Chapter 2: "Responsibility, Power, and Other Things They Don't Teach You in High School"
—In which Peter has a cosmic therapy session with a mysterious ninja and learns that with great power comes zero chill.
Peter Parker wasn't drunk anymore.
He was something worse—that post-drunk limbo where your body is 90% regret and 10% cold sweat. His head throbbed like it was auditioning to be a bass drum, his stomach was doing Olympic flips, and his throat tasted like betrayal.
The worst part? He hadn't even wanted to go out. Hadn't wanted to drink. Hadn't wanted to see Flash Thompson's smug face or pretend to laugh at Jason's "bro jokes" that had the comedic depth of a pothole.
And yet—he went. He drank. He participated.
Because some deep, tired part of him still didn't know how to say "no" with conviction.
But somewhere between sip number three and the beginning of the karaoke disaster, something had snapped.
Years of torment. Years of being pushed around, overlooked, used, ignored. Peter didn't even remember what triggered it—maybe Jason joking about his haircut, or Liz calling him "intense in a sad professor way." Maybe it was Flash smirking like nothing had changed.
Whatever it was, Peter had erupted.
Not with fists—he still didn't have those. But with words.
Words sharp enough to draw blood.
He tore into them with all the venom he'd stored for years.
Flash's daddy issues.
Liz's fake persona.
Jason's low IQ.
Mark's obsession with protein powder and conspiracy theories.
He didn't even spare himself.
He called himself pathetic. A coward. A nobody with delusions of moral superiority and a wardrobe sponsored by clearance sales.
Silence had followed.
Thick. Heavy.
Awkward enough to make the bartender slowly back away.
Peter had stood there, swaying, heart racing, every muscle braced for a punch to the face.
But it never came.
Instead, Flash just looked at him—really looked at him—with something between annoyance and pity.
"It would be better if you had this much guts when sober, Peter," he'd said, voice calm.
"Grow up already, or life will always beat you down if you keep acting like a pussy."
And that? That hit harder than any punch could've.
Peter didn't even have a response. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
And just like that, the moment passed.
They made him drink water. Flash handed him a paper towel without saying anything. Liz muttered something about "drama kings." Jason and Mark awkwardly avoided eye contact.
Eventually, they let him go. Not with mockery. Not with insults. Just... a weird, uncomfortable quiet.
Now here he was, leaning against a brick wall in some forgotten alley near 49th Street, barely holding it together. The city buzzed and moved without him, its people streaming past like currents of noise and light, too busy to notice the hungover kid in a hoodie trying to psychically will the sidewalk to swallow him whole.
The wall across from him was covered in graffiti—nonsense scribbles, crude cartoons, tags of rival gangs or bored artists trying to say something no one would ever stop to read.
But one phrase stood out. Faded. Almost invisible beneath layers of new paint.
"The world owes you nothing. Earn your place."
Peter stared at it.
He didn't know if it was a threat, a reminder, or just really aggressive street philosophy.
But it fit.
Because as much as tonight sucked—and it did—he couldn't deny the truth in Flash's words.
He had finally stood up for himself. Sure, it had taken three drinks, one minor breakdown, and a sarcastic monologue that probably scorched the emotional eyebrows off everyone involved.
But he'd said it. All of it.
Maybe next time, he wouldn't need the alcohol.
Maybe next time, he'd say it sober.
-----------------------
Peter Parker was mad.
No—he was furious.
The kind of fury that doesn't explode with yelling or fists, but simmers low in your gut like a chemical reaction waiting for a spark. It made his hands shake. Made his thoughts spiral.
Anger at Flash. For being the same overbearing, smug, emotionally stunted jock with trauma issues and a God complex.
Anger at himself. For still flinching. For still folding. For still being that kid who walked into high school with a backpack full of dreams and walked out with a therapist's number and a mild caffeine addiction.
Why am I like this?
Why couldn't he fight back? Why couldn't he just look Flash in the eye and say no?
He tried to imagine it. Standing tall, staring Flash down. Maybe even pushing him, shouting something powerful and spine-tingling like, "Not today, Thompson!" Or... or growling. That'd be cool.
But fantasy fell flat when reality kicked in.
Flash was huge.
Two meters tall.
A brick wall with fists.
Boxing training. A football star. Rage issues and muscle mass to match.
And Peter?
Fifty-eight kilograms soaking wet.
Zero fighting experience.
Once lost a tug-of-war to his aunt's cat.
No. There was no way he could fight Flash. Not unless—
The thought crept in.
Dark. Tempting.
A gun.
