The pain felt in my hand was immense, like a hot iron pressed up against my skin. Whatever it was burrowed through my flesh and into the veins in my hand. I grunted in pain, holding it, trying to suppress it, but a roar of agony came out loud.
"Argh!"
And then suddenly, I realized I was somewhere else.
The floor was pristine white marble reflecting my face back at me. My skin was pale, my hair brown, and I was wearing the biggest pair of circular glasses I had ever seen in my life. Wait... those were on my face?
"Mr. Parker, are you okay?!" someone called out.
I looked down at the polished surface beneath me. The face looking back mirrored my looks perfectly. 'Was that me?' I asked myself unbelievingly. My hand stung like hell, and I looked down to see it swelling to twice its size with two bright red bite marks near my knuckles.
"Mr. Parker? Mr. Parker?!" someone shook me.
I blinked as I looked up and found a crowd of students looking at me. They were all staring at me like I was some kind of caged exotic animal, and right in front of me was a woman who looked to be around fifty with black hair graying at the sides.
A name popped into my head, 'Dr. Martinez.' That was her name—she was a biology teacher, my biology teacher. I blinked. 'That's not right. I've never met her before in my life!'
But somehow I knew she taught Advanced Placement Biology at Metropolis High, that she had a cat named Whiskers, and that she always wore that same perfume that smelled like vanilla and disappointment.
"Mr. Parker!" Dr. Martinez called out once more, "are you okay?"
I blinked, "I-I yeah, I am," I responded on reflex. Suddenly a sharp pain ran through my hand and I flinched—my hand was hurting badly.
"That looks terrible, we should get that checked out," she whispered, turning to the rest of the class and announcing, "alright class, we're cutting the field trip short! Everyone buddy up and walk to the parking lot!"
"Alright! Guess puny Parker was good for something after all!" a tall blond teenager yelled out to his friends.
I looked around, trying to get my bearings. I was in some kind of laboratory—but not the dingy, poorly-funded kind you'd expect from a high school field trip. This place screamed money and cutting-edge technology. People in pristine lab coats walked around purposefully, and massive monitors displayed DNA sequences being manipulated in real-time. Numbers ran across the screens in complex patterns, and I didn't know how, but I understood every single one of them.
The walls were adorned with sleek LexCorp logos, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the gleaming spires of what had to be Metropolis stretching out toward the horizon.
LexCorp? Metropolis?
What the hell?
"Come Peter, I'll get you checked up," Dr. Martinez whispered as she guided me out. Outside, a large yellow school bus was waiting for us. We got on and she put me in the front seat with her. I could feel a fever coming on, sweat pouring down my brow. The world started to blur around the edges.
And slowly, darkness.
I remembered seeing flashes in my head. Getting off the bus and onto a hospital gurney. A doctor looking me over before informing someone that I was suffering from an allergic reaction. He recommended a week's bed rest, and somehow I managed to grunt in understanding.
I remember someone picking me up—his face was aged, his hair white and cut short. But the moment I saw him, I knew he loved me and cared for me with everything he had. Uncle Ben. He drove us outside the city to a suburban area where he took me into a humble-looking house that filled me with inexplicable warmth.
I was put on a bed that had been hastily made, and the moment my head hit the pillow, my eyes shut for good and I began to sleep.
Then the memories came.
Wave after wave of them crashed into my consciousness like a tsunami. I could recall so many events that weren't part of my life—names, faces, mathematical formulas so advanced I knew I shouldn't be able to even think them up, but somehow I did.
There was a school where a kid was being bullied daily. Flash Thompson shoving books out of hands, calling names, the casual cruelty of teenagers. There was a house filled with love—two relatives taking care of him with nothing but kindness and devotion. A kid growing up to be a genius without equal but hiding his intelligence out of fear of being even more of an outcast than he already was.
I saw glimpses of a basement laboratory, cobbled together with salvaged equipment and sheer determination. I felt the frustration of having a mind that could revolutionize the world but being too afraid to let anyone see it.
And then finally, I was hit with a name that felt like a punch to the gut.
Peter Benjamin Parker.
And with a gasp, I woke up.
I jumped in shock and found myself ascending toward the ceiling. Acting on pure instinct, my body swerved, arms and feet smacking against the plaster above. There was a jerking sensation—instead of falling back down, I was stuck there, looking at the world upside down.
