Disclaimer: "You have the right to remain silent!"

...Hey everyone :D So since I last posted, Captain America: Civil War came out, right...? So I saw it, and y'know, it was a decent movie, good directors, cool affects, interesting fight scenes...

And by all that crap I mean that this was literally THE BEST MARVEL MOVIE I HAVE EVER BEHELD WITH MY OWN TWO EYES HOLY FRICK FRACK PATTY WHACK AAAAAAAAGHKDGAGGDFGUDSGUYK

I COULD RANT FORVER BUT I'LL TRY TO KEEP SHORT BUT OH. MY. GOSH. IF YOU HAVENT SEEN IT RUN TO A THEATER RIGHT NOW (OR 4 TIMES IN MY CASE) AND WATCH IT BECAUSE IT IS INCREDIBLE! AMAZING CHARACTERIZATION, BEAUTIFUL STORYTELLING, THE BEST FIGHT SEQUENCES OF ANY MOVIE I'VE SERIOUSLY EVER WATCHED, AND A HEARTBREAKING TALE OF WAR BETWEEN MY BABIES :(

BLACK PANTHER HOLY SHART OKAY THIS DUDE WAS SO COOL I CANT WAIT TO SEE HIS MOVIE CUZ HE WAS SOOOOOOOO AWESOME

SCOTT LANG IS BAE

...BUT THE BEST FREAKIN PART, THE THING I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR SINCE I FELL IN LOVE WITH MY BABY FAVE CHARACTER, WAS EVERYTHING THAT CAME AFTER SEEING THAT BIG-ASS LOCATION TITLE QUEENS ON THAT MOTHER FLIPPING SCREEN OKAY.

TOM. HOLLAND. I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYONE PORTRAY MY BABY SPIDEY SO PERFECTLY AND BEAUTIFULLY. HIS INTERACTIONS WITH TONY, HIS DORKY AWKWARD PETER PARKERNESS, HIS FAN-BOYING OVER THE BIG BOY SUPER HEROES, HIS FIGHTING STYLE, HIS CONSTANT QUIPS ANNOYING THE CRAP OUT OF ALL THESE ANGRY OLD BUTT HURT SUPER HEROES

I HAVE NEVER SQUEALED WITH JOY SO MUCH IN ONE SITTING. MCU SPIDEY HAS RENEWED MY LOVE FOR SPIDER-MAN. THANK U MARVEL AND TOM HOLLAND IS NOW MY PRECIOUS LITTLE CINNAMON ROLL THAT I WILL GUARD WITH ALL MY LIFE

I could literally go on and on so pm me or talk me on tumblr if you want to discuss/fangirl more :) here's a stupid chapter but I gotta bring something up at the end... you'll see

Chapter 21

Peter was up before dawn the next morning, and had scarcely slept that night.

Which was a growing problem, because ever since he had donned the black costume, it seemed his need for food and sleep had doubled its already ridiculous amount. Nonetheless, unable to quiet his anxious mind, he'd stumbled dazedly down the stairs, cleaned out half the pantry, and was out the door and above the city before the sun had broken the horizon.

Searching for answers has been a fluke. Asking for answers has been a fluke. Hell, even googling for answers has been fruitless. What am I even doing out here? It's obvious I'm not going to find anything about these assholes just by thwipping around chasing geese.

He landed on the roof of a building, balancing atop the skinny spire sprouting from the tip. His gaze swept across the urban landscape, which seemed to be blanketed with a groggy fog along with his exhausted mind. He closed his eyes. But...dammit, we can't give up. We've got to find them...make them pay. We've got to do whatever it takes to protect the city, and whatever it takes to bring our enemies down. Then he started, and blinked repeatedly. Wait...w-what? 'We'? What am I even saying? Pronouns, Parker. I have to fix this. I...as in me, alone, singular. How the hell did I get that mixed up? What is going on? I...I must be more tired than I thought. He shook his head dismissively, and forced his sleepy brain to focus. Alright, whatever. I've gotta figure this out. Somehow. I have to find them, and beat them, one way or another. I've gotta...I've got to change my approach to things. But where the heck to start?

A flicker in the back of his skull suddenly stirred him from his thoughts, followed by a loud commotion and a scream. He glanced quickly towards where the sound had come from, and his vision locked on a single figure standing on the sidewalk far below. He was wrestling a briefcase away from a man in a poorly-tailored suit, and he watched him slug the hapless pedestrian hard in the chest before taking off in the other direction. Calculating his route in an instant, Spider-Man fired a bio-cable all the way to the other side of the street, curled both hands around the taut string, and kicked off the rooftop.

