A/N: Ha ha. So there was some debate about the insecticide. Some of you found it funny, others questioned the logic behind it. So what happened was I went looking for Spider-Man specific weaknesses, and found... none. Okay, I found one. Apparently, Some Pesticides affect Spider-Man badly; specifically, Ethyl Chloride. One person pointed out that due to the Arachnid:Human ratio, it would hardly affect Spider-Man at all. My rebuke would be that Tony Stark is rich. That is all.

I really appreciate all of the responses and reviews! They really do mean a lot to me. Thank you for all of your support!

I hope this wasn't too late, but here you are! Enjoy! (Also, it isn't a trick this time, promise).

There goes the last initiative...

He stepped away from the hospital.

.o0|O|0o.

The wood door swept wide, offering the welcoming mat to Peter as if it was a priest in long, white robes. Entering was not so much of a dread any more. He appreciated the shelter and he appreciated the people.

The house was coated in a rippling quiet, only foggy whispers dared to tap the face of it. Odd. He closed the door behind him.

Slipping off his torn shoes, Peter entered the first room (not quite dusty, not quite clean). There was nobody there. He followed the monk-like murmurings, eventually coming to not-so-distant living room, just off the side of the kitchen. He decided to take a peek.

A small number of people were there, sitting around the coffee table, seemingly in the midst of an important meeting. He recognised some, one not so much, others not at all. There was Mrs Mason, and her son (Ricky, if he recalled. What was he doing here?), Two people, a man and a woman, who looked to be in their thirties, and another woman, older than perhaps even Mrs Mason, who had a pinched face, a hooked, beak-like nose (immediately giving her the nickname "Bird-Lady") and frosted stone eyes. His face dropped in suspicion. His Spidey-Sense rumbled out a lazy growl.

He observed the tension, and concluded that there had just been an argument. About what, he had no idea. The man and woman in their thirties seemed happy with the outcome, but everyone else seemed to be at least a bit unhappy. Or maybe that was just Bird-Lady's natural complexion.

The woman in her thirties began to open her mouth, but Peter decided that this was the perfect time to interrupt. He stepped into the room, and immediately felt all eyes on him, pointed like guns on prey. No, it wasn't just an argument, it was a battle. He wondered, once again, what could make a room so tense. What could make a room into a battlefield, and injure the soldiers so much that they resembled a wounded animal in a panic?

"Peter..." sighed Mrs Mason. Her worry lines had deepened.

"So this is Peter?" Cut in the woman in her thirties. She had obviously-dyed blonde hair and a heavily done-up face. "How are you?" She stuck out her hand, something that on most other people would resemble a greeting of equality, but on her... it felt counterfeit. Like she was a siren fooling her victim. That, mixed with the dirty look Ricky (who had seemed nonsensical when Peter had first met him, but who now seemed to be in serious prisoner-broke-out-of-Ravencroft mode) gave her, made him even more suspicious. He didn't take her hand.

Her smile dropped minimally, but quickly sprang up once again. "Well, I'm sure we'll get to know each other very well in the coming days." She retracted her hand. "I hope we can get along." What did that mean?

The man stood up, and brushed off his well-maintained jacket with poise. "No more of that, Diana. We have places to be. See you soon, Peter." He gave a gruff parting message to the Bird-Lady, and took 'Diana' away with him, presumably leaving the building.

Bird-Lady nodded once to Peter as she, too, left, but didn't say a word. Peter just stood in the doorway, mildly perplexed, unsure, and more than a little suspicious. "What just... happened?" He addressed Mrs Mason, not wanting to awkwardly converse with Ricky.

He answered anyway. "They were social workers."

Peter eyed him strangely. "...So ..?"

Ricky frowned. So did Peter. "The-"

"They want to move you." Put in Mrs Mason. "To a different Children's Home. An orphanage..."

