I think I've mentioned it in a previous story, but I once came across this fun little joke two writers played on each other whenever they were doing edits for the other. They would include an omake in the middle of the story— something that makes complete sense for the scene it's taking place in but otherwise outright crack— just to make sure that the other was paying attention. For me, that omake was basically 'placeholder text here' for my start and end bits because I had this stored away earlier last week.

Another two weeks passed, placing us firmly in the middle of November. Uncle Ben was still alive, Long Island and its surrounding regions were starting to institute curfew, and Spider-Man had made a couple appearances on various media over the past few days. Screwball and her crew were becoming more bold about their hits, and I was half expecting them to hit up a department store around closing time as opposed to just bodegas.

Much like when I first started out, web lines were still out of my comfort zone, but capture webs were rapidly becoming a piece of cake as a few thugs— the common kind and not the fan base kind— could attest to, having been trapped to a wall here and there during their attempted muggings. I still had yet to throw any actual punches or kicks, and whenever I showed up my turn-about victims were quickly learning that guns were a no-no when I was around.

It was easy enough to pick out the scent of gunpowder, and firearms made a distinct enough sound to my ears whenever they were unholstered, proper container or otherwise. Those stupid enough to pack heat were swiftly introduced to the speed of the incredible Spider-Man and subsequently losing their weapons to the buildings around us (and sometimes an accidentally broken finger). Really, the worst thing about everything so far was the anxiety that refused to go away whenever I saw Uncle Ben.

Those nerves manifested as me being a little extra clingy from time to time with all of my family, a fact that Cindy (unsurprisingly) picked up on. She bought my lie about being worried about him being dragged into the Long Island mess as our primary grocery driver, and even her rebuttals of how she was more likely to get into trouble (needing to pass through Long Island to get into the city) didn't do anything for my stress.

"Hey, Thugs! It's Screwball and the gang coming at'cha tonight with another attempt at physical therapy! Whoo!~"

I peeked over the edge of the building, mindful to keep my profile low. After the third time I stopped their attempts at breaking and entering, Screwball had started assigning a watchman to figure out where I was hiding. With the waning moon, it was significantly harder to find my outline, but it was still a good habit to pick up.

"And as recent viewers might know: we might not have the best track record in executing judicious physical therapy lately thanks to a certain costumed clown, but that's okay! Because today: we've got a surprise for him!" Some of her Thugs gave another cheer at that, raising their crowbars and bats enthusiastically. "But no spoilers! We want you guys finding out at the same time as him!"

I let them near the store front, Screwball calling out for me a few times before I leapt down. "Hey, guys! Miss me?"

"Hey there, S-M!" Screwball cocked her hip back with a smile on her face, staying in place despite the clip on wheels she had on her shoes. "Ready for today's show?"

Admittedly, aside from Screwball trying to incite criminal activity, I actually didn't mind our interactions. Our banter was fun, and her minions (was that offensive?) were generally respectful of not aiming for the head after I mentioned I wouldn't try and delay any of them in exchange. "Ah, crap, when was call time?" I reached up and touched my masked face. "I didn't get any makeup on! Speaking of which, looking good, Sasha. Love the eyeliner you got tonight. You too, Jerry. You guys come from a rave?" Those weren't their real names, of course. I assigned them to the couple on a whim, having noticed that their eyebrows and nasal features were becoming increasingly familiar over our encounters. They seemed to appreciate the recognition though, and part of our personal banter included complimenting each other on our moves.

"Date, actually," Jerry answered, not reacting as Screwball's cameraman moved closer to him. "We were skating and eating burgers before this."

Because of the curfew, no one was really around, and with no sounds of violence there was really no reason for the cops to have been alerted just yet. "Oh, that sounds awesome! Did you guys get any views of the city skyline while you were out?" I made a face. "Wait, no, don't answer that. Might get you tracked down."

