Issue #4 by Jake Hawkins
Feb 2024 Peter Parker
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THE RESIDENCE OF BEN AND MAY PARKER
QUEENS The sound of the freezer door slamming echoed through the modest home, signaling Peter that his uncle was approaching. Ben shuffled into the serene living room, a Ziplock bag filled with ice in hand. He pulled out a dining room chair and settled into it before passing the bag of ice to Peter, who placed it against the side of his throbbing head. The last thing I want is to cause any concern for Aunt May and Uncle Ben, but it seems like life has other plans for me lately, things beyond my control. Uncle Ben let out a heavy sigh, and Peter's unease deepened. They had both waited patiently for Aunt May to fuss over him for a good fifteen minutes after his tumble from the roof. Even more surprising, Uncle Ben had come up with a convincing explanation for why Peter had ended up on top of their car. Peter couldn't quite figure out why his uncle had lied for him, but he suspected it was to spare Aunt May any additional heartache. Uncle Ben's sigh unexpectedly turned into a warm, soft chuckle, leaving Peter utterly astonished. "I remember the first time I tried to play catch with you," Ben's eyes appeared misty, his gaze not directly on Peter but lost in the memory. "I think after the third time the ball hit you in the nose, May finally came rushing off the porch to tell me you'd had enough." Ben chuckled again, bringing a smile to Peter's face. He couldn't help but reminisce about that moment Ben was referring to. "That was when you used to take me upstate during the summers, right?" Peter asked, recalling that it had been at least six or seven years ago. Ben nodded, finally locking eyes with his nephew, his smile filled with tears. "Yeah, took away all my dreams of you playing Little League, I can tell you that much." Peter sighed this time, ready to explain what was going on in his life. "Uncle Ben, I—" "I overheard you and Gwen earlier, Pete. About what happened after you left your aunt." That was the last thing I expected to hear after that first sentence. But when has Uncle Ben ever failed to say the right thing when someone needed it? Ben sat in contemplative silence for a brief moment, carefully choosing his words before continuing. "I've known George since you and Gwen were in preschool. I can't imagine what would've happened to him if he lost Gwen. In a way, you saved him too." "I... Uncle Ben, I have no idea what's happening to me," Peter admitted, his uncle's concern evident. "I think from the moment I woke up in the hospital, it's like a switch got flipped inside me. Like someone cranked the volume on my life to a house party level." "It sounds like your father might have unintentionally left you a gift, Pete. I know him and your mom gave you plenty of gifts already. You were tutoring the neighborhood kids all last semester," Ben marveled at his nephew. "I just wish I could talk to him about all of this. About what led to that spider's creation, and Mom getting sick. I feel like I barely know him, and now I don't even know where he is. I understand why he always left me with you guys, but I just wish we had more time, you know?" Ben held back his tears as he listened to Peter talk about his parents. "I'm sure he never told you this, but our mother passed away when he was just a few years younger than you. And your dad, he was just like you, burying himself in every book he could find." Ben leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on both knees as he guided Peter through their family's history. "How did you cope with it, Uncle Ben?" Peter inquired, reclining on the couch, the ice pack now serving as an uncomfortable pillow. "Our dad took it the hardest, and I knew your dad was destined for greatness. He'd already been promoted a whole grade at that point. So, I felt a responsibility left to me by our mother to ensure your dad could chase his dreams. I'm not proud of some of the things I had to do to make that happen, but one thing I can say is that I never shied away from the weight on my shoulders. And let me tell you, Peter, it became overwhelming." Peter listened to his uncle, his heart aching as he sensed the emotions emanating from Ben. Leave it to Uncle Ben to reveal more about my dad and our family than my dad ever had before. "I'm sharing all this with you, Pete, because when we lost your mom, your dad faced that same burden. He was at a crossroads, just like you are now." Ben shook his head and found the strength he needed to meet his nephew’s eyes. “And he made the wrong choice. He walked away from his responsibilities.” Ben and my dad always seemed like they were as close as brothers could get. But I can hear it in every word, he hasn’t been happy with him in a long time. All this division, all this regret. I never knew he carried all this with him. Peter gingerly held the ice pack in his hand, its coolness offering some relief to his throbbing head. He leaned back, contemplating the question he had