A/N: This is going to be a two-shot, inspired by Chase Holfelder's version of My Country, 'tis of Thee, sung in a minor key. It's my first venture into a song fic. I HIGHLY recommend listening to the song first on YouTube, or listening to it while reading to help set the tone. It is a very haunting and gorgeous take on a patriotic song. This two-shot, and certain images/scenes from it, popped into my head while listening to it, and I just had to write it.

WARNING: This one's dark, folks. You have been warned. But not all is how it appears...

My country, 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,

Land of the pilgrims' pride,

From ev'ry mountainside

Let freedom ring!

...

My country; 'tis of thee

...

My limbs are leaden, my feet dragging and shuffling against the ground, every part of me so ridiculously heavy, it's like gravity has increased tenfold. The thick, metal cuffs welding my wrists together certainly don't help.

With every step, I can hear the beat of a mighty drum, the reverberations so loud, so deep, so final, I can feel it in my bones. The beat quickens with each reluctant step, and it's then I realize that it isn't a distant percussion.

It's the beat of my heart.

I can't seem to catch my breath. It comes in short, shallow inhales through my nose, and it takes every effort not to open my mouth beneath my mask and start gasping like a drowning man.

But my body knows. It knows each breath, each beat of my heart, each step brings me closer and closer to the end.

To my end.

The thought sends an uncontrollable tremor through my entire body, and my weak fingers curl into tight, shaking fists to try and hide it.

To their credit, the guards marching behind me don't laugh. They don't mock me. They don't say a single word. They just keep marching steadily, the sound of their boots hitting the floor echoing loudly across the narrow, dimly lit tunnel. It's disturbingly rhythmic, and I wonder briefly how they can keep their unfaltering pace with me limping so pathetically in front of them.

I should say something snarky. Witty quips have always been my go to, the constant stream of puns or mocking insults the perfect disguise for whenever my nerves get the better of me. No better time than right now.

But the words don't come.

And so I keep trudging on.

A feeble, mean spirited voice inside of me points out that I could at least try and fight back.

But there is no point in resisting, no point in turning around and attacking my guards and trying to make a run for it.

My weak, battered body barely has the strength to keep walking forward. And the cuffs on my wrist are laced with the same technology that powers Black Widow's electrified gauntlets. One wrong move, and a white hot current will shoot through my body and send me sprawling and convulsing on the ground. And then my guards will just grip me by my shoulders and drag me forward anyways.

And I am not going out there being dragged like a sack of potatoes. I'm going out thereon my own two feet.

The guards are being merciful enough to leave me some semblance of dignity on my death march. I'm not going to screw that up. They've allowed me to put my suit back on, and my mask, tattered as both of them are. And they're letting me walk. It's something, I suppose. At least I'll go out like a hero, instead of just being shot in my cell to be dumped in a hole somewhere.

Shit, this is beyond messed up.

Merciful. I'd just described the people who'd captured me, beaten the shit out of me, and who are about to execute me, merciful. Geez, Parker. Get a grip.

There's a door at the end of the tunnel.

...

Sweet land of liberty

...

My insides seem to clench together, to tuck in on themselves as it gets closer and closer, as it looms ominously like something out of a nightmare. The beat of my heart is too fast for me to count as it thunders against my ribs.

Oh god.

This is real.

This is really happening.

They're going to kill me.

I'm...I'm going to die.

Panic slams into me with the force of a tsunami, and my limping feet are suddenly too heavy for me to lift. My skin is too hot; it's prickling and going numb, and I'm rooted to the spot, something dragging me down, down, down, and I can't breathe—

Something hard presses against my back. The butt of a large assault rifle, prodding me forward.

But I can't.

I can't move.

My instincts have completely taken over, feet away from the door, where beyond it, they will—I will—I can't—

You can.

The voice in my head is steady, assured, with just a trace of something gentle and understanding. It sounds an awful lot like Captain America.

You can do this. Keep your head up, son. Keep that back straight. Show them they haven't won. Show them they haven't beaten you. Show them that you're an Avenger.

Show them that you're Spiderman.

My inhale is sharp, ragged beneath my mask, and my right foot drags forward.

I'm Spiderman.

The pressure of the gun digging into my lower back vanishes, and I take another limping step.

I'm Spiderman.

