Norman Osborn glared at a wall of monitors full of data and equations that he hoped would hold the keys to his salvation… Both financially, and literally.

Damn you, Subject Fifteen. He thought bitterly. We made you too smart for your own damn good, or mine. Not a trace of the tiny arachnid… Meaning it's either dead, or beyond our reach. Frankly, dead might be the best outcome… If the virus is still active, we could wind up with an entire island of spider-hybrids.

Norman flicked his eyes over to an incomplete "Decay Rate Algorithm" from Richard Parker's last eMail to their group before his death.

He tried to move his mouse cursor over to the equation, but the arrow jittered back and forth on the screen.

Norman narrowed his eyes in irritation as he attempted to lift the mouse off his desk to blow the dust out of the sensor, but he sent the wireless device flying across the room as a tremor overtook his right arm.

Damnit, not now! He thought as he fumbled in his pockets for the remote for his implant. His body shook so hard he could barely control himself. He managed to snag the remote from his pocket as his tremors grew so strong, he fell from his chair with a harsh SMACK against the tiled floor, and the remote tumbled with him. The smell of disinfectant threatened to overwhelm his senses as he fumbled for the remote.

Finally, he had it. Finally, he pressed the button… And he felt very little change.

Norman turned up the dial, and pressed again. Only slightly better.

To hell with it! Norman thought as he turned it up to maximum and pressed the button again. Finally, the tremors subsided.

He pulled himself back to his feet, and picked up his office phone, and dialed Doctor Strom.

"Mendell, get to my office, on the double." He panted into the phone. "I need a checkup."

"I'll be right there." Strom replied.

Once Strom was in Norman's office, he began to run a series of routine examinations… and some that would've been unusual for anyone else.

"It's getting worse." Norman said shakily. "I could barely sit at my computer, much less hold a pen, or a sample, or anything sensitive!"

"How's your sleep been?" Strom asked.

"Terrible." Norman replied. "I'm lucky if I get three hours uninterrupted. I wake up shaking like there's an earthquake, but everything is still except for me."

The computer beeped, and the results of the blood test appeared on the screen.

"Your dopamine levels are lower." Strom said as he studied the chart.

"Tell me straight, Mendell." Norman said softly. "How long do I have?"

Strom turned to Norman, but avoided his gaze.

"Listen, Norman, a dopamine test doesn't predict the future. You could-"

"Tell me!" Norman exclaimed as his features contorted into an ugly mask. "I don't have the patience for platitudes!"

"If your dopamine levels keep going down at the rates they have, you'll be lucky to be walking in two years. You'll be completely bedridden in three."

Norman's rage dropped away, into a sad laugh.

"And what about Harry?" He asked softly. "Does he have it?"

Strom shook his head.

"At this point, there's no way to know. Only around fifteen percent of Parkinson's patients have a family history of the disease."

"So you're saying the only way we'll be able to tell is to wait until I'm too far gone to help my son?" Norman demanded softly. "No. I refuse to accept that. Mendell, I'll beat this disease first. You can use me as a test subject for any hail-mary treatments we come up with. I'll make sure my boy has a good future by any means necessary."

Peter's phone buzzed as he and Gwen left the Barnes Center.

"You need to get that?" She asked.

He pulled the device from his pocket, and saw it was Uncle Ben texting him.

"It's just Uncle Ben." He replied. "We'll be back soon anyway, it's not worth giving you a head-start!"

"Then get on your board, slowpoke!" Gwen said as she took off down the stairs towards their neighborhood.

She got me there! Peter thought as he pulled off his backpack like lightning, and unstrapped his skateboard. He planted it down the stairs, and landed on it with a jump from the top step, taking off like a shot after the blonde girl.

They were neck and neck, all the way home. As they approached their houses, Gwen took a running leap up her fence into her backyard, and climbed up the tree into her house.

"No fair!" Peter exclaimed as he skidded to a halt outside his house, and popped his skateboard up into his hands.

"All's fair in war, loverboy." Gwen taunted from her backyard.

Peter shook his head, and unlocked the front door. The house was completely silent.

Where is everyone? He wondered. Then, when he saw the color of the kitchen, and the paint-stained newspaper on the floor and cabinets, he knew what he'd missed.

Dammit, that's what he was texting me about. Peter thought as he stepped into the kitchen, nimbly avoiding wet paint and newspapers. He spied a note on the fridge, in Uncle Ben's handwriting.

"Hey Michaelangelo!" It said. "There's meatloaf in the oven. May and I went to the Allen's for poker night, we'll be back around nine."

Peter gave a sad smile and sighed, then opened the oven, removed the pan of meatloaf, grabbed a fork, and took it upstairs.

He set the meatloaf on his desk and slumped into his chair, trying not to feel like a horrible person. Then, the revving of a loud engine reached his ears through the closed window.

Who the hell is that? Peter thought as he opened the window and climbed out onto the tree limb. Gwen was still perched on a limb outside her window.

"Who's revving their engine back here?" Peter asked as he dug into the meatloaf.

