Absolute Spider-man

Teresa didn't stop talking for the next several minutes. She paced back and forth across the room, waving her arms, clearly upset. She scolded him for getting up without permission, for disobeying medical instructions, for scaring her half to death… but Peter barely heard her.

His attention was focused on the bathroom mirror.

He had managed to convince her—or rather, ignored her long enough—for her to leave him alone for a moment. He closed the door behind him and fell silent, staring at his reflection.

The image the mirror returned was... unsettling.

First, the skin. Its tone was the same, but now it had a different texture. Firmer. Smoother. No marks, no visible pores, no imperfections. It looked as if it had been carefully sanded down and then coated with an invisible protective film.

His face was more angular. Not drastically so, but noticeably. His jawline was more defined, his cheekbones slightly more prominent. Even his eyebrows seemed to have a more symmetrical, precise shape.

"Have I always had this much facial symmetry?" he wondered, leaning closer to the mirror. He didn't think so.

But the most shocking part came when he removed the hospital gown.

His muscles… were more developed.

Not huge, not exaggerated. He didn't have a bodybuilder's physique, but that of an athlete. Every muscle was outlined with perfect definition. His arms, his abs, his chest… everything was impeccably proportioned. The kind of body that couldn't be achieved in a few weeks at the gym, but only through years of training, strict diet, and blessed genetics. Or, in his case, a bite.

"Wow…" he whispered, running a hand over his abdominal muscles as if they weren't his own.

He also noticed that his skin had a different elasticity. More resistant, but also more reactive. When he pressed it lightly with a finger, it bounced back to its original shape with a speed that didn't seem natural. And the vascularity was minimal; his veins no longer stood out, even though he could tell his circulation was perfect.

Then there were his eyes.

He leaned even closer to the mirror and stared directly into his pupils. Something had changed in them. His irises had a more intense color.

"This is…" Peter stopped himself, blinking.

He was analyzing everything with surgical objectivity, but even without seeing it all, he had a good idea of what had happened.

The bite hadn't just given him powers. It had optimized his body. From what he had overheard Teresa say, he hadn't even broken a sweat since he got here, which meant his body had cleansed itself of all impurities and performed genetic corrections.

If Peter was right, he might have been pushed to the limit of genetic perfection.

"Pffff." Peter couldn't help letting out a laugh, which he tried to stifle to avoid attracting Teresa's attention.

He put the gown back on and stood for a moment in front of the mirror, looking at his reflection.

"I'm not the same Peter Parker anymore," he whispered.

And what surprised him the most… was that he didn't mind.

After finishing his inspection, Peter put the hospital gown back on and returned to the room. Teresa was still there, sitting with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, clearly ready to unleash another lecture.

But he simply let himself fall onto the bed with a deep sigh.

"And what are you doing now?" Teresa asked suspiciously.

"I want to sleep a little," Peter replied calmly, closing his eyes as he settled his head on the pillow.

"Sleep? Seriously? You just spent three days asleep, and now you're telling me you want to sleep again?" she huffed, annoyed but also resigned.

Peter turned his face toward her, barely opening one eye.

"I'm fine, Teresa. I just… need to rest. You should do the same. I bet the last few days have been exhausting."

She looked at him in silence for a few seconds. Her eyes softened a bit.

"Yeah… yeah, they have been," she admitted, sitting on the edge of the bed. "When they called and we saw you in that bed, I thought… well, it doesn't matter what I thought. I'm just glad to see you like this. Alive. And so… you."

Peter gave her a faint smile.

"Thanks for being here. Really."

Teresa looked at him for a few more seconds, then stood up.

"Alright, I'll let you rest. But if you scare the family like that again, I swear I'll kick your ass into next week."

"Noted," Peter murmured with his eyes already closed.

Teresa walked toward the door, but before leaving, she turned and said:

"And Peter… did you grow? You feel taller."

Peter didn't answer. He pretended to be asleep, but those words kept echoing in his head.

The door closed with a soft click.

In the silence that followed, Peter slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the white ceiling with a neutral expression… and then, barely smiled.

"This is going to be fun," he whispered.

And then, he truly closed his eyes.

But the next day was anything but fun.