Peter shuddered violently and shoved the thought away like it had teeth.
No. That wasn't him. That was a line. A hard line. The kind of line you don't come back from.
He scrubbed his hands through his messy brown hair and let out a heavy, tired breath.
"God, what do I do now?" he muttered, half to himself, half to the night sky. "Should I just go with the flow or try to fight back little by little?"
As if summoned by the weight of his existential crisis, fate decided to intervene.
A tickle on his shoulder. Barely noticeable.
Peter's brain, which had been trained through years of New York survival instinct, whispered: Bug.
But he didn't flinch. Bugs didn't bother him. He liked insects. Studied them. Even named one once (R.I.P. Professor Buzzington).
So, casually, Peter turned his head—
—and froze.
This spider was not normal.
Sleek black body. White markings on its legs. It didn't move like other spiders. It didn't even feel like one. And its eyes—God, its eyes—glowed golden. Not reflected light. Glowed.
Peter's brain went from "bug" to "potential government experiment" in 0.3 seconds.
He narrowed his eyes. Definitely not local. Not native. Not anywhere in his field guide or Dr. Banner's wild mutation lecture slides.
Oscorp?
He reached slowly for his pocket handkerchief, planning to catch it. Maybe study it. Maybe ask it politely to not crawl on innocent nerds.
But the spider moved first.
In a flash, it darted forward—across his collarbone—and bit.
"Ow—what the—!?"
A stabbing pain seared through his neck, sharper than a bee sting, hotter than chili oil. And then came the burn. Not a surface-level burn, but a deep, crawling fire, like lava flowing under his skin.
His body locked up. His knees wobbled. The world lurched sideways like it had missed a step.
He swatted at the spider, his hand trembling. It tumbled to the ground and skittered into the shadows, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
Peter stumbled back, vision tunneling, breath hitching.
Please tell me it's not poisonous.
Please tell me it's not alien.
Please tell me I'm not going to die behind a dumpster on 49th Street.
His trembling fingers clawed at his pocket. He fumbled with his phone, almost dropped it. Managed to tap the screen—only for the device to blur as dizziness sucker-punched him in the brain.
His legs gave out. He hit the ground hard, the alley wall the last thing keeping him upright.
The world spun.
The buzzing in his ears grew louder.
And then—nothing.
No flashing lights. No dramatic music. Just cold pavement and the dim hum of the city.
As Peter Parker's eyes fluttered shut, the only movement was the faint click of tiny legs disappearing into the dark.
------------------------
Peter Parker had always been what adults liked to call "a good kid."
Not the "gets away with murder because he smiles a lot" kind. No, Peter was the genuine article.
Polite. Studious. Never skipped homework.
Heck, he even once apologized to a roach for stepping on it.
He loved his parents like most kids loved birthday cake—fiercely and without question. And when they died, leaving behind nothing but shadows and silence, Peter wrapped his whole heart around the only family he had left: Uncle Ben and Aunt May.
They were his world.
Which is exactly why it sucked so much to be reminded every day that his world ran on expired coupons and secondhand clothes.
While other kids flaunted the latest tech, Peter taped the same calculator together for four semesters. While classmates posted their beach vacations on social media, he was Googling "how to make dinner for three under five dollars."
Still, he held on to one thing—learning.
Science, especially.
Because if the universe wasn't going to give him a break, he was going to engineer one.
But sometimes, even a super-nerd had to admit it:
Life. Was. Unfair.
And no amount of honor roll awards could pay the rent.
He tried not to think about it too much—until tonight.
Now, darkness swallowed him whole, and there was no escape. Just that awful in-between space where your thoughts are louder than your heartbeat.
"Am I dreaming?"
Peter blinked, and the world around him turned white—like someone had cranked the saturation meter up to "blinding."
He couldn't move. Couldn't scream.
His body was frozen, and he wasn't sure if this was a dream, a vision, or some cosmic joke sponsored by his anxiety.
Then—a screen appeared.
Yup. A screen. Floating midair. Flickering to life like it had been waiting for someone to hit play.
And on that screen?
Him.
But not him-him.
Older. Broader shoulders. Cooler hair. A whole aura of confidence Peter hadn't unlocked yet.
And what was older-Peter doing?
Oh, nothing major. Just… getting bitten by a glowing, genetically cursed spider and turning into a web-slinging legend with abs that could deflect bullets.
Peter watched, slack-jawed, as his alternate self discovered powers most kids only dreamed about. He saw himself leap off buildings, wrestle crooks into submission, and crack jokes mid-battle like he was auditioning for a Marvel movie.
