I Am the Spider-Man from Earth-42

The fires still smoldered in the distance.

Ash clung to the edges of broken windows.

And under the orange-tinted sky, a temporary silence blanketed the street like snow.

But it wasn't peace.

It was survival.

In the battered remains of the east district, Spider-Man lay on a makeshift stretcher, smoke rising from the shredded plates of his Mark I suit.

Inside the base infirmary—once a subway tunnel turned resistance medbay Peter's chestplate was peeled off with care, revealing bruised ribs, electrical burns, and countless gashes.

Medical bots hovered overhead, stitching skin, sealing arteries.

"He's stable," a nurse-bot said, voice artificial but calm.

Nick Fury stood nearby, arms folded, face carved from stone.

But his eyes?

They were watching Peter.

Studying.

Waiting.

Peter slowly opened one eye.

"…How bad is it?"

Fury didn't flinch.

"Suit's trashed. You've got two cracked ribs. Mild concussion. And a nasty burn down your side. But you're breathing."

Peter chuckled weakly. "Well, I was aiming for breathing."

Fury stepped forward. His voice lowered—not harsh now, but firm. Leader-to-leader.

"You saved them, Parker. Not just your friends—hundreds. That blast would've killed every soul in a five-block radius."

Peter looked away.

"…I didn't do it alone."

…

Meanwhile, Outside…

Frank Castle stood in the wreckage, barking orders like a general on the field.

"Get the civilians into the west tunnel. Prioritize burn victims first. Robin, take two of the rebel teens and clear the fireline!"

Robin saluted. "On it, sir!"

Frank didn't pause he turned to Gwen and Harry, both patching up wounded rebels with scavenged supplies.

"Good work out there. You two held the flank."

Harry wiped blood off his cheek.

"Peter did most of it."

Frank nodded slowly.

"…Yeah. He's still a kid. But he fought like a soldier."

"Maybe better."

He looked to the crater again.

"…We just might win this war."

….

At the Crater's Edge

Ganke Lee knelt beside a crying girl, wrapping a blanket gently over her small, trembling frame.

Her cheeks were streaked with soot and tears. Her knees scraped.

But in her hands, she clutched the scorched remnants of a cracked teddy bear, its stitching burned, but one button eye still gleamed.

"You're safe now, okay?" Ganke whispered.

The girl nodded, silent, eyes wide and glassy.

She leaned into his side. Clinging. Like he was the only steady thing left in a world of fire and falling steel.

Footsteps crunched on broken glass.

Quin approached from behind, her silver braids trailing behind her like battle ribbons. Her jaw split with an old scar was set tight, but her eyes softened as she took in the scene.

"You're good with them," she said quietly.

Ganke stood slowly.

His knuckles were scraped. His jacket torn.

But the weight in his eyes was heavier than all of it.

"They lost everything," he muttered.

"We all did. We just keep pretending we're okay."

He looked past the girl.

Past the ruins of the city square.

Toward the crater.

The still-smoking impact zone where Scorpia's mangled remains had once towered like death incarnate.

And now only a crater.

Silent.

Smoldering.

"…But now we have hope again," Ganke whispered.

His throat tightened.

His voice didn't rise it didn't need to.

"He gave us that."

Quin followed his gaze.

And for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Because in that ruin of ash, Spider-Man had risen.

Not from legend.

Not from some hero from a comic page.

But in real blood, torn metal, and flame.

The city had watched a hero bleed to save them.

And somehow… it made the world feel alive again.

….

After minutes in the Infirmary

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and scorched metal.

Soft beeping filled the silence the rhythm of Peter's heart steady on the monitor beside his cot.

Mary Jane sat beside him, unmoving except for the way her fingers twisted lightly together in her lap. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them. Her jacket was dusted with ash.

She hadn't said much since they carried him in.

But now, as he stirred, wincing from the dull ache of two cracked ribs and burnt muscle, Peter offered a lopsided grin.

"So… did I ruin your night?"

