I mentioned it in Chapter 1, but the pacing of the story sometimes hurts me, especially with this every 3 weeks upload. Hopefully towards the end that timeframe shortens once I get through my backlog.

There were times that I wished I was born ten years earlier, in either life. The modern day made researching so much easier, but there was something amazing about combing through book after book for the information you needed. Referencing book titles and asking the librarians on duty if they knew where to direct you; it was a wonderful tactile experience that everyone should engage in at least every so often. I completely understood why it would be a hassle for the average person though, especially when you had project after project to handle.

"Hey, Pete, something about this feels wrong to me but I'm not sure why."

I glanced over at Flash's paper, instantly honing in on the mistake. "That's the wrong formula. You wanna use the same formula you used for problem four, not seven."

"Seriously?" Flash whirled the paper around so he could take a better look at it. "But aren't they asking the same thing?"

"It's the way the question gets phrased," I continued, jotting down a few notes. "It's basically the same information, but the ordering changes the importance of things."

Flash clicked his tongue. "I thought this was Math, not English."

"Pete, if I was looking for information about American authors and their relationships with other notable figures, what websites would I check?"

I rattled off a few off the top of my head for MJ, even including a few specific sites detailing the completely normal, uneventful life of Ernest Hemingway that really needed a movie adaptation instead of just documentaries. I shook my head. What a guy.

"Hey, Pete?"

"Hm?" I leaned towards Harry slightly, jotting down a reminder to investigate what medicinal plants were traditionally grown locally rather than harvested from the wilds.

"What are they asking when they say 'pathos' here?"

I glanced down at his paper. "MJ, can you help Harry with this one?"

"Sure. What's the question?"

Technically I could have helped Harry with it, but as part of her studies the whole ethos, pathos, logos bit was fairly important to MJ. If I was able to give her the chance to feel good about her knowledge, I saw no reason not to. Any of my friends, really.

/ - /

Aside from a few obvious things, in the weeks after I was bitten my life hadn't changed all that much. I still studied, still kept top three in my classes (mostly non-AP thanks; I'd like some semblance of a life this go around); still kicked butt in dodgeball or any sports we had for gym (aside from basketball, football, or soccer; there were actual athletes for those sports in my classes), I still kept to my cardio but expanded my running to the next town over since I was able to maintain a high end marathon pace.

Whenever I got to urban areas with lots of benches and ramps and the like, I let myself go wild with flips and tricks. Flash and MJ had even started ribbing me for how often I was appearing in various social medias, and sometimes after class random kids would ask me to trick off a bench or table. I obliged of course, because tricks were fun, but all in all it was astoundingly normal how mundane things were.

The only annoying part was my webs. In the one source of media I remembered where Spider-Man had organics, other than the initial struggle of figuring out what gesture was required, the webbing was supposed to come out as a web line without any problems.

So, could someone please explain to me why mine were usually coming out as a blob of strands that were best described as a multi-nozzled can of monochrome silly string rather than a cable of adhesive analogous metal? I flexed my middle and ring fingers to the lower part of my palm, another glop of webbing shooting out like the limbs of an inflatable man.

Only once in the past few days had I managed anything close to being usable for web swinging, but with the consistency of one out of every hundred attempts or so, I had no desire to stress test my healing factor. I could confirm that my webbing was strong enough to hold my body weight however, as one successful line proved.

I huffed and sat down, staring at the mass of webbing laying on the floor. It'd be one thing if I'd never gotten a web line— I could just accept that apparently that wasn't a thing I was allowed, but to have it be so inconsistent? I thwipped with my left hand this time, holding the pose for a fraction of a second rather than a usual half or full.

The webbing came out as normal: a multi-stranded glob of silk that was eternally sticky like viscous superglue and apparently dissolved after several hours. It was admittedly a little weird how random strands wrapped around the white core were black though, alongside feeling indescribably different to the white silk, as if they were somehow sleeker or something more than just a protein based organic. With a sigh I fell onto my back, raising my hand toward the sky and flexing each finger at a time. "Maybe I need to change my diet?"

/ - /

"It's starting to get concerning."

"Annoying is what I'd call it," Cindy responded to Uncle Ben. Even through my closed door I could hear their voices clear enough. If I put some music on I would have been able to drown them out, but this felt necessary to hear.

"He was always bad about taking his phone with him, especially on those runs, but this is starting to get inexcusable. Cindy, you'd tell us if he was getting into trouble, right?"

"I can tell you with 100% certainty that Pete's just being an idiot and not a delinquent."

Uncle Ben sighed.

Cindy did as well. "I'll check with him again. Maybe take him shopping for a smart watch."

"Cindy, dear, you don't have to do that."

I could almost hear Cindy shrug. "Honestly if it wasn't now it was going to be for the holidays, Aunt May. With everything that Pete does, he's far more likely to keep a watch on him than a phone. We all know how often he kept forgetting his wallet until I got him a sling bag."

