Hi everyone,
I don't usually do this, but things have been really difficult lately. As a college student, I'm trying my best to push through, but with exams coming up and daily expenses piling on, it's getting harder to manage.
If anyone is able to help even just a small amount, it would mean the world to me. I know times are tough for many, so I truly appreciate even just taking the time to read this.
Landbank Account: 1746 3587 72(Any amount, no matter how small, would be a huge help.)
Thank you for your kindness and support. I'll keep writing my best, no matter what. Sharing this would mean a lot too. 🙏
From someone just trying to hold on and keep going
.....
The sun had barely broken through Earth-42's thick, choking clouds. What light managed to pierce through hung low and dim, casting long shadows over the abandoned city blocks.
Warehouses stood like forgotten corpses of industry—windows shattered, walls tagged with graffiti, metal corroded from decades of neglect. On the edge of this urban graveyard sat a construction lot, half-built and entirely forgotten. No cameras. No patrols. No people.
Just silence.
A figure vaulted the chain-link fence, landing light on his feet like a cat.
Hood up. Face hidden.
"Let's hope no one saw that," Drake muttered under his breath, scanning the empty lot.
Dust kicked up at his heels as he moved across the cracked concrete. Tall rusting cranes, heaps of bent scaffolding, and crates with faded logos surrounded him like metal skeletons of a dream long dead.
He pulled off his hoodie, tossing it to the ground. Beneath it: a plain black shirt stretched over a lean, athletic frame. His breath came slow and focused.
He flexed his fingers.
(Alright… let's see what I'm really working with.)
..
—Scene 1: Jumping Test—
He walked toward a massive steel cargo container, crouched low—
And jumped.
WHOOSH—
The world blurred as he flew higher than he expected—clearing the container with ease.
"WHOA!" he shouted midair, then crashed down in a roll on the other side, scrambling back up, breathless.
He blinked, then laughed, winded.
"Yo! Okay… damn!"
(Spidey legs… you got bounce. That's at least twenty feet up. I was never close to that.)
…
—Scene 2: Strength Test—
Next, he eyed a rusted I-beam, partly buried in gravel.
He crouched beside it and grabbed both ends.
His muscles tensed.
The metal creaked—
And then, slowly, the beam lifted off the ground.
His shoes dug into the dirt, slipping back an inch.
(No way… I couldn't even bench 200 before. This thing's gotta weigh half a car.)
He shifted his grip and flipped the beam overhead, letting it crash down with a solid CLANG that echoed across the lot.
He stared at his hands in disbelief.
"This is nuts…"
He stepped toward a nearby support pillar, balled his fist, and gave it a light jab.
CRRRK—
A spiderweb of cracks rippled across the concrete.
He froze.
"…Oh, I gotta be careful with that."
(This ain't gym strength. This is 'accidentally break a wall' strength.)
…
—Scene 3: Reflex Training—
He spent the next hour rigging a makeshift reflex course: bricks stacked like dominoes, a swinging pipe on rope, bottles balanced on poles, loose wires strung like tripwires.
He stood in the center. Closed his eyes.
ZNNNG.
His Spider-Sense flared.
(Go.)
His body moved before he consciously registered it.
He ducked.
Spun.
Snatched a falling can mid-air with two fingers.
Flipped over the swinging pipe, landed—
WHACK.
The back of his ribs caught the tail end of a hanging rod.
He winced, stumbling.
"GAH—okay, okay! Spider sense ain't perfect if I'm too slow…"
He chuckled, rubbing his side.
(It's not just about sensing danger. It's what I do with that split-second warning. Rhythm. Control. Flow.)
….
—Scene 4: Wall Crawling—
He approached a rusted scaffold.
Touched a beam.
It stuck.
His eyes lit up.
(No way—)
He brought his foot up. Then his other hand. Then the other foot.
And he started walking vertically.
"Yo. Yo!"
He was halfway up when he paused, dangling upside-down like a bat. His smile stretched ear to ear.
"Bro. This is wild."
(I'm like a shadow. A spider on a wall. This… this part's real. It's not just a dream.)
….
—Scene 5: Web-Shooting—
He crouched now beside a pile of broken electronics and scrap.
Rolled up his sleeves. Flexed his fingers.
Held up his wrist.
"Alright. Let's go classic. Thwip!"
Nothing.
"Thwip! C'mon—thwip!"
Still nothing.
He sighed and plopped down against a busted cinder block.
"…Hmmm. Looks like I don't have organic webs."
He looked up at the steel bones of the unfinished building. The wind howled through the beams like whispers from ghosts.
(So no webbing… I gotta build my own like Peter did, huh? Guess I'm not Tobey after all.)
His hand dropped to the gravel beside him, fingers splaying against the cold surface—
Suddenly—
ZRRRRNNNGGGGG—
His palm lit up.
A circular red light spun at the center of his hand like a core reactor. The air hissed. The ground beneath began to sizzle. Nearby scrap metal twisted and melted, warping like plastic over flame.
His eyes widened in horror.
"FUCK—did I just form a laser on my hand?!"
He scrambled back.
Steam rose from the scorched earth.
His pulse thundered in his ears. His breathing ragged.
He looked at his hand still glowing faintly with red-hot lines, shaped like a spiderweb made of energy.
(That ain't from the comics… that's something else entirely.)
His other hand remained normal.
He clenched them both.
One full of light. One full of confusion.
(Spider powers… and some kind of energy core? Maybe this version of Peter had more in him than anyone realized…)
He looked at the melted steel beam nearby. The twisted, glowing metal hissed in the wind.
"Damn. That wasn't webbing… that was a weapon."
Back in the lot, Drake stared toward the city skyline.
Sirens.
Screams.
A world slowly burning.
His jaw clenched.
He looked at his glowing hand again. Then to the sky.
"I shouldn't call myself Drake now…"
He stood, letting the wind whip through his hair.
His expression hardened.
"I should call myself Peter."
A pause.
Then firmer, like sealing it with fate:
"Peter Parker. That's my new identity."
He clenched his fists.
Not just wearing someone else's body.
(I didn't choose this… but I won't waste it.)
He scanned the yard—metal pipes, wire, scraps of fabric.
Not enough to build a masterpiece.
But maybe enough to start.
"I should create a spider suit…"
"…and design the web-shooters he never could."
Something ugly. Raw. But his.
A symbol not born of privilege or legacy—but of survival.
"This city doesn't need another villain."
"It needs Spider-Man."
To be continued…