Peter Parker. Young, teen, socially awkward — and secretly heroic — Peter Parker trekked along the sidewalk with his mind full of not-so-teenage problems.
And no, it wasn't because Flash and his cronies were being a dick, like usual, no, but because he broke his first prototype webshooter. Yes, the thing was rather big and clunky, and yes it was a prototype, but it was his first working one and he just had to bust it. Great!
He could make another one. He had a few ideas to tweak into a second working version but he still missed WS – 1.02. He was an aspiring scientist with a heart of invention, he was allowed to be sentimental! Sue him!... Or maybe don't.
And now, not only did he have to worry about when he could whip up a new webshooter, but he also had to worry about whipping up new batches of web fluid for however the new shooter came out.
"Ugh, come on!" Peter whined as that particular thought stuck. That meant his little savings were already booking a ride down the drain.
Fixing computers and appliances around his neighborhood, and even doing homework for a few kids at school — and Flash still owed him up to 50 bucks for all the ones he refused to pay for — could only get him so little. And he couldn't in his heart of hearts ask Aunt May for a few extra bucks. Yikes no.
He brought his hands out of his pockets and looked at the broken parts of his former webshooter. Yeah, the shit was busted through.
He could make do with the parts he got at home for the hardware, that part was easily taken care of.
He winced as he cut off a sharp right towards his neighborhood of Queens, already sighting a visual of the building he lived off in the distance, smushed tightly on both sides by buildings of distinct architecture.
"I can't keep skimming ingredients off chem lab." He mused painfully. No matter how little, on a consistent basis and Mr. Bradley was bound to notice.
And then there was the problem with his suit. Or rather the makeshift hoodie with passable swing skills, patented by Aunt May™, with a mask and oversized goggles, he called a suit.
Too much washing had made the fabric loose and faded and there was only so much patchwork he could do on it before it started resembling something he stole off a garbage truck.
"Why?!" he cried and asked no one in particular. In a world of super powered people and strange events, take a socially awkward teenage kid from the tail end of Queens, genetically modify his DNA, make him a pace smarter than the average kid and you wouldn't need three tries to get the result.
Only no one told him being a local hero (publicly acclaimed vigilante) would take away his feeding money too.
"Stupid stupid thugs. Who even robs a cinema?" he came to a stop at the main road leading directly to his house and sighed again.
"Right. Aunt May won't be at home for at least," he quickly checked the time, "three more hours. Might as well just drop these off before I leave."
His mind had turned into a conducive battlefield of thoughts as he absentmindedly made his way towards his house, got in, dropped off his bags, a quick shower and a change of clothes and just as easily left through the door.
He went past the old train station and the supermarket that was a front – used to be – for a drug house, all the while thinking that he might have bit more than he could chew when he donned on his hoodie to play hero. This shit cost broken arms and legs, as well as his feeding money.
He was quite the ways from his neighborhood, his head still filled with how he would procure a substitute for the chemicals he used in his web fluid. So far he had to make his webbing right there in the lab and then stash it home to line into the capsule he used in his shooters and that had a lot of risks to it.
He would have been infinitely better if he could make them in his room but that meant buying the chemicals and apparatus himself. And yeah, no one was going to sell that to a fifteen-ish kid.
Not to talk of his suit. He needed to replace it asap. With better material if possible, but that also meant money, which if no one was paying attention to, the teenage kid had no substantial amount of.
God! It sucked being a superhero. Not entirely true, but a good part of it sucked. Like being broke, and having to do homework every night.
He still doesn't have a name.
"I mean, the Human Spider is good right? Yeah, it's good." Unfortunately the avenue to announce it never came up, not even when he mistakenly bust up a drug house.
That particular one had been scary.
It was in this haze he came across a sign that read: Junk N' Stuff.
Pretty catchy.
It also amused him that someone would announce that they sold junk, well with stuff too, can't forget about that.
Idle curiosity on par with the teenage mind tugged him forward as he pushed open the door with the silent tinkle of a welcoming/alert bell.
The inside of the store looked full and with a first glance of how things were padded to every corner of the place, it did look kinda like a junkyard.
"Not you though, you look cool." Peter said to the dinosaur head hanging off a wall. It looked cool.
Now that he had more than a cursory glance, he instantly got a feel of why the place it was named so. He could see things from synthetic grass to potted plants, TV remote to strings for guitars, aluminum foil to copper coils in different parts of the store. Arranged in seemingly no order.
"Sick." He excitedly moved towards the dino head and ran his fingers over its skin. Weird. It didn't feel like plastic.
He was still trying to figure out what material it was made from when suddenly he was forced to duck as a gout of flames surged over his head.
"Holy! What the frick!" What the hell was that? It would have singed a lot more than his hair if he didn't have the tingles.
"Hello."
"Ahhhh!" A startled Peter spun around, hands and hackles raised, to see the unassuming man standing behind him.
"Um, sorry about that, sir. Um, good evening…" A wave of awkwardness travelled through him as he realized that he just screamed in the shopkeeper's face after touching his stuff. Aunt May would skin his hide if she found out.
"Don't sweat it, kid. What up?"
Right. He had wandered into this store without any particular reason. Honestly he'd rather just leave after embarrassing himself like that–
"How can it breathe fire?" he pointed at dino head. That was really cool. Not the part that it almost turned him into Scarface, but the part that it was a dinosaur head that breathed fire.
The man just shrugged. "Not really sure. Got it along with a few of the junks lying around."
The man moved into the counter and Peter walked to stand in front of him.
"So? Interested in anything you see?"
Not really, Peter thought. It really was just a lot of stuff lying around, not really junk, but not stuff he had any need for
That name thing really was on point.
"Not really." He said tentatively. The man scoffed.
"Trust me, kid, I'm pretty sure I got whatever it is you would want. A portable boomtube, a Transponder Snail, an Alchemist 5000, or even a Bread Slicer."
The man started listing off a bunch of things Peter had no idea what they were even about. What even was a portable boomtube? Some kind of retro music box?
