A week passed. I took down small-time criminals every night, stripped them of everything useful, left them web-free so nobody could trace it back when the mask eventually slipped.
Cassie stayed around. Still came over. Still called. Still rode me like a trophy, but with less fire, more whimper. She had turned from Flash's ex into something soft and clingy. Her original plan was to use me as bait, twist the knife in Flash's ribs. Worked too well. She forgot the blade, forgot Flash, probably forgot what day it was. The way her voice trembled when she asked if I wanted her to skip cheer practice again? That was not confidence. That was addiction. She meowed once. Actual sound. I ignored it. She did it again later. Not joking. Just... testing. Like a broken toy trying to see if the batteries still worked. I left right after. She begged to sleep over. I said no. Too much routine turns even the best fuck into noise.
Of course my fame grew. Girls stared longer, laughed softer. Walked past, then circled back like maybe they forgot something near my waist. Locker doors opened just to peek. Whispers got louder. Desks closer. But I didn't bang anyone new. I was farming.
XP, loot, perks. Quiet grind.
The power I got after wrecking Black Tusk changed everything. Spider Whisper lit up. Whole new passive unlocked. I could talk to spiders now. No joke. Real conversations. Kinda. They were not poets. No long speeches. But they got the job done. Ran recon. Followed suspects. Climbed vents. Parked themselves in corners and fed me data like they were Twitter with fangs.
Most of them died, though. Roommates. Classic.
Still, even if one out of ten lived, that was a city-wide surveillance net better than anything S.H.I.E.L.D. ever managed. I had spiders in every school, five gas stations, half the fire hydrants downtown, and Mrs. Patel's bakery. That last one was personal. She owed me three cookies and never paid up.
The only annoying part about Spider Whisper was the delivery system. It was not some sweet inner monologue where a spider whispered secrets into my ear like nature's snitch. No. It came through like a static-laced psychic voicemail. Half-reception. Half-having a seizure inside my skull. Not all spiders sent messages. Only the ones that made it to the webquarters.
Yeah. That was the name now. Webquarters.
Imagine big chunks of semi-organic silk tech, strung like satellite dishes on rooftops, gutters, powerline grids. Not everywhere. Just enough to create a relay net. The spiders that made it that far plugged in. They used a combo of bio-electric pulses and whatever freak DNA I had going on to transmit info back to me. Messages came like jolts to the base of my spine. Tiny flashes. Visual. Audio. Vague thoughts in bad grammar. If spider-speak had a dialect, it was three percent English, ninety-seven percent panic.
And yeah, they flew.
That part freaked me out the first time. Not with wings. Not magic. These bastards spun glider threads. Tiny little silk sails. They used the city's heat thermals and updrafts from vent systems. Some used subway exhaust. Others just dropped from rooftops and rode luck. It was like watching bug-sized parachuters run air support.
[System]: Mmm~ aerodynamic arachno-orgy. Nothing gets me hotter than eight-legged drone strikes.
"Keep it in your panties."
[System]: Never wore any.
One spider tagged a moving van near the docks. Another caught sight of a guy stashing boxes labeled 'cleaning supplies' under a noodle shop. A third one died trying to spy on a girl's locker room. Not from me. From a shoe. That report came in with a crunch sound and a single sad word, 'why.'
Useful intel, mostly. I filtered what mattered. The warehouse tags helped. The gang routes they tracked at night. One managed to stick to a cop car and record a conversation about a shipment going sideways in Brooklyn. I mapped it. Added the location to my hit list.
I dropped in that night.
I took everything.
I ducked out before sirens came sniffing.
Spiders pinged again two hours later. One reported a guy buying tech parts from three different pawn shops. Another followed someone who dropped a bag into a manhole and disappeared into the sewer.
[System]: That one might be Tinkerer. Your call if you want to crawl through poop for loot.
"Not tonight. Already showered."
[System]: Storage now at 42 percent. You need to either sell or upgrade, baby. You are hoarding like an apocalypse-prepping stripper.
"Yeah, yeah. I will fence some stuff tomorrow."
No more dream sex with System though. One time bed covering was enough embarrassment. It was a damn good fucking, but still, it was risky.
Also, I took Aunt May to a fancy dinner a day ago. She was reluctant at first, gave me that squint moms use when they think you are selling weed. I showed her my "page," fake of course, looked real enough. Said I was earning three grand a month from writing reviews on niche tech blogs. She blinked. Paused. Then nodded like I just earned my first chest hair. That did it.
We went out. I wore cologne. She wore heels. I opened the door for her. She looked suspicious but let me. Small wins. The restaurant had candles. White tablecloths. Prices hidden behind menu metaphors. She looked around like she was waiting to wake up in a Taco Bell.
"So," she asked, picking at calamari like it was a dare, "you are suddenly a businessman now?"
