Please see Prologue for Story Disclaimer. This story will not be suitable for all readers.

Thanks so much for the positive feedback on the prologue, guys. I've decided to continue this fic. I'm thinking it will probably come around to about 10 chapters, give or take a couple. Hope you all enjoy x

This chapter contains graphic descriptions of injury, death, and medical procedures. Please use your discretion.

6 hours earlier...

Peter awoke to the disgusting sensation of contaminated rainwater soaking his face. He briefly questioned where he was and how he'd arrived there, before he was overwhelmed by fiery agony in his chest.

Then he remembered everything.

Peter felt his breathing accelerate as memories flooded into his consciousness, an unwelcome reminder of the state he was in. He groaned, tears mixing with the gross liquid on his face, streams of salty tears creating rivers of clarity across his skin. Hyperventilation was doing nothing for his pain, either - every slight movement caused by even the shallowest of breaths wracked his destroyed ribcage with pain that Peter could not have previously imagined.

His chest wasn't the only thing that burned. His legs, back, arms, and head all throbbed to the rhythm of his pulse, which ironically was the only thing keeping him alive. Peter had always found it cliche when people would say that they hurt all over, but now he understood it. There was no area that was spared of injury. He legitimately hurt all over.

Once he acclimated to the sensation of all-consuming agony shooting across his body, Peter was aware of a God-awful smell that seemed to be emanating from the area around him. There was also an odd, soft pressure leaning up against his side and on his back. To his left was an unforgiving metal surface.

C'mon Spider-Man, think!, Peter thought, trying to connect fleeting pieces of the very confusing puzzle that was his life at that moment into something cohesive and coherent. Mucky water, something around you that is soft and not heavy, horrid smell, and metal surface next to you. Where are you?

I'm in a fucking dumpster.

Gross.

And just like that, Peter lost even more respect for the people who had done this to him. Not only had they done unspeakable, painful things to his body, disrupted his life, and probably drastically shortened his lifespan, but they didn't have the decency to dump him in a place where he'd actually be found.

Peter had to admire the cleverness of their actions, however. It would be almost impossible to distinguish the smell of rotting corpse from rotting garbage. With the large trash bags on top of him and bags beneath him, he was invisible to any passerby and was unlikely to be discovered by a garbage man unless said worker happened to be particularly observant. His captors had taken special precautions to ensure that Peter would not likely be found. He would bet money that he was in a bad part of town too, where people ask less questions of suspicious events.

Boy, Mr. Stark is gonna be maaaaad.

Not only was his protege destroyed physically, emotionally, and probably psychologically, he may never find out that any of that had actually happened. Peter may very well end up in a landfill somewhere, polluting the oceans and/or contributing to the death of sea turtles. Maybe his body would end up in the Bermuda Triangle, never to be seen again. Wait - that'd actually be kind of cool though.

Nevertheless, Peter knew that his mentor would look for him - once he figured out that Peter was missing, which could take several days, which begged the question of how long he'd actually been missing. When Tony was unable to locate his protege, he would freak out, probably break several expensive things with a net worth greater than certain institutions, drink himself to sleep for several nights, and hopefully, after an extended period of time, move on.

Shit, Peter dying would kill Tony. He had to get out of there - he needed to be found!

For an odd second, Peter was taken back to when he was trapped under the building when he was fighting the Vulture. It felt like a similar situation, except that, conceptually, this circumstance should have been somewhat easier to escape, given that he wasn't being crushed by thousands of pounds of concrete. If it weren't for the shattered ribcage, which Peter swore shifted every time he even thought about moving, head injury, stab wounds, and broken everything, he would be able to pull himself out of this just fine.

Determined, Peter prepared himself - C'mon Peter, c'mon Spider-Man! - and with a tremendous effort, Peter bit back a feminine cry of agony as he pushed up against one of the garbage bags entombing him within the metal waste bin. The sack of plastic heaved upward at Peter's dramatic efforts -

And promptly fell right back down on top of him.

