Spider-Man U-61016

The Amazing Spider-Man

Amazing Fantasy 2/6

Chapter Two: Awakening

The sterile beeping of heart monitors filled the small hospital room, blending with the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Peter Parker blinked awake—groggy, disoriented—the dull ache in his hand the only immediate reminder of the spider bite.

The events at Oscorp replayed in fragments: the tour, the missing spider, the sting, the sudden dizziness. And now… here.

The place was unfamiliar. It wasn't like the hospitals near Forest Hills—it was nicer. Not exactly state-of-the-art, but far better than the one he'd gone to when he broke his arm.

He shifted in the stiff hospital bed, glancing around at the standard setup: a TV, a heart monitor, a small sink, and a mirror. As he took it all in, he couldn't help but wonder how he'd ended up in a place like this. His aunt and uncle couldn't afford it.

His thoughts were cut short as the door creaked open. Standing there was Norman Osborn himself, sharp eyes locked on Peter, his unsettling, businessman's smile fixed in place.

"You're awake," Norman noted coolly, straightening his pressed suit. "Good. You gave everyone a scare, Parker. I insisted we call an ambulance after you collapsed."

Peter rubbed his temple, his head pounding slightly.

"Collapsed…?"

A flash of images surged through his mind—and as they passed, the spider bite on his hand began to itch, a pulsing reminder of everything that had happened.

"It happens," Norman said with a dismissive wave. "Mild allergic reaction—nothing to worry too much about. Though our doctors insisted we get you checked thoroughly. Liability concerns, you understand."

He walked over to the sink and mirror to adjust his tie and smooth his wavy red hair.

"I also took the opportunity to call your aunt and uncle. They should arrive shortly."

Before Peter could respond, there was a knock at the door. Norman didn't hesitate—he opened it, and in walked a familiar, comforting presence: Aunt May, small and sprightly, worry etched into her soft features, followed by Uncle Ben—broad-shouldered and kind-eyed, despite the creases of exhaustion lining his face.

"Peter!" May hurried to his bedside, gently gripping his hand. "Oh, sweetheart, you had us worried sick." Her graying brown hair made her look more like a concerned grandmother than an aunt.

"Hey, I'm okay," Peter mumbled, managing a tired smile.

"Mr. Osborn told us you'll be just fine," Uncle Ben added, his warm voice carrying a hint of quiet relief. His eyes scanned the room, and he sighed—this trip to the hospital wasn't going to be cheap. "We… we should talk about the bill, though…"

Norman shook his head. With a satisfied smile, he said, "No need for that. I've covered the expenses."

Uncle Ben's shoulders slumped in visible relief. "That's… that's generous. Thank you, sir."

Norman inclined his head. "Consider it my responsibility. Wouldn't want a promising student like Peter sidelined over… an unfortunate incident."

Peter's brow furrowed. Something about the way Norman said that sent a chill down his spine. But before he could dwell on it, the doctor arrived. He was an older man, a bit short, with odd glasses that looked more suited to a smelter than a physician.

He began explaining Peter's condition to them. "Aside from the mild allergic reaction—which we've already treated—there's no serious injury, though the bite left a small scar. You're free to leave whenever you feel ready."

They didn't waste time. After thanking Norman and saying their goodbyes, they headed out.

Uncle Ben's old, rust-specked car rattled as they pulled out of the hospital parking lot, Queens' skyline blurred by smudged windows and the faded hum of static on the radio. Peter stared out the window, his mind drifting.

Mom and Dad. They always hung heavy in his chest—a bit more so today because of the incident. It had been over a decade, but the memory of that day still clung to him like a ghost. The plane crash had been all over the news—Richard and Mary Parker, gone in an instant. He was five. Too young to understand grief, but old enough to remember the aching emptiness that followed.

Uncle Ben and Aunt May had stepped in without hesitation, raising him in their modest home in Forest Hills, Queens—a house that barely fit the three of them, but was filled with warmth.

