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"Web levels are critically low," Karen voices.
"I can change them as soon as I land, Karen!" Peter ricochets off the side of a building and swings forward, following after the driving van from above. "I need to follow these guys and see where their drug base is so I can take them down."
"Your parachute feature has been removed in the last update. A fall from this height would have severe consequences."
Peter squints at the streets below. The van was blending in with the noisiness and blaring brightness of the Upper West Side, even more so at night. He makes a noise of frustration. "Karen, I'm losing them! All the car lights are messing with my eyes."
A more comprehensive map shows up in view of his lenses. The car is marked as a moving red dot going down the street. "They have not changed directions. Keep going straight."
Peter propels himself through the air and uses a web to launch himself towards the van. "You know, if I had a nickel for everytime I was chasing some dingy, shady old suburban mom car, I would have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it's happened twi—"
A glaring red warning shows up in his view. Peter frantically clicks the button on his webshooters, only for nothing to happen. "Crap. That is SO not good."
"Bend your knees so that your legs are blocking your internal organs," Karen commands. "This will weaken your impact on the ground."
Peter gasps for breath as he hurtles through the sky, the advice Karen gave him going right over his head. He wasn't about to break his legs on patrol, because the real truth is that he could suffer through school with a broken rib or two, but definitely not two broken legs. He only HAS two legs. He had been through worse heights than this, as well as some smaller ones, so he knew what to expect.
What to expect: This was going to hurt. Badly. But his vital organs were going to have to wait, because he had a trig test tomorrow and he definitely could not make it up.
Peter shuts his eyes tightly, curling to the side just before he hits the cement with a thud and a crack. Oof.
People are screaming around him, probably because it isn't normal to see a superhero plummet and slam into concrete so hard that it cracks in the middle of the night, or at any time of day for that matter. He pushes himself up with a heavy groan and gives them a thumbs-up with one hand, clutching the ribs on his left side with the other.
"I'm okay! I'm good! Sorry!" He calls out, grimacing as the words send shooting pains right to his side. Even taking a breath hurts. "Karen, can you—"
The image of a see-through blank human model shows up. It zooms in on the midsection, highlighting two of his left ribs in red. "Sustained injuries from blunt force trauma. No damage found to the lungs, liver, kidney, spleen, or other internal organs. Rest is encouraged, as well as icing the affected area and pain medication. Or listening to me next time when I tell you to weaken your impact with your legs."
"Thanks, Karen, I appreciate your enthusiasm." Peter inhales using as little breath as he can. He takes a web cartridge and switches it out on both wrists, and watches the red warning turn green in his vision. "I'm about to ignore all of that though. Bring up the van's tracker, please. I think I can still catch up to them."
"...I cannot do that, Peter."
Peter blinks. "Huh?"
"It goes against medical protocols. Police have been sent to the location the van parked at. Strenuous activity with a broken rib will cause further damage, would you like me to call Tony Stark or Happy Hogan to pick you up?"
"Do I—" Peter shakes his head. "No! Absolutely not. I've got this Karen, I'm good! Not my first broken rib, it's okay."
"Peter, during your 'first broken rib' you passed out in an alleyway from the pain. You were unconscious for thirty-four seconds. That's twenty-six seconds before I was going to be forced to call Tony Stark or the nearest hospital as per my programmed medical protocols."
(This was true. The time it had happened then was caused by Peter misjudging one of his web-placements. He went way too fast into a wall that was far too close and hit the side with a splat, leaving a crack in the brick and in one of his mid-ribs. That probably hurt less than this, but as he had crawled down to the ground, the pain was so unbearable from all the movement he had done that he completely blacked out. That was ages ago, though! He was totally a smarter man now.)
"No hospitals," Peter scolds. "Karen. C'mon. You're gonna rat me out for a minor injury? I thought we were friends."
"A minor injury is classified as a—"
Peter shoots a web and leaps up to a rooftop, letting out a stream of heavy curses as he does so. He leans against an air conditioning unit on the rooftop and then hisses with pain. He bites down at his tongue. "Mother Hubbard. Okay. Okay, you convinced me. Not doing that again! Cool."
"Would you like me to call Tony Stark?" Karen asks cheerfully.
Peter drops his head back, letting it quietly hit the air conditioning unit. His eyes drift close as he takes small breaths in and out.
"Peter?"
He then nods. "Yeah. That sounds good. Yep. You win this round, Karen."
Karen sounded smug. Peter swears he can hear it in her electronic voice. He swears. "Calling Tony Stark."
The call rings for a long time. A really long time. So long that Peter finds his eyes rolling back and his vision blanking out on about the fourth cycle of just ringing. (In his defense, how was he supposed to know that the ringing in his ears could be that loud, too?)
He wakes up in the morning, sitting up in a room that he knew far too well. He groans in defeat. "Hi, F.R.I.D.A.Y."
"Good morning, Peter." F.R.I.D.A.Y. spoke calmly overhead. "Your ribs are nearly healed. They should take a couple more days, but with your healing factour, it takes far less time than the average of six weeks."
"Jealous," Tony says as he walks in. The man wore casual clothes and sipped coffee from a mug. He gives Peter a raised eyebrow and stands next to the bed. "Want to explain to me why Karen called last night to kindly inform me that you were unconscious on a Manhattan rooftop? Because I, for one, would love to know how the Spectacular Peter Parker found himself in such a conundrum."
"Technically, it was the Spectacular Spider-Man," Peter argues pointlessly. "Cuz I was wearing the mask."
Tony stares at him blankly.
Peter shifts uncomfortably and cracks under the pressure of Tony's judging eyes. "Okay! Okay. Sorry. I was chasing after a drug van and ran out of webs. Fell right on the pavement. I might have made a mark in the concrete. Like a... Like a Spidey-shaped pancake."
"Wow." Tony shakes his head. "You are something else. Your mind, it truly astounds me sometimes. How were you even going to keep chasing after a car if you didn't have webs? It's easier to stop and catch up. Now you have a broken rib and won't be out on patrol for a few days."
Peter's expression falls. "A few— What?! Why?"
"Because your ribs are healing," Tony tilts his head and stands up. "So you're grounded till F.R.I.D.A.Y. says they're healed, or I call Aunt May."
Peter shuts his mouth with an audible click.
"Yep. That's what I thought." Tony leaves the room.
"Oh. And the cops busted the drug cartel," he calls back. "Good work, kid."