It was cold. So cold. Peter kicked himself for not bringing a jacket with him. If Uncle Ben and Aunt May didn't find out about his plans, he'd be warm in a nice and fuzzy coat. He rubbed his hands together to get some semblance of warmth. God, it was cold. He could barely see in the darkness of night, and the moisture from the Hudson River wasn't helping with his shivering. He looked out onto the river and to the prize of his eye, an old, seemingly empty warehouse. It should be abandoned, but Peter knew better. After all, he did follow the truck from Central Park. Peter deduced that this warehouse was a smuggling checkpoint for the notorious Tombstone Gang. Drugs, guns… People. Peter shivered at the thought.

He looked at his wristwatch and saw that it was 11:00 PM. He smirked and pulled down his mask, the show was about to start. It was a black mask that covered his mouth completely. He was also dressed in complete black with a heavy black sweater and black jeans. He wore a pair of sweatpants under his jeans to keep him warm and to keep him safe.

He took three steps back from the rail that barred off the deadly drop to the frigid waters. Peter bounced in place, once, twice, four times. His gaze locked onto his path, and with a breath, he ran. His feet pounded the pavement, and he leaped many meters towards the warehouse. As he flew through the air, he saw his entrance into the building: a ventilation grate. He curled his middle and ring fingers on his right hand and webbing shot out- not out of his wrist, but the machine that was mounted onto his wrist. His very own web-shooter. The stream of webbing connected to the ventilation grate with a splat and Peter swung to it. He braced his arms outward and landed on the wall of the building. He stuck to the wall instead of falling into the deadly currents below- a Quirk-Factor he learned he had back in September.

It was a beautiful, late September day, the day after the incident, and Peter, Pietro, and Wanda all met up in the Parkers' small garage. This was the usual meetup for them. It had a desk, a small lamp, and an old CRT TV that Peter has sworn on his life that he would fix. Old Emo music from the 2000s filled the air as it was Wanda's turn that day to pick the playlist. Pietro has a distinct negative taste towards any music that could be considered to have a dreary or nihilistic message, or it could just be the "siblings must be opposite" thing. Wanda loved it, though, and she had Aunt May to thank for introducing her to the genre. Peter could honestly listen to any genre of music and have fun.

"So, I'm guessing you're still technically quirkless?" As soon as Pietro said this, he earned a small blast of concussive Hex to the gut. Pietro flew backward until he hit the garage wall, making a nice and loud thud.

"Do you ever think before you speak garbage like that?" she scolded, her eyes burning red with rage and her Quirk.

"Ah, dear sister, you see," Pietro chuckled as he stood up while clutching his side in pain, "I don't have to think. You do that for me."

"I'd like to resign from that duty." Wanda rolled her eyes and walked towards Peter, who was sitting at a desk reading some sort of book about spiders.

"Sorry, it's a job for life." Pietro stuck his tongue out at her. Even though her back was turned.

Wanda looked back at Pietro, shook her head, and then turned to Peter. "So, you find out anything else? Other than webbing and that Peter-Tingle thing?"

Peter cringed when she said that. He did not like that at all. "Jeez, did May get you to start saying that too?"

"I think it's cute!" Wanda beamed.

Peter rolled his eyes and went back to his book. "No, it's stupid, and I hate it."

Somewhere behind him, he heard Pietro laugh and then grunt in pain. Footsteps echoed in the space, and in his periphery, Peter saw Wanda hop up and settle onto the desk. She crossed her arms, and he swore he saw her pout for why he didn't know.

"So let's go over what we know," Peter said as he turned around in his swivel chair. He loved doing that. He was about to speak, but he paused, blinking at Pietro, who was rubbing his arm. Wanda only gave him a shrug, as if she didn't know what happened either. Peter shook his head and began speaking again. "So, what we know is that I have a..." He turned to Wanda and looked her dead in the eyes. "Spider-Sense."

Wanda huffed and pouted once again. "I like Peter-Tingle more."

"And, I can shoot webs from my wrist." In one swift move, Peter curled his middle and ring fingers into his palm and flexed his arm outward as he aimed for Pietro. With a squishy sound, like air quickly escaping from a tight hole in a pipe, webbing was shot from his wrist. Pietro simply walked out of the way, but from Peter's and Wanda's perspective, he just suddenly reappeared a few inches to the right. The webbing then splattered against the wall of the shed.

