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

images belong to their owners.

 

[Arsenal597]

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

images belong to their owners.

Click to shrink...

I'll keep it in mind!

 

[Arsenal597]

The worst part about everything running through my head right now? I'm thinking clearly. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing — I meant what I said to Norman. I want to kill Vulture. I want to kill the bastard, tear him apart until all that's left of him is paste and feathers on the sidewalk. If I had my way, I'd make him suffer in the way his previous victims suffered until he was begging me for the mercy he never gave.

But then, there's the fact the man beneath it, Adrian Toomes, is suffering. He was the one who begged me to kill him that night on the street.

"Do it… before I hurt anyone else."

The words echo in the back of my head as I lean in front of the computer, analyzing the glue from Trapster. I just need to know what piece I'm missing for the web formula, then I can start acting like Spider-Man.

"You say you want to act like Spider-Man, yet you're willing to kill? That doesn't sound right," Peter pipes in as I sit down in the chair. "We talked about this, remember? It's not what she would have wanted."

Yes, Peter. We've had this talk how many times now? If you were in my position, you'd want to kill him too.

"I want him to pay for what he did. I'm just saying, is killing him the right course of action?"

Right course of action? Pete, no offense but what makes it the right course of action? Let's say I stop him, take him in alive. If he breaks out again and hurts anyone else, that's on me for not putting a permanent stop to it.

"You're not judge, jury, and executioner."

No, I'm not. But there's times where the law isn't going to work.

"What about Dr. Connors in most iterations, huh? Should Spider-Man have killed him to prevent the Lizard from going on another rampage? Was trying to cure him the wrong thing to do?"

Jesus. It's not like that. Dr. Connors' situation was an entirely different case. The whole thing with Connors was that he was a good man that was corrupted by his work. He could be brought back from the brink, and the good he did to make up for the crimes he committed as the Lizard made up for it.

It's not the same thing, Peter. You heard what Norman said. His DNA is corrupted, damaged on a cellular level. He is dying as it is. All I'd be doing is putting him out of his misery.

"That's hypocritical, and you know it." Peter scoffed. I could practically imagine him shaking his head at me. "You can't just make a judgment call like that. That's not how we do this."

How exactly are we supposed to do this, then? Am I supposed to have you as my conscience, telling me right from wrong? I can't just let Vulture have that opportunity to hurt anyone else!

"That's not the problem. You're acting as though Adrian's fate is sealed."

And as I said… if I can reach him, I will. But if I can't bring him back from the brink, I'm going to put an end to him. At the end of this, the Vulture is going to die one way or another.

"There's no getting through to you right now."

I slam my fist down on the table, breaking a chunk off with ease. My breathing becomes ragged. I want Peter to stop talking, but at the same time I know he has a point.

"You can't say you need to learn to pull your punches so you don't kill people, only to turn around and try to kill someone intentionally."

Standing up, I walk across the room to the workbench. I had another idea for something that would help give me an edge over Vulture in a fight. My webs are going to be useful, but his claws are sharp enough he'll likely be able to cut through them with ease.

"What the hell is this?" Peter asks, but I shake my head. I'm done listening to him for a bit. It's time for me to get to work. "You're really going to ignore me now? That's mature."

This is going to be something that I rarely use, but I think in the long run it's going to be a boon with certain enemies. Had the idea come to me in a dream a few nights ago when the first web succeeded. I used to play the Batman: Arkham games all the time when I was about sixteen. I can't even tell you how many hours I had in that series — but what came to me in the dream was a beautiful combination of Spidey web-slinging meets the Batclaw.

The idea itself came from a dream about my fight with Vulture. It sounds stupid to say that, but I dream about it every couple of nights when it's not a nightmare about May. That sounds like it'd go hand-in-hand, but it doesn't. The fight itself brought something out of me that I never knew was there. Because of my weaker bones as a kid and my family's financial status, I didn't get to do much that would give me an adrenaline rush. About the closest I ever got to feeling that kind of rush or freedom was the quadrunner I had when I was fourteen. It made me feel like I could do anything — that I wasn't fragile or weak. For once in my life, I felt good. I felt normal.

That fight with Vulture, beyond what he did to May, gave me a similar sense of adrenaline. I liked fighting him — the danger that came with it. I didn't have to hold back. I wasn't afraid of breaking myself or hurting anyone else. I just wanted to feel everything in that moment. Does that make me crazy?

Anyway, I didn't think the idea was going to come to fruition, but Shocker and Trapster gave me an idea of exactly what I needed for this. Oh, this is going to be good if I can pull it off.

Now, designing a tool based on a video game is one thing, but doing it purely on memory is another. Thankfully, my brain is processing on a much higher level than I used to, so I can fill in the blanks.

Here's the thing: I had Vulture where I wanted him when I pierced him with the chain in that warehouse. Did it go according to plan? No, but that was with loose, rusty chains. I don't plan on letting him get the jump on me this time. The web fluid is only one of the tools I want at my disposal.

I need to be able to keep a hold of Vulture without fear of the line being cut, or him breaking free of it with ease. If he does, I want him to pay for it. That's where the Batclaw function came in. I distinctly remember three metal 'claws' that all faced forward until fired. Once it hit its target, the claws would open up to catch on like a metal grate. Which is y'know, great, if I was trying to pull a metal grate out of the wall. I'm trying to hook onto living flesh. That means it's gotta be able to tear through him, much like the chain did that night.

So, here's what I'm thinking. Two gauntlets that I can wear, probably design it to look visually similar to the MCU Iron Spider webshooters. Each one fires a claw at a high speed, piercing through the target. Once it cuts through, the prongs open up and prevent the target from simply removing it. I'll make it where I can retract the prongs, and increase the power of the winch I'd need in the motors. Shit, that's going to be fun.

If you had asked me a few years ago to do something technical like this, I'd probably be reluctant to do it. Now, it's like a dream come true and the possibilities are calling me to action.

Some of this I might need Smythe's help with. I don't care for him, but if anyone's worth calling a tech wiz, it's him.

I spent the next couple hours doing some metalworking and tests to make the shell. Measurements were a bitch to do myself, but I made it work after a few tries. They're going to be bulkier than what I'd like, but it's a necessary compromise; making it to where the Spider-Talons (I really need to come up with a better name) can fit comfortably with the web shooters without causing any detrimental issues is key. While I'm able to do the double-tap to the palm to fire a web, the talons are going to need a different trigger.

The webs firing from underneath my palm is fine. The talons I can fire from the top of my wrist. It'll be similar to how some iterations of the symbiote suit shot the webs. Now, how am I going to come up with a suitable trigger that isn't going to conflict with the web shooters? It'll need to be something I can't accidentally do, causing it to go off randomly.

Nah, I need something precise. A button on the side of a finger could suffice, given I can prime it to react only when there's the right pressure and contact. Double tap for the web shooters, why not a double tap for the talons as well?

The winch is another issue I'll need to figure out. It's already going to be a bulky gauntlet because it needs to conform with the web shooters, but the wires are going to have to extend greatly beyond twenty to thirty feet. How the hell am I going to make it compact enough? I could look into different wires with high tensile strength, see which one is the thinnest yet maintains the strength I'm looking for.

If it were anyone else trying to wear these, I think it might be too much. I'm not sure I can get the weight down by much, but that's the perks of having superhuman strength.

The metal shavings start to pile up on the floor like glitter from a craft store explosion. I've been at this long enough that my eyes are burning, and the buzz in the back of my skull feels like a vibrating phone that won't shut up. Still, I keep going. I need the outer shell right. If the foundation's trash, the rest of the design's going to collapse on itself before I even get to the wiring.

I sketch the outline again—third attempt, maybe fourth—trying to account for the extra bulk of the winch without sacrificing the range of motion for the web shooters. The gauntlet has to sit flush with the shooter casing; otherwise, I'm gonna snap my wrist the first time I try to web-swing and fire a talon at the same time. That'd be embarrassing. And painful. Mostly embarrassing.

"Dude, that looks like a toaster wrapped around your arm," Peter mutters somewhere behind my consciousness.

It kinda does, yeah.

I don't dignify him with a response. I'm too busy re-checking the curvature around the radial bone. I have to file part of it down because it keeps catching when I flex my hand. The grinding wheel screams every time it touches metal, and it echoes in the lab, bouncing around the empty space like there's ten of me instead of one.

God, this would be so much easier with a proper 3D modeler, or even some engineering software that isn't calibrated to Oscorp's insane system permissions. But nope. I'm doing this freehand like some caveman.

"Y'know," Peter says again, quieter this time, like he's not sure if he should keep going, "you're pushing yourself too hard."

I swallow that comment down and keep filing.

The metal edge smooths out nicely.

Piece by piece, the gauntlet starts to look less like garbage and more like something intentional. Something functional. The top casing fits snugly over the back of my hand, leaving room for the web-shooter's nozzle beneath my palm. I lift my wrist, flex it, imagine the weight of everything once the winch is installed. It's clunky, but not unwieldy.

The real headache is housing the talon mechanism on top while keeping the web shooter clear underneath. I set the prototype down, lean back, and rub the bridge of my nose. My fingers are shaking a little—not from nerves, just from hours of constant tool work. Every muscle in my forearm is buzzing.

"Maybe you should… I dunno… take a break?" Peter suggests, his tone cautious, like he thinks I'll snap at him.

I don't. I'm too tired for anger. Too tired for anything except stubbornness.

"I'll break when this actually looks like something I'd trust in a fight," I mutter under my breath.

I grab the talon housing again and angle it toward the work lamp. In my head, I can see exactly how it's supposed to slide cleanly into place, like puzzle pieces that were meant for each other. Reality, unfortunately, disagrees.

I adjust the bracket again. And again. Then again, because the first two adjustments threw the whole alignment off.

This is what I get for trying to reinvent the Batclaw from memory at four in the morning.

The wires are spread out across the bench like a bowl of uncooked spaghetti. High tensile steel variants, braided microfiber cables, this weird carbon-thread stuff I don't even remember pulling from storage. I'm trying to see which one gives me the best strength-to-thickness ratio. I'm not optimistic.

"Maybe you could… y'know… ask someone for help?" Peter says, sounding sheepish.

I snort.

"I'm trying to not ask for help, Pete." I say out loud. There's nobody else here so I won't get looked at like I'm insane. "Spider-Man is supposed to make his own gear. I can't expect to rely on everyone else."

"You hit a bump in the road that you can't figure out on your own. That's not something to be ashamed of."

"No, but I'm supposed to be Peter Parker! I have the brain of one of the smartest people on Earth, and I can't figure out a stupid fucking mechanism!"

"Hey!" For a split second, I swear I can feel his hand on my shoulder. "Take it easy. You've been up all night. You were shot and thrown around. Even with your abilities, that takes a toll. If you don't get sleep, you're not going to be able to figure anything out."

"Yeah, yeah — easy for you to say." I mumble, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand. "You're not the one trying to combine three different inventions at once while running on, what, two hours of sleep?"

"Yeah, well… I'm also not the one who's gonna pass out face-first on a soldering iron if he keeps pushing."

As much as I'd like to say otherwise, he's got a point. While my powers let me run on less sleep, I still need to be able to get some rest now and then. If I don't, my body is going to retaliate — but I can't stop yet.

The gauntlet's inner frame sits on the workbench, taunting me. Every time I stare at it too long, it looks more like a middle school science fair project built by a kid who forgot it was due until the night before. I pick up one of the carbon-thread wires—thin as dental floss, strong enough to hold a truck if I braid it right.

The moment I loop it through the pulley housing, the whole thing slips, nearly taking the bracket with it.

I slap my hand down to catch it before it hits the floor. My palm stings from the impact.

"Great," I hiss. "Awesome. Perfect start."

"You need to breathe," Peter says gently. "Just… slow down."

"Can't." I push the bracket back into place. "I need the frame set before I can even think about the internals. And if I end up taking this to Smythe for help, I need the internals done that way he doesn't think I'm incompetent."

"You're not incompetent," he fires back immediately.

"Try telling that to the part of my brain that's screaming I'm wasting time."

I reposition the talon housing, checking the alignment with the web-shooter mount. The overlap is microscopic, but it's there—just enough that, if I don't fix it, I'll end up jamming the firing mechanism the first time I try to launch a talon, or worse… I'll lose a hand in a bloody explosion of webbing.

