The Amazing Spider-Man
Amazing Fantasy 5/6
Chapter Five: Great Responsibility
It had been a week since the wrestling match—the night everything shifted.
Peter still remembered the greasy smirk of the boss counting out half the agreed-upon money, the flash of arrogance in the blonde stranger's eyes as Peter let him walk right past.
Moments later, the gunshot had echoed through the halls. News spread quickly, the man had robbed the wrestling promoter.
Peter hadn't felt an ounce of sympathy. If anything, the crook had it coming. At the time, Peter convinced himself it wasn't his problem.
But today… today wasn't about regrets.
Today was about becoming who he was meant to be.
Peter stood outside a narrow shop tucked between towering buildings in Manhattan's Garment District. The faded sign above the door read.
"Zelinsky's Tailoring & Costumes – Est. 1942"
It was a place Crusher Hogan had recommended, if Peter needed a suit this was the place to go. According to him, the old tailor had crafted gear for stage performers, movie studios, and—rumor had it—even Captain America's early uniforms.
Peter pushed the door open, a faint bell jingling overhead as he stepped inside. The shop smelled of aged leather, fabric dye, and sawdust. Bolts of cloth lined the walls, and sketches of superhero suits—both real and fictional—adorned a corkboard behind the counter.
From the back, a wiry old man with thick glasses and a gentle smile emerged, his hands stained with threads and chalk dust.
"Ah, Peter," he greeted warmly, adjusting his spectacles. "Been waiting for you. Couldn't sleep last night, finishing your project."
Peter's heart quickened. He'd spent half the money from that ill-fated wrestling match to pay for this—the other half had gone straight to Aunt May and Uncle Ben, tucked into their tight household budget. It wasn't much, but it helped.
"You really did it?" Peter asked, eyes wide with anticipation.
The old man chuckled, reaching beneath the counter and unveiling a carefully folded bundle of fabric. "Did it? Son, I loved doing this. Been years since I made something like it—reminded me of some of my earliest jobs."
He smiled knowingly. "Also, don't worry about secrecy. Your secret's safe with me. But enough of that—go ahead, try it on."
Peter stepped into the back, heart pounding, and pulled the material over his body.
Each piece fit like a second skin.
The mask slid down last.
And when he stepped out again, the old man beamed with pride.
The suit was perfect.
The deep, vivid red hugged his chest, shoulders, and arms, patterned with an intricate black web design that spiraled outward from a bold, black spider emblem at the center of his chest.
The mask—sleek and symmetrical—featured expressive white eye lenses that gave him an almost otherworldly look.
Blue panels wrapped his sides and legs, blending seamlessly with the red. Black accents traced the joints, outlining the suit in sharp, clean lines. The material was flexible yet durable, stretching with his movements but firm enough to withstand punishment.
Maybe it was spandex—Peter wasn't sure. But it didn't matter.
Peter twisted, flexed, bounced lightly on his feet—the suit moved with him.
Weightless. Perfect.
"It's… incredible," Peter whispered, unable to hide the awe in his voice.
The old man grinned.
"Told you. Kid, you're gonna turn heads out there."
---
Pedestrians bustled along sidewalks of New York, it was early in the morning. Taxis honked. The scent of coffee and bagels drifted from corner carts.
Suddenly, a red and blue blur whipped overhead.
People stopped what they were doing and looked up. The blur came with a scream—one not of fear, but pure joy.
"Woooohooooo!"
Heads turned as the figure finally slowed down, revealing the shape of a man in a red and blue suit.
Spider-Man soared between skyscrapers, launching silk lines from mechanical web-shooters that fired flawlessly. Sticky strands latched onto distant buildings, hurling him forward with stunning grace.
The web-shooters had been the trickiest part. Peter didn't have the funds to build something like this legitimately.
But he had his ways...
Meaning sneaking around the dumpsters of Oscorp, Stark Industries, and any other major tech company in New York—digging through their discarded scraps until he found what he needed. People really should be more careful about what they throw away.
The wind rushed past him, adrenaline surging, the suit clinging tight like a second skin. He twisted and spun through the city, spiraling between alleyways and rooftops, flipping off lampposts with giddy laughter.
The city was his playground now.
Big building? Anchor point.
Fire escape? Launch ramp.
His newly developed web-shooters gave him mobility like nothing else—and the web fluid he'd concocted was strong enough to hold his weight, maybe even more.
