Peter couldn't stop hearing.
He tossed and turned for the past three nights, listening to the city breathing down his neck. He tried everything: earplugs, headphones, melatonin, and even manifestation videos. Nothing quieted the world around him—or, rather, nothing could lessen his ability to hear the world around him.
It was even worse at school; Peter heard things about classmates that he NEVER wanted to know. Like Giselle's sexual escapades, José's nightly Zumba dances, and how Austin had way too many tacos for his bowels to handle.
He hated it.
He hated hearing the cars and trains blare through the deepest parts of his skull. He hated the way his sweaters scratched his skin till it boiled red. He hated the migraines that intense fluorescent lights pushed onto him. He hated the full-body dousing adrenaline he got as a suspicious person sat across from him on the subway.
He wanted it to end, but it only grew stronger as the days progressed. Not just Peter's senses, he grew stronger too.
Peter swung his backpack over his shoulders on day two and miscalculated the trajectory... slightly. Now, he needed to ducktape the entire thing back together. He punched the crosswalk light on day three, his finger piercing through the poor button without Peter even breaking a sweat.
There was more. He stuck to things, literally. The walls, doors, the floor, the ceiling, really anything that he could touch with either his feet or his hands. It seemed to be his fingers, not his palms, and the soles of his feet, not his toes—which made absolutely no sense, but none of this did. It also didn't get any less intense after putting on shoes or gloves; the stick seemed to travel right through.
Absolutely cheating, Peter concluded.
But by far the strangest part, and yes, there was a 'strangest' part to all of this shit, was... the webs. Peter nearly fainted the first time he saw two small indents on his wrists, right under his palms. He actually did faint when he reached for his toothbrush up in the bathroom vanity and, instead of his usual spiel of clamoring onto the counter, a thin white string shot out from his wrists. He woke up on the tiled floor with his toothbrush on the floor beside him, the fiber bridging his brush and his hands.
It sounded as bad as it was.
Groaning, Peter rolled out of his warm bed. He sluggishly rubbed at his eyes while moving to the kitchen to get some water. Only when Aunt May didn't wake from her slumber, did Peter realize how quiet he'd become. Usually, his thunderous footsteps were a dead giveaway to his any movement, but those were gone.
Peter silently placed the now empty cup in the sink, feeling a peculiar tingle in his arms. It wasn't the same as his... 'sense' of danger in the subway. This was new. It tugged at the soles of his feet and urged him down the hall. It promised something Peter couldn't ignore as it whispered in his ears to open his aunt's door and slip into the room. Despite the darkness, Peter saw Aunt May sleeping soundly on her side of the bed, Uncle Ben's half vacant and untouched.
He looked away, the whisper thrusting his sadness far in the back of his mind as it laid out a path for him. Peter followed the feeling to the extra storage closet, hesitating only for a breath before carefully opening it. The teen crouched down and let the feeling pull his hand through the crevices between boxes, underneath old summer jackets, and past Ben's belongings. He froze when he made contact with the feeling's origin. It felt like cold metal against the skin of his palm, with multiple appendages that leapt out from the main body.
One, two, three, four, and four on the other side. It was symmetrical, then. His finger grazed two sharp points. He froze with a sharp inhale, but the metal didn't spring to action like he feared.
The teen shut his eyes tight so as not to cry out as his heart raced. "Please don't move, please don't move, please don't move," his thoughts chanted as he cautiously pulled his hand and the item out from the closet.
What. The. Fuck.
If Aunt May ever found out where he was right now, Peter Parker would be six feet under by dawn—without a proper funeral service. He needed to think. He needed space from the city's overbearing sounds, smells, and sensations.
So he threw on a hoodie and his worst pair of sneakers and ran. He ran along the sides of brick buildings and jumped between light poles like they were lilypads. When he neared the park, he hid in thick leafy canopies and skittered along the branches with the nocturnal critters. A precariously placed nest of mourning doves sat in his way, and despite his best efforts, the unstable branch snapped. Without thinking, Peter swung. He used his string like a vine and grabbed the delicate nest before it hit the ground, propelling himself back into the air.
The doves weren't as grateful as the teen hoped, pecking at him even after he put their home in a better location. But he didn't care, he was moving too quickly to register their nips. It was only when he neared the familiar sound of water that he slowed down enough to think. Peter barely broke out a sweat despite scaling miles of land. He dropped to the pond's overgrown bank, shuddering as he felt the tall grasses slip under his pajama pants and tickle his knees. His thoughts raced faster than his steady heart, cornering the poor teen in his own mind.
What are you?
