Starstruck's anger flashes away for a moment. Sal Petrucci. He owns that deli, yeah, probably. He's just a civilian, like so many others running from these buildings. It's too late for some of them, but he can't focus on that right now.
Anger gives way to recognition, to fear, but there's still the tinge of it. The feeling that the people who created this situation deserve to burn for it, for Starstruck's parents, for the way they've treated Starstruck himself (what does that mean, Peter wonders somewhere inside, but there are no answers).
Part of him thinks that it doesn't matter. They're all complicit, holding up heroes as shining symbols when the system is fucked up. Part of him knows better. These people are victims, too.
His victims. Oh god.
"I…I can't," he says, less rage, more uncertainty. "I can't turn this off." But he's holding steady for just a few moments, the energy still rushing around them, but not expanding again yet.
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Anger gives way to recognition, to fear, but there's still the tinge of it. The feeling that the people who created this situation deserve to burn for it, for Starstruck's parents, for the way they've treated Starstruck himself (what does that mean, Peter wonders somewhere inside, but there are no answers).
Part of him thinks that it doesn't matter. They're all complicit, holding up heroes as shining symbols when the system is fucked up. Part of him knows better. These people are victims, too.
His victims. Oh god.
"I…I can't," he says, less rage, more uncertainty. "I can't turn this off." But he's holding steady for just a few moments, the energy still rushing around them, but not expanding again yet.