Peter stayed up a lot longer than he intended.

He dug into the food, finishing off three hamburgers, two bags of fries and half of a milkshake before the grease caught up to his digestive system. Mr. Stark stayed and the two chatted. Surprisingly, Peter found it easy to talk to the man. He thought it would be hard to hold a conversation with an intimidating intellectual, but Mr. Stark was relatively easy to converse. The man shared the same interests as Peter and they were able to sprout off arguments and make lighthearted jabs at one another (Mr. Stark more so than Peter. He didn't want to push his luck by offending Iron Man).

It was near midnight when Mr. Stark suggested Peter get to bed. After all, it was a school night. Mr. Stark even messaged Mr. Reynolds to excuse Peter from morning practice. Peter walked back to his room with a bit of a skip in his step. For once, he would get to have the showers all to himself and be first in line for breakfast.

He returned to his room, kicking his shoes off to flop into his bed. His hip pinched a metal screw, jerking Peter right up in his bed. The web-shooters! He forgotten about them. He reached over, delicately holding them in contemplation. Mr. Stark made a good point. Being a prisoner didn't mean he couldn't do anything. He could learn. Train more. Be a stronger, better hero. Use those skills to become the hero he wanted to become.

A tired sigh fell from his lips. Not a bad idea to have something up his sleeves. Especially in a den full of wolves. Peter moved the web-shooters behind his headboard, hoping it would be a better hiding spot than underneath his dresser.

Never know when he may need them.

Peter lost track of time for good. Since the morning after his long talk with Mr. Stark, his routine was thrown off-kilter, leaving him struggling to know where he needed to be at that moment. After breakfast and a warm shower, he headed off to the library to study.

The librarian that morning smiled and greeted Peter warmly. Like always, Peter was the only visitor. Her only contact outside the world of books. She was pleased to see him and asked if he came to finish his selection of Bohr's writings. Being her only visitor had its perks. She already unshelved Bohr's collection and ready at Peter's favorite desk.

Thanking her, Peter sat comfortably in his chair, opening the first book in the stack. He only got into a few pages when his spidey-sense warned him that the library became crowded. New voices filtered through his super-hearing. Voices he never heard. Voices that tried to whisper, but yelled loud in his ear.

They were moving through the stacks and Peter picked his head up to see two beastly looking men turn around the shelves. Their hungry eyes on him.

Peter's curled over his book, ducking his head and hoping to be unnoticeable. If he curled himself into a ball, he would become invisible. Why were they there? No one visited the library. It was his private place.

He heard their footsteps come closer. Step. Step. Step. Stomp.

Shadows draped overhead, darkening the words. Peter saw the hairs on his arm stand up. Not good.

Peter cranked his head up from his book. They towered over him, curled sneers glaring down on him. One of the men wore a baseball cap, but Peter saw those blue eyes blaze out of the dark, zeroing right on him. His buffed arms matched Luke Cage as he gripped the ends of the chair across from Peter.

Please don't sit down, Peter silently prayed. Don't sit. Don't sit. Don't sit—

The man pulled the chair out and took a seat. His companion, just as tall and intimidating with dark hair and a disfigured, misshaped face, took the next empty chair. They pulled up to the desk, still focused on Peter with intense judgment and it prickled Peter's senses, sending chills through his body.

"Hey there, Spidey," said the baseball hat man. "Whacha reading?"

Peter darted looks between the two intruders, itching to scoot his chair far away from them. He shifted, making an effort to get the librarian's attention with his subtle attempts to look in her direction. She wasn't looking though. Her chin was on her chest and eyes focused on the blue hue of a screen.

The man in the baseball cap didn't appreciate being ignored. "Hey," he snapped, voice soft, but tone disturbing the quiet serenity of the library. "I asked you a question, Spidey."

Peter dropped his gaze from the man's face to his books. "Oh, um… just writings by Dr. Bohr."

"Doctor Bore?" the man cracked a laugh with his companion.

Peter didn't find it funny. "Doctor Bohr," he enunciated. "Famous physicist."

"Don't give a fuck," the man dismissed. The pleasantries, if could be considered that, were over. "We saw your performance."

"What performance?"

"In the simulation," grunted the companion, the scar running jagged on his face twisted into an uglier mask. "Saw that stunt of yours."

"Not a stunt," Peter muttered, not comfortable where the conversation was going.

The man in the baseball cap leaned across the table, pushing aside Peter's books. Peter straightened back, heart hammering against his chest. Now more than ever, he wished he took the mask from the box. If he had his mask, he could hide the fear he was certain he was displaying.

"You know what people are saying right?" the man continued, but Peter shook his head. He was not aware of what everyone talked about. Why would he? No one talked to him about anything. "They're saying that some punk-ass kid beat our record. That a pre-pubescent tween outsmarted everyone here."

Peter tried to swallow. He couldn't. His throat was too dry. "Um… no."

The two men exchanged looks. Not good looks either. "How'd you do it?" the man demanded. "You cheated, didn't you?"

Peter shook his head.

The man didn't believe him. "Don't fuck with me, kid," he warned in snarl. "I don't like people who fuck me over and get the glory. You understand?"

No, he didn't. Peter stared, unblinkingly, at a loss of what the man accused him of doing. Where was Simon when he truly needed him?

"I don't think he gets it, champ," voiced the companion.

"I can see that, Jack-O," said the man, thoughtfully. Then, he dramatically whipped off his baseball cap, revealing his close-shaved head and a horrible scar dead-center of his forehead. Three rings, all on top of one another to form what looked like a bullseye.

The man's lips pulled into a high jeer at the sight of Peter's wide eyes. "You see that scar, huh? Got it from a good friend of mine. Symbolizes my specialty," he said, sounding cocky and sinister at once. "You see—it's a bullseye. Because I fucking never miss. Hit my targets every single time. You following, kid?"

Peter thought he dropped a temperature. Was the library ever this cold before?

He stiffly nodded to Bullseye and the man continued. "Good—because my second specialty is making things look like accidents," he added and Peter restrained every muscle in his body from not jumping up to the ceiling to escape them. "And teenage punks do a lot of stupid stuff. Stuff that can break necks—"

"What do you want?" Peter was tired of the threats.

The two seemed happy that they were getting his full cooperation now. "We want you to tell us how you fucking beat the simulation," ground out Jack-O. "You see, our team had a good streak going on until a spider came along. Ruined our reputation. Ruined our good names."

Peter didn't realized he did that. "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to cause you guys any problems."

"Apology accepted once you tell us how you did it," Bullseye seethed through his hardened jaw. "Now, fucking tell us how you did it and you can go on your merry way."

"Um… I was just," Peter didn't know how to explain it to them. "You have to get the materials in the simulation and format—"

"No you little fucker," Bullseyes shut Peter up. "I want to know how the fuck you rigged the simulation. How you fucking stopped the bomb from going off."

