A Familiar Face
The sun gave way to the spider symbol that typically rested upon his chest. Nevertheless, it was not his symbol, or at least not his chest. Peter sees a boy, a young boy, clambering up on a high tree limb in Central Park.
The real Spider-Man is hanging from the side of a building, watching intently and out of sight, amused at the sight of a boy pretending to be - not a cowboy or a bank robber or ninja or pirate - but instead, Peter himself.
Well, more correctly, Peter's alter ego. The boy was sporting a crudely stitched facsimile of Peter's costume. It reminded Peter a bit of the makeshift mask he'd first worn when he embarked on his quest to avenge Uncle Ben.
The kid is playing, pretending to shoot webs, obviously enjoying the world his mind was creating.
Then the higher branch abruptly snapped in the boy's hand.
Peter sensed it just before it happens, and he was already moving to intercept the boy's plunge. He wasn't the only one, however, who was keeping an eye on the young boy and was in possession of a hyper-awareness of danger.
The boy falls, and suddenly his mother is there, deftly snagging him before he's anywhere near the ground - faster than even Peter could have reached the tree.
She rights him and scolds him. "No more climbing up there! You're not Spider-Man!"
The boy retorted with an, "Am too!" in defiant declaration, and turns back toward the tree to repeat the climb.
Peter continues to watch. The mother lets out a long-suffering sigh of endless patience, and Peter turns away, confident the kid's safety is in good hands.
He gains momentum, now soaring above the city.
He had been halting and uncertain in his earliest days of web swinging, careening off buildings through mistimed leaps and swings. Now, he switches hands deftly, left and right, left and right, arcing through the concrete mazes of Manhattan with unprecedented ease.
For now, the city is safe and sound.
He supposes he and the Avengers had something to do with that. After the debacle with Pierce and the time machine, most of the city seems to be keeping quiet.
Of course, his STRIKE missions had shown that the rest of the world didn't always share the same level of peace. Peter wonders if, one day, he could use his intelligence and the technology available at Horizon to keep him updated on threats across countries - without the need for STRIKE.
Actually getting to those countries without STRIKE's help would be an issue, though.
He supposes he'll be able to figure something out after college.
Now above Times Square, Peter perches on another building, watching one of the giant video screens as it plays clips of him in the Spidey suit web-swinging across Manhattan.
It was old footage - an advertisement that had been purchased by the New York City tourism board.
With everything that the city had been through in the past several years, such as the Chitarui invasion, Lizard infestation and even the attack on Pierce's headquarters, the tourism board was obviously anxious to do whatever can be done to reassure visitors of the Big Apple that they can still feel safe.
Usually it had just played clips of the Avengers on those massive screens, though now Spider-Man found himself up there as a symbol of that safety. Even if the cops sometimes didn't agree.
And of course, since Peter hadn't actually trademarked the Spider-Man property, he didn't receive a single penny.
He continues watching the video - not exactly paying attention - and thinks that Uncle Ben would have been proud.
But then he feels a surge of guilt.
He hadn't handled the warlord situation well. His anger had gotten the better of him - he was overcome with fury, and he wanted to cause pain.
He hadn't felt that way since Uncle Ben was murdered and he went on a hunt for the killer.
Peter felt ashamed.
He needed to be better.
But he felt so helpless and angry. The situation with the Avengers and the time machine, and now his STRIKE missions?
It was chipping away at him.
He shook his head. No time to dwell on angst. He had a job to do.
Peter reaches for his pocket and begins to look up headlines on his phone - anything to indicate where last night's attack on Steve Rogers took place.
Dozens of results are dispersed across the screen. He scans a few words from each headline and moves to the next.
Explosion.
Fire.
Expensive car?
And finally his eyes settle on the location - William Street, close to the Brooklyn Bridge.
He knows Cap won't be there, but it's as good a place as any to start looking.
