CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Birds of Prey

WARNING: This chapter contains child abuse. Please read with caution.

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            AS THE CAR DREW nearer to the warehouse, Cecelia's heart lodged in her throat. The building sat there, where it always had, just on the outskirts of town. It had purposefully been placed in an area that wasn't too secluded—and indeed, the graffiti scrawled onto the nearby bridge, littered cans of Coca-Cola, and the pair of shoes hanging from a tree were certainly signs of other presences—but not too crowded, either. The roads were always fairly empty—only a lone car drove ahead of Cecelia and Peter now—and what little greenery that surrounded the warehouse was too overgrown to make a prime teenager smoking spot. When Cecelia took breaks from her work for a little breath of fresh air, the grass always crunched under her feet. The activity inside the warehouse always made the air smell a little like gasoline.

The sight of it, so familiar despite everything that had transpired, was almost unbearable. So many memories of the last five years had been spent within its walls, with the people she had now inadvertently lost. Schultz. Brice. Perhaps even Mason and Vale. All of them men who had never treated her like a child. Had never babied her. Had involved her in as much of the business as they could, offered her cigarettes on breaks (she never took them), and spoke openly and freely about politics.

Now, she'd betrayed them. And she hadn't... she hadn't even meant to. But the deed had been done, and maybe word had gotten back already.

Cecelia was in such a stupor, thinking about her old life—grease-stained fingers, working until her eyes were watery, sharing pizza and chicken wings on long nights—that she momentarily forgot that Peter had never traversed these roads. She knew them like the back of her hand, had worn them down deep. Shouldn't everyone see them just as she did—achingly familiar?

It was only when Peter started to drive past the correct road that Cecelia snapped out of her reverie. Snapping her head over to Peter, she yelped, "Right!"

"What?" Peter asked.

"Turn right! Turn right!"

Peter, caught off guard, twisted the wheel. As the car skidded across the road in a squeal of tires, he threw out his wrist. A web broke free from his shooter and locked onto the fence. This had the advantage of steering them back on track, but the detriment was a really rocky ride. Both Cecelia and Peter yelled out as the car slid sideways, then slammed over a curb with enough pressure to launch them into the air.

It flipped onto its side, gliding in a haze of sparks, and Cecelia screamed, her seatbelt constricting her chest. Normally, she'd just phase right through it, but that wasn't such a good idea when she was in a moving vehicle that was definitely not right-side up.

The car spun, the world revolving around Cecelia, until everything blurred together and bile threatened in her throat. It was like a Merry-Go-Round, or a loop-de-loop on a rollercoaster, but so much worse. Her hair came free from her hood and battered at her face, and it was all she could do to hold on.

They were inches away from slamming into another curb when the momentum finally ceased. The car tipped back onto its wheels with a thud, and the engine sputtered out. Smoke puffed from the car's hood, and a pungent, bitter stench invaded Cecelia's nostrils.

She sat there for a moment, catching her breath. She was miraculously unharmed, but the ballet dance the car had gone on had definitely ramped up her anxiety. Her heart was still beating a mile a minute. She wedged her head between her knees.

"Peter! Cecelia!" came Ned's voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Peter panted. "Just keep trying to get through to Happy."

He vaulted over the doors of Flash's car—which were now a ragged mess of broken dreams—and ended the call. Cecelia followed him, still gasping. When she caught up, she slugged Peter in the arm.

"Ow!" he protested. "What was that for?"

"For nearly killing us, idiot. And don't complain. You can handle a little punch after the beating you just took from Schultz."

"That's his name? Oh. I'm pretty sure Karen told me, but I forgot. I've just been calling him Darth Maul in my head."

"Who the hell is Karen?"

"My AI! Oh, and by the way, I came up with Star Wars nicknames for all those bad guys—uh, I mean, the members of your company. Including you! Do you want to hear what it was?"

"Absolutely not."

"Too bad. It was Jar Jar Binks."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Get in line." Peter slunk forward, creeping towards the warehouse. "Okay. Um, it looks like there's an entry point on the roof. We can go up there, and—"

"We?" Cecelia repeated.

Peter turned to her, stared, then chuckled nervously, bouncing from one foot to the other. "Oh, right. For a moment I almost forgot—never mind. Um, I'll go up there. You can..."

