New Marvel: The Amazing Spider-Man

Genesis- Part One

"Powerless"

Midtown High School, September 2, 2013

Ten minutes.

Ten minutes before the bell rang and the freshmen of Midtown High School were free to their own devices. Peter glanced at the clock, eyeing the second hand as it made its slow, steady way around the clock face. He didn't bother willing it to go faster, as it was extremely probable that every single other person in this room was doing the same thing, and it didn't seem to be making any difference. His own efforts had never helped.

To Peter Benjamin Parker, the first day was always, always the worst day of school. Every single class consisted of an explanation of school rules, class rules, and nothing else. For God's sake, he was in this school to learn something, right? Setting aside the fact that he probably already knew 97% of the curriculum for most of high school, if he was stuck in this hellhole, he would very much like to be taught.

Nope. Just rules that he probably would have obeyed anyway. Whoop de freaking doo.

"Now," said the social studies teacher in front of the class. "We only have ten minutes left in class, so I figured I'd devote this last chunk of time to some questions. Anyone have anything to ask that's not on the syllabus? Anyone?"

"Yeah, I have one," said Flash Thompson, raising his hand. "What if you can't afford a flash drive?"

"You're wearing two hundred dollar shoes and the Back To School sales are still going," Peter disinterestedly pointed out from the other side of the room. "I'm pretty sure you can afford a two dollar flash drive, Flash."

"...But, if you can't," the teacher said, casting a warning look at Peter, "we won't be doing a lot with them anyway. They're more of an 'In case you need them' thing." He looked around the room, noticing that pretty much everyone in the classroom had stopped paying attention, Flash Thompson having returned to his conversation after his deliberately time-wasting question had succeeded in only buying thirty seconds. After a moment, though, the bespectacled young man in the back corner raised two fingers.

"Yes, um," the teacher took a moment to look at the seating chart on his desk, "Peter."

Peter put his hand down. "Forgive me for being frank," he began, "but the pattern for social studies classes seems to be world history and American history on alternating years, treading about the same ground each time. Are we going to be covering anything new this year?"

"Yes."

"Elaborate."

The teacher raised his eyebrows at the student's answer. "Huh. Well, I figured we'd examine the twentieth century, see how, among other things, the Marvels impacted the modern world."

Peter's eyes widened slightly. "Even the recent stuff?"

"Especially the recent stuff."

Peter slowly broke into a grin. "Freaking finally. Can't wait."

And this is why I'm enjoying the slow path, he thought. So I can have classes like this.

The bell chose that time to ring, and the classroom was completely devoid of students some fifteen seconds later.

Peter walked down the hall, staying to the right, keeping his head down. This was that one day at the beginning of the year when only freshmen came to school, so Peter found himself wincing at the thought of wading through crowds four times as thick as this tomorrow. He almost passed his locker, deep in thought, but caught himself and backtracked a second later. Shrugging his backpack onto one shoulder, Peter dug out a piece of paper from the small front pocket, then changed his mind and opened the lock from memory. He grabbed two textbooks out of it, the ones he had deposited during lunch, and kicked the door shut as he pushed them into the large pocket of his backpack. Peter walked down the hall, turned left, and was suddenly once again a victim of Flash's douchebaggery.

"Hey, Parker!" Flash said, walking up to him with a mild aura of menace. His entourage stood nearby. "Why'd you call me out in class, asshole? You made me look like an idiot!"

"Did I?" Peter retorted, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, not looking up at Flash. "Good. So now the teacher has some prior warning. What do you want, Flash?"

Flash held up a few wrinkled pieces of paper. "Homework. What teachers assign homework on the first day? Our deal is still on from middle school, right?"

"Deal?" Peter said. "Deals are where something is exchanged. You making me do your homework is pretty damn one-sided. And no, it's not still on."

Flash narrowed his eyes. "Huh. I have a new deal for you: do it or I will beat the shit out of you."

"Blackmail?" Peter snapped his gaze up. "You son of a bitch! No! I'm not—"

In one swift motion, Flash took two steps forward, picked Peter up by the collar, and slammed him against the lockers. Heels six inches off the ground, Peter stared at Flash, wide-eyed and pulse racing. After several seconds and seeing the look on Flash's face, Peter nodded. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Good." Flash set Peter down, handing him the homework. "Don't you dare flunk me." As Peter walked away, towards the door, Flash kicked him, sending him sprawling on the ground. Laughing, he walked away, off to find his circle of friends.

Peter got up slowly. Picking up Flash's homework, he left the school building, the papers wrinkled in his clenched fist. He looked for his bus and found it near the back of the line, climbing into it and taking his usual seat, temple pressed against the window.

