Chapter 17: "Collateral Damage and Casual Apologies"
In which Peter tries not to get cancelled for saving lives a little too enthusiastically.
Across town, just when New York thought it was going to enjoy a peaceful night (spoiler: it wasn't), the city got a loud, sparking, rage-fueled wake-up call.
BOOM.
Glass shattered, concrete split, and a massive crater formed in front of New Horizon Bank, courtesy of one very electrified lunatic.
He was tall, built like a linebacker who ate other linebackers for breakfast, and his suit looked like someone mashed together Spider-Man's colors with a Navy surplus catalog. Red-and-blue bodysuit? Check. Grey tactical pants with more pouches than he could possibly need? Double check. Lightning crackling off his fists like he was a human Tesla coil? Triple check and yikes.
His name?
Supercharger.
(And no, that's not the name of an energy drink, although it really should be.)
He stood in the middle of the street, arms crossed, electricity dancing off him like he'd just rolled through a thunderstorm and liked it.
Behind him, the bank lay in ruins—alarms blaring, smoke billowing, and half a dozen armed guards webbed to the walls like oversized stickers. (Okay, maybe not webbed… yet. Peter wasn't here. But give it five minutes.)
Supercharger stared out at the crowd of onlookers forming behind the police barricades, his face twisted in a snarl somewhere between "I'm going to destroy your skyline" and "I haven't had a hug since 2012."
Ronnie Hilliard hadn't always been like this.
Once, he'd been a regular guy. A lab assistant. A son. A science nerd with a love for equations and a deep respect for his brilliant, awkward father.
Their life's work? Studying mutagens—the strange forces that gave people powers in the first place. Ronnie and his dad had made real progress too. The kind of stuff that could've changed the world.
And then one day… the world changed them instead.
A battle between two costumed superhumans had spilled into the industrial district—because of course it had—and a stray energy blast turned the Hilliard Research Facility into a glowing crater.
Ronnie barely survived. His father didn't.
And when he woke up in the hospital, wrapped in bandages and hooked to machines, no one came with answers.
Just an apology.
From a hero with a PR agent.
There was no justice. No restitution. Not even a press conference.
And somewhere deep inside, Ronnie snapped.
Now, here he stood, powered by the unstable, electrically-charged biology the explosion gave him. His muscles were denser. His nerves fired like lightning. His mind? Well… let's just say the elevator wasn't going to the top floor anymore.
And his goal?
Simple.
Burn it all down.
He raised a fist, and with a crack of thunder that split the sky, he roared:
"WHERE ARE YOUR HEROES NOW?!"
Electricity surged outward in a blue-white shockwave that blew out every traffic light on the block and sent car alarms into a screaming frenzy.
Sirens echoed in the distance.
Police were en route.
So were the news helicopters.
Because New York never sleeps.
And neither does trouble.
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Supercharger was not having a good day.
Okay, fine—he thought he was having a good day. Exploding police cars, lightning theatrics, stealing power like it was Pokémon energy cards. You know, villain stuff.
But then he showed up.
And by he, we mean Spider-Man. Black suit. Glowing lenses. Casual snark levels cranked up to "Obnoxiously Delightful."
Peter landed under the last functioning streetlight like it was his personal spotlight, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.
"Hey, guys, having some trouble again?" he said, giving the cops a little wave like they were old buddies at a backyard BBQ. One officer blinked from behind a flipped squad car, probably wondering if this was an Avengers recruitment stunt gone wrong.
Peter turned to Supercharger and grinned.
"Dude. Seriously? A power outage? What did Netflix ever do to you?"
Supercharger's jaw clenched. His veins glowed like molten lava pipes, and his muscles twitched with unstable voltage.
"That's exactly what I want, freak!"
Spider-Man tilted his head, crossing his arms like he was about to scold a toddler for drawing on the walls.
"Ouch. Freak? That's so unoriginal. You kiss your rage issues with that mouth?"
Then came the fashion roast.
"I look awesome in this suit. Unlike you. What is that even supposed to be? Did your husband make it for you?"
Silence.
Even the electricity in the air paused.
Supercharger's left eye twitched like it was buffering.
