Issue #5 by Jake Hawkins
Mar 2024 Peter Parker
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MONTHS AGO
MIDTOWN BROOKLYN A lanky, balding man in his late forties emerged from the depths of the Subway, his pace quickening to escape the embrace of the burgeoning summer heat. His hurried steps led him through the vibrant night streets of Brooklyn, where open bars spilled laughter and street musicians painted the city with its nocturnal charm. After traversing another two and a half city blocks, he reached his destination: an antique shop, its security shutters tightly sealed. The adjacent businesses on either side of the shopfront appeared abandoned, and it was clear why the young woman he had traveled all the way from Buffalo to meet had chosen this location for her secretive business. He scanned the bustling street, retrieving a burner smartphone from his pocket to ensure he remained an inconspicuous figure in the crowd, just another anonymous face amidst the city's nightlife. "I'm here," he sent a text message, his heart pounding with anticipation as he awaited a response. "Round back. Be discreet," came the reply. The balding man muttered under his breath as he hurried down the alley alongside the storefronts, stealing a single cautious glance over his shoulder to check for any unwelcome pursuit. He reached the back door of the antique shop and knocked lightly. Above the door handle, a warm green light radiated, casting a soft, approving chime as it enveloped him. The steel-framed door swung open, granting him access, and locked securely behind him. He surveyed the surroundings, ensuring that his entrance remained unseen. Rubbing the back of his neck, he cautiously navigated through the dimly lit shop, hoping to avoid any costly accidents. "Down here, Toomes," a commanding voice beckoned. Adrian Toomes grumbled once more as he located the staircase, and the soft glow of fluorescent lights guided his way. He stumbled down the steps until a wooden panel door slid open, unveiling the state-of-the-art workshop he had come to visit. The sounds of a blowtorch sizzling were accompanied by the vibrant tunes of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall," emanating from vintage speakers connected to an antique record player. Toomes surmised that the workshop had been soundproofed to facilitate her work, drowning out the noise of the city beyond. "I've already wired you the remainder of the payment. Can I finally get a glimpse of these things?" Toomes demanded, his voice loud enough to interrupt the woman's welding. She raised her protective mask, revealing a grin tinged with secrecy. Beads of sweat glistened on her warm brown skin as she stepped away from her workbench, removing her safety gloves. She reached for her phone on the opposite side of the bench, scrolling through her notifications before meeting Toomes' gaze, a satisfied smile on her face. "And you've even managed to send it to the right account this time. Look at you, keeping up with the times," she teased, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Her remark elicited an annoyed response from Toomes, who clicked his teeth in irritation. "Alright, they should be ready for a full-throttle test run from you," she added, her tone shifting to a more businesslike demeanor. Setting her phone down, she reached for a remote on a nearby tool shelf. With her gaze firmly fixed on Toomes, whom she didn't trust an ounce, she aimed the remote behind her and pressed a button. A rack descended from the ceiling, and they both approached it once it reached waist height, positioning themselves on either side. Toomes inspected the experimental lightweight alloy that she had sourced from a Roxxon subsidiary to construct the suit before him. "You made the adjustments to the balance I requested?" Toomes inquired as he carefully examined the suit. He kneeled down, bringing his face as close as possible to the finely crafted details. "I did more than that. I managed to enhance your consistent speed by two knots, improved the mid-flight sonic burst, ensuring sharper turns, and, most importantly, complete stealth in your approach," she stated confidently, folding her arms as she recounted her accomplishments. "I suppose you've truly outdone yourself," Toomes concluded as he rose to his full height once more. "All you have to do is secure the goods. Let me handle the distribution and filling our bank accounts," the young woman, undoubtedly in her early to middle twenties, assured the grumpy Toomes. PRESENT DAY DOWNTOWN BRONX TEN MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT Adrian Toomes, now clad in the sleek, aerodynamic suit built specifically for him, effortlessly shattered the ten-thousand-dollar reinforced glass window, a feat that even astonished him. His augmented lenses, integrated into his face mask, scanned the opulent apartment as he sought his coveted prize. Finally, his gaze fixated on two formidable trunks, undoubtedly brimming with the automatic weapons he had been tracking. Meanwhile, the group of men who had been conducting their illegal deal were just regaining their composure. With a powerful flap of his mechanical wings, Toomes propelled himself across the room, snatching one of the gun-toting thugs by the throat. "Where's the rest of the shipment?" Toomes demanded, his grip tightening. Before the thug could utter a response, a hail of bullets ricocheted off the suit's wing-like