Darkness.
He floated in thick, suffocating fluid, body heavy yet humming with a strange, restless energy. His eyes snapped open, red emergency lights flashing outside the curved glass in front of him.
Something primal stirred in his chest. Instinct. Rage. Strength.
He clenched his fists, feeling power coil inside his veins like a storm waiting to break. Then—he drove his hand forward.
BOOM!
The reinforced glass spider-webbed instantly. Cracks raced outward like lightning. Another punch—stronger, heavier, fueled by something beyond human.
CRASH!
The containment pod exploded outward in a spray of fluid and shards. He staggered out, drenched, coughing up the taste of chemicals, lungs burning with the first real breath of air he'd taken in this body.
Before he could gather his bearings, something fluttered into his wet, trembling hand. A folded paper.
Confused, he opened it. The words, written in clean, deliberate strokes, made his heart hammer faster than the adrenaline already surging through him:
---
**"You died in your world before your time.
So, I decided to transfer your soul to a failed clone of Spider-Man.
Don't worry— as compensation for my mistake in accidentally killing you, I've spliced your DNA with Hashirama Senju. Your body will not deteriorate like other clones. On top of that, you now have access to the memories of both Spider-Man and Hashirama.
Love,
God."**
The moment his eyes left the last word, the paper crumbled into glowing embers, burning away in his palm without ash, as if the message itself had never been meant to remain.
Memories crashed into him—webs swinging through New York, the crushing grief of loss, the pulse of a forest alive, the calm and overwhelming might of wood release. He staggered, clutching his head as his mind tried to contain three lifetimes at once.
But before he could gather himself—
"HEY! What the hell was that noise?!"
A harsh voice echoed down the hall. Boots clattered against metal. The sound of a gun being cocked followed.
His instincts screamed. His heart pounded.
The clone wasn't alone anymore.
***
Guard's POV
The hallway smelled of dust and rot, the kind of abandonment that lingered long after life had left.
"Control, this is Sector C," the guard muttered into his communicator, one hand gripping the rifle close. "I heard a noise—probably rats again, but I'll check it out."
The static crackled back in his ear as he pushed forward, boots echoing against cold steel. His light swept over rusted doors, shattered glass, and the twisted remains of machinery. Then he stopped dead.
A containment pod. Broken. Fluid spilling across the floor. The tag on the frame was still legible:
SUBJECT – #SP07
His brows knitted. "…Control, I found—"
He never finished.
A hand clamped down over his mouth and nose from behind, yanking him back before his breath could become a sound. Pain—sharp, blinding—erupted in his side as something hard and jagged pierced his kidney. His strength failed him instantly.
The communicator slipped from his hand. His knees buckled, body collapsing against the cold floor. He tried—desperately—to turn, to see.
And he did.
For a brief, flickering moment before the darkness took him, he saw the figure standing above: a man, dripping with chemical fluid, eyes glowing faintly with something unnatural. From his hand, a sharpened wooden stake had grown like a living blade.
Then nothing.
The last thing he heard was the communicator crackling again:
"Sector C, report. What was that noise?"
***
Subject – #SP07's POV
He crouched down, plucking the communicator from the floor. For a second, he studied his reflection in the shattered glass—features almost Peter Parker's, but sharper, more feral. Alive.
He raised the device to his mouth. When he spoke, the voice that came out was not his own, but a perfect mimicry of the guard's.
"Everything's fine. I just slipped."
A pause. Then:
"Understood. Return to your post."
He smirked faintly, tossing the dead guard's weapon into the shadows. "Yes."
The line clicked dead.
For the first time, the clone straightened to his full height, chest rising and falling with a sense of power that was no longer just instinct—it was his.
The world didn't know he was alive yet.
But soon, it would.
***
The facility groaned like a dying beast. Pipes rattled overhead, dripping condensation that mixed with the stench of chemicals and rust. Flickering lights cast uneven shadows across cracked walls. Each breath the clone drew carried the metallic tang of blood and something else—something rotten, as if the building itself had been abandoned long before the pod had broken.
He glanced at the corpse again, expression unreadable. His hands worked quickly, stripping the uniform and pulling the black tactical gear over his damp, chemical-stained skin. The fabric scratched against him, stiff from wear. At least it covered the unnatural shimmer of his clone-flesh.
"Better," he muttered under his breath. His voice was low, flat—but there was a faint undercurrent, something sharp and restless. A piece of Spider-Man's sarcasm trying to bleed through.
He pressed his fingers together. Chakra surged like warm currents under his skin, familiar in a way that startled him. His new body obeyed without resistance, without hesitation.
Transformation Jutsu.
A ripple of energy washed over him, and in the next breath, the clone was gone. Standing there now was the guard—sweat-stained face, the stiff jawline of a man used to barking orders, every detail perfect. Even the faint scar above his brow had been copied.
He tested the voice. "Control," he muttered in the guard's rough tone. "Sector C is clear."
Too smooth. Too clean. He coughed deliberately, let a rasp edge into the words, mimicking the weary cadence of a man who'd been on shift too long. "Yeah… clear."
The communicator crackled in reply. "Understood. Return to your post."
His lips twitched into something almost like a smile. Calm, but there was an edge to it. "Yeah. On my way."
He clipped the device back onto his belt, then crouched over the corpse once more. With practiced efficiency, he dragged it behind a collapsed console, shoving the limp body beneath a shredded tarp. The smell of blood mingled with rust, rising thick in the air.
For just a moment, he hesitated. Parker's memories nagged like a splinter—remorse, guilt, that reflexive you didn't have to kill him. But over that, Hashirama's calm pragmatism steadied him, quiet and firm: Survival sometimes demands sacrifice. Protect your life so you can protect more later.
He exhaled. Neutral. Cold. "Survive first," he whispered. "Regret later."
Straightening, he rolled his shoulders beneath the guard's gear. His gaze flicked to the rifle lying against the wall. Sleek. Deadly. A weapon someone else might have clung to for comfort.
He picked it up, weighed its balance. His fingers curled around the grip. Then, after a long pause, he set it down again.
"It'll only slow me down."
His voice was still the guard's, but in the quiet, something else colored the words—a thread of confidence, almost mocking, like he was already learning to enjoy the game.
And with that, Subject-#SP07 stepped away from the shadows. The guard's boots clicked against the floor, just another soldier patrolling an empty tomb of a facility.
But beneath the disguise, the clone's heart thrummed with something dangerous, something alive.
The world thought this place was abandoned.
It was wrong.