Three weeks into his new life as Peter Parker, Marcus had come to accept several fundamental truths about his existence.
First: being Spider-Man was the most fulfilling thing he had ever done in either of his lives, and he would not trade it for anything, not even a return to his original body and timeline and the comfortable mediocrity of his previous existence.
Second: Stick was, without question, the most terrifying human being Marcus had ever encountered, and that included the giant lizard monster he had fought on his first day as a superhero.
Third: he was starting to think of himself as Peter now. Not Marcus-in-Peter's-body, not the-guy-who-used-to-be-Marcus, but just... Peter. The name felt right in a way that his old name no longer did, like the soul and the body were finally synchronizing after weeks of uncomfortable adjustment.
Fourth: his spider-sense was developing a very annoying habit of tingling whenever certain female classmates were nearby, and Peter had absolutely no idea what that was about and had decided to ignore it completely because he had more important things to worry about than whatever weird biological nonsense his enhanced nervous system was trying to communicate.
These truths crystallized in his mind as he lay on the training mats of Stick's basement gym, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember how to breathe after his mentor had just demonstrated, for approximately the hundredth time that week, that knowing an attack was coming and being able to do anything about it were two very different things.
"You're getting slower," Stick observed, standing over Peter's prone form with the casual disinterest of someone who had beaten up more talented students than this one and expected to beat up many more before he died. "Your reaction time is decreasing. Your technique is slipping. What's wrong?"
Peter wheezed something that might have been words if his diaphragm was cooperating.
"Use actual language," Stick said. "I can't hear you if you're just making dying animal noises."
"School," Peter managed, forcing himself to sit up despite every muscle in his body screaming protests. "Homework. Patrol. Not enough sleep. Also you keep hitting me really hard and that takes a lot out of a person."
Stick's expression didn't change, but something in the set of his shoulders suggested he might have been slightly amused.
"You're trying to do too much," he said. "Spreading yourself thin across multiple responsibilities instead of focusing on what matters."
"Everything matters," Peter protested. "School matters because Aunt May will worry if my grades drop. Patrol matters because people need help. Training matters because I need to be better. I can't just pick one and ignore the others."
"Then you need to become more efficient," Stick said. "Stop wasting energy on things that don't require it. Sleep less, train smarter, patrol with purpose instead of wandering around hoping to stumble across crimes."
"Sleep less? I'm already running on like four hours a night!"
"Your body doesn't need as much sleep as a normal person's," Stick said. "The spider physiology has altered your baseline requirements. You could function on two hours if you trained yourself properly, though I wouldn't recommend going that low regularly."
Peter stared at him. "How do you know so much about spider physiology? I've been meaning to ask that. Among, you know, the many other questions I have about your whole deal."
Stick was quiet for a moment, his blind eyes staring at nothing while his other senses processed information that Peter couldn't even imagine.
"I've been fighting the supernatural and the enhanced for a very long time," he said finally. "I've encountered spider-totems before. Different from you—more mystical, less scientific—but similar enough that I can extrapolate."
"Spider-totems?" Peter repeated, his mind immediately racing through every piece of Spider-Man lore he could remember from his previous life. "Like... the Web of Life and Destiny? The Great Weaver? That whole cosmic spider mythology thing?"
Stick's head tilted slightly, the first sign of genuine interest Peter had seen from him since they'd started training.
"You know about the Web," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I know... some things," Peter said carefully. "From before. From my previous life. I read a lot of comics, and some of them got into the whole spider-totem mythology. I always thought it was kind of cool, if a little weird compared to the more grounded stories."
"It's not mythology," Stick said. "It's reality. The Web exists. The totems exist. And you, Peter Parker, are connected to it whether you like it or not."
Peter absorbed this information with the calm acceptance of someone who had already accepted that he was a reincarnated comic book fan living inside the body of a fictional character in a universe where magic and science and cosmic entities all coexisted in a complicated soup of narrative possibility.
"Cool," he said. "Does that give me any extra powers I should know about?"
"Not yet. Maybe not ever. The Web is... complicated. It doesn't give gifts freely. But it might explain why your soul ended up here instead of wherever souls normally go when their bodies die."
Peter thought about that for a moment. Thought about the circumstances of his death—hit by a truck while reading a Reddit argument about Spider-Man—and the cosmic irony of ending up as Spider-Man as a result.
"You think the Web chose me?" he asked. "Like, deliberately pulled my soul from one universe to another and stuck it in Peter Parker's body?"
"I think the Web doesn't do anything by accident," Stick said. "But I also think you shouldn't waste time worrying about cosmic forces you can't control. Focus on what's in front of you. Become stronger. Become better. Let the universe sort out its own mysteries."
He extended a hand toward Peter, offering to help him up.
"Now. Again. And this time, try not to telegraph your blocks so obviously. You might as well be sending me a written invitation to hit you."
