I looked down into the alley and saw three kids dressed in red and black beating up a small gang of thugs. I knew I should jump in there and put a stop to it. I knew I should. But... honestly, I didn't want to.
I leaned back into the shadows and watched as the three vigilantes fought with surprising skill. They wore red and black tracksuits with fabric masks stitched to resemble my own. Spray-painted across the chest of each was a black spider, similar to mine. And each of them was armed with jawbreakers, really putting the hurt on those thugs.
Copycats. There were more of them every day, and each batch was bolder than the last. At least these ones looked like they knew what they were doing.
I watched as they moved through the thugs. Each wannabe had genuine ability and some degree of combat training. The thugs were armed, and though there were a few moments where I thought I might have to step in, the copycats handled themselves pretty well.
"We don't need you people here!" the biggest of them shouted, socking a thug across the jaw and sending his unconscious body tumbling into his friend. "Spread the word — this area is protected by the Web Warriors!"
The thugs scooped up their fallen and ran, crying out as they went. I watched as the "Web Warriors" celebrated their win, high-fiving and cheering loudly. I sighed. Time to make myself known.
"What do you think you're doing?" I called out as I crawled down the side of a building.
"S-Spider-Man?!" one of them cried as they all spun around.
"Oh my God — it's really you," the big one stepped forward, looking like it was Christmas morning. "Hi — I'm Chad. It's an honour, sir."
I narrowed my eyes. "Did you just tell me your real name?"
"W-well, yeah, I mean—"
"—Quiet." I jumped off the wall and landed in front of them. They all gasped. I ignored their reaction and kept my focus on Chad. "Never tell anyone your real name. That's the entire point of wearing a mask."
"Yes, sir," he nodded quickly.
"And don't call me sir," I said, looking them over. "I saw what you did... impressive."
"Alright!" they cheered.
"Which is exactly why I'm giving you all one chance — drop the vigilante business and go home," I warned them. "This isn't a world you want to find yourselves in. Trust me."
"W-what do you mean? You said it yourself — we did great tonight!" Chad argued.
"If you want to fight crime, fine," I fired a web line up to the rooftop above. "But don't do it in my name, and don't wear my symbol. I won't have your deaths on my conscience."
"What gives you the right?!" Chad asked, sounding genuinely wounded.
I looked at him. "Simple. I'm not wearing hockey pads. Get a new name and a new symbol." I leapt into the air and swung away, leaving the group of copycats staring after me, annoyed and confused.
I knew I should have told them to stop fighting crime altogether. But doing that would make me nothing but a hypocrite. They were adults — or close enough to it. They could make their own choices. I just didn't want any of them dying while trying to be me.
I swung around the city for a while. I found a couple of muggings to break up and one car chase near Harlem. But it was getting late, and I was about to head home when I noticed something moving through the sky — coming straight at me.
I recognised him immediately. I leapt onto a rooftop and waited for Tony to catch up.
He decelerated and hovered in front of me in what looked like a brand-new suit. Bigger than the others, and a deeper shade of red. I whistled. "Damn, Tony. Nice suit."
He cut the power to his thrusters and landed in front of me. He raised the faceplate, revealing his face. "Thanks. Been working on it for a while."
"So?" I sat down on the ledge. "What can I help you with?"
"Nothing much. Saw you doing your thing and thought I'd say hello." Tony crouched down beside me as we both looked out over the city.
"It's quiet tonight," I said.
"I doubt this city is ever truly quiet."
"No, it is," I said. "Once you've seen it at its loudest, nights like this seem like nothing." I turned to him. I could smell something coming off him — not the fear of immediate danger, but something more subtle. A residual anxiety. Like the ghost of a memory. It took me a moment, but I placed it. "How have you been holding up?"
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I know PTSD when I see it, Tony. You can lie to Pepper and everyone else all you want, but not to me." A bit cocky, I know, but I needed him to actually address it.
"I... I'm managing," Tony admitted. "The tinkering helps. New projects keep my mind occupied."
