SPIDER-MAN

"You alright down there?" I asked, my voice a little rougher than usual.

I moved from one worker to another, pulling debris off a guy's leg, helping another clamber out of a shallow crater, webs sticking, improvised supports holding up precariously balanced walls. It was a triage of chaos, and I worked on instinct, a blur of red and blue, my mind already replaying the last few seconds, searching for the mistake.

"Yeah, yeah, I think so," a grizzled old man with a hard hat coughed, wiping soot from his brow. He looked at me, squinting. "Hey… is that you, Spider-Man?"

I gave him a quick thumbs-up, not trusting my voice. My mask distorted any facial expression, but I tried to project reassurance. "Help's on the way," I told him, pointing to the distant wail of sirens. "Just stay clear."

He nodded, still looking a little dazed. Then, as I turned to check on someone else, he called out, "You gonna be okay, Spider-Man?"

I turned back, managing a nod. "Just a scratch. Go. Get out of here."

My gaze fell on something shimmering amidst the rubble – a shard of damaged cybernetic plating, almost glowing with residual energy. Aura's. It was jagged, maybe half a foot long, sleek and red, with faint, almost unnoticeable scorch marks. Evidence. I picked it up, feeling the faint hum of power still radiating from it. It almost vibrated in my hand. Maybe I can trace this. My brain, usually a whirlwind of anxious thoughts and bad jokes, kicked into overdrive.

The police sirens were getting closer, choppers were already buzzing overhead. They'd secure the scene, deal with the fallout. That wasn't my job right now. My job was to stop her. To make sure no one else got hurt. I tucked the shard into a specialized pocket in my suit, a small, insulated pouch designed to hold sensitive tech. Then, without a moment's hesitation, I launched myself back into the city, a crimson and azure streak against the darkening skyline, my web-fluid arcing through the air, my internal scanner already whirring, searching for any lingering trace of her energy signature, any whisper of that stolen tech.

Meanwhile, miles away, the figure known as Aura staggered through a narrow alleyway, her silver-grey and red suit scorched and sparking. The Impact Web – Spider-Man's goddamn webs that didn't just hold, but jolted – had left angry, chemical burns across the chest plate of her armor. Her forcefield unit, usually an impenetrable barrier, was spitting blue electricity from a fractured casing, useless.

She pushed open a nondescript steel door, the hinges groaning in protest, and stumbled into a hidden safehouse. It was a dimly lit warehouse, vast and cavernous, filled with experimental tech half-shielded in tarps, casting the space in a sickly, green-tinged shadows. The air hummed with dormant power, the smell of ozone still clinging to her, a phantom of the battle she'd just barely escaped.

"The mission's compromised," she rasped, her voice thin, metallic over the comms. She leaned against a dusty crate, one hand pressed to her side, where a sharp pain radiated. "Spider-Man's not backing off."

The voice that responded was cold, devoid of inflection, like a programmed algorithm. "Then finish it. Deliver the core. Burn the rest."

Aura closed her eyes for a fleeting second. She was tired. Bone-deep weary. The voice offered no sympathy, no understanding. Just orders. For a moment, the rigid lines of her posture softened, a muscle in her jaw twitched. Cracks were showing. The emotionless facade, the disciplined soldier, it was wavering. She wasn't emotionless; she was just bound by duty. A duty that was crushing her. She pushed off the crate, forcing herself to move, to obey. The energy core, the objective of this entire operation, lay on a workbench, humming faintly. It was time.

My scanner whined, a low, persistent hum in my ear through the comm-link built into my mask. The residual energy from Aura's suit, combined with the unique signature I was pulling from the cybernetic shard I'd pocketed, was painting a very clear picture. It was faint but I was picking it up. She was moving fast, but leaving a breadcrumb trail of exotic particles.

The signal was leading me deeper into the industrial district, away from the glittering skyscrapers, towards the older, forgotten parts of the city. Warehouses. Lots of them. My stomach clenched. Warehouses meant hiding places, places to work without interruption, places to set up whatever apocalyptic doohickey she was carrying.

I landed silently on a rooftop, the wind whipping at my suit. Below, the signal was stronger. One particular building, a nondescript warehouse with boarded-up windows, pulsed with a faint, steady hum that matched the shard's signature. Gotcha.

I peered through a grimy skylight. Inside, the space was vast, dimly lit by a few flickering fluorescent lights. Tarps covered large, indistinct shapes, hinting at machinery. And there she was. Aura. She was hunched over a workbench, her back to me, but I could see the raw, angry scorch marks on her suit. The forcefield unit was indeed sparking, tiny blue arcs of electricity dancing erratically around it. She was clearly injured, moving with a jerky stiffness.

