I'm actually so sorry it took this long, but I do have a good and legitimate reasons. 2 in fact. 1, I was doing a shit tok of research, had to download spiderman 2 on my slow ass ps5 that took a day to be playable. Had to calculate some of Peter's in-game feats and shit. Then also I had to work out some of the planning and ideas I have for this fic, what I wanted to include. So yeah, planning and research.
And 2... blame my adhd. I swear just as I was about to start writing, I got hooked on Harry Potter and in the back of my mind I can't stop thinking about either doing a OC SI son of charlus potter and dorea potter, or a Sonny Corleone Transmigration into said son of Charlus. Anyway, that's not going to happen until this fic is either mote established or finish, but that idea is on the backburner for now.
Anyways, with this out of the way. Please enjoy.
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September 9th, 2001
The rain fell with deliberate cruelty, soaking the black umbrellas that dotted the cemetery like wilted flowers. Joe stood still, unmoving, as the priest's words blurred into the dull thrum of water on fabric. The twin caskets—mahogany and polished to a tragic shine—sat on metal braces above two yawning holes in the earth. Mary and Richard Parker, both gone.
He should have been crying. He wanted to. But the tears felt stuck, strangled somewhere deep in his chest, like a spider caught in its own web.
His parents stood beside him, hands clasped tightly. He could feel his mother trembling slightly, and his father's stoic jaw clenched hard. The rest of the mourners were a blur—agents from the CIA, old friends from childhood that knew the Parkers fro. Way back when, and a man wearing an eye patch at the edge of the crowd with his single eye hidden under his trademark patch.
Joe, if he paid a bit more attention, and if his mind was a little clear would've had known who that was, but all he could focus on was the quiet. The unbearable quiet in his heart.
When the caskets were lowered, he took a step forward, ignoring the mud that suctioned to his dress shoes. He looked down into the graves, his fists clenched in his coat pockets.
'I'm sorry,' he thought. 'I should've seen it coming. I should've done something.'
Back at home, the house was quiet—too quiet. Joe's room had become a sanctuary and a prison all at once. He shut the door, shutting out the world, collapsing onto his bed.
Staring at the ceiling, he relived every moment he could remember from the past few days. Everything stumbled so fast.
The ambulances, the questions from the detectives, the lawyers for his relative's wills, too many things were happening too fast. Way too fast. Maybe that's how things were when you died as a CIA agent. No one really gets time to mourn, they just speed everything up and get it out the way. As if they were nothing. Expendable despite knowing that they, his family, his Uncle and Aunt, a pair of badasses, were anything but.
The more he thought, the more he remembered that afterafternoon. And the more he thought, the heavier the guilt became.
He should have seen it coming. He should have been more aware. More cautious. More... anything to prevent such gruesome act against his kin.
But instead, his senses, so sharp, so on point with the vibrations around him, couldn't feel as bullets soared through the sky and into his... because he didn't think that day was going to be eventful. Not worrying, not something to be always prepared for. Acting as if everything was always going to be okay, when he knew, he fucking knew it wasn't.
How had he missed the danger lurking so close? The idea that maybe he could have stopped it—if only he wasn't so fucking blinded and focus on one particular fucking date and only saw the future and instead lived in the moment, in the present.
He hated himself for not taking things into account. For being naive.
For being powerless.
The tears came then, hot and sudden, breaking down the walls he'd built. They streamed silently as he curled into a ball on his bed, a floodgate finally opening after days of numbness.
The sounds of the city outside continued—distant sirens, honking cars, the faint murmur of life carrying on as if nothing had changed.
But for Joe, everything had.
The night stretched long and endless. Sleep was elusive, and when it came, it was restless and full of nightmares—shadowed images of gunfire, bodies with blood pouring out. A man with a metal arm.
He woke in the dark, heart pounding, sweat chilling his skin.
In the morning, the sun fought to pierce the clouds, but Joe barely noticed.
He didn't want to face the world. Didn't want to explain how his life had suddenly shattered.
But he knew one thing for certain:
He couldn't stay broken forever.
If only it was easy to put himself back together.
---
September 10, 2001
The final bell rang, echoing through the crowded hallways of Midtown High like a relief valve releasing pent-up energy. Students surged toward lockers, chattering and laughing, eager to be free for the day. But Joe stayed put, slouching against the cool metal of his locker, eyes half-lidded, mind spinning.
He'd been back at school for two days now—enough to realize that nothing felt normal. The hallways weren't just corridors anymore; they felt like walls closing in, suffocating. Everyone's eyes sometimes flicked toward him with a mix of awe and curiosity, whispers trailing in his wake about the "kid who almost got shot" and "first the coma, and now this." The spotlight was on him, whether he wanted it or not.