just posed. "What made it easier for you, that burden?" Ben's smile was warm and nostalgic as he folded his arms, his gaze fixed on the steps leading upstairs. "The day I met your auntie. Life hasn't been the same since, thank God." With a sense of purpose, Ben rose from his seat and walked past the couch, offering Peter a reassuring pat on the shoulder before kneeling down to plant a loving kiss on his nephew's forehead. "Try to get some sleep, kiddo. You've got quite a few big days ahead." Peter watched as his uncle ascended the stairs, leaving him alone in the dimly lit living room, still nursing his headache and deep in thought. Amid the relentless pounding in his head, Peter couldn't help but dwell on the weight of the revelation. His gifts, whatever they were, represented a profound crossroads in his life. But the direction in which he should proceed remained shrouded in uncertainty. A sudden idea snapped into Peter's mind, and he glanced briefly toward the stairs, making sure that Ben and May's room remained dark. With swift determination, he leaped off the couch and hurried through the kitchen. As he reached the steps leading to the back door, he flicked on the light, illuminating the path down to the basement. Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Gwen paused her Queen's greatest hits playlist, pulling one of her AirPods from her ear. She was engrossed in reviewing her classes for the upcoming semester, trying to focus on her studies. Despite her commitment to academics, the events of the previous night at the Parkers' residence continued to weigh heavily on her mind. In the small confines of their apartment, she could hear her father engaged in a hushed phone conversation in the kitchen. Her father's unusual behavior and the enigmatic criminals they had encountered with Peter the night before fueled her curiosity. Gwen was determined to discover what her father knew, or at the very least, understand the reason behind his unusual quietness during their breakfast that morning. Silently and with great care, she cracked open her bedroom door just a sliver and peered through the gap to observe her father leaning against the kitchen counter, fully absorbed in the conversation on the other end of his work cell. "I'm going to head down and get a look at the scene myself. Then once I'm back at headquarters, we'll have our first sit down," George Stacy stated resolutely, his voice filled with determination. He listened intently to the voice on the other end of the call, unaware that his teenage daughter, Gwen, was observing their conversation with a raised eyebrow. "The sooner we draw a roadblock on all this crap the Maggia's foot soldiers are pulling, the sooner we have the streets back under control. That's step one." George ended the call abruptly, giving Gwen just enough time to close her door and slip back over to her desk. A few seconds later, a predictable knock on her door signaled her father's entrance. "Hey, sweetie, I've got to get across town like fifteen minutes ago..." Gwen turned around with a casual shrug, understanding her father's responsibilities and the urgency of his work. "I'm just going to finish getting ready for orientation, then head over to Peter's. Don't worry about me." Her mature and responsible demeanor never ceased to make her father proud. "I'll leave some money by the toaster in case you and Pete want to grab some sandwiches from Delmars." George's thoughtfulness was met with a nod of gratitude from Gwen as she returned to her desk, or at least pretended to. She waited for the sound of the door to their two-bedroom apartment slamming shut before springing into action. From the window overlooking her block, she watched her father's work car drive away, his figure getting smaller in the distance. An idea she had been toying with all afternoon was about to be set into motion. MIDTOWN YONKERS THE BAR WITH NO NAME A block-headed, squat-framed man with the imposing build of a powerlifter emerged from the sleek limousine parked in front of the bar. He meticulously straightened the deep blue tie that complemented his pinstripe suit, each movement exuding an air of calculated authority. The bouncer, a hulking figure himself, held the bar's door ajar for him and his entourage of eight heavily-muscled men, ensuring he gave a nod of respect as the man passed. As they strode through the bar's dimly lit interior, a hushed silence settled over the usual seedy crowd already gathered. Even a few of the roughnecks engaged in a game of pool couldn't help but divert their attention from the felt to the man now overseeing the Maggia's sprawling New York operations. The only reason these streetwise hustlers dared to occupy the unassuming establishment, with no name to boast, was in the faint hope of securing a place within the organization led by the man the streets had christened "Hammerhead." "Dat's him, huh?" Tommy, the shorter and grungier of the pair, surmised as he watched Hammerhead and his retinue disappear into the shadowy recesses of the