*READ FIRST*

I don't know what got into me, but I largely changed this story. If you preferred the original, I'm sorry. Anyway, the changes I have made are pretty much just that I went BACK to 1st person, the story follows Peter and George Stacy, not Jean DeWolfe, and I have decided to use bold for emphasis and italics for thoughts. I think it works really well. Also, I cut ahead in the story. I felt that beginning before the bite dragged the story down too much. The actual story is exactly the same, though. That was unchanged. And just because I made you guys wait so long, I have 3-yes, 3-chapters for you guys. I'm also currently writing the 4th. It should be up pretty soon. I hope you guys enjoy it and if you haven't already, please check out my other Spider-Man fan fiction: Dark Wounds. It's currently wrapping up into something I'm rather pleased with.

Thanks and enjoy!

CHAPTER 1: THE FIRST STEP

June 2nd.

They said it would get easier. They said time would heal all wounds. Guess time gave up on me.

The rain was cold, hard, wet. It stung my face as the wind picked up. The trees bent and wavered over the crowd, the umbrellas being pulled from people's hands. My suit was getting wet and I pulled away the part that had become stuck to my chest, my hair damp and sticky against my skull. I clenched my jaw as I swallowed hard, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I couldn't peel my eyes from the granite just barely visible behind the eulogist, pupils retracing the engraved lettering. It struck a cord overtime I went over it. I ignored the words of the eulogist-who was just as wet, if not wetter than me-not really caring what kind words he had. He didn't know him, and he never would.

My fault.

He stood there, taking his beating from the storm, like me. His white hair rolled in the wind. The slabs of granite, diorite and limestone, tracing back years of history, rolled on forever, up and down the hills until they hit the wall of trees far in the distance. It was a wonderful sight, one I would have loved to look at had it not been for present circumstances. I swallowed again, thunder rumbling in from my left, the crowd becoming restless. Aunt May's tears drowned out by a crack of lighting. And then another. And another. Each one like a firecracker.

Or a gunshot.

The eulogist concluded his speech, my ears only picking up the last few words. I knew what was next. I had been thinking it over for hours now. Contemplating whether or not to give in or refuse. I couldn't properly express my feelings without opening up a door to the inner me. A selfish, brutal person with no care in the world. I hated him. I hated him like the world hated Hitler, or the Great Depression. I hated him because he was everything I wasn't and was at the same time. And it's because of him that I'm here. Here, in this retched place, on the verge of tears, watching as my Aunt politely declines the eulogist a speech, watching as the rain splashes down on everything in sight. I have only seconds to come to a conclusion. It never truly seems real until it's staring you in the face.

He turns towards me, wide-eyed and curious. And suddenly, I wonder how many times he's been in this position. How many times he's watched as loved ones cry away their pain, sinking down to the point of no return. Aunt May is the first to go, the first one to lose herself to her grief.

How am I'm staying so strong?

The priest nods lightly, hoping to catch my attention. I gather myself, wiping the rain drops from my eyes and look back up at him. He closes his book, eyes still trained on me. I realize that ignoring the problem will never make it go away without my help.

And I shake my head.

The priest steps down from his pedal-stool, bible and speech in tow. As he steps away from the stool, picking up the pulpit, the patch of dirt is revealed. The edges soggy and wet beneath a layer of rain water. The earth bunched up in the center, mounding out at the top to form a dome. Specks of grass sprinkled within it. I grit my teeth at the thought of him lying there, cold, pale, alone. I imagine his cheeks, sunken in and sharp, his rib cage hollowed out, empty, his once warm heart now sitting in a medical jar in some lab somewhere. The idea makes me sick to my stomach, eyes still focused on the grave; a six foot deep entrance to either heaven or hell.

I pray it's the latter.

Slowly, but surely, people rise from their seats, the black plastic, held together by cheap metal, Clanking and snapping as chairs collide. I get up with them, my drenched suit barely able to move. I stretch out the pants and sleeves to unravel the wrinkles. I was the last to head for the cars, the other ten or so people racing for their vehicles to avoid the worst the storm had to offer. Aunt May and her friend Anna shoulder-to-shoulder as they march on. I scan the crowd, shuffling my steps, my eyes meeting a sea of grey and white hair. I barely even know these people, and while I recognize that they were his friends, and some Aunt May's, I still wish they would disappear, leave me and Aunt May to our own grievances. Especially one certain person, who deep down, I didn't actually hate. I just needed to keep a clear head.

And she was heading right for me.