His feet nailed the thief right in the stomach. Spider-Man's momentum sent him flying sideways into an shady path between two dilapidated buildings, and he slammed into the concrete before rolling a great length, grunting the whole time. The briefcase ripped from his fingers and crashed into the wall, littering the alleyway with checks and documents. The man coughed, then moaned lethargically, eyes squeezed shut as he fought to sit up, wondering what the hell had just hit him. A shadow fell over his crumpled form as papers drifted to the ground around him, and his gaze lifted uneasily.

"You know, I'm normally the one cursed with the ridiculously rotten luck around here, but I think you just one-upped me, Thievey McStealerson." A dark figure came into view, slowly dropping from above, large, white eyes seeming to glow in the dark. "Not only did your little kleptomania act happen to throw down right in front of your one and only friendly and neighborly, but you happened to catch me in the absolute worst of moods. I don't know what you possibly did to tip karma so heavily out of your favor, but clearly now is your forecasted return of ass-biting." The shadowy form flipped right-side up and planted both feet on the ground, just in front of the thug's face. The man scrambled to his hands and knees and stood jerkily, eyes growing wide.

"W-what the hell?" he breathed, scrunching up his brow. "You're—?"

"Spider-Man. Yeah, I know. 'Where's your cute little red and blue suit, Spidey?' Well, I heard black goes well with everything, including bloodstains, and a monochromatic color-scheme makes laundry day way less of a headache." He walked towards him casually as the thief backpedaled nervously. Sweat dripped down his face in thick droplets.

"Y-you're psycho, man. I'm getting the hell outta here." The thug turned and began sprinting down the narrow street, but Spider-Man didn't hesitate for an instant. Two lines of black webbing zipped from his wrists and snagged on to the man's legs, causing him to trip to the concrete with a yelp.

"Yeah, good try. The only place you're getting the hell to is jail, bro. At least pretend you have some dignity to face it like a man." Then, as he watched the thug struggle to tear the webbing from his ankles, a thought suddenly occurred to him. Hey. This guy's a baddie. He looks like he knows the ropes, been doing this for some time now. Maybe there's a chance he has some info pertaining to an infamous band of fellow baddies around these parts. Worth a shot, anyway.

Detaching the web-lines from his wrists, Peter marched over to the man on the ground and kicked him in the side, making him jump in alarm. "Hey, Thievey. Be useful for your last few moments of freedom. Do you know anything about a group called the Sinister Six, or Hydra, or their psycho ringleader The Kingpin? You aren't taking money from them too, are yah? They're causing some major problems in my city, and I need to stop them."

He scoffed disgustedly, clutching his ribs. "S-screw you, man. Go to hell."

An anger suddenly rushed through his skin. He couldn't handle anymore setbacks, or pathetic assholes not being straight with him. Spider-Man set his jaw, seized the thug by the collar, and rammed him into the wall.

"Listen, asshole! I've had it up to here with things not going my way! Now tell me what you know about them, or I'll hand you to the cops in pieces!"

The thief's eyes widened in alarm for a moment, and his breaths grew sharp and heavy. Peter could feel his wide chest heaving against the forearm he was using to press him into the brick. Then the man chuckled nervously, licking his lips.

"Nice try, freak. I know your rep. You may talk big, but everyone knows you ain't got the balls to deliver. Don't even try spewing your empty threats my way. You're just embarrassing yourse—"

A fist suddenly knocked him in the jaw so hard, a tooth went flying from his mouth and clattered to the pavement far down the alleyway. Blood pooled under his tongue, dripped from his lips, dribbled on to his shirt. The thug coughed in shock, agonized dizziness throbbing inside his skull. His head dropped forwards, but a hand fell over his face and shoved it back against the wall.

"You must have outdated sources, darling, because I'm done asking nicely for what I need to know. Now tell me: what are they planning?"

He hacked painfully, spewing blood as he laughed. "Y-you've changed, huh? Good on yah. But how much of an idiot do you gotta be to think that I seriously—?"

Spider-Man slugged him in the nose before he could finish, causing a violent crack to ring in his ears. A flood of sickly red poured from his nostrils, and the thug cried in agony. The pain was unbelievable, the power behind the fists even more so. He tried to cradle his shattered nose in his hands, but a pair far stronger than his kept them pinned, and pressed him harder into the coarse brick.