Peter let out a scream, which was muffled by the waste that was piled against him. The exclamation was one of frustration, anger, and physical pain as his ribcage exploded at the added pressure. This led to a period of time that was spent mostly crying, as Peter found that he couldn't calm down unless he took deeper breaths but couldn't take deeper breaths because of how it exacerbated the pain which, you guessed it, panicked him more.

And when the blackness settled over his vision again, Peter welcomed it.

Present

Harriet Kennel had decided she wanted to become a paramedic after her 4 year old younger brother, Mason, had drowned in a creek on a camping trip gone wrong. She had been only 9 at the time, and remembered her parents struggling to resuscitate her too-still sibling. When the ambulance came, Harriet had watched as the pair of medics teamed up together to try and save her little brother. Mason was declared dead after 10 minutes of resuscitation efforts.

Despite the negative outcome, Harriet had been struck by how synchronized the medics had been, how hard they had fought to save her brother, and how well they had taken care of her and her parents in the aftermath of the tragedy. Harriet had realized right then that she wanted to make a difference in peoples' lives like the paramedics had made a difference in hers all those years ago.

Now here she was, little Harri, 9 years later, doing clinicals for her EMT licensure program. It was her third week, so she wasn't new to the game. She had done CPR on a SIDS patient, splinted broken bones, comforted anxious patients, and, unfortunately, dealt with many people who were DOA - dead on arrival. So when she arrived at the alley at the Kings Street intersection, she thought she was prepared for what she would find. Young bodies weren't easy to deal with, but they weren't uncommon, and Harriet would have to get used to it if she ever wanted to continue a career in EMS.

She and the two medics with her were patiently waiting by the ambulance for the police to arrive and and check out the scene before they removed the body. Harriet was okay with that. As much as she tried to distance herself from the hardest part of her job - dealing with death - she wasn't quite there yet. And, from what she'd heard on the radio, the kid was young, just a teen like herself. So Harriet was okay with staying by the bus and letting other people take the lead.

That was, until officer Scheele screamed out that the kid was alive. That's when things changed, drastically.

Harriet was stunned by the sight of the injured boy. She had been to car wrecks, suicides, and domestic disputes, but she had never seen someone so viciously mutilated. By the amount of blood on his body alone, especially the amount that oozed from his mouth and trickled down his neck, Harriet is sure that this kid should have been dead. But now, since they had a pulse and the kid was somewhat responsive to stimuli, they were going to do everything in their power to make sure this kid made it to the hospital.

Harriet pushed the gurney with her EMT trainer, Matthew, while the other medic quickly hopped in the driver's seat and took off for the hospital, sirens cutting into the drowsy silence of the early morning.

Despite all the nights spent studying, trips to the mortuary, and even her own clinicals, nothing could have prepared Harriet for this situation. She stared down at the boy who had since gone unresponsive. He looked so young, yet he could only be a few years younger than herself. There was so much bleeding, so many life threatening injuries, and so many ways things could go wrong. She didn't know where to start. She didn't know where she could help and not somehow end up hurting.

"Harriet!" Matthew's voice cut into Harriet's mental paralysis. Her trainer had a firm, yet understanding look in his eyes that grounded her. "I need you to grab a BVM and bag him, okay?"

Harriet didn't remember responding, but the next thing she knew she was standing over the broken body of the boy, squeezing the handle of the BVM, mechanically forcing air into the kid's lungs. Thankfully, her training took over her panic - she hummed a slow tune that reminded her to not bag too fast, or the chest or abdominal cavity can fill with air and become counterproductive.

But the bagging wasn't working. The kid's chest was no longer rising and falling when she squeezed the trigger. A strangled gurgle was audible whenever she forced oxygen into the boy's body. He was circling the drain.

"Matt, it's not working!" Harriet's voice broke at the end of her cry, betraying her panic at the overwhelming situation.

