I swear I didn't mean to take this long to update! So sorry for the wait! I had originally planned to have this posted towards the end of September, but then life happened.

Anywho, I cannot thank you guys enough for all the attention you guys have given me for the story! The amount of views, favorites, and follows I've received for this story when it has only three chapters is amazing. And I haven't even mentioned your guys' reviews. It's just amazing, and it means so much. So thank you guys :D

Sorry for the long note. Moving on— I'm not too sure how I feel about the chapter but I hope you guys like it! :D

And I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies. There might be a lot :P

The door clicked shut behind him, locking out the sunlight that wasn't streaming into the house through the open windows. It was the only light source: meaning Aunt May wasn't home. Probably for the best since school had yet to end. Aunt May basically already thought he did drugs in the time he went out as Spider-man; she didn't need to think he ditched school too.

Peter walked up to his bedroom with a weary sigh. His gait was slightly slow and unsteady, but it was still better than what it had been the first few hours after he had been shot with a dart. He had slept most of the sickness off throughout the day after Gwen had left (or when Peter had convinced her to leave him) to go back to school. Despite how exhausted he had been both before and after his girlfriend had left, he didn't fall asleep as quickly as one would think. His mind had raced with what Gwen had told him. It still was.

He didn't know how to feel with the new knowledge that someone was out to get him. Yes it was obviously bad, don't get him wrong, but it was slightly more comforting — no matter how misguided the comfort was — to know that just one person and his lackeys were after him instead of the police force: the men Captain Stacy had worked with. But then again, some policemen had willingly fired at him, and the person after him had a bunch of resources at his disposal if he could take control of a police station and give them equipment. It was then that Peter's deceptive comfort vanished. So much for optimism.

As if the creak of its hinges would disturb the uneasy silence of the household, Peter slowly opened his bedroom door. He felt exposed. His nerves raw from trepidation. According to Gwen, his classmates wouldn't tattle to authority and give them just the evidence they needed to take him in for questioning or maybe even arrest. He appreciated her positive outlook, but it was far too early to tell if he was safe. The police may not be able to test him for the sickness they had purposefully injected into him, but it was his classmates' word against his own.

He hated that he couldn't do anything. He could only wait. But he could at least learn from Gwen's positivity, and be a little more optimistic himself. He couldn't do anything about his classmates, but he could do something about the police.

Peter gingerly got up from his bed and walked back down the stairs to reach his destination: the basement.

Not every police officer was after him, so Peter just had to go after the current chief, Smerdyakov, as Officer Forbes had called him. Someone was orchestrating something big, something Peter knew didn't just include corrupting the police force. Smerdyakov was just one line of string out of the many controlled by the big man himself. Peter needed to find out who that was and why he wanted him caught. And he would only need to follow Smerdyakov's line of string to do just that.

His hands moved over his tools and cheap mechanics, finding the materials he would need. Hopefully, he would be done with it before night or maybe even before Aunt May returned home.

Hours passed as he worked, and it was spent alternating between the basement and his bedroom floor, all the while peering at tiny pieces of metal and wire. Eventually, he finished his device.

He flipped it in between his hands before thumbing the small mechanism. It was nowhere near the size of his thumb nail, but it would do.

Checking the time, Peter saw he still had about an hour or so until Aunt May got home and, thereon, a few hours after. Plenty of time to do what he planned to.

Considering it was situated in New York CIty, the police station was pretty isolated. It had no neighboring towers, and it had at least a street's width in between it and the surrounding buildings. Peter had already known of its location before, but seeing it know made him realize how difficult sneaking into the station might be.

He couldn't jump onto the roof from a nearby building. He would probably survive the leap, but he would undoubtedly be seen. He could just imagine the unnecessary backlash that would cause, from the Daily Bugle especially.

No, he would have to wait this out, and find a lapse in traffic so he could travel on foot. So he discreetly (or maybe not so discreetly. It's hard to be discreet with a red and blue skin-tight suit) hung from a web on a water-tower, actively watching the traffic on the street that had seemed to have the least amount of cars.

But with it being New York, it was taking a while for there to be a pause in traffic. He wished he could just change from his civilian clothes to his costume right next to the building, but there wasn't anything thick enough for him to change behind.

Yet, strangely, Peter wasn't bored. He was irritated that it was taking so long, but he wasn't at all bored. He pondered if he had always been like this, or if this was another side-effect of the spider-bite. And this would be the equivalent of a spider waiting for prey. Peter shivered and balked slightly at the comparison, but then that was when there was finally a break in traffic.

