Chapter Text
The standard-issue yellow school bus vibrated with a frequency that Peter Parker was certain could shatter glass if it hit the right resonance. This was mainly just his heightened senses screaming at him.
The thirty high school geniuses who had been fed a steady diet of rumor, anticipation, and cheap coffee since six in the morning only made his head hurt worse.
Despite his slight headache, Peter kept his forehead pressed against the cool, rattling pane of the window, watching the gray blur of Queens as the bus drove.
His left foot throbbed with a rhythmic, hot ache that matched the thumping of his heart. He hadn’t looked at it before leaving the apartment. Mostly because he hadn’t wanted to face the reality of his own stupidity, but he was fairly certain his left pinky toe was currently the color of a bruised plum and twice its natural size.
That was what he got for trying to clear an entire block of rooftops at three in the morning while nursing a head cold. His spatial awareness had been exactly two inches off, his landing on a rusty fire escape had been sloppy, and the subsequent crack had been loud enough to wake the pigeons. He’d gone home, patched up his suit, slept for what felt like forty-five seconds, and now he was here.
"You’re doing the thing again," Ned whispered from the seat beside him. Ned was holding his notebook like a shield, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm on the cardboard cover. "The 'I’m Spider-Man, and I have a secret, but also I might die of an ulcer' thing. Your eyebrows are doing that weird V-shape."
"I don’t have an ulcer," Peter mumbled, his voice a bit groggy from sleep deprivation. "I just... I shouldn’t have come today, Ned. I should have forged May’s signature on a sick note. Or thrown myself down the stairs. The stairs would have hurt less."
"Are you kidding? We’re going to Stark Industries. The cradle of modern sustainable energy! The birthplace of the arc reactor!” Ned's excitement burned bright like a blazing fire.
"Yeah, and I’ve been trying to avoid this since the permission slips went out. Plus, you’ve been here many times, dude," Peter groaned when the bus hit a bump, which spiked in his head.
"So!? This is a trip, it's different." Ned argued back.
"It’s literally just the same building, you have pretty high clearance, dude.” Peter retorted because Ned can go most places in the tower, so the excitement of it being a trip, where he has “less” clearance, is unnecessary.
From three rows back, a loud, artificial laugh cut through the ambient drone of the bus.
"Hey, Penis!" Flash Thompson leaned over the back of his vinyl seat, his face twisted into that familiar expression of smug superiority that usually preceded an administrative nightmare. "You look a little green. What’s the matter? Realized the lie of your Internship will be exposed?"
Peter didn’t turn around. He just closed his eyes, leaning his back against the seat. "Leave it alone, Flash."
"Oh, come on. We’ve been hearing about this 'Stark Internship' for six months now. Every time we have to stay late for Decathlon practice, oh, 'Peter has to go to the Tower.' Every time you miss a party, 'Peter’s working with Mr. Stark.' Well, today’s the day the rubber meets the road, man. I asked my dad’s friend, who works in corporate logistics at SI, and he says they don’t even have high school interns. The lowest clearance level for an actual intern placement requires a master's degree from a good school like MIT"
"Flash, shut up," MJ said from across the aisle. She didn't look up from her book, but her voice had that flat, razor-sharp edge that usually made people back off out of sheer self-preservation. "Your dad’s friend works in the mailroom at the Long Island City distribution center. The closest he’s ever been to Tony Stark is seeing an unboxing video of an Iron Man helmet on YouTube."
A few kids in the surrounding seats snickered. Flash’s face flushed in embarrassment, his fingers gripping the top of the seat until his knuckles went white. "Whatever, Jones. I’m just saying, the system doesn’t lie. Stark Industries has the most advanced biometric security on the planet."
“We’re in the system, you prick,” Ned whispers, and only Peter and MJ hear it.
As the bus finally comes to a halt in front of the massive, gleaming glass facade of the Stark Tower, Peter’s internal radar, the one that had nothing to do with spiders and everything to do with a teenager's instinct for social survival, began to ring like a fire alarm.
The tower rose above them like a monument to the future, its glass panels reflecting the gray New York sky with crystalline perfection. The giant, glowing STARK letters that had once dominated the skyline were gone, replaced by the sleeker Avengers logo.
Mr. Harrington, their Decathlon coach and science teacher, stood up at the front of the bus, nearly tripping over his own briefcase as he clapped his hands together. He looked twice as nervous as Peter felt, his tie slightly askew and a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Alright, everyone! Gather your things. Remember, we are guests of the world's foremost technological conglomerate. This is a massive privilege for Midtown High. I expect absolute decorum. No touching the glass, no wandering off the designated tour paths, and please, if you see a robot, do not attempt to speak to it or offer it food. We don't want to be kicked out."
The students began to file out, their conversations dying down into a collective hush as they stepped onto the plaza. Flash pushed past Peter, deliberately clipping his shoulder.
"After you, 'Intern,'" Flash sneered, gesturing toward the massive revolving doors. "Show us how the magic happens."
