The Harley's engine growled like a sleeping beast as Peter rolled into Willamette's main drag, gravel crunching under his tires. His beard had filled in properly now—no more patchy attempts—and the toolbelt slung low on his hips had become as familiar as the webshooters once were. Colorado sunlight speared through the gaps between buildings, painting the cherry-red Shovelhead in stripes of gold and shadow.
A year. Twelve months since he'd last seen New York's skyline, since he'd tasted its acrid air. Funny how quickly the body adapted. He has even develop some muscle. not skipping meals and sleep in favor of swinging around New York has done wonders to his body.
These days, the scent of pine resin and hot engine oil smelled more like home than Queens ever had.
"Parker! You gonna park that damn museum piece or just admire it all morning?"
The voice snapped Peter out of his reverie—gruff, amused, and accompanied by the metallic clang of a wrench hitting concrete. He turned to see old man Dawson leaning against the garage door of Parker's Solutions, wiping grease-stained hands on an even filthier rag. The man's overalls were more oil than fabric at this point, but his grin was sharp as ever.
Peter killed the engine, letting the Harley's rumble fade into the mountain air as he swung his leg over the seat. His boots hit the asphalt with a solid thump—no spider-lightness left in the movement, just the straightforward heft of a man who'd spent a year lifting water heaters and rewiring farmhouses.
"Morning, Dawson," he called back. "Tell me you didn't let Ricky touch the Thompson job again."
Dawson snorted, tossing the rag onto a stack of motor oil cases. "Kid rewired a whole damn breaker panel backward yesterday. Sparks like the Fourth of July." He jabbed a thumb toward the shop's interior where a sheepish-looking young man was pretending very hard to inventory light switches. "Made him cry uncle before lunch."
Peter grinned, flipping open the shop's ledger hanging by the door. His fingers traced the day's jobs—Thompson residence, Main Street diner flickering lights, that persistent short at the high school gym. Ordinary problems with ordinary solutions. No demons, no dimensional rifts. Just bad wiring and worse DIY attempts.
Peter tapped the ledger entry. "High school gym keeps tripping breakers?" He glanced up at Dawson, one eyebrow arched. "That sounds more like a municipal wiring issue than our problem."
"Normally I'd agree, but Coach Hendricks swears they had another electrician out last month who couldn't find shit." Dawson leaned against the workbench, the wood creaking under his weight. "Says the lights flicker worst during basketball practice—like clockwork, every time the kids run full-court drills."
Peter's fingers stilled on the ledger page. His spider-sense didn't tingle—hadn't in over a year—but something about the timing itched at the back of his skull. "Every time? Same play?"
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Like goddamn Groundhog Day" he snorts humorlessly "If this turns out to be another goddamn poltergeist situation like the library last fall, you're buying drinks." Peter opened his mouth to reply when the shop's landline rang—two sharp bursts that meant front desk. Dawson waved him off with a grease-stained hand. "Go. I'll handle the damn paperwork."
--------
The gymnasium smelled like sweat, old wood polish, and ozone—that sharp metallic tang that always clung to places where electricity fought its wiring. Peter crouched by the breaker panel, fingers tracing the circuit map like braille. No spider-sense. Just old-fashioned gut instinct whispering this wasn't just faulty wiring.
"Third quarter buzzer hits, lights go crazy," Coach Hendricks said behind him, arms crossed over his barrel chest. "Like clockwork."
Peter's thumb caught on a breaker switch slightly warmer than the others. "And this happens...?"
"Girls' team only," Coach Hendricks grumbled, rubbing the back of his sunburnt neck. "Boys' games? Smooth as butter. Third quarter of the ladies' matchups?" He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Lights go full strobe effect. Had to cancel two tournaments already."
Peter's fingers stilled on the warm breaker. The coincidence itched at the base of his skull—not spider-sense, but something older, sharper. "only when the girls play..."
Coach Hendricks' fingers paused midair, his weathered face creasing as if the question had physically hooked something loose in his memory. "come to think of it..." He rubbed his jaw, the stubble making a sandpaper sound against his palm. "Little Noriko Ashida—our point guard—when she does that damn spin move of hers near the three-point line." He mimed a quick pivot, sneakers squeaking on the polished wood. "Lights flicker like somebody's flipping switches in hell."
Peter's thumb stilled against the warm breaker. The name rang no bells, but the timing prickled the back of his neck—old tactical awareness that had kept him alive through worse than high school basketball games. "She new to the team?"