"You missed," Pietro taunted with a cocky grin.

Peter smiled back. "Just making sure you're awake."

"I gotta say, bro, that's kind of disturbing. Like, this came out of you," Pietro said. He strummed at the strand of the web as if it was a guitar string. The webbing was thin but had deceptively strong tensile strength. Pietro tried to break the strand by quickly chopping it. Still, all that did was cause the web to violently vibrate until it eventually stopped.

"Your face is disturbing," Peter retorted.

Pietro whistled. "Look at Mr. Confident here! Next thing you know, you'll be beating up Flash in front of the entire school."

Peter laughed and hopped up from his chair. "Unlikely. C'mon, I have an idea I wanna try out."

The Parkers' backyard was nothing to write home about. It wasn't big, but it wasn't small either. Most homes in the Queen's area had this type of backyard. A little grass and a lot of concrete. He glanced over his shoulder, grinning at his baffled friends as they followed him out.

"Okay, so what are spider's best known for?"

"Climbing up walls," Wanda said with pride.

"Shooting webs out of their co-ow! You gonna do that all day today?!" Pietro exclaimed as he rubbed his shoulder.

Peter shook his head with a snort. "Yes, Wanda, climbing up walls." Peter trot towards the outside wall of his house, excitement coursing through him. "Observe," he said with a smug smile. Peter put his hands and feet on the wall. Peter could feel the microscopic hairs on his fingertips and toes pierce the rugged and old brick and mortar. With a quick and deep breath, he lifted himself up and scaled the house. There weren't any ledges to grab on. There was nothing. Although, due to his somewhat out-of-shape nature, he had some difficulty with constantly pulling himself up with nothing but his fingers. He got to the roof of the house and bent over as he tried to control his heavy and exhausted breathing. Once he straightened out, a smile of pride adorned his face. He felt he was on top of the world.

"Well? What do you think of that?" he yelled, waving his arms outward.

Pietro cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. "Kinda expected, buddy! We're surprised you didn't do this yesterday!"

Wanda put her hand to her mouth, trying to suppress the laughter that was breaking out of its tightly locked prison.

Peter's arms fell to his sides, and a wave of disappointment hit him hard. "Then why did I embarrass myself?"

Wanda giggled. "You didn't embarrass yourself, Pete! Now c'mon! The movie starts in an hour and a half!"

Looking back, that stunt wasn't embarrassing in particular. It was just unneeded. Peter always had a problem with believing that if he did something considered "extra" or "prideful," he was just embarrassing himself. He shook his head as he shook the memory away, but bumped his head on the wall of the metal ventilation shaft he was crawling in. He winced. There sure wasn't a whole lot of room in the ventilation shaft.

Speaking of, this shaft went on forever. And ever and ever. Geeze, would this thing ever end? A vibration in his pocket buzzed against his leg, drawing a gasp from Peter...

My phone!

He didn't leave his phone at home. He pulled it out to see messages upon messages. Messages from Ben, May, Wanda, Stark; everyone he knew. It was just like the day he gained his Quirk. He quickly turned it off. Knowing Stark, he was tracking him. If he could find his cell phone number when they first met, there was no doubt in Peter's mind that Stark installed a tracking app.

It was the day after Peter learned about his Wall-Crawling Factor. He received a text from Tony Stark himself, during school.

(310) 555-1963 (10:23 AM): Hey kid, it's Tony Stark. Meet me at Central Park after school, hope you're still interested in my idea.

Me (11:56 AM): Uh, how do I know this is Mr. Stark?

(310) 555-1963 (12:00 PM): You never gave me my pen back.

Me (1:04 PM): Noted. Will be there at 4.

Now the question of, "Why did Tony Stark have his number?" was one to be answered at a different time. Peter was curious about the idea that Mr. Stark had in store for him. After school, he immediately headed over to Central Park, but not before convincing Wanda and Pietro that he would be okay by himself. They were still worried about the Carnage incident. Peter worried that it was going to be a trend. Even Aunt May and Uncle Ben were adamant about knowing his location at all times. They always asked him where he was going, if Pietro and Wanda were gonna be there, if his phone was charged, etc.

It got annoying.

