"Nothing is impossible in this world!" Jason declared as negotiations with Paradise collapsed once again.
He wasn't particularly concerned. As long as the angels in Heaven maintained their stubborn refusal to peacefully coexist and integrate with demons, they would inevitably return to the negotiating table. Time was on his side.
For now, Jason turned his attention to another pressing matter. Defeating RoboStark and the blond president's iron grip over America couldn't be accomplished by Doom alone. They needed a multi-pronged strategy. It was time to recruit some additional help.
New York evening. Queens.
Peter Parker hopped off the school bus with a weary sigh, adjusting his backpack as he began the familiar walk home. The neighborhood where he and Aunt May lived wasn't anything fancy—just an ordinary middle-to-lower-class residential area with weathered brick buildings and occasional graffiti.
As Peter cut through a narrow alley to shave a few minutes off his commute, his newly enhanced hearing picked up disturbing sounds—muffled sobbing and a man's heavy, rhythmic breathing. He froze mid-step, uncertain.
Only a few days ago, during a field trip to Oscorp Industries, he'd been bitten by some strange spider. Since then, everything had changed. The world looked different through his eyes now. Sharper. More vibrant. And his body—it felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
Thanks to the emergence of the Avengers in recent years, after his initial panic, Peter quickly understood what was happening. He had developed superpowers! The kind of abilities countless teenagers fantasized about while reading comics under their bedsheets.
Could I become a superhero? he'd wondered excitedly. Just like Cyclops, Storm, and Wolverine he'd seen on TV! Saving the world, protecting innocent people, standing up for justice!
But his excitement had crumbled almost immediately. In New York, the Avengers seemed to have become relics of the past. Stark Industries' patrol robots had steadily infiltrated every corner of the city. Superheroes? They were yesterday's news.
According to the blond president's executive order, superhero activities were now explicitly banned—illegal vigilantism punishable by imprisonment. Peter's newly awakened dreams had been crushed before they could even take flight.
Who in my family would understand? he'd lamented. In a different world, I might have become a superhero the whole world paid attention to!
Now, standing at the mouth of the alley, his enhanced hearing detected evil unfolding in the shadows ahead. But when he glanced around, he noticed something odd—there wasn't a single patrol robot in sight. Usually, they were everywhere, mechanical sentinels watching New York's every move.
Huh, my luck can't possibly be that bad, right? he thought nervously.
The situation inside the alley was escalating rapidly—pained groans intermingled with a man's low, sinister laughter. Peter shifted anxiously from foot to foot, torn between self-preservation and the moral imperative screaming inside his head.
"Fuck it," he finally whispered through gritted teeth. "Let's do this."
After confirming no one was watching, he slipped into the shadowy passage. With quick, nervous movements, he tore a page from a notebook in his backpack, folded it precisely, and created a makeshift paper mask with eyeholes.
Following the disturbing sounds, he discovered the source behind a cluster of overflowing trash cans. Peter leapt forward without allowing himself another moment of hesitation.
"Stop! Let go of that girl—uh, boy!" he commanded, his voice cracking slightly from nervousness.
The scene before him was horrific. A terrified blond boy was pinned beneath a burly, red-faced man whose clothes were partially removed. The man's pants hung loosely around his thighs, exposing most of his lower body. Upon Peter's interruption, the assailant pulled out a butterfly knife, flicking it open with practiced ease.
"You little bastard, get out of here!" the man snarled, waving the blade menacingly. "Otherwise, I'll kill you too!"
Peter forced himself to maintain his stance despite his hammering heart. He dramatically covered his eyes with one hand, employing humor to mask his fear.
"Dude! Your junk is hanging out and it's still wobbling around! I seriously regret seeing this—you've permanently traumatized my eyeballs!"
Through the gaps between his fingers, Peter quickly assessed the boy's condition. Good news—his clothes were still relatively intact. He had arrived in time.
The red-faced man's expression contorted with rage. "You smart-mouthed little punk! I'm gonna make you see what real power is!"
The attacker lunged forward, slashing wildly with his butterfly knife. Though Peter had never formally trained in combat, his body seemed to possess an instinctive awareness of danger. He effortlessly leaned backward, the blade missing his chest by millimeters.
Simultaneously, Peter clenched his right fist and threw a punch, carefully restraining his strength. To his shock, the moment his knuckles connected with the man's face, blood erupted from the assailant's nose.