appendages, momentarily diverting Toomes from his questioning. He knew he didn't have much time to waste on these amateurs; his one-man operation was all about speed and efficiency. Relinquishing the thug he was holding, he turned toward the group that had opened fire on him. Expanding his wings to their full span, he released a volley of razor-sharp projectiles that streaked through the room with deadly swiftness, cutting down the would-be shooters who attempted to defend themselves. A satisfied grin played across Toomes' lips beneath his helmet and mask combination as he marveled at the havoc he had wrought. However, before he could savor the moment, he was ambushed from a blind spot. Swiftly, he employed one of his wings to strike his attacker in the chest, the heavy, mechanical appendage crushing the man's ribcage and propelling him into a wall. Toomes realized that he'd need to return later to retrieve the remainder of the shipment the criminals had been haggling over, as the sound of gunshots would undoubtedly summon the police sooner rather than later. He retracted his wings fully into the suit, folding them neatly into the battery pack on his back. Grabbing one steel case of military-grade automatic rifles in each hand, he glanced back at the trail of broken bodies he left behind. He dropped from the window and momentarily vanished from sight before soaring back into the night sky. His wings fully extended, propelling him higher into the darkness. On a nearby rooftop behind the apartment building, Clip and Tommy watched in awe as the wing-suited man, the source of the chaos they had just witnessed, disappeared into the night sky. THE HOME OF BEN AND MAY PARKER SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT QUEENS Peter moved stealthily through the dimly lit house, each creaking floorboard sending a jolt of anxiety through him. In the living room, Gwen lay soundly asleep, a stark contrast to his quiet escapade. With a nimble leap, he reached the ceiling and traversed the room, past Gwen's peacefully sleeping figure. He proceeded into the kitchen, and after some contortion, he silently slipped through the backdoor. The crisp autumn air greeted him as he made his way across the wet backyard lawn. In the garage, he fumbled along the wall until he located the switch for the overhead light. The warm glow illuminated Uncle Ben's workbench, which was laden with tools. Peter carefully placed the tote he had been carrying on the bench. Gwen had been a remarkable help, a fact he acknowledged with gratitude. He couldn't deny that she would be deeply concerned if she knew what he was about to undertake. Peter took out his cell phone, positioned it face up on the workbench, and removed a mesh mask he had been in the process of designing from the tote. His nimble fingers continued to extract various items and devices from the tote, along with several rolls of spandex he had ordered for same-day delivery. On his phone was an app he had hacked to broadcast the local police dispatch radio. His mind was wired for action. "Maybe it's the scientist in me," he mused to himself, "but I've never been the biggest fan of just 'talking' about an idea or the idea of something. I need to see a hypothesis put into action." Listening to the police dispatcher's orders, he diligently assembled the electronic components and devices he desired for his mask, all while noting the details relayed by the dispatcher to the responding officers. Every other kid in my position might be thinking about getting drafted by the Jets or the Knicks, but I think I've learned since I walked out of that hospital that second chances aren't given for no reason. Especially not for me to be selfish. Besides, I've seen where that line of thinking can lead... Peter momentarily set aside the Philips head screwdriver he had been using, his thoughts wandering to his father. The memories of his father's actions, of how he had seemingly handed Peter over to Ben and May, still weighed heavily on his mind. What pained him even more was the hurt it had caused his Aunt and Uncle, who had taken him in and raised him as their own. The two people who love me more than anything in this world just had their entire lives turned upside down all because of me. And not once have they batted an eye about it. So if my neighborhood needs help, I can’t bat an eye on lending a hand. Peter took a deep breath, steadying his resolve and got back to work. Guess I should stop playing around and finally get my 3-D printer up and running before classes start next week. That will help me test out a few of these masks designs I cranked out. In the meantime, this impromptu rendition will have to do for my first test run. With meticulous care, Peter finished the wiring inside the red mask he had designed. After securing the wires, he attached a set of goggles around the eyes to complete the ensemble. He then retrieved a plain burgundy hoodie from the tote and laid it out on the table. Next, he grabbed a black spray paint can from beneath the workbench and removed the cap. The night was filled with purpose, every action driven by his determination to create something new, something that might make a difference. CARMIE’S ITALIAN EATERY NORTH QUEENS Tension crackled in the air as the confrontation escalated, each side ready to draw blood if necessary. The night seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the spark that would