Hi! I apologize right away for the delay, these last few weeks have been very busy! I arranged my mother's wedding, which took about a week, then my computer had a problem and it took a while longer to fix, but I'm back! I hope you like it, enjoy!
Gwen gasped softly as she spilled some hot coffee on her fingers while moving her cup. She hastily washed her hand and then turned around, picked up her plate with some food and hurried up the stairs to her room.
She took a sip of coffee, muttering softly as it burned the tops of her lips. She left her afternoon coffee on the side table and practically leapt onto her bed, her feet almost immediately dangling in the air as she stared at her laptop screen.
Her heart skipped a beat as she saw that she had received an e-mail, and her hands began to shake slightly as she scrolled down and read each line.
"Dear Gwen Stacy,
We are delighted to inform you that you have been approved for the Advanced Biology internship program at Oscorp Industries. During your time with us, you will work directly with some of the most renowned scientists in the field, assisting in genetic research, biomolecular engineering and the development of new medical technologies..."
She stopped reading for a moment and let out a short, incredulous laugh. She spun her body around on the bed and kicked her legs up and down several times in excitement.
She had done it!
It wasn't as if she doubted her ability, but still, being accepted for a high-level internship at Oscorp was no small feat. Especially considering that they didn't take just anyone.
She let out a low cry of happiness, before pulling herself together again and staring at her laptop screen once more.
She opened the email attachment, which contained the details of the internship. "Research projects in gene therapy, biopharmaceutical development and advanced studies in phone regeneration. Benefits include access to state-of-the-art laboratories, mentoring with leading Oscorp scientists and a monthly stipend."
That's fucking amazing!
She grabbed a notebook and started jotting down the topics she needed to study, watch and review before starting the internship. The list was long: CRISPR gene therapy, cutting-edge biopharmaceuticals, studies on cell regeneration in damaged tissues... it all sounded like a lot, but it only served to make her even more excited.
She opened several scientific articles on her laptop, starting to read them carefully and taking notes as she went. "CRISPR gene therapy." She read in a low voice, underlining an important part of the text. "Use of enzymes to edit DNA sequences..."
She got so caught up in it that she didn't even remember texting her father to tell him that she had succeeded.
While she was making some notes, her attention was soon drawn by the incessant noise of notifications arriving on her phone.
She looked at the screen and saw a flood of notifications: messages from her father, her mother and some friends.
Dad: Gwen, I'm picking you up now. (7)
Liz(zard): Holy shit, Gwen! (14)
MJ S2: Seriously, text me. (32)
Mom: Is your dad home yet? (5)
She frowned, confused. She opened a new tab and accessed the official Daily Bugle channel, which was broadcasting live. The screen showed a crowd gathered in Times Square, with all the screens displaying the same image. A man wearing a completely white outfit, plain and unadorned, except for a bandana that covered his eyes, leaving only his mouth visible.
A rather... strange, tacky and even ugly outfit, but considering that he was stained with blood, it was certainly something to pay attention to. He seemed to be in an unfamiliar place, with dark backgrounds and dramatic lighting.
"New York is on the verge of collapse. Gangs spread like rats, cops die like flies, innocents fall every day..." His voice was distorted, he was using a voice modulator for sure. "Nothing new in this city, you must know. This corrupt system doesn't bring justice to those who deserve it, on the contrary... it only spreads more hatred, more death."
He paused for a few moments after one of his men, off-screen, offered him a cigarette. He took a long drag, blowing the smoke towards the camera before continuing.
"All these cars, all these uniformed people on the streets. Do you think the police are here to protect you?" He snorted a dismissive laugh. "Five cops... searched for and locked up a drug dealer and a thief in the back of a car 20 years ago. They broke into their house while they were sleeping, took them away with their young son. They tortured them, abused them, then killed them. Why? Because they wanted to. Because corruption is the blood that runs through the veins of this rotten system."
He took another long drag, before throwing the cigarette away.
"I was inspired by Spider-Man. I saw him as a symbol. He went against corruption, against the real criminals who rule this city. I felt inspired... until I saw him save the people who corrode this world the most. Helping them. That disappointed me. He protected those who should be held accountable." He said with great disdain, resting the rifle he was holding on his shoulder.
"I am what Spider-Man should have been. I am real justice. And today, I declare war on this corrupt system." The scene changed, and now the screen showed a list with several names written on it, men, women, and next to each name, an amount.
"Here's my offer." He laughed with a certain amusement. "Ten thousand dollars for each dead cop. A hundred thousand dollars for the head of the sergeant, the lieutenant... and the police captain." Gwen almost dropped her laptop when a photo of her father appeared on the screen, followed by photos of her mother, her younger brother and, finally, herself.
"And, of course, a hundred thousand dollars for the head of each member of their family. New York will be for those who deserve to have it. Good luck!" The screen cut out again, returning to the daily bugle logo.
Norman drank the rest of his tequila as he watched the screen in front of him, sitting in his leather chair as he watched Nemesis' speech.
Norman's cell phone vibrated just as the screen changed. An unidentified caller.
He answered it without haste, pouring a little more tequila into his glass. "It's done. Have the figures been released?"
Norman let out a short laugh, playing with a pen on his desk. "Of course. The money has already been transferred to your account, as promised."
Nemesis paused for just a few moments. "'He' hasn't arrived."
"Don't worry about it. I'll deal with him later. Get your men ready for the second part." He said, turning off his cell phone soon after. He drank another shot of tequila before getting up and walking calmly around his office.
He needed to make it look like he wasn't out of all the chaos. A destroyed part of Oscorp, a few injuries here and there would give him more credibility and dispel some of the doubts that were most likely still installed in the minds of the population.
Before continuing, he checked his things once more. Oscorp would be the city's new manufacturing company. Highly encrypted cell phones, heavily armored cars, weapons, computers... it would supply the city with whatever they needed.
And of course, he would control their lives once he had access to them.
He had already set up his own private security company and bought up all the others in the city.
His plan was quite... simple:
After spreading fear, his company will start selling private security, protection and surveillance equipment to businesses and residents.
Real estate speculation: With neighborhoods destroyed by crime, he will buy up land at low prices and, after "cleaning up" the area, resells it for very high prices with the security in his name.
Government contracts: With the city in crisis, he will present himself as a "savior", securing million-dollar contracts for reconstruction and policing.
