Peter knew how much his aunt hated a certain arrogant surgeon. Dr. Stephen Strange was an arrogant asshole of Malfoy levels, from how May ranted about him. Sure, his arrogance was mostly deserved, but did not make it any easier for the nurses who had to deal with him. Apparently, his bedside manner left much to be desired.

Then he found something that made his day. Apparently Strange had a habit of listening to older music and making a game of it to guess when it came out.

Knowing him, he likely only stuck to the more popular songs, so if someone were to suggest ones that were considerably more obscure, it was sure to throw him off.

May didn't know whether to be amused or worried at the evil smirks Peter and her coworkers had at their 'plan' to derail Strange in his next operation.

Peter let out a minor cackle when he got a text from May saying he was a terrible influence...and that her coworkers were already singing his praises for throwing Strange off his game.

Peter was rather cheerfully supplying new ideas that would drive Strange up the wall, without endangering the lives of patients of course.

He wasn't idle though. Peter knew very well that his options were limited in regards to jobs, and he honestly was not interested in flipping burgers at the local fast food place to help his aunt with the bills. Underground poker tournaments were a possibility, but he had to have the capital to even join and most casinos would turn a fourteen year old away rather than let him anywhere near the tables or machines.

So he went digging. While he was semi-competent at using computers, old habits were hard to break...that and he still hadn't found a way to ground the technology against his magic.

It was through the internet and dodgy sites on what his friend Ned called the 'dark web' that he managed to find something promising.

Some time later...

Peter had to double check that he had the right address, as the area was extremely dubious and had all the ear marks of a "rough neighborhood".

Since it was fairly early on a Saturday, the place was relatively empty. He went inside, wondering what sort of place it was within.

The interior was just as rough as the outside, if not worse. It was clearly a dive bar that catered to the sort of people his aunt would vehemently be against him being around.

"Kid, you don't belong here," said a voice.

Peter waited for his eyes to adjust, to see an older man who had a strong survival instinct.

"Um...I'm here about a job offer?" he said quietly.

"Job offer? You mean that half-assed ad I put online on such an obscure site that almost no one uses it?" he said in disbelief.

Peter nodded.

"This isn't a place for kids," he said, almost as if he was trying to deter Peter.

"Why not give me a trial run then? If I can't handle it here for a week, I'll leave, no questions asked."

The guy stared Peter down, before sighing.

"One week, and I'm not going to sugarcoat anything that goes on here."

Within the first hour, Peter figured out what sort of place this really was. It was a meeting point and mostly neutral location for mercenaries. No wonder it was so rundown.


One shift turned into two, and before he knew it, a week had passed.

Weasel stared down Peter, who hadn't flinched at the menial labor or the rougher mercs who had been more than happy to try and scare him off.

It was nothing overt, and they wouldn't physically harm the kid since he was mostly doing dishes and cleaning tables. However they had become more crude and they openly bragged about their kills whenever Peter was in earshot.

Most almost fifteen year olds would have run, as the men openly carried their guns and needed very little provocation to start a fist fight. Hell, even the waitresses who were likely Pros just wanting to earn some extra cash without having to sleep with anyone, had called him a babyface. They weren't nice to him, but they didn't go out of their way to make his life harder than it needed to be.

"Alright kid, so you survived the first week. If you're serious about working here then you're going to need a name. And not your real one either."

"Shrike," said Peter immediately, and without hesitation. He understood the reason behind the nickname, since not all mercenaries were good people deep down. Some were just assholes.

Weasel gave him an odd look, but said nothing about how quick Peter was to come up with the name. To be fair, he had been planning to call the kid Ferret or something equally lame.

"Shrike then. Do you have any skills besides cleaning or doing dishes?"

Peter blinked, before he replied "My guardian is a nurse, and she showed me how to properly sew a wound up. I'm also fairly well versed with a first aid kit, and blood doesn't bother me."

Weasel actually looked slightly happy, as having someone on hand to sew the idiots up without having to pay ridiculous fees would mean an upswing in business. He also didn't comment on the guardian thing, as he had pegged the kid for a minor the second he walked into the bar.

"We'll see how good you are at patching idiots up later," said Weasel.

"I'm also decent in the kitchen," offered Peter.

Weasel snorted at that. He suspected Peter's "skill" was more in line with microwavable foods.

"Look, we got about two hours before the guys show up. Think you can clean the kitchen up a bit so Granny doesn't try to brain me with her skillet again?"

Peter nodded cheerfully.

Thirty minutes before the bar officially opened for the night, Weasel went into the kitchen and damn near had to do a double take.

"The fuck? Did you put a gun to Mr. Clean's head in here or something?"

On a good day, the bar's kitchen was barely acceptable and would likely not pass any serious health inspection.

The kitchen's surfaces damn near gleamed in a way that said that someone had gone to town with proper cleaning products, and the use of major elbow grease. This was honestly the cleanest he had ever seen it since he bought the place.

This wasn't a bar that catered to normal people...this was a Merc bar, which meant they usually didn't give one damn about the state of the kitchen so long as they didn't come down with the runs or serious food poisoning and the food was considered edible.

