you swing without a net
He doesn’t quite remember ever being part of something so devastating.
There was his parents’ funeral, something of which he could hardly recall. Then, there was his Uncle Ben’s funeral, a harsh stain that just wouldn’t come off. That memory was black and purged with red, and sometimes he’d feel the stickiness of the blood as it rolled down his hands and scratched at his face. The blood never dried but it dyed his skin anyhow.
There was never any question on whose side he’d be on; Tony Stark was his idol, and Ironman was a true hero who had triumphed against all odds. But, fighting Captain America, fighting legends and people he had once idolized, broke his heart. He was ignorant in all aspects of that fight, and all he had been told was that Captain America had gone rogue and broken the law. It still pains his chest sometimes to think about the split that tore the Avengers apart. How he had somehow become a part of it.
And even after that, there was the pure terror of his classmates almost dying, Liz almost plummeting to her death, because of him. He remembers every emotion that crossed her face when she said goodbye to Midtown, and wasn’t he just so lucky that she didn’t know it was him that was the cause of such grief and horrid sorrow? Ned told him perhaps a dozen times a week that it wasn’t his fault, but Peter knew better.
He’d gone through a lot in his short time on Earth. He’d seen a lot, experienced things no one should have to, and yet he was still floating with his head above water. He was still surviving.
But all that surviving meant nothing in the wake of such devastation and destruction and pain.
The death toll rose to two hundred and sixty five.
The Avengers were working, they truly were, to figure out what was the cause of the mass destruction. It had started three months ago, when the first hospital went down. Initially, there had been no warning. Nothing to indicate the collapse of the first half of the clinic. No tremors, no call to action, no demand or ransom or anything. Within thirty minutes, the entire building had been reduced to rubble and ninety four people died.
Ninety four. People. Just like that.
It shocked New York, and the media was quick to latch onto a story of another alien invasion. Harsher news outlets were also quick to blame the remaining superheroes for having done nothing to stop it. But, after a couple weeks with nothing else happening and no new reports or possible causes of the collapse, the media died down and latched onto other celebrities.
And then, the second hospital fell. Like the first, it took thirty minutes for it to fully deconstruct. It was one of the larger facilities though and one hundred and thirty one people died.
One hundred and thirty one.
Tony, Ironman, bombarded with cries of, “Why didn’t you stop it?” and “What’s causing these collapses?” and other desperate concerns, pushed aside all pride and hurt and called upon the Rogues. They arrived within the same week Tony called, and Peter was told it was anything but a happy reunion.
Their arrival was mostly kept secret, but the media was fully aware that Ironman had summoned “outside help” to combat the problems. Some were gravely unhappy that the suspected help was coming from traitors. Others were grateful for the simple fact that their situation was being taken seriously and that help was being given.
Eight weeks after the first collapse, the third hospital fell. This time, it was a cancer treatment facility. By now, and this was truly the scary and devastating part, the hospitals had put in procedures in case their area were to be targeted. Forty people didn’t make it out however. Among those forty were five children.
New York was in chaos. Hospitals were being overcrowded with the new upsurge in treatments and displaced patients, funding was being stretched across the state, the media was at its peak with article after article being written detailing each new horrific case, and still. Still.
No one could determine a cause.
There was a pattern though. The third collapse only cemented the theory, and now they had an estimate of when the next collapse would start and where it would be. The first hospital was located on Staten Island. The second, Manhattan. And the third most recent had happened in Brooklyn.
The collapses were traveling north, striking every third Monday of each new month.
Queens was suspected as the next target.
As such, word spread out and an advisement for hospitals to shut down was broadcast-ed. And, because it was Queens, the people of New York begged Spider-Man to put a stop to the terrorism once and for all. End the suffering and the fear of not knowing if they could even be safe in a place meant to help them. He heard their cries.
How could Spider-Man ever refuse the call?
“We’ll be stationed throughout Queens,” Steve Rogers started, no longer Captain America. He had discarded that title the day he ran. The day he placed his relationships above the people he’d sworn to protect. “Each of us will spread and cover as much territory as possible. There are sixteen open and working hospitals, and only three of them can fully evacuate. Find a hospital, and stick to it. The larger and more prominent facilities are being targeted, so watch for any and all signs for a collapse.”
Steve looked over to Tony, whose phone was sitting on the table on speaker. “Spider-Man, did you get all that?”
“I heard, sir.”