At first, it was awesome. Like watching a fan edit of a life that could've been his.
But then… the dream turned sour.
Because older Peter—the Spider-Man Peter—didn't start off saving people.
He started off chasing money.
He crushed guys in the wrestling ring. Got cocky. Didn't get paid what he deserved. And when the manager was robbed?
"Not my responsibility."
Peter flinched.
He didn't like that line.
And he really didn't like what came next.
The same thief—yeah, that one—broke into his house.
Peter's chest tightened as the scene played out like a horror movie. Aunt May screaming. Uncle Ben bleeding. Red on the floor. Sirens howling in the distance.
Peter couldn't breathe.
It wasn't fair.
He was just a kid.
And then came the final blow.
Spider-Man—older him—cornered the thief in a warehouse.
Ready to end it.
But when the mask came off?
No monster. No demon.
Just a pathetic man. A trembling, terrified nobody.
And that was the moment Peter learned the cruel truth:
If he'd just stopped the guy earlier…
Uncle Ben would still be alive.
It wasn't a villain that killed his uncle.
It was inaction.
"It's not my responsibility."
That one sentence had shattered everything.
Peter's fists clenched. His heart thundered in his ears. He wanted to scream, to undo the past, to run until the world stopped spinning.
And then—a voice.
Low. Calm. Steady.
The kind of voice that didn't yell but still shook mountains.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
Peter gasped.
"It's a good way to live, Peter," the voice continued, wrapping around him like a cosmic lecture from a ghostly therapist. "Or you will regret it later in life. Small incidents can connect to make a worse picture. So it's better to stop them at the roots."
"If you have power… why not use it for good and enjoy the process?"
Peter stood there, trembling. The images still played in his mind, burning like fire behind his eyes.
Power. Responsibility.
They weren't just words.
-------------------------------
The blinding white dreamscape that had just punched Peter in the soul faded like fog under a rising sun, melting into something… new.
Gone was the sterile void of cosmic cinema nightmares. In its place bloomed a forest—lush, endless, ancient. The kind of place that made Peter wonder if he'd accidentally stepped into a fantasy RPG.
The trees here weren't normal. They were massive. Trunks like skyscrapers, leaves the size of umbrellas, and branches high enough to double as altitudes. The air smelled like earth after rain—clean, rich, and weirdly comforting.
If Central Park got hit with a magical growth ray and decided to become a fairy tale, this would be it.
And right in the center of it all… was a picnic table.
Okay, technically it was a round, polished wooden table with two chairs, but it looked like something straight out of a lunch date with Mother Nature.
Sitting calmly in one of the chairs was a man.
Blonde hair that looked too well-behaved for forest humidity.
Bright blue eyes that felt like they could see through walls—and maybe even timelines.
Orange shirt, black pants, smile like a camp counselor who was way too good at life advice.
And Peter… felt calm.
Which was weird, considering he'd just been bitten by a mutant spider, watched a montage of his own tragic future, and passed out in an alleyway like a bad after-school special.
Still, the air in this place was soft. Like a weighted blanket for the soul.
"Who are you?" Peter asked, taking a cautious step forward. "And what the hell was that?"
Because calm or not, he was still a New Yorker. And weird forest picnic stranger or not, Peter had questions.
The man gave a small, almost sheepish smile. "My name is Naruto Uzumaki."
Peter blinked. "That's… not the weirdest name I've heard today."
Naruto chuckled. "And we're here because my pet spider chose you."
Peter's eyes snapped to the man's hand—and yep, there it was.
The spider.
The spider. The very same eight-legged fate-bomb that had just rearranged his DNA like a Pinterest board.
It perched on Naruto's hand like it owned the place. Like it hadn't just committed arachnid assault in a back alley.
"That was your future," Naruto continued, nodding toward where the screen had been. "If I hadn't interfered."
Peter's stomach twisted.
Uncle Ben.
Blood on the floor.
Guilt that never faded.
"I already know you, Peter," Naruto said gently. "In another world, in another time… we were friends. But I didn't meet you until you were twenty-one. By then, Uncle Ben was already gone. You'd lost other friends, too."
Peter's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"Friends like who?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Naruto didn't answer right away. He just stroked the spider on his palm like it was a kitten, his gaze serious.
"It was still better than what could've happened if I wasn't there. Because, Peter… your life? It's a tragedy."
That word hit Peter like a slap.
Not a drama. Not an adventure.
A tragedy.
He didn't even know this guy—didn't know if he was a god, a wizard, or just the forest's version of a motivational speaker—but somehow, Naruto knew him.
