"Okay. Let's do this one more time."
Noon in New York City. Sunlight cut through the gaps between shattered skyscrapers, shimmering across the rubble below. The Disaster Control Agency—Stark Industries' latest PR-friendly tax write-off—was still out here grinding. They were cleaning up the aftermath of an alien invasion like it was just another Tuesday. Heavy trucks groaned past, dragging Chitauri wreckage out of collapsed storefronts.
On the corner, an old man with a signature mustache and an aviator swept methodically at the curb with a push broom. A shadow passed over him. He paused, adjusted his hat, and squinted at the sky.
"What in the—"
A red-and-blue figure drifted lazily through the skyline.
"My name is Peter Parker. A few months ago, at the Oscorp Expo, a radioactive spider bit me and completely wrecked my social life—I mean, changed my life forever. And now? I'm the one and only Spider-Man."
He swung into a patch of sunlight, the stark red and blue of his suit flashing against the gray buildings. Raised black webbing ribbed the fabric. The spider emblem on his chest was sharp and aggressive, balanced out by the chubby, almost adorable one on his back. Behind the mask, narrow black lenses gave him a look that hovered somewhere between highly focused and vaguely threatening.
"Anyway. Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, at your service."
From the street below, an electronic billboard crackled to life, the audio cutting sharp and clear through the half-demolished block.
"Spider-Man remains the single greatest threat the Avengers should be investigating! This masked menace has been photographed repeatedly inside restricted alien battlefield zones. There is no doubt in my mind he is directly connected to the alien weapon smuggling cases cropping up all over this city!"
Spider-Man flicked his wrist. A line of webbing snapped out, plastering neatly over the broadcaster's mouth on the screen. The man on the broadcast—stocky, sporting a salt-and-pepper mustache, and radiating pure, unadulterated hater energy—ripped the web off without missing a beat.
"There is absolutely no question: this masked menace is the mastermind behind excavating these weapons and funneling them onto the black market!"
"Can you just—not? Like, just once?" Spider-Man sighed, swinging lazily between two buildings with one hand trailing in the wind. "Captain America gets parades. I'm not even asking for a parade. I would take a mildly positive news segment. Half a segment. Just a headline that doesn't include the word 'menace'."
He shook his head. "Daily Bugle Media. I genuinely cannot tell if that's better or worse than the actual Daily Bugle. Anyway—where were we?"
He let go of his web and entered a freefall.
"Right. With great power comes great responsibility. Be a friendly neighbor. Look after the city. You know the drill."
A beat.
"And yes, before anyone asks: Uncle Ben is not dead. Honestly, letting that happen when I already knew the plot would be downright embarrassing for a Peter Parker with Meta knowledge. Some things happened. I hesitated. I confessed. We had some deeply uncomfortable emotional conversations. The important thing is: we're good."
He landed in a neat backflip right in front of a hot dog cart. It was tucked into the shadow of a ruined office tower, serving as the unofficial breakfast spot for a crew of Disaster Control workers who apparently didn't mind a little concrete dust on their lunch. Peter fished some crumpled bills out of his suit's belt—best design decision he ever made—bought a hot dog, took a bite, and kept talking.
"And that's how I became the best, happiest Spider-Man in the world! Fighting crime, monitoring alien tech salvage, tuning out J. Jonah Jameson. Just a regular Wednesday."
The hot dog vendor just stared at him. "...Are you talking to me?"
Peter stopped mid-chew. "Honestly? I'm not totally sure. Maybe. Someone's gotta be listening, right?"
Before the silence could get any more agonizing, he fired a web line, caught the edge of a nearby building, and hoisted himself back into the air.
"All in all: happiest Spider-Man. Objectively. No notes."
New York, unfortunately, did not feel like cooperating today.
He perched four stories up on the glass face of a half-standing office building. His mask was pulled up to his nose, hot dog in one hand, casually watching the ruins. Below, a white van jolted over the rubble and nosed into the base of a badly damaged high-rise—one that still had half a Chitauri biological mothership leaning against it like a drunk at a bar.
There was no Disaster Control Agency logo on the van.
Peter's lenses narrowed. "Seriously." He chewed his current bite. "The happiest Spider-Man in the world cannot finish a single hot dog."
He shoved the rest of the bun into his mouth, yanked his mask down, and fired a web at the skyscraper above. He swung hard, detached, and dove straight through a broken window on the ground floor.
He stuck the landing. Nobody inside even looked up.
The crew had a whole system going: two guys on perimeter watch, a few more digging through the debris, and the rest stacking alien rifles onto a handcart with all the care of guys loading groceries into a Honda Civic.
"Okay, I just want to point out—that is Chitauri technology. Mankind hasn't even begun to understand what half of that does. And you're stacking it."
