Chapter 18 – Static in the Halls
The next morning came too soon. Gwen's alarm buzzed like a dying mosquito, and she slammed her hand down on it before it could ruin her half-dream of peace. The sunlight filtered weakly through her blinds — the kind of pale Gotham light that never felt fully awake.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. Weaver hummed faintly beneath her skin, almost like a heartbeat syncing back to hers.
> "Good morning," Weaver said softly.
"Sleep efficiency: seventy-eight percent."
"Translation: I'm still tired," Gwen muttered, pulling herself out of bed.
Her dad was already gone — the half-finished cup of coffee and folded newspaper on the counter said everything. She smiled faintly, grabbed a piece of toast, and slung her bag over her shoulder.
By the time she stepped outside, the city was already alive. Distant car horns, chatter, the low thrum of Gotham energy — it all reminded her she had to act normal today. Just a student. Not a hero. Not a mystery project from some dead lab.
Just… Gwen Stacy.
---
Midtown Gotham High
School felt both comforting and suffocating. Familiar halls, posters half falling off the walls, teachers pretending coffee counted as patience. Gwen waved to a few classmates as she walked in — nothing suspicious, nothing extraordinary.
Peter had transferred here a month ago, and seeing him by the lockers almost made everything feel lighter.
"Morning, Spider-Girl," he whispered as she passed by, teasing.
Her eyes widened for a second before she realized — right, he meant it as a joke. No one else knew.
"Ha-ha. You're hilarious," she said, elbowing him.
He grinned. "So, you ready for Stark-level boredom? Because chemistry's first."
"Honestly, after everything that's happened, chemicals exploding might count as a vacation."
They laughed, walking into class together.
But as soon as she sat down, something flickered in her vision.
A soft pulse — blue, faint, familiar.
The HUD from Weaver blinked on for a fraction of a second before vanishing. Gwen stiffened. Her phone vibrated next — a notification she didn't recognize.
Signal Detected – Local Network Correlation: 0.4% (Weaver Source).
She swallowed hard.
Weaver wasn't even active.
"Gwen?" Peter whispered. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she said quickly, "just— brain lag."
But her hand was already under the desk, tapping open the encrypted channel Batman had given her.
No signal. The link was jammed.
That's when the intercom crackled overhead.
> "Attention, students — please remain in your classrooms. We're experiencing temporary network interference. All systems will be back online shortly."
Everyone groaned. But Gwen's heart skipped. Network interference.
She looked out the window. Across the street, she saw it — a faint shimmer of blue light near one of the parked vans. Almost like the pulse she saw at the Cadmus lab.
She stood abruptly.
Peter blinked. "Bathroom break already?"
"Something like that," she muttered.
She slipped out of the classroom, moving fast down the hall. But before she reached the exit —
The lights flickered. Once. Twice.
And then a faint, distorted voice whispered through her earpiece — static, broken words.
> "...Gwen… system... incomplete... trace—"
Her blood went cold. "Weaver?"
> "Negative," the AI responded instantly. "That voice… is not me."
Then the hallway lights surged back to life — and everything went silent.
Gwen stood frozen, staring at the faint reflection of blue flickering across a locker door.
Something — or someone — was reaching out again.
And this time, it wasn't from Gotham's shadows. It was from right here.
Gwen's heart pounded in her chest as the faint echo of the voice faded. She stood there for a long second, breathing slow, pretending to look like a student just late for class — even though every instinct screamed that something was wrong.
> "Weaver," she whispered under her breath, "pinpoint that signal."
> "Attempting triangulation," the AI replied quietly. "Source vector… fifty-two meters east. External. Moving."
She turned toward the nearest exit door.
"Moving?" she echoed.
> "Affirmative. Estimated speed: fifteen kilometers per hour. Vehicle-based transmission."
"Then we're not losing it."
