Hello! I'm new to this website, and this is my first brand-spanking-new story that I'm sharing. I figured it needed a bit of explanation first, though, yeah?

I designed my character as a sidekick of Spider-Man, but like any good superhero, she needs some backstory first. Some explanation. So there won't be any Spider-Man for a while. (I think the until first two chapters, though he will be mentioned and have a cameo-style appearance.)

Also, this is set before Spider-Man: Homecoming and doesn't follow the events of that movie.

Anyway . . .

~oOo~

When you live in New York, you understand, come to terms with, and accept that superheroes and large, looming threats from all sorts of different people and things are going to be a daily part of your life, good or bad. They're going to affect you.

And while there sure is a lot of hate for masked people in general, superheroes aren't so much the problem as the destruction they cause. That's what people have the issues with, not the actual superheroes themselves, which, if you ask me, makes absolutely zero sense.

"Oh, no, one time, Hawkeye crushed my petunias while saving the world from certain doom, so I'm quite against all superheroes now!"

That sorta thing.

But destruction's natural, I say. You can't build things up if you don't break them down first.

Or maybe I'm just defending the Avengers because I've had a crush on them.

All of them.

Anyway, I never quite realized how much I respected and admired these heroes until I came into contact with the people that absolutely and passionately hated them, for whatever reason. Now hating Captain America, that I could see, because of all the crap he's caused lately. But all the others? Including that newbie, Spider-Man? Whhhhy? What did they do to you?

In fact, I had an Social Studies teacher who, the first day of class, marched in and wrote on the board in big, tall letters, DEBATE: ARE SELF-PROCLAIMED "SUPERHEROES" HELPING OR HURTING NEW YORK AND THE REST OF THE WORLD? OR ARE THEIR DESTRUCTIVE TENDENCIES COSTING AMERICA TOO MUCH MONEY?

It was a very big chalk board.

But, as it turned out, 'debate', meant that anyone could stand up to the teacher and argue him, but the only point you could argue was that superheroes were good, and he was firmly on the opposing position. The whole class was a clever ploy to make kids think superheroes were doing more harm than good, and because he was prepared and we were not, you can imagine who won these debates.

So, in a little act of defiance, I dropped the class the next day.

Either way, whether you liked them or you hated them, superheroes were hugely a part of everybody's lives at this point, and not just us New Yorkers. And I think the moment I realized I wanted to be one of these woefully hated and wonderfully celebrated heroes was during the Incident, which was just a nickname for suburban moms who didn't like to talk about aliens raining hellfire on our city. There hadn't been any known superheroes at the time except for Iron Man, and the essentially folk tale of Captain America from the 1940's. So it wasn't on the top of my to-do list before then.

Actually, when the whole thing had gone down and the Chitauri attacked, I'd been eleven and was asleep in my room, taking a well-deserved mid-afternoon nap instead of doing homework. My older brother Spencer had burst into my room, shook me awake, and demanded we leave Queens.

"Why?" I'd demanded right back, which, in the moment, was a fair reaction.

"We're being attacked by aliens!" he'd exclaimed, yanking the covers clean off my bed.

My brother had always loved superheroes too, but he liked the more realistic ones, as he called them. People that worked for what they got, that weren't given powers or inherited a ton of money. (He did appreciate Tony Stark's brains, though, and always had a soft spot for him.) These people, in his mind, were doctors, lawyers, scientists, and the good politicians. Those sorts of people.

"Seriously, Maeve, this isn't the time for your stupid recklessness. We need to go. I've got a friend in Bronx who said we could stay at his place until this whole thing blows over. It should be far enough away. C'mon." My brother tugged me from the bed. I didn't even have time to grab a charger for my phone.

There was a slight problem in becoming a superhero, I came to realize. I counted up the ones I knew about—which, once I did, wasn't as many as I thought there were—and, statistically, you had to be one of the following if you wanted to get anywhere in the superhero game. You could either be rich, super smart, super powerful, a demigod, a mutant, a super spy, or knew any of the prior examples. It also helped if you were a combination of two or more.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, I was not any of these things.

For example, me and my brother's parents, back when Spencer was seven and I was barely three months old, divorced. My mom left us with my dad and went off to do drugs in Europe, something I found out from Spencer, who found out from who-knows-where. My dad, the ass, realized he couldn't handle the pressure of being a single parent and gave us up for adoption before fleeing to Florida to fish and drink beer. We didn't have any relatives, nor did we want to go to them if they were there—if they were anything like our actual parents, a restraining order had a much better ring to it.

