Chapter Text
When Peter Parker had first gotten to the Center - he refused to call it prison - he had been terrified. The nervousness and nausea had his hands shaking and he could barely change into the clothes given to him. It was a simple uniform. A white undershirt and navy blue vest that frayed at the seams, telling him that many kids had worn this same thing before, and many kids would after him.
He’d kept his eyes on the cement ground, counting in his head. One two three four…
Three hundred…
Three hundred sixty…
Three hundred sixty-five.
A whole year. That’s peanuts compared to the grand scheme of life. And yet… he couldn’t escape the feeling that it was more than that. That his year here wouldn’t be as simple as counting down the hours. In a couple days Peter Parker would realize just how true this was. The Center was rough and his main goal became keeping his head down.
═══━━━─── • ♙ • ───━━━═══
Present Day
A buzzer shrieks across the entire building at 5:00 am, loud and jarring. In prison block C, cell forty, a brown haired boy with dark smudges under his eyes bolts up and scrambles up from his cot. Pain laces through his skull at the shrill sound and he resists the urge to cover his ears.
Three other kids mirror his actions, two of them jumping from their top bunks and landing with a thud onto the ground. Each one turns back to their beds and, with practiced motions, fix the coarse covers into place. Peter is careful to make sure nothing is out of order, he doesn’t need another morning with the warden yelling at him. It isn’t long before the boys are finished and standing at attention near their beds, arms straight at their sides.
Peter’s ears ache, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. So he grits his teeth and waits in silence. Soon enough the heavy, metal door opens up with a clang and reveals an older man with graying hair. His shoulders are broad and his skin is lined with light wrinkles from stress and age. He wears a light grey, button up shirt with a stiff, black tie. On his belt is a radio, a pair of cuffs, and a metal baton. Displayed proudly on his chest is a silver badge. Stubble covers his face and roughly frames his stony, grey eyes. These eyes scan the boys with a critical gaze before turning to check the room, looking for any concealed items.
The moment feels like it’s stretching forever. Peter can feel the man’s gaze burn into him and he tenses up, breath catching in his throat. After what is probably a minute, but feels much much longer, the warden finally speaks up, “Go on to breakfast.”
Then the man turns around and leaves the cell for the next one and everyone collectively relaxes. Without a word the four inmates file out of their cell and join the rest of the juvie boys in the Big Hall - the nick name for the cell blocks. Peter’s cell is on the second floor and he looks over the metal railing and at the hard, concrete floor below. He swallows a little, his adams apple bobbing in his throat. Dark stains were blotched over the ground from times inmates had jumped over the rail.
A couple months ago a boy, only two years older than him, had somehow gotten his hands on some cocaine. He was flying as high as a kite and was close to overdosing when the officers got to him. Peter had watched in horror as the boy laughed in hysteria. He ran from the staff’s grasp and up the stairs, screaming profanities and insults at the top of his lungs. The boy giddily shouted out, “I’m on top of the world!” before spreading his arms, as if to fly, and toppling over the railing…
Peter tears his eyes away from the ugly stain and from the memory of that day. It made him sick, knowing that Spiderman could have helped that boy, but Inmate 3042 couldn’t. His stomach protests as he walks down the stairs. He’s not sure if it’s from hunger or guilt, but tiredness forces him to drop the thought before it can even begin.
No need to go down that spiral again…
He funnels through the tight squeeze of boys in the Big Hall, making his way out the doors and into a sterile, white hallway. The sound of hundreds of boys walking across the linoleum floor fill his ears and bright, white lights irritate his eyes. The rough fabric of his clothing itches him and the smell of chemicals and sweat causes him to gag. Peter feels anxiety crawl through him, inching its way into his stomach and crushing his lungs. Every morning a sensory overload threatens him. His body goes into overdrive at the screaming alarm, his stress when the warden comes in is turned into adrenaline, and it dials his vision, hearing, and even taste, up to eleven. And every morning he’s got to stuff it down before he goes into a panic attack.
Because, y’know, panic attacks don’t go over well with the other kids. Showing weakness here will make your life hell.
Peter forces his eyes down to the ground and ignores the thundering sounds as best as he can. He slows his breathing and lets air in through his mouth. He can’t do much about the harsh touch of his clothes so he tries to get his mind off of it.
One Two Three Four…
One hundred…
One hundred thirty…
One hundred thirty-nine.
He has gone two hundred twenty six days in the Center and only has one hundred thirty nine left to go.