Financial Manipulation: With the market collapsing, he will invest in undervalued stocks and profit when the economy stabilizes.
And to control the public, it was just as easy:
Creating a "Public Enemy": He invented a "villain" so that the city would need him as a savior.
Bribing Politicians: He will put mayors and governors in his pocket, guaranteeing laws that favor his business.
Manipulating the Media: He will buy newspapers and TVs to control the narrative and censor anyone who tries to expose him.
Digital Monitoring: He has already developed the blueprint for a surveillance system in partnership with the government to spy on his enemies and opponents.
And, in the end, he would be a kind of unofficial dictator... but nobody would know that, of course.
He soon focused on his task, leaving his office, and minutes later, an explosion occurs at the large Oscorp, and Norman Osborn's body is rushed to a hospital.
The place stank of garbage and urine, an odor Peter had thought he was used to, but apparently he wasn't when he felt the sudden urge to vomit.
He walked bent over under the weight of the bag of cans, his cold fingers trembling as they held the recyclable material he had managed to gather over the last few hours. His clothes were dirty and worn, but at least they still protected him from the biting wind that blew through the streets.
The route to the exchange point was always the same. He passed brightly lit stores, restaurants with warm and inviting store windows that made his stomach rumble.
A lady in a red scarf watched him for a few moments and clutched her handbag to her chest, as if she was thinking of giving him something, but hesitated. Her face twitched, perhaps ashamed of her own hesitation, and she just moved on.
Although he hated such looks, he admitted that it was better than the contemptuous ones he always saw. Or the disdainful ones when they thought he was going to rob them.
In the queue at the recycling center, a middle-aged man with a worn-out cap gave Peter a crooked look. He was holding his own bag full of cans and plastic bottles, but the boy noticed how he was sending quick glances at the bag full of cans he was holding. The boy almost rolled his eyes, and it was at moments like this that his irrational side thought about having accepted the pocket knife that Marcos had tried to give him a few days ago.
But, of course, he refused. People like that man were just desperate.
When his turn came, he threw the cans on the metal scale, listening to the hollow sound of aluminum clashing.
The clerk, a skinny boy in a grimy apron, typed something into the machine and, without looking at Peter, pushed over a small envelope containing some change.
Change... a little over seven kilos of cans in that bag, and he only got a few bucks.
"Here. Next."
Peter took the money and left without saying anything. It wasn't much.
It might be enough for a cheap snack, maybe a hot coffee, if he could find a place that didn't kick him out before he asked.
But it was something.
He put the money in the inside pocket of his jacket and started walking back.
Halfway back, however, he noticed a strange movement. People started murmuring and moving around.
He arched an eyebrow, and his instincts immediately screamed, it was obvious that something was going on. And as if his thoughts were instantly confirmed, he heard sirens.
Then screams.
Then gunshots.
His body tensed. He saw a man stumble and fall as he tried to flee, he saw a woman clutch her daughter's coat to her chest as she picked up her pace.
"They're killing the police!"
Peter's heart leapt.
He looked around the corner, where a crowd was dispersing in panic.
His first instinct was to run in the opposite direction. And, well... that's exactly what he did.
He ran.
The bitter taste of impotence filled Peter's mouth as he ran, dodging panicked people and the distant sound of gunfire.
He squeezed the money into his pocket, as if that would make up for anything. As if the fact that he was trying to survive justified the fact that he was letting people die.
Really... so much for being a hero.
"Peter!"
He turned and saw Marcos, sweating and with a strained face, dragging a wheelbarrow full of belongings. Next to him, Rosa was holding a torn bag, Lopez was carrying a child and an unknown woman was running after them.
"The house has been broken into." Marcos spat, pulling Peter by the arm. "Bunch of crazies with machetes. They're shooting everyone, no matter who it is."
"Lopez got some spaces in the building on 5th Avenue. The shelter. Just for today." Rosa said, walking past them at a fast pace after Marcos signaled to her.
Peter looked at the unknown woman. She was trembling, pressing her hand against her chest. His gaze was short-lived; she was probably the woman with the child that Lopez had mentioned some time ago.
They continued on their way, and it wasn't even a few seconds before chaos broke out on the streets. Sure, they were on the outskirts, but the local gangs hardly ever clashed. Not like this.
The air smelled of burnt gasoline and gunpowder, an acrid scent that made his eyes water.
He felt his chest burning, not from fear or despair at the gunfire. It was from what he saw around him.
A woman tripped and fell next to them. Before she could get up, a shot hit her in the back. She squirmed, her fingers scratching the asphalt, her mouth trying to form words that never came out.
He'd been in that situation for weeks now.
Weeks ago... he would have jumped those buildings in a single bound.
A boy, perhaps 16 years old, ran out of an alleyway in the opposite direction. He didn't even realize he was running straight into one of the masked men who were shooting at police officers. He tried to stop. It was too late. Three shots. The dry sound echoed in Peter's ears as the boy fell.
Weeks ago... he would have heard the shots before they were fired.
He gritted his teeth, feeling a suffocating hatred grow inside him. Weeks ago he would have done something.
But... he was just a malnourished kid, running around, hoping that the next bullet wouldn't be aimed at him.
"Peter, goddamn it!" Lopez grabbed his shoulder hard, pulling him away. The old man had Daniela by the arm, the woman almost dragging her feet, the child crying muffled against his chest. "This is no time to freeze!"
A black pick-up truck pulled around the corner, full of hooded men with guns in their hands. It was kind of obvious what was going on, the local gang had ambushed the cops patrolling the area, waited a while for reinforcements and when the reinforcements arrived they attacked with everything.
"What the fuck is going on?!" Peter asked aloud when he saw a police van turn the corner.
"It was on the news last night! I don't know exactly but there's a bounty on every dead cop!" Peter's eyes widened as Lopez explained.
What the fuck! This was insanity!
Bounties for dead cops?! And was there a better opportunity for these factions and gangs? Receiving money for killing the only thing that stood in their way.
Not only that, but people like them, homeless people or people in pure despair, seeing this as a way out of their desperate situation, would risk committing this sin.
No wonder the area was in chaos within minutes.
"The shelter is over there." Lopez pointed to a low building with its windows covered in wood. "It's going to be fucking crowded, but it's our only chance."
They ran again, distressed. Peter looked back. The street was in chaos: fallen people, others running in opposite directions, and in the distance, the sound of approaching engines.
