I told y'all I was gonna put this out today, so here it is! The other story idea I've had brewing along with SOTR!

EDIT: Hello everyone! I finally decided how long this story was going to be.

This story is going to (so far) be a three part series going under the name 'To Be Human', and this is the first part of it. Each of them will contain movies from Phase 3 that I would be rewriting into the AU.

Here's what this story will be covering!

CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR (IOLAUS ARC): Chapter 1 (Patience) - Chapter 15 (Keepers)

DOCTOR STRANGE (STRANGE ENCOUNTERS ARC): Chapter 16 (Sensory) - Chapter ? (?)

GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY VOL. 2 (SPACE ODDITY ARC): Chapter ? (?) - Chapter ? (?)

SPIDER-MAN: HOMECOMING (DAWN AFTER DUSK ARC): Chapter ? (?) - Chapter ? (?)

EDIT 6/7/20: The story will now be including themes centering around the discussion of disassociative disorders, particularly OSDD-1b. I'll be doing my best to illustrate such sensitive topics in an intelligent and respectful manner, but as a human, I'm bound to make mistakes, so have patience with me! Such topics begin in earnest in Chapter 16.

Patience was the key to victory in this occupation. That's what they had all drilled into his head. If you got impatient, you were bound to give yourself away and screw up the hit. And you absolutely could not screw up the hit, or they would screw you up. A painful ping in his right side and left leg burned at the thought, but his face was still despite the annoyance. He'd learned years ago to keep an impassive face.

The still figure was crouched in the northeast corner of a large, dark conference room, perched on the ceiling, hands and feet easily molding to the plaster surface. Not a sound could be heard in the quiet room, and not a muscle moved out of place for the lone being hiding there. There was absolutely no way the spider was willing to give away his location on such an easy hit. Not when there were easier and more swift methods of accomplishing his mission.

His thoughts were quiet and an eerie calm settled over the person as another entered through the door. The perched figure was acutely aware of every noise his target made. The senator's breaths were raspy, rattling out of lungs that were progressively ruined with each Malboro he lit. His polished Italian leather shoes scuffed the mottled gray carpet as the larger man brushed gracelessly past the desks and chairs there, making his way over to the podium and hiding behind it. His heart beat thudded loudly in the predator's ears as the man peaked restlessly over the top of the podium. When the door opened once more, flooding light into the twilight room, the senator quickly ducked his head back down beneath his shelter.

"Where could he have gone?" A figure brushed into the room, clad in black with a rather poor ski-mask on his face. He held a large Heritage Rough Rider .22 revolver in the hand that wasn't keeping the door propped open for his compatriot to step through. Following the other man closely was a slightly larger, thicker man that resembled a bull underneath the thick black cloth. He had a Seneca Double Shot gripped in his gloved hands, which he reloaded with more ammo while the door closed behind them.

"He came this way. It's worth checking." The other figure responded, voice deep and husky. Flipping the lights on, he growled out, "The jig is up, Froy! We'll go easier on ya if ya just come out!"

As the room lit, both shooters and the senator became acutely aware of a lithe, crouched figure on the ceiling. The gunmen raised their weapons up, preparing to fire upon the intruder, while the senator let out a yelp of surprise. This did not faze the spider, though. A shot went off, hitting the now-empty plaster. Both shooters backed up at that, glancing around wildly, trying to find wherever the hell the hidden figure had gone. "W-what the hell was that?!" The smaller shooter exclaimed, turning to his partner for advice.

