How to Fix a Broken Heater 101
As Peter flips through an old heater manual at four in the morning, he seriously questions why he ever took Spanish as his world language class. Not that it would have helped—half the instructions are in what looks like Russian."What the…" His voice trails off as he squints at the faded print. He can make sense of quantum mechanics, but not a beaten-up radiator.
The rusted wood floorboards creak beneath him as he shifts his weight, screwdriver in hand. He spends half an hour trying to decipher the directions before giving up with a sigh. Getting up, he washes his face with cold water, the icy water jolting him awake with a shock. As he looks up from the small kitchen sink, a memory hits him—May's last, mangled look before she took her final breath. Peter had felt it. The exact moment she was slipping away. His spider-sense had been screaming at him, even as she crumpled to the ground.
"It’s just you and me." But now, it was just Peter.
A floorboard creaks behind him, snapping him out of his daze. He realizes his eyes are welling with tears—some have already spilled down his cheeks. Sniffling, he grabs a tissue from the makeshift nightstand beside the couch he’s been sleeping on for the past few days. It's dusted, and worn out like everything else in his apartment. He slowly cleans up his cold Chinese food from the previous night.
Peter drags his feet around the apartment, doing busy work to keep himself occupied, avoiding any thought of how no one knows he exists. He scrubs his counter—not because it's dirty, but because his mind is somewhere else. He moves to the couch to fold the singular blanket sitting on the end of it when he knocks into something lying astray on the floor. His backpack. He hesitates for a moment, before roughly hoisting the bag onto the couch, heavier than he remembers, carefully unzipping it.
His eyes are met with loads of books and homework he originally had been assigned for winter break. He places his hand lightly on a folder, opening it and finding a portfolio of MJ's doodles across his math equations. His thumb gently traces over one of her sketches, the silence lingering as he remembers her. His eyes land on a small sticky note pinned to the top of a calculus assignment, 'Rooftop for lunch' with a small smiley face in Ned's smudged handwriting. His breath catches. He snaps the folder shut—too fast, too rough—and shoves it aside like it never mattered.
Another swing, another rooftop. Another rooftop, another street. His patrol has been the same all afternoon—boring. No action, no danger, just the usual rhythm of New York. But still, he could feel something, the slight twinge he gets in the back of his neck whenever he senses danger. He has this recurring 'Peter tingle' as May used to tease him.
A woman's voice calls out hurriedly, "Spider-Man!"
Peter's body weight shifts as he effortlessly swings across Fulton Street and following the voice of the woman that called him. She's a stubby middle aged Italian woman, and as soon as Peter touches down he instantly regrets it as he sees the groceries in her hand. "Hey—ma'am?" He eyes the twenty something bags filling her car trunk. She smiles and thrusts three into Peter's arms. "Be a dear, my apartment's 6F." She says in a thick accent and points down the street of apartment buildings. Peter sighs. "Ok, ma'am."
On Peter's last trip from the car to the apartment, he hears a siren start up in the distance. The cop car that had been idling nearby, two officers lazily eating Dunkin’ Donuts, suddenly straighten up. Peter’s ears pick up a voice crackling through their walkie talkies.
"Code 265.17. Requesting backup—Sergeant Barnes en route. Repeat, 265.17. Over."
Peter freezes mid-step, groceries still in hand. He knows that penal code. Weapons trafficking. The officers quickly fumble for the keys and start the ignition. Peter has the same bad feeling, and the prick in his neck grows. His body tenses, but he can feel the lady's eyes on him. "Nuh-uh, not until my milk gets into my apartment." She points to the bags Peter is holding. He hesitates, as the cop car starts it's siren and pulls away. He quickly rushes up to the apartment, not bothering to wait for the elevator.
Peter races after the sirens, keeping to the rooftops as two squad cars tear through the streets toward Brooklyn. The sun is in its final hour, willing itself to set over the city's skyline. As they reach Brooklyn, he can see more NYPD cars ripping through the streets with wailing sirens, their red and blue lights bouncing off nearby buildings. Helicopters join Peter from above, the blades thundering in his ears. The sirens abruptly stop, beginning to form a barricade surrounding a parking garage.
Peter lands lightly at the entrance of the parking garage, ears tuning into the metallic clatter echoing from inside. Heavy crates scrape against metal, followed by low grunts of effort as men haul their cargo. He can hear the chiefs of police behind him barking orders, their men scrambling to surround the structure. Following the low grunts of men lifting and hauling and metallic banging, Peter soon finds a group of twenty or so men unloading an all black truck and exchanging it into a FedEx vehicle.
Peter hears light footsteps behind him and assumes it's a deputy chief backing him up in case things get out of hand.Peter stalks from behind a pillar, finds a moment of vulnerability, and seizes it—webbing up five men struggling to carry a heavy case. The remaining men hesitate for a split second before bolting in opposite directions, as their colleagues grunt with frustration, trying to rip through the webbing. Many scatter to protect the FedEx van and its cargo, while others reach for their guns. "Wow, FedEx really stepped up their security." Peter deadpans, hands raised in mock fear. He makes his move, as his spider sense screams at him, dodging bullets and webbing the men's arms to their sides, their guns now aiming to the floor.
The back of his neck stings—he senses someone in the back of the FedEx truck. The back slowly rattling as someone yanks up the door of it. A complex machine, barrels of bullets aimed directly at Peter, is revealed. Peter's neck aches, but before he can react, a thick black wire shoots from behind him, latching onto the underside of the truck. Click. The truck lurches violently, flipping over and sending the gunman flying.
"Holy shit!" Peter exclaims as he rapidly turns around. His eyes lock onto a man—dark hair, pale skin, piercing blue eyes, muscular build. But Peter barely registers any of that. His eyes are locked on the man’s left arm—jet black metal, fingers still curled around the weapon he just fired.