Putting the phone away, Peter began to run. Moving at break-neck speed, he sprinted down the face of the building and then leaped powerfully.
He somersaulted in mid-air, bounded off a lower rooftop, and landed with perfect precision upon a narrow ledge.
It only took a few minutes to reach his destination.
Surveying the damage, Peter noticed Natasha's car laying on its back, as if flipped over like a child's toy. It was charred, obviously burning for some time before the authorities got there.
There are marks on the road, as if several explosives went off in quick succession. Judging by the position of the car, Peter assumed these are what caused a bulk of the damage and sent Natasha's beloved ride careening off the road.
The cops then notice Spidey, and a young woman approaches him.
Peter can tell by her saunter that she's a powerful woman.
"Spider-Man," she speaks clearly, stopping her stride directly in front of the masked hero. "I'm Officer Cooper. Normally I'd tell you to scram, but this one's a headscratcher."
"I can see that," Peter replies simply averting his attention away from her and back to the scene of destruction.
"We've identified bullets, types of explosives, blood, and Natasha Romanoff's car, but there's no signs indicating where the assailant or Romanoff could have gone. Usually there's a trail, but this time? Nada. You got any idea what's goin' on?"
Peter inwardly agrees with Officer Cooper - this is strange.
First of all, it appears nobody except SHIELD is aware that Steve Rogers was involved in this. All the internet headlines simply focused on an expensive car being blown up, and the officers have only mentioned Romanoff's name.
Peter turns back to Cooper. "Hey, uh - what about the security cameras around the suburb? Can't you access those to see where-"
"They're all down. Went offline about an hour before the attack - the whole place was essentially blacked out. We have no idea what went down or where they could've gone."
"Well, that certainly makes the job harder." Peter racks his brain.
There are no other tire marks aside from Natasha's vehicle. There's no blood trails leaving the scene.
It's as if someone swooped in, caused some mayhem, and teleported out.
"Spider-Man," Cooper whips out a notepad, pen at the ready. "This isn't the first time in recent memory we've seen unexplainable crime scenes. Do you think this could be related to the body over at the Park?"
Peter shoots up an eyebrow. "Huh? Body?"
"What, you don't know? Few months back. Someone's body was lying in Central Park, but there's no way they coulda got there without being dropped from some height. A few other corpses showed up in the same way across the city - with nothing tall near them to jump off from. My superiors didn't believe me, and just as soon as the bodies were found, they were taken away and ruled as suicides."
Peter's mouth is basically agape.
It makes sense he hadn't heard about this before - the police had closed off the investigations - but now there could be a supervillain out there dropping people from the sky?
"Uh - I - I'll have to look into that one some more. But I promise, your bosses will be chewing their words when you help Spider-Man uncover that mystery."
"Appreciate it. Here's my cell." She rips off a piece of notepad she had been scribbling on and practically shoves it in Peter's face. "Now, if you don't have any other leads for this investigation, I suggest you scram."
"Ouch. Yes, ma'am." Peter salutes her, shooting a web and departing from the scene before Officer Cooper has the chance to bark any further passive-aggressive orders.
Peter's refined lenses snap as many photos of the scene as possible as he goes.
Everything about the situation seemed off, and Peter practically groaned as he swung across the city.
First the head Avengers disappears without a trace, and now bodies are falling from the sky?
Peter thinks back to earlier in the day when he said New York had seemed quiet recently and scoffs to himself. Once again, Peter Parker had been wrong.
xxx
Tony was gingerly watching the news.
A report was playing, focusing on Spider-Man. For the past eight hours, he had been seen swinging almost aimlessly across the city.
The second there had been any indication of danger or crime, Spidey was there in less than a minute to nip it in the bud.
Tony poured another drink, but never took his eyes off the screen.
He had never seen Peter like this - lost, aimless, and searching for something.
It pained Tony.
He needed to help.
xxx
It was now the dead of night in the city that never sleeps.
And unfortunately, such a city is never without its crime.