The group ran through the gates of the shelter, their chests heaving with the rush of adrenaline. For a moment, just a moment, they felt a glimmer of relief at being surrounded by walls and a roof. They were inside, between huge, thick concrete walls.
Peter looked around. The lobby was full of pale, panting faces, people who had managed to escape the hell outside. Some were hugging each other, crying softly. Others just stared into nothingness, as if the shock had ripped them out of themselves.
He couldn't remember if the city had ever been in such chaos before. In fact, he had heard of a few incidents many years ago, but nothing quite like this. It was close to dangerous streets, but a reward for dead cops? That would make all the streets dangerous.
As the large iron gates began to close behind them, a new chorus of shouts filled the room.
"No! Wait! There are still people out there!" Lopez shouted.
Peter turned his face in time to see some people still trying to get through, their eyes wide with fear as they squeezed against the closing gates.
Their hands beat against the metal. Peter saw a woman holding a child, tears streaming down her face. A young man was trying to help a lady walk, but her steps were slow, dragging. The gates were closing too quickly.
He wanted to go there. In fact, he even started to walk... but the gates were already closing. Two shelter workers were pushing the heavy gates.
Peter swallowed dryly, his fists clenching tightly. He didn't know which was worse, leaving those people to die outside, but far from his line of sight, or watching them get hit by gunfire and fall to the ground in a red cloud.
The gates never closed completely. A group of armed men advanced, kicking and pushing, preventing them from closing completely. Peter saw Marcos and Lopez, running to try to prevent them from entering. Other men from the shelter joined them.
Move, asshole...
Peter froze.
Come on...
His breathing was wrong, too fast and too short. The screams mixed in his mind, echoing like knives tearing his concentration. His body was telling him to run. But where to?
Go help them...
Outside, a car sped up. A roaring engine. Peter knew before he saw it.
Fucking move!
He heard the sound of tires against asphalt. The deafening noise of the gates being forced open, the black van rammed in. Marcos and Lopez, as well as everyone else who was helping, were thrown backwards.
The metal structure collapsed with a bang, and Marcos was thrown to the ground before he could react. The weight of the gate crushed part of his leg, and a scream of pain tore from his throat.
"MARCOS!"
Lopez ran to him, trying to pull him out, but the iron gate was wedged against his thigh.
Chaos overtook the shelter. The invaders ran through the destroyed entrance, firing without hesitation. Men and women fell before they even understood what was happening. Some tried to run, but were mercilessly shot down.
Peter stood there... not because he was paralyzed, but because he was trying to do something. He was trying to hear their heartbeats, trying to see the bullets being fired from the barrels of their guns, trying to predict their next moves.
Either he could do it now, or he would die along with everyone else there.
He wanted to move. He wanted to run to Marcos, pull him up, help him. But he doubted he would be able to get that gate off him.
Marcos struggled, trying to get free, but it was in vain.
"Get out of here, Lopez!" He shouted, his voice shaking with pain. "Get Rosa the fuck out of here!"
Lopez hesitated, his expression torn between despair and guilt. But Rosa was trembling next to Peter, her eyes watering, her fingers clutching his arms tightly. He cursed softly and ran over to them.
"We have to go! Let's go!" He said hurriedly, and Peter barely felt the squeeze he gave his arm. The boy, however, didn't move. "Peter, we have to go now!"
Peter didn't even look at him, his eyes were focused on a figure in a black shirt. The man walked unhurriedly, holding a pistol with a disturbing calmness. Marcos was on the ground, vulnerable.
The shooter raised his gun.
Marcos spat blood and looked at him, afraid, of course, terrified, but staring firmly into his eyes.
The hammer of the gun receding. The barrel pointed at Marcos' head. Everything so slow, so clear.
The man's finger moved over the trigger.
Peter didn't think. His body reacted. Not exactly as before, desperation dictated his body.
It was a broken movement.
His left foot slipped on the blood on the floor. His right knee hit the concrete. His fingers stretched out like claws, muscles, tendons and sheer will squirming in one last attempt.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't heroic.
It was pain.
An agony that started in his spine and exploded in his nerves like liquid fire.
The smell of gunpowder increased a hundredfold
Rosa's muffled scream echoed as if it were inside his skull
The sweat dripping down the shooter's face formed maps that he could read
Peter saw the bullet. He saw the projectile spinning in the air, the smoke coming out in perfect spirals.
He blinked. Peter felt something warm in his hand.
Time seemed to slow down when he lowered his eyes. His palm was open. And there, pressed against his skin, was the bullet.
There was no pain. Just a warmth mixed with a slight tingle.
Silence fell like a knife cut.
The gunman's eyes widened. The gun trembled in his hand.
And it was only then that Peter realized he was in front of Marcos, his hand just in front of his face, holding a bullet that would surely kill him.
He blinked, stunned. The man in front of him shouted something, muffled by the shouts around him and the gunfire that still echoed through the streets.
Peter took a deep breath. His fingers closed around the projectile.
The metal creaked against his strength. And then... it crumbled.
The bullet turned to dust in his hand.
He smiled
Fucking finally.
He didn't know exactly what had happened, what had made him act, but it all seemed so distant, almost as if he wasn't there. He stepped forward, his figure no longer looking human. The man raised his gun, but Peter slammed into his arm, throwing the weapon away and breaking his forearm in a rather brutal way.
He screamed, but only briefly. The left fist hit the man's chin, and Peter listened with a certain satisfaction as he heard the bones crunch under the skin. The man flew backwards like a rag doll, arcing through the air before hitting the ground, unconscious.
This caused practically everyone in the room to look in his direction. He didn't care, he was elated and angry, a very explosive combination for the misfortune of some and the happiness of others.
He shot a web, relieved to see that he was finally able to shoot one, into the chest of one of the men further on and pulled him towards him, hitting him with a strong kick to the chest that sent him flying into the concrete wall.
Bullets practically flew in his direction, and he leapt up and shot webs at their weapons, disarming as many as he could at great speed. With that, he advanced towards the one closest to him, who tried to attack him with a punch. Peter grabbed his wrist and twisted. The crack of the radio breaking echoed through the shelter. The man's scream was drowned out by an elbow to the nose that knocked him onto his back.
The boy finished him off with a kick to the side of his stomach, knocking him out after blood practically exploded from his mouth.