Peter groaned, accepted the hand, and prepared for another round of getting his ass kicked in the name of self-improvement.
It was nearly midnight when Peter finally left Stick's gym, his body aching in places he hadn't known could ache but his mind buzzing with the new techniques he'd learned. He changed into his Spider-Man costume in a nearby alley and launched himself into the night sky, planning to do a quick patrol sweep before heading home to catch whatever sleep he could before school.
The city was quieter at this hour, the streets emptier, the usual chaos of New York life settling into something approaching calm. Peter swung through Hell's Kitchen, then over to Midtown, then down toward the Financial District, his spider-sense a constant low hum of awareness that painted the city in shades of safety and danger.
He was passing through Chelsea when his spider-sense spiked—not the sharp alarm of immediate threat, but the subtler pulse of something worth paying attention to happening nearby.
Peter adjusted his trajectory, swinging toward the source of the signal, and landed on the roof of a brownstone overlooking a narrow street where something very interesting was happening.
Two figures were fighting in the alley below.
No, not fighting. Demolishing. One of the figures was systematically disassembling a group of what looked like gang members with a precision and economy of movement that Peter immediately recognized as professional martial arts training. Red costume, devil horns, billy clubs that moved like extensions of their wielder's arms—
Daredevil, Peter realized, his heart rate spiking with excitement. That's Daredevil. The Man Without Fear. One of the most skilled martial artists in the Marvel Universe. He's right there.
The other figure was equally impressive, though in a completely different way. Tall, muscular, dark-skinned, wearing civilian clothes that did nothing to disguise the fact that he was built like a tank. He was wading through gang members like they were made of paper, shrugging off punches and knife strikes with an indifference that suggested he was either incredibly tough or completely insane.
Luke Cage, Peter identified. Power Man himself. Unbreakable skin, superhuman strength, and a really unfortunate costume history that I'm glad this version seems to have avoided.
The fight—if it could even be called that—was over in less than a minute. The gang members were scattered across the alley in various states of unconsciousness, and Daredevil and Luke Cage were standing in the middle of the carnage looking like they'd barely broken a sweat.
Peter considered his options. On one hand, inserting himself into a situation that was clearly already handled seemed presumptuous. On the other hand, how many opportunities was he going to get to meet two of Marvel's most iconic street-level heroes?
Screw it, he decided. I'm going in.
He dropped from the rooftop, flipping twice in the air for no reason other than pure showing off, and landed in a crouch at the mouth of the alley.
"Evening, gentlemen!" Peter called out, adopting the cheerful tone he'd developed for his Spider-Man persona. "Beautiful night for beating up criminals, isn't it? Really getting that autumn crispness in the air. Perfect weather for vigilante justice."
Both heroes turned to face him, their postures shifting into combat readiness before relaxing slightly as they processed who—or what—they were looking at.
"Spider-Man," Daredevil said, his voice carrying that distinctive gravelly quality that Peter had always associated with the character. "I've been hearing about you."
"All good things, I hope," Peter said, straightening up and approaching with his hands visible and non-threatening. "Well, mostly good things. I know J. Jonah Jameson has been writing some pretty scathing editorials, but I like to think he's just jealous of my costume. His fashion sense stops at 'flat-top haircut and cigar,' so the bar is pretty low."
Luke Cage snorted, a sound of reluctant amusement. "Kid's got jokes."
"Kid's got more than jokes," Daredevil said, and there was something assessing in his tone, something that suggested he was perceiving Peter in ways that normal vision couldn't account for. "Your heartbeat is... unusual. Faster than normal but remarkably steady. And you move differently than most people. Like you're constantly aware of everything around you."
"Spider-powers," Peter explained. "Enhanced senses, danger-awareness, the whole package. I'm guessing you've got something similar going on, given the whole 'fighting blindfolded' aesthetic you've got there."
Daredevil's masked face didn't change expression, but Peter got the distinct impression that he was surprised.
"Most people don't notice that I'm blind," he said.
"Most people aren't trained by a terrifying old man who can hear a heartbeat from three blocks away," Peter replied. "Also, I've read your file. Metaphorically speaking."
"His file?" Luke Cage asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Long story. Involves cosmic nonsense and alternative universes. The point is, I know who you both are—or at least, who your counterparts are in the stories I grew up with—and I'm a huge fan. Daredevil, the Man Without Fear, defender of Hell's Kitchen. Luke Cage, Power Man, Hero for Hire. You guys are legends."
The two heroes exchanged a look that seemed to communicate an entire conversation in a single glance.
"You're different from what I expected," Daredevil said finally. "Based on the news reports, I was anticipating someone more... chaotic."
"I'm extremely chaotic," Peter assured him. "I just channel it into creative quipping and unconventional combat strategies instead of actual chaos. It's a subtle distinction, but an important one."
