Who am I
I usually wake up fast, like someone flipping a switch — one second I'm asleep and dreaming, the next I'm ready to go. It's a pretty useful trait, especially when you've only had a couple hours of sleep and absolutely have to be at work or school in the morning. This time, though, it was different.
I was stuck in some kind of limbo, halfway between sleep and waking. Or more precisely — I understood that I was asleep, fully aware of my situation, but still couldn't wake up. Kind of like sleep paralysis, except without the panic. Although this time, it seems like there might be a couple of reasons to be afraid.
First of all, I don't remember falling asleep sitting up in what feels like a car — judging by the bumps — with a splitting headache and ringing in my ears. What's happening, am I drunk?
The car suddenly jolts over a pothole, and I slam the back of my head against some metal thing above me. Son of a bitch! Now I understand why my head hurts so much and my ears are ringing.
The pain helps me wake up, though I would have preferred to manage on my own. I try to swear, but I can't — my lips are stuck together with something, probably tape. I finally force my eyes open.
Darkness.
Or rather, there are faint flickers of light, but everything is blurry and I can't make out a damn thing.
Did they actually put a bag over my head? If this is some kind of stupid prank, someone is going to get hurt!
But who?
I suddenly realize I can't remember anyone who would pull something like this on me.
Actually, I can't remember a damn thing! Massive hangover, or — who the hell knows — amnesia?
I try to move my hands, but I can't — they're tied. What if this isn't a joke? Have I actually been kidnapped? But who would want me? I… I… Shit! I can't even remember anything about myself! Who the hell am I?
And there it is — panic!
God damn it, I'm terrified, I don't want to die!
Stop! Stop! Stop! Cut the hysteria!
The pain eased up a little, and even the ringing in my ears started to fade. I caught fragments of speech.
— He is such a mess, I don't even want to remember! — A woman's voice, rough, with perfect American pronunciation. I apparently know English — that's already something — but for some reason it's hard for me to catch the meaning, as though I haven't spoken English in a couple hundred years, probably not since school.
Wait! School… I'm starting to remember. Great!
— Come on, tell me! This is a real date, with a man! You must tell us! — Another voice, also female, a little higher and softer.
The first voice again. The woman is telling some kind of story, but I focus on trying to remember something about myself. And I start to succeed. I remember: my childhood, an ordinary school where kids teased me because I didn't know how to talk to my peers. My classmates: Mary Jane Watson — my fickle first love; Flash Thompson — the dumb jock who bullied me constantly; Harry Osborn — my first and only friend, who forgot about me easily enough once he became popular. I remember my family: Aunt May and Uncle Ben… I remember Uncle Ben dying in my arms. I remember my first real girlfriend — Gwen Stacy, who also died in my arms because of my mistake, because I was a stupid, overconfident kid who thought he could be a superhero… that's right, I remembered — I am a superhero! Spider-Man! I protect the peace of New York, guarding it at night, while by day I work as a journalist at the Daily Bugle, selling my own photos for next to nothing… damn, I'm such an idiot! What the hell? What is wrong with me? Okay, calm down, maybe I'll remember something else later that'll explain everything.
I try to relax, to collect my thoughts. My mouth is incredibly dry, my tongue is rough like sandpaper, scratching the roof of my mouth with every movement. Did they run me through a desert or something? Wait… something's off. I try to figure out what caught my attention, run my tongue along my teeth. Right, there it is! There should be a gap right there — that tooth was knocked out by Doctor Octavius when I was trying to stop him during a bank robbery. Why the hell did I even spend so long fighting a regular human? All I had to do was clock him once in the head and knock him out, right? Stay focused, Peter! The tooth! Right, the tooth that shouldn't be there! I don't remember getting a fake one put in, and a new one never grew back in — though I never stopped hoping. What the hell is going on? Okay, there's one more way to check.
I flex my right foot and carefully start pulling my toes upward, expecting to feel it. Nothing again. But I should have a damn tracker in my leg — implanted by Fury's people while I was unconscious. A normal person wouldn't feel something that small, but I knew from the very beginning that S.H.I.E.L.D. was keeping tabs on me with that tracker.
And then I noticed something else. I'm weak. No. No. No. That can't be. I'm just a regular person. Damn it, someone stripped me of my powers somehow!
Or maybe this isn't my body? But how is that even possible? Oh, I get it! A virtual simulation! That's why there's no visual — to keep me from figuring out the trick. It's much easier to make someone believe they have a bag over their head than to create an image indistinguishable from reality.
And at that moment something shifts in my mind, and I start to understand the stranger's speech much more easily.
— The more his eyes water, the drier I get down there. When I decided it was time to leave, he fell apart: started striking poses, puffed out his lips like a little kid. I wanted to smack him so bad! These men, they can't even fake anger properly. I left.
How stupid! Such a glaring slip. I don't know how they managed to convince me I couldn't understand English, but it only confirms my suspicion. All of this is a virtual simulation, but something went wrong — for some reason I can't pinpoint exactly where my memories cut off.
