"Spider-Menace Gone from New York: The End of an Era!"
When it first became apparent that Spider-Man disappeared (vanished, went kaput , with radio silence on all fronts), J. Jonah Jameson had been ecstatic. He'd preached endlessly about how the vanishing of Spider-Man was the end of an era: that the reign of costumed freaks would soon be over, now that their so-called "ringleader" was gone. At first, people agreed with him. Not the everyday person, of course, who walked and lived alongside Spider-Man, but the people who lived above it all. Or, stupidly enough, people who didn't even live in New York. Jameson brought on countless people and so-called experts who recited statistic after statistic trying to prove that Spider-Man had been the cause of the rise in costumed criminals and "freaks."
The Avengers (or, what was left of them) stayed quiet, too, which the news and media took to be approval of Spider-Man's "sudden retirement" (their code phrase for "probable death" because even the news wasn't heartless enough to celebrate a man's death. or maybe they were, but they knew better than to do so, unless they wanted the backlash of all backlashes from the real living people of New York.) despite them never actually saying so.
"The Rhino Robs the Bank of America! Where is Spider-Man?"
Then, as the days stretched into weeks, which became a month and then more, even Jameson had to admit - which he did so over a live broadcast - that the loss of Spider-Man cut deeper than anyone could have ever anticipated. That he could have ever anticipated. Because while Jameson was a lot of things, he at least knew when to admit his own mistakes. After the Rhino robs the fourth bank within two short weeks, Jameson transformed his soapbox of slander into one of genuine news , covering the rising crime rate and asking the question every New Yorker was wondering: where is Spider-Man?
"Six Years of Spider-Man: Our Favorite Spidey Moments"
Of course, those who knew Spider-Man as more than just the mask realized he was gone before anyone else.
The first people to notice Spider-Man's disappearance (that something had gone utterly wrong ) had been the Fantastic Four. Spider-Man missed out on family game night, after all. And maybe - maybe - there might have been an excuse. A reason why he'd flaked. Why Spider-Man no-showed. So they weren't worried - or, at least, they claimed to not be worried, yet no games were played that night, despite it being a weekly tradition for their family even when Spider-Man wasn't there - but still kept their phones beside them. Just in case.
Just in case.
It soon became apparent, however, that something had gone dreadfully wrong.
Because Spider-Man might be flakey at times: might be habitually late because of a ridiculously over packed schedule (although that tended to not be the case these past two or so years (according to Johnny, at least)) or forget a date or get sidetracked doing one of his numerous civilian jobs or by fighting some villain of the week or petty thief… but Spider-Man didn't ignore people. He didn't ignore texts for days on end, and he would always, always , apologize if he genuinely screwed up and missed a meeting or a hang out or anything that had people relying on him. Expecting him.
So when phone calls went unanswered, when no apologies were made…
And it wasn't about the apology - not really. Not at all, even. What was important was knowing that Spider-Man was safe and alive and okay , and then maybe an apology would be nice, just for worrying them when it turned out to be nothing (please, please , let it be nothing!).
"Fire in Queens Kills Two People"
When a fire broke out in Queen - in Spider-Man's turf (in his neighborhood ) - and people actually died…
It struck all of New York that Spider-Man was really gone.
( Gone . Johnny prayed to anything - anyone - that would listen that this wasn't a permanent sort of gone . Gone like Stark, gone like the Widow. Gone like far too many people in Spider-Man's life must be, because Johnny knows his best friend - knows him like no other - and the grief held in Spider-Man's shoulders was far too heavy a burden for one person to bear alone.
Yet, somehow, Spider-Man bore it. Unrelentingly. Bravely. Stubbornly , because would it kill the guy to ask for help?
"So please," Johnny begged, silently, out loud, under his breath, between every heartbeat, "Don't be gone for good. Just for this little while. Please. Please don't leave - not yet, not now. "
Not ever, if Johnny was allowed to be greedy (and oh could he be greedy), but he'd take what he could reach for now and then ask for more later. Another minute, then an hour, then a day, a week, a year, a lifetime.
(Was it possessive to want to claim every second?))
"The Human Torch Spotted in Queens Helping Rescue a Cat from a Tree: What do the Heroes Know About Spider-Man's Disappearance?"