"Transferred in last semester." Hendricks shrugged massive shoulders. "Quiet kid. Fast as lightning, though. Opposing teams kept fouling her hard—thought it was some bush league intimidation tactic and then the lights started going berserk during her plays." He scratched at his clipboard with a penknife, gouging the wood.
Peter's fingers twitched toward the toolbelt—not for pliers, but out of old habit, reaching where a gun holster might've been. The coach's words painted a picture too familiar: a kid with powers leaking out at the worst moments, drawing exactly the wrong kind of attention. He'd seen that story play out enough times to know how it ended—with broken glass and S.H.I.E.L.D. containment teams.
The breaker panel hummed under his fingertips, the warm switch practically vibrating now. Peter exhaled through his nose—once, sharply—and made his decision. "Mind if I stick around for practice? See the phenomenon in action?"
Coach Hendricks gave a gruff nod. "Suit yourself. Just don't get in the way—we got regionals next week." He blew his whistle sharply, sending the team scrambling into formation.
--------
Peter leaned against the bleachers, watching as the girls ran drills. His eyes tracked the smallest player—Noriko— black short hair. clearly of Asian descent. too thin, even for her small height.
Her movements were almost unnaturally quick. When she pivoted near the three-point line, the overhead lights flickered like a strobe. He felt it before he saw it—the faintest crackle of energy in the air, like static before lightning.
Peter's fingers tightened as understanding clicked into place—not interference, *absorption*. Every flicker wasn't electricity failing, but being *siphoned*. Noriko's spin move wasn't triggering some external phenomenon; it was her body unconsciously diverting power like a lightning rod grounding a strike.
He watched her pivot again—this time catching the exact moment her sneakers squeaked against the hardwood. The air crackled faintly, not with escaping energy but with the vacuum left behind when she momentarily *pulled* voltage from the grid into herself. The lights dimmed for half a heartbeat before stabilizing. Not a short circuit. A *snack*.
"Coach," Peter called over the squeak of sneakers and bouncing balls, keeping his voice casual as he knelt to inspect the floorboards near the three-point line. "You have any trouble with your phone battery dying during practice?"
Coach Hendricks paused mid-whistle, the shrill sound cutting off abruptly. He squinted at Peter like he'd asked about alien abductions. "What the hell kind of question is that?"
Peter shrugged, running his fingers along a barely visible scorch mark on the hardwood. "Humor me."
The coach grunted, digging a battered smartphone from his pocket. "Goddamn thing never holds a charge past noon on school days." He jabbed at the dead screen with a meaty finger. "it has to be the wifi draining it—heard other teachers bitching about the same thing in the faculty lounge."
"Started last semester, didn't it?" Peter straightened up with a casual stretch, rolling his shoulders like he was working out kinks rather than solving a potential mutant crisis.
"Coach, I know exactly what your problem is," he said, tapping the hardwood floor with his knuckles. "Residual static buildup in the old wiring. Common issue in pre-90s constructions with hardwood floors." The lie slid off his tongue smoother than oiled gears. "Nothing a proper grounding retrofit can't fix."
Coach Hendricks scratched his stubble, glancing nervously at the flickering lights. "That sounds expensive. Do we need to talk to Principal Moore about adjusting your service fee—"
"Wouldn't dream of billing extra for basic electrical safety," Peter cut in with the practiced charm of a man who'd once talked Thanos out of a planet. "Though I might need until tomorrow to source the right materials from the shop."
Across the court, Noriko executed another flawless spin move near the three-point line. The lights dimmed just enough for Peter to catch the faint blue crackle around her fingertips. He pretended to examine his voltmeter while tracking her movement—the way her shoulders tensed microseconds before discharge, how she always exhaled sharply through her nose afterward.
"Just keep running normal practices," Peter continued, packing his tools with deliberate slowness to watch another play unfold. "If the lights act up, have the girls switch to defensive drills away from the key. Less lateral movement means less static discharge."
Coach Hendricks clapped Peter on the shoulder hard enough to rattle teeth. "Appreciate you not making this another damn bond referendum," he grunted, already turning to bark orders at his team.
Little Noriko lingered half a step behind the others as they jogged off the court, shooting Peter a glance that held more suspicion than a seasoned spy. Smart kid. Too smart for her own good in a world like this.