"Gah!" he gurgled piteously. "Alright! S-stop beating on me!"

The black figure's piercing eye-lenses bored through him soullessly. Peter could feel the incredible power moving against his skin, permeating his flesh, surging through his veins. The power seemed to resonate through his voice as he spoke. "Then tell me what you know! Don't you morons understand that I'm trying to save the city? Don't you get what I'm trying to do here, what those psychos will do if I don't stop them? Don't you care about anyone else but your own damn selves?"

"L-look, man, I don't know nothing! I really, honestly don't—"

Another punch, this one to his eye. His head snapped back with a gasp, and pounding agony knotted under his skin.

"You're lying! Tell me the truth, now!"

"I'm not...lying! I d-don't work for 'em. I don't know n-nothing. I swear, I was just snagging some drug money! That's all I—"

The rock-hard knuckles nailed him in the chin again, causing shards of bone to break from his jaw and bounce around in his mouth, and he fell to pieces. "S-stop!" he screamed. "P-please! I'm—ack—I'm dying! I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry! Just stop, p-please!"

He could hardly speak through what remained of his broken face, and the amount of blood seeping from his wounds was incredible. The thug's desperate cry for mercy was overflowing with sincerity, and thick with the fear of death. And in a sudden rush, Peter felt his senses rip from his mindless onslaught. His blood-soaked fist, still wound behind his head, shivered jerkily, then slowly began to fall. His eyes grew wide. W-what the hell? Stop! What are you doing, Pete? This guy clearly doesn't know anything! You're beating him up for no reason! He absorbed the terrible damage he'd dealt, and his hand dropped to his side. The mindless fury vanished, and he released his threatening hold on his collar, allowing the man to slip to the ground, moaning. His bruised, bloody face fell into his hands, and he wept like a child who had just been severely punished. Guilt racked Peter to his core as he slowly backed away.

"Oh gosh," he breathed, listening to man's terrified bawling and watching the blood drip between his fingers. "I'm—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...I—I don't know why I..."

Footsteps sounded suddenly from behind him. A man appeared at the entrance to the alley, donning the baggy suit and a startled expression.

"Hey, my stuff!" he cried, snagging a paper off the bottom of his shoe. "You stopped him! I owe you one, mister—" Then his words cut short, and he cringed. "Oh gosh. What'd you do to him? Is he gonna die?"

Peter flinched as the man on the ground released another wail, and began to back farther down the narrow corridor. "N-no. He's just—" He swallowed painfully, and turned away. "Call the cops. And an ambulance. Get your stuff, and get out of here."

Before he could respond, Spider-Man took off into the alleyway, and disappeared within the slanting darkness. The man watched him run with a mixture of confusion and shock, heard the thief choke out another sob, then grappled for his phone and dialed the familiar number dazedly. The papers scattered at his feet were flecked with red streaks.

Get ahold of yourself, Parker, Peter scolded himself shakily. He was leaned against a wall in a vacant backstreet, cupping his forehead in his hand. This isn't right. You know that man didn't know anything. And even if he had, beating an answer out of him would've likely been his death sentence at the hand of Fisk. You're—you're letting your frustration affect your judgement. That's all. Just cool it down a notch, okay? He inhaled carefully, then let the breath slide from his lips. This isn't how Spider-Man goes about getting information. If finding the Sinister Six means I have to beat the very people I'm trying to protect half to death, even if they're lowly scumbags, then it's not worth it. The Six are the only one's deserving of that smack-down. You know that. You have to know that.

He could hear police sirens and ambulances whirring nearby. He hoped the thief would be okay, and that he hadn't done any permanent damage. Peter slid to the ground, laying his crossed arms over his knees, sighing. He was taking his search for the Sinister Six too far. Perhaps he was just being paranoid again. After all, what could they possibly get done in only a matter of days? Maybe there wasn't some huge plan going on, and that's why there were no major clues to follow. Yet his mind wandered back to the destruction at the warehouse, and his confusion and frustration resurfaced all over again. At the same time, he was caught in a warring paradox: wanting to tame his power, calm it down, so what happened with that thief wouldn't happen again, but also to expand it to its full potential, to the point that defeating the Sinister Six and Hydra would be a cakewalk, so this could all be done with. Talk about one vicious cycle...

"Hey! Looky looky what the doggies drug up! Is that who I think it is? Sweet Christmas, it is! Long time no see, eh buggy-boy?"

