Earth-12127
June 20, 2009
Spider-Man crouched on the edge of a decaying water tower, his mask-clad face tilted toward the night sky, the glint of distant neon catching on his wide, white lenses. Below him, the city churned on—horns blaring, lights flickering, life continuing—but his thoughts were tangled in the dark web of Oscorp's collapse.
He couldn't help but think back to that day two years ago when Norman Osborn's empire crumbled beneath the weight of its own corruption. The world had cheered. Headlines across every newsstand declared justice had been served. "Corporate Tyrant Toppled!" one read. Another called it "A Win for the Little Guy." But Peter knew better. Norman Osborn may have been taken out of the game, but Oscorp's monsters didn't vanish—they just changed hands.
The fallout from Oscorp's implosion felt endless. Half of its experimental tech and research had slipped through the cracks of accountability, snatched up by opportunists and shadowy organizations faster than the feds could slap caution tape on its shattered doors. AIM had been the worst of them. They didn't just grab scraps; they tore into the carcass of Oscorp like vultures, carving out its most dangerous secrets—gene splicing tech, neural interface designs, hybridization research.
And now, here he was, chasing the aftermath of someone else's greed.
Spider-Man's fingers drummed against the cold metal beneath him as he scanned the horizon, his mind racing. AIM wasn't like the usual thugs he dealt with. No petty vendettas or schemes to rob banks—they were scientists with a vision, however twisted it might be. They didn't want to destroy; they wanted to create. To evolve. And that terrified him more than anything.
Norman's insanity had always been personal, aimed at him, at Harry, at anyone who dared stand in the way of his hunger for power. AIM, though? AIM didn't care about Peter Parker or Spider-Man. To them, he was just another variable in their grand experiment, a fly buzzing too close to their petri dish.
A faint vibration on his wrist jolted him back to the present. His web-shooter's proximity alert. Movement. Peter leaned forward, his heart quickening as he spotted the unmistakable flicker of AIM's logo glowing on a shipping container in the docks below.
The mission tonight was simple—simple in theory, anyway. Disable AIM's operation, secure whatever Oscorp tech they were smuggling, and, if he was lucky, get out before any of their hybridized "projects" decided to make things personal. He was still nursing a bruise from their last encounter—a half-human, half-scorpion abomination with claws sharp enough to cut through reinforced steel.
He sighed. "Why can't bad guys ever just be normal? Like, steal a painting or rob a jewelry store. Nooo, it's always 'genetic super-soldiers' this and 'world domination' that."
But his humor couldn't hide the knot twisting in his stomach. He had seen what Oscorp's tech could do—he had fought it, bled because of it. And now AIM was pushing those same horrors even further, with none of the corporate restraint Oscorp had pretended to care about. The thought of what they could unleash if left unchecked gnawed at him.
Peter tightened his fists, the faint sound of his web-shooters clicking as the mechanisms adjusted. He didn't have a choice. He'd stop them tonight, no matter what.
"Alright, AIM," he muttered, standing and flexing his fingers, "time to shut down the science fair."
With a leap and a flick of his wrist, Spider-Man dove into the night, swinging toward the docks where shadows and secrets awaited him. The past may have left him chasing ghosts, but tonight, he'd make sure AIM couldn't create any more.
The docks were shrouded in mist, the faint orange glow of overhead lamps cutting through the haze like searchlights. Spider-Man clung to the side of a shipping container, blending into the shadows as he scanned the scene below. AIM operatives moved like ants around a cargo truck marked with their sleek yellow insignia, loading crates of stolen Oscorp tech. Each crate hummed faintly, the eerie glow of energy cores spilling through the cracks.
Spider-Man sighed, muttering under his breath. "Bright yellow hazmat suits in the dead of night. Subtle as ever, AIM."
One of the operatives barked orders, his voice filtered through a modulated helmet. "Move quickly. Dr. Greene wants the shipment at the lab before sunrise."
Spider-Man's lenses narrowed. He tapped his web-shooter, firing a thin strand of webbing that latched onto the underside of a nearby crane. Silently, he swung over the group, planting himself on the crossbeam above. From his vantage point, he could see more than a dozen operatives. Two guarded the perimeter with strange energy rifles, while the rest handled the cargo.
"Time to make an entrance," Peter whispered, a grin tugging at his lips.
With a flick of his wrist, he shot two web-lines at the guards' rifles, yanking them out of their hands. The weapons clattered to the ground, and before the guards could react, Spider-Man dropped between them, delivering a spinning kick that sent them sprawling.
