Chapter 14: The Hero New York Deserves... and the One It's Stuck With(In which Peter becomes the city's accidental mascot, part-time traffic controller, and full-time selfie king.)
Peter wiped his fingers off on a napkin—or, let's be honest, the cleanest patch of cloth he could find on his suit—and leaned back against a boulder. His stomach was full. The fish was perfectly grilled (thank you, Naruto survival training), the mountain breeze was crisp, and the girl across from him was both smiling and plotting his emotional destruction.
So far, 10/10 afternoon.
As they sat around the dwindling fire, Peter found himself quietly studying Jess—not just the way she picked at the last crispy bits of her fish like a scavenger queen, but the small things. The way she absentmindedly kicked at the dirt while she talked. How her hair always seemed to fall over one eye, no matter how many times she brushed it back. How her voice could swing from deadpan sarcasm to soft honesty in seconds.
She was… complicated.
Not in the "drama queen" kind of way—more like a mystery novel you didn't realize you'd been reading until you were halfway through and suddenly very invested.
She had this cocky, teasing nature that was hard to ignore. Always cracking jokes. Always finding a way to get under his skin. But it wasn't just for laughs. She liked pulling reactions out of him because, in her own strange way, that's how she connected.
Underneath it all, though?
Jess was guarded. She made light of everything, but Peter could tell—she had fears. Big ones. About hurting others. About being hurt. About not being good enough.
She talked big, but she wasn't reckless. Every punch she threw was held back. Every insult was followed by a glance, checking if it landed too hard. She wasn't book-smart—by her own admission—but she was clever. Sharp. She read people like Peter read physics equations.
And somehow, she was fun. Not just fun to spar with or talk to—but the kind of person who made you want to share everything, even the stupid stuff, just to hear her laugh.
Peter tossed his stick into the fire, watching the flames dance.
"I gotta admit," he said, licking the last bit of fish oil from his thumb, "you're not what I expected."
Jess raised a brow, still chewing. "Oh? And what did you expect?"
Peter gave her a lopsided smile. "Dunno. Maybe a cocky loudmouth who picks fights for fun?"
Jess gasped dramatically, one hand on her chest. "You mean… me?"
Peter chuckled. "Exactly. But you're also… kinda cool."
She blinked.
Then grinned so hard he thought her face might split in half.
"Peter Parker, did you just call me cool?" she said, eyes wide. "Hold on—let me record this moment!"
She pantomimed grabbing an invisible camera from her belt and pointing it at his face, complete with fake shutter noises and flash effects.
Peter groaned. "Relax. It's just one compliment."
Jess wagged a finger at him. "Oh no, no, no. You've doomed yourself. I'm holding this over your head forever. Birthdays, Christmas, weddings—this moment is mine now."
Peter rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. "Why did I say anything…"
Jess leaned in a little, resting her chin on her palm and smirking.
"Because deep down," she said, voice soft but full of that trademark sass, "you know you enjoy my company."
Peter glanced sideways at her, pretending to think it over.
"…Yeah," he admitted after a beat, his voice quieter this time. "I do."
Jess's grin softened just a little. No teasing now. Just honest warmth.
"I knew it."
The fire crackled between them.
The mountain air was silent, save for birdsong in the distance and the occasional rustle of leaves. The pond shimmered nearby, a cool breeze drifting across its surface. And in that peaceful moment—Peter felt… content.
He never thought his chaotic life would let him feel this way.
But here he was.
With Jess.
Eating fish in the mountains.
And smiling like an idiot.
Maybe not everything had to be complicated.
Maybe… some things were just good.
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Peter had just wanted to get to class.
One peaceful swing across the skyline. Maybe grab a sandwich on the way. Make it in time for chem lab without breaking any bones (his or anyone else's).
But of course, Empire Avenue was basically a magnet for gun-toting idiots with questionable fashion choices and a death wish.
"Shots fired—gang-related. Officers requesting backup—"
Peter rolled his eyes. "Because of course."
He landed on a lamppost with all the grace of a caffeinated gymnast and surveyed the chaos below.
Picture this: a bunch of dudes in baggy clothes that screamed "1998 called and wants its aesthetic back," waving guns around like they were trying to hail taxis with live ammunition. Cars blocked off the intersection, one of them already smoking from what looked like a poorly timed Molotov party trick.
Peter sighed dramatically.
"I swear, if one more villain delays my academic career, I'm filing a formal complaint with the universe."
THWIP.
Two webs shot out—snatch! One thug was plastered to a brick wall like an angry sticker. THWIP! Another one got yanked off his feet mid-yell, spinning into a pile of garbage bags like a meatier bowling ball.
"Guys, please," Peter called out as he vaulted off the lamppost. "At least pretend you've seen a superhero movie. Aim. Duck. Roll. Something."
A guy raised a pistol—Peter flipped over it like a mosquito on Red Bull and kicked him square in the chest. He sailed into a dumpster lid with a satisfying CLANG.
