Previously in The End Is Just A New Beginning:
Peter leveled up in dumpster diving, earned his own money, maked himself a new suit and rediscovered just how much he misses his uncle. Meanwhile, Tony had an interesting conversation with Nick Fury.
May 2013
That shower felt so much better than Peter would have thought. The room was filled with the soothing echo of fat water drops splashing on the tiled floor. The stream ran hot, its pressure slowly untying some of the accumulated knots in his muscles.
Peter let out a sigh. He'd been here for a year now. It felt both like an eternity and like no time had passed at all. Isolation blended the days together like they were one big, sluggish mass of 'get up, catch bad guys, find food, find money, write a letter, sleep, rinse and repeat'. His life certainly had not been of the most entertaining sort. But it was better to keep it that way; being invisible meant no trouble. He was on a mission after all.
But what perturbed him was that after all that time, so many unknowns remained uncovered. He still didn't know exactly how he got there, for one. He still wasn't even one hundred percent sure that what he was experiencing was real at all. There still was the slight possibility that this was an elaborate simulation à la Matrix, for all he knew. Every time he tried to remember his last moments on Titan, he ended up with either a huge migraine or a panic attack; sometimes both. He still didn't know either how he would get his old life back, nor when, nor if it was even possible at all. Knowing what was at stake, he was ready to endure this situation as long as needed —not that a lone spider could do that much— but if he could be assured there was a backdoor somewhere, it would lift quite a big weight off his shoulders.
Peter sighed heavily. It was not as if the key to it all would magically come to him at this point. He had been looking for so long; if things were that simple, he would have answers to his questions by now. He bent down to pick up the abandoned shower gel bottle he'd found on the floor, laid forgotten by an absentminded student. Peter squeezed the product into his hand, the fresh liquid a stark contrast to the heat of the water. The soap's fruity fragrance filled the room as Peter proceeded to scrub himself down.
He didn't know what else to do but to keep going the way he'd been headed for the past year or so. He had chosen to play the long game with Tony, and he was still convinced it was his best option to reach him at all. Influence things from the outside without getting directly involved, right? And Tony did seem to be feeling better over the whole Battle of New York thing when he appeared in the media… although from watching him in the lab, there still was a long way to go. Maybe by 2016 he would be in a good enough head space to make the correct decisions regarding the Sokovia Accords? Not that they were the true reason the team fell apart; the Accords were just a front for the public. Tony himself had admitted as much a few years back, during one evening of vulnerability.
Peter hummed pensively. Maybe he should start thinking of other ways to get through to Tony in addition to the fan mail. He turned off the water, quickly wrapping himself in his towel.
Wet bare feet slapped the tiled floor as he crossed the shower room to the lockers. Peter tucked his newly acquired shower gel into his backpack and picked up his clothes. He still had to visit the labs of Midtown High to renew his web-fluid reserves before he left for the night.
Right before he crawled out of the school vents, Peter stopped, wary. He eyed his surroundings through the grate, his gaze piercing the darkness of the night. He focused intently on his spider-sense, on the lookout for the slightest sign of danger.
All remained quiet. Apart from the regular, inevitable city nightlife, there was nothing for him to worry about. Maybe he finally managed to shake them off on his way to the school? Yet, he still opened the grate as silently as he could and slithered out. Hanging to the wall by the sheer strength of his fingertips, Peter pulled his hood as far as it would go. Once again he surveyed the streets, the nearby buildings, just to be sure. He preferred not to put his mask on or his hair, still wet, would make it all humid. With a sigh, he shifted position to lean against the wall. He might not want to wear his mask, but it would be a lot safer; especially nowadays. Resigned, he pulled it out of his hoodie's pocket.
He was only three streets away from the school when his spider-sense went off. It wasn't the head-splitting, adrenaline inducing kind of spider-sense so characteristic of imminent peril; nor was it the goose-bumps instigating type, typical of nearby danger.
It was the more insidious, skin crawling one. The spider-sense that told him someone was watching; someone with no good intentions. The one that made him feel like he was prey.
Instantaneously, all the benefits of the shower melted away as Peter tensed up. They found him. Again. Peter frantically looked up, searching the building tops, to no avail. They had been watching him for weeks, and never once did he see anyone, even when he tried to confront them head on during the first few days. He had no idea who they were, nor what they wanted of him. They didn't bother to leave any clue.
So Peter fled. He swung fast, thwipping webs after webs. He was almost certain he lost them right before he got to Midtown High; they must have waited, as if they knew he would reappear. They seemed to be able to find him with more and more ease, seemingly starting to understand the pattern of his days. One thing that did reassure Peter was that they didn't appear to know about his barely existent civilian identity, as so far he had never felt them without his mask on. He better be careful, or it wouldn't last for long.
Peter swung randomly through streets and alleys until long after he couldn't feel them anymore. Finally settling down in one, particularly smelly dark alley, he huffed, irritated. Not only was this chase of theirs pointlessly stressful, but it was a complete waste of time and web-fluid. Didn't they know he had better things to do?
Despite his restlessness, despite the stench, Peter decided to wait in the alley until the city awoke. He would get to the bakery by blending amongst the crowd as a civilian if it meant keeping his sleeping spot a secret from them. Peter threw his backpack behind a dumpster, a frown etched on his face. Still two hours till sunrise, and another good one to get to the bakery on foot. With abrupt movements, Peter removed his mask and flipped his hoodie to the dark side. He flopped behind the dumpster next to his bag, brooding.
This was becoming really annoying.
Peter reluctantly pushed open the door of the store. He wasn't looking forward to spending his last grocery dollars; yet, he didn't have much of a choice but to go shopping if he wanted to eat at all.
Being followed around as he was, he had to keep dumpster diving to a bare minimum. A lone child in secluded alleys looking as young as he did was bound to draw attention, no matter the time of the day; at least by night, with the mask on, he could get away quickly if he needed to without risking exposing himself. But recently, he seemed to attract his stalkers like moths to light whenever his mask so much as brushed his face. He almost got caught during the first few days and, whatever intel those guys were gathering on him, he swore to make sure "trash scavenger" wouldn't make it on the list.
Habit took the lead on Peter's feet. He had a few select food items that were either lasting and conservable or could be eaten fast enough that they didn't have time to rot away, didn't require cooking and, most importantly, were cheap. He made a point to ignore the pleading call his stomach made as he walked past the cheese section. Cheese was good, but not cheap. Damn, did he miss cheese.
He got back to the cash register with an armload of ham, bread, and canned soup.
"Hi, Ben!" the cashier greeted enthusiastically when he approached, a warm smile on her face. "How is it going today?"
Peter awkwardly set down his treasured future calorie intake, trying not to drop anything.
"Hi, Rachel," he returned in the same tone. "Well, you know… same old, same old. How about you? I'm surprised to see you behind the register so early in the morning."
"Nathan called in sick," she explained as she started to ring up his food. "Someone's gotta open the store."
"Can't argue with that."
Despite himself, Peter's attention got drawn by the hand-made sandwiches on display in the glass stand right next to them. The specialty made the reputation of Rachel's store in the neighborhood.
"Will that be all?" she asked, noticing his longing stare.
Peter tore his eyes away from the triple cheese special.
"Yes," he confirmed, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.
Rachel gave him a skeptical look but didn't comment.
"That'll be 8 dollars," she informed him.
Peter took his wallet from his pocket and blanched. After tuning the thing almost inside out, his great total of grocery allocated money didn't even amount to five dollars. He would have to start nibbling at his emergency funds if he wanted to get it all, which he wasn't ready to do unless he had no other option.
Peter was slowly becoming painfully aware of how his stalkers were having an impact on more than just his nightlife.
"I'm sorry, I… I can't," he said, feeling himself flush from the embarrassment. "Can you remove all of the ham? And maybe a couple of cans."
The most infuriating part was that he wasn't even technically short on money. He kept working on commissions a few times a week and he knew for a fact that the balance for his most recent one came in just the day before, adding to a few others amassing dust in his bank account. He just couldn't withdraw that money. A kid had no business working a debit card at an ATM… unless that ATM was deserted at night, with no one around to ask questions; which implied not being followed around on a daily basis.