The web fluid part had been easier. Thanks to a conveniently timed science project with Liz Allan, Peter had used their shared assignment to develop a synthetic version of spider silk—entirely from the materials available in Midtown High's lab. Liz had no idea what he was actually doing, but as long as it meant an getting an A, she was happy to be on board.
After a while, Peter checked his phone. Almost time. Duty called.
He veered toward Queens, dropping down toward a familiar street. Moments later, he landed behind a building near Midtown High. Ducking out of sight, he stripped off the mask and suit, folding them neatly into his backpack.
He ran a hand through his hair, slipped on his regular clothes, adjusted his hoodie—and jogged toward the main entrance. People were still pouring in, so he went unnoticed by most.
Sliding into his seat just in time before the bell rang, Liz Allan turned toward him with wide eyes.
"Where've you been?" she whispered. "We've got that science presentation—Mr. Henderson's gonna kill us!"
Peter offered a confident smile, pulling out his notes and a small vial filled with a clear, glistening liquid.
"Relax. I've got it covered."
They were called on first, and together they approached the front of the classroom. Peter held up the vial, addressing the curious stares of their classmates.
"This," he began, "is a synthetic polymer solution I developed. It mimics the tensile strength and consistency of natural spider silk. I call it… Web Fluid."
The class leaned in, impressed. Even Harry Osborn's eyes lit up with intrigue.
Peter let a single drop fall from the tube. It stretched like syrup until it touched the teacher's table—then held. He picked up a pair of scissors and tried to cut it.
"It's highly resistant to cuts, stretching, even flames."
He touched the strand that had fallen onto the desk and handed it to Liz. Then he walked to the opposite side of the room.
"And this is to show how far it can stretch without breaking."
"That's… really cool, Pete," Harry remarked after the presentation. "Dad would love to hear about that. You know Oscorp's working with polymers like that."
Before Peter could respond, the classroom door creaked open.
Mary Jane Watson stood in the doorway, tension clear in her frame. Her green eyes shimmered with something unspoken—worry, maybe even fear.
"Mr. Henderson," she interrupted, "I need Peter. It's… an emergency."
The teacher frowned but nodded.
"Go ahead, Parker. Liz, you've got his notes?"
Liz nodded as Peter handed them over, anxiety prickling his skin.
Outside the classroom, Peter turned to MJ.
"What's wrong? Is it your parents? If you need any help, you know you can count on—"
MJ's expression tightened. Her usual playful smirk was gone.
"It's your uncle… Ben."
The words hit like a punch to the chest. Peter's eyes widened. His breathing slowed.
"Your aunt called from my house—that's why I know," MJ continued softly.
"Someone broke into your home and... your uncle... he was shot. They also stole his car."
Peter's heart plummeted. The hallway spun.
"What—? No—he was just—he was—"
He swayed, dizzy. MJ caught him as he collapsed, her arms steady, eyes soft.
"Your Aunt May's okay," she added quickly, her voice trembling. "She talked to the principal. They're sending you home. I'm going with you."
---
The world blurred after that—sirens, flashing lights, the droning voices of police officers.
A cruiser brought him home. But it wasn't really home anymore.
The front door hung off its hinges. Shattered glass glittered on the porch like broken ice.
The burglar had broken in not long after Peter had left for school. He wanted valuables, but there were none. So he went for the car keys.
Uncle Ben fought back. Hard.
He broke the man's nose, chipped one of his teeth—but the man had a gun.
The shot was instant. Fatal.
That's what the officers told him.
Inside the house, chaos. The living room overturned. Family photos smashed.
Aunt May's soft sobs echoed from the Watsons' house next door.
MJ stayed with him for a moment, silent and still, her presence calm—but Peter couldn't sit. Couldn't breathe.
Rage. White-hot. Suffocating. The police tried to question him. Neighbors whispered.
The day turned to afternoon, and afternoon into evening. Lights flickered on across the block.
None of it mattered. Peter ran.
Faster than anyone could follow. MJ tried—but he was already gone.
His backpack slammed against his back as he ducked into an alley, ripping it open and yanking out the suit.
The mask snapped into place. The suit hugged his body as he launched himself onto the wall—then up into the sky.
The city blurred beneath him as he swung through the streets.
Every fiber of his being locked on one thing:
Find the man who killed Uncle Ben.
And when he did…
he wouldn't hold back.
To Be Continued…