This chapter is one of my loose concerns regarding the rating. In the future I'm hoping not to have such scenes, but there might be similar stuff depending how things play out.

Long Island was burning. Literally, not figuratively. Whatever had happened during those initial four days had sparked everything into an inferno. Access into the city was curtailed from the closest bridge, and evacuations from the borough had been put into place. Soup kitchens had gone into overdrive and medical facilities had also started accepting volunteers to help out with the slew of injuries that the constant gunfights and bombings had created.

Cindy methodically cleaned the injuries of yet another person who had been caught by the shrapnel of an exploding building. It wasn't too bad this time. Just a bunch of what would ultimately be cosmetic damage alongside some pains during certain movements from the resulting scar tissue. It was certainly the less gruesome of injuries she'd helped with the past hour or so.

It was surreal, how quickly things had changed. In the wake of her loss, Doctor Octavius had given her (and subsequently Peter) leave for several days. As an intern, she was lucky enough to not be overly critical to any projects, but that luck was as much a blessing as it was a curse.

The first day she had done nothing but sit around the house, idly cleaning things and ordering takeout. Peter had been gone the entire day and when she'd tried to call him he'd revealed he'd gone off to do Spider-Man things. Day two had been entirely different. She'd forced Uncle Ben to take a shower, dress up, and pushed him into the passenger seat of the car and driven him to one of the hospitals for volunteer work.

Day Three had MJ (and surprisingly Flash) accompanying them to the same hospital (who had thusly directed them to a pop up medical site). Day four had much of Midtown's sport teams joining them and entering a shift cycle of helping with supplies at various sites or aiding the doctors and nurses with patient care.

But none of those days had Peter joining them.

She knew exactly where he was. He'd spent one night almost getting yelled at by Uncle Ben were it not for her intervention and presentation of his injuries of helping around ruined buildings, and by the next morning he'd left with breakfast cooked and a note saying he was off to help some more.

Social media and conversation from patients talking about 'that Spider-Man fellow' let her know Peter was still relatively safe.

"Cindy, break time."

She looked up and stared at MJ blankly for a few moments, blinking away the fugue state she'd lost herself in. "Is it that time already?" Cindy looked around the tent. Theirs was meant for those with non-life threatening injuries; things that could be handled by those with adequate medical knowledge and supervised only only by a single nurse or two. It did mean that lots of paperwork was required and in the name of efficiency, Cindy had kept all of her papers annotated as opposed to properly filled out, to be completed down the line when she had quiet moments like however long the past hour had gone. She quickly finished up her current page before storing it away and standing up with a stretch. "Where are the boys?"

"Went with Uncle Ben to another site to help with supplies."

MJ gave her a tiny smile-laugh as she stretched out once more, a few cracks sounding out. "You think other schools are getting recognition like this?" Cindy asked quietly, leading the way outside. "Haven't seen many other teens helping out."

"I think some other schools are helping out. Mostly in the way of donations." They both stopped as an ambulance drove past, its sirens rising and lowering in pitch with its proximity. "I think what Midtown is doing is better. Not just because we're actually interacting with the community, but because all the guys that would normally be stuck up one way or another are all changing from what they're seeing."

"Forced to grow up," Cindy remarked, thoughts on one specific boy.

"Mm."

At her quiet behest, they stepped in line for a cafe, idle conversation over what dishes they thought looked best flowing between them. It wasn't until after they had placed their orders and found seats at an empty booth that their previous conversation came back up.

"How's Harry doing?"

MJ huffed, her cheeks puffing up with the exhalation. "His dad's keeping him home while everything's going on. Said 'Long Island's too dangerous to go through', even though he could just take the long way around or even rent out a hotel room or something around here for him to stay."

"Mr. Osborn's a bit stubborn like that," she offered quietly. "I'm sure there's some other reasons why he's keeping Harry away. Political in nature, I'd assume."

MJ looked to the side for a few moments before sighing. "Still stupid, though."

Cindy nodded in agreement. "I'm sure it would be an incredibly easy thing for Mr. Osborn to make reservations at several hotels if secrecy and protection for his son is that important."

MJ stared at the table for a few moments before slumping down with a groan. "Why do adults suck?"

Cindy let out a tiny huff of amusement. "Have you considered it's because we're constantly having to deal with the stubbornness of youth?" she joked.

"Yeah, but, aren't you guys supposed to be smarter and wiser and all that?"