And no one knew what to do.
The Fantastic Four sent out feelers, scrolled through the Spider-Spotter Twitter every other hour, and watched over Queens in Spider-Man's absence.
"A Tribute to Spider-Man"
The second person - although technically the fifth, since the first had been the entirety of Fantastic Four - to notice Spider-Man was gone had been Deadpool ("Wade, call me Wade, Spidey.") after Spidey had failed to meet up with him for their normal Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays (a trademark, according to Deadpool, pending) which consisted of them eating way too much fast food in the early Thursday morning - barring any complications regarding villainy, misfit, tomfoolery, or hijinks.
But that specific Thursday had been quiet on all fronts. Wade checked. There hadn't been any major or minor crimes that would keep Spidey from meeting up with him, and he hadn't called either to back out like he normally would have had something come up in his civilian life. Instead, Spidey was just… gone.
And so when Johnny Storm landed beside Wade on the second Spider-Man-less Thursday, he stood up from his precarious perch, feeling achy in a weird internal way - not from food poisoning or his guts being in the wrong place or his guts being an entirely different room - and asked, "What do we do?"
Johnny didn't know the answer when Spider-Man first disappeared, and he still didn't have an answer now.
Wade graciously (eagerly, even, for they all wanted proof that Spidey was okay as fast as possible) sent out feelers of his own, which were much less legal than the Fantastic Four's but were also exactly what they - the "Find-Spidey-Squad" - needed.
Wade also called Daredevil.
"Deadpool seen Alongside the Fantastic Four: Trouble in New York?"
Daredevil - Matt - was a special kind of fearsome when provoked. "The voice of logic" Wade's left ass-cheek , because that guy knew how to get Shit Done and get it done well , while also being utterly immoral and unethical in the same breath. Perhaps it was that sort of fierceness that drove a respectable lawyer to do disrespectful things in the dead of night, wearing a mask of the devil and smiling like one, too.
But even he couldn't find Spidey.
And if Matt- fucking- Murdock can't find someone, then they're truly all fucked.
"Increasing Number of Information Brokers being Arrested in New York: All Claim that the Devil Found Them"
They made a group chat. It went unnamed. Spidey had always been the one to come up with the names of stuff. Not group chats, but everything else.
Spidey didn't have a smartphone, after all - just an old ratty flip phone that they'd all seen him treat with a desperate sort of delicacy, despite the damn thing being practically unbreakable - so there was never a reason to have a group chat before. Spidey would call if he needed them.
Which… was rarely ever. But then again, even if he did need them, Spidey would have to be held at gunpoint and threatened with death to even bother with trying to reach out. Which had happened. He'd been shot. The only reason anyone ever found out about that incident is because Spidey had canceled Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays , and when Wade had demanded an explanation, Spidey meandered around the truth while not exactly telling a lie either, which then, obviously , led to Wade breaking into police records. Honestly, it was the most reasonable next step when it came to Spidey. The bitch didn't have a life anywhere else. Upon finding a bragging statement to the police from some petty-ish (they weren't really petty - the dude was actually some semi-big-time crook who'd managed to get the jump on Spidey - but Wade was petty, so let him be mean , damnit) criminal bragging about shooting "The Spider-Man!" because the punk had been too proud to call for backup when given the opportunity. The asshole had in the middle of gleefully retelling the story of roughing up Spider-Man to the other inmates when Wade had unexpectedly "dropped in" and "roughed him up a little" in return. And also broken some (read: many) bones.
All's fair in love and messing with Spider-Man. The rat had apparently gassed Spidey and been in the process of threatening a child, no fucking wonder the ass could get some hits in.
Point being , Spidey never called anyone ever and so they - meaning, all the people who care about Spidey - call him instead. Everyone except for Wade has gotten really good at pretending not to notice how surprised and awestruck Spidey seemed every time someone wanted to see him outside of (and even in) a "work setting," as Spidey always called it.
("Work setting" Wade's right ass-cheek. Spidey always got all righteously indignant when someone calls being a vigilante a duty or a job . Told this one rookie, once upon a time, to "Get the fuck out of here, then, if you're just gonna treat this shit like a job. These are people's lives . Not a statistic, or a chore, or a task . It's an honor to be trusted. Don't treat it like a goddamn ball and chain, because otherwise you'll sink , with innocent people strung along with you."