Rachel's eyes filled with pity, aggravating his blush all the more. Why did she have to acknowledge his situation?
"Aw, sweetie."
She looked at him pensively. Peter shifted, uncomfortable.
"What would you think about helping me stock the shelves? In exchange, you get to leave with everything, plus a sandwich of your choice."
Peter stared at her, unsure whether or not to accept. He didn't want charity, however dire his situation. But it wasn't charity if he was working for it, right? Except he wasn't legally old enough to work, and Rachel knew that. If words got out to the wrong ears, she could get in trouble. She was taking a risk for even suggesting such a thing; knowing that warmed Peter to her even more. But could he let her take such a risk for some ham?
He eyed the triple cheese special, and his stomach made the decision for him.
"Alright," he agreed.
Rachel smiled and took him to the storage room, where she told him to wait for her on the threshold before disappearing inside. She came back a couple minutes later. Trailing behind her was a pallet jack loaded with cardboard boxes.
Together, they headed to the biscuits aisle. Rachel briefly explained to Peter how to proceed and, soon enough, packs after packs of cookies found their place on the shelves.
"I don't think I have ever seen your parents, haven't I?" Rachel asked casually, filling the silence.
The rehearsed lie came easily.
"Er… yeah. Mom works two jobs, so I try to help however I can."
"And your dad?"
Peter shrugged.
"Gone," he said without elaborating, setting a box down on the shelf.
He believed that if he stayed vague enough with his made-up backstory, people wouldn't probe too much. He didn't mind Rachel questioning him though; Peter had been coming to the store often enough now for her to start showing concern for him without seeming nosy. He just hoped she wouldn't start to ask too many questions; Peter liked their sandwiches a lot —when he could afford them— and he would hate to have to switch to a different, sandwich-less store.
Rachel seemed to get the hint and dropped the subject.
"Well, it's nice of you to help."
"Gotta stick together, you know?" Peter added for good measure.
"You're a good kid, Ben."
"I mean, I try."
There was a brief silence as she seemed to consider whether or not sharing the words she spoke next.
"If you're interested, I know of a few places where you could get supplies for you and your mom. For free."
Peter stiffened briefly, before casually setting a couple boxes on the shelf, hoping Rachel didn't notice.
"Are you talking about shelters? Aren't those for homeless people?" he asked, nonchalantly.
"They're for everyone who might need them, not just homeless people. Some shelters collect food to hand out."
Despite himself, his wariness of shelters transpired in his voice.
"Er…Thanks for the suggestion. I'll tell mom about it."
Rachel wasn't fooled by his unconvinced tone.
"There's nothing wrong with getting a little help if you need it."
"Yes, I guess so. It's just that… We're getting by, you know?"
Rachel shot him a compassionate look.
"Today was just the exception," he blabbered on. "I'll be more careful next time."
He meant it as 'be careful to know the exact content of his wallet and not to pick more than he could afford', but Rachel seemed to interpret his words differently.
"Did something happen?"
Peter had no lie ready to cover up his unexpected money deplete, so he improvised.
"I, er, I got… mugged on the way?"
He didn't know why he thought this was as good an excuse as any at that moment. Later, when sleep would elude him and he would look back at all his failures, he would wonder why in the world didn't he go for an explanation that could have actually happened to an actual child, like forgot the money at home, used it to buy candies; or even just avoided to answer the question altogether. No, instead he had been so deep into his atypical lifestyle that he had forgotten how him being mugged was actually quite a big deal for people who had no idea he was enhanced.
He realized he messed up the moment the pack of cookies Rachel was holding dropped back into the cardboard box.
"Oh my God, are you alright?" She asked, examining him, her saucer-wide eyes jumping all over him. "Did they hurt you?"
"No, I'm fine. They just wanted my money," he tried to diffuse the situation awkwardly. "They, er… left as soon as they got what they wanted."
Satisfied that he didn't look in pain, Rachel refocused her attention.
"What did they look like? We need to call the police. And your mom."
Peter stiffened. Nope, that was most definitely the last thing he needed.
"No!" He answered a bit too fast. "No, it's ok. It's already done. Some people saw, er, what happened and they already made the call."
"And your mom?"
"Called her right after."
"And she's fine with you still being out alone?" she asked, concerned.
Peter faltered a little at the loophole he had just jumped into. You'd think that after eight years living a double life, one would have learned how to craft a lie properly.
"Hum, yes?"
"Are you sure?"
"Well, huh… It's not as if she likes it, but we still need to eat."
Rachel huffed. She picked back the cookies she'd dropped and resumed stocking the shelves, launching into a rant about irresponsible adults as she worked. Peter was content to just listen to her, keenly aware that the fragile story he had woven could unknot itself any time, what with his motor mouth.
However, when she started to rave about how dangerous the neighborhood was, Peter couldn't help but need a double-take.
"What do you mean?"
The way she talked about the local safety made it sound like anyone could get kidnapped around every corner, which he found to be more than a bit excessive. He patrolled the area frequently and had left every single criminal he had stopped for the police to find. Surely that contributed to making the streets safer, right?
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
Rachel looked surprised that he wasn't aware of the most recent news.
"Well, people are being attacked at night," she said, carefully.
At that Peter barely managed to keep his expression neutral. He would have to check that out.
"I don't think you risk anything, though," she continued, thinking that he somehow needed to be reassured. "But I hope you're not out alone when it's dark."
"Why? What happens?" Peter pressed for more information.
"People are being captured in giant spider-webs."
Oh.
Oh.
Well, that was anticlimactic. But at least he hadn't missed any big threat. It did mean he was starting to get noticed, though. He knew it was bound to happen, but he didn't like it nonetheless.
"Oh, that. Yeah, I heard about it." He feigned indifference. "Do we know who's behind it?"
Rachel shook her head.
"No. Nobody who's been rescued saw anything before it happened. I don't want to scare you, but you should be very careful. No one knows what kind of creature is doing that and as far as we know, it's still rampant in the city."
A creature. His secret was still safe.
"New York, am I right?" He couldn't help the smile.
"You tell me," she humphed, her tone full of the resigned acceptance all New Yorkers seemed to share ever since the Battle. "And that's why, despite how busy your mom is, you shouldn't be out alone."
Rachel eased back into her rant. Peter was happy to pretend he listened, mulling over what he just learned. He couldn't help the feeling that his growing notoriety was the reason behind his being followed. Peter was almost certain they had seen him catch more than a few felons; but surely they would have exposed him by now. This could mean only one thing: they weren't in it for the thrill of uncovering the mystery behind the urban legend he had apparently become.
The revelation sent a chill down his spine.
It was only once he was out, backpack full of supplies and greasy paper bag in hand, that his mind finished processing Rachel's words. Peter stopped dead in his tracks, too dumbfounded to pay attention to the annoyed complaints people shot him as they brusquely deviated their course to avoid bumping into him.
Did Rachel actually say that the felons he'd stopped had been 'rescued'? As in, they were victims instead of offenders delivered to the police?
Peter facepalmed.
Of course. Of course they were. It was just how his luck would have it.
The rooftop of the building next to Maria Carbonell Elementary was the perfect spot to eat a triple cheese special. It was easy to access without the use of suspicious spider-like abilities, and the early morning sun with its light breeze made for a very enjoyable weather. Not that the clear view the place provided on the school's parking lot had any weight in his decision making. Not in the slightest.
The fact that a certain car he had not been intently looking for entered the parking lot was pure coincidence. And what if Peter's heart skipped a beat at the sight of it?
From afar, greasy paper bag forgotten at his side, Peter observed his uncle drop his past-self off at school. It felt good to be reminded from time to time just how simple and nice things used to be. He knew how lucky he was to even be given the chance to watch Ben's small silhouette give a hug to his past-self. And if a strong pinch of envy tainted the sight, Peter hastened to snuff it out as best as he could. He knew better than to feel resentment for what he didn't have anymore.
A small chuckle escaped Peter. Wouldn't May be proud of him for having such mature thoughts?
Knowing this was the closest he was going to get to his Uncle, Peter never took his eyes off of him. He observed intently as Ben ruffled his past-self's already messy hair, as he climbed back into the car, and watched until he disappeared behind the curve. His eyes lingered on that spot long after he had gone, silently wishing his uncle would have stayed a bit longer.