bar. "Keep your damn voice down," Clip, Tommy's partner in small-time scams and dubious dealings, warned him in a hushed but forceful tone, his eyes scanning the bar to ensure their conversation remained private. "Yeah, that's him." Tommy crinkled his face in confusion, baffled by the peculiar sight he had just witnessed. "What the hell? Why's his head shaped like that?" His somewhat loud observation drew more than a few sidelong glances from passersby and regulars who recognized precisely what—and whom—the small-time crook was talking about. "Didn't I just say keep your voice down?!" Clip reminded him firmly, punctuating his reprimand with a sharp slap on the shoulder. "If you want to put food on the table every night, you listen and you learn. Enough of your damn yapping. It never got us anywhere." Clip shook his head and refocused on lining up his shot at the pool table. His eyes weren't fixed on the striped ball he intended to pocket in the distant corner but on the set of doors that Hammerhead had disappeared through. Deep beneath the bar, a sprawling storage facility unfolded. Rows of firearms in every conceivable size, type, and caliber adorned the walls, with crates and boxes straight from the U.S. military stacked high around the room. Hammerhead observed with his beady, intense black eyes as a group of men worked tirelessly, unloading more crates and strategically placing them within the expansive facility. Hammerhead's bulky frame turned abruptly, his intent gaze searching the room for a specific document. His eyes landed on a clipboard filled with papers, conveniently resting next to a nearby computer. His massive, gnarled hands, reminiscent of a baseball catcher's mitt, seized the clipboard, and he methodically flipped through its contents. As Hammerhead delved deeper into the shipping manifest, a brewing storm of frustration was evident to Mario, who observed from across the room. From his vantage point, Mario took a slow, last drag on his cigarette before extinguishing it on the floor, all the while monitoring Hammerhead's increasingly turbulent demeanor as he examined the documents. As Hammerhead stormed across the room toward him, Mario braced himself for the inevitable confrontation. "You think 'cause I bust mother^%$#$ face's open for a living I can't count or something, boy?" Hammerhead huffed, his seething breath billowing into Mario's face as he spoke. Mario, aware of the reputation surrounding Hammerhead, tried to maintain his composure. "We got hit just like the rest of the routes," Mario attempted to explain, but he knew that the timing couldn't have been worse. Without any warning, Hammerhead delivered a brutal left hook to Mario's jaw, causing several onlookers to visibly wince at the sickening impact. Most of the men averted their eyes, not daring to meet Mario's gaze as he struggled to pull himself off the floor. "All I've been hearing all gah damn day is excuse, after excuse, after excuse. So you'll EXCUSE me–" Hammerhead proceeded to kick Mario in the temple, sending him crashing back to the ground. "If I just ain't taking anymore today. Now, you got another shipment to pick up tonight, right?" Mario nodded, his jaw dislocated, making it impossible for him to speak at the moment. "I suggest you bring in more guns and be ready for whatever may pop off," Hammerhead continued, his voice laced with menace. "Because the next time I come in here and I'm missing money or cargo, somebody's going to lose their god damn head." With a swift pivot on his black Stacy Adams loafers, Hammerhead signaled to his entourage to follow him. As they paraded back through the bar on their way out, Hammerhead came to an abrupt halt in the center of the room. "Those two morons right there. They've been eyeballing me since I walked in." Clip and Tommy found themselves caught in an unnerving tableau, their pool cues held in mid-air as Hammerhead's formidable henchmen converged around them, the pool table becoming an island in a sea of menace. "You heard the man. Walk. Both of yous," one of the burly enforcers in an ill-fitting dark cherry-red suit commanded with a cold, unyielding tone. With no other choice, they complied, moving with a heavy reluctance that felt like a march to their doom. Every set of eyes in the bar followed them as they made their way towards the exit, their every step accompanied by a heavy, oppressive silence. Once they were outside, a pair of Hammerhead's loyal associates seized them and forcibly deposited them into an unmarked Cutlass, positioned inconspicuously behind their boss's luxurious limousine. "I'll meet you at the spot. Find out what their deal is before I get there. I don't have time for idle chit-chat," Hammerhead's second-in-command instructed, shaking his head in exasperation. Hammerhead slid into the limousine and snapped his fingers, signaling his driver to pull away. Gwen rang the doorbell at the Parker residence, her gaze fixed on the framed glass around the front door, searching for any sign of movement inside. A cheerful