Peter arrived at Central Park only to realize that Mr. Stark never specified a place to meet. Central Park was a very big place; he could be anywhere. Peter kept looking around for a clue, a sign, anything to indicate that Mr. Stark was there. He assumed that Mr. Stark would probably be in disguise, but how hard was it to locate a fifty-something-year-old skeleton of a man with a greying beard? Very hard, apparently. Peter gave up after a twenty-minute search. Frustrated with the lack of Tony Stark in his life, Peter decided to take a break and sit down on a red bench.

"For being the fifth smartest person in the world he really does suck at-"

Danger.

"Oh boy," Peter muttered. Before he could react, his body suddenly jerked back. Gravity took hold of him, and Peter found himself falling backward in a metal chute.

You gotta be kidding me!

He frantically smacked both of his palms against the walls of the metal chute, stopping his descent. He stood there, hanging precariously, arms aching under the stress of holding himself in place. "What the hell?!"

A voice echoed through the small space. "Peter. Unstick."

"Friday?!"

"Okay, I am not doing this," Friday sighed, in the only way artificial intelligence could.

Danger.

The metal walls that were once rigid suddenly became slick, and Peter felt the weight of gravity pulling him down once again. "No no no no!" Peter panicked, the feeling of helplessness crashed into him like a wave overcoming a dam. He tried desperately to restick to the metal walls. Slamming his hands and kicking as he did. "Oh, this is crap!" he yelled.

Alas, there was nothing to stick to. Peter rocketed down the slick metal chute at 9.8 meters per second, screaming what he thought were his last words. Until the metal chute was no more, and Peter landed on a pillowy object that cushioned his hard fall. He opened his eyes and realized he was laying on his back, arms and legs spread out as if he was comically laid flat with a punch in a cartoon. He looked above himself to see where the metal chute from hell ended. He stared at it for a few moments. Choice words flew through his mind. After he finished his mental argument with the metal chute, he rolled onto his side and got up on his feet steadily. His gaze darted across the room, left, right, left, right. Machines he'd never seen before, giant computers, and giant computer monitors were everywhere. Blinking lights making small beeps and boops, the mechanical hums of the machines, the louder than usual fans that were no doubt cooling those giant computers, and the sound of metal hitting metal repeatedly in a rhythmic beat filled Peter's ears. "A.. bunker?" Peter tried to question himself but concluded that he shouldn't question Mr. Stark's methods.

"Huh," he muttered. Peter walked towards the sound of the metallic clanging that came from deeper in the bunker. He walked past numerous machines, and a small console with buttons caught his eye. The console was in the middle of a big area, but it was shrouded in darkness. Ominous, he thought, But not ominous enough. He approached the console but stopped.

Did he dare press the big red button that was situated snugly in the middle of the console?

The only button on the console?

Yes, he did dare.

His hand slowly made its way towards the button, anticipation made his hand shake and shiver. He braced for the immediate Spider-Sense to go off because the chances of a big red button being the "Nuke New York" button is never 0%.

He quickly pressed it and immediately curled up into a ball and covered his head. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplea-

Once Peter huffed a sigh of relief when his head didn't explode from his Spider-Sense, he opened his eyes, and his jaw dropped. The previously dark area was lit up and revealed to be holding units for Iron Man armors. Peter's gaze followed all of the armors in order, he followed from the Mark 1, the original gray and archaic armor, to the Mark 43, the new Stealth Armor. He knew every armor's name by heart; he recited them repeatedly when he was younger. However, there was one armor he didn't recognize. It was situated right next to the Mark 63, and it looked like Mr. Stark's Mark 41, the armor that allows him to go into space. It had an almost blue-ish tint to it, there was no arc reactor piece in its chest, and it looked extremely bulky. It seemed to be unfinished, only the torso and the arms were complete, the legs were open, and wires hung and swayed side-to-side. On the plaque above, its cell held a name for the armor: Ironheart.

Peter needed to find Mr. Stark now. He just found a new armor. A new Iron Man armor that hasn't been finished yet. He darted out of the room and followed the clanging once again. He eventually saw a dimmed red light peer out from a corner, and with every sound of a metallic clang, small sparks would fly. A smile grew on his face, and the spark of excitement ran up, and down his spine, he was going to see Mr. Stark working on Iron Man armor.