"Recycling day!" Spidey quipped, landing in a crouch. "Let's get you sorted into the 'organic waste' bin."
Two more rushed him with baseball bats. (Bless their little criminal hearts.)
Peter casually backflipped between them, webbed their ankles together, and let gravity work its magic. Thud!
"Teamwork! Makes the dream work!" he said, high-fiving himself.
Then came shotgun guy.
Peter turned his head lazily as the man cocked the weapon.
"Oh, you brought a boomstick. That's adorable."
THWIP! The shotgun was gone. SMACK! Peter's boot met the guy's chest.
Shotgun Guy joined his pals on the pavement.
One last thug turned and sprinted for it.
Peter's response?
A well-timed web to the back of the guy's hoodie, yanking him to a cartoonish halt mid-step. He stumbled backward like someone hit rewind.
Peter landed beside him, leaned in, and whispered, "We were just starting to bond."
The guy whimpered.
Now with the entire gang duct-taped to the urban landscape like rejected art pieces, Peter dusted off his hands and addressed the group.
He tapped his sleek black-and-white goggles, which glowed faintly like the eyes of an angry robot puppy.
"See these?" he said. "They record everything. Faces, license plates, embarrassing whimpers—real high-quality stuff."
Every thug gulped in stereo.
Peter crouched down, tilting his head like a curious cat. "So if I see you again? Doing this again?"
He flexed his fingers.
CRACK.
Every single right arm bent just a little too far to be medically okay.
The collective scream was… therapeutic.
Peter gave them a polite wave. "Relax. Compound fractures heal fast. Probably."
They groaned in agony.
Then Peter did what any sane person would do next: he stared directly into their terrified eyes and projected his voice straight into their minds.
"Play nice, now."
The gang broke instantly.
Some cried.
One tried to pass out, but the pain wouldn't let him.
Another whimpered something about needing a hug and a lawyer.
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By the time the flashing red and blue lights washed over the streets, the action was over.
The gangsters? Groaning and immobilized, stuck to walls, cars, and each other like someone had gone nuts with superglue.
The pavement? Covered in webs and broken egos.
The smell? A lovely mix of burning tire rubber, cheap cologne, and fear.
The first cop out of the car was wide-eyed, probably expecting to find a full-on gang war. Instead, he tripped over a webbed-up thug moaning into the asphalt.
"AH—! Son of a—"
Peter turned from his perch on a streetlight, giving the officer a casual wave like he was welcoming them to brunch. "Easy there, officer! Sorry for messing with your organized chaos. I didn't want these guys to, y'know, escape or… get shot full of holes."
One of the cops, clearly fresh out of training and full of caffeine, saw a shadow move and immediately pulled his weapon.
BANG.
Peter didn't even blink.
With a fwip of his fingers, he caught the bullet mid-air like it was a popcorn kernel flying out of a bag.
And then he just stood there, holding it between two fingers with the most judgmental look possible.
Dead silence.
Even the webbed-up gangsters winced.
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
He held up the bullet. "You just… fired this at a guy helping you?"
The officer's eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he slowly lowered his weapon. "I… that was… reflex!"
Peter dropped the bullet into the guy's palm. "Well, now you've got something to reflect on."
Another cop coughed awkwardly. "Uh… thanks?"
Peter gave them a thumbs-up. "Look, your toy guns don't work on me, so let's not make this weird. I do my part, you do yours. Peaceful coexistence, yeah?"
And with that, he crouched, tapped his wrist device, and—
FWOOSH.
He vanished.
Gone. Like smoke. Like a magician's final act. Like your last slice of pizza when you turn your back for two seconds.
The cops blinked.
"...What the hell just happened?" one of them muttered, stepping around a thug stuck to the hood of a car.
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With the gangsters all gift-wrapped in webbing and their weapons "confiscated"—because in Peter's mind, finders keepers was totally a superhero policy—he clapped his hands together with a victorious sigh.
"Alright!" he declared to no one in particular. "Crime solved, warnings issued, property damage mostly minimized—this calls for a victory lap!"
Because obviously, no good deed is complete without a dramatic exit.
THWIP!
And off he went.
Launching into the sky like a caffeinated squirrel on a trampoline, Peter soared through Manhattan's morning air, cutting across the skyline in a black-and-white blur that screamed mystery, heroism, and maybe too much time on his hands.
His sleek new suit shimmered against the early sunlight—like a ninja who had wandered into a fashion show and just decided to own it.
"CITIZENS OF NEW YORK!" Peter announced in his best superhero voice, loud enough to echo between buildings. "BEHOLD YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDER-MAN IN ALL HIS GLORY!"
A woman sipping her coffee on a third-floor balcony shrieked and nearly dropped her mug.
"Oh my God—it's that weird black-suit Spider-Man again!"
Peter gasped mid-swing. "Weird?! Ma'am, please! This is limited edition! Inspired by pain, rebirth, and probably a little too much anime!"
