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***
The van's engine roared loudly as the vehicle tore through the streets at high speed, ignoring red lights and nearly colliding with several cars along the way. Drivers honked frantically, swerving at the last second, some forced to mount the sidewalks to avoid impact. Inside the van, the gray-haired leader had moved from the back to the passenger seat, where he held a radio communicator.
He pressed the transmit button, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "It's Gregor. The mission was partially completed."
On the other end of the radio, there was only static for a moment. Then a metallic voice, distorted yet unmistakably cold, spoke. "Explain yourself."
"Spider-Man got involved. He arrived before we finished the job. Took down the two who were with me inside the store, and then the shooters I left outside." Gregor replied quickly and directly, without embellishment.
"So he's back..." the man on the other end murmured, thoughtfully. "Just when we started the cleanup."
"Yes, sir." Gregor glanced into the rearview mirror, and there he was — swinging between the streetlights like a red and blue shadow against the night sky. Spider-Man was chasing them, closing the distance quickly. "He's right behind us."
"Surrender."
Gregor frowned. "What?"
"You heard me. Let him arrest you. Do not resist. You wouldn't win anyway."
Gregor nodded, even though the man couldn't see him. "Understood. I'll tell—" He never finished the sentence.
Because at that exact moment, the driver's door simply vanished, ripped from the van's frame as if it were made of cardboard. The driver barely had time to scream before he too was yanked out.
"Hasn't that guy ever heard of seatbelts?" Spider-Man commented casually as he vaulted into the cabin, taking the wheel. "By the way, relax. I tossed him straight into one of my webs. It was like falling onto a trampoline… just less fun. I'm not the monster they say I am, you know?" He began slowing the vehicle gradually, shifting down through the gears.
Gregor remained still, absorbing the absurdity of the situation and how quickly everything had fallen apart.
Spider-Man turned his head slightly toward him, the white lenses of his mask reflecting the dashboard lights. "Now, how about you tell me who you work for? Thompson Lincoln? Silvermane? Hammerhead? Or do we have someone new trying to play king of the city? Sometimes I take a few days off and when I come back there's a new manager in organized crime."
Gregor finally spoke. "You'll never know."
"Oh really?"
"Yes." Gregor held his gaze. "You can hurt me, torture me, do whatever you want. I'll never talk."
"Wow, how melodramatic. This isn't a spy movie, buddy. I'm not going to do any of that. First, because it's not my style. Second, because I always figure out who's pulling the strings. It's almost a gift." Spider-Man said, parking the van by the curb before firing two webs at Gregor, pinning his legs and torso to the seat.
"All set." The hero shut off the engine and stepped out of the van. In the distance, sirens were already approaching, echoing between the buildings. "The cops are almost here. So be a good boy, stay nice and quiet, and try not to make any dramatic speeches when they arrive. Have a good night."
With those final words, Spider-Man pulled himself away with a web, disappearing into the vast night of New York City.
***
Arriving home at exactly the time he had promised, Peter locked the front door and followed the delicious aroma drifting from the kitchen, his stomach growling in response to the smell. 'Man… I'm starving.'
Aunt May was sitting at the table, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose, leaning over the table with the concentration of a scientist facing a delicate experiment. The light above the table cast shadows across her face, highlighting the lines time had drawn there — lines that, he knew with a tightness in his chest, had deepened over the past few months.
She lifted her eyes when he walked in, and her face immediately lit up in a wide smile. "Peter!" The chair scraped softly against the floor as she stood, and in the blink of an eye, May had already crossed the small space between them. Her arms wrapped around him in a tight hug, as if trying to make up for all the time they had spent apart — even if it had only been a few hours.
Peter returned it with the same intensity, hugging her with care and strength at the same time, burying his face in her shoulder and breathing in deeply, taking in that unique scent no one else in the world possessed — something indefinable that meant only one thing: home.
"How are you, Peter?" she asked against his chest.
"I'm fine," he replied, holding the embrace for one more second before relaxing. "Everything's fine."
May pulled back slowly, but not completely. Her eyes traveled over his body with the meticulous attention that had become so common in recent weeks. After a moment that felt like an eternity, she seemed satisfied with what she saw. "Go wash your hands. Dinner's ready."
Peter nodded, taking a step toward the sink as he opened his mouth to ask what she had made. But the words died in his throat when his gaze fixed on what exactly was on the table.
There was a large notebook open, filled with neat handwriting. Around it, scattered carelessly, were several pens and highlighters in different colors: yellow, pink, green, blue. Some pages were marked with small colorful stickers, others folded at the corners, and a stack of loose sheets rested beside it, covered in corrections and scribbles.
Peter blinked in confusion. "May… what are you doing?"
She followed his gaze and let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. "Oh, this?" May sat back down in her chair, adjusting her glasses. "I'm trying to organize the second volume of my cookbook." She carefully turned one of the pages, as if handling something precious. "The first one was so well received in the community that they asked me for another. Several people from church, some neighbors, even the lady from the grocery store asked if I was going to release a sequel."
May made a face. "But… it's been much harder than I imagined."
"Harder how?" Peter frowned, stepping closer to the table to get a better look. He leaned over the notebook, his eyes scanning the notes. Each page held a handwritten recipe, with detailed instructions, tips in the margins, and small remarks. 'Hmm, for a draft, this is really good,' he thought, flipping through a few pages. 'The layout, the notes, the details… she's really dedicated.'
