Chapter Text
THE WEB OF CHAOS SAGA
Book 1
SPIDER-MAN: THE WEB OF ILLUSIONS
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Part I: The First Threads
CHAPTER I
Closer to Trouble
“Five, four, three, two, one.” Peter Parker’s voice echoed softly from the stairway. “Ready or not, here I come.” He uncovered his eyes and peered around in acute anticipation.
There was always a certain amount of excitement when it came to seeking, but to Peter, this was more than just a game. His father was usually too busy doing “important science projects” with “important people”.
It wasn’t every day that he could play with Peter.
He peered around the stairway and stepped into the seating room. The TV hummed quietly in the background. He scanned the area right then left— pausing when he saw a pair of boots peeking out from under the curtain.
Peter’s eyes grew wide. His dad was bad at this game.
Swinging back the curtain quickly, Peter gaped at the broom behind the curtain, a hat perched awkwardly on top. It gaped back at Peter before falling flat on the ground.
Peter almost scowled. That wasn’t fair.
The words of his father sprouted up, almost on cue: “If the world were fair, nothing would change— everything would be frozen in place.”
Peter didn’t like that idea; he knew that things in life couldn’t be fair all the time, but he would never tell that to his father when he was frustrated that things didn’t go his way. He’d long since given up complaining about fairness and tried to be careful about what he complained about around his father. His dad always had some lesson tucked away in his coat pocket.
Like now. Peter knew what his father would say if he caught him pouting. “Life is full of tricks, and the trick is learning to see through them.” He rolled his eyes and turned away. He’d rather his dad teach him actual science— show him experiments, real-world chemistry. But his father, the great Richard Parker, never brought him to the lab. No matter how much Peter begged.
Peter left the room and continued searching through empty closets, behind furniture, checking through every room. Passing by a table, he paused at the picture frames scattered across it. His parents smiled back at him— only they looked different. Younger. Weirder. He didn’t know why, but that always made him uncomfortable.
He looked at another picture. It was a picture of him as a baby being held by his Aunt May. In another, he saw his father with his arm around Uncle Ben. That was his dad’s brother; it’s how Peter got his middle name: Benjamin. Peter sometimes wondered if he ever had a sister, would her middle name be ‘May’ after their aunt?
Not that he was hoping for a sister, he’d much rather have a brother if he could have any sibling— He’d told his parents as much many times.
Peter’s gaze shifted to the pair of glasses sitting on the table. Peter picked them up and tried them on. The world swirled. He had read somewhere, in one of his dad’s books about genes, how parents passed down traits to their kids. If his parents had bad eyesight, their children might inherit it too. Did that mean one day Peter would need glasses like his dad?
Peter looked around, squinting at the distorted world, twisted and warped. His head twinged. No way. He decided. If this was what his dad saw, the glasses definitely weren’t making anything clearer.
Next, Peter approached his dad’s office. That was where he found the book about genes and inheritance. Even before he opened the door, he could hear something. Something… flapping? Pushing the door open, he was struck by a gust of wind.
Peter stared, the curtains blew, and along with it, droplets of water from the rain sprayed at his father’s desk, where papers were blowing. This was… weird. His dad wouldn’t hide on the balcony in the rain, right?
He approached the desk. Thunder rumbled as the glass doors to the balcony clacked, as he made his way around the desk and— this was wrong. It was all wrong. He saw papers strewn all across the ground, something glistening in them— glass.
The glass door clanged again, and Peter turned and saw the shattered hole that let in gusts of wind.
“Dad?” He called out.
This wasn’t right.
“Dad!”
Seconds later, his father appeared, taking large strides into the room before stopping abruptly. Looking around the room, Richard Parker stopped only three seconds before tearing around the desk, lifting Peter, and removing him from in front of the window.
In rapid motions, Richard swiped each curtain shut, pulled out what looked like a drawer, and slammed it on his disheveled desk.
Peter stood frozen, almost mesmerized, as his dad looked up and caught his eye with a look of entire seriousness, before unlocking something in the drawer which opened a secret compartment.
Peter didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. His breath started coming out faster as his father rifled through the papers.
Something bad was happening.
Suddenly, his mom was in front of him and lifting him into a tight embrace. She carried him out of the room, but not before Peter watched his father lift an eraser and start wiping away equations from his blackboard.
