CHAPTER 9: THERE'S A MANIAC OUT IN FRONT OF ME

***PETER***

It's going to be a quick hop back to San Castiel, if the impossibly short travel time to New York is any indication. While we're in the air, I lock myself in the bathroom while I put the Spider-Man suit on for the first time. Well, not really the first time, since I remember wearing it before. But it'll be the first time since I started my new life. It's funny how I still don't have any memories of having even left - unless those were wiped too cleanly to recover. Or maybe the movies just can't help me recover everything I've lost.

But even knowing that I've worn the suit before doesn't adequately prepare me for one thing - it's not at all comfortable. Hell, before I put it on, it looked so small that I didn't even think I'd be able to fit my arms or legs (or any other part of me, really) into it. Then again, in the movies, it's kind of implied that Spider-Man...no, strike that - that I wear the suit under my regular clothes all the time when I'm out in public. Which I guess makes sense - who knows when I might need to spring into action? Still, though, to think I'd go around wearing that tight spandex all the time...I feel like it's trying to crush my balls into oblivion, among other attacks on my circulation. And then there's the mask. It's made of the same material, which doesn't breathe all that well. So how do I expect to breathe myself when I wear it?

I'd take a deep breath before putting the mask on, but I can't really inflate my chest too much with the suit over it. So I just take the deepest breath I can, then cover my face with the mask. I blink a few times, getting used to the slight haze caused by the white lenses. But then I can see things a bit more clearly, like what I normally see with just my contacts.

I turn to look at my reflection in the mirror. It's so weird, knowing that I'm blinking but not being able to see it behind the mask. It makes me look non-expressive. Although I can sort of see the mask's synthetic fabric bulge slightly when I raise my eyebrow. I guess that'll have to do.

I take off the mask so I can get a better look at the rest of the uniform. I have to admit, even though it chafes a lot, the uniform means well in the way it hugs my body. It's so aerodynamic. I actually based it on the uniforms worn by bike racers and the guys who do the luge, if I remember correctly. And besides, it does a much better job of showing how lean and fit I am than my street clothes do. Even though I do have a tendency to go for tighter-fitting clothes for exactly that reason, they're still not quite as show-off-y. (Yeah, Stark, you're right. I am a show-off. Takes one to know one, though.)

Speaking of street clothes, I put these on again over the uniform. I consider removing the top of the uniform first, because I'm wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt right now. But then I remember that before we left New York, Coulson said something about me, Gwen, Barton, and Stark picking up our bags at SFO when we arrived. Hopefully I'll have at least one long-sleeve shirt in there. Even though it's the middle of spring, and the weather's getting warmer.

For now, though, I have my jacket with which to cover the sleeves of the uniform. So I decide to keep the arms and legs on, shedding the shoes and gloves. All my regular clothes manage to cover the uniform nicely, with one exception - my boxers. The one thing I don't think I'll ever get used to is the fact that the uniform is now my underwear, because I can't wear anything under it for obvious reasons. I try to get around the problem by just slipping my boxers on over the uniform like I would my pants, but for some reason my fly won't close all the way when I do. In the end, I just forego the boxers, rolling them up and sticking them in my jacket pocket. The mask and gloves go in my other pocket, but there's really no other place for the hightop-like uniform shoes. So I just drape them over my shoulders, but then decide to carry them in my hands instead. It'll look a bit less foolish that way, I think.

Before I leave, I roll up the sleeve of my jacket enough to see the red and blue uniform underneath. In a way, it actually is, surprisingly, sort of cool now that I think about it, the whole uniform-as-underwear thing. Think about it - when you were a little kid, didn't you used to wear tighty-whities with, say, Batman or Wolverine on them? (Or panties, if you're a girl. In which case, you'd probably have had Wonder Woman. Not too many major super-heroines in Marvel, I'm afraid.) I know I did. (The tighty-whities, I mean. I've never been a girl, always a dude.) It's not exactly the same basic principle - because now, I'm an actual superhero, not just a little boy dreaming of being one - but you get the idea, right?

Oh, crap. Why am I talking as if there's some reader actually listening to my thoughts? God, I'm starting to sound like that Deadpool guy. Next thing I know, I'm gonna be telling people what the so-called "writer" who's supposedly writing this "story" is thinking, saying, doing. And then I'll be an unabashed pervert too, checking out even underage people with reckless abandon. (Believe it or not, Gwen and Skye weren't the only victims of this. I saw Deadpool sizing my ass up too.)

Okay. All thoughts of Deadpool are to be banished from my head in three, two, one...now. Everything normal - or as normal as everything can get after my life's gone all topsy-turvy.

When I leave the bathroom and rejoin the rest of the group, I can't help but walk a little funny. It reminds me of the time I saw Benedict Cumberbatch doing his version of the Beyoncé walk, except Cumberbatch made it look cool, while I don't. (Incidentally, am I the only one who doesn't like Beyoncé?)

