Full Summary: A fight between mutants and humans has erupted in a small town and SHIELD's been tracking down refugees. When one such group enters New York City, trouble follows—the kind that lands Spider-Man's team in a war of their own. Between The Trackers, disagreements, mistrust, and personal issues, the light at the end of the tunnel looms far way. But Danny's determined. And he's willing to work with refugees. Even if it may cost him his life...
Genre: Sci-Fi, Suspense, Friendship, and Romance (DannyxOC, minor SamxOC)
Time: It's set late in season 2, but before the end.
Rating: Teen for mild language, blood/violence, and what have you.
Author's Notes: No one cares for these, but. First Spider-Man story. The first few chapters will focus more on the team and plot introduction before 'good guy' OCs are introduced. Just saying. :) I'd also like to give a shout-out to DuckiePray and Sciencegal for being my betas.
Disclaimer: Ultimate Spider-Man is not mine. Nor are any of its characters. That's Marvel's job. Any Original Characters you note, however, are all me. No. I'm not making money. Don't rub it in.
Chapter 01 - Bad Day
Peter Parker should know better than to assume the best of things—let alone ask himself the always-assumingly innocent question 'Things can't possibly get any worse, can they?' Oh, yeah, they could. And they did.
Almost being caught by Aunt May in his costume when he sleepwalked downstairs to get the dinner he had missed last night had only been the start. Sam followed up his scare with yet another prank call—this one about J. Jonah Jameson broadcasting his secret identity all over New York City. Peter was able to get back at his teammate by sneaking a plush rabbit in Sam's desk seat, but that cry of horror gave little satisfaction given that Peter had already been bombarded with a forgotten history test and a little 'chat' with Flash Thomson. Lunch's Mexican menu had also been particularly cruel to him, leaving little room between then and now—just after school.
And here he thought taking down a few newcomers in Hanover Square would be a welcomed outlet for his frustration. There were only three—two guys and one chick. But they fought as a more powerful team than the Frightful Four. Really, Peter was expecting them to be a nuisance like Whirlwind or Leaper or Mesmero.
But, no. Of course not. They were mutants. And his Spidey Sense just had to inform him of the crew's potential not five minutes after he and his teammates happened across the scene.
"Hey, tall, dark, and freaky!" Peter exclaimed to a six-armed male that bent White Tiger in dangerous ways.
The heroine gaped for air in her opponent's thick hands, yet harbored too much pride for it to be obvious. The man—a rough-skinned brunette with a display of muscle mass and scruffy hair that rivaled Sabretooth—barely glanced in Peter's direction. Eh, no matter; all he needed was to divert the mutant's attention from Nova's aerial attack.
"Ha! How you like me now?" Nova cheered while soaring like a rocket.
"Damn insect!" The mutant—now dubbed 'Six Arms' in Peter's mind—growled dangerously after he received an energy blast to the face. Dropping White Tiger in surprise, he used one of his six arms to rub his eyes, which must have burned.
Peter shivered at the sight. Though he may have been bitten by a spider, he sure as hell was thankful his limbs were kept in their natural state. Thank you, rarity for the favoritism.
"Don't like bugs, huh?" asked White Tiger, cool, from her new crouched position. "How about cats?" And with a snarl she leapt forward to drive the male back with her electric claws and several skilled kicks.
Peter dropped from his spot on a brick building's face only when she held her own again. Power Man was heading her way, anyhow. Shooting a web string across the street, the teen swung through the warm air then back-flipped to the brawl's other half. He clung to a lamppost's shaft beside Iron Fist's struggle, in which the Martial Arts master expertly dodged any undisciplined kicks or punches thrown his way. Unfortunately, his female opponent had a knack for generating dense ash clouds from her mouth like a dragon. Yeah, as if that wasn't bad enough, those clouds were capable of melting metals around them like acid. Joy.
"Need help with Wednesday Addams here?" questioned Peter good-naturedly. Iron Fist neared the lamppost with caution, though his focus remained on the fair-skinned woman ahead. She glared while steadying her stance, a small trail of smoke pluming from her black-painted lips.
"Oh, please," she said in a strange accent. It sounded Canadian. Or, Swedish. And it thickened as she added, "Do these vibrant green eyes look like they belong to Wednesday?"
"Ah, touché!" With a little laugh, Peter directed a glob of wed fluid at her snarling mouth. It stuck beautifully.
Iron Fist wasted no time in sweeping the young woman's legs from beneath her with a flawless move. Peter grinned behind his mask as the blonde spun into a standing position once more—without hesitation or awkwardness. The teen really did admire his friend's mastery over Martial Arts. And sometimes wished he held the same skills. But then he would remember he didn't have it in him to be that, well, disciplined.
"What's that?" Peter directed towards the raven-haired female, who tugged at the webbing like an enraged Wolverine. "Sorry." He chuckled. "Can't hear ya! Seems like something's got your tongue!"