"Good," I nodded. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here."
"Aren't I supposed to be the responsible adult in this arrangement?"
I laughed. "Sure."
"So, how's your summer been?" Tony asked.
"Not bad. Fought an alien army — that was pretty cool. And I also got my dad's old car. It was a wreck, but I managed to do something with it."
Tony nodded. "Nice. My father never used to give me things. Fatherly generosity was... not exactly his style."
"You never got gifts?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Birthday or otherwise," Tony shrugged. "He always said I needed to earn them, not just receive them."
"Sounds like a complicated man," I said quietly.
"He's kind of a difficult person."
"I think mine was worse," I said, almost to myself.
"How so?"
"He..." I looked at Tony. I knew a great deal about this man, and one thing I could say for certain was that Tony Stark was loyal to the core. He wouldn't betray those he cared about. And I liked to think I was one of them. So I sighed and said it plainly: "My powers exist because he experimented on me as a baby."
Tony's eyes went cold. "What?"
"He was a genius. His work centred on the super-soldier serum — the same formula used on Cap. I don't know the full details, but he modified my blood somehow. Made it... more than it should have been. I don't know exactly what he did to me, but I know I am this way because of him."
"Damn," Tony said quietly, the anger in his voice giving way to something that looked uncomfortably close to pity. "Peter, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that happened to you."
I shrugged. "Don't be. If not for him, I wouldn't have ended up a superhero. Figure he did something good in the end."
"He experimented on his own child—"
"—I'm assuming," I cut in. "I... I don't know that for certain."
Tony studied me for a moment, then sighed. "Then find out."
I looked at him. "I..." I let out a slow breath. "Yeah. I think I should." I owed Peter that much. He would have wanted to know the truth. I opened my helmet, revealing my face. "Could you help me?"
Tony raised an eyebrow. "What do you need?"
"I did some digging on him at the Baxter Building with Sue Storm, but we couldn't find anything after he graduated. He got his doctorate, and then... nothing. No records anywhere. I was thinking, if you had the time—"
"Hack into SHIELD using their own resources to investigate your father without alerting Fury or anyone else? Sure," Tony grinned.
I thanked him and said goodnight.
———
The following day I woke up early and drove downtown with Ben in the DeLorean. We arrived at a lot full of storage containers, each numbered in bright orange paint on the side.
I parked and we walked into the facility. Not many cameras — just a few positioned around the edges.
"Which one was it?" I asked.
"342," Ben said, pointing down the rows. "Right there."
We stopped in front of container 342. It looked like any other — heavy padlock, rusted shutter. Ben crouched and unlocked it, hauling the shutter up to reveal what I could only describe as organised chaos.
It looked like a hoarder's fantasy. So many pieces of junk crammed into one place. Men's and women's clothes, computer parts, sealed experiment vials, mountains of paperwork, photographs, old furniture, and what appeared to be a child's cot in one corner.
"After they died, I had their things moved in here," Ben said, walking over to the small cot. "This was yours. When you were just a baby."
I nodded, looking around. The books were all extraordinarily advanced — the kind of thing Reed Richards would read for light entertainment. Mostly genetics, with a little quantum physics worked in.
The computers had all been disassembled, but the hard drives were intact, and I was fairly confident I could still use them.
I set them aside and began working through the various books and documents spread around the space. Ben excused himself and stepped outside to take a call. I worked methodically through everything until I located papers dating from around the time Richard had started university.
I gathered those up, along with a few books that looked useful, and headed outside. I found Ben standing over a photo album. Peering over his shoulder, I saw a tiny Peter Parker being held by both his parents.
"They didn't want to go," Ben said, his voice thick. "They hated the idea of leaving. Mary was certain something terrible was going to happen. Richard didn't believe her, but... I suppose she was right."
I looked at the photograph. The man didn't look like a mad scientist. He looked like a loving husband and a caring father. Not someone who made monsters. And I had to prove it.
"I'm done, Uncle Ben. We can go," I told him.