Peter popped out from where he was attempting to clean the oven.

"You say something Mr. Weasel?" he asked.

"How the hell did you clean this place?" said Weasel, honestly baffled.

"It wasn't hard, and honestly music makes things go faster," said Peter. "I'll need a few more hours to get this properly cleaned though...the grime is caked on pretty bad."

"Kid, that's the cleanest that oven's been since it was bought," deadpanned Weasel.

Now he was seriously wondering what would happen if he set the kid loose on the main bar.

Weasel shook his shock off, and went to look at the pantry. He nearly did a second double take at the fact it was so organized.

"The fuck?" he said in disbelief.

Peter winced, realizing he might have gone a tad overboard.

"I had to throw out some of the foods, as I doubt the guys that come here would want to eat moldy products. And some of that stuff has been expired since the cold war," said Peter.

"Do I look like I'm made of money?" said Weasel, still in shock.

"No, but a general level of health standards is still required if you don't want to be shot by your own clients," snarked Peter.

"Did you just sass me?" said Weasel.

Peter smirked at him.

"You have yet to feel the full brunt of my snark," he replied.

Rather than be offended, Weasel snorted and half-ruffled Peter's head.

"Take a break. You're going to need your energy to clear the tables and take orders," said Weasel.

If the kid had that sort of attitude, he would fit in just fine.


Shrike's first meeting with the bar's most infamous merc happened on a rather dull day. Weasel was half-dreading, half-hoping for this moment because meeting Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool was the ultimate test on how well the kid would survive around the rough crowd that came to Sister Margaret's.

Weasel grimaced when he heard the familiar voice of Wade. The guy was an acquired taste, but then again so were most of the guys that came here.

Shrike looked up, a bit confused as to why everyone was behaving so oddly. He was attempting to adjust the dead pool above the bar, since Weasel adamantly refuse to go near the ladder when he had Shrike to do it for him.

"Oh honey, I'm home!" Wade called out.

Peter had to stare at the guy's ridiculous outfit, and the obvious insanity that radiated off him. This guy was in a league of his own, he could tell.

Wade's eyes narrowed in on Peter in an instant.

"When did we become a daycare?" he asked.

Peter snorted as he easily climbed down from the ladder.

"Better a daycare than whatever dementia care facility you crawled out of. I hate to break it to you, but Christmas isn't for another three months," Peter shot back.

Weasel snorted in spite of himself.

It was like a tennis match the mercs couldn't turn away from. Watching Shrike, the unassuming little ball of fluff that had somehow made his own place in Sister Margaret's, out-sass Deadpool was comedy gold. Even worse, Deadpool was clearly enjoying every minute of it!

Deadpool happily slung an arm around Shrike, who knew better than to try and throw him off...for now. Why waste the energy.

"So where'd you find this little fluffball?" asked Wade cheerfully.

"He came in and asked about the job posting," snarked Weasel. "Haven't been able to get rid of him yet."

"And you clearly haven't figured out why I go by Shrike," said Peter with a snort.

"Hey Shrike, where's my order?" called out another merc by the name of Domino.

Peter managed to dislodge Deadpool's arm long enough to head to the kitchen. Deadpool had to blink at how...clean...it looked.

"You get a maid or something?" said Deadpool.

"Blame the kid," said Weasel.

Deadpool, spotting one of his usual victims of insanity, smirked under his mask. Weasel rolled his eyes when Wade asked him to make a Blowjob and had one of the waitresses deliver it. The woman looked like she wanted to knife someone all night.

Shrike came out to a minor bar fight, and waded through it with practiced ease. His "spider-sense" as he had taken to calling the weird heightened awareness he had, allowed him to dodge any potential hits.

He calmly put the food down, which the merc known as Domino grin at him. She also slid him a cool twenty as a tip, mostly for the show.

Shrike gave her a grin, and calmly avoided the ensuing fight from Deadpool's prank.

While it was a dangerous place to work, the money was good and he felt at ease with the guys who came here.

He got home around three and immediately crashed, once he took a shower of course.


There was a billionaire in his home. Under most circumstances, Peter might have been thrilled to meet someone so rich taking such a strong interest in him.

But...this was Tony Stark. A man who's rampant ego had him in the tabloids at least once a week...at least, before he suddenly decided to be a hero.

Peter knew of Iron Man, and was utterly unimpressed with him. Even when he started to act as a decent human being, the man's ego and pride resulted in a massive mess.

Peter knew his options were limited...clearly Stark believed him to be a 'small time hero' and wanted to use him to shore up his own side in a spat between him and Captain America's group.

Honestly, Peter wanted nothing to do with this mess. And if he did have to chose a side, he would have gone with the soldier over the damn playboy every time, money be damned.

So he agreed to 'suit up', and go to Germany, despite wanting absolutely NOTHING to do with this mess.

Peter was beyond pissed, and would bide his time before he vented on what he really thought of Iron Man's stunt. He didn't even want to be a super hero! He was doing his best to keep a low profile as is!