He gave her a two-fingered salute off his temple—mechanic to athlete, nothing more—before packing up his tools with deliberate noise. The scorch mark beneath the three-point line stared up at him like a bullet hole in a crime scene photo.
--------
Streetlights buzzed to life as Noriko cut through the park, her shadow stretching long across the cracked pavement. She moved differently off-court—less lightning, more ghost. Her backpack straps dug into her shoulders, weighed down with textbooks and what Peter suspected was a spare change of clothes buried under them. The universal uniform of kids who didn't want to go home.
"You're draining phone batteries within a twenty-foot radius," Peter said from the bench beneath the oak tree. No theatrics—just a man sitting at a park bench. "Coach Hendricks' cellphone dies by noon. The physics teacher's makes it to third period."
Noriko stiffened like a startled cat, her fingers tightening around her backpack straps. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she hissed, taking a step back toward the park's floodlights. Her sneakers scuffed against the pavement, leaving faint scorch marks Peter pretended not to notice. "You some kind of creep? Because I swear to god, I'll scream loud enough to shatter every window on Main Street."
Peter leaned back on the bench, arms spread along its backrest. "Kid, if I was kidnapping people," he drawled, eyeing her bony elbows poking through her hoodie, "I'd pick someone with a bit more meat on their bones. Better resale value." He gestured vaguely at her. "What're you running on—phone batteries and gym lights? That can't be much of a diet."
Her face twisted into something between outrage and panic. A blue spark crackled between her fingers before she balled them into fists. "Fuck you, old man." The insult lacked heat—more defensive than aggressive. Peter recognized the tone. He'd used it himself at sixteen when caught mid-web-sling by Jameson —without the profanity of course.
His lips twitched. "Thirty-five's not old, sparkplug. Just experienced." He patted the bench beside him. "Sit down before you fry another streetlight. You're making the park look like a rave."
Noriko eyed the bench like it might bite. "How do you—" Noriko's head snapped left, then right—scanning the empty park with military precision. Streetlight shadows stretched long across the cracked pavement, empty except for a distant dog-walker oblivious to their conversation. Satisfied, she turned back to Peter, fingers twitching at her sides like she was calculating bolt trajectories. "How the hell do you know what I am?"
Peter leaned forward, elbows on knees, letting the silence stretch just long enough to see her patience fray. "Better question," he said finally, pointing at her. "Do you know what you are?"
Her scowl deepened. "Don't play cryptic old man with me. I've seen the same news and read the same articles as everyone else." A blue spark skittered up her forearm before she clenched her fists again. "Mutant. Freak. Choose your label."
He snorted. "Kid, if I had a nickel for every time someone called me that..." Peter trailed off, watching realization dawn in her eyes—the way they flicked to his scarred hands. "though menace was the word they'd used to most"
Noriko's breath hitched. "You're—"
Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just a friendly neighbor looking out for a troubled kid," he said, his tone smooth as engine grease.
She didn't buy it for a second. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the air around them thickening with ozone. "Bullshit," she spat. "Normal people don't notice—" She cut herself off, biting her lip hard enough to leave crescent marks.
He exhaled through his nose, the sound more weary than exasperated. "Fine. Yeah. I'm a mutant." The word tasted like ash—not because it wasn't true, but because it wasn't the whole truth.
Her eyes narrowed. "Prove it."
He snapped his fingers. A tiny flame flickered to life above his palm—gold at the edges, blue at the core—before winking out. Not mutation. Not even close. But the girl didn't need to know he'd learned that trick from a drunk sorcerer in Kathmandu.
She hesitated, then dropped onto the bench—not quite beside Peter, but close enough that the wooden slats creaked under her shifting weight. She kept one leg bent, ready to bolt, but some of the tension had bled from her shoulders. "Okay," she muttered, picking at a loose thread on her hoodie sleeve. A tiny spark jumped from her fingertip before she tucked her hands under her thighs. "So what do you want with me? You collecting strays or something?"
Peter chuckled, leaning back to stare at the stars just starting to pierce the twilight. "Nah. Just paying forward a favor someone once did for me." He tilted his head toward her, catching the wary glint in her eyes. "You ever heard the phrase 'with great power comes great responsibility'?"
She rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Oh my god, are you seriously quoting Spider-Man at me right now?"
His grin was all teeth. "Guess you do read the news."