smile from May, who appeared in the kitchen and waved her in, was all the invitation she needed. It was a familiar gesture, one that reassured Gwen that she was always welcome here. She stepped inside and, as was her habit, closed and locked the door behind her. "You hungry, sweetie?" May called from the kitchen, her warm voice resonating through the cozy home. Gwen responded with a grin, "Not yet, but whatever that is I smell, I'm sure it's going to change my stomach's mind pretty quick." May's smile remained as she nodded and indicated with a jerk of her head toward the stairs. "Peter's in the basement, sweetie. I think your father will be working late, so you might be joining us for orientation tomorrow." Gwen hesitated halfway down the steps, absorbing this new piece of information. It was a revelation to her that she might need to stay with the Parkers overnight, and it only fueled her growing suspicion that there might be a connection between the botched robbery and her father's unusual late working hours. Gwen cautiously descended the basement steps, the dim light from the back room in the distance guiding her path. She navigated her way through the cluttered space, sidestepping dusty boxes of Peter's childhood toys and antique furniture until she reached the door to the seldom-used spare bedroom. To her surprise, the room had been transformed into a bustling workspace, a sight she hadn't seen before. "STOP!" Peter's voice suddenly called out, causing Gwen to halt in her tracks. She turned around, her curiosity piqued, and observed Peter in the room, clad in a grubby, off-white tank top, safety glasses perched atop his head. In front of him, atop a stack of crates, rested a metallic contraption with a steel collar band running through it. Peter adjusted his safety goggles over his eyes and moved around the device, inspecting it with a mixture of excitement and determination. Gwen's patience wore thin quickly, and she joined Peter beside the device, her smirk revealing her amusement at his enthusiasm. As Gwen turned around, her eyes fell upon three notebooks, each filled with an intricate formula that Peter had been tirelessly working on. She snatched up one of the notebooks, then another, skimming through their contents with growing astonishment. She whirled back to face Peter, struggling to contain her amazement. "Well, what do you think?" Peter inquired, anticipating that she had grasped the essence of the formula's components. Gwen's gaze was still glued to the notebook in her hand as she ventured a response. "You're trying to create your own..." She scanned several passages rapidly before finishing her sentence, "...webbing?" Gwen contemplated Peter's endeavor for a moment, appreciating its plausibility given recent events. "Okay, I'm intrigued. Plus, I'd be very concerned if you were somehow able to generate your own." She carefully placed the notebooks back where she found them and moved to the other side of the device, which she assumed was created to deploy Peter's work-in-progress webbing formula. "I'm in the middle of building the second prototype, one for each wrist, of course," Peter explained. "What do you think of the formula?" Gwen assessed the notebook's formula thoughtfully. "I think it'll need some tweaking here and there in several areas, depending on how you want to use it." Her fingers scratched her chin briefly as she contemplated the possibilities, and her scrutinizing gaze finally pulled Peter's attention away from his tinkering. He straightened up, shifting his safety glasses to rest on his forehead. "What is it?" Peter inquired, intrigued by the quizzical expression on Gwen's face. Gwen decided to be straightforward with her question, marked by a light-hearted chuckle. "What the hell, Peter?" She posed her inquiry with a hint of playfulness. "What sparked this rabbit hole I've found you in?" Peter's shoulders slumped momentarily, and the weight of his conversation with Uncle Ben loomed over him, as it had done throughout the night. He took a deep breath to compose himself before explaining, "I'm not really sure how to explain this... for lack of a better word, fire in my belly. Uncle Ben has a certain faith in me, a love I hope he knows I have for him as well. I just know now's the time in my life I need to think about someone other than me. He and Aunt May do it every day without hesitation." With his safety glasses secured, Peter continued, "Being able to go to a school like we got into, that's a gift. It's a responsibility. So is all this cool stuff I can do." He pointed to his homemade device and positioned it toward the far wall, aiming at one of Uncle Ben's old dartboards. "It would be awesome if I could put this stuff to good use and help my neighborhood, you know?" Gwen nodded, her face lighting up with a broad smile. "Yeah, I think I agree with you. So, are you going to fire that thing, or what?" Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Peter joined in her excitement as he lined up his sights, sliding the band around his wrist. He pressed two fingers onto the red trigger and unleashed a spurt of webbing that coated both the dartboard and a substantial section of the wall. They both let out simultaneous cheers of amazement. Upstairs in the kitchen, Aunt May couldn't help but shake her head and giggle, wondering what on earth they could be up to in the basement. Gwen approached the wall and observed the webbing, plucking at the strands to examine their properties before she turned to face Peter. "Okay, now I think we need to work on refinement." Peter nodded, eager to continue the journey of discovery. "Okay, refinement. That makes sense. What's after that?" Gwen's eyes sparkled with determination as she answered, "Adaptability." Captain George Stacy entered the meeting room with a cup of coffee from his favorite local spot, commanding the attention of every individual present as he stood behind the podium. The room fell into silence as the assembled officers and investigators focused on their leader. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. You are all here because you have been personally selected for a task force that will systematically dismantle all organized crime across the five boroughs," Captain Stacy began with a resolute tone. He expected the murmurs and grumbles that rippled through the room in response but proceeded undeterred. "We are going to be focusing our efforts primarily on the Maggia crime family." A desk clerk activated a projector in the back of the room, casting images onto the screen beside the podium. The pictures displayed a gruesome mansion fire and the ensuing chaos as EMTs transported body bags. "Three months ago, Silvio Manfredi, aka Silvermane," the screen transitioned to show photos of the late Silvermane, an elderly man dressed in suits matching his gray hair, "was killed in an explosion at one of his vacation homes in Maine. Since his death, presumably at the hands of the Maggia, the Silvermane crime family's extermination has been unfolding on our streets. As of today, it is over. Is that understood?" A hand shot up, and Captain Stacy recognized the eager detective. "Detective Watanabe?" Detective Watanabe inquired, "What strategies do you currently have in mind for us to circumvent the Maggia's current activities?" She was keen to get started, proud of her position as the fastest officer to make detective in twenty years. "For now, we've got surveillance warrants issued, and we are implementing two-man rotations on the following targets," Captain Stacy responded, and the projector screen displayed mugshots of two individuals. "Douglas Manchester, out of Charles Town, Boston," he pointed at one of the photos, "a noted Maggia goon who's been seen with Bobby Kowalski, a Sicilian import described as an absolute nut case. Both of them seem to be hired for protection." A series of photos showed the infamous Hammerhead, captured at various locations around the city. "This is the Eddie Van Halen of it all," Captain Stacy continued, "the man who has been putting so many bullets in the air around here. We don't know where he came from, but what we do know is he is apparently the Don's right-hand man, or bulldozer. Everyone we've talked to calls him—" "Hammerhead," Detective Morales, a stocky black man with the build of a inside linebacker, interrupted. "They call him Hammerhead." Captain Stacy looked up to acknowledge Detective Morales. "You got any intel you want to share with us? You worked that mess in Brooklyn, right?" Detective Jefferson Morales folded his arms and nodded, "Yessir. And that isn't the first time I've worked a scene that had his indirect fingerprints all over it. Big-headed bastard has been running around like a damn war criminal." Captain Stacy expressed his frustration, echoing Morales's sentiment. "I'm about as sick of it as you sound, Detective. The buck stops here, everyone. By the end of the week, I want something that is going to get me a search warrant approved, so we can start tossing a few of these clowns in a cell and let it stick. Now dismissed, partner up as you see fit." As the detectives filed out, Yuri and Jefferson remained behind, discussing their next move. "We both got the best odds of not slowing each other down. How do you feel about starting at the bar first?" Jefferson suggested. Yuri smirked and replied, "I feel like that's a waste of time. I've got a better target." They continued walking down the hall, with Yuri adding, "You drive, I've got the seniority." UNMARKED WAREHOUSE EASTSIDE QUEENS The Cadillac Escalade limousine of Hammerhead pulled into the dimly lit warehouse, its massive steel doors shutting with a deafening clang behind it. A suited and armed guard hurried over to the limousine and yanked open the door, allowing the imposing figure of Hammerhead, the Maggia’s number two, to step out. Hammerhead exhaled a cloud of smoke from the stogie he was chomping on, the sharp scent cutting through the air as he walked purposefully to the center of the room. Dangling from a thick steel chain that bound