Absolute Spider-Man

[Nicohals J Westerberg]

Glad you liked it. I'm working on posting more chapters here right now lol

Click to shrink...

Well I got to chap 20, right after the bird guy
So I guess ill read the rest on here!

 

[Arsenal597]

Well I got to chap 20, right after the bird guy
So I guess ill read the rest on here!

Click to shrink...

I did reply to your comment on AO3 by the way!

 

[Rieverre]

Huge missed opportunity. Should have made this the local version of Warren Worthington rather than Toomes.

You're also not really playing to the premise as you've outlined it. Almost everybody still has close to their 616 personality. Nothing's really all that surprising.

 

[Arsenal597]

Huge missed opportunity. Should have made this the local version of Warren Worthington rather than Toomes.

You're also not really playing to the premise as you've outlined it. Almost everybody still has close to their 616 personality. Nothing's really all that surprising.

Click to shrink...

Well, there's more than one Vulture. As for the premise, things are still happening. I don't really pay attention to the 616 verse. Never have, especially knowing what they've done to Peter in the mainstream universe. This was more aligned with how the new Ultimate comics was going and a touch of the Absolute comics. The massive changes are coming.

 

[SaltySmile]

Speaking of vulture fight the most I'm not happy of how close you want to fly to the canonical Spider-Man verse theming. Someone close HAD to die. MC somehow decides not to finish a monster who murdered his family. The villain somehow gets away by literal Deus ex machina teleport. It's all a bit contrived. Would have been better if either both Ben and May survived or he killed the monster. That would break the canonical approach and make it feel like you are not trying to just play Spiderman straight again with same tropes. As it is now, I had to ask why replay the same thing but change the flavour a bit? Is free will a myth in this universe? Can canon not be broken? If so, then what's the point?

 

[Arsenal597]

Speaking of vulture fight the most I'm not happy of how close you want to fly to the canonical Spider-Man verse theming. Someone close HAD to die. MC somehow decides not to finish a monster who murdered his family. The villain somehow gets away by literal Deus ex machina teleport. It's all a bit contrived. Would have been better if either both Ben and May survived or he killed the monster. That would break the canonical approach and make it feel like you are not trying to just play Spiderman straight again with same tropes. As it is now, I had to ask why replay the same thing but change the flavour a bit? Is free will a myth in this universe? Can canon not be broken? If so, then what's the point?

Click to shrink...

That's a fair question. So, admittedly I could have made Ben and May both survive. That is not something I'm going to stand here and refute. But in that regard, I was following the route of the new Ultimate comics where by the time Peter gets bit by the spider, May was dead for over a year in a terrorist attack that killed Norman Osborn and his wife. That's why I chose May, because that universe's route inspired me.
For the Vulture incident, this is a moment where the character's morals got in the way. He's never killed anyone before. Hell, he had only gotten into a few minor fights. Nothing like this. He was half-unconscious, ready to keel over, and as he goes to do it, not only does he hear a voice in the back of his head literally telling him 'no', but Vulture caught him off guard. The mixed variables had to do with the outcome.
The teleport can be seen as contrived, but I'd also argue that by that point we don't know who's involved with Vulture or whoever sent him. But, given what's known at the end of chapter 26.... the Jackal is running things behind the scenes for the two Vultures. We really don't know from a reader's standpoint where Jackal's influence and social circles run. For all a reader knows, this could go higher than Jackal.
Canon has nothing to do with this at the end of the day. I took bits and pieces of what I enjoyed most from different iterations of the characters, laid the groundwork, and started forming this universe. What's going to break the mold is yet to come.

 

[SebazuD]

The teleport can be seen as contrived, but I'd also argue that by that point we don't know who's involved with Vulture or whoever sent him. But, given what's known at the end of chapter 26.... the Jackal is running things behind the scenes for the two Vultures. We really don't know from a reader's standpoint where Jackal's influence and social circles run. For all a reader knows, this could go higher than Jackal.
Canon has nothing to do with this at the end of the day. I took bits and pieces of what I enjoyed most from different iterations of the characters, laid the groundwork, and started forming this universe. What's going to break the mold is yet to come.

Click to shrink...

Issue is that, when you give the antagonists something as powerful as teleportation, it makes "sending a dangerous mutated Monster to attack a 14 year old on a vague guess" really hard to believe, from a practical or logical standpoint, and it's gonna stay as a "why did they do that" for everything you have the villains do, because they should have so much better options .

 

[TeeGeN]

The hardcore kid - hardcore kind. Thanks for writin

 

[ipinnu]

Just finished reading all the chapters
Love it
Thanks for writing this

 

[Arsenal597]

"How many times are we going to have to come back to school with everybody watching us?" Peter asked in the back of my head as I got out of the car. Ben wished me a good day at school, and I told him I'd call if I needed him.

I don't know, but I'm sick of this.

"You're not the only one. The second-hand embarrassment is bad enough. I get why you like the mask."

That's not why I like the mask, man.

"I know, but it certainly helps with your social anxiety."

'Our' social anxiety, remember?

I can hear him laugh for a split second, but it doesn't last long as I see who's waiting for me near the steps.

Truthfully, I should have known the moment I stepped back through Midtown's doors again, I was going to be the main focus. Seeing Flash and Lonnie waiting for me? That wasn't something I would have considered in a million years. Now I'll admit, I half-expected Harry, Gwen, or even MJ to be waiting for me, but I must have gotten there earlier than normal. At least, that's what I'm going to tell myself.

MJ and I were on good terms, to my knowledge at least. Have we talked since the funeral? No. That's my fault, but I warned her I'd be getting distant for a while. I've been having conflicting feelings since that night I stopped by her place. Our conversation had left a lasting impression that I didn't want to confront. There was something that I couldn't confront. Not while my head's in a million different places.

Harry's been a weird case, and I'll admit that's probably on me. I've neglected his friendship; I won't deny it. We hung out a few times since I woke up from the coma, but beyond that we haven't done much as friends. Then the last time we really spoke was at the hospital. I came off rude, and we hadn't spoken to each other since. Which only gets worse the more I think about the fact I've spent so much time with Norman the last couple weeks.

Don't worry, Harry. I'll ignore you and steal your dad's attention.

I need to talk to him — make sure that he understands that I'm not intentionally ignoring him. At least, not entirely.

Gwen, though… I don't know. Still trying to figure that one out. She's been friendly with Peter, but I'm not sure I'd go far enough to say we're friends. Yeah, she was there at the hospital the moment she found out about May and I, but… the word doesn't sit right when I think about it. She's with Harry. There's no need to worry about a Peter Parker/Gwen Stacy future. So, why does her not being here bother me so much?

So, yeah… like I said, Flash and Lonnie being the ones waiting for me wasn't quite what I expected. At the very least, I know these two aren't gonna let me drown in my own wallowing.

"You guys really didn't have to—"

I don't even get to finish before Flash holds his hands up.

"Yeah, we did," he cuts in, not looking at me.

And that's it. That's all he says.

So we walk.

Every conversation dies a little when we pass. You can feel it. Like static brushing against my skin, crawling under it. Nobody says my name, but I can hear it in the gaps between their words. Pity. Curiosity. Guilt. Everyone's trying so hard to act normal that it just makes everything worse.

Someone's locker door slams too loud, and I flinch. Flash shoots the guy a look, and the hallway just… dies. Silence, all over again. Great. Just what I needed—protection from a guy I used to want to punch in the face.

Lonnie leans closer as we keep moving.

"Dude, you look like you're walking into your own trial."

"Feels like it," I mutter.

"Just ignore them."

Right. Easy for him to say.

We make it to my locker, and as I start grabbing my stuff, I must've looked worse than I thought, because Flash nudges me.

"You good?"

"Yeah," I lie. My anxiety's going through the roof right now—and that's saying something. At least when I was off from school, I could throw myself into training with Norman and Smythe, or bury my head in research with Doctor Octavius. Hell, I'd rather be in a mask right now fighting guys with energy rifles. Feels easier than this shit.

Flash doesn't call me out on it, but I can tell he knows. He just nods once and lets it go. Lonnie's already drifting down the hall, waving off a couple guys trying to talk to him like he's a bouncer at a club. I shut my locker and follow.

I think the worst part of all this is how careful everyone's being. Nobody's mean. Nobody's cruel. They're just… cautious. Like I'm made of glass. Every word, every look—it's like they're all afraid I'm gonna break if they breathe wrong.

And somehow, this is worse than the funeral.

At least there, nobody expected me to act normal.

By the time I'm in Larson's classroom, I'm already feeling overwhelmed by the attention. Flash and Lonnie went about their business, but promised to be there if I needed them. I don't need their protection, but I'll admit the thought was nice enough.

Larson cleared his throat upon seeing me, and despite the awkward tension, he didn't say anything. That's a relief. It's one less 'I'm sorry for your loss' that I have to deal with.

"Would it be that bad if he said something nice?" Peter asked, breaking his silence since I walked in. He's keeping his word about staying quiet unless we're alone.

I don't know. I mean, not really.

"Then what's the problem?"

I can't deal with the pity; I'd rather pretend everything's normal.

"But it's not, and you can't keep pretending like it is." he reminded me. I shake my head, flipping my notebook open to the sketch of the proto-Spidey suit. "Should you really be looking at this in class? What if Harry sees it?"

Pete… I'm not going to let anyone see it. I'm the only one in the room besides Larson, and he's trying to avoid me like I'm a homeless person begging for money.

"Alright. Fair enough."

I sketch out a few different shapes for my visor lenses. There's so many variations I could do, but what would work for me? Since that night Peter and I first talked after my fight with Vulture, I already know what I want to be called.

So many Spideys have their own unique calling card. The Amazing Spider-Man. The Spectacular Spider-Man. The Sensational Spider-Man. Hell, even the Superior Spider-Man. I mean, there's a lot of titles out there, but none of them feel appropriate for me… except for one.

I could-

"Pete, you're back." Harry's voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I scramble to cover the page. He's just set his things down on the desk in front of me. My heart's pounding in my throat. Fuckin' Spider Sense — it warns me of people wanting to cause physical harm, but it can't warn me when I'm about to be discovered? I don't care if I trust Harry or not, that's a bulllshit limitation.

"He-hey," I nod. "Yeah. I figured it was about time."

I adjust the sling, quietly chastizing myself for deciding to wear it. It's for the best, but I hate having my mobility restricted.

"I thought you would have told me." he explained, clearly hurt that I hadn't reached out. And yeah, admittedly I should have. Somehow, I managed to tell Flash Thompson of all people I was coming back to school, but not my best friend. "How are you doing? Dad said the treatment's going well."

