Spider-Man (Peter Parker): Biologically 18. Lean, masked, and currently hiding the fact that he is physically the youngest person in the room.
Harley "Tennessee" Keener: 22 years old (survived the Snap). He’s grown into his lanky frame, wearing a grease-stained MIT hoodie and carrying a heavy chip on his shoulder. He remembers the five years of chaos vividly.
Kate Bishop: 23 years old (survived the Snap). Dressed in tactical gear, looking unimpressed. She carries herself with the weary alertness of someone who spent her college years watching the world fall apart.
The metal blast doors groaned open, admitting a sliver of harsh halogen light into the dimly lit hangar. Maria Hill stepped in, flanked by the two recruits, then stopped.
"He’s yours," Hill said, her voice tight. She rubbed her temple—a migraine forming just from being near the concept of the Wall-Crawler. "Don't kill each other. Budget is tight enough as it is."
She turned and left before the door even finished cycling shut.
Harley Keener kicked a loose bolt across the concrete floor. He looked around the empty, cavernous room, his lip curling. "So. The 'New Initiative.' Very brutalist chic. I assume the janitor was dusted and nobody bothered to hire a new one?"
Kate Bishop adjusted the strap of her bow case, her eyes scanning the rafters, checking corners. "It’s a bunker, not a hotel. Though I was promised coffee." She looked at Harley. "You’re the mechanic?"
"Engineer," Harley corrected sharply. "Mechanics fix Toyotas. I fix the laws of physics. And you are?"
"Armed," Kate deadpanned.
"Great. Love that," Harley scoffed. "So where is this 'veteran' leader Hill wouldn't shut up about? If it’s Cap, I’m gonna ask for an autograph. If it’s Barnes, I’m gonna ask for a refund."
"Barnes charges extra for the staring contests. And Cap is... unavailable."
The voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.
Harley flinched, instinctively reaching for a repulsor-watch on his wrist that wasn't fully assembled yet. Kate didn't flinch; she just drew an arrow from her hip quiver in a blur of motion, aiming it straight up.
"Good reflex," the voice said. "But you're aiming about three feet to the left."
Spider-Man unspooled from the shadows of the ventilation duct, hanging upside down by a single line of web, perfectly still. The white lenses of his mask narrowed as he looked at them.
Harley squinted, stepping closer. He looked up at the dangling hero, then looked down at his own boots, doing the math. "Wait. You're... small."
"Compact," Spidey corrected, crossing his arms over his chest while inverted. "Aerodynamic. It's a feature."
"No, seriously," Harley gestured vaguely at Peter’s frame. "Hill said you fought Thanos. You fought in the Ruins. You look like you need a permission slip to be out this late."
Peter felt the sting of it. These two had lived through the five years of hell—the riots, the famine, the collapse—while Peter had been dust. They had wrinkles of stress around their eyes that he didn't have. They were adults in a way the Blip had robbed him of becoming.
Peter masked the insecurity with a shrug. "And you look like you haven't slept since 2018. Try a chamomile tea. Does wonders for the bags under the eyes."
Kate lowered her bow, but didn't holster the arrow. She tilted her head, analyzing him. "Spider-Man. I saw footage of you in Germany. That was... what? Eight years ago? You sound young."
"I moisturize. Excessively. It’s the mask, traps in the humidity," Peter lied smoothly, flipping right-side up and landing silently on the concrete. No sound. No dust cloud. Just sudden stillness.
He walked toward them, stopping exactly six feet away—the social distance of a secret identity.
"Okay, look," Harley crossed his arms, towering over Peter by a good four inches. "I’m here because I respect the tech. Stark tech. I’m not here to take orders from a guy in a onesie who looks like he’s on a gap year."
"It's nanotech, actually," Peter said, pointing a finger at Harley. "And that 'onesie' has more computing power than the phone in your pocket. Also, your repulsor calibration on that watch is off. I can hear the capacitor whining from here. You're gonna blow your hand off if you fire it above forty percent."
Harley froze, instinctively covering his wrist. "How did you—?"
"I hear everything," Peter tapped the side of his head. "Heartbeats. Whispers. The sound of your ego inflating. It's very loud."
Kate snorted, a small smile breaking her stoic expression.
Peter turned to her. "And you. Bishop, right? Hawkeye's prodigy."
"Partner," Kate corrected instantly, bristling.
"Sure. Partner," Peter nodded. "You favor your right leg. Old injury? Or just tight boots?"
Kate stiffened, shifting her weight. "how could you possibly know that?"
"I watch. That's the job," Peter’s voice dropped the sarcasm for a split second, sounding undeniably like a commander. "We aren't the Avengers. We don't have a billionaire bankrolling us, and we don't have a thunder god on speed dial. We are the ones who handle the stuff that slips through the cracks. Which means we have to be better. Faster. And quieter."
He walked past them, heading toward a table covered in Stark Industries tablets.
"Training starts in ten. Stretching is mandatory unless you want to pull a hamstring and cry in front of the Russian instructor. Trust me, she will post it on TikTok."
Harley looked at Kate. "He's annoying."
"Yeah," Kate watched Spider-Man’s back, her eyes narrowing as she tried to solve the puzzle of him. "But he's right about your watch."
"Hey!" Peter called out without looking back. "Less chatting, more stretching, Tennessee. And Bishop? Don't shoot the lights out. We only have three spares."
As Peter pulled up the schematics on the table, his hands shook slightly. He gripped the edge of the table. He couldn't tell them he was scared. He couldn't tell them he was barely holding it together. He just had to be the Spider-Man.
"Alright," Peter muttered to himself. "Day one. Nobody's died yet. Solid start."
