Chapter 4: Great Responsibility

"We are now reaching the two-hour threshold, if the adhesive manages to retain its structure past this time limit, then perhaps this new formula will succeed where the others have failed," Peter spoke into the tape recorder.

Stuck to the side of the basement wall was a full set of encyclopedias (decades out of date so his aunt and uncle were unlikely to complain about being used in the experiment). They were held in place by a translucent white bit of goo which now that Peter thought about it, looked a bit like strands of spider webbing. He wasn't sure if it always looked like that or because of his revelation at ESU he was starting to see everything in terms of a spider.

Might be a bit concerning, he thought, it had been a week since his meeting with the Connors and so far there was nothing new to report on his physiology. He was still plenty strong, quick, and agile, he could still crawl up the sides of walls, and as far as he could tell he still had this…spider-sense.

His attention turned back toward the volumes of books as the sound of snapping tendrils was heard. One by one, the strands holding the encyclopedias broke and the collection of books fell to the floor with an unceremonious thud.

"Two-hour threshold remains unbroken," Peter sighed into his recorder. "While tensile strength remains as sturdy as ever, while it lasts. Cellular degeneration remains the same and thus makes this whole thing useless."

He grabbed a gauntlet-like device from his workbench and studied it. It was one he had designed himself (a feat of engineering he was quite proud of considering it was made mostly from scavenged parts), created as a quick and easy dispenser of his adhesive.

"What's the point of 120 pounds per square millimeter if the stupid thing won't even last a couple hours?" Peter sighed one more. "Well, maybe I market these things off as wrist-mounted water guns. Or silly string shooters."

While he was speaking into the tape recorder his hand accidentally pressed against the switch for the dispenser and a long, thin strand shot out and attached itself to the roof of the ceiling, causing Peter to jump back in surprise.

"Note to self: adjust pressure valve and nozzle setting."

Peter tugged at the thin, white strand that was now attached to the ceiling. It was pretty well-secured and reminded Peter of the climbing rope at gym class. A whim struck and he grabbed hold of the strand and lifted himself off the ground, the strand held him up easily (he had already tested it and knew it would hold more than the weight of a grown man). He shifted his weight back and forth and soon was playfully swinging around the basement.

Or maybe I could sell this to stunt workers or adrenaline junkies; you could have the chance to play Tarzan right at your fingertips. He thought to himself, watching the anchor on the ceiling stretch and relax as he swung around.

His absentminded swinging ended abruptly when he accidentally swung a little too far towards the back wall and ended up crashing straight into his uncle's toolboxes. The loud clang and clatter of fallen tools made Peter wince. He knew what was going to happen next.

"Hey, Sport!" Uncle Ben called from upstairs. "Whatcha doing down there? You're not demolishing our basement, are you?"

"No, no!" Peter yelled back as he hastily picked up the fallen tools to put them back in the toolbox, kicking himself over his carelessness. "And before you ask, I wasn't using your tools in an experiment. It was just an accident."

"What was that about my tools?"

Later, Peter typed away at the keyboard of his computer, inputting the latest data, or he would've if the thing hadn't frozen up again. Electronically speaking, it was a relic. Made at the turn of the millennium, the thing barely registered a landline much less the Wi-Fi Peter spent days tinkering with, trying to make it compatible. Now the lousy thing moved twice as slow and had three times the bugs.

"C'mon, you stupid-" He gave the monitor a smack, and the whole screen was replaced with rows and rows of pink and green pixels. Peter put his hands up defensively as if to show the computer he meant it no harm. The computer seemed to appreciate the gesture and the screen returned to normal, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

Then the Blue Screen of Death popped up.

"Gaaah!"

Rebooting the computer, Peter sunk into a foul mood. It was hard to input his data, conduct research, or do any kind of work on the piece of junk. It seemed like he was playing Russian roulette whenever he tried to do anything more advanced than turning it on. Hearing his stomach growl, he decided to make some lunch and maybe after that, see if the computer was in a more cooperative mood.

Peter made himself a sandwich, grumbling the whole time.

"That's an interesting dish," his uncle said, looking up from his paper at the table. "Got a name for that…creation?"

Peter looked down and realized that he hadn't paid attention to what he was making, which appeared to be a mixture of lettuce, ham, mustard, and peanut butter.

"Oh, perfect!" Peter growled as he tossed the chimeric sandwich away and started making a new one.

