Dust flew as the building crumbled around him, crushing him underneath concrete and metal. His chest wouldn't expand and the weight that pinned him felt like it was slowly shifting every second he remained buried. The concrete kept pressing down and the creaking of metal told him that it was still unstable and could collapse further.

Peter couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, couldn't see. The dust was floating everywhere as water trickled down, creating rivers and puddles on the rubble-strewn ground. A choked sob made it's way out of his throat. When he tried to move, a sharp pain ran through his abdomen, causing the teen to let out a screech of agony before collapsing, limp, back to where he was. Another sob worked it's way from his throat that ended in a violent coughing fit that only caused his whole being to tremble in pure agony. Spitting, Peter saw the red and knew what it meant. Throat dry from dust and raw from coughing, he tried to call for help, but all that came out was a miserable croaking sound.

Looking at a puddle in front of him, where his mask lay, half submerged, he saw half of his face reflecting back, the mask forming the other. He stared at it, taking in his disheveled appearance and red tinged lips from blood. A surge of anger flooded Peter's body as he shouted angrily at the sky, only to once again have it end in a coughing fit. Groaning in pain, Peter felt tears mix with the dirt and blood on his face, no longer clear when they dripped from his skin into a puddle below.

"Please," he sobbed softly. "Anybody? Help!" Peter felt so tired, but he knew that he couldn't sleep. No, the Vulture was still out there and he needed to get out, so he braced himself and with a war cry, he lifted. Dust and water rained down on him as both he and his body screamed in pain and determination. The concrete shifted and the metal creaked and groaned, but he was making progress. With one more violent shout, Peter flung the rubble aside and staggered away, ignoring the pain pulsating through every inch of his body.

He nearly cried in relief when he saw the Vulture still there, perched up on something, watching the sky for what Peter believed to be the plane. Suddenly, Peter heard the wing engines firing up and saw the man ready himself to fly, so Peter limped faster than he had ever before and shot a line, catching the man right as he took off. Peter was caught off guard by the force as to which the man took off with, crying out as he felt his shoulder pull from it's socket. Before he could plummet, Peter latched onto the web with his other hand and dangled precariously, one arm limp and flying, body in agony. Peter ignored it all, he had to. So instead of leaving it to the heroes, which he was hardly, he gritted his teeth and hung on for dear life.

Peter nearly fell off of that plane too many times. The Vulture had slashed and grabbed at him, trying to catch him and throw him away, but Peter was persistent and held on. He refused to be discarded like someone's trash, not again. That's why Peter stayed on the plane, fighting for his life, and the lives of the people living in the city below. He steered the plane to a deserted place and it crashed. He didn't remember much from the point of impact to when he found himself standing up, ears ringing, and the feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

He figured he'd been thrown from the plane, possibly rolling some because there was sand in places he didn't need it to be, and he felt even worse than before. Toomes was not a man to give up though, not even after crashing on the same plane Peter had been on. So while the teen staggered to his feet, holding his arm, face pinched with pain, panting as if breathing was a strenuous activity, Toomes got himself up and launched himself at the Spider-twerp that messed up his whole plan.

Peter barely noticed Toomes before he hit the sand again, letting out a grunt. The man did not give up. Peter struggled to his feet, but was snatched up by Toomes and flung into the air. He felt gravity take hold of him and suddenly a metal foot was shoving him towards the ground faster. He hit hard, the breath leaving his body, and screaming with the fire that coursed through him when Toomes dug the three talons into his already damaged chest and stomach. He felt them go into his flesh, digging in with ease. There was no word to describe what he felt like. The pain was so intense, white spots danced in his vision, threatening to make him black out. It felt like every single nerve in his body was being burned with acid, slowly melting away to mush. Oh how Peter wished he could just melt away from everything.

The man flew up and slammed him down, tossing him away. Peter barely had any strength to roll himself over, let alone stand again. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and was streaming from his nose and a gash on his forehead. The world was blurry and everything looked like it was spinning, so when he heard the tell-tale metallic shink of the Vulture's wings close to his head, he barely moved it enough to not be impaled. The sharp feather scratched his cheek and imbedded itself into his hood. Toomes lifted him off the beach and Peter could barely suck any air in. His body hung from the wing, limp and moving only with the movement of Toomes. His head lolled and Peter felt himself slipping from consciousness when suddenly he was dropped harshly back onto the hard sand with a grunt.

