I woke up on Saturday morning with a completely clear mind, though I couldn't help but let out an internal groan. Having to get up early on a Saturday was pure torture, but I decided to let it slide solely because the guest in my house was the legendary CEO of Sex.
By ten in the morning, Ned Leeds was already sitting on my bedroom floor, surrounded by hundreds of plastic pieces. We were putting together the Star Wars LEGO Star Destroyer, a classic routine for Ned and Peter in this world. Watching Ned so hyper-focused inevitably made me think about the journey of my MCU counterpart. In my past life, when I first watched those movies, Tom Holland's Peter had seemed like a useless kid overly dependent on Tony Stark. However, as the years went by, and as I grew up and understood the world better, I came to understand the chaotic context of the universe that version lived in; the kid had it rough. Though of course, there were blunders that even with all the context in the world I couldn't defend, like handing over a pair of glasses with mass-destruction drones and Stark's entire technological legacy to a guy in a fishbowl suit you met just two days ago. Now that had been a masterclass in stupidity.
"Dude, I'm serious." Ned muttered, snapping a gray piece into place while chewing on a potato chip. "There's this incredibly weird rumor on local Reddit forums since last night. They're saying a guy dressed completely in black wrecked some guys from a Woodside gang in an alley. They say one ended up with his wrist pulverized."
I smirked, focusing on aligning a LEGO block.
"People on the internet exaggerate everything, Ned. It was probably just a turf war between mobs." I replied in a calm, disinterested tone.
Inside, my ego was purring with satisfaction. That's how the legend starts. An urban myth, a rumor whispered on the street corners of Queens before spreading across the entire city. I wasn't going to run out like a slave at every single police siren.
"Well, maybe." Ned conceded, setting aside the LEGO instruction booklet. "But changing the subject, did you see the blueprints leaked on tech blogs about the new cell phone prototypes? They say Stark Industries is developing something with no physical buttons, all touch screen. Imagine the processing power needed for that in such a small device. It's insane."
"That's the future, Ned. In a couple of years, flip phones are going to look prehistoric." I commented casually, highly amused internally by knowing exactly what year the smartphone revolution would explode.
"Yeah, well, Stark has the millions to fund whatever he wants. Though he's not the only one." Ned chuckled, giving me a gentle elbow nudge. "Did you see the latest interview in that science magazine the teacher brought to the club? It had Dr. Reed Richards talking about his aerospace project, but his chief of research stole the whole show. Dude, Susan Storm is stunning. She's a genetics genius and she looks like a runway model on top of that."
I laughed at the comment, but my mental gears kicked into overdrive immediately. Susan Storm. The future Invisible Woman of this universe. In my past life, I had read entire forum debates about which Marvel heroine was the sexiest, and Susan was always at the top. Snatching away the most respected, brilliant woman on the planet once the Fantastic Four shot to fame would feed my ego to the absolute maximum. It was a high-tier option I would definitely keep archived. However, trying to pursue a relationship with someone of her caliber while stuck in this fourteen-year-old body would be an exhausting dilemma. That would be a problem for my future self to handle.
"You're right, Ned. Richards is definitely wasting his time if he's only thinking about the stars." I joked, earning a loud laugh from Ned.
I spent the entire day with Ned among LEGO bricks, vintage video games, and geek talk that helped me unwind. When it got late, I said goodbye to him at the door and went downstairs to have dinner with Aunt May and Uncle Ben. I devoured the food, enjoying the warmth of the Parker household. Once dinner was over and I verified with my enhanced senses that both of them were sound asleep in their room, I slipped out the window into the crisp October night to keep hunting criminals and expropriating their wallets. The four hundred dollars from the previous night remained safe in the secret compartment beneath the loose floorboard of my closet; for now, my bedroom would be my only vault. The abandoned warehouse in Long Island City would stay just as it was, a filthy depot. I would have plenty of time to transform it into a proper base later.
Sunday repeated the exact same pattern, but with an extra dose of comedy or mental breakdown. I spent the entire day locked in the house dealing with my Midtown High homework, which triggered an absolute civil war inside my head. I was sitting at my desk, staring at a worksheet on the Roman Empire for Global History class and a questionnaire on the structure of the cell membrane for Advanced Biology, when my brain simply short-circuited. Out of nowhere, two miniature versions of myself appeared, floating at my sides, looking exactly like the chibi cutouts from the Ultimate Spider-Man animated series.