After finally making something that could count as edible, Peter sat down in a huff and chewed on his lunch. Something about the way he was eating must've gotten his uncle's attention because he set aside the newspaper and addressed him directly.

"Everything alright?"

"Fine, it's just that stupid computer," Peter mumbled through his lunch before swallowing to speak clearer. "I swear that thing just acts up to spite me."

"What did the repairman suggest?" Ben asked.

"That I get something new and use this as a paperweight."

"Might want to save up for one of those then."

"Yeah, at the going rates I should be able to afford one right around the time I graduate college," Peter said dismissively.

"Well, if you want to help out a bit more, I might just throw a few extra dollars your way. We could finish up that fence, for starters."

"Didn't we already finish that?" Peter asked.

"We finished the first coat," Ben replied, giving him a wry look. "And technically speaking, I finished the first coat. You dashed off after helping for a little bit to do another one of your little 'experiments.'"

"I had…something important I needed to do," Peter shrugged, he had been testing his muscle definition that day, his body had all the look of ketosis but minus the whole dehydration thing. "And there's still important things I need to do, so-"

"So I've got something important you can do right now," Ben cut him off, handing him the paper. "You can take this and the junk mail out to recycle. Whatever it is you've got going on will be there when you get back."

Peter grabbed the paper and the small pile of ads, realtor offers, and other waste of print and headed outside. He hadn't told either of them about his weird spider-like abilities, he wasn't exactly sure how to break the news to them anyway. But he figured he'd figure it out sooner or later. And in any case, he had other things to think about. The failure of the adhesive and the portable dispenser had set him back a year and a half. He had staked so many hopes on that project, something to help alleviate the middling finances of the home, maybe even pay his way into ESU. But nothing working for him now, he couldn't imagine being able to do any of the kind of research or work he dreamed of on that slower-than-molasses computer much less go through college on that.

As he tossed the pile of refuse into the bin, something caught his eye. A splashy, bombastic ad that he wouldn't have noticed before but now couldn't turn away from. Reaching down, he grabbed the advertisement to read what it in further detail.

SEE THE SPECTACLE!

REVEL IN THE ACTION!

THE UCWF IS COMING TO NEW YORK CITY!

DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO STEP INTO THE RING?

UNITED CLASS WRESTLING FEDERATION IS TAKING ALL CHALLENGERS!

TAKE ADVANTAGE OF OUR OPEN INVITATION EXHIBITION CHALLENGE!

1000 FOR ALL COMPETITORS, 3000 IF YOU BEAT THE CHAMP!

ALL MONEY GUARANTEED!

This had to be the craziest thing Peter had ever attempted, and that included the time he set off a makeshift rocket in the kitchen. Here he was, about to jump into a get-rich-quick scheme with nothing but a spur-of-the-moment plan and a cheaply-made costume. Three grand wasn't exactly riches, but it felt like it to his empty wallet. How could he lose? He managed to deadlift the family Geo without much trouble (in the middle of the night when he was sure no one was watching), how bad could some wrestler be? And if this was legit not only would he have enough funds to get a new computer, no, make his own computer; he'd have enough left over for whatever he wanted. And if this worked out as he hoped, he might just return and earn some more; he could pay his way through college like this, get the proper equipment for his work, and maybe even start up his own little business. But he was getting ahead of himself.

There was only one complication, get to the center where the event was being done and hope they didn't screen for age limits.

Scratch that, there were two complications and the first one had just parked the car.

"Okay, Sport. New York Public Library, and barely any traffic. Lucky us."

"Okay, thanks. I'll see you later, Uncle Ben," Peter said quickly.

"Hold up a second, I wanna talk real quick," Ben grabbed his arm before Peter could exit the car. "You got the whole day, so just humor me, okay?"

"Sure," Peter sighed in a more exasperated tone than he meant but he obliged his uncle. He had fed him a bit about wanting to do some serious research at the library, an excuse to get to the city where the event was being held. He didn't like lying, but three grand is still three grand.

"The thing is…" his uncle meandered a bit, trying to find the right words. "Your aunt and I have been…concerned about you lately. You've been, well, not flakey, distracted. More distracted than usual. One moment you're helping out and then the next you're disappearing down into the basement or your room for hours for your little experiments or whatever it is you do. But I get that, you're changing, like all teenagers change. I mean, I did the same when I was your age."

