Peter slumped on a weathered bench, his frustration palpable as he buried his face in his hands.
"Fuck me," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I've got no luck. The Rand Dojo? Just owned by random people,. Nothing useful."
His fingers dragged down his face in exasperation. 'Who even said finding these guys was supposed to be easy?' He scoffed at his own naivety, the weight of his misguided optimism sinking in.
"How the hell do you even find them?" he muttered, exhaustion settling in. His thoughts wandered. 'Doctor Strange? Maybe... but where the hell is that street, anyway?'
He groaned, massaging his face with his left hand. 'I can't bring myself to ask F4 or Stark for help. Both of them are insufferable in their own ways.'
Leaning back on the bench, Peter let out a long, weary sigh, his eyes scanning the endless bustle of the city that seemed to mock his fruitless search.
"Am I destined to be miserable?" Peter mumbled, slumping further into the bench.
"Yes, you are," an old man quipped as he strolled by, his voice raspy yet oddly familiar.
Peter's head shot up. "The fuck?" His eyes widened in disbelief. "Was that—?" He bolted after the man, weaving through the crowd, but by the time he reached the corner, the old man had vanished without a trace.
'What the hell? Why was Stan Lee here just to roast me?' Peter thought, bewildered.
He stopped in his tracks, muttering under his breath, "Goddamn omnipotent beings." With a resigned glance at the sky, he clenched his fists. "You know what? Screw it. Let's focus on my tech and make some serious money."
Determined, Peter turned on his heel and headed home. His mind buzzed with ideas, his singular goal now clear: build, innovate, and profit. No distractions, no detours. It was time to get to work.
...
In the Jones household, Jessica sat at her desk, surrounded by a chaotic sea of scrap sketches and crumpled paper overflowing from the bin.
"This is ugly," she muttered, glaring at her latest attempt.
With a frustrated sigh, she crushed the paper in her hands and tossed it aside. Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes for a moment, thinking.
Then, a spark of inspiration struck her as she remembered the sleek, modern design of the Fantastic Four's suits, particularly the elegance of Invisible Woman's attire.
Jessica leaned forward, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper. "Let's try this again," she said softly to herself.
Pencil in her hand as she began sketching, her lines more deliberate this time, each stroke reflecting her vision for a suit.
Hours passed, and finally, she held up her creation with a smile. "This is it," Jessica whispered, feeling a surge of pride.
...
In the backyard of the Parker household, the once neat space had become a chaotic web-covered mess. Sticky, silken fluid strands, like a giant spider's lair, covered the ground and hung from the fence and table.
Peter, standing amid the mess, and he looked visibly annoyed as he examined the exploding web that he created.
"What did I do wrong?" he muttered, holding his chin thoughtfully.
Aunt May stepped outside, her eyes wide with shock. "Peter, what is all this?" she asked, gesturing to the sticky chaos around her.
Peter glanced over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Aunt May. It'll dissolve in about three hours," he said casually before turning back to his workbench, muttering ideas under his breath as he tried to solve the problem.
Aunt May frowned, arms crossed, ready to scold him for the mess. But seeing his intense focus, she sighed and shook her head. "Just... clean it up after," she said, retreating inside.
Peter barely heard her, too immersed in his thoughts. 'Maybe the ratio was off. Do I need a different catalyst?' he pondered.
As night settled over the Parker household, Peter slipped out, his hoodie drawn tight. At a dimly lit internet café, he scoured Reddit and MySpace, searching for clues about underground fight clubs.
After an hour of digging, he found a buried post with everything he needed—location, time, and prize money.
Grinning, Peter left the café, stopping briefly at a convenience store to buy a black balaclava. He pocketed it and headed toward the address, adrenaline surging with each step.
Peter sprinted toward the address, his breath steady despite the distance. It was farther than he'd expected—Glen Cove—but he still got there in 25 minutes.
'Ever since I became Peter, I've been running nonstop,' he thought, his legs barely feeling the strain anymore.
Upon arrival, Peter slipped on a balaclava, masking his face. He knocks on the worn wooden door.
"Password?" a gruff voice demanded from the other side.
"Apple Pie," Peter replied, his tone flat but confident.
The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit underground arena packed with a roaring crowd. People hollered, their cheers vibrating through the tight space as fighters clashed in the ring.
A man in a sharp suit intercepted Peter, his expression cold and calculating. "What's your business here?"
"I'm here to fight," Peter said without hesitation. "And I'll want to bet on myself."
The man's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him. "Raise your hands."
Peter complied, lifting his arms. The man patted him down, searching for weapons. He found nothing.
"Alright," the man finally said, stepping aside. "You're in."
Another man in a suit stepped forward, motioning for Peter to follow. "Come with me," he said curtly.
Peter trailed behind as they made their way to the back. The air grew heavier with each step, the muffled sounds of the crowd fading into a low hum.
"You're new, aren't you?" the man asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Yeah," Peter replied.
The man smirked. "Tonight's a gauntlet. The fights don't stop until every challenger is down. The longer you last, the more money you take home. But if you lose all the money that you make goes to the drain"
Peter nodded silently, his mind already focused on the upcoming battles.
When they reached the registration desk, the man in the suit left him with a clerk sitting behind a battered wooden desk.
"What name should I put down?" the clerk asked, barely looking up.
"Bane," Peter said, his voice steady.
The clerk typed it in. "Alright, someone will call you when it's your turn to step into the ring."
Peter leaned in slightly. "Can I bet on myself?"
"You can. How much?"
Peter handed over $400, and the clerk counted the bills slowly. After a moment, Peter spoke up. "Can I use my winnings to place another bet?"
The clerk looked up, raising an eyebrow. "You sure you want to bet it all?"
"Yeah," Peter replied, his voice steady.
The clerk gave a small nod. "Alright." He gestured to a nearby area where fighters sat, waiting for their turn. "Take a seat over there. Someone will call for you when it's your time."
Peter moved to the bench, settling in among the other fighters. Some looked nervous, others eager. He closed his eyes briefly, steadying his breathing as he prepared for his turn.
There were about 30 fighters left, including Peter. As more arrived, the waiting area became crowded, and soon there were around 50 fighters, all nervously pacing or talking amongst themselves.
A few minutes later, Peter's name was called. He stretched his arms, feeling the weight of the anticipation, and walked toward the makeshift ring.
The moment he stepped inside, his opponent charged at him with wild energy. But Peter was quicker. He darted to the side, dodging the attack, and with a swift strike, landed a punch to the man's chin. The hit landed with precision, and the man crumpled to the ground, out cold.
Without a second glance, Peter strode to the center of the ring, cool and composed, as the crowd erupted in cheers. Now, the crowd bet on him, changing the energy of the event.
A group of people quickly hauled the unconscious fighter out of the ring, and the next challenger stepped forward, ready to face Peter.
The next fighter stepped forward, and before he could settle into position, Peter was already moving. He dashed toward the man and delivered a clean hit to the chin, sending him crashing to the ground, unconscious.
One by one, challengers came, only to meet the same swift fate. Each knockdown felt easier than the last, and Peter moved through them like a well-oiled machine.
But when the 20th fighter stepped into the ring, Peter paused for a moment. There was something different about this one.