First day of school. Can only go uphill from here, right?

Ingram Street, Forest Hills, Queens, thirty minutes later

Peter stepped off the bus, following his next door neighbor. "Hi, Mary-Jane."

"Hi, Peter," Mary-Jane Watson said as they started walking. "How was your first day?"

"Hideous." Peter held up the papers in his fist. "Eugene's making me do his homework again."

"I'm sorry." MJ looked as though she meant it. "He asked me out today."

"And?"

MJ shrugged. "Sorry, Pete. You can't really say no to him, you know that. Listen, he's not a bad guy—"

"Yes, he is." Peter stared straight ahead as he said this, and he said it with certainty.

"No, he isn't." MJ looked at him crossly. "I think he's got a heart of gold. Somewhere."

"He doesn't. It's pyrite."

MJ snorted. "Whatever, Peter. I don't think he's quite the bad guy you think he is."

"Hmm." Peter pushed his glasses up, glancing at the redheaded beauty next to him. "Well, could you tell him to stop picking on me? Please?"

"I'll try."

"Thanks." There was so much more Peter might have said, but he bit his tongue. He had nothing he really could say anymore.

Once upon a time, he and MJ had been... not best friends by any means, but definitely friends. It was his fault, really, that they had drifted apart. Although he had always been passionate about learning, especially where science was concerned, Peter had realized in fourth grade exactly how gifted he was and had immediately buried himself in books, magazines, and the internet. He had become incredibly, precociously, mind-blowingly knowledgeable in most major fields of math, science, and engineering quite quickly, but in the process had become a borderline recluse in nature. Now he and MJ were neighbors, and nothing more. Aunt May had said, often, that if he tried to revive their friendship, MJ would welcome him back with open arms, and probably be willing to go much more romantic than that. Peter doubted it, though; that was what moms were supposed to say.

MJ soon turned and walked up her driveway, and Peter stole a glance after her as she disappeared into her house. He sighed briefly as he sauntered the thirty remaining feet to his driveway, collecting the mail from the box and walking into the house, tapping the number 20 on the outside wall as he passed.

"Aunt May," he called. "Uncle Ben. I'm home."

Aunt May looked up from her magazine in the living room. "Hello, Peter."

"Hey, Pete," said Uncle Ben, closing the fridge where he had been browsing and tossing Peter a soda. "How was your first day as a freshman?"

"Exactly how life is expected to be for a freshman," Peter said, dropping the mail on the table. The words PAST DUE and FINAL WARNING were clearly visible on the envelopes, and Peter frowned at them.

"That bad, huh?"

"Pretty much."

Uncle Ben ruffled Peter's hair as he walked by, sipping his can of root beer. "Sorry about that, kiddo. I know it's a pain."

"It is, isn't it?" Peter said, headed up the stairs. "On the bright side, though, the library has a few college textbooks on polymers and I got to make photocopies during lunch. I'm going to work on the PC's."

In this context, PC stands for "polymer cable". Peter had been thinking off and on about this particular idea for several months: With all the recent developments with different polymers recently, what if he could create a liquid polymer that, on contact with air, became a lightweight cable with the strength of galvanized steel? For rescue missions and law enforcement, the material would be a tremendous boon, and as far as Peter knew, no one had invested significant time into this concept. He intended to break some ground.

Sitting on a large desk between Peter's bedroom and closet door, there sat several Erlenmeyer flasks, pages of chemical symbols and equations, a dormant laptop, and a machine that Peter had built out of numerous pieces salvaged from scrap yards and Erector sets. The way the machine was designed, ten milliliters of whatever Peter put into it would be shot out of a half-millimeter nozzle (which had been the tip of a ballpoint pen before Peter had gotten to it). Although none of the compounds he had invented had exactly the desired results, one of them had become a fairly tough cable, able to support four times its weight, and another had changed into an amorphous yet almost quartz-like material. That had been a nightmare to get out of the carpet, though.

Peter hit the button that wirelessly closed the homemade electronic lock on his door. He clicked on the mouse attached wirelessly to his laptop, quickly entering his password (9ParkerPB) and digging the copied pages out of his bag. He abruptly looked up when he heard the twang and cry of "Message for you, sir!" that indicated he had an email, and hesitantly clicked on the icon that had come up.

Dear Mr. Parker, the email read,

Congratulations. Osborn Corporations is pleased to welcome you to the Fall 2013 Internship program. You will begin work in the Bioengineering Laboratory on September 9, 2013. We hope you are as excited as we are. We are confident that you and OsCorp will benefit through the Internship Program and you will enjoy the professional enrichment and personal satisfaction during this time.

