Peter Parker: A Spider-Man Origin Story

Peter's heart pounded in his chest as he sat up, clutching the sheets. The room spun around him, and his body felt… different. Lighter, stronger, but alien.

He glanced down at his hand, now trembling. The redness had faded, but something about his skin looked wrong—almost too smooth, too perfect.

The world around him was sharper, clearer. He could hear the faint chirping of birds—birds that weren't anywhere near his room. His eyes drifted to his desk, and every groove in the wood grain seemed to jump out at him.

Pushing himself upright, Peter blinked, flexing his fingers. His limbs felt lighter, almost too light, yet strangely powerful. He stood, wobbling slightly as if his body didn't quite move the way it used to.

"What the…" he muttered, his voice trailing off as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

His reflection stared back, familiar yet subtly different. His face was the same, but his skin seemed clearer, almost glowing. His shoulders were slightly broader, his arms more defined. He tilted his head, squinting at the faint lines of muscle visible under his shirt.

Shaking his head, Peter chuckled nervously. "Must be the fever," he muttered, brushing it off as he grabbed his clothes.

In the bathroom, Peter turned on the shower, the knobs creaking under his grip. As he reached for the soap, his hand slipped, and the bar launched across the room, hitting the wall with a loud thud.

"Okay, that's weird," he mumbled, rinsing off quickly.

When he went to turn the water off, the handle broke clean off in his hand.

"Oh no, no, no," Peter whispered, staring at the detached piece of metal. He quickly placed it back, hoping no one would notice.

Back in his room, he pulled on his favorite shirt, only to hear a loud rip as the fabric tore under his grip.

"Seriously?" Peter groaned, yanking the ruined shirt off and grabbing another one.

As he left, he carefully pulled the door closed, mindful not to damage anything else.

The smell of eggs and toast greeted Peter as he entered the kitchen. Uncle Ben sat at the table with his newspaper, and Aunt May was busy by the stove.

"Morning, kid," Ben said, glancing up. His brow furrowed. "You're looking… different. Feeling better after yesterday?"

Peter froze for a moment before forcing a smile. "Yeah, must've just been a bug or something. I feel great now."

Aunt May turned, squinting at him. "You do look different. Have you been working out?"

"Uh, no," Peter said quickly, sitting down and grabbing a plate of food. "I guess I'm just… lucky?"

Ben exchanged a look with May, but neither pressed further as Peter started eating.

Or rather, devouring.

In seconds, Peter's plate was cleared, and he was already reaching for more. The toast disappeared in three bites, the eggs gone in two. Ben and May stared, wide-eyed, as Peter polished off everything in front of him.

"Whoa, slow down there, champ," Ben said, half-joking. "We're not running a buffet."

Peter blinked, realizing what he'd done. "Oh, uh… sorry. Guess I was hungrier than I thought." He quickly stood, grabbing his bag. "I'll see you after school!"

"You sure you don't want a ride?" Ben called after him.

"Nah, I'll take the bus!" Peter shouted back, already halfway out the door.

As the door closed, May frowned. "Is it just me, or was that… strange?"

Ben folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Strange? It's downright weird. Something's going on with that kid."

Peter stepped off the bus, carefully adjusting his bag. The day seemed normal enough—students milling around, conversations buzzing—but everything felt heightened to him. He could hear snippets of conversations from across the courtyard and feel the faint vibrations of footsteps as people passed.

Gym class started uneventfully. Peter lined up with the others for dodgeball, staying toward the back as usual.

"Parker, heads up!" Flash's voice cut through the noise as a ball hurtled toward Peter's face.

Before he could think, Peter ducked, his movements unnaturally fast and smooth. The ball zipped past him, slamming into the wall.

The gym fell silent for a moment, everyone staring.

Flash blinked. "How'd you do that?"

Peter shrugged awkwardly, trying to play it off. "Uh… lucky reflexes?"

Flash narrowed his eyes, but the game resumed. Peter stayed at the back, careful not to draw more attention.

Later in the day, Peter made his way to the science lab, balancing his books awkwardly in one hand. When he reached the door, he found it stuck. He jiggled the handle, his movements tentative at first.

"Come on," he muttered, tugging harder.

The door refused to budge. Peter sighed, setting his books down and gripping the handle with both hands. This time, he pulled with a bit more force—then a lot more force.

With a sharp snap, the doorknob broke clean off, leaving Peter standing there dumbfounded, the metal piece in his hand.

"Oh no, no, no," he whispered, glancing around.

A couple of students passing by paused to stare, whispering to each other. Peter quickly shoved the broken doorknob into his pocket, pretending nothing had happened.

Gwen appeared beside him, raising an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

Peter jumped slightly, spinning around to face her. "Yeah! Just, uh… sticky door. You know how these old buildings are."

Gwen leaned past him to push the door open, which swung inward effortlessly. She turned back to Peter, her eyes narrowing. "Sticky door, huh?"

Peter forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess it just needed the right touch."

