Chapter Text
Spider-Man crawled through the vents with relative ease.
Peter Parker had already mapped the entire ventilation system with Karen—his A.I. assistant, built from lines of code he may or may not have borrowed from Tony Stark—so reaching his destination wasn’t exactly challenging. Tedious? Sure. Cramped? Always. But difficult? Not really.
Despite the lack of obstacles, Peter was irritated.
Fury had assigned him to a stealth mission. Fine. But then came the twist—he’d be working with her. Natasha Romanoff--
He didn’t hate her. Not even close. She was sharp, efficient, terrifying when she wanted to be—and she usually did. But Peter had said it before and he’d say it again:
He. Was. A. One-man. Team. (Yes, the hyphens were necessary.)
No matter how many times SHIELD—or the Avengers—tried to drag his webbed butt into their clubhouse, he turned them down. Repeatedly. Unsuccessfully on their end. Very successfully on his.
The only reason he was even on this mission was because he already had a gut feeling that Wilson Fisk—a.k.a. the Kingpin (who seriously needed a better villain name)—was up to no good. Again.
The only reason he was even involved in this mission at all was because he’d been tracking Kingpin’s activity for weeks. No—months. His gut told him something was off. The energy surges, the movement of funds, the hush-hush imports. It wasn’t your usual money-laundering or arms-dealing. This was different. Bigger. His spider-sense buzzed with warning..though Peter opted to ignore it.
He had staked out the building alone for 31 days, mapping patrol patterns, counting personnel, sketching every inch of the layout in his head. Even the basement.
The basement. That massive, overbuilt underground monstrosity was exactly where he found himself now.
Karen pinged softly in his ear.
"Thermal signatures indicate at least twelve hostiles. And one very large heat source with an elevated heart rate."
"Let me guess," Peter muttered, "our favorite overgrown bowling ball?"
"That would be a logical assumption."
He sighed and removed the vent cover as quietly as possible, which—given the rust and general age of SHIELD’s intel—wasn’t very. He dropped silently to a beam overhead and stayed crouched in the shadows. Suddenly, a whisper came through his comms.
"You’re loud in the vents, Parker."
Peter winced. Natasha. Great.
"And you're charming as ever," he whispered back. "Miss me already?"
"Stick to the plan."
"Define ‘plan’. Yours, or the one where I improvise and you complain the whole time?"
He could practically hear her eye roll.
Peter dropped down from the beam, after confirming that it was empty.
—
It was a control room that had a glass window looking out to a huge machine (‘kinda reminding him of the one from Big Hero Six’).
He sighed and pressed a finger to the comm provided by Shield, ( ‘He won't be keeping it’ ) “I made it to the control room turns out I was right to assume it was a machine making the unusual signatures just not one on this large a scale” he stepped closer, looking for the diagnostics on the machine, “ It's on 80% charge to ready right now”.
Peter slowly looked over some more papers, as he repeated the findings to the comm. He looked around more as the comm crackled in his ear. “That’s good Spider just collect more evidence of misconduct or of the machine and I will meet you there” Natasha said quickly but stoic, and quickly turned off the comm again.
Peter sighed again (wow this is like the fifth one since entering the building) but still listening to Natasha's ‘advice’ (it sounded more like an order though).
He pressed a button on his chest right where the spider on his suit is. The spider logo seemed to become 3-d as it came out of his suit, and he smiled as it climbed down his body to the controls to download information to a chip on one of the legs
.
Peter and Shuri (Yes, the princess) had spent months designing his spider drones—not just to look like spiders, but to act like them, too. He’d made three in total.
Goliath, the one currently pulling data from the system, deployed from the spider emblem on his chest.
Funny enough, Peter had based its appearance on the Nephila pilipes, also known as the golden orb-weaver. Long, skinny legs, a narrow body, and thanks to a ton of coding (and caffeine), it even behaved like a real spider.
While docked on his suit, Goliath was jet black—but when activated, it shimmered into a dark, metallic gold. (Thank you, nanotech.)
The second Spider, Charlotte, was the smallest. Modeled after the chili flame spider, Charlotte was a sleek navy blue and, like Goliath, built using nanotechnology.
Peter had actually gotten the advanced tech from Princess Shuri—fellow teenage genius and someone who, surprisingly, didn’t roll her eyes at 90% of his opinions. Unlike the other two, Charlotte wasn’t built for infiltration or combat.
She was designed to be... nice. Friendly, even. Kind of like a robotic therapy spider.