"What the fuck?!" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
I was panting, I could feel my body cooling down from the fever. I looked at my arms and feet, somehow adhered to the ceiling of my—no, Peter's—room. I pulled one hand back experimentally, and pieces of the ceiling came peeling off, still stuck to my fingertips like I had the world's strongest adhesive coating my skin.
I was horrified. Between the swirls of my fingerprints, I could feel something there—microscopic but unmistakably present. I focused on my fingertips and there, nestled between the natural ridges, were small razor-sharp protrusions that curved inward like tiny hooks.
I wanted to let go, and suddenly I was falling.
My body twisted again instinctively, and I stuck the landing on the mattress with perfect balance. I looked down at my hands, flexing my fingers and watching the nearly invisible barbs extend and retract.
"Holy shit," I gasped, looking around the room wildly.
I spotted a book on the nightstand with 'Peter B. Parker' scrawled on the cover in familiar handwriting. I stumbled to the mirror across the room and sure enough, a frail, skinny teenage boy with brown hair and pale skin looked back at me.
But something was different. I reached up and pulled off the thick glasses—and I could see perfectly. Better than perfectly, actually. I could make out individual dust motes floating in the air, see the minute details in the wood grain of my desk from across the room.
"I'm Spider-Man," I gasped in realization, the words feeling surreal as they left my mouth.
But then the full implications hit me like a freight train.
"I'm Spider-Man... in the wrong fucking universe."
LexCorp. Metropolis. This isn't Marvel—this is DC.
I slumped onto the bed, my mind reeling. This wasn't the Marvel Cinematic Universe I knew from movies and comics. This was DC—the world of Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and Flash . And somehow, impossibly, I had ended up here in Peter Parker's body with his memories, his life, and apparently his spider powers.
—---------------------------
A few days later:
It took me a full day to come to terms with what had happened to me. I pretended to still be sick every time Aunt May or Uncle Ben—wow, those names were strange to think—came to check on me. I told them I needed bed rest, and they left me alone to figure out what the hell was going on.
I spent hours trying to piece together the impossible puzzle of my existence. I was alive and well in another body, another life, in what appeared to be an entirely different universe. And now I was here, in the body of Peter Parker, somehow with all his memories and his genius-level intellect.
It was almost like I was Doctor Octopus taking over Peter's mind to become the 'Superior Spider-Man,' except last I checked, I wasn't a fucking supervillain plotting world domination.
I dove into Peter's memories like they were files on a computer. The spider bite had just happened—that was the pain I felt when I... arrived? Transmigrated? Whatever the hell you called this situation.
I tried to figure out what kind of world I was living in. The news had been helpful—this was definitely DC, but it seemed like a version where things were just starting to heat up. There were reports of a mysterious vigilante operating in Gotham City, someone the media was calling "The Batman." Half the city thought he was an urban legend, the other half were terrified he was real.
But no Superman yet. No Justice League. No Flash running around Central City.
That means I'm here early, I realized. Before everything goes to hell.
Peter's life was... lonely. Even lonelier than I'd expected. Harry Osborn was more of a study partner than a real friend, and there was no Gwen Stacy or Mary Jane in his life yet. Norman Osborn worked for LexCorp rather than running Oscorp, which explained why we'd been on a field trip to Lex Luthor's facility instead.
I learned that in this world, Peter was scary smart. Like, potentially the next Reed Richards or Tony Stark level of intelligent. But he hid most of his capabilities because he was afraid of standing out even more than he already did.
The feeling of having so much more processing power was startling, to say the least. My brain was functioning at a pace I wasn't used to, but at the same time, I had no problem keeping up. It was, after all, technically my brain now.
But the question that kept nagging at me was: how the hell did this happen? How did I end up in Peter Parker's body in the DC Universe?
If comic book universes were real, did that mean all those cosmic entities were real too? Did someone like the Presence or the Source do this to me? Put me in Peter's body just to see what would happen? Some kind of cosmic experiment?
I sighed as I opened the window to my room and stepped outside, sitting on the windowsill as I watched the sun rise on my third day of "bed rest."
I took a deep breath and looked around at the beauty of suburban Metropolis spread out before me. The city skyline gleamed in the distance, all clean lines and impossible architecture that screamed "City of Tomorrow."