I think that was another reason Screwball and her Thugs were relatively gentle with me. You know, despite the whole 'swinging blunt weapons' at me bit. I never tried to unmask them, and any injuries that happened along the lines of sprains, I always called a time out and escorted that person to the side (along with one of their buddies to help them escape, which meant a two for one in terms of enemy combatants). I also made sure to remind any of her new groupies (sometimes people rotated out, other times they just increased in number) to not reveal any personal information, and if they had to shout out someone's name because they knew someone I escorted to the floor, to try and make it outlandish. Like Jeff-erson. Or Mi-ckey. Or Au-gustine.

Screwball skated over to Jerry, laying an arm on his shoulder and resting on him. "Awe, don't we just love our favorite couple, Thugs? But we've got a show to put on today, S-M, so let's swing to it!"

"You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?" I groaned, keeping track of all her groupies even as I visually sagged.

"Heck no!" she answered. "Do you know how many views that one clip has? It's even starting to go viral on other platforms!"

Ugh, just what I needed. A clip of me swinging directly into a street light and falling down like a cartoon character, forever immortalized for the rest of my years. "Alright, alright. So anything special you want me to try and do today, Screwball?"

"I'm so happy you asked, S-M!" She made her way to one of the cars parked along the street, one I was sure had been there since I arrived. "We might be trying to have some fun, Thugs, but we're nothing like those nasties actually terrorizing people. But they do have the right idea about some things." She slammed her fist on the trunk. At the same time, I heard someone press a key fob, unlocking it. "So tonight!" Screwball hefted the trunk open and pulled out a handful of paintball guns, their canisters visibly attached. "We're gonna be firing these at you!"

I made a show of looking around me. "So would it still be a legal move if I tell someone with a rapid trigger finger 'no full auto in the buildings'?" A couple people around me laughed, Screwball's own laughter cutting over them.

"Hah! S-M, as our special guest, you're allowed to say whatever you want." Screwball began skating around, haphazardly handing out the guns she had while one of her groupies started handing out the rest. There was only seven total, but I didn't fancy getting hit by any of them, especially in as close a range as we were.

Oddly enough, paint balls and airsoft guns were one of those things that didn't innately trigger my Spider Sense. I had to be actively considering them a danger in order to get that precognition going. Considering that for the most part the vibes I was getting from everyone was genuine excitement and not actual malice, doing that was going to be a little difficult.

Screwball's thugs ambled into position, those with guns talking about their excitement on trying to shoot a live target, when a thought occurred to me. "You know, I might actually have to throw a punch this time around."

All conversation stopped at that. "And suddenly I'm terrified," 'Daniel', one of the secret otakus of Screwball's group said.

I nodded my head towards him. "No poking fun if the first few hits from me are love taps, guys." Normally whenever Screwball's people and I messed around, they had to approach me; it meant I could use their momentum against them and act as a fulcrum to redirect their momentum from across the ground and directly to the ground. With firearms, non-lethal or otherwise, that approach couldn't work. The Thugs didn't exactly cause that many problems (aside from whenever I wasn't around to stop them breaking and entering a place) and so I wasn't exactly keen on webbing any of them up like I did with actual criminals, but the alternative was trying to hit them hard enough/enough times that they have to tap out and I still wasn't— I took a slow breath, refocusing on the people around me. Avoid as many hits as possible. Web guns where I could, and worst case scenario, test the love taps until I can actually make them meaningful.

I knew how hard I had to throw a punch to break through metal, to start crumbling or flaking stone. I know how to control myself so that I would only dent the side of a cardboard box and not punch clean through it. All I had to do now was apply that knowledge to the scarily vulnerable package of a person and I was good.

