Peter Parker: A Spider-Man Origin Story

The Oscorp research lab stood silent in the darkness, its sleek facade bathed in the faint glow of security lights. Inside, the sterile white corridors were eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of machinery.

Mac Gargan crouched near a keypad, his brow furrowed in concentration as he keyed in the code supplied by Heller. Behind him, two of his crew members shifted nervously, their shadows long against the polished floor.

"Hurry up, Mac," one of them whispered, glancing over his shoulder. "This place gives me the creeps."

"Shut up," Gargan hissed, his tone low and sharp. "You think they don't have sound sensors? Keep your mouth shut and let me work."

The keypad beeped, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss. Gargan smirked, gesturing for the others to follow. "See? Easy."

The lab was a labyrinth of glass-walled rooms, each filled with state-of-the-art equipment. Gargan's eyes gleamed as he scanned the rows of experimental tech, his greed overshadowing his caution.

"There," Heller whispered, pointing to a sealed chamber at the far end of the room. Inside was a sleek, metallic device, its design unlike anything else in the lab. Strange lines and conduits glowed faintly on its surface, giving it an otherworldly quality.

"That's the prototype," Heller said, his voice hushed but tense. "It's tied to Oscorp's genetic enhancement program. They've been using it to test cross-species augmentation—making organisms stronger, faster, more adaptable."

Gargan's smirk widened. He stepped closer to the glass, his eyes reflecting the faint glow of the device. "Perfect. This is it," he said, almost reverently. "This is what I need."

Heller frowned, glancing at Gargan. "What you need? Mac, this isn't just some fancy gadget. It's experimental tech. They don't even know if it works."

Gargan turned to him, his expression dark. "It works. You saw what they did to those animals in the lab—made them stronger, made them survive things they shouldn't. If it can do that for me, I'll finally have what I need to take back what's mine."

Heller hesitated. "And if it doesn't? If it kills you?"

Gargan snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Then at least I'll go out fighting. I'm done being stepped on, Heller. I'm done being treated like trash while Osborn sits in his glass tower, pretending he's untouchable."

His voice grew sharper, more bitter. "This thing? It's my ticket out of the gutter. No more scraps, no more running errands for corporate cowards. With this, I'll be stronger than any of them—strong enough to make them listen."

Heller swallowed hard, glancing at the chamber again. "You're insane," he muttered. "Do you even know how to use it?"

Gargan stepped forward, placing a hand on the glass. "I'll figure it out," he said, almost to himself. "I always do."

The sound of metal clattering broke the tension. One of the crew members had stumbled into a cart, sending a tray of tools crashing to the floor.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silence.

"Idiot!" Gargan snarled, grabbing the man by the collar. "Do you want to get us caught?"

"I—I'm sorry, it was an accident!" the man stammered, his face pale.

Gargan shoved him back, his grip tightening on the crowbar he carried. For a moment, it looked like he might strike the man, but he exhaled sharply, lowering the weapon. "Just shut up and get the tech."

An alarm blared, red lights flashing as the lab's automated security system activated. Gargan swore under his breath, motioning for the others to move faster.

"Heller, override it!" Gargan barked.

"I'm trying!" Heller shouted, his fingers flying over the console. After a tense moment, the alarm silenced, though the flashing lights remained.

"Grab it and go!" Gargan ordered, hefting the metallic device into his arms.

As they bolted for the exit, leaving a trail of overturned carts and scattered tools, Gargan glanced down at the glowing prototype in his hands. His heart pounded, not from fear but from the thrill of what lay ahead.

Outside, the night air hit them like a wall, the distant hum of Oscorp's alarms fading into the city's background noise. The crew piled into a waiting van, the stolen tech secured in the back. As the vehicle sped away, Gargan stared at the device, a twisted grin spreading across his face.

"This is it," he muttered. "No more crawling. No more begging. Norman's gonna learn what it feels like to be on the bottom."

The front door creaked open, and Peter Parker stepped into the dimly lit hallway of his Queens home. The familiar scent of Aunt May's cooking—tomato sauce with a hint of oregano—filled the air, but it didn't comfort him the way it usually did. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his thoughts, his mind replaying the near-miss with the speeding car and the strange tingling in the back of his neck.

"Peter?" Aunt May's voice called from the kitchen, light but laced with concern. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me," Peter replied, kicking off his sneakers and dropping his backpack by the door. His voice was hollow, almost robotic.

May appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a floral-patterned dish towel. Her warm eyes scanned his face, and her brow furrowed. "You're home late. Long day at school?"

Peter nodded, avoiding her gaze. "Something like that."

She tilted her head, studying him the way only she could. "You didn't eat, did you? I can tell by the look on your face—and the way you're dragging your feet."

Peter managed a small smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine, Aunt May. Really."

"Fine," she said, arching an eyebrow. "You're always 'fine.' But you look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Peter hesitated, feeling the lump in his throat grow. How could he tell her what he was going through? That he wasn't just tired or stressed—that he was changing into something he didn't understand?

"I'm just… tired," he said finally, collapsing onto the couch.

Aunt May disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a small plate of cookies and a glass of milk. She set them down on the coffee table in front of him, then sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap.

"You've been quiet lately," she said softly. "You used to come home and tell me all about your day, every little detail—even the boring stuff. Now it's like you're holding everything in. Peter, you know you can talk to me, right? About anything?"

Peter stared at the cookies, his chest tightening. "I know," he murmured.

She reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Life can get overwhelming sometimes, especially at your age. You're figuring out who you are, what you want to do with your life—it's a lot to handle. But you don't have to handle it alone."

Peter's throat burned, but he swallowed the emotions threatening to spill over. He nodded, forcing a smile. "Thanks, Aunt May. I'll be okay. Promise."