"It's going." I replied tartly. "They're pushing for physical therapy already."

"Already? Wasn't your shoulder shattered?"

"It was, but Oscorp's got plenty of tricks up their sleeves."

Harry nods, but I can tell he doesn't care about that. He examined me for a moment, glancing towards my notebook as I flipped it shut. I'll just work on the lenses later. When Harry doesn't continue the conversation any, I almost expect him to turn around and leave me be. It's a broken record, but in my old life, when I didn't push a conversation, people figured I was upset with them and left me alone.

"Look, I should have told you." I sigh, right as he began to turn to face the front of the class. "I haven't talked to anyone… not even MJ."

He turned back around with surprise.

"You haven't talked to her?"

"Not since the funeral." I admitted. "I'm having trouble talking to anyone right now. I'm lucky to say more than five sentences in a day to Ben."

"Pete…"

"Ever since I got out of the hospital, all I have wanted to do is either lay in bed and not get up, punch a wall, or scream at the top of my lungs. I can't bring myself to talk to Ben most days. I'm not sleeping right. I'm not even eating right. I'm not good, Harry. I'm trying, so please… don't think I'm taking it out on you, because I'm not." There's a tightness in my throat as I explain it, and my eyes are starting to burn. "I'm not talking to people, because I know all I'm going to do is hurt someone if I do."

Harry's quiet for a moment, but ultimately gives a weak nod.

"Okay, Pete. I get it… just don't completely shut me out, okay?"

All I can do is shake my head in agreement. Then, Harry turned towards the front of the class, and neither of us said a word for the rest of the period.

---

From that point on, nobody spoke to me all day. Not even Peter after my talk with Harry ended. Any other day, it would have been fine. Today, though? I feel more out of place than ever.

I never thought I'd say this, but P.E. was the one class I thought might be able to make me feel normal again. There's plenty of noise. Sneakers squeaking on polished floors, people half-assing push-ups while pretending they're working hard, whistles blowing…

Familiar chaos.

Above all else, I think it's because of who I was expecting to see there.

MJ's already there when I walk in — hair tied back, talking with a few of the girls near the bleachers. She looks good. Different, though. There's something quieter in her posture that I can't explain. I want to walk over to her and say something, just to be able to speak with her, but the moment our eyes meet the thought crashes and burns.

There's no smile or wave. All I see is a softness in her eyes. If she had been smiling before, it fades the moment she sees me. Yeah, that doesn't feel too good.

I should've said something to her after the funeral. God, I should've said anything. Instead, I spent the whole week letting the silence pile up between us like a wall I was too damn scared to knock down.

I keep thinking back to that night I left her room. I could've stayed. I should've stayed. But of course, me being me, I bolted the second my brain started whispering that I didn't belong there.

Now she's just standing across the gym, and I can feel how far away that moment is.

Yeah. This is probably why I never got a girlfriend in my old life. I was always an idiot in that regard.

Wait. Why the hell am I equating her to—

Oh boy.

I look away fast, pretending like I'm stretching or some other totally natural, not-suspicious-at-all activity. My chest feels like it's trying to fold in on itself.

God, this is so stupid. Why am I stretching when I can't do anything today? I'm in a sling. They're not going to let me do anything more than walk to one of the bleachers and sit there while everyone else sweats their asses off.

I make my way over to the bleachers and sink down into the cold metal seat, the kind that always feels like it's trying to bruise your spine on impact. Adjusting the sling is still awkward as hell. Every little tug feels like my shoulder's grinding against itself, like sandpaper on bone. The sooner I get this thing off, the better.

I focus on breathing through it, watching MJ out of the corner of my eye while pretending I'm not.

I try to let the noise of the gym swallow everything else — whistles, sneakers, Coach Hawkins yelling at someone for not keeping pace. Familiar chaos, like I said.

And then the door creaks open behind me.

Flash walks in.

He's not in gym clothes. He's holding his letterman jacket in his hand, which is already weird, because Flash treats that thing like it's some kind of sacred artifact. He's got that look — the one that says he's trying way too hard to look casual, but his body language sold him out five steps ago. His shoulders are stiff. His jaw's tight. Eyes down.

What the hell?

Flash isn't the kind of guy who skulks into a room like he's sneaking out of church.

He gives me this short nod, half-wave thing — the same thing I used to do when I wanted to keep my distance but not actually talk to someone. That's what does me in. Something about the way he's carrying himself makes my stomach twist.

I stand up before I even really register why.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask, closing the distance between us.

He blinks at me like he didn't expect me to actually get up.

"Uh, yeah," he mutters, voice low enough I have to lean in to hear him over the gym noise. "I had something I wanted to take care of, and I didn't want to wait until the end of the day for it."

He won't meet my eyes. That's never a good sign. Flash isn't exactly subtle, but when he gets quiet like this, it usually means something's chewing at him.

"Flash," I press, eyebrows knitting together. "What's going on?"

He shifts his weight, glancing toward the far end of the gym like he's trying to figure out how to make a break for it.

"Can we… talk somewhere else?" he finally says. "Not here."

That does it. If there wasn't a knot in my stomach before, there sure as hell is now.

I follow him without really thinking about it. Not because I trust him completely — I'm still trying to figure that one out — but because I can tell whatever this is, it's serious enough for him to act like this.

We slip out through the side door that leads into the hallway near the locker rooms. The noise of the gym cuts off behind us, replaced with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of our footsteps on tile. I keep waiting for him to say something, anything, but he doesn't. He's locked in his head, jaw working like he's trying to chew through words that don't want to come out.

"This is starting to feel real ominous, man," I say, trying to break the silence.

He huffs out something that might be a laugh, but it dies fast.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I just… I didn't wanna do this in front of everyone. It's honestly better that you're here."

"Do what?"

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he pushes the door open to the locker room and leads us through the maze of metal lockers that all smell faintly like sweat and old deodorant.

Flash stops at the door to Coach Wood's office.

He knocks. Two short taps.

"Come in," Wood's gruff voice calls out from the other side.

Flash glances at me once, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, and then pushes the door open.

Coach Wood's sitting behind his desk, scribbling something down on a clipboard. He's still got that whistle around his neck like it's welded there. When he looks up and sees Flash — and then me — his brow creases.

"Thompson. Parker. What's this about?"

Flash closes the door behind us, and suddenly the room feels way too small. It's not big to begin with — a desk, a filing cabinet, a couple old trophies on a shelf that probably haven't been dusted since the 90s. But it's the silence that makes it feel like the walls are inching closer.

Flash takes a breath, squeezes his letterman jacket like it's the only thing anchoring him, and steps forward.

"I, uh… I need to talk to you about something," he says. His voice cracks a little at the end.

Wood leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"Alright. What is it?"

For a second, Flash doesn't speak. His throat works, like the words are stuck halfway out and halfway back down. Then he sets the jacket down on the desk between them, palms flat like he's laying down a weapon.

"I'd like to be taken off of the team, effective immediately."

"What?" Coach and I say it at the same time.

Coach frowns, lowering his clipboard.

"Why would you want to be removed from the team?"

Flash glances at me. There's something heavy in his expression—regret, or maybe just exhaustion. He lets out a slow breath.

"I don't deserve it."

The silence that follows is awkward and thick. Coach's brows knit together. I just stare at him, trying to piece together what he means.

"Flash, that's not exactly a request I hear every day," Coach says carefully. "You mind telling me why?"

Flash rubs the back of his neck.

"Because I'm not a good person," he admits quietly. "I don't think I ever have been. I've done some real crap to people, Coach. Stuff that doesn't just go away because I caught a touchdown or scored a few points."

He looks at me again, and it's not defensive. It's honestly vulnerable, in a way that makes me forget he's Flash Thompson for a second.

"I want to fix that," he continues. "But I can't do that if I keep living in my comfort zone. That includes football. Basketball. All of it."

Coach opens his mouth only to immediately close it again. You can see the gears turning—trying to find something that won't sound hollow.

"Everyone makes mistakes," he finally says.

"Yeah," Flash says, nodding once. "But nobody should get to walk away from them without consequence. I got detention for my fight with Peter a few weeks ago, but that doesn't account for everything else I've done."

The room goes quiet, and I'm honestly unsure whether I'm actually hearing this right now. Flash—Flash—is willing to give up sports to make things right? What's brought this about? I think back to our talk in the hospital. Is this because of me?

Coach leans forward, elbows on the desk.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

"The last thing I want to do is tarnish our school's reputation, and I've already done enough damage as it is. I've made up my mind."

Coach sighs through his nose, tapping his pen against the clipboard.

"I have to say, that's incredibly mature of you." He clicks his tongue and nods once. "Alright. I suppose you don't want to make a spectacle of this?"

Flash shakes his head.

"No, sir. It's more attention than I'm worth."

Coach stares at him for a moment before shifting his gaze toward me.

"Parker, give us the room for a minute, will you?"

"Yeah," I say quietly, stepping toward the door.

As I leave, I glance back through the office window. Flash is standing there with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders drawn in but head high. He's trying — really trying — to do better.

I can't tell if what I'm feeling is pity or pride. Hell, it might be both.

Either way, it's enough to make me stop for a second before stepping out of view. A few minutes later, Flash steps out of the office and looks at me with a soft smile. This clearly wasn't a spur of the moment thing. He's been thinking about this for a while.

"Why the hell did you do that?"

"It's like you said, man. Actions are louder than words, right?" he shrugged.

"That's not what I meant." I throw my hand out. "I didn't want you to quit sports. I just wanted you to take responsibility."

"I know, but this is how I'm doing it."

"Are you sure about this?"

Flash gives this short, dry laugh that doesn't have any humor in it.

"No. But it's the right thing."

"Why tell me?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"Because you get it."

And the thing is… I do.

"Besides, if I'm nothing without that stupid jacket, then I don't deserve it in the first place."

That's close enough to the line Tony Stark gave in Homecoming that it makes me physically smile.

"It's going to be weird seeing you without the jacket. Are you going to be okay without it?"

"I'll be fine," he shrugged. "The guys aren't going to be happy, but they can either deal with it or stay the hell away."

I let out a slow breath.

"I'm proud of you, man."

His head jerks toward me like I just said something in another language.

"What?"

"I'm serious," I tell him.

"Come on, don't get sappy with me, Parker." he groaned.

"Too late," I grin, "you already saw me half-dead in a hospital bed, remember?"

He lets out a laugh — small, but real. Then he does it: a light punch to my good arm. It's not hard, not meant to hurt. It's the kind of punch that says we're good without ever saying it out loud.