I exhale slowly. My breath shudders.

"There has to be a way to slim this down," I mutter. "If I adjust the top casing angle by maybe three degrees, I could probably embed the pulley inside the shell instead of on top of it. It'd free up space. But then the wiring has to route under the stabilizer instead of over it, which—"

"Peter!" his voice cuts in again, stopping me. "Just take a break. You've done enough for the night. Go home and get some rest, you can take it to Smythe after school."

I drag both hands down my face and let them hang uselessly at my sides for a second. My shoulders ache; my back aches; even my teeth kinda ache. Stress does weird things to your body.

The room feels huge and empty in a way that isn't comforting. I was hoping the quiet would help me think. Instead, it just makes everything louder inside my head.

I sink onto the rolling stool and let out a breath that feels way too loud in the stillness. The half-built gauntlet stares back at me, unimpressed.

"Pete… what am I missing?" I ask the empty air, barely above a whisper.

"Exhaustion does funny things to people. You know as well as I do that it can be as simple as an easy fix, but if you're not resting… you'll never see it."

He's right. As much as I hate to admit it, I've hit my limit for the night. I run a hand through my hair, silently admitting defeat to the Spider-Talons.

I look around—tools scattered everywhere, metal fragments on the floor, sketches layered over sketches. It's a mess. I'm a mess. But the shell is—well, not complete, but close. The shape is right. The form is there.

The function will come with help. As much as I hate that.

I'm reaching for the light switch when a soft ding chimes from behind me.

I freeze.

You've gotta be fucking kidding me.

On the computer screen, the analysis bar that felt like it was moving at glacial speed all night finally hits 100%. A new window pops up, text loading line by line. Trapster's glue sample is done.

Of course it finishes right as I decide to leave.

Peter murmurs, "You're kidding me…"

"Nope." I rub my face with both hands. "Of course it's now."

The clock in the corner of the screen reads 4:03 AM.

I should be going home. I should be sleeping. I should be doing literally anything besides diving into another brain-numbing process that's going to eat up the next hour or two.

But I can't leave yet.

Trapster's glue might hold the missing piece for the web formula. And if it does… that changes everything.

I step toward the monitor, exhaustion forgotten for the moment, heart picking up speed.

"Alright," I mutter. "Let's see what we've got."

The analysis window finishes loading, line by line, the chemical structure building itself on the screen in slow, teasing pieces. I lean closer, eyes burning, brain humming like a pissed-off beehive. Trapster's glue sample scrolls into view—dense, hyper-bonded, beautifully engineered. I'm too tired to appreciate it fully, but even in my half-delirious state, I can admit it: the guy knows what he's doing.

Doc and I already cracked the foundation of the web formula, but it refused to hold tension. The lines sagged like Christmas lights no matter what polymer ratio I tried. The compound needed something that could bind while actively resisting slippage, a molecular self-tightening effect.

My whole body feels like it's been stuffed with static, but underneath it there's this bone-deep exhaustion waiting to drag me to the floor the second the high fades.

As I scroll through the adhesive profile, I see it. A stabilizing chain reaction. A micro-lattice response to stretching force.

My breath catches. Then it hits me like a truck.

"OH MY GOD—"

It explodes out of me before I can stop it. I slam my hands on the desk and scream so loud it echoes off the walls like a banshee trapped in a tin can.

Peter's voice laughs somewhere in my skull—quiet, relieved, amused.

"Dude… congratulations?"

I don't answer. I'm already grabbing my notebook, flipping through pages, cross-referencing the old equations. My exhaustion evaporates like someone cracked open a window in my brain. I scribble down the lattice structure, adjust the bonding agent, recalibrate the compression ratio—and everything clicks into place like the universe finally decided to throw me a bone.

My hands are shaking when I reach for the mixing tools.

This is it.

This is the missing piece.

I pull the ingredients together—racing, pouring, measuring with the kind of precision that feels less like math and more like instinct. My body moves on autopilot, chasing the formula before my mind even processes the steps. The beaker hisses when I mix the new stabilizer in, the compound shifting color, thickening, tightening on itself like it's alive.

"Come on, come on, come on—" I whisper, watching it settle.

The surface ripples once, then stills.

Perfect.

I rush the cartridge-loading process, nearly dropping the damn thing twice, and shove the fresh cylinder into the left web shooter. It locks in with a satisfying, solid click.

I swear my heart stops.

The test target sits across the lab—just a reinforced foam panel Otto built for impact experiments. I raise my wrist.

"Here goes everything," I mutter.

Thwip.

The web fires like lightning across the room.

It slams into the target with a sound I've never heard from my prototypes before. A brutal, solid WHAP that echoes through the room. The line doesn't sag.

My jaw drops.

"NO WAY—"

I yank my arm to test the tension, and the foam target lifts off the ground as it comes towards me.

Catching it, I whirl around in a full circle, grinning like a maniac.

"FUCKING FINALLY!"

The feeling that goes through me is beyond euphoric. It's something I've never quite felt before. I'm smiling so hard it genuinely hurts. I can't remember the last time I've been this happy, which is a problem in its own right, but holy shit. I'm actually able to shoot webs.

I made the Web Shooters.

I pause for a second, looking down at the prototypes… and it finally hits me appropriately.

I JUST MADE THE WEB SHOOTERS!

Man, if only ten-year-old me could see this, he'd be freaking out. Hell, I'm tempted to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. For the next few minutes, I let out the excitement through borderline manic laughter and bouncing around like a kid in a candy shop.

I'm still laughing under my breath when the high finally steadies enough for me to think actual thoughts again. The target's on the floor next to my feet, and I already know I need more of this before I can walk away for the night.

"Alright," I murmur, raising my arm again. "Let's go."

The next shot is a clean hit. Just as the one after that, and the one after that. Each shot slaps into the panels with that same vicious, perfect impact. I start playing with distance — five feet, ten, twenty. I test with different angles, quick taps, and full trigger pulls. I even try to catch Otto's clipboard midair, and it zips straight into my palm.

"This seems a bit excessive for a test." Peter chuckles in the back of my head, but I can't help it. This is too much fun and the amount of stress that damn formula put on my shoulders — just damn.

"Really? Doesn't seem like it to me!"

I keep going for about twenty more shots. My body is itching for action, and suddenly the idea hits me… Web Swinging.

The moment I hit the doors, I have to stop myself. I shouldn't be doing this right now. When it comes to web-swinging, that's incredibly dangerous. I already have stitches from the bullet earlier, and I'm running on fumes. Mixing fatigue and web-swinging might not be a good idea right now.

Besides, I'd really like to have Doc here for further testing. He's half of the reason it exists. So, with that thought in mind… I think it's time to head home at last.

Well, okay — not right this second, because I'm going to do preparation. When I do come back tomorrow and Doc's hopefully around to get some proper testing in, I don't want to have to waste the time preparing more web fluid.

It's like the cardinal rule of Spider-Manning: Never run out of web fluid.

Surprisingly, that's come up more than I would have thought it might. Every cartoon I've watched with Spider-Man in it has had that problem pop up on occasion. Hell, I think that's why I was hoping to develop organic webbing, but I'm more than happy to be teched out.

Once I'm back at the workbench, I go through the process of making more web fluid, filling twenty cartridges. Ten of them go into the utility belt for safekeeping, while the other ten are split between the two web shooters. Five sit neatly into the reload carousel. I think once I refine the prototype, I might be able to make it automatically reload. It should be simple enough, but I want to make the overall size a little more compact before I try doing anything like that.

I could make more, but it seems like a waste to create so much. The cartridge should be able to maintain the fluid, but I don't have a clue on the proverbial shelf life.

Shit, with that chemical from Trapster's glue I don't know how long until the webbing dissolves now. When Doc and I tested it, the web would last about an hour.

I crack a small smile. Guess I'm taking the web shooters home with me to test the web's life once exposed to air.

With that said, it's time to head home. I shut the light off on the way out, but I make sure to leave the Spider-Talons in view. Smythe's gonna want to see that when I come in. His twisted mind would probably come up with some fun ideas for implementing them with his S-Bots.

I could have taken the sidewalk to get home, but with my costume technically being on, the rooftops were a safer option. When I finally get home, Ben's still asleep thankfully. It gives me a chance to slip out of the costume and hide my stitches. Sitting down on the bed, I can see the clock out of the corner of my eye. It's five in the morning. I'll have to be up by seven-thirty if I want to get to school on time. Shit.

Two hours of sleep? Sounds like a plan.

---

Two hours later…

---

Rain descended upon Manhattan, shrouding it in a haze of gray as Felicia stepped into the stairwell off of the rooftop. She should have already gone into Norman's penthouse and gotten what she needed, but Norman appeared to be homebound these days since stepping out of the spotlight. That made this more difficult, but not impossible.

Norman had to leave sometime. According to the schedule she had pieced together, he should be leaving with his son this morning. Now she just had to wait for the right moment to pounce.

She eased the heavy stairwell door shut behind her, careful to keep the hinge from clicking. The concrete was cold through the soles of her boots, the faint vibration of traffic below humming up through the bones of the building.

Felicia leaned her shoulder into the wall and slowly rolled the tension out of her neck. Her hood was still up, shadowing most of her face, but once she was settled into position, she reached up and pushed it back. Cool air hit her scalp, damp from sweat. She ran both hands through her hair, fingers catching briefly before smoothing it back into place.

She was exhausted.

It clung to her in layers—behind the eyes, in the ache of her shoulders, in the way her limbs felt just a fraction heavier than they should've. Sleep had become a negotiation these past weeks. Short, fractured, and always paid for in nightmares. Every time she closed her eyes for too long, she heard wings again. That deep, ugly sound that didn't belong to anything natural. A vibration that rattled up from the bottom of her memory and refused to stay buried.

She shifted her weight, boot scraping faintly against the concrete. The stairwell smelled like wet dust and rusted metal, the kind of stale damp that never really went away no matter how high the building climbed. Somewhere below, a door slammed. Voices echoed faintly through the hollow spine of the tower, then faded.

Felicia pulled her knees up slightly and rested her forearms across them, forcing herself to stay still. Stillness was part of the job. Always had been. But lately it felt louder. Every pause gave her mind room to wander—and her mind had not been a safe place to wander since the Archive.

She closed her eyes for just a second.

Wings.

Stone.

Claws tearing through concrete like it was paper.

Her jaw tightened. She opened her eyes again, the city bleeding back into view through the narrow stairwell window. Rain streaked down the glass in uneven lines, turning the skyline into something warped and impressionistic. Neon bled into gray. Headlights smeared into long, trembling ribbons far below.

Safe. For now, she reminded herself. You're safe right now.

The thought didn't stick the way it used to.

She reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and pulled out the binoculars, letting them rest against her thigh for the moment. The weight of them was reassuring. Solid. Real. Something she could use. Somewhere to anchor herself that wasn't her own spiraling head.

God, she was tired.

Tired of running between half-abandoned safehouses.

Tired of burner phones and dead drops.

Tired of sleeping with one eye half-open and her hand never more than inches from a blade.

And underneath all of it—tired of not knowing where her father was.

Her thumb brushed the edge of Walter's old phone through the fabric of her jacket. A useless habit, maybe. But it grounded her. Reminded her why she was freezing on a staircase instead of somewhere warm and asleep like a sane person.

"You better be worth it," she murmured under her breath, the words lost instantly to the hollow acoustics.

Minutes stretched. Rain drummed steadily against the building. Somewhere above her, the penthouse lights glowed faintly through tinted glass, softened by distance and weather. A life of quiet luxury hidden just beyond reinforced walls and private elevators. Norman's chosen kind of fortress.

Felicia shifted again, flexing her fingers inside her gloves. There was a faint tremor in them—equal parts cold and nerves. She hated waiting. Always had. Waiting meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering.

She lifted the binoculars and brought them to her eyes.

The world snapped closer. Windows sharpened. Raindrops streaked across the lenses in tiny, distorted lines. She scanned the upper levels of the tower methodically, one floor at a time, committing patterns to memory. Curtains drawn. Curtains open. A shadow shifting behind glass. Nothing out of place.

She lowered them and exhaled slowly.

The feeling that she was being watched crept up her spine again—subtle, persistent, like a phantom hand between her shoulder blades. She'd felt it on rooftops. In alleyways. In safehouses she'd thought were airtight. It never announced itself. Just lingered.