Peter could practically hear a Windows error noise go off in the man's brain.
"You DARE mock me?!" Supercharger bellowed, lifting both hands into the air.
Cue the Thor cosplay attempt.
A violent storm of electricity crackled into being, arcs of raw power jumping between lamp posts, ripping through signs, and vaporizing a trash can that was honestly just minding its own business.
Peter casually leapt backward, landing on a flipped newsstand and taking a seat like he'd just ordered popcorn.
"Let me guess," he said, pointing lazily, "your villain origin story involves lightning, tragedy, and a strong hatred of AA batteries?"
Supercharger screamed, launching a bolt of power the size of a small truck.
Peter flipped sideways in midair, the blast narrowly missing him and reducing a city bench to splinters and regrets.
"Yikes. Somebody needs a nap."
Spidey webbed onto a nearby building, landing with gymnastic flair.
"Or, you know, a therapist."
The crowd gasped from behind police barricades. Phones were up. Cameras rolling. TikToks were already being edited.
Supercharger powered up another shot.
"YOU THINK THIS IS A GAME?!"
Peter grinned beneath the mask.
"Nope," he said, flicking his wrist. THWIP!
"But you just hit Play."
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To be fair, Supercharger had it coming.
He was throwing around lightning bolts like they were candy at a parade, screaming about revenge and power and whatever else made villains monologue at high volume. But Peter—Peter just wanted to get through the night without creating a crater in Manhattan.
Spoiler alert: he failed.
"You wanna play with lightning?" Peter muttered, crouched like a coiled spring on a lamp post, his eyes narrowed behind his lenses. "Fine. Let's play."
WHOOOM!
Compressed air bullets, sharp and fast, shot from his palms like invisible punches. They smacked Supercharger in the chest and shoulders, sending crackles of electric feedback sputtering around his body like a broken microwave.
Supercharger stumbled—just enough for Peter to land the next move.
THWIP!
Web line locked.
YANK!
Supercharger went flying, yanked from the safety of the powerlines like a toddler pulled from a cookie jar. He barely had time to yell something dramatic before—
BOOM!
Peter dropkicked him straight into the pavement like the world's most aggressive trampoline test.
Silence.
Dust floated in the air like it was holding its breath. The city was still.
Peter landed nearby, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as the adrenaline began to fade.
"…oh crap."
He walked slowly toward the crater.
Supercharger was there—blood trickling from his forehead, electricity flickering faintly around his broken, twitching body. His breathing was shallow. His legs were at weird angles. Not cool kung fu angles. Hospital angles.
Peter crouched down beside him, panic beginning to bubble under the surface.
"Uh… hey. Are you alive?"
A groan. That was good. Groans meant alive.
Still, Peter winced.
He hadn't meant to hit him that hard. The moment had gotten away from him—he'd just been trying to stop the guy from draining another five city blocks. Or frying more police cars. Or possibly himself.
But now, looking at the wreckage—and the man at the center of it—Peter's stomach twisted.
'Too much,' he thought. 'You're stronger now. You have to be more careful.'
He shut his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose.
Control. Always control.
He stood up, looking around. The cops were still hiding, the crowd still recording. His voice came out calm and dry:
"Hey, someone call an ambulance. Preferably not one he'll blow up."
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The sirens howled louder now, echoing through streets that still sizzled with leftover electricity and the distant wails of broken fire hydrants.
Peter Parker—currently in "No Time for Quips" mode—stood on cracked pavement like the world's most tired action figure. Around him: stunned cops, trembling bystanders, and a villain-shaped dent in the concrete.
Supercharger let out a weak groan, twitching like a half-charged battery someone forgot to unplug.
The aftermath was hard to miss.
Burned buildings.
Melted streetlamps.
A rooftop that looked like it had been personally insulted by Thor.
Peter wiped ash off his shoulder, looked at the cops, and made a lazy motion toward the twitching villain.
"Alright, fellas. All yours. He's got some broken bones, maybe a cracked ego. Won't be sprinting off anywhere."
One of the officers—helmet askew, probably wishing he'd taken up accounting—glanced warily at Peter and muttered,
"You, uh… went a little hard on him, don't you think?"
Peter stopped.