It was a relatively large street, and there were no cars traveling down it besides a couple turning onto or off of the street. It was getting darker, and that would aid him a bit in hiding the brightness of suit. This was his chance (a part of him felt forlorn at that. It had really been relaxing and a nice change of pace).

He sprung straight off of his string of webbing and landed directly onto the sidewalk below. Before the car heading his direction could get any closer, Peter sprinted forward in a slightly-hunched stance in the small hope it would keep people from identifying him. He made it to one of the few trees behind the police station long before the vehicle reached him, but he stayed pressed against the tree's trunk, out of sight, until it passed. Checking the surroundings for any more cars with his eyes and ears, he quickly scaled up the building's wall once it was mostly clear, hoping that the tree would help cover him.

Once he reached the roof, he headed towards the air vent he had see earlier from his perch. Peter thought it was kinda dumb for a police station to have such a big and accessible air vent where people could easily sneak in (namely him), but he supposed that they didn't think that there would be people that could climb up walls (also him). They still should've known better.

He crawled down the inside of the ventilation shaft. When the shaft changed to run horizontally instead of vertically, Peter didn't even notice.

He was lightly moving forward on his fingertips and toes with his arms and legs tucked as close to him as possible to make sure he didn't make a sound. His spider-sense was silent, and when he came along the first grate, the light of the room below shining into the vent, he let himself relax a miniscule and listened in to the conversations below. Hopefully he would hear something useful.

" — did ya catch the chick in black?"

"Nah, she got away on that grappling hook again."

"What's with this city? First guys on webs and now chicks on hooks?"

Peter muffled a snort, storing that information into his head for future reference (anyone crazy enough to use something other than a car or gun for escape was worth noting in his book). Upon seeing it wasn't the spot he was looking for, he moved along to the next grate.

"How'd the deadlock on— "

"Have you heard of the new restaurant by—"

He moved on to the next one, and the next one, and the next one. None of the grates led to the room he needed to find... or maybe it was all one room. It was hard to tell if all the grates were in the same room or not. So either the police station had too many rooms, or the ventilation shaft had far too many grates with too much space in between them that gave the illusion of having a lot of rooms. Peter briefly wondered if that was coincidence, or if it was planned when the place was built. He wished he had more reliable information than his own observation of the station when he had came here to see Captain Stacy.

It was then that he finally overheard a useful conversation as he came upon the next grate.

" — always goes out huh?"

"Shh! Don't let anyone hear you say that, or then one of his pets might just tell him and throw you out. Just like the last guy."

Peter cocked his head to the side. Officer Forbes had said something about an officer being fired when he had asked where their new equipment was coming from. Were they talking about Smerdyakov?

"Bah! It don't matter. It's still the truth ain't it? He always goes out, same time each night, and the next day we usually get a new batch of weapons to hunt Spidey. Since when was this our job, Kev?" The other officer, Kev, stayed quiet. Peter swallowed. He wished he could say something to him, but he got the information he needed.

Smerdyakov wasn't in the building, so Peter could sneak right into his office. Now he just had to find it. He remembered where Captain Stacy's office was, and if Smerdyakov was using the same room, Peter would only have to figure out where it was from the vents. He went in the vague direction he hoped it was in.

Thankfully, because of the conversation he had overheard, it was very telling when he had found the office. Since Smerdyakov wasn't here, his room was dead silent, absent of any form of speech.

With a quick double-check of the room with his spider-sense and his other senses, he concluded the room was indeed vacated. He peeked his head through the vent's opening to see if the blinds of his office window were shut. They were. Peter silently dropped into the room.

He wished he had someway to verify that this was indeed the right room—

There was a policemen's identification on the desk. Briefly rubbing his hand over the black material, he picked it up, opened it, and, lo and behold, his name — Dmitri Smerdyakov — was written on the ID card above the official police badge. Peter would definitely look that up later. But what kind of police officer left their identification in their office?

He shook his head and placed it back on its previous spot on the desk. This was the right room; that was all he needed to know.

With a quick examination of the area, he noticed the small space between the large black file cabinets and the wall in the corner of the room. A perfect spot for his device. He just hoped that his creation would work… and that it wouldn't get spotted. He probably should have chosen a better and more obscure design. What other nutjob besides himself would create something that resembles a spider?

Hopefully the shade the cabinet casted onto the wall would help hide it.

Just as Peter attached his device to the wall, the door knob to the office began to turn as if it was in slow-motion just to give Peter the time he needed to react. Instantly, he sprang up to the ceiling, deftly moved through the vent opening, and replaced the grate just as the door opened.