She distracted me in every possible, emotional way. The way the dress fit her slender body, the ail of mystery the black veil added, the way her purse bobbled in the crock of her arm as she held the umbrella above her head. All it did was distract me. I couldn't take my eyes off as she headed up the slight incline towards me. I was tempted to avoid her, swerve through the crowd, toward the hearse where Aunt May and I were supposed to sit. But something deep down inside me kept me where I was, stopped me in my tracks, waiting for her voice to send goosebumps up my spine. Trying to clear my mind, I looked down, watching as the grass sway and bend to the will of the wind. Before I knew it, she was on me, her shadow, draping over me.

I looked up at her, admiring the flow of her deep, red hair as a gust of wind ran past. "Hey…" I muttered.

"Peter…" She sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, MJ." My voice had become slightly agitated and I regretted it instantly, but given the moment, I figured it would slide.

She looked at me with sad eyes, the dark eyeliner highlighting her vivid, green pupils. I opened my mouth to say something, but shut it, my throat hoarse, dry. She grabbed me and pulled me in to her. She wrapped her arms around my back, resting her chin on my shoulder. I stood limply as the goosebumps rose up my back. The crack of lighting. The roar of thunder. I placed my hands on her hips, ready to push her off to help me concentrate, but found that I couldn't. My arms had turned to jelly, my muscles giving out on me. I gave in and hugged her, accepting her embrace. The hug was warm and inviting and I was actually glad to have given in.

She released me, my arms reluctantly dropping to my sides. She smiled, nodded, and turned around towards the cars. I watched her walk away into the relentless rain, watched as she headed down the incline, watched as the wind took control of her hair again. I watched until my fingers went numb from the rain, until Aunt May called my name from the passenger seat in the hearse. And even as I opened the door to the car and stepped into the back seat, despite all this, I still thought of him.

And I would continue to think of him until the day I'm there beside him.

xXx

I shouldn't have taken the bus. Should have flown. City looks more civilized from up there.

The bus is cramped, dirty, old. The smell of age-old leather and body odor pollutes my nose. The seats are stained an ugly black, the silver piping rusted and greasy. I readjusted in my seat, the wallet in my back pocket scratching at the bus seat, the person next to me falling over onto my shoulder, passed out, the smell of whiskey on his breath. Water splashed the window as I looked outside, pressing my forehead against the glass, I noticed storm clouds converging over the island. The blue sky I had seen hours before had become a mixing palette of grey and black. Rolling thunder initiated by sparks of lightning hailing from the sky.

More rain. There's barely any rain in San Diego. I haven't seen the sun in hours.

The pristine, silver skyscrapers of Midtown were slowly, but surely, vanishing from sight. The streets-once full of men in business suits and ties, dripping of rain water-were slowly shifting to ratty clothing and bad hygiene. The buildings were becoming smaller, weaker, run down, their brick exteriors slowly being chipped away at by years of erosion. Judging by the change in view, I assumed we were almost at my new apartment in Harlem, a few miles from the local police precinct. I pulled back the sleeve to my jacket, exposing my wrist watch.

6:51 PM.

I furrowed my brow. In nine minutes, the bus ride would have reached the seven hour mark. The rain pecking at the bus window was methodic and soothing. It put my mind at ease. I didn't want the job, I never would have taken it if the pay wasn't so damn good. As I looked out the window, a black hearse passed by, a rather depressed teenager sitting in the back seat, his dark hair matted and sticky against his skull.

Poor kid.

The bus came to a screeching halt only a minute or two later, the brakes squealing as they held the wheels in place, the rusted axils creaking as they forced themselves to stop rotating. The bus pulled forward and then shapely back again, my body swaying with it. The drunk next to me slapped the back of his head on the metal bar on the front of the seat behind us. He grumbled to himself, cursing under his breath as he massaged the back of his head. I waited for him to get up from his seat, the leather breathing as he stood. I followed closely behind. A larger man, wearing no jacket with piercings and tattoos all across his body, pushed his away in front of me, knocking my luggage to the bus floor.

"Excuse you." I snarled, bending down to pick up my suitcase.

As I stood back up, I saw the man facing me, snarling.

"What'd ya say?"

Shit…

"I said 'Excuse you.'"

The larger man, clenched his fists, knuckles cracking. I knew where this was going and I knew how to deal with it. My eyes met his and we stared intensely at each other for a long time, neither of us making the first move. The bus driver got up from the seat to calm down the man, but he was too slow. The man sent a fist hurdling towards my face. I lifted the suitcase in front of the strike, his hand colliding with the luggage, denting the plastic. He moaned in pain and I used the opportunity to hit him across the face with the already dented suitcase. He stumbled with the hit, grabbing the seat to his left. I dropped the suitcase and landed a clean shot to the jaw. He staggered back, disoriented, out of joint. To finish it off, I grabbed his neck with my left hand, my thumb and middle finger pressing down on pressure points directly beneath the jaw, and slammed him down onto the bus floor. He lay there gasping for breath, moaning and writhing in pain.

