Peter Parker stumbled into his cramped bedroom, wincing as he peeled off his torn Spider-Man suit. Fresh bruises blossomed across his torso, a painful reminder of his narrow escape from the group of villains who'd ambushed him earlier that evening.
"Great job, Parker," he muttered, flopping onto his bed. "You really showed them. If by 'showed them' you mean 'ran away like a scared little spider.'"
He stared at the ceiling, mind racing. The super villains that he did faced tonight was no joke - Doctor Octopus, Mysterio, Electro, Vulture, Rhino, and Sandman had nearly taken him down for good.
It was only by sheer luck (and a conveniently placed water tower) that he'd managed to slip away. He knew he would not be lucky the next time.
Peter knew he couldn't face them alone again. But who could he turn to? He had heard about some X men mutants who helped people but they have gone incognito for a while and he wasn't exactly on their speed dial.
Then it hit him - the mysterious vigilante known as Black Mask. The same guy who'd saved Uncle Ben's life a few years back. Peter had idolized him ever since, even if the guy had vanished from the streets lately.
"If only I knew how to get in touch with him," Peter sighed. "What am I supposed to do, shine a giant spider in the sky?"
He chuckled at his own lame joke, then winced as the movement aggravated his injuries. This was serious. He needed help, and fast.
A crazy idea popped into his head. There were rumors of a mercenary group led by someone called the Death Surgeon. They took on impossible jobs for the right price. Maybe...
"No way," Peter said aloud. "I can't afford their fees. And isn't hiring mercs kind of... you know... morally gray?"
But as he imagined facing those six villains again, his resolve crumbled. "Desperate times call for desperate measures," he muttered, powering up his laptop.
After some sketchy browsing on the dark web (and boy, did he feel dirty doing it), Peter found a secure email address for job requests. Taking a deep breath, he began to type:
```
To: death.surgeon@shadownet.onion
Subject: Friendly Neighborhood Spider in Distress
Dear Mr. (Ms.? Mx?) Death Surgeon,
I know this is probably not your usual type of request, but I'm in a real bind here. I'm Spider-Man (yes, THE Spider-Man, not some cosplay wannabe), and I've got a pack of supervillains out for my blood. We're talking a real "Sinister Six" situation.
I hate to admit it, but I can't handle them alone. I need backup, and I heard through the grapevine (okay, sketchy internet forums) that you and your team might be able to help.
Here's the catch - I'm flat broke. Being a superhero doesn't exactly pay well, unless you count the occasional free hot dog from street vendors. I can't offer much in terms of payment, but maybe we could work out some kind of trade? I've got mad web-slinging skills and a sparkling personality to offer!
If you're at all interested in helping a spider out, please let me know. I promise I'm not some kind of trap or sting operation. Although I guess that's exactly what someone running a sting operation would say, isn't it?
Anyway, hope to hear from you soon. If not, it's been nice knowing ya, cruel world!
Yours truly,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man
P.S. If you happen to know how to contact the vigilante Black Mask, I'd be eternally grateful for that info too!
```
Peter hit send before he could second-guess himself. Then he flopped back on his bed, groaning. "What have I done? They're probably going to laugh their super-mercenary butts off at me."
Little did Peter know, his email was about to brighten someone's evening considerably.
---
In a high-tech control room on a private island, Law lounged in his ergonomic chair, feet propped up on his desk. He idly spun a scalpel between his fingers as he scrolled through potential job requests.
"Boring... illegal... way too easy... ooh, what's this?" His eyes lit up as he opened the email from Spider-Man. A grin spread across his face as he read, growing wider with each line.
"Oh, this is too good," Law chuckled. He spun his chair around to face Emma Frost and Gambit, who were engaged in a heated game of chess nearby. "Guys, you've got to hear this!"
He cleared his throat dramatically and began to read the email aloud, adding his own colorful commentary:
"'Dear Mr. Death Surgeon' - that's Doctor Death Surgeon to you, Spidey! I didn't spend years in evil medical school to be called 'Mister,' thank you very much."
Emma rolled her eyes, but couldn't hide her amused smirk. Gambit leaned in, intrigued.
Law continued, "'I'm Spider-Man (yes, THE Spider-Man, not some cosplay wannabe)' - As if we couldn't tell from the desperate tone and bad jokes, mon ami!"
"You're one to talk about bad jokes," Gambit muttered, earning a scalpel flung in his direction (which he deftly caught, of course).
"'I've got a pack of supervillains out for my blood,'" Law read on. "Aww, our little Spidey's growing up and making nemeses! They grow up so fast, don't they?"
Emma chuckled. "Keep reading, you impossible man."
Law obliged, barely containing his laughter as he got to the part about payment. "'I can't offer much in terms of payment, but maybe we could work out some kind of trade? I've got mad web-slinging skills and a sparkling personality to offer!'"
He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "Oh, Peter. Sweet, naive Peter. If only you knew who you were really talking to."
"Are you going to help him?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow.
Law grinned mischievously. "Oh, absolutely. But not as the Death Surgeon. I think it's time for a certain Black Mask to make a triumphant return, don't you?"
Gambit groaned. "You and your dramatic flair, mon ami. Why not just tell the boy who you are?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Law retorted. "Besides, a little mystery keeps the relationship spicy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Spider to save and some villains to taunt mercilessly."
'Now that I think about it, this should give my little band a chance to fight supervillains and gain some experience.' Law thought
He cracked his knuckles and began to type a reply:
```
Dear Mr. Spider-Man (if that is your real name),
Thank you for your amusing and oddly endearing email. While the Death Surgeon typically doesn't work pro bono, your case has... shall we say... piqued our interest.
Expect contact from an associate who may be able to assist you. And a word of advice? Maybe ease up on the self-deprecating humor in future mercenary requests. It makes you sound a bit desperate (which you clearly are, but no need to advertise it, eh?).
Best of luck with your "Sinister Six" situation. Try not to get squashed before help arrives.
Regards,
The Death Surgeon's Entirely Disinterested Assistant
```
Law clearly did not want people to know that the famous death Surgeon did all the menial work by himself and thus he hired himself and imaginary assistant.
Law hit send, then stretched languidly. "Well, that takes care of that. Now, who wants to help me dust off the old Black Mask costume? I think it's time for a little reunion with our favorite web-slinger. Oh, And get Wanda and Pietro, You four are going to have a field trip too."
Emma and Gambit exchanged long-suffering looks, but there was no mistaking the excitement in their eyes. When Law got that particular gleam, things were bound to get interesting.
As he left to prepare, Law couldn't help but chuckle to himself. "Oh, Peter. You have no idea what you're in for. But don't worry - your friendly neighborhood Black Mask is on the case!"
---
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