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The usually-arrogant Nick Fury was huffing and puffing with rage.
He was already plotting how to 'deal' with this clueless high-school kid.
For instance, pretend to agree to his terms first, then quietly take control of his guardians.
Let the Little Brat despair, then step in like a hero to 'rescue' those guardians.
Make him realize how high the sky is and how thick the earth is, while he weeps with gratitude and bows at my feet.
To rise to Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury had done more shady deeds than he could count.
A little scheme like this caused him zero guilt.
"Coulson, compile every scrap of data on Peter Parker's guardians, relatives and friends for me!"
Beside him, Natasha heard that and knew Fury was up to no good.
Before meeting Peter, she'd have seen nothing wrong with such tactics.
After all, her training had always taught her: any collateral damage was acceptable if it served the mission.
But right now—whether her ovaries and uterus had returned and the psychotropic drugs worn off, awakening some buried maternal instinct, or Peter's fierce will to protect his family had shaken her—she stared at Fury's profile and found the man more repulsive by the second.
With that thought, Natasha hesitated, then made a decision that went against everything she was:
"Director, I have to warn you: Peter Parker's abilities far exceed what you imagine; what you saw in that video is only the tip of the iceberg."
Fury turned impatiently, his single eye sweeping over Natasha.
"Beyond being strong and fixing broken toasters, what else can he do?"
"He…" Natasha drew a deep breath.
"He can heal people—regrow lost limbs!"
The instant he heard it, Fury's expression shifted.
So his guess had been right: the kid really could repair human bodies.
If so, not only could the Captain be saved, but he himself could enjoy lifelong health.
Agents crippled on missions wouldn't need forced retirement.
In short, with Peter Parker in hand he could turn every S.H.I.E.L.D. subordinate into a nuclear-powered workhorse.
He could even stockpile vast political capital through the boy's power.
Which old politico didn't carry some serious illness?
Cure them through Peter—what enormous favors those would be!
With those favors, S.H.I.E.L.D. could do whatever it wanted.
At that thought, Fury's anger was replaced by pure greed; his gaze turned crystal-clear.
If the boy truly was that miraculous, granting these petty demands wasn't impossible.
But… certainly not so easily.
He still had to test the kid, haggle the price to the floor; otherwise, with Peter as precedent, how could he recruit other 'Avengers'?
"Natasha…" Fury's voice dropped, once more the wise, commanding Director:
"When school ends, bring him here. I want a good talk with the boy."
Natasha rolled her eyes mentally, but answered obediently,
"Yes, Director."
…Night had fallen; the city's lights were coming on.
Peter, having just reassured Uncle Ben and Aunt May, stepped outside to find Natasha leaning against a black SUV.
After brief greetings he climbed in, and she drove him straight to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York branch.
Seeing the familiar-yet-foreign corridors, he hooked a faint, unnoticed smile:
"Sheep pen, here I come!"
In his office, Fury watched Peter via surveillance.
Noticing the kid's hayseed gawking, he sneered.
Little Brat, no threat at all.
Thinking so, he straightened his jacket and, the moment Peter entered, loosed his long-nurtured aura of authority.
Too bad Peter looked utterly unmoved.
Seeing Fury, Peter frowned slightly and turned to Natasha:
"No way—legendary Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. is actually an in—"
Hearing the almost-spoken slur, Natasha and Coulson nearly cracked up.
They each recalled the saddest events of their lives before managing to say in mock-annoyance:
"Show some respect to the Director."
Fury's single eye bulged, veins on his forehead throbbing.
In all his years commanding the World's most secretive, powerful agency, no one had insulted him to his face.
He nearly exploded on the spot, but, thinking of Peter's power, swallowed the rage and forced a smile uglier than a grimace:
"In fact, Black people today excel in every field; a Black Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. is nothing—"
Before he could finish, Peter cut in:
"Stop. I'm not here for a sociology lecture. Just tell me—will you meet my terms or not?"
A tic bulged on Fury's forehead; he'd had enough of this brat.
He snorted coldly and decided to flex a little muscle first:
"Peter, I understand your mindset—teen suddenly gets power and thinks everyone else is trash.
But this World is far more complex than you imagine; plenty of things you can't solve alone.
For instance, without my say-so, do you really think you'll walk out of S.H.I.E.L.D. ali—"
"What's that jabbering about?"
Once again Peter brutally cut him off.
Bzzzz—
He opened his right hand; violent energy rapidly gathered in his palm.
This time it was no ordinary Rasengan.
Peter didn't bother shaping it, simply let his Chakra pour in unchecked.
The spinning blue sphere ballooned, and in a blink became a massive orb over a meter across.
Energy detectors shrieked their alarms.
Worse, it kept growing.
Under Natasha, Fury and Coulson's horrified monster-stares, Peter flashed a sunny, harmless grin:
"I'm walking out now—just try and stop me."