The commotion drew the attention of the other operatives. One of them shouted, "It's him! The spider!"
Spider-Man straightened, hands on his hips. "The one and only! Now, I could stand here and give you all a lesson on the ethics of stealing, but I'm guessing you're more of a 'trial by punching' kind of crowd."
The first wave of operatives rushed him. Peter flipped backward, webbing one of them to a stack of crates mid-leap. Another swung a baton crackling with electricity, but Spider-Man ducked and countered with a web line to the operative's chest, slamming him into the truck's side.
"Whoa, high-tech tasers now? I'm flattered you'd bring your best gear just for me," Peter quipped, dodging another swing.
One of the operatives pulled out a small device, pressing it with a sharp beep. A compartment on the truck hissed open, and two hulking figures stepped out—AIM's hybridized enforcers. One was a towering brute with reinforced armor plates grafted to his skin, and the other was a lanky creature with unnaturally long limbs that ended in razor-sharp claws.
Peter froze for half a second. "Okay. That's new. And horrifying. But mostly horrifying."
The brute charged first, each step shaking the ground. Spider-Man dove under its swinging fist, landing on the brute's back and plastering it with impact webbing. The creature roared, flailing as the webs tightened around its joints.
"Hold still, big guy. I'm trying to help you embrace your inner cocoon phase," Peter said, leaping off just as the brute toppled into a stack of containers.
The lanky hybrid was faster. It pounced, claws slashing through the air as Peter flipped and twisted to avoid the strikes. A claw grazed his arm, sparks flying as it tore through his suit's fabric.
"Hey! I just patched this!" he yelled, webbing the hybrid's feet to the ground. It shrieked, tearing free, but not before Peter slung a web-line to the top of a crane and yanked it off balance. The creature crashed into the brute, the two tangled in a heap.
The remaining AIM operatives hesitated, glancing between the hybrids and the web-slinger who had just subdued them. Peter took a step forward, cracking his knuckles.
"Alright, fellas. Who's next?"
Before anyone could answer, the sound of sirens echoed in the distance. The operatives scrambled, abandoning their cargo and retreating into the shadows. Spider-Man stood amidst the chaos, his chest rising and falling as he surveyed the scene.
"Well," he muttered, webbing the hybrids to the ground for good measure, "that's one way to clean up the docks. I just hope the cops bring extra big handcuffs."
As he swung away into the night, Peter couldn't shake the nagging thought in the back of his mind. AIM wasn't done—not by a long shot. Tonight was just the start, and he'd have to be ready for whatever came next.
Spider-Man perched atop a flickering lamppost, his silhouette cutting a lonely figure against the gray dawn. Below him, NYPD officers swarmed the dock, cordoning off the area and cataloging the wreckage. The AIM truck sat abandoned, its rear doors ajar, revealing crates of glowing tech. Webbed-up operatives and two groaning hybrids lay in neat bundles, gifts for the authorities to deal with.
Peter's mask hid his furrowed brow, but his body betrayed his unease. He crouched low, elbows resting on his knees, and stared down at the scene. His mind raced through the events of the night, replaying each moment, each clue, in meticulous detail.
"Alright, Parker," he muttered under his breath, "what's the bigger picture here?"
He thought back to the operatives. Their movements had been efficient, clinical—less like thieves and more like engineers on a mission. They weren't just stealing Oscorp's leftover tech; they were prioritizing. Picking specific crates, ignoring others. That kind of precision wasn't random.
The hybrids were another piece of the puzzle. AIM had clearly advanced beyond Oscorp's original experiments. These weren't half-baked failures like some of Norman's early goblin prototypes; these creatures were deliberate, controlled. Someone at AIM had taken Oscorp's research and perfected it.
Peter's gaze shifted to the truck. Its cargo was mostly intact, save for a few smashed crates. Oscorp's logo was barely visible beneath layers of AIM's modifications. He zoomed in with his mask's lenses, noting the faint lettering stamped on one of the containers: "Project Helix—Batch 17."
"Helix…" he whispered. The name gnawed at the edge of his memory, but he couldn't quite place it. Something Oscorp had buried deep, no doubt.
The sharp crackle of a police radio jolted him from his thoughts. A detective barked orders, directing officers to secure the hybrids for transport. Peter winced. Even restrained, those things were dangerous.
