The quinjet was quieter than Peter expected.
It sat on a discreet rooftop helipad three blocks from the park—black, sleek, no markings except the faint outline of a faded star on the tail. Steve had walked them straight to it without a word, as though invisible eyes were already tracking every step. Peter followed, suit still damp, boots leaving faint wet prints on the concrete.
The ramp lowered with a soft hydraulic sigh. Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of metal, recycled air, and the ghost of old coffee. No pilot. Just a console that lit up at Steve's approach.
"Autopilot," Steve explained, sliding into the co-pilot seat. "Tony likes his toys quiet."
Peter hesitated at the ramp, glancing back at the city lights stretching away toward the East River. Queens looked smaller from here—smaller, but no less alive. He could still see the faint glow of his neighborhood if he squinted.
Steve didn't rush him. Just waited.
Peter stepped inside. The ramp sealed behind him with a muted thud.
The quinjet lifted smoothly—almost no sensation of movement. Through the narrow viewport, Manhattan rose to meet them: glittering spires, rivers of red taillights, the dark ribbon of Central Park cutting through like a bruise. Peter stayed standing near the back, one hand braced against the overhead rail. The interface hadn't spoken since the park, but it lingered—status panel dimmed but present, like a screen saver that refused to fully shut off.
**[Altitude: 1,200 ft]**
**[Velocity: 180 knots]**
**[Estimated Arrival: 7 minutes]**
He blinked. The System had started feeding him environmental data now. Useful, maybe. Invasive, definitely.
Steve glanced over his shoulder. "You okay back there?"
Peter forced a nod. "Just… processing. Never been in one of these before. Feels like riding inside a really expensive vacuum cleaner."
Steve's laugh was short, genuine. "Tony would hate that description."
They didn't speak again until the tower came into view.
Stark Tower dominated the skyline even at night—more glass than steel, lights tracing elegant lines up its sides like veins of pale gold. The quinjet banked gently, aligning with a private landing deck near the top. No fanfare. No welcoming committee. Just a soft touchdown and the ramp opening onto polished dark marble.
Steve led the way inside.
The hallway beyond was warm—actual warmth, not the recycled chill of the jet. Soft recessed lighting, abstract art on the walls that probably cost more than Peter's apartment building. Peter felt suddenly conscious of the water still dripping from his suit onto the floor.
"Shoes off if you want," Steve said, already kicking his boots onto a discreet mat. "Tony's particular about the rugs."
Peter peeled off his own boots, leaving them beside Steve's. His socks were soaked through. Great.
They passed through a set of sliding glass doors into what had to be Tony's personal workshop—except it looked more like a high-end living room someone had accidentally filled with half-disassembled arc reactors and holographic schematics.
Tony Stark stood at the far end, back to them, sleeves rolled to his elbows, studying a floating 3D model of what looked like a miniaturized particle collider. He didn't turn immediately.
"Cap," he said without looking. "You're dripping on my floor."
Steve glanced down. "It's raining."
"Rain is an outside phenomenon. You're indoors now." Tony finally pivoted, eyes flicking from Steve to Peter in one smooth scan. "And you brought company. Hi, kid."
Peter managed a small wave. "Mr. Stark."
"Tony. Or 'genius billionaire' if you're feeling formal." He gestured vaguely. "FRIDAY, towels. And something hot. Kid looks like a drowned spider."
A panel in the wall slid open. Two thick white towels floated out on a small drone platform, followed by two steaming mugs. Peter caught one automatically—hot chocolate, rich enough to smell the cinnamon from across the room.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Tony crossed the room, stopping a respectful distance away. No armor. Just jeans, a faded Black Sabbath shirt, and the faint blue glow of the arc reactor under the fabric. He studied Peter the way someone might study a particularly interesting engine schematic.
"So," Tony said. "You've got a new passenger in your skull."
Peter nearly choked on the hot chocolate. "You know?"
"Steve texted me on the way up. Very dramatic. 'Incoming. Possible digital hitchhiker. Don't be an ass.' His words, not mine."