Peter turned the corner and saw him. With specially made braces lining his arms and torso, they no doubt helped him in Mr. Stark's weakened state. He wore darkened goggles that shielded his eyes from the bright molten metal. Peter looked closer at the armor that Mr. Stark was working on, and the familiar silver and red coloring gave it away to Peter that the armor in question was the Mark 8, the Silver Centurion armor.

Peter smiled. He wanted to say something quippy. "You know, Thor could probably help with that. I bet he could churn out four armors a day."

Damn, you're good, Mr. Parker.

Tony stopped mid-swing and turned to Peter. He chuckled. "We tried that before. Let's just say that there's a reason why Avengers Mansion isn't mentioned anymore."

Peter lifted an eyebrow.

Mansion?

"But anyway, thanks for coming, kid." Tony laid his hammer down to the side.

"Uhh, yeah. No problem, Mr. Stark. So, what do you need?"

Tony walked to and sat down on his office chair in front of a large monitor system. Peter couldn't even imagine how much that cost. "Listen, Peter, right? How bad do you want to be a superhero?"

Peter was confused about where this was going. "It's my life goal."

Tony paused, staring long and hard for a moment. Peter fidgeted in place, ducking his head. Was Mr. Stark always this weird?

Tony shrugged. "Eh, good enough for me." He got up from his chair and chopped Peter's shoulders with one arm, like a Queen knighting a subject. "For the next five… no… four months, I am going to be your personal trainer."

Peter felt a rush of excitement run through his body. His eyes started to well up. "T-train for what?"

"The Avengers Academy entrance exam, of course."

Before Peter could burst into uncontrollable tears, Mr. Stark put his hand up. "Okay, none of that. Leave the crying for the family and girlfriends, aight?"

He decided to ignore that girlfriend remark and compose himself. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

Mr. Stark smiled. "Don't be sorry, kid. Now listen, I think you should know something before we start."

Peter wiped away a stray tear as he perked up to look Mr. Stark in the eye.

"Now, each teacher has this thing where we can choose a new student to skip entrance exams and such every three years via personal recommendation. This year, it's mine and Wolverine's turn. I want you to know that I already had picked my recommended student. So, sorry, kid."

Instead of being disappointed, Peter became super curious about this mysterious recommended student. "Who are they? Will I meet them? Do they come here? What's their Quirk?" Peter kept going with the questions.

Mr. Stark could only chuckle and shake his head. "I'll tell you one thing, kid. She's the next Iron Man."

That revelation blew Peter's mind.

The Ironheart armor belonged to the next Iron Man.

The weeks went by, and every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, he would catch a train to Central Park and began his training. Mr. Stark gave him a goal to hit before the entrance exam starts in January: to hold a one-ton weight over his head for thirty straight seconds. A daunting task if there ever was one. Peter knew that he was strong now, but he was still scrawny and out of shape. He requested Aunt May to start making healthier meals for him, which shook Uncle Ben in his boots. The last thing he wanted was to be going on a diet. Mr. Stark also hooked him up with an at-home workout regiment that he claimed was scientifically proven to work 100% of the time. Another perk was Mr. Stark letting Peter use the bunker for his own inventions.

For one week straight after his workout, he'd hunker down in the bunker and work on his newly thought of web-shooter. When Mr. Stark asked why he needed an artificial web shooter when he could already shoot organic webs, Peter was glad to explain.

"So, for one, the more web I shoot, the more tired I get. It's still technically part of my biomass. It'd be like if I was bleeding out," he explained.

Mr. Stark just stared at Peter. "That's kinda disturbing."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Says the guy without a beating heart. And two, for some reason, when I really overuse the webs, my wrist starts hurting like crazy. I actually start to bruise and bleed really bad. So I need to find a different way, and I've had an idea for an adhesive based substance for months now."

Mr. Stark eyed Peter and shrugged. "Well, whatever ya want, kid. Just remember to focus on your workout regiment, okay?"

Peter absently nodded as he tinkered with his invention. "Yes, sir."

The regiment was tough, but he adapted. The hardest part of his new lifestyle was keeping up with homework. Uncle Ben and Aunt May noticed that he started to slip on his grades. The three of them had a long talk about responsibilities and aspirations. Aunt May and Uncle Ben knew that Peter had been training with Tony Stark for a while, and while they were excited for him, he still needed to do well in school. Much to Peter's annoyance.