Even the veteran vigilantes felt cowed in the face of Spidey's disappointed face, of his shame at being associated with people who treat being a vigilante - who treat helping people - like a sort of twisted obligation.
Spidey was The Veteran, though, so it made sense. Maybe most of the vigilantes who roamed New York were older than him age-wise, but Spideys been doing this shit for six years now. There was this look he has in his plastic covered eyes - the way he holds himself like he's sixty and tired and not someone who should have still been a kid , by all means - that told a story… no, that told a truth none of them could bear.
But it was his truth - his history - and he bore it all the same.)
"Growing Number of Vigilantes Spotted in Queens: the Punisher Claims they are 'Here to do their Part' in a Brief Exchange with Reporter Betty Brant"
Alas: back to the group chat.
It existed. And as the days and weeks wore on, it grew. There were group chat offshoots . There were offshoots of offshoots . There were Twitter communities and conspiracy theories and civilians and neighbors all asking the same question: Where the hell was Spider-Man?
No one had an answer.
Then, Spider-Man showed up.
He was a kid. An honest-to-god kid, wearing a Spider-Man suit that bore way-too-close of a resemblance to the way Spidey had sewn his own bright spandex monstrosity, but in a tasteful black and red that screamed stealth and had fucking built in knee and elbow pads .
A kid.
A kid who, upon being cornered by three Big Fucking Names in the vigilante and hero community (namely: Deadpool, the Human Torch, and Daredevil) squared up his shoulders and said, without any prompting, "Someone has to do it."
"What it Means to be Neighborly: Interviews with People Spider-Man has Saved"
The Human Torch was glaring at him. Him , Miles Morales. Him , Spider-Man (sort of). Him , who'd never really done this before. Him , who'd heard Spidey tell stupid stories about the Human Torch burning his own clothes off far too many times.
Miles - he was Spider-Man , after all! - took a deep breath. He could do this.
"What?" His voice cracked. Miles wanted to dive into the Earth and bury himself alive.
"Why are you dressed like that ? And who are you? " The Human Torch questioned harshly, and Miles really wanted Deadpool to stop thumbing the gun at his hip.
Acting dumb would get Miles nowhere, and so he answered with the truth instead, in spite of everything Spidey had ever told him, "Spider- uh. Man. Spidey . No wait."
They were on a rooftop. If the Human Torch wasn't capable of flight and Deadpool wasn't a dead shot , Miles might have entertained the idea of trying to run away, "Okay, starting over. I'm Spider-Man, but I'm not Spidey . Y'know?"
Of course they know , Morales! Get it together!
"And Spidey's been, uh, training me. Or, he was. Took me under his wing. I got bit like him. I'm- I'm like him, with the freaky spider and the powers and the extra senses and the-" They get it, Morales, stop stalling! "And yeah. I haven't had my powers for too long, so he's been teaching me about how to use them. So far, I've only gone out on patrol with him, and I've been delegated to the lookout but. But. Y'know. Someone has to be Spider-Man. So I'll be him."
Daredevil visibly bristled and Miles backtracked, "Not- not him- him. I can't ever be Spidey. But I can be Spider-Man and I can protect Spidey's neighborhood and. And I can't just stand by. Not anymore. I promised Spidey I would be smart about this - he… he always got nervous about me doing stuff on my own when I'm still so new but never stopped me either, just… just supported me and watched out for me and was there , somehow, even when he didn't have to be. And I don't wanna believe he's gone but if he is gone then someone has to be Spider-Man. The city… The city needs Spider-Man. And I'm not him, but I'm the closest one to it. There's no greater honor than being Spider-Man - than helping people, than being… being trusted to do the right thing - and I can't let… I can't let his teaching go to waste. I refuse to let that happen."
Somehow, despite having a full mask, Deadpool's face showed the most emotion. Or maybe Miles was finally starting to see what Spidey always talked about - how he could see too much , too closely - because Deadpool looked absolutely stricken . But still, he laughed despite his obvious discomfort and dropped his hand from the gun, then threw his arm around Mile's shoulders, "Alrighty then, Spider-Man."