Leaving the bus, mangled suitcase in my left hand, the bus driver gave me a suspicious look.

"Military training." I stated, exiting the bus.

The rain had become downpour, the puddles on the sidewalk leaping with life as raindrops broke the tension of the standing water. People scurried and raced about, trying to find cover from the incoming storm. I pulled up the collar on my trench coat and held the suitcase over my head as I headed down the street to the entrance of the bus terminal. A man, in a t-shirt, brushed past me, knocking the suitcase from my hand. He kept moving, leaving me to pick it up, again. I bent down to get it, when a sense of fear grabbed me.

My wallet!

I turned around, the man already out of sight and checked my pocket. It was still there.

Thank God.

I pressed through the front doors to the terminal, squeezing past the line waiting to get out which had clumped together into a mob. My wet shoes slapped the tile floor of the terminal, my clothes dripping of rain.

"Stacy! George Stacy!"

I looked up to see a man, few inches taller than me with jet black hair and a similar trench coat as me. His jaw was squared off and clean-shaven, arms they size of my head.

I approached the man, slightly cautious. "Yes…?"

The man shrugged slightly, smiling. Waiting for a different reaction.

"Frank. Frank Castle. I'm the Captain! We talked on the phone."

"Oh, Frank! Man, you look entirely different than what I expected." I gasped, dropping my suitcase and holding my hand out for a handshake.

He took my hand with a firm grip and shook it once. "For better or for worse?" He smiled again, walking over to my side and wrapping his arm around my shoulders. My head lined up to his armpit.

"I was expecting…smaller."

"You don't get a Green Beret being a runt."

No, I suppose you don't.

"You're military?"

"Yes, sir."

"Me too. Small world."

His face lit up and he gripped my shoulder tighter. "'Bout time we got another vet on the team. C'mon, let's take a walk."

I picked up my suitcase, following him to the door. My footsteps clicking against the tile floor, the loudspeaker announcing the arrival of a bus, the light, elevator music playing in the background. All it did was give me a headache. We approached the line for the exit, Frank reaching into his pocket. He headed to the front, waving me over. I hesitated, not quite sure what he was doing. Halfway up the line, he turned, waving me over again, slightly more urgent this time. Reluctantly, I gave in and followed him to the front.

Frank moved up to the first person in life; a middle-aged man with a coat and suitcase, and shoved him aside.

"What the hell, man?" He barked, shoving Frank back.

Frank bared his teeth, showing his badge. "NYPD." He leaned in on the man who's defense had weakened largely. "Next time, I'll show you my gun."

The man stepped back, lowering his head. Frank put the badge away and stepped out into the rain, pulling the top of his trench coat over his head. I stepped up to the man who was taking his spot back in line. When he saw me, in a similar suit as Frank, he backed up urgently, lowering his head again.

"I'm sorry." I whispered, gently sliding past him and back into the downpour.

The two of us walked briskly down the street, civilians brushing past just as fast. The rain had, somehow, become harder in the few minutes I was inside the bus terminal, my face numbing as the rain attacked. I looked over at Frank who looked completely unaffected by the rain.

Must be that Green Beret training. Heh.

"Any family, Georgie?" He suddenly spoke up, not even looking at me.

"I prefer George."

"Sure you do, Georgie."

I shook my head, ignoring the immaturity of the name. "Yeah, I do. An ex-wife and a daughter."

"You bring her to New York?"

"My daughter?"

"Or your ex-wife?" He smirked.

"No. I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Helen-my ex-wife, in case you didn't put that together-didn't want me to bring her to New York. She said she might bring her over if she changes her mind, but for the time being, the two of them are staying in San Diego."

I pray Helen keeps her there.

"Typical family man." Frank commented, wiping his face with the palm of his hand.

"What about you?" My turn to pry.

"Well, I have a beautiful wife and two kids; one boy, one girl." He smiled, obviously proud.

"Big family."

"Yeah, I-" He began.

A man in grubby clothing and torn pants, walking next to Frank on his left side at the moment, sneezed.

Frank stopped in his tracks, turning toward the man and looking at his sleeve. I stopped with him. "Did you just sneeze on me?"