"Don't make this a thing," he muttered.

"No promises."

---

Hey guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter. I know this one is shorter than normal, but that's mostly because this was written when I was still getting back to normal following the death in the family we had. Next chapter is going to be really short in comparison to the other chapters. But I may attempt to do a double upload. Just depends on how much I get done.

If not, I will make sure the following chapters that come out more than make up for the short length of Chapter 28.

Anyway, let me know what you think. Comments help me to know what everyone thinks, and it motivates me to write. It's a win-win.

If you're interested in supporting my writing, I do have a Patreon you can go to and get up to 5 chapters early access. And you can get exclusive first looks at artwork commissions for the story and what's to come.

If you want to join the discord server I run to talk about the story, link will be down below. I will catch you all later!

---

This story is cross-posted on Ao3, FF, and QQ.

---

discord. gg /dQkeJPkxdD

https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

 

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapter
Flash Thompson getting character development, what universe has Peter Parker SI, which Peter Parker realizes Flash is a big softie underneath that jock exterior of his on the aunt May death situation. Aside from that Peter Parker SI really should talk to MJ Watson.
Continue on
Cheers!

 

[Arsenal597]

AN: Super short chapter. Next chapter should be within a couple days.

---

Felicia hated the silence.

The safehouse had always felt small, but tonight it felt like a shoebox someone forgot to poke air holes into. Every creak of the pipes, every faint hum of the city bleeding through the boarded-up windows, pressed against the back of her neck like a cold hand.

The last week had been a blur of restless nights and half-finished thoughts. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw wings. Broad, leathery, and wrong—like something that wasn't meant to exist outside of nightmares. The sound they made—god, she'd never forget it. A low, heavy thrum that lived somewhere between thunder and a heartbeat. It rattled in her bones. It chased her into her dreams and waited there like it owned the place.

Felicia dragged a hand down her face and forced her attention back to the files spread out on the table in front of her. Richard Parker's research was scattered across yellowed folders and old-school punch cards that looked like they belonged in some cold, forgotten basement. Half of it might as well have been written in Klingon for all she understood of it. Gene sequences. Protein chains. Chemical signatures. Stuff that only people with doctorates and bad social skills probably got excited about.

But underneath the blinding wall of science babble, she caught threads—thin little strings she could tug on. Patterns.

Weaponization.

Delivery vectors.

"Stabilized transformation protocols."

She wasn't a genius, but she'd learned how to read between the lines when she needed to. Most of what this was hinting at was grounds for potential weaponization of genetic modifications. And of course, had she read another line or two…

"Any applications of this research outside of humanitarian intent will result in catastrophic consequences."

"Restrictions must be absolute. Containment protocols non-negotiable."

Felicia tilted the page toward the dim light, and there it was again: genetic mapping, enhanced tissue tolerance, references to arachnids, certain bats, and other animals with genetic capabilities that humans inherently lacked.

If someone looked at this and saw power instead of responsibility… they could make monsters.

Not a monster like the one she saw in the Archive—but something like it. Something born of the same temptation.

She exhaled through her teeth, fingers tightening around the paper until it crinkled. The image flashed again in her head—those wings, the sound they made when they carved the air. That creature hadn't needed permission to exist. Someone had just needed the idea.

"Jesus, Parker…" she muttered, staring down at his warning. "What the hell were you into?"

She sat back, letting the chair creak beneath her. The room wasn't cold, but her skin prickled like it was.

Why the hell had Richard Parker been working on something like this? Why had her father crawled out of retirement for… this?

Her eyes darted toward the corkboard propped against the far wall. It wasn't much, but it was hers. Scrawled notes. Newspaper clippings. Photos she'd swiped from Oscorp's server. Everything she'd dug up about Richard Parker's old projects, connected by a mess of red string that made her look one breakdown away from a true crime podcast.

All she knew was that Walter's trail had led to that research, and that "Jackal" apparently was looking for it as well.

"Were you able to get anything from our little thief?" resonated in the back of her mind, an unwelcome reminder that she was on borrowed time.

Felicia pressed her palms into the edge of the table hard enough for the wood to bite.

Doing nothing wasn't an option. Walter didn't have time for her to second-guess herself, and every hour she spent sitting here staring at Parker's scribbles was another hour Jackal had a head start. If Walter was still breathing.

The thought dug in deep and refused to let go.

Don't think that. Don't you dare think that.

She shoved the files into a single pile, the paper rasping together like a hiss. If she left them here, anyone sniffing around would have a roadmap to the kind of nightmare that sprouted wings and came for her in the Archive. She wasn't about to let that happen.

Her eyes flicked to the burner phone on the table. Walter's phone. Cracked at the corner, faint trace of blood smeared across the screen like a bruise that wouldn't heal. She tapped the screen, scrolled to the last incoming call, and there it was again.

Norman Osborn.

Felicia let out a low, humorless laugh. "God, I'm an idiot."

Of course it was him. Of course it was Norman Osborn.

If there was anyone with the kind of bankroll to drag Walter Hardy out of his quiet, careful retirement, it was the man who practically minted money in his sleep. She could almost hear the pitch in her head already—something wrapped up in science talk, just dangerous enough to sound lucrative to a thief with too much history and not enough choices.

But Norman wasn't Oscorp anymore. Not officially. Ever since his health tanked, he'd been more of a ghost with a fat wallet than the face of the company. Smythe might be the one steering the ship these days, but he was exactly the kind of corporate idiot who'd set himself on fire if you handed him matches and a warning label.

Which meant… Norman was doing this quietly.

Felicia leaned back in her chair, tapping her nail against the edge of the phone. Her mind was already sketching out the map, options branching out like cracks in glass.

She could hit Oscorp. Slip in through one of the maintenance routes Walter had marked about a year ago when he was trying to get her infiltration skills sharpened. She could get to Norman's office and see if there was anything that pointed to Walter. Security there was a pain, but not impossible—not for her.

Or… she could go somewhere quieter. Norman's house. Less security than Oscorp's labs, but a hell of a lot riskier in a different way. If Norman caught her digging around in his home, she'd have more to worry about than just security guards.

Her thumb hovered over the phone like it might give her the answer.

Oscorp meant a paper trail, maybe a few files, some access she could ghost her way through if she was careful. Norman's home meant answers. Personal ones. Maybe even the why.

She closed her eyes for a second. The office wasn't going to be promising. If Norman was doing something secretive, hiring Walter for a job, he wasn't going to have anything in the office that could incriminate him. That meant his home would be her best bet.

"Okay, Norman," she muttered under her breath. "Let's see what you've been hiding."

---

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, even if it was a smaller one. I am really sorry about that. Chapters ahead will be longer. Chapter 29 is the moment we've been waiting for, or at least I have. Peter gets his homemade costume in the next chapter!!!

Anyway, let me know what you think. Comments help me to know what everyone thinks, and it motivates me to write. It's a win-win.

If you're interested in supporting my writing, I do have a Patreon you can go to and get up to 5 chapters early access. And you can get exclusive first looks at artwork commissions for the story and what's to come.

If you want to join the discord server I run to talk about the story, link will be down below. I will catch you all later!

---

This story is cross-posted on Ao3, FF, and QQ.

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discord. gg /dQkeJPkxdD
https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

Love the story so far, I have a suggestion if you're up for it. Since you haven't reached venom yet, could the difference in this "absolute' Venom be a 'She-Venom' instead? it doesn't have to be like the current venom's run with the symbiote being bonded to MJ. But intead a female Eddy perhaps, or his daughter perhaps, that way its still a "Brock" even if its not the original. though I can see MJ using Venom to help Peter, if things got bad enough, but thats something for you to consider.

and here's some She-venom images to consider for her.

Spoiler: Thicc She-Venom(because why not?)

Spoiler: Eddy's Daughter?

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

when I looked around for the She-venom, I found some for MJ and Black cat, so here they are.

Spoiler: Black Cat

Spoiler: Black Cat got crossed with a cat

Spoiler: MJ

 

[Lillie Jones]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Arsenal597]

The rest of the school day felt like a blur, thankfully. If it had been any slower, I might have taken a leap out of the second story window. Granted, it wouldn't have done much with my powers… but damn if it wouldn't have gotten the message across. I blame Family Guy and American Dad for my slapstick humor. I can't exactly blame Looney Tunes because I'd go for a more adult approach to the joke.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. After Flash made the big gesture of removing himself from the sports teams, I didn't speak with anyone the rest of the day. Harry sat by me, but no words were exchanged. It was kind of nice just to know that he was there. Gwen and the others were nowhere to be found. I assumed it was because Flash was dealing with the fallout of his decision and Kong was trying to get answers out of him. Gwen, honestly I don't know where I'd expect her to be. Maybe she was in the library or the courtyard reading or something. I honestly have no clue.

As for Lonnie, I guess he swapped his lunch period for the day to help set up Homecoming decorations. In the whole confusion of everything that's gone on with me lately, I forgot that it was that time of year. Homecoming week should be coming up, and the dance will be right around the corner.

Should I go? Superheroes have a notorious track record with school dances — especially Spider-Man. I wouldn't even know what to do. I couldn't bother Harry about helping me out with an outfit for the dance, not after how I've been recently. Not even that, if I went… who the hell would I go with?

My brain immediately says MJ, and a storm of emotions hits me all at once over it. Yeah, the obvious choice would be MJ, because who else am I close enough with? I could ask her, but would she want to go with me? Wait, do I even want to go? Oh boy, let's not focus on that. You're not in the right headspace to go to a dance with Mary Jane Watson.

I mean, it would give me a reason to get out of the house for something 'age appropriate.' Ben would certainly appreciate it, and I'd like to think May would enjoy seeing me go with MJ. That's only if she were willing to go with me.

I would say what's the worst that can happen, but considering I'm dealing with a missing Vulture, I better not push my luck.

The walk home gave me plenty of time to think, and ultimately I got back to that point where I wanted nothing to do with anything normal. I think tonight's the night. I'm going to make my homemade suit at long last.

It's been a long time coming. I've been slacking on that end of the Web-Head spectrum, but not anymore. With Peter's help, we got a decent layout for what the costume will entail. I have it drawn up, the image is clear, and most importantly… I've actually got the patience to work with it. Where was this patience when I wanted to do cosplay, you fuck-knuckle of a brain?!

By the time I get inside, I'm practically jumping with anticipation. It's not often I get excited about something to do with clothing, but this is a special occasion. Do I tell Ben about it? He might not like seeing that I'm fully committing to the vigilante bit, especially after our previous talks. I know he's at least trying to accept all of this. With May, it's made this a lot harder than it needed to be. I've actually questioned whether it was the right thing to do — telling him about my secret in the first place. If I hadn't told him, and I acted the way I have been recently, it would have broken him.

