Good morning, Night City! Yesterday's body count lottery ended at a solid—
Peter Parker shook his head, clearing the stray pop-culture reference from his brain. He let out a long, deep breath, pulling the familiar cocktail of burnt pretzels, exhaust fumes, and hot asphalt deep into his lungs.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The second week of October. The autumn sun hung low in the sky, casting long, sharp shadows across the glass facades of the Midtown skyscrapers. The light hit Peter's pitch-black symbiote armor, absorbing into the matte fabric rather than reflecting off it.
After the absolute, mind-bending chaos of September—the multiverse hopping, the Wasteland, the literal Spider-Gods—New York felt incredibly, wonderfully mundane. Peter fired a web-line, the black tendril snapping taut against a steel gargoyle. He dropped into a freefall, letting the wind roar in his ears, feeling the absolute weightlessness of the drop before the line caught and launched him in a massive, sweeping arc over the gridlocked traffic.
Below him, a pedestrian on a fire escape pointed up. "Hey! Morning, Spider-Man!"
Peter snapped off a crisp, two-finger salute mid-swing. "Afternoon, actually! But I love the energy!"
A sudden, rhythmic thudding chopped through the air above him. Peter glanced up. A sleek red-and-white news chopper bearing the Daily Bugle logo banked sharply to the west, its high-powered camera mounted to the undercarriage zooming in on a plume of tire smoke three blocks over.
Peter's built-in police scanner crackled to life inside his earpiece.
"Dispatch, we have a 10-87 in progress heading south on 15th Avenue. Suspects have hijacked an armored transit vehicle. Plates register to... Oscorp."
Peter groaned aloud. He dragged a black-gloved hand down his faceplate. "Osborn. Why is it literally always Osborn? Does Norman just leave the keys in the ignitions of these things?"
Peter tucked his knees to his chest, shifting his momentum. The symbiote rippled across his back, forming two sleek, aerodynamic glide-panels under his arms. He caught an updraft and shot toward 15th Avenue.
He found the chase instantly. A massive, heavily armored twelve-wheeler was tearing down the avenue, aggressively swerving through the afternoon traffic. A dozen NYPD cruisers tailed it, their sirens wailing, completely unable to close the distance without causing a multi-car pileup.
On the reinforced roof of the speeding truck, four mercenaries in heavy tactical gear fought the wind. They had magnetically anchored a heavy industrial plasma cutter to the steel, sending a shower of blinding white sparks into the air as they carved a ragged hole straight into the cargo hold.
Peter dropped from the sky like a stone.
He landed squarely on the back of the trailer with a heavy metallic thud. The mercenary closest to the rear spun around, his eyes widening behind his ballistic goggles. He raised his assault rifle.
Peter didn't even break stride. He stepped inside the man's guard, casually slapped the rifle barrel upward, and planted a heavy front-kick directly into the mercenary's chest plate.
The man flew backward off the roof. He screamed, plummeting toward the asphalt. Peter casually flicked his wrist without looking, firing a thick black web-line that caught the falling merc by the ankles, leaving him dangling upside-down from a passing streetlight.
"Go to hell, Spider-Man!" the second mercenary roared, leveling a submachine gun.
"What?!" Peter cupped a hand to where his ear would be under the mask. "You gotta speak up! The wind is brutal up here!"
The mercenary squeezed the trigger. A hail of bullets tore through the air. Peter gracefully twisted his torso, the bullets grazing the empty space inches from his ribs. He fired a localized burst of webbing, snatching the hot weapon right out of the man's grip, and slammed it down onto the plasma cutter, fusing them both to the roof.
The third guy lunged forward with a combat knife. Peter effortlessly ducked under the wild swing. "You should really tell your buddy to drive a little slower! The suspension on this thing is terrible!"
Peter grabbed the knife-wielder by the tactical vest and tossed him cleanly through the freshly cut hole in the roof.
Peter dropped in right after him.
The interior of the cargo hold was dark, lit only by the blinking red LED lights of high-tech storage crates. Two more mercenaries were inside, frantically trying to bypass the biometric lock on a massive, reinforced steel crate.
The second they saw the black-suited Spider-Man drop through the ceiling, they raised their sidearms and opened fire.
The confined space amplified the deafening roar of the gunshots. But the bullets never hit Peter.
The symbiote instantly flared outward, forming a thick, hardened black wall of biological mass between Peter and the shooters. The bullets hit the slime with a series of wet thwips, flattening harmlessly against the impenetrable alien armor.
When the magazines clicked empty, the black shield parted. Peter stood there, entirely unbothered, his arms crossed.
"Sorry, guys," Peter sighed, shaking his head. "Standard bullets? That strategy was for last month's Spider-Man. This month's Spider-Man is operating on a totally different patch."
Peter threw both hands outward.
A tidal wave of inky black sludge erupted from his wrists. The symbiote surged across the cargo hold, slamming into the mercenaries like a freight train. It pinned all three of them flat against the corrugated steel walls of the truck, instantly hardening into an unbreakable, concrete-like resin.
"Now," Peter muttered, walking over to the crate they had been trying to crack. "What is Norman shipping today that's worth a high-speed shootout?"
He ripped the damaged electronic keypad off the crate and peeled the steel lid back. Inside, resting on a bed of custom shock-foam, was a sleek, bat-winged piece of aerospace technology. It was heavily weaponized, featuring exhaust thrusters and foot-stirrups.
Peter's white eye lenses narrowed. "A new generation aerial combat platform? A flight glider? You guys were going to rob a bank on a motorized skateboard?"
"None of your business, freak!" one of the pinned mercenaries spat.
