( A;N: Hey y'all I'm back sorry sorry it took too long I know, it seems like the universe just threw the most painful shit at me the past few days I was having terrible toothache couldn't sleep until 4 am cuz of it then just yesterday boom bloody stool yeah I shit blood .... Not a good experience and I'll tell ya i almost got an heartattack but I suppose I'm fine now... Mostly?? I dunno we'll see how my health goes i suppose i couldn't study much about the stuff I wanted to so I'll do it slowly as planned just abit more anyways here ya go )
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Coming back home, Peter dove straight into his soft bed, utterly exhausted even though he hadn't done a single swing through the city that day. It seemed that *not* being Spider-Man was more draining than all the web-slinging heroics combined—his body ached with a profound, bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest could touch.
"Sigh... I did it," he muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper. "One full day without the suit." But there was no spark of triumph, no rush of relief. Just weariness, heavy and unrelenting, pressing down on his chest like an invisible weight. He second-guessed every decision that had led him here, the itch to suit up and help gnawing at him relentlessly. *It's funny how terrifying habits can be,* he thought, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. *They sneak up on you, wrap around your soul like spider silk, and suddenly you can't imagine life without them.*
Shuffling deeper into the rumpled sheets, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the cracked ceiling of his room, shadows dancing faintly from the sunlight filtering through the blinds. A subtle glance to his right caught the alarm clock's glowing red hands frozen at 3:37 PM—time mocking him in the dead of Noon. *What now?* The question echoed in his mind, vast and empty. All this free time stretched out before him like an uncharted void, and he had no map, no plan. *Welp, I did say I'd get rich in this timeline, this universe,* he reminded himself, forcing a spark of ambition through the fog. *So, do I invent something groundbreaking? Or... rob the robbers?* He paused, brow furrowing. *Nah, even if I quit being Spider-Man, my morals won't bend that far. Stealing's stealing, suit or no suit. Sigh...*
Helplessness coiled tighter around his thoughts, a tangled mess of two identities clashing like storm clouds. Lucian and Peter's everyday self warred with the hero's instincts, birthing wild, out-of-the-box ideas that flickered like fireflies in the dark. *Spider-Man steals from the villains!* A grin tugged at his lips despite everything. *Now *that* would be a headline J.J. Jameson would die for—literally explode on live TV. "Web-Head Turns Thief: Hero or Hustler?" Ha!*
Alright, enough wallowing. Peter hauled himself upright, the bedsprings creaking in protest, and paced the dim room, mind racing now with purpose. *So... what can I make?* One truth from his past lives' fragmented memories hit him like a jolt: an appreciation for his own intellect that he'd never fully grasped before Lucian's mind had merged with his. *Damn, I'm smart—like, *hella* smart.* In the comics, Peter's IQ was legendary; even Reed Richards called him in for help with impossible equations, praising his raw creativity. The MCU had showcased it even better—quick thinking under pressure, inventions born from sheer genius. And in one comic universe, he'd been one of the smartest *and* richest people on Earth... though the *how* of that fortune was lost to the haze of forgotten details. *Figures. Always the process that slips away.*
Grabbing a battered notebook from his cluttered desk—pages already scribbled with half-formed sketches and formulas—he flipped it open and got to work. Before diving into products, he narrowed his focus: biology? Technical gadgets? Weaponry? *Yeah, hard pass on weapons,* he decided firmly. *Don't want to go through Stark's whole crisis—blood on my hands, endless guilt, the works.* So, technology or biology? His mind wandered to that movie Lucian saw once—*what was it called?*—where a guy takes a bullet to the head, but a woman rushes in, slaps some gauze-like gel over the wound, and it doesn't just stop the bleeding; it keeps him alive, stabilizing him for hours until real help arrives.
*Arghhh... the name's gone. I must've forgotten it too.* No matter. The concept stuck, vivid and viable. Not the full-on revival-from-a-headshot miracle—that was sci-fi overreach—but the core idea? Gold. *If I can create Medi-Gel...* His pulse quickened at the thought. It'd save lives *and* fill his pockets, a perfect bridge between hero and hustler.
*Yes! Finally, a solid idea.* And forget the Marvel elite who could reattach limbs or survive as just a head—that was top 1% privilege, tech from labs like Stark Industries or Oscorp. No, this was for the real world: the poor and middle-class folks who still died from infections, necrosis, or blood loss in seconds. Medi-Gel would sterilize wounds instantly, coagulate blood to halt bleeding, and buy precious hours instead of minutes. Imagine mass disasters—earthquakes, villain attacks, everyday accidents. Steel rebar impaled through your gut? Yank it out, slap on the gel, and *boom*: the body absorbs nutrients from it, seals the injury, prevents shock or infection. On-site healing kicks in right there, no hospital rush required.
But as excitement built, reality tempered it. *Buttttt... as simple as it sounds, the chemistry's a beast.* Coagulants, antimicrobials, nutrient matrices, slow-release stabilizers—it'd need perfect balance to avoid rejection, clotting disasters, or toxicity. If it were easy, someone would've cracked it by now—doctors, biotech firms, even SHIELD. *Welp, no worries. Trial and error it is.* Peter's genius hummed with confidence; he *knew* he could do it. And if not? *Screw it. We'll just go to thug-robbing... Bully-Maguire Spider-Man style.*
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