Assuming I did my math right, if I post every other week, I should have the final chapter up by Christmas. I'll probably take a month or two break after that. Build up more of the backlog, work on some other things.

In approximately three weeks, school would get out for the winter holidays. Screwball had started streaming again, though this time she and her crew were staying away from store B , instead sticking to abandoned building B for graffiti work and general (and frankly dangerous) parkour. Violence along Long Island City was slowly starting to pick up again (distant sirens were now regularly part of the evening ambience) as well, and Uncle Ben was very much alive. I was frankly a nervous wreck, and I was more than grateful for Doctor Octavius' invitation to work in Oscorp's labs. You know, after the textbook sized stack of NDA's and other legal work.

Completely understandable, of course. Between the experimental alloys, tentative successful research into physical regeneration, and tests on creating new forms of medicine (however miniscule they might be from currently existing variants; hello inhaler alternatives), let alone whatever sort of previous experiments were all feeding into what was current, I was more surprised that they even let me shadow as many things as I did. On more than one occasion, I'd heard someone say it was only because I was related to Cindy ("half-siblings" was thrown around more often than I appreciated) and how well she performed across her various assignments.

But really that was neither here nor there. Cindy had had to stay late last night to finish up a project or two, and as my sole (official) mode of transportation, I was forced to stay behind as well, though I made liberal use of all their files on the formulas for various medical grade textiles, specifically ones involving the creation of bandages. Based on all the other tech within Oscorp's R department, it wouldn't have surprised me if there was a 3D printer hiding around somewhere, perfectly able to print out things at the specific requirements for use in replacing bones, skin grafts, and even for repairing blood vessels.

I let out a quick breath, dismissing the memories of last night. Suffice to say: Cindy and I had stayed the night at one of her friend's. I had nothing to do for the start of my weekend whereas she had class (and later a long overdue hangout session with some friends). All of this led to me doing some actual web swinging in my 'casual' costume (still faintly stained from Screwball's paint all those weeks ago), high enough that I might as well be confused for a particularly large bird.

It was a flock of pigeons down the street that drew my attention. In one smooth motion (far smoother than I remembered being able to do), I pulled out my newest Spider-specific phone and snapped a picture of the birds flapping across a skyscraper. A handful of flicks and taps later, my second official social media message was posted.

[NYCWallCrawler: One day I'll fly as free as the birds. Today, I'll just manage one swing after another.]

I smiled wryly at my phone. In five years time, I'd probably be handling this account drastically differently. But for now, using it as a personal blog for things that only Spider-Man would be able to do was perfectly fine. With a soft chuckle, I tucked my phone away and zippered my pocket, leaping off the ledge I was resting on and thwipping out a web line.

There really was no other feeling like this. To feel gravity's pull as you swung through the air, the wind pressing against every part of your body. The denial against existence itself as momentum carried you away from the ground and into the air. The pure relaxation of your body as you let go and— I shot out another web, climbing up one handful at a time as I pulled my legs in to lower my moment of inertia. I couldn't help myself as I spun vertically through the air, forearms and jacket flaring out as I twirled around.

I shot a hand out, fully indulging my Spider Sense on where to aim my next web to hurl myself around a corner without causing any damage to the building. Beneath my mask, I grinned as I pulled my limbs in to a proper web slinger's pose, my heels nearly pressed together as I started falling through the air.

"Trust the tingle, Pete," I muttered to myself, feeling gravity claim the greatest hold on me since I started. My hands shot up at the same time, the moment between firing a web line and holding onto it nearly non-existent. The handful of screams at seeing someone fly through the air turned to wonder (and in some parts: terror) as I launched myself back into the skies.

A handful of webs later (only some of which were done with intended thought instead of subconsciously led), I was once again sitting at the edge of a building, watching people walk back and forth along the streets.

[NYCWallCrawler: I wonder how many dives it takes before a diver gets used to the pull of gravity.]

To that, I accompanied it with a picture of the street I'd swung from. It wasn't the prettiest thing, but with some adjustments to the focal length I'd managed to make the buildings look taller than they really were, and the street below all the more lower. Underneath my mask I smiled once again. Yeah, it was my phone that was doing most of the settings for me, but I was still the one who had lined up the shot. There was something to be said for that, at the very least.

After a couple seconds of simply enjoying the moment (and breathing in the polluted New York Air; mental note me: add some kind of filter to future masks), I rubbed my forearms, idly marveling at the reduced tightness I felt after what had to be only a couple dozen web lines. Today was as much a stress test as it was a confidence exam. Cindy wouldn't be out of class (and any subsequent studying) until after noon, which meant I still had at least three hours until I had to put my Spider phone away and find someplace to reactivate my personal phone.