One of them fired. He dodged. Not like before, not a graceful dodge. It was a crude, almost animalistic movement. The bullet passed through where his head had been a second before, and then his hands were already on the barrel of the gun, crushing the metal like aluminum foil.
The kick that followed broke three of the man's ribs.
He shot a web at the last man inside and pulled him hard towards him. With that, he grabbed the man by the neck, lifting him into the air with just one hand before throwing him violently to the ground.
Broken bones, all of them, and if you ask him? He was very gentle.
There was silence again for a few moments. He ran his eyes over the remaining people. Bodies lay fallen, of people he hadn't been quick enough to save, and those who remained stared at him with an enormous mixture of sensations.
He closed his eyes for a moment and looked at his hand. Why had he lost his powers? And why, at that very moment, had he gotten them back?
He felt... better than before. Not just physically, mentally he felt much better. And he only had Marcos and Rosa to thank for everything they had done for him over the past few weeks.
He closed his fist slightly and raised his head as he heard another wave of gunfire coming from outside. He turned around and walked briskly over to the still stationary van, placing his hands under the front bumper.
With a single movement, he lifted the almost three tons of metal as if it were a cardboard box. The windows shattered as the van spun in the air. He threw it as if it were nothing more than a toy.
Thick jets of web covered the van in seconds, creating a barrier that sealed off the street. No one would get through.
Marcos was pale, his leg crushed under the gate. Rosa was trying to lift him up, her hands dirty with blood.
Peter didn't speak.
He just bent down, picked up the iron gate as if it were a sheet of paper, and threw it aside.
"Peter..." Rosa began, but Peter was already taking Marcos in his arms.
"Hold on to me." He ordered, holding out his hand to Rosa.
She hesitated for a second - a second too long - before accepting. He jumped. The wind howled in Peter's ears as they scaled the shelter building in seconds. Their feet stuck to the roof, softening their landing.
Marcos groaned in pain as Peter carefully laid him down.
"You..." The man began, gasping slightly from the pain, but not leaving Peter's eyes, which looked out onto the streets. The city was in chaos. Sirens could still be heard from far away.
But...
"What the fuck, kid!" Marcos almost growled, more in pain than in disbelief. Peter winced slightly, but turned around.
"... I know you guys are a bit confused, it's just..." He opened his mouth, once, twice, but no words came out.
"Really?! Confused?! Fuck, you were Spider-Man the whole time you were with us?!" Marcos said again, a little euphoric, but surprisingly, there was no anger in his voice.
"Why... I mean... that... doesn't make sense." Rosa said, or rather tried to say, without really being able to formulate a complete sentence.
Peter swallowed some saliva, feeling somewhat smaller than he had been literally minutes ago.
"... I... assume you don't like me that much." He said in a small laugh in an attempt to ease the tension that hung in the air. He wanted to get out of there soon, the more time he wasted, the more people died.
"What?! On the contrary, we're big fans." Marcos said, leaning his back against one of the building's ventilation pipes, the adrenaline making his leg hurt less than it really was.
Peter, for his part, blinked in confusion.
"My fans?"
"Don't you remember?" Rosa asked, a small smile on her lips as she crouched down next to Marcos. "We went to a building near the center to get some medicine from one of our acquaintances. The building caught fire, and you saved us."
She said, and the boy blinked a few more times, his eyes widening slightly as he remembered that day. Shortly after his fight with the goblin, he had thrown those bombs at the building, and he had done what he could to save the people trapped inside.
They were that homeless couple, Marcos had protected Rosa that day. That's why he always complained about the pain in his back.
"... Shit." He said in sheer surprise, causing Marcos to let out a loud, half gasped laugh.
"Yeah... shit. Look, I don't know exactly what happened to you after... ahm... anyway, what I do know is that, when I saw you, you looked like you could barely stand up. But... now, I don't think that's a problem anymore, is it?" Marcos asked, and Peter looked at the streets again.
Yes... it wasn't a problem anymore.
He clasped his hands together. Now he could do what he needed to do.
"... I wasn't in a very good place when you found me, but you helped me. I have a lot of work to do, apparently. But I promise you two that when I... well, when I figure out where my life is going, I'll find you." He said, his voice soft despite the rush he felt inside. He turned to them, giving one of the only sincere smiles he had given in many weeks. "Thank you for everything you've done. I promise I'll make it up to you."
He said, picking up the worn and dirty mask he had kept in his jacket all this time. It was an amateur mask, used to commit the greatest of his sins.
But it was a disposable mask, a temporary mask that didn't dictate who he was.
He put it on quickly, and with an impulse, jumped into the chaos.
The armored truck tore across the bridge, hitting smaller cars, its occupants firing everywhere, using not only the police vehicle, but also weapons and military equipment they had just stolen. Civilians threw themselves to the ground, shattered glass raining down on the asphalt as they displayed the bodies of some dead cops in the back.
Spider-Man landed on the hood of the truck, crumpling the metal under his feet. The driver and occupants were startled, and before they could even shoot in his direction he broke the glass by kicking the passenger, breaking his jaw. Then he shot a web into the driver's chest, threw his head against the van's dashboard and threw him out, unkindly.
The truck lost control, skidding towards the side of the bridge.
He entered the vehicle, punching one of the men in the face who had become unbalanced. He landed a kick to the stomach of another, pinning them against the sides of the vehicle before jumping out.
Spider-man jumped, his fingers sticking to the 8-ton vehicle. With a single tug, he lifted it above his head and threw it back into the center of the road - where thick webs pinned it to the asphalt like a fly in a web.
He looked at the bodies of the cops, sadly, there wasn't much he could do for them... but he could do for others still alive.
With that, he shot a web at a nearby building and swung himself away, catching a glimpse of a camera following him.
The officer threw himself against the door, dodging a few shots that hit the wall behind him. He gritted his teeth as he saw that he was running out of ammo, and took long, heavy strides to the window.
His car was overturned, marked by several shots which, miraculously, didn't hit him. At least not where it really mattered. He gritted his teeth slightly as he felt the sharp pain coming from his abdomen.
He looked down. He hadn't been hit in the stomach, but he had been hit in the liver, so surely all that was keeping him upright now was pure adrenaline.
He looked around, and was soon forced away from the window when another shot was fired in his direction. He was being surrounded.
"Dispatch, this is Officer Davis, I need backup now!" He tried his radio again, and although he knew they could hear him, it was somewhat unlikely that they would respond.
The whole city was in a similar situation, other police officers were in the same situation, if not worse.
