I pulled the last bag from my newly bought truck, straps biting hard into my sore shoulder. Every muscle ached from hauling gear upstairs, and my fingers throbbed. Yet I couldn't stop grinning. Every part, every tool, every piece of tactical gear we'd scraped together was here. For the first time since the bite, hope pressed at my chest, sharp and electric: I was finally building toward something real.
Cindy slammed the truck door with her hip. Arms crossed, she gave me a look. "Most kids save up for sneakers or a phone. Not... whatever this is."
I hefted the bags. "Video games don't stop bank robberies or fix my computer."
She snorted. "Fair. I call dibs on the cool part—spandex, intimidation, and logo. You handle the wires."
"Deal."
We snuck into the house like burglars. Aunt May's cinnamon rolls had left the whole downstairs smelling sweet, but the living room was empty. Perfect. I motioned for Cindy to follow me up the stairs. We dumped the bags onto my bedroom floor—gear, fabrics, boxes of parts, dyes—and for a moment just stared at the controlled chaos we'd created.
"All right," Cindy said, grabbing clothes for our first suit. "You work your techno-magic. I'll handle the dye—preferably without making a mess."
I grinned. "Just don't turn the bathroom into a murder scene."
She rolled her eyes and disappeared down the hall, already muttering about red-black dye ratios.
I sat at my desk. My poor laptop—stock parts, cheap casing, the kind of underpowered thing some clueless retailer thought was "gaming ready"—was about to get a new soul. Not just upgraded. Transformed.
I cracked open the casing with a screwdriver, laying each screw in a neat row. Hands steady, I carefully disconnected the battery, then removed the processor and lifted out the RAM. I set aside the underperforming stock cooling system. These were precise steps I'd once spent years perfecting—testing, failing, learning shortcuts for every connector, every firmware tweak hidden beneath layers the experts ignored. Now, each move was a matter of muscle memory.
I installed a military-grade processor, pressing it gently into the socket. Next, custom solid-state drives snapped into their slots. Using a flash drive, I uploaded my personal BIOS firmware, transforming this bargain-bin laptop into something ready for neural networks. For the phone, I removed the SIM restrictions, wiped the unwanted apps, and installed my lightweight operating system. Integration followed: encryption protocols were activated, and data was cross-synced between the systems. In under an hour, both were running as if they had been built in a Stark Industries clean room.
Most people had no idea how easy it was to make off-the-shelf tech songs. They were too busy buying upgrades instead of understanding how things worked. Idiots.
I sat back, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and hit the power button. The laptop flickered, then glowed. Not Windows. Not Linux. Something else entirely. My something. My old code. A ghost of another life scrolling across the screen, its logo appearing in stark monochrome.
My fingers froze above the keyboard."No way…" I whispered. "No freaking way."
The computer beeped. A box appeared: Enter password.
I swallowed hard. My pulse thundered in my ears as I typed that old password. My fingers shook—a primal fear flickering in my gut. Part of me almost needed it to fail, to prove this was just fantasy. But as I pressed enter, the screen shifted, and a familiar home screen washed over me like a tidal wave—I knew it better than my own face.
Then a voice spoke. Flat. Plain. Monotone. System online. Awaiting identification.
My chest tightened. I forced myself to breathe. "Uh. Identification: Zero-One-Nine-Parker."
A pause. Then: Code accepted. User unidentified. State your name.
"Peter Parker."
The system hummed. Welcome, Peter Parker. No personality modules detected. Please select the default configuration.
"No way…" I whispered. My throat was dry. "Addison. Load Addison."
Error. Personality not found.
"Vector?"
Not found.
"Simon? Sophia? Lora? James? Titan?"
Not found. Not found. Not found.
"Dammit!" I smacked the desk. The laptop wobbled dangerously. "All gone. Every single one."
I slumped back, raking trembling fingers through my hair. The ghosts of all I'd built—gone. My chest twisted, torn between relief that it was over and the hollow ache of loss.
"Fine," I muttered. "We'll start fresh. Create a new personality."
Confirmed. New personality name?
My lips twisted into a grin. "Designation: Arachne."
The computer processed. Then the voice returned, sharper now, less sterile. System personality Arachne. created. Awaiting directives.
