Broken Wings, Heavy Hearts

Soren didn't say much to Steve, only murmured softly, "Clark didn't hurt me."

—He just killed Billy.

—And broke Batman's spine.

Soren's face paled involuntarily.

Steve sighed.

His deep blue eyes met Soren's, steady as the ocean, "Soren, this is a war for all of humanity. And in war, there will always be sacrifices."

Soren closed his eyes.

War.

How could he not know war?

He had come to this world from a war-torn one himself…

But every drop of blood spilled in war weighed heavily on him.

…No sacrifice could ever be forgotten.

No one's blood could ever be ignored.

He wasn't afraid of war.

What terrified him was that too many people would have to sacrifice themselves for this war.

…If only he could be the only one to sacrifice.

Why couldn't it just be him?

He tilted his head to the side as a few faint noises came from the doorway.

Steve glanced back, his eyes sweeping over the two figures at the entrance before he turned to Soren and said, "Someone wants to see you."

"Who?"

The door was pushed open hesitantly, and a tousled head peeked in.

A young face, still bearing traces of boyishness, looked awkward and uncertain. "…It's me."

His voice dropped lower. "...Peter Parker."

He was wearing his red and black Spider-Man suit, with a metallic-looking spider emblem on his chest, but his mask was off, leaving his messy brown hair sticking up at odd angles.

His wide eyes, like a nervous puppy afraid of rejection, hesitantly met Soren's gaze.

Soren: "...Peter."

The boy had grown a lot since the last time Soren saw him.

Back then, he was just starting college, a gangly teenager, but now he had clearly matured into a tall, athletic young man with strong limbs and a confident bearing.

Peter closed the door quietly behind him and slowly walked over to Soren, "Tony, Tony told me the person he brought back was you—"

"What happened to your leg, Peter?" Soren suddenly interrupted, his gaze dropping to Spider-Man's left leg.

What should have been a long, agile leg was now replaced from the middle of the shin downward with a sleek metal prosthetic, where flesh and bone once belonged.

Peter followed Soren's gaze and looked down at his own left leg.

He awkwardly shifted, hiding the metal prosthetic behind his right leg, scratching his head. "Oh, this… Tony made it for me. It's the upgraded third-gen mechanical spider leg!"

His tone even carried a hint of pride.

...But what was there to boast about?

His first instinct had been to hide that part of himself from Soren.

Soren clenched his fists.

His face was so pale it seemed almost translucent.

He moved his eyes away from Peter's leg, not wanting to press on wounds that still bled, and changed the subject, "So, you absolutely needed an autograph from Angemon, Peter?"

"Uh—what? Oh, autograph—no, no, that's not why I came! I mean, yes, I do want an autograph, but that's not why I'm here!" Peter stammered, tripping over his own words.

He managed to fumble out several "no's" before realizing Soren was teasing him.

"..." Peter's expression was filled with sadness, the guilt that had weighed heavily on him for years now threatening to crush him completely.

He slumped into a chair beside the hospital bed, head hanging low. "I just wanted to come and apologize... I'm really sorry, for what happened in Gotham. It was because Killer Croc had kidnapped a doctor from New York. I chased him all the way to Gotham to rescue the doctor—"

...The sight of Angemon falling in that alley had haunted his nightmares for a long time.

His white wings that were scattered like butterfly fragments, dissolving into the vast black sky.

The angel had fallen into the abyss, yet still reached out a hand, begging for help.

And Peter... he hadn't been able to catch him.

All the webs he shot out in desperation—none of them managed to catch the angel falling from the sky.

—How absurd.

He could use his webs to stop a bus from plummeting off the Brooklyn Bridge, but he couldn't save an angel from falling.

Peter had watched, helpless, as Angemon vanished in a flash of light, revealing a face that was both familiar and too terrifying for him to acknowledge.

He had panicked.

Completely.

He didn't know what to do.

How could he have imagined that the Angemon he idolized for so long had been right beside him all along?

He hadn't been able to help at all.

All he could do was watch as the Batmobile roared away and then collapsed to the ground, utterly stunned.

By the time he saw Soren again, it was at his funeral.

Tony had brought him to the funeral, and Peter had felt more out of place than ever—overcome with guilt and despair like he had never known.

Peter had joined the others in stopping Superman when he had gone mad, trying to dig up the freshly buried coffin.

He'd wrapped his webs around Superman's hands, only for Superman to tear them apart effortlessly.

Superman had turned, his eyes glowing crimson, teetering on the edge of insanity.

Peter had felt an overwhelming sense of dread, causing him to step back instinctively.

Since that day, everything has changed.

Everything kept getting worse, each day darker than the one before.

For a long time, Peter had questioned himself over and over, wondering if everything that had happened could have been avoided.

If he had just caught the angel falling in front of him, would things have been different?

Would any of this have happened if he hadn't gone to Gotham that day?

Peter didn't know the answer.

And he was terrified to find out.

The young man, his soft brown hair tousled, slumped in his seat, covering his face with his hands, shoulders trembling as if he were about to cry.

Soren blinked at him.

Puzzled, he asked, "What are you apologizing for?"