"You're not gonna rock that super-suit for us?" Hiro asks when I reach the media room. There's no movies or TV shows playing, but instead there's music filling the room. "Love Runs Out," by OneRepublic. It's one of those pop-rock songs (or "white zone," as they would say in Red Rain) I really can't get enough of.

"I prefer to go incognito," I laugh, taking a seat between Gwen and Barton and reaching for a plate of cookies. Chocolate chip with peanut butter. I take a bite and am overwhelmed by sweet taste-bud ecstasy. "Holy God, who made these?" I ask with my mouth full. "This cookie is so good. This beats all other cookies!"

"I made it, actually," says Honey, who's coming in with another plate of the same cookies. "By the way, that's not peanut butter in there. It's actually cashew butter. Expensive, but it tastes magical. These ones, however" - she switches the new plate with the old one - "have almond butter instead. Also magical, just in a different way."

"Honey knows her sweets," Tadashi says fondly, patting Honey on the hand as he walks by her. "It's even in her name."

"Is that your actual name?" Stark asks. "Honey Lemon?"

"No," Honey giggles. "Hee hee. My real name is Stephanie Dulce."

"'Dulce' - that's Spanish for 'sweet,'" Gwen whispers to me.

"I think I already knew that," I whisper back.

"What are you whispering?" Honey asks, looking down at us with a suspicious eye. "Don't talk Greek to me! What'd you say about my mom?"

"What?" I ask, unsure what the heck Honey's getting at.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says. "I always love to find a chance to use that line. Did you ever see Demyx Time?"

"Demyx - like Kingdom Hearts?" Gwen asks. "My brothers love that game to death."

"I used to play it all the time when I was a kid," Honey says. "When I discovered Demyx Time on YouTube, it brought back some good memories. Even though it was more about the funny stuff than about tryin' to actually be like the game, but whatever."

"Right, right," I say. I try one of the almond cookies. It's also very delicious, but I like the cashew butter ones better.

"Where are you gettin' the special nut butters, by the way?" Stark asks, staring intently at the plate but not taking any of them.

"Whole Foods, of course," Honey says. "Workin' for SHIELD, I finally get enough money to afford it!"

Stark finally chooses a cookie and chews on it thoughtfully. "Hmm. Nice. But if you really want some good almond butter, go on down to Hayashi Hills and stop at Gallagher Deli once in a while. Also, try the coffee place up the road from there - Frank's. They make a mean espresso."

"You're not tryin' to get me to maybe check out your place too, are you?" Honey asks, raising her eyebrows at Stark.

"At least you're not as obnoxious as Deadpool," Skye notes.

"Or as creepy," Stark says, shuddering. "I kept wantin' to tell the dude to stop lookin' at me funny. I'm not into older men, thank you very much."

"Neither am I," says Gwen.

"Nor me," says Skye.

"Yeah, 'cause you've only got eyes for me, don't you?" I say with a raised eyebrow.

Skye rolls her eyes. "I've told you, Peter. That was just a character. I've had a lot of 'em over the years. It's one of the few perks of bein' a foster kid - I had to reinvent myself so many times when I was a kid, it just became second nature to me."

"Foster kid?" Barton asks. "So you're not really Hiro and Tadashi's-"

"Nope," Skye says. "I'm not even half-Japanese. I'm half-Chinese, actually."

I look from Hiro to Tadashi, and then to Skye. Now that I see it, Skye really does look different from the Hamada brothers. She's got lighter hair, for instance - dark brown instead of black. I think I always assumed Hiro and Tadashi took more after their dad, while Skye looked more like their mom.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of the wheels on the Bus going round and round, all down the runway at SFO. Other than that, though, there's no sign of us coming in to land.

"Okay," Coulson says, coming into the media room. "Peter, Gwen, Clint, Tony - we'll be getting your luggage loaded onto the Bus. Meanwhile, you guys can take Skye and Hiro to meet with Steve."

"Right," Stark says, grabbing another cookie and scarfing it down.

We head downstairs to the loading bay. Before getting into the SUV, I stop to find my duffel bag among the four that are being brought in by a short-haired man, who introduces himself (with a strong English accent) as Lance Hunter. And he expresses very little surprise at seeing my age - "though, to be fair," he says, "it's not really accurate to call you 'Spider-Man' when you're not even legal, eh?"

"True, but I didn't exactly come up with it myself."

"Got me there."

"There's a lot of Brits workin' here, huh?" I ask, opening my bag and sticking my rolled-up boxers into it as unobtrusively as possible.

"Welcome to SHIELD, mate," Hunter says, taking my bag back and lifting it up with one hand while taking Stark's in the other. "It's not entirely a Yank organization. Even with that bloody eagle everywhere and all that."

"Cool."