Peter knew who was talking before he even lifted his head, simply from the speaker's obnoxiously familiar voice, and after recovering from the surprise, the realization caused a groan to escape him. Oh Lord, please no. Not now, not now, please not now. Or ever. I can't deal with this. If you're trying to punish me, I'd rather you send actual hellfire, or even the entire Chitauri army. Just please, for what's left of my sanity, don't torture me with the presence of that crazy psycho crackhead—

"Deadpool!" the voice exclaimed excitedly as Spider-Man begrudgingly lifted his gaze, which fell upon the masked person standing before him, dressed in that odd red suit with the weird mask and the overly complex utility belt. "Aka, Wade (the sexiest man alive) Wilson. Don't you remember me, sweet cheeks? Come on! I thought what we had was special!"

Peter shrugged defeatedly and shook his head. "Why? Why are you here? How did you...?" Then he closed his eyes, and his face dropped back into his arms. "You know what, never mind. Just—please go away."

The black and red figure's shoulders sulked, and he walked to stand right in front of him. "Aww, what? Since when did you become the mean, emo, darkly-dressed, jerk-faced character? That's Negasonic's job, bro. Oh dear—Tim Burton didn't get ahold of your comic run, did he?" He bent over with his hands on his knees, speaking as if he were cooing to a baby. "C'mon, compadre. Tell mama who spit in your bean curd. I can totally carve their ass into a jack-o-lantern for yah, then make them swallow a glow-stick so the eyes light up!"

"I am not in the mood, Wade," he murmured, "for anything pertaining to you. Unlike your carelessly perfect life, I have actual problems to deal with right now. Real threats and villains that are trying to hurt the people I care about. I don't have the time or patience for...this." He motioned with his hands to Deadpool's entire body, then folded them back against his chest.

Wade scoffed offendedly. "Oh, don't be like that. I have problems too, grumpy-gills; everyone's got problems. But I choose not to mope around about them in dark alleyways sitting all alone on the dirty ground wearing a broodingly black costume with my head between my knees, unlike a certain hunky-dory I know, but rather face them by tearing out those problems' kidneys." He plopped down on the concrete with him and rested his chin on his palms. "For real—what is with the goth theme, webs? You look like you were bit by a radioactive Edgar Allen Poe."

Peter snorted, and muttered sarcastically, "Maybe I'm in mourning for my shattered confidence. Ever since Hydra and their attack dogs came out to play, I've been running in circles, tripping over my own feet. I just don't feel like I can stop them—even if I do manage to find them. I feel like I'll just end up repeating my last miserable defeat all over again, doing more damage than good. I'm just drained of all patience, and I'm so damn frustrated, and—" Then he stopped, and threw his hands in the air exasperatedly. "Oh, why the hell am I even telling you this? You're the last person I need to be consulting for reassurance."

Deadpool tapped at his chin. "Hydra, yeah. That's one nasty congregation of dry-roasted dicks, my friend. They've tried to hire me, like, a bazillion times to do their nasties, but I'm, like, eighty-seven percent sure their men are responsible for what happened to me, so I've tried to avoid business with fat-face and his entourage of boobs all together."

Wide-eyed, Peter bolted upright. "Wait, what? You know about Fisk? Since when?"

He shrugged. "Since he begged me to fondle his pudgy butt cheeks alongside those six weirdos that whooped your spider-tush. That was before they were, uh, 'complete', or whatever. He must really hate your nads, considering the amount cash he offered for the job, but I turned him down. I have a strict code against working for bald people over six hundred pounds, especially when they have it out for my favorite little web-spinner."

He bopped him on the nose as he spoke that last part, but Peter shoved his hand away. "Well that's—that's great! You've got to have the inside scoop on his plans, then, right? What's his endgame for the Sinister Six, Hydra, all of it?"

Out of nowhere, Deadpool squished Peter's face in his hands. "Aw, look at you, all sprightly and springy! That's the Spidey mama wants to see!" He pulled away from him embarrassedly, rubbing at his cheeks, as the mercenary continued jubilantly. "But aren't you the one who should have all the dirt on these freaks? You did break into their little lab and steal some of their crap just the other day, if my sources are accurate, while everything I've got is months outdated. All I know is that fatty wants to control the city, in every way it can be controlled, and that his bad boys are meant to eliminate his opposition. More specifically, you, Spanx."

Spider-Man's excitement wilted. "That's all you have? Do you know of any other places besides that base that the Sinister Six could be holed up in? There's no way they managed to squeeze the Rhino's hippo hips into that underground death hole, and there wasn't any evidence of them being down there recently."

