A Life in Marvel
Chapter 7 - Part 3
The harsh buzz of Morgan's alarm clock cut through the dim light of his bedroom, a sound that was supposed to signal urgency but only made Gwen burrow deeper into the tangled sheets with a groan.
"Nope," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "The bus can leave without us. My legs don't work."
Morgan chuckled, rolling over to trap her beneath his weight. His body was a warm, heavy blanket, the solid muscle of his chest pressing against her back. "You said that last time, and you still managed. Come on, Stacy, rise and shine."
{R-18 Scene Morgan x Gwen Stacy 1312 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.at.r.e.o.n}
Then Gwen's eyes snapped open. "Morgan. The bus."
"Shit."
They scrambled out of bed, a frantic, clumsy rush of tangled limbs and discarded clothes. They threw on their outfits for the competition—matching Midtown High blazers over comfortable jeans—brushed their teeth, and were out the door in under ten minutes. They ran the five blocks to the school, their lungs burning, their bodies still humming with the lingering energy of their morning.
They skidded to a halt in front of the waiting bus, gasping for air. Mr. Harrington, their team advisor, stood at the door with his arms crossed, his foot tapping impatiently.
"McCann. Stacy," he said, his voice dry. "So glad of you to join us. We were about to send a search party."
"Sorry, Mr. H," Morgan panted, leaning against the side of the bus to catch his breath. "Overslept."
Gwen just nodded, her face flushed. She could feel the faint, sticky ache between her legs, a delicious reminder of their morning, and had to fight to keep a straight face.
*
The bus ride to Washington was a chaotic symphony of nerves and excitement. The team, buoyed by their recent string of practice victories, was a unit again. Flash was still a thorn in their side, a constant low grumble of negativity, but for the most part, his comments were easily drowned out by the team's renewed morale. Gwen and Morgan were in the back, effectively in their own world, while Ned and Peter were hunched over a tablet, Peter calmly walking Ned through complex molecular bonding structures that made Ned's head spin. MJ had her nose buried in a book, but Peter could feel her quiet, supportive presence.
The first day of the competition was a blur of buzzer-pounding anxiety and triumphant high-fives. Midtown High dominated their first two rounds. Gwen, with her uncanny ability to recall and cross-reference obscure scientific data, was a powerhouse. She dominated the biology round, her answers sharp and precise, leaving the other teams scrambling. Morgan, to everyone's surprise but Ned's, was a demon in the current events and political theory categories. He didn't just recite facts; he connected them with a cynical, real-world analysis that was both impressive and unnerving.
The team was on a high, heading into the afternoon break, when Peter's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—a custom alert he'd set up, scraping obscure police scanners and local D.C. blogs for keywords. The alert was from a fringe conspiracy site, but the data was solid: a series of strange, high-energy transactions, all traced to a shell corporation called 'Bestman Salvage,' which had inexplicably won several cleanup contracts from the Department of Damage Control. His blood ran cold. It had Toomes' grubby fingerprints all over it. The same energy signature he'd detected back in Queens.
"Hey, guys," he said, trying to sound casual as he stood up, forcing a tight smile. "I, uh, I just got a text from my aunt. There's a… uh… a family thing I need to take care of. Something with the apartment. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Liz, who was buzzing from their last win, looked at him with a hint of concern. "Everything okay, Peter? We're on a roll."
"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," Peter said, already backing away, his heart starting to pound a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Just… landlord stuff. Emergency plumbing. You know how it is. I'll try to be back for the next round. Ned, you got this."
Ned gave him a supportive thumbs-up. "Go be the Guy in the Chair. We'll hold down the fort."
Flash snorted from his chair, not even looking up from his phone. "Yeah, right. 'Landlord stuff.' More like he's scared of the competition and is bailing."
"Shut up, Flash," Gwen said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew Peter wasn't a coward. "He said he'd be back."
Peter didn't wait for more. He slipped out of the hotel conference center, his movements carefully casual until he rounded the corner and broke into a sprint. He found an empty restroom on the ground floor, locked the door, and ripped open his backpack. His suit was a tight, compressed wad of red and blue fabric. He stripped down with practiced speed, pulling the material over his body, the nanites shifting and locking into place. He shoved his street clothes into the bag, webbed it to a pipe in the ceiling, and cracked open the window. A few minutes later, a red and blue figure was swinging through the D.C. monuments, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his face to obscure the mask.
The trail was faint, but it was there. Using his phone's mapping system cross-referenced with the energy signatures, he triangulated the source. The shell corporation's last known address was a small, nondescript warehouse near the Anacostia docks. The air grew thick with the smell of brackish water and rust as he neared the industrial zone.
He perched on a neighboring rooftop, a gargoyle of brick and steel, his enhanced senses zeroing in. The world fell away, sharpening into a pinpoint focus. He could hear them inside—the low murmur of voices, the heavy clank of metal on metal, and most importantly, the distinctive, low-level hum of repurposed Chitauri tech. It was a discordant, unstable buzz he'd come to know all too well. Through a grimy, skylight window, he saw them: Herman Schultz and another thug he didn't recognize—a burly man with a neck like a tree trunk. They were loading heavy, metallic crates into a beat-up van.
He had to get closer. See what was in the crates.
He silently lowered himself onto a rickety fire escape, the metal groaning under his weight. He held his breath, but the men inside were too focused on their work to notice. He peered through a greasy windowpane, his reflection a ghostly red and blue smear.