“We’ll be stationing you over at-”
“I’ve already got my eyes on a hospital, sir. I need to be over at Elmhurst if we’re covering hospitals.”
There’s a pause in the room, before, “Are you sure about that? It’s a big hospital; will you be able to handle everything if we can’t get to you in time?”
“I-I don’t know, sir. But I need to be over there. Someone I know is stationed in their trauma center, and if something happens and I’m not- I can’t….”
A knowing hush descends and there is automatic agreement. Spider-Man will cover Elmhurst.
“Okay. The rest of us will…..”
Everyone is decided and everyone is placed. They have one more week until the third Monday, and it feels like a ticking time bomb. Each day is a constant reminder. New York is on the edge, teetering and swerving and praying that whatever’s happening, the Avengers will stop it. Like they always do, the Avengers will come in and save the day and take down the bad guy. They have to.
And in this one week, Peter is trying his hardest to convince his aunt not to go. To stay and be safe. To be with him.
“You know I can’t do that, sweetie. Especially with everything that’s going on, they’ll need people like me to assist. I know you’re worried, but there’s a very slim chance that Elmhurst will be…. Attacked.”
“That’s just it,” Peter pleads, desperation and unease lacing his voice. “There is a one in sixteenth chance Elmhurst will go down. That’s not slim at all! Three other hospitals are fully evacuating, and that means your chances of being killed are-”
“Baby, there’s nothing I can do. Other nurses and doctors are already leaving because they’re afraid; I can’t leave too and let others suffer.”
“You can though! I know it’s selfish, but you have a choice to not go! It’s their choice to stay there and wait; you don’t have to do that though! You can stay with me, and you’ll be safe. It’s only for a day, that’s all I’m asking. You can go back the next day and then-”
“And then what, Peter? Count and see how many of my patients died because I wasn’t there? Elmhurst needs their staff and the patients need their doctors and nurses and technicians and all the other people that help them live ! I am one of those people, baby. They need me.”
“I need you more though!” Peter sobs, the agony constricting his lungs making him forget how to breathe. “I can’t lose you, May. You know I can’t. I can’t keep losing.”
May embraces him, and they hold each other for a long time. Peter thinks he’s convinced her to stay, if her own tears are any indication, but when she pulls back and squeezes his shoulder, he knows he’s lost.
“It’s my job,” she whispers, only offering a watery half smile as comfort. “I have to go.”
A whine escapes him, like the whimper of a dejected and maimed animal, as his head falls and the tears drop faster.
“ Please, May. Please stay. ”
“I’m sorry, baby. I really am.”
The week drags from there. All of New York is waiting with baited breath, scores of police officers and firemen at the ready, and every news outlet ready to rush to the scene to broadcast live. The day before the third Monday of the month, Peter gets violently ill.
He’s retching in the toilet, shaking and trembling, sweat clinging and making his hair stick to his face. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so much anxiety and dread in his entire life. Never before has he experienced such pain of knowing what was going to happen tomorrow. Regardless of what anyone did, regardless of how quickly everyone reacted, regardless of all future knowledge and predictions and precautions, people were going to die tomorrow. Sick children, crippled elderly, recovering patients, and doctors and staff were going to die.
And there was almost nothing he could do about it.
There’s a small part in his mind that tells him that people die everyday, and sometimes it isn’t always a peaceful or natural death. There’s a very miniscule part of his mind that is telling him that if people die, it’s not going to be his fault because he’s going to give it his all and help as many people as possible. There’s a very, very tiny part of his mind that is telling him it will be alright.
But a much larger portion of his mind is screaming at him to do something now. To stop whatever is happening today and not wait for the devastation tomorrow. There is a much bigger part of his mind that is telling him that whatever happens tomorrow, however many people end up dying or injured, it’s going to be his fault for not saving them. It’s going to be his fault for not doing anything. He has all the information. He knows where the next attack is going to be. He knows when it’ll happen.
He knows all these things, and yet he can do nothing but let it happen.
Peter throws up again.
Midnight comes, and with it the realization that the collapse could happen at any point now. Sure, the Avengers have an estimate of what time the attack will happen, but it’s a far stretch and it’s better to be prepared and not rely on a thin hypothesis. All their comms are linked up, there are hourly check-ins, and before New York is even aware that the third Monday has arrived, the Avengers are ready for it.
