Peter Parker froze, or probably felt the world froze – it was slowly becoming a normal feeling to him since his mutation – but this time it was for another reason.
It still felt like a really slow day dream even as the Merchant brought out another book, a catalogue on chemicals, and gave it to Peter to peruse his 'stock'.
It still felt like he was being played a prank on, but also didn't (?), and he was just waiting for the ball to drop about the thousand dollars.
He'd expected 10 bucks— okay maybe 5 for the busted-glued-together shooter because that was what it truly was, a broken and glued junk. So it really didn't come as no surprise when he started feeling guilty after the initial excited high went away.
Maybe the Merchant overestimated the shooter?
His fingers paused as he made to flip the page, "Mr. Isaac sir, are you sure? That seems like a lot for a piece of junk."
And there it was again. That smile. The same smile you would give a hamster running on a wheel, knowing it looked funny and it wasn't running anywhere anytime soon.
"Don't sweat it, kid. Let me worry about its value on my end while you pick up chemicals on yours."
"Still…" Peter Parker looked uncomfortable. He couldn't stand the thought of possibly ripping the man off, he wasn't brought up that way.
The Merchant sighed. "Tell you what, kid, this thing fires at 30 clicks and I'll gander a guess at a minimum of 30ft, that's 1 second of travel time. I could sell this to a company for at least 20 grand. And that's not even its real value."
"…"
"Like I said before, I'm a Merchant. I know junk when I see one."
Was it weird that Peter felt relief in that moment. At least that was proof that he didn't scam the poor shopkeeper….
"…. You gave me a thousand for it."
"And that's a lesson for you: never trust a Merchant."
Ah, so this was what betrayal felt like. Well, to Peter it did.
"But why tell me in the first place?"
The man behind the counter shrugged. "You seem like an alright lad and I have a feeling this won't be our last business together. A common ground, so to speak."
"Not so common a ground if you're already ripping me off." Peter murmured, which seemed to amuse the man even more.
"This way you'll know what to expect. It's half the fun if your customers can't haggle for what they want."
"Right…" Peter said slowly. It didn't make sense to him but hey, to each his own. He flipped the pages open, took out a small piece of paper and started scribbling down the chemicals he needed.
Hopefully the thousand bucks would go a long way to see him fitted for his nightly endeavors.
Aunt May would kill him if she knew how he got the money and what he was spending it on. Maybe not, but it wasn't a thought he was comfortable with.
"Right.. Right, I've got this, this, I'll need a little bit of that and…" his hands froze and his gaze went down the list of chemicals where, tucked there at the bottom, was what looked too similar to Chlorine Gas(Cl2) and Uranium-235.
"… anyway, I think I'll have just these ones. These should be more than enough… for my science experiments. At home."
"Is that all?" Isaac asked and Peter nodded after going through his list once again. "That'll bring your total to $473. You want me to get them for you now or send it to your address?"
"Huh?"
"Your address. I doubt you want to be hauling chemicals back to your house right now, do you?"
"Um no. Thank you."
"For what? It's just business."
"Yeah, right."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter Parker was still waiting for the ball to drop but so far the Merchant seemed to be taking everything seriously.
Maybe he really was getting those chemicals.
"Need a receipt for these?" he was asked but he shook his head. "Right, need anything else?"
"Excuse me?"
The Merchant sighed. "Need anything else with the balance or is that it? You still got $523, so do you need anything else? No tax by the way."
Now that got Peter thinking. Did he need other things? Yes. First of which was fabric for the suit he had in mind.
Spandex or anything similar would do and hopefully he wouldn't have to go through his remaining goodies just to have something to wear on his nights out.
He could sew the thing himself with Aunt May's sewing machine, provided she never found out. Maybe things were finally looking up for the teen hero(vigilante).
"Do you have, like spandex or anything similar?... I like sewing."
Mr. Isaac gave him a dry look. He didn't buy it one bit. "Of course you do. You need the regular stuff?"
Peter looked confused. "What other type are there?"
"Well you've got your basic spandex— which no one ever buys by the way, you've got lycra which is slightly more expensive, more durable, and more stretchy. You've got polyester, mostly for sportswear, and then you've got printed polyester which is a little bit pricey but also a lot better. Either that or I can throw in some of my own stock, which you won't find on the market by the way."
Now Peter was conflicted. On one hand he could just get a couple yards of the spandex and leave, just like he'd intended, or he could take a gamble on the Merchant's words.
He could admit to himself that he was a little bit curious about what exactly the Merchant sells. It couldn't be anything, right?
Before Peter could get a word out, a catalogue was pushed in front of him, and seeing some of the things listed there, Peter wasn't sure whether the Merchant was toying with him or if he was in danger. He would almost prefer it if the tingle started tingling anytime now.
