Aunt May's worries about Peter failing to socialize were entirely unfounded. She should have been worried about him surviving the socialization process.
At a dinner party that was supposed to be a joyful reunion, Peter was acting like a terrified quail. He kept his head down, meticulously slicing his waffle into microscopic squares, completely incapable of jumping into the rapid-fire conversation between the two girls. Although, to be fair, Peter felt that being entirely excluded from a conversation between Gwen Stacy and Mary Jane Watson was probably the safest place for him to be.
That was until the topic shifted to campus jobs.
"I saw that Midtown High actually has a student partnership with the Daily Bugle," Mary Jane said, her eyes lighting up. "They recruit student interns to shadow the news desk every year. It's seriously cool. Maybe I'll end up being a famous investigative reporter."
"This kid's passions change with the wind," Aunt Anna chuckled, patting Mary Jane's hand. "Last year she wanted to be an actress. She even auditioned for a few commercials and got background work on a soap opera. Now she's Woodward and Bernstein."
"The Bugle is a solid paper," Captain George Stacy noted, cutting into his own waffle. "J. Jonah Jameson is a rare breed these days. He's an independent publisher who doesn't carry water for either political party. He prints what he actually believes is the moral truth." George paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "His stance on masked vigilantes is a bit extreme, though. Take Spider-Man, for instance. The guy objectively helps the NYPD clear cases, but Jameson refuses to print a single positive word about him."
Especially Spider-Man, Peter thought, chewing on a dry piece of waffle.
In the comics, the Jonah Jamesons of the multiverse all hated Spider-Man for deeply specific, deeply personal reasons. Since Peter hadn't officially met this universe version of Jonah yet, he wasn't entirely sure what his particular malfunction was. But if it wasn't rooted in pure, unadulterated malice, maybe there was a world where Peter could actually get on his good side.
A Spider-Man who's actually buddies with J. Jonah Jameson? Peter smirked into his plate. That would definitely break the canon timeline.
"But hasn't the surge in super-powered crime been directly caused by the vigilantes?" Mary Jane asked, repeating the talking point dominating cable news. "Two years ago, before Tony Stark and Hank Pym started going out as Iron Man and Ant-Man, the world was normal."
It was a sentiment gaining serious traction in New York. Before the Avengers went public, the world felt grounded. Sure, there were rumors of mutations, and the Fantastic Four were off doing deep-space exploration, but outside of the Human Torch showing off for the paparazzi, nobody was actively trying to do the police's job.
Thor was still considered Norse mythology. Captain America was an icicle in the Arctic. The Hulk was a classified military disaster. People with powers were considered anomalies, not celebrities.
"Ever since Iron Man showed up, the escalation has been insane," Mary Jane continued. "I mean, New York literally got invaded by aliens four months ago."
"But the Avengers aren't actually causing the super-powers," Peter couldn't help but argue, finally looking up from his plate. "Iron Man and Ant-Man are just using advanced tech. Captain America is a biological super-soldier. The Hulk is a gamma radiation accident. And Thor—Thor is literally a god—"
"Peter," Aunt May interrupted gently but firmly. "Remember, there is only one true God."
"...Right. Sorry, Aunt May."
As a man of science who had literally been given access to memories of a past life in a different world, Peter really didn't want to get into a theological debate with Aunt May over dinner. He dropped the point.
Mary Jane picked right back up. "But aren't the super-criminals just escalating to match the heroes? People are getting powers specifically to fight the Avengers."
"Not all of them," Peter explained, leaning forward. "Look at the street-level guys. Spider-Man and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. They aren't fighting alien warlords. They're just stopping muggers and organized crime..."
"The Devil?" Aunt May gasped, quickly making the sign of the cross over her chest. "Lord have mercy, what kind of good Samaritan names himself the Devil?" She looked across the table. "Don't you agree, George?"
"Hell's Kitchen is outside my precinct's jurisdiction," Captain Stacy said diplomatically, taking a long drink of his beer.
Every cop in the NYPD knew that Hell's Kitchen was a nightmare. Between the guy in the devil horns breaking bones and the psychopath in the skull t-shirt actively murdering gang leaders, the brass was terrified of the neighborhood.
"How do you even know about the crime rate in Hell's Kitchen, Peter?" Aunt May asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"I... read about it at school!" Peter deflected quickly. "You know, May, current events. Civic studies."
Aunt May wasn't letting it go. She pointed her fork directly at him. "Listen to me, Peter Benjamin Parker. You are absolutely forbidden from ever setting foot in that neighborhood. Do you understand me?"
"I'm fifteen, May, I don't exactly go clubbing on the West Side—"
"Peter!"
"Understood, staying out of Hell's Kitchen," Peter surrendered instantly. He desperately steered the conversation back to safer waters. "Anyway, speaking of the Bugle, I actually saw the listing for the web-maintenance internship today. I'm pretty good with code. I figured I could do the server work remotely from my laptop."
"Wow!" Mary Jane smiled brightly. "If I get the reporter internship, we could be working together!"
"Well, maybe," Peter hedged. "But like I said, IT work is mostly remote. I'd just be at home."