"The Lizard fight," Luke Cage said. "That was you, right? Lured the thing into a freezer to slow it down?"
"Reptiles are cold-blooded," Peter confirmed. "Seemed like the logical approach when direct confrontation was obviously suicide. I'm all about working smarter, not harder. Or, you know, working smarter AND harder, because apparently the universe has decided that I don't get to have an easy life."
Daredevil stepped closer, his head tilted in that particular way that suggested he was listening to something beyond the normal range of human hearing.
"You're young," he observed. "High school age, if I'm reading your physiological markers correctly. And you've been doing this for, what, a few weeks?"
"Three weeks, four days," Peter confirmed. "And yes, I know I'm young. But I'm also enhanced, well-trained—well, training—and highly motivated. Age is just a number, and that number is significantly less important than the number of people I can help."
"Who's training you?"
Peter hesitated. He wasn't sure how much Stick wanted his existence broadcast, or what the relationship between the blind martial artist and the blind superhero actually was in this universe.
"Someone who prefers to remain anonymous," he said carefully. "But someone very, very good. You might know him, actually. Scary old guy, likes to hit people a lot as a teaching method, makes cryptic statements about destiny and cosmic forces?"
Daredevil was quiet for a long moment.
"Stick," he said, and the name carried weight—history, emotion, complicated feelings that Peter couldn't fully parse.
"You do know him!" Peter said. "Small world. Or small city, I guess. Anyway, he's been teaching me how to not die in combat, which I really appreciate given my new lifestyle choice of getting punched by supervillains on a regular basis."
"Stick doesn't train just anyone," Daredevil said. "If he's taken an interest in you, it means he sees potential. It also means he sees usefulness, which isn't always the same thing. Be careful with him, Spider-Man. He has his own agenda, and he doesn't always share it with his students."
"Noted," Peter said. "I'll add 'don't fully trust the mysterious blind sensei' to my list of life advice, right below 'don't get hit by trucks' and 'always check expiration dates on web fluid cartridges.'"
Luke Cage laughed outright at that, a deep, genuine sound of amusement. "I like this kid, Matt. He's got spirit."
"He's going to get himself killed if he keeps throwing himself into situations without backup," Daredevil replied, but there was something almost fond in his tone now, the sharp edge of assessment softening into something approaching acceptance.
"That's fair criticism," Peter admitted. "I'm working on building a network. It's just, you know, hard to network when you're also going to high school full-time and training with a demanding mentor and patrolling the city every night and trying to keep your aunt from finding out that you're risking your life on a regular basis."
"You could join us," Luke Cage offered. "We've got a thing going. Street-level heroes looking out for each other. It's not formal, but it's something."
Peter felt a warmth bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of the night.
"I'd like that," he said. "I'd really, really like that. Fair warning, though—I talk a lot during fights. Like, a lot. It's a coping mechanism that I've chosen not to examine too closely."
"We noticed," Daredevil said dryly. "The criminals you've apprehended have been remarkably consistent in their complaints about the 'annoying guy in the mask who won't shut up.'"
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me," Peter replied, and he was only half joking.
They exchanged contact information—or rather, Daredevil gave Peter a burner phone number and instructions for a secure communication channel that the street-level hero community apparently used to coordinate activities. Luke Cage offered a firm handshake that Peter's enhanced strength barely managed to reciprocate without embarrassing himself.
And then, just like that, Peter had allies. Real allies. Heroes who knew what it was like to protect a city from the ground level, who understood the specific challenges of street-level crimefighting, who might actually have his back when things got too dangerous for one spider-powered teenager to handle alone.
He swung away from the alley feeling better than he had in weeks.
The good mood lasted approximately fourteen hours, until Peter walked into school the next morning and his spider-sense immediately started doing something weird.
It wasn't danger-weird. It wasn't the sharp alarm that preceded villain attacks or the subtle pulse that indicated crime in progress. It was more like... anticipation? Heightened awareness? A biological early warning system alerting him to the presence of something important without providing any context for what that something was or why it mattered?
Peter had learned to trust his spider-sense implicitly when it came to physical threats, but this was different. This was his enhanced biology trying to tell him something that his conscious mind couldn't translate, and it was extremely distracting.
The distraction intensified when he turned the corner toward his locker and almost walked directly into Gwen Stacy.
"Peter!" Gwen said, catching his arm to steady him—or maybe to steady herself, he wasn't sure—and smiling that brilliant smile that made his spider-sense tingle even more intensely for reasons he absolutely refused to examine. "I was just looking for you. We need to talk about the chemistry project."
