….
[SPIDER-MAN: Web Of Destiny]
Written and Directed by [Regal Seraphsial]
Runtime: 2 hours 38 minutes
Studio: MarvelD Entertainment
….
Ryan and his two friends pushed through the crowded corridor toward the cinema hall. Posters of the new film lined the walls, the air buzzing with chatter and popcorn scent.
"So, how do you think the guy gets his powers?" Ryan asked, eyes gleaming as he craned his neck toward a poster.
Mark shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie, expression flat. "How would I know? I am not the screenwriter."
Ryan groaned. "Seriously? Can't either of you just guess? You're killing the vibe."
Josh shrugged lazily. "…Maybe he was just born with it, like a mutant or something."
Ryan whipped around. "Born with it? That's your grand theory? That's the lamest origin story ever!"
"I don't know, man. Makes sense." Mark chimed in, smirking at Josh.
Ryan stopped in his tracks, glaring. "Why do I even hang out with you two? Obviously he gets bitten by some spider. It's literally in the name, Spider-Man, not Born-That-Way-Man."
Josh lifted his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, don't explode."
"I am not exploding!" Ryan barked, his voice cracking just enough to make Mark laugh under his breath.
"Yeah." Mark said with a grin. "Totally calm."
Ryan huffed and stormed ahead, muttering about being surrounded by idiots, the other two exchanged a look, half amused, half resigned.
None of them realized just how right Ryan's 'nonsense' really was, or how unforgettable the night ahead would turn out to be.
….
As the audience sat in their bought tickets, the lights in the hall were gone - indicating the showtime.
Black screen filled in front, followed by the usual first seconds of silence.
Then the faint sound of New York traffic fades in.
ON SCREEN TEXT:
[MarvelD Studios Presents - MarvelD Universe]
–Universe? What's that supposed to mean?
Few audience members whisper already confused, but the texts kept moving on -
As the red MarvelD logo flickers in with a deep, orchestral swell of strings builds slowly.
Immediately after that, the film doesn't take too long to get into the actual world -
We see New York City, sweeping shots from high above.
Not glossy or comic-book styled - grounded, but charged with cinematic energy.
Crowds bustle, yellow cabs honk, and street performers line Times Square.
The camera narrows its focus: Queens.
A quieter borough, where the frame lingers on a row of brick houses, laundry lines flapping in the breeze.
The world feels familiar but ordinary.
Audience murmurs soften - they are now slowly getting involved with static and uncut shots.
The camera tilts closer, passing through the half-open bedroom door.
A ceiling fan whirs lazily overhead, stirring posters of Einstein and NASA taped beside a fading Mets pennant.
On the desk, an old digital camera lies in pieces, its lens cracked but carefully polished, surrounded by soldering tools and scraps of wiring.
Peter scratches at his hair, frowning at a stubborn screw, then drops the tool with a sigh, he leans back in his chair, head falling against the wall.
His voice-over continues, wry and self-aware:
"Funny thing is, no one ever notices the guy behind the camera, you are the one capturing the shot, not the shot itself. Which… was kind of my life in a nutshell. Always the observer. The background character."
The frame cuts to his reflection in the darkened computer screen: pale, tired eyes, a faint bruise on his cheek from some unnoticed cafeteria accident.
"But if you told me back then that everything was about to change? That one bite, literally one, would flip my entire world upside down…" A nervous laugh undercuts the line. "Yeah, I would have laughed too."
A knock at the door. Aunt May's voice filters in, warm but brisk: "Peter, dinner in ten! Don't make me come drag you."
Peter swivels in his chair, hiding the scattered electronics under a notebook. "Yeah, yeah! Be right there!"
He mutters under his breath, glancing back at the mess. "Dinner now, Nobel Prize later."
The camera drifts toward the window, catching a glimpse of the street outside, ordinary Queens life, kids chasing a basketball, a man hosing down his driveway.
Mundane.
And yet, beneath Peter's words, the score hums with a faint tension, a sense that ordinary is about to crack.
….
The screen shifts with a subtle fade, daylight spilling across Queens, but softer now, as though memory itself is tinting the frame.
Montage:
Peter on his rusted bike, weaving through traffic with comic awkwardness, horns blaring as he nearly collides with a hotdog cart.
Midtown High: a swarm of students fills the hallway, chatter echoing. Peter crouches low, snapping a candid shot for the school paper, only to get shoved sideways by a passing linebacker.
His glasses slip, skidding across the floor.
Flash Thompson towers over him, sneering, slapping Peter's notebook out of his hands.
The thud of laughter follows, cruel and familiar.
