lemon & Lead

 “You have no idea what it’s like to live like that! To have no privacy, no agency, NOTHING!! To be treated like an ANIMAL!” he roared, his words punctuated by a crash of thunder. “It was hard enough learning to ignore them-” he threw his hand out, his pointer finger leveled accusingly at one of his actuators, “-and their constant, incessant murmuring without being beaten and drugged and threatened for doing nothing wrong!”

 The actuators turned their cameras on Octavius, hissing and chittering in a manner that suggested they felt betrayed. “Oh, don’t you start! You know what you children do to me!” Otto chided them. Peter was vividly reminded of that night all those years ago in the garden shed. “You don’t exactly make things easy for me- yes, Octopus Girl is the favorite child, she’s the only one who doesn’t talk back-”

 It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so damn scary. 

 Octavius abruptly went silent, as if one of his actuators had something he didn’t want to respond to. He wore a ring on his thumb, a heavy silver one which was cast in the shape of an octopus, with its tentacles wrapped around his finger, and he spun it around and around. 

“...Wretched,” he muttered spitefully. Peter wasn’t sure if that was meant to be directed at him, or the tentacles, or even the weather. 

“For what it’s worth,” Peter said, knowing full well that it was far too little, too late, “I wouldn’t have handled things the way I did if I’d known. I mean, I don’t see any other option for how the day at the warehouse could have gone that would have ended with everyone alive, but…” 

 “I had no idea. You seemed so much better after your release. If I'd known, I’d have…” he trailed off, his head drooping in defeat. “I don’t know. There were so many ways I could have done better.” 

 Otto nudged the damp, crushed butt of his cigar with the tip of his shoe and scowled, his lip curling in disgust. “We don’t need your pity.” 

 “It’s not pity,” Peter said. “I’m not dumb enough to pity you. What I'm saying is that when I put on the mask, I assume a duty of care for people. It’s my responsibility to look after people. And I failed in that.”  

 “Don’t be condecending.” Octavius said, a defiant edge in his voice. “I made my own choices.” 

 “...You did,” Peter said bitterly. “But Ravencroft or The Raft is barely a choice. That shouldn’t be all there is. I’ve seen just how many of you want to be better-”

“-you were doing so much better,” He said. 

 Otto kicked the cigar butt, and watched it bounce across the pavement and roll to a stop. It was immediately pelted with hail. He let out a long, slightly raspy sigh. 

“...I was, wasn’t I?” he said, barely audible over the rolling thunder in the distance. 

“I was… happy. For a little while,” he said. The words seemed to stick in the back of his throat, raw and painful. “It was nice. It was- it was difficult. So difficult. It’s so hard to fight against what’s in your own head. What you are.”  

 “Maybelle was… she was a good woman,” Otto said. Peter was jarred by that, both by the abrupt turn in their conversation, and at Otto’s casual use of Aunt May’s full name. “A fantastic person. Always wanted to pick up the broken things in this world and put them back together. I didn’t even mind- almost liked being her pity project. Her thing to fix.” He scoffed. “You inherited all of her bleeding-heart bullshit. Some people are just… born abnormal. Sick. delusional, entitled, arrogant…  Being loved feels nice, but no amount of kindness is going to change someone that has that kind of rot in them.” 

 Peter wasn’t sure how to counter that. Anything he could say contrary to that assertion would likely just come across as empty platitudes. It was difficult to come up with anything that could possibly resonate with his enemy. “...so your entire syndicate is just made up of people who are inherently doomed to evil, then?” 

 The grim look on Octavius’s face was enough of an answer. “Doomed" implies some sort of fate, which is a ridiculous notion. It’s a matter of character, not predestination. But yes. The Syndicate essentially self-selects the monstrous. There isn't a single one that isn't rotten.”

 “... Forgive me if I'm remembering wrong, but doesn't Octo Girl’s jacket have your syndicate logo embroidered on the chest?” Peter remarked, and Octavius’s eyes narrowed. 