I stilled at that thought. "Mental mental note," I muttered, rising to my feet. "Pick up phone coding and make a secure network in regard to cellular use." A few cars started honking as their drivers realized I was standing on the edge. A moment later, some pedestrians began pointing my way. I simply rolled my eyes and took a hop off the ledge, thwipping out a web line earlier (and thus higher) than I'd originally planned and soaring off in search of trouble.

Trouble, as it turned out, meant one amateur attempted robbery of a taco cart (in broad daylight), a handful of lost balloons, and the rescue of a blonde lady deep in a phone call who had failed to notice a car (wrongly) barreling her way. Said woman had stared at me numbly, and didn't even react when I pulled myself into the air with a few lines before swinging off to the next affair.

That had taken up about two hours, and now I was sitting happily at the edge of a roof, munching away (with my mask half off) on a bodega ordered sandwich, among other things. It was kind of funny. Whether it was because I was always snacking on one thing or another, or my body's metabolism had changed, hunger was something I never really noticed these days. Instead of taking a break from working on whatever project was holding my attention and finding my stomach growling something fierce, instead I'd find myself surrounded by a small storm of wrappers from protein bars, granola bars, cereal bars, anything and everything that was easily purchasable in bulk and able to be stuffed into my bag or pockets.

So today was the first time in a while that I felt drawn towards actually buying food instead of reaching towards wherever I usually stored them. It was rather refreshing, stepping up to a food cart and buying something. No one batted an eye at me standing in line, though some folk wearing anime-themed tees and the like were asking me who I was dressed up as (to which I responded with 'testing out a new costume'). I also had to unfortunately buy a new bag to store my haul, but such was the price of novice superhero'ing.

"Never really paid attention to the taste of mayo," I muttered to myself, watching the traffic below stop and go as commanded by the lights hanging high above them. "Hard to believe eggs, oil, and vinegar are what make it. Then again," I took a healthy bite of my sandwich, chewing for several moments before swallowing. "Meringue is basically the consistency of mayo, but softer. Guess it's not that surprising."

It was as I continued working my way through a freshly made ham wrap I picked up from another food cart that a thought occurred to me. To be Spider-Man was very much to be a doctor or a surgeon, in a way. To constantly wage war with the idea that if you weren't in uniform, there were lives that you weren't able to save. People you weren't able to rescue. It was a different story in a hospital where you had others to share the burden, but as Spider-Man, you had no one. How many other heros spent their time patrolling the streets and helping out the little guy, as opposed to only striking out when crime became too big or started to effect more than one nuclear family at a time?

"For one to succeed, the other must suffer in exchange," I muttered to myself, aware enough not to mention my civilian name. With a soft chuckle, I closed my eyes and rested my head on a fist. "Heavier than my spear is the weight of only one life," I recited. Despite the hustle and bustle of New York, it felt to me as if a solemn silence had fallen upon my words. As if the entire world was waiting to hear my decision.

"But doesn't an army march on its stomach?" I responded to myself, staring out at the skyscraper across the street. "So too, must sleep and fatigue be considered. To work myself away endlessly; how many would I help at the sacrifice of myself? Without the safety net of a fallback plan or those to support me?" I closed my eyes and let out a heavy breath. "Were only dreams allowed to be—" I paused and slowly turned my head to my side. There, picking away at my momentarily forgotten meal I held by my side, a common (but admittedly fairly robust) pigeon nibbled bite by bite away from my wrap. "Uh, excuse me?"

The pigeon ignored me. In fact, it seemed to me that it was purposely taking bigger bites somehow.

"Oi!" The moment I twitched towards it, it took off, but not before grabbing hold of something as it did so. "Did you just—" A moment of utter confoundment passed as the bird flew off, a tightly wrapped bag holding a sandwich I had yet to dig into firmly held in its claws. I tore into the remainder of my current meal quickly, chasing after the bird with jerking web zips and tiny swings that sent me shooting through the air, far quicker than I'd ever gone before.

"Get back here!" I shouted out. Truthfully, it was only a sandwich. No big deal. But it was the principal of the matter. It was a whole sandwich. That a bird stole from right beside me as I stared it down.

...a bird that was startlingly agile. Like it felt as if it were a racing bird crossed with a show bird bred for performing tricks kind of agile. Alleyways, fire escapes, sudden updrafts from heating units or heat absorbant materials atop rooftops; the bird used everything in its path to try and escape me. At the end, I assumed it thought it did. I intentionally slowed my swinging some and the bird began making its way to the highest apartment complex in the area, boasting a water tower and even a robust box garden of grass and flowers.

When I landed (a bit too heavily for my liking), the bird immediately started puffing itself up and cooing at me aggressively. Resting behind it, atop a mound of odds and ends, was my bagged sandwich, inching down every so often as the pigeon continued trying to ward me off. Watching the bird in utter befuddlement, I idly pulled my Spider Phone out and took a picture with the flash on, illuminating a variety of things the bird had burgled over however long it had made its home here.

