Peter's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a string of text messages from Harry detailing the dinner at Adrian Toomes's house, as well as Adrian's apparent, bitter entanglement with Oscorp.
For the time being, Adrian seemed perfectly safe. The "Falcon" wings had been developed, but they were currently just gathering dust in a garage. Peter quickly texted Harry back, asking him to keep an eye on the flight harness. Harry, who was already geeking out over the engineering of the wings, readily agreed.
It was a staggering dose of dramatic irony. Harry had absolutely no idea that his prospective father-in-law was a ticking time bomb who might one day don those wings to become a supervillain. And worse, he had no idea that Toomes's ultimate target for revenge was Harry's own father.
Peter slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked toward the sleek Quinjet idling on the landing pad of Avengers Tower. The rear hatch hissed open, and Peter stepped aboard. Cindy Moon was already strapped into one of the jump seats, looking stoic and quiet. Today was Sunday—the day they had been summoned to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in Washington, D.C.
The Triskelion, situated on Theodore Roosevelt Island in the Potomac River, was the only publicly acknowledged command center for S.H.I.E.L.D. It was a rather unusual location. Given that S.H.I.E.L.D. was ostensibly a United Nations peacekeeping agency, placing its primary hub practically on the front lawn of the U.S. capital demonstrated just how tightly the American government gripped the organization's leash.
To Peter, it also perfectly reflected the terrifying extent of Hydra's infiltration. They had embedded themselves right in the heart of the nation's defenses.
"I really wish this was my only assignment today: taking two highly energetic, superpowered high schoolers on a pleasant little field trip. That kind of peaceful life suits me."
Clint Barton—Hawkeye—was sitting in the pilot's seat, flicking switches on the overhead console. He complained loudly, clearly trying to lighten the stifling atmosphere in the cabin. Cindy, playing the role of the perfectly disciplined S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, hadn't said a single word since boarding, making the last ten minutes incredibly awkward.
Hopefully, Spider-Man is a bit more talkative, Clint's expression seemed to say.
Peter obliged. He walked up to the cockpit and dropped into the co-pilot's seat without hesitation.
"Is the leader of the Thunderbolts really that relaxed?" Peter asked, leaning back.
"Hard to say, but nothing explosive has happened the last few days," Clint replied, clearly relieved to have someone to talk to. As he eased the throttle forward and the Quinjet lifted into the sky, he added, "Actually, ever since you and your weirdo street-level friends blew up that black site under the Hudson River, the world has been eerily quiet."
In truth, the fallout from the Hudson River base was catastrophic. Nick Fury had originally delegated the New York street-level issues to Spider-Man because S.H.I.E.L.D. had much larger global fires to put out. No one had expected the teenager from Queens to unearth a massive, fully operational stronghold: an entire front security company, illegal human testing rings, alien biological specimens hoarded by the military, and a completed vial of the Erskine Super-Soldier Serum.
And then there was Doctor Octopus. Otto Octavius had been officially outed and branded a wanted fugitive for his role in the illegal human experimentation. However, that was likely just a public relations front; the U.S. military would almost certainly shield him from real prosecution.
"Fury was kicking himself," Clint chuckled, though there wasn't much humor in it. "Believe me, he was absolutely livid when he debriefed the Level 8 agents the other day."
Level 8 agents formed the absolute highest echelon of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s operational command, a rank strictly reserved for division heads and elite strike leaders. Phil Coulson had been promoted to Level 8 after being tasked with forming the covert Bus Team following the Battle of New York, and Clint had only received his Level 8 clearance after taking command of the Thunderbolts.
Peter, however, was focused on a different detail. "Nick Fury was livid?"
"More furious than usual, which is saying something," Clint smirked.
Peter watched the clouds blur past the cockpit window before asking a question that had been nagging at him. "What happened to the Rhino? Did he end up joining your Thunderbolts?"
"No. We couldn't crack him," Clint sighed, adjusting the autopilot. "Can you believe it? Neither the top S.H.I.E.L.D. profilers nor the behavioral AIs could persuade the guy. He lives entirely inside his own head, operating on his own twisted set of logic. You either agree with his worldview, or you simply can't communicate with him. But overall, he's not fundamentally evil. Just deeply, dangerously weird."
Cruising at supersonic speeds, the skyline of Washington D.C. quickly came into view. The massive, three-pronged architecture of the Triskelion loomed larger and larger over the Potomac.
Before engaging the landing thrusters, Clint turned to Peter, his laid-back demeanor vanishing. "I know you aren't stupid enough to do it, but I'm officially advising you: do not take your mask off inside this building."
"I definitely wasn't planning on it," Peter said, the white lenses of his mask narrowing slightly. "But why the specific warning?"
"Because just like those idiots at the Pentagon who created the 'U.S.Avangers' team, there is a very vocal faction within S.H.I.E.L.D. who believes Director Fury made a catastrophic mistake letting the Avengers operate independently," Clint explained, bringing the jet down toward a designated helipad. "They are desperate to compile threat assessments on all of you. They want to know exactly how to neutralize you if the order ever comes down. So remember: not everyone wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge is your friend."
It's more accurate to say S.H.I.E.L.D. just has a lot of enemies, Peter muttered internally.
The Quinjet touched down with a heavy thud. The rear hatch hissed open. There was no welcoming committee waiting on the tarmac, just the cold wind off the river. Cindy unbuckled her harness and looked at Peter. "I'll take you to the Director."
"You know your way around this place?" Peter asked, following her down the ramp.
"I've done a few training rotations here," Cindy replied softly. "I know the layout."
As they navigated the sterile, sweeping corridors of the Triskelion, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Every agent they passed shot lingering, highly analytical glances at the black-suited vigilante. Peter's Spider-Sense didn't scream with imminent, lethal danger, but it hummed constantly—a low, persistent buzz of passive hostility. He could literally feel the tactical gears turning in the agents' heads as they mentally calculated the best way to kill him if a fight broke out.
Peter ignored them. He followed Cindy into a glass elevator. As the car shot upward toward the top floor, Peter looked at the glass panels, suppressing a dark chuckle as he wondered if this was the exact same elevator Captain America would eventually dive out of to escape a Hydra strike squad.
The elevator pinged. Cindy led him down a secure hallway and placed her eye against a retinal scanner. The heavy double doors to the Director's office slid open.
Nick Fury looked exhausted. His heavy leather trench coat was draped over a chair, his boots were propped up on his massive desk, and he was aggressively peeling an orange with one hand while flipping through a classified file with the other.
"You made it," Fury grunted, not looking up. "Give me the firsthand assessment on the Hudson River facility."
Peter blinked, slightly confused. "Doesn't S.H.I.E.L.D. already have all the data?"
"We didn't have an operative inside the blast doors when things went south, and Agent Silk wasn't deployed with you on that specific op," Fury said, popping an orange slice into his mouth. He finally lowered the file, his lone eye fixing squarely on Peter's shifting, liquid-black suit. "So. Are you wearing the alien biological specimen the Pentagon supposedly lost in the Arizona desert?"
Peter decided there was no point in dancing around the issue. He let the symbiote peel back from his face. "Yeah. I call him Venom. He didn't originally have a name."
Fury slowly lowered his boots to the floor. The exhaustion vanished from his face, replaced by the sharp, terrifying focus of the world's top spy. "How many of its kind does the Pentagon currently have locked in containment?"
Peter met Fury's gaze without flinching.
"Five," Peter answered, dropping the bombshell. "There are five of them in military custody. And they come from a planet called Klyntar."