"Right." Ben closed the album and handed it to me. "We can show this to your aunt — she'd love to see it."
I nodded. Ben locked the shutter, and I drove us home. Once there, I locked myself in my basement lab and got to work connecting Richard's hard drive to my system.
After a bit of a struggle — it was an older model — I finally got it to fit and booted it up.
I leaned back and watched as my computer transferred the files, scanning everything and pulling it across to my own drive.
When it was done, I began going through the folders, searching for Richard's research notes. I found plenty of university essays, a few email chains, and deep within the folder structure, some genuinely dreadful nineties pornography. But hey — at least I could now say with certainty that Peter's love of redheads came directly from his father.
Then, finally, I found something worth finding.
A locked folder, buried deep within the directory. I tried opening it — it required a security code. Exactly ten characters, not one more, not one less. One attempt.
I tried everything I could think of. My own name. My mother's maiden name. Birthdays. Even the name of the German scientist who gave Steve his serum. Nothing. Then, flipping through Richard's old books, I noticed he had an obvious fondness for Charles Dickens. I tried shortening the name and entering it.
Nothing.
I was frustrated. He would have written the password down somewhere, surely? This was potentially his life's work — he wouldn't have risked losing access to it himself. I had a similar failsafe on my own terminal at the Baxter Building, a backup access for Johnny and Sue.
So I turned back to the books and notes I had taken from the storage unit. He had begun his genetic theories at university, meaning this file was created around that period. The passcode had to be somewhere in here.
I worked through the books carefully, looking for underlined words. I found nothing but the cramped margin scrawlings of a student cramming before exams. I set the textbooks aside and turned to his handwritten notes.
His handwriting was nearly illegible — clearly a genetic trait. But the notes themselves were meticulous. Formula after formula. I wasn't a biology specialist — engineering was more my domain, with a streak of chemistry — but I could follow what he was trying to build.
It was a modified testosterone chain. His alteration was designed to allow the body to bulk up to three times its natural muscle mass almost instantaneously — based on a genetic sequence derived from spiders. Even back then, the Parker family apparently had a thing for spiders.
I'd seen something similar before. Not Venom — not the symbiote version — but the compound Bane used in the comics. The formula for Venom, the performance-enhancing serum.
This was the base formula Richard had started with, the foundation his entire paper was built upon. He had eventually moved away from it, but no one forgets their first theory. I still had fondness for my earliest work. I even used part of it as a password once.
He had given it a nickname: STR-SPIDER.
I kept the notes beside me and entered it into the prompt.
It unlocked.
There were dozens of folders inside. I began the slow, methodical process of working through them all. The oldest dated to just after he had graduated. I opened it and found a series of video files.
I clicked on the first one.
The recording opened on a modest lab — test tubes and instruments arranged across a table, a single chair positioned before them. A young man with brown hair stepped into frame. Richard Parker. My father.
"Recording — Day One," he said, his voice uncannily similar to my own. "I joined a private research facility today. I'm not permitted to disclose its name — the security risk is too significant and these people take operational security very seriously. I was introduced to the team and given my own lab. I'm not certain when I'll be able to record again, but I hope it will be soon."
The next recording was a month later.
"It's been a month since my last entry. I've learned what I'm here to do, and... I'm honestly ecstatic." He grinned. "The opportunity of a lifetime — to recreate what Dr. Abraham Erskine achieved all those years ago. I've started working from what limited super-soldier serum data exists, mostly handwritten notes. I've found that the spider-serum formula I developed isn't quite what Erskine had in mind. Sadly, I've had to set that line of thinking aside for now."
The next recording was made the following day. This time, Richard looked flushed and his hair was damp, as though he'd just come in from outside.
"So I met my research partner today." He smiled like a fool. "Mary Fitzpatrick. She specialises in genetic splicing. God, that woman is extraordinary. I swear she's my soulmate — red hair, perfect smile, and that— Oh, God." I rolled my eyes. Definitely Peter's dad. "I'm not sure how she feels about me yet, but... I'm excited."