"Oi, Spidey!" Just as I turn to leave, Hunter calls me back. "Could I get an autograph?"

I look askance at Hunter. "I didn't know I gave autographs."

"You don't," Hunter says. "Unlike all the other superheroes, you still got a secret identity. 'Cept right now, you're not so secret anymore."

"Good point. So, uh, how about it, then?"

"Yeah, I got a pen and paper here." Hunter takes some out of his pocket. The pen has no cap, and the paper is nothing but a scrap. But I'm still able to wrangle out a decent signature anyway - for "Spider-Man," not "Peter Parker."

"Thanks, mate," Hunter says, flashing me a thumbs-up. "Yeah, we're all fanboys 'round here. But 'cause you're the only one with a secret identity, yours is the most sought-after. I'll see you 'round, then?"

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

"Right," Hunter says, shaking my hand. "Oi, Skye! I got the autograph, so you owe me twenty now!" He laughs his head off as he carries my and Stark's bags upstairs.

After getting into the SUV, I see Skye roll her eyes before starting the engine. "Crap," she says. "I really have gotta stop makin' bets with Hunter. You know he's so British, he makes all his bets in pounds? It means I gotta shell out more money, 'cause pounds are worth more."

"Twenty pounds…" Hiro runs it through a converter app on his phone. "That's thirty bucks."

"He can put it on my tab, then," Skye grumbles. "So, Tony, where are we doin' the meeting again?"

"Maguire Mall parking garage," Stark says.

"Which one?" I ask. "There's three of 'em. There's the one for the BART station, the one for the theater-"

"The one by the Target," Stark says. "Which also connects to the theater, by the way. And while we're on the subject, who thought it was a good idea to build a movie theater on top of a parking garage? I dunno about you, but even with good seismic retrofitting, it sounds like a disaster waitin' to happen."

"Which it'll only be if I have something to say about it," Skye says with a dark chuckle.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks Barton.

"That would be telling," Skye laughs, tapping the rearview mirror with a single finger.

Three minutes later, Skye pulls the SUV into a parking space near the theater. We sit and wait until a dark blue Mustang appears next to us, a Grouplove song playing loudly on the speakers. Everyone at Augustine recognizes that car - it's Steve Rogers' ride.

Rogers himself steps out of the driver's seat, tossing his scarf over his shoulder. He's really wearing a scarf right now? It's not that cold. Then again, Rogers does have a bit of a metrosexual streak. He jams his hands in his pockets, then leans against the side of his car, his arms crossed.

Stark is the first one out of the SUV, followed by me and Barton. "Hey, Rogers," he says. "How's it hangin', dude?"

Rogers jumps about half a mile into the air. "Holy crap, Stark, you scared me!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," Stark says, spreading his hands. "Well, how else would I say hi? Like, 'hey, dude, I got some awesome news for you - you're Captain America!'"

Rogers looks from Stark to me. "And you brought the journalism guys to get this little practical joke on record, huh? Is that it?"

Gwen steps in front of me. "Steve, this isn't a joke," she says. "Believe me, this is all real. We're all Marvel movie characters, all of us."

"No, we're not," Rogers scoffs. "You wanna see Marvel characters? Theater's over there. We'll see the Age of Ultron cutout in the lobby."

"Hang on...did you say Age of Ultron?" Stark asks.

"Yeah...why?"

Stark fumbles in his pockets, then grabs his phone. "Look, look. Here, my science project. Someone in the audience had to have filmed my demo...and whoop-de-doo, here it is." He has Rogers look at the YouTube video playing on his phone.

"So, you called your special program Ultron too," Rogers says, returning the phone to Stark. "So what?"

"This is something I've been workin' on for a very long time," says Stark. "Even before Age of Ultron became a thing."

I raise my eyebrows behind Stark's back. Obviously, by now he knows he hasn't really been creating his Ultron program for that long. I guess he's just embellishing on things to sell it better to Rogers.

"It's true," says a familiar deep voice. "According to my records, my 1.0 version was first activated January 5, 2011, at 3:46pm Pacific Standard time. A full sixteen months before even the first Avengers movie hit theaters."

"Ultron?" Stark looks at his phone with surprise. I look over his shoulder and see a display on the screen exactly like the one that had been on his computer at the science fair - a wavy line for Ultron's speech, and a small square in the corner showing Stark's face as he looked into the camera above the screen. "How the hell did you get on my phone?"

"I can interface with any Wi-fi-accessible device, Anthony," Ultron says smoothly.

"Oh, we're on a first-name basis now?"

"You're on a first-name basis with me already," Ultron points out.

"You got only one name to begin with," Stark says. "And...what am I doing? Would you...get outta here!" He presses the button to skip back a screen repeatedly, but Ultron refuses to go anywhere. A second corner square appears on the screen as Ultron activates the other camera.