His partner who could no longer respond through the knife embedded deeply into the jugular. Giving it a twist, the assassin yanked the blade out, before giving a quick flick of the wrist to send the blade careening into the other shooter's forehead. He hit the ground with a dull thud, and the hitman lowered the other larger figure to the ground as well before pulling the weapon out of the other man's head and cleaning it on a sleeve before pocketing it. The change in noises had the senator once more peeking over the pulpit, which he quickly scrambled out from once he realized the killer was approaching. "N-no, s-stop! P-please! I-I'll take back the wrongful accusations! I-I'll admit to all of my tax fraud! Just p-please! Don't-"

While he'd been babbling, he hadn't noticed the thin white string coming out from one of the assassin's sleeves. One that was now wrapped tightly against his throat, effectively silencing the senator's words. With a quick tug, the body fell limp to the ground as the head rolled away from its original position, spurting blood as it came to a stop near the killer's feet. Without a word, the hitman detached the web and let it drop into the growing puddle of blood, where it effectively dissolved without a trace. Then, he snagged the senator's business card from his shirt pocket, placing it in a small utility belt hanging from the killer's waist. Without a sound, he left the room. It would be too late to find him when someone would get curious enough to find the bodies.

The figure seemed to materialize almost silently in a nondescript location, heading down an elevator to a large hidden underground bunker. Ever since their main heads of operation were taken down by the notorious Avengers, they had moved their asset to an even more secure location and had become even stricter with his information. Anything that couldn't be said verbally was written on paper in the special language they had made of various ciphers, with the ink able to fade away in direct contact with sunlight and the paper made of material that would dissolve nigh instantly in any liquid. They could not afford to lose this most special asset, especially after they had lost their first. This asset that they had been culminating for years was much too important to lose to superheroes.

Entering a small room after going through a pneumatic lock, he dropped everything on his person but his clothing into a tub for inspection, setting the business card on the table so they would know the hit was done. They got angry if he didn't bring proof. He didn't like it when they were angry. Then, without a sound, he stepped into a one-way door that would allow him in but not out unless someone opened it from the outside. It led to an incredibly small, padded room with one way mirrors lining all sides near the ceiling. He moved automatically to a corner and sat down, curling his legs up to his chin and hugging them to his chest as he awaited further orders.

This was how it worked for one Peter Parker. Someone would order a hit and request him, his handlers would give him the information and he would perform it. He would bring back proof of the job finished before it made the news, drop his gear off, and sit in his chamber until they needed him for something again. He never left the room unless it was a test, a mission, or something they needed him to make. Food was always deposited through one of the panels that would exchange out for the tube, and the same went for a toilet, a sink, and a shower. No one ever entered unless they needed him for something, which would be as frequently as every hour or as infrequently as weeks on end. It all depended on if they needed the mutant to do something, which left the killer with a lot of time on his hands to think.

He was born exactly 14 years, 7 months, 11 days, 19 hours, 23 minutes and 54 seconds ago. His parents discovered he was a mutant that had a latent gene activated 13 years, 5 months, 1 day, 3 hours, 2 minutes and 9 seconds ago. His parents had been killed in an orchestrated plane crash 10 years, 8 months, 8 days, and 15 seconds ago. He had been adopted by his Aunt May and his Uncle Ben 10 years, 8 months, 7 days, 18 hours, 12 minutes and 59 seconds ago. He had been taken by HYDRA and witnessed his aunt's and uncle's deaths 10 years, 4 months, 13 days, 6 hours, 7 minutes and 3 seconds ago. He had been under their thumb for 10 years, 4 months, 13 days, 5 hours, 7 minutes and 3 seconds ago. He had given up trying his resistance to their program 8 years, 9 months, and 10 seconds ago. Peter Parker, as far as the HYDRA goons could tell, had been effectively killed off from his memories, his actions, his thoughts, and his mind 8 years, 3 months, 10 hours, 37 minutes and 16 seconds ago.

Keeping track of how much time had passed was one of the only things keeping Peter sane through it all. It helped him remember who he was, what he was, where he had started, and how long he'd been forced into this charade. He'd given up hope of rescue 4 years, 11 months, 26 days, 1 hour and 48 minutes ago. Because rescue wasn't coming when no one knew you existed. They made sure of that. His only relatives? Presumed to have been killed in an unfortunate accident. Their adoptive nephew? A cold missing person's case from 10 years ago. As far as the world knew, and as far as even his captors knew, Peter Parker was dead, no longer a figure on the planet Earth.