"Well as long as you can pay for it that is." The man said with a smirk that left Peter even more stumped than anything.
"Wha— what makes you think I would want to buy something?" The question hardly left his mouth before he bookmarked it in the stupid category.
The owner chuckled. "Listen kid, I'm a Merchant. I can sniff out a potential customer even with my eyes closed."
It was Peter's turn to chuckle. "Who calls themselves a merchant nowadays?"
The look the man gave him was one you would give an endangered panda at a zoo. One that said: oh you naïve and dumb thing.
"I'm not your run-of-the-mill regular salesman, kid. I'm an inter-extra-dimensional Merchant. I've even got things from the next mirror-verse over. So, what can I hook you up with?"
At this point Peter hesitated, maybe this was why Aunt May always warned him about getting scammed. Was he so easily convinced?
"Don't worry kid, even if it were a nuke, I'm pretty sure I can hook you up with one. And you don't have to worry about anyone knowing, it falls under Client's Confidentiality."
Peter looked at him funny, playing off the nuke as the joke it was. "You know, store owners don't usually have a Confidentiality Clause."
"Pfft. Your regular store owners perhaps. Hello, multi-dimensional merchant here. Now, what can Junk N' Stuff get ya?"
At this point, had he been a normal teenager, he would have already hightailed it, because the so-called shopkeeper-merchant looked sketchy as hell.
Probably like those guys trying to sell kids drugs.
Well Peter didn't really have anything he wanted to b–
"Chemicals… do you have like chemicals, you know, for science labs and stuff." Peter asked slowly, and seeing the man just staring at him he tried to explain. "I'm trying to set up a small lab in my room, you know… yeah."
The man smiled and Peter shifted. It was one of those knowing smiles that hid a lot of teasing material behind it.
"Hold up for a sec, I think I got a catalogue for 'High school chemicals' lying around somewhere."
He opened the cabinet behind him but Peter couldn't really see what was in there except for some vague shapes.
He took out a thick bind, red covered, and flipped through its yellow-rimmed pages with an appreciative hum.
"Yep, got a few standard solvents: acids, bases, a couple of the more obscure indicators and pigments. How about you make a list and I'll set it all up for you, as well as the price tag."
And that got Peter nervous again. His joy of getting his own stash of chemicals was run through when he realized he probably didn't have money for them.
Sure, all he needed was a pint of various chemicals and he could make a batch of fluid to last him a few days of patrol but he doubt the shopkeeper would be inclined to sell such little volume.
"Yeah, I know that look. Low on green?"
"Hmm." Peter scratched his head sheepishly. "Well I was thinking of buying in small amounts."
Unfortunately for the broke rookie hero, the Merchant shook his head.
"Figures." He shook his head despondently.
"Tell you what," at this Peter looked at him suspiciously. That sounded a lot like an intro to an incoming scam. "got anything on you you'd like to sell?"
"Like?" He took a cautious step backwards.
The Merchant shrugged. "Junk. Stuff. Anything at all, if it has value I'll make sure to compensate you."
Peter was about to outright refuse and leave the shop and its strange owner when he remembered something. He did have something of little value to him — except for its sentimental attachment that is.
Think of the web fluid of a new suit. There's no more spare hoodie to use.
It was a hard choice between an honest man's work and the greater good. His lips twisted upwards as a choice was made. Alas, teenage fantasies won in the end.
"I only have this. It's broken but I made it myself." He brought out the broken WS-1.02 and gave it to the man.
The man took it, holding it softly to his eyes and hummed appreciatingly. This was better than selling his web fluid recipe to Oscorp or some other company. Well, not really.
"What do we have here? A jettonsing trinket that shoots at what, 30 clicks. Impressive."
Peter's eyes widened. Was it surprising that the man could tell the general use of it? Very.
"Y-yeah, something like that." He said. "It is shoddy make but it did pretty well for itself."
"I can tell." The man said as he put down the shooter with a thinking expression. "Say, this 'ol piece of junk, you got any more like it?"
Peter shook his head. Even if he did, he wouldn't say.
"Sorry no. It's the first of its kind, well the first one that worked."
The man's eyes lit up. "So it's an original. An antique, huh."
"Yeah, you could say that." Technically it was.
The man started murmuring to himself but Peter couldn't clearly hear what he was saying, only bits of it.
"… OG shooter… red and blue suit… not yet."
And then he turned around with a smile.
"You're in luck kid. Quite an antique you got there, even for a junk. How about I cut you a thousand for the shooter?"
"…"
"Kid?"
"… a thousand bucks?"
"Yeah, for the shooter. If you don't want it–"
"Deal. No take backs."
"Take backs? What are you, twelve?"
"15… not 12. Oh, and I'm Peter by the way." He stretched his hand out and the man took it good-naturedly.
"Hm, Peter. Call me Isaac. The Merchant." Isaac said with a smile. "Now how about we sort you out with those chemicals."
Damn. Today really did turn out a great day for Peter.
.
.
.
.
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Portable Boomtube: Boom tubes are wormholes created by handheld sentient devices called mother boxes used by the New Gods of New Genesis and Apokolips. They allow instant transportation between any two points and are such named due to the distinctive large "BOOM" sound they make upon opening. (DC Multiverse)
Transponder Snail: Transponder Snails are a class of telepathic snails that can communicate via vocal and visual means worldwide. (One Piece)
Alchemist 5000: The Alchemy 5000 is the microwave shaped device can turn metal into gold created by Mary and Susan. (Johnny Test)
Bread Slicer: The Bread Slicer is a special knife invented by Dexter specifically for the purpose of perfectly cutting bread into even slices. (Dexter Laboratory)
Peter Parker froze, or probably felt the world froze – it was slowly becoming a normal feeling to him since his mutation – but this time it was for another reason.
It still felt like a really slow day dream even as the Merchant brought out another book, a catalogue on chemicals, and gave it to Peter to peruse his 'stock'.
It still felt like he was being played a prank on, but also didn't (?), and he was just waiting for the ball to drop about the thousand dollars.
