Kidnapped Spiderman // avengers · Y/n story by @fanficreaderr

The air in the Avengers compound briefing room is thick enough to taste. Recycled, over-chilled, and charged with a static of dread. The massive holotable is a constellation of dead ends: traffic cam ghosts, thermal blips that dissolved into noise, the last ping from Peter’s suit before it went dark over Queens.

Natasha Romanoff

her voice a low, controlled wire The pattern is inconsistent. Deliberately scattered. This isn't a grab. It's a cover-up.

Tony Stark

pacing a trench into the floor, hands flexing Inconsistent? It's a goddamn void. Karen’s last log was him joking about a churro vendor. Then nothing. Not a whisper. Friday’s running facial recog on every camera from here to Jersey. It’s like he vanished into a seam in the world.

Steve Rogers

standing rigidly at the table’s head We have all available satellites re-tasked. Sam and Bucky are running the ground grid again. But we’re burning daylight.

Bruce Banner

rubbing his temples, glasses perched on his nose The energy signature from the suit’s distress call… it didn’t fade. It was severed. That requires a level of localized, dampening tech I’ve only seen in…

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. The silence that follows is heavier.

Nick Fury

standing in the shadows by the door, a silhouette against the blue glow We’re looking at this wrong. We’re looking for Spider-Man.

Every head turns. Fury steps into the light, his single eye sweeping the room.

Nick Fury

The people who took him didn’t grab a superhero. They grabbed a kid. Peter Parker. And they’re counting on us to think with our capes, not our heads.

Thor Odinson

his voice a low rumble Then we must think as his friends. Who would strike at the heart of the young spider? What enemy seeks not to challenge the might of the Avengers, but to wound its spirit?

The question hangs. Proposals are thrown out, shot down. Leads are cross-referenced and discarded. The frustration is a physical heat in the room. Tony’s knuckles are white on the edge of the table. Natasha’s eyes are frozen screens, calculating and re-calculating odds that keep getting worse.

Nick Fury

lets out a long, slow breath Alright. We’re spinning our wheels. Time to call in a specialist.

He turns, not toward the door, but toward a blank section of the wall. He presses a sequence into a nearly invisible panel. A soft chime echoes.

Nick Fury

into the air Hill. Coulson. Bring her up.