So, me and my brother grew up around nuns in a Catholic orphanage, leaving us with questionable beliefs in religion and no chance an emancipation until my brother turned eighteen—which was about four years ago—and then proceeded to technically adopt me. (Technically, because . . . well, I'll let you figure that out on your own. I'm sure you're smart enough.) Now, we live in a too-small apartment off of a too-small trust fund given to us by a guilty-yet-absent father until Spencer gets his bachelor's and becomes a doctor or a lawyer or another one of his realistic superheroes.

On the plus side, though, most superheroes don't have parents anyway.

So, rich, I am not. I don't think I've had more than twenty dollars to my name in my entire existence.

I'm not super powerful either, which while being a total bummer, is kind of self explanatory. If it helps, I once tried to jump off of the orphanage's roof, following my then-fourteen-year-old brother who was dressed like Captain America. I was dressed like Mary Poppins and was holding an umbrella, because, let's be real folks, sexism is present in this day and age.

I ended up breaking my ankle. End of story.

I am not super smart. The above story alludes to that, but I'm a B student only because I was raised by nuns. (I still have the scars on my knuckles.) But, a genius? Nope. If you're looking for a genius, go talk to my poindexter of a brother. He's as close as you're going to get in this family.

What's next? Demigod, did I say? Well, I'm not the daughter of a god and a human, I'm the daughter of a druggie and an alcoholic who's addicted to moonshine and trout. And with the way my life's going so far, I don't think I'm going to reach divine status once I die.

I'm not a mutant, either. I think I got it that baptised out of me.

A super spy? Oh, shit. My cover's been blown.

So, yeah. Not a superhero, and no potential to be one. No superpowers, nothing special about me.

It seemed as if I was stuck.

"MOVE!" my brother demanded, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. He couldn't back up, couldn't turn around—we were officially stuck in gridlock on the I-678, while aliens raced over our heads. It was the worst traffic I'd ever seen. We hadn't moved in over twenty minutes. And this wasn't the sort of thing like when you get a tornado warning and are told to go to your basement, but the tornado doesn't get anywhere close to you, and your house isn't even missing a shingle. No. This was in our faces, whizzing over our heads, raining down like the scariest type of hail I've ever seen.

I, at the time—like any sane little kid—began to cry.

"Oh, no, don't worry, Mae," Spencer had said, trying to keep his voice even. He was still new to the whole being-an-adult thing, and up until that moment, had been doing really well. "Everything's going to be fine. Seriously."

Famous last words, though, right? Just as my brother leans over to give me a comforting side-hug, something explodes far behind us. To this day, I'm still not sure what happened, whether an alien shot at someone or if it crash-landed into a couple of cars, but it rocked the entire street like an earthquake.

Either way, we both locked eyes, Spencer's filled fear, and mine probably mocking that.

"Get out of the car," he said quickly, and I did not need to be told twice. In probably the quickest few minutes of my entire life, we scrambled out of the crappy volkswagen, and start heading with the crowd forward towards the Bronx. Everyone was abandoning their cars without a second thought, which, now that I look back on it, seems pretty stupid, because we never saw that car again, and we still can't afford a new one. There was even a similar crowd heading the opposite way on the other side of the highway, heading into Queens, thinking it was safer there. Both sides couldn't be right about which borough was going to protect us more, I remember thinking. One of us had to be wrong.

A scary thought was that we were both wrong and we were both walking towards certain death.

Spencer grabbed my arm at that moment, I remember very clearly, urging me to go faster, because the faster we moved, the less chance we'd be in a place where one of these high-flying alien ass-grabbers would be able to get us.

"We're going to be fine," he promised, squeezing my wrist, and I believed him, because he was my big brother, and if protective big brothers lie, then what do we have in this world?

Suddenly, there was a roar, and a monster the size of my apartment building drifted through the sky, a tiny speck of bright green riding on its back.

"What the hell is that?!" someone next to us yelled, and it was seconds before all hell broke loose.

The big monster came right for the road, floating through the air like when you hold a dog over water and it thinks it's swimming. The green speck on its back got bigger and bigger and bigger until it was obvious it was a human, or, at least, human-shaped. A green monster with purple shorts.

I'm going to die, I thought, just as the thing crashed into the road in front of us, about fifty feet away. The monster with a much smaller monster on its back cut through I-678 like it was butter and the thing was a hot knife.

Suddenly, the idea of going into the Bronx didn't sound so good.

People began to scream, and my brother wrenched me off my feet, taking off back towards Queens.