May smiled, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. "Well, just remember: you're stronger than you think, Peter. And whatever it is that's bothering you, you'll figure it out. One step at a time."

Peter nodded again, the words sinking into his heart like a balm. He picked up a cookie, more to give her some peace of mind than because he was hungry. "These are great, by the way," he said, taking a bite.

May chuckled, patting his knee. "Of course they are. I made them."

For a moment, the tension in the room eased. Peter leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes and letting the familiar comfort of home wash over him. But deep down, he knew this peace was temporary.

After a few minutes, May stood, her hand lingering briefly on his shoulder before she returned to the kitchen. Peter sat in the silence, staring at the half-empty plate of cookies.

His gaze drifted to a framed photo on the mantle—a picture of Aunt May, Uncle Ben, and a younger version of himself at a summer picnic. The three of them were laughing, carefree, their arms around each other.

Peter's chest tightened. What would they think of him now? Would they still smile at him like that if they knew what he was becoming?

He stood abruptly, grabbing his backpack and heading for his room. "Night, Aunt May," he called over his shoulder.

"Goodnight, Peter," she replied, her voice tinged with quiet worry.

The dim light of Peter's desk lamp flickered as he sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall of his room. His hands itched, not physically, but with an unfamiliar energy that demanded to be tested. The memory of leaping out of the way of the speeding car replayed in his mind, followed by the visceral thrill—and fear—of sticking to the alley wall.

"Okay," he muttered, standing and rolling his shoulders. "Let's see if I can actually do this."

He pressed his right hand flat against the wall, holding it there for a moment. Slowly, he lifted his left hand, then one foot, and then the other. His heart raced as he began to climb, his body moving instinctively. The rough texture of the wall felt oddly natural under his fingertips, like it was meant to hold him.

By the time he reached the ceiling, Peter let out a soft laugh, his voice tinged with disbelief. "This is insane," he whispered, glancing down at his bed and desk far below.

Hanging upside down, he reached for the light fixture with one hand, testing his grip. The bulb swung slightly, and Peter froze, realizing how precarious his position was. He glanced back at the wall, then carefully maneuvered his hands and feet until he was back on solid ground.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, so… climbing walls? Check."

Turning his attention to his desk, Peter eyed the stack of textbooks he had procrastinated reading. He reached down, gripping all five at once and lifting them with ease. The weight was nothing, as if the books were made of feathers.

"Strength? Also check." He grinned, a flicker of pride breaking through his uncertainty.

Peter grabbed a rubber ball from his desk and tossed it against the wall, catching it effortlessly as it rebounded. He threw it harder, his reflexes snapping into action as he caught it again before it even completed its arc. His movements were faster, smoother than he'd ever thought possible.

But then the memories came flooding back—of Oscorp, the lab, the spider. Peter dropped the ball, his grin fading. "This all started there," he muttered. "Whatever's happening to me… it's because of that bite."

As he sank into his chair, his phone buzzed on the desk. The notification lit up the screen: Breaking News: Heist at Oscorp Facility.

Peter tapped the alert, his stomach twisting as he skimmed the article. Images showed shattered glass, overturned equipment, and a stock photo of the stolen prototype—a sleek, cylindrical device. The reporter speculated about its purpose, tying it to Oscorp's mysterious genetic enhancement program.

Peter leaned back, his thoughts racing. "Did I… cause this?" he whispered, his guilt settling like a stone in his chest. He thought about the restricted lab. Had his actions set this in motion? Was he responsible for putting others in danger?

The warehouse was cold and damp, its walls streaked with rust and grime. Mac Gargan stood in the center of the makeshift hideout, his eyes fixed on the stolen prototype. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting sharp shadows across the room.

The device gleamed on the table before him, its surface smooth and metallic. Gargan reached out, running his fingers over the strange engravings etched into its casing. "This thing's worth a fortune," he muttered, more to himself than to the others in the room.

Heller stood to the side, arms crossed and face pale. "It's not just tech, Mac. This is experimental. You don't know what you're messing with."

Gargan shot him a glare, his lips curling into a sneer. "And you do? You're the one who told me where to find it. Don't go getting cold feet now."

Heller hesitated, glancing at the prototype. "I told you where it was because I thought we'd sell it, not… whatever it is you're planning."

Gargan leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "What I'm planning is to make sure people like Norman Osborn never look down on me again. This thing—whatever it does—it's mine now. And I'll figure it out."

Heller stepped back, his unease palpable. "Just… be careful, Mac. This isn't some toy. It's Oscorp."

Gargan straightened, turning his attention back to the prototype. "Let them come," he said coldly. "I'm not scared of Osborn or anyone else."

Back in his room, Peter leaned against his desk, his head in his hands. The article about the Oscorp heist was still open on his phone, the images burned into his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was somehow connected to him.

"I should've just stayed out of it," he muttered. "If I hadn't gone into that lab…"

The thought trailed off as a sharp tingling shot through the back of his neck. Peter froze, his breath catching. The sensation was stronger this time, more intense than it had been at the corner store. It wasn't just a warning—it was a scream.

His pulse quickened, his eyes darting around the room. The shadows seemed darker, the air heavier. He moved to the window, peering out into the quiet street below. Nothing seemed out of place, but the tingling didn't stop.

"What is this?" Peter whispered, gripping the windowsill. He stepped back, his hands trembling.

The sensation finally began to fade, leaving him shaken and drenched in sweat. He leaned against the wall, his heart pounding. Whatever this was—whatever he was becoming—it was bigger than he'd realized.

Peter's gaze drifted back to his phone, to the image of the stolen prototype. The feeling in his chest wasn't just fear anymore. It was a gnawing sense of responsibility.

"Something's coming," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "And I don't think I can ignore it."