An impatient honk down in the parking lot snapped him out of it. The fragrance of his expecting sandwich made its way back to his nose and Peter was happily reminded of the gourmet breakfast. Delicately opening the bag, he extracted its precious contents with the greatest care. He held it up, admiring it. Peter had never seen a sandwich that beautiful.
Commotion down below stopped him as he was about to take his first bite. Lowering the sandwich, Peter looked up, curious. The origin of the shouts was quickly spotted.
At first glance, standing several yards away from the closest adult that could potentially intervene, a group of children seemed to be having a fight. But Peter easily recognized it for what it really was; a few kids were in the face of a lone boy, who clearly wanted to be anywhere else but here. Peter lost no time in getting to his feet, ready to step in; but he froze half-way through when he caught a glimpse of the child's face.
Was that… Was that himself? And…
Peter frowned, studying the kid who was forcefully removing his past-self's backpack from his shoulders. Yup, that was Flash Thompson alright.
Peter huffed irritatedly. That he had to put up with Flash's bullying from kindergarten on was beyond him. Not that he didn't know where it was coming from; he and Flash had ended up having that long conversation in Senior year, at the end of which the bully had apologized for his behavior. But why, with all the schools in New York, did they have to always end up in the same ones?
Peter unwillingly forced himself to sit back down. The fact that his past-self was involved in the scene down there meant that he couldn't interfere to stop Flash and his friends. Powerless, he had to watch as Thompson fished into his bag to remove the lunchbox Uncle Ben had carefully prepared for him to throw its contents on the ground. Peter clenched his teeth. With how much Flash had toned down to simple jabs in high school, he had forgotten how tyrannical he used to be as a child. There wasn't even a reason behind that gesture, other than Flash's need to feel superior.
The bully and his friends finally took the direction of the school, laughing as they left small Peter to collect the dirty box on the ground. The poor kid was left without a meal. He didn't even have a lunch card since his family couldn't afford one. He would be reduced to nibble at the few extras Ned could grab for him on his cafeteria tray. Peter knew too well the dejected set of his past-self's shoulders. He remembered going home hungry after school one too many times.
Peter looked down at his own sandwich, hesitant. With a sigh, he put it back in the paper bag.
Peter tried to look as nonchalant as possible.
'You're a child. You have every right to be in a school. It's not weird at all.' He kept repeating the mantra over and over in his head as he walked into the all to familiar playground. The plan was a simple one: since he couldn't outright hand his sandwich to his past-self —for potentially world-ending paradoxical reasons taken straight out of sci-fi movies—, he would instead sneak into the school and hide in the bathroom until recess, when backpacks would be left unwatched in the classrooms. Easy enough, right?
Pulling his hood a bit lower on his head, shortening his shoulder straps to give his hands something to do, Peter entered the building unchallenged. He kept his eyes trailed to the ground, not wanting to risk being recognized, and picked up the pace as he mingled with the other pupils.
He knew there was no reason he wouldn't fit just right in, yet he still felt absolutely out of place, like he shouldn't be there. It was just too weird to be back in between these walls, covered as they were with artworks and memories from a different, more innocent time. He had changed so much since he last set foot in here that he couldn't help but feel that he stuck out like a sore thumb.
He was so focused on trying to avoid people that he didn't realize a teacher was addressing him until a hand settled on his arm, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"Kid."
Peter grudgingly lifted his head, only to realize with horror that his fifth grade homeroom teacher was staring him straight in the eyes. His mouth suddenly dry, he didn't say anything.
"No hood inside the building."
Peter hastened to remove it, feeling instantaneously exposed the moment he did so.
"Right, sorry," he apologized, not wanting to bring anymore attention to himself by challenging her.
He waited for the accusation to fall now that his cover was blown. "Who are you", "You shouldn't be here", or worse: "Why do you look so much like Peter?"
But Miss Anicka simply let go of his arm and smiled approvingly, before continuing on her merry way. Peter watched her strolling down the corridor, baffled.
She hadn't recognized him. She had been seeing his past-self every day for months, but she hadn't batted an eye at him. Peter ran a hand through his now almost shoulder length hair, confused. Apparently, a change of hair and eye color were a good enough disguise in and of itself.
Well, better not linger. He made a beeline for the bathroom, reaching it on time for the first bell, and locked himself inside one of the stalls. He spent the next couple hours playing games on his phone, undisturbed. It was a nice, welcome break, despite the confines of the thirty-six by sixty inch walls.
When recess came, Peter waited for the fresh flow of students to finish their business in the bathroom. He remained particularly still when his own voice echoed with Ned's in an animated debate over who would win in a fight between Darth Vader and Loki. It wasn't until the corridors had fallen back into a relative silence that he dared slipping out of his hiding spot. He got to his old classroom without issues.
He spotted almost instantly his backpack amongst the sea of bags at the back of the room. Grabbing a pen on the way, Peter extracted the sandwich. "Have a good meal :)", he wrote on the greasy paper. Taking in the delicious smell one last time, ignoring the rumbling of his own stomach, Peter slid the lunch into the backpack.
Now on to find a way to get out of the school unnoticed. What he wouldn't do for a sandwich.
Despite the ever present anxiety, Peter couldn't stay away from patrolling at night. Not that he didn't try; every evening he would get back to the bakery and lie down to attempt to get some much needed sleep. But his ever swirling thoughts made it impossible for him to even keep his eyes closed unless he was about to collapse of exhaustion. Invariably, he would need to get back up to go for a swing.
That night was no exception. To try to circumvent his stalkers, Peter had opted to patrol a district in Brooklyn instead of his usual Manhattan or Queens; and so far, he hadn't had a wisp of his spider-sense alerting him of their presence.
Earphones plugged into his ears, he swung into the cool moonlit night. The pendulum movement brought him a much welcome sense of thrill he hadn't been able to enjoy in a while.
"Maybe I should try patrolling Staten Island tomorrow," he told Karen, pensively. "I've never done it before."
"That's a good idea, Peter. Breaking your pattern seems to be throwing off your pursuers."
Peter winced, his mood souring instantly.
"That's not… Did you really have to mention them? I had almost gotten them out of my mind."
"I'm sorry, Peter. Do you want me to not talk about them in the future?"
Peter loved Karen, he really did. She was the only one who knew who he really was, and thus the only one with whom he could have an honest conversation. Sometimes he almost forgot she was not a real person; but then she would miss social cues or misinterpret sarcasm, and Peter was instantly reminded that, no matter how advanced she was for an artificial intelligence, she was still just that: a program.
"No, it's fine," he sighed, unable to help the pang of loneliness that inevitably hit whenever Karen acted a bit too bot-like. "It's just—"
Peter never got the chance to finish his sentence. The itch of his spider-sense was back, subtle, and all the more infuriating. It took them longer to find him this time, but they did it eventually.
He couldn't take it anymore. Acting on impulse, he made a sudden U-turn. He was tired of feeling hunted, of not eating nearly enough, of not being in control of how he chose to spend his own time. He scanned the roof-tops, just like he did so many times before, but this time he honed in on his spider-sense, focusing on the slightest spike. And for the first time, he finally saw them. Two small heads barely visible over the rooftop wall they were hiding behind. Two small heads who visibly retreated when they realized his rapid approach.
When he landed, the two figures were waiting for him. Two men, one aiming a gun at him, the other hiding behind his partner, clearly looking out of place.
"Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell," he kept muttering, eyes wide.
Not having a single care left in the world, Peter walked forward, ignoring the pulse of his spider-sense.
"What do you want from me?" he exploded.
"Don't come any closer," warned the man with the gun.
There was an edge in his voice. It was steady, assured, professional. Peter instantly disliked him.
"Or what? You're gonna follow me?" He asked derisively without slowing down.
"He's so young," bumbled out-of-place guy.
"We have orders. You've seen what he can do."
Without further warning, the man pulled the trigger. Relying on instincts only, Peter flipped out of the way. He had the gun snatched away with a web before his feet touched the ground. The weapon flew, clattering on the roof behind him.
