Author's Notes:it took me what... 3 days for 5k. jesus christ how do fanfic writers do this shit so easily pulling like 10 k words. 1k is easy and 2 k is manageable, but fuck me, more than that is a bitch. but i somehow did it
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After a day of being in the hospital, having tests and blood drawn from him because of how different he was from the usual patients, ie, he didn't need to relearn how to walk, or stuff like that, because, unlike them, he looked like his old self, fit and able, Joe was allowed to go back home. After getting home, he spent his time with his family, just catching up, being there, being more lively to cheer up his family, and to show them, hey! He was alive, okay, and back. Eventually, though, it was getting dark, so his aunt, uncle, and baby cousin had to go, but they, like the adults, had promised to come back tomorrow. Peter didn't seem to like the idea as he started crying. Oh Well, fuck him too.
After saying his good nights to his parents, receiving bear hugs from them both, and promising and reassuring them he'd see them in the morning, he went to his room. After closing the door to his room, he quickly noticed everything was the same as the last time he was there, which, to be honest, felt like just a few days ago. It was nice to see how much hope his parents had for him, that they didn't dare move a thing when he came back. It was never an if situation. And for the first time in a while, everything was, well, quiet.
Of course, something had to interrupt said quiet when Joe started hearing pattering, the type of pattering a small type of arachnid made as they walked across the upper part of his room wall. He watched it go all the way until it reached a properly made web, most likely their home. Joe thought back to another spider, which made him lift his hands to examine them, clenching and unclenching them.
"I'm not an idiot," Joe whispered to himself, "I definitely got spider powers by the way I somehow see vibrations with my eyes closed, can hear the tiniest and farthest away things possible, can somehow understand spiders, and almost blew a hole in a wall by barely trying to throw something. The thing that gets me is," He says as he walks over to the far wall and presses his hand against it, "How the fuck did I get them from a car crash?"
His hands pull away as he tugs them. He frowns. He tries again, he puts his hands back on the wall. Tug. Nothing. He looks at his palms. "Seriously?" he mumbled. 'There was no way I was going to be the spider hero that couldn't stick to walls. Maybe more pressure?"
Hands back on the wall, and he pushed harder.
Still nothing.
He stared at his palm like it betrayed him, then tried a few more things—scraping his fingertips down the drywall like a cartoon cat, slapping the wall like he was mad at it, and even thought of licking it at one point out of pure desperation.
"Nope. That's just gross."
He sighed, pacing around. "Come on, what the fuck am I doing wrong, or maybe it's the way I got these powers, some shit I get, some I don't? I'm really gona have to find out how I got this shit." He stopped pacing and looked at the spider in the corner of his room, and sighed. "One more time." Slowly, placing both hands on the wall, he breathed in, and then he breathed out, before tugging. His hands didn't move. He tried again, same result, it came to the point where he tried and tried again, to no avail, but all Joe had was a massive smile on his face. "Oh, thank God," He whispered triumphantly and in relief. But of course, this wasn't enough for him. And so hesitantly, he raised a knee and placed it on the wall. A tug, no dice. His smile got bigger. This time, he got nervous as he slowly lifted his remaining limb connected to the ground and watched in fascination as it floated off the ground. He placed his other knee on the wall, and there he was, a kid voluntarily stuck to a wall.
"This is the coolest shit ever," He elatedly said.
And then it happened. Parker Luck came in and said, "Hi," again.
His grip failed.
THUD.
He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes/
"...ow," he groaned, as he lay on the floor, face up at the ceiling, and then he realized… that didn't really hurt at all, he just said it because it was customary to say such a thing, but if that didn't hurt, then…"Super Durability. Fuck. Yes."
Still, the fact that he was stuck to the wall for a little while was awesome.
After a few more "controlled tests"—which mostly involved him falling off of increasingly taller surfaces in increasingly awkward poses—he lay back on the floor, panting but grinning.
As he stood back up, he caught his reflection in the mirror on the back of his door and stopped cold. He didn't notice it until now, but His jawline looked sharper. He took off his shirt, and yes, his muscles were fuller. His skin was also clearer than it had ever been. His biceps flexed as he turned. His arms looked bigger than they did last time he looked at them pre-coma.
A string was plucked, and he turned his head to the upper corner of his room, where the small spider was on its web.
"What?" He asked. The spider plucked a web string again, and the words "strange spider" came to his mind. Joe chuckled, "Yeah, I sort of am." Spider did some more plucking.
