The first thing I registered was the taste of copper and concrete dust. It was a gritty paste on my tongue, a flavor I knew too well. The second was the sound, a high, thin wail that wasn't coming from the emergency services. It was coming from inside my own skull, the shriek of a dozen overstressed nerves firing at once.
Night was breaking. It painted the mangled skeleton of the half-built skyscraper in hues of bruised purple and infected orange. Smoke curled from shattered concrete like exhaled breath, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of ruin. My ribs were a broken xylophone, and every ragged breath played a discordant tune of pure agony. I tried to push myself up, but my arm screamed in protest, a white-hot flash of pain that made the world go fuzzy at the edges. So I lay there, tangled in what was left of a scaffold, and watched the world come back into focus.
Red and blue lights strobed across the wreckage, making the scene flicker like an old, damaged film. Paramedics, their movements cautious and professional, were picking their way through the debris. They were flanked by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in tactical gear, their faces grim under their helmets. They were a containment crew. My mess, my problem to clean up. Or rather, for them to clean up while I got scraped off the pavement.
One of them spotted me. "Over here! We've got him."
Boots crunched on shattered glass nearby. A woman's voice, calm and steady. "Sir? Can you hear me? We're here to help."
I managed a noise that was supposed to be a "yes" but came out as a gravelly croak.
Then I saw him.
Across the debris field, maybe fifty feet away, sat Taskmaster. He was slumped against a collapsed I-beam, his arms cuffed behind his back. He wasn't fighting, wasn't struggling. He just sat there, looking utterly spent. As the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents approached him, he lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over the chaos until it found me.
A faint, crooked smile touched his lips. It wasn't a smile of triumph or mockery. It was something else, something I couldn't decipher. It was the quiet, exhausted acknowledgment of a fellow survivor at the end of a war only the two of you truly understood. An understanding forged in broken bones and spilled blood.
Hands were on me then, cutting away the tattered remnants of my suit. A needle pricked my arm, and a blessed wave of warmth began to dull the sharpest edges of the pain. They strapped me to a stretcher, and the world became a swaying, inverted view of the bruised sky.
As they lifted me, my head turned one last time. I saw them hauling Taskmaster to his feet and shoving him toward an armored transport van. He didn't resist. Just before the doors slammed shut, his eyes met mine through the thick, armored glass. The smile was gone. There was only that silent, unnerving stare. A final, shared moment in the wreckage.
Then the darkness took me, pulling me under into a dreamless, painless void.
I woke to the low, monotonous murmur of a television. The room was sterile, bathed in the soft, artificial glow of a medical monitor beeping a steady rhythm beside my bed. A S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse—I recognized the lack of personality. No pictures, no windows with a view, just reinforced walls and the quiet hum of an air filtration system.
Every muscle, every joint, every inch of my body screamed in protest as I shifted. My left arm was in a cast, my ribs were tightly bound, and I could feel the pull of stitches across my back and shoulder. On a chair beside the bed, my suit was folded. Or what was left of it. Scorched, ripped, stained with my blood and the grime of the city. It looked less like a superhero costume and more like a burial shroud.
My mask was on top, one of the expressive eyepieces shattered, giving it a blind, vacant look. It was a relic from a battle that felt a lifetime ago.
My gaze drifted to the muted television mounted on the wall. The screen was filled with chaotic, shaky footage from a bystander's phone. A blur of red and blue clashing with a figure of white and orange. Explosions bloomed, steel girders rained down. It looked like a disaster movie, only I remembered the feeling of the shockwaves rattling my teeth, the heat searing my skin.
The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: SPIDER-MAN VS. TASKMASTER: HEROISM OR RECKLESS ENDANGERMENT?
The scene cut to a news studio. A woman was speaking, her expression serious. "Unconfirmed reports indicate that Spider-Man engaged the mercenary Taskmaster in a violent clash that caused massive damage to a Midtown construction site."
Then a different channel, a different talking head. "S.H.I.E.L.D. confirms Taskmaster is in custody, suffering multiple fractures and internal injuries. Sources say the mercenary will make a full recovery and be transferred to the Raft."
Good. At least one of us would be getting decent medical care.
I fumbled for the remote, my fingers clumsy and stiff. I found the volume button just as the feed switched to the one and only J. Jonah Jameson, his face a blotchy crimson mask of pure indignation. He was in his element.