He held his breath and remained deathly still.

The man — judging from the weight of his footfalls and his voice — walked around the room, humming to himself. He lifted a couple objects and shuffled some papers, before he walked to where Peter approximated the desk was. The man picked something up. Something that opened up with the sound of fabric hitting fabric — the badge.

The man clicked his tongue in a manner that imitated disappointment. "Dmitri, you know he won't be happy with this." A shiver ran up Peter's spine.

Before he could contemplate what he meant, the man walked out the door, shutting it with a soft click. Peter was scurrying down the shaft without even realizing he had done so. Did he work for the man in charge too? How many of the officers only had their jobs for the big man's purpose? His mind was too busy trying to analyze the man's words. A grave mistake on his part.

Just that slight shift of focus was all that needed to go for him to make a slight mistake.

Peter's elbow tapped the edge of the shaft. He froze.

From below came a muffled, "Did you hear that?"

Shit.

There were various clicks of gun's safety being turned off. Police officers sure didn't take any chances. Specifically when a sound came from the ventilation shaft. Peter probably should've planned this a bit better.

The stealth option was out; they knew he was there. So he went as fast as he could towards where he hoped the exit was.

He'd never been more thankful for his spider-sense… and bad aim.

The police only had a vague idea of his location from the almost non-existent sounds of his hands and feet hitting metal, so their shots were way off. Only few were close to hitting him. Even then, his spider-sense warned him, and he would only have to move his leg or arm to avoid them. The rate of his heart slowed more and more as each shot missed… until there was one shot that was heading straight for his chest.

His spider-sense blazed an inferno, and he leapt as far and as fast as he could to the side of the shaft.
He wasn't fast enough. He couldn't of been fast enough. There wasn't nearly enough room to dodge a shot that direct.

The bullet embedded itself into his bicep. He couldn't help but cry out in alarm and pain.

All movement ceased, even his own. Everything zeroed onto the object his arm.

Then his spidey sense once again tingled, and it was the only thing that grounded him to reality. The one thing that was reminding him that he needed to get out. The rest of him was centered around the throbbing of his arm and the enclosed space that only gave him one direction of escape.
That state of mind lasted for a total of five seconds before his body accepted the hot burst of adrenaline and the cold rush of pain.

Peter moved towards where he was almost positive the exit was. His arm burned at the movement, but he couldn't let it hold him down.

The rest of the shots never again reached the same proximity, and they were dwindling in amount as they ran out of bullets.

Before he knew it, the horizontal placement of the air shaft changed to go up vertically, and he was soon breathing in the harsh slap of a gust of wind. He would take fresh New York air over gunshots anyday.

Shouts drew him back to the present and his hurting arm. He quickly leapt up into the air, shot a web to the nearest scraper, and, with one arm, started to swing his way to Gwen's.

He hadn't even traveled a block before he realized he shouldn't go to her. He couldn't. She had helped him plenty enough already, and Peter, despite her claiming otherwise, knew she was deeply worried about the police being after him. He didn't need to add him getting shot to her already full plate. And he had enough experience getting bullets out on his own. He had forced himself to right after Captain Stacy had passed.

So with a slight amount of regret of keeping a secret from Gwen, he started heading in the opposite direction: his house. He tried comforting himself with the thought that this would also help throw the police off his trail if they had already been tailing him.

Peter once again closed the front door behind him as he entered his house. This time, however, the lights inside were on, meaning that Aunt May was home.

He cursed underneath his breath.

When he was a couple blocks away from his house, he had tried to dress out of his suit, but he had stopped when his arm had bled more from his attempts at getting it off. He had kept his costume top on to try and maintain the bleeding, but spandex didn't do much to help. So he had tried to to bandage his arm the best he could with webbing.

It had helped, a lot. Most of the blood had soaked into the strong substance or pooled underneath it, but by the time he had reached his home, some blood had leaked through. He was past the point of being light-headed. The adrenaline rush from before had long since faded, and he was now struggling to think past the pain in his arm and trudge onward. The one thing he could think positively about was that the bullet had also gone through the police station's wall (yet another defect of that building. Seriously, they were police officers. Shouldn't they have the walls made just to stop bullets?), so it's speed had been severely halted. The bullet hadn't gone nearly as deep as it could have.

