he's finally finished the suit, and peter parker will be proud. it's taken — what, months? — since he discovered the plans, peter's sketches, all of his notes about material, tensile strength, where to fit the utility belt, how to make it skin tight but still moveable, the design (a very important aspect) and — of course — enough damage resistance that it won't fall apart after one bullet. (there are going to be bullets, peter's note said. if you want to do this, if you want to help — and i know you want to help — you have to be prepared for the bullets. and the bad guys. and the disasters. and your family being at risk, and — everything. i can't recommend it, but i know you aren't going to listen to me, not really. just remember the bullets.) theo feels pretty confident that he can dodge them now, instead.
but he knows that peter means it as an analogy, not literally. that there will always be something to watch out for — always something dangerous lurking around the corner.
but the suit kind of makes him feel like he can dodge anything, do anything. or at least it will. he hasn't put it on yet. he's adding the final finishing touches, and then he will, and then it'll be — like he was meant for this, maybe. like maybe whatever cosmic force had a hand in combining his life with peter's meant to do it, like maybe, somehow, at the end of the day, theo will do some real, actual good in the world. of course he knows he has already, in a way — teaching is a good thing, educating young minds, helping them achieve their goals — but this is different. this is real, actual, hero stuff.
he's in the lab when he puts it on. there's a reflection in the wall — he can't quite see himself, but he thinks he looks good. it feels good. it fits him just right, snug in all the appropriate places, firm and comfortable and flexible just like it needed to be.
his self-satisfaction only lasts for a second. it's not fair, really, that he doesn't get to dwell in his success for very long. the thing in the tupperware container in the corner of the lab hadn't been forgotten — he's been researching it, testing it, alongside the gummy spider left by gigi. he doesn't have the answers yet: but he's about to get them.
the thing doesn't wait for an invitation. it doesn't need to. the part that got left behind, in this world — it's become attached to theo. it's growing into something new, something that might have been more familiar to peter, but — he doesn't know about it. and the thing has been waiting, has crept out of its container, has left a bit of itself on the suit, and that's all it needs. it's been waiting for when he'll put it on, and when he does — the rest is easy.
it consumes theo before he can stop it, before he can do anything about it. it's easy to sink in when he least expects it, when the surprise opens up a channel to his brain, and it's simple. the thing becoming venom envelops theo in black, amorphous thick goo, wraps him up until there's nothing of him left. he'll protest — it'll be a process. the thing knows it. but it won't take too long to beat him into submission, and then they'll be joined for good.
when theo thought he'd need to prepare for bullets, even as an analogy — he never thought he'd have to prepare for this.
but he knows that peter means it as an analogy, not literally. that there will always be something to watch out for — always something dangerous lurking around the corner.
but the suit kind of makes him feel like he can dodge anything, do anything. or at least it will. he hasn't put it on yet. he's adding the final finishing touches, and then he will, and then it'll be — like he was meant for this, maybe. like maybe whatever cosmic force had a hand in combining his life with peter's meant to do it, like maybe, somehow, at the end of the day, theo will do some real, actual good in the world. of course he knows he has already, in a way — teaching is a good thing, educating young minds, helping them achieve their goals — but this is different. this is real, actual, hero stuff.
he's in the lab when he puts it on. there's a reflection in the wall — he can't quite see himself, but he thinks he looks good. it feels good. it fits him just right, snug in all the appropriate places, firm and comfortable and flexible just like it needed to be.
his self-satisfaction only lasts for a second. it's not fair, really, that he doesn't get to dwell in his success for very long. the thing in the tupperware container in the corner of the lab hadn't been forgotten — he's been researching it, testing it, alongside the gummy spider left by gigi. he doesn't have the answers yet: but he's about to get them.
the thing doesn't wait for an invitation. it doesn't need to. the part that got left behind, in this world — it's become attached to theo. it's growing into something new, something that might have been more familiar to peter, but — he doesn't know about it. and the thing has been waiting, has crept out of its container, has left a bit of itself on the suit, and that's all it needs. it's been waiting for when he'll put it on, and when he does — the rest is easy.
it consumes theo before he can stop it, before he can do anything about it. it's easy to sink in when he least expects it, when the surprise opens up a channel to his brain, and it's simple. the thing becoming venom envelops theo in black, amorphous thick goo, wraps him up until there's nothing of him left. he'll protest — it'll be a process. the thing knows it. but it won't take too long to beat him into submission, and then they'll be joined for good.
when theo thought he'd need to prepare for bullets, even as an analogy — he never thought he'd have to prepare for this.