The Amazing Spider-Man
Amazing Fantasy 6/6
Chapter Six: Be Greater
The city was alive with noise, but all Peter Parker could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat. He was a crimson blur, swinging from building to building—no matter how big or small—through the neon haze of New York's night lights, wind screaming past his ears, rage pulsing through every muscle.
He had a mission. Find his uncle's killer. Find the man who shattered his life.
Aunt May was with the Watsons. Safe. Devastated, but safe. Uncle Ben was gone. He had to avenge him—no matter the cost.
Peter flew over rooftops, heart raw, jaw clenched. When web-swinging wasn't enough, he ran—bounding across rooftops with animalistic agility. When that wasn't enough, he climbed sheer brick walls, fingers finding holds like instinct.
If he found the car… He'd find the killer.
He scanned every alley, every lot, every shady corner. The hours bled together. His body moved faster than his thoughts—more predator than teenager. The red-and-blue suit clung to him like a second skin, but he barely felt it.
Then—he saw it.
The car. Uncle Ben's old, beat-up sedan.
Parked crookedly outside a crumbling, boarded-up building in Queens.
Peter perched silently atop a nearby streetlamp, eyes narrowed behind his lenses. The city noise faded.
He descended in silence, slipping through a cracked window and into the shadows of the abandoned structure.
Inside, it was dark. The place reeked of mold and stale liquor. Trash littered the floor.
But Peter's enhanced senses picked up a presence. Breathing. Moving. A silhouette near a busted-out window.
There.
A man. Twitchy. Nervous. Muttering to himself. His hand hovered over the handle of a pistol.
Peter dropped behind him without a sound, his voice low and full of venom.
"Why?"
The man spun, startled, wide-eyed. "W-What the hell?!"
The gun triggered, but Peter's spider-sense warned him. As he evaded the bullet, Peter stepped closer, his voice rising, fists trembling.
"Why did you kill him?! He didn't do anything to you!"
"I—I just wanted the car, man! I didn't mean to—he startled me, and I—!"
Peter grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. "HE WAS AN INNOCENT MAN!"
"I didn't know—!"
"HE WAS MY UNCLE!" Peter screamed, eyes burning. "WHY?!"
The man stammered, hands raised, trembling. "I didn't know, I didn't know! It was just a car, I swear—it wasn't supposed to go like that!"
Peter raised a fist, ready to strike. The man turned, and the moonlight cut through the broken window.
Peter saw his face.
And froze.
Blonde hair. The same guy. The same man from the hallway at the wrestling match. The one Peter had let go.
He'd walked away. He could have stopped him. He had the power. He did nothing.
Guilt swallowed him like an undertow.
His fist flew anyway. Not a calculated punch—an emotional one, wild and raw. The man hit the floor with a scream, and Peter stood over him, chest heaving.
His mind screamed at him to stop. He didn't.
Not until blue and red lights lit up the walls through the broken windows.
Outside, a neighbor had called in the noise. Peter quickly fled the scene, not before making sure the guy wouldn't escape the building.
From afar, Peter watched as police officers stormed the building minutes later.
What they found was the suspect—bruised, barely conscious, stuck to a cracked concrete wall, wrapped in strange white webbing.
The stolen car was outside.
The case, suddenly, had answers.
---
Peter was pacing back and forth on top of a building, impassive. He had caught the guy—but he had too much rage inside to go home.
He could have stopped his uncle's killer. He could have.
Then he heard a scream—a woman's.
Peter didn't think. He moved. A group of muggers tried to rob her. Spider-Man stopped them easily.
Then another scream—a child this time.
Kidnappers were trying to force the kid into a van. Spider-Man beat them down and made sure the child got home safely.
Gunshots next—a gang had tried to rob a corner store. Things had gone south. Spider-Man webbed all their weapons and let the police handle the rest.
An hour passed. But Peter couldn't stop.
He wasn't sure why he was doing this… but he couldn't stop. Not yet. He told himself he'd go back home when he was finished.
Another hour passed. The city was quiet. Clean. No more crime. Not for now, at least.
Peter's rage had finally faded—replaced now with fear. Uncertainty. The adrenaline was gone, and in its place… the reality of what waited.
He had to face it. And so, Peter finally swung away—toward home.
He landed silently behind the Watsons' house, the weight of the night crashing into him harder than any punch ever could.
Inside, the air was thick with grief. The Watsons were quiet—awkward. No one knew what to say.
Aunt May sat on the couch, her hands shaking around a cup of untouched tea.
She looked like a ghost—pale, red-eyed, smaller than Peter had ever seen her.
He didn't say anything. He just walked in… and wrapped his arms around her.
And crumbled.
The tears came without warning, breaking through every wall he'd tried to hold up.
His knees gave out. He clung to her like he was drowning, sobbing into her sweater.
Aunt May said nothing—just held him, rubbing his back through the waves of anguish.
MJ sat quietly nearby, watching, heart breaking for her friend. When the moment was right, she moved beside him and took his hand.
"It's gonna be okay, Tiger," she whispered.
"You've still got people. You're not alone."
Peter didn't answer. He couldn't.
Eventually, he stood—wordless, hollow—and walked out of the Watsons' house, crossing the short path to his own.
The front door was patched now, repaired by the local precinct. Fresh screws. New lock.
Peter stared at it for a long time, unable to move. The door had never meant much before. Now, it was a line in the sand.
He reached out, brushing the new wood.
Behind him, MJ stepped outside. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
She walked up and wrapped her arms around him from behind. Peter stood there, silent, still feeling the weight of her embrace—his eyes fixed on that closed door like it was the threshold to something bigger than both of them.
And in his mind… Uncle Ben's voice echoed.
"With great power… comes great responsibility."
It wasn't just a lesson. It was a legacy.
That night, Peter didn't sleep.
Instead, he sat at his desk—sketching. Writing. Thinking.
New devices. Trackers. Upgrades for his web-shooters. Anything that could help him be Spider-Man.
The world was big. Dangerous. Cruel.
And so it needed people like him, like Spider-Man.
But he had power now. Real power.
He couldn't change the past. But he could make sure no one else lost someone the way he had.
He could be better. Be stronger. Be greater.
And Peter Parker—now truly Spider-Man—looked out his window across Queens, clenched his jaw, and swore.
He would never walk away again.
---
End of Arc One: Amazing Fantasy
To Be Continued...