Choices
More than two months after Peter started his own afterschool gig, he's faced with his first real crisis of conscience. (Well, second. Lying to Aunt May was and is the first.) He's sitting on the second floor ledge of his own school, wearing a blue hoodie with another school's letters and a mask made of red duct-tape and padding, watching two boys from his English class try to jimmy the lock of a rusty red Kia in the staff parking lot. The crisis is that it's his old art teacher's car, Mr. Malley. Mr. Malley had made Peter's life in his class hell, mocking photography as the enemy of artistic creativity and nearly failing him, putting a fair dent in his freshman GPA. And the car wasn't worth much, really. Certainly not worth risking his life, and the boys did have a crowbar. Back-up, he guessed, in case their slim jim failed them.
But. If he jumped from here, to the parking lot's sole lamp-pole, to the roof of the car, he'd be taking them both by surprise, and that might even be enough to run them off.
It's not, of course, though not by much. He lands, they both jump backwards and shout in shock, and one does run, but the other (of course) swings that crowbar at him. Peter dodges the bar, a flip up, a swinging kick, and then his classmate is sprawled in the parking lot, the crowbar skittering away under the cars, along with a can of spray paint. "Now, I'm all for freedom of art, but choose your canvas better. This rust-bucket, really?"
He scrambles away and Peter lets him go. He'll leave a note on the car; he knows both their names. If the CC that's supposed to guard this parking lot hasn't been vandalized again, that'll be enough.
The top of the car's dented, where he landed on it. "Figures." Time to take off, over the fence and up the nearest fire-escape.
But. If he jumped from here, to the parking lot's sole lamp-pole, to the roof of the car, he'd be taking them both by surprise, and that might even be enough to run them off.
It's not, of course, though not by much. He lands, they both jump backwards and shout in shock, and one does run, but the other (of course) swings that crowbar at him. Peter dodges the bar, a flip up, a swinging kick, and then his classmate is sprawled in the parking lot, the crowbar skittering away under the cars, along with a can of spray paint. "Now, I'm all for freedom of art, but choose your canvas better. This rust-bucket, really?"
He scrambles away and Peter lets him go. He'll leave a note on the car; he knows both their names. If the CC that's supposed to guard this parking lot hasn't been vandalized again, that'll be enough.
The top of the car's dented, where he landed on it. "Figures." Time to take off, over the fence and up the nearest fire-escape.