Paranoia, she told herself.

Probably.

Still, her eyes flicked to the stairwell door behind her. Closed. Still. No shadows slipping beneath the crack. No sound of approaching footsteps.

She faced forward again, forcing her shoulders to loosen. If someone was hunting her up here, she'd know soon enough. The building didn't offer many places to hide without making noise.

Another slow breath.

Time dragged.

Her thoughts drifted, uninvited, back to the Archive. To the way the air had felt wrong down there—thick with chemicals and old secrets. To the sound of that creature's wings beating against the chamber walls. To the look in Jackal's eyes when he thought he had her cornered. Curious. Reverent. Like he was standing in front of a miracle instead of a crime scene.

Felicia clenched her jaw until it ached.

If Norman was tied to any piece of that—financing it, enabling it, hiding it—then she was about to crawl straight into the heart of something that made Oscorp's labs look like a science fair. And she'd be doing it alone.

The rain intensified, drumming harder against the building. Wind tugged at stray strands of her hair, cold and insistent. She welcomed the sting. It kept her present.

Another few minutes passed.

Then—

Movement.

Felicia brought the binoculars up again instantly.

The penthouse's private elevator vestibule lit up inside, the glow spilling through the tall window beside the doors. A shadow crossed it. Then another. The elevator chimed faintly, too distant for sound but unmistakable in the shift of light and motion.

Her pulse ticked up.

She adjusted the focus with careful precision, breath held as the shapes sharpened.

The doors slid open.

First came security—two men in dark coats, moving with the kind of practiced awareness that never relaxed. One stepped out and scanned the balcony through the glass before giving a subtle nod.

Then Norman emerged.

Even from this distance, there was no mistaking him. The posture. The silver at his temples. The slow, measured way he moved, as though every step carried more weight than it used to. He leaned briefly on a cane before straightening, his coat pulled tight against the rain.

A second figure followed close behind him.

Harry.

Felicia's grip tightened on the binoculars.

The two paused just inside the overhang as an attendant stepped forward with an umbrella. Norman accepted it with a brief word she couldn't hear. Harry said nothing, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze fixed somewhere out over the city as if he didn't quite want to be here.

The security detail shifted into motion, forming up around them as they moved toward the waiting car.

Felicia lowered the binoculars slowly, a thin, sharp smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite everything tightening in her chest.

Finally…

She drew her hood back up in one smooth motion and pushed off the wall, muscles coiling beneath her skin.

Showtime.

---

Meanwhile…

---

I woke up to the sound of my alarm beeping in my ear, a groan escaping my throat as I flailed for my phone. Did I say two hours was enough sleep? Wrong. So, so wrong. My brain felt like it had been tossed in a cement mixer, and my shoulder throbbed faintly where the bullet had grazed it last night.

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffled to the bathroom. The mirror greeted me with a pale, tousled version of myself that I barely recognized. Hair sticking up in every direction, eyes bloodshot, dark circles forming crescents under them—it was not a good look. I turned the shower on and let the hot water hit me. The warmth helped, loosening my muscles, waking me up slowly. I scrubbed my hair, flexing my shoulder gently under the spray, testing movement. No new pain. That was a small victory.

After what felt like a half-hour but was probably more like ten minutes, I stepped out, toweling off and slipping into clothes that weren't wrinkled beyond recognition. Breakfast could wait, but I knew Ben would already be downstairs.

Sure enough, when I stepped into the kitchen, he was there, shaking his head with that familiar mix of exasperation and affection.

"You're cutting it close today, slugger," he said, sliding a plate of eggs and toast toward me.

"Sorry, I was up late," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes in between bites.

"I noticed," he said, raising an eyebrow. "After we got your suit together, you took off pretty fast. How'd it go?"

I hesitated, thinking back to last night—the armored truck, Shocker slamming me against the cab, my shoulder screaming in protest. I flexed instinctively where the bullet wound had been.

"Uh… stopped a robbery last night. I actually figured out a way to make sure I minimize injuries, for both myself and the… 'bad guys,' so to speak."

Ben gave me a long look, like he could see everything I wasn't saying, and that made my stomach tighten.

"Just be careful, kiddo. Now, you better hurry if you want to get to school on time."

I started packing my bag, still glancing at him.

"What are you doing today?"

"Got an interview at the Daily Bugle," he said casually, like it wasn't a big deal.

"The Daily Bugle?" I echoed, surprised.

"The editor is an old friend of mine from school. He's a good man."

"Why… why are you going to an interview? You're retired," I said, flopping into a chair as my hands shook slightly from last night's adrenaline and lack of sleep.

Ben gave a soft sigh.

"I know… I know. It's just… I can't stay at home. Before, when I had May to keep me company, it wasn't so bad. But the truth is… I haven't been myself in a while, Peter. Sitting here, worrying about you, regardless of whether I knew about your powers or not… it's not doing either of us any good. I need to be able to pay the bills once we get back to the house."

I frowned.

"Norman said he's taking care of things."

"And I appreciate that," Ben replied firmly, "but I'm not going to spend the rest of my life taking handouts from Norman. I need to do this on my own."

"I get it," I said quietly. "I just… I don't want you overexerting yourself. You've done enough already."

Ben waved me off.

"We all have our battles, kid. You've got yours, I've got mine. And hey, speaking of battles…" He smirked faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Try not to get shot again before lunch, yeah?"

"Wait, how'd you know that I-" I paused, touching my shoulder. I didn't leave my compression shirt out for him to see, so how did he know?

"Norman was kind enough to let me know that you stopped by the Tower last night. Said you needed a gunshot wound patched up. How bad is it?"

"It's not bad. Should be healed up by the end of the day." I smile softly.

"You're healing quicker every day."

"Yeah, I noticed it too." I nod. "I'm just happy knowing I can take a beating and get back up."

"Maybe avoid getting beat up in the first place?"

I rolled my eyes but couldn't suppress a small grin.

"No promises."

He chuckled, the sound warm and grounding.

"Alright, well, I'll let you go. School won't wait, and you need to be awake enough to remember your own name before someone asks for homework answers."

I laughed, a short, tired sound, and grabbed my backpack.

"Thanks, Ben."

With that, I rushed for the door. Something I hadn't told Ben was that I had the costume and the web shooters in my bag, just in case. I'd have liked to test the web shooters this morning, but I cut my time too short. Now I need to get moving.

I closed the apartment door behind me and paused in the hallway, letting the morning light filter in through the narrow window beside the stairwell. Manhattan was waking up slowly—the hum of traffic muted beneath the steady drum of rain, occasional splashes from puddles on the street below, the distant rumble of a train somewhere underground. I leaned against the wall and let the gray light wash over me. For a moment, I just smiled.

From my bag, I pulled out the mask, fingers tracing its familiar contours. That little piece of cloth and plastic carried more than just anonymity—it was freedom, a key to a part of me I couldn't touch anywhere else. I glanced down the hall—empty. Good. The coast was clear.

Sliding the window open, I felt the rain immediately slap my cheeks, cool and insistent, soaking the edge of my hair. One step, two steps, and I vaulted through the opening, landing lightly on the fire escape. Water hissed where my boots met metal, and the slick surface made me shift my balance instinctively. No matter. The city was alive, wet and slick and dangerous, and I loved it.

Putting the mask on, I leapt off the fire escape and into the city.

I landed on the next rooftop, boots slipping slightly on the slick brick, and barely caught myself against the edge. Rain soaked through my jacket and plastered my hair against my forehead, dripping down into the mask. The fabric clung to my skin, heavy and cold, but I didn't stop. Every movement—every vault, every push-off—felt precise, instinctive, like the city was an extension of my body.

Traffic glimmered far below, headlights smeared by rain, people hunched under umbrellas, oblivious to the blur of masked motion above them. I vaulted over a low wall, spun midair, and landed on a slanted roof, adjusting instantly for the slick surface. The mask shifted slightly against my cheek, water seeping in along the edges, but I barely noticed. Focus. Forward. Don't slip.

Ben's words from the kitchen nudged at my mind. "I need to be able to pay the bills once we get back to the house." I hadn't had time to process it fully this morning, but now, racing across rain-drenched rooftops, it hit differently. He wasn't whining or begging. He was choosing to move forward, to stand on his own, to trust himself—and to trust me to do the same.

And then there was the Daily Bugle. Ben and Jameson? Friends in this universe? My mind flicked to the image of my uncle shaking his fist at the editor in the classic stories, and I laughed quietly under the mask, rain dripping from its edges. Weird. Strange. But maybe it made sense here. Ben had connections, experience, a life beyond me. That thought twisted inside me. It's always surreal to me to know that Ben has a genuine life outside of being the father figure that Peter lost in most continuities.

The Queensborough Bridge came into view, shrouded in gray mist and streaked with rain. I sprinted across a rooftop that fed onto the bridge's support structure, leaping onto a narrow steel beam. Cold metal bit through my gloves, water streaming off the edges, but I pressed forward. Vertigo hit for half a second as I glanced down at the churning river and the tiny, glimmering traffic, but I shook it off.

Halfway across, wind whipped sideways, forcing the mask closer against my skin, rain splattering against the fabric and stinging my eyes. I had to squint through the soaked lenses of the sunglasses. What was I thinking? Sunglasses are so damn impractical as part of a superhero costume. I need to make legitimate visors. Hopefully water repellent at that.

The last span of the bridge loomed. Steel cables glistened wet and black, rain running in thin streams. I grabbed a pipe, swung across a small gap, and landed with a skidding roll on the opposite side. My chest heaved, lungs burning, but the mask stayed secure, pressed against my cheeks and forehead, water dripping down inside it, muffling the sound of the city. The wet fabric clung, but I barely noticed—it was just part of the rhythm now.

I didn't stop. Rooftops stretched ahead, slick and slippery, calling me onward. I dropped into a narrow alley a few blocks later, rain splashing around my boots. Carefully, I peeled the mask from my face just enough to wipe water from the interior and tuck it back into my bag. My hair was plastered to my forehead, but I felt… ready. Focused. Alive.

Midtown drew closer. I raced the remaining blocks, slipping between alleys, vaulting low walls, balancing on ledges. The first bell rang somewhere ahead, sharp and metallic in the rain-soaked morning. I ducked around a corner, sliding through the doors just as the echo faded.

I exhaled softly, letting the adrenaline ebb, and smiled to myself. Cut it close, yes—but thank god for reflexes and training, and thank god for the mask keeping me in the game. Rain continued to patter against the windows, silver streaks across glass, and I stepped into the school with the quiet satisfaction of having made it, hidden, unseen, just a kid under a mask in the chaos of the city.

By the time I got to my locker, I found MJ standing there, leaning slightly against the metal frame, arms crossed over her chest. I had to stifle a small laugh. I didn't think she knew where my locker was. We never hung out at school long enough for her to find that out—or maybe I didn't notice her around as much as I thought I would. Either way, there she was, and it felt… weird.

"Hey," I greeted, running a hand through my soaked hair.

"Hey…" she huffed, sounding unsure of herself. The usual spark in her eyes was dimmed by something heavier, something cautious. "How are you?"

"Been better," I admitted, letting the words hang. There was a pause, just long enough that I felt the awkwardness prickling at my skin. I stuffed my bag into the locker and shut it slowly. "Sorry I haven't stayed in contact recently."

"Don't worry about it," she said quickly, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. "I told you, I get it. Besides…" Her tone softened, and I noticed her glancing down at the combination lock, twisting it nervously. "…even if I didn't, Harry told me what you said in the classroom the other day."

I blinked, surprised. "Since when do you talk to Harry?"

"Since you got out of the hospital, actually," she admitted, her voice low, almost reluctant. She gave a faint shrug, like it was the smallest concession she could make. "He's… a pretty nice guy."

I snorted, more amused than I probably should have been.

"Just don't get any ideas. He's with Gwen, y'know."

MJ's smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, knowingly.

"Please… Harry's not my type anyway."

I shrugged, opening the locker fully now.

"Yeah? Good to know."

We stood there, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. The hum of lockers, the faint scraping of shoes against linoleum, the occasional muffled laughter from down the hall—it all felt like a strange backdrop to our tiny bubble of quiet. The tension was thick but muted, like we were both testing the waters without quite knowing if we wanted to dive in.

