SPIDER-MAN UNLIMITED
Disclaimer: I do not own Spider-man or any related character, all of which is property of Marvel Comics. I only own the story and any possible OC's.
Author's note to the reader
Hello. First, I would like to thank you for, out of the countless fan fictions on this web site, that you chose mine, Spider-man Unlimited. How you came to this is unimportant, whether you where intrigued by the title or summary, interested in some new work on the site, or simply board out of your skull, and wanted to find something to read.
Most of you are most likely are already familiar with the origins of Spider-man, how a radioactive spider bite gave Peter Parker all the powers of a spider, how he used his powers in wrestling to earn money, how by letting a criminal escape, led to his beloved uncles murder at the hands of the very man he let go, and how that young man learned the most valuable lesson, anyone can learn 'With great power, comes great responsibility.'
Now, this isn't the same-old-same-old retelling of the Spider-Man mythos. This is a tale of lose, love, trust, betrayal, and most of all, humanity. This is SPIDER-MAN UNLIMITED!
Chapter 1: The Web Part One: The First Strand
New York City. A part of the United States mostly know for high population, roaches, rats, rude citizens, and a high crime rate. It is also a major attraction to tourists for its landmarks, such as the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Elise Island, Broadway, and many more.
Another thing New York City is famous for is Superheroes. The most famous of course being the Fantastic Four, consisting of The Thing, the stone giant with a gentle heart of gold, the Human Torch, the hot-headed, youthful pyrokinetic, The beautiful, and seldom seen Invisible Woman, and the highly flexible Mister Fantastic. But, this is not a story of them, but of an average teenage boy, whose life is about to change dramatically. That boy is Peter Parker, and his story, begins at exactly 6:30 a.m. on an oddly cold Wednesday morning.
BIZZ, BIZZ, BIZZ, BIZZ, CLICK! Peter sat up in his bed, groaning, yawning, and rubbing his tired eyes. Peter was your average 15 year old teenager, nothing really special about him, he wasn't remarkable handsome, wasn't extremely athletic, just average. He was a scrawny boy, not very muscular, though he had strong leg muscles and a great cardiovascular system. Peter had earned it from years of running. He wasn't a track star, and he didn't run for fun, but to escape Flash Thompson, the football star of Midtown High.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, ripped to the point of ridiculousness, had almost every girl in the school wrapped around his little finger, and had the IQ of a soap dish. But you shouldn't say that in front of the soap dish, you might offend it. He signal handedly disproved the Nazi philosophy of the Aryan Ubermensch, much to the joy of the ghost of Friedrich Nietzsche.
Peter's hair was a curly light brown, and eyes a bright blue. His limbs where lanky, but not out of proportion to the rest of his body. He rolled out of his dirty, heavily used bed. He walked across the dusty, squeaky floor to the closet. Opening his closet door, which made a low groan of protest, Peter removed a set of very worn and very old jeans and a shirt with a rather large hole through the right sleeve. He laid the out on his bed, before he left to take a shower.
The bathroom was nothing special. The tub was small with just enough room for one to sit down in if inclined to take a bath and the showerhead suffered from minor calcium and lime build up and drained a little slower than what one would like. The toilet was kept nice and clean with a roll of cheap toilet paper standing vertically on the tank. The, sink was dingy and the drain in a similar state to that of the shower. The mirror above the sink had a crack scaring across the middle.
He jumped when the cold water hit his skin. The water heater was broken again. Wonderful. He quickly showered, cleaning himself of filth. Peter got out and dried himself off with a soft white towel hanging from the towel rack beside the shower stall.
Peter went back into his room, which was across the hall from the bathroom. He dressed quickly and walked down stairs to the kitchen. His home was a small place with leaky pipes, dirty floors, and a leaky roof. The air-conditioned rarely worked and when it did, typically made a horrendous clanking noise.
He could smell breakfast already, fried bacon and eggs, made by his Aunt May. He didn't live with his parents. They had died in a plane crash when he was just a baby. He had lived with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben for as long as he could remember.