Noriko snorted, kicking a pebble across the pavement with a flick of her sneaker that sent up a tiny spray of sparks. "So what, you want me to put on spandex and start quoting inspirational slogans at criminals?" She rolled her shoulders in an exaggerated hero pose, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fear not, citizens! For I am—"
"God no." Peter's response came so fast it nearly cracked like a whip. The raw horror in his voice wasn't feigned—his fingers actually twitched toward an imaginary web-shooter at his wrist before he caught himself. "Jesus Christ, kid. Becoming a superhero is probably the worst life decision you could make short of juggling live grenades."
She blinked, thrown by the visceral reaction. "Uh. It was a joke?"
Peter scrubbed a hand down his face, the rasp of his beard against his palm loud in the sudden silence. "Yeah. I know." He exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders tense beneath the faded flannel. "Look. The world's got enough martyrs in capes. What you need is control. Discipline. The ability to not fry every electronic within fifty feet when you're nervous."
A streetlight above them flickered violently as if to punctuate his point. Noriko hunched her shoulders, shoving her sparking hands into her hoodie pockets. "Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You can turn yours off."
He stared at the flickering streetlight, the blue-white glow reflecting in his eyeglasses like distant lightning. "It wasn't always like that," he said quietly, fingers tracing a scar along his wrist—one Noriko hadn't noticed before, jagged and raised like a live wire under skin.
Noriko's fingers twitched against the bench slats, sending tiny sparks skittering across the weathered wood. "And how exactly would you help me?" she asked, skepticism sharpening her voice to a brittle edge. "Give me the 'control your anger' speech? Teach me to meditate?" She scoffed, kicking a loose pebble halfway across the pavement. "Yeah, that'll stop me from draining every damn phone in school."
Peter reached into his toolbelt—slowly, telegraphing every movement—and pulled out what looked like a modified car cigarette lighter wrapped in electrical tape. "Actually," he said, flipping the device between grease-stained fingers, "I was thinking something more along the lines of this." The casing popped open with a practiced twist, revealing intricate circuitry that pulsed faintly blue.
Noriko recoiled like he'd pulled a gun. "What is—?"
"Voltage regulator? Basically." Peter tapped the glowing core with a screwdriver pulled from his toolbelt. "Modified StarkTech with some... borrowed Wakandan vibranium shielding." He grinned at her horrified expression. "Relax, I didn't steal it"
Noriko's fingers darted forward like lightning toward the device—only for Peter to yank it back with reflexes honed catching bullets. Her eyes flashed with frustration, the streetlights above them flickering violently. "What the hell?" she snapped. "You tease it like some damn candy then—"
"You're running on fumes," Peter cut in, his voice low but razor-sharp. He tilted the device just enough for the pulsing blue core to cast jagged shadows across his scarred hands. "This isn't a toy. It's a pacemaker for your metabolism."
She froze mid-snarl, confusion etching lines between her brows. Peter didn't wait for the protest. He flipped the device in his palm, revealing a biometric readout scrolling numbers too fast for normal eyes. "Your basal metabolic rate's tanking. Adrenals are shot. You're basically a Tesla running on AA batteries." His thumb brushed the display, highlighting a graph spiking erratically. "See these peaks? That's you siphoning gym lights and cell towers to stay conscious. Like those moments when you probably pass out in class and pretend to nap."
Noriko's breath hitched—the admission she hadn't even voiced yet. Peter pocketed the device before she could process the betrayal in her own body.
"I don't want your lunch money or some shady favor," he said, softer now, adjusting his glasses as they reflected the dying streetlight above them. "Problem is, if we just cap your power cold turkey..." He mimed an explosion with his fingers. "Boom. Systemic collapse. And judging by those collarbones?" He gestured vaguely at her hoodie sagging off bony shoulders. "You haven't taken any solid food in weeks."
The truth landed like a gut punch. Noriko wrapped her arms around herself—not defensively, Peter noted, but instinctively covering the hollow where her stomach should've been. The park bench creaked as she slumped forward, suddenly looking every bit the exhausted kid she was. "I can't," she whispered. "Everything tastes like... like burnt wires now, cant swallow... it hurts... —Even water shocks my tongue sometimes."
Peter froze, his breath catching in his throat. That wasn't the answer he'd expected—not by a long shot. He'd assumed the electricity kept her energized, that her brain simply wasn't triggering hunger signals amidst the constant power siphon. But this? This was worse.
