A/N: Two orders of business.

First; Thank you all for your awesome reviews. I'm astounded at how fast this story is growing. Also, apologies for the delay.

Second; Timebubbles said this; "Why not, instead of having Peter and Spider-man become two separate halves of Peter's mind, you actually have Peter develop some other mental disease like dementia or PTSD with included hallucination.
I'm not trying to 'cramp your style' or anything and I certainly don't hate the story. It's just that every other writer does the same thing with a superhero. Take Danny Phantom or the Hulk for example. It gets real annoying after a while, having your protagonist's two sides fight with each other.
Also, with the mental diseases that I suggested or with ones that you choose, you can really up the whump factor with Peter."

I agree. I was actually heading in that direction, to be honest. I certainly appreciate the feedback.

Blithesome: "Ooh, a new story from you! And it's about Spiderman and the Avengers, awesome! I've been waiting for you to update Ink Stains rather impatiently (it's somehow become one of my favorite fanfics EVER), but this is almost as good (which is still saying a lot).

You, you are like the crown princess of whump and angst. Something about your whump stories makes them superior to everything else I've read. There's just so much: slow pacing, realistic development, lighthearted scenes mixed in, characters that are in denial of their situation or suffering from other complexes, and awesome character development... There's just this whole build-up of emotions and I get this overwhelming urge to turn to the next page and continue. I love the tension! You also have such a... tactile and creative way of describing things, that it easily creates whole scenes and pictures in my head and also makes your writing style distinct and recognizable.

I've only read Ink Stains, Visionary, and then this fic, but you're already one of my favorite authors. It feels like whenever you publish a new chapter, I just want to savor it like fine wine. I seriously hope that you are going to become a professional author and publish some books.

And as for Along Came a Family, well, there's not much story yet, but the beginning makes me super curious. I also liked the scene where Fury waltzed into the Avengers' building and stole Tony's ice cream. :D That was a refreshing depiction of Fury, doing something else than scowling and barking orders, but still fitting into his character (in a surprising way)."

Just thought I'd let you know that your review practically made my day when I read it. Hehe, one of your favorite authors, hehe, me blushing... and yeah, everybody bashes Fury, but I love him! He's awesome!

OH. To Rookiereads: I hate you. You are an evil, manipulative, movie-spoiling reviewer. Go away... Just kidding. I can't help but love you BECAUSE I JUST SAW TASM 2 SO HA HAHAHAHAHA! NICE TRY. But anyway, thanks for your reviews and motivation, haha. They made me laugh and want to strangle you at the same time.

Others have left some incredible reviews as well, but I can't stick my response in here for fear of making this a ridiculously-oversized A/N.

Thanks, all of y'all.

Enjoy!

For the first time in exactly four years, Peter takes a sick day from school.

It's not as though he didn't try to make it, though. His alarm clock pierced the shawl of nightmarish haze that had recently begun substituting for his sleep lately. He'd dragged himself out of bed and changed and brushed his teeth. It wasn't until he looked in the mirror and saw his wild, sweat-slicked hair, flushed cheeks, and darkly-shadowed eyes that he realized he looked about as good as the back end of a mule.

(And felt like one, too, but anyway.)

Thermometer stuck firmly in his mouth, trapped by his tongue, he staggers into his bedroom and fetches the thin black journal from underneath his thin mattress and flips open to a new page. The notebook is filled with clippings from the newspapers about Spider-Man (both good and bad views–he thinks it prudent to keep himself from developing an inflated ego) and science articles about genetics, cell enhancements, and arachnid studies, and generally everything else that he can possibly utilize to understand his changes. The lined pages are filled with his jagged handwriting, every page dated explicitly to the hour and minute of the entry, noting any specific developments about his powers or his body.

(He is the offspring of a scientific genius, after all. Of course he would keep a log about himself.)

He bundles himself in blankets and picks up a pen, tugging the cap off with his teeth and spitting it on to his blankets, and begins to write.

Woke up today feeling terrible (chills, aches, 101.5 fever, blurry vision–which is difficult to deal with because I've become accustomed to my eyesight being so advanced.) I'm also fatigued and the spinnerets in my arms are particularly prominent. They usually retract underneath my skin if I focus hard enough, but my head is muzzy and I can't gather up enough concentration to flatten them out entirely. Additionally, there's a building pressure in my wrists, swelling noted. I think the web fluids have to be used continuously or malignant buildup will occur and probably lead to infection.