"I didn't stop it from going off," Peter remembered it exploding underneath him as he secured the final piece of his design. "It blew up. I just built a container that the bomb couldn't penetrate. You just need—"

A hand snatched the collar of Peter's shirt, dragging him out of his chair and over a part of the desk. "Okay, pipsqueak," Bullseyes growled, "You ain't wanna tell us. Fine. We can got about this another way."

Bullseye took Peter's pencil, holding the sharp end up. He pressed it against Peter's cheek, just a few centimeters underneath Peter's eye. The lead tip pinched the fine skin and Peter did his best to not flinch at the pain. Or at the fear.

The pencil slid a little further upward. "Start talking, Spidey," warned Jack-O, grinning in evil delight to which Peter noticed the man was missing teeth, "or else he's going to hit his target."

Peter pulled back, but Bullseye's hand snapped around Peter's head, keeping him in place. Peter freaked. He felt the pencil sliding closer and closer to his eyes that he was afraid a single jerk would result in a puncture to his iris.

"I-I… I w-wanna… I-I…" He uttered nonsense, unable to focus what he needed to tell them with the threat of a pencil right on top of his eye.

Peter's heart was practically in his mouth when another hand shot out from somewhere, twisting Bullseye's hand in a strong grip until the guy cried out. Both the pencil and Peter were released.

Peter fell, hitting his chair, but toppling to the floor. Stunned, he heard a harsh, but grave voice above him, yelling at Bullseye and Jack-O. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the newcomer with jet black hair snapped at the two. "Fucking terrorizing a kid? Stark's kid? Are you fucking out of your mind? You wanna be sent to the hole? Because that's where you're heading!"

"We were only just messing—" Bullseye attempted to speak, but the newcomer shut him down quick.

"Get the fuck out!" he bellowed. "Now! And I don't wanna see you fucking with this kid anymore! Got it! Go!"

Peter heard chairs screech back before hurried feet faded into the silence. He hadn't moved where he fallen. Too afraid and uncertain what to do. He thought of crawling away, moving underneath another desk and possibly calling out for Mr. Stark to come and help him. But, he rejected that idea. He stayed where he fell as the newcomer rotated back to him.

"You all right there, son?"

Peter blinked up at the man. He had dark skin, pitch black hair and a hideous 'M' scar over his right eye. But his face softened as he stretched out a helping hand to Peter. "Here—let me help you back up."

The man pulled him back onto his feet and held Peter for a few seconds as Peter steadied himself. "You okay?" he asked again, checking Peter over. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Peter shook his head. "They didn't."

"Good," the man was pleased to hear. "I'm Bishop, by the way. Leader of Shadow Company."

Peter never heard of Bishop, but he heard of Shadow Company. Mr. Reynolds was always ranting or rambling about how better Shadow Company was compared to their little group. Mr. Reynolds made it a goal to beat that team, developing this idea that Shadow Company were their rivals.

Realizing he was quiet longer than polite society demanded, Peter gave the man a gracious nod, "I'm Peter."

Bishop smiled knowingly. "Yes, I know," he said. "You are quite the talk around the Compound."

"I am?" Peter hadn't heard anything from anyone. His own teammates hardly talked to him. "I didn't know that."

Bishop chuckled. "Yes, you're stellar performance in the simulation has caught a lot of people's attention," he said to Peter. "Unfortunately, that includes the bad people too. I apologize for my men's harassment against you. Their egos are extremely fragile. They all took it hard when they learned we were beaten by a boy."

"I didn't do it to beat anyone."

"I know," Bishop said, calmly as to not poke Peter further. "I know. You did it because you want to save everyone."

"H-How did you—"

"I'm not an idiot, Mr. Parker," Bishop chuckled at Peter's stunned expression. "I know a good soul when I see one."

Peter's face burned and he averted his eyes in some desperate hope that Bishop may vanish if he didn't look. Peter pretended to be engrossed with his messy desk. Books fallen over, papers torn and bent, and his pencil lost somewhere. He was fine with it being lost.

Even after the long pause, Peter still felt the heavy presence of Bishop. Could still feel the man's dark orbs burrowing right on him. Peter needed to say something. Was he supposed to thank him? Apologize? What did the man want? "Um... err, sorry for—"

Bishop grabbed Peter's shoulder and squeezed, hard and firm to silence him. He gave another squeeze to get Peter to look back to him. "Don't ever apologize for being attack, son," he ordered. "That's not how one should live."

Then, his eyes bounced to the side, distracted by something. He loosened his grip and slid his hand off Peter. "You studying Bohr?"

Peter nodded.

Bishop smiled. His sharp, pearly white teeth reminded Peter of a wolf. "A great mind," he commented, picking up one of the journals. "You must also have a similar mind if you're reading this during your free time."

"I like to learn," was all Peter said.

That made the older man laugh. "Good, very good," he commented. "You know—if you enjoy learning, I'll be more than happy to teach you a few defense techniques. Like the one I did on Lester."

"Lester?"

"Bullseye! Lester! Whatever name he wants to be known as," Bishop rolled his eyes at the absurdity of all the made-up, superhero names. "I can teach you a few things. That way you don't have to let a pencil get into those puppy dog eyes of yours."

Peter instinctively blinked, recalling the feel of lead rising up to his exposed eye. "Um… I don't know," he said. "Mr. Reynolds probably wouldn't—"

"He doesn't have to know," Bishop said, leaning down and then whispering, "It can be our little secret. Mister Reynolds' pride gets in the way of many fine teachings. A curious intellect shouldn't be ruined by another's pride and ego, am I correct?"

Not wrong, but Peter's gut was still unsettled. "I don't get much free time."

"Doesn't have to be a daily thing. Could start as a weekly session. Hour tops?" Bishop suggested and then he put a reassuring hand on Peter's shoulder. "Think it over, son. And don't worry about Reynolds. I promise I won't say a word."

Still uncertain, Peter promised he would think over the offer. Bishop helped Peter clean his desk and once again, told him it was a pleasure to meet the famous Spider-Man. Peter stayed in the library for a few more minutes after Bishop departed before he sprinted back to his bedroom.

He lunged over the headboard of his bed, snatching the pair of web-shooters from their hiding spot. He latched the web-shooters to his wrist and heard the machine wiring up, coming alive as the red light blinked.

Peter breathed a little easier. He fell against the headboard, relieved at the sense of security the web-shooters brought him. His morning had gone so well at the beginning and then ruined upon the third hour. He hadn't expected to be confronted, threatened or offered additional training. The experience of it all frightened him, leaving him feeling vulnerable in a place full of dangerous individuals. His sanctuary was no longer safe. Perhaps even his bedroom was not safe. People could be waiting. Right outside the doors.