Down on the street, a businessman sighed into his phone.
"I swear, he gets weirder every day."
Peter, unbothered and fully committed to the bit, did a double front-flip, somersaulted through a construction crane, and landed on a traffic light with a gymnast's grace. He raised one fist in the air like he was waiting for the national anthem to play.
"FEAR NOT! FOR I AM HERE TO—"
HONK.
Peter looked down.
Yeah… he'd landed on a traffic light. In the middle of a busy intersection. And was now singlehandedly causing a backup the size of a small apocalypse.
He blinked at the five-car pileup forming beneath him.
"…Okay, bad perch choice."
FLIP.
Off he went again, zipping into the air as horns blared behind him.
As he swung through the skyline, Peter couldn't help but laugh to himself. Sure, he'd just caused a five-minute traffic jam—but he also stopped a gang war, dodged a bullet, and delivered a lecture on street justice and fashion.
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Peter Parker, a.k.a. Spider-Man, was on an absolute roll. Not a villain in sight—just your usual, totally chaotic, New York-style morning.
Which meant: danger came in bite-sized, ridiculous chunks.
🚗 First up: an old lady in a lavender tracksuit wandered into the road, completely unaware of the taxi speeding her way.
"NOPE."
THWIP!
Peter yanked the cab's bumper just enough to veer it away. The driver screamed. The old lady didn't even notice. She waddled on, muttering about overpriced donuts.
🚴♂️ Next: a dude on a neon green bicycle, blasting music through earbuds, swerved toward an open manhole like it was a shortcut to Narnia.
THWIP!
Peter yanked the manhole cover back just in time. The cyclist zoomed over it, completely oblivious.
💼 Then, a businessman tripped and his briefcase exploded like a paper grenade.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
Peter snagged every loose page out of the air, bundled them with a quick spin, and handed them back like a dapper web-based concierge.
"Here ya go, sir! Paperwork secured!"
The man blinked. "Uh… thanks?"
Peter tilted his head. "Anytime! Unless you're a lawyer. In that case, please—rethink your life."
And he was off again.
That's when he spotted them: a bunch of elementary school kids on a field trip, wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Spidey soared overhead.
"SPIDEY!" one of them shouted.
Peter, because he had absolutely no chill, landed right in front of them with a superhero flourish.
"Yes, tiny humans? Have you gathered to witness my greatness?"
They swarmed him like he was Santa, Iron Man, and Pikachu rolled into one.
"Can we take a selfie?!" one boy asked, waving a phone like it was the Holy Grail.
Peter gasped theatrically.
"A selfie? With me?! Oh my God, you guys, this is so unexpected. I didn't even do my hair."
One girl giggled. "You're acting like a celebrity."
Peter immediately struck a ridiculous, over-the-top pose. "Because I AM."
Click!
The picture was perfect: Peter crouched in a Spider-pose, the kids beaming behind him like they'd just won the lottery.
He gave them all high-fives (except the one kid with sticky hands—Peter made a note to disinfect later), then leapt back into the air with a whoosh.
As he swung away, he patted his chest proudly.
"I'm gonna be on so many Instagram pages today."
He didn't stop to think about the logistics. Or how many parents would now have questions about why their kids got a selfie with a vigilante in a black suit.
Because Peter Parker, protector of paperwork, defender of schoolchildren, and lowkey drama queen, had more chaos to fix—and probably a class to be late for.
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Swinging through New York with the grace of an airborne ninja-lemur, Peter Parker felt… pretty dang amazing.
He'd webbed up gangsters, snatched bullets mid-air like some kind of bulletproof magician, and rescued New Yorkers from the most absurd everyday disasters. And the best part?
He'd become a selfie legend.
"I'm basically a one-man Avengers PR team," he muttered, doing a triple backflip off a billboard that said TRY OUR NEW COFFEE-BURGER COMBO! (He made a mental note never to trust humanity again.)
Kids were cheering. Tourists were posting. Some poor news anchor was probably already calling him a menace again.
Everything was perfect.
Then Peter glanced at his wristwatch.
...Five minutes late.
"SON OF A—!"
Cue dramatic camera zoom as Peter shot a web-line, launched himself forward like a caffeine-powered rocket, and started yelling at the universe.
"WHY does being a good person always ruin my GPA?!"
He careened past pigeons, flipped over construction sites, bounced off rooftops, and shouted apologies at passing helicopters.
Somewhere downtown, a bystander pointed up.
"Hey, wasn't that Spider-Man?"
"Nah," his friend replied, "Spider-Man's cool. That guy was yelling about midterms."
Peter didn't care.
He needed to get to class, preferably before his professor turned him into homework-flavored toast.
As he swung toward the university, one thought echoed in his brain like a theme song:
"I saved the city… again…
...and I'm still gonna get a B-minus in bio."
Because at the end of the day, Peter Parker might've been a hero to New York…
…but he was also a broke college student with terrible time management.
And that?
That was the real supervillain.