"Welcome home Mr Parker. We've been expecting you."

Fuck Fuck fuckety-fuck Fuck. Well shit. When Peter Parker arrived home from his last day at midtown school before the weekend he expected a lot of things. May welcoming him home, May cooking lasagne to congratulate Peter on his physics test results, May burning said lasagne, May ordering in pizza instead. What he would never in a million years would have expected, was this.

May bound to a chair; a man in a black suit with a gun in his hand holding on to her shoulder. Various what looked like government agents with a selection of rather ominous and threatening weapons aiming at him. And least of all General Ross leaning comfortably against an arm of the couch.

What the shit.

"Secure him." Ross commanded almost lazily. Before Peter could react, five agents pounced on him locking his hands and feet in vibranium cuffs and pushing up against a wall so he couldn't escape.

At the sudden attack on her nephew, May began wrestling against the bonds tying her back and started yelling at no one in particular, "Get the Fuck off him! Get the Fuck of my nephew! You can't ..." but she was cut off as a small syringe buried itself in her neck knocking her out cold.

"Aunt May!" Peter began to scream but a hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

"Just a little sedation, calm down. It'll probably make this bit easier for her." Ross began, his voice eerily calm. "Now she won't have to watch her little spider be taken away."

This shit was bad this shit was very bad. Peters internal monologue was overflowing with swear words – some that have made captain America blush – as he registered Ross' words and looked down at the limp form of his aunt.

"Peter Parker," Ross continued, "you are in direct violation of the sokovia accords section 3 part 12a: all enhanced individuals must be registered underneath the sokovia accords – and section 5 part 21b: all enhanced individuals must receive approval from the panel of governors before doing any vigilante work."

Peter tried to scream, to shout, to yell. No they had this wrong, the accords didn't apply to him, he was never told he had to sign them, to let his aunt go but no words could leave his mouth.

With a flick of the general's hand, one guard was given the cue to sedate Peter as well.

His ears become muffled, brain dazed, eyelids heavy. No. He had to save aunt May, he had to, he...

His senses came back to him one at a time.

Outside, slightly muffled voices were hurriedly conversing but peter couldn't quite make out what they were saying, not until his brain went to back to normal and stopped feeling like mush. In his right ear, there was a sharp ringing that came from where the agents banged his head against the wall.

Then, he became aware that his hands had been tied sharply – almost painfully – behind his back and were secured with what he assumed to be vibranium cuffs again. Cool air was pressing against his face, making him shiver slightly in his seat.

Then the blood. Blood he could taste in his mouth. Metallic and warm – like it had been sat there a while. Probably from where he'd bitten his tongue by mistake when they took him. How long ago had that even been?

Wherever he was, it smelt sort of damp and, well to be honest not much else. Not even his sharper-than-usual senses could pick out anything in particular. He was probably underground.

Lastly, he managed to crack one of his heavy eyelids open a cast a glance at the room he was trapped in. Not that it was a lot of use though. The room was pretty much dark with one dim light shining (if that word could even be used to describe the dismal amount of light it let off) and a wooden table in front of him. Empty.

What the Fuck was going on?

Desperate to find some clue, some sign as to where they had placed him, he began frantically twisting and turning, trying to escape, but to no avail. The cuffs held tight. He had so many questionsand so little answers. Where exactly was he? What did they do to Aunt May? Was it still even Friday? How long had he been there?

Then he heard them.

Footsteps. They got closer. Each one precise and consistent. Closer.

The door creaked open behind him and slammed to a shut. The footsteps stopped and a cold yet familiar voice began.

"I see you're awake Mr Parker. Or would you prefer me to call you spider-man?"

Shit.