Matt turned from bandaging the worst of the wounds on the kid's body and saw the ineffective bagging efforts. "Shit, shit, shit," he whispered to himself, rushing to take over Harriet's position. "I need to intubate. Put pressure on the wounds I haven't bandaged yet."

That, she could do. Unwrapping fresh gauze pads at lightning speed, Harriet slapped bandages on the wounds that were bleeding the heaviest, double padding the ones that had already soaked through. She turned briefly to check on her partner and watched as he carefully and skillfully inserted the breathing tube into the thankfully unconscious teen's throat. Smoothly connecting the BVM once more, Matt turned back to Harriet. "I'm in, you take over."

Now that the air she was squeezing was going directly into the kid's lungs, it had more of the desired effect. There was evidence of chest rise and fall, something she was always told she needed to look for in a patient whenever invasive respiratory procedures were necessary. It wasn't strong movement, and it didn't necessarily mean that the kid was any farther away from dying, but at least they could more effectively breathe for him as his body slowly shut down.

In what seemed like no time at all, they were at the hospital, and someone in scrubs swiftly pushed her aside to take over breathing for the poor kid. It wasn't long until the kid was out of sight, with doctors and nursing swarming the kid in an attempt to save the boy from what seemed to be certain death.

Harriet felt an arm around her shoulders, guiding her out of the hospital, and realized that she had been standing dumbstruck in the center of the hospital hallway. Matthew kindly led her back to the ambulance, where she mindlessly hopped into the back of the vehicle while Matthew took the front seat.

As she rode back to the station, Harriet stared at the blood that stained her hands, clothes, and the interior of the ambulance. She needed a shower and a nap to wash the evidence of the incident off of herself, although Harriet theorized that the broken boy she had taken care of today would be someone who would stay with her for a long time.

4 hours earlier...

It wasn't until Peter awoke to the stench of rotting garbage again that he realized he passed out.

As feeling unfortunately returned to the rest of his body, Peter was reminded of why he had welcomed oblivion before. He struggled to regulate his breathing through the pressure on his lungs and broken ribs. He felt like he was drowning, which he knew he probably was. He coughed and felt warm, coppery liquid escape his lips and slide down his cheeks. He groaned at the strain on his ribs.

He knew, given the nature of his injuries, that he was not long for consciousness or, dare he say it, life. He'd never been this badly injured before, and he knew that the likelihood of him being found alive was slim at best.

Found.

He needed to be found.

Peter was jolted back to where he had been the last time he was awake. He needed to be discovered, somehow. If not for his own sake, for May and Tony's sake. Peter wasn't sure if they had been looking for him already, but even if they were there was no way that they would find him here. His cap...they had taken his watch and phone, both of which would have been the only thing that anyone could have tracked him from, considering he wasn't wearing his suit that day. Didn't even have it on him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Without even thinking, Peter had moved a badly-injured arm and had pushed some of the junk entombing him to the side, which caused the pile to shift - causing him to groan once more - but also revealing a stream of moonlight that gave Peter hope of escaping.

Peter's injuries had begun to numb slightly, which he knew was not a good sign, but was something that he could use to his advantage. Painstakingly slowly, Peter placed his non-broken leg on the bottom of his metal tomb, placing him in a some-what upright position. Now he just needed to get himself out.

Jerkily swatting a couple of cardboard boxes and leaking, yet miraculously light trash bags away, Peter found himself looking over the side of the dumpster and down at the dirty ground below. It was still dark out, but the wetness of the ground reflected the moonlight in a scene that may have been somewhat pretty if Peter were in a situation in which he wasn't about to die.

Peter pushed himself up, broken hands gripping the slippery edge of the dumpster, before he cried out and abruptly let go as a flash of agony tore through his arms, shoulders, and all the way down to his chest and legs.

Gasping, Peter was somehow able to balance himself so he didn't fall back into a prone position. However, he did throw up a bloody mess all over himself and his surroundings.