"Holy crap!" Peter exclaimed, genuinely alarmed by the damage he'd caused.
The red-faced man staggered backward, clutching his face in agony. What seemed to surprise him even more than the pain was the unexpected power behind the skinny teenager's strike.
The impact had felt like being hit with a sledgehammer rather than a fist. This particular sensation—being so thoroughly overpowered—hadn't happened to him in years. The last time had been an unfortunate encounter with someone called Wolverine.
When Peter clearly saw the extent of damage his punch had inflicted, he was utterly shocked and momentarily at a loss for words.
"Jeez, I didn't mean to hit you that hard! I swear I only used about the same force I'd use to swat a mosquito!" Peter babbled, horrified and fascinated in equal measure. "I had no idea you'd be so... fragile? God, is your nose even still there? I can't really tell through all that blood..."
He continued rambling nervously. "You definitely need to get to a hospital! But I can't go with you—I have to get home for dinner! My aunt gets worried, you know how it is..."
The assailant tentatively touched his shattered nose, discovering something loose in his mouth. He spat out two bloody teeth onto the pavement. Only then did the full, searing pain finally register in his nervous system.
"AAAARGH!" he howled. "No! What—what kind of superhero are you? I was wrong! I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me again!"
His terrified screams quickly shifted to calls for help. "Someone! Police! There's a superhero killing people here! Doesn't anyone care anymore?!"
The sudden change in tactics caught Peter completely off guard. By the time he fully processed what was happening, a metallic whirring sound approached from the alley entrance.
A defense robot had arrived, its optical sensors scanning the scene methodically. Its synthesized voice echoed against the brick walls: "Three civilians detected. Please discard any weapons and submit to identification verification. According to New York City Ordinance One, Section Three, you must cooperate with official security protocols. Please remain still for scanning..."
The robot approached steadily, continuing its mechanical monologue.
Peter immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Hey! I'm not the bad guy here! I was just trying to help! This creep was attacking that boy, and I stopped him! You should arrest him right now—he's probably a serial predator or something!"
The red-faced man, despite his injuries, managed a cold smile. "I'm filing a formal report," he called out to the robot. "This individual is an unregistered superhuman operating outside federal guidelines. He has violated the Superhuman Registration Act and the Enhanced Individual Non-Intervention Statutes! Use extreme caution—he's clearly a dangerous mutant!"
Peter felt a wave of disbelief wash over him. He turned toward the injured man, incredulous. "Are you serious right now? 'Illegal rescue'? What was I supposed to do—stand by and watch while you assaulted an innocent kid? What kind of twisted law would punish someone for stopping a crime in progress?"
The defense robot suddenly raised its right arm, pointing directly at Peter. Arcs of electricity danced between metallic prongs at the end of its appendage.
"Civilian, please remove your facial covering. Identity verification is required for system processing," it commanded.
Peter glanced nervously between the robot and the smirking criminal. "But the actual perpetrator is standing right beside me! I just stopped him from committing a horrible crime! If he sees my face, he'll remember me and come after me or my family later!"
The defense robot's tone remained flat and emotionless. "Please be assured that all of New York City operates under comprehensive Stark Security protocols. Any criminal activity will be identified and prosecuted with 99.8% efficiency. If this individual has indeed committed criminal acts, he will remain under constant surveillance. No retaliatory action would be possible."
Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're claiming you can protect all of New York? This guy was literally in the middle of attacking someone when I showed up! Where were you then? How can you possibly—"
"Everything is under control," the robot interrupted.
Then, to Peter's astonishment, it swiveled toward the red-faced man and scanned him with a red beam. "Maxwell Markham: attempted sexual assault of a minor. You are hereby detained pending criminal charges."
A restraint cable shot from the robot's chassis with remarkable speed, binding Markham securely before he could react.
The robot then turned back to Peter. "Civilian, please remove your facial covering. Identity verification is required for system processing."
Peter stared at the machine, deeply unsettled. The robot had known precisely who the criminal was and what he'd been doing without witnessing anything. It hadn't performed any visible scan or analysis before making its determination.
Everything is under control, it had said. What did that actually mean?
The implications sent a chill down Peter's spine. Just how extensive was the surveillance network throughout the city? And more importantly—how was he going to get out of this situation without revealing his identity?
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