He hesitates for a moment, the gel-ink pen's tip resting against the paper and silently bleeding out its ink. He's mentioned the… other development before in a previous entry, only once, because as abnormal as it is it seems even weirder put down on paper. It makes him feel embarrassed and crazy to write it, and for a moment he feels the ridiculous urge to go out and purchase a diary with, like, fifty locks on it so that his secrets can't be so easily read.

The consciousness noted previously hasn't returned, but sometimes I get headaches, with pressure near the front of my skull, like my brain is inflamed. Research tells me that this area is called the frontal lobe (well, duh) of the cerebrum, associated with reasoning, planning, parts of speech, movement, emotions, and problem solving. Joy. Another thing–and this may be the product of too many late night apple-juices, but sometimes in my dreams I hear a voice. My voice. But confident, louder, stronger. I think it–me–whatever– talks to me, but I can't ever remember the words when I wake up. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing yet. After hearing something speaking to me so clearly in class, and scarily enough, momentarily taking over my body functions enough to make me say something, this kind of radio silence is frightening.

Haven't told Gwen anything yet. She'd smile and say it's going to be okay but she'd probably think I'm even more of a freak than I already am.

The pen rolls out of his slack hand. His head thunks against his headboard. He has enough energy to yell down to Aunt May that he's not going to school before he slides underneath his sheets and nearly passes out.

The sickness is entirely gone by two-thirty that afternoon.

In fact, Peter thinks that he feels even better than before–he is disturbingly reminded of when he was first bitten, and experienced a bout of sickness before taking a nap and waking up… well… better. The first time around had caused euphoria, a bit of confusion, and excited disbelief. Now, Peter feels equally tired and fearful. Will this cycle stop? When will he stop mutating?

And most importantly, what has he developed now?

He missed patrol last night, so he makes up for it by going on a daylight run–something he hasn't done very often due to the heavy police wariness.

The day is bright and warm and welcoming. A few wisps of cloud roll lazily over the blue expanse, and there is just enough of a breeze to keep him from sweating underneath his costume. He loves the design. but maybe it was time to consider a different structural material. Fishing sweaty wedgies out of his butt is not exactly the public image he wants to form.

The afternoon is so cheerful that he feels some of the dark cloud that's been following him around the past few months dissipate. His heart hammers in his throat, getting entangled with a joyous cry of exultation as adrenalin quickens his feet and heightens his reflexes beyond their already amplified state.

Vault over air vent–drop off the building–catch himself with a string of webbing at the last moment, artfully twist body upwards against the pressing force of gravity–let go, soar, land with perfect, precise balance on a flagpole, sideways, and then leap again and repeat. Playful dodging, ducking, twisting, somersaulting, flipping–it's all in his realm of capability now, and it belongs solely to him. No one else can experience this, no one else has ever landed sideways on a building's brick exterior and lingered there, fifty feet up, just to observe a snapshot of New York traffic.

As much grief and stress his powers give him, the contradicting freedom they deliver is beyond intoxicating and heady.

And really, he should've known the moment would end.

He is just beginning the loop back to his neighborhood when he hears the unmistakable sound of glass shattering violently and shrill alarms. It cuts off a moment later, obviously silenced through abnormal means. Curious, he backtracks, picking his way slowly across the office building's walls. The sound was close, but so abrupt and quick that he can't remember exactly which direction it came from.

Even forty feet up and tucked in between two office buildings, his ears pick out every distinct note of traffic–he hears the scuffle of stiff leather soles slapping and scraping against rough pavement, the slight squeak of a car's breaks, the rhythmic panting of a cyclist navigating through hordes of chattering pedestrians.

He focuses, closing his eyes, and separates each noise, compartmentalizing them, until the sound of things being thrown, and the soft rasp of paper sliding against fabric, picks up softly. Behind him, then. He arches his back like a sideways 'U' against the building, palms upside-down over his head and pressed tightly against the brickwork. His stomach muscles flex and he flips himself upward with all the ease of one climbing out of bed, vaulting over the complex's safety railing and landing primly on its roof. In the next alley over, he sees it–a broken window on the apartment's third floor, only a short leaping distance from the rusty fire escape. Spider-Man pauses, eyeing the spot inquisitively. A green dumpster shoved against the alley wall would provide the boost to jump for the bottom of the fire escape's aged ladder, and from there on it would be just an easy climb to the third landing. The broken window sports a wide, thick ledge jutting out underneath it, a perfect jumping spot to break the window from and gain entrance.

Robbery in process, then.