“You shut your mouth, Parker,” he snarled. “You have no right to pass judgement on my daughter.”

“Then who does?” Peter jabbed. He'd been trying to make a particular point against the idea of anyone being fundamentally evil, but Octavius clearly wasn't in the mood to interpret his attempt at subtlety. “Can you tell if she's “evil” or not already? She's already committed a couple of petty crimes; breaking and entering, minor vandalism… or does she have to blow something up and rob a bank for her to be retroactively declared a lost cause?” 

“I TOLD YOU TO SHUT YOUR MOUTH!” Octavius roared. “My daughter is none of your concern! She's a good, clever girl, and you and your wretched Spiders aren't going to ruin her life the way you did to mine!!”

EARTH 1364B.

MANHATTAN. 

MAY 16TH, 2015.

Forty-Five Minutes Before. 

 The flat metal ribbon of Octopus Girl’s actuator struck Spider-Man Brooklyn square in the chest, pushing him back until his back slammed into the brick wall of the closest building. Miles grunted as the air was pressed from his lungs. He kicked up, slamming the rubber coated steel toe of his shoe into the metal tentacle with a loud clunk, pushing it away. He stuck his feet and hands to the wall to gain leverage and then kicked off as he released, launching himself at her. He wound back to punch, quick but not as quick as he could have been. She brought her tentacle up just in time to block the strike.

 Octopus Girl  hauled herself up the side of the building, her body suspended in the air by the silver tendrils of her tentacles, and Miles followed her. They swung and dodged and danced around each other, both aiming to hit, but without turning the full force of their skill against each other. He shot out a webline, the end of which splattered against her collar and adhered to it, and he used the web to drag her back down towards the street. For a moment she tumbled, before her mechanical claws caught her and her sneakers touched down safely on the wet pavement. 

 They traded a series of blows, all of which she managed to block and he ducked away from, until he managed to slip behind her and kick her in the back. Octopus Girl let out a sudden exclamation of surprise and fell forward, landing on the grubby concrete with a startled little “Oof!” Miles quickly followed her down, planting his foot on the flat side of one of her actuators to keep it pinned, leaning over her with his arm pulled back to strike. 

 He paused. 

 He had an opening to hit her, but he really didn’t want to. Punching her in the back wouldn’t do much more than bruise, but if he hit her in the head it would slam her face into the asphalt. He wanted to win, but not enough to risk giving her a facial fracture. 

 A beat of silent consideration passed, one which lasted long enough to be notable in the chaos of a fight, even one as half-hearted as theirs. Octopus Girl shifted and rolled over onto her back, keeping her arms raised up to protect her face. She was panting hard, her face flushed red and her wet bangs plastered flat to her forehead. Droplets of rain pattered against the black lenses of her goggles, and she wiped them away with her sleeve. Miles heard the smooth whine of her servos whirring as her tentacles shifted position, the cameras in their heads turning to fix on him, poised for an attack command from their master that didn’t come. 

 Miles was suddenly very aware of the position they were in. Otoha Octavius was on the ground, and he was practically on top of her. She wasn’t wearing her usual utilitarian jumpsuit, instead covered almost head to toe in a dark brown leather duster that was far too large for her, the bulk of the coat only partially obscuring the way the actuators sticking out of her back forced her body to arch up off the ground. “Sp- Spider-Man…” she panted quietly, still sounding short of breath. 

 Miles immediately jumped back, giving her space to stand up. His face felt uncomfortably warm as he watched her get back to her feet. She put her balled fists up in a defensive posture. Judging by the awkward little grimace on her face, she was feeling the same sense of embarrassment he was. 

 Otoha swung at him again, the thin edge of her tentacle slicing through the air towards him. He felt a hot spike of adrenaline. He’d seen the sharp edge of her actuators slice through cars and shear lamposts into pieces. However, whether it was her restricted range of motion from being so close to the building or the fact that her heart wasn’t in it, she didn’t manage to bring her tentacle up to full cutting speed. Miles leapt easily over the attempted strike. Clearly, she was just as hesitant to cause actual injury as he was. 