Right now, I was at a crossroads that would define everything in my life.
Should Spider-Man exist in this world?
That was the million-dollar question.
In the comics, Peter became Spider-Man out of guilt for letting Uncle Ben die. But with me here, I wasn't going to let that happen. I refused to carry that weight on my shoulders. So that classic origin story was out the window.
But I also wasn't particularly thrilled about the idea of being a hero ruining my life like it did for most Spider-Men. Romantically, socially, hell—even the superhero lifestyle was constantly stressful with people like J. Jonah Jameson calling you a menace and the public treating you like a threat half the time.
Plus, to be completely honest, I wasn't exactly hero material. Why the hell should I risk my life for complete strangers? I was apparently a genius now—maybe I should just focus on inventing things to help people. I could be the next Reed Richards and save more lives as Peter Parker the brilliant inventor than I ever could as Spider-Man the wall-crawling vigilante.
With my mind tentatively made up, I climbed back through the window into Peter's room... my room now, since I was Peter Parker, for better or worse.
But as I settled back onto the bed, one thought kept nagging at me: Who the hell did this to me, and why?
—------------------
I went downstairs and found Aunt May cooking breakfast while Uncle Ben was already awake, getting ready for what looked like another day at the Metropolis Power Plant. The smell of pancakes filled the kitchen, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal.
"Ah! Peter!" May looked up with that warm smile that made something in my chest tighten. "So good to see you up and moving around. How do you feel, sweetheart?"
"Better," I shrugged, settling into a chair at the dining table. The wood was worn smooth from years of use, and I could feel Peter's memories of countless family meals shared here. "Much better, actually."
May placed a stack of pancakes in front of me. I grabbed one eagerly, but it looked a bit... off. "Uh... I don't mean to complain, but this pancake looks dead."
"That's because it's a wheat germ pancake!" May exclaimed with obvious pride. "I found the recipe online! It's supposed to help flush any toxins from spider bites out of your system. So eat up!"
I grimaced. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you read on the internet?"
Uncle Ben chuckled from where he was adjusting his work uniform. "He's got you there, May."
"Oh, hush you two," she waved dismissively. "Eat up, Peter. I want you at full strength for when you go back to school."
I shrugged and dug into the cardboard-tasting pancake. "So when exactly am I supposed to be back at Metropolis High?"
"Monday, if you're feeling up to it," Ben said, checking his watch. "Dr. Martinez called yesterday—apparently LexCorp wants to do a follow-up interview with all the students who had reactions during the tour. Something about liability insurance."
Great. More attention from Lex Luthor's people. Just what I need.
"Speaking of which," May continued, bustling around the kitchen, "Harry Osborn called twice yesterday asking how you were feeling. That boy is such a good friend."
I nearly choked on my pancake. Harry Osborn—here, in this universe, apparently my friend which was good rather than my best friend's psychotic father Norman. "Harry called?"
"Mmhmm. Seemed genuinely worried about you. His father works for LexCorp, you know—he was on the tour as one of the parent chaperones. Apparently he was quite impressed with how you handled the... incident."
Norman Osborn works for LexCorp? Even though he knew about it that was a terrifying thought. In the comics, Norman was bad enough on his own. Working for Lex Luthor? That was a recipe for absolute disaster.
"What exactly does Mr. Osborn do for LexCorp?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Research and development, I think," Ben replied, grabbing his lunch from the counter. "Something to do with genetic enhancement projects, he has been on the news a few times. Very hush-hush stuff, apparently."
Genetic enhancement. Of course it is. I filed that information away for later. In a world where LexCorp was doing genetic research and I'd just gotten spider powers, that couldn't be a coincidence.
After Ben left for work, I helped May clean up the breakfast dishes and then settled onto the couch to watch the morning news. I needed to understand this world better—figure out exactly where and when I was in the DC timeline.
The anchor, a professional-looking woman with perfectly coiffed hair, was in the middle of a report that made my blood run cold.
"...third confirmed sighting of the so-called 'Batman' in Metropolis this week. The mysterious vigilante, previously thought to operate exclusively in Gotham City, appears to have expanded his activities to include our fair city."