It was an incredible feat, him carrying me, because at eleven years old, I was by no means small, and by eighteen years old, my brother was by no means a bodybuilder, but adrenaline does things to people.

And that's about all I remember, personally. I think I blocked it out, or at least, that's what Spencer tells me, and he's the one studying to be a lawyer. He said that it was so traumatic that my brain decided to forget about it. But the rest of the story, according to him, is that we managed to make it to a bank as soon as we got off the highway. We hid in the vaults there with a bunch of other people until given the all-clear by police. Neither of us saw another alien after that. Overall, an anti-climactic story to what promised to be a death-defying adventure.

But you know the rest of their story. The story of the Avengers, that is. All of them, including the Hulk—which I realized was the mystery green guy we saw—saved the day and the entirety of New York, even when the government launched a missile directly at our cowering faces.

After that, after all these amazing heroes popped up during a disastrous event to save our sorry asses, that was when I knew I wanted to be one. Once the whole event cleared up and me and my brother got back to our apartment, I went straight to our only computer and researched the hell out of the Avengers. The internet had basically exploded with information and conspiracy theories, and I went as far in as I could go. I discovered video clips of all the heroes during the fight, and found all six of them and their names. Captain America, Iron Man, Hulk, Hawkeye, Black Widow, and Thor. Damn.

There were theories about their lives, their pasts, where Thor came from, who made the Hulk, how Captain America came back to life . . . there were so many intricate stories, no one could possibly read them all, and I was no exception.

Turns out, though, I only had to wait a few more years to learn more, because as my life progressed, so did the Avengers. The Scarlet Witch came into play, as did Vision, Falcon, War Machine, and the Winter Soldier. (I read a conspiracy theory that the Winter Soldier was actually Bucky Barnes, Steve Roger's best friend from when they were kids. Crazy.)

Something happened in Russia that I didn't follow too closely on, (my brother took my computer and phone so I could study for some old test that I don't even remember), because even though it was an end-of-the-world type event, my homework was so much more important.

Soon after, a new vigilante appeared, one that few people were prepared for. Self-declared Spider-Man.

And boy, did people hate him. He looked like a menace, that was for sure, with his red hoodie and odd goggles and Spandex, but he was stopping criminals. He showed up before the police did, whether it was stopping a bank robbery, or 'arresting' a petty criminal, or . . . fighting Captain America in Germany?

That one took me by surprise. He was there, wearing a brand-spanking-new suit and battling alongside Iron Man as they fought good ol' Cap and his team. The footage from the security cameras at the airport got leaked from the fight, God knows how, and suddenly, Captain America wasn't your favorite Avenger anymore, and if he was, you should expect vicious ridicule from your fellow peers.

Not that I got ridiculed, but, you know . . .

Imagine my surprise when I got to high school and they've still got a Captain America fitness challenge DVD, complete with the promise to make it 'look like you got injected with Cap's serum!'. It was just another name for the Pacer test, let's admit.

Anyway, that's where I am now. In high school, freshman year, with a limited amount of friends and no real motivation to do my work. I, Maeve Murdock, was stuck in a rut.

My only friend was a girl I met on the first day of school, in anatomy, when we got assigned lab partners.

"I'm Mary Jane," the girl, with red hair brighter than my oh-so-bleak future said, extending her hand. I noticed immediately how manicured her nails were, with perfect little French tips. I wasn't jealous, per se, but . . . no, yeah, I was totally jealous. That type of perfection only existed for fake reality shows and photoshopped magazine covers.

I swallowed my resolve, though. "Maeve," I replied, ignoring her hand. "I'm new."

"Can't tell," she said with a smile. Even her teeth were perfect. "Everyone's new here, technically, what with it being the first day and all."

"Fair enough."

"You any good at all . . . this?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I'm not squeamish, if that's what you mean." The teacher said that it was a mostly lab year, and that meant . . . bum, bum, bum. Dissecting.

"I am." She shuddered. "If we've got to touch anything to do with eyes, I'm throwing up, I don't care about my grade. That shit's nasty."

MJ, as she asked to be called, was a good friend, if a chatty one. She immediately declared me quiet and introverted, and that meant that she would 'take you under my wing, Mae'. Which, I learned, earned me a spot at her lunch table with her friends from middle school that still unceremoniously stuck together.

"They're all awesome," she promised during Algebra. "Seriously. There's Gwen, Kate, Peter, and his friend, Ned. I don't really know Ned, but he's a sweet guy. You'll love them all." She listed her head. "Or maybe not. I haven't quite figured you out yet."

