-NEW YORK CITY, BROOKLYN-
-February 07,1988, 09:04 EDT-
Richard walked casually down the streets of Brooklyn, his police badge clipped under his jacket, taking a big bite out of a warm chimichanga.
Richard (thinking): Damn… first day as an NYPD officer is so cool… and also stupid.
He strolled past shops and cars, chewing with satisfaction, when suddenly a kid in a hoodie a Black boy no older than 13 bumped into him hard.
Richard: Whoa!
His chimichanga slipped from his hand, but with quick reflexes, Richard caught it mid-air.
Richard: Hey, kid! Look where you're going!
But the boy didn't stop. He dashed down the sidewalk, weaving through pedestrians.
Richard frowned, brushing crumbs from his jacket.
Richard: (muttering) Weirdo.
He sighed and reached into his pocket for his wallet to grab some cash for a bottle of water. His fingers felt nothing but empty fabric.
Richard: Huh?!
He patted both sides of his jacket, then checked his pants pockets.
Richard: Oh no… that kid stole my wallet!
His eyes widened, and he turned to look down the street where the boy had disappeared, a mix of frustration and disbelief washing over his face.
Richard (thinking): Great… day two as a cop in New York City and I already got pickpocketed
-Later-
Jefferson Davis sat on the cold pavement, clutching Richard's wallet tight against his chest. Richard stood over him, hands on his knees, his police badge glinting faintly under the flickering alley light.
Richard let out a tired sigh, his tone softer now.
Richard: Mind telling me why are you calling me racist?
Jefferson glared at him, his little chest heaving.
Jefferson: Because… people like you never listen. Cops only see my skin and think I'm a thief, a gang member, or some criminal waiting to happen.
Richard shook his head slowly, sitting back on his heels to look less threatening.
Richard: Kid… I didn't grab you because of your skin. I grabbed you because you stole from me. Big difference.
Jefferson's grip on the wallet loosened just a little, his voice trembling.
Jefferson: That's what they all say. But my dad he… he died because some cop thought he was "dangerous." He wasn't. He was just walking home from work. They never even said sorry.
Richard's face fell, guilt and anger mixing in his chest. He rubbed the back of his neck and muttered.
Richard (sigh): Damn… I'm sorry, Jefferson. I really am. No kid should have to carry that weight.
For the first time, Jefferson's eyes wavered. He still held the wallet, but now it didn't look like a prize it looked like a shield.
Jefferson: Then… why should I trust you're different?
Richard gave a faint smile, raising his hands like a surrender.
Richard: Guess you'll just have to see for yourself. I'm new here. First day as a cop in New York City and i just arrive here first time in Brooklyn, and trust me I'd rather be eating my chimichangas than chasing you down an alley.
Jefferson blinked, almost letting out a laugh but holding it back. Richard extended a hand, not forceful, just patient.
Richard: Tell you what, kid. You give me back my wallet… and maybe I'll buy us both some water. You keep your dignity, I keep my money, and we both walk out of this alley a little better than when we came in.
Minutes later, the two of them were sitting on the curb outside a food cart, each with a greasy chimichanga in hand. Richard was laughing mid-bite as Jefferson, crumbs on his cheek, spoke between mouthfuls.
Richard chews loudly, then chuckles.
Richard: Man, you ever notice how eating these things makes you look like you're wrestling a wild raccoon?
Jefferson laughs mid-bite, sour cream smearing his cheek.
Jefferson: Yeah, except the raccoon's winning… and charging rent.
They both crack up for a moment before Jefferson grows a little serious, waving his chimichanga like a lecture pointer.
Jefferson (mouth half-full): The government's rotten, man. People get the death penalty here even when they're innocent. Nobody listens, nobody cares.
Richard blinks, raising his half-eaten chimichanga and pauses his mid-bite, staring at him.
Richard: So what, I'm working with a criminal now? Does that mean George Stacy is a corrupt cop too?
Jefferson shakes his head, mouth still stuffed. He swallows, wiping his hands on his hoodie.
Jefferson: Nah. Officer Stacy's different. He saved me once, about a year ago. Risked his neck when he didn't have to. He's a good man.
Richard nods slowly, smirking.
Richard: Good point. But wait wait wait. What you're telling me right now… is this the truth? Or just another serving of New York's famous fake news with a side of salsa?
Jefferson looks down at his food, his tone shifting.
Jefferson: No, man. Everything I said is true. A lot of cops tied to the government… they don't protect people. They use their badge for power… for evil.
Richard stares at him, then takes a huge ridiculous bite of his chimichanga, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk.
Richard: …You had to tell me this heavy stuff while I'm eating, huh?
Jefferson (snorts): Imagine… there's a spider-themed hero in New York. Someone who doesn't just swing around saving cats but actually fights corruption. Cops, politicians, even gangs. Someone who cleans the city from the inside out.
Richard turning to Jefferson. His face tightens.
Richard: …say that again?
-25th Century – Metropolis Archives, Booster Gold's Workshop-
The room hums with futuristic tech. Holograms flicker over scattered blueprints. Michael Jon Carter, aka Booster Gold, leans over his workbench, soldering circuitry into a compact box. His brow furrows, voice carrying a mix of guilt and determination.
Booster (muttering): I need to send this back four-hundred-thirteen years… so Spider-Man can have the proper motivation. He was supposed to be made, not born. To take on corruption, to wear the mask because of choice, not accident. I messed up with the timeline now where the original timeline got destroy and now it's no longer existed because of me... I intervened when I shouldn't have.
He sets the device on the table: a small, silver box glowing faintly red, etched with time-seal runes.
Booster: Now… I have to fix it.
He looks at his AI companion, Skeets, hovering nearby.
Booster: Skeets! Send this box to Richard Laurence Parker… back in the year 413 years ago. It was my fault. I disrupted his fate now I need to restore it. Do it.
Skeets: Confirming temporal delivery coordinates… warning, Michael, this could alter the very foundation of Spider-Man's existence.
Booster: (grim) It already has.
The machine powers up, light spilling across the lab. The box vanishes into the timestream with a snap-hiss, its destination: New York, 20st century… to Richard Parker.