THUNK.
The world jolted forward as something hard and fast slammed into the back of my skull. My forehead smacked against the bus seat in front of me, rattling my teeth.
Groaning, I reached back and rubbed the sore spot. My fingers brushed against the rough leather of a football wedged between the seats. Of course.
"Oi, Parker!" Flash Thompson's voice cut through the chatter like a bullhorn, dripping with arrogance. Laughter rippled from his pack of buddies, who lived to echo his every word. "Still daydreaming? Or do you need me to throw you a wake-up call every five seconds?"
I muttered under my breath, "Seriously? A football. On a bus."
Flash didn't even wait for me to finish. He twirled the ball in his palm with a predator's grin, winding his arm like he was warming up for another throw. "Relax, peanut head. Or should I say… Spaghetti Arms? Four Eyes? Nerdzilla?" His friends cackled like hyenas, every insult fuel for their amusement.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Same old Flash. Same tired routine. For years, I'd just taken it. Rolled over. Pretended it didn't sting. But today… Today was different.
Just because I was Peter Parker, did not mean that I had to act like he did. This is my life now and I will become the Anchor Point for this world.
I turned in my seat, locking eyes with him. No flinch. No hesitation. Just steady. "Why don't you focus on your own life for once, Flash? Unless, of course, you enjoy thinking about me this much." I tilted my head, my voice smooth, casual, sharp as a razor. "Kind of weird, don't you think?"
For the briefest second, silence swallowed the bus whole. Then laughter erupted—not at me, but at him.
Flash's smirk faltered. His jaw flexed. His hands curled into fists on his knees, knuckles whitening.
"What did you just say?" he growled.
"You heard me," I replied, adjusting my glasses like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You spend so much time throwing things at me, I figured you liked the attention. You're welcome."
The response was a spark in dry grass. "Oooooohs" rippled through the rows. Even MJ, who had been quietly sketching in her notebook a few seats away, pressed her knuckles to her lips to hide a laugh.
Flash's face darkened, the veins in his neck twitching. He wasn't used to Parker fighting back. Not like this.
Then came the roar. Not a laugh, not a shout—something primal, like a wounded animal exploding out of its cage.
"You little—!"
He surged up, half out of his seat, teeth bared, shoulders squared like he was ready to tear me apart right there. His eyes burned holes into me, and for a moment, I felt the bus itself hold its breath.
And then MJ's hand shot out. She caught Flash by the arm with surprising firmness and yanked him back down.
"Behave," she said. Her voice was soft, but there was steel threaded through it.
For one tense heartbeat, I thought he'd ignore her. Fight her grip. But he froze. He sat back down, muscles trembling, his glare searing into me like a brand. His fists stayed clenched, knuckles straining.
This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Before the tension could crack open again, Mr. Harrington cleared his throat from the front of the bus. His tie was crooked, his posture slouched, and his eyes looked like they hadn't seen a good night's sleep in weeks. The man radiated exhaustion.
"Settle down, class," he droned, his voice carrying the weight of someone who would rather be anywhere else. "We're minutes away from Oscorp Industries. I expect all of you to be on your best behavior. Stick with your groups, don't wander, and above all—" He paused to rub his temples. "Don't. Touch. Anything."
The warning sparked a wave of laughter, a few groans, and some half-hearted promises from the louder kids in the back. Flash slouched into his seat again, his smirk reassembling piece by piece now that he had his audience back.
But I tuned it all out.
My pulse was racing.
Oscorp.
The name wasn't just a corporation to me—it was a thunderclap in my skull. I'd read everything I could about it. Their patents. Their scandals. Their breakthroughs. Their secrets. This was the place where the bleeding edge of science bled into tomorrow.
And somewhere behind those glass doors, hidden in some sterile corner of a lab, was a spider that would bite me. Alright pretty soon my fate in this world will be decided if I survive the bite or end up dying like the original Peter Parker.
The bus hissed like a dragon as it pulled to a stop, its brakes squealing in protest. Through the smeared windows, Oscorp rose into view—and my breath hitched.
It wasn't just a building. It was a statement. A towering monolith of glass and steel, gleaming like a blade under the morning sun. Futuristic, intimidating, alive with power. Its mirrored panels reflected the sky so perfectly that for a moment it seemed the building itself had swallowed the horizon. In Queens, the tallest thing you saw was an apartment block or a water tower. Here? Oscorp looked like it touched the clouds.
Even the name Oscorp carried weight. It wasn't just letters on a sign—it was an empire carved into syllables.
The doors swung open, and the wave of students spilled out, backpacks slung over shoulders, sneakers scuffing the pavement. To them, this was just another field trip, another chance to joke and groan and half-listen while a tour guide tried too hard. But to me? My chest tightened with anticipation. Every step toward those glass doors felt heavier, like fate was pressing down on me.
Flash barreled out ahead, elbowing people out of his way like he owned the place. His gang trailed after him, laughing at jokes that weren't funny. I hung back, careful to keep some distance.
And then she appeared.
A woman in a pristine white lab coat walked toward us, clipboard in hand. Her hair was pulled into a tight knot, her glasses catching the light, and her smile radiated something rare: pride. The kind of pride that came from believing in the work she did.
"Good morning, everyone," she said, her voice warm but carrying authority. "Welcome to Oscorp Industries. My name is Dr. Elena Vasquez, and I'll be your guide today."
