Two weeks later…
The construction lot had become something else.
A makeshift lab.
Broken crates now held parts and circuits.
Scavenged Oscorp tech, melted scrap, old rebel wiring—repurposed. Rebuilt.
A single hanging bulb swung from above, casting flickers of light onto the center of it all:
A mannequin made of rusted scaffolding and duct tape.
Wearing a suit.
The Mark I.
It wasn't sleek. Not yet.
The fabric was deep crimson, stitched by hand with padding built into the chest and arms. Bold, rich black panels cut across the shoulders and legs, jagged and rough like street armor.
Metallic accents hugged the wrists and boots—welded from old drone parts. They clanked softly when he moved.
Across the chest, bold and unmistakable:
A large, white spider emblem, sharp and angular, glowing faintly from a salvaged battery core.
It stretched from shoulder to stomach—not clean, but intentional.
Not flashy.
Intimidating.
Peter stepped back and stared at it.
Still wearing his undershirt, gloves off, web-shooters on the table.
He couldn't help but grin a little.
(Luckily… I'm a genius. Thanks to Peter's genes. And after all, I have his memory too.)
He flexed his fingers.
The web-shooters rested snugly in their bracers—thin, dual-barrelled, built from a blend of Oscorp microtriggers and hand-forged launch mechanisms.
He had tested them again and again in the lot—perfecting pressure, grip sensitivity, swing angles.
No AI.
No Stark tech.
Just grit and trial.
And tonight… it was time.
He pulled the suit from the frame.
Slipped one leg in. Then the other.
Zipped it up across his torso.
Snapped the bracers tight.
Pulled the cowl over his head.
The lenses were salvaged from broken rebel goggles—tinted, cracked at the edge, but functional.
He looked at his reflection in the dusty metal panel.
The man staring back wasn't Drake anymore.
He wasn't even just Peter.
He was becoming something else.
Something this broken world had forgotten how to believe in.
"Mark I…" he muttered. "Not bad for a prototype."
He walked to the edge of the lot. Climbed the fence.
The city stretched out before him, cloaked in purple lights, fear, and silence.
But now… a new shape would move through the shadows.
And tonight—Spider-Man would swing for the first time.
…
Meanwhile – The Frontline of Resistance After Minutes of Peter swinging
The city once known as New York was now a fractured skeleton of neon chains and cracked concrete.
Drones flew overhead. Patrols stalked every block. Billboards displayed Prowler Miles' masked face like a warning label burned into the sky.
But in the underground tunnels beneath Sector 9, there was still fire.
Ganke Lee pressed his back to the wall, his breath ragged, fingers tight around the trigger of a worn-out plasma rifle.
Outside the cracked tunnel hatch, the heavy boots of the Viper Enforcers echoed closer.
Armored. Enhanced. Brutal.
Ganke peeked out. His eyes narrowed beneath his goggles.
Five of them.
Black armor. Purple visors. Carrying compact rail blasters.
They marched with that same mechanical confidence—the kind that said "you don't
matter."
Ganke gritted his teeth.
"Fuck you!!"
He burst from cover, screamed, and opened fire.
PEW! PEW!
Blue plasma shots ripped through the smoke, hitting one enforcer square in the chest—his armor sparked violently before he collapsed.
"It's the Rebels!!" one of the Vipers shouted, raising his weapon.
The sound of alarms blared through the alley. Drones pivoted mid-air.
But Ganke wasn't alone.
From the rooftops and alleyways, shadows emerged—his comrades.
Rough. Scarred. Armed with cobbled tech, stolen gear, and sheer desperation.
The Rebels.
Explosives lit the sky behind them as homemade charges detonated a supply truck.
One rebel vaulted over a railing and threw a modified EMP disk into the air—shutting down two surveillance drones in a burst of static.
Ganke reloaded fast, ducked behind a flipped car, then shouted over comms:
"We need to clear this zone before reinforcements come—stick to the plan!"
One of the rebels a girl with silver braids and a scarred jaw yelled:
"They're calling in Skorpion! We got sixty seconds, tops!"
The sound of metal footsteps thundered in the distance.
The ground shook.
Ganke turned toward it.
(Damn it… They're sending in one of the Six.)
(And we're not ready for that.)