A loud smack on his door startled Peter. His spidey-sense didn't warn him and he leapt to his feet, standing right on his mattress as the door slid open. He slid his sleeves down and over his web-shooters.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Reynolds marched into his room, looking up at Peter with an odd expression on his face. "Get down! Now!"

Peter dropped down from the bed. "Sor—."

"Did you lose track of time?" Mr. Reynolds grilled him. "We got tactical training! Everyone else is already there. Except you!"

Peter wasn't aware of the time. Nor did he get to. Mr. Reynolds roughly grabbed his shoulder and steered him out of the bedroom. "I thought we were passed all this," the man grumbled. "Done with all the nonsense!"

Peter thought so too. Guess they were both wrong.

Tactical training wasn't something Peter enjoyed.

Mr. Reynolds divided their team in two, with each group being commissioned a squad leader. The objective was to capture the other team's token, i.e. some random object Mr. Reynolds deemed to be important for the purpose of the training. Once captured, they must return it to Mr. Reynolds, only then would they succeed.

Basically, a game of capture the flag. With more violence.

They were allowed to do whatever was necessary to protect or steal the token. Objects like staffs, bean bags and other non-lethal weapons were scattered around the arena, The only exception was they could do no permanent damages or kill. So, broken hand? Fine. Broken neck? No go. They all had to wear these special vests. If the enemy hit the target on the vest, they were considered dead.

Peter only ever had to two of these with teammates. His first time, he hardly remembered it. Powers jumped him and smashed his head into a wall. He woke with Mr. Reynolds beside him, telling Peter to count and asked him these easy questions to answer. The second time around, Peter didn't participate. Mr. Reynolds wanted him to watch instead to get the idea and purpose of it. Peter only saw a fight that resembled those teenage movies where the bully and protagonist start a riot in the cafeteria. The third time, Peter did a lot better. He managed to get into enemy territory before Silk Fever burned his arm and hit the target on his vest, affectively killing him. The burns were only first degree, but Peter laid up in the medical wing for a few hours to help reduce it while his healing factor took care of the rest.

All three instances made Peter hate tactical training. Yet, he found himself teamed up with Jack as squad leader and Silk Fever as second. The other team had Luke Cage, Lady Deathstrike and Powers.

Jack left Silk Fever to guard their token while, he and Peter ventured out to find the enemy's precious object. Peter followed up with Jack, checking their backs occasionally as trained. No one spotted yet, but any moment, Peter expected his spidey-sense to spike and then be bombarded by metal claws and/or robust muscles.

None of that happened yet and Jack made the horrible decision to split up. Peter was to go right on his own and Jack to the left. Had the man ever seen a horror film? Never split a group up. That was how the killer picks them off.

But Jack was in charge and Peter was not. Do as told. Go with the plan.

Peter trudged along, eyes shifting side to side. His spidey-sense hummed. Low, but it kept Peter on his toes and alert. They cannot kill him, Peter reminded himself. But they could hurt. Hurt him like hell. Powers would love that.

Peter's fingers brushed against his web-shooters. The unseen weapon no one knew about. The weapon Mr. Reynolds would certainly steal from him if he learned Peter had them on. Peter tugged his sleeves further down. Don't use unless necessary.

Rather than follow up the path, Peter grabbed the side of the wall and hoisted himself to the top. Balanced, he tight-roped down the wall, sliding his feet down as he studied the floor below him. He didn't see anyone. All camouflage or hidden amongst the objects. Albeit, they probably could see him. He stood out being on top.

Peter slowly descended off the wall, flipping off onto a crate and landing with no sound. Expert sleuth in process. He glided around the corner, checking his points and staying crouched. Spiders could move unseen, stick to corners, and listen and watch, waiting for their prize to fall right into their web.

Although, Peter wasn't an actual spider nor would he make such a big web that would cause trouble for him. He imagined Mr. Reynolds would take away his web-shooters. Maybe even break them. It would be hard to explain to Mr. Stark how he lost the web-shooters.

Peter followed his gut and turned the corner.

And skidded to a halt. He could not believe it. Not at all.

There, laying unprotected, was the other team's token. Unguarded and left in the open, easy for to grab and run back to Mr. Reynolds.

But it couldn't be that easy. Peter checked around him. Nothing. He saw no one and spotted no signs of a booby trap. Someone must have left their post.

Peter lifted his foot forward—

Click.

Shit!

Peter dropped, taking a squat as he held his breath. He waited. Listened. Eyes searched in front of him. His spidey-sense tickling his skin, prickling the hairs.

Danger afoot. Trouble coming his way.

Shit!

Peter waddled in his squat position to a different area, hiding behind one of the boards. Back pressed, he breathed deeply as he tried to think of a new plan. He prayed it was Luke. He wanted it to be Luke rather than Powers of Lady Deathstrike.

Or Jack, coming to find him after stupidly splitting away. Both of them coming up to the prize together.

It was not in his cards.

A spike of fear and a scream in his ears alerted Peter to drop. He slipped his feet off and fell onto his stomach in time to avoid being hit with a bean bag.

"Damn it!" came the screeching fury that belonged to only one person.

Powers.

Double shit!

Peter army crawled fast, keeping himself low to the ground as to not be spotted by Powers. He heard the man's stomp his way to Peter's last location, swiping up the discarded bean bag. "Where the fuck are you, bitty baby?"

He crawled along the floor, interweaving through the maze of walls. Loud footsteps gained on him and Peter quickly rolled off, hiding behind one of the walls a shadow filled the space he once preoccupied.

The floor creaked. Peter's heart thumped louder despite his attempt to quiet it down. He held his breath, listening and watching the shadow grow bigger. A loom threat upon him.

"You hiding, Spider-Boy? Afraid are ya?" Powers cackled, smacking the walls he came across. Probably an attempt to get Peter to yelp and reveal his hideout. "No longer running high off that victory in the simulation, huh? Just you and me now, pal. Come on out! Let's play ball!"

Peter tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He moved down the wall, back pressed as he scooted away from the growing shadow. Why did it have to be Powers? Peter figured he would want to charge right into the fray and steal the token than stand guard.

The steps softened. "The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout," Powers hauntingly intoned as he prowled after him. "Then down came the rain—"

Peter heard a loud snap and something heavy slam into the ground. It rattled Peter's bones for a second. It rattled Peter's heart longer.

"Come on out, Spidey," Powers purred with a dangerous rumble. "You know... Luke had this whole plan out, but I figured I should take a page out of your book. Just burn it all down and do what I want."

Was Powers insane? It baffled Peter why Powers hated him so much. Peter never did anything to him, but Powers insisted on terrorizing him. He went out of his way to make Peter's life miserable, enjoying himself on the torment.

The footsteps stopped moving. The shadow was gone.