With Regards,

Dr. Curtis Connors

Peter's eyes widened to a slightly uncomfortable degree, and the breath he drew fell somewhere between a gasp and an effeminate squeal. "UNCLE BEN!" he yelled, tapping the button to unlock and open his door. "AUNT MAY! COME LOOK AT THIS!"

The sound of footsteps on the stairs indicated that at least one of them was coming, confirmed a second later by both surrogate parents appearing in the doorway. "Yeah?" said Ben. "There a problem?"

Peter shook his head, his eyes still wide, and pointed at his computer screen. "I'm in," he said. "Read." By the time Ben was done skimming through the email, Peter was jumping with excitement, over the shock. "I'M IN!" he yelled. "I'M AN INTERN FOR DR. CONNORS! I'LL GET TO CHANGE THE WORLD!"

Ben smiled, moved so that May could read the email, and hugged Peter. "As if there was a doubt. Congrats, kiddo!"

Aunt May joined what was now a small group hug, smiling warmly at Peter when the embrace broke. "Well done, Peter," was all she had to say. She and Ben both had known he would get the internship. "but for God's sakes, calm down. It's not acceptance into Harvard or something."

"No, but it's basically the next best thing," Peter said, smiling. "Now, hate to cut this short, but I'm going to get back to work on the polymers. I think I'm close to something." This was true. Peter had scribbled a few formulas onto the pages he had gotten, and wanted to test the chemical equation he had worked out.

"Hold up a second, Pete," Ben said, holding one hand up. "You have plenty of time to do that later. I was kinda thinking we could go play catch in the front yard."

Peter blinked. "What. I mean, what? I... what? Do we even have a football or anything?"

"Yeah," replied Ben. "I found it while cleaning the garage. It's a small one, but I pumped it up and it should be good to go."

Peter still looked somewhat put off the idea. "...I don't know. I was kinda hoping..."

"Oh, come on, Peter," said Ben, walking in the direction of the door and motioning for Peter to follow. "If you keep sitting on your butt all the time you're gonna get fat. Let's go play catch."

Peter threw his hands up, placing the photocopied pages on his desk. "Fine. I'm a-coming."

"Be safe," May said. "I don't want you coming in five minutes from now with a bloody nose."

"Oh, we'll be fine, May," Ben said. "Want to join us?"

"No, thank you." May held up her copy of O Magazine. "I'll stay in the house with my magazine, away from flying pigskins of death. Have fun."

"I'll try," Peter said, starting down the stairs.

They played catch for half an hour, Peter catching a total of eleven throws and successfully returning even less. They remained cheerful, though, as Ben pointed out that Peter would likely never want to learn football anyway and Peter pointed out that Ben was almost as bad at throwing as he was. Eventually, though, they got bored and went inside. Peter had never really been focused on playing anyway. He was still celebrating, his mind giddy that it would finally, finally be put to some sort of challenge.

More important than that, though, was that he would be working in the bioengineering division of one of the big two corporations attempting to engineer superhumans. Peter had a hand in the birth of a new age. He would be creating Marvels.

Osborn Corporations Tower, Manhattan, September 9, 2013

"Welcome, interns," said Dr. Curtis Connors, smiling at the twelve men and women in front of him, ages ranging from fourteen to twenty-two. He made a sweeping gesture to the lab around them with both arms, and it was immediately noticed that one of them was prosthetic. "Welcome to OsCorp's Bioengineering laboratories. You already know what we do here. The idea of creating superhumans is more than likely what drew you to OsCorp.

"However, in the process of moving towards that goal, hundreds of potential biomedical and genetic applications have revealed themselves to us. In the last two years alone, we have reverse-engineered nearly one hundred different viruses, including HIV and rabies, and have developed potential cures for each and every one of them.

"And now," Dr. Connors continued, "you are lucky enough to join us when we are, by my estimate, less than a year away from making the super soldier not only possible, but a real asset in the battlefield." Dr. Connors smiled, lost in thought for barely a second before looking down at his clipboard. "Now, I've sorted you into respective divisions of this laboratory two interns per. If you're unsatisfied with your position, you can talk to me about it, although I'd like you to take part in your division for at least six weeks before you decide you don't like it. If you would all refer to the projector behind me..."

Dr. Connors stepped to the side, and the fresh interns crowded around a table with a beveled edge. Presently, the small border around the table of lasers lit up, and a chart appeared hovering in midair, showing each intern where he or she would be assigned.