To them, he was Weaver. The high-class, deadly assassin born with spider-like abilities who had been 7 years, 5 months, 3 days, 12 hours, and 10 minutes without a failure. Who they'd removed body parts from whenever he wasn't doing something to their exact specifications, starting at the outside and working in. He had exactly 21 failures under his belt. The first five had been cautionary, removing only the digits of his right hand. The next 4 had taken the entirety of his right arm. The last 6 had stripped him of a left foot. Each time they had removed an organic part of his body, they replaced it with a Vibranium prosthetic so he could still keep the same effectiveness. After going through the foot, though, they came to the realization that the physical torture of removing limbs was numbed to their dear pet assassin. So, they switched to different methods instead, ones that attacked his heightened senses. A specialized dog whistle that was attuned to a frequency no normal creature could pick up on and raised in decibels until he'd tried tearing his ears off. A gas that enhanced his sense of smell so acutely that it resulted in a bloody nose and desperate scrabbling. A combination of lights at varying colors, frequencies, and intervals that began to blur together anything he could see and an intense migraine. A muzzle he couldn't remove that kept periodically spurting varying intensities of chemicals. A device that shocked his nerve endings with just enough power to barely graze above numbing that provided a constant and dizzying cyclone of pain. And, lastly, a machine that repeatedly put him in danger but barely hurt him at all, causing his sixth sense to uncontrollably ache at him that kept him from doing anything more than crumpling into a bawling heap on the floor.

Peter had been stubborn, but after that, his frazzled mind couldn't cope with it all anymore. It locked away his old self and buried Peter Parker deep below the surface, where he watched impassively from the darkest recesses of his fractured mind. He could only be Weaver here. Any sign that an old part of him still existed would result in any number of the torturous devices they held, and he couldn't have that. Not anymore. So the only time he could truly be Peter was when he was here, in this little chamber, locked away in the vault of his thoughts. It was his safe space, hidden behind the impassive mask he'd woven with careful practice so as to not let a single sign of his buried former life emerge. In that, his alter ego of Weaver, despite being the organization's best assassin, was a protector to the young fourteen year old who'd been forced to grow up too fast.

He was stirred from his thoughts as his senses alerted him to three people exiting the elevator and pausing in the chamber before his own. He heard them going through the gear, checking it, as well as noting the hit was finished thanks to the card. A pleased conversation struck up between his handlers as they made note to tell their customer the task was completed. With all of that finished, the young assassin expected they would do what they normally did; leave and not return for a considerable amount of time. Which is why it was a little surprising to the spiderling when one of them opened the door. "Weaver," the tall, nicely dressed man Peter recognized as his head handler (codenamed Ace since real names were not used, lest someone learn and use that against them) gave a flick of the head to gesture to the killer to step out. Instantly he was on his feet with a refined grace that came from years of unrelenting training. He followed the man back to the equipment room, silently wondering what the change in schedule was about but refusing to let the question so much as slip past his mental barriers.

The pair paused within the other room Peter was most equipped with, the room where they stored, repaired, and kept all of his gear and equipment. They had learned early on of his intelligence and had him designing his own weapons, outfit, and gadgets, and upon realizing how high the quality was, had him periodically update and make designs for their own troops to mass-produce and use in combat. It was here that he could best connect with the one part of his old self they had allowed him to keep; the genius inventor who had effectively cut their spending costs to an absolute minimum and had singlehandedly kept most of their men alive thanks to the gear they were provided. Survival rates had increased a dramatic 41.74% when they used his designs.

The other two figures in the room met them when they entered. One was Ace's right hand man- a scrawny, rat-like guy that went by the name of Scrappy that was given the delegation of sorting through any and all requests that were meant for him. The other was one that Peter had seen on the occasion, though was not one of his handlers. It was a rather unimpressive man who looked plain any way you viewed him, wearing a pair of Aviators that went by the name of Coin. He was one of 11 individuals who had been granted the privilege of his repertoire and more in-depth knowledge on his hits. He wasn't one of the 3 who knew who he was and what he looked like under the costume, but that was the way they wanted it; the other 8 were only given pieces of Weaver's abilities, history as a killer, and effectiveness in varying degrees. Coin was probably the most knowledgeable of those other 8.