Oh no.

His spidey-sense screamed and without thought, Peter launched himself out of his hideaway, rolling into a somersault as the wall collapsed behind him. The ground shook a bit and Powers stomped over the fallen wall, glaring down at Peter's balled form.

"And washed the spider out!" Powers squealed in utter excitement. "Hey there, itsy bitsy!"

Peter shot up and ran, but Powers gave chase, chucking the bean bags right at Peter's feet to get him to trip. Peter bounced, using his parkour tricks to dodge the attempts, but Powers was relentless.

"You can't run!" roared Powers.

Don't know about that, Peter drily thought, I think I'm running all right.

He swung around the corner, looking where to go when he spotted a tunnel poking out from the far wall up top. Peter crawled quickly and ducked inside, hiding himself there as he waited for Powers to run passed.

Powers rampaged below, knocking down walls and blindly running in different directions in his attempt to find Peter. "Where are you?" he growled. "Where the fuck are you?!"

Peter stayed low, thinking of ways to get out of his situation. He considered holing up in the tunnel and wait out the training. He doubt Mr. Reynolds would be pleased with his performance, but Peter didn't find any enjoyment in trying to kill the other team. He was not like Powers.

Suddenly, the tunnel glowed red. Peter went rigid, wondering what was happening when he realized the red hue came from a flash on his web-shooters. Peter quickly tried to cover it up with his sleeve. He didn't need to signal out his location and lure Powers to him. His sleeves failed to cover up the bright hue, still acting like a beckoning light to his position. Peter tried to find a way to quit it from flashing, smacking his web-shooters everywhere. He hit the buttons, trying to figure out what the repetitive flash meant.

He must have hit something right because the flashes ceased and a beam of red light shot up over Peter's head. Peter tipped his head back and saw the Spider-man logo. The image of his mask filling the space above him.

The super-hero signal. The call of hope.

Peter lingered on the image. Not long ago, he was the one who wore that mask, swinging through his neighborhood Queens in search of trouble. He engaged in dangerous situations without a second thought like saving people from crushing deaths or stopping thieves from stealing. Or helping lost tourists find their way around the city. Spider-man did all those things. Spider-man never hid up in a tunnel or run from danger. He ran toward danger. He made the bad guys hide in tunnels.

But… That was Spider-man. He was Peter Parker. A teenager locked up in a Compound because some government agency said so. A boy with no mask to hide from, exposed to cruel and authoritative trainers who pressured him to abuse his responsibility as an enhanced individual. And Peter didn't have his mask to shield the scared boy from his enemies. He could not banish the fearful child, who wanted his aunt and uncle. Peter was exposed and Spider-man became a fraud. A mockery.

"Down came the rain, and washed the spider out."

Powers was sung away below, searching. And Peter stayed up, thinking.

He remembered his uncle and the old stories he told Peter when bullies beat up on him in elementary school and middle school. He cheered Peter up with tales of heroes, and how a little man once became the world's greatest hero by sticking it to the biggest bully. Peter recalled it all with a fond memory: "But Uncle Ben, I'm nothing like Captain America. I'm me."

He remembered his uncle's smile. "And what do you think he was? A hero is no different than an ordinary person, Petey. They are just braver for five minutes longer. You're a good kid. You're well-loved. And one day, you will be someone who changes the world. Start by not running from your bullies, but standing up for yourself."

Peter wasn't Captain America or Iron Man or any of the other Avengers. He never faced down an alien. He never dealt with a secret, evil organization intent on destroying the good of the world. But none of that made him less. It didn't make any of his problems less real or problematic.

Peter Parker wasn't one of the heroes he grew up on. He was Spider-man. He was also Peter Parker.

One of the same. And now, he had to be brave for five minutes longer.

He zapped the light off. The masked symbol evaporated, leaving Peter in the dark. He sucked up a deep breath, listening as Powers got closer to where Peter crouched in the tunnel. The man was still singing that stupid nursery rhyme.

"The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout," Powers sang, sounding worse and louder. "Down came the rain, and washed the spider out. Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain—"

Powers was right below and Peter took another deep breath, before he reminded himself to not be afraid. He was Spider-man. Spider-man wasn't afraid to stand up to bullies.

He jumped. And dropped down in a smooth landing right in front of Powers.

Powers whistled. "And the itsy bitsy spider crawls out again!" he jeered, tossing the bean bags up in the air. A power show. A demonstration that he was armed and unafraid to fire. "Thought I was going to have to find you and stomp you down for good."

Powers stepped forward, but Peter stood his ground. No more running. No more hiding.

Powers noticed the rigid stance. "Oh. Oh I see," he said with that horrible wicked smile. "You wanna show how tough you are? You wanna prove to me that you aren't afraid, is that it? Well, itsy bitsy, you're not pulling it off. You look like you shit in your pants five times."

Peter shook his head. "I'm not proving anything," he said. "I'm giving you the chance to walk away."

Powers stared for a minute. Then his whole body broke out in a cackle of laughter. He shook his head wildly as he curled over himself, trying to stomach the cramps his feverish laughter brought upon him.

"You?" he choked up through his cackles. "You're giving me the chance? Wow! How hard did you hit your head?" He shook his head again, trying to subdue his last bits of giggles. "Well—that's certainly something I'll tell the guys later. Anyway, going to make a strong pass. And also, since we are giving each other warnings—this will hurt."

Powers chucked his first bean bag right at Peter's chest. It shot straight through the air, but Peter's agility and fast reflexes made it easy to dodge it. In fact, he caught it with his hand.

Powers laughter swiped down, eyebrows bushing forward into a sharp 'V'. "Fuck you," he said. "I'm going to wipe your ass!"

He fired away, throwing each bean bag at full throttle. It was no match to Peter. He caught them all with relative ease and graceful movements. A subtle snub directed to Powers for his boorish fighting skills.

But now, Peter held all the bean bags and Powers had nothing. Peter had the weapon and the strength to "kill" Powers. Eliminate him from the game.

Peter looked from the bean bags to Powers' reddening face. He let the bean bags slip to the floor.

Powers' eyes narrowed. "What the fuck you playing at, itsy bitsy?"

"Actually," Peter said, lifting his arms up to roll his sleeves down. His fingers touched the web-shooters, activating it. "It's Spider-Man."

Peter took aim. He fired.

Two strings of web shot out at Powers' direction. The man cried out in surprise as the webs latched onto the boundary wall behind him. "What the hell?" Powers exclaimed in madness. "What the hell is this stuff?"

Peter gripped the webs and reclined at a perfect angle. He jumped from the ground and yanked the webs, sending himself like a bullet right into Powers. His shoes hit right on target, making a great impact into Powers' chest that the man was thrown off his feet and slammed into the wall.