"You shouldn't play with fire arms, it's dangerous," Peter teased, setting down in a crouch. "Can you answer my question now?"
The man lunged at him.
"Apparently not."
"We're bringing you in for questioning," he informed Peter, matter-of-factly.
"Hey, don't pull an UNO reverse card on me!"
Peter fairly easily avoided most of the attempts at restraining him, but it was clear the man knew what he was doing. He took advantage of every opening Peter unintentionally left open and, even though he did rely on his spider-sense a lot, he wasn't a martial artist. He was at his best against people who fought based on impulse, but when he was facing actual technical skills… He wasn't good at reading opponents of that level, not when they knew how to deflect his blows despite his superior strength. And Peter should have felt a bit more concerned, considering that he was intentionally letting his strength seep a bit more than usual. But he was irate, worn thin by the last few weeks and, maybe, just maybe, he let himself be driven a bit too much by his anger, making him sloppy.
He didn't move in time to dodge the right hook that connected with the side of his head, dazing him. The man, taking advantage of the opening, grabbed his wrist and locked it behind his back, in such an effective way that, despite Peter's suppleness, there was no chance he could free himself without dislocating his shoulder. It didn't stop him from trying, though.
"You're gonna stop squirming and come with us now," the man groaned in his ear.
"Personal bubble, dude," Peter complained.
Sudden pain radiated through his thigh, the muffled bang of a silenced gun registering only after. Peter cried out involuntarily. Stopping his struggle momentarily, he looked down to assess the damage. He was expecting to see an open, bleeding wound. Or a dart, judging by the tardily spreading numbness in his muscles. But there was nothing more than a small, round burnt mark on his pant leg.
Peter looked up to see out-of-place guy slowly lowering the gun he had snatched earlier, hands trembling. Peter silently cursed himself for forgetting to web the weapon down.
"What did you shoot me with?" He asked him, confused.
"Wait, why are you still conscious? You shouldn't still be conscious," he stammered, his voice thick with a Scottish accent.
"Fitz, what's going on?" The fighter demanded, his tone scolding.
"I— I don't know! This should not—" He put a hand to his head, started pacing. "The I.C.E.R is ready, it's supposed to work! We've seen it work!"
The man holding Peter all but threw him to the ground. He barely got the time to spread his hands forwards to catch his fall.
In three paces, the guy had joined Fitz.
"Give me that," Peter heard him say, seconds before a second shot hit him in his lower back.
Peter, who had barely been able to feel his leg, slumped to the ground. He was starting to realize that he no longer had the upper hand. This was not good, not good at all. He tried to get back up, the bottom half of his body barely responding.
Heavy footsteps came closer. Peter knew he was going to get shot again if he didn't move now. Hardly thinking, he fired a web and slid to the other side of the roof, very closely avoiding whatever it was they were shooting him with. A trail of shots, all scarcely missing, followed him as he darted over the roof. The concrete grated on his suit with a sickening noise. Peter didn't want to imagine what it would have been like if his skin had been bare.
Reaching the other side in a matter of seconds, he lost no time in using the boarding wall as support to stand back up. But his moves were sloppy, his limbs heavy, and another shot hit him in the shoulder. His elbows buckled under his weight. Sluggishly, in body and mind, Peter tried to go over the roof, not caring anymore if had to roll off of it to do so. He needed to get away.
But the man was already here. He grabbed his hoodie, dragged him away from the edge and rolled him on his back. Peter didn't have the strength to resist. He lifted his head to better see his opponent.
The man was facing him, the barrel of the gun most decidedly pointed in his direction. That Fitz guy was standing a few feet away, holding a plastic case. Imprinted on it, a very recognizable logo Peter hadn't noticed before caught the light of the moon.
"Wait, you guys are S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Peter slurred, his stomach doing a somersault. His head dropped back to the ground, his neck muscles giving out to the numbness. "Shit."
He was so screwed.
"That's for knocking me out," Gun Guy said in cold blood, before pulling the trigger once more, shooting him in the abdomen.
Peter moaned. Getting hit did feel like real bullets. He felt so exhausted. So ready to give out to sleep.
"He's still not out?" he heard through cotton balls.
A few clicks of an empty magazine.
"I'm out of munitions. This'll have to do."
It was so tempting to let the darkness take over. But an intense sense of urgency fought for Peter to stay awake. His mostly paralyzed mind could barely process what was going on anymore; he just knew that if S.H.I.E.L.D were to take his mask off, the consequences would be disastrous. It took all the energy he had left to make sure his mask stuck to his face. He wouldn't let go.
His gaze drifted back to his shooter. The man looked like he wasn't ever going to tear his stone-hard eyes away from him. He put a hand to a com in his ear, his voice distant, barely intelligible.
"We got the 0-8-4."
All he wanted was to lie down.
The nausea wouldn't pass, he could barely stay upright on his chair and, being slumped down as he was on the cold, metal table, with his cuffed wrists pinned to it, wasn't much better either. At this point he didn't know anymore if the prickling in his fingers was caused by that thing they had hit him with, or if it was just the weight of his head on his arms that was cutting the circulation in his hands. He didn't have the willpower to roll it on the other side to find out.
He had no idea how long he had been there, left alone in the thick silence of the room. They had put a cloth bag over his head and dragged him, quite literally, all the way to whatever here was. They had removed the occluding fabric only once he was tied down, not that he would have physically been able to make a run for it had they decided to take it off earlier.
They had tried to remove his mask, of course. His internal fight to stay conscious had proved worth his efforts when it had stayed stubbornly glued to his head. They had decided to leave him alone after that and, ever since then, the wait had been a slow form of torture in itself.
There was an unnatural silence in the room, filled only by his heavy breathing that seemed to rebound off of the countless octagonal shapes carved in the walls. And with no natural light filtering inside the room, there was no telling the passage of time either. As he had nothing to distract himself from his faintness, staying awake was becoming more and more difficult.
When the door finally swung in after an indeterminate amount of time, Peter barely felt any better than when he was first dropped in. Unwilling to straighten up, he had to content himself with cracking an eye open to see who was coming in.
A middle-aged agent dressed in a tie and suit slid his head through the opening.
"You're still awake?" he asked, nonchalantly.
Peter groaned in response. What a pathetic figure he must have cut.
"Told you," the agent said mischievously, turning to someone Peter couldn't see.
Opening the door wider, he strode into the room and took the seat in front of him. He was followed closely by the one Peter had decided to dub Gun Guy. Hovering behind his superior, arms crossed, he drilled his eyes on Peter.
"Sorry about the welcoming party back there," the seated agent apologized, cusping his hands on the table. "This was only supposed to be surveillance, we weren't exactly expecting… that turn of events."
Peter forced himself to a seated position, fighting a new wave of nausea.
"I just wanted to talk. It's your friend here who's the trigger-happy dude," Peter defended himself, his head still hanging low.
He was breathing hard, but he would not puke.
"You were being hostile," Gun Guy retorted matter-of-factly.
"I was being angry," Peter corrected, locking gaze with him. "You guys have been following me for weeks. How did you keep finding me anyway?"
"It's classified," the older man intervened, cutting the argument short before either Peter or Gun Guy could take it any further.
"Of course it would be," Peter scoffed.
The agent ignored the jab, choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why won't you remove your mask? You'd be able to breath a lot easier."
"Nice try, but I breathe just fine. Why won't you give me the counter-agent to your I.C.E.R thing if you are so concerned about my well-being?"
"I'm afraid we don't have any."
"How convenient."
"Not that I particularly enjoy seeing a child in that state but, knowing your… abilities, I do find it rather convenient, yes."
Peter clucked his tongue derisively. At least the agent didn't bother sugar coating his words in regard of his apparent age. It would have been a nice change had the circumstances been different.
"You seem to know who we are," the man resumed. "What do you know about us? We're not exactly a public organization."
Peter leaned back into his chair. It was barely any more comfortable for his sluggish muscles. Dammit.
"Enough not to trust a single word you say."
It may not become public knowledge before yet another year, but Peter hadn't forgotten the scandal when HYDRA was revealed to have infiltrated the governmental agency from its very creation. How could he? It had made the headlines for days, and they had spent a couple history classes ignoring the program to debate about it.