Ricky nodded sourly. "They usually don't have orphanages in the US, but... y'know, recently, with all of those Supervillains... some parents just don't... survive. Which means that, among other things, orphans are coming in at heights we haven't seen in decades... and the Government has to find a place to put you all, so they're reinstating them. The orphanages, I mean. All Government paid."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words had lost their order and all came undone in his throat, leaving a sprawling mess that made him want to vomit. Peter wasn't quite sure what to feel about that. It could be seen as a new adventure, but on the other hand, he doubted it would last long. His Aunt May would soon be out of hospital, so there wasn't much to look forward to, nor to dread for.

"Yes, so... you'll be moved." Said Mrs Mason. "Not all of you, thank goodness, but some. Tommie, Finn, and Lisa will all stay here. But they've moved the rest of you. Not to all of the same places, (there was another young man that came in earlier today; he was from Staten Island), but... that's what they're after. You'll be moved to... Brooklyn." She looked sad, and so did Ricky. You could really tell that they were related when they looked like that; the same downcast, bushy eyebrows and the burdened dimples on one side of their crooked, sullen mouths. It was a little strange to see.

He wondered if they would miss him.

Mrs Mason continued: "You remember that older lady? She will be your Headmistress at the orphanage, but she won't be teaching yo-"

"Wait, what? Teaching?" He cut in, not quite shouting but he certainly wasn't quiet. What about his school? And, (dare he say it?), Flash? He didn't have many friends, but Flash wasn't so bad. They talked frequently before classes. Never as friends, but he appreciated it all the same. What about the (meagre) life he had built there?

"Yes, you'll be home-schooled. But don't worry, I'm sure that you'll be able to visit your friends, they're only a train-ride away..." Said Ricky, but his heart wasn't really in it. "Look, there's nothing much we can do. We're only a few New Yorkers; what can we do? Demand a law-suit?" He snorted. "We don't have any power, no matter what those Damn politicians try to say," he sounded angry, but not the kind of I'm-going-to-kill-you-angry. Just a resigned furiousness. A downed animal that knew there was nothing left to do but await his fate. Nothing left but to be angry.

Perhaps it wasn't even because Peter was leaving. After all, he didn't know Peter too well. Perhaps it was more about a hopeless agenda against others. Perhaps he had been subjected to a lot of this; people getting their own way simply because they were more advanced on the social ladder. Maybe that was why he was angry, because they were getting away with it again. He wondered if he had misread Ricky.

Oh well, thought Peter in an unusual bout of sour-edged spite. There's going to be a lot more where that came from in the coming years. Maybe some Supervillain would finally give the slip to Superheroes and take over. Or maybe it would be the Superheroes themselves that would take over, he thought snarkily, casting his memories back to Hawkeye and Black Widow and the rest of the Avengers.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, Peter." Said Mrs Mason. "You'll be eighteen soon enough, and then you'll be able to take care of yourself." She was trying to sound reassuring, but Peter noticed that something was slightly off about what she had said. Wait until he was eighteen? That was a few years away. But Aunt May was getting better, so he would only have to wait a couple of days, right?

"...What about Aunt May?" He queried, slight confusion written over his face like the pages of a book, suspicion hidden in every page.

Mrs Mason took in a sharp breath, shaped like an dagger. It seemed to physically sting her. Ricky cast his gaze passed him, through the door. "I think I'll leave," He said, sweeping away with hurried steps and anxiety in his gait.

Peter later recounted that in that moment, his Spirit trod after him.

.o0|O|0o.

There had been an accident. A death, in a hospital.

Not so unusual, you might think, had it not been a stab through the gut that had killed her. A curious stab: a hooked weapon had done the deed, coloured an off yellow-bronze. The staff was theirs, but Trickster gods always kept to their old tools, or so he had been told. Perhaps it had been remade.

In her antiseptic sheets she had died, for no one to find her until morning, where a nurse would receive the first parcel of death, wrapped in skin and bones and white sheets and haunted clothes. No one would want to sleep in those again.