"I need to finish it as soon as possible," May explained, pointing to a separate stack of notes. "The publisher wants it by the end of next month, but I don't want to just repeat what I did." She shuffled one of the sheets marked in green. "I want it to be better than the last one. More organized. With little stories alongside the recipes." May sighed. "And I'm trying to adapt several things so the costs stay lower. Cheaper ingredients, possible substitutions. I don't want anyone to stop cooking something because it became too expensive."
Peter frowned, processing the information as the gears in his mind began to turn. 'We're… having financial problems again, aren't we?' It made sense. He had used all the money he had to remake the Spider suit, and since he hadn't taken any photos in the past few weeks, the money coming in from the Bugle to help with the bills had stopped, leaving May to cover everything on her own.
Peter clenched his jaw, keeping his face neutral as he walked to the sink and began washing his hands. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken any photos of today's events. It was a shame, because his fight against Kraven could have yielded some good shots. 'I'll fix that tomorrow after school. We're going to solve this problem once and for all.'
He turned to grab a plate, but stopped when he saw Aunt May quickly organizing her things on the table. "Wait, May. What are you doing?"
She didn't even look up, continuing what she was doing. "I'm clearing the table so you can eat, dear."
'That's what I thought.' Peter stepped closer and gently placed a hand on her arm. "Stop right there, miss. I'll eat in the living room."
May raised her eyebrows. "Of course not, Peter. I won't let my things get in the way of your dinner."
"Please," he insisted, offering a smile. "I already wanted to have dinner while watching TV anyway. It's part of the modern culinary experience, you know? Studies indicate that nutrient absorption improves when dinner is accompanied by a comedy show."
May hesitated, her eyes scanning his face for signs that he was just being kind. "Really?"
"It's— I mean, the part about nutrient absorption is nonsense. The rest is true."
"Oh, Peter." She laughed, a warm sound that made Peter's chest heat up. "What did I do to deserve you?"
"You tell me, May. You tell me," Peter replied, placing a kiss on her cheek.
***
After dinner, Peter washed the dirty dishes, rinsed the plates, put away the silverware, and stored the pots in the refrigerator. It was an almost insignificant gesture, but he knew it would at least give his aunt a small break.
May was still leaning over the table when he finished drying his hands on the dish towel, scribbling something in her notebook while murmuring to herself. He watched her for a second in silence, feeling that familiar twinge of responsibility grow in his chest. "I'm going to try fixing my PC again," Peter lied naturally, stepping closer to kiss her forehead. "If you need anything, just call me."
"Sure." She smiled, distracted, her eyes already back on her notes as a strand of hair fell across her face. "Just don't stay up too late, dear. You have school tomorrow."
Peter nodded and slipped out the back door, the night air greeting him. He crossed the yard in quick strides, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, fixed on the silhouette of the structure that had once been Uncle Ben's greatest pride.
The shed.
A mix between workshop and storage space built by Ben Parker's own hands. Peter and May rarely went there after his death, only stepping inside when they needed the lawn mower or a specific tool, and even then, quickly, as if their presence might disturb something.
In other words, the place had been useless over the past few months.
Until now.
Peter pulled a key from his pocket, the only one he had, and unlocked the door. It creaked in protest when he pushed it open, a sharp metallic sound slicing through the silence of the night and revealing the thick darkness inside.
"Daddy's back." Turning on the light, Peter blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness, and took in the mess the shed had become over the past few weeks.
Where there had once been neatly organized shelves with boxes labeled by Ben, there were now disassembled motherboards, colorful wires scattered around, open shells of old computers stacked in a corner, broken televisions with their backs removed, exposing their internal components. There were also partially dismantled CRT monitors in the corners of the room, keyboards missing keys on a table alongside fans and open power supplies.
To anyone else, it would have been trash. Remnants of obsolete technology waiting for the recycling truck.
But to Peter Parker, it was a gold mine.
Even if it hurt to mess up the place Uncle Ben had created like this. His uncle deserved to have his beloved space preserved, respected, at the very least kept in order. Yet Peter also knew, deep in his heart, that Uncle Ben would approve if he knew what all of this was being used for.
He walked to the main workbench, stepping around a pile of computer cases on the way. His fingers brushed the wooden surface, the same wood Ben used to rest his tools on and where he had taught Peter how to use a hammer without smashing his own finger. For a moment, the image of his uncle appeared in his mind, vivid as if he were standing right there: the blue coveralls stained with grease, the patient smile, the voice encouraging him to try again.
'Not now.' Peter shook his head, pushing the memory away. He then brought his hands to his wrists, removing the two web-shooters and placing them on the bench, the silver material gleaming under the light.
'Let's boost the power of these capacitors.' Peter thought, his fingers already reaching for a toolbox beside him. 'But how do I do that without compromising the integrity of the wires... hmm... I think I've got it.'
If it wasn't clear by now, Peter was using all that scrap to build gadgets for Spider-Man. The new web-shooters, with their higher-capacity cartridges and electric shock function, had been built entirely from those repurposed materials.
Nothing was bought new. Nothing required money he didn't have. And this was only the beginning. Peter already had several ideas for new features for the web-shooters and a few upgrades for the suit, like finding a way to connect the police transmission to the mask.
'It's amazing what my mind can do when I stop thinking about pointless things.' The thought crossed his mind as he opened the 'bracelets' with a precise movement, revealing the internal mechanisms. "Here we go..."
***
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Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.