Her Thugs were normally the first ones to strike. It was no different this time. My Spider Senses tugged me to the side, my arm coming up alongside the motion and firing out a web to the ground that I yanked on, pulling me further away. It wasn't the first time I'd used my webs during an encounter with Screwball's crew, and we'd even come up with an airsoft adjacent rule to keep me from having to web them up and potentially risk them being caught by the police. No less than five shots flew my way, two shooters moving to retarget me as my feet slid along the ground. Strands of black entwined with white shot from my wrists repeatedly, each line about the length of your standard high schooler's long jump before I pulled on them. Each time, the webbing's elasticity proved their strength, holding firm as they pulled me forward.

Paint after paint splattered the ground and cars around us, shots going wide or barely clipping me. In a few cases: some paint splattered firmly across my torso or skimmed my limbs, proving my fears that I wasn't ready for a true altercation against someone with actual intent to harm me.

I gave as good as I got though, metaphorically speaking. I managed to 'tag' two of the seven shooters before I received any paint, and once the rest of Screwball's crew started to join in with their bats and crowbars (I healed fast, and they couldn't swing hard enough to deal any damage other than pained movements and wounded fledgling pride), it became easier to tag the shooters since they had allies on the field. Soon enough (and with plenty of footage for Screwball's stream; these outings were as much good for practicing maneuvers as they were protecting whatever store Screwball was intending on burglarizing), it was just me, one shooter (who I was pretty sure was responsible for half the splatters on my outfit), and threes of her usual Thugs remaining.

Screwball and her cameraman were off on the side cheering and giving commentary, alongside the rest of those I 'knocked out'. At first they refuse to acknowledge my first few love taps, but as I started learning how hard I needed to hit in order for it to register as 'pain', they quickly began admitting surrender, especially considering it was only the paint that managed to hit me and none of their swings.

"Don't let him get close to Nathaniel!" one of them shouted, charging at me.

I rushed forward and slid beneath his feet, a quick web giving me the extra momentum I needed to avoid knocking him over. The other two were evaded in similar web based manners, though one of them that sent me over his head required me quickly zipping to the ground to avoid a spray of paint. "Oh, Nathaniel!" I called, focusing on him. Nathaniel leveled his gun directly at me, and I sprinted forward, zipping side to side to evade shots. Finally, as I neared zipping range, I—

Incoming.

Nathaniel and I were directly in the middle of the street. The three I'd dodged were on the sides. In the future, perhaps I might have webbing strong enough to knock back a human the same way I could knock back a ball or other similar object, but for now?

I shot out a web line on either side of Nathaniel, ignoring the sharp splatter of orange paint across my torso. His outcry of annoyance went similarly ignored as I launched myself directly at him. His gun was wedged uncomfortably between us as I tackled him, the two of us spinning midair once as I hugged him tightly. Instincts not my own threw my right arm out, a line of webbing firing at the second story of a building and pulling the both of us up and out of the street. Not a moment later, the car I'd seen scream around a corner barreled past, the three others having long since ran to safety.

"It was nice chattings guys, butIgottago!" I refused to let myself think about how I was web swinging down the street. Refused to think about the fact that I could hear sirens in the distance. I let myself go to my instincts, shooting web after web at buildings or street lamps and launching myself through the air.

Evade.

It was the presence of another vehicle that had me zipping to the side that set my mind. I had a rough estimate of how fast I could go at my current pace. A rough idea of how fast the vehicle were moving and knew for a fact how long this specific street went for without any traffic lights. In the back of my mind, the rational part that said every part of this was a bad idea also bemoaned that my first interaction with emergency services would probably involve destruction of public property.

The me that was currently in control didn't care.

This was a vehicle being driven by someone whose companion had firearms; firearms that were currently being fired at me. They had to be stopped. I fired out another web, this one as long as I could manage without me dragging along the ground. Gravity insisted its right of existence on me as I swung like a pendulum, launching myself higher than any human had a right to be above concrete and pavement.

It was breathtaking. The skyline and night life of the tri-state area was always amazing from those construction sites. But now? Upside down? Nearly four stories above the ground and with nothing to stop or support me? I let out what felt like a long breath, but had to be nothing more than a quick exhale.

