aFireFist
A Life in Marvel
Chapter 10 - Part 1
Peter slipped out the side door of the gym, the heavy bass from the speakers fading behind him like a heartbeat slowing down. The cool night air hit his face and he sucked in a deep breath, already shrugging off the rented suit jacket. It felt cheap and stiff against his skin. Liz had looked incredible in that blue dress — the way it hugged her curves, the way she smiled at him when he finally asked her. For one stupid second he'd actually believed he could have a normal night. One dance, some punch, maybe even a kiss at the end without everything blowing up.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw the alert — one of the trackers he'd quietly planted on a couple of Toomes' salvage trucks weeks ago. It was lighting up near the waterfront. Toomes' crew was moving tonight. Stark cargo plane. Weapons shipment. Big ones.
"Damn it," Peter muttered, already walking faster toward the dumpsters behind the school. He hated this. He hated leaving her again, right in the middle of everything. She'd been so understanding earlier, but how many times could he do this before she got tired of it?
He found the duffel bag right where he'd stashed it, tucked behind a stack of old crates. The alley smelled like garbage and rain. He changed fast, peeling off the dress shirt and pants, the red and blue suit sliding over his skin like a second, heavier layer. The web-shooters clicked into place on his wrists. The familiar weight settled on his shoulders, and with it came the guilt.
He fired a web and swung low and fast through the back streets, sticking to alleys and rooftops where no one would spot him. The city lights blurred below as he moved toward the Staten Island Ferry terminal. His intel said the crew planned to hit the Stark cargo plane during loading at a private dock nearby, but the ferry terminal was the perfect choke point — lots of traffic, easy escape routes across the water, and enough chaos to cover their tracks.
His phone buzzed again inside the suit. Liz. He let it ring through to voicemail, jaw tight.
"Sorry," he whispered under his breath as he swung. "I'll make it up to you somehow. I promise."
The terminal came into view. Peter landed quietly on a tall crane overlooking the whole area, crouching low. Below, Toomes' guys were moving fast — loading heavy crates onto a truck parked near the docks. The cargo plane sat on the tarmac across the water, its lights flashing as ground crew worked. Peter's spider-sense gave a low, steady tingle. Not full-blown danger yet, but close. Something was definitely off.
He dropped down silently behind two guys near the edge of the lot. They were struggling with a large crate marked with Stark Industries logos.
"Hey, guys," Peter said, keeping his voice light. "Cargo's a little heavy for this time of night, don't you think?"
They spun around, but he was already moving. Two quick shots of webbing pinned their arms to their sides and stuck their feet to the pavement. One of them cursed loudly as he toppled over. Peter webbed their mouths shut before they could yell for backup.
"Stay quiet. It's for your own good."
They went down easy. Too easy. Peter was already sprinting toward the next cluster of men when headlights cut through the darkness. A black van screeched around the corner of a warehouse, tires squealing. The side door slammed open and Adrian Toomes stepped out, calm as hell in a dark jacket, hands in his pockets. That same cold, assessing stare from the porch earlier locked onto Peter.
"Parker," Toomes called out, voice carrying clearly across the dock. No anger, just tired certainty.
Peter froze mid-step, heart slamming in his chest. "How did you—"
Toomes held up a small handheld device, the screen glowing faintly. "Stark tech leaves signatures. You left plenty of them scattered around my warehouse after that mess in D.C. Took me a while to piece it together, but when I saw you ditch my daughter at the dance tonight… yeah. It clicked. You're the kid in the red and blue."
Peter's stomach dropped like a stone. The mask suddenly felt too tight. "Mr. Toomes… this doesn't have to involve Liz. Walk away from this. Whatever you're doing with these weapons, it's not worth it."
Toomes let out a low, bitter laugh. He stepped forward, the van's headlights casting long shadows behind him. "Not worth it? Kid, this is my life."
He gestured sharply and four more guys stepped out from behind the van, armed with those ugly Chitauri-derived energy weapons. The air hummed with unstable power.
The fight kicked off fast.
Peter dodged the first energy blast by pure instinct, flipping backward through the air and landing feet-first on the side of a nearby shipping container. The metal rang under his shoes as he stuck there, heart pounding. "You don't have to do this!" he shouted, firing two quick webs at the nearest gunman. The sticky strands yanked the weapon right out of the guy's hands and sent it clattering across the dock. "None of you do! Just stop!"
Toomes didn't waste words. He moved with a surprising burst of speed for a man his age, charging forward while his crew opened fire. Bright green energy blasts scorched the concrete where Peter had been standing seconds earlier, leaving smoking craters. The air smelled like ozone and burning metal.
Peter webbed up another crew member, pinning his arms tight to his sides, then swung low and swept the legs out from under a third guy who was trying to flank him. The man hit the ground hard with a grunt.
"Kid, you're making this harder than it needs to be," Toomes growled, snatching up a fallen weapon from one of his downed men. He aimed and fired without hesitation. The blast grazed Peter's left shoulder, the impact burning through the suit like fire. Pain exploded across his arm and chest. Peter lost his grip on the container and crashed backward through a stack of wooden crates. Splinters flew everywhere as he tumbled, the sharp crack of breaking wood mixing with his own pained gasp.