ignite the inevitable clash. The Maggia goons, their faces etched with anger and suspicion, tightened their grips on their pistols, ready to respond to the threat. The driver of the dusty El Camino glared back at them, his eyes blazing with intensity, pistol raised, and his finger hovering over the trigger. Beside him, his companion mirrored the same aggressive stance, muscles taut and prepared for action. The words exchanged were sharp, laced with distrust and accusation, the air thick with the promise of violence. "What the hell are you morons doing pulling up here for? We still haven’t got the call your boys delivered the drop," one of the maggia goons spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Because everyone at the damn meet-up is dead!" the driver retorted, his tone laced with urgency as he revealed the grim truth. "The hell are you talking about? Nobody there is stupid enough to pop off. At least on our side of things. Or they’d answer to Hammerhead himself," another maggia member countered, his skepticism giving way to aggression as he cocked his pistol, preparing for the worst. "Somebody busted in the joint and made off with the merchandise y’all were putting up. And I don’t put it past your psychopath of a boss to sacrifice his own men just to get over on us," the passenger retorted bitterly, his hand inching towards his weapon. In the tense, silent standoff, one small action served as the trigger for the impending chaos. The entire crew of Maggia members drew their weapons, fingers curling around triggers, ready to unleash violence. But just before any shots could be fired, a thin line of webbing shot out, connecting the driver's gun and one of the Maggia goons. With a swift yank, they were dragged towards the street lamps lining the alley. The sudden movement caused both guns to discharge, their shots shattering the lights and plunging the alley into darkness. Now, the only source of illumination was the faint moonlight peeking through the scattered clouds. On the rooftop of Carmie's, Peter double-checked the cartridges in each of his web-shooters. He knelt down above the scene, his sneakers tightened in place, ready to dive into the chaos unfolding below. Don’t know what these guys are beefing about but I’ve lived around here long enough to that when there is enough bad blood in the air, bullets will fly for the smallest of reasons. Guess it’s time to play mediator. Peter's leap off the roof was graceful, his movements smooth as he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over the top of his modified mask. He landed in a crouch in the darkened alley, his agile form hidden in the shadows as he prepared to intervene. His first instinct was to assess the bigger group, recognizing that they likely posed the greater threat given their numbers and affiliations. In the black void of the alley, he remained invisible, ready to act swiftly and decisively. Don’t know what’s with the extra’s from Goodfellas(or was it Casino? Uncle Ben shows me a lot of gruff Italian guy movies), but I should probably put a plug on them before they plug these other guys full of holes. Peter swiveled his hips on the dime and used two fingers on each hand to fire a spurt of webbing that disarmed two of the thugs, sticking their pistols against the tinted windows of one of the vans. “Hey I like reenacting scenes from Scorcese movies as much as the next guy, but I don’t think any of your moms would approve of going this far.” Peter cracked, unable to help himself at uttering the witty remark. The driver of the El Camino saw the masked figure facing the Maggia goons and instantly got overtly defensive, assuming that once again they were being set-up for a heavy fall. “Ya boss must not give a rat’s @$$ about you poor bastards to keep pulling this $#!+ all night across town.” He didn’t waste another moment as he pointed his gun across the back alley. Before Peter could relieve the other three Maggia goons of their weapons, a sharp ringing he was familiar with from the car incident rattled around in his head. There it is again, that warning, that sense of….DANGER! Move, Parker! Reacting with the same instinct that had saved him and Gwen from a speeding car not long ago, Peter leaped gracefully, evading the storm of bullets unleashed by the El Camino passengers. The barrage clipped one of the maggia goons in the shoulder, the impact causing him to stagger backward. Simultaneously, the windows of the middle van shattered under the onslaught of gunfire, the echoes of the chaos reverberating through the dark alley. The air crackled with tension as the clash between opposing forces intensified. "NO!" Peter's anguished cry pierced the chaos from atop one of the vans. He witnessed the Maggia member sliding down the back of the vehicle, clutching at the gunshot wound that marred his shoulder. The moment hung in stark silence, the consequence of violence etched in the wounded man's pain. In the dimly lit alley, the shadows cast by the ongoing conflict spoke of the escalating danger, pushing Peter further into the heart of the chaos below. I didn’t come out here to watch people get hurt. It’s time whatever this is wrapped up now! Peter propelled himself across the alley with a pair of web lines, his movements a mesmerizing dance through the air. The driver of the El Camino could only watch in astonishment as the masked man closed in, deftly avoiding the bullets fired in