His tool belt clinked softly as he shifted closer, the scent of ozone and teenage sweat thick in the space between them. Noriko flinched when his hand hovered near her shoulder—not touching, not yet—but didn't pull away. "Hey," he murmured, voice dropping into the same register he used with terrified kids trapped in collapsed buildings, "it's okay. Soon as we get this thing calibrated—" he tapped the device in his pocket, "—you'll be scarfing down cheeseburgers like a normal kid."
She sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her sparking hand. "But you just said—"
"I know what I said." Peter interrupted gently. "But there's workarounds. Nutrient IVs, for starters. Basically a lunchbox straight to your veins."
She stared at him "A what now?"
He hooked a thumb under his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the weary patience of a man who'd explained arc reactors to kindergarteners. "Alright, sparkplug. Think of your body like a car battery—"
"A car battery?" Noriko interrupted, nose wrinkling.
"Fine, a Tesla battery if you wanna be fancy," Peter amended. "Right now, yours is running on fumes. The IV's basically jumper cables hooked to a power station—gives you enough juice so your system doesn't crash when we kickstart the regulator." He tapped the glowing core of the device. "Once your metabolism stabilizes enough that you can function without siphoning electricity —we turn this on and and food won't taste like a toaster bath or shock your own throat."
Noriko's fingers twitched against the bench, sending static skittering across the wood grain. "And the IV..." she hesitated, chewing her lower lip raw. "Does it...hurt?"
The streetlight above them buzzed, casting jagged shadows across his face as he looked at her—really looked at her. The girl was fourteen, all sharp elbows and sharper tongue, but the way her shoulders hunched inward betrayed the child still scared of needles.
His hands slowed midair, the voltage regulator clicking softly between his fingers. He studied the way Noriko's shoulders curled inward—that universal flinch of childhood fear no amount of bravado could disguise.
"Yeah, it's an injection," he admitted, turning his wrist to show the faint puncture scars along his inner elbow. "Pinch and burn for about three seconds. Then it's just..." He mimed a slow drip with his fingers. "Battery charging while you watch bad TV."
"And this...thing?" She jerked her chin at the device in his hand. "What's that feel like?"
He rolled the regulator between his palms like it was a worry stone. "Ever put on noise-canceling headphones after a concert?" At her confused blink, he tapped the glowing core. "Like that, but for your nerves. Takes the edge off so the world doesn't feel like..." He gestured vaguely at her twitching fingers. "Live wires under your skin."
Noriko's fingers curled into the fabric of her hoodie, her knuckles pressing white against the dark material. The streetlight flickered again, casting erratic shadows across her face as she studied Peter with narrowed eyes. "Why?" she demanded, voice cracking like a live wire. "Why are you helping me?"
Peter didn't answer immediately. Instead, he returned the screwdriver into his tool belt, while watching her over the rim of his eyeglasses, then exhaled through his nose. "Because I can," he said simply, wiping some sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "And sometimes, that's more than enough."
She scoffed, but it lacked venom. A stray spark leapt from her fingertips to the bench, scorching the wood. "That's bullshit," she muttered, but her shoulders slumped slightly, the fight bleeding out of her like a dying current. "Nobody does something for nothing."
"Seriously?" Peter arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he gestured broadly toward the mountains in the horizon —more or less— in the general direction he believed New York to be at, in the far far distance. "You're telling me you've forgotten about the entire circus parade of grown-ass adults who dress like rejected Power Rangers and throw hands with aliens every Tuesdays?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the voltage regulator dangling carelessly between his fingers. "Bright spandex, capes that defy aerodynamics, fighting against at least three different guys who think pumpkin bombs are a valid life choice—none of that rings a bell?"
Noriko's nose wrinkled. "That's different," she muttered, though her voice lacked conviction.
The streetlight above them buzzed erratically, casting jagged shadows across her face as she stared at her sneakers—the same ones that had squeaked against the gym floor while siphoning power from the lights.
"Let me talk to your parents," Peter said carefully, watching the way her shoulders stiffened. "I'll explain—"
"My mother's dead." The words came out flat, stripped of inflection. Noriko's fingers curled into fists, blue-white sparks skittering between her knuckles. "My father lives in Japan. He sent me here. To my aunt." She said 'aunt' like it was a dirty word, chewing the vowel like it might choke her.
He didn't reach out—didn't make the mistake of touching a live wire without testing the current first. "I'm sorry about your mother," he said quietly. The words tasted familiar, like old rust on his tongue. He'd said them too many times in too many universes. "And your father."