One magnificent leap carries him across the distance and he lands with perfect poise next to the shattered window, carefully minding the sharp fragments of glass slotted resolutely into the frame as he crawls through the jagged space. The immediate interior seems to be a living room, albeit one that has been properly ransacked and pillaged. The couch cushions are slashed open, their fluff strewn across the floor like innards, furniture is tipped over, the throw-over carpet is folded and sideways. A stand on the wall is empty of what Spider-Man assumes to have once held quite a nice flatscreen.

A muffled crash from the kitchen, followed by a string of low curses in a baritone voice. Amused, Spider-Man gingerly picks up the poor slashed cushions (they never hurt anybody!) and places them back on the pitiful couch frame, sitting primly and resting his hands in his lap.

He doesn't have to wait long.

A big, brawny man backs his way into the living room, a sack tossed over his shoulder and ziptied shut. It jingles with every step; Peter hears the clink of coins and jewelry among some other sounds. Sure enough, the drags the TV after him.

"So, HD? Plasma? 1080p? For a thief, you've got good taste, my friend," Spider-Man says amusedly, leaning back. The unnamed burglar spins around with a shocked grunt, grimy brown eyes wide in fear. Spider-Man can hear his heartbeat pick up.

"What the he–"

"Please, please, don't feel the need to stand in my company. Do sit." He pats the mangled cushion next to him.

The man's eyes dart from the relaxed, spandex-clad figure to the window. He takes a step towards freedom. A tough, thick string of webbing connects with his chest, hard enough to leave a bruise, and yanks him forward, off his feet. He collapses sideways onto the couch. Spider-Man's hands are still folded neatly in his lap, the white, sticky cord wrapped loosely around two relaxed fingers. He turns to look disapprovingly at his unwilling couch-guest.

"I asked you politely. Geez. Youth of today, can't even listen to the simplest of instructions. Amirite?"

"What is this–let me go!"

"Well, that would be against my whole 'hero' gig, you know? I'd have to return my Superhero discounts card and everything…"

The man stupidly tugs at the rope of webbing, only to get his hands entangled as well. Spider-Man kicks his feet up on the coffee-table.

"So, you come here often? Bob? Can I call you Bob?"

"Freak," the man spits in disgust, looking from the webbing to his captor in short, angry glances. If that single insult hits something deep within the Peter beneath the mask, well, he doesn't show it. That's why he has a full mask, after all. Wouldn't do to let your enemies know when their taunts affect you deeply.

A flex of the wrist and a millisecond later, a splotch of webbing plasters over the crook's mouth, gluing his thick lips together.

"Much better. Why don't you sit cozy while I call the cops for you? I mean, you look as if you needed a ride and all."

A few more web projectiles and Bob the thief is glued snuggly to the couch. Spider-Man stands over him, chin propped on his finger ponderingly. "Good, good, but still missing something…" He disappears further into the empty apartment, simultaneously taking the chance to check for hostages or hiding occupants, and returns with a pink, heart-shaped pillow, the words 'Love Me' scrawled across it in red cursive. He settles it on the thief's broad chest–man, if looks could kill–and grins underneath his mask.

"Aw. Don't worry. With such an adorable setup, I don't think you'll be in jail for long."

Hindered curses behind the gag, filthy enough that Aunt May would have grounded him for life and stuck a bar of soap in his mouth.

He uses the landline to phone the police and leaves through the window, leaving the phone dangling from its cradle with an officer's cautious voice on the other end.

He stops two more attempted robberies on the way home, both of which are boring and droll, and reaches home in record time. It's actually shocking, in a way. He hadn't realized how much small crime went on in New York.

'Small crime, he reminds himself after a moment as he showers and rakes shampoo through his hair, is what got your Uncle killed.'

That puts a damper on his mood quite quickly. He exits the bathroom, steam flowing behind him, and pulls out his earlier street clothes, changing quickly. The TV is on downstairs. Peter listens vaguely.

"–repeated felon Flint Marko apprehended on Allen Street, today. Police received an anonymous phone call from the apartment residence and arrived to an amusing scene. Reportedly, Marko was found stuck to the couch by what appeared to be some type of spider web. The occupant of the apartment says she is relieved that nothing was stolen and sends her thanks to her mysterious helper. What do you think, Tim? Could this be the work of Manhattan's own infamous vigilante?"

He smirks, falling backwards onto his bed and grabbing a textbook to start his homework. After the utter weeks of angst-dump, aka his life, he feels like everything is finally picking up. He's got a beautiful girlfriend, amazing powers, an awesome Aunt, and he's saving the city (one person at a time).

What more could he want?

The chamber is large and spacious, the cream-colored walls and comfortable upholstery lending it a welcoming, airy look. Sunlight streams through a panel of ceiling-to-floor length windows, laying golden bars of sunlight across the handsomely-lacquered wooden floor.