his direction. The masked figure seemed to defy the laws of gravity as he danced through the air. In an instant, Peter landed a swift kick to the driver's chest, sending him sprawling against the side of the El Camino. Before the driver's partner could make sense of the swift assault, Peter shot a web line to his forehead, yanking him downward with relentless force. The partner crashed face-first against the hood of the car, the impact leaving him dazed and disoriented. The alley echoed with the rapid succession of Peter's actions, a display of agility and combat prowess that left the Maggia members bewildered and incapacitated. The remaining Maggia goons, aiding their wounded comrade, hastily retreated as the masked man turned his attention towards them. "Let's get the &^%$ out of dodge!" one of them shouted just as distant sirens heralded the approach of law enforcement. The El Camino owner, still dazed from Peter's blow, scrambled to his feet and lunged into the driver's seat. Panic filled the alley as the engine roared to life. Peter, caught in the swirl of chaos, muttered, "Gah, where's a coin to flip when you need it?!" With quick thinking, Peter grabbed the unconscious man he had knocked out against the car and tossed him against the back door of Carmie's, just in time for the El Camino to speed out of the alley. Ensuring the man was securely webbed, Peter leaped off the wall and fired a webline, swinging through the air in pursuit of the fleeing vehicle. The night air whistled around him as he closed the distance, determined to unravel the mystery that had unfolded in the alley. The first responding officers, racing down the side street toward the alley, were treated to a surreal sight: a wayward vehicle fleeing the scene and a masked man swinging after it. The sight was so astonishing that one of the officers nearly crashed into a dumpster in disbelief. Meanwhile, Peter kicked both legs with all his strength, propelling himself forward once he reached the apex of his swing. He landed onto the El Camino's hood, facing the astonished driver. However, any satisfaction was short-lived as an innate defense mechanism warned him of imminent danger. In an instant, he realized the driver was pointing a Glock directly at him. The tension in the air escalated as the alley became a battleground between the masked man and the desperate driver. This is far from the time and place to rest on your laurels, Parker. Not that you have any to in the first place. Peter executed a nimble flip onto the hood, evading the shots that burst through the windshield seconds later. As he regained his balance, he looked up and realized they were speeding towards the end of the alley, heading directly into oncoming traffic. The situation had escalated from a dark alley confrontation to a high-stakes chase through the city streets, and Peter knew he had to act swiftly to prevent further chaos. With determination in his eyes, he prepared for the next move, ready to intervene and bring an end to the reckless escape. This guy’s going to kill me, someone else, or die trying to. Gotta do something. Fast. "Excuse me, sir," Peter leaned into the window, surprising the driver, then delivered a straight right hook that left him dazed. "I love a good Dom Torreto impression as much as the next guy, but I don't think this is the appropriate time." With a swift motion, Peter yanked the disoriented driver out of the car, and, sliding into the driver's seat himself, he fired a web line, suspending the driver from a street lamp by the back of his coat. Seizing control of the vehicle, Peter had mere moments to prevent disaster. He slammed on the brakes, bringing the car screeching to a halt just before it could exit the alley. Climbing out of the car and onto the hood, he stood tall, glancing back to see a pair of police cars arriving on the scene. The confrontation had reached a critical point, and Peter braced himself for the next set of challenges that awaited him in the darkened alley. Thank Christ Uncle Ben took me driving those couple of times, or this night goes completely different. Also totally time to make myself scarce before those cops wonder what the scrawny dude in the hoodie has to do with any of this. “Hey, don’t move!” One of the first officers out of their car yelled before they raced down the alley on foot. Yeah that’s my cue, exit stage left. As Peter swung out of sight, leaving the officer near slack-jawed at the extraordinary display, they turned to their left. The sounds of the struggling El Camino driver, desperately trying to reach the webbing that suspended him from the street lamp, echoed in the alley. The officer wasted no time, grabbing their radio as they approached the scene, their gaze fixed on the criminal entangled above. The night had taken an unexpected turn, and the officer now had the unenviable task of untangling the web of events that had unfolded in the darkened alley. “Dispatch this is Officer Mann. I for real don’t know if you gonna believe this but-” PENTHOUSE MANHATTAN Hammerhead paced around his penthouse bedroom, draped in nothing but a towel, his frustration boiling over. A group of impatient women stood behind him, waiting for him to conclude his heated phone call. His expletive-laden tirade echoed through the room as he vented his rage over the botched weapons shipment. The entire deal had fallen apart, and Hammerhead, known for his meticulous planning, was