Peter wasn't sure how much time had passed before he had somewhat oriented himself again, in an effort to once again try to escape this hell. As tears of agony and fear streamed down his face as he broke out into pitiful sobs, Peter determinedly, in a burst of adrenaline, thrusted himself upward enough to tip his protesting body over the edge of the metal wall and down to the pavement below.

Peter was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Present

Dr. Byron Sawyer had been in the medical field for over 20 years, and he had seen a lot of shit during that time. He'd seen appendectomy patients pass away unexpectedly and he'd seen terminal patients miraculously heal of their sickness and live 20 more years. He'd seen DOAs where the victim's brains were more outside their head than inside. He'd seen severed limbs and had called TODs on infants.

The thing about those gruesome sights, however, is that most of the time, Dr. Sawyer didn't have to worry about saving them. They were long gone before they ever entered his care. There was not much he was going to be able to do.

And when the nurses wheeled in that teenage John Doe, Dr. Sawyer was sure that this would just be another case of We Did All We Could. He would do CPR and he'd work the AED for a few minutes for good measure, not letting himself or anyone else on his treatment team get too attached to the idea that this kid was able to be saved. It was sad, but that was how it worked.

What Dr. Sawyer wasn't expecting was how much of a fighter this kid had proven to be. A nurse explained the laundry list of injuries the kid had sustained while also informing him of what treatment had already been administered - bandaged for the wounds, intubation and assisted respirations, O Neg transfusion, and splints of a compound fracture of the femur. John Doe was bleeding internally from broken ribs and had likely suffered a pneumothorax. As if that wasn't evident enough from the blood sprayed across the ventilation tube. As Dr. Sawyer processed the information and subconsciously ordered a list of tests and preparations for surgery, all he could think about was the fact that he could not understand how this kid was still alive. Not much surprised him in his line of work, but he was taken aback by the kid's desire to live.

He hoped he could make John Doe's survival efforts worthwhile.

Quickly and thoughtlessly, Dr. Sawyer cut away the last of the clothing that the medics hadn't removed already. The compound fracture of the ribs scared him - if anything was going to kill this kid, that was going to be it. Even if the kid survived surgery, infection was likely given the environment in which the kid was found and how long he had likely been waiting to be rescued. And given how broken the kid was, an infection may just be too much for his body to fight.

So Dr. Sawyer was determined to not let that happen. But things just weren't going to go to plan with this kid, were they?

"His OSats are dropping!" The nurse next to him cursed, and Dr. Sawyer watched at the ventilation efforts no longer were keeping this kid breathing. He had about 10 seconds before this kid went into arrest, and damn it if he was going to let that happen.

"Get me a tube kit, stat!" Dr. Sawyer ordered, grabbing a scalpel from the nurse who had come into the room with him and swiftly making an incision on the right side of the patient's chest, ironically right next to a stab wound of a similar size. Grabbing a tube from the same nurse, he quickly jammed the plastic deep into the kid's chest cavity, through chest muscle and the pleura.

Dr. Sawyer was finally able to breathe when he hooked the tube up and watched the blood and serous fluid flood away from John Doe's chest cavity, allowing his chest to expand and retract like it was supposed to. The kid would be okay, for now at least.

"We need a CT of his chest stat and make sure the OR is prepped. As soon as we get those images I want him in surgery while he's still stable." Dr. Sawyer recited his orders like they were scripted, and watched as the nurses quickly complied, paging radiology to prepare for a chest CT scan and getting a surgical intern to prepare the attending surgeon for emergency repair of a pneumothorax and possible abdominal organ repair.

As he replaced the bag of O negative blood connected to the kid's IV, Dr. Sawyer once again looked at the boy lying unresponsive in the hospital bed beside him, stab wounds littering his chest amongst the staining of black and blue, with the pristine whiteness of the protruding rib looking out of place given the kid's soiled exterior. Sawyer knew that this kid had a long way to go if he was going to survive, but, for some reason, Dr. Sawyer wasn't going to give up hope on the kid. Any other teen would have been dead before medics got there, but this kid had held out this long.

