Hello :) Here's chapter 4 :)

Peter took a deep, grounding breathe. Nausea, that's what he felt as he once again found himself sitting perched amongst the tops of skyscrapers on a shiny roof. His leg shook relentlessly where it was placed up on the surface. His other hung over the side, while visible shivers racked through his skinny form.

He couldn't believe he was doing this, he really couldn't believe he was doing this. He stared down at the innocent little phone and headset in his gloved hand, as it seemed to once again torment him with its presence.

It'll help save more lives, he repeated to himself over and over—the only thing stopping him from dropping the device to the deep, dark depths below.

He'd combed over the thing for any form of bugs last night, half expecting that to be the conniving route the police would take, but had come up with nothing. Zilch. Not a single sign of betrayal. He'd been confused, at first, shocked, but quickly got over it, as he then made certain that nobody would ever, ever be tracking it if they should decide to change their minds. Only once he was certain it was safe, did he slip back into his house.

He let out a massive sigh. Just do it, get it over with, he thought to himself. He knew that the longer he put this off, the harder and more unpleasant it would be to do. So, biting his lip, he lifted up his mask, and slipped the set underneath, placing the earpieces round his ears, and winding the funny little microphone round his neck under his chin. He then placed the specially made, fancy phone device safely in the belt of his suit, and turned it on. Instantly, it wirelessly connected to the earpieces and mic, with little lights lighting up.

He sighed again (now that it was all working) and pulled the mask back down.

"Okay, okay, you can do this, Spidey. You can do this. It'll be fine; everything'll be fine. Oh, who am I kidding? Since when were things ever, fine?" he mumbled to himself, masking his uncertainty with his overly chipper voice.

Now it was time for the waiting.

He shifted his position so he was sitting cross-legged, and took in another deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh, chest rising and falling as he did so.

He waited, and waited, sometimes even checking the phone to make sure it was on and working, but finding that everything was in order.

Eventually, at two a.m., he gave up, switching off the device and swinging home, disappointed tiredness hanging over him. But somewhere in the back of his mind he also felt relief, relief that no one had called for him that night, and that he hadn't had to face working with those, with those…awfully cruel excuses for cops.

Quietly, Peter snuck into his bedroom window, and crawled into the safe comfort of his bed.

The next night, Peter did the same thing. He found a random building to make his perch, and put on the earpieces and mic, turning them on.

Once again, he waited, sitting as patiently as he could on the ledge. But being a teenage part-spider, exactly how still that was was another matter entirely. He shifted and squirmed, stretching occasionally, and even once looked up at the few visible stars while lying on his back—anything to calm his nerves. He didn't think he'd been so nervous about something before in his life. Those cold, stone-hearted cops a few months or so ago had really messed him up. He wasn't sure he could go near cops again without having a complete freak out. Or could he…? A memory of the two kind policemen who'd helped him after he was caught in that bomb blast came to mind. He shook his head.

He spent several hours mulling over this, before finally going home.

It was the third night of his new 'occupation'. He had reduced himself to mindlessly counting the red and blue cars moving along, all those stories down below him, if he could even differentiate which ones were red and blue.

Suddenly, his head snapped up at the sound of a nearby scream. Oh blow it, he thought. I can't just sit here and wait around for the cops, dreading the inevitable. People need my help, and I can't just leave them! The cops will have to call me when they're ready. Although, I'm not surprised none have asked for my help, as they all no doubt hate me, anyway, Peter continued miserably, before standing up, giving his shoulders a stretch, and leaping in the direction of the civilian in need.

New York never slept. Crime wouldn't stop with the new addition of this hotline. Whether or not the officers of this city chose to reach out and specifically ask him for his help, Peter had people to protect.

It would be another tiring, fast paced night for the teenager, stopping muggers and plucking drunken party go-ers out of the way of incoming traffic—the earpiece sat silent and unresponsive all night.

Peter walked down the halls of his school, thick books curled under one arm and his bag slung across his back as he stopped at his locker, putting in the combination. It had been a week since he'd been given the device by that policeman, and no one had contacted him so, naturally, he gave it up.