Steve shrugged. "Accurate."
Peter set the mug down carefully. "How much do you know?"
Tony tapped his temple. "Enough to know you're not hallucinating. FRIDAY's been tracking micro-fluctuations in your patrol zones for weeks. Tiny EM spikes, quantum noise, call it what you want. They sync with your vitals—heart rate jumps, neural activity spikes, then poof. Gone. Tonight's was bigger. Sustained. And it happened right when you—" He made a vague webbing gesture. "—did your thing in the alley."
Peter exhaled. "The System. That's what it calls itself. It gave me stats. Quests. Warnings."
Tony's eyebrows rose. "Quests? Like a video game?"
"More like a really ominous to-do list."
Tony nodded slowly. "Show me."
Peter hesitated, then focused. The interface responded instantly, projecting the status panel into his mind's eye. He described it aloud—numbers, bars, the quest text—leaving nothing out.
Tony listened without interrupting, arms crossed, expression unreadable. When Peter finished, silence hung for several seconds.
Finally, Tony spoke. "Okay. Not a virus. Not a parasite in the classic sense. More like… an overlay. A symbiotic HUD that's decided you're worth investing in."
"Investing?" Peter echoed.
"Think venture capital for superhumans. It's quantifying you. Tracking growth. Offering rewards for milestones. That usually means it wants something from you later."
Steve shifted. "Or someone else does."
Tony glanced at him. "Exactly."
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "It said my powers weren't random. That the spider bite was… aimed."
Tony's eyes narrowed. "That's the part that keeps me up at night. Because if someone—or something—engineered your origin, then the bite wasn't the end of the experiment. It was the beginning."
Peter felt the room tilt slightly. Not vertigo. Just the sudden weight of implication.
Steve stepped forward. "We need data. Hard data. Can FRIDAY interface with it?"
Tony shook his head. "Not directly. It's not broadcasting on any frequency we can handshake with. It's internal—neural, probably quantum-entangled at the synaptic level. Invasive as hell, but elegant. Whoever built it knew exactly what they were doing."
Peter looked between them. "So what now?"
Tony studied him for a long moment—really studied him. Not the suit. Not the mask. Him.
"Now," Tony said, "you decide how much you want us involved. Because once we start digging, we don't stop. And whatever's watching you? It'll notice."
Peter's gaze drifted to the massive windows. The city sprawled below, indifferent and endless. Somewhere out there, May was probably waking up for her night shift at the hospital. MJ might still be awake, scrolling through college applications. Normal life. His life.
Except it wasn't normal anymore.
The interface flickered.
**[New Input Detected: Multiple High-Value Entities]**
**[Alliance Probability: 89% (conditional)]**
**[New Quest Branch: Collaborative Analysis]**
**Objective: Allow limited external scan of System interface.**
**Reward: Data Transparency Unlock (Level 1), Enhanced Threat Prediction**
**Risk: Partial System exposure. Potential escalation of external observation.**
Peter stared at the text until it blurred.
Then he looked back at Tony and Steve.
"I'll do the scan," he said quietly. "But on my terms. No full neural dive. No pulling me apart to see how I tick."
Tony nodded once. "Fair. FRIDAY—prep Lab 4. Low-power quantum resonance imager only. Kid gloves."
"Already initializing, boss," the AI replied smoothly.
Steve placed a hand on Peter's shoulder—brief, steady. "You're not alone in this."
Peter met his eyes. "I know."
But even as he said it, the interface pulsed once more—fainter this time, almost secretive.
**[Observation Log Updated: Subject initiating contact with designated high-threat assets.]**
**[Recommendation: Proceed with caution. Ascendance trajectory now interdependent.]**
They moved toward the lab corridor together—three figures silhouetted against the city lights.
Outside, high above the tower, a single satellite lingered in geosynchronous orbit a fraction longer than its programmed path.
And in the deep silence between stars, something waited.
Patient.
Calculating.
Like it some power stone
To be continued...