Chapter Text
The New York Historical was the oldest museum in New York City and the latest place to shake up the day of the visitors and employees. Lately facilities of the historical kind were being targeted by an individual who calls himself The Gladiator. But Melvin Potter was no madman. He fashioned himself a connoisseur of arts and history and The New York Historical just happened to be on his breakfast menu for Tuesday morning. The confidence boost he acquired in the previous month by evading capture made him full of himself, but unwise enough to expect the expected this time around as well. Dressed in a purple and yellow armored suit, reminiscent of Roman battle armor with hints of Templar era aesthetics and two retractable blades on both arms, no civilian felt foolish enough to stand up to him or play the hero. Melvin stood in the center of a large room, civilians all kneeling in a row, hands above their heads, a manager of the facility was next to him, however she hasn't displayed any sense of dread, most likely to keep up the hopeful spirits of the civilians around her, a hope that someone will come to their rescue. The police already stationed outside and formed a perimeter on this sunny morning, but that wasn't a guarantee that everyone will keep their hats on. Or heads in this case as The Gladiator let the fine folks on New York know if his grand work is interrupted.
“No armored man from the sky will come to your rescue, otherwise he would've done so already. I know that look in your eyes. It's the spark that awaits to light the fuse of hope that somehow things will work out, hope is a good breakfast, but a bad supper.” Gladiator said with a grandiose tone.
“It's a good thing then it's still breakfast time!” came a voice from above. Gladiator looked up just as quickly as the first syllable left the mouth of the intruder. Quick reaction time did give him an edge over the police and ordinary men of the law, but this one was no ordinary man.
With a quick jump, Spider-Man as the people of New York came to know him all those years ago, was already behind the villain webbing his feet to the ground and delivering a punch that surely put him to sleep until he was taken into custody. He observed a small tracking device on him, which he quickly grabbed with his webbing, without anyone noticing in the heat of the moment, for further studying.
“I must say, that was quite disappointing. He was so sure of himself.” said Spider-Man in a mocking tone. “Everyone alright? Good, don't forget to grab something on your way out, the gift shop is still open.” There wasn't even a second more to say thank you because as quickly as he arrived, he was gone already. The manager lady pulled herself together and told everyone to form a line and follow her out and let the police know the maniac has been incapacitated.
-
I've changed, thought Peter to himself as he swung through the city, increasing the distance between him and the Museum by the second. He knew it and so did New York. He wasn't sure anymore if the quips came naturally or forced to bury all the feelings that have been bottling up ever since that night. He couldn't forget, how could he forget, but of one thing he was sure of. He became more confident and effective as Spider-Man and that's all that mattered to him at the moment. He wasn't there to stop this lunatic previously, but now he left nothing to chance and didn't tip-toe around like he used to. Was direct and precise, swung in, knocked him out, left and hoped no nasty article will be published on the Daily Bugle website before the clock hits 11am. And what was he babbling about? His grand work. What was he working on, making a new hamburger recipe?! Peter shook his head, time to focus. The irony wasn't lost on him however, because as much as he despised the aforementioned Daily Bugle's sensationalized articles, that platform so far, was his only source of income and also a reminder of his old life.
A while back Peter enrolled into college, using the chaos of the post-Blip world to "re-apply" for a Social Security number, claiming his records were lost during the Snap. It was the perfect "legal" loophole, for a magical problem and since he had no funding or help from either Tony Stark or his aunt May, he needed a solution fast. Enter the Daily Bugle's open position for Web Designers. There was no way he couldn't chuckle every time he thought of that. There's irony in that, on many levels. The man behind it all, J. Jonah Jameson or as he calls himself JJJ was a difficult man, but paid good given the circumstances. Jonah likely saw him as a cheap and tech-savvy kid who didn't ask for much besides to be paid on time and in return Peter had to keep the site from crashing and publish the articles he was given while making over designed social media banners for the clicks. And he also had a co-partner in crime. Betty Brant, a former classmate and a link to a life that he choose to leave behind.