He'd expected 10 bucks— okay maybe 5 for the busted-glued-together shooter because that was what it truly was, a broken and glued junk. So it really didn't come as no surprise when he started feeling guilty after the initial excited high went away.
Maybe the Merchant overestimated the shooter?
His fingers paused as he made to flip the page, "Mr. Isaac sir, are you sure? That seems like a lot for a piece of junk."
And there it was again. That smile. The same smile you would give a hamster running on a wheel, knowing it looked funny and it wasn't running anywhere anytime soon.
"Don't sweat it, kid. Let me worry about its value on my end while you pick up chemicals on yours."
"Still…" Peter Parker looked uncomfortable. He couldn't stand the thought of possibly ripping the man off, he wasn't brought up that way.
The Merchant sighed. "Tell you what, kid, this thing fires at 30 clicks and I'll gander a guess at a minimum of 30ft, that's 1 second of travel time. I could sell this to a company for at least 20 grand. And that's not even its real value."
"…"
"Like I said before, I'm a Merchant. I know junk when I see one."
Was it weird that Peter felt relief in that moment. At least that was proof that he didn't scam the poor shopkeeper….
"…. You gave me a thousand for it."
"And that's a lesson for you: never trust a Merchant."
Ah, so this was what betrayal felt like. Well, to Peter it did.
"But why tell me in the first place?"
The man behind the counter shrugged. "You seem like an alright lad and I have a feeling this won't be our last business together. A common ground, so to speak."
"Not so common a ground if you're already ripping me off." Peter murmured, which seemed to amuse the man even more.
"This way you'll know what to expect. It's half the fun if your customers can't haggle for what they want."
"Right…" Peter said slowly. It didn't make sense to him but hey, to each his own. He flipped the pages open, took out a small piece of paper and started scribbling down the chemicals he needed.
Hopefully the thousand bucks would go a long way to see him fitted for his nightly endeavors.
Aunt May would kill him if she knew how he got the money and what he was spending it on. Maybe not, but it wasn't a thought he was comfortable with.
"Right.. Right, I've got this, this, I'll need a little bit of that and…" his hands froze and his gaze went down the list of chemicals where, tucked there at the bottom, was what looked too similar to Chlorine Gas(Cl2) and Uranium-235.
"… anyway, I think I'll have just these ones. These should be more than enough… for my science experiments. At home."
"Is that all?" Isaac asked and Peter nodded after going through his list once again. "That'll bring your total to $473. You want me to get them for you now or send it to your address?"
"Huh?"
"Your address. I doubt you want to be hauling chemicals back to your house right now, do you?"
"Um no. Thank you."
"For what? It's just business."
"Yeah, right."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter Parker was still waiting for the ball to drop but so far the Merchant seemed to be taking everything seriously.
Maybe he really was getting those chemicals.
"Need a receipt for these?" he was asked but he shook his head. "Right, need anything else?"
"Excuse me?"
The Merchant sighed. "Need anything else with the balance or is that it? You still got $523, so do you need anything else? No tax by the way."
Now that got Peter thinking. Did he need other things? Yes. First of which was fabric for the suit he had in mind.
Spandex or anything similar would do and hopefully he wouldn't have to go through his remaining goodies just to have something to wear on his nights out.
He could sew the thing himself with Aunt May's sewing machine, provided she never found out. Maybe things were finally looking up for the teen hero(vigilante).
"Do you have, like spandex or anything similar?... I like sewing."
Mr. Isaac gave him a dry look. He didn't buy it one bit. "Of course you do. You need the regular stuff?"
Peter looked confused. "What other type are there?"
"Well you've got your basic spandex— which no one ever buys by the way, you've got lycra which is slightly more expensive, more durable, and more stretchy. You've got polyester, mostly for sportswear, and then you've got printed polyester which is a little bit pricey but also a lot better. Either that or I can throw in some of my own stock, which you won't find on the market by the way."
Now Peter was conflicted. On one hand he could just get a couple yards of the spandex and leave, just like he'd intended, or he could take a gamble on the Merchant's words.
He could admit to himself that he was a little bit curious about what exactly the Merchant sells. It couldn't be anything, right?
Before Peter could get a word out, a catalogue was pushed in front of him, and seeing some of the things listed there, Peter wasn't sure whether the Merchant was toying with him or if he was in danger. He would almost prefer it if the tingle started tingling anytime now.
The names on the materials listed were some he had never heard of before and the brief description made it sound less believable the more he went down the list.
Unstable Molecules: Adapts to wearer, self-repairs, flame-stretch resistant.
That sounded like something he'd heard of.
Still suit fabric: Recycles sweat into drinkable water, sandproof.
Mimetic polyalloy: Liquid-metal, shape-shifting, self-repairing.
"You know what, I think I'll just stick to the really good spandex." He gently closed the book and pushed it back on the counter.
What was he thinking? He was in a junk store, of course the owner would seek junk to people. He literally just sold him junk three minutes ago. And besides, there was no way he sold all those things listed there.
Yes, he lived in a world where a man once threatened to lift up a city and smash it to the ground, while also having the power to do so, but even that was acceptable compared to the ridiculousness listed on those pages.
Who sells Uranium-235 in a junk store?
The more he thought about it the more sense it made.
Maybe it was him but the Merchant looked a bit disappointed when he said he was going for the normal spandex.
"How many yards do you need, and in what colors?"
"Er red and blue, five each."
.
.....
[Peter Parker, teenage blob of repressed hormones, adrenaline junky and uncertain decisions… plus part-time heroics]
Seeing Mr. Isaac coming back out with a wrapped bundle of red and blue fabric, I almost had to stop myself from jumping in excitement. This was it!
I can almost see it — the vision. Maybe, finally, instead of the police gunning for me anytime they see me, maybe they'll finally acknowledge the fact that I am a hero.
The whole hero thing was a bit of a gambit, especially after Uncle Ben, but with this I feel like I'll finally mean it.
With great power, he'd said, the responsibility shouldn't be mine. What do I know, I'm just a 15-ish year old kid. But with this, maybe I can finally carry that responsibility.
