It was over a week into my new training schedule when something happened that was even remotely interesting.
It was Sunday morning when I woke up to Uncle Ben watching the news, which was reporting on how there had been an accident in the Baxter Building resulting in a small, contained explosion. No casualties.
To Uncle Ben, that may not have seemed like much. But to me? It was world-shattering.
For a while I had assumed this was strictly the Marvel cinematic universe, meaning only the movie storylines would be included. But now? The Baxter Building — home to a special group of scientists. The same building where Reed Richards worked.
The Fantastic Four.
Holy hell. They were real.
The moment I realised it, I booted up my computer and searched for them. Reed Richards was young in this universe — just twenty-five. Sue was even younger at twenty-two. Johnny was twenty. Ben Grimm was twenty-seven. And Victor Von Doom was thirty.
It seemed like they might be the Ultimate version of the Fantastic Four, though it didn't quite feel that way either. Reed was calm and methodical, and Doom was, in fact, the ruler of his own small nation. They had apparently been college classmates at some point, and from what I could find on Doom's published scientific work, he didn't rate Reed particularly highly — often dismissing him in academic papers.
I honestly didn't know what I should do at this point. They were the FF — but did they need my help? No. They could handle themselves. Maybe once I got better. Until then, I would stay put.
So with that resolved, I found myself enjoying a rare relaxed Sunday. No training, no notable homework — and best of all, Aunt May and Uncle Ben were going out for the day and wouldn't be back until late that night.
I needed to make the most of this. I would. But first things first: a costume.
I felt ridiculous trying to act as Spider-Man without a proper costume, so I started browsing online. I was not at all surprised to be completely horrified by the options available. They were all disgusting. Couldn't I just wear armour? Oh wait — too expensive.
But that didn't mean I was stuck with terrible-looking spandex. I ordered two base pieces — one red, one black. I wasn't a big fan of the classic red-and-blue look, and I certainly wasn't going for the 'Superior Spider-Man' aesthetic. So black and red it was.
The costume would arrive in a few days, which was good — it gave me time to learn how to stitch. I spent most of the morning watching video after video on basic tailoring techniques. It was brain-numbing work that didn't require heavy thinking, so the concepts came easily enough.
When May and Ben left for the day, I went to my room, changed into some decent clothes, and went out. I didn't want to be cooped up in the house all day. I was on a different Earth, for God's sake — I had to explore.
I took the train into the city and took in the sights. I might have been giddy like a tourist, but I genuinely didn't care. The place was extraordinary. I walked down to Harlem.
It was still a wreck, unsurprisingly. People were still cleaning things up. The military had done what they could, but the destruction from the Hulk and Abomination's fight was enormous. Debris was still being cleared from the roads, and a newly formed organisation called 'Rebuild Harlem' was visibly on the scene, coordinating the effort.
My curiosity satisfied, I left the area, confident it was in good hands. But as I passed the Apollo Theater I noticed the road was still cordoned off, and when I looked down the block I could see the crater where Bruce Banner had landed and transformed into the Hulk.
I grew curious and wandered over. People were told to keep back, but no one was really listening. Everyone was taking photos, pointing at the crater, crowding in to look. I was about to leave when I saw something under a rock at the edge of the impact site.
I walked carefully into the depression and lifted the heavy stone. There it was — a brownish stain. Blood.
I immediately recognised how dangerous this was. Not only was Bruce Banner's blood extremely volatile, but it had unpredictable mutagenic properties. I remembered reports of people being mutated when exposed to irradiated Hulk blood. So what would it do to me — someone already carrying an enhanced, gene-altered biology?
I was curious. I wasn't going to inject myself with it. But I wanted to know what it was capable of.
I picked up the blood-stained rock and tucked it into my jacket pocket — it was roughly the size of my hand. I left Harlem quickly and spent another hour in the city before heading home, my mind running on the possibilities.
Back in my lab, I scraped off a small amount of the dried blood into a test tube and began the process of preparing it for analysis. It took some time, but I eventually had a vial of diluted Hulk blood ready for examination. I stored it away from sight. I'd need to find a more secure hiding place soon.
But back to the blood itself. I analysed it under a microscope. There wasn't a great deal visible to the naked eye at this magnification, but I did find that the blood cells were still active. Ordinarily, dried blood meant dead cells — denatured proteins, collapsed structure. Not here. The Hulk's cells had some remarkable properties.
I studied the sample for a while longer, noting that any organic compound I introduced — glucose, carbohydrates — was consumed by the cells almost instantly. Something in the Hulk's biology kept them metabolically alive.
After my experiments, I went out again — this time to the hangar at the abandoned train yard. I jumped the fence and walked toward the building, then stopped.
The doors were already open.
I frowned. Whenever I left this place I made sure to close those doors. Who else was here? I pushed them wide and stepped inside.
"What the heck?" a voice came from the shadows. Stepping out from behind a stack of iron beams were Flash Thompson and Liz Allen, followed by Harry Osborn and MJ — all of them staring at me in surprise.
"Parker?!" Flash growled. "What the hell are you doing here?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Painting the ceiling. You?"
"Hey, Pete!" Harry called out with a wide smile, acting as though we were still the best of friends — which, sadly, we once had been. I suspected he'd brought them here. I remembered him coming here years ago with Peter. "I was just showing these guys this amazing place! I had no idea you still came here!"
I kept my expression neutral. "From time to time." I looked to the side and saw MJ's face flushed red. I noticed Liz Allen was shooting me a look of pure frustration. I put the pieces together quickly.
"Ah," I said flatly. "So you all came here to make out. I see."