One of Deadpool's arms entirely drowned Mile's frame, and even with his enhanced strength it felt difficult to stay upright under the overbearing weight. The pressure. The expectations . Miles wasn't sure if he was talking about the physical force of Deadpool's arm anymore, although it was certainly heavy and unbalancing.
(How did Spidey ever manage it?)
Daredevil looked away with a scoff, although he didn't rebuke Miles for his wandering tongue and presumptuous statements. It felt like approval, almost, if only because of the potentially fond curve of Daredevil's mouth.
The Human Torch stayed blank, although he did nod once, "Okay. You're Spider-Man. But if we're gonna let Spidey's kid run around the city then you're sure as hell going to have backup. You got a phone? I'll put in all our numbers."
When Miles handed over his smart phone with the contacts app open, the Human Torch stilled. He held the phone like it was a bomb, murmured something about flip phones and burners and naivety . He looked closer at Miles, and it felt like he could see under the mask, somehow, "You don't mind being called a kid?"
Shrugging, Miles scrunched up his nose, "I mean, I dunno. I'm younger than you so I guess I'm a kid. You aren't wrong . Why should I have a problem with it?"
The three older heroes or vigilantes or veterans or something (Spidey had tried to explain the difference - tried to explain how the difference meant something to some people - but Miles hadn't gotten it . He still didn't get a lot of the things that Spidey had been trying to prepare him for, but that just meant that Spidey had to get home faster, so he could help Miles understand one day.) looked at one another with a dawning sort of realization.
"Kid," Daredevil tested out the word (remembered calling Spidey that, over a year ago, and had watched a concrete wall get destroyed mere seconds after), "Spidey hasn't been teaching you how to be Spider-Man."
"Eh?" Miles reared back. Or, well, he would have, had Deadpool not been right there , "No! He has! He trusts me with Spider-Man, I promise! I- I- He has to have trusted me!"
"Easy," Deadpool soothed, his softer tone at odds with his domineering personality and form and the filth which usually sprung from his mouth, "Red's bad with words. It ain't that Spidey doesn't trust you. He does. But the fact is he really wasn't teaching you how to be like him, but rather…"
Daredevil picked up from where Deadpool trailed off, the mercenary lost in thought, "He's trying to keep you from ending up like him. Spidey… seems like he wants you to be better."
"Better?" Miles echoed. Impossible. No one could be better at being Spider-Man than Spider-Man!
"Better," The Human Torch affirmed, and some life seemed to spark back in him, "Because our Spidey's a kind one. For him, being Spider-Man made being a kid impossible. Made it feel stifling. He wants better for you. So we're all gonna do right by him. We'll keep you safe, kid. We'll make sure you can be the Spider-Man that Spidey wants you to be."
And. Well. Miles wasn't one to turn away help when freely offered. Wasn't one to feel ashamed about asking for help - not when Spidey had always made it so abundantly clear that no question was ever a stupid question, that no confusion or necessity should ever go unaddressed - in the first place either.
"Thanks! I really appreciate it!"
Miles hesitated, bit his lip, and contemplated, "You- you don't know Spidey outta mask, right?"
The lack of an answer was an answer in and of itself.
"Would- would knowing it help?"
Three sets of eyes whipped around to stare intently at Miles, and he tried not to shrink back under the pressure, "I'll take that as a yes?"
"You know?" The Human Torch's bare face - something that had been plastered on gossip magazines and channels and been the face of some modeling agency or another since forever - had never looked so real . So honest. So desperate.
"Sorta. He- he made me promise not to look him up, and didn't tell me his name, but he gave me his address in case of emergencies. And I know his face outside of the mask, 'cause I'd knock on the window to get his attention and he'd always answer if he was in. I never went inside, except for once when-" Miles coughed, interrupting himself forcefully, "But yeah. I know where he lives. I looked for him there - I've gone every other day in case he shows up - but nothing. Maybe you can find more than me. I wasn't sure if it was right to- to pry. And figure out who he is, since he made me promise and all. But this has gone on for too long, and his landlord is getting mad. I know 'cause I went on the door side, too, to knock and stuff, and there was an eviction notice set for next week. Which is another reason why I'm out - I was hoping you'd find me. Because… Because I think there would be nothing worse for Spidey to come back to than his home being gone."