No, make a web you. "You're the second spider to call me webless… though you said it nicer, for that, I won't kill you." It plucked at its web again, though this time, the message that came to his mind was very different. It wasn't words that came through, but emotions. He suddenly felt… content, happier, and— "Did you just use your pheromones on me?" The feeling continued, "Okay, listen, lady, you and I," He pointed between them, "Would never work that way." The message that came across next was sadness, and honestly, he couldn't help but feel bad, so he started thinking.
The first thing that came to mind was the very thing he was told he didn't have. Webs, and just thinking about it made him feel happy, something Joe couldn't explain why. Why would the thought of creating webs make him happy? he couldn't even naturally do it, and suddenly, depression hits him. "Woah," The sudden change of emotion forced Joe to plop down on his bed. "This is weird," He told the only living thing in his room besides him, "It's like my body has it has its mind when it comes to webs."
Natural, the spider sent.
"Not for me, I don't have silk glands or a spinneret, I can't make silk from the inside," He explained, but as he did, a sudden realization came to him. 'But I could make it from the outside. Fuck me, I'm an idiot, why did it take me so long to think of it? Jesus, I'm off my rocker, I should go to sleep.'
But of course he didn't, instead he went over to his desk and grabbed his chemistry book, then sat back on his desk. "Okay, here's what you are going to do if you want me to keep you around: I'm going to read you some things, and explain what they are, and you're going to tell me if it would help me make outside silk. Got it?" He pointed to the spider. He felt joyful. "Good."
And so that is what they did. He read out compounds, molecules, etc, and depending on what the spider, whom Joe named Shelob, said it was needed or not, he wrote it down in his notebook. They did that for three hours, until Joe got tired of reading and writing and just wanted his brain to shut off for a moment. He bade Shelob goodnight as he fell asleep. His last conscious thought was how he had just found out he could see in the dark.
In the morning, Joe was sitting at the kitchen table, eyes flicking between old newspaper headlines about the things he missed and the comfortable, quiet motions of his parents making breakfast.
Joe's father, Ben, was at the stove, spatula in one hand, flipping eggs like a pro. His mother, May, sat opposite Joe, watching him with soft eyes. She looked at him as if he wasn't real, the fact that he was awake and miraculously fine.
"You sure you're okay?" May asked for the fifth time that morning.
Joe gave her a small, patient smile. "Yes, momma, I'm fine, are you okay?" He asked as he put the newspaper down.
"No, yeah, Of course I'm fine, you know how I am," She motioned with her hand frantically.
Ben chuckled from the stove. "Just give her a moment, champ, eventually she's going to remember that I'm the one making breakfast."
"Yeah, like your father said, I'll remember—" May started to agree until she finally caught up to what her husband said, instantly standing up and facing him, "What the shit! Get away from their Benjamin Franklin or I swear to God," She started as she walked over and took over making breakfast as she was shooed away her chuckling partner who made to sit where she used to, Joe chuckled along with him. Ben Parker worked a blue-collar job as a textile worker, making fabrics and clothing, and usually came home tired. Doesn't help that he suffers from back problems from his time as a Military man. A veteran, Ben is, that's why May doesn't let him near the kitchen, she jokes it's because he might burn the house down for being too tired to remember to turn the stove off, but really it's for him to take a chance to rest his back from standing.
That's why Joe really couldn't fault his mother for her reactions and behaviors, she was the one who took care of them the most, a growing boy and a decomposing husband. 'Good thing I said that in my head,' Joe mused. He remembered those first few years of life, where it was only the two of them, His mom and him, together with the occasional visit from his father when he got back. Though that only lasted four years, when Ben was honorably discharged as he was shot in the back by an ambush. Bullet fractured a vertebra, and though he eventually recovered, it still took a toll on him, especially as he aged.
May eventually finished cooking and served everyone a plate, and the three of them ate in enjoyable silence. Joe glanced toward the window. The city moved out there, so much noise and life out there, same as always—but he wasn't the same anymore.
"I think I want to go back to school," he said suddenly after he swallowed a bite of his breakfast.
Both his parents turned to him.
"Tomorrow?" Ben asked.
"No. Day after. I wanna spend a day with you guys first," He reassured as he saw the anxious looks they had.
His parents exchanged a glance—one of those long, wordless conversations only couples could have—and then nodded.