But that still didn't stop his face from paling a bit from the loss of blood. Not to mention that he was still recovering from the sickness, so his face was probably not only pale from blood loss, but from the illness as well. And his hair was still slicked with sweat. And he was still pretty sweaty in general. And he was still having just the teensiest bit of difficulty breathing. Really, he could go on all day. And they all were amazing things to explain to his Aunt.

So he stepped around the corner of his kitchen, fully expecting Aunt May to be sitting at the table, with her concerned and irritated expression, like she always did when she was expecting him to come home late with bruises and wounds.

What Peter wasn't expecting, was to see Aunt May sitting at the dining table with Flash. Talking with each other… in his house… He was a lot more out of it then he thought if he hadn't heard Flash talking… with his Aunt… in his home...

What was Flash doing in his house!?

As if his thoughts called him out, Flash turned his head his head towards him right as Peter realized that the other teen had a perfect view of the dark red blotch on his jacket; the blood that had managed to leak through his webbing. Peter was expecting his mouth to fly open, for him to possibly yell and ask what had happened, but his jaw only clenched together, shifting to the side and back. The only change in expression caused by Peter's appearance was his eyebrows drawing together in astonishment and concern (which was funny. Since when did Flash care?). His eyes examined Peter's white and sweaty face before trailing to his arm and then snapping to the ground by Peter's feet.

A drop of his blood had fallen to the floor. Peter quickly smudged it with his foot and moved his body so his arm was out of their line of sight, just as Aunt May twisted around in her chair to face him.

Socialization with Flash and his apparent return home had brought a warm smile to her face, but it vanished as she took in his.

She shot out of her seat, "Peter! Oh my— what happened?"

Before Aunt May could get any closer and risk the chance of seeing his bloodied arm, he held up a hand, halting her immediately and bringing a confused expression to her face. He tried to send her a reassuring smile, well aware of how fake it was.

"It's fine, Aunt May. I'm just not feeling too good. I need some sleep, that's all." It was sickening how easy the lie fell from his lips.

And it was heart-wrenching to see how aware Aunt May was of the lie. Her expression fell, but then she paused. After a moment, she slowly said. "Well… If you're sure."

Peter blinked in confusion.

She turned to Flash, "Why don't you go up with him to his room dear? You said you needed a tutor for school, right? I'm sure Peter would be happy to help you. Why don't you two set up a schedule while I make some dinner."

Aunt May walked into the kitchen before they could say anything, a clear dismissal.

Peter held in a groan and walked up to his bedroom without waiting to see if Flash was following. His day absolutely could not get any worse, and he didn't understand Aunt May's reasoning. What was she expecting to come out of this? It wasn't like he was going to tell his deepest and darkest secrets to Flash only for him to rat them out to his Aunt.

He would just have to get rid of Flash. The sooner the better since there was no way that he was going to dig a bullet out of his own arm with his ex-bully present. Not unless he wanted to further compromise his not-so secret identity.

Flash shut the bedroom door as Peter searched through his closet for the first aid kit he kept there. Though he wasn't going to get the bullet out yet, he could at least bandage it and stop the blood flow. But it was definitely going to hurt.

Not caring that Flash was watching, Peter bit his lip and started to wrap his arm.

"Your Aunt made up the tutor thing — well, not completely, but I don't think that's why she wanted me to talk to you," Flash said. Peter made one loop around his arm with the bandages, not sure how to respond or what Flash was going to say. "It's just… she cares about you, man. She cares about you a lot." Flash swallowed, trying to remove a non-existent lump in his throat. Peter's movement stopped, and he waited. "And even I can tell that… what you're doing... is really hurting her." Peter sighed lowly. He knew that. Of course he knew that. But he could never stop being Spider-man.

At least Peter now knew that, without a doubt, Flash truly believed he was Spider-man, and there wasn't going to be any chance of telling him otherwise

"And just what do I do, Flash?" His voice, though fringed with the smallest amount of nervousness, was as calm and even as the silence that followed.

"My dad," Flash answered instead with abrupt vulnerability that made Peter turn to fully face him. "My dad…" he repeated with a rough and angry, yet sad, swallow that disappeared as he steeled himself; his voice gained a sarcastic bite, "Harrison got drunk. A lot. And his beer bottles always found their way towards me... The one thing the bastard taught me is how to get glass out of your own skin and how to treat it yourself afterwards." Peter didn't know what to say to that. The implications of the one statement sent him reeling. Would Flash of stopped bullying sooner if there were simply a friend for him to lean on? He felt slightly nauseous at the thought; guilt washed through him. But then Flash made eye contact with him and he just understood why he was telling him this. It wasn't for pity nor was it to inflict guilt.