"Right, the chemistry project," Peter said, trying to focus on her words instead of the way his enhanced senses were cataloging every detail of her appearance. The way her blonde hair caught the fluorescent light. The way her blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and warmth. The way her figure—
No, Peter told himself firmly. We are not doing this. We are not noticing things about Gwen Stacy's figure. She is a classmate. She is a lab partner. She is absolutely not someone whose physical attributes we should be paying any attention to whatsoever.
But his traitorous brain noticed anyway. Noticed that Gwen was... developed. More developed than Peter remembered high school girls being, though admittedly his memories of high school were from a previous life and might not be reliable. Her sweater fit her in ways that suggested the universe had very specific ideas about her proportions, ideas that seemed designed to test Peter's commitment to remaining professional and focused.
"Peter?" Gwen asked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Are you okay? You look a little flushed."
"Fine!" Peter said, his voice coming out slightly higher than intended. "Totally fine. Just, uh, didn't sleep well. Chemistry project. Yes. What about it?"
"We need to choose our topic by Friday," Gwen reminded him, apparently accepting his explanation without question. "I was thinking we could do something with polymer science? I know you've been really into that lately, based on the supplies I've seen you ordering for your 'personal projects.'"
Peter felt a brief spike of panic before reminding himself that Gwen had no way of knowing his "personal projects" involved synthesizing web fluid for superhero activities.
"Polymer science sounds great," he agreed. "I've got some ideas about tensile strength enhancement and structural integrity modifications that could make for a really interesting presentation."
Gwen's eyes lit up with academic enthusiasm. "That sounds perfect! We should meet up after school to brainstorm. Maybe at the coffee shop on—"
"PETER PARKER!"
The voice cut through the hallway chatter like a knife through butter, and Peter turned to see a figure approaching that made his spider-sense go absolutely haywire for reasons he still couldn't identify.
Red hair. The kind of vibrant, unmistakable red that looked like it had been specifically designed to draw attention and hold it. Green eyes that sparkled with an energy that seemed to fill the entire hallway with its presence. A face that was beautiful in a way that transcended conventional attractiveness and entered the territory of "possibly unfair to everyone else in the immediate vicinity."
And a body that—
Oh no, Peter thought, as his brain registered the approaching figure's proportions and immediately started screaming at him. Oh no oh no oh no.
The girl—because she was definitely a high school student despite having the figure of someone who should probably be modeling for sports illustrated—was walking toward him with a confidence that suggested she owned the hallway and everyone in it. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that should have been unremarkable but somehow looked like a fashion statement on her frame.
"You're Peter Parker, right?" the girl asked, stopping directly in front of him and extending a hand. "I'm Mary Jane Watson. My aunt just moved in next door to your aunt. She's been telling me I absolutely have to meet you."
Peter shook her hand automatically, his brain struggling to process multiple inputs simultaneously. Mary Jane Watson. MJ. The other most significant love interest in Spider-Man's history. Standing right in front of him. Looking like that.
What the hell kind of universe was this where high school girls looked like supermodels? Was this just a comic book thing? Was the narrative structure of the universe literally enhancing the physical attributes of significant characters? Was Peter going crazy?
"Nice to meet you," Peter managed, releasing her hand before the contact could become awkward. "Welcome to the neighborhood."
"Thanks!" MJ said, her smile revealing perfect teeth and dimples that should probably be registered as weapons. "I've heard so much about you from Aunt Anna. She says you're some kind of genius, which is funny because you don't look like a genius. You look more like a superhero. You know, with those shoulders and that jaw thing you've got going on."
Peter blinked. Was she... flirting with him? That couldn't be right. They'd literally just met. And he was Peter Parker, the nerdy kid from Queens who had only recently stopped being socially invisible. Girls who looked like Mary Jane Watson didn't flirt with guys like him.
Right?
"I'm definitely not a superhero," Peter said, which was technically a lie but felt important to establish. "Just a regular student. Very boring. Nothing interesting happening here."
Gwen cleared her throat, and Peter suddenly remembered that she was still standing there, watching this entire interaction with an expression that he couldn't quite read.
"Hi," Gwen said, extending her hand toward MJ with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm Gwen Stacy. Peter and I are lab partners."
"Oh, how nice!" MJ said, shaking Gwen's hand with that same vibrant energy. "It's great to meet you too. I'm sure we'll all be great friends."
The way she said "friends" carried undertones that Peter's spider-sense was desperately trying to translate and failing completely.
"Anyway," MJ continued, turning back to Peter with a brightness that was almost overwhelming, "I'll see you around, Tiger. Don't be a stranger!"
She swept off down the hallway, leaving a trail of turned heads and appreciative stares in her wake, and Peter stared after her with an expression that probably looked as confused as he felt.
"Tiger?" he repeated quietly.
Gwen made a sound that might have been a scoff or might have been a laugh.
"She seems... confident," Gwen said, her tone carefully neutral in a way that suggested it was anything but.
