Peter stared at his ceiling, the morning light doing nothing to soften the bleak headline glaring from his Stark-encrypted phone. Captain America and the Avengers were officially pinned down. A pop-up faction of supervillains calling themselves the "Masters of Evil" had launched a massive, coordinated guerrilla offensive in Southeast Asia. The timing was absolute garbage.
Luke Cage had just broken out of containment days ago. The US military's black-book human experimentation was clearly red-lining toward a final phase. And right on cue, Earth's Mightiest Heroes were conveniently tied up on the opposite side of the planet. It didn't take a genius to draw the parallel.
Peter rolled over and tapped the small, reinforced glass test tube sitting on his nightstand. Felicia had handed it over, and the implications made his stomach twist. Hydra. It all pointed back to the multi-headed snake. They hadn't just infiltrated the military's super-soldier program; they were actively driving it. They had hijacked Soviet research and seamlessly grafted it onto legitimate US military contracts. Hydra wasn't an army. It was a parasite. Without a host country to bleed dry, they were nothing.
With the Avengers off the board, the burden slammed right back onto Peter's shoulders. But he wasn't flying completely solo this time. Black Cat had the intel but lacked a target in New York. Matt Murdock and his crew had targets but lacked the overarching intel.
He needed to put them all in the same room. Peter pulled up his messaging app and fired a text to Matt. Need a sit-down. All hands. You pick the spot.
Three seconds later, his screen buzzed with an address. Peter blinked at the glowing text. How the hell does a blind guy type that fast? Voice-to-text? Braille keyboard? Focus, Parker.
As for S.H.I.E.L.D., they were a non-starter. If he or Cindy reported this, it would only trigger a civil war within the compromised agency. Until Hydra was surgically extracted from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ranks, bringing them in was a liability. The X-Men were too loud; pulling them in would light up federal radar. Daredevil's street-level crew operated in the shadows. That was exactly what Peter needed right now.
The smell of burnt toast and black coffee dragged him downstairs. Uncle Ben sat at the kitchen island, his broad, ex-Marine shoulders hunched over the morning paper. Aunt May stood by the sink, furiously scrubbing a cast-iron skillet.
"Morning," Peter mumbled, sliding onto a stool. "You two look cheerful."
"Fisk's sitting in a cell, the Avengers are off playing G.I. Joe overseas, and the local element is taking full advantage," Ben grunted, flipping a page.
May sighed, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her brow was pulled tight. "The F.E.A.S.T. center is at maximum capacity, Peter. We had a line around the block last night. People are getting pushed out of their homes, and the street violence is spilling right over onto our doorstep."
Peter gripped his mug, the ceramic warm against his palms. "It's gonna bounce back, May. It's just a rough patch." He downed his coffee, grabbed his backpack, and bolted for the door.
Midtown High felt like a different planet. Late September, post-Homecoming lull. Lockers slamming, teenagers arguing about pop quizzes, oblivious to the shadow war brewing in their city. Peter slid into his desk. Cindy Moon was already there, sitting perfectly straight.
"You were out late last night," she murmured, barely moving her lips.
Peter leaned in, pitching his voice under the classroom chatter. "Classified intel drop. I'm handling it. But listen—whatever you do, do not loop S.H.I.E.L.D. into our comms. They might be compromised."
Cindy didn't flinch. She just gave a single, sharp nod. "I'm here if you need me."
Now he just needed the cat. He had no idea what Felicia's class schedule was, and they weren't exactly in the same grade.
"Basketball," a voice chimed in.
Peter jumped. Harry Osborn leaned over from the desk behind them, casually spinning a gold-plated pen between his knuckles. "Felicia Hardy. Senior. Varsity basketball. She's in the main gym right after last period."
Peter squinted at him. "How do you know that?"
Harry shrugged, entirely too pleased with himself. "I have ears, Pete. You could ask Liz. Or MJ. Or Gwen. Honestly, I'm just saving you the legwork."
The gymnasium echoed with the sharp squeak of rubber soles and the heavy thud of basketballs when Peter pushed through the double doors after the final bell. Felicia Hardy was near the free-throw line, stretching out her calves. She spotted him, flashed a brilliant, entirely fake apologetic smile to her teammates, and jogged over. She wasn't even sweating.
"Can I help you, freshman?" Felicia purred, leaning against the bleachers. "Did Jessica give you too much homework for the detective club?"
"Something like that," Peter said, keeping his voice level. "Turns out the murderer was the detective all along."
Felicia's smirk hitched at the corner. Her eyes sharpened. She caught the code.
"I'm throwing a masquerade party tonight," Peter continued, shoving his hands in his pockets. "A few like-minded friends are showing up. I need someone to help balance out the guest list. You in?"
Felicia looked him up and down. "Hmm. Can't find anyone else to go with you?"
"Just need a pro."
She laughed, a short, sharp sound, and pulled a sleek phone from her gym bag. "Put your number in, kid. And text me the venue."
Peter took the phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. He handed it back. "I'm not much younger than you."
Felicia glanced at the screen. The address was set: The rooftop of the F.E.A.S.T. Center, Manhattan.