Peter gasped, his gaze snapping to the opposite shore. He slid his hoodie off his head to nervously tug at his curls. That whisper was so soft... so personal. He could've sworn the wind carried it to him from just the other side, but there was no one there. He couldn't hear another heartbeat around him nor another set of lungs slowly pulling in the cool air.
Peter.
There it was again, calling to him like from a distant dream. An ache formed in his belly, like a longing that tugged him into the water. He wondered why the leaches wouldn't latch onto his legs but found himself too distracted to care. On the opposite shore, standing still as a ghost, was Uncle Ben.
Peter reached for him, tears scorching trails down his cheeks. "Uncle Ben!" he yelled, trudging through the thick cattails.
Ben shook his head, red blooming over his chest, his throat, his arms. He didn't take his dead eyes off of Peter. He didn't make that horrible gurgling noise that haunted his nephew in his waking moments—just stood there. Silent as the wind, distant like a memory.
Peter.
What did you see?
Peter's gaze dropped to the pond water, tears causing ripples to crash like waves against the overgrown shore. Red and black curled over the crests and morphed his reflection right before his eyes. Peter jumped back from the colorful dance, snapping his gaze back to Uncle Ben.
I could save you.
The teen looked back down, swallowing the pit forming in his throat. Peter saw blue, black, and red twirl between the ripples as his tears slowed. The water stitched its colors together as it stilled, revealing its masterpiece. Between his eyes rested the dark, slanted eyes of a mask. Around him extended red and blue spiderweb lines, trapping him in their enchantment. He saw someone, not just a mask.
He saw someone who could've saved Uncle Ben.
Peter saw...
"Spiderman."
Before he could become Spiderman, he needed a disguise. Peter read enough comic books to know every superhero has one. And considering how the Avengers started out, he didn't think the police would be too keen on welcoming another vigilante to New York.
The problem was, he couldn't just buy a disguise. Money could be traced back to him and his identity. And knowing the internet, some loser would spend copious amounts of time staring at a blurry photo to figure out the exact make of his hoodie or shoe. Police would love that information. Which meant the young superhero would have to start off his career with a little bit of theft.
A small price to pay, surely. It didn't make him feel any better about it.
That was how Peter found himself digging through trash bins behind clothing shops. He reduced himself to a select few automated responses to fishing out any item. When he pulled out a cropped yellow zip-up hoodie and said, "Oh, this is so cool!" That obviously had to go into the yes pile—which was growing larger by the second. He dug up red-black fingerless gloves, and his eyes went wide. "Red." It went to the yes pile. Peter fished out a purple beanie and looked down at the color wheel photo on his phone for advice. "I guess that goes with red."
And that was how his hour went. By the time Peter finished sorting, the garbage had completely transferred itself to the ground. He gripped his locks and folded forward dramatically. "I'm sorry Miss Ellian!" the teen wailed at the thought of his fashion design teacher. She graciously let him pass that elective with a 90%, very very graciously.
Maybe if she didn't, Peter would've become a fashion design marvel and he wouldn't be in this situation. Or maybe he was a hopeless case.
"C'mon Peter. Get a grip," he muttered. The teen shifted through the pile once more, this time returning the clothes to the dumpster when he wasn't sure of them. "What would Spiderman wear?"
Peter pondered the question for a moment, his hands drifting toward the fingerless gloves. He hummed as he tossed them back into the dumpster. He chose a light red pair, which fit comfortably against his skin and weren't too warm. Peter shuffled his way through the pile to find some pants. "Something... not too tight," he thought. "Spiderman probably needs to move around a lot."
He settled on a pair of black pants that were secure around his waist but had very wide legs. Peter grabbed a plain black shirt, planning to sew on a red spiderweb pattern like he saw in his vision. He bit the tip of his nail and looked around at the empty ground. He still didn't have one very important piece.
A mask.
He thought back to the lake, growing more discouraged by the second. Where the hell was he gonna find a mask like that?
"HELP- OH FUCK HELP ME HELP- HELP ME!"
Peter's head shot up in the direction of the screams right before they were violently cut off. The hair on his arms spiked, his blood surging to supply every muscle with fuel. He buzzed with energy, his arms filled with new strength, and his mouth went dry with bloodthirst. Peter tugged on his 'suit' on top of his pajamas, digging a cloth mask out of his pocket. He hesitated only to grab the zip-up hoodie.
Spiderman tugged the hood over his hair and pulled the red strings to secure it. He scaled the side of a building, dashing across its length and scanning for trouble. Frustration built in his chest when he couldn't find anything, until the world stilled. A ripple flooded his mind, waves forming in his arteries. He felt that pull drawing his eyes to the building to his right. Spiderman calculated his trajectory in his mind right before he jumped.