"I can go through the front door. I know the code. Though, I guess it wouldn't be a problem if I didn't. Doors are just a courtesy for me."

Peter smacked a hand to his masked face. "Right. Superpowers. Gotta remember that." Then he sobered. "So... what's going to happen, then?"

"What do you think is going to happen? I'm going to talk to my uncle. You're gonna... do your Spidery thing. And I'm going to figure out whether... whether I want to help you."

The words were hard to say. Even after all Cecelia had discovered, even after everything her uncle had done... the idea that she would willingly go against him churned her stomach. But it might just be what had to be done. She just... she just had to figure things out.

Peter went quiet for a moment. The wind whistled past them, causing Cecelia's eyelashes to flutter against her cheeks. Then, he spoke, soft as if he was in a room with a newborn.

"Are you gonna be okay?"

Cecelia turned to him. His mask was a blank slate, but she swore—or maybe just pretended—that there was emotion there. That he really was worrying about her.

(She didn't deserve it.)

She gave him a tight smile under her own mask. One that he wouldn't be able to see. "Yeah. I've made it out of worse scrapes than this before, Spider-Man."

Peter took in a breath. "Okay. Then... then I guess we should go."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Peter glanced at Cecelia one more time, then sprung onto the roof. Cecelia watched him become nothing but a flash of red before she turned back to the winding path that led to the warehouse's entrance. Perhaps, soon, he would be her enemy again. Perhaps, soon, they would be engaged in combat, dodging hits and swinging them without holding back.

For now, though, she was free to move as she pleased.

Cecelia's hands shook when she typed in the code. It was usually muscle memory, but today, she really had to think about each number she was inputting. And when the pad flashed green and the door rumbled open, she had to suppress a wince.

Inside the warehouse was dark. The door's growls had been quiet enough that no one inside had been alerted to her presence, even though she hadn't been trying particularly hard to be sneaky. She was a Phantom, after all—if she wanted to disappear, then she could.

Her boots were silent on the floor. They'd been specifically designed to make as least noise as possible, to go along with her whole persona. The only time they ever screeched to life was when she activated the thrusters embedded into the soles.

She passed Mason's desk, which was cluttered with half-finished technology, a snowstorm of papers, and a cup with a smidgen of coffee still left over. Then Uncle's, which was far more organized. There were a few schematics and blueprints, but they were all stacked neatly into labelled piles. A coffee mug with World's Best Boss was full of black pens.

Then, her own desk.

Even though they weren't biologically related, Cecelia took after her uncle when it came to organization. Everything had its place—each project she had been working on had been filed by category, her old toolbox (she'd never gotten that new one Uncle had promised) hung from a nail she'd hammered into the wall, and the little robot she'd built to help her gather supplies snoozed in its charging port. A few framed photos were perched near the back—one of Cecelia and Uncle, smiling and giving the camera a thumbs-up, and the other of an eleven-year-old Cecelia triumphantly holding up the first weapon she'd finished on her own. The shots of her face stirred something within her, and she pointedly looked away.

Where was Peter? Had he made it inside the warehouse yet? There was an access point on the roof, but it led to the second floor. Was he skulking around up there?

Cecelia took in a breath, then cocked her head. Even with her pulse roaring in her ears, the low murmur of nearby voices filtered through. She lifted her head, following the sound. The source of it turned out to be located around the corner, in which a light shone. Cecelia walked over to it, nearly silent.

In all the years Toomes and Uncle had been here, they'd never managed to fill this section of the warehouse. It was completely empty, broken up only by support beams and a staircase that led to the second floor. Well, that, and the singular desk across the room. The desk that happened to have two figures hunched over it.

Toomes was humming a tune as he worked, and Uncle was sipping from a bottle of beer. Both had their backs to Cecelia, which meant they hadn't noticed her yet. If Cecelia really wanted, she could flee back the way she came. But that wasn't why she was here.

She walked forward, originally on silent feet. Then, slowly and deliberately, she lifted her knee. When she took her next step, it thudded on the ground.

The humming ceased. Both Toomes and Uncle turned around.

"Cecelia," Toomes said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to my uncle," Cecelia responded.