them together back to back were the two men who had been brought into Hammerhead's custody from the bar with no name. Clip and Tommy hung there, barely conscious, their battered faces bruised and bloodied. Their feet dangled a few inches off the ground, emphasizing their helplessness. Hammerhead circled the pair of small-time criminals, his sharp eyes assessing the proper beating his people had administered. "We've been staking out the bar for the last few weeks, Mr. Hammerhead, sir," Clip managed to explain through his fractured jaw, struggling to articulate his words. "And why the hell would you do something stupid like that, huh? Because that's how you end up in the situation you're in now," Hammerhead barked back, his gravelly voice carrying a menacing edge. His very presence instilled an instant fear in them, and they knew that the wrong choice of words strung together would mean their situation would get bleaker than it already was. "They said they were looking for a job. No handouts or nothing," Bobby chimed in from behind the desk he was sitting at, his casual tone contrasting sharply with the violence in the room. He looked up from his newspaper, his gaze flickering briefly between the boss and the battered duo hanging in front of him. "Ain't that something?" Hammerhead's steely gaze fixed on Bobby, his brow furrowing slightly. "We'll see about that," he grumbled, his mind already working out a plan to extract the truth from the two men hanging helplessly before him. The atmosphere in the warehouse grew tense, and the air crackled with anticipation as Hammerhead prepared to uncover the secrets hidden behind the façade of the two battered criminals. Dougie Manchester, the nonchalant enforcer, interjected, "Neither one of them knew nothing worth all this, boss." He casually wiped the blood from his knuckles with a rag, as if he were cleaning grease stains off his hands after a fried chicken meal. Hammerhead grumbled under his breath, clearly dissatisfied with the outcome, before snapping his fingers aggressively to rouse the battered pair of two-bit hoodlums from their forced nap. "You two bums better give me a damn good reason why I shouldn't have you exterminated right here, right now," he warned. Tommy shot Clip a worried glance over his shoulder, wincing through the pain it caused him to move his facial muscles. They both knew they were teetering on the edge of life and death. However, Hammerhead's demeanor abruptly shifted as he chuckled and turned back to them. "Yeah, that is something, ain't it? Dougie, cut 'em loose." The two small-time criminals breathed a collective sigh of relief as they were gradually lowered back down to their feet. "Get 'em some cold cuts and a couple of beers from Frankie's. Poor bastards look like they ain't had a solid meal in weeks." A couple of grunts hurried off to fulfill Hammerhead's orders. As Clip and Tommy were released from their chains, Hammerhead relit his cigar, the atmosphere easing from its earlier tension. "So, you two are looking for work, is that it? Well, there's always plenty of that to go around." A half-hour later, the pair sat across from Hammerhead in the warehouse, warily enjoying their sandwiches. "So, are you two reliable, or am I gonna have to have a rehash of your little situation here if you go to work for me?" Clip and Tommy exchanged a brief glance before Tommy, speaking for the both of them, asserted, "We ain't that stupid, Mr. Hammerhead. Any man like yourself needs eyes and ears out here." They were aware that aligning themselves with the powerful figure could offer both opportunities and protection in a city where loyalty meant survival. Hammerhead blotted out the butt of his cigar, blowing a wad of smoke across the table at the both of them. “Alright. We’ll put you on payroll. Hurry up and finish your dinner. I already got ya first assignment.” ABANDONED BOXING GYM HELL’S KITCHEN Gwen pushed open the creaking back doors and led the way into the building. She hid her lock pick in its usual place in her straight blonde hair and soaked in the atmosphere of their chosen training arena. Peter wandered in behind her with a Nike gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Alright, we’ve only got a few hours before your aunt wants us back for dinner. Let’s see what these things are capable of.” Gwen advised with hands on her hips. Peter almost chuckled as he watched Gwen prepare to get down to business. She would absolutely hate if I told her, but she’s so much like Captain Stacy at times I almost forget which one of them I’m talking to. I don’t know if I realize how lucky I am to have her and Uncle Ben by my side, especially with the craziness I have in mind. Peter shook back his sleeves and observed each device he had around his wrist. Alright. No time better than now to see if these web-shooters will hold up under stress. Let’s just hope I’m not about to suffer a second fall on the head in twenty-four hours. I don’t think the idea of wandering around orientation with a concussion sounds appealing, personally. Gwen turned back around, waiting for Peter to test out his creations. “Well. its now or never, Pete.” “You know I’ve always been a never guy, but first time’s for everything. Right?” Peter didn’t let the rush of bravado go to waste as he focused. He felt his sense tighten, his attention quicken as he fired both his web shooters across the room. The moment they snagged secure placement on far columns, he yanked himself with just a fraction of his newfound strength and springing past Gwen. He cleared the ring ropes with relative ease and came to a perfect perch atop the far left corner ring post. As he balanced himself there he inspected both his web-shooters with a gleeful grin on his face. “Holy $#!