It has been a week.
A week of shared classes, shared silence, and the occasional awkward back-and-forth that passed for conversation.
Peter had stopped flinching when I sat next to him. That was progress.
He even started talking first, sometimes. Usually with something snarky. Always with that dry, Parker wit that made you question if he was insulting you or being friendly.
I was okay with both, I mean he's Spider-Man!
Gaining his trust wasn't instant. There wasn't some magical moment where he looked at me and said "Wow, I guess you're not a bastard anymore!"
No. It was slower. Subtle.
Like today.
He slid into the chair beside me before I could even get my bag off.
"Did you finish the physics homework?" Peter asked without looking up, his pen twirling between his fingers like it had a personality of its own.
"I tried" I muttered. "Pretty sure Newton invented all this just to mess with me."
Peter snorted. "You labeled inertia as 'the thing that makes me hate you thursday.' You might be the next Tony Stark."
"Without the brain, money, or charm? Yeah, not holding my breath."
I leaned back in my chair. "But seriously, everything resists movement on thursday. Including my will to live."
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling—really smiling this time. Not the tight, suspicious kind I used to get. Just… amused.
I grinned back without even thinking about it.
This had become… normal. Somehow.
A weird, quiet routine.
He'd show up, I'd already be there. We'd trade half-hearted complaints about homework or teachers or how the vending machine was still out of... Anything tasty. He'd playfully insult me, I'd deflect with sarcasm.
Rinse, repeat.
It worked.
It didn't make the stares go away.
Didn't stop people from whispering behind their notebooks or looking at me like I'd grown a second head.
But Peter didn't seem to care anymore. And that helped. A lot.
At lunch, I sat with him again. Nobody tried to stop me, not anymore. They just avoided me—like I was radioactive or contagious.
Peter was typing something on his laptop. Probably homework. Or overanalyzing something from a sci-fi show. Who knew with him.
"Still working on that essay for Connors?" I asked, leaning over the lunch table, pretending not to be interested in whatever was glowing on his screen.
Peter barely looked up, still typing. "Nah, I finished it last night. Just helping him with some research stuff."
"Of course you did." I took a bite of my sad little pizza slice. "Show-off."
He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "It's not like that. I'm just... helping. You know, science stuff." He cleared his throat. "It's a big opportunity."
"Sure, sure," I said, only half-joking. "You're gonna be the guy who builds the next arc reactor, huh? Little Peter Stark."
He glanced at me, then at the screen again. "I don't know about that. But Connors—he's working on something big. With genetics. If it works... it could change everything."
That got my attention. The Lizard was coming. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.
"Genes, huh? That's all? Sounds kinda vague."
Peter's eyes dropped to the table. "You wouldn't get it. It's complicated. It's not just science... it's about helping people. Connors, he—"
He cut himself off. Bit his lip.
I wasn't dumb. There was more to it. But for once, I didn't push. Peter was opening up—slowly.
Still, something about this Oscorp stuff didn't sit right. Too polished. Too clean on the surface. But underneath? It felt... off. And now Peter was right in the middle of it.
He looked at me again, a glint of amusement returning. "You asked if mitochondria was a kind of pasta yesterday."
"I was tired, Parker. And starving."
He chuckled—quiet, but real. Like it was okay to laugh with me now.
Just showing up. Saying less. Listening more.
Trying to be better.
And honestly? That felt like a superpower all on its own.
---
Shame it wasn't. I wouldn't mind being able to crawl up walls or shoot webs out of my wrists. That kind of thing would really help right about now.
I'd been following the Kick-Ass plan this past week after school—slinking around the city, hoodie up, trying to help out where I could. Returning lost phones, stopping kids from shoplifting snacks, walking old ladies across the street.
It felt... good. Like I wasn't just pretending to be better. Like maybe I was.
But the only things I'd earned for my efforts were a handful of polite thanks, a bruised leg (damn kids), and a pocketful of old peppermint candies from a sweet granny who said I reminded her of her grandson.
And now? The real test.
A mugging.
I spotted it from across the street. Some guy—tall, broad shoulders, dirty appearance, twitchy hands—shoving a woman up against a wall. He had something shiny in his hand. Maybe not, but most probably a knife.
My legs locked in place.
This was it. The moment I'd been dreading. Hoping it wouldn't actually come.
Because the truth is... I'm scared. My mouth is dry, my stomach's spinning, and every voice in my head is screaming "It's too soon".
But that person needs help.
And I can't look away.
I took a shaky breath.
'Okay. Alright. You've seen the movies. Read fanfics. You've tried the whole "tough guy" routine once. Second time's the charm, right? Easy.'
I crossed the street, heart hammering against my ribs, and cleared my throat.
"HeEy!" I called out—voice cracking halfway like I was thirteen again. Great start.
The guy glanced over his shoulder, still holding the woman in place. His eyes locked with mine, and for a split second, I seriously considered pretending I was yelling at a pigeon.
But no. I kept walking. Chest puffed out. Shoulders back. Confidence: fake it 'til you die.
