Author's Note: I've been in a bit of a rut with this story and I still haven't quite gotten out of it yet. I'm hoping that posting something will act as a catalyst to my writing in itself. I have an idea for where I'm taking this, but any suggestions that will get me there quicker would be appreciated. Sorry for the wait!

"Titles are important; I have them before I have books that belong to them. I have last chapters in my mind before I see first chapters, too. I usually begin with endings, with a sense of aftermath, of dust settling, of epilogue."

-John Irving

Chapter 4: Soon We Need to Learn to Fly

Enter

Hello.

Peter stared at the screen. Was the program… greeting him? Leaning back, he peaked at the Stark Industries camera pointing at his and his adjacent neighbors' homes. The front lens was still duct-taped over and the red protruding wire was cut. Looking back at his monitor, Peter cautiously typed back a response.

Hi?

What is your name?

Peter paused. Was he really going to answer a computer program? Spidey. Yours? Oh, yes. This is incredible.

[Please insert preferred title]

Huh?

My name is [Huh?]! It is a pleasure to meet you!

"….Fine. Just, whatever." What is this?

Please wait one moment. Your serve is being scanned for malware and other dangerous suspect before proceeding- any infractions found will result in an immediate termination of the physical medium and the surrounding space up to a twenty square meter area. Loading… loading…

"Shit, shit, shit!" Peter cursed. His hands flew to the keyboard and he began typing out every code hack and system override sequence he could think of. His aunt could be within that range, and the creaky old floorboard above his sweet, unguarded aunt's head was definitely in the allotted zone.

Peter froze when the computer dinged, waiting.

…loading…loading… Scan successfully complete. Welcome to Keylogger's Cloud of Convolute. The eternal damnation of THEM awaits. Your requested files on [what is this?] are being downloaded now:

…

Scarred and Sacrificed: The True Story of the Mercenary Deadpool

A Relic From the Ice Age: Captain America's Tragic Dive and Miraculous Recovery

Evolution or Man-Made Monster?: Wolverine's Origins

Flying Tin Can: The Tony Stark Edition

A variety of full-length articles popped up onto the screen, all centering around the various heroes, villains, and ambiguous characters that had been appearing before the public eye in the last few decades. Several of the works Peter recognized from his own research he had conducted after becoming one of the aforementioned heroes, but many were unpublished pieces that held sensitive information, such as personal pasts and lists of weaknesses. Peter felt a bundle of amazement and trepidation held together with a red bow of utter disbelief. The page that concerned him the most, however, was the one about Spider-Man- the one revealing his secret identity.

A Legend Born From a Bite: The Kid behind the Mask

One day high school student Peter Parker walked into Oscorp Industries a boy and emerged as something else: a masked menace, a vigilante, an arachnid, a hero. Spider-Man. Bitten by an untested, genetically altered species of spider, he gained certain traits affiliated with this animal such as enhanced strength, speed and agility, and an acute sense of incoming danger originating in his ear canal. Shortly after this transformation, Parker lost his uncle to a petty criminal(?) and began using his powers publicly under an alias and armored in blue and red spandex. Since then, this new hero has managed to…

The article went on to fill up three pages of text, repeating 'Parker then" and 'Parker saved' over and over. His vision narrowed onto those sections, his brain highlighting the words he prayed he'd never see together on a work not written by his own hand, or at least not any time soon. Every time he saw his real name were 'Spider-Man' should have been, the knot in his stomach grew tighter and tighter. Questions of how did they-, what did I do-, and where did they see- raced through his mind, but he focused on the most important one: who?

At the bottom of the page, in place of the original author, editor, or publisher, a single line claimed the document.

The truth will be told; blood will be spilt; they all will fall.

Scrolling through, Peter saw that all of the web pages, online newspaper articles and blog posts were signed with the same ominous parting line. The very idea of having no identifiable foe was a terrifying prospect; the reality was so much worse. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take a deep breath and began organizing his thoughts into files of details and facts that he could work with.