 There was a loud cchhk! sound from somewhere off to the side, and a large hailstone bounced off the road next to his foot. It was followed by another, then another. Miles felt one strike the back of his head, causing him to yelp. 

 The sky split open, and the hail crashed down. Just like that, their fight was forgotten, and they were both sent dashing for shelter, arms over their heads to protect themselves. 

 The wind was blowing hard, and Otoha’s borrowed coat whipped around her ankles as she stumbled over the wet pavement. She pulled the collar up over her head to try and shield the back of her skull. The sound of ice chunks pattering against the leather filled her ears as they ran for the closest overhang. 

 It wasn’t far away. The nearest building was like many in the city; the aged facade mostly hidden by metal scaffolding that took up the majority of the sidewalk out front. Miles and Otoha ducked underneath an inconvenient crossbar and found themselves safe in the gloomy dimness beneath. 

 Otoha was breathing hard, and she could feel the burning ache of exertion in her leg. She massaged her thigh, working around her leg brace to press her thumb into the muscle. 

 For a moment they were quiet, watching the rain pour down and listening to the metallic pinging of hail bouncing off the scaffolding as they caught their breath. For a moment, they leaned against the wall, in unspoken agreement that they would coexist until it was safe to go out again. 

 It wasn’t the first time they’d found themselves in a truce. It was actually a somewhat regular occurrence. Despite the fact that they were ostensibly on opposing sides, most of their encounters were friendly. They both liked to roam at night, and both lived in Brooklyn, so they crossed paths on a somewhat regular basis, both intentionally and by accident. Sometimes Octopus Girl was up to something shady, and Spider-Man was obligated to put up a show of stopping her. More commonly, they simply hung out on a rooftop or a fire escape, talking and sharing snacks. If not for the presence of their respective mentors, they both would have probably just waved to one another and gone about their business. 

 Miles sighed. The lenses of his mask were beginning to fog up inside, making his vision blurry. Despite that, movement from down the street caught his eye. 

 There was a man dressed in a short sleeve uniform polo shirt and jeans outside one of the restaurants, fighting furiously against the metal window shutters of his shop, which refused to roll down. A woven cord strap was tied to the metal handle of the roll down shutter, and the man was leaning a full eighty degrees back to put his weight into pulling the shutter into place. The shutter rattled and groaned, as if something in the spinning mechanism was jammed. 

 Without thinking twice, Miles made a judgement. Otoha let out a small, surprised sound as Miles deserted his place next to her, running back out into the rain. She moved to follow, but hesitated, unwilling to step back out from under the relative safety of the overhang. 

 Miles grabbed the bottom of the blind and pulled down, feeling the metal buckle and creak beneath his hands. He strained against the screen for a moment, until it came free with a deafening clatter and rolled itself shut. His hand shot out, just managing to catch the front of the man’s shirt before he toppled backwards.

 “Thank you, thank you!” the man said. “That makes this the second time Spider-Man has saved my bacon- or my shawarma, as it may be!” he chuckled at his own joke and pointed up, indicating the sign spanning the length of the storefront. The sign read Delmar’s Donair. The man’s breast pocket was embroidered with a cursive script that read H. Delmar. 

 Miles had never heard of the restaurant before. Mr Delmar must have been referring to a past good deed performed by one of the other Spider-heroes. 

 “It was nothing,” Miles said, only partially being humble. It was certainly less effort than fighting the average villain of the week, but standing out on the street exposed to the elements was definitely no picnic. “Just… doing my Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man duty!” He shot Mr Delmar a pair of finger-guns, though his shoulders were too hunched for the gesture to come off as cool and nonchalant as he’d intended. 

 “Last time, Spider-Man, he saved my restaurant from the rampaging Rino! But he swung off, and I did not get a chance to thank him properly!” Mr Delmar said, his voice loud and enthusiastic. “Allow me to pay you back.” 

