Previously
Looked down at my hands—the same ones that let that burglar walk away. The same hands that could break a sink or stop a punch in mid-air.
And now, they had to do more.
I didn't sleep. Instead, I opened my laptop and started designing.
Not a machine. Not an experiment.
A suit.
Something lightweight, flexible, with grip traction on gloves and boots. I had leftover material from Oscorp's poly-weave tests, and I knew how to use it. I needed something that moved like I moved now—something that hid who I was, while helping me become who I needed to be.
Because from now on, I wasn't going to be just Peter Parker.
The rooftops were slippery at night, but I didn't feel fear. I felt alive.
The suit was basic: red and black with no symbol yet, no name. Just a mask and gloves, and webbing built into the wrists—homemade web-shooters that actually worked after ten tries and one singed eyebrow.
I stood on the edge of a five-story building.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "You've got this. It's just physics."
I jumped.
For a second, I was falling.
Then—
Thwip!
The web stuck.
And I swung.
My body moved like it wanted to be in the air. Every instinct felt sharp, natural. The wind roared in my ears, the city lights blurred around me, and for the first time in days, I felt… free.
I overshot a landing and crashed into a fire escape. Rolled twice. Hit a trash can.
Okay. Not completely natural.
But I stood up, wiped off the grime, and smiled under the mask.
Progress.
As I rounded a corner, I heard shouting.
A man in a hoodie was dragging a woman's purse and shoving her into a wall.
I didn't hesitate.
I shot a web at the bag and yanked it out of his hands. He turned, startled. I flipped off the wall and landed between him and the woman.
"Leave," I said.
He ran. No fight. Just fear.
The woman clutched her purse and stared at me. "Who are you?"
I hesitated. I didn't have a name.
"Just someone trying to do the right thing," I said.
Then I disappeared into the night.
Back home, I peeled off the mask and stared into the mirror.
I was still Peter Parker. Still the kid who made excuses. Still the one who stood by while someone paid the price.
But now?
Now I was something else, too.
Something I was building, piece by piece.
Someone who didn't run anymore.
It didn't take long for word to get around.
Someone was swinging across rooftops at night. Someone in a red-and-black mask was stopping muggings, breaking up carjackings, and vanishing before police could arrive.
At school, it was all anyone talked about.
"Yo, did you hear about that guy downtown?" Flash Thompson said loudly in the cafeteria. "Dude swung from a building. Like, with rope or something."
"Webbing," I muttered without thinking.
Flash raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," I said, forcing a smile. "Just… heard that, too."
Mary Jane slid into the seat across from me, her tray barely touched. "Do you think it's real?"
I shrugged. "Probably someone just trying to go viral."
She leaned in. "If it is real, he's brave. Or reckless."
"Maybe both," I said quietly.
I hadn't returned to the Oscorp lab since Norman Osborn fired me. But I needed answers—and no one had better equipment than they did.
That night, I snuck in.
Security wasn't tight if you knew the blind spots. I'd built the system. Go figure.
I ran blood tests, brain scans, muscle density readings. Everything pointed to one thing: my DNA had been altered—permanently. The spider didn't just inject venom—it rewrote me.
I was still Peter Parker.
But I wasn't just Peter Parker anymore.
"You always were a smart one," a cold voice echoed from the shadows.
I turned. Norman Osborn stood at the door, arms crossed, unreadable.
"You're lucky I didn't call security," he said. "I ought to have you arrested."
"I needed answers," I said. "I didn't come here to steal."
Norman studied me. "Your blood—how different is it?"
"Very," I replied.
He looked away, then down. "That spider was supposed to save my son, Peter. You know that."
"I didn't ask to be bitten," I said, keeping my voice even. "But I won't waste what it gave me."
There was a long silence.
"Get out," he finally said. "And don't come back."
By the end of the week, footage had surfaced.
Grainy cellphone video showed someone—me—swinging past traffic lights, landing on buses, flipping off rooftops. The news dubbed me The Spider Vigilante.
Some called me a menace. Others called me a hero.
I didn't care what they called me.
I just kept moving.
At night, I patrolled.
