Spider-Man clung to the sheer glass facade of a Midtown skyscraper. The late August sun beat down on his shoulders. Four o'clock traffic blared from the streets below. The rubble from the Chitauri invasion was completely gone, leaving the concrete canyons of New York looking like an alien army had never dropped from the sky.
That invasion had been the exact day he first pulled the mask over his face. He had swung through the absolute chaos, pulling people from crushed cars and falling debris, completely unnoticed by the world.
"All things considered, solid first day of high school," Peter muttered to himself, letting the high-altitude wind cool the sweat under his suit. "Met some new friends. Mostly new friends. Joined a club that does nothing. And—"
"I assume every god-fearing citizen in this city has heard about the disaster in Queens this morning!"
A voice like a foghorn echoed across the avenue.
Peter looked up. The massive digital billboard on the side of the Daily Bugle building flared to life. J. Jonah Jameson's scowl—which looked suspiciously like Omni-Man about to destroy a planet—filled the screen. Jameson slammed a rolled-up newspaper against his news desk.
"A gang of masked thugs with alien weapon nearly blew a bank vault into orbit! The Avengers barely stopped the structural collapse!" Jameson roared, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "But that is a distraction! Multiple eyewitness reports confirm the true culprit was at the scene. Spider-Man! There is zero doubt this masked menace orchestrated the entire robbery with his alien-tech cronies!"
"I cannot believe I want to work for that guy," Peter groaned, dropping his head against the cool glass of the window. "I should bury a backdoor in the Bugle's server code. 'Hey Jonah, your hairline receded another quarter-inch today.'"
Peter pushed off the glass and fired a web, swinging directly past Jameson's giant, yelling face. He kept his right hand on the web-line and pulled his heavily cracked smartphone out of his pocket with his left.
He didn't just want the Bugle web-maintenance job for the $900 a month. Though, admittedly, that cash would fund three complete spare suits and a serious web-shooter upgrade. The real prize was server access. Peter was currently writing an algorithm designed to scrape Twitter, Facebook, and local emergency bands for keywords—fire, gun, explosion. If he could piggyback his code onto the Bugle's massive news-gathering network, he could pinpoint emergencies before the NYPD even dispatched a squad car.
Plus, it gave him the perfect excuse to sit in front of a computer for six hours a night without Aunt May or Gwen asking questions.
"Hey! Spider-Man! Up here!"
Peter's thumb slipped on his screen. He twisted mid-air, scanning the pedestrian walkway bridging the elevated subway tracks. A kid, maybe five years old, was gripping the chain-link fence, waving frantically.
Peter flipped his phone into his pocket, fired a short line, and vaulted over the railing. He landed in a deep crouch right next to the kid.
"Hey, little guy," Peter said, adjusting his posture to eye level. "What's the emergency?"
The kid pointed a sticky finger through the fence. "My bike fell. Can you get it?"
Peter looked down. A tiny blue bicycle with plastic training wheels lay dead across the third rail of the subway track. A low rumble vibrated through the concrete. The downtown express was maybe three minutes out.
"Stand back," Peter said.
He didn't hesitate. He vaulted over the ten-foot security fence, dropped silently onto the gravel tracks, and scooped the bike up by the handlebars. He coiled his leg muscles and leaped straight back up, clearing the fence entirely and dropping the bike gently onto the pavement.
"Alright, man, try to keep it on the sidewalk," Peter said, dusting rust off his gloves. "How did it even get down there? The fence is twice as tall as you."
"A guy threw it," the kid said honestly. "He said you'd get it for me."
Peter froze. The white lenses of his mask narrowed. "Who threw it? What did he look like?"
"He had dark skin," the kid shrugged. "Lots of braids. And a heavy bag."
Peter filed the description away. It was vague, but a five-year-old wasn't exactly a police sketch artist. He gave the kid a quick high-five, told him to stay away from the tracks, and swung back into the skyline.
Peter phone buzzed wildly against his thigh.
Peter swung his legs up, attaching his feet to the brick wall of an apartment building. He hung upside down and pulled his phone out.
"Hey, Uncle Ben. What's up?"
"Peter, can you do me a massive favor?" Ben's voice crackled through the speaker. A deafening cascade of police sirens wailed in the background of the call. "Can you swing by Metenno's Bakery and pick up a cake for May? I'm stuck on site. If I wrap up soon I can drive—"
"No sweat, it's on my route!" Peter talked fast over the sirens. "I'll grab it. Tell May I'm on my way!"
Peter jammed the phone back into his pocket. He let out a sharp laugh.
"A quiet afternoon in New York," Peter sighed, dropping backward off the wall. "Time to clock in."
He entered a steep dive, tracking the wail of the sirens. A convoy of NYPD cruisers was tearing down Third Avenue.
"Suspect is fleeing south on Third!" the police dispatch radio clipped over the city noise. "Target is turning onto 95th Street!"
Down on 95th Street, Captain George Stacy stood behind the open door of his cruiser. He racked the slide of his shotgun, watching a battered red sedan tear around the corner.