Aunt May was in her mid 40's. She was kind, loving women with an aura of warmth about her and the greatest cook in the world in Peter's own completely unbiased opinion. She always kept her gray-brown hair just past her neck and the ends curled upward. May had a small collection of dresses but most proffered her current attire, a navy blue blouse that could have passed for denim and a blue skirt that reached the middle of her shins.
Uncle Ben was older than May but Peter never bothered asking by how much, his face was strong, his eyes where kind and wise. They both tried to support both themselves and Peter, but they had fallen on hard times. Uncle Ben had been fired by his employer, at the cannery, his boss had said, 'Sorry Ben, but I have to let you go, down-sizing and all.' Ben had taken it all in stride, tried hard not to let his depression at loosing his job show, but he failed.
Peter had taken a part time job at a convenience store in Flat Iron to help earn money. It wasn't much, and he had to lie about his age to get the job, but money was money. Aunt May, on the other hand, was usually too ill to work. Since she was ten, May always had experienced bouts of poor health and had been in and out of the hospital almost all her life due to heart problems
"Oh, good morning Pete!" Uncle Ben called from the stove. Thick strips of lean bacon crackled and curled in the pan he was tending too, while pancakes turned a golden brown in the other, small blobs of butter sizzling away on top of them, seeping deep within the sweet flatbread. "Sleep well?"
Peter scratched his head and yawned loudly, "Not to well really, had a nightmare." He sat down at the small, round, wooden table, waiting for his breakfast.
"Really? What was it about, dear?" May asked as she walked into the tiny kitchen, in her kind, loving voice. It always calmed his nerves when Pete heard her talk.
"Well," started Peter, "to some it up, I got stuck in a giant spider web and was eaten by a giant spider." Peter stopped as Uncle Ben placed a plate of bacon and pancakes before him, the smell making his salivary glands to jump into hyperspace.
"Ah, just another spider dream, eh?" Uncle Ben replied, returning to the table with his own plate.
Peter nodded dully, rather uninterested in the conversation. "A low level of Arachnophobia can do that."
"Come on Pete, you have got to get over this whole spider thing! It was just one time."
He put his fork down at this and slowly turned his head toward Uncle Ben. "One time I was completely covered with very large, very hairy, spiders!"
"Okay, now you're just exaggerating!" retorted Ben with a snort. "They're couldn't have been more than twenty off them and they were tiny tinny little ones!"
"This is supposed to make it better how?" Peter said, throwing his arms above his head excitedly.
May chuckled slightly, cutting into her pancakes with the edge of her fork, "Now, now children, do I have to separate you two?"
Both Peter and Ben simultaneously sank down into their seats and muttered "no".
"Other than that, how did you sleep?" May asked, still smiling broadly at the two men's reactions.
"Okay, I suppose," He said taking a bite of a maple syrup soaked pancake. Peter Parker slowly chewed his food, rolling what was scheduled for school today. Lets see, first period math with Mr. Flint, joy, Peter especially liked math class, but god! Mister Flint could make Buckingham Palace guards pass out he was so boring! Then genetics with Dr. Conner's, he was a nice guy, Peter liked him, then history the professor Monroe, then, lunch, followed by the fieldtrip too a bio-research lab. Peter really looked forward to that.
Peter gave a loud yawn. He hated mornings. All they were was the calm before the wedgies, and the swirlys, and the being stuffed into a locker with three other people and the wedgies…oh how he hated his life.
As Pete finished up his breakfast, across the city in the Financial Distract, just south of Chinatown and Tribeca, was Oz Corp., the corporate headquarters of Osborn Industries, the largest provider of weapons and technology to the U.S. Military. It was a tall, imposing building, curving inward just slightly. Its outside was cold, and gray, with the windows dark and dingy, casting no reflection of the cityscape and blocked all view in, or out of the building, as if to stamp out all hope for the employees. The inner bowels of Oz Corp., was a seeming mirror image of its outside. The floors were cold, gray stone with a decidedly gritty feel to them. The walls were barren, only a few paintings of Norman Osborn, the head and founder of the company hung to give a sense of life.