Peter took a slow, deep breath, wincing as his fractured toe protested against the stiff leather of his shoe. His fist clenched at his side, he looked up at the towering spire of glass, and thought, not for the first time, that fighting the Vulture on top of a runaway cargo plane had been significantly less terrifying than walking into high school field trip day.
The lobby of Stark Industries was less of a room and more of an indoor ecosystem. The ceilings were thirty feet high, supported by columns of polished white composite material that seemed to glow from within. Water cascaded down a massive sheet of structural glass along the northern wall, filtered through a series of micro-algal purifiers that allegedly provided twenty percent of the building’s oxygen.
"Oh my god," Ned breathed, his head tilted back so far Peter thought his glasses might slide off. "It. is. So. freaking. cool. Peter, that air smells like- like clean linen and high-performance computing."
"Ned, you were here 2 weeks ago," Peter said, though he couldn't help but notice how the air felt slightly cooler against his feverish skin. His head cold was definitely getting worse; the dull throb behind his eyes threatened to turn into a full-blown migraine if he didn't get some proper rest soon.
"Class! Please line up!" Mr. Harrington called out, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He was currently being approached by a young woman with a clipboard and a bright, corporate smile that looked like it had been painted on by a team of professional marketers.
She wore a sharp gray blazer, a silver badge pinned to her lapel, and an earpiece that glowed with a faint blue light.
"Good morning, Midtown School of Science and Technology," she said, her voice clear and perfectly modulated to cut through the lobby's low hum. "My name is Cynthia, and I will be your primary guide today for the Stark Industries Educational Outreach Tour. Before we begin, I need to remind everyone that this is an active research and development facility. Many of the projects being conducted here are protected by federal non-disclosure agreements, international patent law, and Department of Defense protocols. As such, any unauthorized photography, recording, or attempts to access restricted digital networks will result in immediate expulsion from the premises and potential legal action."
She gave them a pleasant, terrifying smile. Flash looked thrilled; Ned looked like he might throw up.
"Now," Cynthia continued, tapping her clipboard. "I have your guest credentials here. Each of you will receive a temporary Level 1 'Visitor' pass. These passes must be worn visibly on your outer clothing at all times. They will allow you to pass through the primary security gates and grant you access to the public exhibits, the lower-level dining commons, and the Level 3 demonstration labs. If you attempt to enter an elevator or a corridor without an escort or a matching clearance profile, the building's central operating system will automatically sound an alert. Everyone understands?"
"Yes, ma'am," Mr. Harrington said quickly, taking the stack of white plastic badges she handed him. He began calling out names, handing them out like communion wafers. "Miller, Charles... Thompson, Eugene..."
Flash snatched his badge, immediately pinning it to his jacket with an air of immense importance. He leaned over toward Peter, who was standing at the back of the group, trying to look as small as possible.
"Looks like your name isn't on the list, Parker, neither was Jones or Leeds called," Flash whispered loud enough for three other kids to hear. "What a shocker. Maybe they forgot to print the 'Special Personal Assistant to the CEO' badge and his little ‘lackies.’"
Mr. Harrington looked down at his clipboard with a sudden frown. He had reached the bottom of the sheet. "I don't see Mr Parker's name on the visitor manifest here, nor Jones or Leeds. I have their permission slips, but no badge."
Cynthia blinked, her professional smile faltering for a fraction of a second as she looked at Peter. She tapped her earpiece. "Let me check with central administration. Sometimes the school rosters don't sync properly with the security database if a student was added after the initial security screening."
"We don't need a visitor badge," Peter said softly, his cheeks burning as thirty pairs of eyes swung toward him. "We have our own. The... the regular ones."
"Oh, really?" Flash crossed his arms, his grin widening until it looked almost painful. "Let’s see it then, Parker. Pull out the golden ticket."
Peter sighed, a long, exhausted sound that came from the very bottom of his lungs. He reached into his backpack, his fingers brushing past a half-dead portable charger before wrapping around the familiar, heavy rectangle of his proximity card. Unlike the flimsy white plastic badges the rest of the class had received, Peter’s card was a dark, matte charcoal gray, inlaid with a subtle, silver circuitry pattern that shimmered when it caught the light. There was no photo on it, no printed name, just a small, laser-etched Stark Industries logo in the corner. MJ and Ned pulled their cards out, too; theirs were similar to Peter's, just in a lighter shade of gray.
He held it out. Cynthia looked at it, her eyebrows rising slightly. She didn't recognize the design. The matte gray cards were typically reserved for high-level Clearance, which Cynthia didn’t really interact with.
"Well," Cynthia said, her tone turning slightly more cautious. "The system will verify their validity at the gate. If everyone could please form a single-file line behind me, we will proceed through the biometric scanners."
The security gates were not the standard metal detectors found in airports or government buildings. They were sleek, minimalist barriers made of brushed titanium and clear polycarbonate panels that extended from the floor to about six feet high. Each station featured an optical sensor, a palm-print scanner, and a black glass plate for proximity cards.