"Shit!" He grumbled as he heard footsteps coming from the door, he quickly raised his pistol and fired at the man who had advanced, he missed a few shots, but hit what he needed to, and the man fell in a high-pitched scream, his chest bleeding and the life draining out of him as he was shot through the heart.
Officer Davis gritted his teeth again as he realized he had run out of ammo. Left with no choice, he threw his gun aside and ran over to the fallen man to get his gun.
However, the instant his fingers touched the handle of the gun, he was hit by a kick to the face, sending him tumbling to the side, his back crashing against the wall in a deafening thud.
A surge of adrenaline rushed through his body at the sight of a gun being pointed at his head. He spun around, knocking the man to the side. The man, for his part, despite being taken by surprise, managed to balance himself, but it was a big enough gap for Davis to stand up and punch the man in the face, sending him to the ground.
He bent down and picked up the gun of the man he had killed earlier, turned around and pointed it at the man on the ground. However, his arm was struck by a blow, causing him to miss the shot, and soon, he grunted as he felt himself being pressed against the wall.
They surrounded him, grabbed his arms and started beating him. He could only grunt as he felt the blood run down his face and the metallic taste spread through his mouth. The man he had almost killed now stood and cruelly pressed his finger against the bullet wound in his abdomen.
Davis screamed as they cursed and laughed amongst themselves.
Honestly... he thought he was done for. He had nothing to do in that situation, surrounded, wounded and alone.
One of them raised his gun again, and Davis only sighed as he saw his finger lightly press the trigger.
The gun went off, the flash blinding him for only a few moments. However, what came next was not the cold embrace of death. He blinked, seeing a dirty, calloused hand in front of him, clenched into a fist.
His confused eyes followed the arm covered by a battered jacket to a figure a little shorter than him, wearing an equally battered mask, but one that signified something very familiar.
The figure opened his hand again, and the bullet fell to the ground in a sharp thud that reverberated in the minds of everyone there.
And before Davis could even understand what had just happened, the figure landed a kick so hard on the chest of one of the men holding him that the man simply flew away, destroying part of the ajar door until he crashed into the wall.
The others screamed, and Davis felt his body being dropped, his legs gave way and he went crashing to the floor.
It took seconds for him to at least recover enough to raise his head. As he did so, he blinked in shock.
He had never seen the famous New York hero up close, only what he saw on television or the aftermath of his fights. The men were on the floor, some suspended from the ceiling by thick webs, others simply slumped over with visibly broken arms and legs turned at angles they definitely shouldn't have been.
Others had part of their bodies sticking out of windows.
"Jeez... that looks rather ugly." The city's personal hero said as he approached, his voice much more... youthful than he thought it would be. Davis breathed heavily in relief, and the adrenaline began to recede, the tiredness spreading quickly, along with the pain, and he was unable to say anything but grunts.
"But you'll be fine... probably. Come on, let me help you." He said, and Davis couldn't have refused even if he'd had the strength, the spider-man himself lifting him as if he weighed no more than a pen.
Davis just focused on enduring the pain of the gunshot. He needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. He didn't even notice what was happening around him, his consciousness leaving him more than once as the world around him passed by like a blur.
"Here... he's not very well..." He heard voices, but couldn't exactly identify them. He felt something soft touch his back, the smell of saline entering his nostrils.
"Officer... Davis..." He heard his name, and forced himself to open his eyes, staring into the dirty white lenses of the mask that looked in his direction.
"My son..." He said between consciousness and unconsciousness, his hoarse voice almost inaudible. "He's... a big fan..." He looked around briefly, seeing some doctors walking nearby, others picking up a few things before moving towards him.
He was in one of the medical areas set up by Osborn around the city.
"Really? Well, when you see him again, tell him the friendly neighborhood guy said hi."
He smiled, squirming so he wouldn't, his whole torso aching not just from the gunshot, but from the blows he'd received. "... Miles is going to love it."
Heh... the guys at the police station wouldn't believe it.
They brought a tank.
Or at least, what was left of one - an old model stolen from some military depot, now painted with gang symbols. The turret rotated, pointing at the police station ahead.
However, before firing, the members inside looked at each other in confusion as they felt the tank move. And to everyone's surprise, the tank was simply lifted into the air.
They screamed as the tank was thrown meters upwards, their bodies flinging from side to side like rag dolls.
Spider-man leapt above the tank again, shot two webs into the ground and propelled himself downwards, hitting the tank with enormous force, enough to deform the outer shell and hurl it violently to the ground.
The tank spun around a few times, bouncing and dragging on the ground until it came to a stop against the side of a nearby building.
Some of the men inside were injured, but soon tried to get out of the huge metal structure. However, by the time one of them opened the lid, it was too late, Spider-man had entered the tank and none of them managed to get out.
The officers trapped inside the police station were able to leave shortly afterwards, relieved and some smiling at the sight of the huge web that practically decorated the entire street.
In another corner of the city, the situation was worse. This place had been a gang conflict for a long time. A group of civilians were trapped inside a convenience store while outside a war against the police was taking place, the doors barricaded with whatever they could find. Outside, at one point, some armed criminals tried to break down the entrance.
They never stood a chance.
The first warning came when one of the invaders was suddenly pulled up by a web. The others looked up, only to see Spider-man looming over them like a predator on top of a building.
He came down like a bolt of lightning.
The shots came first, but it was no use. He dodged with absurd precision, as if seeing the world in slow motion. In the blink of an eye, he was on them, his fists smashing into faces and jaws, his blows so fast that the bandits barely had time to scream.
One of them tried to flee on a motorcycle. The hero let him go.
For two seconds.
He shot out a web, pulling himself up at absurd speed, catching up with the man in mid-run. With one brutal move, he grabbed him by the neck and threw him against a wall, his helmet cracking on impact.
Silence hung in the air. The civilians inside the store shrank back, peering out cautiously. Spider-Man stared at them for a moment, then, without saying a word, raised his hands and ripped the mask off one of the criminals. He walked over to a nearby security camera, lifted up the thug's face and showed it to them.
A form of humiliation, a way of saying that they were nothing, and that the terror they were causing was gradually being countered.
Gwen sighed for the tenth time in the last two minutes. She had never seen anything like it, such a contrast. She had left a neighborhood where everything seemed peaceful and nothing out of the ordinary, and passed through others that looked like war zones.