The door opens with a thundering, echoing clang, bright light blinding me as it swings back with a loud, metallic creak that scrapes across my eardrums.

I'm Spiderman.

My eyes had squeezed shut from the light, but I force them back open, blinking rapidly and letting my lenses adjust as I cross over the threshold. It takes every effort to swallow back the frightened tears, to hide any sign of weakness as I limp onward. It takes every effort to keep my chin raised, my shoulders back, even though the multitude of bruises and lacerations covering my body makes me want to curl in on myself and collapse.

Concrete stairs rise up in front of me, and beyond it, just above, I can see mottled gray and white clouds. Figures. The sun couldn't even be bothered to show up.

Step by step, I haul myself up the stairs, my ears picking up nothing but the sound of footsteps and the sharp whistling of the wind. I keep my eyes down as I walk, wary of my unsteady legs, and when I finally reach the top, and my eyes lift to sweep over the raised, cement platform and what lies just beyond it, my breath halts in my lungs, my heart stutters, and my stomach drops somewhere beneath my feet.

Oh my god.

At the back of the platform on either side of me is a line of decorated, uniformed officers and several men in suits. Guards stand at attention on both ends, and waiting in the dead center with his arms clasped behind his back, is the head of Hydra, Red Skull.

Beyond the raised dais are endless rows of black clad soldiers. I swallow thickly as my eyes scan across the gathered army, the men frozen in their identical stances, a sea of menacing statues with every eye fixed on me.

Through my terror, I feel a bizarre urge to laugh.

An army.

We'd been trying to take on a freaking army.

It had seemed totally possible, completely doable when we were huddled in that warehouse, coming up with plans and schemes. We were superheroes. We were the Avengers.

We were screwed.

...

Of thee I sing

...

Four weeks ago, Captain America had taken a team to the jungles of Wakanda in response to the distress signal sent directly to Mr. Stark, and to the sudden lack of communication going in or out of that country immediately after.

I'd wanted to go.

A mission with the big guns of the Avengers? A trip to Wakanda? It was too good to pass up. But Mr. Stark had made two things very clear. One: I wasn't an Avenger. I'd said no, and this was beyond my skills and utter lack of real training. Two: with so many team members heading for the jungle, they needed eyes on the ground in New York. The city still needed protecting, and should the worst happen, there needed to still be a few of us to face any new threat, or the unknown threat in Wakanda, if Cap's team failed.

So I stayed.

And then Hydra struck.

It had been easy to have hope, to believe we stood a chance, when Hydra had first unveiled just how deeply it had infiltrated the government, the World Protection Agency, the United Nations. When it had occupied D.C., New York, and sent massive helicarriers across the country to continue establishing its dominion.

That hope had faltered when we got news that the quinjet carrying the Avengers to Wakanda had been blasted out of the sky before it could even reach the Wakandan border.

But they were the Avengers. I couldn't believe that something had taken them out that easily. Even when those of us who had stayed behind had rallied together to form a resistance, which I never even had the chance to geek out about, I'd still believed that the rest of the Avengers would show up at one of our safe houses, one of the many hiding places we'd concocted across the occupied city.

They hadn't.

Steve. Mr. Stark. Natasha. Wanda. Vision. Bucky.

Gone. Without a trace.

...

Land where my fathers died

...

Still, I'd held onto the scraps of my hope as the rest of us fought on. Rhodes had taken over as leader. He'd had the most military experience. Sam, Clint, Scott, and I had followed him without a second thought.

And then I'd gotten myself captured.

Now, as I stand beside Hydra's leader, the man Cap had fought against himself so many years ago, as I see the entirety of the army we'd naively believed we could stand against…my hope shrivels up and dies.

Hands grip my shoulders and shove me down.

My knees slam into the hard, unforgiving cement, sending sharp waves of pain reverberating through my already battered body. But the only sound I make is a slow intake of breath as my upper body sways slightly.

Johann Schimdt steps forward, the man, the monster who Cap had fought in the forties. He'd disappeared. Been presumed dead. In my experience, which admittedly was mostly just comic books, films, and an unhealthy amount of Netflix, no one should ever presume a psychotic evil villain is dead. Double-tap, people. It's not that hard.

