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"There are over thirty-two thousand species of spiders documented worldwide."
Inside the Oscorp research exhibition center, a female scientist was giving a presentation to the gathered students. Display cases lined the walls, each containing different spider specimens in carefully controlled environments—some moving, some building webs, all demonstrating various evolutionary adaptations.
The students listened with varying degrees of attention. Some were genuinely fascinated. Others were trying not to look bored.
Marcus wasn't interested in the presentation.
His focus was on one specific spider—the genetically modified specimen that would soon make Peter Parker into Spider-Man.
In this universe, Peter's transformation came from a simple spider bite. No radioactive accident, no cosmic spider totems, just genetic engineering. That simplicity was actually why Marcus had chosen this world. Clean, straightforward, reproducible.
Though he still couldn't rule out deeper forces at play. Spider totems were real in some universes. Whether they had influence here remained to be seen.
Using his telekinesis, Marcus tracked movement above Peter's head. A small, brightly colored spider—distinctive enough to stand out from any normal specimen—was descending silently on a thread of silk.
Peter, completely oblivious, was focused on Mary Jane. He had his camera out, trying to get a good shot of her while pretending to photograph the exhibits.
The spider landed on the back of his hand.
And bit down.
"Ow!"
Peter jerked his arm reflexively, flinging the spider away. It tumbled to the floor and scurried into a dark corner.
Peter examined his hand—there was a small red mark where the spider had bitten him—then shrugged it off as nothing serious. Spiders bit people all the time, right? He rejoined his classmates, continuing the tour.
Behind him, a display screen showed a documentary about genetic splicing and cross-species DNA modification.
Nobody noticed Marcus move.
His telekinesis reached into the dark corner where the spider had fled—a space too small for human hands, too shadowed for human eyes. The spider tried to escape, but invisible force lifted it gently from its hiding place.
Marcus examined it briefly. Still alive. Still carrying whatever genetic payload had just been injected into Peter Parker.
He slipped it into a prepared specimen container and pocketed it casually.
This spider was far too valuable to let die or escape.
Marcus wandered through the rest of the exhibition, maintaining his cover as a journalist, taking occasional photos of the displays. When enough time had passed to seem natural, he left.
Elsewhere in the building, Norman Osborn was having a very bad day.
The military representatives had been brutal. Their message was simple: produce results within two weeks, or they'd pull their funding entirely.
Oscorp had sunk millions into the human enhancement project. If the military walked, the company's finances would collapse. Norman would lose everything he'd built.
He couldn't allow that.
After the representatives left, Norman made a decision. The enhancement formula wasn't ready—animal trials had shown... concerning side effects—but he was out of options.
He strapped himself into the testing apparatus.
"Sir," the attending scientist said nervously, "the formula hasn't been approved for human trials. The neurological effects—"
"Inject me."
Norman's voice left no room for argument.
The needle went in. The serum burned through his veins.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Norman's body convulsed. His eyes rolled back. Monitors screamed warnings as his vital signs spiked wildly.
When it was over, Norman Osborn stood up from the apparatus, stronger than any human had the right to be.
But he wasn't alone in his head anymore.
The scientist who'd administered the injection didn't make it out of the lab alive.
Peter went home feeling terrible.
His head pounded. His vision blurred. His whole body ached like he'd been hit by a truck.
He barely made it to his room before collapsing on the bed, not even bothering to eat dinner despite Aunt May's concerned questions.
Sleep came fast and deep.
When he woke up, everything was different.
His vision was perfect—better than perfect, actually. He didn't need his glasses anymore. His body felt... powerful. Muscles he'd never had before stood out under his skin.
Over the following days, Peter discovered more changes. He could climb walls. His reflexes were impossibly fast. And most strangely, sticky threads shot from his wrists when he made certain gestures.
He was something other than human now.
Peter's first real test came at school.
Flash Thompson had been bullying him for years. But when Flash tried to start something in the hallway, Peter's new reflexes kicked in automatically. He dodged every punch, then hit Flash once—just once—and sent the bigger kid flying into a row of lockers.
The look on Flash's face was priceless.
Peter walked away feeling better than he had in years.
That evening, Peter overheard Mary Jane arguing with her father through the thin walls of their adjacent houses.
Mr. Watson was drunk again, yelling about money, blaming Mary Jane for things that weren't her fault. The same pattern Peter had witnessed dozens of times growing up next door.
When Mary Jane stormed out of her house, Peter "happened" to be taking out the trash.
They talked for a few minutes—nothing deep, just the kind of conversation that happens between neighbors who've known each other forever. Mary Jane was upset but trying to hide it. Peter tried to be comforting without being obvious about his feelings.
Then a car pulled up.
Flash Thompson's car.
Mary Jane got in without hesitation, and they drove away together.
Peter watched them go, something hardening in his chest.
He needed a car. He needed money. He needed to be someone Mary Jane would actually notice.
Peter found an underground fighting ring.
The rules were simple: survive three minutes against their champion, win three thousand dollars.
Peter figured his new abilities would make this easy money.
He spent the next few days training in his room, designing a costume—red and blue, spider-themed, simple but distinctive. He needed to hide his identity. If anyone found out Peter Parker was entering illegal fighting competitions, his life would be over.
When he was ready, he told Aunt May and Uncle Ben he was going to the library to study.
Uncle Ben offered to drive him.
The ride was awkward. Ben had noticed Peter's strange behavior lately—the fighting at school, the locked door, the secretive attitude. He was worried.
"Peter," Ben said as they pulled up to the library, "I know something's going on with you. And I'm not going to pry. But I want you to remember something."
Peter barely looked at him. "What?"
"With great power comes great responsibility."
Peter had heard variations of this lecture before. He wasn't in the mood.
"I'll be fine, Uncle Ben."
"I'm not saying you won't be. I'm saying... don't let whatever's happening change who you are. The choices you make now—they matter. They define you."
Peter opened the car door. "Can you pick me up at ten?"
Ben sighed. "Ten o'clock. I'll be here."
Peter walked toward the library, waited until Ben's car was out of sight, then headed for the underground fighting venue instead.
The champion was huge.
Three hundred pounds of muscle, covered in prison tattoos, with a record of brutal knockouts. The kind of fighter who'd put ordinary opponents in the hospital.
Peter wasn't ordinary anymore.
The fight lasted less than two minutes. Peter's speed and reflexes made the giant look like he was moving in slow motion. A few well-placed hits, and the champion was on the canvas.
The crowd went silent.
Peter walked backstage, expecting his three thousand dollars.
The promoter handed him a hundred.
"Wait," Peter said, confused. "The deal was three thousand."
The promoter—a greasy man with the kind of smile that promised nothing good—shrugged. "Deal was three thousand if you last three minutes. You finished in two. That's a hundred bucks. Take it or leave it."
"That's not—you can't just—"
"Read the fine print next time, kid."
Peter wanted to argue. Wanted to do something. But what? Beat up the promoter? Steal the money? That wasn't who he was.
He took the hundred dollars and left, furious but powerless to do anything about it.
He was halfway down the hallway when he heard shouting behind him.
A man with a gun burst out of the promoter's office, stuffing cash into his jacket. The promoter was screaming for security.
"Stop him! He's got all my money! Someone stop him!"
Security guards started running toward the commotion.
The robber sprinted down the hallway—directly past Peter.
Peter stepped aside and let him pass.
He had no intention of helping. Why should he? That promoter was greedy, dishonest, and had just cheated him. Peter didn't owe him anything.