Before she could continue, Mr. Harrington—our teacher, our supposed supervisor—mumbled something about a "staff meeting" and slipped inside, abandoning us with all the grace of a man who wanted nothing more than a nap. Classic Harrington.
Dr. Vasquez didn't even blink. "Before we begin, a few rules," she said, tapping her clipboard. "Rule number one: no touching the equipment unless explicitly instructed. Some of these machines are delicate, and others… Let's just say the results of interference wouldn't be pleasant. Rule number two: stay with your group. Straying is unsafe and strictly prohibited. And rule number three: questions are encouraged. Curiosity is welcome here. But respect," she added, her smile sharpening just slightly, "is mandatory."
I almost smiled. Respect and curiosity? Finally, rules I could live with.
The tour began.
We entered through gleaming automatic doors, stepping into a lobby that looked like the future had put on its best suit. Sleek marble floors stretched out beneath towering glass walls, lit by sunlight streaming down from skylights above. Holographic displays floated near the reception desk, flashing Oscorp's slogans—Tomorrow's Science, Today—alongside rotating models of molecules, microchips, and satellites.
Dr. Vasquez led us through wide halls lined with glass partitions. Behind them, I caught glimpses of worlds I'd only read about: robotics labs where mechanical limbs moved with eerie precision; AI clusters glowing with networks of neural pathways; vast tables filled with vials of glowing chemical compounds, colors so bright they seemed painted from another spectrum.
I drank in every detail. Every machine, every flicker of light, every technical phrase she tossed out like breadcrumbs.
"Parker's drooling again," Flash muttered behind me. His entourage chuckled on cue.
I ignored him. My mind wasn't here to trade insults. My mind was racing, calculating, memorizing. This was it. The world where the line between science fiction and science fact blurred into nothing.
But even as I catalogued everything, a strange thought itched at the back of my skull.
This feels familiar.
The field trip. The tour. The spiders. It was all too similar to the first Spider-Man movie I'd watched a hundred times as a kid. Except… this wasn't Tobey Maguire's world. This wasn't a single genetically modified spider created by accident. No. Oscorp's research was different here. Bigger. Riskier. They hadn't fused just one DNA pattern. They had fused many. A singular, perfected super-spider.
And I knew, with a certainty that made my heart pound, that somewhere in this building… It was waiting.
The tour wound on. Dr. Vasquez showed us floors dedicated to renewable energy, to cybernetics, to agriculture modified for a changing climate. She spoke of Oscorp's goals with almost rehearsed precision: "a better future," "a sustainable tomorrow," "advancing humanity's potential." Words polished smooth by years of repetition.
But her eyes lit up when she talked about the cutting-edge projects, the research on the edge of impossible. That's when I leaned in, when I absorbed every syllable. I wasn't just listening to a tour guide. I was reading a map. A map that pointed toward destiny.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of walking and glass-window gawking, we arrived.
The room was darker, cooler. The hum of machines softened into something subtler, almost reverent. Rows of glass enclosures lined the walls, each one climate-controlled, each one occupied. Shadows skittered across glass, long legs twitching, bodies poised in alien grace.
My pulse skipped.
Spiders.
Dozens of them. Different species. Different shapes, colors, sizes. Some perched silently, others weaving webs that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The air carried the faint tang of antiseptic and something else—something older, primal, the smell of predators caged.
Dr. Vasquez gestured to a massive touchscreen display that flickered with species data. "Over 32,000 species of spider exist in the world," she began, her voice calm, precise. "They all belong to the order Araneae, divided into three suborders. Each possesses unique adaptations that allow it to survive in ways evolution has refined for hundreds of millions of years."
I stepped closer, eyes locked on the glowing diagrams. My brain fired on overdrive, cross-referencing every fact I already knew.
"For example," she continued, pointing to an image, "the Delena spider of the Sparassidae family possesses extraordinary jumping ability, able to ambush prey mid-air. The net-web spider, Filistatidae, genus Kukulcania, creates webs with tensile strength comparable to high-tension wire. Its reflexes are so fast some scientists speculate its nervous system operates almost precognitively."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the class. I leaned forward, reading every Latin name, every annotation, every microscopic detail.
Dr. Vasquez moved to another display. "Other species under study include the Goliath Birdeater, the Black Widow, the Huntsman, the Darwin's Bark Spider, the Diving Bell Spider, and the Ogre-Faced Spider. Each with unique adaptations: venom, strength, silk production, reflexes. And all of them… are the foundation of our most ambitious project."
The crowd shifted, curiosity rising.
Dr. Vasquez stopped in front of a central enclosure, the largest of them all. Her tone lowered slightly, almost conspiratorial. "For the past five years, Oscorp has been experimenting with genetic engineering, transferring RNA sequences to create entirely new genomes. By combining traits from all three suborders, we have designed fifteen genetically enhanced spiders. Super-spiders—arachnids with strength, agility, durability, and reflexes beyond anything found in nature."
I felt my breath hitch. Fifteen. The number echoed in my mind. As expected I turned to MJ as I knew what she was about to say.
MJ raised her hand, stepping forward with quiet confidence. "Excuse me," she said. "You said fifteen." Her eyes swept the room, scanning the enclosures with a sharpness that made my heart jump. "I only count fourteen."