Twenty-three minutes later Peter was already home in his cheap Midtown Manhattan apartment that he was renting from a Mr. Ditkovich and changed into a black comfy over-sized hoodie, dark blue lounge pants and an instant ramen at hand on his scarred wooden desk, ready to be devoured. The place was drab and dark even on a sunny morning like this. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling and illuminated the only other piece of furniture that was there besides the desk, a single mattress pushed against the corner just below the widow. That window was the only luxury that the apartment allowed, or as Peter came to think of it lately, the greatest curse. Everything out there reminded him of them. May. Ned...MJ. Besides the empty pizza boxes, water bottles, diet coke cans and the blurry noise of the city that never sleeps, there was this one contradiction, one that belonged to him and only him. The heavy silence of Peter Parker, the man who didn't exist. Not the way he used to. The police scanner next to the ramen cup was beeping, but he choose which alerts to take onto his own hands. There were others out there like him and he couldn't be everywhere all the time and right now where he needed to be was that desk. With his laptop open, email tabs at hand, he was ready to spend the next hour setting up the latest article for the Bugle's site and socials. He fashioned himself an extension to automate the upload process so if he's out patrolling, not to miss any deadline, however he still needed to design the banners for the posts. At least he enjoyed somewhat that part, the graphical part, not what it actually said. The mail notification chimed and the headline for the article came as no surprise:
SPIDER-MENACE,
OR HOW THE WALL-CRAWLER FOOLS THE GOOD TAXPAYERS ONCE MORE.
EXCLUSIVE FROM THE NEW YORK HISTORICAL.
Apparently the reason Spider-Man hasn't foiled the robbery attempts of The Gladiator previously was because they were working together and this morning's “show” was the grand finale for the wall-crawler to put himself in a “heroic” light. It was a two-man con job. Or so does the Bugle say.
Every time he needed to adjusts the word MENACE to make it look more "urgent and aggressive” on the design, he felt a little bit of his soul leaving his body. But it resulted in another $80 for the day and doing this seven days-a-week (because of course Jonah doesn't take a single day off) grants him a total of $2400 a month which helps him cover his $2k rent and from the rest try to manage some supplies for himself. Requirements of being Spider-Man, as he thought of it, to develop the web fluids, oh and food was also mandatory, when not out of cash after all's said and done. Aunt May would scold him hard about his nasty eating habits of late. That single thought pierced his mind and heart like a lightning cutting through a tree. Every time he thought of May, a dark hole opened up inside and swallowed him whole. Was it grief? Was it longing? Or depression, PTSD? He couldn't tell anymore. The old Peter Parker was dead and it was for the best if it stayed that way. It was the only way to protect those who were still alive.
Once the designs were finished, he attached them and forwarded it to Betty, who was ready to do some SEO magic and make sure reached a lot of people. Seems like both Spider-Man's and Peter Parker's handiwork reaches a lot of people. Peter let out a sigh and with that, grabbed his backpack, which was worn out and seen better days, put on his jeans, black & white converse and was ready to head out once more, this time to attend his classes at Empire State University or ESU.
-
It was the first week of the month and that meant group work again. He could allow to be absent a few times a month, but first weeks were a big no on that department. He needed to maintain his scholarship (thanks to his high scores during enrollment), but he was in no position to gamble it and afford that as well.
The campus was just as one would expect. Bright green grass, cherry blossom trees all around. The sun was shinning and students of all ages and genders and ethnicities enriched the facility. It looked best this time of the year, in April, when the weather was starting to look up, life was starting to come back after a long winter and people seemed happier and more cheerful then the months prior. Peter rushed through the campus not minding anyone, focusing only on getting inside the building, that looked a tiny bit colonial for his taste, but it was what it was. “PETER” came a shout, compelling him to look back. It was his classmate. She had the kind of face that seemed to capture the light and hold it, her hair was a pale gold blonde, falling in soft, restless strands that she constantly tucked behind her ears, though they never seemed to stay. It was styled with a casual, academic messiness, as if she spent more time in a library than in front of a mirror, yet never seemed too messy. Her blue eyes were large and startlingly clear as if one could get lost in them and not even mind. The mid spring breeze blew gently around them.
“Gwen.” Peter replied and forced a barely visible smirk. Not necessarily because he wasn't happy to see her, but because lately he seemed to look forward seeing her. And that scared him, pushing a guilt at forefront, one that he's been trying to keep buried, yet was eating him alive.
“How was your weekend?” came the question with a soft albeit concerning smile. It seemed to have a knowing quality to it, as if she always knew more than she let on, but not in a secretive, more like a whenever you're ready kind of way, as Peter thought of it. In the coldness and isolation, this felt like warmth. A light he was near to while at ESU before returning to the mundaneness and ungratefulness of the every days. Since they didn't have shared classes the day before, it was the first time they saw each other this week.
