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In the meantime, enjoy chapter 3... drumroll

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Peter tumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, which was just as dark as his bedroom. The room

was empty and untouched. The living room, bathroom, and master bedroom were the same. Bare and

cold.

"Aunt May!" his lungs hurt.

He was the only living thing in the house.

Four longs days came and went in a blur of panic. The police created a series of posters and sent

out twenty five patrol cars in search of the missing woman. Two detectives were put on the case.

Peter flew over and through the city, crawled through its underbelly, and peered through its windows

when he wasn't answering the barrage of police questions. Some random part of his brain reminded him

to eat, drink, and even refill on blood at the sealed-off Oscorp building. He refused to let himself sleep.

He could sleep when Aunt May was back where she belonged and he knew she was safe.

Five days.

Peter smiled wearily at the officers who were silently filing out of the house. They had given up

searching the house for prints or DNA; the place was spotless. Peter collapsed on the couch, running

his hand over the throbbing leg. It burned hot under the bandages, but he choked down an aspirin and

limped to the kitchen. The police had asked him about his non-weight bearing limp, and he had told

them the truth. He'd received the wound during the lizard break out the week before. Since they had no

reason to disbelieve him – at least that they could find- he was simply under their watch, and all his

belongings had been thoroughly searched nine times.

He gulped the glass of water in his hand and stared aimlessly out the window. Panic had dried out of

his body, leaving a numb, thick feeling. His aunt could be dead or worse. It was probably his fault. He

was making no headway.

The rapping hand at the door seemed to shake the house with the way it broke his train of thought.

Gritting his teeth and willing his aspirin to start working, he dragged himself to the door and released

the latch, swinging it towards the hole that he knew as home.

Gwen slipped past him and into the house before he could shut her out.

She stood in the middle of the living room, her arms out. He just stood there dumbly, wanting to run,

but at the same time longing for her comfort; longing to comfort her as calm face broke, and suddenly she was in his arms, shaking with hysterical sobs. He was holding her, but he was falling. They hit the ground, and she rolled off of him, curled in a ball. He gripped his leg and lifted it out of her way, but not sitting up.

"I'm so sorry for your loss." his voice sounded hollow in his own ears.

Gwen unraveled her tightly wound arms and legs and lifted her head, still trembling.

"You...she's gone. I'll help."

It was the first time they'd seen each other since that night. The first words they'd said since then. He shook his head hard, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

"I'm sorry. It's my fault."

"She's going to be okay you know."

"His death...it was my fault."

"Maybe she's closer than...than you realize."

"He died protecting you."

They were both crying so hard that they had to stop talking. Time crept by as their energy drained away with tears.

"I'll...get water." Gwen whispered falteringly. "To drink."

Peter watched dully as she filled two glasses and sat back down on the floor. She handed him one, but it

slipped out of his hands and broke on the hardwood.

"Um." he looked at it and then at her.

She sniffed and ran her sleeve over her face.

"Let's sweep it up. Let's get up...clean up the mess."

She swept a fragment of glass from her wool skirt, stood, and turned to him expectantly. He sighed

shakily, grabbed the corner table and painfully pulled himself up, grunting. He cried sharply as he

found his feet.

"What's wrong?"

"My leg...I..."

"The glass?"

"No...I.."

He leaned back on the wall and tried to look relaxed.

"I...Uh...got..."

"What is it? Do...you want to sit down?"

"shot..." he gestured his hand over his leg.

"When? What..."

"That night...your dad..."

He rubbed the back of his head, realizing that he had her full attention.

"He caught me and let me go...but I got hit..."

He dropped his head and waited for her to say something.

"He found out?" she said softly.

He nodded.

"He did the right thing."

He looked up and she was biting her lip, nodding to herself. "He did the right thing."

They were silent as they swept the glass from the floor and wiped away the spilled water.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him.

"Keep looking."

"Do you have any idea..."

"No. None."

"She'll be okay."

"Do you think?..."

"I know."

She touched his shoulder, staring intensely into his eyes.

"Something good has to happen. It has to."

"What if it doesn't?"

"It will."

She glided to the door.

"I have to go...Mom needs me, right now...we need each other. All of us."

He stretched out his hand in weak protest.

"I'll come back. Good luck."

The door slammed behind her, and he stared at it for a moment. Time to move, he told himself. He crawled up the stairs and into his suit. There was more city to scour. He fell asleep on the kitchen floor that night. Not on purpose. It just happened. He didn't wake up when the buzzer on the microwave sounded angrily; what woke him up was the static sound of an electronic voice that was calling his name.

"Peter." it was almost loving.

"Peter."

He sat bolt upright. "Aunt May?"

"Peter."

No, the voice was a man's. It was coming from the living room.

The small television screen was lighting up the room, flashing disturbing images of blood and torture

weapons.

"I have her, Peter. You have to try harder, or this isn't going to end well for either of them."

The voice was warm and welcoming, clashing painfully with the message it spoke. "You have to come

home. Find them, or I get bored." the voice intensified. "You don't want me to get bored. Come home, we're having a party. Wouldn't want you to be late."

The next image flashed a blood-covered sweater...Gwen's sweater. Peter shouted and pounded his fists

into the couch.

The screen died out, then flashed one last image; a logo.

This program presented to you by the Electrician.

Home.

That was where he had to go. But where was home? He listed places that could be considered home as he swung himself out over time square and across the park. Home was his parents' home. Aunt May and Uncle Ben's house...but no one was there. The lab at school, and even the run down abandoned warehouse that he had secretly claimed as his official Spiderman headquarters. Each place was totally empty and void of clues...except for the complete lack of electricity.

Peter was encouraged. It was something. He had communication, he had a method; he had a place. His

searches were no longer random. After the six hours it took to thoroughly search each location, Peter scaled the Chrysler building and perched on the top arch, scanning the busy city. This home that the Electrician had mentioned must be real. He just needed to find it. He stared out at the river, fascinated by the water's glimmering reflection of the night lights that overwhelmed it.

That was it. The apartment across the river. The one where he'd been born in. The one that was in the

small neighborhood where his parents had met. Peter sprang up and leaped out over the street, stretching his arms forward with new energy. There was no doubt in his mind that he was about to find

his family.

So...yep! There it is! Chapter 4 is on its way as we speak!