Wait. Holograms? OsCorp has HOLOGRAMS?!

Peter stood on tiptoes, attempting to see over some of the taller interns in front of him with no success. He sighed to himself, waiting patiently to see the hologram (!). Parker, Peter B: Transgenic Research. Peter frowned slightly as he looked around for where that particular part of the lab would be, before shrugging and approaching Dr. Connors.

"Yes?"

"Hi," Peter said, suddenly feeling like a bit of a moron. "I'm assigned to transgenic research. Which, ah, which section of the lab is that in?"

Dr. Connors pointed northeast. "Over there. You can tell because the scientists look slightly shaggy. Don't tell them I said that."

"Of course not," Peter replied. "I'll make sure to exaggerate. By the way, Dr. Connors, thank you so much for accepting my application. I've been wanting to do things in this vein for half my life."

Dr. Connors nodded. "I understand that passion. We all do."

"I know." Peter looked towards the part of the lab where he was assigned. "So I'll get to work then."

He walked to the corner of the lab, shaking hands with one of the scientists there. "So. I'll be working with you then. Where are we at right now?"

October 1, 2013

Peter looked at the hologram in front of him, extremely impressed with himself over what he had put together. "Hey," he called to Dr. Connors, who was some ten feet behind him. "Come look at this."

Dr. Connors watched over his shoulder for a moment as Peter compacted a group of equations he had put together, dropping the holographic bundle into an equally holographic receptacle. "What are you trying to accomplish here?"

Peter pointed at the hologram as a computer model of a ribosome appeared, a line of messenger RNA slowly attaching to it. "I borrowed the chemical equations for the Feline Immunodeficiency Virus from the viral researchers over there," he said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, "and worked out a way to get the cell of an animal to manufacture a retrovirus based on itself." The hologram showed another longer piece of RNA attach itself to the one the ribosome was at work on. "I think it works for retro's other than lentiviruses, but in any case I think we could use it for a excellent gene delivery vector for future projects." The hologram in front of him illustrated his ideas, the ribosome slowly forming a retrovirus based on the RNA it had been given, complete with a payload consisting of the RNA formed by the host cell. "Uh, any questions?"

"Why do you attend public school?" Dr. Connors asked, completely blown away by what Peter had shown him.

Peter shrugged. "Can't afford a private one. My aunt wants me to have at least some semblance of interaction with my peers. It's illegal to not attend school." He turned to face Dr. Connors. "So. What, uh, what now?"

Dr. Connors inhaled. "Now," he said, "I'm transferring you to superhuman engineering effective immediately."

"Wait, what?"

"We've had much of the ideas behind the serum ready for a while. The payload, though, has been a problem, and although transgenics was always one of the ideas, that opened up even more problems. How to manipulate preexisting DNA into a retrovirus, which genes to be put into the virus... I assume you showing me this implies that you solved that particular problem?"

"Yeah."

"Amazing. I want you to modify your work slightly. The others working over there will show you what I want you to do."

"Alrighty then." Peter nodded, starting across the lab to the area for superhuman engineering. "I'll, uhm, I'll get started." Looking around at the section of the lab he had been transferred to, Peter took stock of the five scientists and two interns working there. A small half-smile forming on his mouth, he tapped one of the scientists on the shoulder. "Excuse me. I have something you might want to see."

Midtown High, October 9, 2013

"Hey, Pete!" said Flash, accidently-on-purpose stepping on Peter's toes and holding out his homework. "Here's today's load. And I caught that note last time that said, 'Flash didn't do this Peter did'. Don't do that again."

Peter glared at Flash quietly for a moment, then his eyes wandered to the small group just behind him. Flash's two cronies, Kong and Randy, were there, along with Liz Allen, Sally Avril, and MJ. Peter stared at the latter for a few seconds, and MJ looked at her shoes.

"Gotcha," Peter said, taking the homework from Flash. "no notes." And with that, he ripped the papers in half.

"AH!" Flash looked down, shocked, at the torn papers at Peter's feet, then up at Peter. "Have you gone nuts?"

"Grown nuts," Peter corrected, and winced a second later at how terrible that sounded. "I'm not doing this again. I'm not. If you pay attention in class, you know, like you're supposed to, you would be able to get this stuff out of the way on the bus ride home." He held his hands up, taking a few steps back. "If I were you, I'd be getting new copies of the assignments about now, Eugene."

Flash glared at him, taking a step forward. "Are you serious right now."

"Yeah. Why—oh no."

The right cross hit Peter right below the eye. It was only because he saw it coming an instant beforehand and managed to turn his head that it didn't hit him right in the nose. As it were, Peter was dropped like a rock, and Flash took the opportunity to kick him in the gut as he lay on the ground. Peter curled up slightly around the blow.