I don't even know how he came back. I don't know how Hydra was able to get this...huge, when so many were keeping tabs on them and taking out bases until only the scraps of the terrorist organization remained. I don't know how they infiltrated the government or took down Wakanda or possibly destroyed the majority of the Avengers.

All I knew then, was that I was going to fight against them, to do my best to stop them and save innocent lives.

All I know now, is that I'm about to die for it.

When I was captured, I'd been locked in a cell, interrogated about the remaining Avengers, and when I wouldn't cooperate, they'd beaten and pummeled me. I'd been grateful none of them were particularly creative. It was mostly fists and boots.

Then Johann Schmidt had entered the room.

I knew who he was. Had seen his horribly disfigured face in my history textbook, in the case files I'd sort of hacked into at the Avenger's facility. But seeing something in a book and seeing it in real life were completely different.

I'd taken one look at him and asked him what kind of name was Johann Schmidt. I'd also commended him for his originality with the moniker Red Skull.

He'd been much more creative when he hurt me.

He stares at me now, his pale eyes stark against the deep crimson of his face, before he turns to the massive army before him.

It's only then I realize that there are cameras stationed at every corner, and huge screens on either side of the platform, projecting his image.

Projecting mine.

Oh god. Oh god.

They're...they're going to broadcast it.

Nausea writhes in my stomach, and I have to swallow the bile rising up in my throat. Sam, Clint, Scott, Rhodes...Ned and MJ and Aunt May...they'll all be able to watch it...to see…

"Today marks the end and the beginning," Red Skull's voice echoes, breaking the silence with all the subtlety of a hurricane. "The ending of primitive weakness, of mortal men. And the beginning of the age of gods. No longer will this planet stand divided, poised to tear itself apart. From this day forward, we shall stand united, a world without nations, without flags, without those too weak to survive in it."

He turns to me, and I inwardly cringe in horror as the cameras pan to me as well. Red Skull moves closer, now standing right beside me as he continues. "Today, you will bear witness to what happens to the ones who stand against us, to the ones who are not worthy of a place in this new world."

His gloved fingers press against the top of my head before curling to grip my mask.

No, please no. Not this-

I only have one second to make sure my expression betrays none of my fear, my hopelessness before the fabric is sliding across the skin of my face, catching briefly on the dried blood across my cheek bone, before it is rustling against my hair.

Then it's gone.

The icy, bitter wind whips against my cheeks, and it is suddenly both much easier, and much harder to breathe. I feel naked, vulnerable, exposed in a way I hadn't known I could feel as my mask is removed and my face revealed to my enemies, to the world.

I set my jaw, lift my chin, and glare as fiercely as I can into the triumphant eyes of the Red Skull.

...

Land of the pilgrims pride

...

I won't let Aunt May see how afraid I am. I won't let my friends see me break before this monster. I won't let them down.

Even without the mask, I am more than Peter Parker.

I am Spiderman.

And maybe, just maybe...my death will serve a purpose. Maybe there will be someone out there who watches this, who sees me face down the entirety of Hydra without fear, without regret. Maybe the end of my life will be a spark to start the flame, for an entire resistance to rise up against Hydra.

My image on the screen is a different person, a hero battered and bruised, but unafraid of death, instead of the truth, instead of the terrified kid that I really am.

"Any last words, Mr. Parker?"

I'd thought of a million of them. Thought of stealing some of the best lines from the heroes of my favorite movies. Thought of just telling him to go to hell and trying to seem braver than I was. Thought of using the opportunity to tell Aunt May that I loved her, to say goodbye to my friends, to tell the remaining Avengers, if they were watching, that it wasn't their fault.

But the words die in my throat at the sight of the gleaming pistol in his hand.

...

From every mountainside

...

Cold metal presses against my temple, and I stiffen, my shackled fists clenching so tightly, there is no hiding their shaking.

I'm sorry, May. I'm so sorry.

Please, please, let her not be watching this.

Please look away.

Don't watch.

Please.

I flinch slightly at the loud, jarring click by my ear.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, lifting my chin higher, staring right at the soldiers with what I hope is an undefeated, valiant expression.

May, please look away.

I hear the shifting movement as Red Skull's finger presses against the trigger.

My body betrays me, and a hot tear escapes from one of my eyes, cooling against my skin as the wind hits my face.

I'm sorry.

Bang.

...

...

Let freedom ring.

…

End Part One