 “Oh, no, It’s cool, man, it’s cool. You don’t have to-” Miles said quickly. The other, more seasoned spider heroes had set an agreement that they wouldn’t accept any sort of payment in return for the work they did, in order to preserve the egalitarian, heroic perception people had of Spider-Man. Miles had to admit he was a little bit tempted by the idea of a reward, but he agreed with the guiding ethos behind the policy. He became Spider-Man Brooklyn to help people, not to make money. 

 “Nonsense!” Mr Delmar said. “It is awful out, cold and miserable! At least come inside out of the rain. I will make you some halal. Tastiest in New York City!” That did sound good. Miles’s suit was designed to stay cool and wick away perspiration, which was great when it was hot out but far from adequate under the current conditions. A comfy booth in a nice, warm restaurant sounded very appealing. 

 “Your little friend over there can come too. I am pleased to feed any friend of Spider-Man.”

 Miles looked back over his shoulder, and saw Octo-Girl still standing beneath the scaffold, watching them with a morose expression. 

 “You know what? We’d love to,” Miles said.

-0-

 The two teenagers chose a booth in the corner of the empty restaurant and sat down on opposite sides of the little table. The seats were old, with cracked pleather that had been patched with duct tape along the seams. The table was covered with matte waterstains, left behind when the moisture of the cleaning products last used to wipe the table down had dried there. 

 Mr Delmar disappeared into the kitchen to begin preparing their meal. They could hear him clattering around, the only person present in the restaurant besides themselves. 

 Otoha removed her goggles, having to practically peel the thick, tight elastic band from around her head to take them off. She rubbed the plane of her under-eye, trying to smooth out the small, pinkish pressure groove the edge of her goggles had left in her skin. 

 Her expression was tired, and the angle at which she held her head combined with the heavy droop of her eyelids prevented her eyes from reflecting the gleam of the overhead lights. Without the catchlights, her eyes were circles of pure, undifferentiated black. For a moment she simply appeared dull and emotionless, until her lips twisted down in a subtle frown and her dark eyebrows furrowed. 

 “I’m glad that man is making us food,” she said, with a tone that suggested she considered it a consolation prize. “I’m hungry. Otōsan and I were going to go to a nice restaurant…” She trailed off, leaving the rest of her sentence unspoken. Then we ran into you and The Amazing Spider-Man and all our plans got derailed. And I haven’t had any dinner. 

 “Man, I’m sorry. That really sucks,” Miles commiserated. “But I'm sure the food we’re getting here is going to be great too. I’ve heard good things about Delmar’s Donair.” 

 Otoha scoffed, but not bad-naturedly. “Of course you have. Nobody says anything negative about the things Spider-Man saves.”

 The corner of Miles's mouth twitched upwards in a slightly dry smile. “I wish. Have you seen the things the Bugle has been publishing about us lately?” 

 Otoha shook her head. “I don’t read the Bugle. Otōsan says it’s a worthless rag crammed with editorial bias.” She undid the laces of her clunky orthopedic sneakers and laid them neatly on the floor beside her seat, then peeled off her sodden socks and laid them on top of her shoes to dry. Her bare feet didn’t quite reach the floor, dangling slightly above the dusty tile. “Regardless, no matter what the newspapers say about Spider-People, all the actual people like you. People… New York people?” She trailed off into a slightly muddled murmur, trying to line up her mildly imperfect English skills in a way that would convey the concept she intended, which was probably something like ‘citizens of New York’. 

 “You think so?” Miles asked, mostly rhetorically. He tilted his head and laughed in a way that was a little bit self conscious, but also more than a little bit proud of himself. “I guess, yeah. They do like us, huh?”  

 Otoha gave him a slightly tight-lipped smile. It did seem like everyone liked Spider-Man; even she liked Spider-Man, and she was practically obligated by circumstance to dislike Spider-Man. He was an infectious phenomenon, and that was just the Amazing Spider-Man, the original. The boy sitting across from her, in his somewhat soggy red and black suit, was even easier for her to like. 