She pushed through the back door of the building into the cool morning air. The parking lot behind the school shimmered with heat from exhaust fumes, students hanging around in clusters. But Gwen's eyes locked on the delivery van pulling out from the side alley — white, unmarked, and humming faintly with that blue pulse only she could see.
She tapped her phone's side — activating Weaver's minimal sync mode beneath her clothes. Thin, near-invisible threads of webbing formed along her wrists, ready just in case.
> "Stealth engagement?" Weaver asked.
"Yeah. Keep it low-power — Dad's precinct has patrols nearby. I don't need to explain why his daughter's scaling cars before lunch."
The van turned onto the main road. Gwen slipped behind a row of parked cars, vaulted a low fence, and started following it across the narrow street rooftops.
The wind hit her face again — the rush of adrenaline burning away the classroom stillness. She kept pace easily, watching the van weave through traffic. Her HUD flickered once, updating: Signal Strength: 83%.
"Okay," she muttered. "Whoever you are, you picked the wrong neighborhood to play ghost in."
The van suddenly turned left — into a dead-end construction site.
"Of course it did."
She landed silently behind a crane, watching. The van stopped, the engine still running. A figure in a hooded coat stepped out, holding a metal case about the size of a laptop.
The faint blue glow leaked through its edges — the same hue as Weaver's circuits.
> "Signal origin confirmed," Weaver murmured. "Warning: resonance identical to Weaver-12 core."
Gwen frowned. "You're telling me that thing's you?"
> "Negative. It is from me."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
Before she could move, the figure knelt by an old power terminal and opened the case. Inside, wires tangled around a crystal-like core pulsing in blue. The moment they powered it on, Gwen's entire HUD glitched — symbols racing across her vision, Weaver's voice fracturing.
> "Sys—tem… sync… inter—ference…"
"Weaver!"
The figure looked up sharply — like they heard her through the noise. Then they bolted, grabbing the case.
"Yeah, no you don't."
Gwen launched a webline, pulling herself over the crane and diving into pursuit. She landed between the figure and the exit, crouched low, her stance balanced.
"Nice toy you've got there," she said, voice steady behind her mask. "Mind telling me why it's pinging on my internal tech radar?"
The figure didn't answer — they raised their hand instead. A small drone launched from their wrist, emitting a burst of light. Gwen's reflexes kicked in, dodging as the blast hit a stack of metal pipes behind her.
She fired a web, catching the drone midair and slamming it to the ground — but when she looked up again, the stranger was already sprinting through the side gate.
> "Target escaping," Weaver warned.
"Yeah, I see them!"
Gwen dashed after them, flipping over a collapsed barrier, landing hard but smooth. She fired another web — this time it wrapped around the case. The figure yanked back, struggling. The tug-of-war lasted only seconds before the case split open mid-pull.
The glowing core inside rolled across the ground — straight to Gwen's feet.
It pulsed once, twice — then stopped.
She crouched slowly, hand hovering over it.
> "Warning," Weaver said sharply. "Energetic resonance detected. Interaction may cause—"
Too late.
The moment her fingers brushed the surface, the pulse exploded — a rush of blue energy surged through her body, through Weaver, through every nerve. Images flashed across her mind — fragments, voices, half-formed memories not her own.
She stumbled back, clutching her head.
"Gwen!" Weaver's voice cut through the static. "Disengage! You're syncing with residual code!"
She gasped for air, forcing herself upright. "Wh-what was that?"
> "Memory echo," Weaver replied. "From the original prototypes."
Her hands trembled slightly as she stared at the dormant crystal on the ground.
And then, faintly — through the silence — a distorted, almost human whisper escaped the device.
> "Don't… let it wake…"
Her blood ran cold.
The voice wasn't Weaver's.
---
She backed away slowly, breathing unevenly.
Weaver's tone was calm again, but lower.
> "Gwen. We must report this to Batman immediately."
"Yeah," she whispered, swallowing hard. "But first—" she glanced down the alley, where the hooded stranger had vanished, "—I need to know who that was."