Peter cut loose of the webbing and watched Powers scramble to get back on his feet, half dazed and half confused about how he ended up on the floor. When his eyes locked on Peter's, the humor he had earlier was gone. Replaced with that familiar furor.

In his clear embarrassment, Powers charged at him. Peter zapped out another webbing at Powers' feet and watched the white string loop around Powers' ankles into a knot. Powers flailed as he lost balance, tripping down and smacking his chin hard on the floor.

He groaned and cursed, pushing himself back up. Bewildered by the substance, Powers tried to hack it off him, but to no avail. "What the fuck is this shit!?" he roared as he kept getting his fingers stuck on the webbing. "Why is it sticky?"

"Never heard of spider-webs before?" Peter replied. "All spiders have it."

That pissed Powers off. He lunged at Peter, not caring that his feet were glued together and his balance off. He aimed to punch Peter in the face and Peter reacted accordingly. He extended his hand and shot out two globs of webbing at Powers. It hit both hands, webbing him up against the wall.

Powers growled and grunted as he used up all his strength to pull himself free. It was futile. The webbing was too strong for Powers. He truly reminded Peter of a bug caught in a spider's web.

"Stay," Peter ordered, pleased with the victory. "Don't go anywhere."

Peter heard Powers snarl, "Fuck you," he snapped. "You fucking cheate—"

Peter shot off another string of web and smothered Powers' words to garble the utter nonsense. Much better.

"You have the right to remain silent," Peter advised as he walked away from powers to return to the podium that was up ahead.

The token was still there, ready for the taking. Peter picked it up from its position and tucked it inside his vest. Secured, he went back to where Powers, grunting and groveling in his binds, kept attempting to wiggle himself free.

"It'll dissolve in three hours," Peter informed Powers. "I would help, but you're a bad guy. So, use this time to reflect on your horrible life choices."

Peter raised his hand, took aim and fired off a strand of webbing. It fastened to the ceiling. "See ya later!"

And Peter was off. Soaring in the air as he swung over the arena. It somewhat reminded him of Queens, swinging over things and having that sense of excitement bubbling up his chest. The thrill and sense of freedom as he swung around on his webbings. It was amazing to feel it all over again. Even if it was for a short period of time.

Peter arrived at the front of the arena. He let go of his last strand of web and flipped down right next to Mr. Reynolds. The leader was stunned, tensed for a split second as he was unable to recognize who swooped right next to him from the ceiling.

Peter reached his hand into his vest and revealed the stolen token. "Got it," he announced. "It's done."

Mr. Reynolds stared at the object in Peter's hand and then back to Peter. A spark of bewilderment froze his face, his eyes bulging a bit at Peter. Almost like the man couldn't believe what he was seeing. Peter lifted the token up, leveling it to Mr. Reynolds' face to show it was all real. It made the man blink and recoil, hesitant to touch the token. But, as the seconds ticked on, Mr. Reynolds recovered from his surprise and took the token from Peter. He turned it, examining it to check it was not a fake.

Mr. Reynolds rolled his eyes down from the token to Peter. "Well done," he commended, tone devoid of emotion. "Let's call everyone back."

Once he announced the session was over and ordered everyone to return, Mr. Reynolds' eyes glittered to Peter's wrist. Curiosity lit those strange eyes before they squinted into a questionable scrutiny.

"What are those?" he inquired, studying Peter's web-shooters with peculiar disapproval. And a smidge of vexation.

Peter remained calm. "My web-shooters."

"Web-shooters?" Mr. Reynolds susceptibly raised a brow at the objects. "Don't remember web-shooters being a part of the arena. Where did you get them?"

Peter instinctively yanked his sleeves down over the web-shooters. "They're mine."

"I don't remember you ever having a pair," Mr. Reynolds drawled, muscles in his face tightening. A dark cloud fluttered over Mr. Reynolds' face. "Tell the truth, Mr. Parker—where did you get them?"

The team started to reappear, some jogging and others sauntering into the foyer. They all glanced at one another, trying to decipher who won, until they noticed the token in Mr. Reynolds' hands.

"Yes!" Jack screamed in victory, pumping his fists up. "Champions! Ha!"

No one paid attention to Jack though. They recognized the tension between Peter and Mr. Reynolds. The scolding glare was enough entertainment for them. Another beat show where Peter got lectured and scolded for whatever childish behavior he conducted. They stayed back to watch, waiting with anticipation as to what Peter did this time around. What rule did he break? What did he do wrong?

Peter waited for the same accusation. And the consequence for it.

Mr. Reynolds huffed, not impressed with Peter's stoic defiance. He stretched his hand out, demanding the web-shooters. "Hand them over."

Peter shook his head.

That only angered Mr. Reynolds. "Mr. Parker—I will not tolerate anymore disobedience from you today," he seethed through gritted teeth. "Give me those web-thingys, now, or I will be forced to use extreme measures, which I am certain you don't want."

He was going to shock him, send electric currents through him until he passed out. "I'm not giving them to you," Peter refused. "They're mine! Mr. Stark gave them to me."

That one line changed the entire situation. Mr. Reynolds' eyes went wide and he scuttle backwards, as if Peter shocked him with an electric prod. He heard soft gasps and mutters from the sidelines where the others watched the face-off.

Mr. Reynolds blinked a few times to recover. "W-What?" he said, still startled. "Mr. Stark gave those to you?"

"He made them for me."

Mr. Reynolds swiftly move his hands behind his back. "Oh well, then, never mind," he quickly excused, all the ire squashed out. "Keep them. I didn't know. Next time, though, you have to let me know."

And then Mr. Reynolds ignored him, pivoting away to look back to the rest of the team. He disclosed his full report to them, giving an overall idea where they needed to improve. Peter half-listened, still befuddled by the sudden change in tune by Mr. Reynolds.

Was Mr. Reynolds afraid of Mr. Stark? It would explain the man's sudden change in attitude and his avoidance of Peter at the moment. The man refused to look in his direction at all during the debriefing.

Report finished and the team dismissed for practice later in the evening, Mr. Reynolds searched the crowd with a furrowed brow and a deep frown.

"Anyone see Powers?" he asked the group, scanning the floor for the missing teammate. "Where the fuck is he?"

"Oh!" Peter exclaimed, remembering he left Powers all tied up. "He may, um, be a bit tied up."

Mr. Reynolds gave him a long look. "Tied up?"

"I webbed him up to one of the walls," Peter explained, awkwardly after the strange looks from his teammates. "He should be free in a couple of hours. Once the webs dissolve."

Mr. Reynolds' eyebrows traveled high up his forehead, somewhat impressed. But it was Jack who was more excited by the prospect of Powers tied into a cocoon. "Holy shit!" he cried out, tapping Luke's huge arm. "I gotta see this, man. Sorry—excuse me!"