"Oh, yeah?" I asked. "You got anything so far?"

She shook her head and blew a bubble. "Not really. But the school year's young."

I laughed, and she grinned. Maybe I was tucked under her wing, but seeing MJ's star status thanks to her drama credits, even at a freshman level, I decided it wasn't a bad place to be.

Halfway through the school year, I still didn't know how I was going to be a superhero, just that more than ever I wanted to be one. But it seemed like a ridiculous aspiration, like being an actress with no talent or a singer with no voice. I had no way to do it, but I just wanted to help people. More than anything. And not in the sense of volunteering, or something trivial like that. Gwen, I knew, did a lot of volunteering—she missed a lot of lunch days because she was off on a field trip or meeting with student council. But that wasn't what I wanted to do.

If I couldn't be a proper superhero, (hence my list from before), than maybe I could help the proper ones. I would be the Robin to someone's Batman. And it wasn't hard to figure out who I wanted to Robin, because I sure didn't have many options.

"What're you thinking about, Mae?" MJ teased, setting down her lunch tray next to mine.

I shrug as Peter and Ned take their seats. "Nothing. Actually, that new superhero—"

"Spider-Man?" Ned broke in, glancing at his friend and winking. "Oh, man, Spider-Man's the best."

Peter just smirked, turning to his food. He was about as quiet as I was.

"Um, yeah, actually."

MJ rolled her eyes as she began to peel her orange. "Don't get them started, Mae. Sometimes it's better to keep some things to yourself."

"You're one to talk," I replied lightly, nudging her with my elbow before picking up the slice of garlic bread and squeezing it, letting the excess butter drip off like a wet sponge before taking a tentative bite.

"Eeewwww," Kate whined, slipping into the chair next to mine. "I'm glad I went with the chicken salad."

"Yeah." Gwen appeared behind me with her lunch tray, the unfortunate spaghetti and meatballs right on top. "But misery loves company, so . . ."

"Okay, never mind that," Ned insists. "Why are you thinking about Spider-Man, Mae?"

I shrugged. Besides the whole thing being embarrassing to talk about, I couldn't reveal my plan yet, not before I had a chance to execute. And like they couldn't laugh at me immediately. "No reason."

MJ smirked and nudged my shoulder. She loved messing with Ned, I'd come to realize. It mostly consisted of saying something absurd and watching him try not to implode. My favorite was when she tried to explain to him how Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia should've been together, even after they found out they were siblings.

"Oh, come on!" Ned groaned. "Everybody around here thinks they're lame now."

"Because they are," Gwen cuts in. "Especially that Spider-Man kid. They're a menace to society. Why can't they just let the police do their jobs? It's just so . . . unnecessary."

Gwen's father was the police chief for the NYPD, so lectures about the disgrace that vigilantes brought to our fine city were on a daily schedule, at least for her. Most of the time she was joking about it, because she knew her father was high-tempered and hot-headed. But . . . it was like muscle memory. Before she ever knew what was popping out of her mouth, she was mimicking her dad.

Ned shook his head. He knew the same things that I did, and knew there wasn't any point in arguing. "I'm so disappointed in you, Gwen."

"Yeah, well . . ." Gwen stirred the spaghetti with her spork.

And that was how the rest of the year went for us, our group of weird mismatched friends. Gwen was the prissy, preppy girl, who was aiming to be valedictorian. Ned was nerdy and loud, Peter was nerdy and quiet. MJ was loud and gossipy and popular and actress-y. Kate was nice, quiet, and also popular. And me? I was just quiet and angry. We were all either slightly or drastically different, but it worked out. I was content, at least in my friend group.

But, like any tragic superhero story, that all changed one fateful day.

It was March, and I remember it being sunny, because, let's face it, we might not be the Windy City, but no one expected anything but rain, sleet, or snow until April.

MJ, that day, asked me if I wanted to go shopping after school. There was a new outdoor mall that'd just opened, and Mary Jane wanted to celebrate both the nice weather and a shopping center that didn't smell like B.O. and buttered popcorn and actually had an Victoria's Secret.

I declined, because shopping wasn't really my thing, and I had an English essay to do, but more than anything I wish I'd gone that day. At least in the first couple weeks after the whole accident, I did. Turns out it'd be the best thing that ever happened to me. Blessings in disguise, and all that.

Still, I call this Big Mistake #1.