"Parker!" his name was shouted down the hall.

That sound initially sent shivers down his spine, until a friendly, firm fist bumped his shoulder and none other than Flash Thomson leaned against the lockers beside him.

"How're you doin'? You've been a bit quiet of late, just wanted to make sure you're alright." Those words were highly different to the ones that would have come out of Flash's mouth just six months ago, as Flash had never been this friendly towards Peter before in his life. He was usually quite the opposite.

"I'm fine, Flash," Peter said absentmindedly, as he proceeded to put his books in his locker. Flash studied him searchingly for a moment, before changing the subject.

"Alright, if you say so, man. Hey, have you heard what's going on with Spidey? Apparently the police are now working with him. It's so cool, right?! That guys rad!" Flash said, extremely over-enthusiastically.

Oh great, Peter thought, as he tried not to show his annoyance at the subject on his face. It was quite ironic that Spider-Man had been the one to change Flash around, but right at this moment, he was the last news topic he wanted to hear about.

"Umm, yeah. Yeah, I have," he practically sighed.

"It's so awesome! I'm so excited about it. It'll be great to see those guys kicking butt together," Flash said, making a fake punch in the air.

That got Peter right in the stomach, and he cracked, spinning around, "What about how the police have been treating Spidey? Practically torturing him? And you want him to work with them?" he exploded, with possibly a little too much hurt.

"Oh chill, Parker. Those are just rumours. There's no proof that they've been hurting Spidey like that. I'm sure they wouldn't. Don't worry, everything's fine, man. You can't believe everything you read. And besides, even if they did, Spidey could take them all easy." He reached over and, annoyingly, ruffled Peter's hair. "You worry too much," he said, before walking off to his friends.

I can't believe this, Peter practically fumed in his mind; so much of that speech did not sit well with him.

"Peter?"

Peter spun around at the sweet, soft voice, eyes widening slightly, to find Gwen standing behind him with worried eyes.

"G—Gwen," he stuttered in surprise, not expecting her to be there.

"I, um, I wanted to talk to you; I was worried. You seem distant lately, and—and jumpy. I just wanted to know if everything's ok? That you're ok?" she said, seeming to stumble a little over her words.

Peter immediately felt guilty. He'd been ignoring her as of late since the incident with the police, preferring to be alone, but he hadn't thought of the consequences of that.

"Yeah–yeah, I'm good. Thanks—thanks for asking. I, um. I appreciate it," he said, struggling to keep eye contact.

"Peter?" she asked again, placing a half sleeved-covered hand on his shoulder. "The stuff they're saying, that the police did to you, it's not true, is it?" she asked, worried lines creasing her face.

Peter couldn't reply, as he found his throat choked up, his face looking down at the ground.

Gwen let out a giant sigh, and without replying, wrapped him in a big hug. Grateful, he tucked his chin over her shoulder, finding great relief in her offered comfort, if only for a second, before something happened. His enhanced hearing picked up the tiny voices coming from a phone several people were huddled around in the corridor, and he didn't have to hear much, before he took off out the door, leaving behind a very confused Gwen.

Running down the nearest alley and jumping up on the tops of the buildings, Peter scrambled to make his way out of his clothes, red and blue suit emerging underneath, as he quickly fiddled with his headset, turning it on. Apparently, the police had been trying to contact him for the last forty minutes while he was busy in school without the device on. There was something big going on in the city, and they needed him there.

"This is Spider-Man. I repeat, this is Spider-Man coming in, over," he said, voice obviously puffing as he raced across the rooftops, trying to find higher ground so he could swing.

"Spider-Man, this is Officer Mathews; I read you. We need backup in the city, over." It was obvious the man hated doing this, as Peter could immediately hear the reluctance in his voice. He sounded to be almost grumbling with annoyance, like the words were being forced out of his mouth.

"In the city? Where in the City? Hey, wait!" Peter yelled, but he received no reply.