The names on the materials listed were some he had never heard of before and the brief description made it sound less believable the more he went down the list.
Unstable Molecules: Adapts to wearer, self-repairs, flame-stretch resistant.
That sounded like something he'd heard of.
Still suit fabric: Recycles sweat into drinkable water, sandproof.
Mimetic polyalloy: Liquid-metal, shape-shifting, self-repairing.
"You know what, I think I'll just stick to the really good spandex." He gently closed the book and pushed it back on the counter.
What was he thinking? He was in a junk store, of course the owner would seek junk to people. He literally just sold him junk three minutes ago. And besides, there was no way he sold all those things listed there.
Yes, he lived in a world where a man once threatened to lift up a city and smash it to the ground, while also having the power to do so, but even that was acceptable compared to the ridiculousness listed on those pages.
Who sells Uranium-235 in a junk store?
The more he thought about it the more sense it made.
Maybe it was him but the Merchant looked a bit disappointed when he said he was going for the normal spandex.
"How many yards do you need, and in what colors?"
"Er red and blue, five each."
.
.....
[Peter Parker, teenage blob of repressed hormones, adrenaline junky and uncertain decisions… plus part-time heroics]
Seeing Mr. Isaac coming back out with a wrapped bundle of red and blue fabric, I almost had to stop myself from jumping in excitement. This was it!
I can almost see it — the vision. Maybe, finally, instead of the police gunning for me anytime they see me, maybe they'll finally acknowledge the fact that I am a hero.
The whole hero thing was a bit of a gambit, especially after Uncle Ben, but with this I feel like I'll finally mean it.
With great power, he'd said, the responsibility shouldn't be mine. What do I know, I'm just a 15-ish year old kid. But with this, maybe I can finally carry that responsibility.
"Still there, kid?"
"Yeah, sorry." There it was again, that weird way he moves. I couldn't even tell, without looking, if he was right in front of me or not.
Mr. Isaac was weird. Not in the 'I'll give you candy' weird, but in the 'I might or might not have nuclear materials that I might or might not be willing to sell' weird. He felt like the type to look at the words 'plausible deniability' and deny it.
Even as he handed me the packaged fabrics I still didn't feel like he was a bad person. Weird? Definitely. I mean, he bought my junk for a thousand dollars, so to me he's probably giving me all this for free.
"Here's your change."
It was a hundred and fifty plus some change.
"Thank you."
"It was nice doing business with you, kid. Don't forget to refer me to your friends. And remember, if you need anything just drop by."
Why did that sound like it meant more?
"I will." He sells junk so I could probably buy a lot of spare parts for cheap for a couple of new webshooters.
I can't wait to get home and check how this feels. I'll have to draw the designs again, and then sew it, or maybe make a new shooter first and new web fluids.
I was halfway out of the store when I stopped to look back at Mr. Isaac because of a question that has been nagging my mind for a while now.
"Do you really sell nuclear bombs?" It was meant as half joke and half curiosity.
"Do you have the money to buy one?" He asked back with a slight smile on his face.
"No, I don't."
"Then I guess I don't."
"Right."
I left the store but not without giving it another look — because it looked cool — and memorizing its name and location. Even its name sounds cool.
Junk 'N Stuff.
It took over thirty minutes to walk back home, and would have been shorter — less than three — if I had my webshooters, which meant it was going to be the first thing I put together before doing anything else.
"Huh?"
My feet stopped a few feet in front of my house because right there, on my doorstep, were packaged boxes, six of them, neatly arranged on one side.
The tingles weren't tingling, so it wasn't a bomb? Which isn't an irrational fear because I've seen it happen once.
Aunt May was not expecting any boxes, she would have told me if she was. I was but it won't be arriving for an hour or so–
I plucked the note stuck on one of the boxes and read what it said:
Packages delivered successfully. Hope for your continued patronage.
The Merchant,
Junk 'N Stuff.
That was some fast delivery. Anyway I hurled them to my room before Aunt May came back and saw them and asked how I got them. Those were questions I have no desire to answer.
"This is it." I muttered to myself as I shelved the chemicals. With this amount, it should last me two or three months of intense web usage, which is something I usually don't do unless I can't help it.
Crime in New York has a way of making you question a lot of things.
I mean, just last week I accidentally stopped a gun trade that involved rocket launchers. I can vouch that there is nothing within 30 miles that requires a rocket launcher. Neither as a problem nor as a solution.
With the chemicals safely stored away, I think it's time to focus on the new shooters. Not having them made me realize just how important they are. It feels really weird having to jump over rooftops instead of just swinging past them.
I mean, I can't really be a friendly neighborhood spider man if I can't swing from web—
Wait, that's a cool name. Spiderman. At the very least, it's better than the Human Spider.