But all of that was in the past. He had more pressing matters at hand. He continued to crawl through the vents, not knowing where it would take him. A morbid thought of being comically chopped into pieces by a fan crossed his mind, he'd started to doubt if this plan was a good idea. He'd been trusting his spider-sense to navigate, but he was weary if it was leading him in the right direction or not.

"Hey, man, are you sure that we weren't followed?"

A voice? Peter immediately halted. It wasn't faint. It was very clear. Ahead of him was the end of the cramped metal tunnel. Light dimly illuminated the ceilings of the vent as it went in between the bars of the grate below.

"Yeah, man, we're good. It's Black Friday! All the pros and cops are by the stores making sure nobody's causin' trouble."

Peter crept slowly to the opening, making sure to make as minimal noise as possible. He really didn't want to get caught. He peered through the openings of the grate and saw a bunch of wooden crates; he tried looking around, but he couldn't see the two men talking. Peter couldn't make out the lettering, but he didn't have to. He knew what was in those crates was Tombstone's very own drug: Grave Dust. It wasn't a quirk enhancement drug, but rather an offshoot of the Super Soldier Serum. Which was highly dangerous in an uncontrolled environment. It would give the user a great boost in endurance and color your skin ashy white. Tombstone had a massive ego, if nothing else.

Super Soldier Serum knock-offs have been around for almost a century. They could never get it right. Even the world's smartest scientists could never recreate Captain America.

Peter's mind flashed once again to the past. It was October, the leaves were falling, and jackets were worn. It was another day for Peter to train for the entrance exams at Central Park. He followed his workout instructions to the letter while adding more unique programs to accommodate for his Quirk. Whether it be leg workouts with Pietro or creating simple web constructs with Wanda, Peter's mind was on bettering himself for the exam and only that.

As soon as Peter got to the park, his phone buzzed. He got a text from Mr. Stark, who explained that he wouldn't be there that day. Peter furrowed his brow.

"What am I supposed to do today, then? Climb the Trade Center?" He put his phone in his pocket and started to walk towards the bench that held the entrance to the bunker. He was surprised to find a stranger sitting on the bench and reading a book. He had blonde hair and striking blue eyes. He wore a brown leather jacket and regular blue jeans. He looked familiar to Peter, but he couldn't figure out why.

The stranger looked up from his book and noticed Peter. "Oh, it's Peter, right?"

Wait a second.

The man stood up and put his book in his pocket. "Tony sent me. Said you need some training for leg day?"

Peter took a deeper look at the stranger. He noticed the bone structure of his face, the scar under his lip, more scarring on his hand, and, most of all, he noticed the stranger's backpack. It wasn't like a normal bag, it was shaped in a circle. The wires connected in Peter's head, and his mouth formed a small "o" in disbelief.

"Y-y-y-" he stammered.

The man raised an eyebrow. "What's that, son?"

Peter closed his eyes, and he took a deep breath. He's been trying to better himself about not yelling his idols' names in public. He pointed at the man. "Y-you're Captain America, aren't you?" he asked in a calm voice.

The man smiled. "Why, yes, I am."

Peter found it extremely difficult to not explode in excitement and launch into the ramblings. "Cool," he squeaked out.

Training with Captain America was everything that Peter has dreamed of and then some. He had a hard regiment, but Peter didn't care. He was training with Captain America. The first hero. Sweat and tears were given by Peter as they ran thirty miles around Central Park. Eventually, the sky was painted in a familiar pink hue as the sun was setting on the Western horizon.

Peter and Cap found themselves sitting on the grass, looking at the sunset. The two talked for hours, what it meant to be a hero, life in general, their loved ones, everything.

"You have a very strong heart, young man."

Peter looked up at Cap, whose gaze peered out to the evening sky. Peter nestled his chin onto his knees as he hugged them close to his chest. "I mean, if you say so, Cap." A wave of sadness washed over Peter. He went back into his dark thoughts.

"Peter, why do you want to be a hero?"

Peter perked up at this question. In all honesty, he'd never been asked this. People either already knew, or didn't care enough to know. He shifted his position and hugged his knees closer. "I…" He tried to start speaking, but he couldn't find the words in which to express himself. He laid his chin back on his knees, silent as a rock.

"You hate seeing people hurt, don't you?"