"Flash is showing off his new toy." She said, pointing at the electric blue Camaro in the road behind their houses with the football team gathered around it.

Flash climbed out of the muscle car and high-fived with a broad blonde boy from the team.

"Shit, Flash." He exclaimed. "Nice ride."

"Hell yeah, man." Flash said cockily. "Perfect wheels for a ride to the prom with Liz. Maybe even better for the ride back, know what I'm sayin'?"

Flash noticed Peter and Gwen watching them from the tree.

"Hey Puny Parker, what kind of wheels you got? Planning on pulling up in the Oldmobile?"

"No, we were gonna ask Rosie if we could take your car." Gwen shouted. "Just be careful you don't get a ride home from my dad."

Flash grumbled, and motioned for the football team to pile into his car, then sped off in what was clearly a huff.

Did she just say what I think she said? Peter wondered.

"So... There's a prom?" Smooth, dude. Real smooth. He thought as soon as he said it.

"Aren't you taking the pictures for it?" Gwen asked.

"Oh... Yeah."

"So you're already going?"

"I guess I gotta." Peter said with a lame smile.

"Well, I'm not planning on going with anyone else..." She said, coyly as she slipped back into her room. "Think about it."

Peter sat on the tree motionless for a while, mulling over his options...

Well, I guess that settles it. Now I just need a ride, huh?

As soon as Peter was back inside, he tried to talk himself out of the notion.

So what Flash Thompson's parents bought him a brand-new sports-car for his sixteenth birthday? Peter thought bitterly. He's a prick. A prick with a bright blue Dodge Challenger he can ride around town in, going wherever he wants without anyone asking how he got there.

A knock sounded on the door behind him, and Peter jolted out of his thoughts, back into his room.

"Hey, Michelangelo!" Uncle Ben said from beyond the door. "You decent?"

"I better be." Peter said as he raised from his chair and walked to open the door, to reveal his uncle in fresh clothes, with paint dotting his forehead, arms, and hands "The window's open."

"We missed you painting the kitchen earlier." Ben said as he motioned for Peter to follow him downstairs. He'd clearly showered since the painting, but even a shower can't take off drops of paint that easily. "Did Curtis keep you long?"

"Uh, kinda." Peter replied. "I uh… Went rock-climbing with Gwen afterwards and we kinda lost track of time."

"Is that so?" Ben asked as he poked his head out of the window to wave at Gwen through her window, who waved back. "What exactly precipitated that?"

"She's interning for Doctor Connors." Peter replied. "He said she started climbing over at the Barnes Center, so I figured I'd drop by on the way home and… Well, I met Captain America."

"Did you now?" Ben asked.

"He said I should call him Steve." Peter replied.

"He always does." May replied as the two of them entered the kitchen. "Ben still insists on addressing him as 'Captain.'"

"Because if you just call him 'Steve,' you could be talking about anyone!" Ben replied with a laugh. "Blue's Clues, Minecraft, Lukather."

"He said you should drop by the center sometime and catch up." Peter said.

"I'll have to check in sometime soon, I guess!" Ben exclaimed jovially. "Can't disobey the Captain's orders."

"I see you found the meatloaf." May said, gesturing to the oven. "Where were you when we were painting the kitchen?"

"Climbing walls with George's girl over at the Barnes Center." Ben replied. "Ah, young love."

May looked at Ben incredulously.

"You never took me rock-climbing." She said with a feigned air of disdain.

"You never asked." Ben replied. "I took you bowling."

"Well, maybe I'd have rather gone rock-climbing with you, did you ever think of that?"

"No, because you never asked." Ben replied.

Aunt May scoffed, and playfully slapped Ben on the shoulder.

"Do you need anything else before bed, Peter?" May asked. "You're still a growing boy. Maybe growing a little more than we expected."

Peter shook his head.

"No, I'm fine." He replied. "The meatloaf is good."

"Just remember to bring your dishes down, alright?" May said.

"And let's make that video tomorrow, alright?" Ben added. "We should have some time after school."

"Bet on it!" Peter said as he went back upstairs. "Goodnight, I love you both!"

"Love you, too!" Ben and May replied.

Once he was back upstairs, Peter mulled over his situation once more. Maybe he could web-swing places, but after his recent crash, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to try that again so soon, and even so, if he wanted to get serious with Gwen, maybe take her someplace nice, he'd need a vehicle…

Not to mention something safer than web-swinging. It's not like he could just pick her up from the back window and web-swing to a restaurant or something.

Peter wasn't entirely sure what the rules about human spiders swinging from buildings were, but he was pretty sure that it was a bad idea to tip off George Stacy to him doing that, especially if he and Gwen started dating...

So, let's take a look and see what I can get. Peter thought. He typed "Used classic cars" into his search-bar. If Flash gets something brand-new, I'll get something that makes him look like a young punk.

Most of the results were entirely out of his price-range. Most of the really good stuff was just above what he could afford doing anything inside his typical skillset. Sure, he could take that web-design job, but that didn't pay enough to get a car quickly...