"Trust me, Uncle Ben. This change is a bit different from yours," Peter replied.

"You know, every kid says that to their parent but it's always the same," Ben chuckled for a bit before moving back to the more serious side of their conversation.

"Shirking your chores is one thing, but what you did to that Thompson kid is something else entirely. I mean, getting a call from the school?"

"Well, good thing I did at the end of the year," Peter joked.

"And the fact that you're so…cavalier about the whole thing, that's what concerns us," Ben pressed. "You were so well-behaved that you used to dread getting into trouble or any kind of write-ups. Then we get a call telling us you gave some kid a concussion and you're just blowing it off like it's no big deal!"

"Oh give me a break!" Peter exclaimed. "You know what Flash did to me all those years! You know about the pranks, the bruises, the stolen homework, and lunches. All the beatings and getting stuffed into lockers." Peter's years of frustration came pouring out in an instant; he didn't care who he had to say it to but he needed to yell it at someone and why not at his uncle?

"And you know back when I was a kid when used to come home crying after a bad day because the teachers did nothing about it!" Peter continued. "And I know you know that I'm not the only one who went through this. You call this a problem? I call it karma. It's about time someone knocked him on his ass, why not me?"

Ben let him vent until he sat there and sulked. Ordinarily, he would've chided him for language but now wasn't the time. It was almost a minute before he spoke.

"You're right to be angry considering everything that happened to you. And maybe Flash didn't deserve what happened to him but maybe he did. The point is, just because we can do something like that doesn't give us the right to do it. Remember, with great power-"

"There must also come great responsibility," Peter cut him off with a roll of his eyes. "I know, I know. The Parker family motto. That and two-fifty will get you a lousy cup of coffee."

His uncle just sighed and gave a disappointed look, not toward Peter, he noticed, but at something. Himself maybe?

"Alright, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lecture. I just-well. You got money for lunch?" Peter nodded in affirmative. "Well, you have a good day. I'll pick you up at eight."

Peter grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the car, maybe it was the fresh air (relatively speaking) or the fact that he never yelled at his uncle, but a wave of guilt washed over him.

"Hey, Uncle Ben. I just want to-" he started to call back but the car had already pulled out of the parking space and had driven away. Peter sighed, trying to shake the uneasy feeling.

I should get him something after this. Peter thought. No, I should get something for the both of them, I don't know. But, first things first.

He opened up his backpack to confirm he had everything he needed, a few books to help sell the alibi, his quick and cheaply made costume, and his portable dispenser units?

Forgot I put them in here. Wait, when did I put them in here? Well, it doesn't matter. Time to go to work.

Peter wasn't feeling that good about this venue, tucked away from the bustle of the main streets and held in a building that looked like it had been converted just yesterday to hold the event. It wasn't exactly Madison Square Garden but Peter had already gone this far, might as well have gone all the way.

The audience could be heard even through the back corridors as Peter made his way to the sign-up line. The sounds of applause, cheers, and boos, were making him nervous and he was reminded of that disastrous Christmas pageant he was in as a kid. He just hoped he wouldn't get sick while he was wearing his mask.

He had already changed into his costume and was pleased to see he wasn't wearing the most ridiculous-looking getup of those in line. The costume consisted of black jeans, a bright red pullover sweater that he had painted a spider on, and a red ski mask he found at a secondhand store. He thought the mask would help hide his age but as he approached the bored-looking man at the signup desk he wondered if the mask was even necessary.

"What are you? Some kinda luchador?" The guy asked.

"What's a luchador?" Peter asked, legitimately confused.

"Yeah, whatever. Next."

"No, no. This is the signup for the open invitation, right? Well, I'm here to sign up."

The man gave him an odd look before placing a clipboard stacked with papers in front of Peter.

"The Unlimited Class Wrestling Federation is not responsible for any and all injuries that may be sustained while participating in said event and by participating you waive all litigating rights in the case of injury and/or death. You understand?"

"Uh…sure." Peter signed on the dotted line using his chosen alias. While signing he saw a small television playing what was certainly what was going on at the ring. One burly fellow swung a folding chair straight into the face of another man dressed as a swami. Peter couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a tooth going flying right out of his mouth before he collapsed onto the floor.

"That looks…really real," Peter gulped.