Two large men in dark blue tactical polo shirts and utility belts stood at the ends of the row, their arms crossed. They weren't carrying visible firearms, but Peter knew for a fact, having seen the inventory logs, that those belts contained non-lethal sonic disruptors and high-voltage taser systems capable of dropping a rogue Super Soldier.
"One at a time, please," Cynthia instructed, stepping through her own designated lane. Her badge clicked against the glass. A soft, pleasant chime sounded, and a green light flickered across her face.
“Welcome back, Cynthia,” a smooth, slightly computerized voice said from an overhead speaker. It was FRIDAY.
The students began to file through.
"Ned Leeds," Ned announced to the empty air as he tapped his card. The scanner flashed green. “Hello Ned, welcome back. Access granted to Level 1-8 facilities.” FRIDAY welcomed Ned.
“Hello FRIDAY!” Ned said with some enthusiasm.
MJ walked up, and FRIDAY gave the same greeting, “Hello MJ, welcome back. Access granted to Level 1-8 facilities.” MJ raised her hand and waved to nothing in particular.
Flash’s mouth was wide open, but he quickly shook that off and replaced it with confidence.
"Eugene Thompson," Flash said, stepping up with his chin held high. He tapped his badge with unnecessary force. The scanner chimed. “Visitor 1-0-4-8. Access granted to Level 1 and Level 3.” Flash stepped through, turning around immediately to watch Peter, who was now standing at the front of the line.
"Your turn, Parker," Flash called out, his voice dripping with anticipation. "Let's see if the system recognizes the ‘intern.’"
Peter took a breath. His head was pounding, his toe felt like it was on fire, and he could feel a thin layer of sweat on the back of his neck. He just wanted to get through the gate, find a quiet corner in the public gallery, and sleep for twenty minutes while the rest of the class looked at old Iron Man armor prototypes.
He stepped up to the titanium barrier. He held the matte gray card over the black glass plate.
The card didn't just chime.
The moment the gray plastic came within two inches of the sensor, the standard blue lights on the titanium pylon didn't flash green. They turned a deep, vibrant violet. The clear polycarbonate panels didn't slide open; they locked instantly into place with a heavy, hydraulic thud that echoed through the entire lobby.
"Oh," Flash whispered, his face lighting up like Christmas morning. "Oh, he's done. He's so done."
Mr. Harrington turned pale. "Peter? Is everything alright?"
Before Peter could answer, the low, mechanical drone of the lobby's standard automated routing system cut out entirely. The overhead speakers crackled once, and then FRIDAY spoke.
"Access granted," FRIDAY announced.
But she didn't stop there. The volume wasn't set to the standard conversational level; because Peter’s profile was flagged with the highest priority designation below Tony Stark himself, the AI’s broadcast overrode every other audio system in the main lobby.
"Good morning, Mini-Boss," FRIDAY’s voice boomed, clear as a bell and loud enough to make three different corporate lawyers drop their briefcases near the fountain. "Your biometric data has been logged upon entry. My sensors indicate your core body temperature is elevated at 101.4 degrees, your current cognitive reaction time is delayed by forty-two percent, indicating less than three hours of REM sleep, and you have sustained a localized Grade 2 bone fracture in your left pinky toe."
The lobby went dead silent. The only sound was the rushing water of the micro-algal display wall.
Peter froze, his hand still extended over the scanner, his face draining of all color until he looked like a ghost in a flannel shirt.
"Boss was notified of your entry twenty seconds ago," FRIDAY continued cheerfully, her voice echoing off the glass ceiling. "He has left instructions to inform you that his meeting with the Eurasian Trade Commission is 'boring as hell' and that he is currently en route down to the lobby to personally escort you to medical. Also, Mini-Boss? You left your AP Calculus textbook on the primary assembly bench in Lab 4 on Thursday night. Pointbreak tried to use it as a coaster for a protein shake, but Ms Potts saved it and placed it in your personal locker."
The polycarbonate gates clicked open with a soft, polite hiss.
Peter didn't move. He couldn't. His boots felt like they had been welded to the polished floor. Slowly, with the stiff, mechanical movement of a cursed doll, he turned his head to look at his class.
Thirty people were staring at him. Nobody was breathing.
Mr. Harrington’s clipboard had slipped from his fingers, scattered pages of permission slips fluttering onto the clean tiles like dying birds.
And Flash Thompson? Flash looked as though he had just been hit by a localized electromagnetic pulse. His eyes were wide, his jaw was slack, and his skin had gone a strange, curdled shade of gray-green that suggested his entire worldview had just collapsed into a singularity.
"Peter?" Mr. Harrington squeaked, his voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old’s. "Who... who is 'Mini-Boss'?"
Before Peter could even begin to assemble a lie, before he could even say the words 'It’s just a glitch in the software', the private elevator doors at the far end of the atrium slid open with a distinctive, high-end chime.
Out stepped Tony Stark, wearing a tailored three-piece suit without a tie, dark sunglasses despite being indoors, and a look of profound, irritated amusement.