Bodies strewn across the asphalt, buildings on fire, gangs that used to fight over territory now hung out together. The sound of gunfire mixed with the roar of engines and the unbridled panic of people trying to survive.
The car she was in was armored, with dark windows, but her father insisted that she keep her head down. George was at her side. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, his right hand resting on his pistol holster, ready to react at the slightest sign of danger.
It's like the '92 riots... she thought.
Reading was one thing... She had read about the protests, the fires, the violence that had gripped Los Angeles decades ago. But to see something like this in her own city, in her own time, was different.
Not even the riots that took hold against corruption shortly after the appearance of Spider-Man took on such proportions.
Gang conflicts weren't exactly new there either. Whether it was violent protests over racial conflicts in the 90s, or conflicts over territory between mafia and smaller gangs.
Still... witnessing this, being a possible target... was something she never imagined she would experience.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the radio.
"- All units, code 10-78 at 5th and Broadway-"
"-We need reinforcements in the park-"
"-They're attacking the police station-"
"-He's back-"
The radio was brutally cut off when the loud roar of an engine caught their attention.
A black-painted steel truck with rusty grilles on the front emerged from a side street. Gwen barely had time to scream.
The impact was like an earthquake.
The armored car flipped three times before hitting a lamppost. The airbag exploded in the driver's face, the world spinning in slow motion. Shattered glass floated in the air. The windows withstood the impact well enough, but not enough not to crack.
When the vehicle finally stopped, upside down, crumpled like a soda can, the silence was worse than the noise.
Gwen shook her head, disoriented, blood dripping from her nose and pressure building in her head from being upside down.
The car radio was still spitting static.
She tried to move, only to be grabbed again by her father, the confusion was short-lived, and despair took over as she heard muffled gunfire coming from outside, as well as the sound of bullets hitting metal.
"Dad..." Her voice came out slurred, and George squeezed her a little harder.
"It's okay, stay down, sweetheart, just..." His voice spoke as the first flame ignited inside the car. The driver, injured but awake, despaired a little and moved backwards, ending up pushing George a little.
"Ah, shit!" The driver muttered, looking around somewhat calmly. Gwen didn't notice at first.
The smell of smoke came first.
Then the crackle of electricity, sparks dancing across the destroyed dashboard.
The gunshots came soon after.
Gwen felt the impacts against the armored car. The reinforced glass began to crack, and with each explosion of gunpowder, the shards from inside fell on to her arms. The smell of burning intensified, and the heat soon became suffocating.
She tried to move, but the firm belt didn't even allow her to change her position a little.
George, for his part, grunted some more. He looked around, noticing the fire starting to spread across the seats.
They were trapped.
The driver's door was already being forced by one of the criminals. Another group was trying to tear the back off with iron bars. It was only a matter of time.
George unbuckled his belt and fell onto the roof, grunting slightly. "Listen." He began, coughing a little through the smoke. "When that door gives way, I'm going to come out firing. You run to-"
The driver's door folded inwards. Gloved fingers appeared in the opening, pulling. George and the driver turned suddenly, raising their guns towards the door.
And then...
Nothing.
The fire continued. A piece of the roof collapsed. But the gunfire stopped. The voices fell silent. The fingers disappeared.
George froze, the gun trembling in his hand.
Then something heavy fell on the car, causing it to shake. Whatever it was, it was either heavy or it had fallen hard.
They heard the sound of various things falling, a shot or two, and after that, nothing else.
The silence lasted for a few moments, until it was broken by a loud metallic noise coming from next door. The rear door of the armored car was ripped off as if it were made of aluminum foil. The afternoon light invaded the smoke-filled interior.
"You know, Captain." His voice was a little... softer? Than Gwen had thought. And George, for his part, realized that it came from someone young... and that he was without his voice modulator... and uniform, for that matter. "If you wanted to get my attention, a flare would also work."
"Spider-Man." The hero - if he could still be called that - tilted his head. There was nothing besides the battered mask that was recognizable. He looked like he'd been caught in the middle of something, and yet... it was curious to see that he was so dirty and in such old clothes.
"Come on? Unless you want to roast marshmallows on that fire." He joked, holding out his hand. George accepted the help, being pulled out with disconcerting ease. When he turned to help Gwen, however, the hero was already there, offering his hand to her before the captain could even react.
Gwen stared at that gloved hand - the glove was different, thicker, as if it had been made by hand - before accepting.
She blinked a few times, trying to absorb what was happening. Spider-Man. Right there. The person the city loved and hated, who disappeared without a trace. Now he was standing in front of her, wearing clothes that looked like they had been rescued from a garbage dump.
The touch was firm but careful, and in a second she was out of the car, feeling the cold air hit her hot skin from the heat of the flames.
"Where the hell have you been?" That was the first thing George asked. Spider-Man hesitated for a second, the eyes of his mask flashing in the reflection of the fire. Then, with a casual tone, he answered.
"I took a vacation." He said, putting both hands on his waist soon after. "I only left for a few weeks, and when I came back, all this chaos. You've outdone yourselves."
Then he turned to Gwen.
She expected a joke. An exaggerated bow. Something from the "Spider-man" she'd seen on the news.
Instead, he just nodded.
"Miss Stacy. Nice to meet you. Too bad it's under these conditions." Professional. Too professional, she would say, to the point of sounding a little forced.
She looked around, noticing the many fallen bodies. Not civilians or cops, but the same armed men who had attacked them. Huge webs blocked parts of the streets... and why was the truck that had hit them hanging five stories high?
Spider-Man crossed his arms, watching George.
"I've taken care of a few things on the outskirts. I've kicked some gangs out of a few blocks. There's a shelter on 12th Avenue that was under attack... I've taken care of that, I'll ask you to send someone to pick them up. I've also cleared some areas near Chinatown and Brooklyn."
George nodded.
"Right. But things are bad in Harlem, the Bronx and Hell's Kitchen. The attacks are heavier there. The gangs are more armed, and some groups have started to unite. By now, they've probably taken over entire blocks. The Bronx is hell. And Harlem... the guys are using hospitals as headquarters. If we attack, we'll have civilian casualties." George said, picking up a rifle that the driver had given him. While they were both talking, he took the initiative to get some weapons and equipment from the luggage compartment.
"What the fuck is going on, exactly?" The hero asked, and George frowned.