Of course, Peter has decided to skip school. He waits and stares intensely at the hospital in front of him, perched on the building next to it. Occasionally, he swings around the perimeter, scanning the foundation of the building, straining for any signs of breakage or cracks. When six a.m rolls by, he calls Aunt May.
“Please, stay safe,” he implores, watching as her car pulls into the staff garage. On the other side, he can hear her sigh.
“I’ll try my best, okay? Stay positive, Peter. I know you didn’t want me here today, but try to stay optimistic. It’s not the best scenario, and even though I’m hoping none of the hospitals go down, know that I am ready to evacuate should Elmhurst need to. I love you, Peter.”
“I love you too, May. I’ll call you later.”
She hangs up, and Peter feels his gut twist and churn as he continues to wait. When the sun finally rises and showers Queens in light, people begin to notice him. Patients come to their windows to wave, smiles bright on their faces as they think, “ Wow, it’s Spider-Man! Look, it’s Spider-Man!”
None of them are stupid; they all understand why he’s here. Why he’s been stationed outside Elmhurst this entire time. But it’s a ray of hope for them rather than a dark reminder of what could happen. Spider-Man is everyone’s favorite superhero; he looks out for the little guys, of course he wouldn’t leave any of them behind! If he’s here, then they’re sure to be in good hands. They’ll be safe. Nothing will happen.
Through the line, Steve calls in, “Reporting in for an hourly check-up. All is quiet on my end.”
“Same here.”
“Nothing to report.”
Nothing is repeated two more times. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same ol’ same ol’.
“Spider-Man, what about you? Noticing anything yet?”
Peter doesn’t say anything, a growing headache gnawing away at him as his anxiety reaches new levels. His heart is beating so fast he’s surprised no one else can hear it. His stomach has not stopped clenching ever since he hung up with May, and now he can't stand still. It feels like he’s about to explode. It’s like he’s vibrating.
“Underoos, everything alright?”
“Y-Yeah,” he finally pushes out, lungs constricting and pulsing. “There’s nothing going on over here. J-Just normal.”
There’s an uncomfortable strain over the comms, as if everyone is cringing at the tremor in his voice. Peter’s pretty sure they can feel his stress over the line, the worry that pumps in and out of him like blood and oxygen.
Steve clears his throat, but it sounds more like a cough to Peter rather than an attempt at control. “That’s good. I know we covered this in the meeting, but once anything starts, it’s not going to stop, so alert the team if anything at all looks wrong. The important thing is to get as many people out as possible before the building completely falls.”
There are hums of agreement, but Peter is stuck on the fact that Steve said ‘as many people out as possible’ . He didn’t say everyone. Steve Rogers doesn’t expect for everyone to get out. No one is expecting for everyone to get out. No one is expecting for everyone to survive.
People are going to die.
Peter’s headache worsens.
Hours tick by. Noon comes, and everyone is still all clear. The last three attacks happened in the afternoon, so there is easily more waiting to be done. However, each Avenger remains vigilant. No one leaves their spot, not even to use the bathroom or to get something to eat. They all understand lives are on the line, and all of New York is watching and waiting with them.
There is a heavy guilt that surrounds the Avengers though, knowing that they can’t cover each hospital in Queens. There are only six of them, the “rest” of the team out of commision, unavailable, or simply occupied with other things to do.
Clint and Sam keep the comms alive with their banter, Tony throwing in some of his own barbed comments from time to time. Steve only speaks up when it becomes too noisy, and Natasha only checks in for the hourly reports. All of them know that none of them are nearly as worried over the situation as their youngest member. Like Natasha, Peter only says his reports, but everyone can tell how forced each word is.
None of them have ever been good at emotional support though, so no one says anything.
Afternoon comes, and everyone is on high alert. Peter is swinging around every five minutes now, covering all the bases of the hospital, and going from wing to wing. Reports have increased to every thirty minutes, and news stations are constantly patrolling. A helicopter passes by every few minutes, circling and going back and forth.
Peter calls May again, but she doesn’t pick up. He suspects it’s because she’s not allowed to have her phone on her whilst she works, but it does nothing to soothe the thrumming in his chest.
Five p.m passes, and it turns into six p.m. Then seven. Then eight. Nine p.m. It is now officially past all the other estimates of time.