"Sometimes the wisest thing to do is not to speak, but to listen," added Iron Fist calmly. Peter's chuckle quickened when the chick flashed the heroes a strange look from the road. Even at the simplest of things, the blonde had a saying on hand. "What do you believe these guys are after?"
Iron Fist stepped away from the lamppost, and Peter honored his teammate's silent cue by shooting larger globs of webbing at the woman until her lithe form was cemented to the cracked asphalt. "Dunno," he answered while he waved cheekily at the female's thrashing head. "There aren't any banks here. Or jewelry stores. Nothing of value, actually."
Silent, the blonde spared a moment to evaluate the square's damage. "Do you believe it could be a distraction?"
"From what?" The agile teen landed on his feet beside his friend. "They aren't acting like they're trying to keep us busy or have any real direction. Maybe they really were just messing with people for fun."
"Possibly." Iron Fist's words sounded as if he were reminiscing on the initial attack. "SHIELD didn't call us here. Still, picking a fight this public feels like a message…"
"What kinda thoughts you got happening, Fist?"
The blonde hero shook his head when Peter waved a hand before him. "Now's not the time for thought, but action. The battle is not yet over."
Taking a stance beside Peter, Iron Fist gathered his Chi into his right hand until it glowed a brilliant yellow like the sun. Peter aimed his Web-Shooter to prepare his next move, but the smoky smell of fire drew his attention back to their imprisoned opponent instead.
Obviously, the young woman was quite perturbed. The web fluid that touched her bare arms thinned—melted—until it weakened enough for her to rise with a sizzling fury. White strings dripping from her jaw, she breathed heavily, her leather-clad body shaking like the start of an erupting volcano. He could swear her 'vibrant green eyes' darkened then bled into pure black from the pupil outwards. Only, the sudden breeze and heat from Nova's wake between the two heroes forced Peter aside before he could confirm them.
"Make way, Webs!" the loud Hispanic exclaimed, directing a bright blue energy blast at the recovered woman. "I got this!"
"Way to be a team player!" Peter shot back instantly.
The air-bound Nova paused as the ash lady was violently propelled into the side of a vacant bus. "What?" He shrugged. "You wore her down. Now I'll take her out. Obviously, you need help, Webs."
"Yeah, I'm not the one who needs help, Bucket-Head!" But Peter's retort went unrewarded. Figures. "One day, someone's going to take that guy down a peg," the teen grumbled—eyes fixed on the cover of black smoke that Nova blasted through without worry.
"Time and trials are the best teachers of humility."
Peter turned to Iron Fist. "Thanks, Fortune Cookie."
"Wait."
"What?" A jolt ran through Peter's slender body at his friend's sudden, stern tone. He mirrored Iron Fist's sweep of the (rather disastrous) area, but nothing stood out—save for maybe the joyful sight of an acidic cloud scaring Nova into a tizzy.
"Ava and Luke have the six-armed man busy."
"Yes."
"Sam is taking the girl."
"Uh-huh."
"Where has the third member been?"
Like an unwanted cue, a low, strange chortle rung out—seemingly from all around. "Speak of the devil and he shall come."
Peter's next back-flip was purely instinctual. His body twisted in the air like a corkscrew then propelled him to higher ground with a strong push of his arms. Twisting again, he perched on a lamppost's shade. Iron Fist had also moved—maybe rolled out of reach or jumped. Regardless, he stood a safe distance from the new figure that appeared from, well...somewhere.
The tanned male sauntered forward—long arms spread and lanky figure tall. Peter's eyes narrowed as his new opponent stepped coolly over the road debris. Yet more so out of confusion than suspicion. I mean, come on. Didn't jumpsuits go out of style in the eighties?
"Even the lovely Smokescreen has lost herself in this pointless battle," the male continued. "I guess a Trickster needs to come into play after all." His tone was a weird mix of flippant and meditative. And its accent matched the ash chick's accent, only with less accentuated 'A's. It sure as hell didn't match his Indian features.
When he sent the duo a mischievous smirk, Peter couldn't stop himself from taking a second glance at the sleeveless outfit that had been left unzipped to reveal just enough (or too much) pectoral muscles. "You sure he hasn't already been here?" he asked lightly while he pointed towards the man's pants. "I'm sure he just switched your clothes out with a disaster from the past."
"And your patriotic colors are an obvious cry of acceptance. But we all have our problems, don't we?" The Indian chuckled deeply then bowed as if in the presence of royals. It was clearly a mocking gesture, as his smirk never once lifted. "My name, if you will, is Trickster. And I would appreciate it greatly if you excused my short-tempered…friends."
Iron Fist steadied his stance, powering up his fist again as the tanned male straightened. "Niceties can soften but never veil fowl intentions," he stated just as calm as Trickster's movements. "We can't comply."
"Dude." Peter shook his head. "What language are you even speaking?"
Trickster's smile grew on his mildly-handsome face—as if he were genuinely amused by the blonde's words. "Yet intensions are rarely so obvious. One can be blinded from the truth by their own perception."