Peter's eyes widened. He turned to Captain America, still looking out to the sunset. He turned to Peter and looked him in the eyes. "You don't like bullies either, right?"

Peter's mind flooded with memories of Flash. He nodded in response.

Cap smiled. "Son, do you know why I enlisted?"

Peter thought for a moment. "Because you wanted to do your duty as an American and assist in the war, right?"

Cap shook his head and sighed. "That's just what the government made up for propaganda," he stopped for a moment, "While that is somewhat right, there's more to the story. I joined for selfish reasons. I felt weak. I was weak. I'd get beaten up every time I'd go to the theatre. I joined so I could have a reason to exist." He glanced at his circular bag, where his shield was stored. "Before a picture would start, there would be serials of the war—propaganda, in other words. But something bothered me. All I was shown was the war effort at home, the notion that an American man must fight against the threat so dangerous, so dire, it dare not say its name. That was what bothered me. They told us of how bad the Nazis were, but they didn't show why. All they showed was them fighting. I did research. I looked into their leader, and I became livid. That man, that horrible, horrible man, was nothing more than a bully. A despicable man that was in charge of an entire army. I knew then, I had to do something. So I enlisted, and eventually, I became this."

"Eventually, I became Captain America: the first and only Super Soldier. History books will tell you that I immediately went into battle, but they're false. For an entire year, I was paraded around the country as a prop for the government, Just to get more people to enlist. To get more bodies to sacrifice. I took it upon myself to fight. Heh, I was almost court-martialed."

Peter was astounded, what Cap was saying was nothing like he learned back in elementary school. He was lied to.

"So… when you came back, how did you feel?" Peter asked.

Peter noticed a wave of sorrow flood Captain America's face. "I was confused, to say the least. I was caught up on history rather quickly, and… it was a harrowing experience. For fifty long years, my name was abused for agendas that I, Steve Rogers, would never agree with. They painted me as this nationalist who put his country before all else. White supremacist groups would invoke my name in cross burnings and lynchings. Neo-Nazis would name me in their lists of patriots, and politicians would bring me up to further their agendas. The name Captain America was used for oppression. People who I fought against were suddenly claiming me to be their hero. It haunted me, Peter. I considered throwing away the shield. The costume. Everything."

"Well, what happened?" Peter asked.

Cap lifted his head and looked back into the sunset. "The world was in danger from a bunch of bullies. I sprung back into action. I decided that hanging the shield and costume would be a mistake. I wouldn't let the name of Captain America be dragged through the mud anymore. For fifty years, my name was invoked in the name of racism, nationalism, and bigotry. For fifty years, Captain America could not speak for himself, but now he can. Now people know that Captain America is not a man who puts his country first, but a man who puts its people first. You know," he turned to Peter and smiled, "Like a hero."

Peter smiled back at him. He finally had an answer to Cap's question. "I want to save people. Anyone that I can."

Cap's smile grew bigger. "That right, there is a fine reason to be a hero, young man."

Peter would train with Captain America many more times. Strength training, more leg workouts, and he even taught Peter some basic fighting skills.

Peter shook his head. He had to stop remembering the past. He was in a dangerous place, and he couldn't dawdle. He listened in on the two guards.

"Yeah, but what about the Devil?"

Peter saw his chance, he would knock both of them out while they were distracted. He repositioned himself to the ceiling of the tunnel and hung right above the metal grate.

"The Devil?"

He slowly slid his hand in between the bars, silently thanking the construction workers of this place for making such wide spaces in between the bars. He felt around for the screw holding the grate in and started to slowly unscrew it.

"Yeah, man, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen!"

The first screw came off and fell into his hand, not a peep was made.

"Man, you actually believe in that shit?" the gangster laughed.

The second one popped off as well. Peter grabbed the grate with his free hand so it wouldn't open. Things were starting to become uncomfortable. Now only his legs were holding Peter up.

"Dude, I had a friend working a gig for Kingpin down by the docks. He was admitted to the hospital with a broken arm and two shattered legs."

The third screw was taken out. Gravity's force on the grate became greater. Peter started to get tired, he needed to hurry.

"Nah man, your friend be smokin' or somethin'. The Devil's just a myth made up by Kingpin, so he doesn't scare away new hires. Kingpin's the one who's actually sending them to the ER."