"You two having some kind of... disagreement?" I asked, keeping my hands in my hoodie pocket like I had something dangerous in there. I didn't. Unless lint counted.
The guy narrowed his eyes. "What's it to you?"
I shrugged. "Just wondering if this is, like... a couple argument or something." I looked at the woman. "You uh... know this guy?"
She shook her head fast, eyes wide.
"Cool" I said, nodding. "Didn't think so."
The guy turned fully now, his grip loosening on the woman just enough for her to take a shaky step back.
Good. Great. Progress.
Then he started walking toward me.
Oh, shit.
"You got a problem, tough guy?"
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say I have a problem with you being a rapist scum...
Instead, what actually came out was—
"Not really. But I think you do. With, uh… basic human decency."
He scowled. I could practically see the 'I'm gonna rearrange your face' thought buffering in real time.
"I'm just saying" I went on, still trying to sound calm and not like I was about to pass out "this doesn't have to become a full episode of Cops, man. You walk away, she walks away, and I—well, I don't end up drinking soup through a straw for a month."
The woman was already backing away, down the sidewalk. Her eyes met mine—wide, scared—and she mouthed a thank you before bolting down the sidewalk.
Good... I just hope she would call the cops though.
Now he was staring straight at me, eyes dark, jaw clenched—and, oh great, aiming the knife at me.
"You think you're a hero or something, little shit?" he spat, stepping toward me with that ugly face of his.
"I think someone should've stopped you. And, uh… apparently that someone is me."
His expression twisted. The blade glinted under the streetlight.
Cool. Very cool. Totally not peeing myself.
"Walk away" I said, trying to keep my voice steady, even though my heart was doing backflips. "She's gone. You lost. No audience left to impress."
He didn't stop.
I stepped back, hands still in my hoodie—still pretending I had something in there. Brass knuckles. Pepper spray. An emotional support Glock. Anything.
"You really wanna stab a high school kid right here? in the middle of the street?" I asked, voice tight. "You think that ends well for you?"
That made him pause. Just for a second. Enough to think.
I could see it—gears turning, anger and ego wrestling with self-preservation.
Then he hissed out a curse, backed off with one last glare, and disappeared down an alley.
I stood there for a moment, frozen.
Then my knees gave out, and I landed right on my ass.
Holy shit. I did it.
I did it!
Still breathing, still conscious and slightly damp with fear-sweat.
But hey—beats a trip to the ER.
Fuck, I feel like I'm gonna puke.
I sat there on the sidewalk for a long second, letting my heart slow down. Or trying to. My legs still felt like spaghetti.
Eventually, I forced myself to stand. My knees wobbled like a newborn deer's, but hey—one foot in front of the other, right?
I started crossing the street, trying not to look like someone who had just almost peed himself. I made it halfway across when—
WHAM.
Pain. Flashing lights. The loud, horrible crunch of metal and bone again and—
Darkness...
---
[System Rebooting…]
> Analyzing Fatal Event...
Cause of Death: Struck by a truck while heroically limping away from first confrontation.
Total Fear Endured: High
Physical Trauma: Moderate
Emotional Stress: Severe
Karma Accumulated: +17
People Saved: 1
Villains Defeated: 0
> Evaluating User Intent...
Moral Alignment: Shifting toward Altruistic
Desired Path: Hero
Plan Selected: "Kick-Ass Route"
> Syncing Parameters…
[Starter Pack Granted]
– Kick-Ass Suit (Custom Fit)
– Basic Combat Skill
– Minor Pain Tolerance
> Rewinding Local Timeframe…
> Status: Reinserted into Timeline – Friday Morning
> Welcome back, Warren Wade.
> You were brave.
> Try again. Keep being good.
---
I woke up screaming.
Then coughing. Then gasping.
Heart pounding. Sweat everywhere.
In Warren's bed.
In Warren's room.
Again.
What the hell?
I died. Right? The truck. The sidewalk.
But I was here. Whole. Breathing.
No broken bones. No chalk outline.
I sat up fast and immediately regretted it. My whole body ached—not like I'd been hit by a truck, but like I'd run a full marathon in my sleep. My arms, my legs, even my brain felt… sore.
Not painful, exactly. Just tight. Off. Like my muscles remembered doing things I didn't.
Weirdest of all? I felt way more... sharp.
It was like having a stuffy nose your whole life and suddenly being able to breathe properly. Everything felt clearer. Quicker. Like my brain had been rebooted with a good software.
My eyes drifted to the foot of the bed.
There it was. Neatly folded. Like it had always been there.
A wetsuit.
The Kick-Ass suit.
The same one I ordered online. Except that one wasn't even supposed to ship until next week.
And this one came with the yellow gloves and boots, and with the batons.
I blinked at it.
Then glanced at my phone.
Friday. Again.
Same notifications. Same unread texts from Mom and Dad. Same everything.
And I had to go to school. Again.
Great.
I ran a hand through my hair, muttering to myself.
"…What the hell is happening?"
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