The sun was just beginning to seep through the edges of the blinds when Peter opened his eyes.

And immediately wished he hadn't.

The first shock was the light. It wasn't intense, it wasn't direct… but to his eyes, it was like being hit with stadium floodlights. A blinding white flash burned his retinas, forcing him to shut his eyelids tight as he let out a groan of pain.

Then came the sound.

A buzzing. No—many. Buzzing, beeping, distant voices, footsteps, the hum of LED lights, the dripping of a pipe, the thump of a fly hitting a closed window… all of it mixed together, reverberating in his head like a cursed symphony played at a deafening volume, making him clutch his hands over his ears.

"Agh…!" he gritted his teeth. His heart was pounding.

He tried to sit up, but the feel of the mattress against his back was like hundreds of needles stabbing him everywhere. The texture of the fabric—normally unnoticeable—now felt like sandpaper on his skin.

Every fiber, every seam, he could feel with absurd clarity.

"No… this can't be…" he whispered, standing up from the bed and running to a closet, slamming the door shut behind him as he kept his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes closed as tightly as he could, trying to find some kind of refuge in the darkness.

But even that didn't help. Because then came the smell—and it was the worst of all.

The odors hit him hard and mercilessly. The cleaning alcohol, the disinfectant, the hospital soap, the dried sweat on the gown he was wearing…

Everything was so sharp, so invasive, so vivid… that Peter felt his stomach churn.

He clamped a hand over his mouth, pressing his lips shut.

But the sensory assault continued. Every breath was an olfactory bomb: traces of perfume on the pillow, the latex of disposable gloves in the trash, even the distant smell of stale coffee that someone must've been drinking in a nearby room.

"Stop… stop…" he whispered over and over, as if his body would listen.

But it was like trying to stop a tsunami with your hands.

Peter collapsed to his knees in the closet as a spasm climbed his throat. A wave of panic surged through his chest. His own heartbeat was thundering in his ears. He could even hear the valves of his circulatory system opening and closing. He could hear his blood flowing through his veins.

He had no idea how long he stayed like that. It could've been minutes or an hour. He breathed through his mouth. Slowly. Focused.

Once. Twice. Three times.

But that barely helped. It felt like he was trapped in a hell where even the slightest stimulus was torture.

He could feel the tears streaming down his face—not crying exactly, because crying required control, and right now he had none. His body was reacting to impulses he couldn't understand, like an open antenna receiving thousands of simultaneous signals, each one at max volume and brightness.

But amid all that chaos, Peter heard something. At first it was just a whisper, an echo in the back of his mind, distant—but with shocking clarity amid the sensory cacophony.

"Build a wall."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut even harder, not understanding what that was supposed to mean. He couldn't even think clearly.

"Breathe. Focus on your breathing. Inhale deeply and let it all go."

Peter heard the voice again in the back of his head. Still trembling, he tried to follow it. He focused on his breathing. Not on what he smelled. Not on what he felt. Just on the act of inhaling… and exhaling.

"One… two… one… two…"

He didn't know if he was remembering a meditation exercise or just improvising, but it was working. He could feel the pain starting to—

"One… two… one… two…"

"Build a barrier," Peter heard the voice say again.

He still didn't understand what he was supposed to do, but he kept breathing.

"Build a barrier or you'll die from sensory overload," said the voice again—this time clearly, causing Peter to panic.

He became more alarmed—but how was he supposed to build that barrier?

With what little sanity he had left thanks to the breathing exercises, Peter considered all his options—even whether it was referring to a power he had. But Spider-Man had never had a power like that before, and he doubted he could access one right now.

So he thought as fast as he could and did the only thing he could come up with with his limited mental capacity:

He used his imagination.

He imagined a transparent, soundproof glass dome around him—one that no scent could penetrate, with him safe inside.

Peter knew the idea was stupid, but he didn't know what else to do besides smashing his head into the wall to knock himself out.

But as if by magic, it worked. Very slowly, the sounds stopped reaching his ears, fading bit by bit until everything fell into complete silence. The same happened with his sense of smell. The only thing that didn't change was touch—so Peter concentrated again and imagined the dome transforming into something that also covered his entire body.