"Let's wake the dead, baby!"
A souped-up black Mustang roared down the main road of the cemetery, gravel blasting out from under its tires, spraying every which way.
A few squirrels foraging for food scrambled away frantically as they heard the car approach, its double headlights flaring deep into the night sky.
Its rear fishtailed around and the wheels spun on dirt and grass for a moment, before once again finding itself on the narrow cemetery pathway.
The thing about cemetery roads is that they are typically intended for slow, stately processions: a hearse, followed by limos or regular cars bearing grieving and stricken friends or family.
It was not designed for hot rods and fast turns, but the driver and passengers of the midnight Mustang apparently couldn't care less.
They were too busy laughing at the top of their lungs, blaring the horn, and gunning the engine so enthusiastically that it seemed as if they would fulfil their stated purpose of waking the dead after all.
The driver, a shaven-head teenager, had decided he wanted to test his new birthday gift; and one of the best places to do such a thing was the main drag outside the local cemetery, since it wasn't especially well travelled at night.
The roar of the engine was filling the area, barely drowning out the joyful howling of the guys in the car.
All except one, who sat idle in the backseat, his nerves getting the better of him.
"Knock it off, Mark, this ain't funny!" he spoke up, tapping on the driver's shoulder.
"They're dead, man, whatta they care?" Mark shot back.
Suddenly, the Mustang slammed to a halt.
It didn't happen with a screech of tires or an abrupt shuddering of metal. It just stopped, as if it had hit a brick wall, except somehow the front wasn't caved in.
"Mark, you can't drive worth spit!" howled the guy sitting shotgun.
"I didn't do it!" Mark shouted in protect.
"You're the one drivin', man!"
"I didn't do it!" he repeated.
"Actually," a voice speaks out from the darkness, "I think you'll find that my webshooters ruined your little joyride."
For a moment, there's simply silence.
"... Webshooters? I thought your webs were organic?" Mark says timidly.
"Organic? Huh?! Like it comes out my body!?"
"Hey, you're the one with the spider powers," the guy riding shotgun speaks up. "It makes sense."
Fed up with the hoons, Peter emerges from the darkness. "Get outta here. You'll find your car at the pound tomorrow morning ... unless I shoot my organic goop in the engine and ruin the whole thing."
Although it sounded better in his head, it did the trick.
The boys began to run off, but Peter jumps in front the guy who had been in the back seat - the guy who stood up to the driver.
"I - I - I - I - I'm s- sorry-"
"What are you doing out here with these guys?" Peter asks genuinely, studying the teenager in front of him. He figures they're about the same age. "You're not like them. I heard you tryna talk some sense into the guy behind the wheel. Why are you even hanging out with him? I can tell you're better than that."
All the kid can do is fidget nervously, eyes watery. Peter taps his shoulder, nods, and allows him to leave.
As much as he might berate himself for not having arrived sooner, at least Peter arrived just in time.
The path of the racing Mustang would have taken it directly across one of the gravesites in the cemetery that was most important to him.
Silent as a ghost, silent as the grave, Peter walked over to the headstone that was his destination and then crouched in front of it.
"Hey," he said softly in greeting. "Did you see them run? Pretty good show, huh?"
Peter reached gingerly toward the headstone and ran his fingers over the letters. "Least you've got a good view. We paid extra for it. It was worth it."
He paused there for a moment longer, as if uncertain what to say, or even why he had come in the first place.
"I'm sorry," Peter said finally. "I ... I should have come by and spoken with you sooner. I know I haven't been by for a while. But I ... I wasn't sure what to say."
A few tears pool up in his eyes. Peter takes off his mask.
"I'm struggling lately. I don't know what's wrong with me. I've just been so ... angry. I know you wouldn't want that. I know this probably isn't how you expected me to end up, right?" he sighs, looking at the headstone. "I guess ... neither of us ended up the way we thought we would."
xxx