Thor was with him as they entered the hospital. Steve recognised the building as one of those he visited often; children and adults alike delighted in seeing him, the patriarch of America. He adored the children the most.

It was not just the outside that he recognised, however. The inside, too, he remembered. He had walked these halls before, and had he not spoken to that nurse...? And...

Yes. There, on one side of the corridor, a bench burdened with the same confessions that Steve himself had heard. And across from that, police tape barred a watchful door. The very same door, and the very same bench. Please, no...

He thought this, but he knew. Somewhere inside himself, he remembered that young man (- no, boy; he was barely a teen, it had felt like, when he saw him for the first and last time); he had been vulnerable to bad luck, and it seemed that he would continue to be stalked by it, because her eyes were the same hazel, dulled in death, but whispers of life still clung to her lashes like tears.

Loki.

.o0|O|0o.

It had been days. Long days since Spider-Man had last been spotted. Had they, The Avengers, killed him? No, that didn't sound right. Spider-Man was alive and kicking, he had to be.

That was why he had worked harder to find him. And, to reward his efforts, he had found something.

A girl. Gwen Stacy. She had helped Spider-Man in ridding the city of those Lizard guys. Nice girl. Blonde, pretty, intelligent. Daughter of the Police-Chief, and intern at Oscorp. Dead.

And so was her father, who also happened to have been at the scene of the Lizard. Died in action.

He was certain that they were related to Spider-Man. They had to be. It was just too much of a coincidence. Unfortunately, they were dead.

But, her mother, and her three younger brothers were alive. This could be useful, he had decided, and so, he was now paying them a visit.

Tony Stark knocked politely on the door, then stood back on his feet. This would require excuses, delicately asked questions, and lies. He was prepared.

As he heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door, he painted his face with a friendly, winning smile and clasped his hands before him.

The door opened, and just behind it, instead of a tired-looking mother, or a stressed relative, there was a boy. Tony hadn't seen him at first, he was so short. He must have been ten at the oldest. What was he doing opening doors to strangers, especially considering the late hour? He assumed this must be one of the little brothers he had read about, even if he hadn't seen any photos of him.

The little boy was dressed in striped blue pyjamas, and was rubbing at his eyes with his little hands.

There was a long silence, in which Tony and the little boy simply stared at each other, trying to figure out the other's purpose.

Tony wasn't sure if he should disturb this little one, or if he should just come back later, but then another person appeared behind the door. She was a lot older, and seemed reasonably tired, but she certainly wasn't gaunt or corpse-looking. She looked more like the mother he had seen in the pictures.

"Simon!" She scolded. "I told you not to open doors to people you don't know. Especially when Mummy is trying to sleep. Howard had to wake me up!" She took a deep breath, and breathed out long and hard through her nose. "Go to bed, Simon. I will come and say goodnight later." The boy, Simon, scampered away.

Then the woman turned to Tony. "What do you want? We don't buy any brochures or anything."

"No, I'm not here for that." He said smoothly. All of those years seducing young men and women came in handy at this moment, particularly as she did not seem to recognise him. He'd need to advertise it to her, but not obviously; subtly. "I'm part of a government organisation," not a lie, "And I'm here to talk to you about the circumstances of your husband and daughter's deaths." Well, that could have gone more smoothly.

The woman seemed to deflate a little (a lot), but snapped to attention and examined him more closely. Then realisation hit her. "... Iron-Man?" Looked like he wouldn't have to explain his identity to her, after all.

"The one and only!" He smirked flirtatiously and jutted his hip out to the side.

She snorted disapprovingly and jutted her own hip out mockingly. "If you hadn't noticed, I have kids to be putting to sleep, so if you could just get your Superhero business done and leave, it would be much appreciated."

"Uh..." That had not been the reaction he had been anticipating, but at least she recognised him. Maybe-

A sharp sigh through the nose. "No? Then I have my own business. Begone! We are not fond of... your sort." And with that, she slammed the door.

He was not prepared.