"Nope. Don't know, don't care." He leaned off Peter's shoulder and laughed. "And you should really follow my lead on that, buddy. I dunno if you realize this, but these Hydra dinguses are hardcore assholes. They will tear you apart—literally—for the sake of 'science' or power-seeking or for their own twisted amusement, and you my friend aren't exactly blessed with my 'Fix it Felix' healing factor. You're really stupid to keep sniffing up their skirts when you've already pissed them off."

Peter chuckled mockingly. "You're one to talk, Deadpool." And why do you always have to word everything so awkwardly? he thought with a frown. "I can't believe you're actually trying to talk me out of finding the Sinister Six and beating them senseless. They deserve it after all they've done, and to be locked in prison cells for their rest of their lives." He shrugged cooly. "And besides, I've already escaped one instance of capture and torture at the hand of Fisk, and I won't let that happen again. I'm stronger now, and smarter."

"Jeepers, and I thought I had a big mouth," Wade exclaimed with a giggle. "No offense, Spidey-san, but you're an idiot. You really think just you, your scrawny lil' fists, and the damn justice system will be able to bring big ol' Fisky down? Half the police force and at least three judges I know of are sucking his starfish, along with multiple prison wardens. If you're wholeheartedly committed to busting his nut—which, by the way, I have zero confidence you have the power to do—you've gotta settle things the old fashion way."

Peter watched him draw one of his swords from its sheath and drag it across his throat, all while making a very sickening cutting noise. Actual blood began to spill from his neck, causing Spider-Man to cringe, and Deadpool flopped his head to the side with an over dramatic moan.

"Ew, stop," he stammered disgustedly. "I'm not killing anybody. I'm ending this my way, on my own terms."

"Which means not at all," Wade retorted, sliding his sword between his fingers to clean the blood from the blade. "Unless you gargle up the balls to do what's gotta be done, or get your little Avenger friends to come do it for you, or just do the wise thing and give up, you and a ton of other low-lifes are going to die, and not in the funny, comic way where you get resurrected by some other writer in a couple years."

"There are other ways to stop bad guys besides murdering them. But if you really think that's the route to take, then why haven't you gone after him and taken him out yourself?"

"Oh please. Business, economics, competition, web-head. Didn't you pay attention in science? Having a guy as intimidating as him around shoots up the demand for sexy mercenaries like cray-cray. With blubber-butt still at large, my regular contacts plus an assload of new parties are offering me over double to do my usual thrills. As far as I'm concerned, ol' Fisky is the best thing to happen to my bank account since two-for-one hoagies."

Peter sighed irritably. "Right. I forgot what a selfish jerk you are."

Deadpool grinned. "Yep! That's me!" Then he stuck his finger into Peter's chest, and took on a surprisingly serious tone. "But I'm telling you, Spidey, bro-to-bro: don't try to fight them anymore. Hydra has been around since before you were a wee little egg, and are far too much for you to handle. You've been lucky to survive this long. Just go back with your Avengy buds and lay low until they move past all the crap you've pulled."

Spider-Man smirked amusedly. "Thanks for the chat, Wade. See you around. Or not. Hopefully not."

He shouldered past him, and Deadpool threw his hands up. "I'm warning you, little miss muffet! You're going to die! Or worse! And when I see it on the news, I am going to laugh my ass off and leave 'I told you so' notes on your grave every day for the rest of my life!"

"Have fun with that," Peter called with a salute, not turning back to face him.

"You're an idiot! A dum-dum! A stupid, stupid, butt-licking, soon-to-be-dead stupid-head! I hope you die just so I can rub it in your dumb dead face!"

"Cool beans," he murmured under his breath, then leapt on to the wall on his left and crawled towards the roof. He could hear the 'Merc with a Mouth' shouting more obscenities at him from below as he rounded the building, but chose to ignore them, and thankfully his voice was soon lost in the droll of the city. He wondered how Deadpool always managed to turn up at the most inconvenient moments of his life, but as he furthered the distance between them, a new thought began to gnaw at him.

Peter had put on a brave front during their conversation, but in truth, what Wade had told him was incredibly alarming. If Hydra was powerful enough to ward off someone like Deadpool, who was probably the most nonsensical being to walk the planet, enough to the point that he was actually discouraging Peter from getting involved, then it was clear that Spider-Man was delving into some very hazardous endeavors here. But that wasn't exactly news at this point, right?

