enthusiasm.
"Yeah, yeah, Cool. Cool, cool, cool." he said, nodding a little too fast, trying to keep his cool while absolutely not keeping his cool. "And, uh... If there's ever anything I can do to make up for it... just, y'know."
Peter nodded, a little awkward. "ah hah, cool. Thanks."
Then Flash turned around and practically skipped down the hallway, wearing a grin he probably thought was subtle.
Peter looked over. "You think he means it?"
"Yeah." I said. "It wasn't the most moving apology, but it was honest." I shook my head, smirking. "Good for him."
Maybe the world really was shifting.
Shifting towards something better, one person at a time.
---
We were walking through Queens, helping out wherever we could. Things were starting to feel normal again. Familiar, even.
Well—aside from the lingering looks I kept getting. Guess the bruises still made people think I was trouble.
Eventually, we flopped down on the curb outside a corner store, armed with snacks and cheap soda. My legs were killing me. Peter had a bag of pretzels and I had my go-to: some spicy chips and a Soda-Koca. It's refreshing to see the little differences of this world to mine—aside from, y'know, the whole superheroes thing.
I took a long sip and leaned back and sighed in satisfaction—Glorious carbonation.
"Hey, if you and Ben run outta cheap labor for the house, sign me up, alright?" I said, lazily pointing at him with the hand still holding my bottle. "I'll be happy to swing a hammer. Break stuff."
Peter let out a quiet laugh, crunching a pretzel.
I glanced at him, took another sip of my soda, then shot the question at him, just to mess with him.
"So… you gonna ask Liz out, or are you just gonna keep staring at her like a creep?"
Peter choked on his pretzel. "Wh—what?!"
I shrugged, innocent. "Just asking. Y'know, since every time she breathes near you, you forget how to function as human."
Peter's face lit up like a stoplight. "I… I'm thinking about it, alright? I might… try to try."
"Uh-huh. Do or do not. There is no try."
He frowned at me, like I'd just grew a second head. "...Did you just quote Yoda?"
"Yeh." I said, grinning. "Knew you'd catch it."
Peter squinted at me like I was malfunctioning. "Hold on. Last week, I wore a Star Wars shirt at the hospital, and you called me a nerd."
"Well... Yeah, you are." I said, casually raising my hand and doing the Darth Vader choke-gesture.
He just stared at me. "Unbelievable. You are such an hypocrite."
I smirked. "But seriously, you get WAY too awkward around her. You sure you're not just gonna melt into a puddle before getting the words out?"
"Oh wow, thanks for the vote of confidence." he said, deadpan.
"Sue me." I said, chugging the rest of my soda with a smug grin. "Now hurry up and ask her out before someone else does."
Peter went quiet, staring at the ground like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in Queens. "You… do you like Liz too?"
I blinked at him. "No."
He looked up, brows scrunched. "But then why were you trying so hard to convince me to ask Gwen out?"
I shrugged and leaned back, stretching until my shoulders popped.
"Liz is nice, yeah—but that's it. And I just thought you and Gwen would've made a cute couple. You two have the same type of awkwardness going on. But hey, it's your call."
I paused, took another sip, then added casually,
"Honestly? I'm more of a MILF guy."
Peter groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Why do I even ask you things?"
Peter sighed, but I caught the tiny smile he was trying to hide.
For a second—just a second—things felt good.
_______________________________________
Word count: 4.235
Hey there, Dear Readers.
I want to apologize if this chapter felt like a filler.
I just wanted to 'humanize' Wade, with some interactions, or showcase how he's still human and can be hurt, badly.
As you all may have noticed, I like doing more interaction than action.
Hope you all don't mind.
Also, Would you want me to put and explain the current [Packs] Wade has at the end of the chapters?
Sincerely, Author.