Chapter 2: The Ghost of New York and the Spider's Web
"Okay, day two in the superhero apocalypse, and I've successfully managed to not get interrogated by Nick Fury. Small victories, people. Small victories. I also haven't accidentally revealed the entire future of the MCU to a bewildered civilian, so that's another win for the day. My self-control is truly admirable, even if it feels like my brain is doing acrobatics trying to keep everything straight."
Adam moved through the still-smoking streets of lower Manhattan like a shadow. His new body felt… lighter, more responsive than anything he'd ever experienced. Every sound, every flicker of movement, was amplified, yet perfectly categorized by his brain. It was like living life with all the cheat codes turned on, but with the added pressure of not breaking the game. The scent of ozone and burnt debris hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of yesterday's alien invasion. He could hear the distant rumble of clean-up crews, the shouts of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents directing traffic, the faint wail of ambulances.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: ADAPTIVE BODY CONTINUOUSLY OPTIMIZING. ENHANCED PERCEPTION AND MOBILITY SUB-PROTOCOLS ACTIVE. ETERNAL YOUTH MAINTENANCE AT 99.999% EFFICIENCY.]
"Ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent? What about the other point zero zero one percent? Is that where my hair starts thinning? Because that would be just my luck. Superpowers, but I go bald. The indignity! I swear, if I survive Thanos, Ultron, and every other disaster, only to wake up with a receding hairline, I'm going to have words with whoever designed this 'Adapt System'." He vaulted over a collapsed bus, landing silently on the other side. This was new. He wasn't some parkour expert in his old life. Hell, he struggled with stairs. Now, he felt like a slightly less dramatic Assassin's Creed character, minus the hood and hidden blades. Though, maybe the System could adapt those if he needed them.
The streets were crawling with S.H.I.E.L.D. teams, paramedics, and clean-up crews. They were efficient, meticulous, and completely oblivious to the ghostly figure slipping through their cordon. He saw them meticulously scanning areas where he'd been, looking for… well, him. Or whatever anomaly their sensors picked up during his impromptu Hulk-smash session. He saw a few agents with confused expressions, muttering into their comms about 'unidentified energy spikes' and 'phantom movements'.
"Poor Fury. He's probably losing sleep trying to figure out who I am. Little does he know, I'm basically his personal headache, a meta-human anomaly wrapped in sarcasm. Good luck explaining that to the World Security Council. I'm half expecting him to show up with a giant net and a tranquilizer gun. Jokes on him, I'm probably immune to tranquilizers now, thanks to my adaptive physiology. Or at least, I'd adapt to metabolize them instantly, rendering them useless. Take that, science!"
He reached an abandoned office building, its windows blown out, its lobby a mess of shattered glass and forgotten files. Perfect. His meta-knowledge pinged, telling him this place, in the grand scheme of the MCU, was effectively forgotten, at least for a while. It was ideal for a temporary hideout. Not a permanent base, not yet, but a place to crash, plan, and continue his search for Yelena without being interrupted by concerned government agencies.
Inside, he found a relatively intact floor, surprisingly untouched by the worst of the battle. His enhanced senses picked up faint traces of dust, the whisper of old paper, the distant hum of emergency generators. He moved through the offices, his adaptability kicking in. He wasn't just seeing the space; he was understanding its structural integrity, its airflow, its potential weaknesses, and its hidden strengths. It was like the building was whispering its secrets directly to his brain, and he could hear every last one.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: ENVIRONMENT 'ABANDONED OFFICE BUILDING' ANALYZED. OPTIMAL SECURE LOCATION IDENTIFIED. RESOURCE GATHERING PROTOCOLS SUGGESTED.]
"Thanks, System. You're like a super-smart Airbnb host, only instead of leaving mints on the pillow, you tell me where the structural weaknesses are. Charming. And probably more useful. Though I wouldn't say no to some mints. Or a decent snack. I'm still craving that hot dog, ironically." He started working, meticulously securing the floor. He used his newfound strength to barricade doors with overturned desks and filing cabinets, his enhanced dexterity to bypass old, defunct security systems, and his sharp mind to set up tripwires and makeshift alarms using discarded office supplies. He even found some old, defunct computers and, with a touch, felt the System guiding his fingers to repair them, cannibalizing parts to get one working. It was like his hands knew exactly what to do, even for tasks he'd never attempted before.
As he worked, his mind drifted. The sheer, overwhelming reality of it all. He was here. In the MCU. Where literal gods fought aliens and supersoldiers threw shields. And he was… him. Only better. Much, much better. He was a force of nature, a walking, talking cheat code. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly surreal. He still felt the phantom echo of his old life, the mundane routine, the quiet desperation. This was… anything but quiet.
"Is this what they call 'imposter syndrome'? Because I feel like I'm about to get found out any minute. Like, someone's going to knock on the door and ask for my superhero license, which, for the record, I don't have. Or want. Yet. What would I even put on it? 'Special abilities: Master of everything, expert in snark, professional hot dog choker'? Yeah, that'll fly."
He powered up the salvaged computer. It hummed to life, a relic from a pre-Chitauri world, its screen flickering to life. He needed info. Not meta-info, but current, real-world data. News feeds, police reports, anything that might give him a lead on Yelena. She wouldn't be in the public eye, not yet. He needed to find the whispers, the shadows, the intelligence that only a spy network (or a transmigrated fanboy with an omniscient database in his head) could uncover.
While sifting through archaic news archives from the past few months, a fleeting news report caught his eye. A human interest piece from Queens. A fire in an apartment building, weeks ago. A brave young boy, just a kid, who helped an old lady escape the blaze. Peter Parker. It was just a brief image, a familiar face in the crowd of worried onlookers, holding his aunt's hand. He was just a kid, years away from getting bit by that spider. Years away from the burdens of Spider-Man, from the crushing weight of responsibility, from losing everything.
A pang hit Adam. Not sadness, but a fierce protectiveness. He knew what Peter would go through. He knew the pain, the loss, the impossible choices. And for a moment, the sarcasm faded. This wasn't just a game. These were real people, living real lives that would be irrevocably altered by events he already knew. He could prevent some of it. He had to. He had the power, the knowledge. It was a terrifying responsibility, but one he knew, deep down, he couldn't ignore.
"Peter, you have no idea what's coming. But don't worry, kid. Some random guy who chokes on hot dogs is watching out for you. Not directly, of course. That would mess up the timeline. But, you know, in a general, 'I'm not letting you die pointlessly or suffer too much' kind of way. You're welcome. And maybe one day, I'll tell you to keep that spider bite for yourself, for once." He paused his search, a somber note in his mind. The weight of his meta-knowledge, the burden of knowing future tragedies, settled on him. It wasn't just a fun fact; it was a profound responsibility. He was a walking, breathing spoiler alert for the universe, and he had to use that power wisely.
He shook his head, pushing the darker thoughts aside. One step at a time. First, secure the base. Then, find Yelena. Then, maybe, just maybe, he could start playing cosmic chess with Thanos. But not before a good night's sleep. And maybe some actual food that wasn't mystery meat on a stick. He was pretty sure his body could adapt to digest anything, but his taste buds still had standards, even in the apocalypse.