"Yeah," Peter agreed, still staring at the spot where MJ had disappeared around the corner. "That's definitely one word for it."
His spider-sense was still tingling, a persistent low-level awareness that something significant had just happened, something that his conscious mind couldn't fully process but his enhanced biology absolutely recognized as important.
Peter chose to ignore it. He had a chemistry project to plan, training to attend, and a city to protect. He didn't have time to worry about whatever his stupid spider-powers were trying to tell him about attractive female classmates.
Just focus on being Spider-Man, he told himself. Everything else is a distraction.
It was excellent advice.
He was going to completely fail to follow it.
The next two weeks passed in a blur of school, training, and patrol, punctuated by moments of social interaction that left Peter increasingly confused about the signals he was receiving.
MJ, true to her word, became a regular presence in his life. She showed up at his locker between classes, joined his and Gwen's lunch table without asking permission, and somehow managed to get his phone number despite him never actually giving it to her. She texted him constantly—jokes, memes, random observations about life in Queens—and Peter found himself responding despite his best intentions to maintain professional distance.
Gwen, meanwhile, had become more... present. She lingered after their lab sessions, found excuses to touch his arm during conversations, and started wearing perfume that his enhanced senses found increasingly difficult to ignore. Their study sessions for the chemistry project had evolved into coffee dates that Peter insisted were "just academic collaboration" despite the fact that they spent half the time talking about everything except schoolwork.
And then there was Black Cat.
Peter had encountered the leather-clad cat burglar during a patrol in Upper Manhattan, when she'd been in the process of stealing what turned out to be a very expensive diamond necklace from a very expensive penthouse apartment. He'd stopped her, obviously—that was his job—but she'd escaped before he could web her up, and their chase across the rooftops had evolved into something that felt less like pursuit and more like... flirtation?
"You're fast, Spider," Black Cat had purred, perched on a water tower and looking down at him with eyes that glittered in the moonlight. "Most heroes would have given up by now."
"I'm not most heroes," Peter had replied, trying to figure out how to apprehend her without destroying property or endangering civilians. "And you're not most thieves. That was some impressive acrobatics back there."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, handsome."
She'd blown him a kiss and disappeared into the night, and Peter had spent the rest of his patrol wondering why his spider-sense had been tingling in a way that felt distinctly non-threatening throughout the entire encounter.
It was all very confusing. Peter wasn't used to female attention—Marcus Chen certainly hadn't been, and Peter Parker's pre-spider-bite existence hadn't exactly been a romantic success story either. The sudden interest from multiple attractive women felt like a statistical anomaly, a glitch in the matrix, something that the universe would surely correct as soon as it realized its mistake.
But the universe showed no signs of correcting anything, and Peter was too busy being Spider-Man to figure out what was going on.
The web-shooters, at least, were a problem he could actually solve.
Over the past few weeks, Peter had been experimenting with different web configurations, pushing the limits of what his homemade devices could do and constantly upgrading the formula and mechanisms to achieve new effects.
The basic web-line was still his bread and butter—strong, flexible, perfect for swinging and basic restraint. But he'd developed variations that opened up entirely new tactical possibilities.
Impact webbing: compressed web capsules that expanded on contact, encasing targets in a cocoon of sticky polymer. Useful for quick takedowns at range.
Web grenades: spheres of concentrated webbing that detonated on impact, spraying adhesive in a wide radius. Perfect for crowd control or blocking escape routes.
Taser webs: webbing infused with a conductive polymer that could deliver an electrical charge. Non-lethal but extremely effective at incapacitating armored or enhanced opponents.
Web foam: a quick-setting spray that could seal wounds, insulate against extreme temperatures, or create temporary barriers. Peter had used it to save a construction worker who'd been impaled by rebar, coating the wound to prevent blood loss until paramedics arrived.
Sonic webs: his newest and most experimental creation. Webbing with embedded micro-vibration generators that could emit frequencies ranging from "really annoying" to "actually painful" to "potentially disorienting." He'd gotten the idea from fighting the Shocker and realized that vibration-based technology could work in both directions.
Each new variation required careful calibration, extensive testing, and the occasional explosion in Peter's bedroom that he had to explain to Aunt May as "science experiments for extra credit." But the results were worth it. Every new tool in his arsenal was another option in combat, another way to solve problems without resorting to pure violence.
Spider-Man is supposed to be creative, Peter reminded himself as he worked. He's supposed to think his way through problems, not just punch them. The web-shooters are an expression of his intelligence, and I'm going to make them the most versatile weapons system any street-level hero has ever used.
It was on a Thursday afternoon, during one of his extended patrols, that Peter's life took another unexpected turn.
He was swinging through Midtown, enjoying the late autumn weather and the way the city looked from two hundred feet up, when his spider-sense suddenly screamed a warning that was unlike anything he'd experienced before.