The screen showed grainy, clearly amateur footage of a dark figure swinging between buildings on what looked like a grappling line. The image was too blurry to make out details, but the silhouette was unmistakably familiar.
"Metropolis Police Commissioner Sarah Essen released a statement this morning calling the Batman 'a dangerous criminal who needs to be brought to justice,' while Gotham City's Commissioner Gordon refused to comment beyond saying that 'the situation is complicated.'"
Commissioner Gordon already knows who Batman is, I realized. This Batman's been active long enough to build a working relationship with the GCPD.
The report continued with talking heads debating whether Batman was a hero or a menace. Some called him a necessary evil in a world where the police were overwhelmed by increasingly sophisticated criminal organizations. Others worried that vigilantes operating outside the law represented a dangerous precedent.
"What I want to know," said one , "is what happens when these so-called heroes decide they know better thn our elected officials? When they decide that their judgment is more important than our legal system?"
If only you knew what was coming, I thought grimly. Batman's going to be the least of your worries.
Because I knew what this world didn't—this was just the beginning. Batman was the first, but he wouldn't be the last. Soon there would be Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern... and eventually, threats that would make street-level crime look like jaywalking.
The news switched to a weather report, and I was surprised to see a severe weather warning for central Kansas. A meteorologist was tracking what looked like it could develop into a significant tornado system.
Smallville, I realized with a jolt. That's where Clark Kent lives.
In the movies, Jonathan Kent died in a tornado while Clark was still learning to control his powers. If the timeline was similar here, that meant...
I shook my head. One crisis at a time. I couldn't save everyone, and I certainly couldn't reveal what I knew without sounding completely insane.
"Peter, sweetheart," May's voice interrupted my brooding. She was drying her hands on a dish towel and looking at me with concern. "You've been so quiet since the accident. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
I looked up at her—really looked at her. She was older than I remembered from the movies, with laugh lines around her eyes and silver streaking her brown hair. But her expression was exactly what I'd expect from Aunt May: pure, unconditional love mixed with the kind of worry that only comes from genuinely caring about someone.
"I'm fine, Aunt May," I said, and was surprised to realize I meant it. "Just... processing some things."
She sat down next to me on the couch, her presence immediately comforting in a way I hadn't expected. "You know, when your Uncle Ben and I first took you in, you used to have nightmares. You'd wake up in the middle of the night, confused about where you were."
Peter's memories of his parents' death, I realized. He was so young when it happened.
"But you know what helped?" she continued, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "Talking about it. Getting those thoughts out of your head instead of letting them bounce around in there like pinballs."
I looked down at our joined hands. Hers were warm and slightly rough from years of work, with a small scar on her thumb from a long-ago kitchen accident. Peter's memories filled in the details—she'd cut herself making his tenth birthday cake and had cried more from ruining his special day than from the pain.
"I love you, Aunt May," I said quietly, and was startled by how much I meant it. These weren't my original memories, but the emotions attached to them felt real enough.
Her eyes misted up. "Oh, Peter. I love you too, sweetheart. So much."
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the news cycle through its usual mix of political scandals, economic reports, and human interest stories. But every few minutes, there would be another mention of Batman, or speculation about whether other "costumed vigilantes" might start appearing in other cities.
If they only knew.
The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. May went to answer it, and I could hear her side of the conversation from the living room.
"Oh, hello Anna! Yes, he's feeling much better, thank you for asking... Oh, that's wonderful news! When does she arrive? ... This weekend? How exciting! I'm sure Peter would love to help her get settled... Of course, I'll ask him."
She hung up and came back into the living room with a smile that was equal parts mischievous and hopeful.
"That was Anna Watson from across the street," she announced. "Her niece is transferring to Midtown High next week. The poor dear had to move because of some family trouble back in New York."
My heart skipped a beat. Mary Jane Watson. It has to be.
"Anna was wondering if you might be willing to show her around the school, help her get oriented. She's about your age, and Anna says she's quite smart. Apparently she's interested in theater and journalism."
Definitely Mary Jane.
I tried to keep my expression neutral, but apparently failed because May's smile widened.
"I told Anna you'd be delighted to help. The girl's name is Mary Jane, and she'll be staying with Anna indefinitely. Isn't that nice? You'll finally have someone your own age in the neighborhood."