"Still there, kid?"
"Yeah, sorry." There it was again, that weird way he moves. I couldn't even tell, without looking, if he was right in front of me or not.
Mr. Isaac was weird. Not in the 'I'll give you candy' weird, but in the 'I might or might not have nuclear materials that I might or might not be willing to sell' weird. He felt like the type to look at the words 'plausible deniability' and deny it.
Even as he handed me the packaged fabrics I still didn't feel like he was a bad person. Weird? Definitely. I mean, he bought my junk for a thousand dollars, so to me he's probably giving me all this for free.
"Here's your change."
It was a hundred and fifty plus some change.
"Thank you."
"It was nice doing business with you, kid. Don't forget to refer me to your friends. And remember, if you need anything just drop by."
Why did that sound like it meant more?
"I will." He sells junk so I could probably buy a lot of spare parts for cheap for a couple of new webshooters.
I can't wait to get home and check how this feels. I'll have to draw the designs again, and then sew it, or maybe make a new shooter first and new web fluids.
I was halfway out of the store when I stopped to look back at Mr. Isaac because of a question that has been nagging my mind for a while now.
"Do you really sell nuclear bombs?" It was meant as half joke and half curiosity.
"Do you have the money to buy one?" He asked back with a slight smile on his face.
"No, I don't."
"Then I guess I don't."
"Right."
I left the store but not without giving it another look — because it looked cool — and memorizing its name and location. Even its name sounds cool.
Junk 'N Stuff.
It took over thirty minutes to walk back home, and would have been shorter — less than three — if I had my webshooters, which meant it was going to be the first thing I put together before doing anything else.
"Huh?"
My feet stopped a few feet in front of my house because right there, on my doorstep, were packaged boxes, six of them, neatly arranged on one side.
The tingles weren't tingling, so it wasn't a bomb? Which isn't an irrational fear because I've seen it happen once.
Aunt May was not expecting any boxes, she would have told me if she was. I was but it won't be arriving for an hour or so–
I plucked the note stuck on one of the boxes and read what it said:
Packages delivered successfully. Hope for your continued patronage.
The Merchant,
Junk 'N Stuff.
That was some fast delivery. Anyway I hurled them to my room before Aunt May came back and saw them and asked how I got them. Those were questions I have no desire to answer.
"This is it." I muttered to myself as I shelved the chemicals. With this amount, it should last me two or three months of intense web usage, which is something I usually don't do unless I can't help it.
Crime in New York has a way of making you question a lot of things.
I mean, just last week I accidentally stopped a gun trade that involved rocket launchers. I can vouch that there is nothing within 30 miles that requires a rocket launcher. Neither as a problem nor as a solution.
With the chemicals safely stored away, I think it's time to focus on the new shooters. Not having them made me realize just how important they are. It feels really weird having to jump over rooftops instead of just swinging past them.
I mean, I can't really be a friendly neighborhood spider man if I can't swing from web—
Wait, that's a cool name. Spiderman. At the very least, it's better than the Human Spider.
Peter has been having a blast of a time after finally getting his hands on a new webshooter and with the same high he rode to create WS-1.07, he created his first ever super suit. Well there wasn't anything super about the suit but those were semantics.
He might have underestimated the quality of the material he had bought from the Merchant, Mr. Isaac, until he started sewing it and realized that what the Merchant had dubbed as high quality spandex was perhaps something that wasn't in the regular market or even the high-fashion market.
In fact he was pretty sure that, while yes, it was a high quality spandex, it was too high a quality for spandex. It did let his thoughts wander though.
What kind of materials could he really buy from the Merchant?
As far as he was concerned, this extremely stretchy, wholly breathable, and greatly washable spandex resembles something that was made in a science lab.
With careful testing, especially after he found that out, he was able to squeeze in a second spare suit and two very comfy underwear before he ran out of fabrics to sew. It truly was an experience.
And that wasn't even the last of it. Oh no no no.
If Christmas came early then he might as have well robbed Santa.
Those chemicals. Oh, those chemicals. If the fabrics made him curious of where Mr. Isaac got his wares then the chemicals downright frightened him on where he got his wares.
Purity. It was too pure, way too pure for what was sold in a shabby store in a nondescript neighborhood.
The chemicals in his school lab were no way near the ones he bought in terms of purity.
They once had a science excursion to Oscorp and not even the fun little experiment they did there brought out the same efficiency with the chemicals he bought from Junk 'N Stuff.
He would know because the difference was way too clear in his webs.
First of all his webs could lift twice the weight they used to, which was a 100% increase on its strain reduction, and then there was the fact that he had to make changes to the ratio of chemicals he used because the initial ones were way too sticky and lasted for up to eight hours instead of the original two.
The elasticity also jumped through the roof, but that one was understandable given the first two discoveries.
If the chemicals they used in their trip to Oscorp were industrial grade chemicals then he had no clue what these ones were called. All he knew was that they should cost more than the amount he bought them for.
He could swing farther and faster with his new set of web fluid and he had the distinct thought that he needed to come up with better upgrades for his webshooter if he wanted to get the best out of the webs he had.
Rough calculations pointed that his shooters weren't shooting them as fast or up to the limit distance they could go.
As far as Peter Parker was concerned, his first reveal as a suited superhero was filled with way more excitement that he expected.
A traitorous thought slithered into his head at one point that 'what if this was what the Merchant wanted? To get him hooked on the good stuff and then cork the supply.'
It would be a classic addiction case and the 15 year old hyper-but-socially-awkward teen found it way too terrifying for his young mind.
Was he already getting addicted? Was this the start of his downward spiral? What lengths will he go to get his new fix?
All in all the last two weeks have been nothing but eventful for the young spider who finally learned to take its first true swing.
But the highlight of the last two weeks was when he finally managed to get out his name without fumbling through it or being lost in a quip-off with a criminal.
It was better than the awful names that were beginning to gain traction due to the very diligent effort of the Daily Bugle.
