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Kaine slammed through the Fairway Market doors, precious cargo hidden in his arm under a strip of magenta cape. Civilians shouted as he pushed past them, so he ran and shoved all the harder. The last thing he needed was to get stuck in a fight or, God forbid, get caught. If he let this be the reason his father found him (or finally showed himself, at least–he couldn't be sure if the Jackal knew where he was or not), he would finally end himself, so much for sticking around to give his brother a fighting chance.
As soon as he made it to an empty alley, he clawed his way up the closest wall and landed in a pile with his box on the roof. He was panting. He wouldn't have thought that a store full of regular humans could be so intimidating, but there had been so many of them, and they had stared at him, the freaks! No matter how much cloth he piled on top of himself, no matter what grand cape he used to soften his form, no matter how confidently he burst through the doors, it was like they could see through him to some ugly weak spot that they wanted to swarm and tear into the way some of his less-complete brothers had tried to before perishing at his hand.
The line of thought was making his head pound against his skull, and he did not feel like having an episode, so he pushed all thoughts of fathers and clone brothers and originals aside and ripped into the box for one of the pouches inside.
He had destroyed so many of these, and other things the original Peter Parker enjoyed, just to spite him, and just to prove that despite the odd assortment of fragmented memories he'd received from Peter in his creation, he was different. Peter never saw him destroy anything, and if the hazy memories were any indication, he wouldn't care or guess what he was doing and why anyway, but it felt good to quash the sentiment and physically stomp on any representation of the memories unfairly rattling around in his head, so he indulged himself whenever he was having a particularly terrible day.
Today, though... He couldn't explain it to himself, and didn't want to, but he craved comfort, so with clumsy hands, he slid the thin straw into the Capri-Sun and sipped, resting this once in the guilty fantasy that his enjoyment of it was his own.