seething. He needed a drink and a swift return to the streets. "Boogs, get the car ready. Let the boys know I’m headed to the usual spot. I want all hands on deck," he bellowed, the urgency in his voice cutting through the chaos. Twenty minutes later, Hammerhead cruised through the city, heading towards the bar with no name. Dougie had already arranged for Carla to close the place down early. The hunters had become the hunted, and it was time to regroup. Entering the back room of the bar, Hammerhead's tension was palpable. Every person in the room could sense the storm brewing within him. He scanned the faces, then patted himself down, retrieving a fold of cigars from inside his Burberry coat. "Someone want to give me a play-by-play of how I just lost out on four million dollars worth of weapons? From the top!" he demanded, the room falling into a hushed silence. Bobby K, sensing the need to break the silence, stepped forward, hoping his account would pacify Hammerhead's anger. Hammerhead's incredulity was evident as he processed the bizarre information presented to him. "So you're telling a nut job in some kind of Leonardo Da Vinci get-up has been picking off the shipments and took down a handful of my best men? What kind of f*&^%$% dope are you mugs sniffing these days with this crock of garbage?" he spat back, unwilling to accept the unexpected turn of events that forced him to cut his evening short. Tommy, hesitant but determined to convey his account, stepped forward. "I swear to ya, Mister Hammerhead, we didn’t see him coming from our spot till he was swooping over us. Those wacked-out wings don’t make a sound when he’s moving. I swear to god I thought he was a plane for a split second." The anger in Hammerhead grew, fueled by the frustration of his carefully laid plans being disrupted. "We can’t let this stop us from putting our stamp on every one of the Silvermane family’s last operations. I want everyone on the streets, 24/7 rotations until we find out how Big Bird has been taking what's mine. Understood?" Hammerhead waited until the room acknowledged their understanding before continuing. "There ain’t no way he’s doing this alone. Somebody’s feeding him information. Maybe it's one of you. Whoever it is, we wipe their bloodline from the face of this earth like we did Silvermane." The room fell into a tense silence as Hammerhead laid down his ruthless plan, leaving no room for dissent. The stakes had been raised, and the hunt for the mysterious adversary intensified. PETER PARKER’S BEDROOM THE NEXT MORNING Peter's peaceful slumber was abruptly shattered by the impact of an iPhone falling directly onto his forehead. "OW!" he yelped, reaching to retrieve the phone and rub away the sleep from his eyes. Gwen, already dressed for orientation, loomed over him with a disapproving tone. "What did you do?!" she demanded. As Peter looked at the phone in his hand, his eyes widened in disbelief. A series of videos had gone viral on the popular social media app Mess Hall, showcasing Peter swinging away from the police officers in the alley. The content garnered thousands upon thousands of views, with additional photos and videos circulating, poking fun at the police's struggles to remove the webbed criminals from the alley while keeping them out of the public eye. The situation had taken an unexpected turn, and the evidence was now circulating across the digital landscape, leaving Peter and Gwen to grapple with the consequences. Oh this was the EXACT kind of thing I was desperately hoping not to wake up to. But of course, everyone just has to have their phone out in New York. Gwen's concern and frustration were evident as she confronted Peter about his impromptu heroics. "Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do this? You could have gotten yourself killed, or worse!" she admonished, keeping her voice subdued to prevent the conversation from being overheard. Peter, nonchalant as he picked out a shirt from his dresser, responded with a shrug. "I don’t know, Gwen. I just couldn’t handle laying around here all night when I know your dad’s missing orientation with you to protect people. My dad’s life work helped me get these abilities. The least I can do is be a whole lot less self-centered than he is now that I have them." Gwen sighed, scrolling through the social media feed and taking note of the attention Peter's heroics were receiving. She couldn't help but comment, "So you going to tell me what exactly led to all this, or are you too cool now that you get to play Reed Richards in the streets of Queens?" Peter, now dressed in his favorite Jotaro t-shirt, shook his head at the comparison. "I managed to hardwire a direct feed to the local emergency dispatch lines into my mask." Gwen, inquisitive, reached under Peter's bed and pulled out the mask he had designed. She examined it carefully, then looked up and down. "I’m surprised this thing didn’t blow up on your face." Just then, a knock at the door interrupted their conversation, prompting Gwen to swiftly drop the mask and kick it under Peter’s bed as Aunt May entered. "I was hoping Gwen managed to stir you from the realms of the dead," May joked, her own amusement the primary goal. "Sorry Aunt May, do I still have time to grab something to eat?" Peter asked, rummaging through his closet for his BVA uniform. “Something quick, yes, and your uniform is in the laundry room. I told you I had it dry-cleaned