He thumbed the regulator's casing shut with a soft click. "I could talk to your aunt," he offered, watching the way Noriko's fingers spasmed against her knees—a spark jumping from fingertip to denim, leaving tiny charred pinpricks behind.
She didn't look up. "You really want to help me?" The question came out brittle, more confirmation than challenge.
Leaning back against the park bench, Peter snorted. The wood creaked under his weight. "Oh no. This whole 'mentoring troubled teens' thing?" He gestured vaguely at himself. "Just a front. Really, I'm building an underground mutant trafficking ring." He flashed her a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Your Aunt is extra. I'm an avid collector of single aunts. —Is a hobby of mine"
"idiot" she called out to him, but the truth was that for the first time in a very long time, she felt like she could actually depend on an adult. The realization settled in her chest like a warm coal, chasing away some of the cold dread that had lived there since her father sent her away.
He stood, stretching his back with an audible crack. "C'mon, sparkplug. We should go meet your aunt."
"Do we have to involve her?" she muttered.
Peter gave her a look. "Unless I'm guessing wrong," he said, adjusting his glasses with one finger, "your aunt's your legal guardian. She needs to be informed. And she needs to give consent."
She scowled, kicking at a loose pebble. "I consent. That should be enough."
He exhaled through his nose, the sound more weary than exasperated as he adjusted his Toolbelt. "Kid, you're fourteen. Legally, you can't even consent to a flu shot without your guardian signing off, let alone experimental bioelectric stabilization." He tapped the voltage regulator against his palm, the blue glow pulsing softly between his fingers. "And no, me being an adult doesn't magically override that. Trust me, the legal system —with a good reason— gets real prickly about strange men offering medical procedures to teenage girls."
Her sneakers scuffed against the pavement. "So what, I just keep starving until my aunt decides to care?" The streetlight above them flickered violently.
His mouth quirked at the corner as he glanced around the empty park. "Honestly? I'm half expecting Chris Hansen to pop out from behind that oak tree any second now." He gestured toward the bench. "'Why don't you take a seat right over there, Mr. Parker.'"
Noriko blinked. "Who?"
"Jesus, I'm old," Peter muttered, rubbing his temple. He pocketed the regulator with practiced ease. "Look. Point is—" He stopped mid-sentence as he sensed abnormal vibrations on the ground. His head snapped toward the tree line where the dog-walker had vanished minutes earlier. The shadows between the oaks twisted unnaturally, stretching beyond what the dying light should allow.
"Everything alright?" Noriko whispered, her fingers crackling with nervous energy.
Peter's hand shot out, grabbing her pressing her down as he dropped both of them to a crouch behind a mound of autumn leaves. His other hand tapped the rim of his glasses—once, twice—before pointing toward the distant tree line. The gesture was military-precise.
"Shh." His voice was barely audible, but the weight behind it pinned her in place. His eyes never left the treeline, tracking something unseen.
Then the Oak trees parted like wet paper.
"What the hell—"
He recognized it immediately—the angular plating, the hydraulic whine of servos, the way it moved like an oil spill given legs. A first-generation Sentinel, mint condition, straight out of the '90s propaganda reels. Its photoreceptors glowed crimson as they swept the park.
"What the hell is that?" Noriko hissed, her voice cracking mid-whisper. The streetlight above the park bench exploded in a shower of sparks as her panic spiked.
Peter didn't blink at the raining glass. "That," he said, watching the Sentinel's head snap toward the sound, "is the '90s coming back for revenge." He pressed a hand against her shoulder, forcing her lower behind the leaf pile. "Don't move from this position. Don't breathe. And for the love of God, don't spark."
As he shifted to leave, her fingers hooked into his sleeve. "What are you doing?"
Peter's fingers flexed as glyphs flared across his forearm—ancient runes burning red beneath his skin. The Mossberg 500 materialized in his hands with a sound like a guillotine blade dropping, its stock still warm from interdimensional storage. "Going to say hello," he murmured, thumbing the safety off with a click that echoed louder than it should have. The shotgun's pump-action racked back with a metallic shunk that sent spent shells tumbling through the air—shells that dissolved into golden sparks before hitting the ground.
"American style."
---------------------------------------------
Done!
-Things to address-
so Noriko... for those who are not familiar with her, she is an actual character not an OC
Like I wrote before I'm playing DJ with continuity...
There is actually going to be an explanation for most of the changes I'm implementing. It has to do with why an old Sentinel showed up.