Thursday afternoon sunlight slanted across the Midtown High courtyard. Peter Parker had finally finished the school day, and more importantly, he had survived the Detective Club's victory lap. The club was taking full credit for profiling the Shocker and helping Spider-Man capture him. Peter was more than happy to let them. It took the sting out of the three-hour lecture Aunt May had delivered last night about his "irresponsible late hours."
An hour later, Spider-Man landed on the landing pad of Avengers Tower. The sunset reflected off the glass curtain wall, casting a brilliant golden-red glare across the metal decking.
Peter walked toward the glass doors, shivering slightly. The two consecutive brawls with the Shocker had absolutely shredded his wardrobe. He was currently wearing a mismatched patchwork of his two backup suits, held together by safety pins and emergency web fluid. He looked less like a superhero and more like a walking laundry disaster.
"Halt, soldier. Take one more step and you are in violation of the security perimeter."
The voice was a deadpan, baritone imitation of Captain America.
A silver-and-red Iron Man suit stepped out of the shadow of the overhang. The faceplate flipped up with a mechanical clack, revealing Tony Stark's signature smirk. Tony stepped forward and clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder.
"You know, Cap was absolutely convinced you were going to get yourself killed out there," Tony said. "Thought you were just a kid who'd act on impulse. But you're doing alright for yourself, aren't you? Taking the Shocker's gauntlet, disabling the safety, and riding the recoil into the stratosphere to safely detonate it? That was a genuinely fantastic piece of improvisation."
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. He pointed at the armor. "Are you guys deploying, Mr. Stark?"
"Oh, yeah. We're taking a business trip to Africa." Tony waved a hand toward the quinjet warming up on the far side of the pad. "Tracking a smuggler named Ulysses Klaue. Guy's sitting on a massive stockpile of vibranium weapons." Tony paused, realizing a teenager from Queens might need context. "Vibranium is what Cap's shield is made of. Klaue is funding a civil war in Wakanda to strip-mine their local assets. The team's heading out to drag him back."
Peter didn't need the context. He knew exactly who Ulysses Klaue was. The guy who gets his arm ripped off by Ultron in Avengers 2, Peter thought. In the comics, he goes by Klaw, wears a ridiculous red jumpsuit, and has a sonic emitter fused to his stump. Rated generally terrifying on paper, mostly a punching bag in practice.
Whatever the Avengers were actually doing in Wakanda, it was way above a street-level paygrade.
"Anyway, we're going to be out of the house for a bit," Tony said, walking Peter past the sliding glass doors and into the penthouse lounge. He picked up a sleek, metallic card off the bar and tossed it. Peter caught it on reflex. "The Avengers protect the world. The friendly neighborhood protects New York. Here's your Avengers ID card, kid."
Peter stared at the embossed 'A' logo. "Does this mean..."
"Don't let it go to your head. You're a reserve member at best," Tony laughed, tapping the chest of his armor. "You've got a few more years of hard work before you get a dedicated parking spot. But while we're gone, keep an eye on the city. That card gives you access to the Tower's infrastructure." Tony pointed a finger at him. "And to prevent teenage joyriding, you have to swipe it every time you enter. JARVIS logs everything you do."
"Understood, Mr. Stark." Peter flipped the card over, his mind already racing. He looked down at his ruined suit. "Actually, can I use the lab here to make a new suit? My current suit offers zero protection, and right now, it's mostly held together by duct tape and hope."
"I said all the equipment, kid." The faceplate snapped down over Tony's face, his voice shifting to a metallic filter. "If you get lost, ask JARVIS. I have to go make sure Cap actually packed a toothbrush—"
"Wait, Mr. Stark. One more thing."
Tony's boot thrusters whined as they spooled up. He hovered an inch off the floor, turning his helmet back toward Peter. "What?"
Peter took a breath and delivered a multiverse-level prophecy in ten seconds flat. "I met a woman named Julia Carpenter. She's a precog. She knew my real name, has powers like mine, and said that on the exact same day I was bitten, someone else got spider-powers too. She said I need to find this person, because eventually, I'm going to have to travel through the multiverse, and I need this second spider-person to act as a dimensional return beacon."
The thrusters hummed. Iron Man hung in the air, perfectly still, for three full seconds.
"Wow," Tony finally said. "That is... highly unusual. I don't know if she's crazy or clairvoyant, but if there's a chance another Spider-Man is swinging around the city, the Avengers will look into it."
Tony blasted out of the launch bay, banking sharply into the evening sky.