"Whoever's running the show at AIM isn't just stockpiling tech," he mused. "They're building something—or someone. And they're not afraid to throw their toys into the field to test them."
He tapped his chin, scanning the faces of the captured operatives as they were loaded into squad cars. None of them looked like leaders. Grunts, foot soldiers—people who followed orders, not the ones who gave them. That meant whoever was calling the shots was still out there, somewhere in the shadows, pulling the strings.
The city stirred as the sun began to rise, painting the docks in a pale golden light. Spider-Man's chest felt heavy. He wanted to swing down there, demand answers from the operatives, dig through the crates himself—but he knew better. This was the part where he stepped back, where he let the authorities handle the cleanup while he focused on the bigger picture.
"Helix, hybrids, and black-market tech. Great. Just another Tuesday in the life of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man," he muttered, standing and stretching his back.
As he prepared to leave, a faint noise caught his attention—a quiet beep, almost too soft to notice. His spider-sense tingled, and his lenses narrowed. The sound came from one of the crates.
Peter hesitated, every instinct screaming for him to check it out. But the cops were swarming the area, and he'd already pushed his luck by staying this long. He launched a web line and swung into the morning sky, the docks shrinking behind him.
Still, the beep lingered in his mind, haunting him like an unanswered question.
"Whatever AIM's planning, it's big," he thought, weaving through the city's waking skyline. "And I need to figure it out before it's too late."
The city glimmered below him, alive with possibilities and dangers he couldn't yet see. For now, he'd keep swinging, piecing together the puzzle one thread at a time.
June 23, 2009
The rain poured relentlessly, turning the cobblestone streets of London into rivers of shimmering reflections. Betsy Braddock leaned against the cracked railing of an old bridge spanning the Thames, her violet hair plastered to her face, the city lights casting an eerie glow across the water. Her uniform, torn and streaked with soot, was a reminder of the chaos she'd just endured.
Behind her, Big Ben stood tall against the stormy sky, its chimes muted by the sound of distant sirens. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the rain—a grim reminder of what had just unfolded.
"You did what you could, Betsy," came a familiar voice.
She turned sharply to see her brother, Brian Braddock, the shining figure of Captain Britain, approaching. His iconic uniform was similarly battle-worn, the Union Jack emblazoned on his chest now smeared with grime. Yet, as always, he radiated an unshakable air of nobility.
"What I could?" she repeated, her voice sharp, almost biting. "What we could? That doesn't bring back the people who died tonight, Brian."
Brian's expression darkened, but he kept his tone steady. "We stopped AIM from unleashing their hybrid weapon. Without us, the entire borough could've been lost."
Betsy turned away, gripping the railing until her knuckles whitened. "And yet we couldn't stop it without collateral damage. Without them paying the price for our failure to plan this properly." She motioned toward the distant chaos, where emergency vehicles crowded the streets and civilians huddled in shock.
"They'll rebuild," Brian said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "That's what people do. And it's our job to make sure they can."
Betsy shrugged him off, stepping out of his reach. "You always say that. 'It's our job to protect them.' But what happens when we fail? When our ideals blind us to the reality of the situation?" She turned to face him, her eyes blazing with anger and something deeper—disillusionment.
Brian's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. What are you saying?"
"I'm saying your idealism—this unwavering belief that heroism is always enough—isn't working." Her voice cracked slightly, but she pressed on. "You believe so much in the good fight, in doing what's right, that you can't see the cracks in your perfect vision. Real people got caught in the crossfire tonight, Brian. And for what? Because we didn't anticipate AIM's contingency plans? Because we were so focused on stopping the weapon that we didn't think about evacuation zones or containing the damage?"
Brian took a deep breath, his jaw tightening. "This isn't about me. It's about the mission. We made the best decisions we could with the information we had."
"And that's the problem," she snapped. "You treat everything like it's black and white, like heroism is some infallible doctrine. But it's not. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we make things worse. And if we don't learn from that—if you don't learn from that—then what's the point?"
The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the rain pattering against the bridge. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of the night hanging between them.
Finally, Brian stepped closer, his voice soft but resolute. "I know tonight was hard. And I know we didn't save everyone. But giving up on the ideals that drive us won't bring those people back. We fight because we have to. Because if we don't, who will?"
Betsy shook her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "You don't get it, do you? I'm not saying we stop fighting. I'm saying we stop pretending that what we do is flawless. That our intentions automatically justify the cost."
