After retrieving a sample of the water that he had carefully pulled the creature from, Peter shoved a lid on the test tube and found a solid place to keep it. Mr. Stark was frantically rushing around, demanding his pilots to step on it, laying her limp figure out on the floor of the main cabin. As they flew at an alarming speed, they poured water from the tap over her, a precaution that neither was sure was necessary. There was no telling whether or not she would be able to survive outside of water, so Peter understood Mr. Stark's anxiety. A similar feeling was stirring inside of him, but its origin wasn't similar to his mentor's. He wanted her alive not for research, but for. . .

He was stumped on the reason. It felt too artificial to be love.

They reached the compound ten minutes later, their conversation limited to instruction. By the time they landed, Peter was slightly nauseous from the unnatural speed they had been traveling at. While Mr. Stark gathered necessary equipment, Peter took her in his arms, running as he had been instructed to. Their poorly crafted plan was to put her in a bathtub until Mr. Stark had perfectly replicated the water sample they had collected. It was the best they could do, and probably better than throwing her into the chlorinated pool.

To save time, he webbed up the stairs, thankful that he was able to keep her fastened in one of his arms. Being sticky did have its perks. He sprinted into Captain America's old bathroom, the tub being the size of a mini pool, and shot another web at the faucet, yanking it to get the water running. He set her down, then stood, awkwardly staring at her while the tub filled.

Incoming call from Tony Stark.

"Pete, she in the tub?" he sounded frantic.

"Yeah, Mr. Stark. Is there anything you need help with?"

"I'm working on trying to replicate the water and constructing a glass tank to keep her in. Sounds a little inhumane but we really have no idea what we're working with. While these tests run, I'm going to head up there to give you something to keep her mouth shut. Again, sounds inhumane, but. . ." he didn't finish his sentence.

"I-I understand Mr. Stark."

Peter continued staring at her after he hung up. In his 16 measly years on Earth, he had never seen anything quite as disgustingly beautiful as this. . .mermaid in front of him. It was this moment that forced him to acknowledge that the images that fairy tales had intensely ingrained in his mind were either vibrant or cold, not the middle ground that happened to be reality. He had either expected a colorful tail and a glowing, cheerful face, or a dark tail and an evil, glossy glare. She was neutral. From what he consciously remembered, her silver eyes had looked more curious than malicious, and the bottom half of her body was peachy, barely a different color as her skin.

She looked dead. He knew she wasn't, just knocked out, but seeing her in this odd, undesired state had caused Peter to clench his teeth. He knelt down beside her, the tub now halfway full, and took her hand in his, examining it carefully. It was a normal, human-looking hand, the nails obviously bitten off.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The sudden voice shook Peter harder than expected. He jumped up, his head hitting the ceiling with a loud thud, and when he landed back on the ground, it was on his feet.

No head trauma detected.

"Thanks, Karen," he sighed.

Mr. Stark's suspicious eyes made Peter feel like he could see right through the mask. He walked to the tub, opening the creature's mouth and placing a black device that covered her teeth. Somehow she looked even more eerie than before.

"It's attaching to her vocal chords. It shouldn't be harming her in any sort of way. Hopefully she doesn't wake up for another hour. I should be done with it all by then," Mr. Stark fell onto the ground, putting his face in his hands. It was an interesting state to see him in, and a sign that he had to trust Peter to a certain extent. The variations of Mr. Stark that Peter had seen were always cordial.

Peter wasn't sure what Mr. Stark meant by "it all," but he desperately wished that he would be included in that plan.

"Are you-"
"Fine. I'm fine," all traces of informality vanished, and Mr. Stark stalked out of the room, tension radiating off of him. Before he had gotten out the door, though, the man stopped and turned around, "I'm just stressed now, kid. I don't know what to do with this information now that we have it. I want to sleep on it before we do anything more. I'll let you know when the tank is finished and then you can go home for the night. Go on. . .what do you call it?"

"Patrol?"

"Patrol. Get some sleep. I'll call you if I have any updates."

. . .

She was still unconscious by the time Peter left.

He didn't bother to have Happy drive him home. He was already in his suit, and he wanted the clarity anyhow. As he jogged, wanting to get somewhat of a workout if he could, her face remained a steady image in front of him. He couldn't seem to shake that dream, or vision, or possibly even hallucination he saw when she took him into her clutches.

Who even were those people? The man was rugged and beaten, close to dead. The woman. . .the only perception he got from her was sorrow. She was overwhelmed by sadness for him and for herself. The fact that Peter knew this, though, was starting to freak him out. He didn't even know who they were.

Mr. Stark had suggested him going on patrol, but fatigue was getting the better of him. He had already cashed in his Stark-Internship-Coin for the day, and for the first time in months he would much rather be at home than actively seek out crime. He settled for somewhere in the middle, sitting on the roof of his apartment building. By then, the sun had almost completely set. People walked below hurriedly, some languidly, lovers held hands, and once every so often a little kid would notice him and wave, or an elderly man would smile and salute. Wonder always found those who embraced life.

He had never felt so small.