Seriously, what kinds of names were Creeping Crawler, the Masked Menace, the Stickler? And the worst of it, the Red Bugg-er.
The first time he heard that name on the broadcast he had to take a one hour break from patrolling to do a routine of self-motivation.
So yes, he was very happy that he finally managed to get the name out: Spider-Man (thankfully, instead of the Human Spider).
It brought a tear to his eyes when he saw the first published photo of him on the front page of the Daily Bugle with his official name tagged on the headline.
Jonah Jameson was a bitter critic but he sure knew how to write an article… even if it was a defamatory one.
The articles were so good – or was it so bad, honestly Peter didn't know – that he would do a double take every time he read them and wonder if that was how he appeared to people or if that was just Mr. Jameson just being his usual self.
He hated it somewhat, the hateful articles, but was smart enough to use it as a standard so as not to get too full of himself. He'll make J. Jonah Jameson write a good article about him one day, believe it.
So yes, Peter Parker has had an eventful time since his debut. He was still a nighttime hero but that couldn't be helped. He still had school in the morning after all.
"Seriously, again?" Peter sighed to himself in what was quickly becoming a habit. At this rate he'd soon start getting wrinkles according to Aunt May.
"C'mon guys, we talked about this the last time." The two goons on lookout were webbed up and dangling off the ceiling with their mouths webbed.
"No sticky fingers around the cinema. We don't have another one for at least six blocks. So, watch it." He's webbed guys up for less, but seriously what was it with these guys and cinemas?
He didn't think they kept money at the theater so what was up with these guys? And it was like they were part of a gang because these weren't the guys he caught last time.
"This is a new low, even for you guys." He whispered as he crawled over the rest of them on the ceiling.
Three more goons stood at an intersection, keeping an eye out, while the remaining two guys went on ahead.
"At least you're smarter than the last guys." He said to himself. "Here we go."
The three watchout split into two ends while the last one stayed at the intersection and so that was the first one he went for. He dropped down without making a sound and webbed the oblivious man's mouth and legs.
The man tried to raise his gun in fright but he kicked it out of his hands and webbed both of them to his chest.
"So pick – left or right – who should I go for next?"
"Left? Right? Come on man, pick one." He said in a singsong voice as the man kept shaking his head with terrified eyes. "Oh well, guess I have to choose myself."
He waited right there in the intersection until both men started coming back up and got a good look at him.
"Hey guys. So this is like what? A boys night out or something? Hope I'm not interrupting."
Both men were stunned for a second and he saw the moment realization entered their posture and a mental trigger was pushed into their muscle, but, well his webs were faster.
"I'll be taking these…" the guns were pulled away, "and in exchange you'll be getting those," and he webbed their hands in return. And then their mouths. Also with their legs.
"Sorry guys, but I'm getting late. I have sc– eh work tomorrow morning."
It was almost 1AM and any later and his day would be ruined. He still needed as much sleep as he could get just like everybody else. Sleeping past midnight every single day for two weeks was not a healthy sleeping schedule for a teenage boy, enhanced or not.
Too many late nights out and it was starting to affect his daily life. Mrs. O'Brian had caught him sleeping twice during classes and threatened him with detention if she caught him for a third time.
Two men hurried out of the door with duffel bags which made Peter really curious about what they stole.
"Oh there you are! We were just talking about you."
"Hey! If you wanted free tickets, you could've just asked—I know a guy who literally hangs around theaters!"
"Shit, it's the new freak!" One of them shouted. He dropped the bags— or at least tried to only to find out he couldn't because his hands were webbed to it and he couldn't reach for his gun.
The other one was quick to abandon his bag for his gun the moment he saw Spider-Man and would have got off the first shot if not for Spider-Man at that moment turning off the hallway lights.
"Where is he?! Where are you, freak?!"
"Hmpf… Hmpf… hmhmpf!"
"Show yourself fr— argh."
The lights were flicked back on to reveal the two of them knocked out and webbed together.
"Seriously guys? Electronics. Even a USB cable. I shouldn't be saying this but you guys can do better than this."
The cops were already on their way and he wouldn't want to be here when they arrived. To them it still wasn't clear whether he was a hero or vigilante and the conversations that usually stemmed from those were highly awkward, even without the usual case of them trying to arrest him. Honestly, he's had enough for a school night and all he wanted to do was just go and crash right into bed.
He could already hear the police sirens blaring into the neighborhood when he swung away from the cinema.
He was like ten blocks away from his recent crime scene, swinging by between buildings when his momentum was stopped and he perched against a wall, when he heard an explosion and saw smoke rising off a building.
"No." he cried out despairingly. Just like the smoke going up from the building, he saw his peaceful sleep going up in flames.
No one told the 15 year old hero/vigilante that trying to be a superhero was this hard.
And so, like he had done for the last few hours, he swung towards the scene of trouble, not just to be a hero or to fight bad guys, but because someone, anyone, might just be needing a helping hand right about now and he had two strong ones to help. He really did.
.
.....
[Peter Parker, a mentally exhausted sleep-deprived teen, functioning on way too unhealthy amounts of coffee]
The bed never felt so inviting in all my life like it currently did and I had to take extra care to not make a noise when I came in through the window in order not to wake Aunt May up.
During my swing home a new idea for an upgrade to my webshooters came to mind and since I had a few extra cash left over, maybe I should visit— nope, I'm going to go to sleep now.
Sluggishly, with every movement feeling like I was moving through quicksand, I started taking off my suit. Gosh, even taking off the mask feels like I'm dragging my hands through lead.
Gods, these boots stink. Even with how breathable the material is, it clearly wasn't enough to offset the soot and junk I've been through today.
Oh bed, how I've missed you.
Webshooters, Merchant, webs — they can all wait till I wake up. Whenever that is.
.
.
.
.
A/N: Not really sold on how this chapter came out. I'm still having trouble writing in 1st person POV so hopefully I didn't do too bad with that.
Jessica Jones lived in New York. She hated New York. Every single day she lived here, which was pretty much her whole life, served to convince her that this city had it out for her. She could find something new to hate about this city every new day she lived in it.