As soon as he did, everything began to stabilize. Peter let himself fall flat on his back against the closet wall, panting. He was drenched in sweat, trembling. He'd come dangerously close to a nervous breakdown. Or maybe he'd had one and had just barely come out of it.

But not even a second passed before, the moment he stopped thinking about the barrier, everything came crashing back—and he immediately imagined it again.

"I have to learn to control this," he muttered through gritted teeth, still breathing heavily. "Otherwise I'll die before I even get to try any of my other powers."

He had no other choice.

He pulled himself to his feet with effort, slowly opened the closet door, and peeked into the room. Empty.

He dropped onto the bed again with a groan of exhaustion.

"This is way more complicated than I imagined…"

His powers seemed to be coming in little by little, instead of all at once—which meant there was no way to know which one would activate next, or what kind of reaction it would cause.

Peter rubbed his eyes with trembling palms. His throat was dry, his head pounding, and his skin still hypersensitive, like someone had peeled off a layer. Thankfully, he still retained the multitasking ability from the previous Peter, which allowed him to maintain the 'barrier' without disrupting his direct thoughts.

"Each power is awakening independently… Is it part of the adaptation process?" he thought as he closed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts.

The sensory attack had caught him completely off guard. When he'd woken up the night before, he hadn't felt anything—but now, upon waking, it was like the entire world had decided to scream at him at once. And what would it be tomorrow? Super strength? Wall-crawling? Web-slinging?

He really hoped he'd gotten organic web-shooting. Even though he was pretty sure he could invent his own, it sounded exhausting to have to brew up batches every time he wanted to swing across the city.

"Great," he muttered, staring at the ceiling.

He'd survived. That was what mattered, but…

Peter couldn't help returning to that strange voice that had appeared in his mind when his senses were out of control.

That voice in his head had saved him. But he had no idea what it was. He had no clue what it could be—until the only explanation that made any sense suddenly hit him:

"Looks like I've got Spider-Sense too," Peter said, scratching the back of his neck.

Either that—or a telepath had gotten into his mind. He seriously hoped it was the Spider-Sense.

But he had never heard of Spider-Sense talking to Peter.

"Maybe the Spider-Sense activated his subconscious and sent the message directly to my brain," Peter thought. It seemed like a plausible explanation within the logic of a world like Marvel's. He just hoped it would also tell him how to control the rest of his powers.

Peter took a deep breath. He needed to learn to control his powers—and fast. Otherwise, things could end badly for him… or anyone nearby.

-- 

The silence was nearly absolute.Peter sat in the center of the bed, legs crossed, palms resting on his knees. His eyes closed, his breathing steady. The room was bathed in a quiet dimness. Only a faint line of light filtered through the blinds, painting a thin golden stripe on the floor.

He breathed slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. His mind held—barely—the image of an invisible dome that shielded him from the world. After a quick internet search, he had discovered that meditation seemed to help with keeping his mind and senses in check—two things he desperately needed now. He wasn't exactly an expert, but between Google and necessity, he was doing his best. He didn't know if he was doing it right, but at least it was something.Inhale. Exhale. Maintain the barrier. Don't lower your guard, Peter thought, fully focused on the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Then something hit him on the forehead."Ow!" he exclaimed, eyes flying open as the mental dome shattered like thin glass.

A rye bun bounced off his lap and fell onto the bed. Peter stared at it, bewildered.

"Reached enlightenment yet, or should I keep waiting for you to levitate?" asked a mocking voice from the doorway.

Benny Parker, his older brother, leaned against the doorframe with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a crooked grin. His football jersey was wrinkled and sweaty—he had probably come straight from the gym. Arms crossed, muscles defined, his expression was a mix of teasing and poorly concealed concern.

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked, still blinking, trying to refocus.

"It was my turn to check on you and I got bored waiting for you to become the next Dalai Lama," Benny said, stepping into the room. "Also, between Kaine being moodier than usual and MJ acting more aggressive than passive-aggressive, I'd rather be here."

"I'm not cheating on MJ," Peter thought, already tired of the accusation. He had gone over this with Teresa.

"I know, you don't have the balls for that," Benny replied, dropping into the chair beside the bed and tossing his backpack to the floor with a dull thud.

