Brooklyn Rivera hated Mondays. Or Tuesdays. Really, any day that demanded she wake up before sunrise and spend half of it scrubbing dishes in the back of a tiny Williamsburg diner felt cursed. The smell of hot grease, soap, and stale coffee followed her like a shadow that refused to leave, and the clanging of plates and pans was the city's cruellest alarm clock.
She tied back her dark curls, tugging the frayed edges of her uniform apron into a knot that probably didn't exist according to OSHA standards. She glanced at the clock. 11:12 p.m. Only forty-eight more minutes until she could escape, until the night would finally belong to her.
Her earbuds were In, music pulsing faintly under the din of the kitchen. She mouthed along to the lyrics, pretending she was performing on a stage instead of stacking greasy plates in a corner. The rhythm of the beat made her movements sharper, faster, like she was dancing rather than cleaning.
"You're moving too slow, Brooklyn," barked her manager from across the room. His tie was crooked, his face flushed from frustration, and he probably thought the fate of the diner rested on her single pair of hands.
Brooklyn rolled her eyes, dipping her hands into the soapy water again. "Yes, Chef," she muttered under her breath. "Because clearly, my speed is the downfall of civilization."
She stacked another plate onto the drying rack, the clink of porcelain echoing off the tile walls. She caught herself staring at the flickering neon sign outside the diner's window, the red letters spelling El Morro's in tired loops. Her mind drifted.
After tonight, she thought, maybe she'd grab some sour gummies from the corner store. Or maybe she'd just go home and scroll through the same social feeds she'd already seen a dozen times, each post a highlight reel of other people's lives pretending to be perfect. Her life wasn't perfect, but it was hers. And somehow, even in the sticky heat of the kitchen, she clung to that.
A crash from the other side of the sink startled her. One of the plates had slipped from the counter, clattering across the floor. She bent to pick it up, but then froze. Something small and black moved at the edge of her vision.
A spider.
Not the ordinary kind, but one that glimmered faintly, red lines running along its body as though it had been stitched with neon. It scuttled along the edge of the counter, pausing as if sizing her up.
Brooklyn's first instinct was to flick it away. But before she could, it leapt. The bite was lightning—sharp and fiery, piercing through the skin of her hand like she'd been branded. She screamed, a sharp yelp that made her heart pound.
The lights flickered violently, the hum of the kitchen machines warping into a low, distorted drone. Brooklyn stumbled back, clutching her hand. For a moment, the entire world seemed to twist and fold around her. Her reflection in the steel faucet fractured, overlapping like layers of reality trying to catch up.
Then it was gone. The spider had disappeared, leaving only the burn on her skin and the echo of its bite.
Brooklyn's legs trembled, and she pressed her palm against the wall to steady herself—but the moment she did, her hand stuck as if the bricks themselves were liquid glue. Her eyes widened, and her other hand shot out to push off—but it, too, adhered. Panic flared, and she yanked at her arms until finally, with a shiver, she broke free.
"Oh… oh, okay," she whispered to herself, heart hammering. "That was… a thing."
Outside, the city breathed. Neon lights spilled across wet streets, reflecting in puddles and coating Brooklyn's sneakers with a kaleidoscope of colours. She stumbled into the alley, head spinning, rain misting over her face. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from her friend Layla, probably checking if she'd survived her shift.
Brooklyn typed back with shaking fingers, accidentally sending, yeah, almost hme. Close enough. She took a deep breath and shook her head. "Nope," she muttered. "Definitely not a dream. Definitely… something else."
The bite was spreading a strange warmth up her arm. A tingling, buzzing sensation, like the electricity under a city street. She flexed her fingers, and when she grabbed the wall of the alley, she felt… strong.
Her reflexes kicked in almost before her brain could process. A trash can tipped over behind her—she caught it without thinking, spinning it upright like it weighed nothing. Brooklyn laughed nervously, partly from relief, partly from sheer disbelief.
"Yeah," she said to the empty street, "this is happening. Totally happening."
Meanwhile, somewhere above the city, Miles Morales was swinging through Brooklyn's skyline. Night patrols were his favourite part of being Spider-Man. The quiet hum of the city, the wind in his mask, the rhythm of his music in one ear—it all made him feel free. Like nothing else mattered.
Tonight, though, his Spider-Sense was prickling. Weak, subtle, but there. Something wasn't right. He landed on a rooftop near the East River, crouched, scanning the streets. Energy readings spiked from the diner nearby.
"Brooklyn?" he muttered. "Why is it always Brooklyn?"
He tapped his watch. It beeped insistently, sensors going haywire. He gritted his teeth. "No time for guessing. Let's see what you're up to."
Brooklyn tested her new abilities cautiously. She jumped lightly onto the dumpster, then the wall. Her feet clung like magnets, her fingers gripped with unnatural strength. Panic and thrill collided in her chest.
A shadow fell over her.
Miles crouched above, eyes narrowing. "You good down there?"
Brooklyn froze. "… Spider-Man?"
He tilted his head. "Yeah… and you are?"
She straightened, brushing off imaginary dirt. "Brooklyn. Rivera. Totally normal person. Definitely not a Spider… yet."
Miles didn't look convinced. "You're glowing."
Brooklyn glanced at her hand, red light pulsing faintly under her skin. "I may have gotten bitten by a radioactive spider about… fifteen minutes ago."
Miles blinked. Then, with a lopsided grin: "Alright. Cool. You hungry?"
Brooklyn gawked. "Excuse me?"
"You just got powers. You're gonna need food."
An hour later, they perched on a rooftop with greasy empanadas from a bodega, the city sprawling beneath them. Brooklyn laughed at herself, the absurdity of it all hitting her. Miles observed her quietly, a protective glint in his eyes.
For a moment, the world was normal. Two Spiders sharing a laugh, the rain dripping off their suits, the neon lights painting the streets below.
But then, the faint pulsing returned—the subtle warning that their lives were about to shift forever.
Brooklyn flexed her fingers, smiling nervously. "This is just the start, isn't it?"
Miles's expression grew serious. "Yeah… and you have no idea what's coming."