And Jack sprinted back into the arena, on the hunt to find Powers. Luke considered for a few seconds before he shrugged and joined Jack. "Probably will make my week to see that little asshole knotted up."

Shortly, they all joined after Jack, hunting down Powers to find themselves a good laugh. Mr. Reynolds held a little smile on his face of his own. "Serves the man right," he commented. "He's a bit of a pest. Especially toward you."

He looked down at Peter. "Well done, Mr. Parker," he said in a rare form of kind words. "Good to see you growing more confident in your talents."

It was an unexpected compliment. Not unwelcomed, but it surprised Peter enough to scrunch his face in confusion at the gesture. Mr. Reynolds hardly handed out compliments, especially to him. Based off their previous encounters, Peter assumed nothing he did would ever appease the man's high demands.

Until he claimed victory for his team through the simulation test and now. Until he revealed Mr. Stark gifted him the web-shooters.

Until now.

Mr. Reynolds hummed as his lips curled in the corners and Peter swore he heard the man murmur, "Maybe Stark was right."

"… and so I shot a web over his mouth. Smothered it to keep him from talking. He just kept making garbled noises and I said 'You have the right to remain silent.' Then I snatched the token right from him. It was awesome, Mr. Stark! Best moment in my entire life!"

Mr. Stark, who listened to Peter's tale as they walked through the Compound, bobbed his head along before he raised a questionable brow. "Best moment? Really, Mr. Parker?"

Peter shrugged. "Well—one of them, at least," he said. "It felt good to shut that guy up. I mean, Powers can run his mouth forever and ever. He just doesn't shut up and he's annoying and mean and rude and—"

"Powers?" Mr. Stark interrupted with a contemplating murmur. "The same guy who gave you a black eye?"

Peter blinked in shock. "How did you know that?"

"I told you kid," Mr. Stark gestured Peter to turn the corner. "I've been looking after you since day one. I heard about the incident when I was away. Got in contact with Nellie and she informed me."

Peter should have guessed. Mr. Stark would have eyes and ears all over the place, especially with his AI running everything. "Oh. Yeah, well, um, same guy. But this time, I beat him."

"And it was the best moment of your life," Mr. Stark shot him a teased smile.

Peter scrunched up his face in retort. "Okay, sorry, it wasn't like I kicked ass against, like, the Hulk or Thor, but he was my bully," he said, proudly. "And... it's a big deal to me."

"Wasn't belittling it, kid," Mr. Stark replied, opening another door. "So—web-shooters work on humans as well as walls and ceilings."

Peter nodded. "Yeah and, honestly, I thought Mr. Reynolds was going to be pissed as well. He asked for them, but when I said you gave them to me—"

"Oh? Name dropping, huh?"

"He asked!"

Mr. Stark skeptically hummed, a hint of a smile picking up his face as they strolled down the corridor. Peter had no idea where they were going. Mr. Stark intercepted him on the way to the library and told Peter to tag along with him. He hoped it was an update about the Accords and that he was getting close to freeing Peter back to his aunt. So far, Mr. Stark made no comment on it. He was only interested in Peter's day, asking how it went, to which Peter obliged by telling him the incident with Powers a few days ago.

They were walking through another floor Peter had never seen. Hardly anyone was around, leaving the corridors empty and unattended. Peter tried to peek inside any open doors he came across, but most of them appeared to be offices, lounges or empty rooms. Nothing at all fascinating. No labs or workshops. Nothing. When Tony snatched him after his school lessons, Peter thought it was something to do with his release. Something with the Accords and it being pivotal in returning him to his family.

"So, um, Mr. Stark? What exactly—"

"Tones!"

The loud shout carried from one end of the corridor to where they stopped. Mr. Stark whirled on his feet as did Peter, looking at a man who fast approached them.

The man's strides were quick and long with somewhat of an awkward gait from the set of braces attached to both legs. Posture perfect, head tilted up and eyes pointed right at Mr. Stark. Peter instantly recognized him. Colonel James Rhodes, member of the Avengers team as War Machine and a colonel in the United States army. More commonly known as Mr. Stark's best friend.

"Tony!" he grilled coming up to an abrupt attention in front of them. "Why aren't you answering your calls?! I have Secretary—"

"Rhodey!" Mr. Stark burst, gesturing his arms up in a welcoming manner. "I have someone I want you to meet."

Mr. Stark's hand landed right on Peter's shoulder and pushed forward to Col. Rhodes. "Rhodey? Meet the kid," he announced. "Kid—Rhodey."

Peter tried not to look small under Colonel Rhodes' perplexed glare. He swallowed the uncomfortableness and stretched his hand out to shake. "It's, um, Peter," he corrected on Mr. Stark's behalf. "Peter Parker."

It took a few seconds for Colonel Rhodes's brain to recover from his stupor. He took Peter's hand and shared a strong handshake. "James Rhodes," he returned. "Pleasure to meet you. Are you Tony's... intern?"

Peter darted a look from Col. Rhodes to Mr. Stark. "Um... no. I'm—"

"Somewhat," Mr. Stark intercepted, clapping his hand on Peter's shoulder followed with a tight squeeze. "Was impressed with his mechanical eye. You know how I am. Gotta find the best and brightest before others do."

Peter looked back at Mr. Stark with deep, quizzical brows, bunched close in fickle confusion. Mr. Stark never said anything about being an intern. When Mr. Stark caught Peter's confused gaze, he threw out a wink to him. Go with it.

So, Peter closed his mouth and nodded to Mr. Stark's fib.

Col. Rhodes looked impressed, but shrewd as he glared a little longer at Mr. Stark. Probably already aware of Mr. Stark's deception. "You must be a smart kid," Rhodes said to Peter after a moment. "Let me know if this old fellow gets difficult or if he's being a pain in the ass. Mostly if he's being a pain in the ass. Okay?"

"Don't scare off my intern," Mr. Stark huffed. "You make it sound like I'm the one that turns into a raging green monster."

"You occasionally do."

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes. "Okay, Rhodey, the kid and I have places to be," he said, tugging on Peter's arm to steer him away from his old friend. "So—"

Rhodes looked peeved at Mr. Stark's dismissal. "Actually, Tones, I came because I need to discuss something with you. Privately," he quickly added after a darted look to Peter.

"Another time."

"It's important."

"Everything is important."

"I'm telling you this is," Rhodes insisted, but Mr. Stark was hardly listening to him. Already, Peter found himself slowly walking again as Mr. Stark pulled him along. Rhodes hurried after him. "You cannot ignore them," he said, being cryptic to keep Peter in the dark. "If you don't respond—"

"He'll what?" challenged Mr. Stark, not slowing his pace. "C'mon Rhodey! What's he going to do? He can use all the words he knows, but it won't change my damn mind. If he wants to show up with his army, then by all means! I'll be here.