The next recording was a year later.
"Mary found something interesting," Richard said, looking serious. "A document in the archives that most people had passed over. The author was unlisted. It detailed a method by which the body's cells could be made to accept genetic modification. A brilliant piece of work — most researchers here had been using it as a practical guide for years. But Mary had a different theory. She believed it was more than just a reference text. That—"
"Parker? Are you in there?" A woman's voice came from somewhere off-screen. Richard startled.
"In here, Mary." He immediately reached forward and stopped the recording.
The next recording was a month after that.
"We've been developing a new formula — one based on the document Mary discovered." Richard looked exhausted, though he was still smiling. "As I was saying — we believe the text was written by none other than Dr. Abraham Erskine himself. The style is remarkably consistent with other documented samples. If that's true, it could contain the answers we've been searching for." He paused, then added with a small laugh, "Oh, and on a separate note — I finally convinced Mary to go out with me. So there's that."
The next recording was nearly a year later. This time Mary sat beside him.
"Things aren't going well," Richard said. He looked exhausted in a way I hadn't seen before. "We managed to solve half the super-soldier formula. We brought our findings to Herbert, and... I should have listened to you, Mary." He sighed. Mary reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently.
"We made a terrible mistake," Mary said. "These people aren't who they claimed to be. People are disappearing — colleagues, anyone associated with this project. We're leaving first thing tomorrow morning. I've contacted the government and requested assistance. I don't know what's coming."
The final recording was three years later. The setting had changed dramatically — and I recognised it immediately. That living room. My house. Richard and Mary sat before the camera, visibly older. And cradled in Mary's arms was a small baby boy with brown hair and a red dummy.
My eyes went wide as I reached out and touched the screen.
That was... Peter. That was him as a baby.
Richard and Mary settled onto the sofa. The baby bounced happily in Mary's arms; she could barely contain him, smiling and rocking him gently.
Richard looked at his family for a long moment, then turned to the camera and sighed deeply. "I prayed I would never have to use this recording again... They found us. I don't know how, but they did. People have been following Mary and me all week. They want the formula — I'm certain of it. We perfected it six months ago, but now... it can never fall into their hands. We have to ensure that."
Mary passed the baby to Richard and turned to face the camera directly. "We are placing these recordings onto Richard's old computer, along with enough evidence to implicate the man we believe is behind all of this. We pray this reaches the right hands — and that what we've uncovered doesn't spark a war that could end the human race as we know it."
The recording ended. It was the last one.
I cursed under my breath and went through the remaining files. There were property ownership documents, bank statements, photographs of a rundown laboratory, and a small collection of images of a man with black hair and a thick beard.
All of it pointed to one person: Herbert Wyndham.
A basic internet search told me a great deal. Geneticist — naturally. Father was German, mother Italian. He came to America for university and worked for, predictably, a mysterious private research facility. He eventually left the country and based himself in Italy. He gave occasional guest lectures, and from what I could find, charged a substantial fee for the privilege. Presumably how he kept his operation funded.
He looked old — older than Uncle Ben. There was no address listed, but he had a scheduled public appearance in one week's time — a lecture on genetic enhancement as the future of humanity at an Italian university.
I tapped my chin. This was a mystery. And when the mystery was this compelling, I couldn't walk away.
I needed to get to Italy. I needed to speak to this man. I could approach as Spider-Man, but if Peter Parker was seen in Italy and someone subsequently interrogated Wyndham — well, you didn't need to be a genius to draw the connection.
I needed to slip in quietly. And for that, I needed a private jet. I checked the time. Nearly midnight. Perfect.
I picked up my phone and dialled Tony's number. He picked up within seconds.
"Heya, Spider. What can I do for you?"
"Can I ask you a favour?" I said with a smile.
———
A week later:
Felicia and Ben were with me at Stark's private airstrip. Yes — the man had his own landing strip. At this point, nothing he owned surprised me.