Danger.

His Spider-Sense activated too late. Right as Peter took off the fourth screw, the unthinkable happened. Peter lost his grip on the metal grate. He witnessed in slow motion as the grate tumbled to the floor. Before he shot off a web to catch it, it landed on the floor and made a horrendously loud thud.

Oh no!

Peter's mind went into overdrive. His cover is blown. He had to move quickly. The fact that he didn't even know where the two men were didn't faze him. He had to trust his Spider-Sense. He dropped down to the floor and went into his fighting stance. He finally spotted the two men who had their guns pointed at him.

"Woah, what the fu-?!"

Before he could finish his sentence, Peter shot a web at the man's mouth and silenced him. Peter yanked the web and hurled himself at the man. He landed a good punch square in the man's jaw, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Danger.

Spider-Sense tingled up and down Peter's spine, and he jumped to the wall. The sound of a gunshot bounced around the small room. Peter couldn't dawdle. He had to keep moving.

Danger.

Peter ran along the wall as gunshots trailed behind him. Bullets pierced the old and dilapidated brick and mortar, but Peter couldn't hear the sounds of stone cracking and wood breaking. His ears kept ringing from the gunshots, and the sound of his own blood filled his ears. He had to keep moving. If he stopped, he was dead.

This guy keeps shooting where I was and not where I'm going to be. Let's keep it that way.

"Stay still, you freak!"

The bullets stopped; that was his cue. Peter jumped from the wall and shot a web at the assailant. While he was reloading, he was snagged by the web and pulled towards Peter. While Peter was flying and the man was pulled towards him, Peter landed a hard flying-kick to his abdomen. The man flew in the opposite direction and collided with the wall behind him, knocking him out cold. As he slumped to the ground, a large crack revealed itself in the wall where the man collided.

Peter landed on the floor. He started to hyperventilate. He started to panic. Thoughts flew through his mind. He could've died if he stopped. He just knocked out two men. What was he doing? What was he doing there? He started to regret everything.

Peter ripped his mask off. He needed air. He felt faint. He just escaped death. He could've died. What am I doing? he thought to himself.

Danger!

His Spider-Sense raged throughout his body, but it was too late. Peter felt an extreme, blunt pain suddenly hit his back. He never felt pain like that before. He found himself sprawled out on the floor. He cried out in pain.

Danger!

Before Peter could react, pain stung from his scalp as he was being pulled by the hair. He was lifted up, and his feet dangled in the air helplessly. He finally caught a glimpse of his attacker.

Great, final boss already?!

His face was an ashy white, and he looked as if he fought in one-thousand battles and won every single one. He was face-to-face with the main man himself: Lonnie Lincoln, also known as Tombstone. He wore full biker gear, and Peter noticed that he didn't have a gun on him like his henchmen.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Tombstone snarled. His breath had the stench of cigarettes. "A little kid trying to play hero?"

Peter struggled to break free of Tombstone's grasp. With some quick thinking, Peter shot a web to one of the wooden drug crates that were behind Tombstone and yanked it hard. The crate went flying towards the white giant, only to harmlessly break into pieces as it collided with him.

Tombstone grew a sinister grin, baring his sharp teeth. "You're funny, kid."

DANGER.

Tombstone then threw Peter across the room. As he was flying, Peter, who was still ready for a fight, shot a web to retrieve his mask and landed on both of his feet. He put the mask back on and pointed at Tombstone.

"Your days of villainy are over Tombstone. It ends tonight. All of it," he stated as he lowered his voice an octave to seem more intimidating.

Tombstone smirked. "Well, aren't you a feisty one?"

Peter gritted his teeth. He was bluffing. He was outmatched. Even though his back was nearly healed by that punch earlier, he remembered how it felt. Tombstone was strong. Extremely strong. "You've hurt a lot of people, Tombstone. I'll see you personally get a nice and cozy cell at Rykers."

Tombstone started to laugh. "Oh kid, you're great. What? Saw Cap on the news last night and decided you wanna do some hero work?"

Peter tried to find an answer. He just had to keep him talking long enough for him to find a way out. "N-nah, it was a coincidence, really." Peter caught himself, he almost stuttered. "Saw one of your deals go down in Central Park and just thought, 'Eh, what the hell?'" Peter located his way out, there was a small opening in the wall that led outside. He knew he was strong enough to make that opening bigger with a kick. He just needed to distract Tombstone even longer. "Now, your trade checkpoint has been discovered, and it's only a matter of time until your people start squealing about your other checkpoints when the pros get here."