"Yeah," I managed. "That sounds... nice."
Nice. Right. Just wait until she finds out her new neighbor shoots webs from his wrists and can stick to walls.
The phone rang again, and this time May handed it to me. "It's Harry Osborn."
I took the phone, trying to reconcile my memories of Harry from the comics and movies with the idea that this version was apparently a genuine friend.
"Hey, Harry."
"Peter! Dude, I've been worried sick about you. Dad said you had some kind of allergic reaction at the LexCorp tour? Are you okay?"
His voice was exactly what I'd expect from a teenage Harry Osborn—slightly nasal, clearly from money, but with genuine concern underneath. It was jarring hearing him sound so... normal. So young.
"I'm fine," I assured him. "Just got bit by some kind of spider in the lab. Had to stay home a few days, but I'm feeling better."
"Man, that sucks. Dad feels terrible about it—he was supposed to be keeping an eye on the group when it happened. LexCorp's doing some kind of investigation to make sure it doesn't happen again."
I bet they are. The spider that bit me couldn't have been there by accident. In a facility as secure as LexCorp, every organism would be catalogued and contained. Which meant either someone screwed up badly, or...
Or someone wanted me to get bit.
"Harry, did your dad mention anything specific about the spider? Like what kind it was or where it came from?"
There was a pause. "Not really. Just that it was part of some research project that got out of containment. Why?"
"Just curious. The doctors wanted to know for treatment purposes."
"Makes sense. Hey, listen, I know you've been out of commission, but there's something cool I wanted to tell you. Dad's been working on this new project—something about genetic enhancement and human potential. He can't tell me the details because of his NDA, but he says it could revolutionize medicine."
Genetic enhancement. There was that phrase again. And now I'm walking around with spider DNA in my bloodstream.
"That sounds incredible," I said carefully.
"Right? Anyway, I should let you rest. See you Monday at school?"
"Yeah, see you Monday."
After I hung up, I sat back on the couch and tried to process everything I'd learned. This world was more complex than I'd initially thought. Batman was active but still building his reputation. LexCorp was doing genetic research that had somehow resulted in me getting spider powers. Norman Osborn was working for Lex Luthor instead of running his own company. And Mary Jane Watson was about to enter my life a week early.
And somewhere in Kansas, a tornado is forming that's going to kill Jonathan Kent and turn his son into Superman.
I closed my eyes and tried to think. In the comics and movies, Peter Parker became Spider-Man because he felt guilty about Uncle Ben's death. But I wasn't going to let that happen. I had foreknowledge—I could prevent the tragedy that defined Spider-Man's origin.
But if I did that, if I changed that fundamental moment, would I still become Spider-Man? Should I?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this world didn't need another Spider-Man. It needed something else entirely.
It needed someone who could see the big picture.
Someone who knew what was coming.
Someone who could be proactive instead of reactive.
Someone who could save Jonathan Kent before he ever needed saving.
I opened my eyes and looked toward the kitchen, where May was humming while she prepared lunch. In a few hours, Ben would come home from work with grease under his fingernails and stories about his coworkers. Tomorrow, Harry would probably call again to check on me. Next week, Mary Jane Watson would walk into my life and change everything.
For the first time since I'd woken up in Peter Parker's body, I felt a sense of purpose settling over me.
I wasn't going to be the same Spider-Man from the comics. I couldn't be—this wasn't the same world, and I wasn't the same Peter Parker.
But maybe, just maybe, I could be something better.
The question was: was the world ready for what I was going to become?
—----------------
The rest of the day passed in a blur of ordinary moments that felt anything but ordinary to me. May made lunch—thankfully normal sandwiches this time—and we watched an old movie together while she worked on some kind of needlepoint project. Every few minutes, she'd glance over at me with that concerned expression that seemed to be permanently etched on her face since the "accident."
But my mind wasn't on the black-and-white romance flickering across the TV screen. I kept thinking about the choice in front of me, the weight of knowledge I carried, and the question that wouldn't leave me alone:
What kind of person was I going to become?
In my old life, I'd been... ordinary. Not a bad person, but not exactly a hero either. I paid my taxes, held doors open for people, maybe donated to charity around the holidays. Standard decent human behavior, nothing more. I'd never been in a situation where I had the power to make a real difference.