"Asshole!" Flash yelled, kicking him again. After a second, he turned and walked away, along with his now slightly quieter group. MJ looked at Peter sympathetically as she turned a corner and disappeared.

Several seconds later, Peter shakily got up, almost collapsing again and holding his stomach. He probably wouldn't bruise too badly; he didn't bruise easily. His face would be red for a while though, he knew. Peter took a deep breath, now alone in the school hallway, and pushed his glasses back up with his thumb. Standing in silent contemplation for a moment, he turned and began walking for the exit.

OsCorp, later

Dr. Connors adjusted his collar slightly as Norman Osborn stepped into his office. No two ways around it, the man was scary. Brilliant; he had almost single-handedly turned OsCorp into a corporate powerhouse rivaled only by Stark; but downright terrifying all the same. Nevertheless, Connors forced a smile. "Mr. Osborn. I'm glad you wanted to see what we've created."

Osborn picked up a small lizard statue on Dr. Connors' desk, examining it. "And I'm glad you've managed to create a prototype super-soldier serum so quickly."

"I wouldn't call it a super-soldier serum exactly. It's a transgenic virus, and it has far more potential uses than the creation of a one-man army." Dr. Connors stood. "Given the right base, we could use it to cure diabetes, halt cancer... regenerate lost limbs..."

Osborn raised his eyebrows at Dr. Connors' last suggestion. "Hmm," he said, eyes flickering down to the prosthetic hand emerging from Dr. Connors' right sleeve. "Yes. I suppose so. In any case, I came to see what you have in person. And pardon me if it's a bother, but I brought my son. I wanted to show him my business, and a hands-on tour seemed like one of the better ways to do so. He's examining the laboratory now."

meanwhile

"Hey."

Gwen Stacy turned to see a young man, slightly older than her, standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He smiled at her, a slightly superior smile that had probably been coached, as Gwen's eyes flicked up and down his body, taking stock of his designer clothes.

"I'm Harry Osborn," he said, and Gwen's eyes widened slightly. "What's your name?"

Gwen tapped the identification on her lab coat. "My name's Gwen," she said. "Gwen Stacy. You're Norman Osborn's son," she observed. "What are you doing here?"

Harry huffed slightly at the association, then shrugged. "My dad wanted me to look around while he was in there—" he jabbed his thumb at Dr. Connors' office "—so here I am. Do you want to go out sometime?"

Gwen leaned backwards slightly, taken aback by the sudden yet completely expected question. "Um, no thank you."

"You sure?" he asked, taking a few steps forward. "I know a place. A really nice place."

"You're talking about Olive Garden, aren't you?" Gwen asked, as deadpan as she could. "Still no."

"Ah, come on. I could show you a great time - "

"Hey." Another intern, a boy about Gwen's age with brown hair and glasses, stepped between them. "You ever read that book 'She's Just Not That Into You?'"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Do you have a problem?"

"Let me check." His head turned towards Gwen. "Was he annoying you?"

"Yes," said Gwen.

"So, yeah." The boy turned back to Harry. "I kind of do have a problem. Leave her be."

"Alright." Harry backed off a single step. "I will. And you leave me be."

The boy raised his hands. "Hey, I was ignoring you for two minutes before you started harassing her. I'm glad to go back to it."

For a second, Harry looked as though he was going to shove the boy (Peter? Gwen thought to herself. His name's Peter Parker, right?), and then a hand fell on his shoulder. "Harry," said the deep, intimidating voice of Norman Osborn. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Harry said after a pause. "No problem, Dad."

"Good," said Osborn, taking his hand from his son's shoulder. That these two were father and son there couldn't possibly be a doubt. They had the same high cheekbones, although Harry's weren't as sharp. They had the same red-brown hair cut short, although Norman's contained hints of grey and his widow's peak rested higher on his forehead. They had the same dark blue eyes, although the skin around one of the pairs had distinct wrinkles of age and stress. One could tell by every aspect of their body language, though, that Norman Osborn and his son couldn't be more different.

For one, Norman Osborn was freaking scary.

"Peter Parker," Osborn said aloud, reading Peter's identification. "Dr. Connors specifically mentioned you in his report."

"Really?"

"Really really." Norman smiled, and Peter felt as though the entire world's population of puppies had suddenly keeled over. "He mentioned that one of the largest stepping stones to the final creation of the super-soldier serum was provided by you."

