The rain in Queens never felt clean. It carried the metallic bite of exhaust, the faint sourness of overflowing dumpsters, and tonight, the sharp ozone promise of lightning that never quite arrived. Peter Parker had been perched on the rusted fire escape for almost half an hour, legs hooked over the railing, body inverted so blood didn't pool uncomfortably in his skull. The mask's lenses filtered the world into crisp reds and blues, but they couldn't filter out the cold that seeped through the suit's thinner joints.
Below him, in the narrow throat of the alley behind Mr. Delgado's bodega, two men were having a very bad night.
One—broad-shouldered, tattoo creeping up his neck—kept gesturing with a compact pistol as though volume alone could convince his partner. The other, smaller, twitchy, clutched a black duffel bag to his chest like it was a newborn. They spoke in low, urgent Spanish that Peter could mostly follow: something about a buyer waiting in Brooklyn, a cut that wasn't fair, and how this score was supposed to be easy.
Peter's spider-sense had started as a faint prickle when he first spotted them slipping out the bodega's back door. Not the full-body scream that came with falling girders or alien invasions—just the persistent itch that said, *This is going to escalate if you don't step in.*
He flexed his fingers inside the gloves. The web-shooters were at 92% capacity; he'd synthesized a fresh batch yesterday after school. Enough for a dozen swings and a few restraints. More than enough.
He exhaled, watching the breath cloud briefly inside the mask.
"Showtime," he muttered.
Peter released his grip.
Gravity took him for half a second before the web-line caught, yanking him into a smooth pendulum arc. He released at the apex, tucked, and landed in a crouch between the two men, boots splashing in a shallow puddle. One palm pressed flat against the wet concrete for balance.
"Evening, gentlemen," he said, voice light but carrying over the rain. "You know, if you're going to rob the place with the best empanadas in a five-mile radius, at least have the decency to do it during business hours. Mr. Delgado's wife makes the pineapple ones on Thursdays. You're missing out."
The gunman spun first, pistol coming up fast. Amateur grip, finger already inside the trigger guard. Peter twisted left as the shot cracked—muzzle flash bright against the dark brick. The bullet sparked off the wall where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Peter flicked his right wrist. A thin strand of web-fluid shot out, wrapping the man's gun hand and yanking upward. The pistol clattered against the fire escape three stories up.
The smaller man lunged, pulling a switchblade from his sleeve. Peter caught the incoming wrist mid-arc, rotated his hips, and used the man's momentum to send him stumbling forward. A quick palm strike to the solar plexus folded him with a choked wheeze. The knife skittered across the pavement into a storm drain.
Gunman yanked against the webbing, snarling curses. Peter stepped in, webbed the man's ankles to the ground in a single motion, then sealed his mouth with another precise shot. The thug's eyes went wide above the white cocoon.
"Stay put," Peter told him. "NYPD's usually faster when there's empanadas involved. You'll thank me later."
He straightened, rolling his left shoulder. The bruise from last night's Rhino chase throbbed dully beneath the suit—a deep purple bloom that still hadn't fully faded. Eighteen years old, and his body already cataloged injuries like a veteran's scrapbook.
That was when the world changed.
A faint shimmer crossed his vision, like heat distortion over summer asphalt. Blue light, clean and impossible, coalesced into floating text just beyond the lenses—crisp, translucent, impossible to blink away.
**[System Initialization Complete]**
Peter's breath caught.
**[User: Peter Benjamin Parker]**
**[Designation: Spider-Man]**
**[Core Objective: Survival → Ascendance]**
The words hung there, patient, unblinking.
He stared. His pulse hammered in his ears louder than the rain.
The interface shifted smoothly.
**[Anomaly Detected: Native Enhancement (Arachnid Mutation)]**
**[Integration at 47%. Stability: Nominal]**
**[First Interface Unlocked – Status]**
A panel expanded in his mind's eye—structured, elegant, like the HUD in one of Tony Stark's suits but colder, more clinical.
**Strength: 12x Baseline Human**
**Agility: 18x Baseline Human**
**Durability: 9x Baseline Human**
**Regeneration: Enhanced (Accelerated Healing Factor – Minor Wounds: 4-12 hours)**
**Spider-Sense: Active (Threat Prediction Level 3)**
**Web Fluid Synthesis: 92% Capacity (Recharge in 6 hours 14 minutes)**
Peter's mouth went dry. He raised a hand as if to push the display away. Nothing happened.