It might be not ideal, but Ben deserves to be a part of this. I can't shut him out, despite what a small part of my brain says. I'm trying to stay open, but it's hard to find the energy to talk. Hell, the talk with Harry was emotionally draining enough and we barely spoke.

How the hell is it that Flash Thompson of all people was easier to be around than Harry, my best friend? Shit's ridiculous.

Ben's sitting at the table next to the wall of windows, gazing out at the city. He's been doing this a lot lately. I've figured out that he's looking towards Queens, and that hurts in a special way. He wants to go home, but…

I drop my book bag on the couch and walk over to him with a smile. If there's anybody that should be involved with this costume, I want him to be it. He was the first person I told about my powers, so it's only right.

"Hey, Ben!" I greet warmly, a little extra enthusiasm than I've had in a while. "You got any plans tonight?"

"Hey, kiddo." he smiled back, raising an eyebrow at the question. "Not that I'm aware of. Got something in mind?"

"Actually, yeah. Remember how I showed you a sketch at the hospital for a potential costume?"

"Vaguely. I couldn't make heads or tails of it at the time."

"Well, I spent the last few days coming up with something I could wear that's better than just a simple mask. I was hoping you could help me put it together."

Ben's eyes softened when I told him. He didn't say anything at first, but there was this tiny spark behind the worry — like he already knew where this was heading and decided not to fight it.

"I'd be happy to," he finally said, standing up. The hint of concern never really left his eyes, but he still clapped his hands together. "When do you want to get started?"

"Right now."

"Lead the way, maestro."

We headed to my room. The sketchbook was already out, opened to the page I'd spent too many nights obsessing over. Ben leaned in to look, eyebrows pulling together as he took in all the scribbles and spider logos crammed into the margins.

"Well," he muttered, "this isn't half-baked."

"I wanted there to be some variety in case I didn't like how one of the logos turned out. So, this is what I came up with."

"Three logos?"

"Four, technically. I took this one," pointing to the Raimi symbol I had drawn out. "Made it a little rougher, and added elements of this." My finger moved to the Insomniac version. "Making the legs spread out over the chest draws attention."

"You want the hoodie to be red, right?" I nodded, and he gave a soft smile. "I think there's an old hoodie of yours that would work. Fix the hem a bit, but it's going to be darker than what it shows in the drawing."

"Darker colors will probably be for the best." I admitted. "If I'm sneaking through a building or something, I don't want to stick out like a sore thumb."

"You've got a point," Ben looked the paper over more, and his finger landed on the belt. "I think we can come up with something. Looks like a utility belt. What exactly are you planning on storing in there?"

I'm not even sure to be honest. I had thought of just including my web cartridges in there, since I'd need a storage space for them, and the thought of a belt underneath the costume just feels a bit impractical to me. But if I can include other little gadgets in there, it could give me more variety. Hell, spaces for unique web formulas as I face more challenges. Or as Captain Stacy mentioned at the funeral, I could go full Batman with it.

"I'm not sure, but I'd rather have it than be without. I don't know what I'm going to end up facing out there. I mean, fighting a giant Vulture opens the door for some weird enemies."

"How about we aim for something a little less threatening, like Stilt-Man?"

"Stilt-Man? Really?" I shake my head. "Is that the legacy you want me to have? Fighting a guy with mechanized stilts?"

Ben shrugged.

"It'd be a lot safer than a man-eating Vulture."

"You're taking the fun out of this, you know that right?"

He patted me on the shoulder, trying not to laugh.

"I'm not supposed to be pushing you to go fight monsters, Pete. All I can do is support you at the end of the day."

"You do more than that, Ben. You're why I get up in the mornings… and most importantly, you're the reason I want to do this." I explained. He looked confused, tilting his head.

"What?"

"I want to make you proud, and…" I look at the in memoriam photo of May that's laying on my nightstand. "-I want to do something she'd be proud of."

"We're both proud of you, Peter." He assures me, bringing me into a light hug. "Nothing will ever change that."

Once we part, Ben claps his hands lightly.

"Alright then, let's get this rolling."

I nod. This is getting too emotional for my liking.

"Have you figured out a name for yourself?" he asks, already stepping out into the hall toward his room.

"What do you mean? Like… a codename?"

"Yes," he calls back over his shoulder. "I doubt you're going through all this trouble just to have everybody call you 'Peter.'"

"Right." I huff out a small breath, nodding to myself. "I have a name, but I don't know if I'm ready for it."

Ben's voice softens, just a notch.

"If it's the name you want to be called, then you make it work. Even if it feels like the shoes don't fit, they will. Eventually."

He comes back with the hoodie—dark red, worn at the edges, exactly how I remembered it.

"So," he asks, holding it up like a challenge, "what are you thinking of calling yourself?"

I straighten, the sketchbook page crinkling slightly in my grip. My heart kicks against my ribs as I hold up the spider symbol for him to see.

"Spider-Man."

"It fits… now it's just a matter of proving it to yourself."

I laugh, setting the page down. I'm more than content with having the costume right now. The title will come in due time…

The evening was a blur, but at long last… it was done. As I stepped into view with the costume on fully, there was a sensation I've never experienced before. Have you ever made something and the moment you put it on, there's a sense of pride that you could never describe? The sense of accomplishment that swells in your chest. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy all over, in a very pathetic way. The smile that's on my face is undeniable though.

Looking in the mirror with the mask in hand, the drawing did little to live up to the real thing. The Scarlet Spider vibe that I got from the sketch alone was utterly immaculate. We bought a utility belt and a muscle shirt for the time being until I figure out a better way of going about this vigilante thing. The muscle shirt, as I mentioned before, could be worn under a t-shirt and helps me explain that I've been working out. It'd be a lot easier to explain than a legit Spidey costume.

I still want to go further with the costume and make a true and blue Spider-Man costume that I could wear under my clothes if absolutely necessary. Right now, it looks like I truly belong as a street-level vigilante. I might not be a friendly neighborhood vigilante, but that's not the concern right now.

Ben walks back into the room, and I can hear him audibly inhale at the sight.

"Well," I hold my arms out to the side. "How do I look?"

"Like you were born for this, son."

---

The city looks different from up here.

Not in a grand, poetic "oh, what a view" kind of way — though, yeah, Manhattan at sunset is one hell of a painting. It's more like… standing on the edge of a diving board. My heartbeat's in my throat. My hoodie's warm against the chill wind. And somewhere in the back of my head, there's that little flicker of a voice whispering, You're really doing this.

Yes, I've been out here using New York as my own personal playground, fighting criminals as I come across them, but there's something different now that I'm wearing a Bonafide costume.

The wind hits my face the moment I take that first step forward. For half a second, gravity feels like it's holding its breath with me. Then everything drops. My feet hit the next roof with a soft thud, knees bending, breath catching in my chest.

One leap. Then another.

I move fast, pushing off from ledges, sliding over the edge of a fire escape, and springing across the narrow gap between buildings. My hands brush against old brick, chipped concrete, the rusted metal of a railing. It's not elegant — I'm not that good yet — but it's mine.

Every second I spend up here, the stress starts to bleed out of me. Midtown. Flash. The whispers. All of it starts to blur into the background noise. This? This is the one place where I don't have to think about everything going wrong. I can just move.

I plant a foot on the wall, push upward, bounce to the opposite side, and ricochet into a rooftop. It's parkour 101, except there's no coach yelling at me to keep my elbows tucked. Just me, my lungs burning, and the wind rushing past.

"Guess this is one way to clear your head," I mutter under my breath.

Somewhere below, a cab honks — someone cuts someone off, because of course they do. A couple argues at a crosswalk. Someone laughs way too loud. Manhattan never sleeps, it just keeps going. It's kind of comforting, in its own loud, chaotic way.

I land on a rooftop covered in pigeon crap and crushed beer cans. Classy. A gust of wind sweeps across the roof, whipping my hoodie behind me. I dig my toes into the ledge and leap again.

This time, the distance is wider. The kind of gap that makes your stomach do that rollercoaster drop thing. For a heartbeat, I think, Maybe I shouldn't—

Too late.

The ground rushes up, and I twist my body midair, feet slamming against the opposite wall. My hands catch the railing of the fire escape just in time. Metal rattles. My arms flare with heat from the impact, but I don't fall. I swing myself up, vault over the edge, and let out a laugh that bubbles up before I can stop it.

God, that felt good.

This is what it's supposed to feel like — not hiding behind textbooks or flinching at every weird glance. I'm not the kid who just lost his aunt to a flying freak of nature. I'm in control here. I'm in my element. It'd be a lot nicer if I had my web shooters, but I'm more than content with getting in some cardio. It's not running, but this stretches the muscles a lot more than running would.

I keep moving, following the grid of rooftops. My boots scrape against tar and gravel, my breath fogging behind the mask.

There's a moment — just a second — where I stop. I'm standing on the edge of an apartment building, watching the last sliver of sun vanish behind the skyline. The sky's dipped into that in-between place where everything turns dusky purple, and the first streetlights flicker awake.

May would've told me to be careful. Ben would've given me that look that's not disappointed, but says everything anyway.

But right now, I'm not falling apart. I'm not drowning in everything I can't control.

I'm here.

I exhale and jump.

Another set of rooftops, another wave of adrenaline. I push off vents and railings, swing around a rusted water tower ladder, and land light on my feet. By the time I make it to the financial district, the streets below are buzzing. Taxis flood the intersections like yellow streaks of light, horns echoing off the glass towers. Office buildings glow from the inside, workers burning the last few hours before calling it quits.

And that's when I hear it.

Tires screeching. Metal grinding. Then a crash that actually vibrates through the concrete under me. I'm two blocks out, but I feel it. Whatever the hell just happened, something tells me it wasn't your ordinary run-of-the-mill car crash.

I stick to the alleyway, scaling a dumpster and springing up to a light pole in time to see three cars boxing in an armored truck that's halfway up the sidewalk.

"Well, talk about subtle," Peter hums in the back of my head, making me smile softly.

Hey, I'm supposed to be the quippy one in this relationship.

"Says who? You're in my body, remember?"

Now you're sounding like Mand—

Our back-and-forth cuts short as the truck doors swing open. Out steps a guy in a ski mask. Seriously? Out of all the things I've seen since waking up in this world, I hadn't gotten one single cliché ski-mask thug. What are the odds my first one shows up now?

Eh. Bad guys first, math later.

