Six months passed like a blur.
It didn't feel like it had been that long—not when every week was filled with little secret victories. A second longer of usable webbing. One fewer false alarm from her spider-sense. A bruised knee healing overnight without even a scab.
The body she had inherited—this tiny blonde frame—was adapting fast. Faster than she expected.
Her webbing no longer fizzled out instantly. Now, when she flexed the right wrist muscles and focused, she could shoot a strand that actually held its shape for a few seconds before dissolving. It couldn't lift anything heavy, or stick her to a wall for long—but it was a start.
A few days ago, she managed to swing herself five feet across her room using a bookshelf and a coat hook.
She landed flat on her face. Still worth it.
But her body wasn't the only thing evolving.
It started with a broken pencil sharpener in class. One of those tiny crank models. A kid tossed it in the trash. Gwen fished it out during lunch, curious.
By the end of the day, she'd fixed the blade, reinforced the gear, and added a twist-on handle that made sharpening pencils silent.
She didn't think anything of it until her teacher held it up the next morning, blinking at the smooth design.
"Who did this?" Ms. Takahashi asked, half impressed and half confused.
"Just… messed with it a little," Gwen said quickly, avoiding attention.
She got a sticker. Gold star. Everyone else forgot by the next day.
But Gwen didn't.
From then on, Gwen stole moments wherever she could.
The garage became her haven. George, now home earlier thanks to his job promotion, kept the space tidy—but he didn't mind Gwen hanging out. He thought it was cute when she asked about tools or helped organize shelves.
He didn't realize she was building things.
At first it was harmless. A magnetized clothespin. A paperclip launcher. Then it got more complex: a motorized spinner made from a remote-controlled car and a ceiling fan part. She used it to simulate web-swinging motion—testing angles, grip, and tension.
Then came her first real success: a wristband that used light pressure to spray compressed string from a cartridge she made out of rolled glue and string thread.
Did it tangle? Yes. Did it smell awful? Yes. Did it make her scream when it misfired and hit her in the face? Absolutely.
But it worked.
It was hers.
And something clicked.
"You've been spending a lot of time in the garage lately," George said one night, sitting beside her on the porch swing. It creaked under their weight, and the evening breeze stirred the trees above.
"Yeah," Gwen muttered, legs swinging.
He sipped his coffee. "Whatcha building?"
She hesitated. She didn't want to lie. But she wasn't ready to tell the truth, either.
"Stuff."
George chuckled. "That's about the same answer your mom used to give me when I asked what she was writing."
That got Gwen's attention. "Mom wrote?"
"Yeah. A lot. Short stories, mostly. Some essays. She never published anything, but… she loved it."
Gwen blinked, surprised. "I didn't know that."
"She used to say creating things was how she processed the world. Like… if she couldn't say something out loud, she'd build it on paper."
The swing was quiet for a while.
Then Gwen whispered, "I think I'm like that too. Just… with gadgets."
George smiled, then pulled her into a one-arm hug. "Then keep building."
With school winding down for the year, Gwen had more time for "unsupervised education," as she put it. She spent hours online watching gear reviews, quirk-enhancement tech breakdowns, and stolen footage of pro heroes using their support gear in the field.
She didn't understand all of it. But her brain—whether from reincarnation or her new quirk-enhanced processing—picked it up fast.
She began drafting blueprints in secret.
Everything she made now served one of two purposes:
Train her spider abilities safely,
Build her toolkit for Ghost Spider's future.
She kept a notebook under her mattress. Inside:
Mark I Web Enhancer Band: failed too often, jammed constantly.
Sensor Lens Visor: worked once, but short-circuited when sneezed.
Vibration Trap Net: broke a window. Got grounded. Worth it.
Remote string latch: kind of like a grapple. Kind of worked. Hit squirrel with it. Dumb squirrel. I named him Jerry.
She failed a lot.
Sometimes because of her mistakes.
Sometimes not.
But with every failure she improved.
No failure went to waste.
One afternoon, during school recess, a small incident tested her again.
A soccer ball sailed over the fence and landed near the sidewalk. One of the braver kids ran to retrieve it—without looking at the approaching car down the road.
Gwen's spider-sense snapped.
Without thinking, she reached into her backpack, pulled out her string wristband, aimed, and flicked.
A sloppy webline slapped the kid's shirt and yanked him back, just enough for the car to pass by.
No one saw. Or at least, they didn't process it.
The kid just looked around, confused.
Gwen hid the band before anyone could ask questions.
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't dramatic.
But it was real.
And it was hers.
That night, Gwen lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her hands were stained with ink, wire grease, and dried glue.
I'm not just copying Spider-Man anymore, she thought.
I'm becoming something new.
A hybrid. A builder. A ghost and a spark.
Not Peter Parker. Not the old Gwen Stacy. Not a copy.
Me.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she whispered aloud to the darkness "...I'm gonna save people..."
A pause.
"…And I'm gonna look awesome doing it." Then she drifts off to her dreams with a soft smile.