So why hasn't she moved out? Well… the damned city won't let her— that was her justified excuse and she kept with it.
She deserved a medal for living through the weird shit that seems to happen to only this city. Not only was the city weird, the people in it were weird too.
Queens, Hell's Kitchen, Brooklyn — if New York was cursed then these three places were literally sinking into hell. Mutants, aliens, demons, witches and warlocks, even the damned ninja turtles could be found just by strolling through these places at night.
She cursed under her breath as she walked through Queens under the light drizzle that came out of nowhere. She was spooking a trail, or at least looking for a trail and seeing if she could spook it.
"Damn this rain." She cursed again as the rain fell harder. There was not supposed to be any drizzle for at least three days, but no, this damned city liked living by its own rules.
She'd spent the last five hours chasing smoke, when the sun was still out in the sky, and just when she decided to call it off and call it a night, she just so happened to see a face of interest and had to continue the whole tailing thing only for the rain to start falling and made her lose her mark.
"Got you, rat." She smirked as she caught sight of exactly what she needed to break this case. Being a private investigator was a dirty business but it was a career that apparently had high returns in the dirty muck that New York was.
She brought her camera to her face to collect some evidence, only to freeze when she saw that her battery was dead. "Goddammit!"
'No problem,' she told herself and used her phone to take the pictures instead, only to end up frowning harder when she saw the results. She got the pictures, but it wasn't exactly as clear as her camera. Of course you could make out the people in them, but a group of lawyers could dismiss it with ease since it wasn't in HD quality.
Still, she took the pictures. Better this than nothing at all.
She could try and get closer but there weren't any obstacles for her to hide behind for her to get a clearer picture. There were no electronic stores or minimarts nearby, so there was nowhere she could get a quick replacement for her battery.
"I know I checked it before I left." Well her memory wasn't really clear on if she did or not, but she had been in this business for quite some time for it to be routine at this point.
She would be caught if she went any further than this, and the pictures she got were hardly what one would call 'concrete evidence'.
She could call it a night and come back tomorrow to test her luck, or she could double back a few blocks to see if she could see where to get new batteries.
Her choice was obvious.
"I hate this damned city." She'd said this a million times and meant it every time. The rain didn't make it any better.
She was supposed to be curled up on her couch right now if only her stupid mark had used the day for illicit business. It would have saved them both a lot of time.
"Where are the stupid stores?" She asked frustratingly as all she saw were restaurants, food stands and a laundry mart. "I could've sworn I saw a minimart somewhere around here."
She turned right around a corner, but nope, no store. She was about to retrace her steps and take another road when she saw a boy coming from an alley with his bag hanging down his shoulders, his gaze down and awkward.
Her deduction said high school student, probably just got some weed and was clearly trying too hard to look normal. She didn't care about any of that as she grabbed him, almost smirking as she saw him stiffen and turn pale.
"Relax, I'm not gonna bust you for weed." She said before he could stammer out a word, "is there any store around this damned neighborhood?"
"Huh? Wha—"
"A store, where I can get some batteries." She said impatiently.
"Um, just behind Freddie's, to the right. They close very early, so I don't know. It's either that or the junk store nearby." He said as he adjusted his bag. "It's either that or near the subway."
She was already picking pace before he finished his sentence, following his directions as she passed Freddie's, a small diner, and saw the store. It was a discreet thing, tucked into the side of the building, and very easy to miss.
"Wait, wait, I just need some batteries." She shouted as she saw someone at the door flipping the open sign.
"Sorry, already flipped the sign." The dude shrugged helplessly as if that explained anything.
"C'mon man, I just need some batteries. I got cash." She pleaded, but the guy just shook his head.
"Sorry, no can do. Already flipped the sign, store policy." He said and locked the door.
"This fucker.." She bit her lips as her temper bubbled. She could go back to the subway and return, but there was a tiny chance that her mark would still be there when she got back.
She looked around and at the end of the line, she saw it. The junk store the kid talked about, because that's what the place was literally called.
There's no way she could get a camera battery at a junk store, but then again this was New York. Having no other choice, especially since the rain started falling even harder, she ran over to the store and almost sighed in relief when she saw the open sign.
The door at the bell rang as she step in, "Oh thank God." She couldn't help but say when she felt how warm the inside of the store was.
The store was perhaps one of the most chaotically arranged spaces she'd ever seen. Different things you'd see in different stores were laid everywhere with no rhyme or rhythm. A steering wheel was placed next to an empty frame, and next to that was an overgrown pot of some weird plant, and next to it were window panes, a whole stack of them.
"Can I help you find something?" She turned around to see a guy at the register.
"Yeah, batteries. You got any?" She threw him the batteries and he caught it, not even looking annoyed at her.
"Sure." He shrugged and reached under the to bring out a pack of batteries, almost making her fist pump the air. It was painful to note that this was the best thing that had happened to her today.
She paid for two, and turned to leave—
"Come on!" The heavy rain turned into a full downpour and lightning started flashing. Her mark— who was she kidding? The bastard was probably gone by now.
She scowled at the thought. She was drenched, hungry, bought two new batteries, lost her mark after six long hours of fruitless investigation, and all she had to show for it was a gallery of sketchy photos.
"I sell umbrellas if you're in a hurry." She heard the guy behind the counter say.
She looked at him angrily and saw him pointing at a rack that held umbrellas, poles, and freaking swords in it.
"What the fuck do you even sell, dude?" She asked, clearly exasperated as the anger bled out at the sight of the ridiculousness she was looking at.
"A little bit of this and a little bit of that. I buy and sell junk and stuff, and everything in between."
She ignored the name pun and walked towards the rack and curiously picked up a sword and pulled it from its sheath, half expecting a prop or a rusted blade.
"And this qualifies as junk?" She raised a brow at him. She didn't know about swords but this one looked way too clean, way too sharp and way too real to be called junk.
"Stuff." The guy replied easily. Well, he clearly got jokes, she'd give him that.
She looked at the window and saw the torrent of rain beating at it, along with the flashes in the sky. Yeah, this was a bust.