"Honestly, I think I'll just let you keep the sandwich." It was a sentiment especially reinforced by a message from Cindy (on this phone identified as 'sibling'), stating that she was done with classes and was just heading to lunch with a friend and that I was welcome to join. "You win this time..." I stared at the bird. The bird stared back at me challengingly. "François. I dub thee: François."

/ - /

As I lackadaisically strolled down the street, I couldn't stop myself from continually massaging my forearms. After a handful of hours of swinging around, my arms felt lighter than ever. It wasn't by much, maybe barely even two pounds each arm, but for someone who had super strength it was something I very much had to be conscientious about. It was also incredibly disconcerting. For almost five months now my forearms had a firm give to them, like the polyurethane in stress toys. You could squeeze them, but at a certain point the 'give' just stopped giving, and now that give was completely missing. There was a tiny little give from my emptied sacks, but otherwise all I felt was the firmness of my muscles. And I just. couldn't. stop squeezing!

Frustrated, I made a fist, pressing my thumb tightly against the side of my pointer as I made my way towards the restaurant. It was a relatively small Spanish restaurant with only a single glass front (as opposed to my preferred two walls of glass; hello sunlight you beautiful thing), and even that was blocked by much of their kitchen and counter supplies. I'd managed to calm myself by the time I reached the store, and as far as anyone could tell I was just another happy go lucky kid looking for some food. Inside, Cindy met my eyes and raised a hand in greeting, smoothly continuing her conversation with her friend without interruption.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," I joked, sliding into the seat Cindy pushed open as I approached their table.

"Ah, the illustrious Peter," Cindy's friend said, opening his arms and giving me a broad smile. "Cindy's mentioned much about you."

I picked up Cindy's fork and began picking stuff off her plate, the tiny push of her fingers all I needed to pull the plate over for myself. "Hopefully a positive picture?" Internally, I smiled at the realization that Cindy had eaten only half of her large sized plate, while he had gone through about two thirds of his.

"Only what's to be expected out of siblings," he answered.

"Peter, this is Hoebie," Cindy suddenly said, gesturing appropriately. "Hoebie, Peter. This is Hoebie's last week here in America. By the end of the month, he's going to be settled in the UK."

I covered my hand with my mouth and swallowed before speaking. "Wow, all the way across the pond?"

Hoebie nodded solemnly. "A friend of mine has a job lined up for me." He took a look around the store, smiling ruefully. "And as beautiful as everything is over here, I need a change of pace."

"I get what you mean." I hummed appreciatively at my next bite. It was a bacon wrapped thing with plenty of spice and kick. A wonderful explosion of flavor and texture. "Things feel different here in Manhattan, and it's only a bridge away from Queens. A whole ocean over..." I whistled. "Permanent stay?"

Cindy stood up quietly, moving over to the front counter and started miming to the clerk about various things.

"Might come back after a couple years. No more than a decade, for sure." He smirked and pointed a finger down at his plate. "I hear the food there can be questionably flavored. And that one of their main breakfast dishes is beans on toast." He rolled his eyes. "Imagine that. Beans on toast and you call that a 'good meal'."

I snickered. "Isn't the story that they lost most of their flavoring after centuries of spice trade because of rationing during the world wars?"

Hobie nodded silently, digesting that tidbit of information. "Makes sense. Doesn't excuse the decades of time they had to make up for it. That's a whole generation they could have gotten back onto the spice game."

Cindy sat back down with a bag and take out container and a glass battle of orange cola champagne. "Here." She handed the former to Hoebie and the latter to myself, though only after taking a healthy swig for herself.

I made a face at her (one she returned with equal amusement). "Definitely," I said to Hoebie. "Give it another decade or two, though. They've got two globally acclaimed chefs, and with the way media sites are progressing, I'm sure there's going to be another boom of home chefs that will reinvigorate the British culinary scene."

Hoebie chuckled. "Hopefully sooner rather than later." He hefted his takeout bag slightly. "Whelp. I gotta be heading off. Things to finalize, calls to make."

My face splitting grin refused to go away as I watched Cindy and Hoebie hug, a tighter hug than Cindy ever usually gave.

"What?" she asked.

I said nothing, smirking happily as I took one of the last remaining bites of my appropriated food.

"What?!"

"So is he single or?"

"Peter!"

I cackled. "What? He's not bad looking, his clothes are taken care of, and he's got a smartwatch. You don't make friends with people unless they've got similar interests to yours, which means he's probably from school or Oscorp, which means so long as he's got his connections he'll be in a good financial position." I speared the last bite and pointed it towards Cindy. "As your brother, I approve."

Cindy glowered at me. "And as your sister, I suggest you drop it."

I chuckled one last time. "Sure, sure."

Next chapter will be released October 30th.