On my left, wearing a lab coat and safety goggles, a representation of the original Peter Parker, the initial owner of this body, was jumping for joy while holding a science textbook. "Biology homework first! Mitosis and DNA! This is beautiful, we are geniuses, let's complete the cellular diagram!" he shouted enthusiastically. On my right, wearing a college hoodie and looking bored, a representation of my past-life consciousness crossed his arms. "Hold your horses, kid. The history essay comes first. I'm the one in charge here and I'm older, so we do what I say. Besides, you need to understand the political context of this world before playing hero."
Mini Peter got up furiously and tackled the college student. "Let's see if your eighteen years can handle this! Besides, you can't even focus because you haven't stopped thinking about Susan Storm since Ned mentioned her yesterday, you degenerate!" The mini college-me dodged the blow with a mocking smirk and shot back, "Oh yeah? And why did you turn bright red when Gwen touched our shoulder on Friday? Don't play with me, you've been in love since kindergarten and you can't even talk to her without stammering!" Mini Peter turned as red as a tomato, completely outraged, and lunged at him, starting a fistfight where they both rolled through the air pulling each other's hair and bullying one another. I leaned back in my chair, watching them punch and yell in a corner of my mind. Instead of getting stressed, I found the whole situation completely ridiculous and hilarious. I was having a mental breakdown and I was laughing at my own alter egos instead of actually doing the assignments. In the end, I had to take a deep breath, force my animated projections to sleep, and finish the damn homework.
As Sunday night fell, I verified once more that my aunt and uncle were sound asleep, and I leaped back onto the Queens rooftops in my improvised vigilante suit. This time, my modified phone saved me the guessing games. I intercepted a police dispatch about suspicious activity at the abandoned docks in Flushing.
I hung from a beam on the roof of a cargo shed, observing the shipment. There were about fifteen armed criminals guarding the cargo. I had no idea who they were or who they worked for at that moment, but they were unloading contraband crates: bricks of pure cocaine and a shipment of military-grade weapons.
"Wow, boys," I said, dropping into the center of the shed with a dull thud. "Drugs and weapons? How cliché. I was at least expecting some originality."
The fifteen criminals jumped in terror, spinning around at the sudden appearance of an entirely black silhouette. Nobody knew me yet, so the panic of seeing an intruder fall from the ceiling in absolute silence completely derailed them.
"Who the hell is this guy?! Shoot him!" shouted the foreman, a heavy-set guy in a thick coat.
The men raised their weapons, but against my reflexes, they were as still as statues. I moved like a dark blur through the space. I dodged the opening volleys with acrobatic leaps, guided by the sharp buzzing of my spider-sense. I delivered a powerful kick to the first man, sending him back into a pile of wooden crates. I disarmed the second one with a swift move that forced him to the ground, using his own momentum against him. I moved through the group with overwhelming speed, neutralizing them one by one. The foreman tried to bolt toward the exit, but I intercepted him, forcing him to his knees.
"Sleep tight." I whispered before a precise strike to the base of his neck knocked him out.
The shed fell into a heavy silence, filled with the incapacitated members of the crew. I looked at the pried-open crates. There were bundles of hundred-dollar bills, easily around fifty grand. I couldn't take it all; if the scene was left completely empty, both the police and the syndicate would hunt the trail of a thief far too aggressively. I had to leave enough behind to keep them occupied with each other.
I took three thousand dollars directly from the crates. Then, I searched the pockets of the unconscious men, taking the extra cash they carried. I checked the cargo, selecting a few tactical pieces and several boxes of ammunition, stowing everything carefully into my backpack.
Before leaving, I pulled out a marker and a piece of paper and left a note on one of the crates: "Courtesy of The Amazing Spider-Man." I wasn't going to use the classic "friendly neighborhood" line. I was going to be many things in this universe, but "friendly" wasn't one of them.
The distant wail of sirens reached my ears, my phone had already alerted me to the 911 calls.
"Enjoy the gift, officers." I murmured with a smirk beneath my mask.
I leaped toward the skylight and vanished into the Queens night just as the first patrol cars arrived. I made it back to my bedroom in Forest Hills shortly before sunrise, hiding the gear and the cash in the false bottom of my closet.
The next morning, while having breakfast with my aunt and uncle, the kitchen TV showed the local news. The reporter stood in front of the taped-off Flushing docks: "...NYPD confirmed the seizure of a multi-million dollar shipment belonging to the Maggia crime syndicate, found alongside fifteen injured men and a mysterious note signed by 'The Amazing Spider-Man'..."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across my face as I set my toast back on the plate. So, I had stepped right into Maggia territory.
Interesting, I thought.