“It was..fine, stayed in for work.” answered Peter, though one might've assumed he's trying to quickly wrap it up, however seemed like Gwen knew better than to make this assumption. She could always strike the right balance between not being pushy nor dismissive.
“Saw the headline on my way here while on the subway. I just don't get it, Peter. You’re one of the smartest people in our seminar. You could be tutoring on literature, or working in a lab, or literally anything else.” This was perhaps the only time Gwen seemed frustrated about something in such a transparent manner. There was more to this however, and Peter knew full well what it was.
“Right now unfortunately those don't pay cash, Gwen. And they usually ask for a lot of paperwork which... I don't have at the moment." Peter looked away, avoided Gwen's gaze.
Gwen paused for a moment, Not judgemental, concerned. “My dad still talks about it, you know. That night with the Tarantula. He says the police radio called Spider-Man a 'vigilante,' but the way he moved... he said it didn't feel like a criminal. It felt like someone who was just... tired of seeing people get hurt."
Gwen's father, John Stacy was the police captain before getting an early retirement due to injury in the line of duty. An injury that could've cost him much more if Spider-Man wasn't there to stop the man calling himself The Tarantula, who for some reason was hellbent on killing a police informant. He managed to escape and wasn't heard from ever since. Whatever Gwen or his father thought of Spider-Man before that night, he was cemented as a hero in their minds afterwards. That gave Peter a small glimmer of hope that perhaps there are people out there who know he's just trying to do the right thing.
"I’m just the web designer. And I fix the servers. I don't write the stories, I just...” Peter stopped suddenly, this felt uncomfortable, but for some reason cathartic. Gwen also softened and her smile faded into something empathetic. Spider-Man did came up in their conversations once in the brief-ish time they got to know each other, since last October here at the ESU, but not to this extent of back-and-forth. Was this their first fight? If it can even be called that.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lecture you, hope it didn't come across as such, it’s just, you know.. my dad wouldn't be here if not for him. I just wish the people didn't help spread lies about him being a menace.” Peter nodded with a half, but genuine smile, he was aware where she was coming from and every cell in his body screamed the same, that this was like digging his own grave, being sort of a digital hit-man for Jonah and the Daily Bugle. “Come on, we're late from Mr. Warren's presentation and since Richard dropped out last week, it's going to be just the two of us on the group project for now, Mr. Parker.”
-
Gwen and Peter walked through the corridors of the building, where the air hummed with the electric buzz of a thousand ambitious conversations The place was brimmed with life and students both new and seasoned who were ready to embark on this journey. It drew the sharpest minds from across the country with a curriculum spanning every imaginable subject, offering an intellectual playground for the brave.
The amphitheater was one of the largest they had seen and even after all these months, it took a bit of adjusting each time they stepped into it. Professor Miles Warren was preparing the upcoming presentation, while everyone who signed up for his Bio-Chemical Engineering class took their place.
Peter and Gwen found their usual spots near the left corner and took out their notebooks which could've became a study in contrasts any given day of the week. Gwen's was a beautiful, cluttered mess of anime drawings, class notes and poems. They seemed melancholic in nature, yet hopeful. Peter's was as one would expect. Scribblings all over the place, but perfectly made sense in his mind.
As the presentation was about to start a young man slid into the seat next to Peter with a practiced grace. He didn't look like the other students, but someone who belonged in a high-fashion editorial that was rough around the edges, with an aristocratic almost perfect jawline, dark, wavy hair that fell in a calculated mess over his brows and dark eyes that seemed to be somewhere distant. He wore a dark designer coat that evidently set him apart from the two of them, yet he seemed a bit apologetic about it in his own manner.
“Is this seat taken?” He asked in a low raspy voice.
They both measured him up, haven't seen him around before. Peter signaled no with a faint smile. He seemed alright. “Yeah, all yours”.
The stranger sat down, took out a dark leather notebook that was blank from start to finish.
“Shoot. Forgot my pen” he said in an embarrassed tone. Gwen lent him one of her own.
“It's alright. Here take this.” The stranger took it with a swift move, nodded thanks in return.