Mary looked at him.

Her expression didn't change at first. But then a smile, faint and trembling.

"You're a disaster," she said.

Her voice was soft.

"But you're our disaster."

Peter chuckled and winced.

"Ow. Okay, don't make me laugh. Webbed stitches aren't funny."

From the doorway, Harry stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the frame.

He hadn't said anything either.

Not until now.

Just a look.

A nod.

A silent message:

I trust you.

I forgive you.

You're still my brother.

Peter nodded back, just once.

The air shifted lighter now.

Still painful. Still uncertain. But… whole.

Gwen stepped into the room, her tone teasing despite the bags under her eyes.

"You broke two ribs, ruptured a capacitor, and still managed to hit her with a web-bomb in the spine."

She smirked.

"That's gotta be some kind of record."

Peter let out a breathy laugh.

"I'm the Amazing Spider-Man. Comes with the title."

Frank Castle leaned against the far wall, arms folded. His face, as always, was carved from war. But his eyes held respect now. Something earned.

Nick Fury finally spoke.

His voice was low. Gravel dragged across steel.

"Rest up, kid."

He stepped into the room, coat fluttering slightly.

"Because that was just Scorpia. And she's not even the worst of them."

The weight of it fell like thunder.

Peter's jaw tightened.

He forced himself upright slowly despite the pain screaming through his side.

His gaze didn't waver.

He looked at all of them. 

Mary. Harry. Gwen. Frank. Robin. Quin. Ganke.

Tired. Wounded. Fractured but not broken.

And for the first time since he arrived in this world Peter felt like he belonged.

He squared his shoulders, eyes locked with Fury.

"…Let them come."

"I'll be ready."

..

The broadcast flickered across half the surviving screens in the city.

Grainy, shaky footage recorded by someone's broken camcorder. Static lines interrupted the picture, but the moment was unmistakable.

A blur of red and black.

A boy in a cracked crimson suit, webbing through falling debris, his mask torn, dragging survivors from fire. At the center of the explosion's aftermath—he stood alone in the smoke.

The camera panned slowly.

The Mark I suit—scarred, glowing faintly with blue veins.

The white spider emblazoned across his chest.

And his voice raw, but clear.

"I'm Spider-Man."

Across the ruined suburbs, those who had power watched it unfold.

Children huddled in makeshift shelters stared at him with wide eyes.

A woman in a clinic gasped and covered her mouth.

An old man wept quietly on a bench, saying:

"He came back… the red one came back."

…

In a quiet apartment outside the city limits, an elderly woman sat alone at a tiny kitchen table.

The TV flickered across from her.

Dust lined the window. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched in her hand.

May Parker squinted at the screen.

A reporter's voice stammered over shaky footage:

"...Who is this masked vigilante? Witnesses are calling him a 'spider-man,' after his unique powers. Reports say he may have saved over fifty civilians from the blast radius alone."

A second clip played.

He swung across a fire, caught a falling child midair, and landed, shielding them with his body.

May blinked. Her chest tightened.

"…Spider-Man?"

She leaned closer.

Her eyes traced the broken mask. The jawline. The voice.

She reached slowly for the volume dial turning it up just a notch.

"Some say he appeared out of nowhere. Others claim he's a ghost from the Chicago battles. But today, in the east district..."

"...a legend was born."

And in the underground cities, in the broken corners of the ruined world, people whispered the name.

"The Spider."

"The Web-Walker."

"The Red Ghost."

Some said he was the same one from two years ago—the one who fight the Sinister Six.

Others said he was new. Reborn. A warrior stitched together from the wreckage of the past.

But all of them agreed:

He gave them hope.

…

Back in her chair, Aunt May didn't speak.

But her hand slowly rose to touch the locket around her neck.

Inside: a photo of a boy.

Laughing.

Wearing glasses.

Peter.

And outside, beyond the window…

A faint gust of wind blew through a broken screen door.

And somewhere in the shadowed city—

The Spider's legend grew.

To be continue