She sighed and put back the sword.
"Hey, um…"
"Isaac," he supplied.
"Isaac," she started, "mind if I wait out the rain in here?"
He shrugged. "Feel free to browse while you're at it." She snorted.
Well, it would be boring and awkward to just stand in the middle of the store, so she took his suggestion and just checked out what he had.
Why not just buy an umbrella and go home? Well, she was still salty for having to buy batteries she ended up not using.
As she walked around, in one particular corner of the store, she saw one of those pharaoh sarcophagus things, looking all old and golden.
"You buy shit like this and sell them?" She asked curiously.
"Mostly from other people. If they want to part with it, they'll find a fair buyer in me. As long as it's authentic."
She snorted, and jerked a finger at the golden coffin. "You think this is authentic?"
Surprisingly, Isaac nodded, not a trace of joke on his face. "I assure you, everything I buy and sell are authentic make. Junk or not. Even if it's broken, as long as it's real, I'll buy it off you for a fair price."
"Yeah, right. Save the con lines, I'm not stupid enough to fall for that. Well, this is New York, so I guess there's no end of fools who'll believe you." She won't give him smack about it, but there was no way that was real. The sword might be real, but if the sarcophagus was real then it'd belong in a museum or some rich collector's trophy room, not in a pawnshop.
Off to the side of the fancy coffin, on the wall, she saw an admittedly cool huge sword that had a sick skull guard with two small horns, along with a ribcage that held the rest of the blade.
"What the fuck?" She suddenly felt goosebumps on her body as she neared the blade.
She ran her finger over the edge of the blade and flinched hard in shock as she stumbled back. She looked at her finger, at the very thin but deep cut, in disbelief.
She wasn't invulnerable by any stretch of the word, far from it, but grazing a blade with her finger was not something that would hurt her, unless with some force behind it. She looked at the blade, and to her horror, saw her blood being absorbed into it, until the blade was back to its pristine look.
Instantly, she marched towards the counter where Isaac stood and demanded sharply.
"What the hell was that?"
Isaac tilted his head in confusion. "I'm not sure I follow."
"That blade, the one with the skull." She pointed, her anger and panic rising.
Isaac looked at the blade and gained a look of understanding. "Oh, that's Rebellion. It's a Sparda Family heirloom. Quite the demonic blade, that one."
"Demonic?" She looked confused for a moment, because demonic was clearly what that thing looked and felt like. "That thing gave me a cut just from touching it." She wasn't a particularly hysterical person, but this one was justified.
Isaac frowned at that. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you. It's quite a sharp blade."
She lost it for a moment and shouted at the damned clerk. "It drank my blood!"
She looked at him incredulously and he simply nodded his head and answered, "It does that too."
She stared at him as the incredulousness just bled away into plain stunned silence, meanwhile he just stared at her with a small smile. Like he was telling her a joke and she just wasn't getting it, because she was the punchline.
She took a cautious step back and looked at him warily. Her hand went into her jacket, and she cursed mentally when she only found her empty pepper spray, but she kept it there to keep him cautious.
"Who are you?" She asked. Sure she could bench press a regular guy, but this was New York. A 'regular' guy might just as well bench press her. She'd found that out the worst way.
"You can call me Isaac. This," he gestured to the store, "is my little shop."
He folded his hand behind him, an action that made her take another step back, one he saw and decided to bring them back to the front.
"… What are you?" She asked carefully. Once again, she was in New York. Nothing was too far a stretch.
"I am but a humble and simple Merchant." The way he said it, Jessica noticed, sounded weird. In fact, the way he spoke the entire time sounded weird. It sounded too formal and posh for a simple back alley pawnshop.
"Relax, miss." He spoke calmly, too calm, like none of this was a concern to him. "I assure you, as long as you're in the confines of this fine establishment, nothing other than trade will be permitted and allowed. That includes violence of any kind."
What the fuck kind of established rules was that? And there it was again, speaking like he was a judge in a courtroom and everyone was under obligation to follow his words.
Her stance loosened, but no way in hell was she relaxed. She just wanted to see if he would do anything funny.
"Right. Apologies for the harm that came to you. It's not usually up for display so I forgot to put it behind a glass when I hung it up. Apologies, ma'am." It was as formal an apology as the word formal could get.
"If you would accept it, I would like to offer medical aid to the wound."
She eyed him warily. She was almost certain that something weird was up with this store. Was it some sort of black market front for some 'exotic' merchandise?
"Try anything funny and I'll make you regret it." She finally said as she slowly moved towards him. She wasn't such a pussy that she would run out in fear just because some big ass knife nicked her.
That said, she wasn't averse to knocking his lights out if he tried anything funny. Super strength and durability might have made her more cocky and daring, but certainly not more stupid.
"I wouldn't dream of it." Slowly, he reached one of the drawers and took out a little bottle and white cloth.
"I said nothing funny!" she warned loudly and took a half step back.
"I am not." He looked at her and calmly replied.
"Then what the hell is that?" She asked in a dead voice as she pointed at the clearly glowing liquid that was inside the tiny bottle he brought out.
He sighed. He had the nerve to sigh?! Oh, she wished she brought a gun.
"This is Estus. It's a healing balm. It's instant."
Okay, this was too far into trippy territory because either he was obviously fucking with her or something weird was going on.
He dabbed the cloth over the mouth of the bottle and waited for her. She didn't need to entertain whatever this was since her regeneration would take care of the cut in a couple of minutes, but she also wanted to see what this 'Merchant' was all about.
"And that's not some black market drug you have lying around, looking for test subjects?"
"Certain," was his very dry response.
She was no chicken so she closed the distance between them and watched with high alert as he brought the cloth towards the rather thin long cut on her finger.
"What… how?" She didn't know what her face looked like but her mouth was definitely wide open. Why? Because the wound instantly disappeared after he ran the cloth through it.
She looked at him again, this time a little less wary but more suspicious.
"So what? Are you a mutant or something?"