A heavy, blinding blue energy beam pulsed from the passenger window of the sedan.
The beam slammed into the hood of the lead pursuit cruiser. The two-ton police car violently flipped end-over-end, crashing into a parked delivery truck.
"Suspects are armed with high-yield tech!" Captain Stacy roared, leveling his shotgun over his door. "Open fire! Take out the engine block!"
The barricade erupted. Pistols and shotguns hammered the oncoming sedan. Sparks flew off the hood. Suddenly, a translucent blue energy shield snapped into existence over the car's grille. The bullets flattened against the light and dropped to the asphalt.
The sedan didn't slow down. The passenger leaned out the window, hefting a massive, jagged rifle glowing with Chitauri power cells. He didn't even aim. He just pulled the heavy trigger mechanism.
A second energy blast ripped through the air. It hit the cruiser parked directly in front of Captain Stacy. The impact threw the car entirely off the ground. Thick black smoke engulfed the barricade.
The gunman in the sedan threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the brownstones.
"What's the joke, man? Share with the class!"
A red-and-blue blur dropped from the sky.
Spider-Man fired a thick web-line, grabbing Captain Stacy by the tactical vest and violently yanking him out of the path of the falling cruiser. In the same breath, Peter flipped backward, firing two massive, continuous streams of webbing across the width of 95th Street.
The red sedan plowed straight into the tensile net.
The front bumper caught. The tires shrieked, burning rubber against the asphalt as the webbing stretched, absorbed the kinetic momentum, and violently snapped the car to a dead halt.
Peter landed heavily on the roof of the sedan. The metal buckled under his boots.
"I heard you guys wanted the convertible package!"
Peter dug his fingers into the roof lining. He flexed his shoulders, ripped the entire steel roof off the car like a sardine lid, and tossed it into the street. He peered down at the three terrified men sitting inside with a duffel bag full of jewelry.
"Shoot the bug!" the driver screamed.
The passenger swung the heavy Chitauri rifle upward. Peter didn't wait. He backflipped off the trunk just as a blue pulse of plasma incinerated the air where his chest had been.
Peter hit the pavement. He fired a web, catching the passenger-side door. He ripped his arm back, tearing the door off its hinges. The passenger spilled out onto the concrete, the heavy rifle clattering out of his hands.
Peter fired a web, yanked the rifle into his own hands, and examined the casing.
"Wait, is this a standard AR-15 receiver bolted onto a Chitauri plasma core?" Peter muttered, dodging a stray pistol shot. "Someone jury-rigged an alien energy converter in a basement? That's actually impressive."
The driver kicked his door open. He was built like a heavyweight brawler. He wore a pair of heavy steel gauntlets over his fists, both humming with raw blue energy. The passenger scrambled to his feet, abandoning the rifle and tapping a device on his forearm. A circular blue energy shield flared to life over his arm.
"You guys need a branding department," Peter sighed, tossing the rifle aside. "I fought a guy this morning who called himself the Shocker. Terrible name, but at least he tried. What are you guys? The Boxer? Shield-Man?" Peter pointed to the guy in the backseat currently wrestling a massive tube onto his shoulder. "And let me guess, you're Bazooka-Bob?"
"Shut up and die!" the driver roared.
"Why does everyone tell me to shut up?!"
The driver charged. He swung a massive, glowing right hook. Peter ducked under it, the air cracking with displaced energy. Peter danced backward, keeping his hands loose.
"Left hook. Right cross. Heavy uppercut," Peter narrated, effortlessly weaving through the man's brutal combination. "You have terrible footwork, man. Are you done?"
The driver stared at his glowing fists, completely out of breath. He couldn't understand why he hadn't landed a single strike.
"My turn," Peter said.
Peter planted his foot and drove a perfectly measured straight right into the driver's chest. The man let out a textbook Wilhelm scream as the impact lifted him completely off his feet. He flew backward and plastered directly into the web-net blocking the street.
The guy with the shield took a step back. He looked at Spider-Man. Then he looked over his shoulder.
Bazooka-Bob was standing in the backseat of the ruined sedan, aiming the alien rocket launcher squarely at Peter.
Unfortunately, Shield-Man was standing directly in the line of fire.
"No! No! Wait!" Shield-Man screamed, frantically tapping the device on his arm. The shield flared brightly, flickered, and completely died. The battery was dead.
The rocket launcher whirred to life.
Peter shook his head. "This is why you always charge your devices overnight, kids."
The rocket fired.
Peter didn't dodge. He fired two thick lines of webbing, catching the glowing alien warhead mid-flight. He spun on his heel, using the momentum to hurl the rocket straight up into the sky. He fired a quick stinger-web right at the casing.
The warhead detonated fifty feet in the air.
A massive blue shockwave illuminated the entire street. The heat washed over the remaining two thugs. They stood frozen in the glare of the explosion, staring at the masked teenager.
Peter rolled his shoulders and offered a casual shrug.
"So," Spider-Man said. "You guys want to keep going?"