"Well, fat lot of good that is," he said to himself, feeling angry at the officer's unhelpfulness, but there wasn't much he could do about his relationship with the police right now. People needed his help.

He swung to the tallest skyscraper in the area, perching easily on the top, scanning the area with careful eyes.

Finally, he spotted rising plumes of smoke and bright bursts of colour some dozen buildings away. He swung closer. As he approached, he became aware of the screaming, fleeing civilians, of the sounds of shouting emergency personal, and of the crackle of electricity underpinning all activity.

"The usual suspects, then," Peter said aloud, as he took in the glowing form of Electro, hovering above cracked asphalt. The villain's hands were outspread, blue electricity thrumming along his limbs. The destruction along the street told tales of the rampage the other man must have been on.

A firefighter was one of the first to spot Peter's arrival, visibly slumping with relief. "Spider-Man," called the man, "do you need our hand again, with the hoses—?"

Before Peter could answer, his spider-sense alerted him moments before Electro threw a burst of light at him. He ducked in time, springing up to perch on top of a streetlight.

"'Afternoon, Electro!" Peter greeted. He offered the villain a jaunty, mocking wave. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Electro growled. Peter easily dodged another ball of electricity.

"You really don't learn, do you?" Peter asked. He darted away from more thrown electricity. It was like a dance, a practiced routine; Electro threw the electricity, Peter threw the quips, everyone around them either fled in terror or stayed to watch the ensuing fight with wide, awed eyes.

"Do I need to spell it out for you every time?" Peter continued. "Dodging. It's a thing I can do. You're kind of slow on the uptake, aren't you?"

"Maybe you can dodge," Electro said lowly, "but they cannot."

Electro turned toward the gathered onlookers. He aimed blue, glimmering hands on a distracted child, who wasn't paying any attention to the superhuman battle waging above her head, concentrating only on her lost parents.

"She," Electro continued, "cannot."

Electro threw electricity. Peter lunged, the space between them vanishing as Peter tackled the villain bodily out of the air.

On the sidewalk, an officer had mirrored Peter's actions, and had hauled the child safely out of the way. The electricity missed the pair, leaving only a blackened smear on the buckling concrete.

One of the cops crouched behind the protective sides of their cars leapt to his feet, shouting, "Morgan!"

"She's okay!" Morgan called back. The little girl was cradled in his arms, and clutching at the man's uniform shirt, sobbing. "I'm okay, too!"

Some of the panic that had clutched at Peter's chest ebbed, relief soothing away the tightness around his heart. It was good to see the two in one piece. Peter cared little for the fact that the officer was Morgan, one of his tormentors among the NYPD. He was still terrified at the thought of him getting hurt—or worse, killed—and grateful for the officer's selfless heroism. The other man looked tired, worn out, but still was able to perceive and save the child when Peter had been too slow.

Morgan's left shirtsleeve was ripped, the hems burned, the skin underneath slightly burnt. A bloody scrape ran along his left cheek, highlighting the action the man had seen that night.

Electro shouted beneath the hero's restraining form, frustration and rage spurring him on. While Peter was momentarily distracted by the girl's safety, Electro threw him off with a ripping pulse of energy.

It was a burning, jarring feeling, like someone had thrown a bucket of lava over his sleeping form to wake him up. His limbs were useless against it, uncooperative in the face of such pain, and he collided against hard asphalt some metres away.

It was both a painful realisation—don't take your eyes off of the enemy, Parker, you stupid amateur—and a disorientating force, scrambling any coherent thoughts on how to stop Electro.

Electro laughed—an ugly, smug sound. "Maybe you can't dodge, after all."

Remnants of energy pulsed through his body. It was distracting, making Peter's muscles spasm even as he dragged himself up. This wasn't an unfamiliar feeling; Peter had fought Electro multiple times before, and he was no stranger to electricity being used as a weapon. After so many encounters with the business end of a taser, of the military-grade weaponry once employed by the police—

Peter was struck again by Electro. He was too tired, his reflexes slowed by fatigue and pain and the memories flickering behind his eyes.