"You're right. I'm completely overstepping," Peter nodded solemnly. "Make sure you mention my boundary issues to the judge."
Peter leaped straight back up through the hole in the roof. The wind whipped at his suit as he crawled down the side of the speeding trailer, scaling the ribbed metal until he reached the driver's side door of the cab.
He casually knocked his knuckles against the reinforced glass. "Hello! Bonjour! Driver's license and registration, please!"
The terrorist behind the wheel didn't scream. He simply reached across the center console, scooped up a short-barreled shotgun from the passenger seat, rolled the window down an inch, and pulled the trigger.
Peter leaned his head backward. The buckshot shattered the side mirror an inch from his nose.
"Dude!" Peter yelled, shooting a thick web through the cracked window. The webbing latched onto the shotgun barrel. Peter yanked it out of the cab and tossed it onto the highway behind them. "Why the silent treatment? Are you shy? Just tell me where the brakes are!"
Before Peter could rip the door off its hinges, a generic marimba ringtone echoed from his utility belt.
Peter blinked. He reached down and tapped the comms unit on his hip. "Hang on a sec," he told the driver, holding up a black-gloved index finger. "I really have to take this. It's my best friend. Very needy. So sorry."
The driver stared at him, his mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. "I'm going to kill you!"
"Yeah, yeah, take a number," Peter muttered, syncing the call to his suit's audio. "Hey, Harry! What's up?"
"Pete!" Harry Osborn's voice crackled through the earpiece, buzzing with excitement. "My dad just sent the email. The 'Emily Osborn Research Center' is officially online. The secret base is fully operational. We're just waiting on you to... wait. Why is it so loud on your end?"
"I'm just going for a quick drive!" Peter yelled over the roaring diesel engine.
"A convertible?" Harry asked, confusion lacing his tone. "Wait. You don't even have a driver's permit. Are you doing the Spider-Man thing right now?"
"Yeah, multitasking!" Peter looked ahead. A line of slow-moving minivans was blocking the right lane. "Hey, buddy! You're drifting! Turn the wheel to the right!"
The driver ignored him, slamming his foot on the accelerator.
Peter sighed. He reached through the shattered window, his symbiote-enhanced muscles easily overpowering the driver's grip. Peter grabbed the steering wheel and violently jerked it to the right, forcing the massive semi-truck to swerve into the clear lane, narrowly avoiding a catastrophic pileup.
"Seriously, man!" Peter yelled at the driver. "Who robs a tech transport during the Midtown lunch rush? The logistics are terrible! You could have at least taken the subway!"
The terrorist let go of the wheel and threw a desperate, wild punch at Peter's masked face. Peter easily leaned his head back, letting the knuckles graze the wind.
"Is your dad going to be there?" Peter asked, turning his attention back to the call.
"I'm afraid so," Harry sighed, his excitement instantly deflating. "He wants to 'oversee the initial investment' or whatever corporate garbage he's calling it today. How long until you get here?"
"Maybe twenty minutes?" Peter estimated, looking down the avenue. "Traffic's clearing up. There aren't many cars ahead. Let me just parallel park this guy, and I'll be right over."
Peter hung up. He let go of the window frame, pushing off the side of the cab. He executed a flawless, mid-air backflip, clearing the hood of the truck, and landed squarely in the center of the empty avenue, a hundred yards ahead of the speeding vehicle.
He didn't move. He just stood there, his boots planted firmly on the asphalt.
Inside the cab, the driver's eyes went wide with homicidal rage. He didn't hit the brakes. He floored the gas pedal, fully intending to smear Spider-Man across the grill of the hundred-ton semi.
The truck closed the distance in seconds.
Peter reached out his right hand.
He didn't brace himself. He didn't flinch. As the steel grill made contact, the black symbiote violently erupted from Peter's forearm. A massive, thick network of inky black biological shock-absorbers exploded outward, wrapping around the entire front bumper, the engine block, and the front axles of the truck.
CRUNCH.
The sheer, immovable kinetic force of Peter Parker's enhanced musculature, amplified exponentially by the symbiote, met the speeding vehicle.
The back wheels of the semi lifted completely off the ground. The engine shrieked, the chassis groaning as it was violently, instantly halted. The truck slammed back down onto the asphalt, perfectly stationary. Smoke poured from the crushed radiator.
Peter lowered his hand. He wasn't even breathing hard.
A minute later, the wail of sirens filled the avenue. NYPD cruisers boxed the truck in, officers spilling out with their weapons drawn.
Peter had already ripped the driver's side door off its hinges and webbed the cursing terrorist securely to a nearby traffic light. He stood on top of the streetlamp, watching the cleanup.
Captain George Stacy pushed his way through the perimeter. He looked older today. The deep bags under his eyes were prominent, and his tan trench coat was perpetually wrinkled. Stacy was a rare breed in the NYPD—a captain who actually preferred the pavement to a desk, usually taking on the dirty work himself.
Stacy looked at the crushed front of the semi, then up at the black-suited figure perched on the lamp.
"Thanks for the assist, Spider-Man," Stacy called up, his gravelly voice carrying over the idling engines. "We didn't have the roadblocks to stop a rig that heavy. We would have lost them."
"Don't mention it, Captain," Peter said, casually stretching his arms over his head. "Honestly, after the month I've had, I think it's time I went back to just being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Street crime is very relaxing."
Stacy paused, lowering his radio. He gave Peter a strange, calculating look. "You planning on taking a vacation anytime soon?"
Peter fired a black web-line high into the skyline, the line pulling taut against a glass skyscraper. He dropped off the lamppost, snapping off a quick, sharp salute before he swung away.
"Maybe someday, Captain! See ya!"
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