"I'll take care of it," The Human Torch offered instantly, "Don't worry. But I want to see Spidey's place first. So-" and now the man was uncertain, all his intensity flying out of him, "So lead the way."
"Spider-Man Gone from New York: The End of an Era [Revised]"
"You really are like Happy, huh?"
Peter's own words bounced around in his head.
He had yet to hang up the phone, and even though it felt like grasping at straws, Peter wouldn't - couldn't - let this phone call slip through his fingers. This opportunity .
"What makes you happy?" And now, Peter wasn't talking about his Happy. Instead, Peter meant the emotion. He meant happiness as in something that is joyful and wonderful and kind.
Alfred's response was immediate, answering with a soft puff of laughter, "Cleaning dirty floors."
"What? Why?"
"In the beginning of my working at Wayne Manor, cleaning the floors didn't strike me in any certain way," Alfred's calm voice felt like settling into bed, with May reading him a bedtime story after a nightmare, a soothing hand running through his hair and never ever judging, "Cleaning was simply a task, and one that had to be done. However, when the late Mister and Missus Wayne were still alive, and when Master Bruce was still a boy, they would never take off their shoes after coming inside. So they would track mud and dirt and whatnot all throughout the manor, and I would have to clean it."
Alfred fell silent for a moment, contemplative, "After the Mister and Missus Wayne passed, there was so much less to clean. Master Bruce didn't leave at first, or do much of anything anymore, and so there were no longer any outdoor messes on the bottom of his shoes being tracked inside. I never again saw the dirty scuffs from Missus Wayne's heels or the point of Mister Wayne's shoe on freshly cleaned floors. I had less to do, sure, yet it was only because a tragic loss had made it so. But then," Alfred's voice turned fond, "Master Bruce brought Master Dick into our household. And suddenly the floors were dirty again. That child!" It was said scoldingly, but there was not a single regretful note in Alfred's voice, "He could dirty up a house like no other. The manor was alive once more, with new shoe prints - big and little, side by side - and I felt happy."
Sighing, Alfred's voice was both longing and the tiniest bit mournful, "As the manor goes through stages of dirty and clean floors, I find myself happiest whenever there is a mess. That means the manor is alive and full of the children's voices - that I will never find myself utterly alone , and nor will they."
"Oh."
What else was there to say? Oh .
"What makes you happy, lad?" Alfred asked in return. A tightness and dark sort of growth that had been festering in Peter's chest laid loose its tight grip, and Peter could breathe again, "I don't know," he admitted quietly.
It felt safe to admit such a truth with Alfred. It would have been safe with Happy, unquestionably. And so Peter trusts his gut and his senses, lets himself feel vulnerable. Alfred does not disappoint, "That's quite alright, lad. There is no need to point to one specific thing that provides you with happiness. It can be a lot of things all together, or nothing specific at all, or anything and everything in between."
What a vague outline
Yet -
"Then I think… yeah," Peter gathered some courage, smiling just a little bit, "I think it's somewhere between everything and nothing."
Wade would roll his eyes at that answer and say something snarky back. Johnny would teasingly call him a poet. Jason wouldn't say anything. All of those would be enough.
Happy would say-
No. Alfred said:
"That's a wonderful place to start, and a wonderful place to end, if need be. When asking a question about happiness, it is our hearts and souls that know the answer - not our minds. Be patient. Your answer will come."
"Thanks."
"No," Alfred replied honestly, "Thank you ."
Breakfast with Granny Gun was, as normal, quiet, save for the clinking of silverware and sound of the coffee maker. Granny Gun, bold and uncowed by most common social conventions, liked quiet breakfasts. At least, Peter was pretty sure she did. The old lady was actually pretty difficult to get a read on, if Peter was being honest. But she seemed most at ease when neither of them talked, save for the quiet, "Thank you, luv," that she always offered upon finishing her food and standing up.
Peter felt useful. He quite liked the feeling of being useful: of being appreciated.
It felt good.