They became like parents to him. They looked the part too—at least until recently, when age had begun to take it's toll and their hair started to grey. But Peter still loved them, no matter how they looked.

The car sputtered to a stop outside their place. The tiny, weathered house with peeling paint and creaky steps stood stubbornly between newer, taller buildings—like it had something to prove.

As they approached the front door, shouting drifted from next door—the Watsons again.

"You always have to start this late at night?" came Mrs. Watson's strained voice, frustration palpable.

"Keep your voice down—Mary Jane's trying to sleep," said Mr. Watson, trying to stay calm.

"I wouldn't be yelling if you—!"

And all hell broke loose.

Uncle Ben sighed, gently steering Peter toward the door. "You head inside, Pete. I'll go have a word." Peter just nodded and went on his way.

When he reached his room, his eyes drifted to the window next door, where a flicker of movement—long red hair silhouetted behind drawn curtains—told him Mary Jane was likely awake, hearing every word of her parents' fight.

He considered waving, but exhaustion dragged at his limbs. Tonight wasn't the night.

Peter slipped into his small bed, and took a good look at his room, its walls plastered with posters of scientific icons: Bruce Banner mid-lecture, Isaac Newton sketched in classical detail, Reed Richards holding a blueprint of the Fantasticar. His desk overflowed with textbooks, circuit boards, and half-finished projects.

Fatigue tugged at him harder now, a strange heat simmering beneath his skin. He barely managed to kick off his shoes before collapsing onto the bed.

Dreams consumed him whole. A swirling, fevered web of shadows and crawling legs—spiders, dozens of them—wove around him, clambering over walls, across his arms, spinning silk through a vast, infinite darkness.

He twisted, fighting the images, but they only tightened, pulling him deeper. He wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't.

He saw visions: his uncle, his parents, his friends—all blurring together into the image of a spider. Enormous, fanged, its maw nearly devouring him. Peter fought back, somehow breaking free.

He ran, fleeing through more hallucinations: lizards, octopuses, rhinos—beasts of power and mutation. Eventually, he found what felt like a safe place. But then something grabbed him—a web that yanked him back toward the monstrous spider. As it loomed closer…

Peter gasped awake, drenched in sweat, chest heaving.

He groaned and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. But the moment he slid them on, his vision blurred, distorted. Frowning, he removed them—and the world snapped into crystal-clear focus.

The clock blinked: 6:02 AM. Way earlier than his usual wake-up call.

Still groggy, Peter stumbled to the mirror above his desk. His reflection stared back—familiar, but… different.

His wiry frame had filled out. Lean muscle pressed against the fabric of his too-small T-shirt. His arms, chest, even his jawline looked more defined. Stronger. Sharper.

"What the…?"

He pulled on the first clothes he found—sweatpants and a hoodie—and stepped outside, heart racing. He didn't know why, but he had to move. To run.

The early morning streets were quiet, bathed in soft orange light.

A car barreled around the corner, tires screeching. Peter froze—then instinct kicked in.

His body launched itself into the air. His feet left the ground in a perfect, effortless leap that cleared the speeding car by several feet. He landed in a crouch, wide-eyed, heart hammering.

"What the hell was that?!"

Without thinking, Peter broke into a run. The sidewalk blurred beneath him, his legs carrying him faster than he'd ever imagined. He veered into an alley, eyes snapping upward. A brick wall loomed above him.

Instinct called. The thought wasn't even conscious.

His fingers touched the wall—and stuck. His feet followed, gripping the surface like it was flat ground.

In seconds, he scaled the wall and perched on the rooftop—breathless, exhilarated.

It was real.

All of it.

The spider… had changed him.

Not just stronger or faster—something more.

Peter grinned, the cool morning air whipping through his hair as the sun peeked over the horizon.

For the first time in his life, he didn't feel small, or overlooked, or weak.

He felt… powerful.

And he liked it.

To Be Continued…