DANGER DANGER DANGER DANGER DANGER—
The intensity was overwhelming, drowning out every other sensation, painting the world in shades of red and black that signified immediate, catastrophic threat. Peter adjusted his trajectory purely on instinct, changing course toward the source of the warning, and what he saw made his enhanced blood run cold.
A truck had crashed through the front of a bank building—not an ordinary bank, he realized, but a facility with security features that suggested it held more than just money. Armed men in tactical gear were pouring out of the truck, carrying advanced weapons that crackled with energy. And on their uniforms, clearly visible even from Peter's distance...
A red skull with tentacles.
HYDRA.
Peter had known, intellectually, that HYDRA existed in this universe. He'd read enough comics, watched enough movies, understood enough about the Marvel Universe to know that the Nazi splinter organization had infiltrated basically every major institution on the planet. But knowing something academically and seeing it in action were two very different experiences.
These weren't street criminals or petty thieves. These were trained soldiers working for an organization dedicated to world domination, carrying weapons that could probably vaporize him if they got a clean shot.
Peter's first instinct was to call for backup. He had the communication channel that Daredevil had given him—this seemed like exactly the kind of situation that warranted bringing in reinforcements.
But his spider-sense was still screaming, and now he could hear other sounds through the chaos: civilians screaming inside the building. Hostages. People who would die if he waited for backup to arrive.
With great power comes great responsibility.
Peter didn't remember making the conscious decision to attack. One moment he was perched on a nearby building, assessing the situation. The next, he was diving through a shattered window, weblines already firing at the nearest HYDRA agents.
THWIP THWIP THWIP.
Three agents went down immediately, their weapons ripped from their hands by web-lines that adhered to metal with enough force to bend steel. Peter landed in their midst like a bomb going off, enhanced strength and spider-sense combining into a whirlwind of violence that the trained soldiers simply couldn't match.
"Hey guys!" Peter shouted, ducking under an energy blast that would have taken his head off. "Quick question: did HYDRA update their employee handbook recently, or does it still include the whole 'Heil Hitler' thing? Because I've got to say, as corporate culture goes, Nazi worship is a really hard sell in the modern job market."
He grabbed one agent and threw him into two others, the enhanced strength of his spider-biology treating full-grown men like rag dolls. A fourth agent tried to get a bead on him with some kind of rifle, but Peter's spider-sense guided him through a series of acrobatic maneuvers that made him impossible to target.
THWIP.
Impact webbing caught the agent directly in the chest, expanding into a cocoon that left him struggling helplessly on the floor.
"Seriously, though," Peter continued, using a web-line to swing himself across the bank's main floor and kick another agent in the face, "the whole 'take over the world' thing is so played out. Have you considered pivoting to something more sustainable? Like, I don't know, renewable energy? Ethical investment banking? Literally anything that doesn't involve jackboots and fascism?"
More agents were pouring in through the breach in the wall, and Peter felt the first stirrings of genuine concern. He was good—three weeks of training with Stick and natural enhancement had made him very good—but there were at least two dozen HYDRA operatives now, and some of them were carrying weapons that looked significantly more dangerous than the standard energy rifles.
Need to thin the herd, Peter thought, his mind racing through tactical options. Can't let them establish a firing line. Need to keep moving, keep them off-balance, buy time for the hostages to escape.
He spotted a cluster of five agents near the main entrance, setting up what looked like some kind of heavy weapons platform.
THWIP.
A web grenade sailed through the air and detonated in their midst, covering them in adhesive that glued them to the floor, to each other, and to the weapon they'd been assembling.
"Fun fact about adhesive polymers!" Peter shouted, bouncing off a wall and using the momentum to clothesline another agent. "The tensile strength increases exponentially as the polymer cures. Which means you're going to be stuck there for approximately two hours, give or take. Plenty of time to reconsider your life choices!"
He was actually starting to feel confident about the situation—the HYDRA agents were falling faster than they could regroup, and his spider-sense was giving him enough warning to avoid the worst of their attacks—when a new figure appeared in the breach.
Big. Really big. Bigger than any of the other agents, wearing armor that looked significantly more advanced than standard HYDRA equipment, and carrying a weapon that Peter's danger-sense immediately classified as extremely bad news.
"SPIDER-MAN," the armored figure bellowed, its voice distorted by electronic modulation. "HYDRA HAS BEEN WAITING FOR AN OPPORTUNITY TO STUDY YOUR ABILITIES. SURRENDER NOW, AND YOUR DEATH WILL BE QUICK."
"Counter-offer," Peter replied, already moving to put distance between himself and the heavily armored threat. "You surrender, I web you up like everyone else, and we all pretend this never happened. Honestly, it's a better deal than you're going to get from the judicial system."
The armored agent raised its weapon—some kind of cannon that was glowing with ominous energy—and Peter's spider-sense screamed so loudly that he actually winced.