"Alright," Ben said softly, "That's fine, if that's what you want."
Two days later, Joe stepped off the school bus into Midtown High like he hadn't just spent the eight months in a coma, and instead, a very long nap..
He wore a hoodie, jeans, and a backpack that felt weirdly light compared to what it used to be, but considering his newfound strength, it made sense.
Whispers followed him like a shadow. People stared, pointed, though he didn't pay any mind. He just went straight to the main office, where the receptionist, a middle-aged lady, typed away on her computer. As soon as Joe got close, she turned to him, and in seeing him, her eyes widened. "Mr. Parker, Oh my Gosh, it's so good to see you again. Look at you, wow. We heard about what happened. Let me tell you, young man, you did a very brave thing, you're a hero," She gushed.
Joe smiled and gave a tiny bow, "Thank you, ma'am. I'm here to talk to Principal Closeman. Is she available?"
"Let me go and check for you, alright hon? Why don't you take a seat?" She said as she got up from her chair and turned a corner to make her way to the principal. Joe took a seat near the door and closed his eyes, and in doing so, saw the now blue shaded receptionist walking her way to a white shaded woman, the principal, talking on the phone. He hears and watches as the receptionist knocks on the principal's door, pokes her head in, and mentions him. He watches the principal hang up and follow the receptionist. He opens his eyes just as both women turn the corner.
"Mr. Parker? It's so lovely to see your face again, let's go talk in my office. Hm?" She motions with her arm towards the said office.
Joe gets up and walks right behind her, "It's good to see you too, Mrs. Closeman. How's everything?"
"Thank you for asking. It's been good, starting another school year and whatnot," Mrs. Closeman responds as she opens her office door and lets them both in, then she moves to her chair while gesturing to the chair across from it, "Please have a seat." Joe takes a look and watches her type away at her computer with many clicks from her mouse. "Okay, so, when I talked to you and your parent's yesterday over the phone, we ran over how your grades were looking like from your freshman year and of course the earlier part of your sophomore year and it's been known that if you hadn't suffered your traumatic event, you would have been finished well, with good marks, you're an A grade student, you participate, your well regarded by your teachers, you're a great contribution to our sport teams. And so, after mulling it over, I decided to do you a favor, consider a gift for a hometown hero, m'kay?"
"What's the favor, ma'am?" Joe asked.
"The favor is that I'm not going to make you redo your sophomore year, since you did complete half of it, and so you're going to be a junior, and I'm going to give you the credits and high grades that you missed for that later part of last school year, so that you're on par with your classmates. But don't be mistaken, Mr. Parker, you are at a disadvantage. Hence, as unfortunate as it is for our school spirit and sports team, I wouldn't recommend joining any teams and focusing only on catching up on your studies, but if you do, know that you are taking a risk and time away from study time. There will be no more chances or favors from me, are we clear? Mrs. Closeman told him seriously.
"Yes ma'am, thank you so much," 'Well, if you look at that, almost dying does come in handy.'
"You're welcome, Mr.Parker. Here are your classes," She hands over a paper with teacher names and subjects. As he reads over them, the school bell rings, which makes him flinch and shake his head to see whether it's out of the intensity. "Well, there's the bell, have a great day in school, Mr. Parker, and welcome back."
Joe stands up and makes his way out of the office, "You too, and thank you." He walks out of the main office with a quick goodbye to the receptionist, and makes his way to his first period,
though as any teenager, he looked forward to his last period, which so happens to be Chemistry, sort of perfect for what he had planned.
Hours later, he was finally in his Chemistry class, and as he did with his other classes, he looked around. He saw posters of the periodic table, a model of a carbon molecule spinning slowly above the teacher's, Mr. Bosnich's, desk, and the faint smell of burnt copper. Joe went over and sat near the back where the storage cabinets were, and as the school bell rang for the semi-finale time, and all his other class mates were seated, Mr. Bosnich began to talk and do the same thing all his other teachers did, they singled him out from the start to let the other's know that he's back and also starting the school year a few days late, to make him feel welcome, the whole nine.
When it came down to taking notes from what was written on the whiteboard, that's when Joe decided to act. When everyone turned to write notes, he quietly reached into the storage cabinet behind him. Just a few drops here. A pinch of that there. He tucked a sealed vial and a few sample tubes into his hoodie pocket.