A different cut: Harry Osborn - young, polished, his smile effortless, he reaches down, helping Peter to his feet, brushing off the dust from his jacket.
A brief clasp of hands. A friendship, quiet but real, taking root.
Then - Norman Osborn.
The camera catches him in fragments: tailored suit, sharp lines, phone pressed to his ear as he strides past the school gates. His conversation clipped, precise, but his gaze flickers for a moment toward Peter, lingering just long enough to feel unsettling.
The montage slows.
Because for Peter, despite all the bruises, the taunts, and the endless anonymity, there was one constant, one light in the noise.
The camera finds her - Gwen Stacy.
At a lab table, goggles perched on her forehead, hair falling into her face as she leans over a microscope. She laughs at something a classmate says, the sound light, unpretentious.
Love interest? The audience didn't need to be told.
She glanced up, caught him staring, and gave a polite smile before returning to her page.
A collective soft "aww" rippled from the seats.
Then Harry slid into the chair beside Peter, grinning like a fox who had just found dinner.
"You know, you could try blinking when you stare. Might look less creepy."
Peter nearly dropped the camera. "I wasn't staring. I was… observing, for science. Lighting, shadows and refraction—"
Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Totally. Just admit you've got it bad."
Peter muttered under his breath, cheeks burning. "It's not—bad. It's… complicated."
"Complicated." Harry repeated with a smirk. "Yeah. That's one word for drooling."
Peter groaned and buried his face in his tray.
….
The montage of school life crashes into the next chapter - Midtown High's field trip.
A bus screeches to a stop outside Oscorp Tower, its glass walls gleaming against the New York sky.
Students pile out, buzzing with chatter, phones snapping photos.
Inside, the tour guide's polished voice echoes through sterile corridors lined with cutting-edge tech.
Displays of genetic engineering and advanced robotics gleam beneath fluorescent lights.
Peter trails behind, camera in hand, eyes darting from experiment to experiment. Gwen walks a few steps ahead, jotting notes with quiet focus.
Harry, casual as ever, nudges Peter forward when he lags.
And then, the spider lab.
Rows of glass enclosures shimmer with silk, each web lit like a delicate sculpture.
The students press closer, murmuring in awe.
Unnoticed, one spider dangles from a single thread, drifting lower, lower… until it lands softly on Peter's hand as he steadies his camera.
The bite is quick, a sharp pinch.
Peter winces, swats at his skin, frowning at the tiny red mark.
In the audience - Ryan, Mark, and Josh.
Ryan's grin stretches ear to ear, elbowing his friends. "Told you!"
"...." Mark just stares.
Josh shakes his head in disbelief.
The camera pans briefly, casually, past a janitor sweeping the floor, humming faintly to himself, Stan Lee, unnoticed in the moment, destined to spark delighted whispers years later when fans would catch it on rewatch.
The day ends.
Cut.
Peter stumbles off the bus back in Queens, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His vision blurs, the world spinning, each sound magnified to unbearable levels. He fumbles with his keys, nearly collapsing as he pushes into his room.
The score grows low and menacing, strings drawn tight.
Peter drops onto his bed, body shuddering with fever, his chest rises and falls rapidly, eyes flickering shut as consciousness slips away.
And then - silence.
A surreal sequence begins:
Darkness blooms into strands of DNA spiraling in luminous blue, fracturing and reassembling. The strands twist into the shape of skyscrapers, their glass faces bending into webs that stretch endlessly across the screen.
The lens dives deeper - into cells, into veins, until spider eyes flare in the dark, glowing like embers.
Every shift pulses with eerie beauty, as if the audience themselves are sinking into Peter's bloodstream, riding the current of his transformation.
The line between science and nightmare blurs.
Flesh reshapes. Power takes root.
Peter Parker is evolving.
….
Morning.
Peter jolts awake, drenched in sweat. His shirt clings to him, but something's different, he stumbles into the bathroom, gripping the sink.
His reflection stares back, muscles defined, shoulders broader, the faint bruise from yesterday already gone.
Confusion.
Fear.
Awe.
He brushes his teeth, the bristle snaps clean off, his jaw drops.
Montage begins:
– Peter stepped outside, squinting at the sunlight, every sound sharper, every detail in focus: a bee hovering, the chatter of neighbors three houses down.
– In class, a girl's coffee cup slips from her desk, time seems to slow.
Peter's hand shoots out, catching it mid-air before a drop spills.
Gasps ripple, he stares at his hand, stunned.
– Climbing the school's stairwell, his fingers brush the wall, and stick.