She stepped past him, the rain cascading down her face, hiding the tears that threatened to spill. "You can cling to your ideals if you want, Brian. But I'm done pretending they're enough."
As she walked away, Brian stood in silence, the weight of her words settling over him like the storm clouds above. For the first time, the unshakable Captain Britain felt the ground beneath him tremble, and he wondered if his sister might be right.
The dim light of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across Betsy Braddock's room. She sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, staring at the pile of scattered news clippings and mission reports spread across the quilt. The headlines screamed at her, their bold letters stark against the grainy photographs:
"Civilians Caught in Chaos as Heroes Clash with AIM in London!"
"Heroes Save the Day, but at What Cost?"
"Captain Britain and Psylocke Intervene—Collateral Damage Escalates."
Betsy's hands trembled as she picked up one of the articles, the image of a young girl clutching a tattered teddy bear staring back at her. The girl's face was streaked with soot, her wide eyes filled with terror as firefighters carried her away from the wreckage.
She pressed her thumb against the photo, as if she could smooth away the pain etched into the image. But the memories flooded back anyway—mission after mission where victory felt hollow, where their "heroic" efforts left scars on the people they were meant to protect.
A soft knock echoed at the door, but Betsy didn't respond. Whoever it was left her be, and she was grateful. This was a decision she needed to make alone.
She reached over to the nightstand, picking up the small envelope with the unmistakable "X" embossed in red wax. She had read the invitation countless times already:
"Elizabeth Braddock, you are cordially invited to join the X-Men Initiative. Your unique abilities and experience would be an invaluable asset in our mission to protect and empower mutants while safeguarding humanity from emerging threats. The choice is yours. - Charles Xavier"
Betsy sighed, tossing the envelope onto the bed. The weight of her indecision had been a constant companion for weeks, but tonight, in the wake of another disastrous mission with Brian, the choice felt inevitable.
She rose and crossed the room to the mirror, her reflection staring back at her. Her violet hair framed her face, disheveled from the rain and the battle. Her eyes, once bright with determination, now carried the burden of too many failures, too many compromises.
"This isn't who I am," she whispered to her reflection.
Betsy's gaze dropped to the faint scars on her forearms, remnants of battles fought at her brother's side. Brian's world was noble, idealistic, but it was rigid, bound by codes that ignored the shades of gray she encountered every day. He fought for a perfect Britain, a perfect world. But Betsy had seen the cracks in that vision, and she couldn't unsee them.
Her mind drifted back to Xavier's invitation. The X-Men weren't perfect, but they embraced the chaos, the messiness of life. They fought for something real, something tangible, without the constraints of nationalist ideals or the pretense of perfection.
She returned to the bed, picking up the envelope once more. The emblem of the X-Men felt heavy with promise, a symbol of change she desperately needed.
Her fingers traced the embossed seal as she made her decision. She would step away from Brian's shadow, from the ideals that had once felt like her own but now felt suffocating.
Betsy set the envelope down and reached for her communicator. As she activated it, she took a deep breath, bracing herself for the conversation to come.
"Professor Xavier," she said when the line connected, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within. "I've made my decision. I'm in."
There was a pause on the other end, then the familiar, warm voice of Charles Xavier responded. "Welcome to the X-Men, Betsy. We've been waiting for you."
As she ended the call, Betsy felt the weight on her shoulders shift. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with challenges she couldn't yet foresee. But for the first time in a long while, she felt a flicker of hope—a sense that she was finally moving toward something that truly mattered.
She glanced back at the scattered reports and clippings on her bed. With a decisive motion, she gathered them into a pile and set them aside. The past would always be a part of her, but it no longer defined her.
This was a new chapter, and Betsy Braddock was ready to embrace it.
June 27, 2009
The icy winds of the Carpathian Mountains howled through the dense pine forest, carrying whispers of dread to anyone who dared traverse its secluded paths. Betsy Braddock crouched silently on a rocky ledge overlooking a heavily guarded compound nestled in the valley below. The moonlight bathed the scene in a cold, silver glow, casting long shadows across the perimeter of electrified fences and armed guards.
Through the telepathic link she had established, she could feel the fear of the mutants held captive inside. Their thoughts were fragmented, raw with terror, but one word echoed clearly through the psychic waves: help.
Betsy's violet hair swayed as she adjusted her psi-blade, its faint glow a stark contrast to the darkness around her. She had planned this mission meticulously, knowing there was no safety net. No brother to back her up, no team to share the burden. This was her first solo operation, her first chance to prove she was more than an accessory to someone else's idealistic crusade.