"Chemistry heist," he whispered to himself, trying not to grin, but then he felt eyes on him, and he quickly turned his head towards it, being met with the gaze of a pale, black haired girl. He didn't know what to do, so he just gave her a wink and a roguish grin. The Girl blushed and looked down at her notebook. He chuckled. 'Well, that's one way to do it,' Joe thought.
That night, his room became a lab.
Textbooks opened like bibles. Pages covered in scribbles. His hands moved quickly, mixing things in jars, testing consistency, and reworking formulas.
Trial.
Then error.
Fizz.
Pop.
Pffftt.
One mixture exploded in foam. Another hardened into rock. A third burned a hole through his sock.
He coughed through the fumes, waving his hand.
"I am going to die making silly string," he groaned, "Ah," He pointed at Shelob, "Don't you dare," he threatened when he saw her about to pluck at a web string.
He went back to work, even if he kept failing. He kept going.
And going.
And going.
By 3:24 AM, his fingers were stained, his eyebrows slightly singed, and his carpet was never going to be the same.
He fell back onto his bed, arms outstretched, eyes staring at the ceiling.
"I will get this," he whispered. "Just... not tonight."
The next morning, Joe returned to Midtown running on four hours of sleep and caffeine stolen from his dad's thermos. His hair was a mess, his hoodie smelled faintly of burnt plastic, and he was dangerously close to snapping if anyone said "good morning" too cheerfully.
He trudged into Chemistry class, eyes bloodshot, but his brain was locked in.
Mr. Bosnich was already writing polymer chains on the whiteboard when Joe slid into his seat.
He waited until the lecture wound down before raising his hand.
"Yes, Josiah?" Mr. Harrington looked pleasantly surprised.
"Yeah, uh… quick question. Hypothetically, if someone wanted to create a highly elastic, semi-adhesive compound with tensile strength rivaling steel but capable of degrading after, say, two hours… what kind of base compounds would you recommend?"
The room went silent.
Mr. Bosnich blinked. "Are you... applying to MIT, or plotting supervillainy?"
Joe grinned. Science fair. Big one. Hypothetical."
"Hm," Mr. Bosnich muttered, turning to the whiteboard. "In that case, you'd want a urethane base or a siloxane variant for elasticity, combined with a fast-setting ester cross-linker. But be careful with anything using ethyl cyanoacrylate. That's superglue—you'd end up stuck to your own shoes."
Joe scribbled furiously. "Got it. Thanks!"
He ignored the sideways glances from the girl, her name being Jessica something, she kept giving him as he stuffed his notes into his bag and practically bolted the second the bell rang.
That night, the lab (aka his bedroom) was back in full swing.
The Parker Formula.
He measured more carefully this time. Kept his gloves on. Even wore goggles. It felt like he was trying to invent a new kind of magic.
He poured, stirred, and synthesized.
His first batch snapped like brittle candy. The second stuck to his fingers and wouldn't come off—he had to shave the hair off the back of his hand.
Finally, around midnight, he squinted at the vial of translucent goo in his hand. It was slightly stretchy. Springy. Didn't snap.
He pulled a string of it between his fingers and let it go—it shot forward and slapped against the wall with a satisfying smack, sticking firmly.
He tugged it. It held.
"…No way."
He grabbed a chair and tried again, firing a thin strand from his spoon. It wrapped around the chair leg and held strong.
Joe jumped to his feet, fist-pumping. "Fuck yes, Fuckity fuck yes!" He yelled in a hushed voice in pure joy, happiness, and relief. So many emotions, all of them good ones.
He looked at the sticky line, grinning widely.
Then he froze.
"Oh no," he whispered.
He looked down at the goo.
Then at the test tube.
Then at his palms.
"…I don't have web shooters."
There was a long, painful beat.
Then he flopped backward onto his bed, face in his pillow.
"Why am I like this?!" Joe cried.
The next day, Joe sat in the school cafeteria, eyeing the person he'd been watching for the last fifteen minutes.
Trevor Liang.
Glasses, a mechanical pencil behind his ear, and fingers moving fast on a tablet that looked like it had more stickers than screen. Trevor was an engineering prodigy—the kind of kid who built RC helicopters in elementary school and now 3D printed his own drone parts.
Joe approached his table, tray in hand.
"Hey, Trevor."
Trevor glanced up, slightly startled. "Coma, dude, Joe, right?"
"Yeah. Mind if I sit?"