Can't dodge that, his enhanced instincts told him. Too wide, too fast. Need to get out of the firing line NOW.
He leaped toward the ceiling just as the weapon discharged, and the beam that passed through the space he'd been occupying carved a trench in the marble floor that was at least three feet deep.
Okay, Peter thought, clinging to the ceiling and staring at the destruction below. That's a problem. That's a very significant problem.
The armored agent was tracking his position, the cannon already recharging for another shot. Peter had maybe two seconds to figure out a solution before he got vaporized.
He didn't need two seconds.
THWIP THWIP THWIP THWIP.
Four web-lines attached to different points around the bank's interior—load-bearing pillars, heavy furniture, anything that would provide anchor points. Peter pulled on all four lines simultaneously, launching himself across the room in a trajectory that was impossible to predict because he was literally changing direction mid-flight.
He hit the armored agent like a missile, feet-first, with enough force to stagger even the enhanced suit. The cannon went flying, ripped from the agent's grip by the impact, and Peter immediately followed up with a rapid combination of strikes to the joints and vulnerable points of the armor.
"Here's the thing about heavy armor!" Peter shouted, dancing around the agent's attempts to grab him. "It protects really well against direct hits. But joints? Sensors? Connection points? Those are all weaknesses. And I've got really, really good aim."
THWIP.
A web-line attached to the agent's knee joint and pulled, forcing the armored leg to buckle.
THWIP THWIP.
Two more lines caught the agent's arms, spreading them wide and preventing any attempt to grapple.
THWIP THWIP THWIP THWIP.
More lines, anchoring the agent to the floor, to nearby pillars, to everything solid enough to hold the enhanced armor's weight. Within seconds, the heavily armored HYDRA operative was completely immobilized, trapped in a web of synthetic polymer that even enhanced strength couldn't break.
"Who's being studied now?" Peter asked, breathing heavily but grinning beneath his mask. "Actually, don't answer that. Rhetorical question. The answer is you. You're being studied. By the police. In prison. Where you're going. For crimes."
He looked around the bank, assessing the situation. Most of the HYDRA agents were down—webbed, unconscious, or both. The hostages were huddled in a corner, scared but apparently unharmed. The mission, such as it was, seemed to be over.
And then his spider-sense tingled in a way that felt completely different from combat warnings, and Peter turned to see someone new entering through the breach in the wall.
Blue costume with white stripes. A star on the chest. A shield—THE shield, the vibranium disk that was as iconic as any weapon in comic book history.
Captain America surveyed the scene with an expression that mixed surprise with what looked almost like approval.
"Spider-Man, I presume," he said, his voice carrying the particular authority of someone who had been leading soldiers since World War II.
Peter straightened up, suddenly very aware that he was standing in the middle of a demolished bank surrounded by unconscious HYDRA agents, talking to Steve Rogers.
"That's me!" Peter confirmed, his voice coming out slightly higher than intended. "Spider-Man. Friendly neighborhood. At your service. Sir. Captain. Captain Sir."
Smooth, he thought. Very smooth. Definitely not completely star-struck right now.
Captain America stepped over an unconscious HYDRA agent, his shield held loosely at his side, and approached Peter with measured steps.
"I was on my way to intercept this cell," he said. "Got word they were planning something in the area. But by the time I arrived, you'd already handled the situation."
"I had help," Peter said, gesturing vaguely at the webbed-up agents. "From, you know, my spider-powers. And the element of surprise. And the fact that HYDRA tactical training apparently doesn't include 'how to fight someone who can stick to walls and sense danger before it happens.'"
Captain America's lips quirked in what might have been a smile.
"Those are good advantages to have," he agreed. "But advantages only get you so far. What I saw here was skill. Training. And instincts that go beyond just enhanced senses."
Peter felt warmth bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of the fight.
"I've been training," he admitted. "With someone who really knows what he's doing. And I've been studying. Tactics, combat analysis, threat assessment. I figure if I'm going to do this hero thing, I should do it right."
Captain America nodded, and the approval in his expression was unmistakable.
"That's the right attitude," he said. "Too many enhanced individuals rely solely on their powers and neglect the fundamentals. But powers can fail. Powers can be countered. What you can't counter is someone who knows how to think, how to adapt, how to find solutions to problems that seem unsolvable."
He extended his hand.
"I'm Steve Rogers. I've been meaning to reach out to you, but other obligations have kept me occupied. I'm glad we finally got a chance to meet, even if the circumstances were... unconventional."
Peter shook his hand, trying not to fanboy too obviously.
"Peter— uh, Spider-Man. Just Spider-Man. Secret identity and all that."
"Understood," Captain America said. "Identity is important. It protects the people you care about."
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, surrounded by the evidence of Peter's victory, while sirens began to wail in the distance.