'Good. That's good.' Peter thinks to himself. His senses settle back down in his mind and the boy breathes a silent sigh of relief. It's like a coolness has spread through his body after hours of burning, soothing every aching cell.
By the time he’s calm he is in the lunch line, robotically reaching for the tray and grabbing it in steadier hands. The food isn’t much to look at. Watery scrambled eggs with a gray undertone to it and a couple green beans. Peter gets his water and fork before walking over to the table he always sits at. One of his roomates sits down in front of him and a few other boys join. Peter notices with little interest that a new face has come to the table. Black hair and pale skin, light blue eyes and a small, skinny frame. His vest labels him as Inmate 2901. Nothing special and nothing that screams danger. But Peter isn’t one to judge a book by it’s cover, he’s made that mistake enough times in his life.
As conversation gradually picks up in the Mess Hall one of the older boys from cell block A - Juan Rodriguez, Inmate 1560 - sets his eyes on the new boy. Peter sees the glint in the guy’s eyes and frowns a little before going back to his meal.
“Haven’t seen you before.” Rodriguez says, gaining the attention of the rest of the table.
The new boy looks up, wide eyed. Peter can’t help but wonder if that was how he looked when he first got here. After a few seconds the boy schools his features and speaks up, “Yeah, I just got here yesterday night. You?”
Rodriguez scowls, “What did you do?” he says, completely ignoring the boy’s questions.
If Peter had to guess he would say that the older teen is trying to show dominance by controlling the conversation. He’d find this stupid if the technique didn’t work so well on so many of the new kids. Show them that you’re the boss and they won’t try to mess with you later on, when they inevitably got bored.
But this time the new kid loses some of his composure and narrows his eyes, dropping his timid persona completely. “I asked you a damn question.” the boy grits out through clenched teeth.
The switch between nervous to angry is so fast it would have given Peter whiplash if he hadn’t already seen it before. A lot of kids here have issues. Some have short fuses, others are just plain crazy. One second a kid can be laughing, then the next he’ll be trying to stab you with a fork. So Peter tends to mainly keep to himself around those people. Well, he keeps to himself most of the time, anyways, but especially with the rogue ones.
The rest of the table looks back to Rodriguez who leans in and mutters, “So did I… but if you won’t answer me I’ll tell you what I did to get in.” The teen leers down at the new boy, face contorting into an ugly grin, “I robbed a pawn shop and stabbed the owner.”
This might have given Peter the chills if he didn’t know the truth. But he does know the truth and has to suppress a snort because of it. Rodriguez uses that line on every new guy who sits down here, including Peter himself.
Truth is, the boy had drunk one too many bears and went out with some buddies to vandalize their school. The boy pissed all over the doorway before leaving for his apartment, not bothering to pull up his pants. The result was a killer hangover and a year and a half in juvie for underage drinking, trespassing, vandalism, and public indecency. The sentence would’ve been easier if he was a first time offender, but sadly he had been in and out of juvie for years now.
But the new kid doesn’t know that and just shakes his head, eyes widening in fear again before he grabs his tray and stands up, “You’re crazy…!” He whisper shouts before turning to leave.
Peter sees the other teen smile, satisfied with his work at scaring away the new boy, “Heh, yeah you run kiddie.” Rodriguez laughs to himself before focusing back down at his food.
For a second Peter wants to sigh in relief, it looks like the kid is leaving and the older teen won’t be tormenting him anymore. But in a split second that shatters as his Spidey sense screams out a warning, urging him to move. Peter slides out of the way and watches with wide eyes. Time seems to slow down as the new kid, who looks as young as fourteen, turns around in a flash and throws his tray at Rodriguez. It hits him with a sickening thud and he lets out a string of curses, hands grasping a bleeding nose. The boy is already rushing to the table before his tray can hit the ground, he’s vaulting over the surface, reaching out with his hands and grasping at Rodriguez’s throat. The two go toppling down in seconds and punches start flying.
The entire hall goes silent before erupting in shouts and mayhem. Dozens of boys scramble up from their seats, crowding the two and cheering.
FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
BEAT HIM
HELL YEA GET HIM GET HIM
Anxiety hits Peter like a bulldozer as the mob of rowdy teens swallow him in their ranks. He pushes his way through the crowd and to the front. The smell of blood and sweat hits him. His arm twitches, two fingers folding in, aiming of their own accord. But no webs come out to stop the fight. Even if he wanted to help, he has long since left behind his shooters and his webs. And getting involved would be bad for him if he wanted any hope of getting parole.