School was normal, on that oh-so-fateful day. Lectures were painfully boring, lunch was bad, boys were assholes and girls were bitchy. My locker got jammed for the fifth time in two days, and Gwen gave an assembly speech on the importance of studying early for final exams. How she's already entrusted to do this at a freshmen level is beyond me.

"We all know the only one that's going to listen to her advice is her," MJ whispered to me as we heard her power point about eating a balanced breakfast.

Kate smacked her in the back of the head like some old Italian mom, and told her to be nice.

I told Kate just what I thought, and Mary Jane laughed so loud Mr. Porter himself asked her to leave if she couldn't control herself.

When I got home, Spencer was sat on our only couch—one we only possess because we grabbed it from a curbside—with our laptop propped up on his lap and every other possible place to sit covered with papers, papers, papers. He had a pen behind his ear and a pencil in his mouth.

And he looked exactly how I left him at seven o'clock this morning.

"You are the epitome of geeky," I declared, tossing my backpack to the side and kicking off my shoes. "Like, seriously. Have you been there all day? Have you eaten? Have you peed? Have you showered?"

He glanced up, flashing a innocent smile. "You're home early."

"I'm home on time," I correct. "It's two thirty."

Spencer waved a hand like it didn't matter. Like he hasn't lost all constructs of time, and if he has, it's just another thing.

"So . . . how was school?" I asked, mimicking any cliche mom from the movies.

Spencer glanced up at me. "Okay, actually, before you make fun of me, Mae, it was totally awesome. I'm planning on taking half of my classes online next year, so they'll require no in-class attendance, which means I can spend more time on my other classes, maybe pick up a few extra shifts . . ." Spencer grinned wildly. "This is the most productive I've felt in ages."

I couldn't help but laugh. "'Kay, Steve Urkel."

"Yeah, yeah. Get on your homework, okay? Aren't exams coming up?"

I sighed audibly. My brother, bless his heart, is a great brother/parent/legal guardian, and I really didn't mind his badgering about my grades and my homework, because it came off as endearing . . . most of the time. But when he showed me his sleep-deprived eyes and his lack off . . . well, having fun, that was not something I wanted to do. I was not for all-nighters when they didn't include at least one round of Monopoly.

"What're we doing for dinner?" I ask instead. Anything was better than talking about freakin' final exams, and my brother probably missed both breakfast and lunch.

Spencer just shrugged. "You want food already?" His attention has already gone back to the laptop's screen.

"For dinner, dumbass. I'm ordering pizza."

This was Big Mistake #2, I suppose. But is pizza ever really a mistake? Well, I guess if you're one of those people that puts pineapple on it, then yeah, it's definitely a mistake, but I digress.

"Yeah, well, we can't afford to deliver. If you want pizza, you're going to have to walk to Aurelio's and get it yourself. Also, no anchovies. That was a shit move last time." Spencer narrows his eyes at the screen, not even looking up as he reels off his demands.

"You needed more vegetables in your blood," I argue.

Spencer pauses, before glancing up. "Vegetables?"

My mistake hits me like a ton of bricks, but in every other good sibling banter, you don't back down. Even when you've said stupid shit. "Yes," I said, puffing out my chest a little bit.

"Oh, dear God, Mae. Go study. Anchovies are fish," he says, almost pleadingly. "Very common saltwater fish with one hundred and forty-four subspecies. C'mon."

"Yeah, but what's there scientific name? Or—what's it called?—their higher classification?" I ask, heading for the phone.

Spencer barely even hesitates. "Engraulidae and . . . Clupeiformes, I believe," he says. "Any other questions, dear sister?"

"How the hell do you know that?" I demand. "Seriously, Spence, that's not normal. Not even a little bit." I start dialing the number I know by heart. "This is exactly why you don't have a girlfriend."

"It's not like you're having much luck in that area, either," Spencer replies.

"Yeah, 'cause I'm not looking for a girlfriend—Hello?"

"Thank you for calling Aurelio's," the girl on the other end says, showing no signs she heard me, or maybe she's just being nice. "What can I get you?"

I glare at Spencer as he clamps a hand over his mouth to stop laughing.

I give my order, no anchovies or other surprises added. I can be mean at a later date, I suppose. Plus, Spencer's sitting right there, and that'll ruin all the fun. "For pickup at seven o'clock, please."

"Sure. Is that all?" the lady on the other end asks. Her name's Rosie, I know. I also know she's the daughter of the owner, Anton—me and Spence have been going to Aurelio's for years. It's a little safe haven, because the pizza's cheap, and it's got the best food in the entire country.

