A/N: I always leave a short author’s note at the end of each chapter — just my thoughts on why I wrote things a certain way, plus a hint or two about what’s coming next.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ “Did someone call for me?” Peter said again, letting the words hang there a beat longer this time, buying himself a second to read the field.
“Who the hell is this guy?” one of the mercenaries barked, rifle swinging between Peter and the bus like he couldn’t decide which threat mattered more.
Behind the police barricade, an officer’s radio crackled with confused chatter, someone asking the exact same question in less colorful language.
“Nobody’s called anybody,” Peter said, keeping his tone light even as his mind raced through everything in front of him.
“But hey, I was in the neighborhood.” While he talked, he was already working the problem.
Five mercenaries fanned around the bus, one more visible through the windows near the back — six total, same number as the docks, though these guys looked far more relaxed about being surrounded by police than they should have been.
He clocked the angle of each rifle, who had a clean line to the bus windows and who didn’t, which of them was close enough to grab a hostage the second things went sideways.
The bus itself sat mostly still, kids pressed low in their seats, a couple of faces visible in the nearest window, wide-eyed and frozen.
Nobody looked hurt yet.
That was the part that mattered most.
The one closest to the bus door is the real problem — he’s near enough to grab someone before I can stop it.
Take him first.
Everyone else can wait half a second.
“Last warning,” the lead mercenary snapped, stepping forward.
“Get out of the way or we start putting holes in this bus.” Peter’s stomach twisted, but his voice stayed even.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and say that’s not happening.” He moved.
He went straight for the mercenary nearest a girl in the front row first, closing the distance in a blur before the man’s finger had even found the trigger.
Peter’s hand clamped down over the rifle and yanked it sideways out of his grip, the motion so fast the man barely had time to react before Peter’s other hand caught him by the collar and dragged him backward, away from the window, dropping him with a short, controlled hit that put him out cold before he hit the ground.
He didn’t stop moving.
Two thin white lines shot out from his wrists, catching the rifles of the next two mercenaries and yanking them clean out of their hands.
He used the momentum of the pull to launch himself forward, landing a boot against the chest of one man and driving him flat to the pavement, unconscious before he finished falling.
The fourth mercenary tried to bring his rifle up — Peter got there first, closing the gap and delivering a single, restrained punch to the jaw that dropped him instantly, careful to hold back everything he now knew he was capable of.
The fifth lunged toward the bus itself, grabbing for the same girl Peter had already pulled clear a moment earlier — except she wasn’t there anymore, and the man’s hand closed on empty air just as Peter caught him from behind, hauling him backward and letting him crumple beside the others.
That left the last one, still positioned near the rear of the bus, the only one who hadn’t been disarmed yet.
He panicked.
He raised his rifle toward the bus and fired — Except nothing happened beyond a violent, muffled crack, the gun’s barrel bursting apart in his own hands.
He staggered back, clutching his fingers, shock written all over his face.
Peter had webbed the barrel shut the moment he’d first clocked the man’s position, several moves ago, without even breaking stride.
The mercenary went down without another word, more from disbelief than injury.
Six down.
No one on the bus hurt.
Peter let out a slow breath, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he turned in a slow circle, scanning every window of the bus for anyone who might still be in trouble.
Faces stared back at him — shocked, wide-eyed, but unhurt.
Every single one of them.
Okay.
Okay, everyone’s fine.
That was the moment the police chose to remind him he wasn’t the only armed presence on the street.
“Hands where I can see them!” an officer shouted, rifle trained squarely on Peter’s chest.
Several more weapons swung his way immediately, the standoff shifting targets entirely now that the mercenaries were down.
Peter raised both hands slowly, palms out.
“Whoa — hey, I’m not the problem here.
I just took out the guys who were actually shooting at people.” “On the ground, now!” “I really don’t think that’s necessary—” A young officer near the front of the line, clearly rattled, fired before anyone could stop him.
The bullet crossed the distance in a fraction of a second — and Peter’s arm snapped up on instinct, catching it out of the air in one closed fist with a sharp, startled snap of muscle and bone that shouldn’t have held against a bullet at all.
He opened his hand and let the flattened round drop to the pavement with a small, almost polite clink.
Dead silence swallowed the street.
“I mean you no harm,” Peter said quickly, into the stunned quiet, hands still raised.
“None of you.
I promise.” Nobody moved for a long second.
Then, from the direction of the bus, a familiar voice cut through the tension entirely.
“Hey!
What’s your name?” Flash Thompson was leaning half out of a window, apparently far more curious than frightened at this point.
Peter froze for half a second, genuinely caught off guard.
In all the adrenaline of the morning, it hadn’t once occurred to him that he needed an actual name for this.
“You’ll — uh.” He cleared his throat, buying half a second he didn’t really have.
“You’ll know soon.” He didn’t wait around for the follow-up.
He fired a line at the nearest building and swung, the motion clumsy and uncertain compared to his warehouse practice, his whole body swaying awkwardly on the first arc before he found his balance on the second.
He didn’t look back to see whether anyone opened fire.
Nobody did.
Somewhere behind him, Captain Stacy’s voice barked out a single sharp order to hold, and every raised weapon on that street lowered at once.
Inside the bus, three sets of eyes tracked the retreating figure long after he’d disappeared over the rooftops.
Gwen sat frozen in her seat, still catching her breath, one hand pressed lightly to her own collar where the mercenary’s grip had been a moment earlier.
She’d been the one he’d pulled through the window.
She hadn’t even had time to be properly afraid before it was already over.
A few rows back, MJ leaned hard against the window glass, eyes wide, tracking the last visible glimpse of black against the skyline.
“Okay,” she said slowly, mostly to herself.
“That was not normal.” Felicia said nothing at all, just stared out the same window long after there was nothing left to see, an unreadable expression settling over her face.
All three of them, in their own way, kept their eyes fixed on the spot where the wobbling, black-suited figure had disappeared — already turning the same unanswered question over in their heads.
Who was that?
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Crown_of_thorn you might think this introduction to public was messy and thats what i intended peter was not ready for sudden introduction either and he did things in spur of moment as anyone would normally do ps: i am new to writing so plz comment and review how did you like this chapter and what i can improve upon ps: this action scene is intended to be messy it will get better and satisying later on