She looked out the window, focusing on everything and nothing. A moment of perceived peace; a welcome reprieve from the months and hours of cleaning and bandaging injuries that Cindy knew would be intruding on any quiet moments she had for the next few weeks. "Only sometimes. The rest of the time, we're just pretending our way forward and hoping for the best."

"Gee, I can't wait to become an adult," MJ drawled, sitting up with a slouch. "Peter not message you today?" she gingerly asked.

Cindy's eyes flicked over to the red headed teen. The light makeup she had to hide the general blemishes of puberty were smudged slightly; her hair wasn't as cared for as it usually was, and shadows from lack of sleep peeked through her concealer. "What time did he come home last night?"

"What do you—" MJ stared at her in disbelief, the burgeoning offense quickly dying from solemn understanding. "5."

She sighed. "Thank you for waiting up for him, but you really shouldn't let your sleep and mental health suffer like that."

"And you can?" she snapped. Quietly, so as not to cause a scene.

Cindy met her gaze. "I'm his sister. I'm supposed to keep an eye out for the idiot."

"And I'm his friend," MJ countered.

"Do you wish it was more?" In the silence that resulted, a staff member set down their food. Cindy bit into her sandwich while MJ processed her thoughts, relishing in the texture of the avocado and seed covered bread.

"He wouldn't be a good boyfriend, would he?"

"As someone who partially raised him, no, I can't say he would. He gets too distracted by whatever cause is holding his attention, and his sense of altruism is far too widespread and can't be limited to a single person." She paused, briefly focusing on the way the individual ingredients of her food all played together. "But he, and you, are only sixteen. If you tried to be with him, there would definitely be heartache and mistakes, but maybe on the other end of that bridge you two might make a happy couple. I've seen the way you two act during your study sessions when you forget there are other people in the house. You're definitely close friends, when you allow it."

MJ stared down at her food. "Yeah. I just—"

/ - /

"—wish there was more we could do."

Over the past few days, that was one of the more common phrases uttered in the wake of the gang war. 'Someone needs to do something'; 'the police aren't doing enough'; 'why hasn't the national guard gotten involved?'.

The worst personally was 'good thing Spider-Man was here'.

Here. Not there. Not somewhere else. Here. One building out of a handful that was caught on fire, partially exploded, or being raided because a hidden basement or apartment was being used as a drug kitchen or hidden shipping facility. For every life I saved, three more were fading. A still growing Spidey Sense I'd focused more against aggression meant one life pulled from the ruins of a building resulted in two lives within that same pile of rubble going unnoticed.

"Hey, kid. Break time."

I looked up as one of the locals of Long Island stood by my side. Joseph Hogan, an underground wrestler who'd spent every day since that first bullet trying to save lives. I'd seen him several times those first three days comforting people whose lives were ruined by loss of property or life, and respected his decision to help out day in and day out.

Joseph tucked a hand under my arm and forced me to my feet. Not quite gently, but at the same time not as rough as he could have been. We'd come to an understanding yesterday: I set the example of how hard everyone in our group should theoretically be working, he dictated when we paused to rest. No one liked 'being shown up by the kid' after all.

I motioned my wrap towards Adam in gratitude, plopping down on some rubble next to Joseph. The other volunteers, some small-time gangsters and other underground fighters, had all chosen their own sections of the ruins to eat at, having gathered in their own personal groups. Not that I was supposed to know that. As far as everyone knew, I was just a kid who was particularly invested in trying to help with the cleanup. No one asked why I was here. No one asked why I wasn't in class. It was nice that way.

"You don't think highly of the Spider, do you, kid?"

I shook my head.

Joseph took an annoyed bite of his wrap; a pan cooked slice of chicken, several bits of romaine lettuce, some shredded cheese, and some sauce that all of us could choose in a tiny plastic cup. Something quick, easy to cook, and generously provided by the various culinary-able friends (or family) from our group. "You think we're bad people? For not helping out elsewhere?"

I stared at Joseph. The man kept his gaze on our group, shifted to look at the building we were working on, before finally settling on me.

"You're being too hard on the guy, Peter. Just because he can stop cars, lift up walls, and get from one part of the city to the other in under an hour doesn't mean he's more than a man. A doctor can't stop every injury; an officer can't stop every crime. There's only so much time in the day that one person can use."