"In the meantime, my answer is a severe no" Mr. Stark stated and he called for the elevator, before looking back at Col. Rhodes. "My terms only. Tell him that."

Col. Rhodes sighed in exasperation as if dealing with a toddler than a grown-up. "I'm not going to play the messenger."

"Funny," Mr. Stark deadpanned. "You just were for him."

Col. Rhodes' shoulders hunched, leaving his mouth agape in astonished disbelief at the sheer ridiculous he confronted. His tired eyes slid down to Peter, again looking at him with speculation and wonderment. Peter tried to back away from the rift between the two friends. Not that there was a big rift, but Mr. Stark made it clear he was not in the mood to deal with whatever Col. Rhodes deemed as important. But from the sheer urgency in the man's eyes, Peter truly believed it to be important.

Peter glanced up to Mr. Stark. "Maybe you should hear him out, Mr. Stark?" he suggested. "It could be important."

Mr. Stark's mouth pinched, shaking his head. "Not important."

"If it's about the Accords—"

"It is," added Col. Rhodes, although he was taken aback by Peter's knowledge of it.

Excitement fluttered within him. A skip to his walk. "Mr. Stark! It could be about letting—"

"It's not," grunted Tony, his word sending Peter straight back down. "Trust me, kid. It has nothing to do with any of that."

"But—"

The elevator dinged and opened. Mr. Stark practically tossed Peter inside before he addressed Col. Rhodes. "I'm never going to agree to his terms. If he wants my cooperation, then it's on my terms only."

Col. Rhodes huffed out a deep sigh. "Better tell him yourself."

"Oh—I already have," Mr. Stark responded and he waved a farewell salute to his friend just as the elevator doors closed. "Son of a bitch…" he muttered, taking out his phone and working quickly on it. "Sorry about all that, short stuff. Adult things."

"You mean the Accords thing," Peter grumbled, crossing his arms. He found it incredulous that Mr. Stark would avoid taking phone calls with the man who was keeping Peter away from his aunt. "I thought you said you were going to fix it."

Mr. Stark arched a brow in Peter's direction. "I am."

"Doesn't seem like it."

Mr. Stark stopped messing with his phone. He twirled it and slipped back into his pocket. "Maybe from your point of view," he said with a weary gruff. "But from my end, I'm doing a hell of a lot."

"Then why did you ignore Col. Rhodes?" Peter countered, hurt that Mr. Stark dismissed something that could have brought him a step closer to his aunt. "He said it was important and maybe it was. Maybe the UN came up with a compromise?"

Mr. Stark barked out a cruel laugh. "Compromise? Doubt it. No… I already know what Rhodey was going to tell me."

"But you don't know—"

"Actually, I do. Because I already heard their proposition. Multiple times," Mr. Stark answered. "Through emails, voice messages and a handful of them were actual threats—but I'm not going to give that man anything. I'm sorry if it feels like I am sabotaging your chances to be reunited with your aunt, but I can't let Secretary Ross get his hands on my AI programming. Otherwise, what's the point of letting you go with your aunt. You will never fully be free if he has my AI."

Peter's eyes got wider and his mouth dropped. "Wait… they want your AI?"

"They want a version of it," Mr. Stark replied, taking in a deep breath. Eyes a bit distant, but only for a second. "They agreed to adjust the Accords to allow better accommodations for enhanced individuals, but only if I hand them the specs of my AI.

"I couldn't, in good conscience, do that, so… fuck them," Mr. Stark said with a crooked smile, rather pleased by his crude sense of rebellion. "Threw out my terms and refused to budge. That's why they keep calling and sending messengers. They want me to give in, but I won't. I won't let those assholes use my tech to control people."

Peter's face flushed with embarrassment. He misjudged and spoke foolishly on something he only half understood. He was an idiot. "Sorry… I didn't know," he said. "I just thought you were… I don't know."

Mr. Struck shrugged, nonchalant. "Don't worry about it. You didn't have all the information," he said, dismissing the apology as unnecessary. "I am working on it though, kid. It's kind of at a stand-still, but the UN will eventually cave. Already, they tried to use Rhodey to get to me. Soon, they will realize that I have all the balls. Not them."

Peter nodded. More out of hope than belief. "Yeah, yeah, I was just hoping it would go faster. You know?"

"Things like this take time," Mr. Stark admitted, drawing his palm down his jawline. "Nothing happens in a snap. Time wins everything in the end. Just be patient. I know it's not a strong suit from your generation, but hang-in there."

The elevator slowed to a stop, opening for them to walk out. Mr. Stark sauntered out and Peter followed, expecting to be back in the workshop. He wasn't.

It was a massive office with a gorgeous view of the entire landscape and beyond! Half of the office was covered in floor to ceiling windows, giving two distinct views of the Compound. The remaining walls had a full-screen television mounted on it, guarded by two bookcases filled with leather-bound books with no titles on the spine. Another wall held a single oil painting – a woman with strawberry blonde hair, looking away, but one could notice the hint of green in what looked to be an eye.

"It's a Liviu Mihai."

Peter turned away from the painting to Mr. Stark. "A what?"

Mr. Stark gestured to the painting. "Mihai is a great artist. Had this portrait commissioned for her birthday," he explained, but it only left Peter more lost than before. "I wanted it framed in the house, but she insisted on having it here."

"W-Who?"

"Pepper Potts," Mr. Stark answered. "My fiancé."

Peter scolded himself. Of course, now he recognized the woman in the painting. Pepper Potts. The leading CEO in the global tech world. First woman to power up Stark Industries and leading it through the treacherous days of Iron Man. Peter recalled Michelle Jones admiring the woman's business prowess.

"Cost me ten thousand dollars, but worth it," Mr. Stark said heading to the opposite side of the office where a drink cart was station. "I would offer you something to drink, but all I have here for you is ice."

"That's okay," Peter said, taking in the rest of the office. The desk up front was different than the one in the workshop. It had a black glass surface, uncluttered with only a computer, leather notebook and a framed photograph that Peter could not see the photograph that filled it.

Mr. Stark poured himself some kind of drink and went over to the desk, bending down to grab something from a drawer. He tucked a folder underneath his arm and moved to little sitting room that was in front of the television. He gestured Peter to join him.

Peter sat, but kept looking around him, not understanding why he was up in this private office.

"Probably wondering why I brought you here," Mr. Stark said, dropping the folder beside him on the couch. "I wanted to formally hire you."

Peter faltered, unsure if he heard correctly. "Hire me?"

"As an intern."

Peter paused. "I thought that was a lie to Col. Rhodes?"

"Not a lie," Mr. Stark said. "I actually do want you to be an intern for me. You're young, smart and talented. Need those around here if Stark Industries wants to keep moving into the future."