Harry glared at Peter briefly from behind his father. He saw where this was going. Norman Osborn, billionaire CEO, had always found shame in his teenaged, hormone-driven, irresponsible son, and had found a way to remind Harry of that every day. According to himself, Norman had, by the time he was seventeen, set up a bank account of his own and had made nearly half a million dollars on the stock market and by repairing the technology of the people in his neighborhood. He had always seen Harry as a massive disappointment for not even attempting to do the same.

And now a geek, an awkward teenage genius with a White Knight tendency, was making nice to his father. Harry fumed quietly.

"It's not really a serum," Peter said, voice trembling slightly. "It's a, uhm, it's technically a transgenic retrovirus. And I only gave the others something that I had worked on over... over there." He indicated in the general direction of the transgenic research division. "Really, you should be talking to... someone else. One of those scientists." He pointed at the scientists nearby. "You know. The people on the payroll. Heh. They tweaked it to form the...the hybrid of a lentivirus and marnavirus."

Norman smiled slightly. "Save the humility for when you need it. There will always be people who helped you along the way, but the Oz virus is, first and foremost, yours."

A wonderful, awful idea suddenly made its presence known in Harry's mind while his father was talking to this intern. Several containers on a table thirty feet away contained a few small animals; for what reason Harry didn't know. He crept over to them, unnoticed by all, and took a look-see.

In the two containers closest to him, two extremely large spiders crawled around the inside of the glass. Harry's hand hovered over one briefly, then drifted to the other container, then changed his mind and grabbed the first one, carrying it over to the coat racks.

A black backpack hanging on one of the hooks had a strip of duct tape above the top zipper, the words Property of Peter Parker semi-neatly scribbled on it. He screwed the lid of the container open, dumping the spider onto the backpack, and then hastily walked back to the table and set down the jar.

"Probably shouldn't have said that within everyone's earshot," Peter commented.

"I didn't say they weren't a major factor," Norman replied. "Or that they wouldn't receive bonuses, or acknowledgements in the respective letters to Weapon X and SHIELD. What I am saying is that you have provided one of the most valuable contributions to this project and there is a brilliant future ahead of you in this field."

Harry rolled his eyes at his father's tone.

"Oh. Well, thanks. That, uhm, that was certainly Plan A." Peter scratched the back of his neck. "Um."

Norman glanced at his watch. "A word of advice, though: work on your confidence. Now. Dr. Connors. Have you started a patent application?"

As Osborn and Dr. Connors walked away, Peter looked upward and exhaled. "Jeez."

"Praise from the CEO himself," the blonde intern said near him. "That's impressive."

"That was terrifying," Peter said back. He looked at Ms. Stacy, noting her expression. "Don't be jealous. Believe me when I say; you wouldn't have wanted to be in my position."

"I'm not jealous," Ms. Stacy said, the statement only partially dishonest. "He was right. The virus, what'd he call it, the Oz virus was about 60% your brainchild."

"Thank you," Peter said honestly. "So what'd you do?"

Ms. Stacy shrugged. "I was part of this division to start, so small things here and there. I plugged the protein shell into your algorithm, for one, and I helped with the process for ensuring near-immediate cellular modification. I also corrected a few small errors I found in your thing, nothing big. You accidently rounded down when you calculated decay correction, so I fixed that for you."

Peter's eyes widened. "In other words, if it wasn't for something you alone caught, whatever abilities the subject manifested would have been temporary at best. And you helped make sure power development wouldn't take five years?!" He extended his hand to shake. "I think you have as big a part in the creation of the Oz virus as anyone. Congratulations, Ms. Stacy."

"Gwen," said Gwen, shaking Peter's hand. "We're not old enough for formalities."

Peter smiled, and then his phone buzzed. "One sec," he said, taking it out of his pocket. Upon reading Uncle Ben's text (i m here) and then looking at the time (5:13), he slipped it back into his pocket and said, "Hey, my uncle's here to pick me up. I gotta go."

"See you tomorrow," said Gwen, and then, "Wait, your uncle? Do you not live with your parents?"

"Not since their plane crashed," Peter replied.

"...Oh. I'm... I'm sorry."

Peter shrugged. "Don't be. It was back in 2002; I don't remember much of them. As far as I'm concerned, Aunt May and Uncle Ben are my parents." His phone buzzed again in his pocket. "I gotta go."

Peter turned and walked to the coat rack, shrugging off his lab coat as he did. He hung it on his arm as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and selected Ben on speed dial. "Hey, Uncle Ben," he said, grabbing his backpack off the coat rack without paying much attention. "I'm still in the lab. No, I'm done, I just got to talk with Norman Osborn. And then this pretty girl. So, yeah, I'll be down in a seconAH!"