The man's eyes bore a hole into him, trying to pierce the mask hiding Peter's features.
"I think we got off the wrong foot. We're not here to arrest you."
"Ah, yes. As is so obviously demonstrated by the handcuffs," Peter rolled his eyes, before silently cursing himself for the new self-inflicted wave of nausea.
"I'm sure you can understand that this is for our own protection. Until you and I reach an understanding, I'd prefer you keep them on, if you don't mind."
Peter raised an eyebrow. Surely the agent did not just imply that he trusted Peter to stay put when the I.C.E.R. wore off, did he?
"What kind of understanding?" Peter asked, intrigued despite himself.
"A balance between what the both of us want. It's about you, your place in this world, and how S.H.I.E.L.D fits into the picture."
Ah. So that was what it was all about. Peter bit back a bitter laugh. That's what he got for giving in to vigilantism at a time S.H.I.E.L.D. still existed.
"You guys want to recruit me, don't you?"
A small lopsided smile stretched the agents' lips.
"Not quite. I gotta admit, you're a lot more perceptive than I gave you credit for. Having an individual like you working with us would be quite advantageous; but, not gonna lie, you're still a bit young to be recruited. No, what I want is to discuss your options."
"There's nothing to say. I don't want to have anything to do with you."
"I'm afraid it's a bit late for that. Whether you want it or not, we know about you now. You're going to be registered in our files, that's not negotiable for enhanced individuals like you. But I'm sure you'll want to have a say in what happens next, don't you?"
At that Peter sat up just a bit straighter. There was no way he would let them put him in any type of S.H.I.E.L.D. database. Giving his profile on a silver platter for nazis to target and use was a whole new layer of problems he just couldn't afford to get into.
He had to get away. Ever so slowly, he pulled his hands towards him, never once looking away from the agent.
"What do you have in mind?" Peter asked with no other intention than to keep the conversation going to distract the men from what was happening on the table.
"You could join S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy. Or you could just go back home, with a surveillance system in place to guarantee your protection, if you prefer."
The chain of the handcuffs were taut against the hook in the table. Peter started to pull harder, furrowing his brows with the effort.
"Why would I need your protection?"
He still didn't have enough strength back. No metal part would bend.
The agent's gaze was unreadable.
"Aren't you in hiding?"
Peter stopped what he was doing, the shackles forgotten, so taken aback that he was by the agent's unexpected accuracy. The way his eyes glittered at his reaction, there was no doubting he knew he was right.
"Wha— what makes you believe that?" Peter stammered.
"You just confirmed it. But the facts pretty much speak for themselves."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
It was only half a lie.
"Your being out only at night? Your attachment to your privacy? The way you run away from the authorities after every criminal you capture?"
"Wait, you actually believe they are criminals?" Peter interjected, dumbfounded. Clearly he was not over the days old news.
"We do look at the facts before believing the first urban legend. That's our job to doubt everything," the man explained, slightly amused. "So now the question is… what are you hiding from? Or rather… who?"
Peter's lips were sealed shut. He didn't trust himself anymore not to accidentally reveal things he would better keep for himself.
"I have a theory about that." The agent kept probing. "Wanna hear it?"
"Shoot away," Peter replied warily.
The agent leaned forward, confident.
"You seem quite experienced. You must have started training from a pretty young age. My guess is that you ran away from the person —or the organization— that trained you. But from the many criminals you've stopped, you either have a huge hero complex or, more likely, you're after them, dealing your own justice. Am I correct?"
Peter almost sighed in relief, but he held himself back just in time. The man had stirred himself away from the truth. Peter briefly considered playing along, but he opted to remain quiet. He was still too dizzy to craft a hefty lie around people trained in the art of lying.
"Does Centipede mean anything to you?" Gun Guy asked out of the blue.
"What, the arthropod?" Peter replied, confused by the apparent change of subject.
Both men waited in silence for him to elaborate.
"I swear I have no idea what you are talking about."
Gun Guy, visibly out of patience, finally uncrossed his arms and strode towards Peter. Reaching for his wrists, Peter instinctively recoiled.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?!"
Gun Guy ignored him. Forcefully holding one of Peter's arms down with one hand, he slid up his sleeve to the elbow with the other.
"Oh yeah? So what is… that " he trailed off, obviously not seeing whatever he expected to find on Peter's forearm.
Peter couldn't hold back a laugh at the Gun Guy's deconfited face. Refusing to back down, he exposed the other arm with a grunt, oblivious to Peter's protests.
"There's no centipede," he stated, finally releasing his hold on Peter.
"I can see that," the seated agent replied, not letting any emotion transpire. "Sorry about that, kid, we had to make sure. Your spider gimmick is quite misleading."
"It's not a gimmick," Peter muttered, before asking louder: "And what is Centipede?"
Was it something he had to worry about?
"It totally is," the agent commented playfully. "And it's none of your concern."
"Is that why you were following me? Because you thought I was with that organization or whatever it is?"
"It's classified. So, tell us… if you're not with Centipede, then where do your abilities come from? Were you born with them?"
Peter vowed not to say a single word after that, refusing to give anymore info to Hydra. He managed to stay mute throughout the assault of personal questions both S.H.I.E.L.D agents threw at him, every single one Gun Guy asked a confirmation that he didn't buy Peter's stance on the Centipede subject. Peter ended up slouching back on the table, ignoring both men. If he were to break out of here soon, he might as well make the best of his time to gather his strength back. Even Gun Guy slamming his hand the table couldn't rise Peter out of his apparent slumber. He didn't sleep though; he still had to stay aware enough to keep his mask stuck to his head. But boy did it feel good to finally relax his muscles.
The men clearly got the message. The chair in front of him scraped the ground as the agent got up, deciding they would resume the interrogation later. But before he could take a single step, the door of the room opened, immediately filling it with a new feminine voice.
"There was a sighting of the —oh. I see you already bored him to death, Ward. That has to be a new record."
"We told you not to enter the interrogation room, Skye," Gun Guy replied, irritated, before he tried to defend himself. "And Coulson did most of the talking. Not me."
Peter couldn't hold back a smile. He could only like this lady if she was able to grate on Gun Guy's nerves in two sentences top. But then his mind caught up with Ward's words. Something was bothering him, but he just couldn't quite place it.
"Skye, focus," the older agent scolded.
"Right, sorry. The lady in the flower dress was caught on camera. Should I call—"
It finally hit Peter.
"Wait a minute," he interrupted, sluggishly pushing himself back to a more respectable sitting position. "Your name is Coulson? As in agent Coulson?" There was a beat as all eyes turned to him. Peter observed the man, confused. "But… aren't you supposed to be dead?"
The strange stillness that fell over all three S.H.I.E.L.D agents told Peter he was deadeye.
"How do you know that? He's not supposed to know that, right?" Skye asked first to Peter, then to her boss.
An ominous coldness settled over the man's features.
"No, he is not. How do you know about me?
Of course Tony had told Peter the story of how the Avengers came to be. More than a few times. Tony never glazed over the legendary sacrifice of the well-loved agent Coulson, just as he never failed to raise a toast to him.
"Answer the question, kid."
"I…"
If the man in front of him was really Coulson, then… Could he actually trust him? He knew that not every S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was Hydra, but the wariness he had showcased until now was born out of his inability to tell who was who. Yet, if this man was actually Coulson, then maybe… maybe he had found an ally.
"Alright, I'll talk. But to you only. No one else. And no recording devices."
Once more, Peter found himself alone in the detention room. Coulson and his team had left to discuss privately whatever it was that Skye agent had announced.
With nothing else to distract himself but the sound of his own thoughts, Peter started to doubt his decision to talk to Coulson. It didn't sound like such a good idea in retrospect: despite Tony's singing praises of the agent, could Peter really trust someone who faked his own death? If he really was that good of a man, then how come he hid the fact that he survived the seemingly fatal wound he received during the Battle of New-York from the Avengers? No matter how he turned the issue in his mind, Peter couldn't help the growing distrust he felt towards the agent.