Peter stared at him for a second before letting out a small laugh."And the bread?"

"You looked like a starving zombie. I figured it'd snap you out of your zen trance."

Peter picked up the bun. It was still warm. He looked at it for a moment before taking a bite."Thanks," he mumbled with his mouth full.

"Well?" Benny asked, resting his elbows on his knees. "How are you feeling?"

Peter swallowed and sighed."Besides nearly dying from an allergic reaction and being in a coma for three days? Great."

"That's my brother," Benny said, ruffling his hair and throwing an arm around him.

"Hey, cut it out! You know I hate being messed up," Peter protested, trying to push him away—at that moment, he would've appreciated having his super strength back. "Where's Kaine?"

"Doing his thing. You know how he is. I talked to him this morning. Said if you ever die without warning, he'll knock your teeth out."

"How thoughtful," Peter replied dryly.

"All heart, that guy," Benny laughed with a shrug. "But seriously, he's worried. A few days ago, he stopped by your school and left a kid with a black eye and two fewer teeth for badmouthing you."

That surprised Peter.Kaine? At Midtown?Peter asked.

"That's actually part of the reason I'm here," Benny continued, standing and rummaging through his backpack. "Besides my charming company, I brought something else."

He pulled out half a dozen heavy academic books—one on behavioral psychology, two on advanced physics, one on organic chemistry, one on literature, and one on differential calculus.

"The homework you left hanging. I'm in college and this stuff's harder than anything I've had to deal with this semester."

Peter looked at the books. Right now, doing homework sounded as appealing as getting bitten in the face by a dog.

Benny winked. "No need to thank me."

Peter stared at the stack on his lap like it was a ticking bomb."Seriously? Now?" he thought, as the rye bun started to settle like a brick in his stomach.

"I don't know if this is a gesture of brotherly love or punishment for surviving," he muttered, flipping through the calculus book with resignation.

Benny dropped back into the chair, stretching out his legs with a satisfied smile."Both. Also, MJ said if I didn't bring this, she'd break my kneecaps. And that girl has a stare that even makes Kaine think twice."

Peter snorted."You're exaggerating."

"Oh yeah?" Benny raised an eyebrow. "Yesterday she told Teresa that if she mentioned that girl who brought you here one more time, she'd burn her entire silk lingerie collection. And Teresa just nodded."

Peter's jaw dropped."I really didn't need to know about the lingerie."

"Well, now you do," Benny said, lowering his voice even though they were alone. "Seriously, dude. Everyone's acting weird. Kaine, Teresa, and I have been covering your shifts at the shop. Teresa and MJ are helping Aunt May in the kitchen—they're basically preparing a feast for when you get out. And get this—" he paused dramatically "—Uncle Ben offered to do the dishes. Twice."

Peter felt a lump in his throat. It was strange to imagine his family—his new family—changing their routines for him. In his previous life, no one would've noticed if he vanished for three days.

"Well, I'm okay now," he said quickly, turning to the window. "Or almost."

"Did they say when you'll be discharged?" Benny asked.

"They want me to stay the rest of the week to make sure there aren't any lingering effects," Peter replied, starting to solve the assignments without even looking properly.

They were incredibly easy—he barely had to glance at them to get the answer. He was grateful that along with the powers, he had retained his intelligence and memories.

But Benny wasn't fooled. With a fluid motion, he grabbed the calculus book and tossed it across the room, where it landed with a soft thud.

"Forget it. That's not why I came," he said, serious for the first time. "I need you to cover for me."

Peter blinked."Cover you? For what?"

Benny pulled a crumpled manila envelope from his backpack and slid it onto the bed. Peter opened it cautiously: inside was a university report card with a big fat "D" in Sports Training Theory.

"You failed?!" Peter nearly shouted. "You're the team captain! That class is your specialty!"

"It was a misunderstanding," Benny said, frowning. "The professor said my essay on 'ethics in sports' was too idealistic. That in the real world, athletes will do anything to win."

"And you…"

"I told him he was a sellout cynic, that it's people like him who turned sports into a clown circus full of steroids," Benny admitted with a shrug. "And maybe I mentioned his divorce. And his toupee."