"I'm so sorry, sir. I'm a bit under the weather." He looked up at the sky and laughed to himself. I smiled with the man.

Frank didn't find it so funny. He swung out his forearm, striking the sick man's neck. The man coughed and sputtered, holding his throat. Following through with momentum, Frank landed a blow with his right hand to the man's nose. The man fell to the floor, barely conscious, not trained to taking in strikes from a Green Beret.

Frank bent down to the man staring at the sky, eyes hazy and glazed over. "New coat. You're lucky I don't make you pay for the dry cleaning." He gave the man a playful slap on the cheek and stood up, wiping his sleeve up his hand. He turned towards me. "Let's go."

I followed Frank slowly, body turned so that I was moving forward but looking back. The man's head bobbled off the side of the curb, his back drenched in a puddle. The wind picked up and tossed garbage across him. The other citizens ignored him, one man even stepping over the his legs to avoid tripping.

New York...

I pray, again, that Helen keeps Gwen.

xXx

I shut the door as fast as I could after Aunt May entered the house. Despite the rain, she still moves slowly, taking her time to enter the home. The picture frames rattle as I shut the door, lights shake. I loosen the tie from around my neck, massaging the raw patch of skin underneath my shirt. I let the tie hang limply and unbutton my jacket.

Ahhh...

It does wonders to relax me. Being dressed up was never my forte. The house is warm, relaxing. The tan walls and orange-tinted lights putting me in a slightly better mood. Looking ahead, I see Aunt May somberly climbing the steps to the second floor. For a woman in her fifties, she's moving terribly. Her back is slightly arched, her brown hair turning white at the temples. She hasn't had time to dye it since he died. The dark, brown rug beneath her absorbing the dripping rain water.

"Do you want something to drink?" I ask, shrugging, sliding my left hand into my pants pocket.

"No, Peter, I'm okay…I'm just tired."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, Peter."

The conversation is an eerie call-back to the one me and MJ shared. I feel like a hypocrite for putting Aunt May in the same position I so hated.

With nothing left to say, Aunt May continues up the stairs and into the first room on the left, the door shutting quietly behind her. I sigh, rubbing my temples and move further into the house. To my left is a small nightstand with a vase of flowers and a mirror on the wall above it. Atop the mirror is a clock, hung tightly by screws. I step up to the table and look at the clock.

7:44 PM.

Eight hours of mourning is too tiring for anyone, especially Aunt May. I don't blame her for going to bed so early.

As I drop my eyes to leave for the kitchen, I spy myself in the mirror.

The view is disturbing. My eyes were hollowed out, bloodshot and dark around the edges. My skin, pale. I look sick…or dead. Ever since he died, I hadn't truly eaten anything. The rain probably didn't help, either. I instantly became hungry with the thought of food on my mind. Wasting no time, I enter the kitchen, the bright linoleum walls and excess lighting blinding me. I dim down the lights and lazily make myself a ham sandwich. The meat's torn and hanging from the bread which is soaked in mayonnaise. It is not a good looking sandwich.

Not my best work, but it'll suffice.

I fall into the chair and take my first bite of the sandwich. The mayonnaise is stronger than the ham and bread giving the whole thing a very creamy, fake taste, but I was hungry and it was doing its job. As I take my next bite, my eyes wander over to that same table with the mirror and clock. I admire the empty spot beside the flowers and stare at it for a while. It takes me a second, but I eventually realize what it needs. I leave my sandwich on the table and creep up the stairs to the second floor. The door opens quietly and I enter Aunt May's room as soundless as possible. I spot the object I'm looking for on her dresser. She's already fast asleep, her face cushioned by the pillow. She's still wearing her black dress, the umbrella lying on the floor by the bed. My fingers curl around the wooden square and I start for the door. Before I leave, I pull a blanket over Aunt May and shut off the lights.

I head back down the stairs as quietly as I went up them and step out onto the first floor, heading for the nightstand beside the door. The object clicks subtly as I place it on the table, sliding it to the perfect angle and step back, admiring my work. I can make out my reflection in the mirror out of the edge of my vision, but ignore the sight. Satisfied, I turn and go back to my food. I fall into the chair once again, the wood creaking with age. My legs are numb and aching and I'm happy to be able to sit down. I look over at the table as I eat, my mouth chewing on autopilot.

The flowers bring a sense of respect.

The picture of him is a nice touch.

xXx

I drag my feet along the carpeted floor of the police station's second floor, a female detective walks past me putting on a coat and hat, briefcase in hand. I turn the corner and scale the steps to the third and final floor. I peel back my sleeve and check my watch; a feat easier said than done with my arm shaking from walking.