"I… uh," MJ started, hesitating, her fingers twisting around the strap of her bag. "I wasn't sure if I should—well, I wasn't sure if you'd even want to talk to me."

I looked at her incredulously. There was a weariness in her eyes, a kind of carefulness I wasn't used to seeing from her.

"Why would you think that?" I asked. "MJ, you know why I put some distance between everyone… between us."

"I know that, but when I saw you yesterday, I don't know… guess I got worried that you were avoiding me."

"I wasn't." I shake my head. "I… I should've reached out. It's not like I was avoiding you, just… I've been so caught up in my head that it slipped my mind that I was-" I pause. God, I sound pathetic. "Look, I think that situation I told you about, it should be getting fixed soon."

"Really?" she straightens up some. "What makes you say that?"

"I know who he is… but there's some things I still need to figure out before I go doing something stupid."

She exhaled, nodding lightly. I think she knows that I'm trying to avoid saying much more than that. It's not that I don't want her to know more, it's just that I'm trying to keep her out of harm's way. Despite that being a cliche, I'd rather take every chance I can to avoid bringing her into the crosshairs.

"Figure out an outfit yet?" she asks after a moment.

"Depends. You talking about for Homecoming or the other thing?"

"Both."

"I got something, but for the Homecoming, I'm uh… not too sure on that. I might not even go."

"Well, if you decide you'd like to go… you know, we could-"

"Wait… are you asking me to Homecoming?" I said, eyebrows raised, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.

She shrugged, a small, uncertain smile tugging at her lips.

"I am… but I don't want to pressure you into anything."

"Pressure me? Please," I said, shaking my head, a grin breaking through despite the lingering awkwardness. "If you weren't going to ask, I probably would have in the next day or two."

MJ blinked, feigning mild surprise.

"Really? How were you going to do that if you weren't talking to me?"

"Oh, I would've figured something out. Hang upside down outside your window with a boombox or something." I laughed at the thought, running a hand through my damp hair again. "You know, classic dramatic entrance."

She laughed too, a little lighter this time, though it came out more like a breathy exhale than full-on amusement.

"Yeah… I could see that. Totally not creepy."

"It's only creepy if I'm not good looking, and I am dashing."

"Keep telling yourself that, Tiger."

"Besides, I totally would have been blaring Africa outside your window. Instant win right there."

She giggled, shaking her head.

"So," I said, trying to sound casual again. "Homecoming, huh?"

"Yeah," she said, shrugging but smiling now, more sure of herself. "If you want to… we can go together."

I grinned, shaking my head.

"Definitely."

She laughed softly, the tension finally breaking.

"Good. That's settled then."

"For now," I said, the words lighter than I felt. Around us, movement surged—lockers slamming, footsteps quickening, voices overlapping as everyone shifted toward their next class.

"I'll see you in P.E.," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

Her smile lingered, warm but a little shy.

"You better."

I stepped back into the current of the hall, letting it pull me toward the science wing. The rain tapped steadily against the high windows, soft and constant, a familiar rhythm now. My chest felt… lighter. Stupidly so.

Larson's classroom came into view at the end of the hall. The door was already propped open, his voice drifting out in a bored monotone as he started writing on the board.

And then my phone buzzed.

The vibration was small, almost nothing—but my body reacted before my mind did. I slowed to a stop. The hallway kept moving around me while I fished the phone from my pocket.

There was a message from Norman.

Alarm just went off at the penthouse. Someone's breaking in.

For a second, I just stared at the screen. I couldn't help but remember our conversation at the hospital. The last time somebody broke into the penthouse, it was the Vulture looking for the spider that bit me. The entire reason May was dead.

My breath thinned.

If it was him again…

If he was back…

My eyes lifted slowly to Larson's doorway. Warm fluorescent light spilled into the hall. Students slipped past me into their seats, backpacks sagging, conversations half-finished.

For one heartbeat, I hovered there.

MJ's smile flickered in my mind. Ben sitting at the kitchen table this morning. Everyone I've been trying to protect from getting hurt again. All of it flooded my brain at once. I couldn't just stand by and pretend like everything was going to be okay.

The last time I did that, I paid the price for it.

Pete. You thinking what I'm thinking?

"Do it."

I turned away from the classroom.

The decision settled in my chest with a strange, terrible calm as I walked back down the hall, then faster, then breaking into a run as soon as I was out of sight.

Cold rain slapped my face the instant I pushed outside. The city exhaled around me—wet pavement, hissing tires, the low growl of engines filtered through the downpour. I cut into the narrow alley beside the building, brick walls closing in, steam curling from a vent near the ground.

My hands moved on instinct.

Bag down. Soaked shirt off in one quick pull, the fabric heavy with rain. Cold air kissed my skin through the black compression top beneath. I shrugged into the red jacket, half-zipped it, then reached into the bag again.

The mask rested there, dark and familiar.

For just a moment, I hesitated.

Then I pulled it on.

The world narrowed. My breath echoed back at me, warm against the inside of the fabric. Rain slid along the seams, cool droplets sneaking in at the edges. I took one step back, then ran straight at the wall and jumped.

Brick rushed under my hands. One foot found purchase, then the other, and I vaulted up and over in a blur of wet motion, landing hard on the opposite rooftop. Pain flared briefly in my shoulder, sharp and bright—but it faded under the surge of motion.

Rooftops stretched ahead, slick with rain, reflecting the gray sky in broken shards. Wind pulled at my jacket as I ran. Every step sent water splashing outward in silver bursts. The city felt wide and close at the same time, breathing around me.

Normal jumping wouldn't cut it. The penthouse was too far.

I was hoping to wait to use these, but I need to get there fast.

I slapped the web shooters on my wrists. The edge of the roof rushed toward me. I gritted my teeth. No time to think. Fuck it, trial by fire it is.

I lifted my arm and fired.

THWIP.

The line vanished into the rain-washed skyline as I leapt after it.

---

AN: Next chapter will be Peter and Felicia's first meeting! I'm very excited for everyone to finally read it. I don't really have a lot to say in regards to the chapter, other than the fact that despite Peter and MJ having planned on going to Homecoming together, I want to remind people this is not a pairing set in stone. This is just a step towards a potential relationship that may or may not happen. If anything, I'd honestly say to not expect much of a pairing to be decided until at least book two or beyond. I do have quite a bit of story to tell, and I don't want Peter to be locked into a relationship too soon, given his circumstances.

If you're interested in seeing more early, I do have a Patreon where you can get up to five chapters early access. You can also see commissioned artwork and any original projects I'm doing before they're released to the public.

Want to talk about the story? I have a discord server where you can talk with me and others. Link will be below!

Let me know what you thought of the chapter, and I shall see you all very soon!

---

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

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

 

[Ironracks79]

Might honestly be the best or one of the best spiderman stories I've read. Good job cant wait to see the meeting.

 

[Lillie Jones]

Peter Parker SI debating whether or not to save or kill the inhumane Vulture Adrian Toomes thst murdered his Aunt May, which had Peter Parker SI vs OG Peter Parker Subconscious on the pros and cons are worth the cost of heroism or he might become a monster himself.
The Line between Hero / Villian is alway thinner depending on much you break the hero down , while every hero doesn't follow this like Spider-Man but is in Great power, Great responsibility is Spider-Man personal code and mantra.
How does one talk of ending one life of villain that killed his aunt may and not destroying yourself in the process. Is what I think Spider-Man OG is trying to unsuccessfully get through to Peter Parker SI
Although, Peter Parker SI meeting with Felicia Hardy Black Cat is going about the ability of the excessive use of force on dealing with villainy and taking his first Web slinging for appropriate" gravitas" of his first swing or Leap of faith all Spider-Man Miles Morales call it .
Still one of the most best Spider-Man SI of the year .

Continue on
Cheers!

 

[Arsenal597]

Might honestly be the best or one of the best spiderman stories I've read. Good job cant wait to see the meeting.

Click to shrink...

That makes me happy to hear. I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far. I'm working on the next chapter currently, so Chapter 32 shouldn't be too long to be released.

 

[Arsenal597]

The web line goes taut, making my heart stop with it. Every bit of sense in my body is screaming at me that this is a horrible idea. I should have tested it—made sure it could hold my weight. Normally, I'd be careful, methodical. But careful is a luxury I don't have right now.

The Spider-Sense doesn't warn me. No danger yet. That alone is a thrill—a silent green light telling me, go. I grit my teeth, bracing for the recoil. The wind and rain hit my mask like tiny needles as I fall for a fraction of a second, free and exposed. The web snaps me upward, jerking me against gravity, and somehow—miraculously—it doesn't tear my arms out of their sockets like I half-feared. If I weren't me, if I were normal, I'd be a mangled mess by now.

Instead, I'm soaring.

And it's perfect.

It's everything I've dreamed of and more. The bridge, the rooftops, the slick rain glinting like liquid silver—all of it blurs past as I swing, one line after another. My body moves instinctively, each push-off, vault, and swing feeding into the next. I loop under a streetlamp, laugh sliding from my lips into the storm. The city's a pulse under me, wet and humming and alive.

I feel the wind tearing at my jacket, the rain soaking my hair and mask, and it all feels electric. I'm not just running across rooftops anymore. I'm flying. No traffic lights, no slippery ledges to vault over, no careful parkour pauses—just the rhythm of the city and me, in sync. The line of steel and concrete and water stretches beneath me, and I can do whatever I want. I can fly.

Queens rises below me, familiar streets and blocks turning into streaked impressions of neon and wet asphalt. I swing over avenues, dipping low enough to see the rain collecting in puddles, hearing the splash of tires through sheets of water, then looping back up into the open sky. Every swing makes my stomach lurch in that delicious, dizzying way—the kind of fear that isn't dangerous but tells you you're alive. I'm laughing now, a full, unrestrained sound, letting it chase the storm.

My fingers tighten on the line, muscles coiling, then pushing off the edge of a rooftop with all the force I can muster. Another line shoots from the web shooter, snags a fire escape across the street, and I swing into it, head over heels, rain soaking my mask so I squint, but I don't care. I'm untouchable, momentarily, weightless. The world beneath me is chaos, but here I'm the center of it.

I pass over the river, the Queensboro stretching below in steel and gray mist, the water churning like ink in a glass. Streetlights glimmer through the haze, streaked and fractured in the rain. I tilt backward, catch a new line higher up, and soar across one of the central cables. The motion is perfect, fluid, intoxicating. I've dreamed of this since I was a kid. Never like this. Not even my rooftop parkours at night could compare to the wind in my ears, the city opening beneath me, my limbs moving in perfect synch with the lines I send out into space.

And yet… I can't let the thrill distract me. Not fully. My pulse still thunders in my ears, my lungs drink the cold, wet air, and every instinct in my body is screaming: the penthouse. Whoever's breaking in could slip away while I'm giddy, laughing through the clouds. I bite back the exhilaration for a second, tightening my grip, scanning the tops of buildings, the shadows beneath bridges, the sprawl of streets lined with rushing cars and umbrellas.

A glance behind me shows the wind whipping the rain into jagged sheets. The city feels enormous, stretching for miles in every direction. And I'm moving through it, slicing across streets and avenues, a single thread of red and black in a gray, drenched world. Each line carries me farther, higher, across the river. I've left the familiar territory of Queens' rooftops behind. The skyscrapers of Manhattan creep closer now, looming wet and sharp in the mist.

Every swing makes my heart hammer. My fingers tingle where the line grips, but I'm strong, moving without thought, reacting to angles, gravity, wet surfaces, the rain slipping through gloves. There's no fear in the act itself—there's just the city, the rhythm, the cold splash of water on skin and mask, the thrill of seeing the world from above and knowing I can navigate it.

And still, underneath it all, the alarm in Norman's penthouse pulses in my mind. Someone's breaking in. The Vulture. Maybe worse. My legs pump, arms push, webs shoot. Every movement carries me forward, faster, closer to the river, closer to the other side. My chest burns, but I don't stop. The water, the rain, the wind—they're fuel, not obstacles.

I don't allow myself to dwell on what happens next. Not yet. Not until I'm across. The rhythm of my swings, the sound of the city below, the taste of rain on my lips—it all keeps me sharp, focused. And right now, that focus is survival and speed.