The guy's carrying duffel bags stuffed with cash, while the other cars spill open like clown cars of criminals. Two guards in the back of the truck are slumped over, blood streaking down their faces. My stomach tightens. I can't tell if they're breathing.

Alright, let's see who's lurking where.

I close my eyes for half a second, focus, and the world shifts into that deep blue hue again — like reality's holding its breath. I've been practicing this, getting the Spider-Sense to act like some kind of radar. I don't know how the hell it works scientifically, but if it lets me spot people through smoke and shadows, I'm not complaining.

Seven guys that I can see. That's not counting the three drivers still in the cars. No one else in the truck besides the guards. Easy enough, even without web shooters. Time to go to work.

I drop into the alley's edge and slip into the backseat of the nearest car. The driver barely has time to blink before my fist connects with his jaw. His head hits the steering wheel, horn blaring. That's my cue to move.

Out the other door. Sprint. Leap. Feet-first through the next driver's window. He's out cold before I even touch the ground again. I vault out the opposite side and land behind the third car just as its driver climbs out to see what's happening.

Oh, buddy… you should've stayed in there.

I grab his collar, lift him clean off the ground, and slam him onto the hood hard enough to dent it. He doesn't even get a word out before his eyes roll back. The sound his skull makes against the metal is—god, that's darkly satisfying. Yeah, I know how it sounds, but trust me, it's still satisfying.

By now, the rest have noticed me. Took all of five seconds, and already their clean getaway's a bust. If I can keep them away from the cars, they're done.

My reflexes are sharper lately. It's like the world stretches thin when I focus—moments pulling longer, slower, giving me time to breathe between chaos. I've been calling it Web-Rush, mostly because it reminds me of that ability from the TASM games. No clue if it's adrenaline, the Spider-Sense, or my heart rate syncing weirdly—but whatever it is, it's saved my ass more than once.

Shit, rambling again. Focus.

Seven left. All eyes on me. Guess we're doing this.

Standing at the truck's rear is the guy in the ski mask. I dub him Nico. Next to him is some dude rocking a bomber jacket like he's auditioning for a '90s reboot—let's call him Drake. The huge slab of meat dragging the guards out? Tubby. Then there's two women with dyed hair and cyberpunk energy—one with the blue mohawk, one red. Blue's Clara, because she looks like she belongs in Watch Dogs. Red's Vi, because—yeah, obvious reasons.

The last two guys are scrawny, twitchy, the kind of guys you'd knock over with a strong breeze. I'll call them Rip and Jerry.

Clara and Vi notice me first, eyes wide. You can see it—that moment when the whole job just goes to hell because a masked idiot showed up uninvited.

At least that's what I thought—until Clara shouts, "That's the bastard Herm told us about!"

Wait, what? I just got this suit! How the hell do they already know who I am?

"What gave me away? It was the glasses, wasn't it?" I sigh, lowering my head. "Don't worry—there's plenty of me to go around."

The seven regroup behind the truck, every one of them glaring at me like I kicked their dog.

"Keep him alive," Nico barks. "The boss wants to have a word with the freak."

"Freak?! That's hurtful. I'll have you know, I prefer the word eccentric."

They don't laugh. My Spider-Sense spikes, sharp and sudden. I dive just as the first bullet whistles past my head, hitting the driver's door where I'd been standing.

"Guns. Of course they have guns," I mutter, sprinting for cover.

I yank Driver #3's unconscious body behind the tire wall for safety, then spring up a brick wall and roll onto a fire escape. My hand closes on a vase someone left out—don't ask why—and I launch it straight at Clara.

She dives out of the way, exactly as planned—leaving Vi wide open.

I drop from above like a human fastball, catching Vi's leg and yanking her down.

"In comes the wall-crawling bowling ball for the strike!"

Her gun skitters across the ground. I plant my boot on it before she can reach.

"Fuck you!" she snaps. "Ramon!"

I turn just in time to see a mountain of a man—Tubby—charging full-speed.

"Oh, shi—!"

He hits like a truck. I go flying off Vi and crash into a car door. My ribs ache, but nothing's broken.

He growls, deep and guttural, like he thinks it's intimidating.

"Dude, what does your mother feed you?"

"You talk too much," he grunts, swinging a ham-sized fist.

I sidestep, yawning dramatically.

"Oh come on, you can do better than that!"

Vi stirs, reaching for her weapon again. I kick it into the air and catch it with her face. She drops. Out cold.

"You're quick," Tubby growls.

"Yep." I grin behind the mask, grab his arm, and twist up onto his back. "I'm also quite nimble." Wait, that didn't sound right. "Like—a spider. You know."

"Yeah. Real smooth."

Shut it, Pete. Not now!

Tubby's still fumbling with his gun when I hit the pavement. He doesn't even see me coming. One swing to the ribs and he's gasping for air like a fish on concrete. I follow it with a right hook that sends him spinning into the car door. Out cold.

Another guy lunges at me from behind, and instinct kicks in. I duck, grab his wrist, twist, and use his momentum to flip him clean over. He lands hard, gun clattering across the street.

"Seriously?" I mutter, dodging another swing. "Didn't anyone here watch any action movies? You don't all rush in at once."

They don't listen, obviously.

I keep moving—fast, sharper than I've ever felt before. Every punch lands where it's supposed to. Every dodge is pure muscle memory. It's almost fun… until it isn't.

Because that's when I hear it—click.

I spin too late.

BANG.

It's like someone lit my shoulder on fire. The force knocks me sideways, heat tearing through my nerves. I hit the ground and see the blood spreading down my sleeve.

"Son of a—"

Clara's pinned behind the truck, firing back, and Drake's ducking for cover behind a busted car. Rip's closing in on them, gun raised, and something in me just snaps.

Everything narrows. The world turns red with this ugly, raw anger buzzing under my skin like static.

I launch forward before I even think about it—slam Rip into the truck, grab another guy by the vest and throw him across the hood. Someone swings a pipe; I catch it midair and use it to drop him. I'm not thinking — I'm just moving.

When it's finally quiet, I'm standing in the middle of the wreck. My breathing's ragged. My hands are shaking.

Blood drips off my knuckles.

"Oh… shit."

Drake's arm's bent at a wrong angle. Clara's leaning against the truck, staring at me like she doesn't even recognize what she's seeing. The others—what's left of them—are groaning on the ground.

And then my head screams.

Spider-Sense, full blast.

Before I can even look, something slams into me—like being hit with a wrecking ball made of sound. I'm airborne for half a heartbeat before I crash through a wall, landing hard on my back.

The air's gone from my lungs. My vision's spinning, and through the haze I hear this low, mechanical hum building up again.

My ears are ringing so bad that I can't hear my own breathing. Hell, I can barely make out a voice through the static.

"So, you're the jackass that's put half of my guys in the ICU." I look up to see this guy in a yellow, almost pin cushiony meets quilt get up with more armor than I could ever hope to afford in my wildest dreams. Dude looks like he's straight out of a militarized Comic-Con.

"I suppose you're Herm?" I groan, holding my stomach as I try to stagger to my feet. "Dude, what the hell just happened?"

"Don't worry, there's more where that came from. Get ready for a world of hurt."

"Really? Can we please stop with the cliched bad guy talk? It really takes me out when you sound like a generic video game thug."

He throws his arm out towards me, and I can physically see the air around this guy's gauntlets move in response. Everything around it becomes fuzzy and translucent, like the air itself can't decide where to be. My Spider-Sense is screaming, but I'll be honest… I was too stunned to move.

No fucking way.

The air rushes at me all at once. Everything in the gauntlet's path rumbles as it comes right at me. I tilt my head, stepping out of the way as it hits the wall.

"Are those vibro-gloves?!" I ask, suddenly way more excited than someone bleeding from the shoulder should be. "Dude… that's awesome!"

"What the-" the man stammers for a second, firing at me again as I leap to a light pole.

"Hey, timeout!" I hold my hands out. "What am I supposed to call you?"

"I'm-"

"Wait, hang on!" I cut him off, wincing as my shoulder burns from the gunshot wound. "I think I got it. Mattress-Lad! Padded-Pete? Quilt-King? Mr. Triple Ply? Oh, oh!" I give a little jazz hands and drop into my best announcer voice. "The Pin Cushion!"

"Actually," he growls, rolling his shoulders. "I prefer the Shocker!"

YES, THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! Oh my god, this is the guy I was hoping I'd meet!

"I like it. It's got pizzazz!" I jump down to the street. "You gotta tell me how you made those!" I point towards his gauntlets. "Can we trade tech tips?"

"You wanna make small talk? You realize I'm trying to kill you, right?" he scoffs.

I shrug.

"Dude, my best friend is bi-polar and off her meds. I can't make it through a conversation without her wanting to stab me. What's your point?"

Did I really just say that? Good thing I'm a universe away from her now.

"Wait… are you into this shit?" Shocker tilts his head in confusion

"Don't make it weird. We're both wearing masks as it is and that's a risky road to venture down. One thing leads to another and suddenly, there's clowns honking in the dark and Father Murphy from Bible Camp is waiting for his turn."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"A lot," I snicker.

Am I talking too much for this situation? Yeah, but that's kind of the point. I need to be able to get him distracted enough to win. If the cops show up, his guard might go down enough for me to be able to get the advantage. I can only move around so much without endangering the guards (shit, I just realized I never checked to see if they were okay) and the other robbers. I'm not risking collateral damage.

Besides, it's Shocker! I've always imagined annoying the shit out of him, so being able to do it in real time is a dream come true!

"I'd ask if this is your first time doing this, but your career's about to end soon as it is." Shocker growls, and I can't help but laugh. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry. It's just… I don't even know why you're mad at me! Is it the mask? Please tell me it's not the mask. I just got this thing made so if it's insensitive to your culture or something, can we stuff it for one night?"

"Did you not listen to a word I've said, freak?"

Freak. Again with the name calling.

"I don't know if you've ever been on the other end of those things, but my ears are ringing!" I step closer, as I begin to make out sirens in the distance.

"You put half of my guys in the ICU!"

"Really? That doesn't sound like me." I scoff, only to look over at Drake's broken form. My cheeks burn in embarrassment. I exhale, lowering my head. "Look, I swear that was an accident! He shot me, though!"

"A bullet wound is the last thing you need to worry about, right now."

Seriously, I'm kinda disappointed by how mundane his threats are. I think I've heard scarier threats from a three year old.

"No, I'm pretty sure Father Murphy is still-" before I can finish, my Spider-Sense spikes. I leap, narrowly dodging the blast. "Hey! I was talking!"