 Even out late, soaked to the skin and battered by the hail, Spider-Man Brooklyn seemed lighthearted and outgoing in a way she couldn’t help but be jealous of. She tried her best to be friendly and reach out to other people, but she always felt like she was fighting against her more reserved nature. It didn’t come organically to her the way it did to him.

 Otoha wished she had that kind of light inside her, but she simply didn’t. 

 “By the way, thank you. For not correcting that guy when he called me your friend,” she said quietly. 

 “Hmm? Oh. Well, ‘course I wouldn’t. We are friends,” Miles said. He hesitated for a beat, awkwardly fidgeting with the band of his webshooter device. “At least, I’d like to be your friend.” 

 Otoha nodded shyly, pleased but unsure how to express it. She scooted a little closer to him; not close enough to touch, but close enough that they were no longer sitting on opposite sides of the booth. “...I’d like that too,” she said. 

 She was beginning to feel unexpectedly warm. By contrast, Miles was shaking a little, still shivering after being out in the cold rain had sapped the heat from him. After a moment of consideration, Otoha unbuttoned the duster that Otto had lent her and slipped it off. 

 Miles felt the warm, heavy weight of the leather coat settle onto his shoulders. The tentacle that had placed it there adjusted the collar to lay more comfortably against his neck, then retreated back into hiding beneath the table. Underneath the heavy, slightly musky smell of an unfamiliar men's cologne, he could catch the faint scent of Otoha's warm, sweet almond shampoo clinging to the coat. 

 The shivering of his shoulders subsided as the lingering warmth of her body heat soaked into him. “...Thank you,” he said. 

 It was a strange thing, navigating the tentative, uncertain dynamic they kept to. Neither of them wanted to be enemies, yet it seemed an inescapable fact of their situation. Miles knew who she was when she wasn’t playing at being Octo Girl- He and Otoha Octavius were both in their freshman year at Visions Academy, a STEM focused private school in Brooklyn. They were in the same physics class, and he knew she was on the robotics team. Otoha seemed quiet, solitary, but gentle. She carried herself with a closed-off meekness, very different from the bold and self-assured demeanor she had as Octo Girl. 

 Miles had to wonder what that contrast felt like for her. He’d only been a Spider-Man for a couple of months, but he was beginning to realize that it was impossible to be a superhero and remain fully oneself. Every hero he had met thus far was at least partially affected by the act of putting on a mask, whether intentionally or not. If he wasn’t careful, he often found himself acting more himself, but at the same time less of himself, like he was performing a caricature of his own personality. 

 What Otoha had going on when she put on her suit and ran wild through the city at night seemed more like an alter-ego than the self-flanderization he found himself doing when he put on the mask. He wondered if the sharp-tongued impulsivity of Octo-Girl felt truer to what she conceptualized herself as in her own mind than her behavior in polite society, or if it felt like inhabiting a character. He wanted to ask, but the idea of explaining his thought process behind asking felt more vulnerable than was comfortable. 

 He was working up his courage when Mr Delmar emerged from the kitchen, relieving him of the pressure of needing to fill the silence. Delmar was carrying a large, slightly greasy steel tray, piled high with food; hot shawarma wrapped in branded wax paper, grilled peppers and onions on skewers, and paper cups of crackling lemon soda, all of which he set down on the edge of the table.

 “Enjoy the food-” he said when they tried to thank him for it, “-and maybe mention it to the other Spider Heroes later, if you can? Especially the Scarlet Spider. He’s the one who saved this place. If he came back, it would probably be good press for my little shop.” He raised one eyebrow very purposely, his expression making it clear that despite his phrasing, he’d meant his words as something a little stiffer than a suggestion. 