Becoming Spider-Man was a revolution. Peter had gone from the kid who got picked on to the friendly neighborhood hero. While he still got picked on, it no longer mattered. His life had gained a meaning that he didn't even know he needed.

They found a mermaid. He realized he had given himself a pedestal that she had ripped out from underneath him.

Incoming call from May Parker.

"Hey, May."

"Hi, Peter. How's experimenting?"
He sighed, "I'm actually back in Queens. I'm on the roof."
"Of our building? Peter why didn't you-"
"Yeah, don't be mad. It's been. . ." there wasn't a word to describe it, "a day. I'm coming in now."

"Good. Okay. See you soon."

He peeled himself off the ground, his body feeling heavier than normal. A strong lapse in energy took away the desire to fancily flip into his window, so he walked down the side of the building like it were a street and jumped into his room, landing on his floor audibly.

"Peter!" May sounded startled. "Was that you?"

"Yeah, it's me," he pulled the mask off his face and without bothering to take off the rest of his suit he wandered into the kitchen, practically falling into a chair.

His aunt, the powerful woman that she was known to be, stormed in, her hands resting firmly on her hips. Peter looked at her solely with his droopy eyes, his face smashed into one of his palms. Her expression softened, the sight of him seeming to be a relief.

"Did something happen?" she sat next to him, taking the mask out of his hand. She folded it neatly and set it on the table in front of them, searching his eyes for an answer that he didn't immediately give.

He inhaled sharply, "Sort of."

"What can I do?"
"God, May, I don't know," he was exasperated, but he hadn't meant to take it out on May. He felt her tense, stand, and start to walk away, probably doing everything not to push him further. She was always wanting to help, and he usually wanted it. This mood was different, and even he was still trying to work through it. He clenched his teeth.

"May- wait. Can I ask you something?"

She turned around and pushed her glasses up on her nose, silently letting him continue. His hands ran from his face and into his hair, gripping it tightly.

"When. . .when aliens attacked New York. . .when Thor and Hulk and Cap and all of them busted out of nowhere. . .how did you feel?"
She blinked, and it was obvious that was not the question that she had expected. She clasped her hands together, pulling at them anxiously.

Her response was interesting, "I felt like my entire world had been crushed."

Peter sat up in his chair, intrigued but confused. She leaned on the counter, breaking the tension he had stupidly created.

"You think that aliens exist. Somehow you know that there is other life out there. The universe is too vast for that not to be the case. For some reason, I don't think that we are ever ready for something like that to become reality. We needed to evacuate, remember? I mean, you were only seven. We told you it was a vacation. But spending a few weeks living with my college friend in Texas was rather humbling. I probably would have gone insane if it hadn't been for-" she cut herself off before saying his uncle's name.

Peter let that sit for a silent few moments.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"What was it like when you returned?"

She looked around the apartment, "Different, for sure. World crushing. I didn't sleep for a few days."

There was an elephant in the room that neither of them were addressing.

"And how did he feel?"

She smiled, which wasn't the normal. Usually bringing up Ben got a stern, one worded response. The anger stage of grief hadn't sat well with May.

"He made fun of me. He put on alien masks and ran around the house with you, making noises and reminding me that everything was going to be alright. We had each other still, and that was what counted for him."

Peter stared at his hands, a smile creeping up into his face. It was nice to know that this earth shattering feeling was almost universal, but somehow, good could always come from it. His hopelessness lifted and he looked at May, shaking his head.

"Science with Mr. Stark is quite a rollercoaster," was all he knew he could say. Discovering a species of merpeople had to be some kind of classified.

"When the time is right you should tell me all about it," she winked at him and walked away.

Whether or not May had put the idea in his head, he hardly got any sleep. When he did, that recurring image of the shipwrecked sailor plagued his dreams. It didn't necessarily scare him, but it was pretty disturbing, and its recurrence didn't particularly help either. It was so vivid that he felt the wind on his face and could smell the salt in the air. The plot slowly progressed, each time he caught sleep he received another piece, until after a series of rather uncomfortable images, the woman was pregnant.

The dream wasn't his own. It had been given to him. The only time he had actually dreamt at all, they were nightmares of his uncle's death, and after lots of therapy those had gone away. The possibility that he was coming up with this story in his own head was close to none.

The woman looked strikingly like the mermaid he had pulled from the water, but not quite. Peter had seen the dream so many times by now that he could actually take the time to analyze it. The women had the same, perfectly structured eyes and cheekbones, but their noses differed. The nose on Peter's mermaid was slightly longer and just barely wider.

Almost like the one on the man in the dream. How he hadn't put that together was baffling. The mermaid in the bathtub was showing him the story of. . .

How she was conceived? Peter had never frowned so deeply in his life.

At six in the morning, Peter had gotten a maximum of four hours of mediocre sleep. He unlocked his phone to find a text from Mr. Stark, sent two hours prior. Peter chuckled to himself but rushed to open the message.

Operation Siren is a go. She's been awake for 30 minutes and doesn't seem to be hostile. As soon as you see this try and get over here. No need to come suited, but bring it just in case. Text Happy when you're almost ready to go.

While up aloft in storm

From me his absence mourn

And firmly pray arrive the day

He's never more to roam