He had already fought against and beat some of the most powerful foes one could tangle with, and lived to tell the tale. He couldn't let some paranoid psychopath depress his vigor—well, more so than it already had been. He just—dammit, he had to stop them. All of it. He had to end Hydra and Fisk, or he would never rest. He couldn't allow the dangers of doing so keep him from trying. He wouldn't be deterred from his mission.

Still, he couldn't stem the tinge of uncertainty he felt growing inside him that had resurfaced during their strange exchange. He recalled at that moment that there were still questions about himself that had yet to be answered, and that he would prefer to be resolved before the epic showdown ensued. He wanted to be as prepared as possible. Lucky for him, he had an idea in mind. And he was, after all, long overdue for an appointment with a thankfully non-octopus doctor.

"W-what the? Spider-Man? Is that you?"

A shadowy figure slithered in through the window, which had become a habit of his to leave open. It crawled up the wall and pulled the shutters down with a yank.

"Yep. So I've been told. How you been, Dr. Maes?"

The doctor's face was skewed with confusion, and he slowly stood from his chair.

"Uh...fine. Busy, no doubt, with work. And your DNA sample." He picked his glasses off his desk and slipped them on to his face. "Is that a new suit?"

"Yeah," he replied shortly, and dropped to the floor in front of him. "I came because I need to know what you've found out about me. Anything you've discovered over the past week."

Maes stared down at him surprisedly, scratching at his beard. "Well, you're a few days early. I haven't finished running all the right tests, and the procedure is incredibly—"

"Just tell me what you do know," Peter snapped, then faltered, shaking his head. "I mean—s-sorry. I don't mean to be so forthright, but I've got a lot on my plate at the moment. I just—I need straight answers on something. Anything."

Dr. Maes' hard expression fell, and he sighed amusedly. "It's alright. I understand, kid." He cleared his throat with a shrug. "Well, heh, it's not much, but I'll tell you what I've got. Over here."

He walked into the next room, and Peter followed at his side. Behind the doors were two plastic curtains, which he pushed through with a sweep of his hand. Spider-Man stepped inside behind him, took in the crowded space that surrounded them on all sides, then froze. A small gasp escaped his lips.

There were spiders. Everywhere. Hundreds, maybe thousands, scattered about the room in jars and cages and bowls and cups. His mind instantly reeled back to the Helicarrier heist, in the S.H.I.E.L.D. lab with the plethora of arachnids hoarded in a similar nature. Peter's eyes grew wide behind his mask.

"Since you told me your DNA is actually part spider, I've been experimenting with multiple different species samples to see if any of them matched genetically with the one you're mixed with. These little fellas are borrowed from an insect and arachnid sanctuary I used to work at in Pennsylvania. None of them have been an exact match yet."

He hadn't tried it since the incident before. He'd refused to, because he was too afraid. The power he had displayed that night—on the scientists, when Natasha Romanoff's life was in danger, and the fate of his city hung in the balance—was terrifying. He had tried to force what he had done out of his mind. He had even tried to convince himself it was some horrible nightmare, and not an actual ability he possessed and had used so cruelly. Yet the faint screams of his victims past whispered faithfully in the back of his mind, and caused his stomach to turn. He tried to shut it out. He tried not to hear them. But something inside him, something he couldn't seem to control, forced his sensitive hearing to stretch out over the room, over every tiny creature in every little vial, and to listen. His heartbeat was throbbing in his throat.

"Nonetheless, the genes you share with them are incredible. Somehow, your body has seamlessly assimilated the ability to grow setules and develop spinnerets glands into your genetic code, and maybe even—"

"Kill!"

"Eat!"

"Trapped!"

"Kill!"

Peter sucked in his breath. Oh my gosh. I can still do it. I can hear them, and understand them.

He expected to be fearful, horrified, nauseated even. It seemed the appropriate reaction. But, strangely so, none of these emotions surfaced. As a matter of fact, listening to the little voices—picking out the individuals among the entire batch as a whole—felt weirdly normal to him. Well, as normal as he believed communicating with eight-legged arthropods could be.

Dr. Maes continued to yammer on, but Peter's mind was occupied elsewhere. His cautious fear had transformed into hungry curiosity. He exhaled slowly to sharpen his focus, then curled his hands into fists at his sides. His eyes locked on to a single spot: a painting, framed on the wall. One word formed in his mind: Go.