After breakfast, Peter grabbed his gear bag, hid his money and cameras, and headed out for the day, shouting a goodbye to Granny Gun as he left. It should have been rude - it would be rude with anyone else - but that's just how they worked. The rare times she'd leave the house, Granny Gun would yell "I'm leavin'! Don't burn my house down!" - so in return Peter had started shouting, upon leaving the house himself, "I'm leaving! Don't burn your house down!"
Even if Peter wasn't Peter , he still would be able to hear the loud, cackling laughter that overtook the old lady every time Peter left. The first time she'd laughed, Granny Gun had stumbled into a heaving and wet coughing fit, throat unused to laughing. Peter had waited outside the house, ears straining, to make sure that she'd be alright before leaving. Since then, the coughing fits afterward had gotten less frequent, and the scrape of her voice was starting to disappear. Granny Gun got used to laughing again, and sometimes that felt like Peter's proudest accomplishment in this world.
This time, Granny Gun didn't cough. Her laugh echoed throughout the empty halls and semi-barren rooms, and Peter wondered what would happen to her if he managed to go home. The thought hurt, and so Peter didn't linger on it, instead focusing his attention on his original intention for leaving the house: some daytime vigilante work.
As usual, Peter didn't set out with any specific intentions. In spite of his previous promises (both to himself and- and his friends) to stop being so impulsive and actually plan things through… Peter had no intention of actually doing so. Why would he? Because having a plan meant that Peter's anxiety and feelings of helplessness didn't skyrocket the moment he had the tiniest bit of downtime? Ha! Funny.
So Peter - who was definitely not growing increasingly concerned with every patrol that his sporadic route and lack of consistency would make people feel uncared for if he didn't show up regularly - did as he normally did: followed his danger sense and, in moments when he could sense no danger, listened closely to the voices of the people around him.
The residents of Gotham didn't exactly trust him, not really, but they'd at least gotten used to the sight of a strange person in a zip up Minecraft hoodie going around and helping people for free, so slowly and steadily, they started asking for help.
"Hey, green-boy! Gimme a hand with moving my couch, eh?"
"Mista Green! My cat got out. Can y'find him?"
"Hey! Hey! Help me throw this bag away!"
"Oi, weirdo, can ya hold up my car while I change the tire? Forgot my jack."
They'd seen his odd exertions of strength from time to time, seen his seemingly limitless upper weight limit - knew that he could pack a punch bigger than what should be physically possible - and therefore adjusted their needs accordingly. For the most part, Peter lifted heavy things in the downtime between his danger sense pinging. Moved junk, helped fix flat tires, lifted anything that needed to be lifted. It was all in a day's work and nothing too strenuous, so Peter said Sure and Of course and Happy to help! every time. And he was - happy to help, that is. Sometimes (more frequently than Peter expected) folks tried to give him money for helping out. An old grandmother who he'd helped carry groceries for tried to give him a five dollar bill. A frazzled couple, worn and harrowed by the stress of taking care of a new infant, tried to pay him twenty dollars for entertaining their seven year old and four year old from across the street (Peter wouldn't dare approach someone else's kids without a parent's permission! May had drilled that into him: that the only thing more dangerous than an actual criminal, in a parents mind, was strangers near their children.) as he pantomimed different animals and they gleefully guessed what they were for upwards of thirty minutes, while the exhausted mother took a nap and the father rocked the infant on the steps on their brownstone, watching his two other children with keen, but soft, eyes.
A stressed college student tried to give Peter her cakepop after she nearly dropped her coffee and Peter caught the cup for her. A father sobbed in Peter's arms after Peter sprinted into the road and grabbed the man's young daughter from where she'd wandered into the middle of the street and nearly got hit by a car in the process. He'd tried to offer money, a meal, anything , but Peter just shook his head and smiled, even though he knew the man couldn't see it, "I'm just being neighborly," is all Peter offered, patting the daughter on the head while she giggled at his silly outfit.
Over the course of a few weeks, Peter managed to build up a sort of reputation .
"Did ya hear? Miss Green was seen down by the docks yesterday - one of the metal cargo containers fell while being transported and she caught it. Saved a dock worker from being crushed."
"Y'hear about Mister Green? Saw him at the Bronskey's for half the afternoon yesterday babysitting their kids. Mrs. Bronskey tried to pay him for it but he waved her off. What a good lad."