for you!” Aunt May shook her head, a hint of exasperation in her voice as she informed Peter about the freshly cleaned uniform. She then turned to Gwen with a warm smile. "Gwen, you look wonderful, dear. And I just talked to your dad; he’s going to do everything he can to meet us at the assembly hall building." With that, she bustled out of the room, prompting Peter to follow her and grab his uniform. Gwen, however, blocked his way with her arm. “Who said you were done with the details?” Peter grinned, unable to resist a wisecrack. “Well, I don’t know about you, but it sounds like Aunt May did.” He ducked under her arm and headed down the hall, with Gwen in tow. As they passed through the kitchen and into the laundry room, Peter spotted Uncle Ben handling suitcases and boxes in the garage. Peter decided to pause his quest for the uniform and entered the garage. “This is your first day off in over a week; at least let me do the heavy lifting.” Peter grabbed the last two bags and placed them in the trunk. Uncle Ben smiled, appreciating the help, until he glanced down at his watch. “I’ve never been to a school half as fancy as you’re going to, but I know for sure they won’t let you go dressed like that,” Ben teased his nephew. “Something had him up later than usual, Mr. Parker. I wish he’d tell me what, but you know how tight-lipped your nephew can be,” Gwen chimed in, casting a pointed look at Peter. Uncle Ben chuckled, acknowledging the playful exchange. “Is that so? I suggest you run some toothpaste over those teeth, get dressed, and grab a hot pocket unless you want to start high school with an unusually less-than-stellar attendance record,” Ben advised his nephew, emphasizing the importance of a polished appearance on the first day of school. “Me? Late? Those two things don’t even belong in the same sentence, Uncle Ben,” Peter retorted. He hurried back inside the house and down the stairs towards the laundry room. Hanging across from the dryer, still in the plastic bag from the cleaners, was his Brooklyn Visions uniform—one of many provided for during the school week. He yanked on his slacks and pulled his collared cream-colored dress shirt on, while Gwen made it down the steps after him, still ready to pick quite a few bones with Peter. “Yeah, no, because privacy isn’t needed or whatnot. Please, Gwen, come right on down.” Peter’s sarcasm didn’t sway her away from the topic on her mind, her face buried in thread after thread about his late-night antics. “What did you stumble on last night that generated all of this?” Gwen demanded as he finished buttoning his shirt. Peter shook his head, honestly unable to understand what or why everyone in that alley at Carmie’s was so trigger-ready. “I heard a call come through about gunshots inside an apartment building, and while I was headed that way, I stumbled on that old-fashioned O.K. Corral standoff. I just wanted to make sure nobody got killed.” Gwen raised her eyebrows, impressed. “And were you successful in that task?” Peter shrugged. “I think so…” Peter's mind wandered to the shock he experienced when he saw one of the thugs get clipped last night. Never thought I’d ever see anyone get shot. Figured I would only hear about my favorite rappers pretend to do it. Now that I’ve witnessed something like that, I need to be faster, more proactive when I’m in the midst of a scuffle like that. I need to make sure no blood gets spilled. "Well, you seem to be quite the sensation already. There's a buzz going around with polls popping up, trying to determine what everyone should dub you," Gwen remarked, handing him her phone as she deftly assisted him with his tie. Peter scanned the ongoing polls, noting a variety of suggestions from different accounts. "Spiderling? Ugh. Arachnikid? No, that's just too cheesy," Peter critiqued the options with a less-than-impressed expression. Completing the finishing touches on his tie, Gwen playfully patted him on both shoulders. "Well, you are kind of corny, Pete." Peter shot her a deadpan stare, returning her phone. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he retorted, leading the way back up the stairs. "Good, now we're even for you not letting me have your back," Gwen replied, making a face behind his back, a gesture Peter was keenly aware of. Before Peter could respond, the blare of a car horn drowned out their banter. May hastily approached the backdoor, casually tossing her purse over her shoulder. "Peter, you've got everything, right?" Just as he was about to confidently reply, Peter realized he was missing a crucial item, especially since a return to his aunt and uncle's house likely wasn't in the cards until the weekend. "Actually, one second." He rushed past Gwen and May, through the living room, and up the stairs to his bedroom. Fumbling under his bed, he retrieved the hoodie and mask he had used the previous night, hastily stuffing them into his backpack. Locking the garage door behind him, he joined the others waiting in the car, slipping into the backseat beside Gwen, who shook her head in mock disapproval. He responded with an embarrassed grin. "Alright, let's get this pair of prodigies to orientation before you both turn into pumpkins," Ben declared, waiting for the garage door to ascend fully before maneuvering the car toward Brooklyn Visions Academy's main campus. ASSEMBLY HALL BROOKLYN VISIONS ACADEMY Two imposing armored SUVs led the sleek limousine, bearing