Something bad was happening.
But what it was he didn’t know, and his parents weren’t telling him, yet somehow he knew not to ask.
His mother was tense, and she was starting to move swiftly, grabbing a suitcase out from under Peter’s bed— the one both his parents insisted be packed ‘just in case’. She then grabbed his school backpack and started to put books, toys and other things Peter had on his nightstand.
“M-Mom.” Peter tried to get out.
“Hand me that!” She pointed to something Peter stood next to as he tried and failed to take in a breath. Eyes widening, Mary Parker immediately reached for the inhaler on Peter’s nightstand and pressed it against his lips.
“Breathe.” She instructed. “It’s going to be alright, okay?” She attempted a smile. “We’re going to go on a little adventure, and I need you to be ready for it, okay?”
Peter sucked in his inhaler.
“Mary.” Richard Parker was standing in the doorway holding two bags. “We have to go now.”
Mary nodded. “Just one more second.” She brushed a hand through Peter’s hair. “Can you hand me that, Peter?” She pointed to the item she had been talking about the first time. Peter glanced over to see the Iron Man figure that was lying on the ground next to his bed. Hand quivering slightly, Peter leaned over and picked it up before handing it to his mom.
“We can’t leave without our favorite superhero to watch over you, right?” Mary smiled at Peter. Distantly, Peter thought about how silly that was. Plastic toys can't watch over you.
“Mary. ” Richard emphasized.
“We’re coming, Richard.” And Mary led Peter out of his room. Richard took one second to affectionately squeeze Peter’s shoulder before he was hauled back into Mary’s arms, and they all raced down the steps and out of the door.
Speeding off in their car, Peter looked back at his house as the rain came down in torrents, unaware it would soon be nothing more than a memory.
--
It was hazy.
Then cold.
Then the solid, damp surface pressing hard against Peter’s body brought his attention to the vague aches and pains that radiated throughout his body— that was familiar, that was typical.
He tried to open his eyes. It was blurry. A year ago, that would have been typical, but after the spider bite... he was changed; became enhanced and no longer needed glasses— like his father once had.
His father…
White hot pain seared his temple, and Peter slammed his eyes shut. A groan tore out of him— his own voice, distant and raw— but pain drowned everything else. Everything, except for cold, that crawled up his legs, his arms, filling his skull as it pulsed in agony.
He reached for his head— his loved fingers scraping over his mask— and tried to focus. Where…? Nothing made sense. He shifted, forcing himself upright— pain, the worst yet, shot through his ribs as he choked on his breath.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He froze. A voice— too close. Then, ignoring the advice, he swerved to see who had spoken— “Agh!” His muscles clenched, his body protesting as he slammed his eyes tightly shut
“Easy now.” The voice was closer now. A hand reached out—
Peter’s reflexes fired before he could register them. His web-shooters triggered— thwip! He twisted away, leaping to his feet.
“Shit!”
The motion propelled him forward, but his body protested. Knees buckling, he reached out to catch something— anything— and slammed against something hard and cold. Concrete? The top of a ledge or something.
Tremors overtook him as the world spun and burned.
“Dammit, kid! You’re going to kill yourself— I’m not you’re enemy!”
He barely heard it; adrenaline and survival kept him moving when his body couldn’t. He staggered one step— then collapsed forward. Immediately, he was caught—not by the wall, but by the stranger who should have been tied up in webs.
“Easy kid, you’re alright. Easy.”
His spidey-senses weren’t flaring, he realized, to alert him of danger. Maybe it was just his system giving up on him, but he couldn’t fight anyway and decided to listen to it. This time, he really did fold, and the stranger seemed to realize this as he properly took hold of Peter and led him back down to the ground.
Darkness inched along the edges of his vision, but even though the stranger was not trying to skewer him, he could not pass out now.
He forced his breathing to steady and instead tried to get a handle on his bearings. His reflexes, now overused and sluggish, managed to piece together the basics:
His suit was still on. (Passed out mid-Spidey patrol—never a good sign.)
He was found by a stranger. (Definitely not good, but not an immediate threat, apparently.)
He was lying limp and useless. (Also bad.)
And… was that wind? A car below? So, outside then. Rooftop, maybe.
His eyes struggled to adjust, and blinking wasn’t helping, nor the pounding headache, or the cold that clenched his bones. Fuck.
