Web of Fate

Peter strolled toward Oscorp Industries, a plan quietly forming in his mind. With Jessica tied up elsewhere, his day was wide open, leaving him free to follow through.

He settled onto a nearby bench, his gaze sharp as he scanned the bustling entrance. He needed someone who could help—someone who wouldn't dismiss him for being just a teenager.

Peter didn't have clearance to step inside the imposing building, so he stayed put, watching and waiting. His patience paid off.

After several tense minutes, Dr. Curtis Connors emerged, his white lab coat catching the sunlight. Peter recognized him immediately, the Oscorp ID badge hanging around the scientist's neck confirming his identity. Connors seemed lost in thought, heading off.

'This is my chance,' Peter thought, rising to his feet.

Peter hurried toward Dr. Connors, determined not to lose him in the crowd. 

"Dr. Connors!" Peter called out, raising his hand as he approached. 

The scientist paused, adjusting his glasses as he turned to face the teenager. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and mild confusion. 

Without missing a beat, Peter handed him a small slip of paper with a number scribbled on it. "Give this number a call if you ever need funding," he said with a confident smile before swiftly walking away. 

Dr. Connors blinked, startled. "Wait!" he called after him, but Peter had already vanished into the crowd. 

Connors stared at the paper, suspicion creeping in. "How does he know?" he murmured, brows furrowing. 'Is this some kind of loan shark scheme?'

Despite his unease, he slipped the paper into his lab coat pocket. 

High above, Peter watched from the rooftop, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as he saw Connors pocket the number. 

"Perfect," Peter muttered to himself, his eyes gleaming with ambition. His grin widened. 'But first, I need more cash.'

On the other side of the city, a young hero soared through the sky, her pink hair catching the sunlight. She wore a sleek white bodysuit, accented by blue gloves and a matching belt. A small pink diamond gleamed on the right side of the belt, mirroring the diamond-shaped pink earrings she proudly displayed.

This was Jessica. Her heart raced with excitement, her eyes sparkling as she admired her newly finished suit. To her, it was perfect—stylish, powerful, and a symbol of her fresh start.

She descended gracefully, scanning the streets below for anyone in need of help. Yet, to her mild disappointment, the only calls for assistance came from elderly citizens needing a hand, lost children seeking their parents, and a few stranded animals.

It wasn't the grand heroism she'd envisioned, but she took it all in stride. Every smile she received was a small victory, and she knew she was making a difference, no matter how small the task.

'Seeing people smile soothes my heart,' Jessica thought, a warm feeling spreading through her chest.

As she floated effortlessly in the air, a small voice called out from below.

"Beautiful sister, what's your hero name?" a curious child asked, their eyes wide with wonder.

Jessica's lips curved into a gentle smile. "Jewel," she replied, her voice light but confident.

'This is only the beginning,' she mused, her heart swelling with pride. A hero from Queens had finally made her mark, and she knew it wouldn't be long before the city was buzzing with the name Jewel.

...

"It's finally working," Peter muttered, his eyes fixed on the beaker filled with web fluid. He gave it a gentle shake, watching the liquid swirl.

"I could still tweak the formula," he mused aloud, furrowing his brow. "But for now, it's better to focus on the web shooters."

Carefully carrying the beaker to his room, Peter placed it on his cluttered desk, surrounded by scattered sketches and half-finished prototypes. He studied one of his designs, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"This'll do," he said, nodding to himself. "At least until I can upgrade my setup."

The sketches on Peter's desk showcased his latest idea: a web shooter designed like a revolver. It held eight web fluid cartridges, each ready to be swapped out with a simple twist when one ran dry. A small button allowed him to eject the empty cartridges effortlessly. 

This design was the best he could manage for now, given his limited resources and lack of access to advanced machinery. It was functional, practical, and, most importantly, achievable. 

"I'll need to stock up on materials," Peter muttered, jotting down a mental shopping list. "And while I'm at it, I might as well start working on my suit." 

Grabbing a fresh sheet of paper, he began sketching ideas for his costume. He kept the design minimalist, something sleek and cost-effective, Spider-Man suit.

Later that night, Peter found himself in the dimly lit underbelly of Hell's Kitchen, standing amidst the chaos of an illegal underground fighting ring. The air was thick with smoke and adrenaline, the crowd's cheers echoing off the grimy walls. 

Peter found himself in one of the side events, a smaller cage tucked away from the main arena. When his turn came, he stepped in with quiet confidence, facing opponent after opponent. 

One by one, they came at him, but none could match his speed and precision. Peter dominated every fight, dispatching each challenger until no one was left standing. 

It was almost too easy for him, but he made sure to take a few hits, just enough to make the fights look real. Yet, each bout ended the same way: with Peter delivering a calculated, precise punch to the jaw, sending his opponent to the mat. 

The crowd began calling him "Punisher," a nickname he found both amusing and ironic. 

When it was time to claim his winnings, Peter stepped onto the stage to retrieve the prize money. But instead of the usual organizer, a different figure emerged to hand him the bag—a towering man who radiated an intimidating presence. 

The man appeared large, almost deceptively fat, but his frame carried the raw power of a strongman. Bald, dressed in a pristine white suit, and leaning slightly on an elegant cane, he was unmistakable. Wilson Fisk. The Kingpin. 

Peter's eyes widened for a moment in surprise. He hadn't expected to see Fisk so soon, though part of him knew the man would show up eventually. 

"Pleasure to meet you," Fisk said, extending a massive hand for a handshake. His voice was calm, measured, yet carried an undertone of menace. 

Peter nodded, meeting his gaze as he accepted the handshake. Fisk handed him the bag of cash, which felt heavier than expected. 

The weight wasn't just in Peter's hands; it was in the room, the presence of the Kingpin carrying a gravity that few could ignore. 

Inside the bag was about $200,000—a hefty prize for his wins. But this didn't include the $50,000 he'd placed in bets. 

As the two exited the fighting arena together, Peter could feel Fisk's calculating eyes on him. They walked in silence for a moment before Fisk broke it. 

"You've got talent," Fisk said. "But talent without ambition is a wasted gift." 

Peter smirked, his mind already turning with plans. "Don't worry. I've got plenty of ambition." 

"I'd like to offer you a chance," Fisk said, his voice calm yet firm. "How about stepping into the main arena, Bane?" 

Peter paused, considering the offer. "I'd love to," he replied with a shrug, "but I've got work tomorrow. Company deadlines, you know? Thanks for the offer, though." 

Fisk raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He had initially thought Peter as a teenager, but that statement made him reconsider. 

"We're offering five million as the prize," Fisk said smoothly, his tone carrying just the right amount of temptation. 

Peter let out a low hiss, weighing his options. 'Five million,' he thought. That kind of money could fund all his projects. Finally, he made up his mind. "Fuck it. I'm in," Peter said, smirking. "But I'll need some water first." 

Fisk's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "We'll have it ready," he said, already signaling to his men.