"Oh, I'm nothing quite as marvelous as that. I am just a simple Merchant, peddling a simple trade."
"And what exactly do you sell?"
"A little bit of everything and a lot of less. I'll allow myself a boast and say I have quite the collection. So whatever you want, I'm sure I can help you get it."
She raised a brow at his claim and eyed the glowing bottle. "Even that?" to which he answered with a nod.
Yeah, no. She was not buying a bottle of fairy dust and chucking it down to get some magic healing. She could handle that on her own. She also did not want to get addicted to whatever new sensation it was, or grow a third eye or some other horrific side effect.
"What else do you sell?" She asked instead.
"Whatever do you need?" He asked in return, which made her smirk.
"So if I want to buy a gun…"
"I'd ask what type." He said easily with a just as simple shrug.
She tapped her chin and squinted her eyes at him. She was almost certain he was a dealer or sorts, and not the small type either. Well, time to test that certainty.
"How about a list of the kind of stun batons you have." She threw him the curviest ball she could, because who would have stun—
He went through the door behind the counter and came out 5 seconds later with two boxes.
He opened them on the counter and Jessica's eyes went wide as she saw the stun batons he laid out.
Each of them had a little tag that basically described what they did.
—Murphy's Law: May not be lethal, but your enemies will wish it was. (Cyberpunk 2077)
*Can hit multiple targets at once.
—Merr-Sonn stun batons: You never forget the first time you get whacked by one of these things. (Star Wars)
—Taser Wand: Particularly effective against werewolves. (Teen Wolf)
*Produces up to 900,000 volts.
To say she was shocked would be an understatement…. How?
The more she read the tags on the batons the more shocked she became. These were clearly illegal. And way too dangerous.
On one hand, she confirmed that he definitely was a weapon's dealer, but on the other hand she was slightly curious and dreadful of who he delivered weapons to.
'But if he's a dealer, he wouldn't be showing his weapons to just anyone that walks in. There has to be a secret code or someth—'
Her train of thought came to a halt as she remembered the sword—the demonic sword— and the glowing balm.
She looked at the tags, and yes, one of them did say werewolves.
So far the list was camera batteries, mummy grave, demonic sword, magic potion and illegal tasers. Her mind raced as another conclusion came to her.
He wasn't a weapon's dealer. He was a dealer, plain and simple, and not the normal type either.
'He did call himself a Merchant. What does that even mean? Does he really sell anything?'
She was worried he might get annoyed if she pushed too much or asked for his entire inventory, so she decided to just start small. If he really sold stuff like these, then he would be a very good contact/supplier to have.
She looked at the stun batons, if they could still be called that, and while she liked the idea of having one to go along with her 'extra' activities, it wasn't really a necessity, at least not right now.
She cleared her throat and adjusted her posture to appear confident. If she looked like she'd done this before then he wouldn't suspect a thing— who was she even kidding.
"What about cameras? Spycams, micro-mics, micro trackers; let me see them."
If he saw her blundering act then he didn't say anything and instead reached for something under the counter and brought out a few smaller boxes.
She hungrily read the tags and salivated at them before wincing as she saw the price tags. Cameras weren't cheap and neither were these.
"Damn, these things are pricey." She whistled.
Isaac, the Merchant, smiled. "A fair bit, yes, but it reflects their capabilities."
Was she really about to do this? Her entire day has been particularly shitty and here she was contemplating whether she or not she should take the risk.
She wasn't exactly swimming in funds, and purchasing these will set her back but also make her job a lot easier. As for whether or not they worked, well she was obviously going to test them before she paid for them.
—The Toaster: A small, spherical camera that can be rolled into a room to provide a live, 360-degree video feed to the operatives outside. (Mission: Impossible III)
—Signet Ring-Camera: A ring with a hidden camera for covert photography. (James Bond: A View to a Kill)
—Credit Card Lockpick: Has an electronic ability to open locks. (James Bond: A View to a Kill)
These were the three items she picked, along with a camera but the camera was by the far the most normal thing out of all of them, even if it was leagues better than her current one.
The Toaster alone was $2,500 and came in a pack of eight. The camera was $3,200, and she could tell it was cheaper compared to if she had gotten it from an electronics store. But still…
"How about I give you $2,700 for the camera, and $2,000 for these small pops? These things ain't cheap, y'know."
Unexpectedly, he smiled at her haggling and instead of cutting it off, played his hand and took off a measly $150 off the top of the entire thing, which came to roughly seven thousand.
She would have been embarrassed to be seen haggling this fiercely, but they were the only ones in the store and he didn't seem to mind.
In the end, she could only get him to cut off $150 and had to sell him her camera, along with the two batteries she got earlier. In the end, she still ended up paying over five grand and that hurt her pockets good.
She had been skeptical about the whole thing but it was all blown away when she saw the quality of pictures she got from them. She could connect them to her phone and her computer at the same time and the range was simply ridiculous.
If she had this earlier….
At least she got something good from the blasted day, even if it pained her. They all had a one year warranty so that was that.
"Thank you for your patronage."
She rolled her eyes. "Cut the crap, Isaac. At this rate I'll be lucky if I can pay my rent next month."
He chuckled but said nothing after that. He was a pretty alright guy, she thought, probably in his early or mid 30s.
Ah, she almost forgot.
"What was that healing thing again? How much is it?"
"Estus? As cheap as $200. It'll heal any type of physical wound, no matter how great, as long as the person still draws breath." He said as he brought it out and handed it to her. "On the house. As compensation for what Rebellion did."
She looked at the clearly magical fairy dust and put it in her bag. "You're sure it's not gonna make me grow a third hand or something?" She joked.
"Goodness, no."
"Then thanks for the freebie." She said, "You can call me Jessica."
She stretched her hand and grinned as he shook it. 'Yup, he definitely ain't normal.'
"Hope to see you again."
She laughed. "Oh you can count on it. As long as you give me a discount."
Thankfully the stupid rain had finally decided to stop so she wasted no time and grabbed her things and left.
She took one last look at the place, especially the name, and snorted in amusement.
"Yeah, right."
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