He choked, dragging in ragged, heavy breaths. One hand braced flat against the asphalt, the other clutched to his chest. Against his palm, his heartbeat was erratic, fluttering unevenly against the pulses of energy.

Peter clumsily stood. When Electro attacked once more, Peter's dodge was wobbly, nothing like his usual graceful aerobatics. Uniformed police officers flittered about in his peripheral. The sight of their dark, navy blue sent Peter back to that night all those evenings ago.

His memories were blurry, untrustworthy, but Peter could clearly recall the blinding terror and the insurmountable pain; the way his limbs had spasmed against the ground, back arched, vision unfocused; the cold, detached expressions on the watching officers, waiting to scoop him up after he'd been reduced to nothing more than a twitching pile of useless muscles; the clawing, desperate panic that had fuelled him, pushing him off of that hard ground so he could flee deeper into the city.

But this energy, this pain, was nothing like that night. That night had left Peter shaking and terrified for weeks to come. This should be a mild inconvenience. Electro had gotten in a few lucky shots, that was all.

So why did Peter feel weak and useless? Feel vulnerable, like an exposed nerve, left ripped open in the middle of a New York street?

"HEY, FREAK SHOW!"

Both Peter and Electro looked up. Peter gaped as the policewoman pointed the sloshing nozzle of a firefighter's hose bare inches from the villain's face, and sent the sparking man flying.

Marissa watched impassively, chest heaving, sweaty flyaway curls dropping into her eyes. A cry of cheers erupted from the groups of firefighters, cops, and onlookers, drawing a tired smile from the policewoman.

"You alright, Spidey?" Marissa asked. Her eyes were kind, concerned, just as they once were all those weeks ago, when she had helped Jack haul him back to her house and bandaged him up in the wake of a devastating bomb blast. Peter gave her a jerky nod.

Electro climbed to his feet once more, and Marissa aimed the hose in steady hands, ready to blast the villain once more, even though she knew the move would not work twice.

"Spidey," Marissa called over the stream of water, "I could use some help over here." Her gaze was welcoming and friendly, nothing like the cold, calculating stare of the officers that hurt him so badly. Under her unwavering warmth, the traumatising memories of being electrified began to fade away.

"What, getting tired?" Peter shot back at her, before leaping at Electro. This time, Peter wasn't distracted. This time, Peter didn't let Electro gain the upper hand.

And later, when Electro was struggling fruitlessly in electricity-proof webbing, Peter didn't flinch away from the encroaching wave of officers on the scene. Marissa nodded at him from across the street. Morgan was by the paramedics, being patched up while talking with the little girl's parents.

A blonde officer clapped him on the shoulder, and Peter turned, startled but not afraid. The officer seemed shy and uncomfortable, purposely looking at where officers were hauling Electro away, not making eye contact.

"Thanks, I guess," said the officer gruffly, shrugging.

Peter cocked his head. "For what?"

"For—for coming. I was the one that called you. Officer Matthews."

Peter laughed a little, the sound light and cheery like a bell. This man was thanking him, sincere—albeit embarrassed, clearly stuck in his innate dislike for the supposed vigilante—and meaningful. Peter, coming down from the high of adrenaline, beamed underneath his mask.

"You don't need to thank me," Peter said kindly. "I'll always come if someone calls. If there's danger, I'll help."

Matthews nodded, obviously still a little embarrassed. "You took a few hits," he said, changing the subject, "do you need me to call a paramedic over—"

Peter laughed and stepped away. He really should be getting back to school; third period would be starting soon.

"Thank you, but no. I can barely feel it now, honestly." And it was true—while it had hurt initially, it had faded into a dull, annoying ache deep in his muscles, the sensation chased away by the bustle of activity from safe, unharmed New Yorkers around him, and the genuine gratefulness of the officer before him.

Peter wasn't used to being thanked, but he was discovering that he rather enjoyed it.

Thank you to all our readers for once again being patient. While our updates are a little late, we promise this will not be abandoned. xx

And we're finally making some form of progress with the officers! We've got a long way to go, but step by step, we're getting there.