By day, I studied.
In between, I tried to smile for Aunt May, even though I could still hear Uncle Ben's voice in my head.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
One night, while web-slinging through the Lower East Side, I heard a scream. I turned, ready to intervene—but what I saw stopped me cold.
A man—tall, muscular, in an armored suit—was holding a car over his head. With one hand.
He threw it.
It smashed into a wall like it was made of paper.
He turned toward me. "You must be the spider," he growled. "You're not the only one evolving."
His eyes glowed beneath the helmet.
My hands clenched.
This wasn't a random thug.
This was something new.
Something dangerous.
And I had a feeling it was just the beginning.
guy was massive.
He stood at least seven feet tall, shoulders like a tank, armored from head to toe in some kind of gray, bio-fused plating. His helmet had a sharp, curved horn jutting from the forehead—almost like a… rhino.
"You're not Oscorp tech," I muttered under
my breath.
He charged.
BOOM!
His feet shattered the pavement as he sprinted toward me. I dove sideways, barely avoiding a streetlamp he sent flying. I fired a web at it midair, yanked it down safely, then flipped off the wall to keep distance.
"Who are you?" I called out.
"I'm the next generation," he growled. "And you're in my way."
I wasn't ready for someone like this. I'd stopped muggers, burglars—guys with knives and baseball bats. Not living wrecking balls in body armor.
But I couldn't just run. People were watching. Recording.
If I ran, someone would get hurt.
Or worse.
So I aimed my web-shooters and stuck his feet to the ground. It bought me maybe two seconds.
He ripped free and came at me harder.
I used his momentum—vaulted over his shoulder, spun midair, and slammed both feet into the side of his helmet.
CRACK!
He stumbled.
I landed hard and rolled into a crouch. "Guess you're not bulletproof up there."
He snarled, ripping part of a fire hydrant from the ground. Water sprayed everywhere.
"Rhino," I whispered. "That's what I'm calling you. Hope you don't mind."
He didn't answer.
He just charged again. I dodged
But his speed didn't match his bulk. I knew I couldn't overpower him — so I used momentum.
I led him on a chase, through the city and he ran into the support beams of a warehouse. I webbed one leg, then another. I hit him with everything I had, but nothing worked until I remembered the crane parked outside.
I tricked him into slamming through the wall.
The impact triggered the crane's collapse — not on him, but around him. A perfect cage of steel and cable.
He roared, thrashing.
But the more he fought, the more tangled he became.
When the authorities arrived, they said nothing. They took him back. Scrubbed the scene.
Later that night—bruised, scraped, and still buzzing with adrenaline—I broke into one of Oscorp's lower sublabs. I needed information. About him.
If that armor was military-grade, there had to be files. Prototypes. Something.
Sure enough, I found it: Project Rhinoceros.
Experimental armor. Fused directly to the subject's nervous system. It wasn't just armor—it was him now.
Name: Alexei Sytsevich.
Volatile. Dangerous. "Discharged" from Oscorp after neurological damage from early tests.
So why was he back on the street?
And more importantly… who let him out?
I pulled up my bloodwork again. My DNA had spliced with the spider's genetic code—but it hadn't made me lose control. Not like him.
Someone out there had taken the same research… and twisted it.
Uncle Ben once told me, "Science is only as good as the hands that use it."
Right now, it was in the wrong hands.
And people were going to get hurt.
Back home, I sat at the kitchen table with Aunt May. She was making tea, humming to herself. For a second, everything felt normal.
She looked at me carefully.
"You've been quieter lately," she said.
"Just… tired," I lied.
She sat down beside me, placing her hand on mine. "Peter, I know you're hurting. But whatever you're carrying… you don't have to carry it alone."
I wanted to tell her everything. About the spider. The powers. Uncle Ben. The suit.
But I just smiled and said, "Thanks, May. I'll be okay."
I wasn't sure if that was true.
By morning, the news exploded.
"Masked Vigilante Faces Down Armored Monster in Manhattan!"
"Is This Spider-Man… Our Protector?"
That name. Spider-Man.
I hadn't called myself that.
But it stuck.
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