"Okay, Arachne," I said, leaning forward. "First order of business: connect to all police scanners in New York. Keep track of any crimes happening and alert me immediately."
Confirmed. Connection established. Monitoring channels.
I sat back and let out a long breath, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. "Holy crap. It worked."
The door creaked. Cindy walked back in, her hands stained faintly red from the dye, a plate balanced on one palm.
"Aunt May brought pizza," she said, holding out two slices.
I blinked, pulled back from the screen, and took the plate. "Thanks."
She nodded at the laptop. "So... you just built Skynet?"
I smirked, biting into the pizza. "Better."
Her eyes narrowed at the glowing laptop. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, you know," I grinned. "Just making an AI to track crimes and manage our... extracurriculars."
She blinked. "Casually? You just—what?"
"Cindy Moon," I said, "meet Arachne. Arachne, this is Cindy. She can use you, too."
The voice spoke: Acknowledged. Hello, Miss. Moon.
Cindy's jaw dropped. "That's creepy."
"Awesome," I corrected.
She shook her head, muttering, "Unbelievable," before plopping onto the edge of my bed. "Well, while you were having your mad scientist moment, I actually finished something. Your suit's drying in the bathroom. Tactical mesh is holding, reinforced seams are in place. I even did some design work for the real suits."
I perked up instantly. "Seriously? What'd you add?"
Cindy flipped open her sketchbook, balancing it on her knees, red dye still faint on her fingers.
The first page she showed me nearly made me forget the laptop humming beside me. Bold black marker lines wrapped over crimson shading, a design that looked half tactical armor, half sleek predator. My chest tightened just looking at it.
"This one's yours," she said, tapping the page with the end of her pencil.
The suit was brutal and beautiful at the same time—red as the foundation, with black panels that curved across the torso and arms. At the center, stretching from shoulder to waist, a massive black spider sprawled across the chest, its legs fanning over the ribcage. The lenses were sharp, angular white ovals that almost glowed against the darker colors. The design wasn't just spandex—it had layered plating and subtle armor reinforcement sketched into the outline, a form-fitting tactical suit that looked like it could take a beating.
"It looks really well made, far better than my design," I muttered, unable to hide my grin.
Cindy smirked. "Exactly. Not a circus costume. Something practical. Something that makes criminals think twice."
She flipped to the next page.
"And this one's mine."
Her design was striking in a completely different way—sleek, feminine, but no less dangerous. A white base flowed across the page, broken by bold black panels that sharpened her silhouette. Crimson webbing traced over her shoulders and arms like veins, converging into a stylized red "S" emblem that flared across her chest. Instead of a full mask, she'd drawn a scarf-like face covering in deep red that wrapped around her lower face, leaving her sharp, white-lensed eyes as the only thing visible. The effect was dramatic, almost haunting.
"Whoa," I breathed. "That's… that's amazing."
"Form-fitting but flexible," she explained, her tone professional, almost clinical. "Lightweight armor woven underneath. Scarf-mask for intimidation factor—and because, honestly, it looks cool."
The computer chimed. Alert. Armed bank robbery reported. Third and Lexington. Suspects armed.
My head snapped toward the screen, and everything inside me jolted. Cindy's eyes widened with shock. Tense, electrified silence hung between us, our big talk suddenly real and the weight of what we'd done settling hard in my chest. Slowly, a wild, reckless grin broke free on my face.
"Well," I said, standing up, "looks like Spider-Man's first test run came early."
Cindy was already moving, heading for the bathroom. "Your suit should be dry by now."
I clenched my fists, heart racing. Half of me was terrified. The other half was ecstatic. "Guess it's showtime."
My heart hammered as I slammed the bathroom door and locked it. The mirror threw a stranger at me: face flushed, eyes fever-bright, my hands trembling as I held the suit. The mask—the red scarf, Cindy's touch—felt alien at first, but as I pulled it over my face and the goggles clicked into place, a calm rolled over me, cutting through the panic. For a moment, fear vanished. Focus locked in. This is it.
