PART 3: BROKEN CROWN
One month. Four weeks. Thirty days of pretending the gaping hole where Elaine used to be wasn't actively sucking all the warmth out of every room. Functioning was the word, I guess. Like a toaster with a frayed cord – technically operational, but sparking dangerously and liable to set the kitchen curtains on fire.
I'd perfected the masquerade. Sleep? Overrated, replaced by long, looping patrols fueled by cheap coffee and leftover existential dread. Appetite? Meh. Aunt May's worried glances over untouched plates were getting harder to dodge. Jokes? Still there, the Spider-Man reflex kicking in, but they landed with a faint thud these days, the forced cheer echoing slightly hollow even inside my own head. "New team," I muttered, swinging low over the East River spray, the wind whipping past my ears. "New responsibilities. No crying in the mask… unless it fogs up. Which, let's face it, it probably will. Occupational hazard."
The colossal chrome-and-glass monolith of the Triskelion loomed ahead, a government-issue symbol of order and threat assessment. My new office. Sort of. Landing platform designated for "Enhanced Personnel & Associates" – a fancy term for "people who might dent the concrete." I aimed for the glowing blue intake portal, mentally rehearsing calm, leaderly things. Briefing room. Handshakes. Maybe a laminated map? Deep breaths.
SCHREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
The tranquillity shattered a nanosecond before a red-and-white striped riot shield slammed into the space where my head had just been, ricocheting off the reinforced glass with a sound like a dumpster falling down stairs. I twisted mid-air, instinctively flipping backwards as klaxons blared, strobing red lights painting the sterile hangar bay crimson.
"Whoa! Warning labels, people!" I yelped, landing in a crouch on a catwalk, senses screaming. The figure lunged again, a whirlwind of practiced lethality: black bodysuit, pale skull mask, two katanas flashing. Taskmaster. Because of course. My Monday mornings just weren't complete without a homicidal mimic trying to bisect me.
He flowed into a perfect Captain America shield-throw stance with the sword he'd somehow retrieved. "Even the score, kid," his electronically distorted voice grated. "Last time you embarrassed me. Humiliating."
"So… this is orientation?" I quipped, dodging the thrown weapon with an unnecessary flourish. It embedded itself in a nearby training drone. "Thought Fury went for PowerPoints and bad coffee. Little early for Swords 101, don'tcha think?" Spider-Sense flared again. I shot a web-line, zipping upwards just as he appeared on the ceiling, upside down, throwing shuriken with pinpoint accuracy. Show-off.
I countered, flinging myself sideways, firing webs intended to tangle his legs. He predicted it, vaulting off a control panel – a move suspiciously like Black Widow's signature roll – but miscalculated the distance. My wild dodge sent me crashing through a hovering diagnostic drone Taskmaster had clearly been planning to use as a springboard. It exploded in a shower of sparks and plastic shrapnel.
"Dammit, Spider-Man!" Taskmaster snarled, momentarily fazed as debris rained down.
"Hey, you set the tempo!" I shot back, landing precariously on a railing. His momentary distraction was all I needed. Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thick bands of webbing smacked into his chest, shoulders, and legs, yanking him backwards and plastering him firmly, deliciously upside-down, against the railing directly below me. He swayed comically.
Before he could slice himself free with a concealed blade (which he was absolutely trying to do), the heavy blast doors hissed open.
Director Nick Fury stood there, trench coat impeccable, eyepatch gleaming under the emergency lights. He surveyed the scene: sparks raining from the ruined drone, my webs suspending his brand-new combat instructor like a grotesque, murderous piñata. He didn't sigh. Fury doesn't sigh. He just radiated profound, bone-deep disappointment.
"Parker." His voice was flatter than Kansas. "Stop webbing my instructors."
My mask amplified the indignant squawk. "HE STARTED IT!" I jabbed a finger at the struggling Taskmaster. "Sword first! Totally unprovoked! Well, mostly unprovoked. Mildly provoked? Look, it was a hostile onboarding!"
Fury's single eye swept over Taskmaster, then back to me. "Taskmaster," he stated, as if introducing a slightly defective appliance, "is now your team's primary combat instructor."
My brain short-circuited. "He's… what?"
Below me, Taskmaster stopped struggling. His mask tilted up towards me. Even upside down, I could feel the malicious glee radiating off him. His voice was a silky purr laced with venom. "Surprise, Spider-Boy. Get comfy. We're coworkers now."
Fury gestured curtly. "Conference Room Beta. Five minutes. Try not to break anything else on the way." He turned and walked away, leaving me staring at my webbed-up, newly designated colleague.