"The fans come here for the real deal. None of that scripted crap," The bored man said taking back the clipboard. "Please note that payment will be received only after participation is completed. Head down the hall, take a left, wait to be called, don't get killed. Next!"

Peter joined a group of other colorfully-costumed men and women backstage, listening to what was certainly unmitigated carnage. Peter saw a big, bearded man dressed in lumberjack flannel over way-too-small briefs. A woman no older than he was had her hair and face painted white, wearing an impossibly tacky green dress and tights combination sat on one of the chairs while her leg twitched nervously. Peter wondered how his cheap costume managed to look the least outrageous compared to some of these characters.

"Alright, open-invites, you're up next!" a small man wearing a headset barked before pointing at Peter. "You, what's your name?"

"Arachn-Kid," Peter replied.

"Iraq what now?" the guy asked bewildered.

"Arachn-Kid," Peter spoke up. "'Arachnid' plus 'Kid.' It's a portmanteau."

"It sucks," the other guy sneered then walked off, muttering something into the mic.

"And now the moment you've all waited for!" the announcer at the ring began as cheers erupted from the audience. "Let's give a New York welcome to our champion! CRUSHER HOOOGAAAAAN!"

The sounds of yells and roars gave way to "HO-GAN! HO-GAN!" chants as fans stamped their feet in anticipation.

"And who will be the first to try and topple the Titan of Toughness and Terror? Let's give it up for the Spectacular, the Sensational, the Amazing SPIDER-MAAAAAAN!"

"Is that me?" Peter asked the headset guy. "Because my name is-"

"Get out there!" the small man gave him a shove and Peter stumbled out and into the spotlight.

As he made his way down the ramp, he was accosted by boos and jeers from the audience. Some made more than a few comments about his scrawniness, his height, and something about his mother.

Geez, these people are worse than the ancient Romans.

Stepping into the ring, he saw his opponent. A large, bald-headed man rippling with muscles was giving him the most condescending, pitying smile Peter had ever seen.

"Tonight, this brave soul dares to take on the best of the best. For the chance of fame, glory, and a grand prize-"

"So what are you supposed to be? Some kinda luchador?" Crusher asked as the announcer continued his schpiel.

"Seriously, what is a luchador?" Peter asked aloud.

"Okay, here's how it's gonna go: you dance around a little bit and act like you're faster, I catch you, slam ya once, you got down, and you can tell all your friends you faced off against the best."

"I thought this wasn't scripted," Peter said skeptically.

"Trust me, small fry. You don't want me to go all out," the wrestler smirked. "Little twig like you, I'd break ya in two."

"Oh no, we're doing this for real," Peter gave a disapproving wag of his finger. "And just because you starred in that Mr. Clean biopic, it doesn't give you the right to talk down to me."

"What was that?" Crusher's smirk disappeared.

"I'm making fun of you, baldy."

"Oh, that is it!" Crusher's mouth turned to a snarl. "I'm gonna squash you like a bug!"

"Bring it on, Cue Ball," Peter beckoned.

And right on cue, the bell clanged.

Crusher rushed at him in a rage but grabbed nothing as Peter not only vaulted straight over him but put in a few aerial twists before landing behind him in a strikingly-low crouch. The wrestler did a double-take as he tried to figure out what happened.

"You said something about dancing around you, right?" Peter asked sarcastically while the big guy wheeled around to try and grab him again. "Be honest, how good am I at acting like I'm faster?" As Crusher tried to grab him in a bear hug, Peter effortlessly slid beneath his legs, grabbed his ankles, and sent him crashing face-first on the floor.

"By the way, what kind of wax do you use for that dome of yours? Because that gleam is on point!" Peter however paid for his brief moment of taunting as Hogan managed to grab hold of his ankle and yank him down to the ground. Grabbing him, the wrestler lifted him up and threw him out of the ring but Peter grabbed hold of the top rope and effortlessly swung through the gaps and back into the ring. Only to be floored by a clothesline from Crusher. He only had a moment on the floor before the hulking wrestler grabbed hold of him in a bear hug and squeezed.

"Now you see why they call me Crusher?" the champion laughed while the crowd cheered.

"Honestly, ergh, the body odor is what bothers me most," Peter grunted as he managed to get an arm free.

But Hogan wasn't finished, still holding onto Peter, he rushed him into the corner turnbuckle. Then lifting him up onto the top rope, smacked Peter's head repeatedly with his massive arm.