Peter leaned against the bar. He actually had a pretty good idea who the second spider was. Cindy Moon. Silk. But if Cindy Moon was a student at Midtown High, Peter's spider-sense would have pinged her presence weeks ago. She wasn't there. And since he couldn't rule out the possibility of it being someone else, dumping the problem on Tony Stark was the safest play.
Tony would undoubtedly hand the file straight to Nick Fury. S.H.I.E.L.D. could find a needle in a global haystack.
Peter shoved the ID card into his web-cartridge belt and looked up at the ceiling. "Alright, JARVIS. Where do I go to build a new suit?"
"The fabrication lab and 3D polymer printers are located on the fifth floor, Mr. Parker," the crisp, British voice of the AI replied.
Peter nodded, heading for the elevator. "Isn't five floors a little low for a skyscraper? I thought this place had ninety stories."
"Indeed. However, the Avengers only consider the uppermost five floors to be their primary residential and operational quarters, Mr. Parker."
Peter grinned. Time to put Stark Industries' manufacturing budget to good use.
"This is your new equipment, Mr. Snerdyakov."
Dmitri Snerdyakov stood in the center of an abandoned, dust-choked warehouse in Hell's Kitchen. Formerly a top-tier agent for the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, Dmitri had defected with a piece of classified Soviet black-tech—a bionic artificial skin grafted biologically to his own face. It allowed him to mimic anyone. Now, he went by the Chameleon, selling his lack of a face to the highest bidder.
Today, the highest bidder was the Kingpin.
Dmitri narrowed his eyes, examining the small, three-centimeter metallic sphere resting in his palm. He looked up at the massive, imposing figure standing in the shadows. "Is this toy truly as miraculous as you claim, Mr. Wilson?"
Wilson Fisk stepped forward, the cherry of his cigar glowing dull red in the gloom. "I will let my technician explain. This is Quentin Beck. Formerly the most innovative practical effects artist in Hollywood."
Quentin Beck stepped out from behind Fisk's massive frame. He was a thin man, his shoulders hunched, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. He nodded nervously, his eyes darting between Dmitri and the exit. Beck looked at the sphere in Dmitri's hand, opened his mouth to explain the photonic refraction mechanics, then apparently decided it wasn't worth the effort.
"Just... press the recessed button in the center and drop it on the floor," Beck said, his voice tight. "That's how it works."
Dmitri pressed the button. He let the sphere fall.
The air snapped.
The empty, rotting warehouse vanished. In an instant, the massive space was transformed into a bustling, brightly lit industrial shipping floor. Dozens of photorealistic workers walked past them, pushing heavy crates. Forklifts beeped in the background. Dmitri reached out, his hand passing straight through the chest of a passing foreman.
Dmitri scanned the floor, his professional paranoia looking for the seams. There were none. The light matched. The shadows fell at the correct angles. It was flawless.
"It is a light-particle distortion field," Beck muttered, staring at his shoes. "It is still a prototype. It can only broadcast pre-programmed imagery adapted to the local topography. I cannot render environments in real-time..."
Dmitri waved a hand, cutting off the technical jargon. "What is the radius?"
"A sphere, one hundred meters in every direction," Beck replied. "But the emitter must be placed at the geographical center of the intended illusion."
Dmitri smiled. The bionic skin of his face stretched, the muscles underneath shifting smoothly. It was more than enough.
Within a hundred-meter radius, shielded by a perfectly rendered illusion, he could dress as Spider-Man and commit atrocities. He didn't need to physically beat the vigilante to death. He just needed to murder Spider-Man's reputation. Once the city viewed the hero as a violent criminal, the psychological break would make him careless.
The Chameleon had broken stronger men with less.
"All I require is the proper stage," Dmitri said, rolling the projection ball back into his palm. The illusion vanished, plunging them back into the dusty gloom. "I will destroy his public standing. That will lure him out into the open. The rest of the trap is your concern, Mr. Wilson."
Dmitri slipped the sphere into his pocket. "Out of curiosity. Have you selected a location for the final act?"
Fisk took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "I am currently surveying a suitable grave. I have hired the best private detective in New York, Mr. MacDonald Gargan. He is narrowing down the parameters as we speak. When the time comes, Spider-Man will walk into a location entirely of our choosing."
PS: In the MCU, Ulysses Klaue (played brilliantly by Andy Serkis) is a South African black-market arms dealer who gets his arm severed by Ultron and replaces it with a Wakandan mining tool. In the comics, however, his name is spelled "Klaw," and his origin is deeply tied to the Fantastic Four! He is a Dutch physicist whose sonic converter machine explodes, transforming his entire physical body into solid sound. He wears a bright red suit, wields a prominent sonic-emitter dish where his right hand used to be, and is made entirely of solidified audio waves!