Aunt May let out a long, theatrical sigh. "Peter, you need to get out of this house. If you get the job, you are taking the subway into the city and working in the office. You need to be around people."
"Okay, Aunt May," Peter mumbled, going back to slicing his waffle and silently praying for a meteor to strike the house.
Across the table, Gwen watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, seriously considering whether she should apply for a Bugle internship just to keep an eye on things.
Miles away, Herman Schultz lay flat on his back on a moldering, stained mattress.
This cramped, suffocating Harlem apartment had been a trap for his entire family. His father had died in these walls. His older brothers had died fighting over the corners right outside the window. If Herman didn't get out soon, the cycle was going to swallow him whole.
The heavy stench of mildew and old sweat filled his nose. The events of the day looped endlessly behind his closed eyelids. The perfectly executed bank breach. The humiliating failure. The terrifying realization that his gauntlets could drop a skyscraper. And the effortless, mocking agility of the kid in the red and blue suit.
Most infuriating of all was the front page of the Daily Bugle he had seen on a newsstand. Spider-Man's face was plastered across the city. People either loved him or hated him, but everyone was talking about him.
"He's just a freak in a costume," Herman muttered into the dark, his exhaustion finally dragging him under.
The dreams came fast and feverish.
He dreamt he was wearing a crisp, white lab coat, standing in a massive Oscorp research lab. He dreamt he was wearing a tailored Tom Ford suit, walking out of a Manhattan courthouse as a high-powered defense attorney. He dreamt he was standing in the Avengers Tower lab, handing Tony Stark a newly designed repulsor core.
He dreamt he was finally moving out of Harlem. News vans were parked on the street, reporters shoving microphones in his face, asking how the genius engineer had overcome his circumstances. He was finally leaving the dirt behind. He was finally someone who mattered.
Then, the thunder cracked.
"That damn Spider-Man!"
The voice ripped through the dream. The reporters instantly vanished. The news cameras whipped away from Herman, pointing up at the massive digital billboards of Times Square. J. Jonah Jameson's face filled the screens, screaming about the masked menace.
Below the screens, thousands of New Yorkers wore cheap plastic Spider-Man masks, cheering for the vigilante.
"Wait! Come back! I'm right here!" Herman screamed, reaching out to the empty street. "Look at what I built!"
The scene violently fractured.
Herman was suddenly standing in a dark, familiar alleyway. He was fifteen again. The neighborhood gang boss shoved a heavy, rusted machete into his chest.
"Hold on tight, fresh meat. We're clearing out Kalufa's crew tonight."
"I shouldn't be here," young Herman stammered, his hands shaking as he held the blade. "I was supposed to go to school. I got accepted to the magnet program..."
"School?" the boss sneered, his gold teeth glinting in the streetlamp. "You think the white boys at the university want you? You're gonna take on a hundred grand in debt just to get told you don't fit the culture. Wake up, kid. Look at your skin. Look at this alley. This is where we belong. You think you're better than your dad? You die here, just like him."
"No! I can study law! I can be the crew's lawyer!" Herman dropped to his knees, begging on the wet asphalt. "Boss, please! Let me go to school. I'll beat all your indictments. I'll handle the money. Just let me learn!"
The boss looked down at him, a cruel smile forming. He nodded, turning to walk out of the alley.
CRACK.
A high-caliber sniper round obliterated the boss's skull.
The "heroes" descended. Flashy, costumed vigilantes dropped from the rooftops. They beat the remaining gang members into the pavement, leaving them for the sirens. They didn't even look at Herman. They just left him kneeling in the blood and the garbage.
"No! NO! NO!"
The dream tore open again. Herman was back in the bank lobby.
He had the Shocker gauntlet strapped to his arm. He cranked the dial to maximum and pulled the trigger. The kinetic wave shattered the air, screaming toward the red-and-blue figure on the ceiling.
Spider-Man just laughed. He casually flipped backward, the shockwave missing him by inches. He moved too fast. The gauntlets were too slow.
"You think fighting me is going to make you famous, Herman?"
Spider-Man casually strolled across the ceiling, firing a thick cable of webbing that pinned Herman's arms to his chest. Herman struggled violently, but the tensile strength held him completely immobile.
Spider-Man dropped to the floor, walking slowly toward him. As he moved, the red and blue colors of his suit began to bleed. The fabric melted, expanding and stretching outward like an oil slick, covering the marble floors, the walls, the entire world.
"Even if you landed a hit, Herman, you're a nobody," Spider-Man's voice echoed from everywhere at once, thick and mocking. "Nobody remembers the thugs I string up for the cops. You're just a footnote."
Herman felt the sticky, suffocating webbing wrapping over his face, melting into his skin.
"SHUT UP!"
Herman roared, swinging his fist with everything he had. The gauntlet in his dream detonated, a massive kinetic shockwave shattering the illusion into a million pieces.
Herman's eyes snapped open.
Morning sunlight stabbed through the cracked, uncurtained window of his bedroom. He was drenched in cold sweat, his chest heaving. He stared down at his hands. They were trembling violently.
Slowly, deliberately, he curled his fingers into tight, white-knuckled fists.
"Keep laughing, New York," Herman whispered into the empty, rotting room. "I'm going to make sure every single one of you remembers my name."