Norman was a tall, powerfully built man. His hair was dark red, slicked back, and neatly trimmed. Mister Osborn's eyes were a sharp, emerald green. He always wore a business suit of navy blue. His tie was solid black, and on each hand he wore an emerald ring. He was a cunning businessman that never gave any opportunity to his enemies to make a comeback before he crushed them like bugs. Of course, there was one man who Norman Osborn was always careful he did not cross.
He was Wilson Fisk, too the world he was a charitable man who had climbed from the slums of New York's Hells Kitchen, to become rich and powerful. Much of this was true, but what the world didn't know was that mister Wilson Fisk was in fact, the fabled Kingpin of Crime. He controlled most of the organized crime on the east coast, and soon too rule over all crime in the states. Of course, all kings had enemies, and Norman was more than willing to give Kingpin the 'toys' necessary to take care of them. It was Fisk that, Norman was on the phone with in his office, on the very top floor of Os Corp.
"Don't worry mister Fisk, I'll have the equipment ready for you soon," Mr. Osborn said, in his deep, calm voice, "You just have to be patient."
"I have been patient Osborn! For five months, I have been nothing but patient, waiting for you to finish the product! Mean while, my enemies, get closer and closer. I need those weapons now!"
"All right, Mr. Fisk, I'll send you the prototype soon, just please stay calm!" Norman said too Mr. Fisk, "I'll have it ready in two weeks, just please stay calm!"
"Fine! But, if the weapons are even one second late, I would watch your back, Osborn!"
Norman heard the phone slam on the other end. Conversely, Norman sat the phone down on the receiver calmly. Norman, rubbed his throbbing temples. This always happened when he did business with Fisk. It had gotten even worse last month, when this Dare Devil character showed up in Hell's Kitchen, a major source of revenue for King Pin. He had been interfering with Wilson Fisk's dealing. This distracted King Pin long enough, for many of his competitors to get footing in other areas of the state. Combined with new high tech armor and weapons that they had some how acquired, easily gained dominance in many vital parts of New York, a fact Mr. Fisk, was very displeased with.
Norman pressed the button on his intercom, which came alive with a crackle. "Yes, Mr. Osborn?" Saundra, his secretary queried.
"Could you please send Gomez up here?" Norman opened his desk drawer, searched for just a second before pulling out two small, red folders.
"He's on his way up to your office Mr. Osborn." Saundra said over the intercom. He told here thank you, before he started looking through the pages. All the pages were filled with figures, grafts, and illustrations that would make the average mans head spin. To Osborn however, they made perfect sense. They were notes on the various projects Oz Corp. was working on. The two folders he had pulled out were the military development folders, filled with different models of all the weapons and such his company was developing. He would sell the weapons to the military at high prices, and to the King Pin, for a reduced price.
To avoid any suspicion, he would stage "robberies", of the warehouses, where he stored the equipment. Osborn paid off the guards, and then King Pins men, would "steal" the product. It was a pain to do all of this, but quite worth it. His pocket book had grown quite fat, because of his dealings with Mr. Fisk.
The particular equipment that Mr. Fisk was wanting was a new model. It was an armor, named VP-001, or Vulture Prototype. Designed for stealth, swift movement in the air, and deadly aerial strikes. The suit basic weapons were, of course, its speed, and claws. The hands of the suit were equipped with steel claws, sharp enough to cut through bone. The VP-001 augmented the users strength to near super human levels.
The helmet of the armor, stretched forward over the users face, much in the same manner as a beak. The visor was a work of technological art all on its own. It gave the user radar, enabling the wearer to "see" objects or people approaching them from the sides or rear. The helmet's visor was bulletproof, capable of taking shotgun rounds at point blank range. It was a truly genius piece of equipment. Those were just the basic stuff.