"Yes, you do, Cecelia," Uncle responded, setting down his bottle. His voice was slow, falsely composed. Cecelia couldn't see his eyes from here, but she imagined that they were darkening. Clouds clustering together before a storm. "Why the hell haven't you been answering my calls?"

Cecelia continued to walk forward. "I was mad."

"Oh, you were mad? I'm furious with you, Cecelia. First, you totally go dark on us, even with our most important project coming up, and then I find out from Adrian that you may have known Spider-Man's identity. That isn't exactly something I can just brush aside."

"I know." Cecelia swallowed.

"I have half of the mind to just punish you right now," Uncle said. "But I suppose I should hear your side of the story, first. What kind of boss would I be if I didn't?"

Toomes glanced at him. "Mind taking this outside?" he asked. "I haven't gotten word back from Schultz. We might have another visitor coming soon."

"No. We're gonna do this here. You need to hear it too, Adrian."

"Well then, just be quick about it."

"Tell me if it's true," Uncle said. "Did you really know Spider-Man's identity?"

Cecelia closed her eyes. "Yes."

She could hear the venom in Uncle's tone when he spoke next. "Then why the hell didn't you tell us? Why wouldn't you tell me? After everything I've done for you, Cecelia..."

"I know," Cecelia said. "But... but Schultz and Mr. Toomes left me on the ferry. I could have died, and they just left. I was so angry about that, and I didn't want to talk to any of you. And I didn't want to tell you Spider-Man's identity when I figured it out, because he was the one who saved my life. Not any of you."

She was finally close enough to look into her uncle's eyes, so she did. She scoured their pits, desperately hoping to find a glimmer of remorse in them. Something that would prove how much he cared about her well-being.

There was nothing like it. Instead, more anger simmered. "You really think that's an excuse, Cecelia?" he asked. "It was a mission. You knew the risks. You didn't see Brice crying two weeks ago when you left him in the forest. You didn't see Vale complaining when he got knocked over the head a month ago."

That was true. But... "This is different. I could have died."

"You didn't."

"I could have!"

"Cecelia—"

"No. You're going to listen to me. I had every right to be mad. I've had every right to be mad ever since the Monument, when you gave more of a shit about whether I let myself be a victim than the fact that your tech very nearly killed me. All I wanted was for you to ask if I was okay. All I wanted was for anyone to care about my well-being. But you didn't. And... and I want to know why."

Uncle took a step forward. As his shadow fell over her face, Cecelia shrank back. She'd always hated how much taller he was. He liked to use his size against her. "Of course, it matters, Cecelia. You're a very valuable asset to this company. But you have to learn to get out of things on your own. In the real world, no one is going to baby you. Neither Adrian nor Schultz picked you up on the ferry because that's not what the real world is like. And you better get used to it."

Cecelia's eyes burned. "Is that all you see me as? A valuable asset to the company?"

"Well, you're my niece, too. But that was only because of your value. Your parents wouldn't have adopted you if I hadn't brought you up to them."

A few tears streaked free, snaking themselves down her face. She'd been crying a lot lately. But what Uncle had just said had rattled her. She'd always known that it had been Uncle's influence that had led her to be placed in the Olivier home, but...

She always liked to believe she had meant something more than her powers. The powers she'd never even asked for.

"What about Peter?" she asked, her voice cracking on the final syllable. She wiped her eyes and lifted her chin, trying not to let Uncle see it tremble.

"What about him? The moment Adrian found out his identity, I wanted to go for him. But Adrian insisted on giving him one final shot. If that kid knows what's good for him, he'll keep his pesky nose out of our business. If he doesn't..." he trailed off, seemingly noticing something about the way she was standing. "Oh, you've got to be shitting me."

"What?" Toomes asked. He'd turned back to the table, only half paying attention to their conversation.

"You haven't started to care about that insect, have you?"

Cecelia scowled. "Of course not."

"Then tell me, Cecelia. Why did you lead him here?"

"What?"

Cecelia whirled around just in time for a furious voice to call out. "Hey!"

Oh, Creator. There, shrouded in darkness, was Peter, his hands balled into fists as he approached them. Toomes finally turned around, furrowing his eyebrows, and Uncle gave Cecelia a look. It was one she recognized well.

It was a look that meant she'd really gotten into it now.