He rolled over and saw that Toomes spotted a crate of alien tech, but didn't seem to notice that his own suit was about to blow. Peter tried calling to him, pushing aside the pain once again, determined to save the man who was ready to kill him moments before. He spun himself around and tried to shoot out a web at the man, dragging himself up onto his feet. From there he hobbled closer, trying to call the man's name, but Toomes only looked at the teen before the suit burst in a fiery explosion. Peter screamed the man's name, limping faster towards the now burning remains of the suit. Coughing, Peter entered the flames, desperately searching for the man. He didn't care that lifting the burning metal Toomes was under burned his hands severely, he just cared about getting the man out, alive, and home to his family, no matter how bad of a man he was. Peter owed Liz that much.

He carried the man out, despite his body's protests. Without any grace, he dropped the man on a safe portion of the beach, away from any of the carnage, and collapsed at the man's side himself, struggling to get a single breath in. Every time his ribs moved, he could feel them shifting in ways they shouldn't. Every time he moved in the slightest, he could feel every bump, bruise, scrape, cut, jab, and break on his body. Everything hurt. Looking over to the man he just saved, he saw that Toomes was unconscious and slightly burned, but overall uninjured and appeared fine. Swallowing the lump in his throat and pushing back the pain, he dragged the man towards some crates, pulling all the undamaged cargo he could find into a pile and started using his last spare cartridge of web fluid to web everything together.

Toomes looked at him strangely and Peter thought that he saw worry alongside guilt in the man's eyes. The guilt he could understand, but the worry, which appeared to be directed at Peter specifically, must have been a trick of the teen's mind. He definitely had a concussion. He gave a weak smile to the man as he staggered, falling a few times, to find something to write on and write with. Upon finding a slightly burnt piece of paper and a very damaged, but still usable, pen, he wrote out a little note, sticking it on the pile with Toomes. Saluting the man, he used what little web fluid he had left to swing away, only managing to make it atop the Cyclone.

There he sat, passed out, until he woke up supposedly hours later. He rolled his head to look at the wreckage, only to see flashlights shining around. He was pretty sure it was Happy and his crew, but he had no idea, he was just so tired and wanted to sleep. He knew he couldn't stay where he was though, he didn't have a mask. With that thought, Peter forced his body to move and away he thwipped.

He landed harshly on a rooftop a few blocks from his home and couldn't get back up. Coughing violently, blood spraying from his lips and he finally looked down at his stomach, where he felt the sharp twinge of pain when he was buried. There was a hole torn in his suit, but he couldn't really see his skin until he tried lifting the sweatshirt up. He hissed in agony as the fabric pulled away from the wound, having stuck to it as it tried healing.

There was a hole in his side, close to where he thinks his spleen might be, but he isn't quite sure. His mind's a bit foggy and a wave of nausea overtook him upon seeing the inflamed wound, and then noting that something had definitely run him straight through because there was another hole on his back, at least from what he felt. He had been standing, but collapsed to his knees before rolling onto his back upon discovery. The wound had been, and still was, bleeding somewhat profusely, which caused Peter to start to freak out even more.

He knew that his spleen was essentially a giant sack of blood, and knowing this and how much the wound was bleeding, it probably got nicked. Something told him there it wasn't the only organ to sustain damage as his whole abdomen felt weird. That and he kept coughing up blood, which meant either damaged throat, lungs, or internal bleeding, and Peter was willing to bet on all three. He felt like someone tossed him in a trash compactor and squashed him like a bug. His body was trembling and Peter could feel blood starting to pool around his injury. Looking up to the sky, Peter felt tears trailing down his face.

Suddenly, everything went numb and his mind didn't feel like someone shoved cotton balls into it anymore. He gave a clipped laugh and he thought about everything. He thought about how he had just saved people's lives, even if they would never know. He thought about how his date's father tried to kill him, but how Peter ended up saving him in the end. He thought about Ned and Aunt May and all the people who were probably wondering where he was. That's when it hit him and his nostalgic smile fell from his face.

"I'm going to die," Peter whispered to himself, breaking out into a harsh coughing fit before collapsing back and wheezing, certain that now there was a punctured lung to add to his injuries. He couldn't breath and was starting to freak out. "I'm-I'm going to d-die here. A-alone." Peter felt fatter tears start to fall more rapidly as he started sobbing, stopping to groan in pain, before starting to cry again. He tried to hold it in, but he couldn't, all he could do was ride it out and lay still, body numbing the more time passed. In fact, everything started to feel a lot farther away.

"I never got to say goodbye," Peter mumbled as the world blinked out of focus and he felt so very tired. "I never got to say goodbye." It came out slurred as the world became muffled and started growing dark. He felt like he was floating, drifting back and forth between two places. Eyelids heavy and drooping, Peter thought that he heard the sound of thrusters in the distance, but shrugged it off. Sleep sounded so good right now. Peter closed his eyes.

And drifted away.