[An office in downtown New York. Twelve hours after the warehouse incident.]
"What the hell happened!" At the moment, in his own territory, the Big Boss of New York could afford to let his reputation slide and harass a gang of hired Goons with all the emotions running high.
"It was just awful, boss. At first, we thought we'd deal with that jerk quickly, and at first, we did."
"Then how the hell did you let seventy percent of a squad of highly trained mercenaries get lost?!"
"He's not human, boss. Strong, fast, agile. But the real hell started when we'd already exhausted him." To Montana's right, the bandaged Bull winced. "It looked like we'd close the deal, but it was like he'd gotten a second wind."
Montana stroked his bandaged hand. "I was the first one out. True, Mr. Thompson, he was inhumanly fast and agile. Look at Bull, he's all bandaged up. Fancy Dan's still in intensive care. Fifty broken bones. Who knows if he'll ever get back in shape."
"But is Spider dead?"
"They got him in the end. The remaining mercenaries surrounded him. Not even God himself could have escaped that gunfire; I personally saw several bullets hit him!"
"Then where's the body, Montana?"
The cowboy hesitated.
"I don't care about the mercenaries, but the guys from my squad got hurt. As the leader of the goons, I demand double pay for the work done." Suddenly, Tombstone jumped up and, with an outstretched hand, dragged the barely resisting cowboy across the table, lifting him off the ground by the throat.
Bull, who was about to rush to Montana's aid, was held at gunpoint by two guards at the end of the room.
"Whatever you 'demand,' Montana, I don't give a damn. The way I see it, you've lost Spider. You can claim he's dead all you want, but until you and your posse present proof, you'll get nothing." Lincoln released the cowboy, who fell coughing. "Very well, by the looks of it, you've given him quite a beating. I'll give your posse time to recover. But I advise you not to let me down again. Dismissed." The remaining members of the Brutes left in silence.
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[The Parker basement.]
[Night. Two hours after the warehouse incident.]
"It hurt so much."
Luckily, none of the bullets were lodged in my body. Having pulled out the first aid kit I had prepared a month ago, I tried to stitch up the damaged area of skin.
Okay, jokes aside. I lean against the wall and look at my hands. The gloves are torn, and there's blood all over them. Not all of that blood is mine. I draw my legs up, burying my face in my knees. That guy is dead. I used him as a human shield. It was my fault he was riddled with bullets. Of course, I'm no angel; I've maimed all those guys. But I've never killed anyone!
You can search for excuses for yourself for a long time: "You didn't shoot him yourself" or "Come on, it was a mercenary who wanted to kill you, it's not your fault." But try explaining this to my humanistic side.
On the other hand, my more rational side is trying to somehow calm this moment down in my mind. After all, why should I feel sorry? This mercenary took the job himself; his only goal was to kill me.
Plus, I wasn't the one who pulled the trigger... But his blood is still on my hands. I jump up abruptly, hissing from the nagging pain in my ankle. God, if my aunt or uncle sees the state I'm in, I dread to think what will happen. I can only hope that the treated wounds will heal overnight and they won't find me like this. I sigh and pull off my badly damaged suit.
I still have some spare materials from the first purchase, but it will take a long time to repair it. And I'm so tired. I barely have time to pull on a T-shirt before I pass out on the basement couch.
************************************
What? I look around, but my next move is to dodge a stream of fire. Jumping onto the wall of some room, I see I'm in my spider-suit. Before I can even get my bearings, I have to dodge again, my senses blaring.
This time, someone threw... a stick?
"Surrender, Spider-Man, you can't escape this time," Daredevil stepped out of the shadows, grabbing the ricocheting stick.
"WHAT?!"
"That's right, Weaver. This time, we'll shove you so deep into the RAFT that you won't escape again," the one shooting the fireballs turned out to be the Human Torch.
"Guys, I don't know what happened, but someone's controlling you. I'm a good guy," I raise my hands and approach the duo, "let's just talk."
"No, you're a criminal and a murderer!" The Fearless Man kicked me flying. Landing, I shattered a mirror. In the shards, I discovered I was wearing the Superior Spider-Man suit with black lenses. YOU'RE A KILLER! NO! I jump up abruptly from the couch.