A man sits at a large mahogany desk towards the back of the room, adjacent to the windows. His lean figure is half cast in shadow by the strong sunlight striking the right side of his body. A slim laptop is opened before him, active and humming silently.

A video feed, currently blank, is pulled up on the screen.

The man is cheerfully singing under his breath. His voice is a deep tenor, rich and cultured, as though buttered silk.

If you were a cognizant person, and you walked in the room, you would see the warm sunlight, the open office space and welcoming couch and rug. You would see the beautiful working desk, the clipped and labelled files spread in what can only be described as an organized mess across its surface. You would see the man hunched in the swivel chair, and you would hear his cheerful, welcoming voice ask you to sit down and, so, how are you doing? and can I get you something to drink?

If you were a really observant person, you'd shudder.

Like a thin layer of ice spread across dark, murky waters, everything about the chamber–the sunlight, the light colors, the thick rug and carafe of coffee with waiting paper cups, and especially the unassuming demeanor of the man in front of you–it would trigger something within you, a primal sort of sense telling you to run, leave, the same instinct you get when you come across an animal with white flecks foaming at its mouth. The welcoming atmosphere is deceptive. Danger lurks, glossed by a veneer of a sharp, white-toothed smile.

The man's humming pauses abruptly as he eagerly leans forward in his chair to closely watch the video suddenly becoming active. Captured footage of a red-and-blue figure, quite slender and unimaginably graceful, darting through the air with astounding acrobatics, begins to play. The feed cuts, skips, and then the figure is seen landing, lifting a car as though listing a blade of grass before it can careen into an innocent bystander.

Another pause, then resume.

The final footage is of the vigilante–Spider-Man, how ridiculous, he can't be older than twenty, at most–landing discreetly in an abandoned alley. Attentive, gleaming eyes watch as the figure delicately lifts the mask from his face. A head full of unruly brown hair shakes loose, sticking out around a youthful, handsome face. The lens zooms in. The man notes the warm brown eyes, the straight nose, the lips hooked in an easy-going grin.

Leisurely, he presses a key on his laptop. Immediately, a grid is overlaid atop of the teenager's face, scanning, scanning, and then–Match Found: Peter Parker and a sidebar of information pops up.

The man smirks, pressing a fist to his mouth, suppressing his urge to cackle. It wouldn't do to let it loose. He's effortlessly kept up this guise for so long that he'd hate to have his 'co-workers' become suspicious of him due to a few unhindered laughs in an empty room.

He downloads the information into a secure file, and then triple-encrypts it. He's always been fantastic with technology. No one can know this precious information but him. He has so many plans, after all.

Another light tapping of keys, and more windows pop up, this time detailing the progress of some of his more risky scientific ventures. Subject R-23 has had another nervous breakdown–well, he can't blame him; a few sessions of his therapy would be enough to crack the most stoic man–and oh, look, Subject B-07 has died. How dreadful. Earlier, he would have been enraged at the genetic programming failure, but not anymore.

He's found his prize.

Humming lazily under his breath, grinning widely, he begins to search gift sites, looking for the perfect welcoming present, the flawless first move across the checkered board. He loves games. Mind games, computer games, life-or-death games–("I wonder what will happen if we make a… small… incision here…")–as long as he has someone to play with, he's content. But there hasn't been anyone worth playing with in such a horribly long time… his toes almost curl with excitement.

The things he could do with those powers.

He programs the gift with his own message and pays anonymously through a false credit card.

'Game, begin.'

A/N: I had originally written like four possible ways to fit the Avengers into this chapter but none of it flowed well. Any suggestions on how to let them locate Peter besides the cliche "The whole team finds him while he's.. uh... vigilanting... and subdue him" shtick.

I am so excited for this villain. He's been forming in my mind since I was like twelve. Before any of you begin contributing your lovely guesses as to who he is–he's an original character of mine. WAIT. DON'T FLEE. It's okay, I'll still have a CRAPLOAD of other canon villains thrown in here and playing differing roles. Maybe you've already noticed one in this chapter...

ALSO! If you've read my other story, Ink Stains, you'd know that I love forming a strong relationship between the main character and one of the Avengers. (Not saying Peter would totally not get along with everyone else, but he'd be closest to whichever person.) The only problem is I can't decide who it should be!

THIS IS WHERE YOU COME IN. I'm putting up a POLL for which Avenger Peter should bond closest with. I'm leaning most towards Steve or Tony, but it's up to you. Go vote on my homepage!