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It was all his fault.
Peter had been swinging after a carjacker who was driving like a maniac, swerving all over the road, and he couldn’t get a good pattern forming in his head to be able to land and take this guy out without first getting slung around and pummeled by the same car.
The crazy driver was hitting light poles, parked cars, newspaper bins, you name it, leaving wreckage and havoc in its wake. Peter really needed to put a stop to this before he hurt a bystander.
And he tried, shot a line down to the roof of the car and zipped down, but the driver swerved before he’d landed, flinging him into a tree to land on another parked car and then dragging him behind.
Exactly what he figured would happen.
His knees scraped the asphalt as he struggled to get his feet under him. All he needed was a good push off the ground to get onto the trunk of the car, but his legs kept banging on things.
The car slowed and his foot was dangerously close to the back tire—Hmm… this could be a good thing. A chance!
He threw his leg forward and pushed off, kicking the car forward more, yet successively rocking himself up onto the trunk, and without hesitation, rolled forward over the roof and onto the hood, blocking the driver’s vision.
“Hey, there!” He waved, “Come here often? I seem to.”
The driver just panicked more, screamed with wide eyes, and with both hands gripping the wheel, he did the opposite of what he was supposed to do—he slammed both feet onto the gas.
The road wasn’t straight, it curved and the speed limit was 25 because they were in the middle of the city. Peter himself almost panicked, twisting to see the fifteen-story brick building coming at them very quickly.
Cars around slammed their brakes and laid on their horns as this runaway car crossed lanes and jumped the curb.
Spider-Man jumped into action, vaulting back towards the trunk and webbing it thoroughly on his cartwheel down to the concrete, yanking tight and trying his best to stop the rampaging vehicle.
But he was too late, jumped out of harm’s way perhaps, but he didn’t stop anything.
The brakes played no part in stopping the vehicle. The walls, pillars, and central foundation did that.
People were screaming.
Dust was in every breath, coating the air itself in a thickness that left you coughing.
Creaking above and beyond indicated the structural integrity of the compromised rebar and beams.
Peter stood in shock for all of two seconds before forgetting completely about the criminal driver and diving over the car and into the collapsing building.
Equipping his scanner, he could see red shapes everywhere. So many people on all these floors. This was an office building, and it was ten AM on a Tuesday morning. Everyone was at work—everyone was here.
Dread chilled his whole being, slithering down his spine and settling in his stomach like the contents were frozen.
The top floors needed to be evacuated first because the weight bearing down on the compromised structural beams would contribute to a faster downfall, and the faster it came down, the more people would die.
But first! He needed a net. He should wrap webs connecting the buildings around to halt the inevitable collapse and catch those who jumped for a faster escape.
Swinging those webs took less than thirty seconds, but the building was too unstable on its few remaining pillars, and nothing his webs could do would stop a simple vertical collapse. Those people needed out, and they needed out yesterday.
They were gathering at the windows, staring down perilously, glancing around at the crash and crumbling building, and turning to Spider-Man like he was their only hope.
Help us, Spider-Man, you’re our only hope.
“Jump!” He called out, swinging as fast as he could, “Jump, and I’ll catch you!”
The thick webbing between buildings worked nicely, catching them with the perfect give so they wouldn’t whiplash or bruise.
There were people still on the first couple levels that couldn’t just jump—well, they absolutely could jump out the windows, and they did, landing fine on the ground and running away, some staying to help others off the net.
But there were people still inside that couldn’t get out, couldn’t get to windows, people that froze from fright and didn’t know what to do.
Peter was glad to see that nothing was on fire this time, but he could hear crying. There was a child somewhere above him, so he punched through the floor/ceiling to climb higher, and there! She was there, huddled behind a desk with two other women.
“Everything is going to be okay,” he reassured and glanced around. The window was the best way to get out, and he could lower the people down himself.