He rolled to his feet quickly, breathing hard, suit smoking at the shoulder. "It doesn't have to end like this at all," Peter said, voice strained but steady. "Just walk away. For Liz. She doesn't deserve to lose her dad over some weapons deal that's gonna get people killed."
Toomes paused for half a second at the mention of his daughter. Something flickered across his face — a flash of regret, maybe exhaustion, the weight of every choice that had led him here. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing.
"You think I want this for her?" Toomes shot back, voice low and rough. "You think I enjoy looking my daughter in the eye knowing I'm one bad job away from everything falling apart? I built that salvage company from nothing after the Battle of New York left half the city in ruins. Stark's mess. Government contracts dried up. People stopped caring about guys like me trying to feed their families. These jobs — this tech — it's what keeps the lights on. Keeps her in that nice school. Keeps food on the table. And here you are, some teenager in a Halloween costume, playing hero and tearing it all down."
Peter took a careful step forward, hands raised. "I'm not trying to tear your life down, Mr. Toomes. But selling dangerous alien weapons? That's not keeping anyone safe. People get hurt. Innocent people. I've seen what that tech can do."
Toomes laughed bitterly, the sound echoing across the dock. "Innocent people? Tell that to the widows and orphans from the Chitauri invasion. Tell it to the guys who lost their jobs when Stark shut down half his weapons division on a whim. Don't stand there and lecture me about right and wrong, Parker. You're just another rich man's shiny new toy."
The rest of the crew closed in, weapons humming with unstable energy. Peter webbed, flipped, and dodged as best he could, but they were ready this time. They moved like they'd trained for this — coordinated, angry, and desperate. One blast caught him square in the shoulder again, the force slamming him backward through the wall of a shipping container. Pain flared hot and sharp. Metal groaned as he burst out the other side, rolling across the ground.
He came up swinging, fists and webs flying. Two more crew members went down — one webbed to a crate, the other kicked hard enough to send him sliding across the dock. But Toomes was already moving, barking orders as he headed toward the ferry docked nearby.
"Plan B," Toomes barked, already moving fast toward the ferry docked at the edge of the terminal.
Peter didn't hesitate. He fired a web line and swung after him, landing on the deck just as the ferry's engines rumbled to life and it started pulling away from the dock. Passengers were still boarding and moving around — families, late-night commuters, a few groups of tourists. Bad idea. Really bad idea.
The fight spilled across the decks in seconds. People screamed and scattered as energy blasts lit up the night. Toomes' wings deployed with a harsh metallic screech, the jagged metal unfolding from his back like a nightmare. He looked bigger, meaner under the ferry lights, eyes locked on Peter with pure frustration.
"You just don't know when to quit, do you, kid?" Toomes shouted over the chaos, swinging a wing blade that sliced through a railing inches from Peter's head.
Peter dodged, flipping over a bench and sticking to the side of the upper deck. "I can't quit! People are gonna die if this tech gets out there!" He fired webs at Toomes' legs, trying to pin him down, but the man was stronger and angrier than ever tonight. Toomes ripped through the webbing like it was paper and charged.
A brutal hit from one of the wings caught Peter in the chest, sending him crashing backward through a metal support beam. The ferry groaned loudly as the structure buckled under the impact. Sparks flew. Passengers nearby screamed and ran for the stairs, parents grabbing kids, everyone shoving toward the ends of the boat.
Peter rolled to his feet, ribs aching. "Toomes, stop! There are families here! This isn't just about us!"
Toomes didn't slow down. "You brought this on yourself, Parker. Should've stayed at the dance with my daughter."
Another blast from one of the crew members still on board caught Peter off guard. He took it in the shoulder again, pain flaring hot through his suit. He crashed hard into a stack of secured cargo crates, the wood and metal splintering around him. The impact shook the entire section of the ferry.
Then one of the stolen weapons in a nearby crate started humming louder — unstable, glowing with that sickly green Chitauri energy. The sound cut through the chaos like a warning siren. Peter's spider-sense screamed at him, a sharp buzz at the base of his skull that made his teeth ache.
"Get back!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, swinging toward the crate. "Everybody move! It's gonna blow!"
But it was too late.
The weapon overloaded with a sharp, deafening crack that split the night. The explosion wasn't massive like a bomb, but it was enough. A violent shockwave ripped through the ferry's midsection. The metal structure buckled hard right down the middle with a horrible, twisting metallic scream that echoed across the water. Beams snapped, rivets popped, and the entire deck shuddered violently. Water rushed in fast through the growing gap, cold and dark, flooding the lower levels in seconds.
People started falling. Screaming. A woman near the railing lost her grip and slid toward the churning water, clutching her purse like it could save her. A teenage boy tumbled off a bench, grabbing desperately at anything. Parents were shouting for their kids, the sound mixing with the groan of failing metal and the roar of incoming water.
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