(And yes, the name is from Charlotte’s Web. And yes, he did cry during the movie. And the book. Judge him all you want.)
Then there was the third: Aragog.
Yeah. That Aragog. Inspired by Harry Potter—because if you’re going to fight crime with robots, why not throw in some literary horror while you’re at it?
Aragog was enormous—built for serious brawls and last-resort chaos. Aragog... was his nuke. His final boss. His “oh-crap-everything’s-on-fire” backup plan. Eleven feet tall and built from a fusion of nightmares and inspiration. (Also: compressible. Because backpacks exist.)
Aragog took months to build. Lab time with Shuri, constant recalibrations, countless sleepless nights. Getting him to compress on Peter’s back and still function in real-time had nearly broken both his brain and his patience. But he made it work. Somehow.
Aragog was a dark brown blend of features from multiple spider species—intimidating, efficient, and very much do not deploy indoors unless you want to ruin your security deposit.
As Goliath continued its data pull, Peter glanced around the room. He’d dealt with Kingpin more than a few times, and it never ended cleanly. There was always pain. Always destruction. The last encounter—eight months ago—left him with three fractured ribs and a broken window (plus an angry landlord). So yeah... this probably wouldn’t end quietly either.
Beyond the glass wall, a door led to the main chamber housing the machine. Peter stared at it for a second.
He relayed everything to the comms while flipping through papers on the console. Diagnostics, progress reports, technical jargon layered over shady code. None of it looked good.
“Karen,” he muttered under his breath, “please tell me you’re recording all this.”
“Of course, Peter. I initiated recording 2.4 minutes ago. As per May’s standing request.”
That made him smile. Trust Aunt May to insist on full documentation after the last time he vanished for three days.
Peter moved to the doorway leading into the collider chamber. Every logical part of his brain screamed at him to wait. Call Natasha. Stick to the plan.
Every part of his brain said: wait for backup.
But the Peter Parker part of his brain said: let’s poke the dangerous thing.
So, naturally, he decided to check it out.
(Not his best idea. Probably not his worst either.)
Peter slowly opened the door and started down the steps toward the machine.
He made it to the third step before stopping cold.
His head dropped into his hands.
Spider-sense—full overload.
Not the usual tingle. Not the buzz at the back of his skull.
This was a screaming, blaring siren, looping the same message over and over like a broken record:
Stop. No. Don’t. Danger. Stop. No. Don’t. DANGER. Unsafe.
His body locked up. Flight mode. Full-blown panic.
He hadn’t felt this level of fear since... Well, that time. The one he never talked about. Not even to Ned.
He barely registered Goliath crawling back into his chest logo or the static of Natasha’s voice through the comms. Karen was saying something—he could hear her—but the panic drowned it out.
The machine was dangerous. That much was clear.
But it wasn’t just dangerous. It was... wrong.
No closer. Danger. STOP.
Danger don’t.
Danger. Danger.
Flashes hit his brain like lightning.
A man. Brown hair. Laughing.
Crying.
Dying— The sounds of a gunshot ripping through his torso.
Then—like a switch flipping—
Behind. Friendly?
Peter gasped and snapped out of it. He spun around.
Natasha stood behind him, arms crossed, staring him down.
“Why weren’t you answering?” she said, annoyed. “Did you get the evidence?”
Peter took a breath.
“I was busy,” he replied flatly. “And yes. Everything’s downloaded.”
She nodded, her expression unreadable as she descended the steps.
“Then we’re heading out,” she said coldly. “We’ll get the reports to Director Fury, Spider-Man.”
Peter paused.
Director Fury.
Right. That guy.
“You’ll give your reports to Fury,” Peter corrected, just as cold. “I’m taking mine back... Widow.”
He sighed.
This was getting old—SHIELD, the Avengers, everyone thinking they knew better. Like they owned the mission. Owned him.
But that’s why Spider-Man existed. Not for big battles or alien threats—but for the little guys. The ones no one noticed. That’s why he created the persona. That’s why he kept going.
The Avengers were cool. They were amazing.
But they didn’t walk his streets. Not like he did.
He looked at Natasha and nodded. “You’ll get your files. Don’t worry. We’ll meet back at the entry point.”
He turned back to scan the room. Other than the giant, world-ending machine, it was... surprisingly empty.
“Karen,” he muttered, switching his mic off so Natasha couldn’t hear, “you getting footage? I want Ned and Harry to look it over…Send it to Deadpool too.”