"Wait… you want me as an intern for Stark Industries?" Peter thought his reality was breaking apart. It had to be a joke. Or a dream. Either or. This was not real.

"What other intern would there be?" Mr. Stark asked, humored by Peter's statement. "My plan would be to have you up in the workshop with me two days a week. Work on a few projects and have you look over some coding and specs. Something for you to occupy your time while I fight the UN on your behalf."

Peter tried to compute everything that was thrown at him. "But… I don't know how I would do that?" Already, his days were set on a rotating schedule. He hardly even had much of recreation time to rest. How could he tack on an internship?

"Do what? The internship? Easy—instead of spending hours in the library, you will spend those hours in the workshop. Learn from the master," Mr. Stark pointed at himself to indicate that he was the master. "Look—there is so much you can learn from reading, but eventually, you got to put it into practical use and not just theoretical use.

"I figured you would find this internship more invigorating and educational than just sitting at that desk of yours and reading what all these great scientists and engineers did," Mr. Stark said. "Especially when I know you could be doing great things if given the chance. So… I'm giving you that chance. What do you say?"

Peter didn't know what to say. Speechless, he never thought of himself as someone who could be great. He never even compared himself to Bohr or Stark or Feynman. They were his heroes. And he was nothing but a civilian compared to them.

Mr. Stark titled his head, a frown growing in concern. "You okay? Did you hear anything I said?"

Peter managed to stiffly nod. "Yeah, I, um, just… trying to get my head wrapped around it," he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You want me as an intern?"

"Yep."

"For Stark Industries?"

Another confirmed nod.

"But I'm fifteen."

Mr. Stark snorted up a laugh, falling back into the couch as he laid a hand chest. "Jesus—are you seriously trying to find ways to not take this internship? Is this your version of declining it?"

"No, no, no," Peter said, not trying to sound ungrateful. "I'm confused. I mean… I'm a teenager."

"Age is not a measure of wisdom," Mr. Stark said, recovering from his chuckles. "Hell—I was fifteen when I went into MIT. Fifteen year olds can be just as smart as adults. And you, kid, are smart as hell. The fact that you developed that web fluid with a few school chemicals and those web-shooters from the dump tells me you are far smarter than my whole team at Stark Industries. I know a genius when I see one. I know talent when I see it. You got both kid. And, I want to help you along that path. That's why I am offering you the position.

"So… you want it or am I wasting my time?" Mr. Stark asked.

Peter sucked in a deep breath, ducking his head as to think in private. He didn't need Mr. Stark's intense gaze to freak him out. He thought over the offer. It was a great opportunity. He could put it on his resume, look good on college applications and it would allow him to have a hands-on approach to some of the world's best technology. Plus, with Mr. Stark as a mentor, he was certain to learn everything he ever wanted to know.

It would be a stupid to reject the offer. Very stupid.

Peter started to nod.

"Is that a yes?" Mr. Stark questioned for a confirmation.

"Yes," Peter blurted, but quickly shut his mouth as his voice carried loud in the spacious office. He swallowed, trying to contain his enthusiasm better. "I'll do the internship."

"Great!" Mr. Stark clapped, looking rather pleased with Peter's decision. He whipped the folder off the couch beside him and handed it off to Peter. "These are just basic documents you need to look over and sign. Just the usual business stuff. And, I also added your first assignment."

Mr. Stark pulled out a packet from the back end of the folder. "This here is a design model for a drone," he said. "There's been a few glitches in the system and I want your input on the solutions."

Peter eyed the diagram. "You designed this?"

"Oh, hell no," Mr. Stark said, slightly offended by the insinuation. "My designs don't have faults. This is another employee's pet project. They tried to sell it to me, but fell short. Obvious reasons I am sure you will find out. Anyway, that's your first task."

"More like a test," Peter said, flipping through the packet. "See if I know my stuff."

"See how creative you can be," corrected Mr. Stark. "I already know you know your 'stuff'. I want to see what you can do with it."

Peter snorted as he closed the packet and looked through the documentations that he needed to read. "What exactly is all of this?" he asked, scanning the titles of each document. "Employee handbook? Personnel? IRS? Wait… am I getting paid?"

"Of course," Mr. Stark said, casual as if it was normal to pay interns. "Fifty dollars per hour. Plus benefits like stipends for transportation and lunch… but those things are not necessary for you. You don't need a subway to get there. And lunch is already… are you okay?"

Peter stopped listening to Mr. Stark a while back. His mind distracted by the mere fact he was going to earn fifty dollars an hour. Fifty dollars and hour! Holy—his aunt hardly made thirty dollars an hour for her work. And he's making… fifty. Fifty dollars an hour. With that income, he and his aunt could afford a better apartment. One with more closet space. Better view of Queens. And less shady neighbors.

Fifty dollars. An hour! That… that was a lot of money. More money than he ever had in his life!

Something waved in front of his face. Peter jumped, startled and searching for an escape, but saw it was only Mr. Stark's hand, trying to wave him back to reality. "Hey! You there?" Mr. Stark inquired.

"Yeah… yeah. Sorry," Peter apologized, sitting up and trying to be professional again. "I… are you sure, Mr. Stark?"

"About what?" Mr. Stark was not used to be second guessed by anyone.

"The money."

"What about the money?"

"It's a lot."

"It is?" Mr. Stark's face scrunched in thought. For Iron Man, fifty dollars was pocket change, but for people like Peter—it was a half month's worth of groceries. It was a lot of money. And Peter had to be sure.

But Mr. Stark shrugged, not giving a care. "It's nothing, kid," he dismissed. "Honestly, I feel like I am underpaying you. I should double it. What about a hundred?"

Peter struggled to not choke on his surprise. "A-A hundred, sir?"

"Two hundred?"

It was getting ridiculous. "Fifty is fine, Mr. Stark," Peter assured him, hoping it would stop the madness. "I just wanted to make sure. I-I never made that much money before. Neither did my aunt or uncle. It feels like a lot."

"It's nothing, Peter," Mr. Stark promised him. "It's only fifty dollars an hour. You're not robbing me blind."

"I know. I know," Peter said, suddenly remembering that not only was there a generation gap between him and Mr. Stark, but also a social gap. An economical gap. Peter came up poor. Mr. Stark came up rich. They lived in separate worlds, yet they were sharing this tiny space. "Still… it's a lot of money. I know it's not a lot to you, but it is for me. I grew up with very little. Money wasn't always… available."

It took him a moment to comprehend, but Mr. Stark clicked it all together. "You don't have to worry about that," Mr. Stark reassured Peter, comforting him on the fact he didn't have to worry about any financial burdens. "All you have to worry about is coming up creative solution to this drone problem, got it?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said with a growing smile as he pulled the folder onto his lap. "I can do that."