"Next time. Learn. To stay. Down!" He punctuated each word with a smack of his arm as the crowd voiced their approval with every blow.

"Took the words right outta my mouth, Hoagie," Peter caught Hogan's hand mid-blow and twisted it, Hogan gave a pained squeak in response. Peter decided to pay the big guy back with a few blows to his head but all it took was two before Crusher was knocked loopy.

Then standing from the top turnbuckle, Peter heaved the massive man over his head and held him aloft, the crowd gasping from this sudden turn.

"Hey. Hey! HEEEEEY! Put me down! Put me down!" Crusher flailed his arms and legs helplessly, looking like an overturned turtle. Then he saw where Peter was aiming him, the center of the ring.

"Oh please, no," Crusher whimpered.

"Oh please, yes!" Peter smiled.

Looking like Atlas as if he decided to just chuck his heavenly burden, Peter launched the champion off of him and he sailed through the air landing in the center of the ring with a mighty crash. And Peter leaped. Easily nine feet into the air, twisting his body in ways he never imagined and certainly didn't plan, and by some form of instinct brought his elbow down into the stomach of Crusher Hogan. He gave a long and exaggerated gasp and wheeze before he flopped down unconscious. Beaten.

Peter stood up and looked at the audience who had fallen completely silent. Some mouths were agape, and some eyes were being rubbed in disbelief. A dropped pen could be heard from the back rows until Peter gave a little flourish with his arms.

"Ta-da!"

If the crowd had gone crazy before when the champion, no, former champion was introduced, then they went completely ballistic after that. Shrieks of joy and excitement practically echoed through the entire building, what was previously an assault of jeers and insults had transformed into a cacophonous symphony of support and accolades.

"SPI-DER-MAN! SPI-DER-MAN!" They cheered.

Peter was overwhelmed, never in his life had he received such support. But here was an entire stadium of people cheering him on, cheering Spider-Man on. He was over the moon. He was the king of the mountain. He had taken down the biggest and baddest champion around. Flash Thompson, heck, the entire football team was nothing compared to him!

Peter jumped to the top rope and waved the crowd on, letting them pour on the honors.

"SPI-DER-MAN!"

"What?!" Peter put his hand to his ear, urging them to crank up the volume.

"SPI-DER-MAN!"

"What?!"

"SPIDER-MAN!"

"What?"

"You heard me, kid. Three Franklin's all you get."

Peter stood dumbfounded in front of the manager's desk. A sleazy-looking schlub counted one one-hundred bill after another, looking quite satisfied with the night's profits. Peter still stood there, trying to wrap his head around this turn of events.

"Okay, your ad said three thousand if you beat the champion which I just did! Hell, it promised a thousand just for stepping into the ring!"

"Shoulda read the contract, with the expenses, deductions, and payments we gotta make, we just can't throw a grand to every Joe Nobody who volunteers, even if they do get lucky," the manager smirked.

"I did read the contract," Peter growled. "And there was nothing about any deductions or the like in any of the fine print."

"Don't know what to tell ya," the manager shrugged, placing a wad of cash into a lockbox. "Chances are ya got a hold of a phony ad."

Peter slammed the ad he had fished out of the recycling in front of the manager and pointed to the official UCWF logo in the corner.

"Eh, musta been a misprint."

"You can't do this!" Peter protested. "You can't just falsely advertise your payment and chisel people like this! That's-that's fraud!"

"Yeah, so?"

Peter gave out a long, defeated sigh. "Just gimme the money."

The swindler tossed three bills toward Peter and gave a hearty, toad-like laugh as Peter headed for the door.

"Hey, if you ever feel like making real money, you should sign on! Talent like yours, it'd be a waste for just one and done."

"After you got me into a new contract with plenty of deductions, right?" Peter shot him a dirty look through his ski mask. "No thanks."

Peter grumbled to himself all the way to the elevator, rapping his head against the doors and willing it to get there faster so he could get out of this place quicker.

"Stupid, Peter! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Never trust an ad from the junk mail pile. That's why it's in the junk pile."

The sound of scuffling and raised voices caught his attention and a second later he saw a grizzly-looking man tear down the hall toward him, a bag in his hand. A second after that, the schlubby manager came waddling after him, one of his hands was covering a gash on his forehead, trying to stop the flow of blood.