Then an ad caught his eye. Peter's adblocker was out of date, and when that happened, ads started slipping through. But this... Might be his ticket to fast money and stardom all in one.

"WCW Open Challenge! Last three minutes with Bonesaw on Thursday Night Thunder and win big!"

Despite his better nature, he clicked on the ad, and read up on the details.

"WCW Heavyweight Champion Joseph 'Bonesaw' McGraw has issued an open challenge! Come to the Kirby arena across from the New York Public Library and try your luck with the World Heavyweight Champion for YOUR chance to win a spot in the upcoming Rumble Royale and a ten thousand dollar cash prize! Anyone who can last three minutes in the ring with Bonesaw will earn themselves a spot in the ultimate match of the upcoming Pay-Per-View, and if you win that, you've got a shot against Bonesaw at Starrcade for the title!"

"Each match will have a rotating rule-set. Some will be no-DQ, some will be cage matches, you never know what you'll have to deal with! So what are you waiting for? We're accepting all comers!"

Ten thousand dollars was insane. Ten-thousand for three minutes of work? Hell, Peter'd seen Bonesaw on TV. He was a great fighter, but at the end of the day, so was Flash Thompson. Hell, he didn't even need to land a blow on the champ, he could just jump around the ring until Bonesaw wore himself out. After that, the sky was the limit. Win the Rumble Royale, beat Bonesaw at Starrcade...

But hell, the minimum age was 18. He was fifteen, going on sixteen. And he sure as hell looked like it, looking in the mirror. Even with all the muscle he'd gained, and the newly-found confident stride, he still looked like a kid, looking at his face. How could he fool the people at the arena long enough to get into the match and win the money?

He mentally chided himself for thinking he could do this for even an instant, before his eyes drifted across the match-card for the upcoming pay-per-view...

Rey Misterio vs Sincara for the Intercontinental Championship...

The funny thing about Luchadores is, Peter thought mischievously, that, underneath the mask, they could be anyone. Some of them, you could only see their eyes, and eyes alone aren't enough to age anyone.

Peter jumped up from his chair, and dug through his closet. In a box at the bottom was the remnants of a ski trip Norman took him and Harry on so long ago. There were other things in the box, but Peter found the thing he was looking for. A red balaclava that Aunt May had knitted for him before he left. It only had a single hole for the eyes.

Peter kept digging, and found a red Lycra running shirt, and blue sweatpants in the closet, and a pair of old reinforced gloves he'd found on the street. The outfit was coming together, but it looked kind of plain with just the colors of the clothing.

Peter pulled up Photoshop on his computer, and whipped up a few draft designs, until he finally had a template he could use for a stencil. A spider sitting in the middle of a giant web.

He printed the stencil out, and carefully cut the outline. He ducked downstairs into the garage and found a can of black spray-paint. He took the paint, running shirt, and templates outside to Uncle Ben's workbench near the shed, and sprayed the shirt with the paint.

He waited for the paint to dry, then took the shirt down, and went back upstairs. He pulled off his shirt and donned his costume… And was immediately overcome by how scratchy the Lycra was against his skin.

It doesn't matter how it feels if it looks good, right? Peter thought as he turned towards the mirror… To find that his design was already starting to flake off the glossy fabric. Just great… What else do I have?

Peter pulled the running shirt off, and stuffed it under his bed, then rummaged back through his closet for something to wear, until he found a bright red sweatshirt.

He took it downstairs, placed his template over top, and sprayed it with black paint so hard he emptied the can.

At least it looks good. Peter thought as he hung it from the clothesline. I love it when a plan comes together. He thought as he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"So, whatcha up to?" Gwen asked from the tree behind him. Peter yanked the sweatshirt down off the clothesline and tossed it into the shed.

"Oh, nothing." He said, trying to be casual. "Just uh... Try my hand at designing some clothes."

"Really?" She asked as she hopped down into the Parker's side of the fence. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Uh, yes." He said. "I'm not very good, I just wanted to-"

"Take a swing at it?" She asked.

He chuckled nervously.

"Yeaaaah."

"What are you designing?"

"Nothing, just some lame slogan, I didn't have any regular shirts with the right color. Might see if I can sell something on Etsy or..." Peter trailed off.

She follows my website, if I keep talking about this I'm gonna have to put up a storefront with something on it.

"Hey, good luck! If you put up a sports version I'll wear it at the meet!"

Yeah… Just what I thought.

Peter nodded awkwardly. "Sure, I'll look into it!"

Peter took the sweatshirt back upstairs, and hung it up in his closet, then went back to his computer.

With ten grand, I'd have enough to buy a decent car, a new computer, and stick something away in the bank for a rainy day.

He searched, and searched... Then, he found the perfect car on a local dealership's website. Between a rusty black Camaro, decommissioned police cruisers and an ugly yellow Jeep, there was a crimson red mustang with white racing stripes. It was a little older, and it'd need new mirrors and tires, but it was exactly the kind of car he was looking for. Flash Thompson's chunky 2011 Dodge looked like a minivan compared to the 1995 Mustang GT. Not that Peter was trying to compete with the jock, or anything.