 Otoha watched this exchange and couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment. She had been thoroughly educated that almost everyone was out to get something. There were very few people willing to do things purely for altruistic reasons, so she wasn’t surprised that their “free meal” came with conditions. It was still disappointing. She’d sort of hoped that it would be genuine kindness. Spider-Man seemed to inspire a lot of that. Spider-Man Brooklyn seemed to take it in stride, though, and quickly offered a semi-committal agreement before reaching for the tray and sliding it closer. 

 It took her a moment to notice that Spider-Man Brooklyn had pulled up the bottom half of his mask, exposing the lower part of his face. She averted her eyes. She had a strong suspicion what the face under the mask looked like; but if her guess was right, then he’d already shown enough respect for her to not acknowledge her real identity, and it was only right to return the gesture. It was better to leave the truth mutually known but unacknowledged. Any other outcome was mutually assured destruction. 

 Otoha’s smile was tight and a little embarrassed, but she reached for one of the shawarmas when Miles did. The paper crinkled as they unwrapped them, and for a moment their concerns were eclipsed by the delicious taste of steaming hot lamb and garlic mayo wrapped in flatbread.

 Mr Delmar left them in peace while they ate, going about his tasks of mopping the floors and closing down the kitchen for the night. 

 With her hunger satisfied, Otoha relaxed, slumping against the back of the booth and putting her feet up. She curled her tentacles around herself, draping part of their flat sides over her lap like a metal blanket. The very base of her tentacles were built for stability, not flexibility, so it was always a challenge for her to get comfortable unless she was on her side. Somewhere during the process of getting settled, her shoulder ended up pressed against Miles’. 

 He tensed and glanced down at her, expecting to see her looking back. Her face was turned away, but one of her actuator claws was open and the camera in the middle was sort of angled in his direction. He wasn’t sure if that meant she was watching him or not. Either way, she didn’t move. 

 Miles slowly felt his wariness fade. Otoha yawned, and a ripple ran through her tentacles, the lights set into each segment dimming in sequence. The dull, greenish glow was barely visible. 

 She unconsciously shifted her leg a few inches to the side. She wasn't thinking at all about how much of a technical marvel that was. Dozens of tiny wires were surgically woven through the flesh of her lower body along the lines of her nerves, hooked up to small electrodes that discharged energy to stimulate her muscles to flex and tense in perfect synchronicity. The tiny pulses of bioelectricity, channeled through her artificial nervous system, enabled her to move her lower extremities despite her damaged spine. It was a stunning masterpiece of cybernetic technology. She used it to bend her leg a little bit so she could rest a little more comfortably. 

 Both of the kids were very aware of that small point of contact between them. Neither moved. They sat there in silence, listening to the patter of the hail outside turning to the steady roar of rain. Miles listened to the soft sound of her breathing as it slowly evened out, and he concluded she must be asleep. It wasn’t true; she had her eyes closed and she was sitting very still, but she was still stealthily observing him through one of her cameras. Watching him watching her, waiting to see if he’d take the perceived opportunity to try and get the upper hand on her.  

 All Miles was thinking about was how much he wished he had his sketchbook with him. He was tired, still wet, and he wished he had something to pass the time with. He kept glancing down at Otoha, with her eyes closed and her head at a specific angle, and imagining the process of breaking down her face into lines and blocks of colour. He told himself that it was boredom that had him noticing the soft smattering of very subtle brown freckles across the bridge of her nose, and debating whether the ink of his favorite alcohol markers would feather too much to capture it without ruining the sketch. Tiny details tended to get fuzzy if he didn’t use a very light hand- much like his thoughts when he was very tired. 

 Otoha flinched a tiny bit and opened her eyes when Mr Delmar shut off the lights in the seating area, but Miles didn’t stir at all. There was a small bit of warm light still coming in from the kitchen, so the restaurant was dark but not completely black. Otoha wondered what Mr Delmar was planning to do for the night. He didn’t seem to be planning to go home, but he also didn’t seem to be making any plans to join them in one of the booths. She decided that whatever he was doing, it didn’t matter to her. 

 She raised an actuator claw to her face to cover her yawn, and let her eyes fall closed again.