“I'm Harry. Nice to meet you two. I'm new here.” replied Harry with a gentle salute wave while both Gwen and Peter introduced themselves.
"Welcome, everyone," broke the voice of Warren the chatter in the amphitheater. He just about finished setting up the projector for his presentation. "Before we begin today's journey into the world of Bio-Chemical Engineering, I’d like to take a split second and acknowledge a late addition to our fold. He comes to us from the West Coast, though I believe his family’s roots in this city need no introduction."
Warren looked directly toward their row, a thin smile on his lips took shape, though one could not notice that there might be some sort of familiarity between them.
"Mr. Osborn, our new listener... I trust you’ll find our facilities at ESU just as capable as those you had the opportunity to attend during your stay in Europe. Please enjoy, let us begin" and with that he turned the projector on.
The name hit Peter like a physical blow, right into his chest and stomach. The air felt thin, vanishing from his lungs. A string duet of inferno and torment building inside him.
Osborn.
The amphitheater went dark and the hum of the projector slowly transformed into flashes of raspy laughs of a madman in a purple hood. He felt the weight of the glider. The cold of the rain on his skin. The metallic scent of May's blood. as life left her eyes. And MJ, as one last tear drop left her eyes before her knowledge of him faded away eternally. Gwen noticed Peter grabbed the seat under him, as sweat poured from his forehead. “You okay man?!” she asked. “You look like you're about to pass out." responded Harry.
Peter couldn't answer. He wasn't able to. He looked at him, but all he could see was the specter of the Goblin.
The remainder of Warren's class was a blur and anxiety fueled nightmare. Peter's pen hasn't moved a bit. Gwen's hand reached his under the desk. It was a gesture of care. The most straightforward that ever had been between them, but as soon the dismissal bell echoed, Peter was gone without any further discussion, as he rushed through the corridors like trying to escape a burning building. Harry stared at Gwen with a confused look, Gwen met his gaze, but had no answers.
-
By the time the sun began to set behind the Hudson River, Peter Parker was fading into the darkness as well. The dying amber light caught his silhouette as he was standing on the edge of a building. The rush of street lights, sirens and noise of the waking night life settled into a monotone rhythm as each and every night, but Peter's focus, now in his Spider-Man outfit, that looked more black and dark orange in this lighting, than blue and red, was singular: The Peter Pan Donut & Pastry Shop. And through it's steamed-up glasses he saw her. MJ. Michelle Jones-Watson. The fractured Black Daliah necklace on her neck. She wore it like a memento from an era she had no recollection of anymore. A memento of the Multiverse. Of Gods and Monsters. And love. Peter adjusted his grip on the cold stone, head tilted slightly as he observed MJ exiting the shop after she flipped the closed sign and locked up. Stepping out into the biting New York wind, sill wearing her work clothes, her hair faded slightly to dark red from the dark brown he remembered. She stood at the corner of the shop, looking at her phone, which illuminated her face while tucking a stray rebellious strand of hair behind her ears and then she looked ahead and beamed with a smile, one that Peter remembered all too well. But it wasn't for him. Ned Leeds appeared. He looked different, maybe a bit more confident. He was wearing an over-sized MIT sweatshirt, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He laughed before he even reached her, then their hands met, greeted each other with brief tender kiss then headed toward the subway entrance. Peter stood there in complete silence and darkness. It wasn't jelousy, but a hollow grief that burned stronger and more painful than he ever imagined could. He gave them this, he made the trade that allowed them to live a life where they didn't have to look over their shoulders anymore, not have to worry about when another Osborn could strike. And that trade was final. The spell not only erased a secret, it had also erased the man who was the common link.
The name Osborn echoed in his head again. a reminder of the cost of his life and his choices. He didn't swing away, but remained for a second more and that feeling he's been struggling with all day, all month...all year rushed back, like a friend in the solitude. That he was a ghost, and the world, his world was better off without him.
-
Outside the Brooklyn Navy Yard, in the cold of the night the rays of the moon caught the silhouette of a man stepping off a Russian freighter. He wore a heavy, mottled pelt of a Siberian tiger, at his hip on the right rested a blade etched with Cyrillic script, a relic from the Rasputin era. The man had primal predatory hunger in his eyes. Beneath the fur of the pelt, a slick, black substance began to churn, crawling up his neck like an oily parasite. The first drops of a cold April rain fell. The hunt had already begun.