The final cables of the Queensboro loom ahead, slick with rain, steel slicker than ice. I adjust my wrist, angle the web just right, and launch into the gap. The web catches instantly, jerking me upward, my body arcing over the river in a perfect parabola. The city stretches below, illuminated by blurred lights, moving cars, scattered umbrellas. I feel, for the first time, a kind of joy so absolute it's frightening. I'm officially Spider-Man!

Landing on the first rooftop across from the bridge, I barely pause. Rain streams off my mask and jacket, soaking through my gloves and slicking my boots against the wet brick, but it doesn't slow me. It fuels me. Every step, every leap, every twist in the air feels alive in a way nothing else ever has. My fingers curl around the web triggers again, and I launch myself into the open space between buildings.

The web catches a fire escape, pulls me upward, and I arc over an alley slick with rain. I can feel the city pulsing below me: tires sloshing through puddles, the dull roar of traffic, distant horns echoing under wet steel bridges. I swing low, skim the edge of a rooftop, then snap another line, pulling myself upward into a perfect loop, laughing even though the cold is cutting through me. I could do this forever.

I hook the next line higher, fire it, and my body flips midair. The wet fabric of my mask presses tight against my cheeks; water seeps in around the edges. I squint through the rain, but I don't care. I'm flying, twisting, soaring, and the city bends beneath me in a dizzying, glorious blur. Queens sprawls beneath me, streets a river of lights streaked with silver rain, alleys dark and gleaming like wet black glass.

Every swing, every launch, every arc of momentum makes me feel unstoppable. I whip my head to the side, catch the next anchor point, and fling myself over a taller building. The steel fire escape shudders as my weight jerks against it, rain hissing where my boots hit metal. My arms burn deliciously. My legs pump against gravity. My chest heaves. My heart sings.

And yet, even with all this joy, my mind never stops. Norman. The penthouse. The alarm. Whoever's inside can't slip away—not today. The thought threads through my exhilaration, grounding it with urgency. The thrill is there, but now it's mixed with the precise, lethal awareness of why I'm swinging this fast, why every line, every push, every loop matters.

I shoot another web, catch a steel girder of a mid-rise, and swing wide, letting gravity pull me down into the open alley below. Skimming just above the puddles, I feel the spray hit my boots and calves. I pivot midair, hook a pipe on the adjacent building, and the line yanks me forward, up, over, perfectly timed. My stomach flips. My chest burns. My fingers tingle from the taut tension, but it's ecstasy, not pain.

Queens stretches out ahead, rooftops dark and slick, glinting with rain, fire escapes jutting like metal bones. I swing low enough to see the tiny figures rushing under umbrellas, oblivious, safe, while I carve a path through the clouds above. Each line I send out, each hook I catch, makes the city a playground I've only dreamed of. Not rooftops anymore, not just alleys. Sky. Movement. Speed. Freedom.

I can feel the bridge behind me shrinking, the river churning beneath, the steel cables slick with rain. I fire another line, launching over an empty gap between buildings, twisting my body midair. The line catches, jerking me upward, and I roar into the storm, laughing even as my lungs burn with cold air and effort. Every swing, every shot of the web, every pull on the line is perfect. The city moves with me. The rain hammers against the mask, plastering my hair, blinding my vision for half a second—and I love it.

The skyscrapers of Manhattan begin to creep closer on the horizon, the penthouse looming somewhere up there, hidden in gray mist and rain. I push myself harder, arms pumping, legs kicking, twisting midair, letting the momentum carry me like I've been born for this. Steel beams, fire escapes, water-streaked ledges—each one an opportunity, a note in the rhythm of the swing. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, in motion, alive, electric.

Halfway across the final stretch to the Osborn district, the wind howls, pulling at my jacket and mask, soaking through my shirt and gloves. Rain pours like needles, cutting across my vision. My fingers tighten on the web triggers, calculating the next anchor, the next arc. I feel alive in a way that hits deeper than anything I've felt before. Even the city's chaos beneath me, honking, splashing, moving, feels like a partner, a rhythm to keep pace with.

Another hook, another line, another perfect swing. My legs coil, pushing off the roof, swinging me in a wide arc around a corner building. My chest heaves, lungs drinking cold air, and for a moment I let myself laugh—the kind of pure, giddy, unrestrained laugh that makes my stomach hurt. I'm flying. Not running. Not vaulting. Flying.

And then I see it. The rooftop across from the penthouse. Steel and glass, slick with rain, lights cutting through the gray storm. My pulse hammers. The alarm in my head pounds in sync with my heart. Whoever's in there—Vulture, someone else—they can't get away. Not if I can help it.

I launch myself into a final swing, soaring over the last gap. Rain pelts my mask. Wind tears at my jacket. Fingers grip the web triggers with instinctive precision. I arc into the rooftop, boots landing wet and skidding slightly on the slick steel. I catch myself, chest heaving, hair plastered to my forehead, mask soaked through.

For a second, I just stand there. The city stretches around me, chaotic, beautiful, and alive. And I grin.

The penthouse is right there.

I adjust myself, figuring out a course of action. It'd be easy enough to web zip across at this point, but I need to know whether I should be expecting a giant bloodthirsty man-bird when I go in. I'm not letting myself get caught off guard this time. He's not going to get away from me if it's actually him.

No, no, no… not this time Adrian.

The thought sours my stomach with something vile. Something so dark it physically causes me discomfort. It's not anger, whatever it is. I've never felt anything like it. It's like an aura spreading across my abdomen, traveling through every cell in my body like a virus.

My arms start shaking as I shoot two webs towards the building. The webs reach out like hands, clinging onto the surface like a child to their parents. Once it connects and I feel the tension vibrate its way to me, I know it's time. I leap, pulling myself across the street. Another zip, and I go flipping straight onto the rooftop, landing on one of the awnings.

It's messy — I nearly lose my balance as I desperately cling onto the support arm. As cool as I just felt on the way here, now I feel green. I feel like the rookie I am. I'm so disappointed in myself.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the churn in my stomach, and drop from the awning. The rain hammers my back, slicking my jacket and plastering my hair to my forehead. Gravity pulls, but I move with it, folding my limbs instinctively, landing lightly on the wet hardwood of the penthouse terrace. My boots hiss against the soaked surface.

The Spider-Sense flickers faintly—just a hint—but it's enough. I pause, crouched low, ears straining. The subtle pulse guides me, telling me the layout beyond the windows, the gaps in the security. There's only one presence inside, a single human heartbeat in the maze of corridors. That's… unusual. My tension eases a fraction.

It's not Vulture, but it's still somebody that shouldn't be there.

I squint through the rain-streaked glass and laugh quietly, the sound muffled by the mask. A girl? Really? All this—sprinting across rooftops, web-swinging through a storm, nearly breaking my arms testing these shooters—and it's some girl thinking she can steal from Norman Osborn and get a pearl necklace out of it?

My chest loosens. My shoulders drop. Some of the adrenaline leaks out of my veins.

I shake my head, amused. "Is that it? Really? Was the thrill of getting caught by Osborn worth it for some shiny pearls?" I mutter under my breath, crouched behind a ledge. The tension that's been coiled in me since the alarm went off eases just enough that I feel almost… playful. Almost.

The rain hammers my gloves, slicking the leather, and I shift my weight, eyes scanning the terrace. I hook a web to a nearby gutter and swing lightly across the slick edge, moving like a shadow. My senses flare as I approach the window to the office wing, Spider-Sense sharpening slightly—not danger yet, just awareness.

Sliding a hand along the ceiling of the penthouse corridor, I crawl silently. Each step, each careful motion, is measured against the slippery tiles and the distant hum of rain against the glass. The soft click of my boots against polished wood echoes faintly, but nothing betrays my presence. I follow the subtle pulse of the intruder's heartbeat, weaving across ceiling beams and ledges, keeping my presence ghostlike.

There she is. Slight, careful, fumbling slightly with a glass case in Norman's private office. My mouth twitches into a grin beneath the mask. This is… almost anticlimactic. I'd crossed rivers, scaled rooftops, fought through the storm, and my "villain" turns out to be some daring but tiny amateur thief? A pearl necklace? Really?

I swing down from the ceiling, landing softly near the doorframe of Norman's office. My boots barely make a sound. I crouch low, studying her.

She doesn't notice me. I shake my head with quiet amusement. The weight of everything—the storm, the chase, the city under my hands—suddenly feels absurd.

And then, the pulse in my head spikes—sharp, insistent. Spider-Sense screaming. Not at her. Something else.

Five figures burst into the office wing in a coordinated rush. Security guards, armed and moving like a practiced unit, flooding the corridor. My stomach drops. My grin fades, replaced with tense calculation.

"Oh boy," I mutter. "Norman's sent in the attack dogs."

I freeze, scanning them through the door. Spider-Sense tells me their intent before their weapons even register fully. They're moving to neutralize, not to negotiate. My instincts flare.

I leap, slingshotting myself along a webline, and land on the ceiling again. My fingers curl around the smooth beam as I watch them sweep the room below. The intruder is oblivious, still fumbling with the case. I have to make sure nobody gets hurt. If I wait for her to be caught in the crossfire, she'll be toast. And I can't let that happen.

Rain drips down the windows, streaking across my mask. The penthouse gleams in the dim, storm-soaked light, reflections bouncing off polished floors and metal railings. The guards move with purpose, but my Spider-Sense lets me map the room like a chessboard.

I pivot, preparing my next line. The web shoots cleanly, snagging a chandelier, and I vault, swinging across the room with minimal contact. The intruder barely looks up, too focused on the case. I know I could take her down in an instant if necessary, but I don't. I can't. She's reckless, not evil. That distinction matters.

The guards fan out, scanning, weapons raised. My heart hammers. Spider-Sense pulses with sharp stabs—danger, too close, but not overwhelming. I need to move fast. I need to protect everyone without letting the intruder know I'm here yet.

I crouch on the edge of a balcony above the office.

I cling to the ceiling beam, muscles coiled tight, rain-muted city noise bleeding through the glass behind me. Below, the guards move with practiced efficiency, sweeping angles, checking corners. Their boots thud softly against polished wood. Weapons low but ready. They don't know I'm here—but if they spot her first, this turns ugly fast.

My Spider-Sense hums, not screaming, just… busy. Threads of possibility tugging at the back of my skull. Too many ways this can go wrong.

I inch forward, palms flat, boots sticking effortlessly as I crawl across the ceiling. Every movement is deliberate now. No more joyrides. No more laughing into the storm. This is the part that matters.

I pick my targets automatically. Two guards closest together near the corridor junction. One by the window. One watching the office door. If I have to move, I can web their guns first—disable, disarm, then cocoon them to the walls before they can shout. Quick. Clean. No broken bones.

I don't want to hurt anyone tonight.

The intruder is still at the case, shoulders tense, movements small and precise. She hasn't noticed the guards yet. Good. If I time this right, I can—

The office door opens.

My heart stops.

She steps out like she owns the place.

For half a second, my brain just… blanks.

How did I not notice how she looked?

Must've been the rain. Or the adrenaline. Or the fact that my mind was busy expecting talons and wings and a screaming man-bird.

Holy shit.

She's not much older than me—maybe a year or two at most. Tall, lean, moving with the kind of effortless confidence you don't fake. She's dressed in black, but not the tactical, bulky kind—this is sleek. Paneled. Form-fitting like it was poured onto her. White stitching traces the seams between panels, clean and deliberate. A cropped jacket hugs her shoulders, trimmed with white fur at the collar and cuffs, fluttering slightly as she moves.

Her hair is white. Not gray. Not blonde. White—platinum, catching the ambient light and throwing it back like frost.

In one clawed glove, she's holding a USB drive. In the other—

Oh. Oh no.

The statue.

Norman's stupid little statue. The one he bragged about over dinner. Twelve grand when he bought it. Twenty now, at least.

My brain supplies that information unhelpfully, like it's proud of itself.

Whatever tension I had coiled in my gut drains away instantly, replaced by something sharp and electric. My skin prickles. My pulse stutters.

Felicia Hardy.

Oh shit.

The Black Cat is in action. Hell yes.

And she's standing ten feet below me, illuminated by soft office lighting, rain-streaked glass framing her like a damn painting.

This is—this is the one.

Of all the characters. Of all the possible people I could've crossed paths with in this universe. Heroes, villains, monsters, madmen—

Her.

My Spider-Sense buzzes again, this time tangled with something that has absolutely nothing to do with danger.

Focus. Focus.