"This is a dream, just a nightmare..." Trying to recover from the unpleasant awakening, my gaze stumbles upon the ruined suit. "I'm not going to fall asleep anyway."
In a few hours, I managed to slightly tidy up the suit, although I still have a lot of work to do. And, in order to slightly stimulate my regeneration, I decide to finish my remaining three hours of sleep. This time there were no nightmares, and I felt much better. I look at the clock; it's 5:30 a.m. I should probably get a mirror here. I hope I look as good as I feel.
Getting up and going to my room, I decide to sleep for at least another hour. I'm awakened by a sharp knock on the door.
"Peter, you're late for school!" Aunt May's worried voice rings out. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, Auntie, I just overslept!" I jump up and start getting ready. Honestly, school is the last thing on my mind right now. I quickly go down the stairs and casually drop a remark to May. "I'm in a hurry, I won't have breakfast, I love you!" I run out the door, pulling on my sneakers as I go. I jump on the bus about to depart.
"Thanks for waiting, Lewis," I say to the grimacing driver.
"Hey, Pete, over here!" My gaze catches on Harry, Gwen, and Miles.
The whole team is assembled. So much time has passed, and I still feel strange that on the bus no one is trying to trip me up or block my seat, but on the contrary, they smile welcomingly, and the girls even invite me to sit with them. Even some of the cheerleaders. That's what reputation does.
"Hey, guys."
"Wow, Pete, are you okay? You look rumpled," Miss Stacy asks worriedly.
"I've been better, Gwendy, but it's okay, I'm a tough guy."
"You know, if you're feeling unwell, don't play the hero, stay home and get better. School's still on the agenda," Morales chimed in.
"I'll keep that in mind," I cut the subject off.
"Um, well, guys, how about meeting at my place tomorrow?"
"I'm not against it, I've always wanted to visit the penthouse of a New York residential tower."
"Also on board," Gwen nodded. "Peter?"
"Unless I need to help around the house, I'm not against it." Although I'd like to reduce the chances of crossing paths with Norman Osborn to zero. Although, knowing his workaholism, we might never meet. - Great.
******************
The day went by according to a pretty standard pattern: lessons, a circle of friends, goodbyes, and a walk home. Although there were exactly two changes: the good—my life-saving headphones—and the bad—my terrible hunger. Not only had I skipped breakfast, but I hadn't even gotten lunch from Aunt May. I didn't even have cash to buy anything from the cafeteria. I could, of course, have swiped an extra sandwich from Miles, but good thoughts, as they say, come later.
Right now, I'm worried about more important things than hunger. I screwed up, and badly. Yesterday almost became the day I died. Just a little bit. An unprepared, overconfident idiot, that's who I am. Did I think everything would be like in the comics? Fights with idiots in colorful suits, and the reward is amazing abilities, girls, and the right decisions?
Only this turned out to be the real world. Harsh reality. Saved my uncle and that's it? Is the sea easy for us from now on? No, my friend, and yesterday successfully confirmed that I tried to swallow too much of this pie. When I got home, the first thing I did was go to the kitchen to grab a bite.
The family was at work, as always, but that's for the best. After grabbing a bite, I headed to the lab. When I came down, I scolded myself again for my carelessness. The suit, the equipment, everything was still in plain sight. I went to put everything away, and my eye caught on the camera. I picked up the device and opened the photos. Standard images. Surprisingly, even the autozoom function worked. Although, it was a bit random.
A few photos came out of quite high quality. I could sell them to Jameson. My finger paused on the image of the shot corpse of a mercenary. That same mercenary. As if by some twist of fate, this photo came out the clearest. No. I'm not going to lose heart over this. If he hadn't died, I would have. It's simple: the mercenary wanted to kill me, and I paid with his life for mine. Would I do it again if yesterday's events were to repeat themselves? Definitely.
The problem is, I decided to dive into the New York underworld too soon. My intuition warned me of danger, but I thought I could handle it all. From now on, I'll be more cautious and more serious about assessing potential danger. I confidently delete the photo of the dead mercenary. And now, they'll only die if I let them.
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There could be mistakes in this chapter, so let me know if you find one. I'll fix them.
And don't forget to give me your power stones.