Scrappy flashed him a grin through dirty teeth. "Hello there, Weaver. Great job on taking out Senator Froy. I'm sure the customer will be most pleased. We're also impressed with how you dealt with the other obstacles that were there."

Coin had a folder that he carefully placed the card in. It was the latest in a long collection of proof from his finished hits. The man flashed him an easy smile, though Peter detected a hint of uncertainty lingering behind his eyes. Huh, odd. It didn't seem either of his other handlers noticed, and he wasn't allowed to speak without their consent (though this had died when Peter Parker did to them, since he had no real reason to speak due to the fact compliance was shown by action and not words), so he let it be. It did provide him with the smallest spark of comfort to see that not all of them seemed to be stone-cold. He felt that spark become a question of hope that he quickly snuffed back before it could color his brown gaze, and decided it was most important to focus back on the conversation. They didn't like it when he ignored them. That resulted in water torture.

"We just got a call in from the last remaining Heads," Ace murmured to his right, walking over to Scrappy and taking the folder the man pulled out from his vest. Bringing it over to Peter, he placed it in the assassin's hands. "It requires immediate action."

Scrappy smirked as he tapped the folder in the killer's hands. "This job is your absolute most important, which means it must be done perfectly. There's no room to play around, there's no room for error, and there's absolutely no room for getting captured. It will undoubtedly be your deadliest mission yet," the small man began to pace the room. "Which is why you may take your best gear and as much equipment and firepower as you need. You may take as much time completing the mission as it takes to do it without mistakes. If you get caught, you are to take the pill embedded in your jaw immediately. Failure means death. If we find that you are captured, and are unable to take the pill, we will exercise any means necessary to ensure you are killed. The targets are too important to allow for such a contingency. Are the parameters clear?"

After noting Peter's succinct nod, Ace nodded. "You may now see what the mission is. We expect you to set out at 2 AM sharp. Be ready to go by then."

The small group left, leaving Peter alone in the room, which told the assassin that they didn't expect him back in his chambers. Which also meant that he was not allowed to sleep, and needed to spend the time they'd given him preparing for what sounded like the biggest mission of his life. Checking the display on the nearby table, he realized it was 11:41 PM. That gave him less than 3 hours to prepare. Staring down at the unassuming manila folder, he let his gloved hands pause momentarily above it as he silently pondered what hit could make them break the routine so terribly. With an unimpressive turn, he revealed the contents of the folder, with the mission details and the hit, with the targets labelled clearly at the top, an image attached.

Target: The Avengers. Priority: Alpha. Take out at all costs.

And with that, Of Webs or Weapons is launched! Now, obviously, this is... definitely going to be a very different story than Spider on the Run. It's rated Mature for... well... some more detailed and intense gore and torture (later on). I might put warnings for when I go into anything extremely graphic.

Surprisingly enough, my motivations for this story came from playing My Friend Pedro. Weird, right? Well, the character you play as, with the mask and the things you can do, really reminded me of Spider-Man... if he were a slightly crazy assassin. Especially the 2D trailer for the game. Then the idea evolved into a, "What if we took this and made it a nice long moral dilemma story?" Of course, my mind thought it was a great idea. And in wondering where exactly it was going to fit, well... I decided that a nice little Civil War and beyond rewrite would be a neat little spot to go off of. AKA... I just really, really wanted a chance to be able to write Tony, Natasha, Vision, and Steve since, well... I can't exactly write them in as characters into SOTR since SOTR is canon-compliant post-FFH. It should be a fun experience.

NEXT TIME ON OWOW: It was easy for Peter to brush off the moral ambiguity of his violent actions if the hits were all people he was unfamiliar with. But even though he'd been in this hell hole for a long time, he knew of the superhero team. And boy, does it throw a wrench into his carefully crafted world.