"But from what I've gathered so far, it appears your spider DNA most closely resembles that of the Metepeira labyrinthea: the labyrinth orb weaver spider, in layman's terms, like this guy in the beaker here. Or—wait—there was one in here just a second ago. Huh. I wonder where it—ah!"

He discovered the spider to be on his hand, crawling down his knuckle, and reflexively shook it off. The tiny creature flew across the room and landed on a table, twitching a bit before scrambling to its feet. Dr. Maes adjusted his glasses, then gave a nervous laugh.

"Found him. Sorry, haha, the little guy just startled me, and..." He blinked, pushed up his glasses again, then wrinkled his brow. "Wait, what on earth is...?"

The tiny arachnid had reached the wall, and was skittering up the sideways surface as fast as its eight legs could carry it. And as more and more moving dots came into view, Maes realized it wasn't the only one. There were at least thirty of the little creatures crawling up the wall, headed towards the painting hanging above. He watched the enigma in shock for a moment, mouth agape, then turned to Spider-Man.

"You...?" he breathed, glancing between the spiders and the young man with lurching movements, pointing at the painting with a shaky index finger. "Is that—is that you? Are you doing that?"

Peter's vision remained locked on the swirly mix of colors and brush strokes. "Yeah. I did it once before, but I wasn't sure if I could still do it or not. Guess I've got my answer."

"You can control spiders?" he blurted hysterically. "You can—like—actually communicate with them? Make commands that they understand and follow? With your mind?"

"Uh huh."

"This is unbelievable!" he practically yelled, bursting with enthusiasm. "This is—this is absolutely amazing! Revolutionary! I can't even imagine the science behind that ability, how that could even—oh wow! I am just speechless! Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

The spiders that were able to escape their cages had all gathered in the center of the painting by now, creating a dark, eerie splotch on an otherwise cheerful piece of art. Satisfied, Peter broke his anchored gaze to look at the doctor. "I was afraid of the power I had before. What I was capable to do with it. I thought it was too dangerous to wield." He stared down at his hands, which were gloved in the black symbiote and as steady as a surgeon's, and a small smile pulled at his lips. "But not anymore. I'm no longer afraid. I have this power, so I should use it to my advantage. Anything that grants me the upper hand on my enemies—I have to use it."

Dr. Maes studied the masked man standing before him carefully, and he felt his excitement begin to dissipate. An odd sort of unease came over him suddenly, but he was quick to push it aside, not wanting to dampen the kid's unusually confident spirits. He watched the spiders slowly begin to sprawl from the painting, while Spider-Man stared down at his wrists. Peter had noticed before, but he hadn't really acknowledged it until now: he hadn't been using his bio-webs at all since he'd donned the black suit. The symbiote was instead creating the webbing for him. Which—I mean, he didn't really understand, but he didn't exactly mind. It worked as well (if not better) than his organic kind, and, as a side perk, matched his dark theme. So what was the loss, really?

The spiders returned to wherever they had escaped from like puppies to their kennels with a thought on Peter's end, much to Maes' relief. He watched the boy as he rubbed at his wrists distractedly, then remembered something from the last time they had met. And yet, for some reason, he felt strangely hesitant to suggest it. He observed the hero in silence a short while longer, until his curiosity got the best of him.

"Well, if that's your mindset now, do you want to, uh...try again and see if you can activate those stingers inside your arms?"

Stirred, Peter glanced up at the doctor. The man was boasting a careful smile, though he swore he detected uncertainty clouded in his eyes. But upon hearing the suggestion, an excitement flared in his stomach.

"Oh, wow, I forgot about those. Uh—yeah, sure, let's see if I can." Any power that could up his game had to be utilized, and the stingers were powerful indeed. If he had been able to use them before, when he was captured by Fisk, he might have been able to escape without being horrifically maimed. Plus, as he had learned when he'd unknowingly struck out at Captain America back during the chimera invasion, the stingers were coated in some sort of neurotoxin, which could be advantageous in battle. He hid his hand behind his back, willed the symbiote to move down to the middle of his forearm, then held it out for Maes to look at. The doctor took his wrist in his palm and studied it meticulously, running his thumb over the skin.

He could feel it, under his flesh—with a sharp and definitive thought, he believed he could activate them. There was part of him that somehow knew he always could. His fear was the true culprit for denying the ability from his control. If they simply cast that aside, and just accepted the great power that they had been bestowed with as their own, he was sure that they could wield it...

