Peter Parker: A Spider-Man Origin Story

The hallway was bustling with students, the morning chatter blending into a steady hum. Peter walked through the crowd, his mind clouded with thoughts of the carjacking and the growing weight of his abilities. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, keeping his head down as if that could somehow make him invisible.

"Peter Parker, right?"

The voice was light and teasing, cutting through the noise. Peter looked up, startled, to see Liz Allan standing in front of him. Her bright smile caught him off guard, and he froze for a moment.

"Uh… yeah, that's me," Peter said, trying to sound casual but coming off a little stiff.

Liz tilted her head, studying him. "You don't wear glasses anymore, do you? I almost didn't recognize you. You look… different. Better, actually."

Peter blinked, feeling heat rise to his face. "Oh, uh, yeah. I guess I just… switched to contacts."

Liz chuckled softly. "Well, the change works for you. Anyway, I was wondering…" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her tone friendly but with a hint of curiosity. "You're kind of known for being, like, one of the smart guys, right?"

Peter shrugged awkwardly. "I guess? I mean, I do okay."

Liz smiled. "Perfect. I'm part of this academic club that's looking for new members—science projects, debate stuff, all that nerdy fun. You seem like you'd be perfect for it. Interested?"

Peter blinked, caught off guard. He wasn't used to this kind of attention, especially from someone like Liz Allan. "Uh, sure. Why not?"

Liz's smile widened. "Great! I'll let the others know. I'm Liz, by the way—Liz Allan."

Peter managed a small smile, fumbling with his words. "Yeah, I know. I mean, uh, I'm Peter. Peter Parker."

"Nice to officially meet you, Peter Parker," Liz said with a playful grin. "I'll see you at the club meeting."

Before Peter could respond, Liz turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the middle of the hallway, flustered and very aware of how fast his heart was beating.

Peter was still processing the encounter when he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Hey, Liz."

Flash Thompson strode toward them, his confident swagger unmistakable. He draped an arm around Liz's shoulders, his eyes flicking briefly to Peter before focusing on her.

"Come on, babe. We're gonna be late," Flash said, his tone casual but with a clear edge.

Liz glanced at Peter briefly. "Oh, right. See you later, Peter."

Flash didn't say a word to Peter, but his posture spoke volumes. The way he positioned himself between Peter and Liz felt like a silent warning. Peter watched them walk away, a knot forming in his stomach. Flash hadn't said anything outright, but the message was clear.

The classroom buzzed softly with the faint hum of the air conditioner and the rustle of notebook pages. Peter sat a few rows behind Harry, tapping his pen against his textbook. He watched Harry, whose posture was stiff and distant, his attention seemingly fixed on the teacher's lecture. But Peter knew better—he could see the tension in Harry's shoulders, the way his hand gripped his pen a little too tightly.

Peter exhaled quietly, his resolve hardening. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "Harry."

Harry didn't turn, his head barely tilting. "What?"

The curt response stung, but Peter pressed on. "Can we talk? Please?"

Harry hesitated, his pen hovering over his notebook. After a moment, he turned slightly, his eyes guarded. "What's there to talk about, Pete? You've been avoiding me for days."

Peter bit his lip, guilt weighing heavy in his chest. "I know. I screwed up. I've been… distracted. But I shouldn't have shut you out. You didn't deserve that."

Harry raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his face. "Distracted? That's what you're going with?"

Peter looked down at his notebook, unable to meet Harry's gaze. "I've been dealing with stuff. Big stuff. And I know that's not an excuse, but I'm sorry. For everything. For not calling, for what happened at Oscorp—everything."

At the mention of Oscorp, Harry's expression darkened. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "You mean when you ditched me and ran off? Yeah, I've been wondering about that."

Peter winced, the memory of that day playing over in his mind. He couldn't tell Harry the truth—that the spider bite had changed everything, that his world had turned upside down in a matter of hours. "I didn't mean to… I just panicked. Things got overwhelming."

Harry studied him for a long moment, his sharp gaze searching for something in Peter's face. "You're hiding something," he said quietly, his tone almost accusatory. "I don't know what it is, but I can tell."

Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to explain, to unload the weight he'd been carrying, but the words wouldn't come. "I'm not—" He stopped himself, his voice faltering. "I just don't know how to explain it."

Harry frowned, his suspicion evident. But then, almost reluctantly, his expression softened. "Look, Pete, I don't get you sometimes. But… you're still my best friend. Whatever's going on, I'll let it go. For now."

Peter blinked, relief washing over him. "Really?"

Harry nodded, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah. Just don't make a habit of ditching me, okay? You're kind of the only guy I can count on."

Peter's chest tightened, the guilt twisting like a knife. "I won't. I promise."

Harry chuckled softly, though the tension still lingered in his eyes. "Good. Now stop looking so miserable. You're gonna make me regret this."

Peter smiled, the first genuine one in days. "Thanks, Harry. Seriously."

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. As the students began gathering their things, Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and glanced back at Peter. "Hey, you're still on for Saturday, right? The game at my place?"

Peter hesitated, then nodded quickly. "Yeah, definitely."

Harry gave him a brief, approving nod before heading toward the door. Peter watched him go, the knot in his stomach loosening slightly. The rift between them wasn't fully mended, but it was a start.

As Peter gathered his books, Gwen passed by his desk, her sharp gaze flicking between him and Harry. "Look at you two," she teased lightly. "Mending fences?"

Peter shrugged, trying to hide the small smile on his face. "Something like that."

Gwen grinned. "About time. Harry's been moping all week."

Peter chuckled softly, the weight on his chest easing just a little more. For the first time in days, he felt like things might be okay—at least for now. But deep down, he knew his secrets wouldn't stay hidden forever.

The gym echoed with the sounds of sneakers squeaking on the floor and dodgeballs thudding against walls. Peter stood near the back, trying to blend in.

The coach's whistle blew. "Alright, Parker, you're up!"

Peter stepped forward reluctantly, dodging the first ball that came his way with ease. Then another, and another. His reflexes kicked in instinctively, his movements almost too fast to follow.

"Whoa!" someone shouted as Peter caught a ball with one hand, spinning out of the way of another.

Without thinking, Peter hurled the ball back. It sailed across the gym, slamming into the wall with a loud thud. The plaster cracked slightly, and the ball fell to the ground, deflated.

The room fell silent. All eyes were on Peter.

"Dude," one student muttered. "What the hell?"

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a laugh. "Uh… lucky shot?"

Flash stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "What's your deal, Parker? Showing off or something?"

Peter shrugged, trying to look indifferent. "Just playing the game, Flash."

Flash took a step closer, his voice low but sharp. "And don't think I didn't see you talking to Liz earlier. Stay in your lane, Parker."

Peter felt the sting of Flash's words but forced himself to remain calm. "Whatever you say, Flash."

The coach blew the whistle again, breaking the tension. As the game resumed, Peter couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Flash's jealousy, Liz's kindness, Harry's guarded smile—it was all too much.

Meanwhile, the sleek conference room at Oscorp was bathed in cold fluorescent light, the tension palpable as Norman Osborn paced back and forth. The boardroom table was littered with papers, blueprints, and a holographic map of the city displaying faint energy signatures.

A technician stood nervously by the console, his fingers fidgeting as he tried to explain. "Sir, the energy signature from the prototype keeps fluctuating. It's making it difficult to pinpoint an exact location. It's like… it's adapting."

Norman stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto the man. "Adapting?" he repeated, his voice sharp. "Do you think I care about excuses? I want results!"

The technician flinched, adjusting his glasses. "We've narrowed it down to a few quadrants. If we could deploy more—"

"We don't have time to 'deploy' more resources," Norman interrupted, his voice rising. "If that prototype is unstable, it's not just Oscorp's reputation at stake—it's the entire city."

The room fell silent until a quiet voice spoke up from the far end of the table. "Maybe it's time to outsource, Mr. Osborn."

Norman turned to the speaker—a man in a tailored suit with an air of detached professionalism. His name was Alaric Kane, a private investigator known for handling discreet but dangerous situations.

"You're suggesting I hire outsiders to clean up my company's mess?" Norman said, his tone icy.

Alaric smirked faintly, unfazed by Norman's intensity. "I'm suggesting you hire experts, people who specialize in finding things—or people—who don't want to be found. A small, skilled team could get this done without drawing unwanted attention."

