Uncle Ben shot down May's suspicion with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Impossible. Absolutely impossible!"
"The guy on TV might have the same build, but Peter doesn't have that kind of athleticism. Did you see him trading blows with that dinosaur man? If that were our Peter, one swipe from those claws and the kid would be owing the reaper three lifetimes' worth of souls."
"Now, if you said our Toby was the one fighting? I'd believe that. The boy's had god-like strength since he was a toddler. Remember when he thrashed those high school bullies who tried to shake him down for lunch money back in fifth grade?"
Ben beamed, managing to praise his own son while simultaneously insulting Peter's toughness.
Toby hid a smirk. He wondered how Peter would feel knowing his secret identity was safe only because his uncle had a low-key "nerd" stereotype stuck in his head.
Poor little Pete, Toby thought.
Aunt May rolled her eyes at Ben before turning a serious gaze toward Toby. "Toby, don't listen to your father. I'm glad you're strong enough to protect yourself, but you must never use that strength to bully those weaker than you. Do you understand?"
Toby gave a casual nod. "Don't worry, May. I don't bully the weak. I don't need to pick on nobodies to feel powerful."
At least, not lately, he added mentally. He preferred "bullying" the strong—crushing the heads of armed mobsters and walking away with their dirty cash.
Weak people don't have any money. Why waste the effort? If you're going to hunt, hunt the fat cats.
May saw his indifferent expression and reached out to give his forehead a light, motherly flick. "I know you won't. But you also shouldn't be like that boy on the news—showing off and risking your life against non-human monsters. You stay safe, okay?"
Before Toby could answer, Ben chimed in again, disagreeing. "Now, May, that's not right. With great power comes great responsibility. If Toby has the ability to help, he should do what he can within his limits. If everyone became selfish and cold, what would happen to this society? To this country?"
Toby felt a sharp twitch in the corner of his eye upon hearing that classic "death flag" mantra. He quickly cut Ben off.
"Drop it, Ben. I have zero interest in bullying the weak, but I have just as little interest in being a public bodyguard."
"I don't know about 'responsibility' and 'power'..."
"But I do know that with great power, you can make a lot of money. And money makes this family better. So, if I have a responsibility, it's to make sure we live a good life. That's the beginning and end of my list."
Without waiting for the inevitable lecture on ethics, Toby stood up and headed for the stairs. It was 9:00 PM—time for bed. He had a date the next day. As for Peter? Toby figured he'd send some "good vibes" his brother's way in his dreams.
Knock, knock, knock.
The next morning, Toby was jolted awake by a frantic pounding on his door. He opened it to find a bruised and battered Peter Parker. Peter was grinning through a swollen lip, waving a hand.
"Hey, Toby... Morning. Can I borrow some of that 'Eastern Miracle Water' of yours?"
Toby stared at him blankly. Apparently, my dream-vibes didn't do much.
"Get in here."
Toby pulled a bottle of dark, pungent medicinal liniment from his nightstand. It was a recipe he'd learned in his previous life from an old-timer driver. The old man used to say that in their line of work, you were bound to get banged up, and if you didn't want to live in a hospital, you had to learn to heal yourself. It was incredibly effective for deep bruising and the muscle stiffness that came from high-impact stress.
In this life, Peter had dubbed it "Eastern Miracle Water."
Peter pulled off his shirt and flopped onto the bed. Toby whistled. The kid was a walking mosaic of purple and green bruises.
"What the hell happened?" Toby asked, pouring the oil into his palms and rubbing them together to generate heat. "If you were just saving people, you shouldn't be this beat up."
Peter winced as Toby's hands hit his back. Between gasps of pain, he explained the night's events.
The bridge rescue had been a total success. Peter had saved everyone and driven the Lizard back. But there was no "burning car with a trapped kid" to keep him occupied like in the movies. So, when the Lizard realized the secretary was gone and fled, Peter decided to go off-script.
Using the thermal imaging in his suit, Peter had tracked the creature into the Manhattan sewer system.
It was a tactical disaster.
While the suit's thermal tech worked, the Lizard was cold-blooded, making it nearly invisible against the damp, chilly environment of the tunnels. Peter's enhanced vision helped, but he'd forgotten one crucial thing: the sewers were not a spider's web. They were a lizard's den.
In the cramped, lightless tunnels, Peter couldn't swing. He couldn't use his agility. He was essentially a fly that had crawled into a pipe with a gecko. The Lizard had doubled back and ambushed him, delivering a brutal thrashing before Peter managed to scramble back to the surface.
If it hadn't been for the high-tech weave of the suit Toby gave him, Peter wouldn't just be bruised—he'd be in pieces.
Toby listened, but he didn't offer sympathy. Verbal lessons rarely stick. True growth only comes from the "lessons of pain." Toby had learned that the hard way when a pair of scammers had destroyed his faith in being a hero, turning him into the predator he was today.
"So," Peter groaned, "I was thinking... if you had been there, we could have taken him together. You know? The Spider-Brothers?"
Toby didn't say a word. He just dipped his hand back into the liniment and slammed it down onto the largest bruise on Peter's lower back.
"OW! TOBY! MOTHER—!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Pete. Learn to walk before you try to lead a pack."