Felicia tilts her head slightly, ears—no, wait, those are part of the suit—angling as if she's listening. Her gaze flicks toward the guards flooding the corridor. She doesn't look surprised. Just… annoyed.

The guards tense.

"Ma'am," one of them says, weapon lifting a fraction. "Step away from the items. Now."

Felicia sighs.

Actually sighs.

Like this is inconvenient. Like she's late for something else.

"Oh, relax," she says lightly, voice smooth, amused. "I was just leaving."

My Spider-Sense spikes.

Move. Now.

I fire a web—

—but she's already gone.

Felicia pivots, sudden and fluid, tossing the statue up into the air. One of the guards shouts instinctively, eyes tracking it. Rookie mistake. She kicks off the floor, vaulting sideways, sliding under a desk as gunfire erupts—not aimed at her, but at the empty space she was standing in half a second ago.

The statue crashes harmlessly onto a couch.

Felicia's already moving.

She flips up, plants a foot against the wall, and launches herself toward the shattered window at the far end of the office. Glass explodes outward, rain and wind rushing in like the city itself is trying to reclaim her.

"Stop her!" someone yells.

Too late.

I don't even think.

I drop.

My hands peel off the ceiling and I fall straight down, landing between two guards in a crouch. Before either of them can react, I web their guns to the floor and yank hard. Metal clatters. Shouts erupt behind me.

"Hey!" I call, instinctively keeping my voice light even as adrenaline slams through me. "Nobody needs to get hurt, okay?"

They barely hear me.

Felicia's already outside.

I sprint, boots splashing through rainwater pooling on the marble floor, and dive through the broken window just in time to see her leap from the penthouse terrace, coat flaring, white hair flashing against the night.

For one insane heartbeat, she looks like she's about to fall.

Then a grappling line snaps taut from her wrist, catching on a neighboring building, and she swings away into the storm.

My chest tightens.

Of course she has one.

I don't hesitate.

I fire a web, vault over the terrace railing, and leap after her.

The city opens beneath me again—wind, rain, lights streaking past as gravity grabs hold. My stomach flips, exhilaration surging right back up alongside something warmer, sharper.

I chase her through the rain, heart pounding, lungs burning, a grin tugging at my mouth despite myself.

I was not letting Felicia Hardy disappear into the night without saying hello.

I land hard on the rooftop, boots skidding a few inches across wet gravel before my grip catches. Rain slicks everything, neon bleeding up from the streets below. For a half-second, I'm just listening—sirens far away, traffic hissing through puddles, my own heartbeat loud in my ears.

No immediate danger.

She thinks she's clear.

Felicia stands near the edge, back half-turned to me, rolling her shoulders like she's shaking off the night. The city stretches behind her, Manhattan stacked high and jagged, lights glowing through the rain like a circuit board. Her grappling line retracts with a quiet whirr into her wrist. Casual. Unbothered.

I straighten and clear my throat.

"Quite the exit you made back there," I say, pitching my voice easy, almost conversational. "I'd have given you a ten, but you were spotted, so I had to deduct a couple points."

I smile softly under the mask, even though she can't see it.

She freezes.

Not startled. Not panicked. Just… still.

Then she turns.

Up close, it's worse. Better. I don't know. Her eyes are sharp, bright green even in the low light, reflective like she's always calculating distances, angles, escape routes. Rain beads on the white fur of her collar, clinging to it like frost. Her suit is scuffed in places—she's been doing this a while—but there's nothing sloppy about her stance.

"Where did you come from?" she asks.

Her voice is light, but there's an edge there now. Alert. Curious.

I shrug, hands raised slightly, palms open. Friendly neighborhood posture. "Lady, I don't have the time to explain all that… but just know I've been following you since you grabbed that USB."

Her gaze flicks down—just for a second—to my chest.

The spider.

She arches a brow.

"Spider, huh?" she says, lips curling faintly. "Don't you know cats like to play with spiders?"

Internally, my soul leaves my body.

I'm screaming. Fully. Somewhere deep inside, a thirteen-year-old version of me is running laps, knocking over furniture, absolutely losing his mind. She said the line. She actually said the line.

Outwardly, I manage not to combust.

"Yeah," I say, tilting my head. "I've heard. Usually doesn't end great for the—"

My Spider-Sense detonates.

I barely have time to react.

Felicia lunges.

Not reckless. Not wild. Surgical.

Her claws flash white, slicing through the rain, and I twist on instinct—but I'm late. Too late. Something rakes across the side of my face, pain flaring hot and sharp just beneath the mask. The fabric tears slightly. I hiss, stumbling back a step.

She's already past me.

"Sorry!" she calls over her shoulder, almost laughing. "Reflex!"

Blood trickles warm against my cheek, mixing with rain. Not deep. Not serious. But it stings like hell—and worse, it's embarrassing. I was so focused on the banter, on the moment, that I forgot the most important rule:

Never assume the person across from you isn't dangerous just because they're smiling.

Felicia dives off the rooftop.

"Nope!" I shout, recovering fast, adrenaline roaring back. "Oh, game on!"

I sprint, leap, and fire a webline into the darkness. It catches, and I swing after her, city yawning wide beneath us. Wind tears at my jacket, rain blurring everything into streaks of color and motion.

She's fast.

Not just athletic—smart. She weaves low through alley gaps, then shoots upward suddenly, forcing me to adjust mid-swing. Her grappling line snaps out at odd angles, pulling her into tight arcs that make my stomach lurch just watching.

I adapt.

Web to lamppost. Release. Reattach to a fire escape. I swing wide, cutting her off instead of following directly. The city becomes a puzzle—angles, heights, timing—and I solve it on the fly, laughing breathlessly as I go.

This is insane.

She lands on the side of a building, boots magnetizing or gripping somehow, and runs horizontally across brick before flipping off into open air again. I mirror her a second later, wall-crawling effortlessly, rain slicking past my fingers.

"Y'know," I call out, "most people say hi before trying to take my face off!"

"Occupational hazard!" she shoots back.

She cuts left, diving through a narrow gap between two buildings barely wide enough for her shoulders. I hesitate for a split second—then trust myself and follow, shoulders brushing brick, rainwater cascading down the walls like waterfalls.

We burst out onto a wider avenue, traffic honking below as we arc overhead. She lands on a moving truck, rides it for three seconds, then vaults off again, grappling line singing.

Show-off.

My Spider-Sense hums constantly now, a low electric buzz keeping me just ahead of disaster. A crane arm swings unexpectedly—duck. A loose sign tears free in the wind—kick off the wall and clear it. My body moves before I think, joy and focus blending into something clean and sharp.

She glances back mid-swing, eyes widening just a little when she sees I'm still there.

"Oh," she says. "You're good."

I grin despite the blood and rain. "I try."

She accelerates.

So do I.

We climb higher now, rooftops giving way to glass and steel. Rain slicks the skyscraper faces, reflections warping and stretching as we pass. The city feels infinite beneath us, alive and roaring, and for a moment—just a moment—I forget about Norman, about alarms and USB drives and consequences.

It's just the chase.

The dance.

Felicia lands on a narrow ledge near the top of a building, skidding slightly before catching herself. She straightens, breathing hard now, chest rising and falling. She looks around, scanning, calculating—and then I drop in behind her, landing softly.

She spins, claws out—

—but stops.

Because I'm already there.

Perched easily, rain dripping off my sleeves, trying very hard not to look as thrilled as I feel.

Her eyes flick from my face to the torn edge of my mask, to the blood, then back up again.

"Well," she says, smiling despite herself. "Looks like the spider's got some bite."

I open my mouth to reply—

And my Spider-Sense flares again, sharp and insistent, from somewhere below.

Before either of us can react, the sound of rotors cuts through the rain.

Felicia's smile fades.

"Uh-oh," she murmurs.

And just like that, she's gone again—leaping off the ledge, vanishing into the wet, glowing maze of the city.

She doesn't slow.

If anything, she gets meaner about it.

Felicia snaps another line out, swinging low and fast between buildings, rain tearing sideways as the wind funnels through the streets. I follow a heartbeat later, barely missing a chimney as she tosses something back over her shoulder.

The smoke bomb pops midair.

White-gray clouds bloom instantly, thick and chemical, swallowing the space between us. My Spider-Sense flares—not danger exactly, just disorientation—so I twist sideways, cut my line, and free-fall through it. The smoke slides past me like a curtain as I shoot a fresh web downward, catching a streetlight and slingshotting myself back into clean air.

"Don't you know how to take a hint?!" she shouts, breath audible now as she swings around a fire escape, boots clanging against metal.

I laugh despite myself, adrenaline buzzing in my veins.

"Would you believe me I'm incredibly dense when it comes to females?"

Another smoke bomb sails past my head. I duck, feel it detonate behind me, and flip upside down mid-swing, letting momentum carry me forward.

"What'd you break into the penthouse for? I mean, it's not a jewelry store."

She glances back, lips curling.

"Oh? You think that's more of what I'm into?"

"It's gotta be better than breaking into a single father's place!"

She lands on a ledge, crouched and coiled like—yeah, okay, exactly like a cat—then launches again. "What does it matter to you?"

"I'm trying to make conversation!" I shoot a web past her, miss on purpose just to keep her moving. "That so bad?"

"Didn't your parents tell you not to talk to strangers?" she calls, tossing another smoke bomb.

"Yeah, but for you I'll make an exception!"

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

She jukes suddenly, spinning midair, and my webline snaps uselessly past her shoulder. I bounce off the side of a building, boots slapping glass, then kick off again, climbing higher. The Chrysler Building looms ahead of us now, its silver crown cutting through the rain like a blade, lights glowing through mist.

"Only to the ones that get my attention," I reply, breathless, honest before I can stop myself.

She doesn't answer that.

Instead, she accelerates straight up the Chrysler, boots magnetizing or gripping or doing something frankly unfair. I follow on instinct, palms and feet sticking to slick stone as rain pours down the façade. Gargoyles and art deco ridges blur past as we climb, the city shrinking beneath us, traffic reduced to lines of light.

Another smoke bomb detonates right in my face.

I cough, twist, and let myself fall backward, trusting my Sense. A web fires, catches a spire, and I whip around the smoke, coming up beside her just as she vaults for the upper ledge.

This time, I don't miss.

My hand snaps out and grabs her wrist.

The impact jars us both, momentum slamming her back against the wall. I plant my feet, webs shooting instinctively to brace us, pinning her in place against the wet stone. Rain streaks down her suit, breath fogging faintly in the cold air.

For a second, we're just there. Suspended. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

"Well," she says, voice light despite the situation, "you've got me. Now what do you plan on doing?"

I swallow. The city hums far below us, wind whipping my jacket. "I… just want to talk."

"Aw, that all?" She pouts mockingly, tilting her head. "Sorry. I don't like talking, Spider."

She kicks me square in the chest.

I grunt, surprised more than hurt, losing my grip as I'm knocked backward. I catch myself a second later on the building, claws digging in—but that's all she needs. She twists, yanks free, and launches herself into open air again.

I push off after her—

And my Spider-Sense screams.

Not from her.

From above.

From everywhere.

It's different than before. Sharper. Heavier. Like the air itself is about to tear open.

I don't think. I react.

Web Rush kicks in—my perception snapping tight, the world slowing just enough as I whip around mid-leap. Rain hangs in the air like glass beads. The Chrysler's lights blur past as something descends from the sky at terrifying speed.

Wings.

Massive.

For half a heartbeat, my mind tries to make it fit something familiar.

Vulture…

But then the lightning flashes—and the feathers catch the light.

Red.

Deep, violent crimson, layered and sharp, cutting through the rain as the figure plummets past the building like a missile. Metal glints beneath the wings. A taloned shape twists midair, correcting its descent with horrifying ease.

My stomach drops out.

That's not him.

That's not Adrian.

"What the fuck?" I breathe, the words torn out of me by wind and shock.

Felicia's already gone, forgotten in an instant, her presence fading from my awareness as every instinct I have locks onto the thing screaming down from the sky. The rain seems to recoil around it, wind howling as it banks hard, claws sparking against stone before launching again into the dark.

Red feathers scatter droplets like blood when it flies by me. It only takes me a moment to come to a horrifying realization. It's going after Felicia… shit.

The red blur cuts through the storm like a thrown blade.

I don't think—I move.

Webline. Anchor. Swing.