The sun has set, the city life slowly blinking as shops close and lights go out. No where else in New York has there been a report of any hospitals or buildings collapsing. None of the Avengers have reported anything, and none of the ground patrols have noticed anything either. Night has fallen, and New York is slowly easing away with relief. Monday is almost over.
“This is going to sound awful of me to say, but is there any chance that the hospitals collapsing have all been one big coincidence? I know it’s not over yet, but it’s been eerily normal. All day.”
Sam asks the question that’s been pecking away at everyone’s minds. Is there any chance? A possibility that all those deaths, all that devastation, was just one bad coincidence after another?
“He makes a point,” Clint chimes in. “The hospitals that went down were either old or in the middle of repair. There’s at least a slim possibility that there was bad structure and not some psychopath that was the cause of the subsidences.”
A string of incoherent words are mumbled into the comms. Everyone knows who’s speaking. They haven’t heard from him in some time though.
“Pardon?” Clint asks, caught off guard. “I couldn’t hear you, Spidey.”
“Two hundred and sixty five people,” Peter repeats, louder this time. There’s something new in his chest that’s spinning wildly around. Something potent. Something gross. Something black. Anger. Rage. Disgust. Grief.
“Two hundred and sixty five people are dead. People with families and kids and grandparents and pets and jobs and futures are dead. And you want to blame that on some coincidence? A fucking coincidence? ”
Peter laughs, the sound choking him as he struggles to contain the fire inside his chest. He’s losing control over himself. The last four months have been too much on his mind.
“Now, hold on there, Spider-Man. No one is insinuating that there wasn’t causation in their deaths. We’re just exploring the idea that it might not be a person we’re after,” Steve amends, all calm and the face of authority. Ever the ‘peacemaker’.“We know you’re stressed about this, but so is everyone else. Let’s just be civil until we can figure this out.”
“Civil?” Peter goads, the taste of the word ashy in his mouth. None of them have ever known the meaning of civil their entire lives. “Like how you and Mister Stark were civil with the Accords?”
There are sharp intakes of breath, a few mumbled curses and groans, and Peter knows he’s overstepped, but right now he doesn’t care. He’s tired, sickly, and out of his mind with anxiety. No one seems to be taking this seriously anymore just because the afternoon passed. Don’t they know that everything happens at night? That all the worst things in life are blanketed by a black sky?
As if on cue, his sixth sense stabs him with an ice pick, the sheer ferocity that is slamming through his body damning and frightening. Immediately, Peter is on his feet, breathing light and quick as he looks around violently. He sees nothing, and yet his sense is screaming at him, practically tearing him apart from the inside out.
Faintly, he registers the discourse he’s created in the comms. He can hardly discern whose voice is whose, and he thinks he hears Mister Stark defending him, but it’s all being drowned out. The moon is but a sliver in the sky, the light pollution blocking out any shining stars, but he knows something is out there. He’s straining, his eyes are wide open, his entire being focused on whatever it is that’s causing-
Like touching a hot stove, his body lurches backwards, face stinging as if he'd been struck hard. The night is suddenly frigid, the concrete below him icy and full of sharp pricks. It is no longer just his sixth sense that is screaming at him that something is coming. It’s all of them now.
“It’s here,” he breathes, face burning with the realization. “It’s come.”
Smited dumb, Peter stands there, lungs heaving as he fights for his sense to come back under his control. Never, never in his entire time as Spider-Man, has he ever felt such an immense surge of fear. Never has he felt these cold claws grip him so tightly, stroking down his spine and up again to tickle at his brain and plunge its fever into him. He has always known this sixth sense, this Spidey-sense of his, was like a prophecy. Albeit hardly a fortune teller, it was always right in its warnings of danger and imminent doom if he didn’t do something right then and there to stop it.
He’d always been told that knowledge was power, but a little knowledge was a dangerous thing. This sense of his was a little knowledge, and he’d never been so fearful of it.
It shrieked death.
“It’s here,” he repeats, that same fear of death driving him forward as he surges for the hospital. “It’s here, it’s here, it’s here, it’s here, it’s here! ”
“We’re on our way, Spider-Man. Stay calm, start getting people out!”
“Listen to Rogers, Underoos,” Tony calls out, the sound of repulsors dinging off in the background. “Try to get people out safely, but prioritize finding the source that’s making the building fall.”
“The building isn’t falling,” Peter says as he slams through the hospital doors and yells, “Evacuate! You’ve been targeted, get out!”
