My Name is Ezra Cross.

Welcome back.

A recap for those who are not aware:

Book 1: The Prequel- In this we learn how exactly Clint and his wife came to meet. We learn about why they don't have a little girl named Natasha, and what they suffered through to get the family they have today. Having kids wasn't easy, and often times they had more tears than children. But in the end love kept them tied together.

Book 2: Avenge Me- Written first, in this story, we tip-toe around the traditional AOU story line to fit my own needs. Clint's family is kidnapped, namely his pregnant wife and son. The Avengers learn that not only does Clint have a family, but they are now all on an adventure to save them. Clint's little girl, Lila, avoided capture due to her brother's sacrifice. Her favorite Avenger? Thor. The Thunder god's happy infatuation begins in the most adorable way possible.

Book 3- The Aftermath- Following AOU, Clint realizes he and his family aren't safe at their home. Laura and he go on a road trip together, scouting out a new location to live. In the center of that, something happens. Clint is hunted by his own team. SHIELD . . .or is it HYDRA? . . . is bearing down on him. Somehow the family avoids complete disaster, though the encounter leaves Laura changed forever. (SPOILER*****##### Inhuman DNA awakens in Laura's soul. Make her a target for any Inhuman hunter)

Now: Book 4- The Rabbit Hole. Situated after Spider-Man Homecoming and Civil War. Prepare to enter a darker world. Prepare to ask questions. Prepare to steal your hearts. Because what comes next will make you question everything.

Avenge Me

Book 4

- The Rabbit Hole -

Chapter 1

A 1978 Indian motorcycle thundered down the side alley of Junction 23 and the Indian Bodega on 19th street five days a week. The fat cat would sit in the window, stirred awake by the angry snarl of the big engine and bad muffler as it roared by at speed that should have been illegal on the New York streets. Most of the times cops couldn't catch it even if they wanted. Either the fat back tire would jump a curb and zip off, or the law would be too busy staring down the muzzle of their guns after the newest city threat. What did one speeder matter when alien technology was blowing up street corners and a spandex-wearing guy swung from the high-rises? This was the New York City of today. A New York City under threat by troubles so great that the Avengers needed to exist.

Peter Parker was not an Avenger. He was a high school student at Midland and if it hadn't been for his late-night escapades as a costumed super hero, he wouldn't have given much thought to one random speeder in the sea of others. Except, on this day, that Indian motorcycle went sailing right down the center lane of the School's back parking lot three weeks into the new school year. A breathtaking summer heat had yet to give up on beating New York City into submission. Tendrils of heat rose from the tarmac like visible worldly portals to some great beyond. The part-time Spider-Man stepped lightly across the melting asphalt and nearly ran headlong into the smoking tail pipe of the motorcycle cutting him off. Pulling one white headphone free of his ear, Parker glanced up at the figure rising from the saddle seat.

The rider was a man. His hair was buzzed short on the sides, dark, with a length to the top that made him look intriguing and dangerous all at once. A square of facial hair hid his chin and upper lip, framing his features. It was vaguely lighter than the hair over his head, making Parker wonder what box of hair dye had been used to create the difference. The motorcycle rider wore large, aviator sunglasses with mirrored fronts. As Parker looked at him, all he could see was his own reflection staring back at him. It had the unnerving effect the man most likely intended.

"Office?" the rider snapped.

Peter rose out of his inspection with a sudden jarring. "Huh?"

"Office," the rider demanded a second time. He leaned over into the saddle bags of the Indian and pulled a satchel out.

"Oh," Parker indicated the door not far from them. The Midtown School of Science and Technology wasn't exactly open to the public, even if a few random characters occasionally strolled their way inside. Recently, a father of one of the Midland students came out as a criminal mastermind. Since then, the school security increased fourfold. Gates tended to stay locked, key cards were required, and they did background checks on every teacher in the school. Even the shop coach ended up fired for sneaking a paid escort into the Homecoming Dance.

The rider glanced at the door Peter indicated, then back at the kid. "You go here?"

Parker nodded.

The man's chin dropped, then lifted very slowly, taking every measure of the teen in front of him. Assessment complete, he grunted once, hiked his bag up over his shoulder, and headed off in the direction of the office. He didn't bother to acknowledge the part-time security guard who shuffled his three-hundred pounds after him. Three steps from the coded office door, the rider turns, his reflective lenses not enough to take in the girth of the man in front of him. The guard took a careful step away with his hands lifted in supplication. The rider punched in a keycode, the door sprang open, and he entered in without missing a single stride. The guard hurried in behind him, waving a five pound Maglite threateningly.

Peter lifted an eyebrow, shrugged, and returned his ear bud to its previous position.

