conservation of energy
The thrum of his heartbeat in his chest is loud as Peter perches on a nearby street lamp, listening in to the conversation between two of Stromm’s employees happening below him. He and Miles had agreed to handle this mission as quietly as possible, and so they take their respective spots, surveilling the area for anything untoward.
So far? Nothing. Nada. The employees a few feet away are arguing about what they’re planning to have for breakfast, and a quick glance in Miles’ direction confirms he is having about the same luck as he is. Maybe, just maybe, this morning will be a heck of a lot easier than first thought.
He hears the rumblings of another conversation a few feet away and on instinct, web-zips himself out of sight but within earshot. Two of the men are discussing something about an upcoming plan to raid an Oscorp building in the Upper West Side for old equipment of Stromm’s next week, and although not evidence of the deep-rooted conspiracy Miles has been theorizing, it’s evidence of something at least. If luck is on their side, they’ll record this, stay concealed, wait for the rest of the shipment to be processed and they’ll be able to head home, barely having broken a sweat but having gotten a little further in uncovering Stromm’s misdeeds. Next week, they will do the whole web slinging, punch throwing, stopping crime in its tracks thing but today, Pete will get to head back home early, eat some soup and crawl back into bed to sleep off whatever has been working on him since he woke up.
He lets himself be a little complacent, closing his eyes just for a moment, trusting his spider-senses to take stock of the situation if his attention is required. Pain pulses the muscles of his brow and he takes a couple of deep breaths, trying and failing to relieve the swollen sensation throbbing behind his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. The sun is low, still rising, spreading warm light across the water but Pete shivers as if a cold wind has rushed through him and he catches himself just before he vocalizes his discomfort.
Spider-Man has very few weaknesses (luck, money and his own brain being the main ones), but despite his many protests to the contrary, the limits of the (albeit super-) human body is one of them. He’s strong and has stamina that rivals the most decorated marathon runners, not to mention his superhuman levels of sheer stubbornness, but he’s not immune to injury or pain or fatigue or illness, no matter how much he wishes it were true.
He is no stranger to pushing through not feeling at his best, with many a story he can recall; he and MJ joke often about his true super-power is his inhuman levels of will power. Once with six hours sleep in total across the space of a week, surviving purely on adrenaline and dangerous quantities of caffeine, he somehow managed to foil one of Fisk’s operations and submit his final thesis with minutes to spare, whilst also juggling volunteering at FEAST and submitting photos to the Daily Bugle (and probably a concussion, too). And then there had been the time several years ago, where he had torn something in his shoulder and somehow managed to complete his mission and make it back to MJ’s before he passed out from the searing pain, only to wrap it up and head back out swinging the next morning one-handed. A particularly infamous occasion was the time he terrified the entire villain population of Manhattan into believing he’d gone rogue due to the lack of his usual quips, when in reality, he just had laryngitis. And that’s not even mentioning the countless times he has patrolled New York with a pounding headache, or allergies, or whatever cold or flu was circulating around the city; there had even been the time in his junior year of college where sharing a drink with Harry landed him with mono, and he had spent weeks still carrying out his Spider-Man duties feeling like a walking plague and having to avoid direct combat in the hope of avoiding a ruptured spleen.
Experience doesn’t make it any easier. He’s conscious of how loud his breaths sound, achiness spreading across each of his joints in perfect tandem. Despite not yet taking a single punch, he feels like he’s already gone a thousand rounds with these guys. The only mercy is that this morning’s mission will hopefully remain uneventful, but he doesn’t want to jinx it yet, not when there are still Stromm employees offloading the shipment just inches away.
He takes a glance at Miles, who is surveying the situation intently. Pete is more than confident the younger hero is in control if things were to suddenly turn sour, but he doesn’t let himself take his gaze off his own section of the docks.
