Leadership Is Weird
Leadership, as it turns out, is weird.
Not *bad* weird. Not *good* weird. Just… weird.
I'm sitting in what used to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. conference room—now repurposed into my "office," which is generous because it's really just a room with a desk, three chairs, and a whiteboard someone forgot to erase. There are still notes on it from whoever had this space before me. Something about "containment protocols" and "facility lockdown procedures." Real comforting stuff.
And in my hands? A clipboard.
Nick Fury gave it to me personally. Handed it over like he was passing me Excalibur or the nuclear codes. "You're in charge now, Parker," he'd said, eye boring into me with that trademark intensity that makes you feel like he knows every embarrassing thing you've ever done. "Keep track of your people. Know their strengths. Know their weaknesses. Know when they're about to screw up."
That was two days ago.
I lost the clipboard within four hours.
Found it yesterday wedged between a vending machine and a wall. The pages were crumpled, half the notes were illegible, and there was a suspicious coffee stain shaped like New Jersey. I'm pretty sure that's a bad omen.
But here I am. Leader of the Young Avengers. No Tony Stark to call when things go sideways. No Captain America to give me a pep talk that somehow makes everything make sense. Just me, Peter Parker, sixteen years old, still figuring out how to deal with a break up, now responsible for a team of superpowered teenagers and twenty-somethings who are all looking at me like I have answers.
Spoiler alert: I don't.
I'm also trying really hard not to think about Elaine.
Which means I'm thinking about Elaine.
It's been a few weeks since things ended—or paused, or whatever the hell that was—and I've thrown myself into this leadership thing as a distraction. Evaluations. Training sessions. Team-building exercises that nobody asked for. Anything to keep my brain from looping back to her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was someone worth—
Nope. Not going there.
Focus, Peter. You have a job to do.
Today's agenda: one-on-one evaluations with each team member. Get a sense of where everyone's at. Build trust. Show them I'm not just some guy who got lucky with a radioactive spider and a really good tailor.
First up: Frank Payne. Codename: Constrictor.
I glance at my recovered clipboard. His file is thin—former mercenary, metal coil weapons, history of working for the wrong people but allegedly turning over a new leaf. Fury's notes are characteristically terse: "Competent. Watch him."
Thanks, Nick. Super helpful.
I head down to Training Gym C, the smaller one we use for individual sessions. It's tucked away in the sub-levels, which makes it feel less like a gym and more like a concrete bunker where bad things happen in action movies. Fluorescent lights. Rubber mats. The faint smell of disinfectant and old sweat.
Constrictor's already there when I arrive.
He's stretching near the far wall, methodical and focused, rolling his shoulders and testing his range of motion. The guy's built like someone who takes fitness seriously—not superhero-jacked, but lean and efficient. His coils are retracted, metallic bands wrapped around his forearms like dormant snakes.
When he sees me, his face lights up.
"Hey, boss!" He straightens, grinning. "Uh—Peter. Spider-Man. Whichever you prefer!"
I blink. "Peter's fine."
"Cool, cool. Peter it is." He extends a hand, and I shake it. His grip is firm but not trying-to-prove-anything firm. Just… normal.
"Thanks for being on time," I say, dropping my clipboard onto a nearby bench. "I know these evaluations are probably annoying."
"Are you kidding? I love this stuff." He bounces on his heels, energized. "One-on-one time with the leader? That's how you build a team, man. I'm all in."
I feel my spider-sense do absolutely nothing. No tingle. No warning. Just… nothing.
Which is good, right? That means he's not a threat.
So why do I feel like I'm missing something?
"Alright," I say, clapping my hands together. "Let's see what you've got. Light sparring, nothing crazy. I just want to get a sense of your style."
"You got it."
We move to the center of the mat, squaring off. I settle into a loose stance, and Constrictor mirrors me, coils extending from his forearms with a soft metallic hiss. They gleam under the fluorescent lights, segmented and flexible, like cybernetic tentacles.
"Ready when you are," he says.
I lunge first, testing his reaction time.
He's fast. The coils snap up defensively, deflecting my initial jab and countering with a sweeping strike that I backflip away from. He presses forward, not aggressive but persistent, using the coils to control space and limit my angles.
I web one of his coils mid-swing, yanking it aside.
He laughs—actually *laughs*—and adjusts immediately, using his free coil to hook my ankle. I twist out of it, land on the wall, and fire a web at his chest.
He rolls under it, popping back to his feet with a grin. "Okay, that's on me. Still cool though."
We keep going, back and forth, and I start to notice things.
He's technically sharp. Really sharp. His footwork is clean, his counters are well-timed, and he adapts to my movement faster than most people I've sparred with. It's like he's downloading my patterns in real-time, adjusting his strategy on the fly.
"You've done this before," I say, deflecting another coil strike.
"Bit of this, bit of that." He shrugs mid-dodge. "You pick things up when you work freelance."
"Freelance," I echo. "That's one way to put it."
"Reformed freelance," he corrects, flashing a grin. "I'm on the good-guy team now. Promise."