"Haven't you heard?" Spider-Man merely shook his head. "A guy called Nemesis... apparently he stole Wilson Fisk's fortune and is using it to finance... well, all of this. He's put a bounty on the heads of police officers. The amount is even higher for high-ranking people... like me." He explained quickly, and the hero was silent for a few moments.
"... So there's no point in staying on the streets, we've cleared one neighborhood, two others will be taken... the problem is this Nemesis. I have to find him and finish him off." Spiderman said, and George agreed.
"Exactly what I was thinking."
"Still, we can't just leave things here as they are. Who knows how long it'll be before I find this Nemesis guy. Do you have anything that could turn the tide?" The hero asked.
George pressed his lips together.
"SWAT reinforcements have been dispatched, but we're overwhelmed. We need something to at least create a break in this chaos." They were silent for a few moments, until the hero moved to speak.
"Some mafias are intercepting some channels, but the police communication system is still on the air, right?" To both their surprise, it was Gwen who spoke up, attracting the attention of both men.
"Yes."
"Good. Then you need to turn this information against them." She said, and George made a slightly confused face.
"How exactly?" He asked.
"Counter-information. Fake news, Captain." Spider-man said, his voice slightly more... animated? He seemed pleased with her idea. "You spread the word that heavy reinforcements are coming, that the gangs are being betrayed by each other, that there's a spy in every group. If they start distrusting each other, they'll spend more time killing each other than attacking you."
George raised his eyebrows.
"That could work... but we'll need something more solid than just... that. They'll figure it out eventually."
"You can use Oscorp's equipment." Gwen said again, alternating her gaze between the two of them. "Oscorp has monitoring drones, right? You can reprogram them to spread messages and create visual distractions. Feed the gangs false information and lead them into traps." George seemed to scratch his chin.
They weren't sure it would work... as far as he knew, which wasn't much when it came to technology, things could get even more violent on the streets with heavily-armed men fighting each other.
"The gangs could turn on each other, but that wouldn't stop them from continuing to spread chaos throughout the city."
"You have police files on each of these gangs, right?" Spider-man asked.
"Of course. We know who the leaders are, the main members and even some of their bases, but they're spread too thin."
"Then that's what we need: a target." George frowned. "We need to take down the big names. The ones who really run the show. If they fall, the little guys will panic. They'll go into hiding."
"Yes, but... if one of them, ahm... dies, the others will retaliate, won't they?" Gwen asked, somewhat hesitant about taking part in that conversation that seemed so surreal.
"Think with me. As you said, if a gang leader is killed, the others will retaliate. But if they start disappearing without a trace, with no signs of a struggle, no bodies, no clues... Fear begins to grow. This is a coordinated attack that has been made to look random, without the heads of the operation, everything goes down the drain."
George looked at Gwen, then back at Spider-Man.
"... It's better than nothing. We're being massacred. If there's a chance then so be it." Spider-Man smiled beneath his mask. "Right... I'll give you the list of names. We'll need to get back to the police station."
With that, he turned to the driver, also armed, who in turn just nodded.
"Well... I'll escort you there." The hero said, jumping to the top of a lamppost.
The news spread like wildfire.
The city's TV screens, the news, social media - everywhere. Victims who had been taken to hospitals or medical wards stood up to watch. Victims who had no way out of the zone made do with small TVs in shelter areas.
People who had been rescued and were safe felt more relieved. Faction members felt their hearts drop into their stomachs.
Hope for some... despair for others.
The images were stark, with no room for doubt: he was back. The city's personal hero had returned.
And he looked angry.
He had a reputation for hurting his "victims". A record of taking it easy on thieves and drunks, but not exactly being gentle with murderers, with rapists.
In every corner of the city, people watched with wide eyes as he took down gang members with precise brutality. In one video, he walked through a dark alley and emerged carrying hostages on his shoulders, while their attackers lay on the ground, bones broken and bodies motionless. In another, he lifted a makeshift war tank - a drug traffickers' armored truck - and threw it against a criminal barricade.
In another, he lifted up wounded men for security cameras and posed, mocking, humiliating them.
Some crawled on the ground with their legs immobile...
Shortly before he arrived, important leaders were reporting betrayals. Gangs that had previously been united began to distrust each other in a matter of minutes.
One by one... these same leaders began to disappear without a trace. And without them to maintain the brief "peace" they had among themselves, chaos formed from within.
By the time they regained the minimum consciousness required to realize that something was wrong, it was too late.
Streets once dominated by fear began to change. In neighborhoods where gangs patrolled armed to the teeth, their presence began to dwindle. Some members were found tied upside down to poles, hanging from webs. Others simply disappeared, leaving behind empty hiding places and abandoned weapons.
Citizens, previously trapped in their homes, began to come out to see the damage, to start thinking about how to rebuild or recover. Small groups of neighbors gathered to see the damage left by Spider-Man-not as destruction, but as liberation.
The chaos had started weeks ago, curfews were reused for a few locations. But the chaos quickly spread, and now that there was apparently a visible end to it, it was an incredible relief.
Of course, it wasn't over yet, the pause had happened... but who knows for how long.
But the biggest impact was among the criminals themselves. The temporary faction leaders, who had previously felt untouchable because they were next in line for leadership, were now restless. Paranoia was spreading like a plague. "If he's got Rojas, who's next?" 'He's hunting them down one by one!' "That's not normal... it's like he knows exactly where we are!"
In WhatsApp groups, Telegram and secret forums, they spread desperate messages.
"I saw it with my own eyes... He broke Sanchez's arm like a dry twig!"
"There's no point in shooting, he dodges everything!"
"We need to get out of town, NOW!"
On Instagram, Twitter and Facebook, the hashtags exploded.
#SpiderManIsBack
#FearInTheBandits
#SpideyWithoutPity
The more superstitious began to say that he was no longer human. "He disappears into the shadows." "His eyes glow in the dark." "He feels no pain."
Like a kind of myth, a kind of legend spreading among the criminals who began to wonder if the money they received and would receive was really worth it.
On Instagram, TikTok, Twitter - everywhere - the clips multiplied.
Whether it's clips of him lifting cars full of armed men with his bare hands and tossing them around unkindly. Whether it's him breaking bones with the smooth movement of his arms, or him threatening rapists before knocking them out without the slightest concern for the consequences of such strong blows.
The whole city felt the impact. For some, a new breath of hope. For others, a new era of terror.
But it was clear as day, despite the questions.
