Chapter 1

Standing on top of a 12-story building in Queens is quite the experience. For one, the view is phenomenal. Between the passerby on the sidewalk below and the lights of the city twinkling in the distance, you won't be bored. But if you do get tired and decide to close your eyes for just a minute, the experience truly intensifies. With your eyes closed, the sounds of the neighborhood become distinct, and each murmur grows to a roar in the ears of a sharp listener. To hear better, you might grip the edge of the roof and lean carefully over the ledge. The chill in the air that already gnawed the warmth of the afternoon sun away from the roof will begin to bite at your fingertips, but it will be worth it to hear the sounds softened by distance.

Tonight, Peter found himself in this kind of situation. The sun had set hours ago but, loving nothing more than to watch the neighborhoods, he had remained in his suit, ready to swoop down and save someone in need. Or something. Peter grinned as he remembered the family of bunnies that he had found in a box in an alley, unwanted by a careless family. Petting them was one of the best rewards he had ever gotten from his unofficial night job.

Just as he was wondering if the helpless animals had been adopted yet, the snap of a loaded gun reached his ears. Immediately, Peter's head whipped towards the sound. In seconds, he was off the roof and swinging between the tall buildings. The thought of guns made his stomach flip, and the thought of getting shot made the young vigilante want to puke. But the thought of an innocent person getting hit was enough to make him thrust his arms forward faster, feeling the rush of air with every web-controlled swing.

Now that he was getting closer, the sounds were becoming much clearer. Peter could hear a man barking orders and a girl starting to sob.

"Drop your bags!" Peter heard the man demand. Glass shattered against pavement. Boots shuffling. Rocks grinding underneath each step.

"Please, we'll give you anything! Just let us go," someone pleaded. Peter was now close enough to see a group of teens backed against a wall by a few large men. With his mutant senses, he could smell the alcohol on the men. Peter landed on an upper level of a fire escape to locate the best entryway.

"Ge' that fuckin' girl," spat one man, "to shut the hell up!" To emphasize his command, the drunkard lunged forward and smashed his bottle against the wall next to the crying girl. Shards of glass flew, the teens shrieked, and Peter flung himself downward.

Peter threw up his arms between the bottle smasher and the teens, shouting, "Stop! Please!" Everyone did so simply out of surprise, but only for a moment.

Another man stepped out of the shadows towards Peter. "Well, shit, we weren't expecting you, but since you're here, I guess we'll have to really put on a show!" The clarity in the man's voice gave Peter goosebumps. This man didn't sound drunk. He sounded dangerous. And he, too, wielded a gun.

Being down on the ground, Peter realized how he had misjudged the scene: there were quite a few more grown men than there were teens, and of the teens, there seemed to be just two girls and the boy. The crying girl's gasping breaths were accelerated to near hyperventilation, and all three teens clung to each other. The men weren't all completely drunk, and the ones who didn't hold bottles or knives were holding guns. The two groups did have one thing in common: they were all looking for a reaction from Spider-Man.

"Please," Peter began as steadily as he could. "No one has to get hurt here. Just let these guys get home."

The sober leader snickered. "Yeah, we'll get them home as soon as we're done with these pretty girls here." He then punched his arm up, using his gun as a blunt force. Peter instinctually swerved out of the way, pulling back the nearest girl so that she would successfully dodge it as well. When he looked back from the girl to the leader, he saw that the group of men had closed in more tightly. Escaping peacefully was no longer an option.

Another man spoke up, "Listen, spider-bitch: I'm fuckin' some pussy tonight, and I don' mind a woman who don' move."

Yet another assaulter laughed chaotically, adding, "I don't even care if she's fuckin' cold as long as it's wet!" And the group of practiced rapists roared with laughter, smashing another two bottles onto the pavement. Horrified, Peter shifted and spread his arms in front of the cornered teens. Behind him, the quieter girl bent over and threw up onto the ground.

As the men continued to jeer, Peter was forming his escape plan. Well, not his escape plan: he knew he could take on the drunk crowd. He could knock them out, take note of the names on their licenses, and report them to the police later. But first, he needed the kids behind him to get safely out of the way. The quickest route seemed to be up the fire escape that he had jumped down from. So, without much preparation, Peter thrust his right wrist above them, sticking one end of a fresh string onto the roof, then pulled down hard to release the ladder. At the same time, he used his other wrist to shoot a thicker, longer web on their left side, and with one sweeping motion, Peter used it as a whip to slap all the attackers immediately in front of them.

The shock of the whip gave Peter a few seconds to shout over his shoulder, "Climb up as far as you can and get down!" Turning his attention back to the fight, he tried to rip guns away from as many men as he could. He used the same stick-and-pull method that he had used on the fire escape, dodging fists and throwing a few hits of his own. It was working until one of them men managed to land a solid blow to the side of Peter's head. As the hero fell, the man threw his entire body onto Peter, pinning him to the ground. Before Peter could regain enough air and knock the man off him, shots fired.

There was a hard thud.

Screaming.

Boots scraping gravel.

Sirens.

"You fuckin' killed him, you fuckin' idiot!"

Incoherent yelling.

Suddenly, the man jumped off of Peter and ran down the street. Peter bolted up immediately to see the entire gang rushing out of the alleyway. He looked up the fire escape to see the girls. One continued to wail, a piercing mixture of sobs and screams. The other simply stared down at the foot of the ladder. Peter followed her gaze, and then he, too, felt like wailing.

At the bottom of the ladder, the boy lay still, his eyes wide and his mouth open as if he were still screaming. Everything was red: the wall, the ground, his clothes, his face. Blood pushed out of the side of his head where an exit wound confirmed the bullet's path.

Peter felt his own heart skip a beat and couldn't stop himself from falling to his knees next to the boy. Up close, he immediately recognized him: it was Jacob Mendleson. His throat closed up as he struggled to stay calm. Jacob was on the football team. He was vice president of student council. Jacob was in his AP Literature class. Just a few hours ago, he had backed up Peter on his controversial analysis of Brave New World. When their teacher turned her back, the others had teased "Penis Peter," claiming that, as a virgin, he couldn't have an opinion on sex. Jacob stood up for him. Athletic, funny, smart, and genuinely a kind kid, everyone said that Mendleson would surely go on to Yale for law. Now, he wouldn't even graduate high school. And it was all Peter's fault.

Just then, cars screeched to a stop, and the police were charging into the alleyway. Peter, scared of being identified, sprang up from his knees and flung himself up the ladder. Using a fresh web shot, he pulled himself up and onto the roof, running as fast as his shaking legs could propel him. He forced his tears not to fall, pushed down the bile that rose in his mouth, willed himself not to stop.

By the time he was by his own apartment, the shock had turned to numbness.

"Karen, clean." His suit rippled. Liquid followed the ripples, reacting with the blood and causing it to evaporate before it reached the ground. No need for dry clean, Mr. Stark had said.

He crept in through his window. Stashed his suit in his closet. Laid down in his bed. Stared blankly at his ceiling until sleep took over.