Her gaze lingered for a moment, her expression unreadable. "You've been acting weird all day, you know that?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes. "Weird? Me? Nah, just… busy, I guess. Lots on my mind."

"Uh-huh," Gwen said, clearly unconvinced. "Well, if you ever feel like talking, you know where to find me."

She walked off, leaving Peter standing there, clutching the strap of his backpack tightly. The weight of her words settled over him as he realized how close he'd come to being caught.

By the time the final bell rang, Peter felt like the walls of the school were closing in around him. Every glance from a classmate felt sharper, every whisper louder. His heightened senses didn't help—it was like the world had turned up the volume just to remind him how different he was.

In the courtyard, he spotted Gwen talking with a group of friends. She caught his eye and gave him a small wave, but he turned away, heading for the bus instead.

Harry was sitting alone near the steps, earbuds in and his expression dark. Peter thought about going over, but the memory of their tense conversation stopped him.

He's still mad about Oscorp. Maybe it's better to give him space.

As Peter climbed onto the bus, he felt an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the strange sensations coursing through his body. He had Gwen and Harry, sure, but for the first time, he felt like there was a distance between them—a gap he wasn't sure how to bridge.

Slumping into a seat, Peter rested his head against the window, watching the city blur past. His hand brushed against the doorknob still in his pocket, and he sighed.

"What's happening to me?" he whispered.

After the ride, Peter shuffled along the sidewalk, his mind still reeling from the events of the day. He clenched his hands into fists, feeling a strange energy bubbling under his skin. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Distracted, he didn't notice the crack in the pavement until it was too late. His foot caught, and he stumbled forward.

"Whoa!" he yelped, reaching out to steady himself.

His hand shot out, slamming against the side of a nearby building. But instead of falling, Peter froze. His palm stuck firmly to the brick wall, and no matter how hard he tried to pull it away, it wouldn't budge.

"What the…" Peter muttered, staring at his hand.

He tugged harder, and the suction finally released with a faint popping sound. His heart pounded as he stared at the brickwork, then back at his hand. Slowly, he reached out again, pressing his fingers to the wall.

They stuck.

A rush of adrenaline shot through him. Without thinking, Peter placed his other hand on the wall, followed by his foot. Before he knew it, he was scaling the building, his movements smooth and instinctive.

By the time he reached the roof, Peter's chest was heaving. He stood on the edge, staring out at the city below.

"What's happening?" he whispered, gripping the ledge tightly.

The cool breeze whipped past him, but it did little to calm the storm inside. He glanced at his hands again, flexing his fingers. They looked normal, but they were anything but.

"I'm turning into… what?"

The bell above the corner store door jingled as Peter followed Aunt May inside, carrying a basket for her groceries. She glanced over her list while Peter trailed behind, still distracted by the memory of climbing the wall.

"Peter, grab a couple of cans of soup, will you?" Aunt May asked, pointing to a nearby shelf.

"Yeah, sure," Peter mumbled, reaching for a can.

His fingers closed around it, and with barely any effort, the aluminum crumpled like paper. Peter froze, staring at the mangled can in his hand.

"Oh no," he whispered, quickly shoving the ruined can behind a row of undamaged ones.

Aunt May turned back, raising an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

"Uh, yeah! Just… figuring out which flavor you'd like," Peter said quickly, grabbing two intact cans and handing them to her.

A security guard sitting in a corner glanced up at the screen displaying the store's surveillance footage. He squinted, rewinding the clip of Peter crushing the can. He watched it again, his brow furrowing.

"Must be a glitch," he muttered, shaking his head and dismissing it.

Peter and Aunt May walked home together, her bag of groceries tucked securely in his arms. She chatted about her plans for dinner, but Peter barely heard her, his thoughts racing as he tried to process everything.

As they passed a construction site, Peter felt an odd tingling at the base of his neck. It wasn't painful, but it was sharp and insistent, like a silent alarm.

"Watch out!" Peter shouted, grabbing Aunt May's arm and pulling her back just as a wooden beam crashed to the ground where they had been standing moments earlier.

The loud thud echoed through the street, and workers scrambled to see what had happened. Peter's heart raced as he stared at the fallen beam, his mind replaying the moment over and over.

"How did you know that was going to fall?" Aunt May asked, her voice shaky.

Peter hesitated, his mouth dry. "I… I didn't. I just… moved, I guess. Instinct."

Aunt May frowned but didn't press further. She squeezed his arm lightly. "Well, thank goodness you did. That was close."

Peter nodded, the tingling at the back of his neck slowly fading. He glanced at the beam one more time before following Aunt May.

The rest of the walk was quiet. Aunt May occasionally glanced at Peter, but he kept his eyes on the ground, his thoughts swirling.

He felt stronger, faster, and somehow more attuned to the world around him, but it was all too much. Whatever was happening to him, it wasn't normal.

As they reached the house, Aunt May unlocked the door and stepped inside. Peter lingered for a moment on the porch, staring at his hands.

"What am I turning into?" he whispered before following her inside.