Yeah, you heard me. Throw down, Chicago. Anton's mustache and dough-twirling skills would be enough to have you shaking in your boots any day.

"That's all," I reply, and she tells me that it'll be blah blah blah much, then thanks me again for calling their restaurant. As if I would go anywhere else.

I hang up, and in the short conversation, Spencer's zoned back out into his work. With a sigh, I head to my room to do homework—excuse me, take a nap—and wait out the time. I text Mary Jane, who just replies that if I'm going to be a 'fuddy-duddy' then I should stop texting and send the Social Studies notes once I take them. Then she sends me a picture of Gwen, Kate, and her smiling in front of the mall's outdoor fountain.

Seems fun, I reply.

It is,MJ's response is immediate. Should've come, Mae. Tsk, tsk . . .

I don't respond, instead do what I've set myself up for—I take out my astronomy binder and settle in for a night-long trial of studying diligently.

It lasts a whole half hour until I've somehow started watching videos on my phone, unsure about what this has to do with frog anatomy, but Top Ten Best Survivor Blindsides is a much more interesting title than anything that has to do with science.

"MAEVE!" Spencer shouts from down the hall. "I can hear Jeff Probst from here! Do your goddamn homework already!"

"If you keep yelling, we're going to get evicted!" I holler right back, but set down the phone.

Whatever. Parvati and Russell can wait. I flip back open my binder and settle in.

Three hours later, as requested, I've sent MJ the Social Studies notes, finished my essay, did my math, etc., etc., etc. . . . and I've decided I deserve a reward.

"I'm going to get the pizza," I tell Spencer. I grab some money from our secret safe, which is actually just a shoebox with a sticker of a padlock on it covered with a space blanket underneath Spencer's bed.

"Remember to tip!" my brother calls back, and I race out, ducking past my coat and out the door.

Big Mistake #3: Leaving the coat. Why, though, you ask? Well, it wouldn't be suspense if I didn't suspend things, so I'll tell you later.

I head out into the nice, polluted New York air. Now, don't get me wrong, Forest Hills is a great place. It's a big town, and the school's not too shabby. Me and Spence have got the best apartment we could hope on our income. But New York's New York. We've got rats the size of sewer drains and pigeons too fat they can't fly. Our apartment is in one of the shittiest neighborhoods in the whole of NYC. There's only so much positivity you can spin into a situation, you know?

Recently, even, we've had a bit of problem with gangs springing up, left and right. Spider-Man's only one dude. Even a high-flying, web-slinging, ass-kicking superhero can only do so much by himself.

Hence my wanting to join the tough fight.

It takes me roughly ten minutes to get to the parlor, and in another five I've gotten our order and I'm back out the door, heading home.

This is where it gets interesting.

I was off, daydreaming about scaling skyscrapers with Spider-Man, (I think I was developing a little crush), when I nearly bump into a guy standing in middle of the sidewalk.

"Excuse me," he says. It's not meant to be taken politely. Immediately, I'm snapped out of my blissful trance and back into reality. He's a leerer, this one. He towers over me even at my five-foot-nine, and if I wasn't a naturally paranoid person, I'd be paranoid by now. The man—I think his nickname just has to be Lanky, because if not that, then something far, far more offensive—Lanky, is wearing all black clothes that just hang off his skin, not really doing much for his complexion. He's sagging, but even if he wasn't, I'm sure it would still look like he was. He's skinny, Maeve, we get it.

"Yeah, my bad," I reply, and shift to move around him. It was my fault, after all.

He follows.

Of course.

"Where are you going?" he asks, leaning in slightly. He's got sharper-than-knives cheekbones, but that might just be because he looks like he hasn't eaten since Thanksgiving.

"Is that really any of your business?" I demanded, turning around to head the other way. I guess I'd take the long way around. It's not what Spider-Man would do in the situation, but I tried not to focus on that. Like I needed another reminder about how disappointing my life had been so far. Instead, I focused on the pizza. Spencer would kill me if his pizza was cold—or worse, smushed. I needed to get back soon.

Suddenly, though, there's another two guys in front of me. Three guys versus one girl. I must be a real threatening threat. I turn back around slowly, watching them all with a wary eye until they're out of view and I'm facing the first guy again.

"Oh, yeah? Why don't you take a walk with us first?" Lanky says, biting his lip before glancing at his friends.

"Um, no, that's okay. I really need to get going." I feel like a modern-day Red Riding Hood.

"Let's take a walk," one behind me says not-so-nicely, placing his hand on my shoulder. His fingers feel like tiny sausage rolls, so he's automatically earned himself the nickname of Beefcake, for story's sake.