"You talk too much!"

He blasts again, hitting the light pole next to me as I flip onto the armored truck. Clara looks up at me with horror.

"You're insane…" is all I can hear leave her mouth. She's terrified, which admittedly hurts a little.

"I can't help it! How am I supposed to form a meaningful relationship with anybody if I don't communicate properly, Herm!"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

"I'll call you Hermy!"

"SHUT UP!"

He angles his gauntlets at the ground, and with the rumbling of a stampeding elephant, launches himself into the air.

"Oh right," I mutter, staring like an idiot, "he can do that. So cool."

Instinct says move, but I know better. The second I start bouncing around like a jackass, I'll give him all the time in the world to line up another shot. So I go for the dumb play — straight at him.

I push off the truck, fist cocked back, heart slamming in my chest like it's trying to keep up with the chaos. For half a second, it feels cinematic — two silhouettes colliding midair, fists drawn, pure comic book glory. Then reality decides to remind me who's wearing the giant shock gloves.

Our fists meet, and it feels like the world detonates.

There's light, there's pain, and then I'm airborne again, crashing through another wall like I'm auditioning for a Looney Tunes reboot. I hit the ground hard, skidding across linoleum before taking out a row of discount sunglasses.

I groan, rolling onto my side.

"Oh, that's gonna hurt in the morning…"

Shocker strolls in through the hole he made, his boots crunching over glass, that smug mechanical purr humming from his gauntlets. I mean, yeah… inanimate objects don't have emotions, but damn if it doesn't sound like that. He's laughing under the mask — not a maniacal villain laugh, just the low, satisfied kind.

"I expected better," he says.

"Yeah, not my proudest moment," I admit, wincing as I sit up. "Should've seen that coming. My bad."

He folds his arms, the yellow quilt of his suit creasing like body armor that's been through one too many bad nights.

"My guys are terrified of you, y'know. Word going around says you're the freak that put half of them in the ICU. Some say you're the one that took care of that winged psycho that's been carving up people."

"Took care of?" I echo, rubbing the back of my neck. "That's… debatable."

Shocker tilts his head. His tone sharpens, that blue-collar grit creeping through.

"Yeah, I don't buy it. If you'd handled a monster like that, kid, I wouldn't even register as a problem for you."

The hum from his gauntlets rises again, a low vibration crawling across the air between us.

I push myself up and roll the shoulder that still feels like it's been run over by a subway car. Firecracker-hot spit runs from the wound when I move wrong, but it's bearable. Annoying, but bearable.

"You're underselling yourself, Shocky," I say, grabbing the scattered sunglasses like a prop. I point at his gauntlets with a dramatic flourish. "Anyone smart enough to make those bad boys is a force to be reckoned with. I mean, hell… you'd make a killing in construction with them."

He snorts, something between a laugh and a curse.

"I'm self-made, bug."

"I'll make sure to tell your mother that," I shoot back, already picturing some poor woman getting a very weird phone call. "I'm sure she'll love to know she had nothing to do with your development."

He cracks his neck, the plates on his suit clicking.

"Seriously, what is your problem? I've never seen someone talk as much as you in a fight."

"Practice," I say, shrugging as if this whole scene is a normal Tuesday night. "Also, it distracts people. Works great on dates, too — don't ask."

He narrows his eyes behind the mask. For a second there's a flicker, like my jokes are getting under his skin the way a rusty key gets under paint. Then his gauntlets whine low and the vibration crawls under my boots like an approaching freight train.

Okay. Humor can wait.

I take a breath, keep my hands visible — nonthreatening, which is useless because he's literally trying to vaporize me with sonic whacks — and start circling. He follows, heavy and deliberate, the sound of his armor moving through the air like bad weather. People two blocks over probably feel it in their teeth.

"You're not bad, kid," he says, almost conversational, voice muffled through whatever contraption he uses to breathe under that mask. "You move weird, but you're not bad."

"Thanks?" I offer. "Was that a compliment?"

I need a plan that involves fewer hospital visits for everyone. It's bad enough the guards are already hurt, and I broke a good amount of the robbers' bones. I need to make sure this doesn't get worse. The property damage is going to be bad enough as it is.

I wait for him to swing. The Shocker launches himself like a cannon, gauntlet aimed low to blast the ground and take my legs out. I hop, tuck, and roll out of the way. The blast slams into the stand where I'd been a second ago; dust and debris rain down.

I take the opening, tackling him back into the street. I dart in under his next sweep, grab the gauntlet's forearm with both hands — yeah, I know, bad idea, but the leather looks beat and the seams matter — and twist. He grunts, surprised. The vibration thrums up my arms like an angry train, but his balance is off for half a beat; it's all the ceremony I need.

A split second later, I'm up on his back, fingers finding the buckle straps between the plates. He bucks like a prize pig, swinging with the force of a man who's used to getting paid to break things and hates when things don't break on cue. I hook an arm around his neck — not to choke him, Jesus, no — and steer so his next blast punches out a shop window instead of a pedestrian.

Glass explodes. Shocker stumbles, then turns and smacks his gauntlet into my side. I grit my teeth and hang on.

"You like causing trouble, don't you?" he growls.

"I like making sure you don't get to be the kind of problem kids later have to write essays about," I pant.

He rips a shoulder free and swings again, heavy and mean. I roll, using the momentum to sling my leg up and knock him off balance. He goes down with a crash that sends a tremor through my feet.

For a breath — one ridiculous, precious instant — I think I might have it. Then his knees pop, he slams a palm to the pavement, and the gauntlets sing with a higher pitch. The street ripples; my teeth rattle. It's like being inside a speaker. My ears fill with static and then—

Something snaps in the back of my head. The world lurches. I'm jerked backwards as if some unseen hand has yanked me by the spine. Pain blossoms across my shoulder again, pure and hot this time, and I taste copper.

"Get up." His voice is close, distorted through the mask, but it's there.

I laugh because crying feels worse and I'm pretty sure laughing annoys people.

"I'm up, I just prefer dramatic entrances, okay?"

I roll sideways as another blast tears through the street where I'd just been, concrete exploding into dust and debris. A shockwave clips my legs mid-roll, sends me spinning, but I catch myself on one hand and push off the ground like I meant to do it.

Shocker's already charging the next hit, gauntlets glowing that deep, pulsing orange that means bad things are about to happen. His breathing's ragged, like he's two seconds from passing out but too stubborn to admit it.

"Man, for a guy named Shocker, you sure don't like surprises!" I shout, sprinting forward.

He brings his arms up—too slow.

I duck under the first blast, drive my good shoulder into his gut, and use every ounce of momentum left in my aching body to shove him backward. His boots screech across the asphalt, sparks flying as I swing up, connecting my fist to his jaw.

He stumbles, the glow in his gauntlets flickering like dying embers, and then he just—drops. For a moment, I half-expect to see him get back up, but Shocker doesn't move.

I stay crouched there for a second, panting, every nerve on fire. The adrenaline's already fading, replaced with the full symphony of "Oh God, that hurts." My shoulder's screaming, my ribs ache, and my head's buzzing from the residual vibration.

Fucking hell, I need to get my web shooters figured out the rest of the way.

"Next time," I mutter under my breath, "I'm picking a fight with someone who doesn't come with subwoofers for arms."

I turn, expecting to see Clara and the others scrambling to get away—only… they're not.

They're stuck.

Every single one of them is glued to the pavement, walls, or truck in this thick, pale-yellow foam that looks like a mutant marshmallow had an allergic reaction all over the crime scene. Clara's half-buried, thrashing, cussing so loud I can practically taste the profanity in the air.

"What the hell?" I whisper, blinking through the dust. "I didn't do that."

"No, I did."

Oh, what now?

---

The costume you see Peter wearing here in chapter 29 is not the official homemade suit at the moment. The only thing missing is the web shooters and the web lining on the mask. But that's coming in the next few chapters. Web Shooters are almost here, btw. So stay tuned. If you want to see the official homemade suit art commission, you can see it on my discord server, and my Patreon. I tried to use it as the cover for FF's site, but it wasn't working.
Interested in supporting my writing? Link to my Patreon and the discord server I run is down below.
Please let me know what you think, it motivates me to keep writing and it lets me know people are enjoying it!
discord.gg/dQkeJPkxdD
https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

 

[Lillie Jones]

Impressive
Ben and Peter Parker talked about Peter Parker going on fighting supervillians and making Aunt May proud including Spider-Man costume designs on paper. As Spider dons his own unique Spider-Man suit similar to Scarlet Spider but a unique style all his own.
Peter Parker/ Spider-Man make his first leap of faith before encountering a couple of Robbers and Clara and shocker.
Continue on
Cheers!

 

[ipinnu]

Kinda annoying how he let his fanboying nearly get himself finished

 

[Arsenal597]

Coming to a rest at the base of a light pole is a bald man in his thirties clad in welder goggles that have been clearly altered; he's adorned in a black armored outfit with various shades of dark green, and a large backpack with tubes coming to gauntlets on his arms. Hell, he looks familiar enough, but I can't put my finger on it.

He doesn't seem like a threat, but that might be because I'm still recovering from Shocker's blasts. Regardless of the head trauma, I don't get that same tension from the foam brigade.

"Who are you supposed to be?" I ask, exhaling slowly. It's been a long night, and one question remains. Where the hell are the cops? Their response time is awful! I know there's gotta be some alarm going off! Why is it taking them so long?

"I could ask you the same thing, kid. Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"Really?" I scoff. "Out of everybody, you're the only one to guess how old I am."

"It's either because they're not paying attention or they don't give a rat's ass about that." the man replied with a shrug. "I suppose I should thank you."

"Thank me? For what?"

"The guy you just beat the snot out of. I've been trying to get him for a few weeks now," he explained, stepping onto the street. "Shocker normally doesn't let anyone get the drop on him."

"Wait, don't tell me that you're one of Fisk's guys."

"I'm not one of the Mayor's cronies, but when there's a job to be done, he pays well."

That doesn't fill me with confidence about the guy, but it's certainly more promising than the alternative.

"So, you're… a mercenary?"

"Bounty hunter," the man corrected. "Mercenaries are given a bad name nowadays."

If Wade Wilson is anywhere in that business, he's not wrong. As much as I love Deadpool, that's a loose cannon that you need to be careful around.

"Sorry. I don't suppose you're here for me, are ya?" I cross my arms, huffing my breath like I'm eager for another fight despite the wound in my shoulder.

"If you were on my list, we wouldn't be talkin'. You'd already be immobilized and in the back of my van."