Who? Unknown. What? A lot of data collected and written out for general consumption, evidently by the same author; though, from what I can tell, the majority of the documents haven't made the leap from writer to the public eye yet, or else there would have been a huge commotion about them. When? Over a long stretch of time dating back to before my entrance into this world, it would appear. Even information on Steve Rogers before he became Captain America was included. How? Through exceedingly unscrupulous methods, I'd wager. Serious shady shit. Response? … Destroy the drive with a hammer? Hide it under the bed? Give it to the police? Hide myself under the bed? So many options…

After thinking everything over, Peter felt more confused as to why all of this information was on a flash drive locked in a random bank than worried about the implications of his secret being known. Someone must have hired the two robbers to obtain the drive since neither of the men struck him as a professional mastermind, which meant there likely weren't any other hard or digital copies. But no matter what course he took, there was no way that article about Spider-Man was staying on the flash drive. In the words of the most successful world-destroying race on social media, it needed to be exterminated. And some purely-for-professional-interest research needed to be done. As for what to do with it afterwards… he was invited to meet with Tony Stark tomorrow, and it was the man's company's drive…

"Aunt May, could you bring me up a cup of coffee please?" Peter called towards his open door without removing his eyes from the screen.

"Of course, dear. I thought you hated coffee on the weekends, though. Do you have an exam scheduled on Saturday I'm not aware of?"

"Nah, just an independent study project I'm working on. Thanks, love you. And leave the pot when you come up."

The Big, the Bad, and the Hulk

Batman's Avian Sidekick: Robin's Carney History

Teenage Hormones plus Actual Fire: A Deadly Concoction at the Xavier Institute

"I am not enjoying this… just scientific curiosity… pfft ha ha!"

"If Steve were still here I'm sure he'd come down to get his drink instead of making me climb these forsaken stairs…"

~ The Next Day ~

Peter dashed through the rain and occasional hail with his skateboard over his head and his father's leather briefcase plastered to his chest. After cashing twice while trying to skate over sidewalks that were littered with potholes disguised as shallow puddles, he had given up and decided to use the board as an unfortunately ineffective umbrella. The subway entrance was still five more blacks away.

In a true New York City fashion, the one day Peter actually minded taking on the appearance of a drowned rodent was the first day in a month a storm designed to grace the city with its presence. Since the thunder clouds had merely seemed like a foreboding, but far away presence when he left his house with a kiss on his aunt's cheek only ten minutes ago, he was without protection beyond his uncle's old gray suitcoat.

I'm late, so late! There wasn't a set time or anything, but I think eight thirty in the evening is pushing the unofficial imaginary envelope a little too far. The articles were so interesting, the coffee so addictive, and then it was midnight, and two in the morning, then noon, I was just going to take a short nap and- Ouch!

Peter flipped and landed in a crouch several feet up on the building wall in a narrow alley he was cutting through, his skateboard clattering to the ground and his father's case still clutched to his chest with one arm. He sent a glare at the general vicinity of the object that had tripped him in the middle of his mad dash as he slowly slid down the wet brick and dropped to a stand. Walking over in grab his board, Peter turned and prepared to deliver a powerful lecture he didn't have time for on manners to an inanimate, unimpressed metal pipe or other piece of alleyway trash when a light from the street caught the object and reflected a red and blue glint in his eyes. There, hidden halfway underneath a dumpster, was The Shield- Captain America's iconic tricolored weapon. Peter looked at the circular, canopy-shaped shield, then at his skinny, wheeled skateboard, and grinned. How lucky.

Peter finished his sprint through the rain and occasional hail with a blessedly effective shield over his head and his father's leather briefcase plastered to his chest; his skateboard was left webbed to the underside of a McDonald's dumpster. The subway ride was awkward since the businessmen returning from their late jobs and the homeless twenty-four seven riders kept staring at his umbrella, but by the time he made it to the front steps of the Avengers' Tower he had dried out enough to make a relatively squeak-less entrance.

This was it; the headquarters of the Avengers Initiative, the starting point of the project that had brought together a group of heroes and turned them into a team- a singular, unstoppable hero. Okay, no time for a Parker freak-out. Have to get into Spider-Man mode. Objective: meet with Tony Stark (limit of two questions- one hero related, one free choice), return the flash drive I happened to find laying on the street on the way over and which files I did not explore and make copies of, meet with Steve and return his shield I actually did find laying in the street. Then gracefully retreat. Oh man, I'm so not ready for this… But Spider-Man is.