"Steve Rogers, I presume?" it says. "Or should I say Captain America?"

Rogers walks back around to the other side of his car. "That's it. Goodbye. I'm not gonna stand around here and-"

"I'm sensing another incoming device," Ultron says. "Scanning...I'm picking up the social-networking profiles of a certain Natasha Romanoff."

"Natasha Romanoff?" Barton repeats. "Oh, shit. I totally forgot I was…" He looks over the roof of Rogers' car, and sees Natasha herself coming up to us. "Hey, Natasha!" he calls out.

I follow his gaze and see her coming too. The auburn-haired former cheerleader, and current girlfriend of Barton's, is coming from the direction of the movie theater.

"You forget we were gonna see Insurgent together?" Natasha asks, her full lips pouting. "Clint, where were you?"

"No, no, I didn't forget," Barton says hurriedly. "I was just...um...caught up in some crazy business. With these guys," he adds, gesturing to us.

I wave to Natasha, as do Gwen, Stark, and Hiro. Skye, meanwhile, takes hold of Stark's phone. "Crap," she groans. "Ultron, is that another person comin' towards us?"

"I'm already on the scan, Miss Johnson," Ultron says.

"Hey, whoa, that's not my name!"

"It's what you sign your checks with. Scan complete...oh. Oh, dear. Everyone, we have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" I ask.

"A serious one," Ultron says, its voice now taking on a distinctively worried tone. "Loki Odinsson."

Skye looks at Stark. "Wow. You even programmed this guy to know Loki was bad news?"

"Oh yeah, sure," Stark says, taking his phone back. "I was gonna finish my presentation by havin' Ultron bring up his full criminal record. No, I haven't programmed him like that!"

"And yet, I know he's dangerous anyway," Ultron says. "I'd advise you all to vacate the area ASAP."

Before anyone can move, however, the sound of slow, sarcastic applause fills the air. "Well, well, well," says our favorite six-foot-plus merry prankster and champion catfisherman. Loki walks up slowly, a bit of overconfident swagger in his step. "You blokes thought to have a party to celebrate my return to this provincial little town? How lovely. Of course, you failed to invite the guest of honor. This guy!" he crows, pointing his thumbs at his chest.

"Aaaaaaand we're done here," Stark drawls, actually trying to push me and Gwen back into the SUV. "Party's cancelled, jackass."

"It can't be," Loki snickers. "We haven't even served the drinks yet!" He holds up a twelve-pack of Pepsi. "I even brought enough to serve to everyone...on ice, naturally." He cracks the box open and pulls out one blue can, then freezes it with just his hand. "Who wants to be the first taker? You, Clint?" He turns to Barton, who stares back at him, non-responsive. "Or you, Natasha?" Natasha copies Barton's stone-faced routine.

"What about you?" Loki holds out his frozen soda to me. "It's Parker, right? I'm surprised you have no online presence whatsoever. Honestly, I wanted to test the waters with you myself, but since there were no Facebook profiles matching your name and face, I had to settle for your mate instead."

I don't answer Loki. Instead, I feel the webshooter still clipped to my jacket cuff.

"I bet you have a secret girlfriend somewhere, don't you?" Loki asks. "Or boyfriend. Whatever. Well, either way, we should toast them. Am I right?"

He tries to stick the drink in my face one more time, and that's when I strike. I bend my fingers back and hit the webshooter, blasting sticky bio-cable in his face. He stumbles backwards, dropping the box of sodas. Cans roll all over the place.

Then Natasha runs up and does some kind of crazy martial-arts routine on Loki, knocking him to the ground - and then knocking him out. "That's for last year, shithead," she hisses, spitting on his fallen form for good measure. "And by the way, we all hate Pepsi!"

She then looks up, and the enraged look on her face shifts to one of confusion. "Whoa. Hang on, did I really just do that? Holy f-"

"Yeah, you did," Skye says, loudly cutting Natasha off before she can swear in her excitement. "How are you? I'm Skye. Nice to meet you at last, Black Widow."

Rogers starts mouthing words to himself. Clearly, he's really putting two and two together. "This isn't a joke, is it?" he asks.

I open the back of the SUV to get the Captain America shield, which I then give to Rogers, with Skye's help. Rogers is the only one of us who can lift it on his own.

"No way," he says. "I'm really Captain America?"

"Let's fill you in on the way back to the plane," Skye says. "I dunno about you, but I don't want the cops to be on to us after we took down our Asgardian friend just now."

"Not to worry," Ultron says. "I deactivated the security cameras. Nobody saw anything."

"Great," Stark says. "Now why don't you deactivate yourself?"

"As you wish."

I help Rogers and Stark drag Loki out of the way so we don't run him over on the way out of our parking spaces. The Pepsi box and cans, however, are fair game, and all get crushed by the tires of either the SUV or the Mustang as we leave.