“You with me, Spider-Man?” The stranger said again. Judging by his voice, he was crouching at Peter’s level. “Just hang in there a bit longer. I have someone on the way who can help with the more superficial injuries, but you’re going to have to wait out that concussion. You may have enhanced healing, but I wouldn’t move too much yet.”
“What?” The words were out even before Peter could properly register what was just said, or what all of it indicated. ‘Someone on the way’, ‘superficial injuries’, enhanced healing— what? Just some of the implications alone: a person coming? How did he know about his enhanced healing? Or even the concussion?
Slowly, almost as if by force and need for it to work, his vision started to clear as he tried to take in the person crouching before him. It was dark, but the neon sign behind him illuminated, was looked like a blurry figure clad in red from his suit to a mask with—
“Ears?” He slurred.
A pause. “They’re horns.” The voice was a bit deep, a bit gruff, and more than a bit irritated.
Peter blinked several times and then, suddenly, though his vision still swarmed, it didn’t blur, and he could see just who exactly was in front of him. “Daredevil."
Damn, his voice was weak.
"Spider-Man." He replied, but it was almost absently.
Realizations swarmed through Peter’s aching head in a jumbled mess. Daredevil was here—he knew more about Peter’s abilities than he should have. He had called someone— backup? They were on their way here, which was where? Wasn’t he supposed to be wary of Daredevil? Or just stay out of his way? Which wasn’t supposed to be a problem because he never went to Daredevil's domain in Hell’s Kitchen.
Pain seared Peter's head again, cutting off the flooding thoughts; he bit his lip from crying out. Concussion—that was what Daredevil had said. He’d received one of those before, but that pain had never been so intense. He tried to think back on what had happened...
Another sharp wave of pain.
“What… happened?” Peter finally got out.
A pause. “You tell me.” Daredevil didn’t hide his irritation—apparently directed at Peter.
Who was almost too dazed to catch it.
Almost.
“I… I can’t remember.” What had happened? Even that morning? How had he gotten... Here? “Where am I?”
Daredevil regarded him, then sighed in frustration. “You can’t remember,” He stated factually, one he didn’t seem to like. “That was one hell of a concussion.” He added almost to himself. “You’re on a rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan.” He finally told him. “What is the last thing you remember?”
“I… don’t.” He could barely make out that morning. “Fuck.” And Daredevil seemed irritated with him, was it from him being in Hell’s Kitchen or…
“Did I… do something?”
For a moment, Daredevil didn’t answer; the sound of traffic below filled the silence.
“Yeah,” He said finally. “You got in the way.”
“In the way of what? I don’t—What are you talking about? What—?”
“Stop.” Daredevil snapped back. “Just… You’re not helping yourself.”
Peter froze, breathing unsteadily. Daredevil waited another beat before he continued. “You jumped in the way of an active pursuit— my active pursuit. You nearly blew months of work and almost got yourself killed in the process.”
Peter’s mind whirled. He blinked hard. “I— I don’t remember any of that. Why would I have done that?” Something occurred to him. “I did that here? In Hell’s Kitchen?”
“Yeah. Over by the docks.”
“By the…” His mind was blank. “That doesn’t make any— I stay out of Hell’s Kitchen. What was I even doing here…?”
“You tell me. Last I checked, Spider-Man sticks to Queens.”
Peter blanched; he couldn’t keep the ruefulness out of his voice. “Not anymore. I moved.”
“Moved?”
“Yeah…” He said almost distantly, rubbing a hand against his temple. “Closer to… things.”
“Closer to trouble, apparently,” Daredevil muttered dryly.
Peter almost flinched because he knew he had tried to avoid just that— well, at least the kind of trouble that would have him getting in the way of other, more territorial vigilantes. He could barely remember what had even happened that morning, but he knew where his new apartment was located, and he knew he had mapped out Manhattan—regions to go and areas to steer clear of for situations like this.
At least in the beginning, until he got a feel for a location other than Queens. This was supposed to be his first day on patrol in a new location.
How did it go so, so wrong?
“Look, kid,” Daredevil was continuing. “We can worry about the details later. No point in getting so worked up right now; I don’t want those wounds opening back up and bleeding. You may heal fast, but you got shot and stabbed several times, and my medical expertise is limited. I’d rather not have you bleed out before the nurse gets here.”