"Are you sure you have to do this, Peter?" Ben asked, looking sad. "I thought you were happy at the Baxter Building." I had told him and May I was going with Tony to visit the Stark factory in Italy — a lie, naturally.
"I am, Uncle Ben. I'm just curious to see what they make over there," I shrugged. "Relax — I'll be fine. I'm going with Iron Man."
"And that's exactly what worries me," Ben grumbled. "Trouble follows that man like a magnet—"
"—And I'm sure Peter will duck and take cover when things get dangerous. Won't you, honey?" Felicia winked.
"Yes, sweetheart. I promise," I smiled.
"I still don't understand how you came to know Tony Stark," Ben said, glancing over at Tony waiting by the jet.
"He's a friend of Sue's — I asked her for a favour," I shrugged. "Relax, Uncle Ben. I'll be fine."
Ben sighed. "Alright, if you're certain." He pulled me into a hug. "Just stay safe, slugger."
I stepped back. "Promise."
"Good. I'll leave you two alone then." Ben winked and walked back to his car.
I turned to Felicia. "I think May's finally convinced him to book a wedding venue."
Felicia shrugged. "Yeah, figured." She narrowed her eyes at me. "What's this really about, Tiger? And don't give me that nonsense about a factory visit. I'm not stupid."
I smirked. "I wasn't going to lie to you, Kitten." I sighed. "It's... personal."
"I'm your girlfriend. Personal is my business," she hissed.
"I know," I nodded. "I promise — when I get back, I'll tell you everything. But I need to do this first, and I need to do it alone." I held her gaze until she finally exhaled.
"Fine. But next time, you're taking me," she said. "And you're bringing me back shoes from Italy. Expensive ones. Black. Not cheap."
I smirked. "Promise." I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her into a kiss. She hummed softly and pulled away slowly. "I'll be home soon."
"Go get them, Tiger," Felicia smiled.
I chuckled. She sounded so much like MJ right now.
I watched her climb into Ben's car, then walked up the jet steps and sat down beside Tony.
"Questions?" he asked, already working on a glass of whiskey.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," I shrugged, as the doors sealed and the engines began warming up. "Just thinking about why I'm going."
"You never did actually tell me," Tony said, raising an eyebrow.
"You're right. I didn't," I said, leaving the unspoken question hanging.
"You know, I could have this plane turned around," he said pleasantly. "One word to the pilot and we don't move an inch. You'd have to find another way there. Maybe Thor could—"
"My parents worked on the super-soldier serum," I said. No point holding back. He'd be impossible for the rest of the flight otherwise.
"I'm sorry? Aren't they a little... young for that?"
"Not the original. They were working on recreating it. And," I paused, "I think they succeeded."
Tony looked at my arms. "Is that what he put into you?"
I nodded. "A version of it, I believe. But something went wrong. The people they worked for weren't good people. My parents were frightened and went into hiding. And then they died."
Tony turned his glass slowly in his hand. "And this relates to Italy how?"
"The lead researcher — Herbert Wyndham. My parents believed he was the one hunting them. He's in Italy."
"Well then," Tony smiled. "Let's go find him."
"No."
"No?"
"No. This is personal. Tony Stark cannot be seen near Wyndham — he's too important a target to risk alarming. I'll handle it myself."
"In the suit?"
"No. A ski mask will do. No one needs to know I was ever there."
"So you needed my jet to avoid leaving any trace of you entering the country?" Tony asked. I nodded. He grinned slowly. "I've always wanted to be an international trafficker."
We arrived in Italy ten hours later. Tony arranged for me to clear customs without leaving an official record, and we drove to the university where Wyndham was scheduled to lecture.
The streets of Rome were extraordinary — beautiful, loud, full of life. Street artists, musicians, and plenty of elegantly dressed Italians. Sigh.
Tony dropped me off and headed off to actually visit his factory — at least one of us was being honest about the trip. I told him I'd call if I needed him.
I walked onto the campus carefully. The students were university-aged — older than me — but given my height, I doubted anyone would question whether I belonged.
