Peter collected himself, opened the door, and went downstairs.
The faint aroma of wheat drifted through the dining room. Ben Parker sat at the table leafing through the morning paper, while Aunt May brought over the last plate of rye pancakes. Seeing him come downstairs, she immediately set the plate down and walked over, gently feeling his forehead.
"Good, your fever's gone. The doctor said you had an allergic reaction. You gave us such a fright," she fussed, pushing a glass of hot milk toward him. "Eat something first, then come over to Anna's with me. The girl just moved in, and she's shy. Help her settle in."
Peter pulled out a chair, sat down, and poked at the pancakes on his plate with a fork. The dry rye pancakes hardly looked appetizing. His mouth twitched, but he took a bite anyway-sure enough, they tasted like cardboard, just as he had imagined.
"Aunt May, did you find this recipe online?" he asked through a mouthful.
"Yes! It said they help clear out toxins. Just what you need right now." Aunt May smiled proudly.
Uncle Ben set down his newspaper beside them and couldn't help laughing. "You can't believe everything online. You're just putting the boy through unnecessary trouble."
The family chatted and laughed in a warm, cozy atmosphere. As Peter ate his pancakes, a little warmth spread through his heart.
So these were Peter Parker's family. Ordinary, unremarkable people, yet they gave him all their tenderness.
No wonder the original Peter had carried a lifetime of guilt over Uncle Ben's death. No one would want to lose a family like this. He silently made up his mind: whatever happened, he would protect this peaceful life.
Close to noon, Aunt May tidied up a little and took him across the street to the Watsons' house.
They had barely knocked and had the door opened when hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs. A red-haired girl rushed down two steps at a time, clutching a gray-and-white hair dryer and grumbling with a frown, "Aunt Anna, this hair dryer's broken again. I-"
She stopped midsentence, abruptly coming to a halt at the sight of Peter in the doorway.
The girl's hair was still wet, its dripping ends clinging to her fair neck. She wore a simple purple tank top and green shorts that left her slender arms and legs bare. Her emerald eyes were wide with a touch of flustered surprise.
It was Mary Jane Watson.
Unlike her glamorous presence on-screen, the girl before him had a fresh, youthful vitality, like a red rose still covered in dew.
Peter smiled. "Looks like I came at just the right time?"
Mary Jane's face instantly flushed scarlet.
Aunt May and Aunt Anna both paused, exchanging a glance and seeing the surprise in each other's eyes. The Peter they remembered was a bookworm who shyly lowered his head whenever he saw a girl. Since when had he started striking up conversations with girls so readily?
"You're Peter?" Mary Jane recovered first, smoothing the loose strands beside her ear as she asked with feigned composure.
"Peter Parker." Peter nodded, his gaze falling on the hair dryer in her hand. "Is that broken?"
"Yeah, it suddenly stopped running." Mary Jane handed it over with a hint of helplessness.
Peter took it, weighed it in his hand, and tapped the casing with his fingertips. A diagram of its internal structure instantly flashed through his mind. This was Peter Parker's innate mechanical talent, and now it belonged entirely to him.
"The motor burned out. Nothing serious." He looked up at Aunt Anna. "I'll buy a small motor from the hardware store. I can have it fixed in no time."
"Oh, I'm so sorry for the trouble, Peter." Delighted, Aunt Anna quickly urged Mary Jane upstairs to change. "Go get changed and go with Peter. You can keep each other company."
Once Mary Jane came downstairs in jeans and a hoodie, the two headed out side by side.
Afternoon sunlight spilled over the street, dappling it with the shadows of trees. Rather than acting as awkward as the original Peter, he took the initiative in making conversation. From schoolwork to recent movies, he was witty and talkative, occasionally slipping in a well-timed joke that kept Mary Jane laughing.
She had been a little reserved at first, but relaxed as they chatted, growing increasingly curious about Peter.
Aunt Anna had told her that Peter from across the street was a quiet, introverted top student. Yet the boy before her was composed and funny, his eyes seeming to hold a light. He was nothing like the bookworm she had heard about.
After buying the motor parts, they stopped at a small restaurant along the way for lunch. As they talked, the conversation drifted toward the recent news.
"Did you see the news? I think Iron Man's building an expo in Queens." Mary Jane rested her chin in her hand, a hint of longing in her eyes. "Honestly, I think superheroes are so cool. They have the power to protect people."