Gravity reasserted itself on me and pulled me back down from the heavens. It was a crunch of metal that I knew ruined my pants that greeted me, and a ferocious screech of asphalt being torn up that announced my return. "Hey where'd you get your license from, a cereal box?" I shouted angrily, flipping off of the broken and dented hood of the car and landing near the driver's door. Metal once again screeched as I tore the door off, yanking the surprisingly belted driver out and tossing him to the ground. It took three spurts of webbing, once again done without actual conscious effort, for me to consider him handled, before I leapt up and flipped over the vehicle and did the same to the passenger. Luckily for me there was only two people in this vehicle. Unluckily for me, in the time it took for me to web down the two, the other vehicle had pulled to a stop, its occupants firing on me without reservation. My Spider Sense screamed at me non-stop the entire time I ran off, using quick zip lines to pull me even further away and away from the gunfire. It was only when I heard the retort of additional gunfire that I even considered returning back to the skies, secure in the knowledge that the police had stolen the attention of the goons who had turned the situation into an active shoot out.

/ - /

Cindy said nothing as I repaired my pants, both my desk light and a ring light I'd repaired over the summer illuminating my workspace. She'd been terrifyingly silent the moment she picked me up, and that silence continued the entire drive back home. Even now, she did nothing more than watch me like a stalking lioness, the only movement made her slow and controlled breathing. I'd wanted to crack long ago, but one thing or another kept me from saying a word. And so I kept cutting back unsalvageable threads, hemming them as best I could once they were properly trimmed and applying patches to as similar a tone as the original fabric as I could. It took me finishing my pants before she set down a glass of water in front of me alongside a bottle of higher dose painkillers.

"You know Pete, I want nothing more in the world than to yell at you right now." She stared me down, her face firmly belonging at a casino poker table. "But I felt how you were trembling during the drive back. I don't need to say a word, do I?"

I shook my head after a moment. It was true. Once the adrenaline wore off (and boy did that take a while; my shins were torn up by that hood), I was a mess of stress and shock as I processed everything that had happened. Cindy had even turned on the local newscasters on her radio and barely twenty minutes after things went down they were talking about how the sections of Long Island I'd fought in were locked down because of police presence.

She walked towards me and moved one of the lights to shine on my body. "Shirt."

I scooted back and lifted my shirt up, exposing the splattering of bruises across my body.

Cindy stared at them. For most people, it would have been a standard amount of time. For someone with a beyond average eidetic memory, it might as well have been a lifetime. "How long do you think until they disappear?"

I pulled my shirt back down, uncomfortable with the idea that my patchwork of ruptured blood vessels, the results of my 'superheroing', would be seared into her memory. "Three days, at worst. I'll probably have to wear a tank top for gym in case my shirt rides up."

"Hm." She leaned on my desk and continued staring at me silently, her thoughts hidden behind her carefully composed mask. Sometimes I was jealous of her ability to bring forth a poker face, but when I remembered the price it took that jealousy rapidly turned to sorrow. "No going out for the next week and a half."

I shot up in my seat, an exclamation on my lips that I kept back for fear of waking Uncle Ben and Aunt May.

"You just got involved with members of the gangs terrorizing Long Island, Pete," she whispered. "You left behind webbing, and who knows who'll get their hands on that. On top of that, that stream of yours—" she held up a finger in preemptive admonishment, her face turning stern— "massed more viewers than ever, and clips are already going all over social media. Over five thousand people saw what you did, and this early on that might as well be a death sentence." She frowned as she realized what she said. "Pete." She sighed and pulled me into a hug. "Lay low for a while."

"I will," I answered sincerely. As much as I wished I could have done something— anything— in regard to the criminal activity, I really did need to lay low. Work more on my skills so that I wouldn't have to give in to my Spider Sense, as useful as it was. "Just training and civilian life, I promise." I gave her a tiny squeeze, something she returned before letting go.

"Thank you."

Next chapter will be released September 25th.