Karen’s voice responded in his ear, calm and steady. “Of course, Peter. Everything’s being recorded. It’s Aunt May’s protocol, remember? Ever since she found out.”
Peter smiled behind the mask.
“I also processed Goliath’s data,” Karen continued. “We have enough to finally send Kingpin to the Raft.”
“Perfect,” Peter said. “Send everything to Ned and Harry when they’re online. And turn the mic back on, please.”
“Mic on.”
Peter nodded and kept scanning.
The room was massive. He was just about to move forward again when—
NO. Don’t. STOP. BAD. TURN AROUND.
His body froze again.
He turned slowly.
Natasha had crossed to the other side of the machine, staring upward.
Peter followed her gaze.
Kingpin stood behind the glass window, watching them with a smirk so wide it made Peter’s stomach drop.
“So,” Fisk said, voice amplified through hidden speakers, “Spider-Man didn’t come alone this time.”
That smirk deepened.
“Well, at least you won’t die alone. Or... will you?”
He raised one thick hand and gripped a lever.
Peter’s breath caught.
“I’d say it’s been fun,” Fisk continued, “but it hasn’t. So—goodbye, little spiders.”
He yanked the lever.
The machine roared to life.
Twin beams of energy fired from opposite ends, crashing into each other with a blinding explosion. The blast shook the floor.
Peter’s spider-sense went nuclear.
RUN. GET OUT. GO. MOVE.
But he couldn’t.
His limbs felt locked in place—every nerve in revolt.
He looked up.
Natasha wasn’t moving either.
What is happening!?
Fisk, what did you do!?
Somewhere far off, he heard screaming.
A blood-curdling scream that ringed his senses.
Then he realized:
It was him.
He was the one screaming.
Pain hit him like fire through his veins.
His body felt like it was being ripped apart, atom by atom. Blood cells separating, reconnecting, separating again.
Everything hurts.
He tried to lift his head—but froze.
Natasha.
She was—
She was turning to ash.
Right in front of him.
Her ashes were pulled into the swirling black hole that had opened in the machine.
“No—no no no—”
He tried to look at Fisk—but he couldn’t see anymore. His vision blurred.
He looked down.
His body was fading, too.
Peter looked away quickly reaching out his hand…only for something large to stab into his left arm.
One last chance.
Please.
“Karen…” he gasped, barely above a whisper. “Send the footage to our chat... and tell them I love them.”
Please work.
Please.
His healing factor had held on as long as it could.
But it gave out.
His body collapsed, dissolving into the pull of the black hole.
Please work.
Please—
Please
Please
P
L
E
A
S
E
W
O
R
K
.
Manhattan, New York
7:34
~~~Reminder To drink Water ~~~~
---
Let’s just say—Natasha didn’t want to be here.
There were a thousand other things she could’ve been doing—training, tracking, interrogating corrupt diplomats in dark alleyways—but instead, she’d been dropped into a joint operation with the sarcasm-powered Spider.
Wonderful.
But a mission was a mission.
She arrived on-site in full disguise: standard waitstaff uniform—white button-up, black slacks, slim blazer. The blonde wig itched like hell. The four-inch heels? A war crime.
Note to self: burn these shoes. Slowly. Painfully. With salt.
She moved through the hallways of the facility like a ghost, silent and unnoticed, slipping past guards and cameras with ease. Her target was a small room tucked behind a storage corridor. She entered without a sound and shut the door behind her.
Inside: chaos.
Stacks of documents lined the room—some organized, others clearly rifled through. She didn’t waste time. Years of intelligence work made her efficient, and emotionally detached. Or so she liked to believe.
Most of it was junk. Financials, shipping records, fake subsidiaries hiding under shell companies. She tore through the piles like pages of a story she’d already read a hundred times.
Then—she paused.
A blueprint.
Not just any blueprint.
Super Collider.
Her brow furrowed.
“Interdimensional Engine,” the title read. Not metaphorical. Not speculative. Literal.
Fisk wasn’t just laundering money or peddling weapons.
He was building something that defied reason.
Her eyes scanned further. Code signatures—some resembled Stark tech. Others were eerily close to Wakandan schematics. That wasn’t just unlikely. That was impossible.
Then, near the bottom, she found two names:
Vanessa Fisk.
Deceased.
And a child. Also gone.
Cause of death: Train crash.
Natasha inhaled, slow and quiet.