the distinguished Norman Osborn and his son, into the entrance loop, positioning itself prominently in front of the grand hall. Norman, attempting to savor his coffee, found the enjoyment shattered by the disconcerting reports on Oscorp stock trends. He tsked in disgust at the downward spirals, immediately recognizing the necessity for an emergency meeting. The timing, however, hinged on how swiftly he could settle Harry into his new academic environment. Across the limo, Harry observed his father with a keen understanding. The dissatisfaction etched across Norman's face mirrored Harry's own sentiments. Entering the hall with a retinue of heavily armed guards was hardly the way he envisioned commencing his freshman year. "Dad, I know you're swamped, but-" Harry began, only to be met with a stern glance over the iPad screen. "Harry, watch your damn mouth," Norman interrupted, his focus reluctantly shifting from stock reports to his son. "Apologies. I was just thinking, maybe I could handle orientation alone. Your guys can drop my stuff off in my dorm." Harry proposed, attempting to appear accommodating, aware that his father might shoot down anything he seemed too enthusiastic about, out of sheer contrariness. Norman eyed his son cautiously, considering the proposition. "If you believe you can manage, that sounds fine. I need to get down to the office anyway," he conceded, returning to the intricate world of stock analysis. The limo came to a halt, and Harry swiftly grabbed his expensive backpack, sliding out of the seat. "I'll call you later, if you're not too busy. Keep you in the loop, okay?" "That sounds acceptable, son. Make an impression today, but not too much. I'd rather not have to make another donation until your senior year." With those words, Harry disembarked, closing the car door behind him. The mini motorcade, now without its passenger of importance, departed toward the dormitory building. Harry slung his pricey backpack over his shoulder and joined the flow of students and their parents on the cobblestone pathway, eager to immerse himself in the new chapter unfolding at his feet. CLOCK TOWER APARTMENT UPPER MANHATTAN Adrian Toomes savored the rich aroma of his coffee, freshly brewed and waiting on the kitchen island. Positioned on his balcony, he overlooked the sprawling cityscape, a commanding view that matched the satisfaction he derived from his current activities. Pulling out his cellphone, he delved into a third-party banking app, a gateway to monitoring his offshore accounts. A pleased sneer adorned his face as he absorbed the impressive numbers on the screen. A sudden buzz interrupted his solitude, emanating from the living room—a notification signaling the arrival of someone via the vintage private elevator leading to his loft. Toomes had personally refurbished the antiquated lift, a project undertaken in the intervals between his less-than-legal engagements and modifications to his iconic suit. In his mind, after enduring the trials of his past, he deemed such luxuries well-earned. Casually glancing over his shoulder, Toomes awaited the telltale sounds of the elevator doors opening and closing once more. Phin, his partner in crime, materialized shortly after, a black Adidas gym bag complementing her classic tracksuit. Spotting Toomes on the balcony, she leaned against the sliding doorway. "Nice work finding those three trucks last night. I've already taken care of moving everything," Phin informed him, casually tossing the bag onto a nearby chair. Toomes, still seated, raised an eyebrow and reached over to unzip the bag. His eyes widened in amazement as he discovered stacks of hundred-dollar bills neatly packed inside. "Consider that hazard pay. Dropped it off personally, given my concern that last night might attract unwanted attention," Phin explained. Toomes scoffed at the notion, standing up and brushing past her to return to the loft for another cup of coffee. "The police aren't even aware of me; they're too focused on snuffing out the last flames of this gang war," he dismissed, displaying his characteristic confidence. "I'm not worried about the police. I'm worried about the guys from the Maggia who saw you grab those trucks," Phin insisted, attempting to convey a sense of caution. Toomes, however, remained unconvinced, pouring himself another mug of coffee. "We've been swiping from those buffoons for this long, and they still can't get themselves together to do something about it. Their attempt at splitting up shipments and having an extra pair of eyes on both locations was a feeble move to avoid being ripped off again," Toomes declared, emphasizing his disdain for their adversaries. "Look, just keep out of the skies for a couple of nights, alright? We've raked in more than enough to tide us both over for a long time. No reason to stick your neck out when we know they're going to be on red alert," Phin reasoned, urging caution. Toomes, however, remained steadfast. "I'll give you until the weekend," he compromised. Phin nodded in agreement. "Good. That'll give me enough time to figure something out for our buyers and anticipate any changes the Maggia might make to their pickup schedule." Toomes studied her intently, prompting her to question, "What?" with assertiveness. "Are you ever planning on letting me know who exactly you've been selling all these weapons to?" Toomes inquired, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Why