But now? Now I had abilities that defied physics, a genius-level intellect, and knowledge of future events that could save or doom millions if not billions of lives.
With great power comes great responsibility.
The phrase popped into my head unbidden—Peter's memories supplying Uncle Ben's favorite saying. But the thing was, Uncle Ben was still alive. He hadn't died to teach me that lesson through guilt and regret. So what was my responsibility here?
I excused myself after the movie and headed down to the basement. Peter's workshop was exactly what I'd expect from a teenage genius trying to hide his capabilities—cluttered, improvised, and brilliant in its simplicity. Workbenches cobbled together from scrap wood, equipment that had clearly been salvaged or built from components, and notebooks filled with theoretical equations that could revolutionize multiple fields of science.
I sat down at the main workbench and pulled out a fresh notebook. At the top of the page, I wrote: Pros and Cons of Being a Hero.
Pros:
Could save livesStop criminals who hurt innocent peopleMaybe prevent some of the disasters I know are comingUncle Ben would be proud
Cons:
Constant danger to myself and anyone I care aboutSecret identity means lying to everyone I loveNo thanks, lots of criticism, probably end up hated by half the publicCould die horribly and leave May and Ben to mourn another Parker
I stared at the lists for a long time. The logical choice was obvious—focus on invention and innovation. Build a tech company, develop clean energy, create medical devices that could save thousands of lives without ever putting on a costume. Be the next Tony Stark or Reed Richards, someone who changed the world through intelligence rather than punching bad guys in the face.
But what about the things only Spider-Man could do?
That was the problem with foreknowledge. I knew that in a few years, maybe less, this world was going to face threats that couldn't be solved with conventional science. Alien invasions, interdimensional beings, gods walking the earth. When that happened, the world would need heroes—not just inventors, but people willing to stand on the front lines and fight.
I closed the notebook and leaned back in Peter's salvaged office chair. The basement was quiet except for the hum of the old furnace and the distant sounds of May moving around upstairs.
Maybe the question isn't whether I should be a hero, I thought. Maybe it's what kind of hero this world needs.
Traditional Spider-Man was reactive. Bad things happened, and he swung in to help clean up the mess. But I had an advantage the original Peter never had—I knew what was coming. I could be proactive instead of reactive.
Proactive heroism. The idea had a certain appeal.
But even as I thought it, doubts crept in. Who was I to decide what was best for the world? What if my knowledge was wrong? What if this wasn't exactly the same timeline I thought it was? What if my interference made things worse instead of better?
What if I saved someone who was supposed to die, and that butterfly effect led to something even worse?
The philosophical weight of it was crushing. In my old life, the biggest moral decision I'd faced was whether to report a coworker who was stealing office supplies. Now I was sitting here debating whether to intervene in cosmic-level events.
I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the emergency alert tone coming from the small TV in the corner of the basement. I looked up to see a weather reporter standing in front of a map of Kansas, tracking what was clearly developing into a significant storm system.
"...tornado watch has been upgraded to a tornado warning for the following counties, including Smallville and surrounding areas. Residents are advised to seek immediate shelter as conditions are rapidly deteriorating. This system appears to be particularly dangerous, with the potential for F4 or even F5 tornado activity..."
My blood ran cold. Smallville. Where the Kent family lived. Where Jonathan Kent was going to make the decision that would haunt his son for the rest of his life.
I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, watching as Doppler radar showed a massive supercell moving across central Kansas. The meteorologist was trying to maintain his professional composure, but I could hear the concern in his voice.
"I want to emphasize to our viewers in the affected areas—this is not a drill. We're looking at a potentially catastrophic weather event. If you're in the path of this storm, you need to take shelter immediately."
This is it, I realized. This is the tornado that kills Jonathan Kent.
In the movies, Jonathan died because he went back to save the family dog, and Clark let him because he was afraid of revealing his powers to the world. It was the defining moment of Superman's early life—the moment he learned that sometimes doing the right thing meant making impossible choices.
But what if that moment never happened? What if Jonathan Kent lived?
I could save him. I had powers now—not at full strength yet, but enough to make a difference. I could get to Kansas, find the Kent family, and make sure they all got to safety before the tornado hit.
But should I?