Knew too much.
Knew about Uncle Ben.
About everything.
Peter's chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Every part of him was screaming this is too much. Too much information. Too much weight. Too much destiny.
"Why?" he finally choked out. "Why me? Why does it always have to be me?"
The spider turned its golden gaze on him again. Watching. Measuring.
Naruto gave a soft shrug.
"Because, you care."
------------------------------
Peter Parker wasn't the kind of guy who had epiphanies.
He was the kind of guy who got shoved into lockers, missed the bus, and tripped over air when too many people were watching. But standing in a forest that probably existed outside of space and time, in front of a sun-bright stranger who talked like a motivational poster, Peter felt something click.
Or break.
Honestly, hard to tell.
"Why did you give me this power?" Peter asked.
His voice wasn't accusing, but it wasn't exactly polite either. It was the voice of a kid who had been cornered by life too many times and was now asking the one question every overworked teenager really wanted to ask the universe:
What is your damage?
Naruto didn't flinch. His smile was calm, but his eyes—those bright blue eyes—held a depth Peter wasn't sure he was ready to swim in.
"Relax, Peter," Naruto said, as if they were discussing lunch plans and not life-altering superpowers. "Your life is finished if you don't have power."
...Well. That escalated quickly.
Peter stiffened. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again like a confused fish at a math test.
"You are meant to be Spider-Man," Naruto continued, "and if you are not Spider-Man, you are a dead man."
Which, for the record, was not on any of Peter's career brochures.
"Your world is full of monsters and criminals," Naruto said, his tone firm but not cruel. "It's not a safe world, Peter. People just pretend it is."
Peter's fists clenched. He didn't like this. It was too harsh. Too real.
Because he'd felt that powerlessness.
When he'd collapsed in that alley.
When bullies like Flash owned every hallway.
When his Aunt May struggled to make ends meet while pretending everything was fine.
"Power gives you choice," Naruto said. "Without it, you're just existing until someone comes along and ruins you."
That hit hard. Peter had always wanted to protect his family. But he never imagined he'd have to protect them from the world itself.
And now here was this barefoot forest guy basically telling him, "Be a superhero or die trying."
"But even money and politics won't save you," Naruto added. "Not in your world. Not when the threats wear godhood like pajamas."
Peter exhaled sharply. He knew Naruto was right.
"I already knew who my pets would choose," Naruto said with a small smile, glancing at the golden-eyed spider that was now chilling on his shoulder like it owned the place. "Because I'm friends with all of you. And I want you guys to have better lives—from the start."
Wait. Friends?
Before Peter could object, Naruto stepped forward and hugged him.
Yes. Hugged.
Warm, firm, and completely unexpected.
Peter stiffened like a plank of anxiety.
It wasn't bad. It was just… shocking. Naruto's hug felt safe, in a way Peter hadn't felt since Uncle Ben used to hold him after he came home crying from school.
"Why are you doing this for me?" Peter asked, voice cracked and hoarse. "Even if you say we're friends—this… this is a lot. And it's not like you're getting anything out of it."
Naruto pulled back and grinned like Peter had just asked whether gravity was optional.
"Peter, Peter, Peter," he said with exasperated affection. "Do you help May and Ben because you want something?"
Peter blinked. "…No."
"Exactly," Naruto said. "That's how real friendship works."
Peter's throat tightened. And then—
"Your parents were heroes too," Naruto said. "Killed by Hydra. You have a younger sister. Her name is Teresa. She's alive."
Boom. Instant emotional grenade.
Peter's knees buckled slightly, but he stayed standing. Just barely.
His mind exploded with visions.
His parents—smiling, strong, fierce.
A plane. A bomb. Flames in the sky.
A girl. Brown hair. Sharp eyes. His sister. Living her life without even knowing he existed.
Too much. Too fast.
And yet… he understood.
All of this—Naruto, the spider, the powers, the visions—was a warning.
A second chance.
A reminder that inaction had consequences.
That Spider-Man wasn't just some mask.
It was armor. It was a decision. It was purpose.
"Heroism starts with family and friends," Naruto said gently. "Then it spreads to the neighborhood. I've given you more power than your other versions, Peter. Use it well. Use it for good—and for yourself."
Peter felt a shift inside him.
Not an explosion.
Not a transformation.
But the quiet, determined click of a boy choosing who he wanted to be.
He saw his parents' faces.
He saw May's smile.
He saw Ben's tired but loving eyes.
He saw what his life could be.
And he chose.
"Thanks," Peter whispered. "Thanks for helping me understand. And… thank you for your help."