The Last Stand
Truth be told, Peter Parker was beginning to think that Iron Man had a point about benching him. The teen had been so confident - frankly cocky - about defeating the plot on Mr Stark’s plane.
Well, he’d been a little terrified too, but he’d overlooked that in favour of determination. There had been a thought that only Spider-Man could save the day. That only Peter could stop Toomes.
He’d really tried. From hitching a ride on the jet, to inevitably crashing the jet trying to not get sucked into the engines; Peter had put on his best performance.
And he’d been wrong to trust it might work. To believe his Parker luck wouldn’t curse him this time.
It felt all foolish now. So much effort for nothing as Peter had fought his way out of a warehouse that Vulture had exploded on top of him, only to end up dying trying to save him. No point in proving he didn’t need a fancy suit, if he disproved it immediately.
All of it, and for what? So a guy that got screwed over wouldn’t steal weaponry from an ex-arms dealer?
And yet, as the chill froze his shuddering movements - weakening each desperate attempt to stay afloat - he could not find it in himself to regret it. Not one moment. From stopping Toomes plot, to trying to save him in the end.
It was as Uncle Ben had told him. With great power comes great responsibility.
At least he’d stopped Toomes from making more weapons. Even if he hadn’t been able to get the guy free of his broken wingsuit… at least neither had died alone.
Though there was something to be said for dying in a fiery blaze. However briefly agonising, it was quick. A sear of agony before his head snacked sand and Peter thought no more. Vulture’s suit had sparked and fallen, and Peter had simply been too close. Fifteen years old, and dead at the end of his first ever date.
An utter classic of Parker luck.
His final breath was quick and caught by the impact. But his first breath… that didn’t come easily.
Peter tried to wretch a shuddering inhale as his senses seemed to spark anew; fighting against the floaty feeling of deep water. It brought with it a blinding panic, as he thrashed with heavy limbs.
He still did not take his first breath. Not as he blinked against that green liquid, choking on the vile taste. It seared the back of his throat and blazed a path through his nostrils to his brain.
Bubbles rippled through the liquid as he screamed and his mind began to crackle like burning paper.
Gone was his vision of orange and flame. As he flailed in the liquid, bit by bit, Peter Parker felt grief in the holes left by the blistering path of green. A blinding sorrow that twisted his memories to abstraction as his blood boiled and his arms lunged at nothingness, forcing free of the liquid.
The air was cold against his hands, sharp as paper cuts. Growling, the boy felt around for some kind of edge to this trap, fingers snapping against some kind of rock as he forced himself upright.
There were no thoughts. Only the endless and constant buzzing of voices, whispers and screams that helped the green drive away any lingering memory from his mind.
Shuddering, he stumbled in the liquid, forcing his bare feet into motion. The green still tinged his vision, caught in his lashes as he fell against the edge of the pit.
Peter winced as the rocks scraped his palms, digging in as he pulled his body to the ragged ground. Stumbling until he fell to his knees, slipping onto his side. There were new slices across his flesh. Across his bare chest and uncovered arm as he curled into a ball and wept.
It was some time before he finally stood on shaking legs, like a child taking their first steps. Dragging heavy feet across a cutting path, blindly stumbling in the darkness. It was some kind of cave. Lit only by the shallow pool Peter had emerged from.
A pit of glowing green, casting wide shadows from jagged rocks.
There were no thoughts as he clawed at the rocks. Only the feel of cool stone against his bloody fingertips as he punched and yanked the wall apart. Forcing his bloodied fists through the stone, over and over again, trying to ignore the streaming of his mind as his skin tore from his knuckles.
All he could do was sigh in relief once he spied the first spark of light through the cracks. It felt like what he had to do. Some nagging feeling, an instinct born before evolution, to claw his way free.
Rearing back his arm, Peter punched the wall again.