Peter Parker: A Spider-Man Origin Story

The dim light of Adrian Toomes' hidden workshop flickered as sparks flew from his workbench. The space was cluttered with discarded tools, half-built machinery, and crates bearing Oscorp's distinctive logo. In the center of the chaos stood Toomes himself, his weathered face set in a grim scowl as he meticulously adjusted the wiring on a crude exosuit. The wings, jagged and uneven, hummed faintly with unstable energy.

Toomes stepped back, wiping grease-streaked hands on his tattered work shirt. His sharp eyes scanned the incomplete suit, the culmination of weeks of sleepless nights and stolen resources. A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips.

"This is what you've reduced me to, Osborn," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. "Scraping by in the shadows while you sit in your ivory tower."

He walked over to a dented filing cabinet, pulling out a dusty photo. It showed a younger Toomes standing proudly in front of a salvage truck, his arm around a grinning crew member. The logo on the truck's door read Toomes Salvage Co.

"That was before you swooped in and destroyed everything," he said, his grip tightening on the photo. His mind replayed the memory of Oscorp underbidding his contracts, driving him out of business with their ruthless efficiency. "You and your damn greed."

Tossing the photo onto the workbench, Toomes turned back to the suit. He climbed into the harness, securing the straps and flipping a switch on the control panel. The wings unfurled with a mechanical whir, their edges crackling with faint blue light. He staggered slightly as the suit powered up, its energy coursing through the frame.

He adjusted the controls, testing the wings with a cautious sweep. The air around him seemed to hum with tension as he hovered a few inches off the ground, the exosuit barely holding together under the strain.

Landing with a thud, Toomes removed the helmet and stared at the suit, his expression dark. "Let's see how you like dealing with your own monster, Osborn."

The abandoned construction site felt like a world apart from the chaos of the city. Peter Parker stood in the middle of the lot, the cool evening air brushing against his face. His makeshift training ground had become a second home—a place where he could push his limits without the fear of being seen.

Today, though, his mind was elsewhere. The Oscorp tech he had retrieved from the mall gnawed at his thoughts. The pieces didn't fit together yet, but the pattern was becoming clearer: Oscorp's experiments weren't just accidents. They were deliberate, and they were leaking into the city's underworld.

Peter fired a web at a rusted beam, pulling himself up with ease. From his vantage point, he scanned the area, mapping out his next moves. "Alright, Parker," he muttered to himself. "Let's get creative."

He set up targets using old cans and scraps of metal, arranging them in a random pattern. Taking a deep breath, he fired webs in rapid succession, forming a sprawling net that caught every target mid-air. The webbing held firm, the makeshift net shimmering faintly in the dim light.

"Not bad," he said, a flicker of pride in his voice. He practiced creating web bolas, launching them at a series of dangling chains. Each throw grew more precise, the chains swinging with satisfying thuds as the bolas struck their marks.

But his progress was interrupted by a sharp buzz in his skull. His spider-sense flared, the sensation urgent and insistent. Peter froze, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. The faint sound of voices reached his ears, coming from a nearby abandoned lot.

Quietly, he moved toward the source, keeping to the shadows. A group of thugs stood in a loose circle, their attention focused on a glowing device set on the ground. One of them adjusted the controls, and the device emitted a high-pitched whine.

"Careful," one thug warned. "This thing's unstable."

"Relax," another said with a smirk. "We've got it under control."

The device sparked, then released a small explosion that sent debris flying. The thugs laughed nervously, stepping back as the device sputtered and hummed. Peter's heart raced. Oscorp tech again. How far has this stuff spread?

He moved closer, firing a web to snatch the device from the ground. The sudden motion made the thugs jump, their heads whipping around. "What the—?"

Peter didn't give them time to react. Using his agility, he darted through the shadows, tripping one thug with a well-placed webline and disarming another with a flick of his wrist. The group panicked, scattering in different directions.

"Forget it! Let's get out of here!" one shouted, and the others followed, leaving the device behind.

Peter crouched near the glowing tech, inspecting it cautiously. The Oscorp logo was etched into its surface, identical to the stolen tech he'd already encountered. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, but the picture it formed was troubling.

Pocketing the device, Peter slipped away before the thugs could regroup. The faint hum of distant sirens urged him to move quickly, and he disappeared into the night, his mind racing.

The high-security lab in Oscorp Tower was a cold, sterile expanse of steel and glass, the hum of machinery mingling with the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Mac Gargan lay strapped to a reinforced examination table at the center, his mutated body writhing as if his very existence was a struggle. The sharp metallic scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the faint crackle of energy emanating from the equipment surrounding him. Gargan's scaly skin glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights, each ripple of his muscles betraying the raw power barely contained by the restraints.

Norman Osborn stood at the observation deck above, his figure framed by the glass wall separating him from the chaos below. His posture was one of calculated detachment, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the scene with an intensity that made the scientists below uneasy. Beside him, Alaric Kane leaned casually against the railing, though his sharp gaze betrayed his focused attention.

"The stabilization process is progressing," one of the lead scientists called out, their voice tinged with a mix of relief and dread. "The mutations are slowing, and his vitals are normalizing."

"Define 'normalizing,'" Norman replied, his voice sharp and icy.

The scientist hesitated, their eyes darting nervously to the monitors. "His physical state is stabilizing, but his neural activity…" They faltered, swallowing hard before continuing. "It's… erratic. His aggression levels are spiking, and there's evidence of heightened cortical activity. He's—"

"Becoming unstable," Kane finished, his tone dry as he glanced at Norman. "What a surprise."

Norman ignored the quip, stepping forward to peer through the glass. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with a predatory interest. "As long as he's functional, I'm not concerned about stability. Keep him alive and ready for deployment."

"But, sir," the scientist interjected cautiously, "this level of neural activity could—"

"Do I pay you to lecture me on risks," Norman cut in, his voice low and dangerous, "or to produce results?"

The scientist shrank back, nodding quickly. "Yes, sir. Understood."

Below, Gargan stirred, his movements slow and laborious at first but growing more violent by the second. His glowing green eyes flickered open, blazing with a light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the erratic beeping of the monitors. His chest heaved as guttural growls escaped his throat, each one filled with venom and fury.

The restraints groaned under the strain of his thrashing, the reinforced steel bending slightly as his muscles rippled. His barbed tail twitched against the table, the energy crackling faintly along its length. Gargan's voice, rough and guttural, broke through the tense atmosphere.

"Spider-Boy…" he snarled, his glowing eyes locking onto the observation deck above. His voice was filled with venom, each word dripping with malice. "I'll find you… and when I do…"

Kane raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "Seems he's got a grudge."

Norman's expression remained calm, almost amused. He pressed a button on the intercom, his voice carrying through the lab with a chilling clarity. "Don't worry, Mac. You'll get your chance. Soon."

Gargan's body jerked violently, his growls growing louder as his rage escalated. The scientists stepped back instinctively, their faces pale as they watched the display of unbridled fury. One of the monitors sparked, the overload of energy causing the screen to flicker before stabilizing.

Norman turned away from the glass, his expression hardening as he addressed Kane. "I want him operational. No excuses. If he's not ready by the time the task force launches, heads will roll."

Kane straightened, his smirk fading. "And if he breaks loose before then?"

Norman glanced back at Gargan, whose glowing eyes blazed brighter with each passing second. "Then we'll remind him why Oscorp holds the leash."

The sound of Gargan's roars echoed through the lab, a chilling reminder of the monster they had created. His voice carried one final, venomous promise before the scene cut to black:

"Spider-Boy… you're mine."