I web his feet to the mat and backflip to create distance. He breaks free with a casual flex of his coils, unbothered.
"Alright," I say, breathing slightly harder than I'd like to admit. "That's good. Really good, actually."
"Thanks, man." He retracts his coils, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You're no slouch yourself. I mean, obviously. You're *Spider-Man*. But still."
We move to the bench, grabbing water bottles. I'm about to launch into some kind of feedback session when Constrictor beats me to it.
"So," he says, unscrewing his bottle, "how's the whole leadership thing treating you?"
I nearly choke on my water. "What?"
"The leadership thing. Being in charge." He gestures vaguely at me. "That's gotta be a trip, right? Going from friendly neighborhood Spider-Man to, like, *the guy*."
"It's… an adjustment," I admit.
"I bet." He nods sympathetically. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing great. The team respects you. And your fighting style? Super inspiring. Makes guys like me think we can hang with the big leagues."
I blink. "Guys like you?"
"You know. Regular guys. No super-soldier serum, no magic powers, no billionaire tech. Just skill and determination." He taps his temple. "Gotta work twice as hard to keep up."
It's a nice sentiment. Really, it is.
So why does it feel rehearsed?
"Thanks," I say slowly. "That means a lot."
"Anytime, boss."
We sit in companionable silence for a moment, sipping water. Then Constrictor speaks again, casual as ever.
"By the way, I heard Patriot's been a little frustrated with the training schedule. Too much downtime between missions, maybe?"
I pause mid-sip. "How'd you hear that?"
"Oh, just around." He waves a hand. "You know how it is. People talk."
"Right." I set my bottle down. "Yeah, Eli's been vocal about wanting more field time. I'm working on it."
"Makes sense. Guy like that, he needs action. Keeping him benched too long is just gonna make him antsy."
He's not wrong. But something about the way he says it—like he already knew the answer and was just confirming—makes my brain itch.
I decide to probe a little. "What about Wiccan? You notice anything with him?"
"Billy?" Constrictor tilts his head thoughtfully. "I mean, he seems solid. Little unstable with the magic stuff sometimes, but who isn't when they're dealing with reality-warping powers, right?"
I narrow my eyes. "We haven't done any magic drills yet."
"Oh." He blinks. "Maybe I heard it from someone else. Or saw it during the last mission? It's all kind of a blur."
"Right."
My spider-sense still isn't going off. But that itch in my brain? Getting worse.
Constrictor leans back, stretching his arms over his head. "Anyway, I just wanted to say—I'm glad you're the one leading us. Feels like we're in good hands."
"Thanks," I say, forcing a smile. "I'm doing my best."
"It shows."
The session winds down after that. We run through a few more drills, review some tactical scenarios, and I give him feedback that sounds way more confident than I feel.
"So, uh, teamwork is good," I say, fumbling for words. "Don't punch teammates. Unless it's a drill. Or aliens. Or alien teammates, I guess, but that's a whole different—anyway, just communicate. That's the big thing."
Constrictor nods like I've just delivered the Gettysburg Address. "Absolutely. Communication is key."
"Right. Yeah." I rub the back of my neck. "You don't have to agree with everything I say, by the way. Leadership's a two-way street."
"Oh—right. Uh." He pauses, clearly scrambling. "I disagree slightly. For morale."
I stare at him.
He grins sheepishly. "Too much?"
"Little bit."
We laugh, and for a moment, it feels normal. Easy. Like maybe I *am* overthinking things.
But then the session ends, and Constrictor grabs his gear, heading for the door.
"Catch you later, Peter," he says, flashing a thumbs-up. "Seriously, thanks for this. Means a lot."
"Yeah. Anytime."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the gym, sitting on the bench with my clipboard and my thoughts.
I watch the door swing shut behind him, replaying the conversation in my head.
He's capable. Polite. Friendly, even. And he seems genuinely grateful to be here.
So why do I feel like I'm being played?
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and stare at the scuffed rubber mat beneath my feet.
Frank Payne. Constrictor. Former mercenary with a history of working for anyone who paid. Now he's here, integrated into the team, saying all the right things, doing all the right things.
Almost *too* perfectly placed.
My spider-sense hasn't gone off once. Not during the sparring, not during the conversation. And that should be reassuring.
But I've learned the hard way that my spider-sense doesn't always catch everything. It warns me about physical danger, sure. But manipulation? Deception? The slow burn of someone earning your trust so they can use it against you later?
That's a different kind of threat.
I rub my face, exhaling slowly.
"I like the guy," I mutter to the empty room. "That's the problem."
Because I *do* like him. He's easy to talk to. He laughs at my jokes. He takes feedback well. He fits in.
Maybe that's all it is. Maybe I'm just paranoid because I've been burned before. Maybe I'm projecting my Elaine stuff onto a perfectly innocent team member who's just trying to do his job.
Or maybe my instincts are right.
I grab my clipboard and stand, heading for the door. As I walk through the fluorescent-lit hallways back toward my office, I can't shake the feeling.
When something feels *slightly off*, it usually is.
I've learned that the hard way.
And I'm not about to forget it.