"Van?" I raise an eyebrow. "I'd be locked up in your goo and in the back of your van? That's gonna give people the wrong idea."

The man laughs, reaching into his pocket.

"I'll give you credit, kid. You've got an interesting sense of humor."

"It comes with the trauma."

"Usually does," he nodded, pulling his hand back out with a white card. He gives it to me, and I nearly laugh at the guy's business card.

The card looks like something out of a bad Saturday morning infomercial. Big, blocky red text reads "TRAPSTER", complete with a gooey yellow splatter behind it, like someone sneezed a science experiment all over Photoshop. Below it, in painfully neat font, it says Containment and Capture Specialist.

I blink at it twice, then look up at him.

"This a prototype?" I ask, unable to hold back the smile tugging at my mouth.

"Yes," he says flatly, like the word itself is already too generous for the situation.

There's a beat of silence that's almost funny. The street's a mess of foam and wreckage; Shocker's out cold somewhere under a pile of his own bad decisions, and this guy—this walking glue gun—is just standing there like it's a job interview.

"You know, for a guy that just took down a supervillain, you seem… unimpressed," he says finally.

"I've had a long night," I sigh, setting the card on my knee and giving it another glance. "Also, it's hard to take a man seriously when his business card looks like a third grader's science project."

He exhales through his nose—sharp, like he's used to that kind of reaction.

"I had a better one," he mutters, almost defensively, "but it's hard to be taken seriously when kids call you Paste-Pot-Pete."

I swear something inside me short-circuits. I try, I really do, to keep a straight face—but the sound that comes out of me is halfway between a snort and a gasp.

"Oh my god," I manage, my voice cracking under the weight of suppressed laughter. "You're Paste-Pot-Pete?!"

He stares at me like I just kicked his dog.

"Not anymore," he says firmly, crossing his arms. "That name's dead. Long dead. It's Trapster now."

"Right, right," I say quickly, nodding too many times. "Trapster. Totally serious. Totally menacing. Definitely not the name of a man who once ran around with a bucket of glue."

He glares, but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth—just enough to tell me he's been through this rodeo before.

"You laugh now, kid, but that 'bucket of glue' as you call it? Revolutionary compound. Non-lethal restraint tech, field-tested and patent pending."

I lean back against a nearby car, letting the hood creak under my weight as I exhale.

"You're not gonna sell me on that, man. I'm still seeing the bucket."

He smirks faintly.

"You can't help yourself, can you?"

"Not really," I admit. "It's a coping mechanism. Keeps me from thinking about how much getting blasted through walls hurts." I glance down at my shoulder. It's still bleeding through the makeshift bandage. "Also keeps me from passing out."

He gives me a once-over.

"You'll live. You heal quickly."

That catches me off guard. How does he know that?

"You've been watching me?"

"Let's just say word travels fast when someone new starts taking action against the old-bloods."

The way he says old-bloods feels weird. I'm not sure what to make of it. What I do know is that it sends a chill down my spine. Almost sounds like it belongs in a supernatural story or something. Though, I suppose it could just be like the mob — though that doesn't feel like an appropriate title.

"Should I be flattered or worried?"

"Both."

He says it so matter-of-factly that it almost makes me laugh again.

For a moment, it's quiet—save for the faint hiss of foam hardening nearby and the distant echo of sirens that are finally starting to draw closer. I run a hand over my face, exhaustion catching up fast now that the adrenaline's fading. The night air's sharp in my lungs, cold enough to sting a little.

"Where the hell are the cops?" I mumble, looking around the mess.

"Dealing with Shocker's distraction uptown," Trapster says. "He set up three fake robberies—decoys. Hoping you'd take the bait and walk into a kill zone."

I look back at Shocker's unconscious body, jaw tightening.

"Yeah, well, he almost got me. Twice."

"Almost doesn't count," Trapster says with a shrug. "You did good. Sloppy, but good."

"Gee, thanks, Dad."

He chuckles under his breath.

"You've got potential, kid. But potential doesn't mean much if you get yourself killed showing off."

"I wouldn't call that showing off." I shake my head, resting against the car. The stiffness of the metal against my back is nice, but it's not doing much overall. Maybe one of these days if I can get in contact with Reed Richards, he might be able to help me get a weighted blanket that would support me.

Eh, that's for another time.

"What do you call it?"

"Using what I have." I explain. "While I might have the spider motif, I don't quite have the webbing figured out."

"Heh. Sounds like you got something in mind?"

"Yeah, it's a work in progress." I shrug in reply, as an idea comes to mind. I touch the wound on my shoulder and wince a little. "Hey, you mind if you-" I point at the hole and then at his gauntlets.

"Sure, why not."

He squirts a little bit of the concoction onto the wound, and I watch in amazement as it solidifies almost instantly.

"That's something else."

"Yet, you're focused on the bucket."

I roll my shoulder carefully, testing the patch job. The glue's firm, but flexible enough to move without tearing. It actually feels… good. Warm, even. The dull throb under my skin fades into something manageable, like someone finally turned down the pain dial a notch.

"Not bad," I mutter. "Industrial first aid—who knew?"

Trapster just grunts in response, and I push myself upright, heading over to where Shocker's sprawled across the pavement. He's heavier than he looks—muscle under the gear—but I manage to heft him over my good shoulder with a wince.

"You got that van nearby?" I ask.

"Yeah, right around the corner." Trapster nods.

We haul the rest of the cleanup together. Between the two of us, the least-injured robbers get tossed into the van next to their golden boy. Once they're all accounted for, I make a quick pass by the security guards. One's already groaning awake, the other's sitting up and clutching his head.

"They're gonna be sore for a while," I say, crouching beside them, "but I think they'll be fine."

The wail of sirens cuts through the quiet—closer now, echoing off the concrete.

"That's your cue to get out of here," Trapster says.

I pause mid-step. Something about the way he says it—calm, almost casual—sticks. I glance back at him.

"Why are you helping me?"

He shrugs, like it's not that deep. "Well, as far as I can tell… you're not a bad guy. You saved that kid in Queens, right? That's gotta count for something."

"I don't know," I sigh. "You ask the Mayor, and I'm a threat to public safety."

"If I were scared of someone doing a better job than my cronies," he says dryly, "I'd call them names too. But here's some advice—" He gestures to the wrecked storefront and the cratered asphalt. "Learn to pull your punches. You're gonna kill someone at this rate."

I nod once. There's not much else to say.

Then I'm gone—climbing up and out of sight before the first cruiser turns the corner.

Now, I could have taken off and licked my wounds. It would have been easy. Truth be told, I wanted to make sure Trapster was a man of his word, or if he was playing the double agent to ensure Shocker and his gang's escape.

That, and I wanted to make sure the guys I hurt ended up getting the treatment they needed.

Sure enough, Trapster waits for Fisk's Task Force to show up. They're clad in black armored vests that make me feel underdressed for the occasion. Unfortunately, that's not the only thing going through my head as I see them.

The Vigilante Task Force just showed up to one of my fights.

I exhale, lowering my head.

Fisk must really not like me if he's sending them this early.

Standing up, I touch the glue on my shoulder and chuckle.

"Thanks for the help, Trap. Hope you don't mind me getting a closer look at your formula." I chuckle dryly. Yeah, yeah—bite me. I might be getting some of Peter's intellect, but I still need my web shooters.

Once I'm sure that everything is going in the right direction, I take my leave from the scene. My shoulder will hold together as long as I'm careful. I could go home and deal with the injury there, but then I'll worry Ben. No, I should go see Norman and have him help stitch me up. Well, one of his doctors anyway.

Tonight's given me some reflection. I had mostly brushed it off when I spoke with Captain Stacy at the funeral, but now I know he wasn't exaggerating. The vigilante was doing more harm than he was good. In my anger, I was lashing out and trying to inflict the same pain unto others.

That's not how Spider-Man is supposed to be — not the kind I'd like to be. Yes, there are things I'm going to have to do differently if I'm going to make it. I've known this for a while, but seeing how much I hurt those robbers… it makes it hit harder.

When I get the chance, I need to find out if Father Murdock's moonlighting as the Devil. If he is, he might actually make a decent teacher. I'll have to check on that in the next couple days. For now, though, I've got to dig a bullet out of my shoulder and run a few tests on Trapster's glue.

If I'm lucky, it'll give me the missing piece for my web formula — and maybe, just maybe, I'll finally get to swing through New York instead of parkouring across it.

---

"We really need to discuss your nightly activities, Peter." is the first thing Norman says once the stitches are done. I'm sitting in the chair, shirtless, holding the jacket in my hands with a weight in my chest like I've done something wrong. "You can't keep being this reckless."

"It wasn't that simple," I shake my head. "I was trying to keep them from hurting anyone else."

"So you took the brunt of the attack? That's not helping your case."

"No, but—" I pause for a moment, thinking back to the fight. "It was an ambush meant for me. They didn't care if their partners got hurt in the crossfire. I did."

Norman nodded, stepping away from the sink. He looks paler than normal, more tired. I know he's sick, but Norman doesn't show weakness often. So, even seeing his complexion differently is hard to deal with.

His cane clicks against the tile — slow and deliberate, each step measuring the distance between us carefully. When he stops beside me, his hand settles on my good shoulder. Despite the fact there's hardly any weight to it, the action still makes me feel smaller.

"Good intentions can often be our downfall, son," he says, voice softer than the cane ever is. "Just because you wanted to help them doesn't mean they'll return the favor."

"I know that," I mutter, pressing my tongue to the inside of my cheek. "But I can't go out there pretending like I don't care about their lives. Just because they don't care whether I die doesn't mean I need to not give a shit, either."

"Language." He smirks faintly, the kind of expression that tries to pretend it's disappointed but ends up more like fond exasperation.

I exhale, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. The chair creaks as I stand, my muscles sore and protesting the movement. I set my jacket on the counter beside me and stare at the hole in my compression shirt — a small, burned ring of fabric where the bullet tore through.

"Maybe I needed that," I say quietly.

Norman tilts his head.

"You needed to get shot?"

I shake mine with a weak smirk.

"I needed a reminder that I'm not like everybody else."

He doesn't respond.

"I've known it since I woke up from the coma," I continued. "I knew it when I fought Vulture. And the entire time I've worn this mask, I've known that I'm stronger than most people walking down the street." My voice cracks at the edge of that last word, and I hate it — the sound of it feels raw. "I've been so angry, Norman. So damn angry. Driven by grief and guilt, and whatever's been sitting in my chest since that night. I told myself I was doing the right thing, but I let myself get blinded by it. I put people in the hospital. That's why Shocker and his guys came after me!"

