I Am the Spider-Man from Earth-42

The sky over the rebel base was painted in dusk-orange, lit dimly by scattered power lines. Drones patrolled the skyline like vultures, scanning for threats. But for now… things were quiet.

Peter stepped through the reinforced gates.

His Mark I suit was scorched, one shoulder torn, and his gauntlets sparking lightly from overexerted circuitry. Still, his steps were firm. His chest upright.

He didn't limp. He couldn't.

Not with eyes watching.

Especially hers.

Gwen Stacy stood near the gate's interior, arms crossed, a headset around her neck. Her blonde braid was messy from movement, dirt on her cheek. But her eyes—those piercing, steel-blue eyes locked onto Peter the moment he entered.

She ran up to him.

"I saw the whole thing."

She looked him up and down. "That drone-spider tech you used… that's not something from around here. How did you have that?"

Peter exhaled slowly, his suit releasing a faint hiss as parts disengaged.

"Well… before I 'died'—" he said, voice casual but weighted, "—I snuck into one of Doc Ock's old backup labs. After the mission, I brought back some parts. Nothing big. Just… blueprints. Some AI scrap. A few twisted claws that looked too cool to throw away."

He gave her a sideways glance.

"I was planning to build something."

He paused.

The unspoken words hung heavy.

"You died," Gwen finished for him, her voice softer now.

"Yeah," Peter said.

A long silence stretched between them.

(Except I didn't die. He did. I just... took his place. His guilt. His friends. His future.)

Peter's jaw tightened slightly, but he smiled faintly to break the silence.

"Anyway, I had a few pieces left when I woke up. And I still remember some of my memories so yeah, created that thing"

Gwen looked down, processing. Then nodded.

"It worked."

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"That a compliment, Gwen Stacy?"

She gave him a small smirk.

"Don't get used to it. You still owe me a full system diagnostics report."

Peter laughed softly.

(Same Gwen. Smart. Stubborn. And always watching too closely.)

She touched his arm his real arm, not the armor.

"You gave those kids hope back there, Peter."

"Hope?" he repeated, almost disbelieving.

"Yeah."

She looked up at him, voice steady.

"For the first time in months… they believed someone could win."

Peter didn't answer for a moment. He just looked out toward the city skyline.

Smoke still lingered over the rooftops.

But somewhere beyond it… the stars were trying to shine.

Then Gwen stepped closer, eyeing the Mark I suit critically.

She reached out and tapped the edge of his chest plate.

"This armor? It's raw. Overheats too fast. No adaptive cooling, and the joint servos whine like an old hover truck."

Peter chuckled.

"You sound like you hate it."

Gwen raised an eyebrow.

"I'm saying it wants to be better. Let me help with that."

(She's right. The plating's too thin. No nano-insulation. Too many parts salvaged from half-melted Oscorp drones and rebel scrap...)

Peter exhaled, tilting his head at her with a lopsided grin.

"Alright, tech commander Gwen. What do you suggest?"

She smiled just slightly.

"You? Workshop. Tonight. No excuses."

She pointed to a red-tagged bay at the far end of the hangar.

"I've already reserved a station. Tools, schematics, and maybe a cup of very illegal, very strong rebel-grade coffee."

Peter saluted half-jokingly.

"Yes ma'am."

Then, quieter:

"Thanks, Gwen. Really."

She held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned and walked off toward the bay—her braid swinging behind her.

Peter looked after her, then down at his cracked gauntlet.

(Yeah. This suit's gonna break down if I push it too far again. And I can't afford to fall… not when they've all started looking at me like I'm some kind of beacon.)

He clenched his fist.

(Time for Mark II.)

..

Meanwhile The Hidden Medical Outpost | Mary Watson

The medical outpost was quiet.

Deep beneath the rubble of an old subway terminal, hidden by false walls and camouflaged signal dampeners, a small group of rebels tended to the wounded. Dim fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow across old surgical beds and makeshift tech consoles. The air smelled like antiseptic, blood… and exhaustion.

Mary Watson stood by the main monitor a battered screen rigged from scavenged Oscorp tech and a StarkSat receiver that still worked, barely.

The screen replayed drone footage grainy but clear enough to show the final moments of the battle. A crimson-and-black figure diving through the smoke. A glowing white spider stretched across his chest. Energy pulsing from his gauntlet as he slammed it into the exposed underbelly of the Skorpion-X.

BOOOOOM.

A mechanical tail shot into the air. The bot crumpled.

Mary narrowed her eyes.

"Who is that in that suit… and what the hell is that thing?"