"...What?" Uncle Ben said on the other end of the line. "What was that?"

Peter examined the back of his right hand where twin dots of blood slowly expanded to the size of twin dewdrops. "Nothing. There was this huge spider on my backpack. It bit me." He looked down at where the spider had fallen, and had to search for it for a second. "What? No; it's a common (no, wait, too large, ummm...) it's a giant house spider, I think. I don't think they're dangerous to humans, although this one really knows how to bite. I probably just scared it." Peter went to step on the thing, and was surprised to see it move out of the way at the last second. He tried twice more, finally managing to crush it. "Yeah, I'll be right down. Kay. Bye."

Peter tucked his phone into his pocket, pulling his backpack onto his right shoulder. Hanging his lab coat on the hook, he turned and pushed open the glass door of the lab, and then noticed that the spider bite on his hand was already starting to turn red and swell. He stared at it for a second, before shaking his head slightly and walking briskly out of the lab.

The Parker Residence, fifteen minutes later

A very pale Peter stumbled into the house, unsteady on his feet. He blinked twice, trying to clear his mind, and failed miserably. The hair on his arms was standing on end. The bite mark on his hand had already swollen to the size of a quarter.

"Hi, Peter," said May, pulling a toothpick out of a loaf of banana bread and examining it for unbaked dough. "I'm almost done with dinner, so..." She looked at Peter, who was leaning with difficulty on the doorframe. "...What's wrong?"

Peter shook his head, momentarily too out of breath to respond. "...Think I'm coming down with something..."

"I'll say," said Uncle Ben, arriving through the door. "No offence, Pete, but you look like crap."

"Feel like crap," Peter agreed, slowly noticing that he could feel multiple steady pulses in his right arm. His own, and two others. "...Y'know what?" Peter turned and made his slow way towards the stairs. "Think I'm gonna skip dinner, if you don't mind. I want to sleep this off."

"Are you sure?" May asked.

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Pretty sure." He forced down a dry heave. "Yeah, definitely. G'nite guys." With that, he turned and moved up the stairs as quickly as he could.

"Huh," said Ben as they heard his bedroom door slam. "That's weird."

"We should go check on him," said May worriedly, "to make sure he's okay."

"He probably is," Ben replied. "May, he's not seven. He's smart enough to tell us if he thinks it's serious; I'll bet it's just a bug."

Peter's room

Sitting with his back to the door, Peter took a few deep breaths. His right arm was going nuts, and the sensation was spreading slowly. His stomach flip-flopped in his abdomen, as if trying to decide whether to empty itself or not. He felt very cold (usually a sign of fever), completely exhausted, and his sense of balance was failing him. A massive headache was spreading though his brain.

Sights set on his bed, Peter put his right hand on the back of his door, noticing all the minute differences in grain beneath his fingers as he did, and pushed himself to his feet, noticing in passing that his right arm was taking much less strain from this than he would've, say, yesterday, even despite the exhaustion plaguing him. As Peter moved away from the door, five small cracks could be heard. He looked at his hand, and was too tired to be surprised at the small wood chips that had glued themselves to his fingertips.

His bed was soft, but the few small lumps that had always been there now stood out. Peter shut his eyes tightly, pulling his glasses off and dropping them on his nightstand. For a few minutes sleep refused to come, although those few minutes were interspersed by only four (DEAFENING) ticks of his wall clock's second hand. At last, though, exhaustion overtook him and he sank into unconsciousness.

On some level, he reflected later, he had probably figured out what was happening. The dream he had certainly seemed to indicate as such.

A spider drifted down, supported by the long, thin length of deoxyribonucleic acid that it trailed like silk. It extended a front leg, landing and settling on an enormous cobweb of genes. Quickly, it scurried along one of the numerous main strands holding the genome together, finding a very specific one and biting at the connection.

The spider quickly consumed the old gene, then leapt across the gap trailing its own. The spider attached the new length of DNA, then made its way across the genome, finding the next gene to replace. It paused several times, adding completely new genes at key locations, replacing some old ones and putting at least one new gene where there had never been one before. One final pause, and it began work on an egg sac, filling it with eggs. On completion, the spider died, its only purpose complete.

Several minutes later, the sac burst and four hundred baby spiders crawled out, quickly eating all trace of the sac and then going to find their own genomes.

This was happening everywhere. Exactly the same procedure, one hundred trillion times. Each spider spawned four hundred new ones, the number growing exponentially as the process went on. Within twenty minutes , every last web had been worked on by a spider, nearly forty quadrillion spiders were left without a web to change, and over the next four hours every last one of them died.