"Slow down there, man," I say with a slight laugh, even though a blind man could see there's nothing funny about the situation. I slip around and back away, right into an alley with no way out. Great. Just great. I stumble for the pocket of my coat, where I keep my handy pepper spra—

My stomach lurches when I fumble empty air instead of a pocket. I don't have my coat.

Now I'm really screwed.

"Don't take another step," I warn, scrambling for my phone, and the pizza falls to the ground, splattering over the pavement in a mess of cheese and pepperoni. Lanky steps over it like it's not even there, keeping his horror-movie-villain pace nice and slow as he corners me in. Beefcake and John Doe are right behind him like good little minions. (John Doe is his name because he had a pretty forgettable face. Plus, my creative skills were overtaken by a single thought: FEAR FEAR FEAR, like a fire alarm going off in my head. I know that's not really a thought, but it was all my brain was supplying.)

I yank my phone out of my pocket and immediately go for nine-one-one. Lanky sees this, and like any idiot, tries to grab it from me.

Now, I've never had any self-defense classes. I took karate for two years, but I'm not much of a yeller, so I quit. Whatever way you look at it, I shouldn't have been able to do the things I did. Not really.

But as I've said before, adrenaline does things to people.

My free arm—the one presently not wrestling my phone from Lanky—takes a full-fledged, left-hand swing at a grown man, and I hit him square in the jaw.

He stumbles back.

Did I just do that? I have time to think, but nothing more before Beefcake's approached me, glaring hard with small, beady eyes. Lanky's screaming profanities, and I just can't believe that he attacks me, and I'm the bad guy.

Unfortunately, a little left-hand swing isn't going to take down Beefcake, and he knows it.

Especially not a Beefcake with a knife.

Where do muggers/bag guys/scary gang people get their weapons, anyway? Baddies R Us? K-Mart? I genuinely want to know. 'Cause I got my pepper spray off of Amazon, and I've only had to use it once to scare off a raccoon.

(Which, funny story. I sprayed it the wrong way, almost got Spencer it the eye, definitely missed the raccoon.)

"Kill that bitch, Ralphie!" Lanky demands, holding his jaw as John Doe examines him. God, what a bunch of losers. Scary losers, but losers nonetheless. I couldn't have been trapped by someone more . . . sinister? A Joker type fellow, maybe? Heath Ledger, anyone? I'd even take a Condiment King right now.

"Nah, that's okay, Beefcake," I tell him honestly. My back bumps up against the concrete wall, cold seeping through my shirt. "I'm invincible, anyway. You can't hurt me."

Beefcake frowns. "I'll kill you, bitch."

"No originality?" I ask back, and he just frowns and snarls, waiting for Lanky to give the official word. "Seriously, man, your buddy just said that. Think of something snappy. Clever, even. Channel some James Bond villain type guy, you know?"

Beefcake pauses, and the thug genuinely seems to consider it, while I consider ways to slip under his arm and past this fat suit without getting grazed. Because, obviously, I'm in this one alone. No one knows where I am, not Spencer, not MJ, not anyone, and even though there's a Spandex-clad superhero strutting around, it's not like he'd actually be out for—

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"

No. Freaking. Way.

No.

Freaking.

Way!

Together, the four of us, me, Beefcake, Lanky, and John Doe, glance up at the sky, and there he is. Scaling between the two buildings, hanging off a web attached to who-knows-where. My hero. My savior.

Spider-Man.

"Oh, thank God," I breathe.

"Shit, man," John Doe mumbles, and he and Lanky take off running.

. . . Right into a mess of cobwebs that just suddenly appear at the end of the alley.

"Shit, man," I hear Lanky swear.

Seriously, do these boys only speak in, like, two phrases and swear words?

Spider-Man drops onto the concrete without a sound. "Guys. Is this anyway to treat a lady?" he asks, before both Lanky and John Doe are stuck to the two apartment building walls bordering our alley.

"See?" I point out to Beefcake. "One-liners. It's not that hard."

Big. Mistake. #4. Provoking the easily provocable. Beefcake, angry at my taunting and the way his night was going—really, how did he expect?—grabs my arm and twists me around in front of him, holding his knife to my throat. Unfortunately, big men, despite the equation of muscle mass to fat, are usually stronger than me.

"Choke on that, bitch," he mumbles, but I give him props for the pun and the one-liner, but I choose to keep my mouth shut now.