Great. Just absolutely swell. I shot another web line to the ceiling, leaving Taskmaster dangling as I swung towards the designated room. First day. One near-beheading. One sabotaged drone. One probably homicidal co-worker. And I haven't even met the team yet. This leadership gig? Off to a stellar start.
Fury was already inside Conference Room Beta, silhouetted against a wall-sized monitor showing incomprehensible data streams. Three figures stood stiffly near the sleek black table. I pushed the door open, aiming for… well, something. Authority? Confidence? A vibe that screamed "I totally meant to web the instructor"? I straightened my spine, pulled back my shoulders, and stepped in.
It lasted three glorious seconds.
A. Patriot (Eli Bradley)
To my left stood a young man carved from granite. Stiff military posture, arms crossed tightly over a chest emblazoned with a silver star. He had the kind of jawline usually reserved for statues of stern generals and looked like he was perpetually smelling something faintly offensive. His eyes, sharp and evaluating, scanned me like I was a suspect piece of machinery.
"Eli Bradley," he announced, voice clipped and formal. "Designation: Patriot." Every syllable was precise, weighty. He didn't offer a handshake. Internally, I could practically feel the waves of frustration – this guy was meant for command. This was supposed to be his moment, his team. And here I was. The guy who messed up drone orientation.
I raised a hand in what I hoped was a casual, welcoming gesture. Probably looked more like I was swatting a fly. "Hey! Peter Parker. Spider-Man. Obviously. Big fan of your grandpa," I blurted, aiming for a connection. "Huge, actually. Legend. And a big fan of you too!" Wow, Parker. "Big fan of… stars in general? Shiny things?" I trailed off weakly.
Patriot's expression didn't flicker. It tightened slightly. He gave a curt nod, then blurted, loud and overly firm, "I won't let the team down. Sir."
I winced. "Whoa, hey! Please don't 'sir' me. Seriously. 'Peter' is fine. 'Spidey' works. 'Web-head' if you're feeling nostalgic. I'm not even old enough to rent a car without paying extra for being under twenty-five. 'Sir' makes me feel like I should be checking for grey hairs."
Eli stared straight ahead, his "sir" hanging awkwardly in the air. Right.
B. Wiccan (Billy Kaplan)
Next to Eli, radiating nervous energy like a miniature reactor core, stood a younger kid. Wiry frame, dark hair a bit messy, fingers twisting anxiously together in front of his deep purple tunic. Muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "...please no sparks please no sparks..." Even without my spider-sense, subtle flickers of pure white light shimmered around his fingertips like captured fireflies, a visible manifestation of barely-contained power.
He jumped a little when my gaze landed on him. "Uh... Billy. Billy Kaplan." His voice was soft, hesitant, cracking once. "Wiccan. I... manipulate eldritch energies? Sorta? Magic, I guess." As if to illustrate, a particularly bright spark fzzt ed off his thumb. It arced lazily across the room and hit the ceiling-mounted smoke detector.
BLAAAAAAAAAARE!
The shrill alarm joined the fading echoes of the hangar klaxons. Billy yelped, mortified, flapping his hands as if trying to physically shoo away the noise. "Oh god! I'm so sorry! Again! It just... happens when I get nervous, and I'm nervous, and the Director is right there, and..." He looked ready to spontaneously combust with embarrassment.
Fury just sighed. An actual sigh. Progress? He pressed a button on the table console, silencing the alarm. Billy shrunk into himself.
I shot him the most reassuring grin I could muster beneath the mask. "Dude, relax! That's way better than my first day with powers. Seriously." I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "I webbed myself to a moving city bus. Rode it halfway across Queens before I could get unstuck. Got some… interesting looks. Smoke detectors are practically professional by comparison." A flicker of a smile touched Billy's lips. Small victory.
C. Constrictor (Frank Payne)
The last member practically bounced forward. Tall, athletic, built like a gymnast, wearing dark blue body armor with segmented silver panels that hinted at coiled mechanisms beneath. He had an easy, open face radiating sincerity and the kind of excessive friendliness that instantly made me wary but also… grateful? Someone who wasn't glaring or setting off alarms.
"Frank Payne!" he declared, gripping my hand in a firm, slightly-too-long shake. His smile was wide, warm, infectious. "Constrictor! So psyched to finally meet you, Spider-Man! Been reading the reports, watching the footage. Big honor. Seriously. Team leader? Wow!" He beamed, radiating sunshine against the Triskelion's ambient gloom.
He seemed… normal. Enthusiastic, maybe a little over-eager, but blessedly, wonderfully normal. After the military stoicism and the accidental pyrotechnics, it was like finding an oasis of basic social skills in a desert of awkward. My shoulders unconsciously relaxed a fraction.
"Just doing my job, Frank," I said, returning the smile. "Good to meet you too."