&!” Gwen’s exclamation finally broke him from his admiration of the devices, he looked up to see her climbing onto the ring apron, mouth agape in awe. “Alright, well, I guess they have improved distance thanks to the modifications you made.” Peter remarked, once again reminding himself this time aloud how happy he was to have her help. He fire a web line towards the ceiling and leaped off the turnbuckle post. Using the line he swung into the air, doing a backward somersault before landing in front of Gwen as she climbed into the ring. Gwen's critical eye didn't miss a beat as she inspected the room. She couldn't help but comment, "We still need to work on your aim with these things; this place will be great for target practice." Her words carried a gentle but constructive tone as she circled the ring, her observant gaze absorbing the remnants of the gym's past glory. Old posters of past fight cards, featuring both amateur and professional fighters from all across New York, adorned the peeling-painted brick walls. Peter, somewhat stung by her assessment, retorted, "Hey, I've gotten a lot better while we were testing them downstairs." Gwen's response remained unyielding, "My point still stands. Let’s also not forget to clean up that wall after dinner." She leaned casually against the ropes, her eyes fixed on a poster detailing a main event bout between "Battlin" Jack Murdock and "The Punisher" Frank Castle, a showdown for the middleweight title. The colorful monikers of the fighters triggered a spark of curiosity in Gwen's sharp mind. Peter couldn't help but admire the ever-turning gears of Gwen's intellect. He couldn't help but wonder, *Does her brilliant mind ever take a break?* "What is it?" he inquired, genuinely curious about what had caught her attention. "It can wait. Grab that bag, will ya?" Peter promptly obliged, zipping a webline to the gym bag and deftly yanking it through the middle rope into the ring, earning a modest clap from Gwen for his precision. She knelt down, unzipping the bag and retrieving a laptop that she placed in the center of the ring before her. Peter, his brow furrowed with confusion, couldn't help but wonder what had prompted her to bring the laptop. "My dad working late all of a sudden, even missing orientation right after that mess we stumbled across while we were out?" Gwen explained, already anticipating his bewilderment. "In order to confirm my suspicions, I had to swipe his login for the state criminal database." Peter processed the information, hitting a momentary snag on a particular detail. "You cracked his info that easy?" Gwen couldn't help but roll her eyes at Peter's incredulous question. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure he had the IT guy set it up. I'm going to have to have a talk with him about his cybersecurity. After this, of course." With swift proficiency, she delved into the database, making sure her VPN concealed her real IP address, which now appeared to be off the coast of Spain, just as she had planned. "Alright, I've found the couple of jerks that almost flattened us, and what do you know, they already made bail." Peter's reaction to this discovery was swift and intense. He knelt down beside Gwen, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen as she sifted through the arrest records. "It says they have suspected ties to something called the Maggia. What the heck is that?" Peter inquired, his curiosity piqued. Gwen, ever the detective, was determined to uncover more. She continued to navigate the database, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. "Let's see what they have on them in here and find out," she mused. "They seem to be a pretty massive criminal organization. A lot of the case files linked to them require a request for special federal access. Think this is going to be our roadblock for now." Disappointment hung in the air as they realized the excitement had been cut short. An hour and a half later, the duo found themselves back at Ben and May's, wrapping up the last of their cleaning duties after hours of web-slinging experiments. As Peter removed a dartboard from the wall, he watched Gwen, noticing her deep in thought, her mind racing on its own track. "So, have you thought of what to call yourself? I mean, if you're going to bump heads with people