"HEY STOP THAT GUY!" he yelled. "STOP HIM! HE STOLE ALL MY MONEY!"

The doors of the elevator opened up and Peter stepped aside to let the burglar through, even giving him a dramatic "after you" gesture. The thief gave him an appreciative nod as the elevator doors closed.

"What-what-what, what'd you do?" the manager sputtered, his chubby face painted in disbelief. "You coulda stopped that guy, knocked his head off. Now I got nothin' to pay the talent with, they're gonna tear me apart! Oh God, and that's nothin' compared to what the owners will do to me!"

"Yeah, so?" Peter shrugged.

"Right, right," the man nodded grimly, not in the least bit amused by the turn in fortunes. Peter on the other hand smirked and made his way to the stairs.

The feeling of satisfaction over the jerk's bad luck didn't last Peter as long as he'd hoped. Sure, he got paid but it was nowhere near as much as he wanted. And after the day's misadventure, he mostly wanted to just eat dinner and get to bed.

Now if only he could find his ride.

The street was a little more crowded than he would've expected and there was some kind of commotion further ahead. People were running back and forth anxiously and someone was yelling about why an ambulance hadn't arrived.

"Hey," Peter stopped a passerby. "What's going on?"

"Carjacking," the man said, everything about him filled with panic. "Some guy got shot."

"Guy? What guy?" Peter asked a dread began filling him up from his toes to his stomach.

"I don't know, some old guy."

Peter didn't hear what else he had to say, he was pushing through the crowd as quickly as he could. There's always a chance it couldn't be, odds were that it wasn't. All the same, he jostled his way to the center of the crowd, silently praying that it wasn't…

"UNCLE BEN!"

It was him, he was lying on the ground and bleeding from his chest, his breath was raspy and shallow. Someone had removed their jacket and was being used as a makeshift pillow and Peter could see his hands were trembling over his gunshot wound.

"Uncle Ben!" Peter knelt beside his uncle and grabbed his hand, he didn't know what else to do, everything he might've remembered about blood loss or internal damage was gone, vanished from his mind.

"Uncle Ben, it's Peter! C'mon, stay awake!"

"Hey, Sport," his uncle looked at him with unclear eyes, his expression straining to put on a brave face. "I'm sorry about the car."

"No, no. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you," Tears had already welled up and were falling down Peter's face. "But I need you to stay with me, the ambulance is on the way, just-just hold on!"

Ben gave him a pained but still warm smile and he grasped his nephew's hand in his own.

"It'll be okay, Peter. Just…remember…"

The old man gave a little shudder, his hand went limp. Peter felt his uncle's life leave his body.

"Uncle Ben? Uncle Ben?"

Peter stood up slowly, unable to comprehend what had just happened, he felt like he did after he was bitten by that spider, like he was living outside his own body. He could see himself staring, pleading at the crowd around him.

"Which way did he go?" The question croaked out from his throat.

There wasn't any answer, some people were looking away, one was praying, and a few were openly weeping at the sight of the tragic scene. Peter wasn't crying anymore. The anger he felt earlier, over Ben's lecture, over the manager stiffing him was nothing. This was pure fury.

"THE CAR THIEF, WHICH WAY DID HE GO?!" he exploded.

"I think he went down 5th," one woman replied.

Peter tore through the crowd, pushing everyone aside, and ran down in the direction she pointed. Quickly ducking down an alley, he practically ripped open his backpack and returned the ski mask over his face. The dispensers were there, waiting for him. A crazy idea entered his brain and he snapped them on over his wrists before climbing up the side of the building.

Leaping from one building to the next, he scanned the streets below, searching until he found it. A rusted red Geo was weaving its way in and around traffic in an entirely suspicious manner.

"There you are," Peter hissed.

The nearest building was outside of his leaping distance, so it was time to put the plan into action. Aiming the dispenser, he shot a long thin line that managed to attach itself to the building. Peter took a deep breath to steady himself; he had been interested in geometry ever since he learned about parabolas while swinging on playground swings, but this was much different. The sound of screeching tires snapped him back to reality and with gritted teeth, he leaped from the building.

The velocity was faster than he anticipated and he feared he would fly straight into the side of the building. But his instinct kicked in once more and he shot a second strand out and went swinging down the street after his quarry. Something in the back of his mind felt relief; it was calming just as much as it was exhilarating. But there wasn't time to focus on that as he soon caught up with the car and landed on top of it.