"Have you seen the news! Mista Green's on TV! He's all bloody!"
It - "it" being Peter's growing reputation and stature among the everyday people of Gotham - all culminated in something in what was afterwards deemed "The Wayne Enterprises Fire." The name, of course, comes from the fact that Wayne Enterprises had been, quite literally, on fire .
Peter - or Mister/Miss/Mista Green, as people have taken to calling him, for some reason (certainly not because of his bright green Minecraft creeper hoodie… certainly not that…) - had been helping an elderly man with his groceries (always old people and groceries, huh? well, if it was neighborly-) when his danger sense started blaring at him. As in a red alert, red alert, things are about to go to fucking shit so get moving Parker! type of blaring. So far, Peter had refrained from using his webs - grappling hooks and superb strength were one thing, but his webs? Peter feared those would bring too much attention his way, and make him far too noticeable. Plus, even though technically Peter had the money to buy the necessary materials to make more webs, he didn't really have the whole… lab to do so in, nor could he get rid of the white-knuckle possessive grip his heart had on everything he owned. To swing on his webs was to leave the webs behind, and there was nothing Peter could afford to leave behind.
But!
But the danger was imminent and deadly , and lives were at stake, so unthinkingly (even if he had been thinking, Peter still would have done the same exact thing) Peter scanned the area for someone who didn't make his gut sink inside of him and handed the kind (if a wee bit cranky) old man's groceries to them, "Please make sure he gets home safe with those! I'm trusting you!" and then extended his arm, shot the web, and swung . Gasps followed Peter down the street as he gained height and speed. Muscle memory took over, and it was like Peter had never stopped flying. The webshooters were in perfect condition (Peter always checked them every morning, and did whatever maintenance was necessary with the few tools he had, since Peter couldn't afford to have his webshooters not be in perfect condition) and suddenly Spider-Man was back in action.
Peter swung around though Gotham, letting the tugging in his gut (it was almost nauseating, how strong this feeling of danger was) guide him. Wayne Enterprises came into sight and Peter's senses subsequently screamed at him right as a shockwave and blast of fire and heat tore through the side of the building on one of the top floors.
But Spider-Man was back in action - was in action, currently - so Peter barely paused in his swing, only aimed his next web higher as a course correction. Peter's split second assessment of the building guesstimated it to be roughly fifty stories tall, with the explosion located on the second floor from the top. It had been a blast outward, thankfully, rather than inward, which might have killed a lot more people and destabilized the building even further. There was a gaping hole in the side of the building because of the explosion, partially destroying the floors directly above and below the originating floor, too. The buildings wouldn't fall, but evacuation was mandatory, and would need to be carried out swiftly.
Fires tend to cause a lot of issues, after all.
Firefighters and emergency services should be arriving soon, Peter thought to himself, landing lightly on the floor that the explosion originated on through the new doorway, ears straining for the sounds of life on his current floor and the two surrounding him. He'd focus his evacuation on the current floor he was on, Peter decided, seeing as it was the place most dramatically affected by both the explosion and subsequent fire
The smoke was heavy already and the heat soaked through Peter's layers, but he couldn't afford to hesitate. There were lives on the line. As he was entering the building, something else was going out through the hole made by the explosion, but Peter knew he couldn't pay any mind to that. Someone had likely broken into Wayne Enterprises and made a very flashy escape, but whatever they were doing would have to be handled at a later date. There were people dying here - he could hear them dying - and that took a far greater precedence.
Fuck . He couldn't prioritize the dead, not yet, if there were in fact dead bodies in the area most central to the explosion. While the bomb had created a hole - and a hasty exit - out the side of the building, its location of origin was further in than Peter anticipated, making the damages far more extensive than he'd originally thought. He couldn't hear any signs of life near the origin of the blast. He couldn't save them. Not yet. Not when the living were still here. The building's alarms were blaring - Evacuate the building! Evacuate the building! Evacuate the building! - and he could hear people doing so farther away. Luckily, it seemed the floor Peter was on had been largely labs or for research and development, and it had been lunch time, too, which meant there weren't as many people caught in the blast as there could have-!