"Perceptions can be trained to sense the truth—no matter what."
"No." Trickster gave a hearty laugh that riled a soft growl from Iron Fist's throat. "Perceptions are flimsy, fickle things that cause nothing but a mess. The battle of good and evil, after all, is nothing more than a war of perceptions."
"There is nothing flimsy about the innate belief that good should be done." The blonde hero widened his stance even more when Trickster huffed.
"Like I said," the lanky Indian added, stepping sideways, "perceptions are blinding. Tell me, what harm have we done to any citizens here? What was our crime, exactly?"
Peter, now standing on the lamppost, followed his opponent with his steady gaze. "I'm pretty sure I can charge you with harassment of my mind." Then he faced Iron Fist, who kept his toned arm outstretched towards Trickster. "You too, if you didn't have such a clean record."
Iron Fist didn't reply, though Peter never expected him to. The blonde rushed forward instead—not really knowing what powers or abilities this Trickster possessed—and slammed his fist down with a force that broke apart the surrounding road it came in contact with. Trickster avoided the resulting spray of asphalt chunks, drifted like one that floated with the wind. Peter spotted him behind Iron Fist, leaning down to whisper in his ear. The blonde tensed at the words for only a moment and then swung a second glowing fist behind him in fierce retaliation. He stepped sluggishly to the side when Trickster whisked away while chuckling harder. Peter felt that whatever had just been done, it had affected the young master's mind and left him to shake impossible thoughts from his head before he could regain control over his Chi.
Alright. Creepy.
"And what can I do with you?"
Peter let out an unwilling squeal at Trickster's invasive voice and flipped from his perch to an overturned car that Six Arms had tossed ages ago. Mentally chastising his failed Spidey Sense (again), the teen scanned the square in haste, gripping the muffler below him.
His opponent was nowhere in sight. How did he even do that? Last he checked, there were no such things as stealth jumpsuits…unless Fury and Coulson had omitted a particular piece of information from a forgotten age they no longer wanted to be affiliated with.
"You." There was Trickster again. Though no matter which way Peter twisted or bent, the hero could not face his opponent. "If we want to roll with your friend's ideals then I perceive that you're the kind of person who struggles every day. Am I right? I gotta be right." Trickster paused to give a chuckle that suddenly paralyzed Peter from head to toe. The man's words held more weight than they should. His whispers sounded penetrating, and for some reason Peter's heart began to race as if anticipating oncoming danger. "You struggle from the moment you wake, right? Like your grasping for breath, struggling to stay afloat."
Wait. Was he breathing? He was sure he had been before. But now his lungs burned.
"Jameson looks down on you. He lets the whole city know it, too. Even now, I can hear his hackling from the jumbo screen. I bet that just boils your blood, doesn't it?"
Why did Peter suddenly feel very angry? He had actually been fortunate enough to filter out the news anchor's grating voice. Until now.
"Imagine what this city would do if they really got their hands on you. Imagine the scorn of Jameson's supporters. Imagine the crushing burden of those that expect you to save them."
Now his body felt tremendously heavy, his knees weak.
"Every day. They're tearing you apart, aren't they? Ripping at you. Limb"—long, bony fingers wrapped around the hero's left forearm then the other—"by limb. Can you take it?"
He thought he could. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe he really was leaping foolishly to his own death. He didn't want that. He didn't want death—not for him or anyone else. Not again.
"No one's meant to handle such pressure. You aren't any different, Spider-Man. You're not special. You know that, right?"
Yeah, he did. Only thing special about him came from a genetically engineered spider. The accident could've happened to anyone. He wasn't chosen. He didn't believe in pre-destined things. So what right did he have to stand against crime in a suit? Especially for people who didn't even appreciate him…
"You should stop before it's too late. The people, they're watching you."
They were.
"Every day they're there, waiting for you to slip."
They do love it when a hero fails, don't they?
"And when you slip"—the accented whisper turned heated—"they'll tear into you like a sick member in a pack of dogs!"
"Webs, what are you doing?" Nova cried out. A surge of heat raced past Peter's face. There was a surprised cry, and just like that, reality came rushing back so hard that Peter fell off the car, breathless.
"Wh—What did Mister Bangin' do to me?" the teen questioned with a slur. His body tingled with remnants of frustration, panic, and even heartache. They disoriented him to the point where he couldn't focus, let alone stand.
Nova may have said something more after zooming by. No, it was likely he did say something more. Peter just couldn't hear the words. He could only hear a persistent ringing in his ears like a dial tone until White Tiger's yell brought his attention to the left.
"Spidey, look out!"
Three brick-like fists hurled Peter's way, yet his numb body could only gape at them. Luckily, the sting in his face didn't last long. And only one thought entered his mind before darkness consumed him: bad days sucked worse when you're a superhero.
Author's Note: I will say Peter's fun to write. LOL Please review!