The next day.
Two figures swung between the skyscrapers—Garfield and Holland.
After a single day to recover, they had finally shaken off the unease of their first kill. Neither spoke of it, but both knew: they had changed. They had grown.
Suddenly, down below, chaos erupted. A bank robbery.
And of course, New York's "friendly neighborhood Spider-Men" would never look the other way. Without hesitation, the two dove for the bank.
…
Inside the bank, four men in black hoods brandished submachine guns, barking orders at terrified clerks. The body of a security guard still lay on the floor, warm with blood.
"Fill the bags! Now!" one shouted.
"Move faster, or you're dead!"
Shaking, the clerks obeyed. Hostages knelt on the floor, wide-eyed, clutching each other in fear.
One girl, trembling, looked toward the window—then gasped, her face lighting up.
Two shadows streaked past.
A crash of glass.
The window shattered, and in swung the two Spider-Men—Garfield and Holland in their suits.
The robbers froze. Everyone in New York knew the name Spider-Man.
But desperate men with guns didn't drop them so easily. The four raised their weapons—
Only for webs to yank them from their hands in an instant.
Before they could even cry out, the two Spider-Men leapt forward. A flurry of fists and kicks put all four on the ground, moaning in pain.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Clerks and hostages cried out in joy, waving at their rescuers. Garfield and Holland returned the greetings with warm waves, the rush of victory on their faces.
…
But then, both of their spider-senses went off—hard.
A grating voice cut through the noise.
"Excellent. Excellent. As expected of Spider-Man. Two clowns hiding behind masks—allow me to tear them away."
The two turned.
A dark-green shape entered the room. Broad armored shoulders, jagged plating gleaming, and behind him a long scorpion tail swaying, dripping menace.
It was Mac Gargan, now fused with the Scorpion Suit.
Garfield and Holland's eyes widened. They had no idea who—or what—this was.
But Gargan didn't care to explain. The only thought filling his head was the urge to seize them… or kill them.
The suit didn't just enhance strength. Its tail could whip like a steel lash or spray burning acid. But its greatest flaw: prolonged use eroded the mind, merging man and machine into a creature of pure slaughter.
…
In a blur, the Scorpion lunged. His power dwarfed even Maguire's spider-strength. Against Garfield and Holland, he was overwhelming.
A fist swung, heavy enough to shake the air. Their spider-sense screamed; both twisted aside, barely dodging.
Web-lines shot out, trying to bind him.
But they forgot the tail.
The flexible, whip-like appendage cracked through the air.
With a sickening *whip-crack*, it caught Holland and hurled him across the room. He smashed into a wall, bringing it down in a thunderous collapse.
Garfield, the most agile of the three Spider-Men, rolled clear, but his stomach turned at the sight.
Panic surged through the crowd; hostages stampeded for the exit, screaming.
Garfield struck back—webbing fired in rapid bursts, covering Scorpion's face.
That was Spider-Man's edge: not just power, but wit. Blind him, and he's a target.
Snarling, Gargan clawed at the sticky strands, struggling to rip them away.
Garfield struck, driving a punch into his chest, sending him skidding back across the floor.
And just as he tore the webs free—
Holland came bursting from the rubble, firing his own streams of webbing. Again Gargan's sight was smothered, his movements tangled.
The two Spider-Men closed in, striking together, fists and webs pounding against the armored figure.
…
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