He took a deep breath, gripping the rifle tighter.
"Then we hold them off. Buy the people time."
The ground rumbled.
BOOM.
Then again.
BOOM. BOOM.
From the smoke-filled alley behind the enforcers, a silhouette emerged—massive, mechanical, inhuman.
And then he stepped into the light.
Skorpion.
At least… what was left of him.
Eight feet tall, wrapped in thick cybernetic armor, his spine replaced with a massive segmented tail that curved over his back like a metal serpent. The tip of the tail hummed—glowing green with unstable energy, venom-pulsing, hissing like it wanted to strike.
His helmet locked into place with a grinding hiss, the visor glowing bright red.
"Target acquired." His voice was metallic, lifeless. "Rebel resistance in violation of Sector Code 17. Execute."
"TAKE COVER!" Ganke yelled.
FWOOOOSH!
Skorpion's tail fired a plasma burst—blowing a chunk of concrete from the wall where Ganke had stood seconds before. He rolled, scraped his elbow, but kept his rifle locked.
The other rebels scattered.
One dove behind a car.
Another fired a grappling dart—but it bounced off Skorpion's armored chest with a dull clang.
"He's too armored!" someone shouted. "Regular shots won't pierce it!"
"Then aim for the weak points!" Ganke roared back.
Skorpion charged.
He moved like a tank possessed shoulder-checking a wrecked car clean across the street, sending two rebels flying with it.
The tail struck again—
SLAM!
It pierced the pavement, barely missing Ganke's foot.
(We can't hold him. Not like this…)
But he didn't back down.
Ganke lifted a compact EMP grenade from his belt, pulled the pin with his teeth, and chucked it straight at Skorpion's face.
POP!
A flash of blue light then static.
Skorpion staggered, visor flickering. His tail twitched.
One of the rebels took the opening fired a bolt straight into the joint behind his knee. Sparks flew.
But it only made him angrier.
"Threat: escalated."
"Shit—FALL BACK!" Ganke yelled.
The rebels scattered again.
The tail arched again, primed for a kill shot.
Ganke knew he couldn't dodge this one.
He raised his rifle anyway face set, teeth clenched.
But then—
THWIP!
Something fast.
Too fast.
A red blur crashed into the battlefield like a falling meteor—smashing down between Ganke and the Scorpion's tail.
Dust exploded outward.
Everyone froze.
And then, through the smoke…
A figure rose.
Deep crimson suit. Sharp white spider on the chest. Black and metallic lines pulsing with energy.
He stood tall.
Lenses gleaming.
Mark I.
Spider-Man.
Ganke's eyes widened.
He dropped his rifle.
"…No way."
Across the battlefield, rebels and Vipers stared.
A moment of disbelief.
And at the center of it—
Peter.
Standing in the middle of a warzone.
He glanced at the enemy.
The Viper Enforcers. Same sigils. Same swagger.
But more advanced. More organized. Trained.
His mind raced.
(Well, there are Viper groups here too)
He slowly clenched his fists, taking in the ruined alley, the broken resistance fighters, and the looming tank of a monster before him.
(In my world… the Vipers were just thugs. Gangsters from the neighborhood who ran streets with stolen pistols and cheap attitude…)
(But here? Well Looks like they evolved. Turned military. Enforcers now… with tech. With control. With backup from freaks like this.)
His eyes locked onto Skorpion.
Tail twitching. Shoulders rising.
The red glow of his visor scanning Peter's suit.
(Okay. Giant cybernetic scorpion. Definitely not neighborhood-level anymore.)
Peter breathed slowly.
The buzz beneath his skin started up again.
That same pulse that first melted metal two weeks ago. His palms began to glow faintly.
The air around him shifted—heat rising.
The rebels watched from the shadows, wide-eyed.
Skorpion's voice crackled, mechanical and cold:
"New anomaly detected. Unknown"
Peter tilted his head.
"…Guess you need to update your files."
He launched forward.
First punch clean. Brutal. Straight to the chest.
BOOM—!
Skorpion flew back five feet, smashing into a car. The vehicle crumpled under the impact.
Gasps.
Even Ganke stepped back.
Peter landed, stance wide, ready.
The heat from his palms still pulsing, controlled now contained.
(Let's see what Mark 1 can do.)
To be continue