"Alright, Cindy. But keep a receipt! If this was for the holidays then let us pitch in as well."

I kept my head down as Cindy began making her way to her room, keeping myself mostly focused on drawing the chemical formulas for honey and willow bark. Her footsteps were always weirdly gently heavy, like she wasn't trying to be noticed but was too proud to not proclaim her presence to the world. Considering why she ended up staying with us, it made sense, but it was still interesting. If I knew how to phrase it more elegantly, Mrs. Winterhalter would probably have espoused the profoundness of such a literary detail and how it played throughout the story.

I took a slow breath when I realized I had spaced out. On the page where I was detailing odds and ends about pre-industrial medicine, I'd ended up doodling the formulas for various cooking ingredients and seasonings. Luckily this was just a draft page and not a final page.

/ - /

For not the first time since I was bitten, I was struck by just how mundane the majority of my enhancements were. Distill everything down, and all I really had was general physical improvements, organic web shooting from my wrists (with web organs included), and the ability to stick to just about anything, even through clothes. I doubted my ability to do things through winter clothes, but with just thermals and sweat pants as one evening excursion proved?

I stretched my hands above my head, locking one thumb into the other as I turned my palms toward the ground. With a grunt of exertion, I drew them back into the pocket of my hoodie, staring out at the peaceful evening skyline of New York. "I'm gonna miss this," I muttered to myself.

I had no real plans to actually be Spider-Man, emphasis on the hyphen, please and thank. Barring some issues about half a decade ago in the Hell's Kitchen part of New York, crime was very much a mundane affair. No costumed yahoos or animaled crazies causing crass collateral damage (hey, look, MJ, alliteration!), just your usual gun, knife, and bat wielding, garden variety foes. It was the sort of thing that the police could (and should) handle.

No real plans didn't mean no plans at all, though. I'd made myself some loose outfits since the bite by buying clothes here and there, and through one of Cindy's friend-of-a-friend, I even had a spandex outfit commissioned anonymously— spider symbol pending. That one I wanted to do on my own. Eventually. Whenever that was.

It was probably a little reckless, especially if/when I decided to start doing vigilante work, but I didn't have the skills (yet) to get the kind of detailing I wanted done, and considering how I had yet to tell Cindy about things, I didn't want her trying her hand at a costume only to realize that her little brother was— oh. Cindy had gotten bitten as well.

I let loose my hold on the Sticky and righted myself as I fell, crouching for a brief moment before once again sitting in a half lotus. The spider that bit us was 'a biter', by her own words. When it was gone AWOL, none of the scientists had seemed overly concerned, and the building hadn't gone into any kind of lock down. So what was the missing denominator here? Why had I and only I received powers, and why was there no news about arachnid-esque entities running around? I could count on a hand the amount of people I even passingly knew who would take the time I was to familiarize themselves with their abilities, so where were the conspiracy theories? Had Cindy been slowly developing powers all this time and I just never noticed because I was always around her?

I shook my head. Regardless of whether or not I was just an anomaly or if my sister by choice was also my sister in crime, I still had to check up on her next I had a chance. For now: I walked up a naked I-beam, feeling the power of gravity take hold of me. My Sticky let me get away with a lot of things I normally shouldn't be able to, but that didn't change the fact that I needed one hell of a core (and glutes) to be a good wallcrawler.

/ - /

"Thoughts?" Cindy held up a black crop top that had two parallel rows of tassels going across it diagonally.

"Not exactly your style," I remarked, rifling through the rack to her left, "but if you're looking to switch things up, I can see it working."

"Hm." She draped it over the edge of our cart, a firm indicator of 'maybe' that we'd designated ages ago. "So what competition have you signed yourself up for?"

I held up a pink and black button up for her, the fabrics sewn together so that each color only touched at their diagonals. "Competition?"

She raised a brow at the garment. "For you or for me?"

I snorted. "For you, of course. I don't think this thing can even fit— oh. Hm." I raised my hands above my head. While I certainly wouldn't be able to button this thing up, if I had a decent shirt underneath (or even going shirtless, in certain circles) I could definitely get away with it.

Cindy shook her head and draped it over the baby seat once I handed it over. "MJ tells me that you've been running more lately. Your schoolmates have been catching you around the city and during gym classes you keep running until the last person finishes." She leveled a tiny glare at me. "Apparently that's starting to offend some people, by the way."

"Honestly I've just been doing it for myself," I loosely fibbed. "Thought I'd try pushing myself some while I'm still hopped up on all these hormones."

She leaned forward and poked my head. "Just be careful, Peter. Sometimes cars don't give a crap about lights or speed limits, and with as much wandering as you do, you'll probably get mugged again."

I rolled my eyes. You get mugged one time and suddenly every excursion has the chance to be worse. "And that's why I don't take my usual routes after sundown."