The massive web, the trillions of genomes that they left behind, were not the same web that had been there before. Not even close. The person this web belonged to, the man that it made up, would never, ever be the same man he was. Something new had been created in that twenty minutes. The giant house spider had added its own DNA to the web, and the result was something amazing.

Marvel, along with the more cynical term Person of Mass Destruction, is by far the most common slang for superhero. The term had been coined by photographer Phil Sheldon in the 1960s, to provide a collective name for all the fantastic people who were appearing in the world. Captain America had been the first, followed by the Human Torch and Union Jack. The Captain had gone MIA near the end of WW2, but a trend had started.

Experiments by various governments to recreate the super-soldier serum that gave the Captain his powers had had mixed results. The first and only real success was the second Captain America, "Commie Smasher," who went insane and died in 1958. Continued experiments indirectly lead to the creation of mutants, humans with naturally occurring superpowers. These mutants were immediately hated and feared by the general public, which was not helped by the mutant terrorists who believed that mutants were the next step in human evolution. In 1975, an unofficial response team called the X-Men were formed, and a school for helping mutants control their abilities was approved by the U.S. government. The group existed to this day, with a rotating membership.

It is believed that the experiments with bio-augmentation are also indirectly responsible for the steadily climbing percentage of prodigies being born. Although there isn't any definite proof for this theory, it is one of the more popular inferences drawn. From the 1970's onward, the percentage of people with IQ's over 150 has been increasing steadily, with approximately 1 person per billion being born with an IQ of over 200. Most historians consider the most recent decade to be a very exciting and frightening time; in addition to Steve Rodgers, the original Captain America, being discovered frozen in the Arctic but miraculously alive, the first members of the Genius Boom have reached an age where they can join the superhuman arms race.

In 2006, Dr. Bruce Banner developed a serum he hoped would increase both durability and radiation resistance, and through a freak accident was exposed to both it and an instantly lethal dose of gamma radiation. The result was something straight out of a monster movie: a huge, green, nigh indestructible humanoid berserker strong enough to lift and throw a tank. Promptly nicknamed the Hulk, both it and Dr. Banner vanished.

In 2008, Tony Stark developed a suit of armor that could fly, gave the wearer superhuman strength, and contained enough weapons to flatten Rhode Island. A personal project of his, the Iron Man suit made him the first Marvel to be a military asset in decades.

In 2011, a man appeared with superhuman strength rivaling that of the Hulk's, the ability to control the weather using the Viking war hammer he possessed, and the ability to fly. Known only as Thor, it is unknown whether he is a lunatic with hyperadvanced technology, a mutant with delusions of grandeur, or (as a brave few are willing to suggest) the actual Norse God of Thunder.

In 2012, a form of nanotechnology reverse-engineered from Thor's hammer was developed by Stark, capable of allowing the user both limited energy control (it can be programmed for heat, kinetic, or electricity) and limited invulnerability to that form of energy. Called Extremis, it is currently used to better interface with the Iron Man armor.

In 2013, a transgenic retrovirus called Oz was developed by Osborn Corporations, allowing for the near-immediate development of superpowers based on another species.

Not two weeks later, a young Marvel calling himself Spider-Man appeared in New York City.

A/N: You should see the version of this on my laptop. Every character's thoughts have a different font corresponding to what I imagine their handwriting to be.

I'm going to be taking inspiration from a little of everything here. 616, Ultimate Marvel, Marvel Adventures, 2099, both movieverses, most of the TV shows, and various fanfic 'verses. I'm gonna try to make this sort of a deconstruction of the superhero genre, while at the same time making Spider-Man a reconstruction of superheroes themselves. As the story goes on, I imagine that the less-than-pretty aspects of superhero life are gonna take their toll on Peter, while at the same time he sort of works with and fixes them.

There are two reasons I made Peter an OsCorp intern and actually partially responsible for the Oz virus. The first is that someone smart enough to invent webbing would probably want to something constructive with their brain. The second is that I think that's the only justifiable way for him to get even near something that could give him superpowers. Something like that wouldn't be open for the general public to look at, and they would not allow an entire class of high schoolers to come in and see a work-in-progress super-soldier serum. Also, it opens up plenty of potential storylines.

I decided to make one chapter of this equate to one issue of a comic book, which I hope explains its length. Sorry 'bout that. Most later chapters will be shorter.

Please leave a review and tell me what you think. Excelsior!

(Actually, does anyone have a better title for this story? The first draft was titled GMO: Tegenaria duellica, but I want a new one for the new version.)