"Entrepreneur," I corrected, sipping soda with a wine glass like I belonged there. "Digital nomad. Internet tycoon. Keyboard gigolo. Whatever sells the lie best."
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. That was the point. I just wanted her to smile again like she was not carrying the weight of my dead uncle, her second mortgage, and my teenage hormones like a ticking bomb under her ribs.
We even caught a movie after. Old-school romantic comedy. I let her pick. She laughed twice. Her hand brushed mine once in the dark. Nothing happened. But the future looked wet.
Today I had a group project meetup with Gwen Stacy, one girl named Trixie who looked like she slept in eyeliner, and a guy named Lessie who gave off either serial killer vibes or the kind of loner energy that led to a TikTok poetry account. We were supposed to meet in the school library at three.
Gwen was already seated, laptop open, typing fast like she was trying to convince her keyboard government was a hoax to make rich people richer under laws and tax regulations, when I arrived. Her hair was tied up, hoodie halfway off one shoulder, and her earbuds dangled like she paused music but still hated being social. Trixie sat opposite her with a hot pink mechanical pencil, chewing on the eraser and scrolling through a Google Doc without typing anything. Lessie leaned back in the chair next to her, arms crossed, not even pretending to contribute.
"Hey," I said, pulling out the fourth chair. "Am I late enough to be mysterious or just rude?"
Gwen looked up. "Both."
Trixie giggled. Lessie stared like his social batteries were already dead.
I dropped my bag, opened my notebook, and flipped to a blank page. "So. Who is doing what?"
Gwen kept typing. "I already split the work. Trixie handles the summary slide. Lessie is in charge of the sources. You get the visual part. Charts, graphics, whatever."
"Cool. Sounds fair."
[System[: Mmm~ you walked in late and still got the easy job. Alpha scheduling, sugar.
"Any of you want coffee?" I asked. "I passed that cart near the front and the guy looked bored enough to poison someone for fun."
Trixie perked up. "If you are buying, I will take something with vanilla."
Lessie said nothing. Gwen rolled her eyes but muttered "black" under her breath.
I came back with three cups. Lessie still said nothing. Gwen took hers with a tiny nod. Trixie smiled like I had just offered her a trip to Paris. I sipped mine and stared at the screen.
"Presentation's on neural interfaces, right?"
Gwen nodded. "Trixie wanted to do it on beauty standards. Logan wanted something on bioweapons. I picked the compromise."
"Sounds like a fun mix."
Trixie twirled her pencil. "I just think brain tech is kind of gross. Like, who wants wires in their head?"
Lessie finally spoke. "It is not always wires. Nanotech is worse. You don't even know it is there."
Trixie blinked like he had just revealed himself as a lizard.
I tapped my cup. "I can make a couple infographics about neural signal mapping. Stuff with arrows and creepy brain scans. Maybe a chart on how machine learning decodes thought patterns."
Gwen nodded again. "That works."
We worked in near silence after that. Trixie watched Gwen type. Lessie pulled out a book on cybernetics. I used school Wi-Fi to pull stolen templates off a neuroscience teacher's forum. Made a few slides. Added some fake emotion charts.
[System]: Mmm~ cyber freeloading. This school runs on theft. I approve.
"You doing anything after this?" I asked.
"No." Gwen answered, without even looking up.
"Cool. Want to go not do something together?"
She looked at me like I farted logic. "What?"
"You are not doing anything. I am also not doing anything. Why not not-do it together?"
Trixie beamed up. "I am not doing anything either."
Gwen raised her cup, sipped slow. "Fantastic. You two can go don'thing while I finish the slides."
Lessie mumbled something about the futility of socializing and went back to pretending he mattered.
I leaned into the table. "You are invited too, Trixie. Just warning you, it is peak nothing. Might include walking. Possibly sitting."
Trixie popped her gum. "I am good at sitting. Got years of XP."
We wrapped the session, left the library as the final bell rang. The hallway crowd thinned, lockers clanked shut like bored applause. Trixie and I made it out the front doors first. Gwen lagged behind but followed anyway.
We crossed the street. Corner deli on the left. Auto shop on the right. Trixie skipped ahead like her boots had springs. Gwen stayed close. Shoulders tense. Eyes scanning everything like she was expecting flash mobs or ghosts.
"You always this paranoid?" I asked.
"Yes. You have seen Midtown. If it is not awkward stares, it is drama or dick measuring contests."
Trixie stretched. Hoodie slid up, flashing her stomach. Intentional or lazy, hard to say. "Where we going?"
"Walk. Maybe snacks."
Gwen caught up. "Sounds like a high-budget plan."
"There might be gas station slushies."
Trixie perked. "Blue?"
"Always."
PS. Check Images chapter to see Gwen's images.
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