8:31 PM

A minute late. Not bad.

When I reach the third floor, I enter a newer, cleaner hallway, the option to go left at the top of the stairs blocked by a white colored wall. To my right, a short hallway-barely thirty feet long-a wooden door with the word 'Commissioner' embroidered on the one-way glass window. An officer in typical police garb guards the door, hands behind his back, a pistol in his holster. The hat casts a menacing shadow over his eyes. I ignore the man and head for the door, my left hand reaching out for the door knob. He holds out his hand to stop me before I even touch the handle.

"Name?" He asks professionally with great posture.

"George…George Stacy. The Commissioner is expecting me."

"Hold on."

And with that, he disappears behind the door. I take a deep breath, not quite sure what to expect from the Commissioner.

The city's falling down the shitter and he's the man that's supposed to prevent it from being flushed away. It doesn't seem like he's doing a damn thing.

After about twenty seconds the door reopens and the same man steps out of the room.

"You're clear."

I nod awkwardly, smiling to show my pleasure and reach for the door knob again.

"Woah, wait." He barks, holding me back by the shoulder. "That stays." He points to my briefcase.

I comply, not really giving a damn if I bring my clothes and toothbrush into the Commissioner's office.

The room reeks of cigar smoke and liquor. Behind the layer of smoke lies a large room with dark, wood flooring and red walls. A Victorian-Age desk near the back wall, two chairs of the same fashion placed in front of it. A row of bookshelves line the wall behind it. The Commissioner sits behind the desk, taking a drag of a fat cigar, an ashtray on the right, an empty bottle of liquor and a shot glass on the left. He looks up at me as I close the door, and coughs, his welcome temporally suspend.

"Come in, come in." He managed to make out before falling into another fit of coughing.

The amount of smoke in the room is clogging my throat, but I ignore the feeling and take a seat in the chair on the left.

"You're Stacy, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Commissioner Miller." He extends out his hand for a handshake, dirt and grime lodged under his finger nails. A jewel-encrusted wedding ring on his finger.

I take the hand and give it a squeeze.

"I called you here for a reason, I hope you realize." His pasty, white face stretches with each word. "We need a good cop. No. A great cop." Another cough. "I trust you can do this. Especially after reading over your resume."

"I won't let you down." I guarantee.

"No, I didn't think so." He knocks the cigar over the ashtray, the smoldering bits of tobacco and paper drifting off into the plastic dish. "I have your first assignment already…If you're up for it."

"I don't even know what it is."

He leans over to his left, opening a draw on the desk and pulling out a manilla folder. With a dirty hand, he presses it in my face.

"Take a look."

I grab the folder, gaze switching between his receding hairline and the folder. When I open it up, a mugshot of a wiry man with stubble and a crooked nose grace the inside. The picture is black-n-white, the smell of fresh xerox fills my nose. The pictures new.

"Name's Carradine. A lackey for the mob and heroin addict."

I flipped the page to a crime scene report, a bagged bullet paper-clipped to the top of the page.. The paper details the murder of one 'Ben Parker', aged fifty-nine. Shot a few miles outside his home in Forrest Hills, Queens. The bullet lodged in his chest, heart exploded. His car; a white sedan, was reported missing as well.

"Pulled this little stunt a couple days ago." the Commissioner adds, dropping the rest of his cigar in the tray.

"All for the car?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Needed the car for a quick get-a-way after having lost some money for the Kingpin."

My eyes trace the paper quickly, once more. There is nothing here about this 'Kingpin.'

"I'm sorry, sir, but where on this report does it detail that last part?"

He looks up at me, slightly befuddled. "It's in another report." He adds silently, leaning back in the chair.

"Oh…" Is all I manage to say.

"So…taking the case? Or do I have to find another Lieutenant?" His voice has reached its normal volume again and he smiles.

I extend my hand, folder still open across my lap. "You'll get my best work."

"I count on it." He acknowledges my hand and gives it a strong shake. "I'll see you first thing in the morning."

I stand up, forgetting the folder was in my lap and watch as the papers dance along the floor. Rolling my eyes, I bend down to pick them up. I notice a new paper lying face down.

Must have been stuck to the back of the report.

I turn it over and notice that it's a handful of photographs of the deceased. The largest picture in the center shows the man from the chest up, the face pointed directly at the camera, eyes shut, a blood stain on the left breast. I look at the man's face and a familiar feeling floods my mind. I look over the features of the man's face, hoping to see if I know the man. Nothing comes up, but for some reason…

…I keep seeing the boy in the hearse.