Norman studied him for a long moment, his jaw tightening. Finally, he nodded sharply. "Fine. You'll have the resources you need, but make no mistake—failure is not an option. Bring Gargan to me alive. I want him to see what happens when someone crosses me."

Alaric's smirk widened slightly as he rose from his chair. "Consider it done."

As the meeting concluded, Norman turned back to the hologram, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. His eyes narrowed as the faint energy pulses flickered on the screen.

"Gargan," he muttered under his breath. "You can't hide forever."

The dim glow of his desk lamp illuminated Peter's cluttered bedroom as he slouched in his chair, staring at the open notebook in front of him. The equations and doodles on the page blurred together as his mind wandered back to the hallway earlier that day.

Liz Allan's laugh echoed in his memory, the way her smile had made his chest tighten. Peter ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Get a grip, Parker," he muttered to himself.

But the guilt lingered. He could still see Flash Thompson pulling Liz away, his possessive grip on her arm, and the glare he'd shot at Peter. Flash's voice echoed in his mind: "Don't get any ideas."

Peter shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside. He turned his attention to the small collection of objects on his desk—a tennis ball, a pencil, a bottle cap.

"Alright," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's see what I can do."

He picked up the tennis ball and tossed it into the air, catching it easily. Then he added the pencil, then the bottle cap, juggling all three with growing confidence. His movements became faster, the objects a blur as they circled through the air.

Peter's grin widened as he reached for a fourth item—a book—and added it to the mix. The thrill of his reflexes and precision filled him with a brief sense of triumph.

But then his mind shifted. The exhilaration faded, replaced by the weight of his reality. He caught the objects mid-air, setting them down gently. His gaze drifted to the TV in the corner of the room, where a news report was playing.

"…Oscorp has announced increased security measures following last week's break-in. Officials remain tight-lipped, but sources suggest the stolen prototype poses a potential risk to public safety…"

Peter's stomach twisted. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The reporter's words blurred into a background hum as guilt gnawed at him.

"This is my fault," he whispered. "If I hadn't been in that lab…"

But the thought trailed off, leaving only silence. Peter stared at his hands, flexing his fingers as the memories of the carjacking and his experiments flashed through his mind.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he muttered, his voice barely audible.

In a shadowy warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Mac Gargan stood in the center of the room, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. The faint glow of the Oscorp prototype lit up his face, casting sharp shadows that made his expression even more menacing.

He clenched his fists, his muscles bulging unnaturally beneath his skin. With a single punch, he smashed a wooden crate into splinters, the sound echoing through the cavernous space.

Heller stood nearby, his face pale and drawn. "Mac, you're pushing this too far. You don't know what this stuff is doing to you."

Gargan turned to him, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity. "What it's doing?" he repeated, his voice low and guttural. He gestured to the ruined crate. "It's making me stronger. Faster. Better."

Heller shook his head, his voice trembling. "But at what cost? You're not… you anymore. You're changing, Mac."

Gargan stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over Heller. "Good," he growled. "The old Mac Gargan was a nobody—a joke. This?" He flexed his fingers, the sound of his knuckles cracking like gunfire. "This is who I'm meant to be."

He turned back to the prototype, his gaze narrowing. "Norman Osborn thinks he can control me? Thinks he can take everything from me and walk away unscathed?"

Heller hesitated, then spoke softly. "Mac… what are you planning?"

A twisted grin spread across Gargan's face as he grabbed a metal bar and bent it effortlessly in his hands. "I'm gonna hit him where it hurts," he said, his voice cold and determined. "Oscorp has a shipment coming in tomorrow night. High security, big payoff. I'm gonna show Norman what happens when you mess with the wrong guy."

Heller's stomach sank as he watched Gargan's obsession consume him. "Mac, this isn't revenge anymore. It's suicide."

Gargan turned, his grin fading into a scowl. "Then stay out of my way," he snarled.

As Heller retreated into the shadows, Gargan turned his attention back to the prototype, his mind racing with plans. The city would soon feel his wrath, and Norman Osborn would learn the hard way that Mac Gargan was no longer a man to be trifled with.