"Oh, so you're the one who followed us!" he laughed. "Did you think we were stupid enough to have some wannabe hero follow us back to one of our checkpoints?"

This caught Peter's attention. "What do you mean?" Peter slowly started to walk towards the wall but made an effort not to seem like he was planning anything.

"This ain't one of our checkpoints, kid."

Peter's eyes widened at the revelation. His stance became weaker. He was letting his guard down. "You're lying. These crates are-"

"Empty, kid. Let me just say this. You aren't the first wannabe hero to follow me here," he said with a sickening grin.

Peter's heart jumped to his throat. This was a trap. It was always a trap. The information he found online. The deal. The stories. Everything. Peter was stupid enough to fall for it.

But that didn't matter. He had to get out of there. "Well, let me just say this then..." Peter reaffirmed his fighting stance, legs wide and bent ever so slightly, arms lifted to chest-height and bent, and on his right hand, his middle and ring fingers were curled ever since slightly. Ready to shoot off a web at any time. "I'll be the first wannabe hero to take you down and get out of here alive."

Peter regretted those words so much. It all happened so fast. He thought he could at least hold him off or incapacitate him for just one second, but no. Tombstone's Quirk was too powerful. He was invincible. He can't be hurt. It wasn't even a fight. It was a curb-stomp. Pain rippled through Peter as the gangster took another strike to his abdomen. Peter was chained to a wall, and he felt so weak.

Danger!

"Hey, this kid is awesome! He's like a punching bag!" The gangster then threw another wild fist and cracked Peter across the face.

I'm so stupid, Peter thought. This was a trap. I fell for it. Now I'm going to die.

Before the gangster punched him again, he was stopped by his partner. "Hey, careful with the merchandise, man. The buyer wants him alive."

Peter looked around for a way out. Something for him to take advantage of and get the hell out of there, but he couldn't find anything. He was going to die.

"Yeah, but doesn't mean we can't rough him up some more! He got me good earlier, and I want payback."

He was so stupid. He was going to die, and the last thing that he said to Uncle Ben and Aunt May was that he hated them. He felt so horrible. He deserved this.

"Ugh, just don't kill him, 'aight? I gotta piss, I'll be right back."

Peter watched as the other gangster walked out of the room.

Danger!

"Hey, hey!" Peter's vision was enveloped in darkness as he closed his eyes to fruitlessly deal with the pain of being punched in the gut. Everything was on fire. His arms ached as they continued to hang from the shackles. "Don't you take your eyes offa me, wannabe!"

DANGER! DANGER!

Peter gasped the gangster's arm, bent and twisted into impossible positions. It extended and bent at a ninety-degree angle. The gangster's forearm and hand melded into each other and straightened out. It curved at the end, and his arm became a makeshift fleshy scythe.

"This Quirk is pretty neat, I gotta tell 'ya. Gives me a cool Villain name too: Reaper."

The reality finally settled in Peter's head. He wasn't a hero. He was just a kid. A kid with a weird quirk who was way over his head. A kid who told his Uncle and Aunt that he hated him and best friend not to worry about him. He was going to die.

The gangster ripped off Peter's mask and traced his face with his scythe. With a swift swipe, the gangster named Reaper lightly cut Peter's cheek. He smiled with a deranged look in his face. "The buyer won't mind if your tongue is cut out, right?" he laughed maniacally.

DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!

Peter didn't even whimper in fear. He accepted it. Like a train without its breaks and heading towards a wall, it was inevitable. His head pounded like crazy as his Spider-Sense kept going off. Peter closed his eyes and waited.

However, something unexpected happened. A stifled cry of pain came from the gangster, and a sizable "thud" and the clanging of metal hitting concrete bounced from the walls of the room. There was no Spider-Sense. There was only a voice. A familiar voice. A friendly voice.

"Peter! Peter, are you okay?" the voice cried with intense concern.

Peter opened his eyes and saw not the gangster, but Uncle Ben with his usual ugly red-and-blue sweater. Peter's eyes started to well with tears.

"U-Uncle Ben?"

To be continued...