Peter Parker, in his early twenties, has only carried the mantle for around six years, finds himself in a cat-and-mouse chase with an ever-encroaching serial killer who is seemingly targeting only the lowest of scum in the city-criminals. Even so, t...
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Jefferson's face hardened at the sound. Another gunshot had erupted close to his face, momentarily dulling his hearing. His balance wavered, and he might have fallen had he not anticipated it. He breathed in the sharp, metallic scent of gunpowder; it stung his nostrils, mixing with the faint, bitter tang of burning chemicals. Pain shot through his hand, snapping him back into focus, the surrounding sounds returning as swiftly as they had gone.
His grip on the shotgun barrel was tight; the barrel was warm, and his hand had taken the full recoil of the shotgun going off.
Smoke billowed past the unmasked man's face. A look of shock was painted on it, the eerie green glow wholly gone, his eyes a usual brown once more. Jefferson had acted just in time; he had managed to divert the barrel away from the man's chin, saving his life.
Moments later, footsteps rapidly approached the area, and more officers flooded the scene, filling the small junkyard. Their weapons were drawn, and they quickly moved in to surround the man with practiced precision. The man had utterly lost; the fight in him had been completely drained.
" Hands behind your head!" one of the officers commanded.
"..."
The man did not respond. His head was down, but his eyes, while normal, were still wide with shock. Well, of course, they were; he was almost killed by something not entirely in his control. He was dropped to his knees by an officer, and his hands were forced behind his head. The officer moved swiftly, securing his wrists in handcuffs.
"You okay, Sarg-?" another officer asked.
Jefferson replied with a simple nod and released the shotgun barrel into one of the hands of his fellow officers. Wincing again at the pain in his leg. The wound on his leg, while only a flesh wound, would need a few stitches. "that'll probably get sore later," he thought to himself.
"Uh- sir, the officers at the hospital reported in; Shockers missing," an officer said.
"Well shit... alright, get an APB on Shocker. He might still be in the area. Get a canvas down by the hospital; see if anyone's seen anything."
"Great," Jefferson thought to himself. Just as he'd been about to relax, this had to happen. The immediate danger was technically over, for now, but he'd had a lot more work to do.
...
Peter grimaced under his mask; he couldn't pick up Uncle Ben's suit today and would have to pay a late fee to get it tomorrow. "Hopefully, there won't be any more attacks on the city," he thought. Usually, he'd spend the rest of the day taking various pictures around the city, as his primary source of income was photography. But his little sister Teresa had asked him to head to the station early so they could pick up Aunt May in her car.
People on his page often commented, "Wow, this shot is super high-up," or "How'd he get this shot? It's super high!" They'd speculate on how he managed to capture such unique angles. Peter loved photographing New York; it allowed him to share a bit of Spider-Man with everyone, like a personal POV. But it was a secondary pick to his first love: Science.
