When Spider-Man woke up, he was alone. He was in the same room. He looked around.

The wooden floor was stained with his blood. So was his Iron Spider suit. The suit was also torn up in many places. A pang or guilt echoed through him. Tony Stark had made that suit for him... he had worked so hard, and it was probably really expensive, and then Peter just went and ruined it. Just like he ruined everything.

Peter looked down at his body. His arms had healed significantly. Where they used to be deep red and blackened, they were now pinkish. They still hurt, but not as much. The stab wound in his side had healed some, and so had the many cuts on his body. The blood on his torso had dried.

He was in a lot of pain. More pain than he had felt before the alien experimented on him, but in comparison to THAT, it wasn't that bad.

He was also feeling a lot less sluggish than he had been earlier. Perhaps the drugs had worn off.

It occurred to Peter that he had no idea how long he had been gone. Had it been a day? Days? ...Weeks? Peter suddenly realized how hungry he was. He was ReAlLy HuNgRy. He felt like he hadn't eaten in DAYS... probably because he hadn't. He needed to get home.

Peter tugged once more on the restraints around his wrist. They were so strong.
but then one of them popped.

He pulled it twice as hard and it came undone. His right hand was free. Then he pulled out his left hand, then his right foot, then his left foot.

He was free.

Peter stood up and almost immediately lost his balance. His fatigue, hunger, blood loss, and pain all teamed up on him to knock him over once again.

But no.

He was stronger than them.

He wouldn't let anything knock him over this time, because if he did then he just might not ever get back up again.

And so he pushed himself four times as hard. He walked to the door. His vision was blurred in front of him and everything was wobbling around but he kept walking. He got to the door. It was unlocked. He laughed to himself. The alien hadn't locked the door. It must have assumed that Peter wouldn't wake up, at least until his "associate" came, and that even if he did, he wouldn't have been strong enough to release himself from the restraints, let alone leave.

But Peter Parker was strong. He opened the door, and, to his relief, realized that he was in New York! In fact, he knew exactly where he was; he was in the old abandoned warehouse only 4 blocks from the new Avengers facility. And he knew exactly how to get there.

After Peter Parker's funeral, the Avengers went back to the compound. They were all incredibly worn out and emotionally exhausted. They all, in one way or another, felt some sort of guilt pertaining to the death of the youngest member of their team. Whether it was that they felt responsible or partly responsible, or that they felt that they hadn't treated him well enough during his life, or a number of other things, they all felt awful about it. Because why did they deserve to live while their young spiderling was hurt and killed? Why did he die and they didn't?

The Avengers Minus One sat around a table at the Avengers Compound. They ordered a pizza and they all pretended like they were going to eat it, but no one did. They all played with their food but no one could eat. They weren't hungry. Even though some of them hadn't eaten in days, they weren't hungry.

No one said a word. They were going to talk... they had to decide: what now? But no one said a word. Either they didn't know what to say, they didn't have anything to say that hadn't already been said verbally or repeated through all of their minds a million times over, or they knew they wouldn't be able to get out a single word and so didn't even bother trying.

That is, until Peter Parker, bleeding and shaking profusely, stumbled into the room through the open door. The Avengers all stood up in shock but didn't move. They watched, eyes wide, as Peter, holding onto the doorframe for much-needed support, managed to choke out three small words, "Please, help me," and fell to the ground.