— Seriously? — the second girl exclaimed. — You ungrateful bitch, you wouldn't let me make a move on him, and then you didn't even take the chance yourself.
— God, I agree! — A third female voice. — You're completely out of your mind. He's a man — what were you waiting for, for him to suddenly turn into a woman? You can't demand femininity from a man, you have to be gentle with them! You had such an opportunity and you threw it away.
What kind of nonsense are these women going on about? I have no idea what they're talking about.
— You know what? Both of you can go to hell! And your men too! They're just useless garbage, and like hell I'm going to put up with all those antics, hangups, endless demands, and meltdowns. And for what? So he can wiggle his limp dick inside me once or twice a week? No thanks. I'd rather find myself a girlfriend, buy her a big rubber cock, and have her fuck me with that thing every night in ways no man ever could! And on top of that, I won't have to share it with anyone! That cock will be mine alone, every single night.
— And then your girlfriend will get married, become the fourth wife of some boy with a limp dick, and give him wonderful children, and she'll have a happy big family, while you'll be left all alone with your hard rubber cock. Bitch.
Well, now I know none of this is real. They probably tried to block my memories so I wouldn't see through the illusion, but something went wrong. Time to put an end to this circus. I started yanking at the ropes and doing everything I could to get the attention of the NPCs nearby, hoping they have a script to take the bag off my head and remove the gag.
— Oh, look, little Parker is back with us, — someone sat down to my right, pressed up close, then put one arm around me, — don't be scared, boy, we're not going to hurt you.
All I could do in response was grunt and shake my head, which I did.
— Let's take the bag off him, he's not going to remember the route anyway.
— Hey, you can't show him our faces, what the hell are you doing, you idiot? — That's the one who'd been telling the story about the crybaby boyfriend.
— Then pull a stocking over your head if you're scared, bitch! — says, obviously, the NPC who sat down next to me. — Alright, let's get this thing off him.
Finally, they pulled the damn bag off my head, and I was able to see… a blurry haze.
What the hell! Your simulation is absolute garbage — I can't see a damn thing, it's like I've got minus ten in both eyes again! Oh, right, of course — that's yet another way to hide bad graphics — convince me that I have poor eyesight. I get it: they were trying to make me forget that I gained superpowers.
— Oh right, he can't see without his glasses, — says the third NPC. Obviously a hint, in case I didn't figure out my "bad eyesight" on my own.
— You're such a sweet, smart boy, — someone ruffled my hair, — so listen to my advice: do everything they tell you, and nothing bad will happen to you.
— Believe me, we ourselves feel awkward about having to do this to a boy like you, — says the girl who'd been talking about manliness and men. Now I know she's sitting directly across from me, — but we have no choice. The boss said you're the only one who can help with the doc's problem. The main thing is don't be afraid — if everything goes smoothly, we'll bring you home safe and sound.
— If only a little bit of poking and pro… ouch — Archie, what the hell are you elbowing me for?
— Stop talking nonsense! He's not here for that, and if your pussy's itching, go to your girlfriend with the rubber cock you were telling us all about! — A new voice, also female. Not just a voice — I could also make out the blurry silhouette of the speaker, who had just elbowed the other NPC in the side.
— I was just joking, why are you so wound up, it's not like I even want your precious Parker, I mean he's still just a…
— Stupid jokes, Myamlia. Better shut up while you still can.
— Yeah, bitch, we all already got it — you prefer a rubber dick to a real one, so stay away from Pyotr, — chimes in the NPC sitting next to me, joining the argument.
Her face is literally ten centimeters from mine, but I can't make out a thing. It's strange, actually — in every way except eyesight, this virtual world is no different from reality: touch, sound, smell, pain. All of it is exactly like the real thing.
— The gag must be bothering you — should we take it off? — The NPC turns to her companions.
— Even if he screams, no one will hear him now. We've left the city.
— Okay then, brace yourself, this is going to hurt a little, — she says, hooking the edge of the tape with her fingernail and slowly starting to peel it off.
— For god's sake, just rip it off! — I say, jerking my head at the same time to speed things up, and something falls out of my chest pocket.
— Hey, something fell, — the girl across from me leans down and picks it up, — it's a glasses case — so you were trying to tell us you had a spare pair.
— No, bitch, I was trying to tell you to shove this stupid little prank right up your… — and then the girl puts the glasses on me, and I stop dead mid-sentence.
— A boy shouldn't use such foul language, — says the one who's been hugging me, while I can only stare open-mouthed, shifting my gaze from one girl to the next, because a picture this real cannot be graphics — and unfortunately, this is not a prank at all.
Note:
*In this world, femininity is the defining quality of an exemplary woman — that is, of the stronger sex — which corresponds to masculinity in our understanding. Keep such nuances in mind going forward.
However, the word "courage" will be used in its familiar sense, as I cannot come up with an adequate equivalent.
The word "doc" in the text refers to Doctor Stans. It is not a form of address to the protagonist — do not flag it as an error.