As gently as he could, Peter grabbed the body of a woman. He could hear her heartbeat. There was another person nearby. Labmates, probably, or at least close coworkers, most likely skipping lunch to work on a breakthrough. Peter didn't have enough hands. He manhandled the other person onto his back and kept going. There were more. Peter ripped doors off their hinges, tore the legs off of desks, and dragged a morbidly long sled of bodies behind him. There were nine people. All unconscious. One died.
Peter kept going, following the sound of thunderous footsteps, and finally - finally - burst into the emergency stairwell. People from this floor and the one above that had been away from the blast were flooding down - there were offices further up, more people further up, Peter gathered, and thanked fuck that the blast hadn't been centralized there instead.
Someone noticed him. They cried out, "Oh god!"
Peter's voice stayed steady. Firm. In control, "These people need medical attention! If you're capable, grab someone and go . There are more people still stuck. I'll get them."
A man - broad shouldered, strong, capable - had been directing the people down the stairs, trying to keep them calm and in order and keeping wannabe heroes from the destroyed floor. He kept them from heading into the blaze and killing themselves in the process. He was saving their lives. He looked at Peter - at the blood and smoke that coated Peter's jacket, at the green that still shone past the grime - and barked, "I'll take care of this! Keep evacuating!"
Nothing else needed to be said, so Peter went back (the blaze spread slower than it would have in an office setting, thankfully, with the labs linoleum floors and empty spaces) and found more people. He brought them back to the stairwell for evacuation. The air was thick with smoke and the broad shouldered man now had a rebreather. He gave one to Peter, and Peter didn't hesitate to unzip the hood of his jacket and pull his ski mask up over his mouth, sucking in the oxygen slowly despite how his lungs screamed.
"The undamaged sides of these top three floors should be clear."
Peter nodded. He left. He came back. More bodies. More were dead than alive this time, but at least there were some who still lived. The man wasn't there, but firefighters were, and some took the victims while others braved the spreading blaze with Peter, and it was easier now. He could locate the people that were alive better than the firefighters. He could move the rubble that crushed them. He could give the bodies - the people - to the firefighters and then keep going. Peter's hands were burnt. Blistered. His socks had melted and stuck to the skin on the bottom of his feet. Peter wanted to rip off the ski mask, but it was somewhat protecting his skin.
Peter went back. The man was there again. He said, "I cleared the floor above this, and the firefighters got the floor below. This one clear?"
"Yes," Peter lied, "Go down. I'll be right behind you."
The man was suspicious, protested, "I'll be behind you . Go first."
So Peter moved before the man could, hit before the man could, and the broad shouldered soldier slumped into Peter's arms, who handed him off to a firefighter, "I'm going to get the bodies closest to the blast. You all get out of here."
They protested. Peter left anyway, and knew they wouldn't follow.
The news that night ran warning after warning about triggering content and blurred out half of it in the process. Still, the image of a person in a once-green Minecraft hoodie lowering themself to the ground from a fifty plus story descent, a carefully woven net filled with dead bodies held tightly in one hand while the other left a bloody trail down the side of the building, paired gruesomely with bloody footprints on either side of the trail, could never be entirely censored. Nor would it ever be forgotten.
A middle aged man who, for the first time today, helped a stranger with their groceries swore to himself to always help those around him as he watched Mister Green's feet touch the ground. He made a promise to be neighborly. To be kind. The half rolled up ski mask couldn't hide Mister Green's wince. Burns blistered this stranger on his television, and somehow they didn't fall down. They looked around, noticed the camera, and stared dead into it despite the distance. The middle aged man felt a chill run up his spine, a shiver down to his very essence, and only now Mister Green swayed, then crumpled, a pile of limbs that only now all were realizing were not only charred and destroyed, but youthful and slim.
No one caught Mister Green before he hit the ground with a crack that could be heard even over the television, too shocked by his retrieval of the bodies of the dead - people who would have been mourned with caskets forever empty - and his strength to even comprehend the idea that perhaps, just maybe, this hero could fall too.
The news stations called him a mysterious wannabe Batman. The police called him a hero who saved the lives of over thirty people, and whose actions had brought back the bodies of nearly every person who had been caught in the blast. The wealthy called him charming. The people of Gotham called him Mister Green, their neighbor.