He pulls back, tries again, his hand clings like glue.
Heart racing, he tests it. The camera swings dizzyingly as Peter scales the stairwell in seconds, laughter bubbling out of him.
….
Oscorp Labs.
Machines whir and sparks flickered.
Dr. Otto Octavius steps into frame - confident, sharp, alive with energy, his sleeves rolled up, chalk on his hands, eyes bright.
"Fusion isn't just theory." he tells a room of interns. "It's the future."
Peter listens, hooked. Scribbling notes, his eyes wide with admiration.
Cut fast…
Otto adjusting a prototype arm that twitches with mechanical grace.
Peter asked a question, Otto clapping him on the shoulder: "Good eye, Parker."
A flash of Rosalie entering with lunch. Otto softens, kisses her cheek.
Peter's voice-over. "Dr. Octavius wasn't just brilliant… he was the kind of man I wanted to be. Smart. Respected. Loved."
But the cuts start shifting—
Oscorp executives whispering in corners.
Norman Osborn watching silently from a balcony, expression unreadable.
Otto's smile fades as a contract is slammed on his desk, pressure mounting, deadlines and demands.
The score darkens.
Peter's voice-over trails off. "I thought he had everything, I didn't see what it was costing him."
Quick flashes…
Otto staring at equations scrawled across glass, muttering to himself, his hand trembling as he adjusts his prototype.
Rosalie calling his name, unheard.
The seeds of obsession, planted.
….
[SMASH CUT TO BLACK]
[TITLE CARD]
[SPIDER-MAN: WEB OF DESTINY]
The orchestra swells.
Wait, now is the title card, when they were already somewhere around thirty minutes into the film?
But they didn't care for too long.
….
Peter sneaks out that night, donning his makeshift red hoodie and goggles, taking his first full swing through New York.
The camera soars with him, the score triumphant.
The crowd in the theater erupts in cheers, clapping, and some whistling.
It feels earned.
But the sequence cuts sharply: Otto in his lab, energy coils spiraling out of control, his mechanical arms fusing to his spine in an explosion of fire and metal.
….
At the Osborn mansion, Norman and Harry share dinner with Peter, who has been invited after school.
Norman takes an unsettling interest in Peter's science skills, probing him with questions.
The camera lingers on Norman's strained smiles, his cold eyes.
However, the audience merely ignored it, but only in the future would they realise the seeds of the future Goblin are planted.
In reality they were more worried about something -
They could guess Norman's destiny, but the friendship between Harry and Peter makes it sting more.
….
But not everything is smooth.
The cafeteria.
Flash Thompson looms, shoving Peter hard against a tray rack. "Watch it, Parker."
Something snaps inside Peter, reflexes ignite.
Flash swings.
Peter ducks effortlessly.
Another punch, Peter sidesteps, grabs Flash's wrist, and pushes.
Flash flies backward, crashing into a table, food scattering, the room erupting in shocked shouts.
Teachers swarm, and students whisper, phones out.
Peter stands frozen, realizing what he's just done.
Cut to: The principal's office.
Uncle Ben sits stiffly in a chair beside Peter, frowning, disappointment written across his face. The principal drones about "violence" and "example."
Peter slouches, cheeks burning.
Later, at home.
The kitchen is quiet, Ben leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching Peter pace.
"You think being stronger makes you better?" Ben's voice is calm, but firm.
Peter's fists clench. "You don't get it, he pushed me first. I am done being the punching bag."
Ben shakes his head slowly. "Power isn't about evening the score, Pete. It's about choice, you don't get to throw it around just because you can."
Peter bristles, his voice rising. "So what, I am supposed to just take it? Pretend I am weak when I am not?"
Ben steps closer, his eyes heavy with concern. "You've been given something most people never will, and if you don't use it the right way… it will use you."
"You don't understand! For once, I am not the kid everyone pushes around. I don't have to hide anymore - I can actually do something."
Ben set the mug down, the clink soft but heavy. "Doing something for yourself is one thing. Doing it for others… that's different and harder."
Peter's fists curled. His voice cracked with frustration. "Why can't it be both? Why can't I use this, finally, for me?"
Ben leaned back, weary, his eyes carrying more sorrow than judgment. "Because, you are a good kid… Petter."
The words hung there, sharp and aching.
Peter's throat tightened, his defiance wilting under the weight of them, he couldn't answer, not without breaking.
In theaters, the line sank deep, half the audience nodding with Ben's wisdom, half aching with Peter's desperate need to be seen.
The silence afterward wasn't empty; it was charged, tender, and unbearably human.
.
….
[To be continued…]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
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