"That's not how other people are going to see it," I countered. "We're outside of it. We can see what he does. What about the person whose daughter he doesn't save? The son who's mother died because he wasn't around?"

Joseph sighed. "One day you'll understand, Peter. One day."

/ - /

I liked to think I was getting good at dodging bullets. My Spider Sense blared too hard for me to ignore any sort of firearm, like catching a headlight that wasn't adjusted properly in your side mirrors. But maybe these guys were just sloppy. Maybe they were just too stressed out from the past few days of constantly hitting up bases and hideouts.

Maybe I just stopped caring.

The flames of the car explosion burned strong, casting shadows every which way on the buildings. A family of three, one mobster I didn't recognize and his wife and son had just exited a diner and were on their way home. I had been following them because it was close to curfew, when my Spider Sense had forcibly thrown me atop a building. Forced me to watch as the bombs placed underneath the vehicle had gone off.

Shock had forced me in place as I watched the occupants of another vehicle step out and verify the deaths of those inside before they drove off.

Numbness had me silently check up on the vehicle, glad I wasn't Cindy who would have noticed and remembered every single detail of the burning interior.

Rage was what had made me follow their car and take down everyone inside the warehouse.

An explosion in my own right. Anything that could have been tugged off had been done so, used as impromptu weapons by way of webs or my own two hands. Those who had tried to escape had been webbed away from the exits and used to smack one of their companions.

It was wrong, to do this in the name of vengeance.

But it felt so very right.

One of the mooks who's name hadn't been shouted out groaned as I dragged him to the rest of the pile of gangsters. He probably had all kinds of internal bleeding, and based off the way his fingers splayed out he'd probably had broken bones. He was one of the unlucky ones.

Unease briefly coursed through my body as I webbed him to an empty spot on the wall; bands across his stomach and shoulder that attached to the wall, undamaged hand to the ground, damaged arm to his stomach so his hand could rest in his lap.

I rose, taking steadying breaths. There was one last mook I still had yet to tie up. The healthiest looking of the bunch who had gotten beamed by a crowbar during someone's back swing. One of his companions had thankfully caught him before he could fall more than forty degrees, but there was very much the issue of a concussion. Not that I really cared.

Much.

This group had gone for firearms from the word go. Charity wasn't exactly able to be found for them.

I dragged the man to a closed off room, webbing him down to a chair that had arm rests. The unease coursed through me once again. I ignored it.

In between breaths, I straightened my back and shot a web to the ceiling, increasing its length just a little more before jumping up and hanging upside down from it.

Ages ago, in another lifetime, I'd once read a story that spoke of a similar situation. Of how the protagonist had woken up to a sword leveled at his face. Of how its wielder had beads of sweat on his face and damp patches on his shirt. Dramatics truly required patience.

Eventually the man woke, words slurring from the booze he'd consumed during their celebrations for the evening. First came the confusion of where he'd woken up in. Next came panic of being tied down. Finally: "Fuck!" His chair jerked back with him, shock at realizing how close I was to him.

I narrowed my eyes. My mask didn't mirror the movement; likely wouldn't until I figured out how to make it do so, but I knew it came across in my body language, upside down as I was. "I have questions."

"Fuck. You."

"No one can hear you."

The man stared at me, a scowl forming on his face.

"You know what I can do. Saw what I can do." I hung there, unmoving. Certain maneuvers were beyond my skills, but keeping myself perfectly still from such a relatively tiny length of webbing was within that margin. "Did you know," I began, ever so slowly righting myself and landing on the ground, "that the human body has approximately 200 bones?"

I folded the ends of my hoodie, giving my wrists easier movement so they wouldn't be burdened by the fabric. "In each hand, there are 27 bones. 14 parts within the fingers, nine in the wrist, and five within what we call the palm. With two hands, that means slightly over a quarter of all your bones are within your hands. Some people will tell you they'll break all the bones in your body. I say that's too much effort. With fifty four bones within two hands, one would only need an additional forty six spread across the rest of your body to break approximately half of your bones."

I pulled open the top right drawer, a spot where someone might have a firearm. Methodically, and in full view of the man's vision, I made sure the gun was unloaded, silently laying down every single bullet from the magazine before him. Only then did I return to the front of the desk, and crushed the emptied gun with a single hand. The entire time, I ignored everything except for the smoldering rage I kept tempered with every breath.

"I have questions."

Next chapter will be released November 27th.