Peter took a sip of cola and shook his head at her words. "Cool, sure, but the price is steep. You live on a knife's edge every day. Win, and no one thanks you. Lose, and you're doomed beyond recovery."
He meant it. He had seen far too many heartbreaking Spider-Man stories and knew all too well that behind the glamour lay countless sacrifices and loneliness.
Mary Jane paused. She didn't argue, only saying softly, "But if everyone with power hides away, what are ordinary people supposed to do? They can't just wait for disasters to pass on their own."
Peter's fingers briefly stilled around his glass.
He looked at the girl's earnest profile, and something stirred inexplicably in his heart.
He said nothing more, merely lowering his head to take a couple of bites before discreetly changing the subject.
Over the next few days, Peter fully settled into "two-faced" mode.
By day, using his recovery as a pretext, he would find excuses to tutor Mary Jane or help her get familiar with the neighborhood, and their relationship quickly grew closer; at night, he plunged into the little basement laboratory.
He said he wouldn't be a hero, but his body was more honest than his mind.
Spider-Man's Web-Shooters were something almost every Marvel fan dreamed of having. Now that he had Peter's brilliant mind and laboratory facilities ready to use, the itch to make them himself was unbearable.
The web fluid formula was far more complicated than he had imagined.
It needed to solidify instantly on contact with air, possess great elasticity and load-bearing strength, and automatically degrade after a certain time without leaving a trace. Every parameter required precise adjustment. Drawing on the knowledge in his mind, Peter worked through the nights mixing reagents, failing again and again.
On the third night, he got the proportions wrong. The liquid in the test tube instantly boiled and splattered. Fortunately, his quick reflexes allowed him to dodge in time, sparing his face.
Blackened scorch marks spattered the wall. Looking at the messy workbench, Peter wasn't discouraged. Instead, his eyes lit up.
The reaction had been heading in the right direction. All it needed was one final adjustment to the proportions.
After another two sleepless nights, a faint sound finally came from the basement late on Friday.
Looking at the transparent liquid with its faint blue tint in the test tube, Peter took a deep breath, drew a drop into a dropper, and dripped it onto the workbench.
The moment the liquid touched air, it solidified visibly into a fine, tough white strand. He tugged it with tweezers, stretching it a long way. It was highly resilient, slowly springing back when he let go.
It worked.
The first-generation web fluid formula had been successfully calibrated.
Its load-bearing capacity approached 150 kilograms, and it lasted around twenty minutes. Though it couldn't compare with the perfect version in the original story, it was already good enough to use.
Peter exhaled in relief, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed between his brows.
Looking at the raw web fluid in the test tube, he grew a little distracted again.
He had gone to all this trouble to make it. Now what?
Was he really going to leave it gathering dust in a corner?
He shook his head, pushing those jumbled thoughts aside. He had already made it, so he might as well consider it satisfying a tech geek's obsession. At worst, he could use it for self-defense. There was no harm in that.
The next afternoon, Peter was studying two of Uncle Ben's old watches as he worked out the shooter's structure when the door suddenly burst open with a bang.
Mary Jane swept in, holding up two tickets and waving them excitedly. "Peter! Look what I got! Hamlet, at the Apollo Theater tonight. Amazing seats! Want to go?"
Peter looked up into her shining eyes, and that little bit of hesitation in his heart vanished instantly.
"Yes. Of course."
Uncle Ben and Aunt May initially worried about whether they could get home safely at night, but eventually gave in to their persistent coaxing.
Before they left, Uncle Ben pulled Peter aside, took out a hundred-dollar bill, pressed it into his hand, and patted his shoulder.
"Have fun, and make sure you treat her right." The older man smiled, his tone growing a little more solemn. "Remember, Peter, with great power comes great responsibility."
Peter clutched the bill, his heart suddenly tightening.
He had heard those words countless times, but coming from Uncle Ben's mouth, they carried a heavy weight.
He nodded without speaking.
The two boarded a train bound for Manhattan. Mary Jane was still excitedly talking about the theater company, but as Peter watched the streets race backward outside the window, a faint unease rose in his heart.
Manhattan, the Apollo Theater, Harlem...
A frightening thought suddenly shot into his mind.
At this point in time, were they about to run straight into that earth-shattering battle between Hulk and Abomination?