An alarm begins to blare, and Peter thinks it’s the fire alarm. Doctors and patients alike look startled but follow his order without question. They trust Spider-Man. They know he’ll protect them.
“Then why did you say that ‘it’s here’? You sounded pretty certain there,” Sam questions, even in his disbelief flying as fast as he can. “If the building isn’t collapsing, why are you evacuating people?”
“I just know! It’s my sense, it’s never done anything like this before- look, I can’t explain it. I need to get people out. I’m signing off.”
“Wait, Spider-Man, don’t-!”
Spider-Man is no longer connected to this line.
It’s a dumb move on his part, but he knows he won’t be able to concentrate or do anything if the static continues or their voices rattle away in his brain.
Ushering people to the exits is a lot easier than he anticipated; he supposes the new protocols the hospitals have installed in case they were to be targeted is being put to good use now. There is chaos though, and with his senses going haywire, he can hear everything.
Down the hall, there’s a woman going into labor. A floor above, someone is in the middle of a surgery. A few feet away from him, a man is hobbling along with his cane, the metal appartas clanging against the floor in his hurry.
Even with all the noise and his sixth sense still screaming at him, Peter only has one thing on his mind. Get to May.
“Excuse me!” he calls out, running to a woman in scrubs helping guide a bruised looking teenager. “I need to know where your trauma center is. I have to get there as fast as possible.”
Slightly awestruck, the woman composes herself quickly, replying, “You’re in the west wing right now. Trauma is in the east, on the other side of the facility. Your best bet is to either go outside and around the building, or go straight through it. It’s a straight line to get to the east wing, but it’ll be hard with everyone evacuating.”
Nodding his thanks, Peter looks up and realizes that the woman is right. There are too many people pouring out of the building, descending from floors above and squeezing through the staircases and elevators. If he wants to make it to May, he’s going to have to go around.
Turning back around, Peter squirms his way through the throng, trying his best not to shove and push. His desperation must be palpable though because as soon as they all realize where he’s trying to go, the crowd parts and makes a passageway for him to get through. As soon as he’s out, he shoots out a web and flings himself through the air. The perimeter checks he did before were nothing compared to the mad flight he pushes himself through now.
Mid-swing, he is jostled out of the air and comes to a halt as he slams feet first into a window. The impact cracks the glass slightly, and with that contact, Peter feels the trembles and slow sway of the building.
It’s beginning to collapse.
Peter regrets his rash decision in cutting out his comm link, knowing this is something he should be warning the team of right now, but knows there’s nothing to be done about it now. Peering through the glass, he can see people crying as they too feel the gentle rocks of the hospital, it’s foundation cracking and falling apart.
It is a sharp reminder of the timer that has started. They have thirty minutes to get out, less than that to survive, before the entire structure breaks and crumbles into twisted metal and broken concrete.
Elmhurst is big. Too big. And it’s going to fall.
Shaking away his thoughts, Peter continues on, sweat rolling off of him in rivers even as he is reminded of the stinging bite of the cold wind. He can hear the groaning of the street, the whines and moans of metal beams as they shift and crumple.
He’s almost there. Even with his perimeter checks, the enormity of the hospital is only now being justified. He should’ve known better. He should’ve known and checked exactly where Aunt May would be working. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“May!” he yells out into the crowd that has already gathered outside. “Has anyone seen May Parker?”
No one is listening, too worried about themselves and others to be bothered to try and understand what their hero is saying amidst the roar of noise. He's scanning the crowd, praying for a sign, a clue as to where she is. He’s hoping she’s already made it outside, that she’s just buried in the crowd of faces and nameless persons. He’s just gotta find her. He just needs to find May and then he can do everything else he needs to do, but first he needs to find May.
He thinks he sees a man that might be familiar, maybe May had shown him a picture of him once, and he swings over to him. It’s a nurse, the light blue scrubs splattered with what might be blood, and he looks panicked as he tries to herd everyone out of the building.
“Do you know where May Parker is?” Peter asks, clasping a hand onto the man’s shoulder, desperately vying for his attention.
“You’re Spider-Man,” he responds back, the panic fading from his face. “Oh, thank god you’re here! Lord, thank you-”
“Tell me where May Parker is!” Peter shouts, too consumed in his search to care that this man thought Spider-Man was a blessing sent down from above, an angel ready to save them all. “Do you know where she is? Is she safe? Did she get out?”
“I-I’m sorry, who?”