So that was it. This wasn’t just ambition. It wasn't about power. This was grief. A broken man with unlimited resources and no moral ceiling.
He wasn’t trying to conquer the world.
He was trying to rewrite it.
She flipped to the next page. Failed attempts. All logged thirty days apart—probably to avoid detection.
Today’s date: November 1st.
The last test? October 2nd.
If the pattern held, that meant...
Today's the next activation.
But the report stated the success probability was 0.003%. So unless Fisk had made major leaps, it was a long shot. Still, long shots didn’t matter when you had nothing left to lose.
Which meant one thing:
They had to shut it down. Now.
She took the papers and slid them into a hidden pouch in her boot. Then she was out the door, gliding down the hallway toward the control center.
The comm in her ear buzzed. She pressed a finger to it.
“I made it to the control room,” Spider-Man’s voice said. He sounded... tense.
“Turns out I was right—machine’s creating the abnormal spikes. It's at 80% charge. Huge scale. Not designed for subtlety.”
Natasha paused mid-step.
80%? Already?
And he was in the room with it?
Either Fisk was monumentally stupid... or this was a trap.
She clicked her comm.
“Copy. Gather evidence—anything. I’ll rendezvous shortly.”
She cut the line before he could crack another joke.
She didn’t tell him about the blueprints. Not yet.
He was probably in his late twenties. Spoke with confidence. Swagger. Sloppiness.
She couldn’t tell exactly how old he was no matter how hard she tried..
But even if he was in his early twenties when he first started some years ago. (As he told Director Fury)
That was still too young.
Too young to be breaking the way he was.
But she didn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So the less he knew, the better.
She followed the tracker on her handheld. His signal blinked from deep in the basement—moving, then pausing.
She moved quickly.
Right. Down. Left. Straight. Narrow hallway. Reinforced steel door.
She opened it.
And froze.
The room inside was vast, lined with ancient computers and dusty tech. The lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows on the floor.
A massive window spanned the wall ahead, and beyond it—
The Collider.
It pulsed with energy. Like it was breathing.
But her eyes weren’t on the machine.
They were on him.
Spider-Man stood halfway down the staircase, body rigid. Frozen. Staring.
She stepped forward—but then stopped.
He was talking.
Barely audible.
Repetitive. Quiet.
“...danger... no... not safe... stop...Uncle Ben…”
Her entire body tensed.
Ben?.
She didn’t know the name.
Wasn’t in any SHIELD file. Not in any report.
But the way he said it—
Not spoken. Not muttered. Not cursed.
Mourned.
It wasn’t arrogance.
It wasn't sarcasm.
It was grief. Raw. Undeniable.
Natasha Romanoff had heard that tone before. Too many times. Inside her own mind. Inside interrogation rooms. In the mirror.
And just like that—something shifted. She stopped seeing him as a cocky kid in a costume. He was still young. But he wasn’t just a kid.
Not anymore.
She stepped forward.
“Why weren’t you answering?” she said, cold but controlled. “Did you get the evidence?”
He turned his head slightly. His voice was steady—but there was something frayed underneath.
“I was busy. And yeah. Got it.”
She nodded.
“Then let’s move.”
He paused.
“You give your report to Fury,” he said, voice cool.
“I’m keeping mine.”
She didn’t respond. Just watched him for a beat longer, then turned toward the collider.
It was even worse up close. The blueprints hadn’t done it justice. This thing wasn’t just a machine.
It was alive.
Energy crackled across its surface like lightning in a cage. Everything about it screamed unnaturally. She stepped closer, scanning for power conduits or weakness points.
Then—
A voice echoed through the chamber.
Mocking. Too calm.
Her head snapped up.
Kingpin.
Standing behind the glass, grinning like a man who had already won.
She couldn’t hear everything—just the last line:
“Goodbye, little spiders.”
Her stomach dropped.
Then the floor rumbled.
A tremor rippled through the room as the collider powered up. Two beams collided in midair—impossibly bright. Blinding.
Every instinct screamed:
RUN. MOVE. ESCAPE.
But her body refused.
Her muscles locked. Her breath caught.
Then—
Pain.
Pure, searing pain.
Her skin blistered. Her veins burned.
She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move.
She was disintegrating.
Literally. Her body breaking down into ash, molecule by molecule, dragged toward the swirling black hole now consuming the room.
She tried to fight it.
Tried to resist.
But it was too late.
Her last thought wasn’t for herself.
It was for the boy beside her.
So young.
Then—
Darkness.