He scans the shipyard, blinking haziness from his eyes and trying to focus on one spot, finding that his field of vision keeps shifting. He hears the conversation shifting volume, one moment loud and clear in his ears, the next fading out to jumbled nonsense he can’t quite make sense of. His limbs are growing heavier all of a sudden, and it’s hard to keep his body balanced on the tiny platform the street-lamp provides.
Miles is a tiny dot in the corner of his eye. The Stromm employees are ants beneath him. The water is closing in. He feels like he is being swallowed up inside a storage container, his vision now a mess of harsh metal and streaming light and gravel. Every one of his senses is screaming at him, so loud and so full of noise that he feels, hears, sees, tastes, smells nothing and everything all at once. His spider-sense is roaring through his body, burning beneath his skin, so shrill and thunderous and piercing that it has been rendered useless.
Gravity takes over. By the time he is able to parse together his senses and realizes that he is about to pass out, it’s too late. He sends out a panicked web, but it disappears into the sky, missing something to latch on to.
Pain. He hits the ground like a brick, his vision still swimming, feeling like he is underwater.
“It’s one of the goddamn Spider-Men,” he hears a harsh voice say above him, his head feeling like it is about to explode.
It all happens quickly. Pete manages to stay conscious but only just. A group of Stromm delivery employees are surrounding him now, their demeanor at once jovial and terrifying. They’re joking around about how much money they’re going to make from unmasking him; that the cheque from selling the pictures to the Bugle will outweigh their measly minimum wage Stromm Enterprise salaries. He tries to fight against the hands that reach towards his face as best he can, swiping away at them, desperately using an electric web blast to force their bodies away. He attempts to stand, but he’s pushed back over, several kicks delivered into his chest as he slams back onto the ground. Pain ripples through his ribs, forcing him into a coughing fit, but he uses his own legs to thrust the attacker away from him, shooting a last minute impact web to restrain him.
Miles has had time to respond now, and with the help of the younger hero holding off the bad guys for a moment, Pete manages to maneuver his body into a standing position. He’s able to take just a second to catch his breath before he dodges a punch, allowing Miles to take him out.
“I can handle this, Spider-Man!” Miles says, somehow sparring with a Stromm employee whilst watching a still unsteady Pete weave and dodge his way through hordes of them.
“No,” Pete replies, his voice coming out winded but a little stronger than he expected; adrenaline is beginning to kick in, some combination of muscle memory and his albeit blunted senses keeping him upright and able to hold up a fight. “There’s only a few more of them.”
“Dude! You nearly passed out!”
“Not nearly. I did.”
The quip would be reassuring if it weren’t for the deadpan delivery and the fact that Miles has to turn to grab a fist about to collide with the older hero, his wrist taking the brunt of the force intended for Pete's jaw.
There’s no time to argue as the last wave of Stromm employees descends upon the pair, this group somehow even bigger and more aggressive than the ones that came before. The fight is quick and intense and full-force, and Pete is almost glad for it. He operates purely on instinct, throwing punches before he even computes his next steps in his scrambled brain. He doesn’t have a moment to think about the pain or the fatigue or the dizziness, so by the time the last of the attackers are brought down by a well-timed ricochet web, he is still wrestling against a non-existent enemy, kicks and punches thrown into the ether.
“Hey slow down, that was the last of them,” Miles shakes him out of it, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and guiding him towards the truck where the contents of this morning’s shipment have been deposited; he tells Pete to sit down on the truck door’s edge, but he refuses, shakily forcing himself into the back of the truck carriage to examine the boxes.
Miles follows behind him, hovering behind his mentor as they each open a box. Nothing. Well, nothing important at least. The delivery is full of nothing but parts; metal and electrical components for robotics that look like they have more to do with building medical equipment and automobiles than the weapons they had suspected they would find. Not a single bomb or gun in sight.
Pete feels his legs turn to jello again, his vision turning dark and he stumbles out from the back of the truck just in time for Miles to grab hold of him, sweeping his suddenly limp body up and swinging him to the safety of a nearby rooftop out of sight.