She tapped her communicator lightly. "Storm, I've located the facility. Confirmed psychic signatures. I count... fifteen captives. Four guards on the outer perimeter, and I'm detecting at least ten more inside."
"Understood," came Storm's voice, calm and assured. "You've got this, Betsy. Call if you need backup, but I trust you to handle it."
Betsy nodded, even though Storm couldn't see her. "Copy that. Going silent." She turned the communicator off and focused her mind.
Closing her eyes, she reached out telepathically, slipping into the guards' thoughts like a shadow. They were disciplined, mercenaries hired to do a job, but not impervious to her influence. One by one, she planted subtle commands: a growing unease, the sensation of hearing footsteps behind them, shadows in their peripheral vision. It didn't take long for the guards to grow restless, breaking their tight patrols to investigate phantom threats.
With the outer perimeter destabilized, Betsy moved like a whisper through the trees, scaling the fence in a single fluid motion. She landed silently on the other side, her psi-blade at the ready.
The first guard barely had time to turn before she struck. The blade hummed as it passed through his mind, not harming his body but rendering him unconscious with surgical precision. She caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him gently behind a stack of crates.
Two more guards rounded the corner, their footsteps heavy. Betsy pressed herself against the shadows, her breathing calm. As they passed, she stepped behind them and unleashed a psychic wave that knocked them out cold.
With the outer perimeter secured, she slipped into the compound. The air was thick with tension, the metallic scent of fear mingling with the sterile stench of machinery. The mutants were held in a makeshift cage at the center of the facility, their powers dampened by inhibitor collars.
She crept along the catwalks above the main floor, her telepathy scanning the guards' positions. Her mind touched the thoughts of one guard who was watching the captives with a mix of boredom and cruelty.
"You're getting sleepy," she whispered telepathically. The guard blinked, his head nodding as if under a trance. He slumped over moments later, snoring softly.
Betsy leaped down from the catwalk, landing lightly on the concrete floor. The captives stared at her, their wide eyes filled with disbelief. She placed a finger to her lips, signaling them to stay quiet.
"It's going to be okay," she said softly, projecting calm and reassurance into their minds. "I'm here to get you out."
A sudden shout broke the silence—one of the guards had spotted her. Betsy spun, raising her psi-blade just as a hail of bullets erupted in her direction. The blade deflected the shots, its psychic energy sparking with each impact.
She dashed toward the guard, her movements swift and calculated. With a single swipe, she incapacitated him, leaving him sprawled on the ground.
More guards poured into the room, shouting orders and firing wildly. Betsy moved like a dancer, her blade weaving through the chaos as she disarmed and disabled them one by one. A telepathic burst sent the last group crumpling to the ground, clutching their heads in agony.
Breathing heavily, Betsy turned back to the cage. With a flick of her wrist, her blade sliced through the lock, and the door swung open.
"Come on," she urged, helping the captives to their feet. "We don't have much time."
As she led them out of the compound, the ground rumbled—a signal that reinforcements were on the way. Betsy focused her mind, projecting a psychic illusion over the group, rendering them invisible to any remaining guards.
They moved quickly through the forest, the mutants leaning on one another for support. When they finally reached the extraction point, the sight of the X-Jet descending through the clouds brought tears to their eyes.
Storm greeted them with a proud smile. "You did it, Betsy."
Betsy nodded, her body weary but her mind resolute. As the jet's hatch closed and they took off into the night, she looked at the rescued mutants, their faces filled with gratitude and hope.
For the first time, Betsy felt like she had found her purpose—not as Captain Britain's sister, but as a warrior in her own right. She wasn't just fighting to save lives; she was fighting for a future where those lives could thrive.
And that, she realized, was a mission worth dedicating herself to.
Author's Note: Hello everyone, The Elite Officer Rifleman here. So ever since reading gunman's Psi-Web back in the day, I always wanted to see a detailed Spider-ManxPsylocke fanfiction story written though I couldn't find too many. I decided to do my own and the result is the first chapter of this story. This story takes place in my own take on an Earth that hasn't been visited in the Marvel universe so I don't have to deal with too many difficulties in canon hence this story taking place in the currently unexplored Earth-12127. You can expect some references and other stuff though, I just hope you're all interested in where the story goes from here. I hope you all enjoy.