Chapter Text
The smoke alarm in apartment 3B had been disabled since November, which was the only reason Peter Parker wasn't currently being evicted.
"Peter!" May’s voice carried through the thin drywall of the hallway, sharp with immediate suspicion. "What is that smell? Are you burning rubber again?"
"It’s not rubber!" Peter shouted back, scrambling across his cramped bedroom floor to fling the window open. A rush of damp, freezing Queens air swept in, catching the thin tendrils of acrid white smoke wafting from his desk. "It’s plastic! I mean—it’s nothing! I dropped a hot glue gun!"
"If I come in there and find out you’re melting metal over a candle again, you’re grounded until college!"
"It was one time!" Peter yelled, thrusting his head out the window and inhaling deeply to clear his lungs.
Below, the distant roar of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway provided a steady, grimy bassline to the evening. It was 8:42 PM on a Tuesday. Peter had three assignments due for AP Chemistry tomorrow, a physics lab write-up that made his eyes cross, and a thoroughly melted voltage regulator sitting on his desk.
He pulled his head back inside, slammed the window down until only a two-inch crack remained, and blew a lock of brown hair out of his eyes.
The regulator was a goner. He’d salvaged it from an old tube television someone had left by the dumpster on 21st Street, hoping he could step down the current from a cheap laptop charger to power a custom pulse generator he’d been tinkering with. Instead, he’d managed to short-circuit the whole board, vaporize a diode, and fill his room with a scent reminiscent of burning hair and electric ozone.
He needed Ned. Ned was the only person who understood why a ruined $0.50 circuit component felt like an absolute, world-ending tragedy.
Peter snatched his phone off the bed—a second-generation smartphone with a screen spiderwebbed so badly across the top left corner that reading notifications required a tilting motion of the head—and opened his messages. Ned had texted him earlier from a new prepaid number after dropping his old phone into a tub of queso at a school basketball game, and Peter had meant to save it.
He tapped out a text from memory, thumb flying over the cracked glass:
917-555-0143.
He hit send, dropped the phone onto his unmade bed, and turned back to his desk to poke at the charred remains of the circuit with the tip of a screwdriver. Then he picked the phone back up. He had more to say.
In the top floor of Stark Tower—a floor that smelled expensive, sounded like quiet classical music, and featured ambient lighting designed to reduce optical strain—Tony Stark was currently staring at a pair of glowing holographic schematics for the Mark 46 repulsor housing.
He was bored out of his mind.
Pepper was in Geneva dealing with an international trade compliance tribunal. Rhodey was at the Pentagon. The Avengers were either dispersed across the globe or sleeping like normal human beings, a habit Tony considered a severe flaw in human design. He’d been working for fourteen straight hours, subsisting on black coffee, dark chocolate, and sheer stubbornness, and his brain was beginning to feel like wet cotton.
His private phone—not the public Stark Industries media line, not the Avengers emergency comms, but the sleek, matte-black device that only a grand total of seven people had the number to—vibrated on the workbench.
Then it vibrated again.
And again.
And again.
Tony frowned, not picking it up immediately. He set down a pair of magnetic tweezers, picked up his coffee mug, realized it was empty, and finally reached for the phone. He expected a text from Pepper reminding him to eat something that hadn't been delivered in a cardboard box, or maybe Rhodey sending a clip of some military brass making a fool of himself.
Instead, his screen was lighting up like a Christmas tree with an onslaught of incoming text bubbles from an unrecognized New York area code.
Unknown (8:44 PM):
catastrophe
Unknown (8:44 PM):
absolute operational failure
Unknown (8:45 PM):
i tried to bypass the step down converter on the TV board using the cap from that busted Dell charger like you said
Unknown (8:45 PM):
and it literally detonated
Unknown (8:45 PM):
there is so much smoke
Unknown (8:45 PM):
may thinks im huffing rubber
Unknown (8:45 PM):
i think i permanently singed my left eyebrow
Unknown (8:46 PM):
do you have another 470uF capacitor or am i gonna have to scavenge the toaster again
Tony read through the rapid-fire stream twice.
His initial thought was a security breach. A targeted phishing attempt? A hack? Some brave freelance engineer trying an absurdly roundabout way to pitch an invention? But no—FRIDAY hadn't flagged it, and the frantic, unpunctuated energy bleeding through the glass was entirely too unhinged to be a corporate pitch.
His second thought was simple annoyance. His private line was supposed to be unlisted, untraceable, and thoroughly secure. The fact that some random idiot in the city had tapped in a number and landed on Tony Stark's personal phone was a statistical anomaly that made his head ache.
He was about to hit Block Contact and hand the device over to FRIDAY to track down how the number leaked.
Then he re-read the fourth text.
...bypass the step down converter on the TV board using the cap from that busted Dell charger...
Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose. He typed back with one thumb.
Tony (8:47 PM):
First off, you swapped a digit. Wrong number.
Tony (8:47 PM):
Second, if you put a standard electrolytic cap from a laptop brick directly onto a high-voltage TV supply rail without checking ripple tolerance, you're lucky you still have eyebrows.
Tony (8:48 PM):
Do not touch the toaster.