"He would've—he would've found you, anyway," she sputtered. "He left his phone in Mr. Toomes' car. I just—he saved my life, and—"

Uncle's face darkened further.

"Surprised?" Peter growled.

"Not particularly," Uncle said. Then, before Cecelia could react, he lunged forward and grabbed her arm. "Phantom here made sure of that."

"Oh, hey, Pete," Toomes greeted, far more nonchalant. "I didn't hear you come in."

"It's over," Peter insisted. "I've got you."

"Let's go outside," Uncle hissed into Cecelia's ear. "We've got a lot to talk about in the car."

"Wait—" Cecelia looked around wildly. Her heart was roaring in her ears, her breathing erratic. "I'm not—I'm not a traitor, I promise. I just—I just didn't want Schultz to kill him. That was all."

Uncle's nails dug in further. More tears sprung to Cecelia's eyes. "You what?"

"You know, I gotta tell you, Pete..." Toomes was saying, "I really, really admire your grit. I see why Liz likes you. I do. When you first came to the house, I wasn't sure. I thought, 'really?' But I get it now."

"How could you do this to her?" Peter asked. His eyes went to Uncle. If he was upset at the fact that Cecelia was standing beside him, he didn't comment on it. "How could you do this to your sister? Your own family?"

"Come on," Uncle spat. He tugged on Cecelia's arm, trying to drag her away, not bothering to answer Peter's question. She stumbled after him, eyes flying to Peter. She hadn't asked the one question that had been on her mind since the parking lot.

"Are you going to kill him?"

Uncle's face was only an inch away from Cecelia's, now. "I think you know the answer to that, Cecelia. Now, come with me. You're lucky you won't be next."

Cecelia's eyes darted to Peter again. He was oblivious, still staring Toomes down. He'd webbed Toomes' hand to the table, which wasn't going to do shit. They were... they were really...

"Peter!" the words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. Peter's head snapped over to her, and, when he noticed Uncle's retreat, shot out another strand of webbing. It locked around Uncle's foot, plastering it to the floor.

"Why, you little—" Uncle rumbled. Cecelia flinched, knowing the blow was coming.

It didn't make it hurt any less when his hand connected with her face.

"Hey!" Peter roared, starting towards them. "Don't touch her!"

Cecelia put a hand to her cheek. It was stinging, and the vision in her left eye had momentarily whited out. She heaved in a breath through her nose and gritted her teeth. She just... had to take it. She just had—

"Why are you doing this?" Peter asked. It was unclear who he was speaking to. Toomes answered regardless.

"Peter... you're young. You don't understand how the world works."

"Yeah, but I understand that selling weapons to criminals and using children to do your dirty work is wrong."

"How do you think your buddy Stark paid for that tower? Or any of his little toys? Those people, Pete, those people up there, the rich and the powerful... they do whatever they want. Guys like us, like you, Richard, and me... they don't care about us. We build their roads and we fight all their wars and everything, but they don't care about us. We have to pick up after them. We have to eat their table scraps. We have to do whatever we can to claw our way upwards." He glanced at Cecelia. "That's how it is."

Cecelia closed her eyes. Uncle's hot breath fanned on her neck.

"I know you know what I'm talking about, Peter," Toomes continued.

"I don't," Peter said. "Because I would never hurt anyone to get where I want to be."

"Which is why you'll never get anywhere," Uncle said.

"I've gotten further than you. Cecelia told me what you've been doing. How you've been hurting her to get her in line. And yet, she's always come back to you. Because you're her uncle. You're supposed to be her family."

"I am her family."

"No, you're not. Because if you were, you'd never be treating her like that." Peter took in a breath, and Cecelia opened her eyes. When she did, she found that Peter was looking directly at her, now. "Cecelia, you don't have to let him treat you like this. I know you don't want it. And I know you don't deserve it."

"Peter—" Cecelia started.

"You don't. You deserve better. You deserve to be able to live without being crushed under someone else's heel. Look, I know we've fought. But that doesn't mean we have to keep fighting. We can—we can be friends. I can help you... CeCe."

CeCe... Cecelia tensed. It was what Peter had called her the night of Liz's party, back when he'd just been Spider-Man. Cecelia would never have admitted it to him, but she actually liked the way it sounded coming from his mouth. It wasn't as stupid as she always thought that nickname would be.