The Red Vulture dives after Felicia with terrifying intent, wings snapping open and closed as thunder rolls overhead. He's faster than Adrian ever was. Not just stronger—hungrier. Every beat of those wings sounds like something being torn apart, the air screaming as he barrels through it.

Felicia sees him.

I know because the moment she glances back, her entire body language changes. Gone is the teasing confidence. Gone is the playful rhythm of her escape. She stumbles mid-swing, barely correcting herself, breath hitching so hard I hear it even over the storm.

Fear. Real, naked fear.

That chills me more than the rain.

"YOU'RE NOT GETTING AWAY THIS TIME!"

The voice booms through the sky, raw and animal, carried on thunder and metal and rage. It's not shouted—it's declared, like a sentence being carried out.

What the hell did she do to piss that off?

And worse—why does my Spider-Sense feel like it's constantly a half-second behind him?

I push harder.

Every swing is tighter, sharper. I stop enjoying it entirely. This isn't rhythm anymore—it's survival math. Angle, speed, timing. I rip through the rain, webbing snapping onto ledges, spires, cranes—anything that'll hold for half a second. My shoulders burn. My wrists scream. My lungs feel like they're full of ice.

Felicia jukes hard around a building corner, desperation overtaking grace. The Red Vulture follows without losing momentum, talons clanging against steel as he clips the edge and corrects instantly.

He's hunting her.

And he's about to catch her.

She slips—just a little. Enough.

The Red Vulture surges forward, claws extending, metal shrieking as they cut through rain—

I swing in sideways and tackle fate.

I grab Felicia around the waist and let gravity do the rest.

We drop.

Hard.

I twist midair, firing a webline straight down, snapping it tight at the last second. The line yanks us sideways instead of straight down, and I throw her onto the nearest rooftop as we skid across wet gravel.

She rolls once, comes up on a knee—

And I land between her and the sky.

"Hey," I say, breathless, forcing a grin that absolutely does not belong here, "I thought we had something special!"

She stares at me like I've lost my mind.

"Sorry," I add quickly. "I make jokes when I'm nervous."

"How about you joke later?" she snaps, scrambling behind me.

The impact shakes the rooftop.

The Red Vulture lands ten feet away in a spray of rain and sparks.

Up close, he's worse.

Adrian had been monstrous—but this thing is something else entirely. His wings are larger, heavier, each feather edged in metal. His talons are fully mechanical, jointed steel gleaming under red lights embedded along the wings. And unlike Adrian…

This one has hair.

Long, black hair plastered to his skull and shoulders, clinging to him like a drowning man's last grasp. Rain runs down his face, through a mouth curled into something feral.

His eyes lock on Felicia.

Then slide to me.

"You need to stay out of this, Spider," he growls. "Your time will come soon enough."

"Oh yeah?" I spread my hands, forcing casual into my posture while my Spider-Sense howls. "Something tells me you know Adrian. How's that wing doing?"

His lips peel back.

"It's healed," he says. "And he'll be coming for you."

Great. I'm looking forward to that.

"You know this guy?" Felicia whispers, gripping my jacket from behind.

"Eh," I mutter, biting the inside of my cheek, "more like I know his avian twin."

I straighten, pointing at him despite every instinct telling me this is a terrible idea. "Now, don't make me report you for not having a license to fly!"

"Unlike the other," the Red Vulture snarls, wings spreading wide, metal feathers catching lightning, "I will not fail to tear you apart."

"You sure about that?" I clench my fists, webs ready, body coiled. "Bring it on, bird-brain."

Felicia yanks my sleeve.

"You don't want to do that!"

I don't look back at her.

"No," I say quietly, something cold and heavy settling in my chest. "Actually… I really do."

The Red Vulture lunges.

The impact rings up my leg and into my spine—metal on bone, vibration rattling my teeth—but it's worth it. Red Vulture's head snaps sideways, rain exploding off his face in a violent spray as my heel connects cleanly with his jaw. He staggers midair, wings flaring wide to compensate, talons scraping sparks off the rooftop as he regains balance.

"Leave the girl alone!" I roar, following through with the kick and twisting out of range. "Felicia, you need to go!"

She freezes for half a heartbeat, eyes wide. Shock flashes across her face—not fear, not confusion. Recognition. The name lands harder than any punch. I feel it immediately, that sinking drop in my gut. I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't know it. Rookie mistake. Big one.

But she moves.

That's all that matters.

She backs away, then turns, vanishing over the edge of the rooftop in a blur of white-lined black and fearless motion. Gone. Swallowed by rain and steel and shadow. Safe—at least for now.

Good.

I don't look after her. I don't let myself. I keep my eyes locked on Red Vulture as his head slowly rolls back into place, metal talons curling, wings flexing. The air around him feels heavier now, charged with something ugly and personal. Whatever leash he had on himself snaps clean in two.

"You should not have interfered," he snarls, voice scraping like rusted steel dragged over concrete. "She belongs to me."

"No," I say, planting my feet, web shooters warm against my wrists. "She really, really doesn't."

He launches.

There's no warning roar this time, no dramatic wind-up. He just hits me—full force—like a freight train wrapped in feathers and blades. My Spider-Sense screams half a second too late, and suddenly the skyline tilts violently as he slams into my chest, claws digging into my jacket. The world becomes motion and rain and panic as we rocket sideways, straight into a glass-fronted skyscraper.

Windows explode.

The sound is deafening. Glass erupts outward in a crystalline storm, slicing into my arms, my neck, my cheek. Pain flares sharp and hot, dozens of tiny cuts opening at once as my back slams against the building's face. He drags me along it, metal talons shrieking as they gouge through steel and concrete, sparks mixing with rain and blood.

I grit my teeth and scream—not in fear, but fury—and plant my boots against the wall, kicking hard. The impact jolts him just enough. I twist, firing a web point-blank into his wing joint. The line sticks. I yank, wrenching the wing upward at an unnatural angle.

He howls.

The pressure lets up for half a second—long enough. I tear free, tumbling backward through open air, lungs burning, skin screaming where glass still clings. I fire another web, swing wide, then snap right back at him, slamming into his back with everything I've got. My arms lock around his torso, fingers digging into metal plating as rain whips past us both.

"Not this time," I snarl into the storm.

He bucks violently, wings beating in erratic, brutal strokes, trying to shake me loose. My arms burn, shoulders screaming in protest, but I hold on, shifting my grip, crawling higher. I can feel the raw strength in him—stronger than Adrian was. Faster. Meaner. Less human. Whatever's driving him, it's not desperation. It's obsession.

He tries to dive again, angling us back toward the buildings.

I won't let him.

I plant my feet against his back and pull hard on the web still tangled in his wing, forcing it upward. His balance falters. His trajectory shifts. Instead of diving down into steel and glass, we surge upward, climbing fast, rain thinning into mist as the city drops away beneath us.

"How about we get some privacy, huh?" I growl, tightening my grip. "I'm really not in the mood for collateral damage."

His laughter cuts through the thunder, loud and unhinged. "There's nowhere for you to run now, bug!"

"Who said I was running," I shoot back, breath ragged but steady, "you oversized chicken?"

He twists violently, slamming his head back into my face. Pain detonates behind my eyes. Something warm runs down under my mask. Blood. Great. He follows it up with a backhanded slash of his talons that rakes across my ribs. The suit absorbs most of it, but not all. White-hot pain blooms along my side.

I don't let go.

Instead, I fire two webs straight up, anchoring them to the underside of a passing rooftop ledge far above. The lines go taut instantly. I yank hard, using the sudden resistance to whip us both sideways. The maneuver throws him off rhythm, wings flaring too wide.

That's the opening.

I crawl up onto his shoulders and drive my elbow down into the base of his neck. Once. Twice. He snarls and reaches back, claws grazing my arm, tearing fabric and skin. Pain flares again, but I welcome it. It means he's focused on me now.

Good.

That's the problem I noticed earlier, the thing that's been screaming at the back of my mind since this fight started—he never cared about me. Not really. Every strike, every maneuver, every dive was angled toward Felicia. Toward getting past me. Toward her.

Not anymore.

He twists again, trying to slam me into open air, but I adjust, firing webs into his other wing, binding it partially. His flight stutters. We wobble, lose altitude, then surge upward again as he overcompensates with brute force.

"You think you're protecting her?" he snarls, rain plastering his hair across his face. "You think you can change what's coming?"

"I don't need to change everything," I snap, yanking the webbing tighter. "I just need to stop you."

He slams his wings together behind him, crushing me between them. My breath whooshes out in a painful gasp. Stars explode across my vision. For a terrifying second, my grip slips.

No.

Not again.

I snarl and drive my knee forward, slamming it into his spine. He screams, pitch rising into something feral, and I use the moment to flip over his shoulder, launching myself upward with a web-assisted boost. I spin midair, fire three rapid webs, cocooning his wings further, tangling metal and feathers together.

He thrashes, furious, wounded, dangerous—but grounded now in a way he wasn't before.

Rain pours. Thunder cracks overhead. My arms shake, my body screaming from a dozen small injuries, glass cuts stinging, ribs aching, blood slick under my mask.

"Just tell me where Adrian is," I snarl through clenched teeth as rain lashes my mask, arms shaking from strain and adrenaline, "and I'll make sure you get a cozy cell in the Raft. Promise."

"Never."

The word is sharp, absolute. He bares his teeth—too many of them, too wide—and laughs.

It's wrong. Not loud. Not manic. Mocking. Like he knows something I don't. Like the punchline is already written and I'm sprinting toward it blind.

"Fine!" I roar, fury punching through the ache in my ribs, through the sting of glass and rain and blood. "This is going to hurt!"

He laughs harder.

"You're right about that!"

He explodes out of the webbing.

Metal shrieks as he tears free, wings snapping outward with brutal force. I barely have time to register the movement before pain detonates across my chest. His talons rake down me in a vicious, deliberate arc—three lines, deep enough to burn, right over the same place Adrian tore me open that night. My breath catches in a sharp, broken gasp. It feels like someone poured fire straight into my lungs.

I don't scream. I refuse to.

Instead, I hit him back.

We collide in midair, fists and claws and elbows smashing together as gravity finally remembers us. The clouds peel away around us, cold mist tearing past my ears as the city rockets up to meet us. We're falling. Fast. No elegance now. No control. Just two bodies tumbling out of the sky like a broken promise.

I slam my fist into his jaw. He answers with a knee to my ribs that makes something crack. Maybe bone. Maybe just pain pretending to be worse. I grab a handful of his wet, matted hair and yank his head down, smashing my forehead into his face. The impact rattles my skull, stars bursting across my vision, but he howls and flails, wings beating uselessly in the air.

Wind roars past us, deafening. Rain becomes needles again. The city lights stretch and smear beneath us, turning into long, nauseating streaks of color. My Spider-Sense is screaming, not warning so much as begging—move, move, move—but everything feels slow, delayed, like my thoughts are wading through syrup.

We spin.

He claws at my shoulder. I punch his throat. He laughs again, even as he chokes, spittle and rain flying from his mouth. We're too close now. Too tangled. I can feel the heat of him, the vibration of his wings, the raw, ugly strength packed into every movement.

We're seconds from becoming a headline.

I twist, firing a web blindly, not even aiming—just praying. The line catches something solid below. A fire escape. A ledge. I don't know. I don't care. I yank hard, wrenching myself sideways out of his grasp. My shoulder screams in protest, nearly tearing loose as momentum whips me away from him.

The world snaps violently.

I smash through glass.

The sound is explosive, disorienting. Windows burst inward as I plow through them like a human wrecking ball. Shards tear at my arms, my back, my legs. I tumble through an office space in a blur of overturned desks and flickering lights, then through another window, and another—

—and then I'm falling again.

This time it's not graceful. Not controlled. I slam into a dumpster back-first with a bone-jarring crash that dents the metal inward like it's aluminum foil. The impact knocks the air out of me completely. My vision goes white. Then black. Then static.

Everything tilts.

The rain sounds wrong down here—too loud, too close. My ears ring, a high, shrill whine drowning out the city. The world swims as I roll off the dumpster and hit the wet concrete hard, shoulder first. Pain blooms everywhere at once, unfocused and overwhelming, like my body can't decide where to scream from first.

I groan, pushing myself up on trembling arms. The alley spins. Brick walls loom and recede. Neon reflections smear across puddles like oil slicks. My mask feels too tight, like it's squeezing my skull. Blood drips down into my mouth—coppery, thick. I spit, miss the ground entirely.