Spider-Man spins back around at the sudden movement, making me wonder he actually heard Ralphie talking. He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, c'mon, Jabba. Seriously, dude. Do you see a way that gets you out of the situation that's not going to end up with you going to jail for attempted murder . . ." Spider-Man pauses, and I see the tiniest bit of a shudder. " . . . or actual murder? Put down the knife, okay? Put down the knife."

"Do it, Ralphie!" Lanky shouts, though whether he means to listen to the hero or not, I'm not sure.

Spider-Man, without glancing behind him, raises a hand and fires a line of web. It hits Lanky right in the mouth, and I let out a lopsided grin.

"Let me out," Beefcake decides. "Let me walk away, or I cut this bitch."

"You know, I think the term 'bitch' is being overused . . ."

Spider-Man sends me a look that clearly says shut up, even with the mask, and I do. I can't remember the last time I was this talkative. During a time which I was being held hostage, no less.

"Put the knife down," Spider-Man orders again, holding up a hand placatingly. "Trust me on this one, dude. You don't deserve to go to jail the rest of your life, and she doesn't deserve to die."

Hell yeah, I don't. I'm liking Spider-Man more and more. But I don't say that. I'll thank him later.

"No," Beefcake says slowly, and the hand holding the knife begins to shake. "I-I can't. They'll . . . the cops, they'll . . . I can't . . ."

"Come on, Jabba," Spider-Man begs. He's about five feet away, too far to do anything, but also too close, dangerously close that he still looked threatening.

That's Big Mistake #5. Not that I blame Spidey, of course.

My phone buzzes from the ground where it lays, forgotten. Spencer, I can clearly see, asking where I am. God, I wish I could tell him.

If I ever see him again. I'd let him know I'll pay him back for the pizza, and as crazy as it is, the thought comforts me a little bit.

"I can't go back to jail," Beefcake suddenly decides, making my gaze snap back up.

The knife disappears from my throat. I resist the urge to bolt, though it is very tempting. I want to bolt right to Spider-Man's side. I want to throw that kid a damn parade, right about now. He's a miracle worker! My pizza's screwed to all hell, but he saved my life!

Spider-Man, though, doesn't seem to pleased. "Put the knife down, Jabba, buddy. Just drop it. We'll work something out. Please. It doesn't have to end like this—"

And suddenly, before I can process what my next thought was going to be, I see a flash of a black-clad arm swipe across my vision, right to left, and bright hot and burning pain sears in my throat.

He did it.

The bastard actually got me.

"NO!" Spider-Man yells, and leaps forward, hand extended as I topple to the ground like a stack of blocks.

I collapse, I think, but mostly I'm just trying to get to my phone. Everything's moving far too fast . . . or far too slow. God, I never knew that pain screwed with your brain so much. But screw with the pain of the brain . . . I mean, it does pain my screw . . .

Shit.

My head hits the concrete. Distantly, in the back of my mind, I feel a pressure on my throat that's not from the pain. It feels hard, like a cast, and I wonder what it is. Spider-Man's web? Because that was a web I saw, right before I fell. My hand grapples blindly, and I touch my throat. My hand comes away touching what feels like a rubber band the texture of silly string mixed with slime. Oh, and blood too, but I focus on the web thingie.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know it can't be as bad as it seems. Because if it was, I'd be dead. It must just be a flesh wound, a scrape. I'll be patched up and home in time for school tomorrow. I just have to wait.

But first, I've got to tell Spencer I'm all right. I scramble for my cell—it buzzes again, another message from my big brother.

I don't even read it. It's some stupid joke about eating more than my fair share of pizza, which, under the circumstances, seems kinda cruel—still, I grab my phone with shaking hands, trying to type out a message, but blood smears the screen and my fingers slip. The phone falls from my hands, and I don't have the strength to pick it back up. I could sleep for a hundred years right about now. I decide, hazily, that I'll try. I close my eyes, wondering where the hell Spider-Man is, and drift off.

~oOo~

"Mae? Maeve, c'mon, wake up, the ambulance is almost here."

I think this is what drowning feels like. Everything is murky, and I can't see the person in front of me. I also feel like I can't get enough air. I'm not even sure my eyes are open, but I squint regardless, trying to make the person floating in front of me focus. It'd be nice if they stopped moving.

I take a wild guess. "Spence?"

"Yeah, I called him, Mae, he's coming. He's super worried about you, okay? Wait until he gets here, please, Maeve, please . . ."

I drifted off again. Let's be real; I deserved the sleep.

And when I woke up, I forgot all about that little conversation.