Peter buried his face in his hands."Oh my God."

"It was a terrible toupee, Peter! Looked like a dead raccoon on his head," Benny protested. "The point is, if Uncle Ben finds out, he'll make me do double shifts at the shop."

Peter eyed him skeptically."And what exactly do you want me to do? Write a new essay for you?"

"Of course not," Benny said, like it was obvious. "I want you to hack the university's database and change my grade to an A."

"You're insane," Peter replied, grabbing his psychology book—only for Benny to toss that one aside too.

"Come on, Peter, you're the brains of the family. Everyone knows it. Don't tell me you can't do it."

In truth, Peter found that he did have programming knowledge buried in his enhanced memories. But that wasn't the point.

"You're asking me to hack New York University's grading system. That's a crime," Peter said, rubbing his face, feeling the weight of the request.

"This is the last thing I need right now," he thought, as his older brother gave him that pleading puppy-eyed look that always got him into trouble.

"No. I won't do it," Peter said firmly, though he was clearly trying not to laugh. "You'll rewrite the essay. This time without insulting the professor. Or his toupee."

Benny shrugged, but Peter noticed his clenched jaw.

"You don't get it…" Benny flopped onto the bed, kicking one of the books. "If I fail this class, I lose the athletic scholarship. And if I lose the scholarship, Uncle Ben makes me work full-time at the shop. FULL-TIME! Do you know what that is?"

"I work there too."

"Yeah, but you do it out of some weird masochistic joy. I do it out of emotional obligation and family guilt."

Peter gave him a side-eye."You're a martyr."

"Exactly," Benny said, raising a hand dramatically like he expected applause.

Peter closed his eyes for a moment. In his memories, Benny had worked like crazy to earn that scholarship.

Peter shook his head, but smiled."Damn it, Benny," Peter muttered, feeling his resolve melt. "Okay. I'll try. But no promises."

Benny blinked, then a slow grin spread across his face.He threw a fist in the air in victory, nearly hitting the ceiling lamp.

"Knew you wouldn't say no!" He leaned forward and pulled a laptop from his backpack.

"But I'm not doing it right now. I need time for something like this," Peter warned, raising a hand to stop Benny's explosive enthusiasm.

"I've got time," Benny replied, opening the laptop with a theatrical bow. "Just tell me what you need—coffee, chocolate, emotional blackmail… I can even get you a video of Kaine singing karaoke. It exists. Teresa recorded it. He's willing to pay me not to upload it."

Peter raised an eyebrow."Kaine sings?"

"'Toxic' by Britney Spears," Benny said with total seriousness. "Falsetto and everything."

Peter burst into laughter.

"Give me two days. I want to check the system first and make sure I won't get traced," Peter said at last, calmer. He had accepted the favor, but on his terms.

"Two days is more than I hoped for. You're a hero," Benny said, clapping him on the shoulder so hard it nearly knocked him off the bed. "I'll make you a scrap-metal statue at the shop. Maybe with a cape and laser eyes."

Benny nodded in satisfaction and started gathering the scattered books.

"Alright, I'm out. But just so you know, MJ's coming tomorrow. She said if she catches you not resting, she's going to smack you with her journal."

"Her journal?"

"Yeah. Hardcover. She's had it since she was eleven. Calls it 'The Book of Peter Parker's Bad Decisions.' According to her, she's on volume four."

Peter snorted, rubbing his temples."She should put your name on it. Half of those decisions are your fault."

"I don't deny it," Benny said proudly, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. "But without me, your life would be so boring. Don't forget it."

Peter looked at him, tired but genuinely grateful."Thanks, Benny. Really."

"Don't make it sound so emotional. I'll break out in hives. Just get better. The shop smells weird without you. And Kaine gets bossier without someone to argue with."

Peter nodded, and for a moment, the room went quiet again. Benny gave him one last glance before stepping out, then turned and added:

"Oh—and one more thing. If you do hack the system and find a way to give me an A+, don't be shy."

Peter threw a pillow at him.

The door closed behind Benny, leaving Peter alone once again. He looked at the open laptop, then at the rye bun he hadn't finished, and finally at the stack of books looming like a mountain.

He sighed."Who said having a family was easy?"

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