His attention focuses back on the fight as he hears the new boy shouting. His words reek of frustration and Peter can't stop himself from flinching at the raw emotion
“My name is Aaron, not kiddie! Got that?! I don’t take shit from anybody!”
Aaron pummels Rodriguez. Each punch sounds like a bullet and a sickening crack rings in Peter’s ears. The older boy flails his arms, grasping the teen above him and shoving him off. He scrambles to his feet, a hazy look in his eyes from the pain and shock. Then his gaze finds Aaron, who’s pushing himself up from the floor, and his face screws up into anger.
“You son of a bitch!” Rodriguez shouts out.
Peter knows what’s going to happen before Rodriguez even thinks it. A voice in the back of his mind screams at him to do something. To stop this. But his feet remain planted firmly to the ground and his heart sinks further and further.
With horror he watches Rodriguez charge towards the downed boy. The crowd ripples with chaos, they jeer and shout and Peter can’t breathe. The world spins as Rodriquez rams into Aaron and the smaller teen’s body goes flying into a hard metal table. Peter hears the tearing and the pop before the pain can even register in the new boy’s mind. The boy crumples to the ground, clutching his shoulder and staring at it with wide eyes before turning his shocked gaze to the boy on top of him.
Rodriguez backs up, face red and gasping for air. He clutches his crooked and bleeding nose. When his hand comes away from his face it’s bathed in bright, alarming red. Peter chokes on the metallic taste that hangs in the air, almost tasting it.
From the corner of his eye he sees a quivering movement. Aaron’s good arm reaches up and grapples with the table top. His legs strain under him as he struggles to get up. Rodriguez watches with wary eyes as the boy gains his footing. The boy makes no noise, no acknowledgement of the pain he’s in. Peter has no doubt that his shoulder has been dislocated, and he knows that it hurts. But Aaron barely lets out a sound other than his labored breathing.
Suddenly, Aaron is sprinting at Rodriguez and the other teen barely has time to dodge. He dives to his right but Aaron is already following him, pulling back his uninjured arm and swinging. The punch hits the teen’s stomach, knocking out all air from the boy. Rodriguez reels back for a few seconds and Aaron takes the chance to swing again. But the older teen puts his arms up and blocks the punch before delivering his own. They’re exchanging blows and Peter knows it’s going to be nasty.
Aaron is erratic, but experienced. He dodges and swings with no rhythm, yet each movement is made with trained movements. But his injury is leaving him weak, even if he isn’t showing any pain. Still, this isn’t just some street fighting, it’s real defensive and offensive moves. Something Peter hasn’t seen often, but would recognize anywhere.
Rodriguez is bigger though, being a tall and wide boy who you would expect to be on a football field. So his hits do more damage. There’s no technique, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. But, Peter notices, he’s not hitting as often as he could, instead choosing to dodge or push Aaron away.
Shouts can be heard in the background, growing closer with every second. “Out the way! No fighting! Move! Move! Move!”
The thick circle of teens shift and Peter knows that the show’s almost over. He lets out a sigh of relief as multiple officers push through the crowd of teens and rip the two apart.
Rodriguez is panting, slumped in the grip of a warden and another cop. Aaron isn’t in great shape, but he’s better off. It isn’t long before he’s straightening his back and calming his breath. In less than a minute he’s composed, even with blood dripping from his busted lip and sweat covering his face. The young teen looks smugly down at the other inmate, not even slightly concerned with his dislocated shoulder or the guards placing cuffs on him.
“W-what…” Rodriguez gasps out and coughs out some blood, “What the hell is wrong with you!”
The other boy’s smirk falls away and the fire in his eyes dims, “Everything.”
The crowd riles up in the way only mobs made up of teenage boys can do. They scream and shout and boys pump up their fists, yelling anything between insults to support. The warden hands over his grip on Rodriguez to another officer. With a few words the two boys are hauled out of the Mess Hall and the crowd quiets down a little at the warden’s furious look.
“All of you sit your asses down right now and finish your fucking food! I want no more fighting for the rest of today! Not even a word comes out of any of your mouths!”
The inmates scramble back to their trays, a few muttering curses on their way, but otherwise stay silent. Inmate 3042 finds his way back to his tray without a word, wrists aching and poison-like emotion curling up in the pit of his stomach.
Just another thing to be added to his growing guilt.