But in a sudden and steady rush, Peter's eagerness faded. He remembered the last time he had used the stingers—to kill someone. In a fit of rage and monstrous insanity over the supposed loss of Gwen Stacy, the spears had sprouted from his arms, and with them Peter had stabbed the perpetrator over and over until the life was long drained from his body. Granted, the killer had been a mindless, ravenous chimera, beyond the ability to ever be human again, but that didn't discount the atrociousness of what he had done. And in that same spout of devastating fury, Spider-Man had attacked his friends, nearly killing them, too. Those poison-tipped, blood-soaked projections—those barbaric, devilish weapons conjured solely from his savage spider side—were not things he wanted to use. They were tools for killing people, and Spider-Man would not be a killer—never again.

With jerky movements, Peter suddenly tore his arm away from the doctor's grasp. "Actually, n-no. Never mind. I don't want this. I'm—I mean—I can't."

Maes flinched with a start at the rapid movement, and lifted his gaze to the dark-clad teenager in surprise. He couldn't deny the relief this brought him, although there was something off in his reaction. Spider-Man backed away from him restlessly until his back brushed the plastic curtains.

"Oh. Well, that's alright. We can flip through some of my other findings if you want. Why don't I show you some of the similarities between your genetic code and that of a few of these spider species, and maybe we can figure out the exact blend of arachnid DNA that was ingrained into your—"

The little spider voices were pressing against him from every side, and he couldn't take it any longer. "I—I have to go. I'm sorry," he interceded jaggedly, half-stumbling through the doors into the room on the other side. He skin seemed feverish all of a sudden. Maes followed him confusedly.

"Go? Why? You've hardly been here five minutes." He shut the doors behind him, and a pained expression settled over his face. "Look, kid—seriously. Are you doing alright? You seem...different. I didn't want to say anything, but I can't ignore it. You're...distracted, jumpy—bi-polar almost, for lack of a better word. You don't...you don't seem like yourself." His eyes softened. "I saw what happened, when those six crazy men attacked you and nearly beat you to death. Does this have anything to do with that? With you suddenly feeling the need to scavenge for any power you can get your hands on? Or is it...something else?"

Peter stood facing away from him, rubbing at his wrists, shoulders rigid. He didn't want to hear this talk. Not again, not anymore, not from anybody else. He was fine. Why could no one see that he was fine? He just needed to fix things. Independently, alone—that's all it was. His callouss mask had reformed, and his dark form climbed on to the window sill like a shadowy serpent.

"It's nothing. Nothing that we can't fix. Thanks for the help, doc."

He was gone before Maes could utter a reply.

...Peter? You there?

Look, just text me and let me know when you get this message, okay? We're heading down to the sewage run-off now. We're going to strike when it's dark to try not to draw too much attention to ourselves. Unless you've got any new developments to share, our plan A is a-go. All of us are heading in about ten minutes from now. Except Banner, that is—he's still in California, figured he'd be more comfortable above ground anyway. I've got a couple of cops I know we can trust waiting on standby for us once we free the prisoners, but I need you to watch out for us in case things end up going south. Keep your eyes peeled for any suspicious activity during our operation, and keep us updated on whatever's happening on the surface.

And Peter...look, I know we've been giving you a hard time. But you're a good person, alright? I know you are. And if we're able to free any of these kids tonight, it'll be 'cause of you. I'll talk to you later.

The sound of footsteps fading deeper and deeper underground was soon overshadowed by heavy, metallic clanking. Over and over, the noises sounded, until they stopped directly in front of the facility's entrance. Twelve eyes, hidden behind goggles, gazed into the darkness. And six smiles, curled beneath masks, glistened sinisterly in the night.

So after finishing this chapter, I realized something: I've been writing these stories because I never thought Spider-Man would be in the MCU. But now that he's here...I really really really want to start writing some one-shots or something based off the awesome new MCU Spider-Man Marvel has blessed us with! Because every time I write the character I now picture the fresh and energetic voice and face of little Tommy instantly, haha. This story, in comparison, just seems kinda...idk...depressing, boring, disconnected? And frankly...sorta pointless. So I'm gonna ask you guys, cuz this is a big dilemma I'm facing lol. I really want to start working on some current MCU Avengers/Spider-Man stories: Peter dealing with Spidey's sudden catapult into fame, being mentored by Tony, excited but nervous Peter's interactions with all these big, awesome, well-established heroes, and more small scale stuff, school life with his high school buds, more intimate relationships and such, and really anything you guys suggest or want me to write. So just let me know please...thanks :) ya'll rock