With a roar that was more primal than coherent, I crashed through the skylight, shards of glass showering around me like deadly rain. I landed hard, rolling, and came up instantly, a web-line already flying, wrapping around the glowing energy core on the bench. My momentum carried me forward, a red and blue projectile aimed directly at Aura.

I tackled her with the force of a battering ram, sending her sprawling across the concrete floor. The webbed core, torn from the workbench, slammed into a far wall with a dull thud, the light within it flickering, then dying down to a barely perceptible glow.

The fight began.

There were no jokes this time. No sarcastic quips, no lighthearted banter to cut the tension. This was close-quarters, personal, and brutal. Aura was injured, her cybernetics sparking and malfunctioning, but she was still formidable. She moved with surprising speed, a desperate ferocity in her eyes. Her blows, though lacking the amplified force of her intact tech, still carried a dangerous weight. She didn't have her forcefield, true, but my gadgets were gone too. No impact webs, no web-grenades, no fancy tricks. This was pure skill. Pure willpower.

She struck first, a wild, wide punch that I ducked under, spinning to land a quick jab to her already damaged forcefield casing. It sparked violently, and she hissed in pain. She retaliated with a knee to my gut that folded me momentarily, the air knocked from my lungs. I stumbled back, shaking my head, the pain a dull throb.

"You don't have to do this," I grunted, trying to reason with her, even as my fists balled. "You're hurt. It's over."

She snarled, a sound more animal than human. "It's not over until I'm dead." She lunged, a flurry of precise, desperate strikes. She was a trained fighter, probably military, and her movements were efficient, aggressive. I dodged, wove, and countered, my spider-sense my only warning system against her blows.

I fought to disable her, to subdue her, holding back just enough not to kill her. Every instinct screamed to end this quickly, to put her down, but the ethical line I'd drawn myself was immutable. No killing. Not if I could help it. But that didn't mean I was pulling my punches. My frustration, raw and molten, fueled every counter.

"You could've killed those workers!" I bellowed, my voice echoing in the cavernous space. I caught her wrist as she aimed a punch, twisting it, forcing her arm behind her back. "You don't get to hide behind a mission anymore!"

She strained against my grip, her body shaking with effort. "You don't understand!"

"Oh, I understand," I growled, shoving her against a pillar, the metal groaning. "I understand what happens when people get caught in the crossfire. I understand what it feels like to lose someone because you weren't fast enough, weren't strong enough!" The ghost of 3D-Man's face, always there, always pushing me. That failure, that crushing guilt, drove me forward. It cleared my head, sharpening my focus, stripping away everything but the primal need to protect, to prevent, to make sure no one else carried that same burden.

She broke free, surprising me with a desperate burst of strength, and slammed an elbow into my jaw. My head snapped back, stars exploding behind my eyes. I staggered, my vision momentarily blurring. Aura capitalized on it, rushing forward, aiming a kick.

But I moved. I swung my leg up, blocking her kick, and then used my momentum to spin, landing a heavy, flat-palmed strike to the side of her head. It was a stunner, designed to disorient, not to break bones. She stumbled, dazed, and I moved in, a blur of motion.

I wrapped a web-line around her right arm, pulling it tight against her side, then another around her left, pinning both limbs. She tried to fight it, but the web was strong. I slammed a final, hard punch to her jaw to knock her. To end it.

She hit the ground, a soft grunt escaping her lips, her body going limp. The webs held her, arms and legs bound, like a broken doll. She lay there, defeated, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Her face, half-obscured by her helmet, was still.

She didn't plead. She didn't resist. She just sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of the world. Then, her voice barely a whisper, she said, "You think this ends with me?"

I stood over her, breathing heavily, my own body aching from the blows. My mask felt heavy, hot. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the hum of the warehouse and the distant sirens that were finally drawing near.

"No," I replied, my voice hoarse, but firm. My gaze was fixed on her, on the stolen core lying inert on the floor. "But it starts here."

The wail of police sirens grew louder, closer. I'd made the call right before I crashed through the skylight, a quick heads-up to the NYPD, giving them the general coordinates. My job was to subdue her, to secure the threat. Their job was to handle the rest.

I moved away from Aura, heading towards the shattered skylight, my eyes already scanning the city for the next threat, the next disaster waiting to happen. I left her there for them, a problem for the authorities to unravel. My place wasn't basking in the spotlight, answering questions, or taking credit. My place was in the shadows, soaring above the city, a humble guardian, always on watch, always ready to bear the weight. The fight was over, but the war, I knew, was far from it. And the guilt, that familiar, heavy burden, lingered, a constant reminder of the lives I swore to protect.