Okay. Okay. Breathe.

I stagger to my feet, legs unsteady, one hand braced against the cold brick. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to claw its way out of my chest. Every breath hurts. My chest burns where he cut me, the wounds throbbing in angry, pulsing time with my heartbeat.

The Spider-Sense buzzes.

Not a spike. Not a scream.

A low, vicious hum.

My head snaps up—but I'm too slow.

Something slams into my shoulders from behind, crushing me back down to the pavement. Talons bite in, metal digging into muscle, pinning me flat. The concrete cracks beneath my cheek as my face hits hard. My arms splay uselessly, palms scraping against rain-slick ground.

He's on me.

Red Vulture's weight bears down like a mountain. His breath is hot against the back of my neck, reeking of rain and blood and something feral. His claws tighten, grinding into my shoulders until my vision blurs again.

"You should have stayed out of the way," he growls, low and intimately.

I grit my teeth, fingers curling against the pavement, every muscle in my body screaming at me to move, to fight, to do something. Pain flares as I try to push up, but he slams me back down effortlessly.

I draw in a shaking breath, rain splashing against my mask, city noise creeping back into focus around the ringing in my ears. I bare my teeth beneath the mask and laugh—a raw, breathless sound.

"Yeah," I rasp, muscles coiling despite the pain. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than that."

My hands are still free.

That realization cuts through the pain like a spark to gasoline.

Before he can tighten his grip again, before he can crush the breath out of me entirely, I flick both wrists and fire a thick webline straight past my shoulder. It splats wetly against the side of the dumpster behind us, adhesive biting hard. I don't hesitate. I yank with everything I've got.

The dumpster flies.

Metal screams as it tears free from the ground, skidding and tipping before momentum takes over completely. It slams into Red Vulture's side like a freight train. The impact rips him off me in a violent snarl of steel and feathers, sending him crashing into the opposite wall. The pressure vanishes all at once, and I gasp, air tearing back into my lungs in a ragged, painful rush.

I roll hard, barely aware of where my body ends and the alley begins. My shoulder screams as I hit the ground again, but I keep moving, forcing my legs under me, pushing up through the haze. My vision swims, edges dark and pulsing, but I'm upright. Barely.

I clench my fists, chest heaving, rain streaking down my mask. My hands are shaking, but they're steady enough. I pop open the web shooters with my thumbs, fingers working by muscle memory as I swap cartridges in a single smooth motion. Fresh webbing clicks into place just as I look up.

Red Vulture is already moving.

He hurls the dumpster aside with one wing.

Not his arms. Not both wings. One.

The metal container spins end over end, slamming into the far end of the alley and collapsing in on itself with a deafening crash. My stomach drops.

Oh shit. You can use your wings like that? That's just lovely.

He straightens slowly, rain sliding down metal talons and soaked feathers, long black hair plastered to his face. His eyes lock onto me, bright and furious, murder written into every twitch of his body. He spreads his wings, scraping them against the brick walls as he steps forward.

I brace myself—

—and then something flashes past my vision.

A sharp thunk as a small knife embeds itself into the wall beside his head. It hums faintly at first, a soft electric pulse glowing blue along its edges.

Red Vulture turns toward it.

And then it screams.

The sound is high-pitched and violent, like feedback cranked to eleven, like metal tearing through bone. It rips through the alley, through my skull, through everything. I clap my hands over my ears instinctively, teeth rattling as the noise vibrates through my chest.

Red Vulture shrieks in agony.

He stumbles back, wings spasming, claws tearing gouges into the brick as he grabs his head, howling. The sound tears at my nerves, raw and animal, echoing off the walls until it feels like the alley itself is screaming with him.

"Move!" Felicia's voice snaps from above.

I don't argue.

I bolt.

I fire a web into the darkness and yank myself sideways, crashing through a door into a darkened building just as the screaming cuts off abruptly behind us. Felicia drops in a heartbeat later, already moving, already scanning, shutting the door quietly behind her.

We don't stop until we're several floors up, tucked into a narrow maintenance room that smells like dust and old wiring. Felicia crouches by the window, peering out through a cracked pane, muscles coiled and ready.

I collapse.

My legs give out completely, and I slide down the wall until I'm sitting hard on the floor, head tipped back, chest heaving. Every breath feels like dragging broken glass through my lungs. My shoulder throbs where his talons dug in. My chest burns where the cuts are reopening, warm blood soaking into my suit.

For a long moment, all I can hear is my own breathing.

Felicia keeps watch. Minutes stretch. Rain hammers the city outside. Red Vulture never reappears, thankfully. I'm not sure I want to go tango with him again. Despite the fact I can keep fighting, I'm not trying to push my luck. Eventually, she exhales and relaxes just a fraction, turning back toward me.

"You didn't have to do that for me," she says dryly. "I don't owe you or anything."

I laugh weakly, then immediately regret it as pain flares through my ribs. "I didn't do it because of that…"

She arches a brow.

"Then what is it, you got a death wish?"

I shake my head, wincing.

"Actually, I have a thing about bullies." I glance up at her, managing a crooked grin beneath the mask. "But, you know. You're welcome."

There's a beat.

"Yeah," she says. "Thanks."

Silence settles between us, thick but not uncomfortable. My breathing finally starts to slow, the spinning in my head easing just enough for me to think again.

"So," I say carefully, shifting against the wall. "Now do you think we can have that talk?"

Her eyes narrow. "Seriously, what does it matter to you… and how do you know my name?"

I hesitate for half a second, then gesture weakly to the floor beside me. "If you sit down, I can explain. But I need you to answer a few questions of my own. Deal?"

She studies me, searching for something—danger, maybe. Lies. Whatever she sees, it's enough. Good, because I really hope she can tell me where the hell that guy came from. I don't need two Vultures running around the city. One of them is bad enough.

"Deal," Felicia says, lowering herself to sit across from me as the rain keeps falling outside…

---

Meanwhile…

---

Rain still clung to Red Vulture when he reached the lair, dripping in slow, angry rivulets onto the concrete floor. The entrance sealed behind him with a low mechanical groan, cutting off the distant thunder of the city. Inside, the air was thick—sterile, chemical, faintly metallic. The kind of place that never forgot what it was built for.

Red Vulture tore his wings inward, the membranes shuddering as he paced. Claw marks gouged the floor where he turned too sharply, rage bleeding into every movement. His breathing came hard, uneven, a rasping sound dragged through his chest like broken glass.

He had failed.

Again.

The memory burned: the thief slipping through his talons, the boy swinging in from nowhere, that damned scream-knifed sound ripping through his skull. His hands curled into fists, metal shrieking against metal as he struck the wall. The impact cracked reinforced concrete. Dust fell in lazy spirals.

"Pathetic," he muttered, though he wasn't sure if the word was meant for himself or the world.

Slow footsteps echoed behind him.

Measured. Unhurried. Certain.

Red Vulture stiffened instantly, wings lowering as if pulled by invisible strings. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.

The Jackal was already there.

"Where is she?" Jackal asked calmly, voice smooth as silk dragged across a blade. He stood just beyond the reach of Red's wings, hands clasped behind his back, lab coat pristine despite the damp air. His eyes gleamed with curiosity rather than anger, which somehow felt worse.

Red Vulture's jaw tightened.

"The boy showed up and interfered," he growled.

Jackal hummed softly, circling him.

"Ah. Of course he did."

The Jackal stopped directly in front of him, tilting his head like a scientist examining a specimen that had behaved unpredictably.

"Jimmy," he said gently. "You disappoint me. Are you really telling me that he was too much for you as well?"

Red's talons dug into the floor. "The thief disoriented me long enough for them to escape," he snarled. "I won't let it happen again."

Jackal smiled.

"No," he said, lightly. The word carried weight, sinking into the room like a command etched into stone. "You're to stay put."

Red Vulture's wings twitched, instinct screaming defiance, but his body didn't move. Couldn't. The conditioning dug deep—layers of obedience reinforced with pain, memory, and something far worse than either.

Jackal continued, pacing now, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous space. "If there's one thing that boy seems exceptionally good at, it's creating attention. We don't need that. Our colleagues are already upset about having to get involved with Adrian's extraction." His eyes flicked toward a darkened chamber deeper within the lair. "We cannot afford another incident like that."

Red Vulture swallowed hard. "We need her," he said. "You said it yourself."

"And we will have her," Jackal replied smoothly. He stopped again, this time close enough that Red could smell antiseptic and cold metal. "And now that she's aligned herself with the boy, we know exactly how to find her."

Red's breathing slowed despite himself, rage shifting into something sharper. Anticipation. Hunger.

"But not yet," Jackal added, raising a finger.

Red Vulture flinched as if struck.

"Rest now," Jackal said, tone final. "When Adrian is ready, the two of you will go out together and end this… game once and for all."

The word game echoed, mocking and cruel.

Red Vulture lowered his head. The fight drained from his posture, replaced by something colder and far more dangerous—obedience forged from fear and devotion tangled so tightly they were impossible to separate.

"Yes, master," he said.

Jackal watched him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Then he turned, already losing interest, already thinking several steps ahead. The lights dimmed slightly as he walked away, shadows swallowing his form piece by piece.

---

AN: Hey guys. Hope you all enjoyed. This was one of the most enjoyable chapters I've written so far in the entire story. Finally getting the two characters I've wanted to write together since the conception of this story to meet was beyond satisfying. I loved everything about this chapter. There was a lot of payoff that I honestly had planned on getting to this point specifically to hit the ground running. I wanted Peter to web swing here. I wanted Peter and Felicia to meet here. I wanted Peter to learn about Red Vulture only upon meeting Felicia. There is a lot here that I wanted to all unfold at the same time.

Over 250k for us to have Peter finally at long last web swing. That sounds crazy, but for those who have binge read this, I know this will feel just as satisfying as it was for me to write it here. In a way, I view this as the true start of the story. I said it a couple times before, but I really do mean it. Every time I have said this, it's because I'm looking at this from a different perspective each time.

Chapter 15... I said this was the start to the story because it was the moment you'd expect an origin story to start. The death that drives Peter to become Spider-Man. What makes him decide to put that mask on.

Chapter 29 I kind of viewed it as the start to the story because it was the moment Peter donned his homemade suit. The first time Spidey truly appears.

But Chapter 31 going into Chapter 32? This feels special to me. Peter finally has his web shooters. He can web swing. He can officially do whatever a spider can, now. He's met Black Cat. He is where I want him to be.

The more I write this story, the more I fall in love with it. It honestly astounds me that I've been able to write something so well-received. Yeah, there's some comments that have been questionable, but ultimately everyone has enjoyed this that I can see.

The one thing I will say, and it will always be what I say. The name Absolute is a minor inspiration from the DC Absolute comics. Is this the main goal of the story to reflect that? No. I wanted something fresh, but familiar. That has always been the goal. But the true alterations to this universe have yet to come. This is merely the beginning, and I hope you guys continue to follow it as it continues to grow.

Please let me know what you thought of the chapter.

As always, if you're interested in seeing more... I do have a P where you can get up to five chapters early access. I also post commissioned artworks for my stories there, as well as original projects that will be coming in the future.

Want to talk about the story? I have a discord server where you can do that! Link will be down below.

That being said, guys, I hope you all have a great start to 2026, and I shall see you very soon!

---

This story is cross-posted on Ao3, FF, and QQ.
discord. gg /dQkeJPkxdD
https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

 

[Lillie Jones]

Now we have truly begun our aspiring Spider-Man journey with Red Vulture and Jackal ( Scarlet Spider-Man Ben Riley creator /progenitor), which Jackal is going to put an end to all these games from playing with the younger Spider-Man and Black Cat Felicia Hardy and Adrian Toomes Vulture.
Too bad, which Absolute Spider-Man SI would have a made a great comic book and I'm not as saying that as bot , but 616ish Marvel universe is too busy with Spider-Man in his own Guardian of the galaxy adventure and new Techno organic suit at the moment. With Norman Osborne and Ben Riley taken over his Spider-Man duties in New York.
Looking forward to what Spider-Man is going to do when he confronted with a starting revelations before handling the Adrian Toomes Vulture situation about Aunt May and still figuring out what it means to be Spider-Man in his own way.
Continue on
Cheers!