Chapter 31: The First Web
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Arsenal597
Getting sticky.
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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
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