I managed to slip into the lecture hall before Wyndham arrived, taking a seat near the back, well away from the main cluster of students. Just as I settled in, he walked up to the podium.
The lecture was in Italian, naturally. I followed it with some difficulty, though I managed well enough — a good thing I had picked up the language. His ideas were genuinely brilliant. This man could give Sue Storm a run for her money, though he did have about sixty years on her. I might have admired him, had I not suspected he was responsible for Peter's parents' deaths.
At the end of the lecture he worked the room — speaking with the head of department, giving career advice to a few students, posing for photos. He collected his fee and left.
I followed at a distance, doing exactly what I had been trained to do by SHIELD: moving like an agent. Nat always said my stealth needed work, and she was right — she could pick me out of any crowd. But Wyndham was just an elderly academic.
He got into a car and pulled away into traffic. I attached a spider-shaped tracker to the bonnet and watched him go.
That night, I followed the signal to his house. I was dressed in a black ski mask and dark clothes, carrying a few of Felicia's burglary tools. I'd asked her for them. She hadn't even asked why. God, I loved that woman.
His security was excellent — silent, top-of-the-range, the kind only serious money could buy. I connected my SA to his telephone line, accessed his wi-fi through it, and from there hacked into his security system and shut it down. My skills were genuinely improving.
Using one of Felicia's laser glass cutters, I slipped inside without a sound, crawled along the ceiling, and made my way toward the living room, where the lights were still on. I eased the door open just a crack.
The study was old and refined — bookshelves lining the walls, two armchairs set before an open fireplace. Wyndham sat in one, staring into the flames with a glass of wine. A computer sat on a desk near the far wall.
I crept in, wall-crawling across the ceiling to the other side of the room. Not a sound. I eased myself down the wall and approached the computer, inserting a copy drive that would scan and duplicate everything.
"So — are you simply going to leave without saying goodbye?"
I froze.
I ducked beneath the desk and held perfectly still. How had he known? I had been on the ceiling. I sniffed the air — no fear, just curiosity. And mild confusion. He wasn't certain. I stayed quiet. Hopefully he thought he was imagining things.
The old man went silent. I heard him rise from his chair and move toward the door. "I know you're here, my dear. You can come out."
He walked out into the corridor. Had he mistaken me for someone else? Most likely. I turned back to the drive — it was glowing green. Done. I pocketed it carefully and readied myself to leave, when something moved. Something large.
"I can't keep living like this!" A woman's cry came from inside the house. Curious. I crept to the doorway and eased it open enough to see into the kitchen.
"You must," Wyndham said firmly. "You know the kind of people who are looking for you — Interpol, SHIELD—" He practically spat that last word. I moved closer. Through the gap I could see a young woman — dark hair, tall and striking — who stepped into my line of sight.
"I don't care. They don't even know I'm alive!"
"And if they find out, they will kill you!" Wyndham snapped. "And then what?"
"Then I'll be free!" The woman's accent was unmistakably American. What on earth was she doing in Italy?
"Your father didn't want this for you," Wyndham said, his voice softening. "He asked me to keep you safe. That's what I intend to do."
"Keeping me locked away isn't keeping me safe!"
"I know, I know... just give me a little more time. Once it's safe, you can do whatever you wish."
"And until then?"
"Until then, you have studying to do, young lady." Wyndham smiled gently. "Have you finished the assignment I set?"
"Yeah, I—" She stopped. She sniffed the air. Her eyes began to roam — scanning, searching — until they landed directly on me.
Damn.
"What the hell?!"
She launched herself at me, clearing twenty feet in a single bound, and tackled me clean through the doorway, pinning me to the floor. I kicked her off, sending her sailing through the air. She hit the wall and stuck.
I stopped dead. She could wall-crawl?
"Who the hell are you?" she hissed.
I jumped to my feet. "I'm Pikachu." Too many unknown variables — I needed to leave. I ran for the door, but she vaulted into my path. I ducked under a kick and sidestepped the follow-up.