"Uh, excuse me?" Peter said as he approached the front desk. The young blond receptionist continued to type on her laptop with her earbuds that were spouting music Peter could hear from where he was firmly in place, blowing a pink gum bubble absentmindedly. "Well, I have a meeti- a… yeah, meeting with Tony Stark today-ish and- hey, are you listening-"

"What!" the woman looked up and snarled. She shot to her feet, causing the earplugs to fall to the floor, and pulled out a gun with the arm that had previously been under the desk and pointed it at Peter. "You think you can just come in here and rob the place, huh? You think I can't handle another one of you vermin? I have a collection of your kind's skulls in my living room; the eye sockets serve wonderfully as pencil and cup holders, especially Jerry's. Do you want to be the fifth mishap this weekend, little boy?

Peter stared in mild horror, and with no small amount of amusement, at the panting woman. "No, I really just have an appointment which I think I'm already late for and… I come in peace?"

"Oh." Sitting back down, the receptionist laid the gun on her desk gently and went back to typing. "Yes, here you are. A general get-together scheduled today with Mr. Stark and the rest of the Avengers, put in by Mr. Rogers last night. And I see you have found his shield, too." She smiled happily at Peter. "There has been a ruckus going on about that, so I'm sure he'll be glad to have it back. Please make your way to the elevators on your right. Press the button for the ninety-sixth floor and put in this code." A pink sticky note with an assortment of digits was placed into Peter's open hand. When did I reach out my hand? "The Avengers usually tend to gather on that floor when they're not out. Please sign this waver excluding Mr. Stark from liability for any injuries you may receive while on these premises. Thank you!" How did that pen get in my hands? That certainly looks like my signature. Good lord, what is she saying now? "… decapitation or death by marshmallow, for example. Any attempt to access another level of the building will result in the immediate termination of your brief invitation here. Have a wonderful time, honey."

"… Yes, thank you. Ninety-six? Yeah, got it, thanks." Peter turned and started to walk away. "What a terrifying woman, though she seems great at her job. Kind of like Gwen was…"

"Your right, sweetie."

"Yes, right!" Peter walked back past the desk and ignored the receptionist's eyes, ducking his head down as he speed-walked to the spotless glass doors that promised no protection for his red cheeks.

He pressed the button for the ninety-sixth floor, punched in the code when a keyboard slid out, but decided it was best to just wait quietly in the corner for the rest of the ride when a scanner asking for blood identification followed. I'm going to meet them, all of them, yes, yes, ye- no. Focus, stay calm. Count. Floor 35, 36, 39, 42, man this elevator is fast- Bing… Did my phone just ring? Bing… But I turned my phone off before I left my house.

Reaching down, Peter pulled his phone from his damp pocket and glanced at the screen. It announced two new messages from an unknown caller.

Hi!

It's me again!

Peter eyed the messages for a moment before shaking his head and moving to put his phone away. Then it binged again.

I hope you aren't ignoring me. And again.

Are you mad at me? And again.

Look, I programmed my own contact into your phone! Isn't that neat?

"What the…" Peter mumbled as he stared at the caller ID. How did you get into my phone you little virus?

Bing. Yeah, you responded, Spidey! You found me, and you named me, so now I'm going to be with you all the time =)

"Bing one more time. Seriously, I dare you. See if I won't throw you out the ninety-sixth floor's window." When a ring sounded in the elevator, Peter felt more than ready to carry through with his self-destructive threat; except, the noise didn't come from his phone.

"I don't care what you have to say Clint, I can't deal with you right now- Who are you and what are you doing here." Peter couldn't remember the last time he had been at the receiving end of a gun to his face twice in the same hour without having his red mask in place as a barrier. Honestly, it still felt like one big joke, curtesy of the Universe.

End Author's Note: And the first stanza is completed:

From the sky he came,

And in this bed he now lies,

As chaos tries to take over,

Soon we need to learn to fly

Is this a (homemade and crappy) poem fic? No. Will I do my best to make it into one through the titles and without sacrificing plot? Heck yeah I will.