Rain lashed the sleek transport as it hummed through Earth-731's neon-lit slums, 2030's dystopian New York a blur of flickering bounty screens and shattered dreams. Peter Parker, Mad Spider, slumped in the plush interior, his tattered blood-red costume a stark contrast to the luxury. His spider-powers—strength, agility, regeneration—kept him upright, but the electroshock torture's pain pulsed, fueling his Joker-like madness. He laughed, a sharp cackle, eyeing Wilson Fisk across the cabin. "Fancy ride, big guy," he quipped, Deadpool-sharp humor masking suspicion. "What's the scam?" Gwen Stacy, beside him, her blonde hair damp, clutched her cracked tablet, blue eyes wary but curious. "Yeah, Fisk," she said, voice firm. "What's your angle?"
Flashback: At 17, Peter endured Oscorp's shocks, his screams drowned by scientists' laughter. Gwen, a hidden ally, slipped him a coded message: Survive. That defiance drove her now, her love a tether against the city's hate.
Fisk, massive and scarred, leaned on his cane, his limp a silent testament to old battles. "No scam," he rumbled, voice heavy with pain and resolve. "I was Kingpin—ruler of crime. Drugs, blood, power. I walked away, burned by my own sins." His eyes, raw, met Peter's. "Injuries broke my body—shrapnel, shattered bones. Society spits on me now, like you." Peter's grin faltered, his pain echoing Fisk's. "Outcasts, huh? Keep talking." Fisk gestured to the transport's holo-screens, revealing a lavish safehouse: penthouse suites, tech labs, security drones. "A home," he said. "Resources. A chance to fight back."
Gwen's fingers twitched, itching to hack the screens. "Why us?" she pressed. Fisk's smile was broken. "You're chaos, Spider. She's brilliance. I need both to rebuild." Peter laughed, tempted but wary, his spider-senses buzzing. "Brotherly love or a trap, Fisk?" The transport slowed, docking at a towering spire, its neon facade hiding opulence. Inside, Gwen gasped—labs rivaled Oscorp's, suites gleamed, and drones stood ready. "This is yours," Fisk said, cane tapping. "If you choose."
Peter's pain flared, his laughter raw. Gwen's ritual began, her touch easing his nerves, their bond a quiet anchor. "We'll see, big guy," he muttered, half-convinced. But as they stepped into the safehouse, a distant explosion shook the slums. Red drone lights pierced the rain—rival gang tech, locking on.
Cliffhanger: "Game on already?" Peter grinned, webs snapping, as gang drones swarm the spire's base, lasers charging.