Joe just wanted to disappear.
The last period dragged, and finally, the bell signaling the end of the day rang again. Students poured out into the buzzing courtyard, their voices rising in a crescendo of teenage freedom. Joe grabbed his backpack and headed for the exit, expecting to go home, to retreat to the silence of his room.
But halfway down the block towards the bus stop, something pulled at him—a restless urge to escape the weight of his thoughts. Instead of going inside the awaiting bus, he veered left, onto quieter streets he didn't usually explore.
The city buzzed with life, but to Joe, it felt distant. Cars honked, street vendors called out their wares, and kids laughed on the corner, but it all felt muted, like watching a movie through a foggy lens.
He walked for about twenty minutes, his footsteps echoing against the cracked sidewalks. The cool spring air brushed past him, tangling in his dark hair. His mind drifted in and out of focus—memories of the past week, the funeral, the pain, the rage.
Then, the unmistakable sound of a car engine idling nearby pulled him from his thoughts.
A black limousine rolled to a stop beside him, tinted windows glinting ominously in the late afternoon light. The driver's side window rolled down with a slow mechanical hiss.
"Josiah Parker?," a low, gravelly voice said from the driver's seat.
Joe froze. "Who's asking?" he said cautiously, backing up a step.
"Get in the car," the man said, voice sharp, unyielding.
Joe's mouth twitched, a mixture of defiance and nervousness. "Uh, no thanks. Stranger danger, you know?"
The man smiled thinly but said nothing.
Then the back window rolled down, revealing an older man with piercing dark eyes and a trimmed silver beard. He wore an expensive tailored suit, the kind that made clear he was used to power and respect.
"Get in kid," the well-dressed man said, his voice calm but authoritative, "I just want to talk."
Joe blinked, heart pounding. The air between them thickened with unspoken threat and something else—a strange kind of respect.
Swallowing hard, Joe nodded slowly and slid into the back seat.
The leather smelled of expensive cologne and power.
"So," the man began, folding his hands, "Hasn't been a good few days for you, hasn't kid? You have my condolences, nasty thing that happened."
Joe clenched his jaw as he hummed in response, looking out the window as the car drove.
"I personally never liked Feds, too pesky, too annoying, too disruptive with my buisnesses yet they deserve my respect, for in my way of life, they aren't my enemies, they're just my rivals. And while the death of government agents wouldn't be something I would think twice about as it usually never concerns me, this particular tragedy does."
Joe turned and faced the older man, who he guessed must be a Mob Boss for the way he talked, didn't help that he looked Italian, and had the accent. "Why?" He asked.
The man smiled, his face crinkled in age as he did so. "You were in a coma, asleep for many months after a brave and courageous act of saving a child, a girl, to be exact, from her cluelessness and recklessness that all children have at their young age. Well that girl was mia tessoro, my granddaughter. And you saved her. You put your life over your own for her, and that is something my family will never forget." He said, his voice cracking at the end, and yet he seemed unbothered by the show of vulnerability.
Joe's breath caught. 'Holy Shit,' He thought.
"I was going to pay for your hospital expenses," The man continued as if his eyes didn't seem to glazed a few seconds ago, "but then they were already taken care of, and so I waited, I had my men keeping an eye on you, from afar, keeping you and yours safe as my gratitude for what you did."
Joe's eyes widened at the confession, and the self loathing he had in his heart burned in fury, another thing he was shit at. There was people straight up spying on him and he didn't know squat, he was too busy thinking everything was a silly joyride because he so happened to be reborn in a fictional comic book inspired world.
"Unfortunately, what happened a few days ago happened, my men were lacking," 'So was I,' Joe thought, "And the deaths of your relatives couldn't have been prevented. I am ashamed of my failure, for that was what it was. And so I am here for two things. One, to beg for your forgiveness at the oversight and failure, and two, to offer you and yours protection from the rest of the Maggia. Under my protection, no one in the state of New York and New Jersey will touch you and yours ever again, and if they do so, may God have mercy on their souls, for I won't," Moretti said seriously.
Joe stared at the man. The weight of the promise hung in the air, heavy and strange.
"Think of it as if all of you were made men hm. No one can touch you. But, the same applies if you get into trouble with actual made men. You can't touch them, you just can't. If you have problem with someone who is, you talk to me. I have a restaurant in Brooklyn called Marengo, you ask for Luichi Palomo, you tell him who you are and what's your problem, and I'll handle it. Capishe?"
"Yes sir. Thank you," Joe said sincerely, still somewhat disoriented with all the information given to him.
"Good kid," the man gave him affection cheek taps as they smiled at him.