Tilted his head.
No jokes. No banter.
Just… disappointment.
He pointed toward the rooftop—the one that looked like it had tried to hug a thunderstorm and regretted its life choices.
"You really think I went too hard?"
The cop followed his finger. Saw the scorched metal, the collapsed structure, the blackened air ducts that had once been HVAC equipment and were now charcoal noodles.
Peter's voice was calm but firm—like a teacher explaining why blowing up the science lab was not the assignment.
"That blast? It was aimed at you. If I hadn't jumped in, you'd all be ashes. Vaporized. You'd be a sad little footnote in the crime blotter tomorrow."
The officers and onlookers went very, very quiet.
Peter sighed and gestured at the chaos.
"I get it. I'm not perfect. I can't always pull my punches when the guy's turning into a human Tesla coil. But I'm trying to make sure people get to go home. That's the goal."
A beat of silence.
Then, awkward nods.
No one dared argue anymore.
Not when they could still feel the heat off that rooftop.
Peter dusted his hands and stepped away from the scene.
His voice dropped just enough to barely reach the nearest cop.
"If you're still not sure, ask yourself this: would you rather deal with that guy again… or let me handle it next time too?"
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The night was quieting down, at least in the "no more lightning-induced explosions" sort of way. Most of the crowd had thinned out, leaving behind a few brave rubberneckers and a bunch of officers who still weren't sure whether to thank Spider-Man… or file paperwork about him.
Then one of the younger cops stepped forward—buzzcut, badge still shiny, eyes filled with equal parts curiosity and caution.
He narrowed his gaze.
"What are you?"
Peter blinked.
"…Come again?"
"You know. Are you a mutant? An alien? Or…" He paused like he was choosing the least offensive option, "…one of us?"
Peter stared for a moment, then chuckled lightly, shaking his head.
"Oh man. That's a bold opener. Do I at least get a coffee before the existential questions?"
The officer's jaw tensed. He wasn't trying to be funny. But that's what made it worse.
Peter sighed, stepping forward just enough for his voice to carry. His tone didn't carry the usual sarcasm. It didn't need to.
"Does it really matter?"
The question hung in the air like a dropped microphone.
And it hit harder than a lightning bolt.
The young cop hesitated. The way Peter had said it—not angry, not defensive, just… honest—it made the question seem a little stupid now.
Peter crossed his arms, his silhouette outlined against the scorched pavement.
"I do good because I want to. Not because I have to. Not because of what I am.
What I am doesn't change what I do."
No jokes. No masks. Just truth.
Some of the officers shifted on their feet. Others stared at their boots like they were suddenly fascinating. And a few in the crowd actually nodded.
Peter's eyes drifted to the people watching from behind the barricades. Mothers. Kids. Students with phones. Civilians trying to make sense of what they'd just seen.
"You guys really gotta stop treating mutants like they're time bombs," Peter continued. "They're not monsters. They're just… people. Born with a quirk in their DNA."
That definitely got a reaction.
A few officers frowned. One guy visibly clenched his jaw. Another looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it.
Peter rolled with it.
"Look, I've fought aliens, I've fought robots, I've fought rich people in armor. And none of them were mutants. Most of the time? The real danger doesn't come from what someone is. It comes from what they choose to do."
He gestured toward Supercharger, still twitching like a busted power strip.
"That guy? Not a mutant. Just a normal guy who lost someone and let the pain twist him into a villain."
The silence that followed wasn't tense—it was thoughtful.
And for once, Peter didn't fill it with a joke.
He just gave a small nod, as if to say, That's all I got, folks.
Then he turned, raised his arm, and fired a quick thwip! onto the nearest lamppost.
"Anyway, I'm gonna vanish dramatically before I get asked to fill out witness forms."
And just like that—fwoosh!
Spider-Man zipped into the night, leaving behind a stunned street full of cops, civilians, and one thoroughly electrocuted bad guy.
Somewhere on a rooftop, Peter sat down to catch his breath, watching the city breathe beneath him.
He wasn't sure if what he said would change anything.
But sometimes?
A few honest words hit harder than a hundred punches.
And if that made someone pause—if it made even one person see mutants differently—then it was a good night.