"…supposed to thank him?" he roared, his voice booming even through the tinny TV speaker. He slammed a stack of papers on his desk for emphasis, sending a few fluttering to the floor. "Spider-Man destroys half a building and we're supposed to throw him a parade? Midtown's lucky it's still standing! This 'hero' nearly leveled a block! What's next? Does he pick a park? A playground full of innocent children to have his next super-powered slap fight?"
Behind him, drone footage rolled, a sweeping aerial shot of the devastation. My devastation. Twisted rebar clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers. Concrete was pulverized into a fine gray dust that coated everything. He had a point. It was a mess. A horrible, expensive, dangerous mess.
"This is what happens when we put our faith in menaces in masks!" Jonah bellowed, jabbing a finger at the camera, at me. "He's a loose cannon! A vigilante turned 'Superhero' who answers to no one! The damage he caused is in the millions, and it's a miracle no one was killed. A miracle! Not skill, not planning—dumb, blind luck!"
I let out a sigh that sent a fresh jolt of pain through my ribs. Same old song and dance. Thanks for the concern, Jolly Jonah.
I was about to turn it off, to sink back into the pillows and let the painkillers do their work, but the channel-surfing thumbnail in the corner showed another broadcast. Whitney Chang.
Her studio was calmer, her tone measured and analytical. "While the city grapples with the fallout from last night's battle," she began, "new details are emerging that paint a more complex picture."
The screen behind her showed a S.H.I.E.L.D. file photo of Taskmaster, followed by images of Iceman, Hawkeye, and Black Widow—all from a previous engagement.
"Sources within S.H.I.E.L.D. confirm that Taskmaster was responsible for incapacitating three members of the Avengers in a coordinated ambush over the past few months. He was armed with stolen Stark technology and was reportedly stated his reasonsfor such attacks as 'entertainment'."
The screen cut back to the construction site, but this time it was a thermal image, showing two heat signatures—one clearly me, the other Taskmaster—alone on the upper floors.
"Spider-Man intercepted him at the construction site, drawing him away from the more populated streets of Midtown," Whitney continued. "And while the damage is severe, it's important to consider the context. Medical records, leaked to this station, confirm Spider-Man sustained multiple critical injuries, including three broken ribs, a fractured ulna, and several deep lacerations consistent with combat knives. Yet he continued to fight, ultimately subduing a mercenary who had bested three of Earth's Mightiest Heroes."
My breath hitched. She got it. Her big break.
Whitney's voice softened, her professional poise giving way to a hint of something more human, more knowing. "He saved lives last night. He stopped a threat that even our best couldn't contain. He paid a heavy price for it, but looking at the determination, at the sheer refusal to quit… maybe he's finally learned how to carry that price."
A tired, half-smile crossed my face. It hurt, but it was worth it. "Same old story," I muttered to the empty room. "Guess I'll take the mixed reviews."
I turned off the television and pushed myself into a sitting position, gritting my teeth against the fire in my nerves. I looked past the folded, broken suit, toward the slit in the blackout curtains. A single, defiant ray of morning sun cut through the gloom.
The city was out there. Battered, bruised, but still standing. Rebuilding, just like it always did. Its skyline gleamed gold in the morning light—alive, humming, worth every broken bone. Worth Jonah's rants and Whitney's analysis. Worth the pain.
My hand instinctively went to my civilian clothes piled on the nightstand. I pulled out my wallet. It was worn, the leather soft and creased from years of being wedged into uncomfortable places. I flipped it open, my thumb brushing against the faded, folded photograph I always kept tucked away. On one side, Uncle Ben, his smile warm and timeless. On the other, a newer addition: a candid shot of 3D-Man giving a thumbs-up after we'd helped out at a shelter. Two very different men, two heroes who taught me the same lesson in their own ways.
I looked from their faces to the sliver of golden city outside.
A whisper escaped my lips, so soft it was almost lost in the hum of the machines.
"You were right," I said. "It's not about being perfect… it's about getting back up."
I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the cool wall. The city hummed its quiet, ceaseless song. The a distant siren, a car horn, the rhythm of millions of lives moving forward. The war, I knew, never ends. There would always be another fight, another building to save, another villain to face.
But for now… the fight was over. And I was still here. Ready to get back up.