"I won't tell anyone, Peter." It was shocking just how truthful that declaration was. If the conviction in his voice wasn't enough, Flash speaking his name for probably the first time definitely helped.

Peter knew he could trust him. "I wish everyone else would say the same," he said with a half-hearted chuckle. If only that were true. He eased himself next to Flash on his bed with the first-aid kit in his hand.

"They'll come around," Flash said. "I'll make sure of that."

"Do they... Are they the same as you?"

"You mean are they also stubborn assholes?" He joked.

Peter lightly chuckled and nervously licked his lips, "I mean do they think —no— do they know — I mean do they think they know that Spider-man — I mean me —- that I'm... " He cut himself off, hands finding his face. That was embarrassing. He had never said that he was Spider-man out loud before. He never could've before predicted that he would be saying this to Flash of all people.

He got the surprise of a lifetime when Flash full-on laughed, throwing his head back as the booming sound erupted. The other teen slapped him on the back and threw an arm around his shoulder, somehow avoiding the throbbing injury that had all but faded into the background.

"Parker, you are just full of surprises. The kid I used to pick on ends up being my idol," he couldn't withhold a blush at that, "but then you're not even that cool. You're just an ordinary guy. Don't take that the wrong way. I just mean that well… As Spider-man, no one knows who you are. And that's just it. No one knows who you are, so everyone, even dumb ol' Jameson, has wondered just who has the… guts, and the skills, and the pure awesomeness to do what you do. And when you try to connect that to just ordinary people like me, you just gotta wonder who that person is. What drove them to do that amazing stuff. How a person like that can even exist. But here you are. And you are every bit the dork I've always known you to be, and yet… dang Pete... I'm amazed. Honestly, man."

Throughout Flash's little speech, Peter's blush had somehow both deepened and faded as a warm and comforting tingling enveloped him. No one had ever said anything about him like that before. Ever.

Gwen's encouragement and praise came from her actions; it was a given and a constant. But it was different with Flash. He was a… fan (Peter cringed in embarrassment at that no matter how much it was said). And it was… nice to hear such compliments when he was so used to ridicule from the Daily Bugle.

"Thanks, Flash."

He simply smiled. It morphed into a grimace when his eyes fell onto the gunshot wound. "We really should fix your arm now."

Peter, though thrown off by the mention of we, sheepishly grinned and nodded through the pain that had returned to the forefront of his thoughts.

Slowly, they removed Peter's jacket. And it wasn't until Flash froze and stared did Peter realize that he still had his suit on.

The paleness of his face didn't help his blush in the slightest, but he pushed past it. Since the webbing had dissolved slightly from the time frame, he was able to rip it off. The blood that had pooled underneath the substance immediately started to run down his arm.

Peter wished he had grabbed some paper towels or something. Too late now. He cleared his throat, "You think you want to get the bullet out or should I?"

That snapped Flash out of his trance. He whitened at the question but shook his head. "I'll try it. Though I'm not too sure you should be trusting me with this. I don't think removing glass is the same as taking out bullets."

"It's kind of the same. Depends on how big and deep the glass is." Peter's straight and blunt answer made Flash pause.

"Oh... Right. You've probably had to take a lot of glass out before huh."

He snorted, "You have no idea. Windows have some weird obsession with me. Gwen's a bit jealous, I think."

Flash's head turned slightly from side to side as he tightly chuckled and took out the tweezers from the first-aid kit.

He moved the small tool towards Peter's injury but didn't do anything; his hand hovered.

"Um, so how many times have you've been shot?"

"Three. Including this one."

"So you know what to do?"

It was incredibly strange to see Flash nervous. Which made him wonder why he was nervous in the first place, considering the story he had just told him. But Flash had also said he had only treated himself. Maybe he just didn't know how to help others?

"I got everything I know from google," Peter said. All of Flash's movement halted as his nerves seemed to spike at that information. Peter grimaced and unhelpfully supplied, "And, you know, my own bag of experience." That seemed to worsen it — whatever it was — even further. "It— It's fine though. I mean what can you... do?" His statement turned into a question when he saw the look on Flash's face.

"Jesus, Parker."

Peter was horribly confused. "Huh?"

"You're acting like this is normal, man!"

"...This kind of is the norm for me, Flash."

Flash deflated, making that the second oddest thing he saw that day concerning his once bully. "Right. Arm. Okay. Let's just fix that."

Peter was just as willing as Flash to put that behind him (he was still hopelessly confused, but he honestly just did not want to think about it anymore. Not when he was still dealing with a gunshot wound).