The night sucked in a shocked breath, freezing the world in place. He descended fast, reaching his arms above his head. Moments before impact, two webs shot out from his wrists. He threw his legs forward and pulled his arms down. Spiderman swung, the tension on his strings casting him forward and up. He flipped in the air, landing on the roof of the taller building.
There.
Two women were being loaded into the back of a white truck, both of them unconscious. The alleyway was wide enough to fit the car in, hiding them from the street. A locked door was to the truck's left, and Spiderman bet it led to a bar. There were four kidnappers from what he could see, but they were distracted. They argued quietly, but unfortunately for them, he could hear. His blood turned to steam that hissed from his ears. Spiderman placed his hand down on the building's stone, carefully testing his grip. He went headfirst as his instinct told him, scaling down the dark wall.
"I've driven this shit truck every time, man! I deserve some time in the back too!" one man said, throwing his arms up angrily. Before any of them could respond to his disgusting comments, a white web latched itself around his wrist. "What the-"
He went flying into the dark. Spiderman pushed his feet off the wall, leaping at the body rapidly approaching him. Gunshots offered brief illumination to the dark alleyway. Spiderman stuck a web right to the center of the man's back, the world moving slower than before. He rapidly circled his body as a spider would and wrapped him completely in the strong, white webs.
Spiderman had no time to freak out as a bullet flew right toward him. He could feel the impact site, like a light tingle against his skin. Like the red of a target laser burning him where the bullet swore to strike. Spiderman ducked, then dove to his left to dodge another bullet. His heart threatened to betray him, but everything in his body forced it down.
No panic.
Action, panic later.
Spiderman shot the guns from two of the remaining three. He jumped high into the air while they stumbled back, attaching the weapons to the wall. He shot for another while he was up there, sending the man screaming as he soared up into the dark.
"GET IN THE CAR AND STEP ON IT!" the last one with a gun yelled, aiming for Spiderman's head. He moved too quickly as he wrapped up the second kidnapper, but the man with the gun was patient—and stupid. Three was already in the car and revved the gas futilely to urge him in.
He didn't move, watching Spiderman slow down and stare at him through the dark. Stare him right down the barrel of his gun. Three didn't wait any longer, slamming his foot on the gas even with the open truck. The two women fell from the back, groggy but awake. Awake and afraid. Spiderman jumped across the alley, grabbing them with his webs before they could crash on the ground. He wasn't motionless for long as the back of his throat burned, sending him dodging another bullet.
Let's finish this.
Arching over another bullet, Spiderman went limp. Hood falling from his face, he plummeted to the cold ground. Air filled his lungs as a sense of calm resonated throughout his body. He opened his eyes.
Spiderman curled mid-air, angling himself to aim at the kidnapper. The sheer force of his web sent the man crashing to the floor, trapped against concrete. Spiderman landed gracefully and pulled his hood back on with one swift motion. He stood up on shaky legs, the humanity returning to him as adrenaline slowly abandoned his system. The truck was nowhere in sight, Peter took too long handling this last kidnapper.
The vigilante teen walked up to the man, regarding him as one would a vermin. "Hope this was worth it," he sneered and kicked him hard in the side of the head. That should keep him unconscious for long enough. Peter panted quietly, standing there for long minutes before hearing a shuffling behind him.
Oh god, the women.
They huddled together by the wall, one tucked protectively behind the taller's arm. To their right were their jackets—securely hung on Peter's webs. "STAY BACK!" the protector yelled.
Another aspect he didn't consider was a voice changer. Peter's voice wasn't exactly very adult yet. "Woah- It's alright! I'm no threat," Peter said, throwing his hands into the air. He tried making his voice as deep as he could to no avail. Dammit. Puberty could speed the hell up. "I helped."
The women didn't respond, but Peter saw their shoulders drop gradually. He pointed to their jackets slowly so as not to startle them. "Sorry about that but uh- they'll be like that for a few hours."
Again, they didn't respond. Peter shifted on the balls of his feet and picked at the loose seam on the side of his pants. "Um- You should call the police to pick these jerks up. Daycare's over."
That was a good one.
The silence stretched on between them. Peter's awkwardness grew by the second, surely betraying his age. Still, something in the hesitant look on the protector's face told him to stay.
"Thank you," she finally whispered, tears bubbling in her eyes. "Thank you so much."
Peter released an anxious breath. He shot a web straight up into the air, feeling the vibration of it latching onto the high wall. "Anyone would've done the same if they could've."
And with that, he was gone.