Quickly enough, he decided that, instead of dwelling on which side of the coin Coulson was standing, his time would be better spent trying to free himself. Slowly, he could feel that the I.C.E.R. was wearing off. Not bothering to hide his escape attempts anymore, Peter could freely put all of his strength into it. Sticking his feet to the ground, he pulled and pulled. The sound of a screw snapping at the base of the hook holding his manacles was a very satisfying one, but the effort got him heaving. It was frustrating to know that in his normal state, he could have snapped the chain with a simple flick of his wrist. Peter allowed himself a few seconds to gather his strength back.
He was about to return to pulling when the door opened.
"Please, don't break our table," Coulson casually asked as he let himself in. "The big boss doesn't like it much when we damage his toys."
This time he was alone. Closing the door behind him, he returned to his seat in an almost unconcerned manner. He looked up to a small surveillance camera in the top corner of the room, giving it a curt nod. When the red light went off, he finally turned his attention to Peter.
"Alright. Time to talk. How do you know about me?"
"I…"
There wasn't the slightest tingle of his spider-sense; Coulson had upheld his part of the bargain in that no recording device was on. Yet, despite all the conditions having been cleared, despite his senses giving him the green light to proceed, Peter couldn't let go of the doubts that had been swirling in his mind for the last fifteen minutes.
So he replied with another question.
"Why did you fake your death?"
"You haven't answered me."
"You first."
Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, visibly understanding that there was no getting around Peter's stubbornness if he wanted results.
"I didn't fake it. I wasn't really given a choice in the matter. Now your turn."
This didn't satisfy Peter. But judging by the agent's tone, he doubted he would get anymore in depth an answer than that. He had to think, and quick. The agent's patience wouldn't stretch indefinitely, and he couldn't deny that, for once, he was met with an incredible opportunity that could really change the course of the future.
Deciding to trust the ongoing silence of his spider-sense, he opted to push his luck a little further.
"Ok, I'll tell you. But first I need you to make me a promise."
Coulson observed him expectantly, his brow already furrowing in a frown. Peter hurried to elaborate before the agent could decline.
"I need you to tell Tony Stark what I'm going to tell you. At least a part of it."
The agent shook his head.
"I can't do that."
"Why not?" Peter asked, the small hope he didn't know had slowly built up leaving a sudden void as it was squashed.
"I'm supposed to be dead. I can't just show up out of the grave and go exchange pleasantries with Stark."
"I understand where you're coming from. Trust me on that," Peter chuckled darkly. "But this is bigger than you. Or me."
"If it's that important to you I could have someone on my team relay the message."
"No!" Peter exclaimed, mortified at the idea that even part of his story could fall into the wrong ears. "No, it has to be you."
"Why me specifically?"
"Because Tony trusts you."
"But why couldn't you tell him yourself?"
Peter was glad for the mask, as he was sure his face would otherwise read like an open book right now.
"He wouldn't trust it to be true if it came from me. I mean, look at me: I'm a child."
"And what makes you think I would believe you?"
"It's your job to doubt everything, isn't?"
"Touché," Coulson chuckled light-heartedly, before leaning forward. "Alright, kid. I gotta say that you intrigue me. I am a pretty good judge of character and something tells me you're one of the good ones. What I don't understand is what a kid like you would have to hide from if it's not related to Centipede. Something quite big apparently."
"I already told you I wasn't telling you anything unless you promise to tell Tony."
"That's a very specific request, do you know that? Why Stark and not anyone else?"
"Because it has to be him. He's pivotal to the whole thing turning out in our favor. But for that he has to believe it in the first place, hence why the story has to come from someone he knows and trusts. It can't be me."
"You sound like you're trying to prevent the end of the world."
"Not just the world."
There was a beat. Coulson's demeanor changed entirely. He sat up straighter, his shoulders squared.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"I wish I wasn't."
"Kid, I'm sorry to disappoint but if that were true, then I doubt Stark has enough resources to deal with something of that scale."
Pete shook his head.
"On his own? Of course not. But that's not what I'm getting at. I know what you're trying to do, and I can tell you already I'm not gonna bring S.H.I.E.L.D. into this. I'm talking to you, Coulson. The man, not the agent. I'm talking to you because I need you, not S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Listen, kid. If I'm refusing to go talk to Stark for you it's not because of some fear of how Stark might react if he finds out I'm alive. I'm refusing because it's a direct order. I am not to tell anyone who knew me that I'm still around. Yes, I am a man, but I am also S.H.I.E.L.D. first and foremost. If you really want me to go talk to Stark myself, you'll have to be convincing. And you better not forget about the part on how you know me."
Peter knew he had run himself in a corner. He was very tempted to just shut up, wait until the I.C.E.R. wore completely off and just make a break for it. But he needed to win Coulson over. If not to be the mediator with Tony, then at least he could try to have him make sure S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't keep a single trace of his existence.
"Ok. Wanna know what's up? Fine. Let's say I know about some key events in the future and that I'm trying to sway things in our favor. Tony plays an important role in this, even though that role won't come up before another few years. But if he knows early on what's to come, he could prepare accordingly, and that way, we would drastically up our chances of survival."
Coulson's expression conveyed perfectly well how skeptical he was.
"Kid, no one can predict the future."
Peter didn't know for sure what made him say his next words. Maybe it was the I.C.E.R. still messing with him. Maybe he was fed up with being talked down like a child. Maybe, a bit of both?
"It's not a prediction if you've been there. Uh… Not that I have," he corrected hurriedly, realizing the meaning of what he just said.
A strange look crossed Coulson's eyes.
"Are you implying you're from the future?"
"What? No, of course not, I never said that. I mean, me? From the future? That sounds—"
"Because if you were, that would explain quite a lot. Including this."
From the inside pocket of his coat, Coulson pulled out Peter's smartphone.
"That's a pretty hefty piece of technology you have right there."
Peter's eyes widened.
"Wait, you had it all along?"
He was so out of it when they arrested him that he hadn't even realized they had taken Karen from him.
"Don't worry. The thing is pretty secured. Even our resident hacker couldn't get into it." Coulson made a show of examining the object. "But I gotta say, it's not everyday I get to see such an advanced Starkphone. I thought, at first, Stark gave you a prototype. But it's not, is it? You seem to know him on a personal level, yet, from the way you talk about him, I doubt he even knows you. Now," Coulson's gaze focused back on Peter, so sharp it could have cut his mask in half, "you being from the future seems far fetched, I have to admit. But, weirdly enough, it does make sense. It would explain how you know about me, if you were really close to Stark where you're from. It would even explain your experience, and why you're trying to hide. So tell me, kid, who are you? Are you his kid from the future or something?"
Peter threw his hands in the air as high as his restrains allowed him to. Another screw snapped, going completely unnoticed.
"Why does everyone think I'm someone's child? No, he's not my dad," Peter shuddered at the idea. "But let's just say, hypothetically, if I were to be from the future. Then what?"
"Then I guess you better tell me what this is all about. We have the best infrastructures at S.H.I.E.L.D. to contain global threats. Do so, and I might reconsider bringing the whole thing to Stark's attention."
It looked very well like none of them were going to make any progress. Peter categorically refused to reveal anything unless Coulson guaranteed he would talk to Tony, but the agent wouldn't make any promise. Moreover, there was no telling Coulson would uphold his end of the bargain. After going around in circles for longer than it was worth, Peter finally gave up on the feeble idea to take a short-cut with his actual plan via the agent.
However, he still needed to get under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar. And if Coulson was even remotely ready to consider what he had to say, then maybe he could still flip the table by giving him bread crumbs to satiate him.
Peter pondered his next few words with deliberate attention.
"Agent Coulson, I don't think you understand. By the time the end comes, S.H.I.E.L.D. won't be around anymore."
Coulson sat very still.
"What do you mean?"
"In a year from now, S.H.I.E.L.D. will fall. I guess you probably don't know it yet, but HYDRA has been infiltrated in your ranks since the very beginning. They've been slowly gathering power in the shadows, until they have enough to act. They'll attempt a coup sometimes early next year. I don't remember exactly when, but I think it was in spring? Anyway, Captain America and Black Widow will manage to stop them, though, before they can do whatever their evil plan is. But S.H.I.E.L.D. will never really recover afterwards."