"…Vulture is not playing around," the burly man grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a grease-stained glove. "This is the big one. Says the buyer is foreign. Deep pockets."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Schultz snapped, his voice a familiar, nervous whine. "Just hurry it up. The sooner this stuff is off our hands, the sooner I can retire to a beach somewhere." He tapped one of the crates. "These new wing harnesses are no joke. The stabilization matrix is a bitch to calibrate. One wrong move and you'll end up as a smear on the Lincoln Memorial."
Peter's blood ran cold. Wing harnesses. Flight tech. Based on the Vultures' own suit. He had to get a picture. He carefully angled his phone, the camera lens peaking over the windowsill. He snapped a few quick photos of the men, the crates, and the schematics spread out on a nearby workbench. One diagram showed a sleek, metallic wing rig with a glowing Chitauri power core at its center.
He sent the pictures to Ned with a simple text: Found something. Vulture's crew. New flight tech. Big deal tonight. Be back soon.
He was about to swing back, a hundred different scenarios racing through his mind, when his phone buzzed again. It was Ned. Round 3 starts in 15. Liz is freaking out a little. Where are you?
Peter swore under his breath. Stuck in traffic. Tell Liz I'm sorry. I'll be there.
He pocketed the phone and turned his attention back to the warehouse. He couldn't just leave. Not yet. He needed to know who the buyer was. He crept along the fire escape to the far side of the building, where a larger window looked into what appeared to be an office. The lights were on. Toomes was inside, his back to the window, talking on the phone.
"…I understand the timing is tight, but my product is the best on the market," Vulture said, his voice calm but firm. "The Chitauri tech is… temperamental. It requires a certain touch. My touch. Tell your buyer that for this price, they get a demonstration. Tonight. Ten p.m. At the location we discussed. No exceptions."
The Vulture hung up the phone and turned, and for a split second, his eyes met Peter's through the window. It was only a fleeting glance, the Vultures' gaze sweeping over the dirty glass, but Peter felt it like a physical blow. He ducked back into the shadows, his heart hammering against his ribs. Had he been seen?
He waited, listening. He heard the Vulture leave the office, his footsteps receding. He risked another glance. The office was empty. He had to see that phone. Who was the buyer?
He pried the window open, the screech of old metal echoing in his own ears. He slipped inside, silent as a ghost. The office was cluttered, a mess of blueprints and half-eaten takeout containers. He found the phone on the desk. He quickly scrolled through the recent calls. The last outgoing call was to an untraceable number. But the incoming call before that… it had a country code. +961. Lebanon.
Peter snapped a quick picture of the screen, his mind reeling. International arms dealers. This was way bigger than he thought. He heard a noise from the warehouse floor. Schultz and the other thug were coming back. He had to go.
He slipped back out the window, closed it as best he could, and launched himself into the air. The web-shot connected with a nearby crane, and he swung away, the image of the Lebanese country code burned into his mind.
He landed in a deserted alley a few blocks from the hotel, quickly stashed his suit, and sprinted back. He burst through the doors of the competition hall, his hair a mess and his face flushed from exertion, just as the final round was being announced.
"Peter! Where were you?" Liz hissed, her relief warring with a palpable frustration. The team was on stage, waiting for him.
"Sorry! Sorry, it took longer than I thought," he panted, sliding into his seat beside Ned. "The plumbing was a disaster. Everything handled. What did I miss?"
"We're about to start the final round, you idiot," Ned whispered, handing him a buzzer. "MJ's been carrying us."
Peter gave him a grateful look, his attention already on the stage. But his mind was only half there. The other half was back at that warehouse, thinking about the wing harnesses, the foreign buyer, and the deal going down tonight. The hum of Chitauri energy was a persistent, worrying buzz in the back of his skull, a storm gathering on the horizon while he sat in a brightly lit room, answering questions about astrophysics.
They won their next match, but it was closer. Peter's distraction was palpable, and Flash made sure to point it out.
"Nice of you to rejoin us, Parker. Almost cost us the round," he sneered as they were packing up for the day.
"At least he was here for the win, Flash," MJ said, not even looking up from her book. "Were you?"
That night, as the team celebrated at the hotel pool, Peter's phone buzzed again. More transaction alerts. Another location. He made another excuse—this time, a 'friend from Queens' was in trouble and needed advice. The team was less understanding this time. Liz's patience was clearly wearing thin.
"Peter, the finals are tomorrow morning," she said, her voice tight. "We need you focused."
"I am focused," he lied, the guilt a heavy weight in his stomach. "This is just… important. It won't happen again."
But it did. In the morning, before the final competition, he got one last alert. A final, massive transaction. The mother lode. He knew he had to go. This was bigger than some high school quiz bowl.
He found the team gathered in the hotel lobby, ready to head to the venue. "Listen," he said, his voice low and serious. "I have to go. Something's come up. Something… big."
"Big?" Flash scoffed. "What's bigger than the national championships?"
"Saving the city, maybe?" Gwen shot back, her eyes narrowed. She didn't know the specifics, but she knew Peter was hiding something important, and she trusted his judgment.
Peter looked at Liz, at the conflict and disappointment in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Liz. I really am. But I have to do this."
"He's gone," Flash said, a triumphant, ugly smirk on his face. "I told you he'd bail."
"Shut up, Flash," Ned said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and worry. "You don't know anything."
But Flash was right about one thing. Peter was gone. And the team, suddenly without their secret weapon and their most dedicated strategist, had to face the finals alone.
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