"Oh, totally!" Frank enthused. "Listen, I was thinking, for team cohesion? Bonding is key. Pizza nights? Movie marathons? I already set up a group chat – encrypted, of course. Fury protocol, right? We gotta build that trust!"
"I… yeah," I stammered, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer force of his planned camaraderie. "Snacks and group chats. Sounds… essential." And honestly, weirdly appreciated. Someone else thinking about the team part of 'team leader' was a relief, even if the intensity dial was set to eleven.
Fury cleared his throat. "Playdates later. Parker?" He nodded at me.
Right. Leader Time. I took a breath, turning to face my mismatched trio. Eli watched me with the critical eye of a drill sergeant assessing a new recruit's push-up form. Billy was staring fixedly at his boots, lips moving silently again – probably casting a 'don't spontaneously combust' charm. Frank leaned forward eagerly, nodding emphatically at every micro-shift of my posture.
"Okay, team," I began, trying to channel some combo of Cap's gravitas and Mr. Starks calm. It probably came out like a nervous college TA. "So. Young Avengers. Official, I guess? Fury says so. Which means…" What does it mean, Parker? Think! "...it means we stick together. We watch each other's backs. It means… learning. Growing. Making mistakes… hopefully not explodey ones? But most importantly," I paused for dramatic effect, "...it means... um... we try really, really hard not to set off the fire alarm every single day?" I finished, the statement morphing into a question.
A snort came from the doorway. Taskmaster leaned against the frame, arms folded. He'd escaped the webs. Of course he had. The pale skull mask conveyed sheer, utter disdain. "Inspirational," he drawled. "Chills. Real chills."
Billy squeaked. Eli's jaw tightened. Frank gave Taskmaster a bright, oblivious thumbs-up. Fury just looked like he regretted every life choice that led him to this room.
"Thank you, Taskmaster," Fury said, his tone implying the opposite. "Dismissed. Training. Tomorrow. Zero eight hundred sharp. Don't be late unless you enjoy plasma burns."
Taskmaster gave me a mocking two-fingered salute and vanished down the hall.
Fury turned his gimlet eye back to us. "Clarifications. Taskmaster handles your physical and combat training. He knows your moves, your weaknesses. Learn from him. Or don't. Makes my reports more interesting." He pointed a finger at me. "Spider-Man. You're field leader. That means missions. Decisions. Accountability. If someone screws up, it's on you."
"Great. Just what I needed. More guilt."
"Formal training begins tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" I say. "That's fast."
"Government insurance wants results," Fury says. "And public relations needs a win before midterm elections."
"Of course it does."
I look at the team. Eli's jaw is clenched. Billy looks nervous. Frank's typing furiously in the group chat.
"Any questions?" Fury asks.
Patriot raises his hand. "Can I be second-in-command?"
I wince.
Fury says, "No. Parker leads. You follow. Any objections?"
Silence.
Patriot doesn't look at me.
Billy says, "Can I bring my cat?"
Fury: "No."
Frank: "Can we have a team uniform? Maybe with built-in snack pockets?"
Fury: "No."
He leaves. The door seals behind him.
One by one, they stand.
Patriot: "Looking forward to… working together." He says it like it's a mission debrief. Hesitates. "Sir."
I groan. "Not the sir."
Wiccan: "Y-yeah. Teamwork. Very cool. Not gonna mess it up. Probably." He stumbles over his feet. "I mean—definitely not."
Constrictor: "This is gonna be awesome! Group chat's already lit! I posted a GIF of you swinging with a taco in your mouth!"
He gives me a thumbs-up for no reason.
They file out.
I watch them go.
Eli pauses in the hall—steals a glance back at me.
Billy whispers a soft spell, fingers trembling. "Peace. Stillness. Quiet mind."
Frank tries to fist-bump Eli. Eli ignores him. Billy flinches. Frank shrugs and punches the air. Only I return the bump.
The room is quiet.
I pull off my mask. Run a hand through my hair. The last light of the day slants through the high windows, catching the wet floor, the dented training console, the webbing still stuck to the railing.
I exhale.
Great. Brand-new team. Brand-new problems. And I still haven't figured out my own life.
I think about Elaine. About the empty side of the bed. About the messages I've typed and deleted. About how I used to think love was supposed to make everything easier.
It doesn't. It complicates everything. But maybe… that's okay.
I look at the empty seats. The names on the roster. The future. They're not ready. I'm not ready. But we're here. I put my mask back on and I smile.
"Guess we'll figure it out together."
Somewhere down the hall, an alarm blares.
I sigh. "Of course it does."
I leap through the window, swing into the sky, and try not to think about how much easier this would be if I had a burrito.
And maybe, just maybe, a team that doesn't hate me.
Yet.