Trevor gestured to the chair across from him. "Go ahead. What's up?"
Joe leaned in, trying to sound casual. "I've got… a design I need help with. Small mechanical project. Totally theoretical."
Trevor's eyes lit up. "What kind of project?"
Joe pulled out his sketchbook and flipped to a blank page. He began drawing quickly, sketching the shape of a wrist-mounted device with a nozzle, pressure valve, and trigger hidden in the palm area.
"I need this to shoot a quick-deploy adhesive compound. It needs to be pressurized, refillable, and triggered through wrist motion—something like double-tapping your fingers together."
Trevor stared at the sketch. "And… what are you going to use it for?" Trevor asked.
"Rock climbing," Joe blurted. "My uncle's into that stuff, and I already made the material for the strings, but I'm not that good at the mechanical tech stuff, and I've wanted to try something new, you know, impress him a little."
Trevor raised an eyebrow. He didn't seem convinced.
"Look, just—How much is it going to cost you to buy the materials, and make it while doing a video?"
Trevor stared at him, then grinned. "300,"
Joe blinked.
Trevor shrugged, "Getting the materials in mind is going to be costly, plus my time, and since you want a video, it's going to cost me a hard drive to give.
Joe mulled something over with a shaky head, before he leaned closer, dropping his voice. "One condition: you don't tell anyone. Not your friends, not your family, not even your cat, and I'll give you 350. Deal?"
Trevor shook it with both hands. "Deal. You will not be disappointed."
The next morning, Joe found a USB drive and a box in his locker. Inside was a sleek pair of wristbands, rough but functional. Light. Tight. And they locked snugly into place.
He popped in the drive on his home laptop later that night—Trevor had included a full video breakdown, animation, and even a bonus tutorial on "cool poses for firing."
Joe just stared at the screen, grinning.
"I owe that nerd everything."
He carefully loaded the now-finished web fluid cartridges into each shooter, clipped the mechanisms to his wrists, and stood before his bedroom window.
His fingers hovered over the latch.
Time for the first swing.
Joe stared out the window of his bedroom, eyes scanning the empty streets below. His fingers drummed anxiously on the windowsill.
This was it.
With a soft thwick, he popped the window open. Cool night air spilled into the room, brushing his face like a challenge.
He strapped on the web shooters, double-checked the cartridges, and whispered, "Alright, Spidey-wannabe. Don't screw this up."
He stepped onto the fire escape of his family's apartment in Queens and climbed to the roof. The city buzzed beneath him—distant honks, flashing lights, the endless hum of New York.
Joe took a deep breath, ran toward the edge—
—and froze.
"Jesus Christ, I'm actually fucking doing this. Alright fuck it, let's go. Parker Luck, fuck off for a second please."
He aimed upward at the corner of the next building and fired.
THWIP!
The web stuck.
He gripped the line with both hands and tugged. It held.
"Alright. This is it," He said to himself, and with a quick prayer, he jumped.
The swing lasted maybe three seconds.
Then—
SMACK!
He hit the side of a building face-first, pancaked, and stuck.
"Ughhh… Shit."
He peeled himself off like a sticker and landed on a fire escape with a clank. "Okay, so... note to self: don't swing like a drunk Tarzan."
He tried again. And again. Each time was slightly better than the last.
He remembered how Spider-Man used to do it in those cartoons—arcs, pendulum motion, letting go at the peak.
Physics. Timing.
Eventually, he started getting the hang of it. The pendulum arcs smoothed out. His release points improved. He looped between buildings, flipping over streets, laughing like a madman. He let out a triumphant yell as he flew past neon signs and startled pigeons.
"WHOOOO! YES! THIS IS—"
THWIP–THWIP!
Swing. Release. Swing. Release. It was like flying, but faster, more chaotic. More of him.
Hours passed. He didn't even feel the cold anymore.
But then—click.
Nothing came out.
Joe looked down.
"Oh fuck me."
He was mid-air.
Cartridges empty.
"No, no, no—!"
He plummeted.
Wind roared in his ears. He reached out, desperate. At the last second, his palm slapped a glass wall of a skyscraper. It burned, but he stuck, skidding down the side before finally stopping with a heavy THUD.
He groaned. "Uggghhhh. My everything…"
The vertigo hit him like a freight train. He dry-heaved, dizzied, and was shaking, clinging to the wall like his life depended on it, because it kind of did.