That was the million-dollar question. Jonathan Kent's death was tragic, but it also shaped Superman into the hero he became. It taught him that he couldn't save everyone, that sometimes sacrifice was necessary, that the world was complicated and messy and didn't always have clean solutions.
If I saved Jonathan, would Superman still become the symbol of hope the world needed? Or would he become something else entirely?
And what about me?
If I did this—if I revealed my powers to save a family I'd never met in person—there would be no going back. I'd be committed to the hero path whether I was ready for it or not.
I stood up and started pacing the small basement. The TV continued its coverage of the developing storm, showing footage of families evacuating, emergency responders positioning equipment, local authorities urging people to take the threat seriously.
Somewhere in that chaos, a teenage Clark Kent is watching his father prepare to make a choice that will define both their lives.
The weight of knowledge was crushing. I knew exactly where this was heading, exactly what choice Jonathan would make, exactly how it would end. And I was the only person in the world who could change it.
But what right did I have to make that choice for them?
I slumped back into the chair and put my head in my hands. This was the burden of foreknowledge—not just knowing what was coming, but having to decide whether to act on that knowledge. Every choice I made would ripple out into consequences I couldn't predict or control.
Maybe that's the point, I thought. Maybe being a hero isn't about knowing the right choice. Maybe it's about making a choice and living with the consequences.
I looked around the basement workshop, at all the tools and equipment Peter had accumulated over the years. In the corner was a box of old electronics—broken radios, discarded cell phones, obsolete computer parts. On the workbench were spools of various wire, chemical compounds in labeled jars, and a half-finished project that looked like some kind of mechanical web-shooter prototype.
It almost seems like Peter was already thinking about becoming Spider-Man. I realized that even before he got bitten, he was preparing. Could this be a coincidence, or something else?
I pulled the prototype toward me and examined it closely. The design was elegant in its simplicity—a pressurized delivery system that could be worn on the wrist, with a trigger mechanism that responded to specific finger movements. The only thing missing was the web fluid itself.
I could finish this, I thought. Tonight. I have all the chemistry knowledge I need, and the mechanical components are already mostly figured out.
But making web-shooters would be crossing a line. It would mean admitting that I was going to be Spider-Man, that I was going to put on a costume and swing around fighting crime like some kind of comic book character.
Like some kind of hero.
I opened up one of Peter's chemistry notebooks and found his theoretical formulas for what could become the web fluid. The math was sound—create a polymer that remained liquid under pressure but formed strong, flexible strands when exposed to air and specific chemical catalysts. The tricky part was making it biodegradable so it wouldn't leave permanent webs all over the city.
I could do this, I realized. Tonight. I could have working web-shooters by morning.
The question was whether I should.
Outside, thunder was starting to rumble in the distance—not the same storm system affecting Kansas, but a smaller, local weather front moving through the Metropolis area. The sound seemed to echo the turmoil in my head.
What would the real Peter Parker do?
But that was the problem—there was no "real" Peter Parker anymore. There was just me, with his memories and his life and choices for me to make.
I looked back at the TV, where the weather coverage was showing increasingly dire conditions in Kansas. Emergency vehicles, families huddled in storm shelters, meteorologists struggling to maintain composure as they tracked what was clearly going to be a devastating natural disaster.
Somewhere in that chaos, Jonathan Kent will be making the choice that will define his son's life.
Unless I stop him.
I turned away from the TV and looked at the web-shooter prototype in my hands. It was surprisingly light—Peter had clearly optimized the design for minimal weight and maximum efficiency. With the right web fluid formula, it could be an incredibly effective tool.
A hero's tool.
Or a scientist's tool. Or just a cool gadget that a teenage genius built in his basement. It didn't have to define what I became—but it could enable whatever I chose to be.
I set the prototype down on the workbench and pulled out Peter's chemistry set. If I was going to do this, I needed to commit fully. No half-measures, no keeping one foot in the door of normal life.
Time to find out what kind of person I really am.
The tornado in Kansas was still hours away from making landfall. That gave me time to finish the web-shooters, figure out how to get to Smallville, and decide once and for all whether Peter Parker was going to be a hero.
Or whether he was going to be something else entirely.
I opened the first chemical container and got to work, my hands steady despite the weight of the choice I was making. One way or another, by morning everything would be different.
The only question was whether I'd be ready for what came next.
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