After a solid workout and some late-night gaming, Toby had drifted into a deep, disciplined sleep at 9 PM sharp.
...
"Oh, crap!"
"Damn it, damn it! What is happening? Stop spraying!"
The next morning, Toby didn't wake up to an alarm. He woke up to the sound of Peter's panicked shrieks coming through the wall.
Toby sat up slowly. Amidst a series of heavy thuds and the sound of breaking porcelain from next door, he took his time. He dressed leisurely, brushed his teeth, and finally opened his door to walk into Peter's room.
He took in the scene: Peter's bedside alarm clock had been smashed into a pancake.
Then he looked toward the bathroom. Peter was currently in a desperate wrestling match with a pipe. He had seemingly ripped the entire faucet out of the wall, and a high-pressure jet of water was drenching everything.
"Peter..."
Peter spun around, his eyes wide and wild. "Oh, Toby! I can explain! Well, I can't actually explain because I don't know what's happening, but I'm sure there's a perfectly logical scientific reason for this! Just... trust me!"
Toby's face remained a mask of calm. Since he was the one who had orchestrated the "accident," he wasn't exactly shocked.
Toby flicked his wrist. A strand of white webbing shot out with a sharp thwip, instantly sealing the pipe that Peter had been struggling with for minutes.
Peter froze. He stared at Toby's wrist, then at the sturdy web-seal, his voice hitching. "How... how did you do that? What the hell was that?"
Toby didn't answer. He simply tilted his head toward the door. "Follow me."
He led the way downstairs, Peter trailing behind him like a confused puppy.
They descended into the basement—Toby's private gym, a place usually off-limits to the rest of the family. Toby flicked on the industrial lights, illuminating a room filled with specialized, heavy-duty equipment. He walked over to a rack and, with a single hand, hoisted a massive, custom-built 1000kg barbell. He tossed it onto the reinforced floor at Peter's feet.
BOOM.
The floor groaned under the impact.
"Peter. Lift it."
Peter pointed a shaky finger at his own chest. "Me? You want me to lift that?"
He had felt the vibration in his bones when that thing hit the floor. Looking at the oversized, custom plates on either side, he knew this wasn't a standard gym weight. This was something else entirely.
Toby nodded. "You. Peter Parker. Lift it."
Gulping, Peter looked down at the iron beast. "Exactly how heavy is this thing?"
"Not that heavy," Toby replied dryly. "Around 2,200 pounds."
"Oh, okay, only two—wait. What?"
Peter had expected two hundred. Two thousand was over a ton. That barbell weighed more than ten of him put together.
In that moment, the reality of his cousin's strength finally hit him like a freight train. The world record for a deadlift was somewhere around 500kg, yet Toby had just tossed double that weight around like it was a bag of groceries.
Is he even human? Peter wondered, a sudden sense of vertigo hitting him.
Flick.
A sharp pain on the back of his head brought him back to earth. Toby retracted his fingers, having delivered the classic Parker "wake-up" sting.
"I know you have questions, Pete," Toby said, his voice steady. "And I'll answer every single one of them. But first, prove to yourself what you are. Lift it."
There was something magnetic in Toby's voice. It stilled the chaos in Peter's mind. He nodded, not because he was sure he could do it, but because he trusted his brother. Toby never lied to him.
Peter reached down, gripped the cold steel bar, took a breath that filled his lungs to bursting, and pulled.
Suddenly, the world spun.
When Peter's vision cleared, he was staring at the ceiling. He was flat on his back, and the barbell was resting heavily across his chest.
What the hell just happened?
Panic flared. "My chest! Toby, help! Get it off me! I can't breathe!"
Toby didn't move to help. Instead, he crossed his massive arms, a playful, mocking glint in his eyes.
"Help? Peter, think. How did it end up on top of you?"
"Huh?" Peter paused. His genius-level brain began to play back the "recording" of the last few seconds.
He had assumed the 1,000kg would be impossible to move. He had braced himself to give it every ounce of strength he possessed, expecting a struggle. Instead, the weight had come up as easily as a feather. Because he had pulled with total force against zero resistance, he had basically back-flipped himself over, the momentum carrying him and the weight onto the floor.
A sharp gasp escaped him.
He had lifted a ton. He had pulled a thousand kilograms off the floor so fast he'd lost his balance.
Peter gripped the bar and pushed. It went up effortlessly. He stood, holding the ton of iron in his hands, before dropping it back onto the rack. The floor shook again, but the realization was even louder.
"I... I'm a superhero?"
Toby watched Peter process the revelation. He hooked his toe under the bar, flicked it back into its cradle with a practiced, effortless move, and smiled.
"How's it feel, Pete? Pretty good?"
Peter stared at his hands, a manic, ecstatic grin spreading across his face. "Good? It feels incredible! I feel invincible! I feel like... like Superman! I could punch through a tank!"
Toby's smile twitched. He stepped forward and delivered a quick, solid thud to Peter's chest with his fist.
"Calm down, 'Man of Steel.' You think you're in Clark Kent's league already? You're strong, sure. But compared to me? You're still a shrimp."
Peter rubbed his chest. He had barely felt the impact of a one-ton barbell, but Toby's "light" punch actually stung. The ego-rush died down instantly as his brain regained control over his muscles. Reality—and his big brother—had reclaimed the high ground.