She stared flatly at me. "Uh huh."

The rest of our shopping trip went by relatively quietly. Uncle Ben let us use his car since we'd be buying a handful of things, and it was admittedly a little jarring to be in an automobile with Cindy as opposed to hugging her from behind on her motorcycle. From the second-hand clothing stores (this was New York; high end stuff always ended up at donation stores), we managed to secure two whole outfits apiece (with Cindy picking up another handful of shirts for casual wear alongside a pair of shorts for home use). From a higher end grocery store, we also picked up a bunch of snacks including a specific brand that Cindy swore was made from actual vegetables and not just potatoes before heading off to a more generic chain for the usual assortment of foodstuff.

Honestly, it wasn't until after we picked up dinner for everyone that I realized anything was off about our trip. I looked up as Cindy parked the car, the e-brake grinding familiarly as she pulled it up. We were in an open parking lot a couple blocks from home, and she had a rather pensive expression on her face.

She stared straight ahead as she spoke, her expression notably blank in a way that I knew meant she was trying to avoid negative emotions. "No more evading the question, Pete. What are you up to when you leave home after school?"

"Running, mostly."

She glanced at me and began poking various parts of my lower leg. "You come home with these scuff marks on your parts. Dirt, paint; red or grey flecks of metal. Sometimes you smell like construction sites. Your hands have started to gain calluses and when you come out of the shower you have these scratches on your arms like you've been dragging them across something." Cindy stared at me, her eyes narrowed slightly. "Peter, what are you getting up to, and why does it feel like I should be extremely worried about it?"

I looked away. "Have you noticed any changes in yourself since working at Oscorp?"

"I don't see what my employment there has anything to do with this."

My hand twitched toward my wrist. I wasn't ready for this conversation. Not inside a car. "Can we talk about this at home?"

She lowered the emergency brake. "If you try and dodge it again, I'm forcing myself into your room."

/ - /

There was a part of me that thought I was making a massive mistake. The other part of me recognized how important it would be to have someone else in the know. Someone who might be able to pick me up in case of any issues or to be an extra pair of hands to try and care for me if I ever ended up in a situation where I wasn't able to do it myself. But on the other hand...

Cindy stared at me impatiently. For the past few minutes I'd done nothing but sit on her bed wringing my hands together and starting and stopping several times. The issue really was that I wasn't sure where to start— wasn't sure how she'd even handle things. The obvious answer was to flip up to her ceiling and hang there, and another solution was to fire out a quick spurt of webbing at a wall or her door.

"Pete."

I hung my head. Without looking, I aimed my wrist at her door and flexed my fingers for a tiny fraction of a second. "When that spider bit me, it did something to me."

Cindy said nothing, staring at the tiny mess of webbing on her door.

I stood up from her bed and jumped up, catching myself with a hand and settling into a sitting position. "A lot of things, actually."

She continued to stare at me, blinking slowly. I let her process things for a few moments before going into a spiel about everything I'd noticed since the bite. My enhanced physical abilities, the fact that I no longer needed glasses (or contacts), the webbing, the heightened sensitivity to things that I was slowly getting more and more used to (loud music in a coffee shop was very much something I wasn't ready for just yet, nor was a light ridden store). It wasn't until I sat back down on her bed, having fully sat on her ceiling before flipping down, that she finally reacted.

"Didn't that spider bite me as well?" she said monotonously.

I nodded, watching nervously as she repeated the hand gesture I did. Only when nothing happened did I speak up. "And that's what has me so confused. You said that spider was a biter; I imagine you were constantly being bitten by it, right?"

"It hasn't bitten me— or anyone— since your trip. After you guys visited its become extremely lethargic. It's only eating enough to survive and otherwise hides inside its habitat."

I stood up and showed her my arms, guiding her hands and fingers to feel the silk organs in my forearms. Various exercises had let me develop stronger muscles, both as protection and to help increase my thwipping distance, but the various organs could still be felt if you were gentle enough.

After a little bit of poking and prodding, Cindy eventually leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. "So what do you plan on doing, Mr. Comic Book?"

"Honestly? Nothing." I sat back down on her bed. "There's not exactly anything for me to fight, and even if there was, I don't think it'd be a great idea for me to go out and deal with it just yet." I made a fist, tighter than I knew was usually required for anything. "I still fumble around with things—"

"Thought you were being a little slower picking stuff up lately."

"—and I don't even know what my upper limits of things are just yet. I can't exactly sneak my way to a dump and throw a punch at some metal, you know?"

She nodded. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

I stared down at my lap and chuckled, a mixture of fear and hope coloring my laugh. "Just continue being my awesome sister?"

"Heh." I heard her stand up. Heard the way the fabrics of her clothes rubbed against each other. Felt her arms wrap around my head and hug me to her stomach. "As if I'd ever stop being that, Pete."

Next chapter will be released July 3rd.