“Parker! May Parker! She’s a trauma nurse over here; do you know where she is?”
“Um, I-”
Before the man can say another word though, Peter’s sixth sense skyrockets, the pounding drum in his head urging him to look up. A figure stands at the top of the hospital, its shape cloaked by the darkness of the night. An arm, or what Peter thinks is an arm, stretches out and waves across the crowd, and, reacting on instinct, Peter screams,
“Run!”
The windows explode, glass raining down on the people below. The fragments reflect off of one another and for a moment, Peter is blinded. People wail as the shards descend like rainfall, ducking under the crumbling building for any sort of protection. Staff shield their patients and with each sharp cry of pain, Peter is reminded of the job he was assigned.
He’s supposed to protect these people. He’s supposed to help them. He can’t though.
Peter, Spider-Man thinks to himself, is a rather selfish person.
All day and throughout this night, he’s been making reckless decisions, one after the other. For once, he does something smart and turns back on his comms. Like he expected, it’s chaos.
Spider-Man has been connected.
“Where have you been, kid?” is the first exasperated and angry sentence he hears.
“Clint, there’s a group coming out of the garage. Cover them!”
“Great move on your part, Spidey. Gotta say, for someone who personally picked out this hospital, you’ve definitely got the worst luck.”
“Tony, there’s some people stuck by the entrance. Get the doors open!”
There’s so much going on, so much more he’s aware of now that he knows he’s not the only one to witness the destruction. He’d forgotten, really, that he was with a team that knew what they were doing. That maybe, somehow, were just as concerned as he was.
Not nearly as selfish though.
“Guys,” Peter says, suddenly out of breath as he steadies himself and others, pulling them away from the glass that litters the floor. “I’m in the east wing, trauma center. There’s someone, I don’t know, maybe something , on the top floor. Whatever it was just caused an explosion over here that wrecked all the windows.”
“You saw someone?”
“Yes, no, I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it’s gone now, but it was at the top of the hospital. I…. I think it’s the thing that’s been causing the collapses.”
“Jesus Christ,” he hears Tony mutter, stress pouring out. “So we are dealing with some psychopath.”
“Better than aliens,” Clint quips.
“Hardly.”
“Alright, Spider-Man said it was on top of the hospital. Sam, Tony, whichever one is available, I need eyes up there now. Do not step foot on the hospital though. I know we think we’ve got thirty minutes, but we aren’t taking any chances in case it decides to come down. That goes for everyone; do not go inside the building,” Steve finishes, a command enriching every word he spouts. His word is law.
It’s a good thing Steve was a hypocrite when it came to the law.
“I’m heading into the east wing.”
Peter says it as calmly and firmly as he can, even though the beating of his heart sounds like war drums. He’s going to find May. He needs her.
“Wait, hang on,” Tony says frantically, nerves chipping away at his composure. “Listen to Steve, kid. Don’t make any rash decisions here. We don’t need a squashed spider to deal with along with this whole mess.”
Peter isn’t listening though, already making his way through the throng of people pouring out of the sliding doors. They bump and push against him in their hurry, and with each face that passes him, he’s desperately looking for a familiar one.
“Karen, please, do you see her?” Peter desperately asks, not caring if the Avengers hear him or not through the comms. “Do a scan; tell me if you find her.”
A private link has been established with Ironman.
“Kid, listen to me. I know you’re worried about your aunt, but you need to get out of the hospital. She’s probably out here already, and the hospital is going to collapse soon. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes left on the clock. Get out of there. ”
“I can’t, Mister Stark,” Peter pleads, knowing full well how little time he has left. “I need to find May, and if-if I don’t and she ends up, she ends up gone - I just can’t leave her here!”
“You’re killing me, kid. Get out of the hospital right now before I come in there and drag your ass out myself. I get it. You’re scared she’s still in there, but odds are she’s already out, and if I have to explain to her that her nephew got pulverized by a building because he wouldn’t listen-”
“I’ve found her, Peter,” Karen interrupts, pulling up a scan of the hospital in his peripherals. “She’s on the fourth floor in a hallway labeled Cardiac Health. I’ve mapped out a route.”
“Thank you,” Peter nearly sobbs, the relief at having found his aunt almost flooding out the pin pricks and chills bombarding his senses.
“Pete, please,” Tony tries again, borderline begging. “Get out of the hospital. Right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
Spider-Man has disconnected.