"Shouldn't we take your suit off?" Flash said with a surprisingly straight and resigned face.

"I'd rather not." Taking the suit off would make removing the bullet so much easier, but Peter did not want to deal with the pain of taking the fabric off or resewing it if the only way they could get it off was through cutting it. Just… no.

"Okay man, if you're sure." With that, Flash finally positioned the tweezers so they were just above the wound. "So I just, um, take it out?" Peter was kind of regretting letting Flash do this (he was starting to believe Flash only saw the things he wished to see, and that was why he couldn't see the blood dripping down his arm or see the pain on his face).

"Yeah just don't let it—" Peter cut himself off when Flash's expression had somehow intensified. "Nevermind, just remember that faster is better."

Despite Flash's obvious anxiety, his hands were steady and efficient. His experience with removing glass from skin was finally showing.

Peter bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and turned his head away as the bullet moved through his skin. Even if this was pretty normal for him, it did not make it hurt any less.

"There," Flash said when the bullet popped out of his arm not even a minute later.

"Th-Thanks — ergh — but if we e-end up doing this again, make sure you don't take so l-long."

The other teen grimaced, "Sorry, guess I took a while to get to it, huh."

"Just a b-bit."

With a shaky hand, Peter took the roll of bandages from the kit and started to wrap his arm, until Flash took over for him. He was definitely better at wrapping.

It was silent as he worked. Peter was finally feeling the full effects of blood loss. He's just happy it happened now instead of during the weird conversation earlier. When the other teen finished wrapping, he fell down on to his bed and closed his eyes. He was tempted to fall asleep right there.

But he wasn't done yet. He wanted to ask Flash so many things (like why he had even came to his house in the first place), but there was one thing that was even more important to him at the moment.

"So how did you come to believe that I'm… you know."

It took a while for Flash to answer. "I didn't know what to think at first. It seemed too crazy to think that Spider-man went to the same school as me, the same class, and was even the same age. But then I thought of the basketball thing… and how you got all those bruises all the time. And still do. It kinda just clicked then."

Peter frowned when he mentioned the bruises; he wished there were some way he could fix that as it certainly helped weaken his secret identity. But the frown quickly vanished and was replaced with a small smile; Flash hadn't said anything about him being disappointed that his bullying victim had turned out to be his hero.

The bed moved as Flash shifted towards him. He could practically feel the tension radiating off of the other.

"Missy also mentioned that to the rest of the class, and talked about how you're just acting to hide how strong you really are."

Peter tiredly sighed, "Yeah. Gwen told me."

"Course she did," he muttered. "Well, anyway, that was probably what convinced most of us. But that wasn't what really convinced everyone."

Peter's frown returned, and he opened his eyes.

"When you and Gwen were leaving, when you tripped and fell… you were wearing your suit underneath it… So everyone saw that."

"Shit." Peter was kind of (not really) okay with just one person knowing his identity but not an entire class full of people. Despite everyone having just the evidence they needed to believe he was Spider-man, he had been hoping that he would've been able to play it off and make some people, namely ones like Jordan, think otherwise. But there was only one lunatic that went around in bright red and blue spandex. So if it was too late to convince them that he wasn't Spider-man, how was he supposed to convince them not to tell anyone?

"...O-Oh, sir! I wasn't expecting to see you h-here!"

"What is the progress of the formula?"

"O-Oh, r-right! As of now, approximately ninety-eight percent has left the subject's body."

"Hmmm. And when it was at fifty percent?"

"It had only been four hours then, sir."

"Impressive… I'll give him that... at least. But that is all he'll receive… that is all he'll ever receive... Send the data to the scientists. Tell them to proceed."

Whoo boy, there's the first appearance of the big bad guy! :D Hopefully it wasn't undermining, I thought that just dialogue would be best for that part, but I'm not too sure I like how it turned out. :P

And as I said at the beginning of the chap, I'm sorry for the inaccuracies. I bet they're a bunch of them, but, like Peter said, all of the stuff I got is from google. If it's that inaccurate though, I'll correct it later.

Flash's appearance was totally unexpected, and I had written about a quarter of the scene with him before I realized what I was really doing ;P

And with the scene where Peter is confused, that was basically me. I had just found myself writing that as well, and after I had written it, I felt it fit when it might actually not. So sorry if you guys got confused at that part too :P

I really hope you guys liked the chapter though, I'm not sure how I feel about the chapter, but hopefully you guys liked it at least.

Until next time! I'll try to get the next chapter out as soon as I can!