Spider-Man looked a little embarrassed. First of all, his bedroom was small, and much of it had not fully shed its childhood look. Behind him was a common loft bed with a desk underneath. The little table he ate at was an old coffee table, but the stools were those colorful plastic triangular ones for children, shaped like cartoon characters. They were round and cute, but the paint on their legs had long since worn away.
The posters on his walls were outdated too. New posters cost more, so he could only dig through old poster bundles at newsstands and piece them together. His comic books were all old as well, because he simply could not afford new ones. Even the carpet had a ridiculous puppy pattern, worn so thin it was starting to fuzz.
Without a doubt, in an American school environment, this would have made him a target for ridicule and bullying. That was why Spider-Man had never invited a single friend to his house. Otherwise, he would have become the biggest joke in the entire school. He would have ended up with a nickname like "Baby Peter," though his current nickname was not much better.
With an outsider suddenly appearing in his bedroom, Spider-Man seemed utterly at a loss. His hands went behind his back, then fidgeted in front of him. He shrank into the corner as much as possible, leaving what little space there was for the muscular Jason.
Jason was a little too muscular. To say it again, he could even block Arkham Batman in a room so thoroughly that he could not move. If he stretched even slightly, he could knock the lampshade off the ceiling with his head. If he loosened up a little more, the already rickety loft bed would be completely