Coulson's knuckles were white.
"What kind of joke do you think this is?" he managed to ask in a relatively calm voice despite his apparent outrage.
For a man whose entire life seemed to revolve around the organization, he was internalizing his reaction pretty well. But despite the turmoil it was causing the agent, it was too late for Peter to back down.
"It's not, and I have proof to back me up. Miss Romanov leaked every single classified file on the internet to bring HYDRA's schemes to light. A little heads up though, I don't have all of these files on me, so there's no way I can pass them on to you. But I'm pretty sure I still have access to the profiles of the agents affiliated to HYDRA."
"Let's imagine for a second that what you're saying is true—"
"Which it is—"
"Then Romanov would have leaked her own file as well."
"She did. Agreed, she did some shady things in the past, but she's proved she is worth the second chance she was given more than a few times, so… all good. And she did upload the encrypted version anyways, so by the time it went truly public, she had already been cleared. She didn't get too much backlash."
Coulson examined him, the spark of malice that seemed to inhabit his eyes completely snuffed.
"You'll have to show me that proof of yours."
He sounded reserved, as if he was still refusing to believe him. Peter nodded.
"Sure. Karen? Active discreet mode."
The smartphone's screen laying forgotten next to Coulson suddenly lit up.
"Discreet mode activated," Karen's voice chimed in on speaker.
Better not have Karen spill his name here and there. Coulson raised an eyebrow, looking perplexedly at the phone.
"An A.I., uh?"
"Hey, honestly though, it can't be that much of a surprise for you."
"And you say you're not Stark's kid."
Peter chose to ignore the remark.
"Anyways; Karen, pull up the profiles of all the ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents affiliated with HYDRA."
"Sure thing," the A.I. replied care-free as a roster of names popped on the screen.
Coulson turned his full attention back to the screen, scrolling through a list that was probably a lot longer than what he was expecting. He clicked on a name seemingly at random, checking the info related to that person. Identity, status, picture, history up to 2022 if applicable.
"What I don't understand is why a kid would supposedly have a list of HYDRA agents on his phone."
He clicked out of the profile, and went back to scrolling.
"It's classified," Peter replied smugly.
The look Coulson shot him was almost enough to get him talking.
"Ok, but seriously though. Do you believe me now? I'm all for a good laugh, but even I don't have the patience to elaborate such a prank. There are, what, hundreds of names in there?"
"There are six hundred and thirty-four people on the list," Karen helpfully informed.
"As she just said," Peter completed.
Coulson humphed, only partly listening.
"Also, I can assure you I hadn't planned on being captured. How could I have started to imagine preparing for something like this? I didn't even know you guys were the ones—"
Coulson stopped scrolling, a name catching his attention.
"Ward?" he muttered, taken aback, cutting Pete short in his rant.
Coulson tapped on the profile. Intrigued, Peter leaned forward as a picture appeared.
"…Gun Guy?"
Welp, that explained a lot.
Coulson read carefully through the profile.
"It's marked here that he is deceased. Do you know how it happened?" Coulson asked, reserved, not lifting his eyes from the troublesome information.
"I didn't even know he was on that list. But I must say that I'm not surprised."
When he reached the bottom of the history recap, Coulson turned off the screen. He tiredly rubbed at his eyes.
"I'm gonna need you to transfer me these files."
The moment had come for Peter to play his cards.
"On one condition."
He voluntarily left an expectant pause.
"You don't add me to your database. And, you let me go. No, wait," he frowned, "I guess that makes two conditions then."
Coulson didn't reply, seemingly thinking about it.
"Come on," Peter insisted. "I pretty much admitted already that I am from the future. Imagine what would happen if HYDRA got a hold of me… Not that I intend to talk or something, but they're not exactly known for their gentle ways for brainwashing people. And even if that 'from the future' thing weren't mentioned, I'd still be one more enhanced dude they could target. Honestly, I have enough to worry about as it is."
"I still need to check if these files are authentic."
"Can't you do that once I'm free? I mean, it's not as if you don't know where to find me. I'm not exactly planning on leaving New York any time soon."
"What about your end of the world story you want me to tell Stark?"
Peter shook his head.
"Forget about it. I'll find a way to deal with it on my own. Honestly, you'll have your hands full enough in the foreseeable future with what I just gave you."
A small lifted the corners of Coulson's mouth.
"You're a lot older than you look, aren't you?"
"It's classified."
When Coulson unlocked the manacles, Peter found that the I.C.E.R. had almost completely worn off. His legs were barely shaking when he stood up. The agent led him out of the detention room to a small, cosy-looking communal area. Judging by the very specific shape of the windows, Peter wondered half-jokingly aloud if he was on a plane. To his surprise, Coulson confirmed it.
"But don't worry, we haven't taken to the air. You're still in New-York."
Sectioned off by glass walls, a barely lit room with screens and computers took up a whole corner of the lounging area. Skye, who had been browsing a laptop in one of the coaches, got up and joined them. With her help, they transferred the files Coulson wanted, all the while not making her privy to their content. She was quite friendly, and even more chatty. Now that Peter could see her up close, her face did remind him of someone. Had he seen her on TV or something?
Mid upload, Gun Guy walked in, completely unaware of the news that had transpired about him. Both him and Skye started bickering almost instantly, masking at first the sudden change in atmosphere around Coulson. But Gun Guy seemed to realize eventually that his superior was giving him the cold shoulder.
Once the upload completed, Peter was handed back his phone and accompanied to the exit by the three agents. Walking out on the still dark tarmac, Peter took in a big breath of fresh air. It felt good to be free, and even better to know that he had, hopefully, made an ally. Coulson and Skye bid him a warm goodbye. But Gun Guy hung back. As Peter was walking away, hands in his pockets, his spider-sense flared. He turned just in time to avoid Gun Guy's hand trying to grab his shoulder.
"You. What did you tell him?" Ward snarled.
Peter frowned under his mask.
"What, you afraid or something? What could a small kid like me possibly know about you?"
"I swear, if I find out you've been spreading lies about me…" he growled between his teeth.
Peter had seen many villains in his line of duty, but rare were the people who could look so profoundly cold and menacing without a mask on. He took an involuntary step back, his spider-sense a constant hum of 'watch out'.
"I know how to find you and your loved ones."
"Yeah, good luck with that."
Peter would have loved to pretend he walked casually away, unimpressed; but as soon as he was far enough, he fled as fast as he could.
Peter's mind was in overdrive. He wanted to trust Coulson to take care of the matter internally; after all, seeing how he had not out right arrested his subordinate, he was most likely going to investigate first. But Ward had shown his true face to Peter, revealing the hardened gaze of a killer. He couldn't help but imagine the what if's: what if Ward decided to take care of his team-mate to allow HYDRA to continue crawling around undetected? What if afterwards he went after Peter and found out about his family? About Tony?
The still lucid part of Peter's mind knew nothing would happen; at least not to him. Ward had neither seen his face, nor been able to follow him long enough to find out where he slept… had he?
In his sleep-deprived state, Peter made a rash decision. He needed to tell Tony, just in case his little interference with S.H.I.E.L.D. would precipitate the whole HYDRA thing in their favor. Tony had enough influence to act as a second security blanket if it came to it.
Peter swooped down an alley to retrieve a piece of cardboard. Fan-mail wouldn't do for that kind of sensitive info: Tony would never get it in time, if ever.
As he was about to swing back out, a shuffle resounded somewhere down in the alley. Turning around, Peter saw a homeless man, staring at him.
"I can't believe this," he muttered.
"Uh… Hi?" Peter waved awkwardly.
"Did you just swing in, like Indiana Jones?" he asked.
"I mean, it's New-York, right? Nothing surprising here."
The man chuckled.
"It sure is."
An idea that would save him a lot of time crossed Peter's mind.
"Hey, do you have a sharpie?"
"Uh, sure."
He searched the pockets of his coat, extracted the marker and handed it to Peter.
"Thanks, man."
Peter scribbled on the cardboard and tossed back the sharpie to its owner.
"Have a good night!" he called, before swinging back out.