:(:):(:):

Shop class happened at either 11am or 1:30pm, depending on a student's schedule. Most elected for the later class and shoved a study hall at the end of the day so they could skip out on school early. Gluttons for punishment, or super heroes trying to hide their undercover activities, elected for the 11am class. Peter Parker was one of the latter group. He'd situated shop directly after his second semester chemistry class and prior to lunch, with study hall and P.E. directly following. On a good day, he could start a project in chemistry and continue it in shop class, work through lunch and his study hall, only to get the blood pumping again in P.E. before he called it quits for the day. With a teacher more interested in internet girls than education, it was relatively easy to get away with anything he wanted during shop time. However, with that teacher now fired, the future of his independent activities rested in limbo. A few substitutes had come, and subsequently gone, with varying attempts to force the student body into some project or another. Resistance was met on all sides.

Today. That changed.

Principle Morita entered the relatively empty elective hall five minutes into the start of class. He apologized briefly for his tardiness, indicating the person to his left as if it was explanation enough. Peter had been sitting behind his traditional bench with Ned, a friend and fellow classmate, as the rest of the class knew better than to encroach on their personal space or budding bromance. Seeing the newcomer, Peter sat up a little straighter.

The sunglasses had come off, but the person was still distinguishable as the rider who Peter nearly ran into earlier that morning. Ned leaned over to Peter's shoulders.

"He's freaking me out," Ned whispered.

"Oh, come on," Peter threw him a glance.

"Dude, seriously, he's probably going to make us do actual work or something."

"Maybe not," Peter replied hopefully.

"All right, everyone, that's enough." To silence the ongoing side conversations around them, Principle Morita knocked his hand on the metal desk in front of himself. "Hey, guys, I know things have felt a little disjointed lately, but I want you to know that we care about you guys getting the right education from the right person. This," he lifted his hand toward the man standing on his left, "is Dr. Obadiah Krats. He's been a professor of biotechnology at the International Science Institute in Ipswitch for the past two years and recently relocated to New York City. He has great experience teaching students and is excited to get you guys started on some fascinating new projects. Feel free to ask questions and really take advantage of your time here."

Principle Morita nodded once, a visible punctuation to his statement, and clapped Dr. Krats on the back. The professor himself waited until Morita made his announcements, exited, and shut the door before he addressed the group for himself.

Krats extracted a pair of square reading glasses which he set on the bridge of his nose and folded his arms over his chest. He wore a black polo shirt and long grey slacks he had to roll up at the ankles to keep them from dragging on the floor. He had the build of a typical gym-nut, not uncommon for men in that part of the city who fancied spray tans and bench presses more than slick cars and art history. With a single, judging, glare he analyzed the stock of the room and ended on Parker. He pointed at the teen.

"I met you," Krats said.

Peter too pointed at himself and said, "Yeah—for a minute I mean—I'm –"

Krats lifted his leather satchel from the floor, dropped it onto his desk, and extracted a sheet of paper with a snap of his hand. "Peter Parker," he read, analyzing first the images on his roll call, and then shooting a side-eye to Parker.

"Uh—yeah," Peter gulped.

"Crap," Ned whispered to him. A bead of sweat dripping down his brow. "This is gonna be bad, Pete. We're screwed."

"Ned Leeds," Krats barked.

The boy snapped to attention. He even brought a hand hurriedly to the side of his brow and yanked it away as if he was saluting a brigadier general. "Yes-Yes, sir?"

Krats blinked at him. The impromptu salute apparently wasn't his idea of proper. He let the move pass, and continued on down the roll call to the remaining seven students. When his assessment was done, he set the paper on the desk again and pulled his glasses off the end of his nose.

"Listen up, I don't care what the hell your principle thinks I'm here to do. Because I'm not. This is a job with a steady paycheck, and all I've got to do is keep the nine of you from cutting your fingers off on the band saw. Isn't that about right?"

The students looked rapidly amongst themselves for a reason why they should refute the idea. Finding no valid excuses, they stared blankly at him, mostly out of sheer joy for the sudden turn their day had taken.

"Good," Krats said. He yanked out his chair and dropped down into it, then leaned back and stacked his feet on the worn metal top. "You guys are all some kind of mini geniuses or something too, right?"

A few of the braver students agreed with him.

"Then let's make a deal. You keep building your fidget spinners and crap, and I'll sit here and do what I want. If you want to use the saw, you ask me. First kid to lose a finger, I'll cut another one off just for the inconvenience and good luck proving I did. Because no one will believe you cut off one, and I cut off the other. Cause only crazy people do that." Kratz rooted through the drawers in his desk, found a wadded-up newspaper, and pulled it out. He smoothed the edges out and, when he noticed no one had moved, he said, "What are you going to do, sit there and stare at me the whole time? Look, if you all want pop quizzes and homework—"

As hurriedly as the image of a quiz was conjured, the room suddenly dispersed in a flurry of movement. Krats watched them for a short time beneath the gaze of a furrowed brow. He glanced beneath the cover of his newspaper at the open bag by his feet. A flask rested inside, too big for simple recreational use, and full of enough high proof moonshine to black out his vision with every swallow. He reached down, popped the lid, and took a single, hard, swallow. This was only day one.

This chap. is technically still with the editor. will update eventually.

Please review. It's only downhill from here