Spider-man was back.
And he knew, he was fully aware, that the world was not a fucking fairy tale. It wasn't kind, it wasn't fair, it was dirty, tricky, often brutal, despairing.
He knew it. These last few weeks had made him see things he would never see in any other situation. Life was never simple. It was never a struggle of good versus evil, of good guys versus bad guys. The world was gray, dirty, chaotic. He learned that the hard way.
Those who thought that dialog was enough had no idea what the world was really like. It was perhaps pure thinking, but it was wrong, and after that night, stupid.
He wanted to believe that he could solve everything with words, with compassion, with a handshake instead of a punch. Well, at least the part of him that wasn't violent enough still had that kind of hope.
Violence... he felt he had become so close to it. Not just as Spider-Man, but from the moment he was first bullied at school. He didn't exactly like it. But it was necessary to confront her with something worthy. The problem was the limit. Knowing when to stop. Knowing how far to go before becoming part of the same cycle of brutality he was trying to stop.
Choices had consequences...
Before, he hadn't known that, or rather, he had ignored it like a fucking teenager who thought he knew everything. In the end, he agreed with Fisk on something.
He swallowed. He wiped his hands across his face. He let the silence drag on for a few seconds.
"Hi... Uncle Ben... Aunt May." His hoarse, slightly slurred voice echoed through the empty cemetery. They were both there, right in front of him, next to each other. He hadn't visited his uncle's grave very often... perhaps out of shame or sheer cowardice.
And this was the first time he had visited his aunt's grave... he hadn't even seen her being buried, and it was eating him up.
Peter took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the names carved into the cold stone.
"I know it's been a long time since I came here... since I spoke to you." He began, his voice low, hesitant. He ran his hands over his face, squeezing his temples before letting out a weak, humorless laugh. "I could lie and say it was for lack of time. But the truth is that I was running away."
He lowered his head, feeling his eyes sting, but not allowing any tears to fall.
"After you left... Uncle Ben, I..." He cleared his throat, controlling himself. "I always tried to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. That I was helping people. That what I was doing was... justice. But now, after these last few weeks... after seeing everything from a different angle... I guess I was never as good as I thought I was."
He clenched his fists, feeling a knot forming in his throat once again.
"I always wondered what you'd think of me... Of what I've done. What I've become. I always imagined hearing you say how proud you were. But the truth is, if you could see me now... I don't know if you'd say that."
Peter ran his hands through his hair, messing it up even more. His jacket was gone, forgotten somewhere random.
"Because, deep down, maybe I was never the good nephew you thought I was." He felt a bitter taste in his mouth as he admitted this out loud.
But there it was, out in the open, the guilt he carried, what was going on inside him.
He sat in front of the tombs, thinking about everything he'd done so far, everything he'd done since he'd been given those powers.
Hell, even before that.
"When I got those powers, I wanted to make a difference. And at first, I swear it was for justice. It was for you. For what happened to you, Uncle Ben. I wanted to prevent it from happening to anyone else. But over time..." He laughed dryly, shaking his head. "The meaning of justice has become... distorted."
He raised his eyes to the tombs again, his shoulders heavy as if the whole world were upon them. Well, he did feel as if a huge weight was there.
"I did all this because I wanted to do good... Or was it just because I wanted to feel good?"
The question hung in the air, as if waiting for an answer that would never come.
"Because, in the end, when I went out at night, faced criminals and came home bruised, tired, I felt... satisfied. Not because the city was safer. Not because I was helping people. But because I felt good." He gasped, shaking his head at himself. "To some, my actions might even seem robotic... of course, they would, I take care not to think too much, not to talk too much..."
"I didn't care about hidden gangs, I cared about what was out in the open. I didn't care about hidden operations that weren't run by the politicians I was hunting or that had no involvement with them." He laughed again to himself, imagining the faces they would be on right now with what he was saying right now.
"Part of me felt superior. Like I was better than them. Like I was better than anyone else."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Peter took a deep breath and closed his eyes, fighting the urge to simply disappear.
"But now... Now I see that maybe I was never that different from those guys I knocked down." He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words he hadn't yet said. His hands were shaking, not from fear, but from recognition.
"I wanted to be better than that. But I'm not." He murmured, almost without a voice.
"I've had horrible thoughts. About people who trusted me. People who think I'm someone better than I really am."
He laughed humorlessly, feeling a bitter taste rise in his throat.
"Gwen, MJ, Liz, Bea... All of them. I knew secrets about them. Secrets that could hurt. I knew their ideas, what they thought, how they acted. I discovered their routines, their habits... And for a moment, just for a moment... I considered using it. Not out of necessity. Not just because of my distorted view of justice for doing nothing when they saw me being bullied. But because I could. Because I knew that, if I wanted to, I could put them down, I could manipulate them. I could do whatever I wanted."
The thought was repulsive, but no less true. He closed his eyes, trying to stave off the wave of shame that followed.
"And every time I faced a monster... a murderer, a rapist, some bastard... I felt that doubt creeping into my mind. I could have killed that murderer. One more blow and he'd never hurt anyone again. I could have broken that rapist's neck, and the world would have one less monster. I could have taken over all this, cleaned up this city with my own hands, shut down all the operations of those useless cops and done it all myself."
The idea burned in his mind. The thought of how easy it would be. How he could end it all once and for all, without having to follow any rules, without having to hold back.
But, of course... how would that differentiate him from a dictator?
"But choices... choices have consequences."
Peter lowered his head, resting his arms on his knees, staring at the ground as if it held all the answers he was looking for.
"I chose to be violent in confronting Fisk... and as a consequence, the city chose to be violent in confronting everything. What happened these last few weeks was my fault... but it won't be like that anymore." He sighed again, looking at his worn, dirty mask.
"There's so much I want to say... that I have to admit. I'm not a good man." He admitted, his voice hoarse. "I never have been. But that doesn't mean I can't try to be better." He grunted slightly as he stood up.
"I'll do the right thing. Not the right that the laws say, not the right that ethics wants me to blindly follow. But the right that will save these needy people, so wronged. The right that will ensure that no one will ever have to feel afraid walking down the street again."
He didn't ask for a blessing. He didn't seek approval nor was he apologizing. He just dropped the battered mask of the Spider-man he had once been onto the ground between the gravestones.
He jumped, away, up into the air.
He would do what he had tried to do at the beginning, but this time, the right way.