Below the stats, a new section pulsed faintly.
**[Available Quest: First Threshold]**
**Objective: Survive the Coming Reckoning**
**Description: An external force has taken notice. Your mutation was never random. Prepare.**
**Reward: Skill Point ×1, Minor Upgrade Token, Intel Fragment ×1**
**Failure: System Lockout. Potential Termination of Host.**
"...What the hell," he breathed.
The two thugs groaned against their bindings. Sirens wailed somewhere blocks away—close enough that response time would be minutes, not hours.
Peter shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the hallucination. Concussion? Toxin? Some new Goblin gas he hadn't encountered yet?
The panel didn't flicker or fade.
His spider-sense hummed again—not the sharp alarm of immediate danger from the alley, but something colder. Distant. Like pressure building behind his eyes, or eyes watching from far above the storm clouds.
Footsteps approached from the mouth of the alley. Not hurried police boots. Measured. Deliberate. Heavy enough to carry authority even on wet pavement.
Peter tensed, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.
A figure stepped into view, silhouetted against the sodium glow of the streetlights. Broad shoulders under a dark leather jacket. A circular shield strapped to his left arm—red, white, blue, unmistakable even in the rain. Steve Rogers stood there, water dripping from short blond hair, expression calm but unreadable.
"Spider-Man," Captain America said. His voice cut cleanly through the downpour, low and steady. "We need to talk."
Peter's heart lurched into overdrive.
The interface reacted instantly.
**[New Entity Detected: Enhanced Human (Super-Soldier Serum)]**
**[Threat Assessment: Ally Potential – High]**
**[Recommendation: Engage. Information Critical.]**
The words hovered there like a suggestion from a very calm, very detached advisor.
Peter swallowed. Rain slid down the back of his neck, cold against suddenly heated skin.
He forced his posture to relax—or at least fake it. "Captain," he managed, injecting as much casual into the word as possible. "Fancy meeting you in my neighborhood. You here for the empanadas too?"
Steve's mouth twitched—just the barest hint of a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Not tonight."
He took one step forward, boots splashing softly. The shield remained at his side, not raised, but present.
Peter's mind raced. Captain America didn't do random walk-ins. Not in Queens alleys at midnight. Not unless something bigger was moving.
The interface blinked once more.
**[Entity Observation: Baseline trust level detected. Opportunity for alliance formation.]**
Peter ignored it—or tried to.
"Yeah," he said instead, dropping the forced levity. He stood straighter, no longer slouching into the friendly neighborhood posture. "Guess the empanadas will have to wait."
Rain continued to fall between them, drumming on metal lids and pooling in cracks.
Steve studied him for a long moment—long enough that Peter felt the weight of decades behind those blue eyes.
"I've been watching your work," Steve said finally. "The Rhino takedown last week. The warehouse fire on 47th. You're good, kid. Better than good. But you're still out here alone."
Peter shifted his weight. "I manage."
"You do," Steve agreed. "But something's changed. I felt it tonight. Like the air pressure dropped before a storm."
Peter's spider-sense gave another low thrum—agreement, almost.
Steve's gaze flicked upward, as though scanning the rooftops, then back to Peter. "You feel it too, don't you?"
Peter hesitated. The glowing text hovered insistently in his periphery.
**[Quest Reminder: First Threshold – Active]**
**Time remaining until escalation: Unknown**
He met Steve's eyes. No jokes this time. No deflection.
"Yeah," Peter admitted quietly. "I feel it."
Steve nodded once, as though that single word confirmed something he'd suspected.
"Then let's talk somewhere dry," he said. "Because whatever's coming, it's not waiting for either of us to be ready."
Peter glanced back at the webbed thugs—one still glaring, the other slumped in defeat—then at the Captain.
The interface pulsed softly.
**[Recommendation: Accept dialogue. Data acquisition priority elevated.]**
Peter exhaled through his nose.
"Lead the way, Cap."
Steve turned, shield catching a flash of lightning that finally cracked overhead.
Peter followed, webs silent on the wet pavement, mind spinning faster than any swing through the city.
Because tonight, the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man had just received an upgrade he never asked for—and a warning he couldn't ignore.
To be continued...