I ripped the window open. The night smelled like hot pavement and distant traffic. I'd practiced this in my head a thousand times, quoting movie lines, comic panels, and stunt footage in a looping mental montage. None of that prepared me for the freefall. I pushed off the sill and fell for a heartbeat — stomach swooping — then my body learned the rhythm. I shot a line from my wrists. It wasn't a mechanical thwip this time; it felt wet and alive, like a strand of silk spun from my own skin. The web stuck to the fire escape opposite me. I swung, lungs filling with cold air, the city blurring into ribbons of light below.
Organic webbing. No shooters. No gadgetry. Just me and whatever weird biological lottery I'd hit. It made everything feel more real, more dangerous. More me.
The police scanner I'd duct-taped to my ear crackled: "—reports of an armed robbery at the First National Bank on Lexington and Third. Suspects heading inside—multiple hostiles—units en route." My pulse doubled.
I angled my swing, cutting in low over narrow alleys and rooftop HVAC units until the bank's art-deco facade rose up, floodlit and arrogant. Glass glittered like teeth. Sirens shrieked in the distance, red and blue blinking toward the junction. People poured out of the building across the street — customers shoved into the doorway, hands over their heads, faces a mix of confusion and fear.
Four men in black ski masks were moving like rehearsed predators. Bulletproof vests, duffel bags, pistols glinting; one had a police radio, pantomiming authority. They were inside, voices low and brutal as they corralled hostages against cold marble.
I landed on the bank's service alley with the quiet of a cat, chest heaving. The suit fit like a second skin — tactical panels where I needed them, flexible where I had to bend. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. I told myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
A door slammed. The lead robber shoved a guard into a teller window and raised his gun. When he barked orders, the world slowed; that animal terror slapped the air into stillness. This wasn't some stunt. This was people — and sometimes a split-second choice is the line between them walking away or not.
I stepped into the hall like I belonged. The pistol swiveled toward me, making one of the robbers laugh. "What the—who the hell are you? Kid? Get outta here!"
I gave him a little bow, deliberately casual, voice bouncing off marble. "Evening, gentlemen. Bank hours are from nine to five, you know. You missed your sign-up sheet."
He sneered. "You idiot—get back!"
The laugh I used was a weapon. Taunting them would make them violent and sloppy. That was the plan. Keep them emotional. Keep them predictable. Keep them watching me.
One robber stepped forward, hand twitching on his pistol. I breathed out and the first web shot from my wrist — slick, quick — and slapped across the barrel. It yanked the gun sideways and out of his grip in one clean motion. He cursed, lunging for it, but instinct and speed put me in his face before he could find purchase. A flick, a sidestep, and his legs tangled, folding him into a stuttering heap on the marble like a puppet with cut strings.
For a beat, the bank was too loud. Hearts thumped against ribs like trapped birds. Some of the hostages started to cry. Others were too stunned to move. The leader swore, his hand flying to his radio, but the web on the gun held him a second longer than he expected — and that was all I needed.
I danced. That's the only word for it. Spider comics don't do justice to the feeling of fluid physics your body suddenly understands. I flicked, vaulted, rolled, and rewired momentum against mass. My legs kicked off columns; I used a beam to spring over a teller counter; I traced the ceiling tile seams to run like a spider above the floor of human panic. Every time someone tried to zero in on me, I was already elsewhere.
"Hey!" the leader barked, and he started to get tactical. He lunged with his rifle like an animal. For a second — a flash — the bullet found air where my head had been two heartbeats before. I felt the wind of it past my ear; whatever reflex saved me was wired into the bones now.
I kept my distance. I wanted them to be frustrated, punching the air, wasting their breath. I landed a few light jabs — precise, non-lethal — enough to stagger them, not to end them. Two of them tried to fire again and ended up webbed to the marble pillars by their arms, immobilized like kids with their hands stuck to glue. A third went for a hostage — a woman clutching a purse — and I dove, catching the rifle's barrel with bare fingers, pinning it away, channeling pain into a fast, hard knee to his ribs. He crumpled, winded, the rifle clattering.
My chest was a drumroll. Adrenaline made thoughts cut sharper: first, protect civilians. Second, avoid killing. Third, take risks only if necessary. I kept talking because taunts keep people focused on words instead of angles.
"Have you ever thought about a hobby?" I called as I cartwheeled around a swinging hatless assailant. "Rock climbing? Model trains? Anything where you don't threaten strangers?"