A nearby rebel medic paused from stitching a patient's arm.

"We don't know, ma'am," he said. "Nick Fury got the feed minutes ago. Said it's classified now."

Mary folded her arms.

Her voice softened but grew sharper.

"So this is why Harry, Frank, and Robin got called out?"

The medic shakes his head

"We don't know ma'am"

Mary didn't respond at first.

Her eyes lingered on the image frozen on-screen the moment just before the explosion. The figure crouched, smoke and sparks behind him, like a myth reborn.

She whispered:

"He moves like Peter…"

Then she shook the thought away, turning to the desk behind her. On it was a framed photo. Three people smiling. Peter. Harry. And her.

She gently set it face-down.

(No. Peter's gone. I saw him died)

And yet.

(Then why… is my heart racing?)

….

Meanwhile in the Lab

The lab was a cathedral of machines—giant humming cores, glass tubes pumping neon chemicals, and towers of cold servers. The ceiling crackled with static-light conduits. The floor buzzed with data under pressure. This wasn't science. It was obsession.

And at the center, surrounded by collapsing quantum equations and flickering monitors—

Dr. Otto Octavius.

Balding now. Wires threaded into the back of his neck. Four mechanical limbs clung to his spine like a metallic parasite. His eyes were tired, but sharp.

His fingers danced across a holopad, calculating probabilities in real time. Frustration showed in every twitch of his jaw.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Purposeful. Angry.

Prowler Miles Morales entered the lab, his footsteps echoing like war drums. His cloak rippled behind him. His mask was off, revealing tired eyes… and fury bubbling beneath them.

"Status report, Doc."

Octavius didn't look up.

"It's still unfunctional."

CRACK!

Miles's palm slammed down on the titanium-plated table, splintering its corner. Metal whined.

"What did you say?"

Octavius's expression didn't change. His tentacles twitched like agitated snakes.

"The dimension gate—the prototype. It collapsed again. Five seconds into Phase Drift and the interverse thread severed."

He turned, finally meeting Miles's gaze.

"We can't stabilize a portal without the correct anchor frequency. The multiverse isn't just a door you can kick open it's a living system. It pushes back."

Miles's eyes narrowed.

"You said we could bring him back."

Octavius's voice was cold.

"I said it was a theory."

A long silence.

The only sounds: humming tech. Electric breathing. Distant thunder outside the dome.

Then Miles spoke, quieter.

His voice cracked beneath the steel.

"This was supposed to be my…"

Octavius blinked.

"…You're talking about your..."

Miles didn't answer.

Instead, he turned toward the core—where a massive, half-finished machine sat. Circular. Towering. Covered in spider insignias from broken suits scanned and replicated. A multiversal keyhole.

Octavius spoke again, more measured.

"The problem isn't the machine. It's the missing link. We need a living subject with an active interdimensional DNA pattern. Someone like…"

He trailed off.

Miles finished the sentence.

"…Spider-Man."

..

Meanwhile The hum of the generators faded into the background as Ganke Lee sat alone in a dim corner of the storage bay, lit only by a flickering yellow worklight. Around him, crates of salvaged tech and ammo were stacked like cold tombstones. Forgotten things. Lost tools.

In his hands, he held something small.

A plastic toy soldier.

Faded green. One arm missing. Scorched on one side.

He turned it slowly in his fingers. His jaw clenched tight.

(She gave me this. Right before the world turned to ash.)

The memory came uninvited clear and cruel.

His little sister's laugh.

The way she proudly handed him the toy after "fixing" its leg with glitter glue.

His mother calling from the kitchen.

His father working on the broken generator out back.

And him laughing. Just a boy in a warm house.

Then the flash.

The entire block erupting in flames.

Concrete splitting.

Fire swallowing everything.

Ganke crawling out of rubble with blood down his face, his arm broken, his lungs choking on smoke.

And Miles.

Miles Morales, standing at the edge of the destruction, shrouded in smoke. Mask on.

No words.

Only silence.

And then, he turned and vanished.

Ganke's hand tightened around the toy soldier until his knuckles turned white.

"I should've known…"

His voice was hoarse.

He looked down at the old toy.

Then whispered:

"I should've stopped you then."

He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood.

"You killed them, Miles… My sister. My family. My city."

(You were my brother.)

He stood, the toy still in his palm, and walked to the far end of the room where his rifle leaned against a workbench. He picked it up, slammed a new energy cell into it, and stared at his reflection in the cold metal.

"I will kill you, Miles."

"No matter what you've become."

To be continue