Spidey McFly

Chapter 2: Season 1 Peter Parker

A flash of light.

Peter's getting real sick of these flashes of light. He's not exactly a seasoned pro like Captain America or Wolverine, but he's beginning to connect a pattern between bright flashes of light and strange side-adventures that generally end with him limping home and covered in bruises.

This one won't be any different. He's going to be plenty bruised once he stops tumbling and hits the ground. That may sound confusing, but that's because Peter is also confused. One minute he's being reamed out by Fury for goofing off during training, and the next he's falling into a coarse, brown mesh of something. It keeps shifting under him, rolling and molding itself until he finally, finally, hits a rough, solid floor.

He doesn't get up immediately. Maybe if his spider-sense was tingling, he'd be more inclined to hotfoot it away, but it's quiet and his body is a mess of strange sensations that's putting his brain in a blender. The intense itching he'd felt before is replaced by a strange, effervesce feeling, like thousands of bubbles rolling across his skin. Tiny pin-pricks of yellow light pepper his eyelids and he groans, rubbing them hard.

Faintly, he hears a clamber of feet coming at him. Paparazzi, probably. Lady Gaga was wrong. He does not live for the applause. There is never any applause. Just a lot of mean questions from even meaner reporters. Questions he does not want to fend off right now.

He rolls onto his back with a groan, and pries open his eyes, squinting left and right. There's a large span of ocean to his left and a giant monstrosity of a building to his right. He'd landed on a large, circular slab of concrete with a giant H in the middle. A helipad then. He sits up slowly, brushing sand off his shirt.

That explains the weird brown mesh he'd been trapped in in a way that doesn't actually explain anything at all.

"Spidey!" someone calls, alarmed, and Peter turns, squinting at the people running at him. Too many people. Too many unfamiliar people.

Instincts or social anxiety kicks in, he's not sure which, but he rolls back onto his feet and jumps a safe distance away, crouching low in preparation for the first punch. He scans the array of masks and bare faces he doesn't recognize. They'd stopped their pursuit of him, but were now looking at him in confusion.

"Wh-where am I?" Peter demands. "Who are you? I'm known to bite if I feel cornered, so...so just take that into account."

"Whoa, easy there, Spidey," a blonde girl in a white bodysuit holds up her hands, palms up. The sun gleams off her suit, making her hard to look at. "Flint caught you before you hit the water, but you still took a pretty nasty hit. Are you okay?"

He does not feel okay. His head hurts. The bruises he can feel blossoming on his skin hurts. He feels like he'd been scrubbed down with a wire-sponge and tossed in a cocktail shaker. Her costume is way too bright, and it's absolutely killing his eyes.

Peter looked away to give his retinas a break, rubbing his hands over his mask in lieu of rubbing his eyes. The name snags onto his jumbled thoughts. "Flint?" He inwardly seeks where he'd heard that name before.

"Sorry about the rough landing," a voice says in front of him. Although, there's no one actually in front of him. Peter's pretty sure he's hearing voices until the mound of sand between him and the strange group grows, amassing into a piling pillar that sculpts and hardens into a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who smiles at him sheepishly. "That wacko caught me off guard. You didn't hit your—"

He doesn't finish before Peter is flinging backward like a spooked cat, shooting two webs into Flint's face, yelping.

"Sandman," he sputters. "What are you doing off your island? You brought me here didn't you? So not cool, man. And very, very creepy?"