One robber spat. "Shut up!"
"Sorry," I said, fake-lamenting. "Can't hear you over the sound of your impending arrest."
Sirens wailed closer. Someone in the crowd had called it in good and loud — either that or the bank's silent alarm finally made a fuss. The leader's eyes flicked desperately toward the door. Panic is a bad general. His hands went jittery.
That was my opening. I shot a web, a living rope, looped it around his ankles, and tugged. He went down like a tree, taking two others with him in a clumsy domino. The gun's muzzle clattered against marble; hands went up.
The last robber lunged at me, knuckles white on the grip of his pistol, teeth bared in a desperate snarl. He thought brute force would end this.
"Really?" I muttered, tilting my head.
He charged. My Spider-Sense flared, sharp and electric. I pivoted, flicked a web to his shoulder, and used his own momentum to yank him off his feet. He slammed into the marble floor with a grunt. Before he could scramble up, I wrapped him in thick strands of webbing and pinned him to a support column like a fly in amber. His muffled curses echoed through the bank lobby.
For a second, the only sounds were the blaring alarm and the frantic breathing of the hostages. I stood there, chest rising and falling beneath the suit, scanning for movement. Nothing. It was over.
Then the heavy doors burst open with a crash.
"FREEZE!"
Half a dozen NYPD officers flooded the lobby, guns raised, flashlights slicing through the shadows. The first thing they saw wasn't the hostages, or the crooks webbed up like Christmas decorations—it was me. A kid in a half-dyed suit, goggles glaring white in the harsh light, standing in the middle of a crime scene.
I froze, hands half-raised. "Uh… hi?"
Their fingers tightened on their triggers.
"Down on the ground!" one barked.
Every instinct screamed at me to run—to leap for the ceiling and vanish before anyone could react. A single webline and I'd be gone. No names, no faces. Safe.
But then I looked at the people huddled behind the tellers' counter, wide-eyed and trembling. They weren't afraid of the cops. They weren't even looking at them. They were looking at me.
If I bolted now, I'd be just another masked freak in a city that already had too many. If I wanted to matter, to prove this wasn't just a game… I had to stay.
Slowly, I straightened and raised my voice. "I'm not your enemy. Name's Spider-Man. First night on the job." I jerked a thumb toward the webbed-up crooks. "They were robbing the place. You're welcome."
The officers hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. One of the crooks, face mashed against the webbing, shouted hoarsely, "He's a freak! Lock him up!"
"Yeah, because you guys are clearly role models," I muttered.
One officer kept his gun leveled at me. "What's your angle, kid? Masked vigilantes don't just… show up out of nowhere."
"No angle," I said honestly. "I just want to help. That's it. I'm not here to step on anyone's toes."
A figure pushed through the line of uniforms—older, graying at the temples, with the kind of sharp eyes that had seen too many late nights. His badge caught the light: Captain Stacy.
"Stand down," he ordered, and the other officers reluctantly lowered their weapons. He stepped closer, studying me like I was some puzzle he didn't trust himself to solve.
"So. Spider-Man." The name came out flat, as if he were tasting it for the first time.
"That's me," I said with a half-shrug. "Catchy, right? Not taken, as far as I know."
He didn't laugh. "You saved lives tonight. That much I'll give you. But listen carefully: this city doesn't need another loose cannon in tights. You screw up, and someone innocent gets hurt; I will bring you in. Understood?"
I nodded quickly, raising two fingers in a salute. "Crystal clear, Captain."
For a moment, something softened in his face—exhaustion, maybe, or the faintest flicker of respect. Then it was gone, replaced by steel.
"And kid," he added, glancing at the uneven stitching and blotchy dye of my suit. "Get a better outfit. That thing looks like it came out of a dumpster."
I laughed under the mask despite the tension, the sound bouncing off the marble. "Working on it."
Before anyone could press for more, I flicked a webline to the skylight and vaulted upward. The glass cracked, night air rushing in as I shot out into the open city.
The wind roared in my ears. Queens stretched beneath me like a living map—lights, sirens, neon all blurring into one heartbeat. I swung higher, faster, laughter bubbling out of me in bursts I couldn't contain.
My first night. My first fight. My first name.
Spider-Man was real now.
And the city had just met him.