the hell does it matter? Nobody's been dipping into your score. Do your part of this, and I will keep doing mine," Phin advised, her response carrying a certain nonchalant confidence. Toomes snorted derisively, never particularly fond of Phin's inclination to issue him directives. "You didn't have problems putting our necks on the line in the first place when it came to stealing from these fools playing gangster. What makes you think they could ever find out who either of us are?" Toomes pressed, a touch of skepticism evident in his tone. Phin, arms folded, hung her head and released an exasperated sigh. "It's easier for both of us to supply the buyer with what they need if the Maggia are unaware of who is pilfering from them while also still trying to eliminate anyone associated with the Silvermane family. Surely a man of your intellect can see the benefit in that for our operation, Adrian," she explained, her weariness with the ongoing debate palpable. Toomes, though a stubborn character, was a crucial component of her operation, just as much as she was to him and her other clients in need of her skills. "Don't forget why I came to you in the first place, Mason. Your engineering talents may be second to none, but if you stand in the way of my goals, our business agreement can be nullified, and we both go our separate ways," Toomes threatened, attempting to assert his position. He knew Mason wouldn't be swayed easily, her unflinching demeanor and cautious approach being qualities that he both respected and needed. "Let's cross that bridge if and when we get there, Adrian," she responded calmly, leaving the threat hanging in the air but maintaining an air of composure. The dynamic between Toomes and Mason was a delicate balance of necessity and potential discord, both aware of the stakes and the potential consequences if their agreement were to unravel. BROOKLYN VISIONS ACADEMY GIRLS DORMITORIES The heavy green door swung open, its lock rattling as Gwen stepped into her new space, her private room. A radiant smile graced her face as she took in the room's charm. Ben and Peter followed suit, each carrying boxes of her belongings, with May completing the entourage. “I am going to have to do something about those quite ugly blinds, but so far, I am loving this!” Gwen exclaimed, doing a half-spin to fully appreciate the spacious room. Ben and Peter set down some of her belongings on the room's desk and dresser. Eager to assist further, Peter hurried back into the hallway to retrieve the remaining items. “This is the kind of space you need, Gwen. I am so over the moon for you!” May expressed her delight as she ventured into the attached private bathroom. “Do you have any ideas for how you want to decorate?” Before Gwen could respond, Peter returned with arms full of bags. He dropped them to the side and took a moment to take in Gwen’s new space for himself. “You’re gonna let me use your shower if mine is busy, right?” he quipped, earning a playful face from Gwen, which elicited laughs from Ben and May. “Sounds like you and your roommate better work out some kind of schedule,” Ben advised Peter, playfully mussing his curly hair. “C’mon, let’s head over to your room. Let your aunt help Gwen get settled here.” As Ben and Peter exited the room, the ladies were left alone to contemplate the dorm's potential. Gwen immediately delved into her interior design plans. “I’m thinking standing mirrors here and in the bathroom, for sure. LED lights going around both windows and maybe a bed post?” May couldn’t help but enjoy herself as she watched Gwen envision the room she wanted to put together. “Well, I guess I better browse through your Roxxon shopping list tonight,” May teased, prompting Gwen to positively beam. A short knock at the door heralded another voice, and Gwen spun around to see her dad entering, admiring the dorm for himself. She rushed across the room, wrapping her arms around him. One level below them, Peter and Ben stepped back out of the elevator. Following the arrow pointing towards the cluster of rooms, Peter led the way, eager to explore and settle into his own dormitory. Continuing down the corridor, navigating several left turns, Peter and Ben finally located the room Peter was sharing. The door was ajar, propped open by a backpack that Peter suspected might even be more expensive than his own shoes. The tunes of Fall Out Boy blared from an Apple Music playlist on shuffle, emanating from the TV already set up on one of the two dressers. "Guess your roommate got the jump on you for the top bunk," Ben remarked, noting the scattering of clothes and unpacked boxes on the bed above what would now be Peter’s. Turning to face the room, Peter saw a guy whom he assumed to be his roommate strolling back in, snack in hand. Despite the initial surprise, the newcomer quickly pieced together the situation. Peter decided to break the ice, seizing the high school moment to put himself out there. “I see you didn’t waste time testing out our floor’s vending machine,” Peter joked, earning a smirk and a nod from his roommate. "Clever kid, huh? How's that working out for you?" the roommate replied between crunches. "Heh. Jury’s still out, I think," Peter quipped, drawing a chuckle from the guy. They shook hands. "I’m Harry Osborn. Guess we’re stuck with each other," Harry said, signaling the beginning of a shared chapter in their high school journey. TO BE CONTINUED |