"We're here." The driver announced and Joe looked out the window and saw that they were at his house.
"Alright kid, here's your stop. Remember, Brooklyn, Marengo, Luichi Palomo. I'll be the garbage cleaner while you be prince charming. Hm."
"Uh, Yeah, you got it," Joe responded as he opened the door to get out the car, but then as he was about to close the door, he paused as he just realized something. "I'm sorry, what was your name Mr.?"
The man smile, "Call me Don Fortunato, kid. Have a good day."
"You too Mr. Fortune?" Joe said with a wink.
The Don laughed, "I like you kid. Now close the door, it's getting drafty in here," and so Joe and he watched the limo disappear into the traffic, the hum of the city returning like a distant thunder.
Joe stood there for a minute before the realization kicked in. "Holy shit, I just talked to a fucking Mob Boss. I joked with a Mob boss. I got a driven home by a Mob Boss. I'm unoffically apart of the mafia, or wait, how did he say it? The Maggia? Holy shit," Joe whispered to himself on and on, even as he entered his home and went to his room.
Eventually Joe calmed down as he closed his room door and leaned against it, closing his eyes.
The conversation replayed in his mind, stirring a mix of confusion, curiosity, and something else—hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, things could actually get better, things could change. Fates and lives could change. While terrifying at first, the appeal of saving his father's life from his fate is comforting, and possible now with the protection a Ben Parker never had before.
Maybe now it was time to stop doubting, stop hiding.
He thought about Dom Fortunato, his words, and the Don's granddaughter. Just saving one life had already placed him in this strange new world of power and respect.
'If saving one life earned me that sort of favor,' he thought, 'what would saving dozens earn me? Hundreds?'
Fame. Respect. Power.
He didn't always crave glory, not exactly. But after spending, of what he could slightly remember of of his former life, overlooked, underestimated, maybe part of him did long to be seen. To matter. More than he already did now as a semi popular highschooler.
And if he was going to matter—really matter—he needed more than web fluid and half-baked physics skills.
He needed a suit.
Something durable, flexible, custom-fitted to who he was now—who he was becoming.
Joe pushed himself off his door, grabbed his backpack, and opened his wallet. A modest stash of cash—his savings from birthdays and odd jobs—rested between the folds.
"This'll do," Joe said as he went out of his room and out of his house.
Joe made his way through the Lower East Side, past dollar stores and bodega windows.
He made a mental checklist: fabric, gloves, light armor materials if he could find any, sewing gear, and maybe some tint-safe lenses.
His first stop was a small fabric store near Canal Street, open late and run by a grumpy old woman who barely glanced up as he entered.
Joe scoured the aisles, fingers brushing across different textures—nylon, spandex, neoprene. He paused at a rich royal blue roll, smooth and stretchy. He grabbed several yards of it.
Then came the red. Not firetruck red, but something deeper—like blood in moonlight.
His color palette was instinctual: blue as the primary color—strong and grounded. Red as a secondary, bold and sharp, like the risk he was now embracing. He threw in white trim and a bit of black for stealth and edge.
The woman rang him up without a word, her expression unreadable as Joe stuffed the bundles into his backpack.
Next, he visited a military surplus store a few blocks over. The guy at the counter didn't even blink when Joe asked for thin kevlar pads, "for a school project," he'd said with an awkward smile. The guy just shrugged and pointed to a dusty shelf.
Joe grabbed some fingerless tactical gloves, lightweight padding that could be sewn into the suit, and a few odds and ends—velcro straps, a pair of small UV goggles he could modify for eye lenses.
It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.
By the time he returned home, He heard that his parents were already inside, and so he wall crawled and entered his open window, placed everything inside, and went back out to enter the house from the front door.
He spent the day just talking, watching tv, and eating dinner with his parents and the new addition to the household, Peter, who like him, were still somber about the death of his relatives, especially with his father as Uncle Richard was his brother, Peter though, as he was practically still a newborn , acted nonchalant most cases.
Eventually he went to his room as it got dark.
Blue, red, white, black.
He stared at the pile for a long moment.
"Okay," he whispered. "Let's see what I can make out of this."
Joe wasn't a tailor, but after watching his father work with fabrics in person a few times, he felt that he could do an alright job.
He pulled out a sketchpad and started drawing—simple outlines at first, then details. A sleek body suit design, with reinforced shoulders and lightly padded forearms and shins. A deep blue base with black web lines running down the majority of his body. The red parts with black web lines would be his shoulders down to his hands, his waist, some parts of his legs and feet, and some on his ribs looking like as if they were gills.
For the chest, he paused. His hand hovered over the page before he slowly, deliberately, began to draw a spider, a different style to it, something completely original. Something...him.