The silence that follows is heavy. I can hear the hum of the lights above us and the soft rasp of Norman's thumb against the metal of his cane.

He doesn't tell me I'm wrong. He doesn't tell me I'm being too hard on myself, either. All he does is stand there watching me, letting the silence say everything instead.

I drag a hand through my hair and look toward the floor.

"I thought I was helping. I mean—I was. But somewhere between helping and fighting, I stopped thinking about what it meant. I stopped seeing faces. I just saw threats. And I kept swinging harder, because it's easier for me to hurt someone else than deal with the actual problem."

Norman takes a slow breath. When he speaks again, his tone's quieter — the sharp businessman gone, replaced by a father trying to steer a kid in the right direction.

"Peter, grief takes time to process. You can't expect it to just go away."

"I'm not saying I want this pain to be gone. I don't want it to be gone, because it reminds me of why I put that thing on in the first place. I'm just… I'm so angry."

"You're not your anger… anger is a powerful tool, if you know how to use it. Take it from someone who had to learn that early in life. The fact you're angry is a good thing."

"Is it?" I look up. "It doesn't feel like it!"

"It is…" he's close enough now that I can see the faint tremor in his hand where it grips the cane. "When you fought Vulture, it was to protect the ones you loved. You're angry because you weren't capable at the time of doing it. That is normal. The difference between you and men like them," he points to my stitches, "is that you care. That's what separates you from them, or even from me. If it were me, I'd show no mercy."

"That's easy for you to say when you're not the one with blood on his hands."

"That's just it, Peter. The moment your father and I created that spider, all the blood spilled from it became my responsibility." Norman's voice softens towards the end, to the point it's hard to hear him. He looks away for a second, clearing his throat before meeting my eyes again. "It's why I'm helping you. I want to make up for my sins. None of this would have happened if it weren't for me."

I don't know what to say, really. It's weird seeing Norman open up, especially taking responsibility for something. Maybe it's because I'm so conditioned to see Norman avoid the spotlight unless it was to take credit for something… or even simply apologizing. It's the one thing I remember most from the Spectacular series: Norman Osborn never apologizes.

"You shouldn't have had to suffer because of my mistakes."

My chest feels tight — like every word I didn't say since May's death is fighting its way up, but I can't let it out. Not here. Not in front of him.

"I keep thinking about her," I admit, voice small. "Every time I walk out that door, I hear her. I think about what she'd say if she saw me like this. Covered in blood, half-conscious, and licking my wounds."

His eyes soften in a way that feels wrong on his face — not because it doesn't fit, but because it's so rare.

"She'd say you were doing your best," he says.

"Yeah," I whisper. "But she'd also say my best wasn't good enough until I stopped hating myself."

That gets a quiet chuckle out of him.

"Sounds like you already know what she'd want."

The corner of my mouth twitches, but I don't quite smile. After a minute, I reach for the compression shirt.

"Though, I imagine she wouldn't be thrilled about seeing you injured so often."

"She'd freak out," I chuckle. "Ben's gonna freak out as it is. Not even one night in the new outfit and I got shot."

"If you're interested, we can give it an upgrade that will increase its durability without altering the appearance. It'll come with something extra, just for you." He smiles warmly. "If you don't mind a handout, that is."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Armor padding to help absorb the blows. It won't stop every projectile, but it'll provide adequate protection for most circumstances," he explains. "We also have something that even Mayor Fisk uses on a daily basis."

"Mayor Fisk? I thought you didn't like him."

"Oh, I don't. I'd rather avoid any contact with him, but I do wish to protect New York's finest so they can go home safely to their families. Even the ones who abuse the system."

Something about it gives me a warm, tingly feeling. I've seen some of the stuff Fisk has used in other universes, so if I can have something on his level, why not?

"What is it?"

"Originally it was used as the basis for the Vigilante Task Force's vests. Depending on the angle, it could withstand slashes from a knife. We've improved the design since then. We can get your measurements and make an undersuit that would protect you at all times, even outside of the costume."

I can feel my smile growing. That would make it a lot easier if I got into a fight without my suit.

"How soon can you have it made?"

"Within a day, and Peter-" he takes his cane and presses the base of it to my reddened knuckles. "We'll throw in some reinforced alloy gloves to make it easier. You might have superhuman durability, but you're not invulnerable."

"You're too kind, Norman."

"Like I said, I want to help. Besides, you're going to want those upgrades when I give you the news."

"What news?" I pause.

His demeanor hardens, and for a second it feels like his stare might turn me to stone. He straightens.

"We know who the Vulture is."

"Excuse me?"

"The analysis on the feather finally came back. The DNA is corrupted, but there was enough to get a match."

"How long ago was this?"

"A few hours. I thought you might have been sleeping, given it was a school night… but you've proven me wrong once again." he huffs his breath. "Come on."

I tug the compression shirt back over my shoulders, wincing as the fabric brushes the fresh stitches. The skin's tight and sore — a physical reminder of just how bad the night went — but the moment Norman says "come on," everything else falls away. My pulse kicks up like it's trying to outrun my thoughts. Weeks. Weeks of chasing this ghost.

And now we finally have a name.

The elevator ride down to the lab feels longer than usual. Norman's cane clicks beside me, steady and rhythmic, but every sound makes my chest feel smaller. The metal doors open, and the air inside the lab hits me — sterile and cold, humming with electricity. Screens light the room like surgical lamps, casting sharp reflections off the chrome workbenches.

Norman moves first, flipping on the main terminal. The monitor flares to life, and the blue-white light cuts across his face, accentuating the lines under his eyes. He looks exhausted — like this information's been sitting on his chest all day, waiting for the right moment to drop it.

"As you can see," he starts, gesturing toward the screen, "there's significant cellular damage."

The image is nauseating — a close-up of tissue that's been torn apart and glued back together at the genetic level. The feather's been dissected, mapped, decoded into a horror show of mismatched DNA.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Looks like a blender had a bad day."

Norman doesn't react to the joke. He zooms in, pointing with the end of his cane.

"There's both avian and human DNA coexisting. The binding is unstable. Forced."

"So, he's half-bird. That lines up with what we already know."

"Peter…" His tone sharpens. "Take a look at this."

Another strand of DNA appears on the screen, running parallel to the first. I recognize it before he says a word.

My blood.

It's subtle at first — almost identical to the previous pattern, except for one particular segment that mirrors perfectly. Norman isolates it, enlarging the sequence until the two are side by side like a cruel joke.

"This is your genome," he says quietly. "And this—" his cane traces over the corrupted sequence "—is his. You share a genetic marker."

I stare at it, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. My throat's dry. My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white.

"Wait," I manage, my voice low. "You're saying he was experimented on with the same research that created the spider?"

"Yes," Norman replies. "But it's more complicated than that. The serum that altered his DNA wasn't identical. Someone modified it."

"Modified how?"

"Beyond recognition. It's a miracle we extracted anything usable from the feather."

I take a slow step back. The air feels heavier — like the walls are closing in. My mind's spinning through possibilities, through everything I've seen and done since that night.

"Why?" I ask, because I need to hear it out loud. "Why is it so damaged?"

Norman exhales, the sound long and weary. "Because the mutation isn't stable. Whatever was done to him isn't just changing him, Peter. It's killing him."

My stomach twists. The image of Vulture flashes behind my eyes — those claws, that snarl — but now I can't stop picturing what's underneath.

The man suffering inside it. The man rotting alive from what they did to him.

I start pacing, hands buried in my hair, trying to push the thought away.

"You look like there's something on your mind," Norman says. "What is it?"

"You said there was a match," I say, my voice cracking. "Who was it?"

He hesitates. It's brief — barely half a second — but it's there. He turns back to the monitor, and the screen changes. A photo appears.

An ID badge.

Balding, glasses, an expression that could've belonged to any overworked lab tech.

Adrian Toomes.

I freeze. My pulse roars in my ears.

"He was one of ours," Norman says quietly. "A senior aerodynamics engineer. Worked under the Bio-Mechanical Division. Brilliant, though prone to… questionable judgment. He disappeared about a year ago. Shortly before the first reports of a winged creature in Lower Manhattan."

I don't respond. I can't. My chest feels like it's caving in.

Adrian Toomes.

The name feels like a punch to the throat. It's not just that he was an Oscorp employee — it's that this man, this thing, was made here. The same company that built the spider. The same lab that made me.

I take another step closer to the screen. Toomes' face stares back at me, frozen in time, unaware of what's coming.

He looks like somebody's dad. Not a monster. Not a murderer. Just a man… and that somehow makes it worse.

My heart's hammering so loud I can barely hear Norman when he continues. "If my calculations are correct, the degradation is accelerating. Within months—possibly weeks—his body will collapse entirely. The mutation will consume him."

"Then I have to find him," I say automatically.

Norman looks at me, brow furrowed.

"Peter—"

"No. You don't get it." I step forward, heat rising in my voice. "He's killing people, Norman. He's dying, and he's taking everyone else with him. If I don't stop him—"

He lifts a hand, quiet but firm.

"If you go after him now, you won't be fighting a man. You'll be fighting an animal. A dying one."

"That's not going to stop me."

"You can't let your emotions get the better of you."

"I'm not… if what you said is right, then what I saw that night makes sense now." I growl. "He acted like he wasn't in control of himself. One moment he was talking about eating me alive, and the next he was begging me to kill him."

"You can't save him, Peter."

"Maybe not," I chew the words. "But I can make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else before he dies."

I look back at Toomes' photo — that hollow, ordinary face — and feel something twist in my chest. Not sympathy. Not yet. Just the bitter, gnawing realization that Oscorp's ghosts are piling up, and I'm still chained to every one of them.

Maybe Norman's right. Maybe I can't save Toomes.

"There is a man inside that thing. Even if I can't save him, maybe… maybe I can make sure in his final moments he doesn't have to be the monster."

"What happened to you wanting to kill him?"

"Oh," I growl from the pit of my soul. "I want to. I want to tear him limb from limb for what he did to May. But if there's a chance I can reach him, I have to try for her."

"If you can't reach him?"

"Then I'm going to put him out of his misery once and for all…" I explain, heading for the door. "And this time, there will be no escape."

 

[Lillie Jones]

thanks for the chapter
Continue on
Cheers !

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

Yo @Arsenal597 any idea for ya, for Green Goblin. If you've seen the origins of King Piccolo from dragon ball, than its similar. Osborn expels the darkness of his heart, but as implied, it either goes on to develop its own body or it possesses an unfortunate victim. that way you keep the good Osborn, and the Goblin is still born....

female goblin?

Spoiler: fem-gob

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