As the kid was rolled away to radiology, Dr. Sawyer watched and prayed to whoever was listening that they would be able to help the John Doe survive. Somehow, in the few minutes that he had even been with the kid, his case had become personal to the esteemed doctor. Despite his efforts to distance himself emotionally from patients who likely were destined to die soon, he couldn't distance himself from this patient. The fight that the kid had displayed had stirred emotions within him that he usually tried to separate from his job.

He knew he would have hell within himself to pay if the kid didn't survive.

Dr. Sawyer watched the double doors slam behind the kid, turned, and walked away from the sight.

1 hour earlier...

When Peter woke again to gross, fowl-smelling liquid on his face, he was sure that he had somehow ended back up in the dumpster again. It wasn't until he felt the roughness of the pavement against his bare face that he realized his escape efforts had been successful.

While that was great news, it had definitely come at a price. The pain in Peter's chest had somehow doubled from what it was before. Peter tried to scream as the fire in his chest fully presented itself, but all that came out was a choked gasp, which only brought more agony to his throbbing torso.

Peter was sure that this was it. There was no way something that painful wasn't going to kill him. At least his body would be found now, instead of being dumped in a landfill somewhere.

As the pain started to ease, a symptom Peter recognized as a sign of severe shock, Peter reflected on all the good times he had had in his life - building legos with Ned, dinner dates with Aunt May, and working in the lab with Mr. Stark. Decathlon practices with Michelle and Liz, and watching Flash get his ass handed to him by his teacher. Swinging around the city as Spider-Man, doing backflips on the roofs of buildings, and stopping petty theft. Sandwiches from Mr. Delmar's, Doritos with Ned, and science experiments inside and outside of school.

He had a lot to miss.

As Peter took one last look at his surroundings, he realized he was still somewhat concealed by the shadow of the dumpster. He could see the road, but the way his body was positioned, unless someone was looking for him, they wouldn't be able to see him.

But did it really matter? He was a goner. Some garbage man would come to empty the trash and would find him. He might be someone gross and decomposed by then, but at least he would be found. It didn't really make a difference, did it? It's not like there was any chance of surviving his injuries anyways.

If you're nothing without this suit, you shouldn't have it.

Tony's voice infiltrated his head, memories he would rather forget. This was it for him. He had given everything he had. This was where it had to end. He didn't have any more fight within him.

Yes you do.

God, he must be delirious if he was hearing Tony's voice. His head injury must be worse than he thought.

Move, and get yourself rescued. C'mon, we don't have all day.

Peter tried to say "there's no 'we'" out loud and promptly gagged on his own blood again, emitting a soft groan as the movement stirred pain within his chest again, a reminder that he was still alive, for now.

Maybe his delirium-induced Tony was right. Maybe there was hope of being rescued. After all, he really didn't want to die. Even though he was exhausted and wasn't sure he had any more fight within him, he really didn't want those good memories to be his last good memories.

Peter gingerly, moved his right arm in front of his head and, in some broken, half-dead version of an army crawl, dragged himself forward a half inch. After repeating with the left arm, Peter developed somewhat of a groove. He briefly was thankful for his shock as it made the whole process somewhat less painful, but he could still feel the absence of what should have been excruciating pain.

Peter wasn't sure how long it took, but he had crawled about three feet away from the dumpster when his body gave out, and all he could focus on was the sounds of the city waking up and the hitched, pitiful sounds of his own breathing.

The last thing he heard in his somewhat lucid state was what sounded like sirens coming his way, but maybe that was just his wishful thinking.

Thank you all so much for the support so far, please let me know what you think! Probably a couple more weeks at least before I update. Best wishes Xx