Without losing any more time, Peter took the direction of the Avengers Tower. As he got closer, he was happy to see that the lights in the lab were off, which wasn't that much of a surprise at such a late hour. Peter silently congratulated Pepper on managing to drag Tony to bed.
Cardboard tucked under one arm, Peter reached the lab window. He switched cartridges in one of his web-shooters for a long-lasting formula, and proceeded to spray down web-fluid on the placard, writing facing inwards, to stick it to the window.
He bent backwards a bit, checking on his handy work. Yup, that would hold long enough. Satisfied, he looked up and froze when movement behind the glass caught his attention.
Inside the darkened laboratory, Tony was waving his hands at him in outrage, shouting unintelligible words. Peter's eyes widened in fear.
"Uh… Don't worry, it won't stain your window," was the only thing Peter managed to stammer, gesticulating at the webbing.
Tony silently moved closer, unrelenting.
"Oh right, you can't hear me," Peter suddenly remembered, almost face-palming.
The light suddenly came on, blinding him.
"Well, that's my cue, I guess?"
Squinting, he waved awkwardly and hurriedly jumped away.
If he had been restless before, it was nothing compared to now. The cringe of having been caught followed him for days afterwards.
Tonight was not a working night. Usually, losing himself in his projects helped Tony ignore his issues, but he found that today, it just wasn't it. He was stuck here in New York in between Avengers missions when all he wanted was the peace and quiet of his home in Malibu. The tower was currently full of his team members for the aforementioned operations, and Pepper had shamelessly left on a business trip, leaving him alone to deal with the hectic team. Usually it would not have been a problem, but the frenzy of the last few days were a bit much, to the point that even the sound of his own thoughts was starting to annoy him.
Sighing, he put down the blowtorch and removed his face-shield, throwing it with a clunk on the table. The suit gauntlet he had been upgrading laid disemboweled, forgotten.
It was time for him to hit back up that "To Watch" list he hadn't touched in weeks; there was nothing like a good movie to drain his mind when he was in this state of unrest. Not feeling in a social mood, Tony chose to not take the risk to go settle in the lounge upstairs, favoring instead to stay in the comfort of his lab and watch the movie on one of the computers.
Settling down in a desk chair, propping his feet up, Tony threatened to dismantle Jarvis' code and restructure the leftovers into an improved excel software if he let anyone disturb him. Turning off the lights and pulling up his To Watch list, Tony decided on a harmless family movie, something as different as possible from anything remotely close to his life. Soothed by the compelling story, Tony fell asleep halfway through it.
A thud woke him up. It wasn't that loud, but the unexpected sound in the silence of the lab was enough to send Tony out of his chair, heart pounding wildly. Instinctively, he reached for the still dismantled gauntlet, before holding back last second when he remembered the state he had left it in. Still in a fight or flight mindset, Tony looked around in search of the origin of the noise, which he located almost immediately.
Honestly, the kid casually hanging outside the window was quite hard to miss. Past the first shock of the impromptu sight, Tony's initial panic morphed into indignation.
"Whoa whoa whoa, hey, what do you think you're doing?!" Tony exclaimed, when he realized they were spray painting on the glass. "Get off my window! You think this is Bushwick or something?"
He accompanied his words with wide movements of his arms, trying to get the kid's attention. When they finally looked up, the way they froze when they saw him was proof enough that they had not expected to be caught red-handed.
"Yes, I'm talking to you!" Tony continued. "Don't just stand there gawking! Get off! Shoo! Leave!"
He got closer, gesturing at them to leave, to no avail. The kid vaguely pointed at the window.
"Don't you make me suit up just for you," Tony warned.
Still the kid seemed to ignore him.
"You know what? Fine. Jarvis, the lights."
"Yes, Sir."
The neons came on, revealing the offender in a better light. Besides his unusual —and questionable— get up, what surprised Tony was that, contrary to his first impression, the kid had not been painting, but had actually been glueing a cardboard to his window instead.
The rascal dared to wave goodbye before he literally threw himself into the void. Tony stayed rooted on the spot, staring blankly at the cardboard, sole remaining sign of the odd encounter.
"What the heck was that?" was all he could ask.
The one night he decided to sit down and relax in front of a movie in the solitude of his lab, someone still found a way to bypass Jarvis to somehow interrupt him. What even was the purpose of having the best A.I. in the world if some random kid with suction cups for feet still found a way to go around it?
He needed to up the security. And a drink.
Tony turned around, heading for the mini-fridge. Bending down, his hand was only inches from the handle when he stopped, hesitating. He did make a promise to Pepper, one he intended to keep. Sighing, he turned to the sputtering coffee machine instead.
It's only when he had a cup to sip on in hand that he walked back to the window with the intention to examine the inscription on the cardboard. Getting close enough to decipher it, he snorted derisively.
The sign was upside down. The kid couldn't even bother to get that right.
But after a good chuckle, the smug smile Tony bore morphed into an expression of concern once he actually focused on the content of the message.
S.H.I.E.L.D. is Hydra
(the nazis)
There was nothing but a small scribble of a spider as a signature. What was the meaning of that?
Tony didn't know what to make of the dubious information relayed on his window; it was just too far-fetched. But even more mysterious was the reason why a kid would climb to the eighty-third floor window just to paste down doubtful ideas at four thirty in morning.
Tony eyed once more the placard and the curious fiber holding it to the window before deciding that it was just too late for this. He gulped down the remainder of his coffee and headed for the elevator. He would deal with the thing later in the day.
Reaching the communal floor, he was only half surprised to find Romanoff sitting at the kitchen table, staring straight ahead of her, a glass of water forgotten in her hand. He didn't acknowledge her, respecting their long established unspoken agreement not to ask questions at this time of the day.
Tony put his cup in the dishwasher and turned to leave. He was about to cross the threshold of the door when he stopped, a thought crossing his mind.
"Hey, let's imagine —hypothetically of course— that S.H.I.E.L.D. would secretly be Hydra. What would you say about that?"
Natasha looked at him tiredly.
"Tony, S.H.I.E.L.D dismantled Hydra in 1945."
"Yeah, I know. That was just a random idea. Forget about it."
She hummed dismissively, her tone encouraging Tony to push the whole idea in a corner of his mind.
He bid her good night and exited the room. He had a long overdue meeting with his bed.
End chapter notes:
Ok, this was a lot longer than anticipated. My chapters average between 8 and 9k words long, but this time we're almost at 14k. I hope it makes up for the wait :') Things have been a bit hectic, to put it simply. So thank you all for your patience and your nice, comprehensive comments 3
Usual thanks to Note for your relevant input, and to AO3 user Jani_Tomb, beta extraordinaire. You guys are awesome 3
And special mention to Booty on Discord who foresaw Peter sticking messages to the lab's windows ;)
Now trivia time!
Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.:
-About the Centipede thing: this won't have any relevance in the rest of this story. This is merely what Coulson and his team are investigating in Agents of Shield season 1, and it's the reason why they took interest in Peter here, thinking he might be related to it.
-0-8-4 reference: in Agents of Shield, 0-8-4 is a code name for anything (or anyone), with unknown origins and potency.
-If you're a fan of the show, you might have noticed that the encounter takes place before Fitz and Simmons developed an I.C.E.R. formula potent enough to affect enhanced people.-Also you might wonder where was Agent Melinda May? In this chapter, Coulson has sent her on another assignment. He didn't want her to work on the case of a child once he understood that Peter was quite young and that he could pose a threat. (Honestly I would have found it interesting to explore how she'd deal with the situation, but AoS is just a cameo and the chapter is already long enough as it is).
Random:
-I realize I never properly explained what resources Peter has access to via Karen, but I assure you it has all been coded a long time ago and is not (that) random. The notes here are already long enough so I won't expend on it this time, but if you have questions or even theories, don't hesitate to ask in the comments :)
-The name of the school, Maria Carbonnell Elementary, was suggested by AyAyron on Discord. Carbonnell happens to be the maiden name of a certain Maria Stark ;) Maria Carbonnell had a foundation that granted fundings to school, hence why the name.
-Side note: the Enforcers (previous chapter) are not my creation! They are in fact one of the firsts opponents Peter ever faced in the comics! I should have mentioned it back then lol
Until next time, see ya!