Liz's face went scarlet. "What?! No! Get your head out of the gutter, Parker!"
I shrugged. "Says the girl who looks like she just went through a tumble dryer." I made brief eye contact with MJ and she blushed even harder. "Well. I suppose I should leave you guys to it. Lock up when you're done."
I turned to go when MJ suddenly spoke up. "Ah — wait, Peter." She glanced nervously at Harry. "I think I'd better go too, actually. My aunt will be getting worried."
Harry looked stung. "What? Are you serious? We just got here."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I'll see you in school, Harry. Bye, Liz. Bye, Flash." And with that she practically bolted out of the hangar.
I groaned under my breath and followed her outside. We walked to the fence together, and I gave her a hand climbing over it. As we headed back toward home I finally asked, "So... you and Harry, huh?"
MJ's eyes went wide. "What? No!"
I rolled my eyes. "You don't have to lie, Mary Jane. I genuinely don't care who you choose to be with. It's your life, not mine."
MJ looked away as we walked. I honestly hadn't wanted to get involved, but she had looked shaken, and I couldn't bring myself to just leave her like that.
"He... he thought I wanted to make out," MJ finally said.
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why did he think that?"
MJ shook her head. "I don't know."
"Mary Jane... did he try to force something?" I asked.
"What? No! He didn't do anything! It's just..." she looked ashamed of herself. "I guess I must have given him the wrong impression. I probably led him on somehow. It's my fault, really. I'll apologise to him tomorrow."
I looked at her — so beaten and deflated. Nothing like the vibrant, sharp girl I'd met in the first week of being Peter Parker. None of that life or joy. It was honestly painful to look at.
"Don't apologise," I said.
She looked up. I continued. "He pushed the boundary. He made you uncomfortable. That's on him, not you. Don't let him rewrite that. He's your friend — or something like that — and he crossed a line. Don't apologise for his behaviour."
MJ looked surprised, but nodded slowly all the same. We walked back to her house. She seemed deep in thought. When it was time to go our separate ways she spoke again. "Peter, I know I...I know I haven't really been the best friend lately, but—"
"Enough," I said, more sharply than I intended, cutting off what was going to be an awkward stumbling apology. "It's fine. Just get home safe. Remember what I said — don't let him push you around."
"Peter, I'm trying to apologise. I know I haven't been spending much time with you at school, and I feel bad about it. I'm sorry."
I shrugged. "It's fine. I don't mind." I walked away.
"Peter?"
"Night, Mary Jane," I said without turning back. I went inside and shut my door behind me. I wondered, briefly, if I was being unnecessarily hostile. I hadn't even called her MJ. Maybe teenage hormones were getting to me more than I wanted to admit.
---
The two weeks that followed went by quickly — too quickly. I had training, impromptu workouts in the train yard whenever I could sneak in, and as much self-directed study as I could fit around school.
Colleen began to push me harder in the second week. She had clearly realised I had the potential to be one of her most gifted students. She had me moved to the second class group, then the third, challenging me to learn more and fight harder. I never used my full strength — not even a fraction of it — but I was beginning to see why the Hand trusted Colleen to identify and develop their future recruits.
School continued to be a mixed bag. When a class was something I already knew, or something I genuinely found irrelevant, I would take out a book and study something else. My French was passable for a basic conversation now, so I moved on to Spanish.
I also read extensively into Reed Richards' theoretical papers. They were simply fascinating — they spoke of parallel dimensions and the methods by which one might access them. I already knew this was real in some fundamental sense — after all, I had come from another world. But it was still remarkable to see the scientific framework laid out in such rigorous detail.
I was never going to be as brilliant as Reed Richards. I couldn't build a dimensional portal in a garage from spare parts. But what I could do was be a different kind of brilliant. Inventiveness wasn't the only form of genius.
My personal training sessions in the yard grew more ambitious by the day. I wanted to understand the true limits of this body — how far I could jump, how fast I could move, how precise my balance was when pushed to extremes.
I was improving. Slowly, steadily, surely. And thanks to my enhanced regenerative abilities, I could recover from strenuous exertion overnight. I had no idea how I hadn't torn myself apart yet — but I wasn't complaining.
And then, finally, the costume arrived.
It was similar to the classic design, except I had used black where the original used blue. I began stitching the web patterns onto the costume — cutting up portions of the red fabric to create the contrast details, using the leftover lower sections to make gloves and leg coverings with a rubber pad stitched to the sole.
The suit was two pieces: the top was mainly red, with black fabric worked into the sides and back. The bottom was black, with red shin-high foot coverings. I made a mask from leftover fabric — close-fitting, with eye holes cut out and the lenses from an old pair of glasses pressed in.
When I put the suit on and looked at myself in the mirror, I winced.
In all honesty... it was dreadful. It looked like a child had sketched it on a napkin and someone had tried to sew it from memory. The patterns were uneven, the proportions were off, the seams were visible and rough.
I was not a master tailor. After all that time — a complete waste.
I threw the costume under the loose floorboard in the secret compartment where I stored sensitive items, right next to the rock containing the Hulk's blood sample.
I didn't know how the original Peter had managed to make such a good-looking suit. Whatever natural talent he had with a needle and thread, I clearly didn't share it. I couldn't use it — I just had to keep working on my web shooters and figure something else out.
Speaking of which, the web shooters were coming along beautifully. I had managed to construct bracelet-like bands for the new shooters, far sleeker and more low-profile than the watch-based prototypes. The shooter mechanisms themselves were the critical component — each one included an adjustable nozzle that could be used to vary the web pressure, allowing me to produce different grades of webbing on the fly. The manufacturing process was genuinely difficult, but the result was worth it.