That got their attention.
Before anyone could raise a rifle, web lines exploded across the room. Three guys were tangled and pinned before they hit the concrete. The two on the door got plastered to the wall, arms out, doing a very committed impression of a scarecrow.
Peter dusted his hands off. "None of you have a Disaster Control clearance permit. I'm guessing you know that, which is why I'm confiscating everything—hold on."
His spider-sense spiked.
He twisted sideways. A blinding blue energy beam punched through the exact space his head had just occupied, scorching the drywall behind him. Without looking, Peter flicked his wrist. A web ball nailed the shooter square in the face.
"Do NOT mess around with alien tech! That stuff doesn't have a safety switch!"
"Soon as I blast you apart, you'll shut up, you damn insect!" another guy yelled, hefting a cannon.
"Spiders are arachnids, by the way! Not insects!"
Another beam. Peter rolled under it.
The rest of the crew panicked and grabbed weapons from the pile. The room lit up with crackling blue death.
"Okay, so this is happening." Peter vaulted off the ceiling. "You know what I've noticed? These days, the cleanup crews are better armed than the security guys. Make that make sense."
"Shoot him! Shoot him!"
The beams came in rapid bursts now. Peter moved through them like water—swinging, dropping, rolling, and firing web-shots between dodges. He kept talking.
"Where was I? Right—arachnids. Eight legs, two body segments, exoskeleton. Not six legs. Never an insect. How is science education this bad? You're adults! Did you get a D in biology, decide the educational system failed you, and pivot to selling alien weapons? Because I know some solid trade programs, I'm not even joking—"
Behind a chunk of fallen ceiling, two of the smugglers crouched in the dust, hands clamped over their ears.
"When does he stop?" one hissed.
"I don't know. I genuinely wish I brought headphones."
One of them couldn't take it anymore. He popped up from cover, screamed, "SHUT UP!" and fired blind.
A web line caught him in the chest. He flew backward and hit the wall hard enough to leave a dent. He slumped to the floor, groaning.
"Classic." Peter landed lightly on a support beam. "Big hero moment—wait, you're the only one who stood up. That's a little anticlimactic."
The rest of the crew stayed huddled behind their cover.
"Perhaps," Peter's voice echoed calmly from the ceiling above them, "you should be reflecting on your life choices."
He dropped down between them. Web lines darted out in a blur, yanking guns away and pinning wrists to rubble before a single guy could scramble to his feet.
"All right. Everyone accounted for?" He glanced around. "Oh. Is the van leaving?"
Outside, tires screamed against the pavement.
Peter shot a thick web line out the window, felt it catch metal, grabbed the strand with both hands, and pulled.
The van's engine made a sound like a dying animal. Then, for a brief, magical second, the entire vehicle became airborne.
Peter backflipped out the window, planted his feet on the wall, and caught the van by its undercarriage. He lowered it back to the street. Gently.
Thunk.
He dusted his hands off again, used a quick web to snag a dropped cell phone off the asphalt, and dialed.
"Hi, yes—NYPD? I'm reporting an illegal alien tech smuggling operation. Do you guys handle that, or is it customs? Does customs have a Chitauri desk yet? They really should, it's been months." He leaned casually against the van. "Anyway. Lots of bad guys tied up here. Bring extra cars."
Fourteen minutes later, six police cruisers swarmed the ruined building. The officers climbed out, tilted their heads back, and just stared.
Dozens of people dangled from the building's exterior, suspended in thick white cocoons. The van was wrapped up like a Christmas gift. The alien weapons inside were neatly bundled and sorted.
A sergeant walked up to his captain, holding a folded piece of paper.
"Captain Stacy, sir. Left by the caller."
Captain George Stacy unfolded the note and read it aloud.
"Webbing degrades in approximately two hours. Recommend positioning a net to receive. A fall from this height is survivable—I checked. — Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man."
Stacy read it twice. He looked up at the dangling men. Looked back down at the paper.
"Post someone to watch for the drop. And get more vehicles—we're going to need them."
He keyed his shoulder radio. "This is George Stacy. Requesting additional transport for suspect processing, over."
He folded the note back up, his thumb brushing over the ink. He stared at it for a long moment.
"...The handwriting," he muttered to himself.
His brow furrowed.
"Why does that look familiar?"
PS: Just a quick note on the timeline and design! The Amazing Spider-Man and The Avengers both came out in 2012, with TASM releasing two months later. In that film, Peter is a high school sophomore, making him one year older than the main character of this fic. As for the protagonist's first spider suit, it's heavily inspired by the one from TASM 1, but updated with an added belt and classic, bracelet-style web-shooters.