Nurse. Shot. Stabbed.
Peter’s eyes widened, his heart lurching. His eyes dropped, and that’s when he noticed the crude makeshift bandages. How did he not notice, or at least feel it, before? Damn concussion.
“Wait… What? How… you just—”
“Kid—”
“Don’t call me that!” Peter shoved himself upright, ignoring the sharp stabbing pains. His pulse spiked. “My mask. Did you—?”
“I didn’t.” Daredevil. “Ki—Spider-Man. I know the importance of a secret identity. I only handled the surface wounds.”
Peter stared, still dazed. “Then how— what makes you say I heal fast? Or the concussion if you didn’t even…?“
A pause. "Because I could tell."
Peter blinked, his breath ragged. “You could tell? That doesn’t even make— How? By listening?” The sarcasm dripped with each word.
A beat. “Something like that.”
...
“Seriously?”
Daredevil huffed a sigh. “Your blood, I can hear where it’s moving and how it’s clotting— much faster than it should. It’s mostly concentrated to the stab wounds. You took a hard hit to the head, but I don’t sense any open wounds or any pressure building. Still, your timing and balance are off; that’s a concussion— probably a bad one.”
Peter just stared. “You can… How?”
“Same way you can stick to walls, or catch a moving bus. You have your gifts, and I have mine. And with them, I don’t need to use my eyes to see. Your identity is safe.”
If Peter weren’t so out of it, he might’ve mentioned that ‘not needing eyes’ to see sounded a lot like ‘seeing through anything’, which wasn’t exactly reassuring. Besides, that wasn’t even what he meant— he’d meant how, like… hearing or echolocation or something. He’d have to guess. Heightened senses, right? He was pretty sure he’d read people speculate that Daredevil had those abilities before. Probably. His brain was too hazy to be sure of anything.
“If you… know so much,” Peter mumbled, his head rolling against the cement wall behind him, “then can you tell me what happened?”
“I already told you—”
“No, you said I ‘got in the way’.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “In the way of what? Who was I even fighting? What... happened before then? Just— just tell me what I did.”
Daredevil considered him. “Like I said, we can—”
“Handle that later. Yeah, you said that.” Peter tried to shrug, but his muscles ached, so it mostly sagged. “But I’m not going anywhere, so we might as well… right?”
There was another brief moment of silence— Daredevil seemed to like taking those before actually responding to Peter. “Might as well.” He said, finally, and took a seat across from Peter. “I don’t have all the answers— I don’t know why you were at the docks— I had been waiting them out until they got their shipment. Been tracking them the past few months, this shipment was supposedly really important, their supplier was going to actually show up this time—” His words hardened, he clenched his fists, and then breathed out, his words more controlled. “But midway through, you suddenly swung in and started taking them all out. They called off the shipment and called in backup.” Another pause. “We barely made it out alive.”
A car honked loudly down below, followed by voices yelling back and forth. Peter found his voice was gone. What the hell? He wouldn’t have done that, right?
A sudden memory slammed sharply into his aching head.
“Let me illuminate you. See, the car thief was leading us to the people who run the entire operation. It's been a six-month-long sting— it's called strategy, I'm sure you're aware of the term strategy? Probably heard about that in school?"
“Shit.”
It was Captain Stacy all over again.
Shit.
“What was the shipment?” Peter's mind reeled.
“You don’t need to know.”
“Maybe I do!” Peter’s head shot toward Daredevil a little too quickly. “Maybe I’ll remember if you tell me.”
“Or maybe you need to calm down before you do some rash shit and mess something else up.” Daredevil snapped between gritted teeth. “I get that everything is confusing right now, but this isn’t your mission, and I’m not about to give you details that will make you run off and nearly get us both killed again. It’s bad enough I have to sit around babysitting you to ensure you don’t tear open those bandages.”
Peter’s face flushed hot with anger and humiliation. “No one— I never asked for that!”
Daredevil was about to reply when suddenly there was a vibration followed by the muffled sound of something like 'Claire, Claire, Claire'. Abruptly, Daredevil pulled out his phone, and the sound intensified. “She must be here.” He muttered before answering it, and immediately giving instructions on how to reach them.
But that was enough for Peter. The instant Daredevil was distracted, he pushed himself up and threw himself over the side of the building.