He locked the phone, tossed it onto the workbench, and turned back to the holographic display.
"FRIDAY," Tony said, swirling the empty coffee mug. "Remind me to change the secondary line routing tomorrow. Someone’s fat-fingered their way into my inbox."
"Right away, Boss," the AI replied smoothly. "Would you like me to flag the origin of the message?"
"Nah. Probably some idiot college student in a dorm trying to build a coil gun. Let him live in ignorance."
Three seconds later, the phone buzzed.
Then it buzzed three times in rapid succession.
Tony glanced down. He shouldn't have looked. He was Tony Stark. He had board meetings to ignore, suit telemetry to refine, and a billion-dollar empire to run. But he was also exhausted, irritable, and vaguely fascinated by the sheer panic currently unfolding on his lock screen.
Unknown (8:49 PM):
wait what
Unknown (8:49 PM):
who is this
Unknown (8:49 PM):
ned if this is you using a text to speech app to sound like a grumpy engineering professor im deleting your star wars saves
Unknown (8:50 PM):
wait
Unknown (8:50 PM):
oh my god
Across town, in Queens, Peter sat bolt upright on his mattress, staring at his screen.
He looked at the number he’d typed out.
917-555-0143.
He checked the scrap of paper on his desk where he’d jotted down Ned’s new prepaid number.
917-555-0134.
"Oh, crap," Peter muttered aloud.
He grabbed the phone with both hands, his thumbs blurring over the glass.
Unknown (8:51 PM):
oh no
Unknown (8:51 PM):
i typed a 3 instead of a 4
Unknown (8:51 PM):
im so so sorry sir or maam or whoever this is
Unknown (8:51 PM):
i literally thought I was texting my friend
Unknown (8:51 PM):
im so sorry to bother you!! im stopping now bye!!
Tony stared at the waterfall of messages. The kid—and Tony was rapidly becoming convinced it was a kid, given the sheer level of flustered chaos—was retreating at top speed. Normal people would have just stopped replying.
Tony, sitting in a multi-million-dollar workshop surrounded by quiet metal and silent algorithms, looked at the empty room around him. The silence of the lab suddenly felt a little too heavy.
He tapped out a response before he could stop himself.
Tony (8:52 PM):
Relax. Nobody died. Except your capacitor.
Tony (8:52 PM):
And put the screwdriver down.
Peter, who was currently holding a screwdriver in his right hand, froze. He slowly lowered it to his bedsheet, staring at the screen in utter bewilderment.
Unknown (8:53 PM):
how did you know i was holding a screwdriver
Unknown (8:53 PM):
are you watching me
Unknown (8:53 PM):
wait no that's impossible
Unknown (8:54 PM):
ANYWAY the toaster is fine for your information
Unknown (8:54 PM):
and i DID check the ripple tolerance!! it was rated for 25V!!
Unknown (8:54 PM):
i just... forgot about the peak to peak voltage spike when the transformer kicks in
Unknown (8:55 PM):
wait how did you even know what board i was talking about
Tony tilted his head back, resting it against the high leather back of his chair, a faint, lopsided smirk touching his lips.
Tony (8:56 PM):
Because a 25V cap on an unfiltered secondary stage is a small pipe bomb. Who taught you electronics, a butcher?
Peter bristled instantly. His cheeks burned, not from shame now, but from the indignant pride of a high school sophomore who spent ninety percent of his free time salvaging discarded tech from the streets of New York.
Unknown (8:57 PM):
I AM NOT A BUTCHER
Unknown (8:57 PM):
i salvaged that board from a 2004 Sony Trinitron ok
Unknown (8:57 PM):
do you know how hard it is to clean toxic dust off a CRT board without dying
Unknown (8:58 PM):
my math was just optimistic
Tony paused.
My math was just optimistic.
He leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees.
Tony (8:59 PM):
Optimistic math gets people killed in engineering, kid. Optimistic math is how rockets fall out of the sky.
Tony (8:59 PM):
If you’re going to step down high voltage without proper equipment, use a buck converter. Don't try to jerry-rig an electrolytic cap like a cowboy.
There was a pause. Two minutes went by without a reply. Tony assumed the kid had finally taken the hint and gone away. He reached for his stylus to get back to work.
Then the phone buzzed again.
Unknown (9:02 PM):
buck converters are like six dollars
Unknown (9:02 PM):
do i look like im made of six dollars
Unknown (9:03 PM):
that's two slices of pizza and an Arizona iced tea in Queens
Unknown (9:03 PM):
that is a legitimate financial investment
Tony actually laughed out loud. The sound echoed off the polished glass walls of the workshop.
FRIDAY’s blue indicator light flickered slightly. "Is everything all right, Boss?"
"Everything's fine, FRIDAY," Tony said, swinging his feet up onto the corner of his workbench, pushing a $50,000 holographic projector out of the way with his heel. "Just talking to a localized financial crisis."
Tony (9:04 PM):
Six dollars. Truly, a staggering economic barrier. How will you ever recover from this setback.
Unknown (9:05 PM):
hey! don't judge me!
