The second week of kindergarten had barely started, and Gwen already knew two things for sure:
Her spider-sense was going to drive her absolutely insane.
Quirk-enhanced five-year-olds had no chill.
She sat in the back corner of the classroom, trying to focus on the alphabet chart on the wall. Her eyes were locked on the letter "Q," but her brain was stuck on the buzzing in her skull.
It wasn't loud—not anymore. Not since she'd figured out how to dampen the noise. But it was still there. Soft, electric. Always humming just beneath the surface like a second heartbeat.
Buzz. A kid across the room threw a pencil at another's head. Not a threat to her—she stayed still.
Buzz. Someone sneezed and nearly knocked over a chair. Still not aimed at her. Not her problem.
She breathed through her nose, slowly, hands resting in her lap like she was meditating. The trick was subtlety—letting the sensation bloom only when it needed to.
Buzz. BUZZ—
Her body twitched an inch to the left just in time for a crumpled paper ball to zip past her cheek.
She sighed.
"Close," she muttered, "but not quite."
The Spider's Thread
Over the last few days, Gwen had begun to systematically test the boundaries of her danger sense. Controlled exposure. Low risk. She'd even made a personal game out of it: Threat or False Alarm?
It wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about control.
The more she used it, the more she realized how much noise her brain had to filter. Her spider-sense didn't distinguish between a life-or-death threat and "Timmy's about to trip and splash paint in your direction."
It treated both as equally relevant.
Not helpful.
So Gwen was refining it like a muscle, squeezing it into something sharper—something precise. It would take time, maybe years, but she had years.
She paused, letting the silence wrap around her like a thin layer of webbing. Each new day in this world made her feel more like a ghost than a person—something echoing in a place it didn't belong, pretending to be human again. The familiar tug of her old life pulled at her in strange ways, like when she spoke too formally for her age, or instinctively held her breath during moments of tension. No one else noticed, but she did. And she hated how comfortable the mask was starting to feel. It wasn't that she didn't want to be Gwen. It's just that sometimes she didn't know how.
Strength in Moderation
Her physical strength, though? That was easier to test.
She'd learned quickly that she couldn't just go around lifting entire playgrounds or leaping across rooftops—well, not yet. But she could use a little of it. Just enough to open a jammed locker or carry supplies the teachers thought too heavy for kids her age.
No one questioned it yet. They just called her "helpful."
And she could live with that.
During recess, she tested her limits. Carefully.
The teacher had brought out a set of big foam puzzle blocks, each one the size of a toddler. When the kids were told to build forts, Gwen selected the heaviest one in the pile and "struggled" to carry it, feigning wobbling steps until she plopped it down.
"Need help, Gwen?" a teacher asked.
She gave a bright, panting smile. "Got it!"
Inside, her muscles weren't even straining.
Still got it.
Cracked Circuitry and Quiet Clicks
Later, during "free exploration" time, a cart was wheeled into the room carrying various tactile toys and STEM kits. Most of the kids ignored the lower shelves—too dusty, too fiddly—but Gwen's eyes locked on a small plastic box tucked in the corner.
Inside, a broken robotic arm was buried under half-finished magnetic tiles and old wires. It was snapped at the elbow and half the wiring was exposed.
She grabbed it without hesitation.
It was basic. Maybe meant to mimic a human hand or do some kind of lifting trick. But she could already see where it had gone wrong—the burnt-out motor, the snapped input relay, the sloppy solder joints.
It wasn't usable.
But it was beautiful.
"You like junk?" a voice asked.
She looked up. It was that same kid from earlier—blue shirt, glasses, still fidgeting like the universe might eat him at any moment.
"…It's not junk," Gwen replied flatly.
He pointed at the arm. "It doesn't even move."
"Yet," she said without thinking. "The servo's fried and the wiring's bad. But the power draw's low and the mechanics are salvageable."
The boy stared at her.
"…I like robots," he mumbled, then wandered off.
Gwen blinked.
'So do I, apparently.'
Whispers in the Web
That night, she sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, the broken robot arm laid out on a towel like a science experiment. George had come in to say goodnight, glanced once at her mess, and simply said, "Don't electrocute yourself."
She chuckled, but his words stuck with her.
Why does this feel so natural?
Not the strength. Not the agility. Not even the spider-sense. Those were instincts. Biological.
But this?
This careful, methodical dissection of something mechanical?
This was hers.
A skill that came from before. From who she used to be. A thread in her identity that wasn't wrapped in someone else's DNA. Something that made sense.
She thought about what it meant to build things.
What it meant to create her own tools. To be the person behind the gear, not just the mask.
Maybe she'd never be "Spider-Man." Maybe that wasn't who she was meant to be.
But maybe—just maybe—she could be something new.
First Contact
The next day, Gwen once again sat alone at lunch—until someone dropped a tray across from her with a quiet "thud."
Ryan.
The kid with the glasses.
He didn't say much. Just popped his juice box and glanced down at the robot arm in her bag.
"You fixed it?" he asked.
"Not yet," she replied, chewing on a piece of apple. "I'm still mapping the wiring."
Ryan blinked. "That's… cool."
She smiled. It felt real this time.
"Wanna help?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "I know some stuff. My brother's in middle school. He lets me watch him build drones."
Gwen's eyebrows rose.
"Nice," she said, scooting the box closer.
They spent the rest of lunch whispering about battery placement and wire shielding like tiny mad scientists.
For the first time since waking up in this new world, Gwen didn't feel alone.
Curiosity and a Cardboard Catalyst
By the end of the week, Gwen had started tinkering more openly. Not in a flashy way—just quiet touches. Fixing jammed plastic gears. Replacing rubber bands in spinning toys. Once, she fixed a squeaky cabinet hinge while waiting in line for the bathroom.
No one questioned it.
She was just "that kid who liked building stuff."
And honestly? She was okay with that label.
She paused, letting the silence wrap around her like a thin layer of webbing. Each new day in this world made her feel more like a ghost than a person—something echoing in a place it didn't belong, pretending to be human again. The familiar tug of her old life pulled at her in strange ways, like when she spoke too formally for her age, or instinctively held her breath during moments of tension. No one else noticed, but she did. And she hated how comfortable the mask was starting to feel. It wasn't that she didn't want to be Gwen. It's just that sometimes she didn't know how.
Garage Revelations
That weekend, she cornered George in the kitchen.
"Do we have a junk drawer?"
He raised an eyebrow, halfway through scrambling eggs. "We've got a junk garage. Why?"
"Just curious."
He shrugged. "Knock yourself out. Just don't melt anything."
She spent the next three hours digging through old cables, snapped game controllers, toy RC cars, and even a half-melted coffee maker. She came back inside with an armful of junk and stars in her eyes.
"Find anything good?" George asked as she shuffled past.
"Everything," she replied.
One Step Closer
That night, she sat on her floor surrounded by scrap, working under a desk lamp clipped to the edge of her bed.
Her spider-sense was quiet. Calm.
Her strength lay dormant, humming just under her skin.
And in her lap sat a half-assembled LED headlamp made from a toothbrush casing, two paperclips, and a strip of old velcro.
It wasn't useful.
It wasn't flashy.
But it worked.
And it was hers.
She paused, letting the silence wrap around her like a thin layer of webbing.
Not her body. Not her life. Not her timeline.
But this?
This was the part she got to choose.
The part that could help her become what she couldn't on her own.