The Geo swerved as Peter pounded the roof, punching it hard enough to leave a dent. His spider-sense began to tingle and he ducked his head out of the way as a bullet shot through the roof of the car. More bullets soon followed and Peter's hand slipped from the roof and he went tumbling back, barely managing to grab hold of the trunk as his feet skidded behind on the road.

Heaving himself back up, he leaped back onto the roof and furiously punched the driver's side window. He reached in and grabbed the gun hand, he tried to shake the firearm off as the car swerved back and forth across the street. He was so focused on the struggle that he didn't notice what his spider-sense was warning him of until it was too late. The car slammed headfirst into a roadside steel bollard and Peter went flying off, rolling to a hard stop against the wall. He grunted and picked himself up off the ground, he could see the back of the murderer as he fled up the stairs into an abandoned building.

None of the light switches were working and the only light in the building came from outside through the windows. The car thief was panicking, searching for some kind of exit as he waved his gun around.

"Who's there?!" he shouted at a distant noise firing off a few shots in that direction until the gun clicked empty. Cursing under his breath, he stumbled to reload when a long, white strand attached itself to his gun and yanked it out of his hand.

Peter grabbed the killer and slammed him hard against the wall, then grabbed him again and threw him across the room. Then he took the line with the gun still attached and began hitting him with it like a makeshift flail.

"You killed a good man!" Every word was dripping with murderous rage as he whipped him. "And for what?! A PIECE OF CRAP CAR?!"

"Please! Please! Stop!" the man pleaded, he scrambled on the floor until he reached for a bag and opened it up, showing piles of money inside. "Just take it! Take it all!"

"I DON'T WANT THAT, I WANT-"

No.

He could see the killer much clearer from the outside light from the window. The black clothes, the scruffy face, it couldn't be. It wasn't possible. It was a sick joke. A bad dream. A terrible plot twist in a bad movie.

Uncle Ben's killer was the same burglar he let get away. The same man he stepped aside for, just to spite that sleazy manager.

No.

"NOOOOOO!" Peter screamed and grabbed him, and holding him up, shoved him straight through the window, the bag spilled open and the stolen money fluttered away in the wind.

"Please! Please! Don't kill me!" the killer sobbed, his feet dangled above empty air.

I can make this right. Peter thought, still holding him up, watching the pathetic excuse for a man cry and beg like a child. I drop him, Uncle Ben is avenged, and, and…

It'd still be my fault. If I kill him it doesn't change anything. Uncle Ben is dead and it's all my fault!

Peter let out a primal yell, a noise that came out from all the pain in his heart and soul and he threw the man back inside against a column. The killer slumped down into a heap. Unconscious. Alive.

Peter didn't know what time it was when he finally wandered home that night, there were a couple of police cars parked out front and before he got to the door it swung open. His aunt was waiting for him, a look of relief and agony on her face.

"Peter!" she cried and threw her arms around him, sobbing into his jacket. "Oh God, I thought something happened to you!"

"I'm okay," was all he managed to say.

"When the police told me about Ben, I –I, Peter! Ben is…is-"

"I know," Peter began to cry and he buried his own face into her bathrobe. "I know."

Phineas Mason punched in the last few digits of the security alarm before making his way out of his shop, locking the door behind him. He grunted and stretched as much as his old back would let him. Either he needed to get a heating pad to help out with the cramps, or fix his posture so he wasn't stooping all the time while he worked.

He spotted a tall, gangly man dressed in an overcoat standing in the middle of the empty parking lot, his head down to hide his face.

"Don't tell me you've been waiting out here all night just for the theatrics," Mason snarked, completely unimpressed with the other man's dramatics.

"What do you want, Adrian?"

Adrian Toomes stepped forward and looked down at the local repairman.

"I have a business proposition for you."

Well, we all knew it was coming but it doesn't make it any less painful.

To start with, I want to thank everyone for the feedback, I honestly didn't expect such a strong positive response. To answer a few questions, we will definitely see plenty of characters from both Spider-Man's central cast and from the extended Marvel universe, so those offhand mentions and references aren't just cameos. But I want each character to be introduced naturally into the story. But don't worry, Peter is going to enter a much bigger world, but only when he's ready.