connected to crime empires, you've got to protect yourself, as well as May and Ben. And me!" Gwen teased with a smirk, adding the last part playfully. Peter scratched at his chin, his perturbed expression hinting that Gwen's question had triggered some inner contemplation. I was so puffed up with all these ideas to be of service to the neighborhood, to my block, I didn’t even think about the consequences. If these Maggia guys have Captain Stacy missing Gwen’s first day at Brooklyn Visions, I should be taking them and anyone else I cross paths with as serious as a heart attack. "I did find Uncle Ben’s old goalie mask from when he used to play drop-in puck at the rink uptown. That and a well-timed winter ski-mask should be enough to at least cover up my face?" Peter offered as a practical solution. Gwen glanced at him, shaking her head, clearly less than thrilled with his suggestion. "I think I've got a better idea, at least on the headgear side of things. C'mon, let's see if we can use May's sewing machine while she's finishing the dishes." With a shared enthusiasm, they both sprang out of the room and dashed up the stairs, swiftly making their way through the house until they reached the top floor. Peter swung open the door to the spare room, a space typically reserved for his Aunt's knitting and sewing projects, often shared with one of the library groups on Wednesdays. Gwen assumed the role of the mastermind as she settled into the chair in front of the sewing machine. Peter stood on the other side, his arms folded in defiance, clearly not entirely convinced of the need for a more intricate solution. "With the way your senses have improved drastically, you'll need something around your eyes to complement that. I'm not too sure a ski mask under a goalie helmet is going to be sufficient," Gwen explained with a mischievous grin, her creative gears whirring. Peter, however, remained defensive. "It would have got the job done, for now, at least!" “Look the sooner we get you some decent threads, the sooner you can do all the amazing arachnid things I’ve seen over the past couple of days to help my dad come home on time.” Gwen’s logic breakdown came with the slightest of cracks in her voice, one only a few who knew her as well as Peter would have noticed. He watched her dig through the various materials May kept around the makeshift office as if she was desperately trying to keep her mind and body as busy as she could. I can’t imagine how worried she is about Captain Stacy, and yet she still wants to put all her time and effort into worrying about me, too. I think its more than time someone took care of worrying about Gwen, though I’m sure Captain Stacy does his fair share of that himself. He’s got his plate full as is though. Maybe I should do some searching into these Maggia jerks myself…. “We got a big enough day as it is tomorrow. We can work on this after orientation.” Gwen looked up at Peter over the sewing machine. She weighed his words for a moment before sighing. “Alright, can’t argue your point there.” She got back out of the chair and stretched while stifling a yawn. Peter smiled, glad he was able to convince her she needed a break. He wasn’t so sure himself, however, about hitting the hay for an early start on tomorrow. In fact, he had other ideas himself. DOWNTOWN BRONX TWENTY MINUTES TILL MIDNIGHT Clip and Tommy stood on the rooftop with their bruised faces still healing. Tommy held a pair of binoculars gingerly to his eyes, his gaze focused on the scene inside of a lavish apartment halfway up the street. “Alright, looks like they just arrived to pick up the shipment.” Tommy assumed as a group or armed button men who moved weapons for Hammerhead walked into the apartment. “Lemme get a look!” Clip demanded. He extended his hand in Tommy’s direction, making a gimme motion with his fingers. “Just keep an eye out for anything crazy! I’ll watch the deal!” Tommy advised him. “What the hell they doing a weapons pick up inside a building like that for, anyhow?” Clip wondered. “Same reason Hammerhead gave us this job. Someone’s been picking off his supply drops, or somebody’s skimming off the top. Hell, could be a little of both.” Tommy informed his partner, his eyes still using the binoculars to watch every detail of the exchange go down. “We gonna tail every drop that goes down?” Clip asked. Tommy nodded. “Until we got something worth our weight to go back with. Hell yeah.” Clip nodded, agreeing with his partner’s logic. A massive shadow passing over both their heads on the rooftop startled Clip so much that it broke him away from his next question. He looked above him, wondering what kind of bird, or at least he was hoping it was a bird, could make a shadow like that. But instead he only saw the moon and stars above him. As he turned back around, Tommy’s startled exclamation brought him back around to the deal. Much to his horror, he was about to find the answer to his question. “WHAT THE %$#@ IS THAT THING!” Tommy yelled, dropping the binoculars. TO BE CONTINUED |