Norman looked up as the large oak doors of his office creaked open. In the door way stood a slumping, mousy man. "Gomez! Come in, sit down!" Norman said, his mouth curled into a smile. The man, Gomez, scurried up to mister Osborn's desk. He sat down in own of the low, overly stuffed chairs in front of his boss.
The chairs were intentionally like that. Who ever sat down in them would sink into the chair, making them even smaller when compared to Osborn. It was a classic intimidation technique of business. Make your self seem as big as possible.
"You wanted to see me sir?" Gomez asked in his quiet, nervous voice.
"Yes, I did, you know of the VP-001 project?" Gomez nodded, "Good, I want you and your team to pick up the pace, I want it done in two weeks." Norman finished. He was amused by Gomez's look of horror.
"B-but sir, there is still so much that need to be done! The engines aren't at peak efficiency, the armor isn't strong enough, and the helmet will take a month to complete!" Gomez said, his body trembling.
"I don't care! Speed up production or your fired!" Osborn threatened. Gomez was terrified. He was the project leader on a top-secret project, and when Osborn fired someone with his level of clearance, they never saw the next day.
"Yes sir, Mr. Osborn." Gomez said. He got up from the overly stuffed chair and left the office, closing the heavy wooden doors on his way.
Norman smiled. It may not be top product, but it'll keep me alive! He thought to himself. Now that was out of the way, he had other things to get too. He took out his day planner, and frowned. The schools sent home report cards today. Norman cringed at the prospect of Harry's dismal grades.
His son, Harry was the spitting image of Norman when he was fifteen. That was were the similarities ended. Harry was weak and cowardly. Completely unfit, to inherit, his father's empire.
Norman flopped the day planner down onto his desk with a sigh. He reached into his pocket and removed a plump cigar. Biting off the end of the cigar, the senior Osborn spat it into an ashtray on his desk and lit it up with a wooden match. He waved out the burning sliver of wood and took a puff from the hand rolled Cuban.
Peter carefully maneuvered the crowded halls of Midtown High. The students rambled with their own little clicks. They worked like a cast system with the jocks, prom queens, and rich kids on top, and every one else, below them feeding off the scraps of joy and rainbows they dropped. Peter was one of those on the VERY bottom of the chart, which was occupied only by three other types of people: band geeks, mathletes, and that kid with the boil. They avoided Peter.
Peter only had three friends in the entire, school. Shockingly, they were at the top of the food chain. Mary Jane Watson, one of the hottest girls in school, Harry Osborn, son of wealthy businessman Norman Osborn, and Peter's girlfriend Gwen Stacy, daughter of Sergeant George Stacy, an independently wealthy and highly respected police sergeant.
The young teen came to a stop in front of a beat up, graffiti covered locker. He grabbed hold of the pad lock and began turning the dial in specific combination, a simple one, nineteen to the right, twenty-two to the left, nineteen to the right again, and finally twenty-seven to the left. He heard a click and removed the lock securing his locker door shut. He opened the dented door slowly, just incase some one had planted something in it like…
"Ah!" Peter screamed as a warty toad leapt from his locker, right on his chest. He fell backward onto the cold hard floor, no one bothering to try and catch him. The toad leaped from his shirt and down the hall.
The students burst out laughing at Peters plight. He solemnly pushed himself up, enduring the harsh laughter of the hyenas. He pulled his books and papers from his locker, stuffing them into his book bag. Peter locked his locker, heaved the book bag over his shoulder, and trotted off to his first glorious class. He really needed to change his combination.
Anyway, now that we got that junk out of the way, I decided to rewrite some of the earlier chapters starting with Chapter One. So just love it or take a great leap into an inferno wearing gasoline soaked underwear. Well, no gas is too expensive for that. Just shoot yourself. I hate you all. Especially you over there in the corner! Yeah, you! You know what you did!