Uncle's grip increased on her arm, cutting off blood flow. And Cecelia, standing there, letting his fingers imprint into her skin, was suddenly not just fifteen, but ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen, too. Uncle's voice danced in her mind, consistent reminders. It's rude to use your powers when I don't want you to. You deserve this.

Cecelia had always been a miracle when her powers were useful. When they weren't, she was a freak. A mutant. A piece of shit enhanced.

Toomes had been right when he'd said that sometimes you did what you had to in order to rise up. But Peter had also been right when he'd said that what they were doing was wrong. Cecelia had always known that the weapons they sold might fall into bad hands. But she'd long since accepted it, because Uncle had told her that the benefits far outshone the detriments. Because that was the only way for them to get by.

But... it never had been. And here was Peter with proof. Here was Peter extending his hand to her.

Cecelia wanted... she'd always wanted Uncle's approval. Had ached for it, just like a dehydrated girl aches for water in the desert. But she'd never gotten it. Not really. Because Uncle didn't like Cecelia, he liked Phantom.

Peter seemed to like both.

Cecelia had argued that Uncle had been there for her. But he hadn't, not in the way Mom and Dad had. Not in the way her brothers and sister had. Not in the way Christine had.

Not in the way Peter had.

And Cecelia Olivier was done trying to find love where love would never be found.

Which was why, eventually, she let herself become intangible and melted right out of Uncle's grip.

Uncle's face purpled. "Cecelia!" he roared, swiping at her. His hand passed right through her as Cecelia backed away from him.

"No," she growled. "You don't get to touch me."

"Are you kidding me? After everything I've done for you—"

Cecelia looked him straight in the eyes. "You haven't done anything for me, Uncle. I've done everything for you."

Before she realized it, her feet were moving, bringing her over to the figure clad in a horrible costume. Peter stared at her as she approached, his chest heaving. Cecelia imagined that he smiled.

"You did it," he said. "I'm proud of you."

"Don't be," Cecelia replied. "I still don't know what I'm doing."

He went to rest a hand on her shoulder, then seemed to realize that she was still intangible. It went back to his side. "That's okay. We'll figure it out. Now, do you want to end this thing?"

"...Okay. Let's do it, Spider-Man."

Toomes frowned at her. "You know, I really liked you, kid," he said. "Which is why it's gonna hurt so much more when I do this."

Then, before Cecelia could react, he pulled something out of his pocket and flicked the switch.

An explosion sounded from behind, and she had just enough time to whirl around before the Vulture wings came flying right at her and Peter. Knowing how powerful the wings were—she'd helped design them, after all—Cecelia ducked, her back slamming against the ground. Peter leaped into the air, doing a perfect tuck-and-roll, and so, instead of cutting the teenagers to bits, all the Vulture wings did was slice through one of the warehouse's support beams.

Toomes and Uncle both yanked their appendages free from Peter's webs and moved. The wings screeched like two chainsaws, roaring after Peter, who seemed to be their main target. Peter jumped, swung a web, stuck to one of the beams. Cecelia crawled, still solid, ready to turn intangible at a moment's notice. It wouldn't be ideal having something that sharp go through her, even if it wouldn't leave a mark, but she was running out of options here.

She held out a wrist, activating her stunners. Twin beams of light shot out, but the wings managed to curve out of the way just in time. Peter dodged their blows again, flipping over them with the help of his webs, and the wings slammed into the wall in a haze of smoke and flame.

"I'm sorry, Peter and Cecelia," Toomes said. The wings drifted towards Cecelia, and she rolled out of the way, then leaped to her feet. She stood in front of a support beam, waiting for it to fly at her again. When it did, she dropped into a roll. Peter bent down to help her up.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "That thing hasn't even touched us yet."

"True," Toomes agreed. The wings whizzed by him. "Then again... wasn't really trying to."

Cecelia spun around just as the wings sliced through another support beam. Part of the ceiling crumbled in a cloud of debris, which only worsened when the wings cut through two more. Growing horror surged through her. That was the last one.

She threw her arms over her head, said a quick prayer, and turned into nothing but air as the ceiling crashed down on top of her.

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HAVEN: ...thoughts?

thanks for reading!