I stepped back and engaged in hand-to-hand combat. She was trained — every strike aimed for maximum damage — but her execution was rough. Nat would have been appalled. I grabbed her arm and threw her over my shoulder.
She landed cleanly and charged again. I stepped inside her swing and drove my fist into her gut. She buckled.
"Sorry — I have somewhere to be." I bolted for the window and crashed through it, sprinting out into Wyndham's garden. Trees up ahead. I could lose them in there.
"Get back here!" she shouted, leaping through the broken frame in pursuit. I was pushing twenty miles an hour. She was matching me.
"Can't you just let me go? All I wanted was to ask you out!" I called back while working through what I knew about her. She had enhanced agility and endurance — the same as mine. Not a clone; the colouring was all wrong, and any competent geneticist knew you needed the same base sequence to reproduce the same result.
I hit the tree line and went vertical, vaulting from branch to branch.
"Oh no you don't!" She followed me upward. I had just reached a high branch when a flash of green energy tore through the dark, obliterating it beneath my feet. I dropped, hit the ground hard, and rolled into a low crouch.
Before I could recover, she came down on top of me, pinning my arms to the ground.
"You're not going anywhere." She grinned.
I tried to push her off and was genuinely surprised by her strength. I looked up into her face. Green eyes — the same shade as that energy beam. Bio-electric energy. Exactly like—
Oh no.
"Jessica?" I said, completely stunned.
She stared at me. "How do you know my name?"
"I—" The words died. Something else took hold entirely. The world seemed to recede. I felt an intense heat rise inside me — instinctive, animal — and the unmistakable scent of maple syrup drifted off her skin. I could feel her desire.
"W-what's happening?" she breathed, her grip on my arms loosening involuntarily.
"I don't—" I felt myself responding before my mind had even caught up. I reached up and cupped her face in my hands. The lust hit me like a wave — consuming, overwhelming — and from the way she looked back at me, she felt exactly the same.
She kissed me.
If anyone ever asked, I would always swear to that. She kissed me first. Her hands moved beneath my shirt. Her tongue—
Felicia.
The name hit me like a bucket of ice water. A surge of pure shame and rage tore through the haze. I wrenched myself back and broke the kiss. She stared at me, breathless, her voice thick.
"What's wrong?"
"I have a girlfriend," I said. "I'm sorry." I pushed a controlled pulse of bioelectricity through my arms into her rain-soaked clothes.
She jerked with the shock and I pulled back, running as fast as I could. I glanced back — she was already getting to her feet, looking bewildered. Whatever the pheromone effect was, it seemed to be fading for her too.
She didn't follow.
I found a main road eventually and rang Tony to send someone to collect me. While I waited, I went through everything that had just happened.
She was like a drug. I couldn't even be near her without an overwhelming, instinctive urge to— it was primal. And the only explanation that made any sense was pheromones.
Jessica Drew. I was certain of it. She had the powers, the physique, and the skill set to match. But why had I reacted to her so intensely? The original Peter Parker had never struggled with Jessica, and...
Oh no.
I wasn't the same Peter Parker, was I?
I had some of Jessica's abilities too — or at least a derivative of them. I couldn't manipulate pheromones the way she could, but I could detect them. Which meant...
It was like the Cindy Moon situation, all over again.
In the comics, Cindy had been bitten by the same spider that bit Peter. Whenever the two of them were in proximity, they couldn't keep their hands off each other. A genuine problem. Could the same thing be happening between Jessica and me? We both had spider-based powers that involved pheromone sensitivity. The interaction between those abilities might be triggering each other.
It was possible.
But why was she with Wyndham?
And then it clicked.
Wyndham... I knew that name from somewhere beyond Richard's files. I turned it over in my mind, and then the answer surfaced.
Jessica Drew had been controlled by HYDRA before she became a hero.
Which meant Wyndham was connected to HYDRA.
Which meant Peter's parents had worked for HYDRA.
Oh God.