"You did good work here today," Captain America said finally. "The world needs heroes like you. People who see a problem and run toward it instead of away. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"Thanks," Peter said, and the word felt completely inadequate for the emotions swirling through him. "That means... that means a lot. Really."
Captain America nodded once, then turned toward the breach in the wall.
"I'll handle the cleanup here," he said. "SHIELD will want to take custody of these operatives, and I've got the clearance to make that happen. You should probably make yourself scarce before the press arrives—unless you want your face on the evening news."
"Scarce is definitely my preference," Peter agreed, already moving toward a shattered window that would provide an escape route. "But Captain?"
"Yes?"
Peter paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"If you ever need help with something. Anything. I'm available. Just... putting that out there. Spider-Man, at your service. For world-threatening emergencies and also probably smaller stuff too."
Captain America smiled—a real smile this time, warm and genuine and completely devoid of the weight that usually seemed to press down on his features.
"I'll keep that in mind, Spider-Man. Take care of yourself."
Peter shot a webline through the window and launched himself into the afternoon sky, leaving Captain America and the unconscious HYDRA agents behind.
He was grinning so hard beneath his mask that his face actually hurt.
The news coverage of the "Bank Attack Foiled by Mysterious Spider-Man" was extensive, enthusiastic, and—perhaps most surprisingly—almost entirely positive.
Witnesses described a masked hero who had appeared out of nowhere, dismantled a HYDRA assault team with apparent ease, and disappeared before authorities could question him. The footage that various cell phones had captured showed glimpses of red and blue moving through the chaos, too fast to track clearly, accompanied by what one reporter described as "a constant stream of jokes that seemed designed to demoralize the enemy while simultaneously entertaining the hostages."
J. Jonah Jameson's editorial, for once, was subdued. While he still expressed concerns about vigilante justice and the dangers of unregistered enhanced individuals, even he had to admit that Spider-Man's intervention had saved lives and prevented what could have been a significant HYDRA victory.
Peter watched the coverage from the living room couch, Aunt May sitting beside him with her knitting, and felt a complicated mixture of pride and anxiety.
"This Spider-Man certainly is something," Aunt May observed, her needles clicking steadily. "Reminds me of the stories your uncle used to tell about the heroes from his day. People who did what was right because it was right, not because they were looking for glory."
Peter's throat tightened. "Yeah," he managed. "He seems like a good guy."
"I hope so," Aunt May said. "The world needs more good guys. Especially now, with all the chaos going on. It's nice to know someone's out there looking out for the little people."
Peter looked at his aunt—the woman who had taken in her orphaned nephew, who had loved him unconditionally through tragedy and hardship, who continued to work herself to exhaustion to keep their little family afloat—and felt the weight of responsibility settle more firmly onto his shoulders.
I'm going to protect her, he promised silently. I'm going to protect this city, this world, everyone who needs protecting. Because that's what Spider-Man does. That's what Uncle Ben would have wanted.
That's what I want.
"Hey, Aunt May?" Peter said.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I love you. You know that, right?"
Aunt May set down her knitting and looked at him with an expression that was soft with love and slightly concerned with that particular worry that parents carried for children who seemed to be growing up too fast.
"I know, Peter," she said. "I love you too. Is everything okay? You've seemed... different lately. More focused. More driven. I'm not sure if I should be worried or proud."
"Proud," Peter said firmly. "Definitely proud. I'm figuring some things out. Finding my path. I think... I think I know what I want to do with my life now. And I'm going to work really hard to make it happen."
Aunt May studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
"Ben always said you were destined for great things," she said quietly. "He saw something in you that even you couldn't see. Whatever path you choose, Peter, I know you'll make him proud."
With great power comes great responsibility.
"I'm going to try," Peter said. "I really am."
They sat together in comfortable silence, the news coverage droning on in the background, and Peter felt something settle in his chest that might have been peace.
He was Spider-Man. He was getting stronger, getting better, getting closer to the hero he was meant to be. He had allies now—Daredevil, Luke Cage, and apparently Captain America himself. He had training, technology, and a purpose that drove him forward with unwavering determination.
And if his spider-sense kept tingling weirdly whenever certain attractive women were nearby... well, that was a problem for future Peter to worry about.
Right now, he had a city to protect.
End of Chapter 3
[Author's Note: Peter is making serious progress! He's got street-level hero connections, Captain America's approval, and combat skills that are improving every day. He's also got multiple attractive women paying an unusual amount of attention to him, which he continues to be completely oblivious about because our boy has priorities and "understanding romantic signals" is apparently not one of them. Next chapter: The Fantastic Four enters the picture, and Sue Storm has some questions about the young hero everyone's been talking about. Questions that definitely don't have anything to do with the way his costume fits. Definitely not. Not at all.]