They couldn’t see his face, so he encouraged them with his voice, lighthearted and fluffy, “Let’s get you all out of there.” He offered his hand to take, but nobody moved, not until the building shifted oh-so-slightly. The women all screamed and jumped toward him and the window, ready to get out immediately.
They didn’t even need him, didn’t look back, started climbing down themselves, so he dropped through the hole he made to help the rest of the people.
There were four people left—the building shifted again. He could hear the upper floors collapsing which in turn kept the building moving, leaning and collapsing in on itself. There were four people left, and Peter couldn’t get to them all in time.
But the guy over there by the copier, he—the ceiling cracked and crumbled, threatening to crush him, and Peter dived to catch it, slamming to his knees and holding it up with his shoulders and upper back.
Through gritted teeth, he grunted out, “Get out, fast!” and the man complied, saying nothing and scrambling out of sight.
Peter grunted, strained his muscles against the heavy ceiling, preparing to toss it aside, but the upper floors caved in, adding hundreds of tons to his burden.
His muscles burned, his knees cracked, and the building came down around him, enveloping him in darkness.
When he woke, immense pain struck his every cell, and darkness surrounded him. No sound, no light, only pain, and he screamed from it, screamed for release, for help, tried to unbury himself, but the moment he tried to move, his limbs wailed in agony. He passed out in the middle of another scream.
With light came pain, came screaming, and the inability to move correctly, and trying to move only brought pain and red and then darkness again.
Pain came first, then the light, then the sounds of people hurriedly talking, frantic beeping, hoarse screaming. The light dissolved into color, of white ceilings and green masks, a mass of red enveloping blue. The pain demanded his attention, and he realized that screaming was coming from him, and his throat really hurt, and his legs and arms and ribs all really badly hurt.
His lungs seized, inhalations were difficult, and in the silent wake of his voice he heard snapping and crunching, squelching, and then his leg short-circuited his brain. He couldn’t figure out what was going on, but he got the feeling his entire body was one big mass of wrong, and he realized that he was becoming more and more lucid, so his healing must be attempting to indemnify the damage.
There was a mask on his face, and he realized it wasn’t his Spider-Man mask but plastic instead, and his lungs were hyperventilating, rapidly inhaling whatever was pumping through the mask—but then it was removed and the regular air was far more painful.
Voices were indistinguishable, but the colors revealed the situation far more easily than it should have, and he didn’t want to be so awake right now.
This was the hospital and he was laying on a painful, very painful bed—maybe gurney?—and someone was holding his arms down—his arms didn’t want to be held down, pulling against the three maybe four people on each side—and someone was threading a needle through his side, through his ribs—it hurt like hell and maybe that was why they were holding his arms down—and there was another person down by his legs—
But someone by his head slammed it back down to the table, obscuring his vision before he could figure out what was wrong, and jamming the oxygen mask back onto his face, conveniently when he needed to inhale. It was sweet air, took the edge off the pain, and he could focus just that much better.
He was being drugged; he realized that now and realized that the nurse at his feet was breaking all the bones in his leg.
Why was she torturing him like this?
The mask was fogging up with his rapid breathing, but he held his breath when his left ankle was twisted sharply, clenched his teeth when it snapped, and squeezed his eyes closed when the pain hit.
The mask flooded with the drug again, and he greedily drank it in, relishing the calmness and chill in his veins as the pain seeped away, breath after breath. He tried to stay calm, to not struggle because he also realized they were helping. The lack of pain brought clarity, and he remembered the building collapsing, remembered being crushed and still alive, remembered being in darkness for nearly an entire day before help came.
The pain was almost entirely absent now, but he could still feel the movement of his muscles, the jerk of his bones, and the utter horror of the situation as he gazed down at his legs, mangled and bloody, and he took another deep breath, as deep as he could.
His consciousness abandoned him again with the crack of another bone being removed from where it didn’t belong. Thanking God for that oxygen mask was his last thought.