Unknown (9:05 PM):
wait
Unknown (9:05 PM):
why am i arguing with a random stranger who i accidentally texted
Unknown (9:06 PM):
who ARE you anyway
Unknown (9:06 PM):
are you like an electrician
Unknown (9:06 PM):
or a cranky retired guy who sits on his porch all day reading schematics
Tony stared at the screen.
Who ARE you anyway?
It was a question Tony hadn't been asked in roughly twenty-five years. People didn't ask Tony Stark who he was. They yelled his name across streets, snapped photos of him through restaurant windows, begged him for funding, or asked him to save the world from alien invasions. Everyone knew who he was before he even opened his mouth.
The anonymity of the text box felt... strange. Refreshing, in a weird, cold-water-to-the-face kind of way.
He could tell the kid right now. I’m Tony Stark. I own the building you’re probably looking at if you glance out your window. I built a suit of armor in a cave with a box of scraps.
If he said that, the dynamic would instantly shatter. The kid would either freeze up, apologize profusely, ask for money, or assume it was a prank and block the number. The sheer, unvarnished, sarcastic banter would evaporate, replaced by the suffocating weight of his name.
Tony tapped his chin with his thumb.
Tony (9:08 PM):
I’m an engineer.
Tony (9:08 PM):
And I’m not retired, I’m just currently suffering through the consequences of poor life choices. Such as responding to text messages from teenage delinquents who blow up their bedrooms.
Unknown (9:09 PM):
I AM NOT A DELINQUENT
Unknown (9:09 PM):
i have a 4.1 GPA!
Unknown (9:09 PM):
i’m in AP Chem!!
Unknown (9:10 PM):
i just... lack resources
Tony (9:10 PM):
Clearly. You also lack a basic understanding of peak-to-peak voltage spikes, but who's counting.
Unknown (9:11 PM):
ok you know what
Unknown (9:11 PM):
i KNOW what peak to peak voltage is
Unknown (9:11 PM):
im throwing this board in the recycling bin
Unknown (9:12 PM):
and im going to eat a hot dog
Unknown (9:12 PM):
and text the ACTUAL Ned
Unknown (9:12 PM):
goodnight cranky engineer guy
Tony looked at the final cluster of messages. He felt a minor, absurd impulse to keep the conversation going, but he shoved it down. He was a busy man. He had things to do.
Tony (9:13 PM):
Goodnight, disaster kid. Buy a buck converter. Don't burn your house down. Your aunt sounds scary.
Unknown (9:14 PM):
she IS scary
Unknown (9:14 PM):
you don't even know
Unknown (9:14 PM):
bye
Silence settled over the lab again.
Tony sat there for a moment, holding the phone. Then, with a faint shake of his head, he tossed the device onto the desk, stood up, and stretched his back, joints popping in the quiet room.
"FRIDAY," he said.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Delete that text thread."
He paused. He looked down at the matte-black phone sitting next to his repulsor blueprints.
"Actually... hold off on that. Archive it. If the kid manages to blow up a city block in Queens, I want evidence that I warned him."
"Archiving thread under 'Unidentified Contact 01'," FRIDAY said. "Shall I order dinner now? It is 9:15 PM."
"Yeah," Tony murmured, walking over to the glass wall that overlooked the sprawling, glowing grid of Manhattan. "Get me the usual. And tell the kitchen to send up some decent coffee. Not the sludge from earlier."
He looked out over the city. Somewhere out there, across the river in Queens, some hyperactive teenager was probably sitting in a messy bedroom, grumbling about a six-dollar circuit component and trying to hide a singed eyebrow from his aunt.
Tony shook his head, a dry smile tugging at his mouth. Kid’s gonna electrocute himself before he figures out what a fuse is.
Across the East River, in an apartment that smelled faintly of burnt wiring and lemon-scented floor cleaner, Peter Parker tossed his phone onto his desk and collapsed back onto his bed.
"Unbelievable," Peter muttered to the ceiling, rubbing his forehead. "Absolute, total weirdo."
He picked up his phone again, opened his contacts, and finally put Ned’s real number in, carefully double-checking every single digit.
Then he looked at the thread with the wrong number.
I'm an engineer.
The guy was clearly an asshole. Arrogant, condescending, sarcastic... but he had immediately recognized the exact flaw in Peter’s circuit logic without even seeing a picture. Peter had spent two hours trying to figure out why the cap blew, and some random guy on the internet had diagnosed it in thirty seconds via text message.
Peter hesitated. His thumb hovered over the Delete Conversation button.
He didn't delete it. Instead, he tapped the top of the screen, selected Edit Contact, and typed in a name:
Cranky Tech Guy
He hit save, dropped the phone onto his nightstand, and rolled over to face the wall.
"Six dollars," Peter grumbled to himself as he pulled the blanket over his shoulders. "I'll show him six dollars. My math was fine."
He was asleep twenty minutes later. His phone stayed dark on the nightstand, its screen holding a single saved text thread from a number that belonged to Tony Stark—a man Peter Parker currently thought was just a mean old guy with a bad attitude and a weirdly specific knowledge of power supplies.
Neither of them had any idea that it was only the beginning.