When he was done, he admired it. He liked it, it felt right. He could feel something changing in him. The idea of putting on this suit wasn't just about hiding his identity. It was about stepping into one. Becoming something else.
Someone else.
Joe stood in front of the mirror, the mask in his hands.
He took a breath, heart thumping loud in his chest. Then, slowly, he pulled it over his head.
The lenses clicked into place, filtering the dim light of his bedroom. His reflection stared back at him—alien, powerful, and something else entirely. The boy who went into a coma wasn't the one looking back.
This version wore a suit made from scraps and surplus, but it felt like armor. Deep navy blue hugged his frame, a second skin forged from something more than fabric—sleek, flexible, layered with reinforced mesh and subtle plating that traced the lines of his muscles. The suit moved with him, silent and sure, every seam stitched with precision. Crimson carved through the dark—bold and angular—wrapping his shoulders, curling around his forearms, and slicing down his legs like lightning caught in motion. A stark white spider sprawled across his chest, its bottom legs framing his abs.
His mask bore no mouth, no voice—just those sharp, expressive eyes, white against the red, narrowed now in quiet focus. Black trim framed them, giving weight to every glance. When he stepped forward, he did so like a shadow split by neon—silent, swift, and impossible to ignore.
"Not bad," he murmured under the fabric. "Definitely cooler than pajamas."
He slid open the window and climbed onto the fire escape, stretching. The sun had just set—perfect time. The city was still alive, noisy as ever, and the sky above was splashed with indigo and amber streaks. His fingers flexed. He reached behind his wrist, pressed the button, and—
Thwip!
A line of web shot from his custom-made shooter, latching onto the side of a building. He grinned.
"Let's go."
Joe leapt off the fire escape and let gravity take him. Wind tore past his body as he dropped, then—FWOOM—the webline yanked him forward, launching him into a swing.
This time, it wasn't a disaster. Not like the first night.
No screaming. No crashing into fire escapes or smacking windows. He was still rough around the edges, sure, but he'd practiced. A lot. Late nights, abandoned rooftops, and alleyways. He still couldn't do those insane flips or thread through tight spaces like some circus acrobat, but he could move.
He arced above the street, legs tucked slightly, then released and shot another webline. The momentum sent him flying in a perfect curve, and he let out a low whistle as he zipped past a blinking billboard.
He wasn't just getting better—he was starting to enjoy it.
The rhythm of it all—thwip, pull, swing, release—became a dance. Joe coasted through the Lower East Side, weaving between buildings and over rooftops, his body fluid, his instincts sharpening with every swing. People down below couldn't see him clearly, just a blue-and-red blur flashing across the skyline.
He soared over a rooftop, flipped once, then stuck the landing on the edge of a tall office building. He crouched there, wind pushing against him, eyes scanning the lights below.
The city never stopped.
He hadn't either.
Not since the funeral. Not since the blood.
He closed his eyes behind the mask for just a second. The air smelled like rain and distant hot dogs. His chest rose and fell.
Saving that girl had gotten him in this mess. And yet… it also gave him something he couldn't walk away from now. The suit wasn't just about looks or even protection.
It was a promise.
A statement.
That he wasn't going to let fear, or guilt, or anything else keep him from doing what had to be done.
Joe rose to his feet, muscles tight with anticipation, and took another running start. He leapt—and the next swing was higher, longer, smoother.
He zipped between buildings, shot a web at a passing crane, swung wide over traffic, and let out a yell of exhilaration. The suit whipped against him, his lenses adjusting to the changing light, and for the first time, he felt not just like a kid with powers—
He felt like a hero in the making.
As he gained altitude, Joe realized he wasn't thinking about school or the funeral or the mob boss tonight. All that weight, that heaviness—it didn't vanish, but it shrank. The city was big enough to carry some of it for him.
A few miles into Manhattan, he perched atop a neon-lit billboard for a diner. He crouched there, panting, watching taxis and buses and people below as jazz music leaked from somewhere nearby.
He took off his mask for a second, letting the wind hit his face.
"I think I could get used to this," he whispered.
A voice crackled in his head—Richard's voice, calm and amused in a memory he had long forgotten he was speaking as he helped Joe up after he had laid him down with a sweep of his leg: 'The moment you get used to something like this is the moment it kills you.'
Joe smirked. "Alright, not used to it. Just… not crashing as much."
He put the mask back on.
Thwip!
And then he was off again, swinging across Manhattan, into the night like a silent comet of fire and feathers.
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The image for the suit is on my Deviantart account, "Mannyman13" made it with the help of Google images, pics art and a fuck ton of time.