When he could finally breathe again, he crawled downward, breathing ragged, vision swimming.
He touched the sidewalk like it was holy ground.
Then staggered his way home in the early hours of the morning, exhausted, sore, and completely exhilarated.
He collapsed onto his bed with a groan.
"I need... so many more cartridges."
The next night, after catching up on sleep and scarfing down three servings of his mother's dinner like a black hole in a hoodie, Joe stood behind the school building. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the parking lot bathed in yellow-orange lamplight.
Rows of parked school buses slept peacefully, a whole fleet of Type C iron whales.
Joe walked up to one and put his hand against the cool metal.
He didn't know why this idea stuck in his head. Maybe it was watching The Incredibles when he was six, seeing Mr. Incredible lift train cars in the dark.
Maybe it was because he needed a way to understand himself.
"Alright, Bob Parr style," he muttered.
He took a deep breath. Got low. Slipped his fingers beneath the side of the bus.
And heaved.
For a moment, it didn't budge. His sneakers scraped against the pavement.
Then, with a groan of protest, the bus lifted.
Joe's eyes widened. It was like raising a garage door... except it weighed thousands of pounds.
He held it for five seconds. Ten. Then gently eased it back down.
He stepped away, chest heaving. "I just lifted a school bus."
The next few nights became a ritual. Midnight workouts in the back lot using the buses available, bench pressing them, using them for squats, running around the field of buses, etc. Alone. Unseen.
It wasn't just about power. It was about control. Understanding. Preparing.
He was becoming something. Not Spider-Man. Not yet.
But something close.
September 6th, 2001
The sky was clear. The air smelled like roasted pretzels and car exhaust. Joe sat at a small sidewalk table in Manhattan with Mary and Richard Parker outside a quiet restaurant tucked near the East River. Peter was back with Joe's parents.
It was warm. Peaceful. Rare.
His aunt sipped her wine, smiling softly. His uncle cut into his steak, eyes on Joe.
"You've changed, kid," Richard said, finally. "And I don't just mean the coma. You've got that... Parker intensity now."
Joe chuckled. "Parker intensity?"
Mary chuckled along with him, giving her husband an eye roll, "What he means now is that you're more driven, more so than you were before, and we liked that about you, instead of it being wild like a horricane, it's more centered, focused, as if you were preparing for something?" She glanced at her husband, then back at him.
Joe focused on not giving a reaction. 'How the fuck did I forget they were fucking ninja spies and can't tell shit aint right by a glance.'
"Thanks," he said, before a pit in his stomach formed, and he just had to ask, "So... the mission. You really have to go, can't you, you know, call sick?"
Richard nodded slowly. "Sorry, sport, we can't. What we're doing is... really important. It's... complicated. But yeah. Probably gone for a few weeks. Maybe longer."
Joe tried not to let the dread show. "Promise you'll do anything to come back?" 'I don't want you both to die, not now, not when I can stop it… Maybe I can stop it. Delay their flight somehow. Yeah, that works, fuck the CIA, they ain't worth sacrficing my family for.'
Mary smiled and touched his hand. "Always."
They raised their glasses—well, Joe raised his soda—and toasted to something vague and warm. Family. Strength. Second chances.
Laughter drifted into the streets.
Then—
A soft crack echoed in the distance.
Mary's head jerked.
Red sprayed across the table.
She collapsed.
Joe didn't understand. One second, she was there. The next, not.
Richard barely had time to shout before another crack tore through the air. He fell backward, the chair clattering beneath him. Blood pooled at his side.
Joe stared, unmoving. The whole world froze.
People screamed. Chaos erupted.
But Joe's eyes were locked as he traced where the bullets came from.
High above, on the far side of the street, perched on a fire escape... stood a man.
Black tactical gear. A rifle. A metallic arm that caught the light.
The Winter Soldier.
Their eyes met, even from hundreds of feet away.
Joe felt his heartbeat surge. Something deep inside him twisted. Rage. Grief. And a terrifying focus.
He blinked—and the sniper was gone.
Vanished into the shadows.
Joe dropped to his knees between the bodies of his aunt and uncle, covered in blood, too shocked to cry.
Only one thought pulsed in his mind:
'I was useless…'
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hoped you enjoyed that ending lol. im trying to follow a bit of spiderman lore stuff. yknow, how every parker watches their aunt or uncle die in front of them. Joe can't do that if his CIA relatives are on a plane or in another country.