I Am the Spider-Man from Earth-42

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 .....

After days since Scorpia Died

"Spider-Man!! Spider-Man!!"

The chant began with a boy.

Twelve years old, barefoot, standing atop the shattered ruins of what used to be a school. His fists were raised, tears running down his cheeks. He'd seen the footage a dozen times in the last day—the boy in red, rising from fire, saving lives.

And now, surrounded by a crowd of refugees, resistance fighters, children, doctors—

He screamed the name again.

"SPIDER-MAN!!"

And the crowd screamed it back.

"SPIDER-MAN!! SPIDER-MAN!!"

….

In cities across the continent, broadcasts crackled to life.

Screens still intact inside subway tunnels and shattered sports arenas lit up with a single symbol—

The spider emblem.

White on red.

Projected behind shaky live footage of masked civilians painting murals in alleyways. Kids using chalk to draw the spider on their shelters. Old men pressing buttons on broken typewriters to make flyers that read:

"WHO IS SPIDER-MAN?"

The news anchors didn't know how to spin it.

They had orders to instill fear, not hope.

But something was happening they hadn't planned for.

They hadn't silenced the media.

They had twisted it. Used it to spread terror. Show burnt buildings, threats, and domination.

But now, the same media was turning against them.

Broadcasts that were meant to spread fear… were now hijacked by truth.

"There were reports of a masked individual—believed to be 'Spider-Man'—saving civilians during the Scorpia detonation." a flustered anchor stammered.

"We've been told he's dangerous, a threat to global order. But the people don't seem to agree…"

The screen cut to a live feed.

Hundreds of people gathered in front of the destroyed federal monument.

All chanting.

"SPIDER-MAN! SPIDER-MAN!"

The camera lingered on the chants.

A woman, bruised but smiling, stood in the crowd, holding a baby.

"We don't care who he is," she said tearfully into a reporter's mic.

"He saved us. That's what matters."

A soldier with a homemade red armband saluted the camera.

"If they're afraid of him… then he's exactly what we need."

..

In the shadowed halls of the Regime Command Center, several black-uniformed officers turned to their superior.

"Sir… the chants are spreading. Six cities. Twelve now. Twenty."

"They're painting his symbol on tanks. Buses. Drones."

Their commander's jaw clenched.

"…Shut it down."

"We tried. But we don't control it anymore. They're uploading mirror streams from pocket satellites… from the old resistance network... we can't track it fast enough."

He slammed his fist on the table.

"Then give them something else to fear."

But it was too late.

A symbol had been born.

Not a weapon.

Not a soldier.

A story.

A myth. A whisper.

"Who is Spider-Man?"

The question echoed through screens, alleys, ruins, bunkers.

But no one had an answer.

Not yet.

Only this:

He rose from the fire.

He saved the broken.

And he fought back.

..

In a dark room, Mary stood beside Harry Osborn, watching one of the broadcasts on an old TV set.

Neither spoke.

Mary 's fingers clutched a piece of red fabric.

Torn.

Burnt.

But unmistakably his.

…

In her apartment, Aunt May watched the screen.

The camera zoomed in on a masked boy webbing through flame.

Behind him—dozens of survivors running free.

Outside, in the streets—

"SPIDER-MAN!! SPIDER-MAN!!"

The rally continued.

And the web of rebellion began to grow.

..

Back at the base…

Peter stood alone on the rooftop, overlooking the battered city.

Ash still floated in the sky like snow.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the moment of calm.

For once… silence wasn't terrifying.

It was peace.

"Caught."

A small object landed softly in his hand, he hadn't even looked.

He opened his palm.

A red apple.

He smiled. "Gwen."

She leaned on the railing beside him, biting into her own.

"The new hope. The symbol of rebellion. The people's hero. Who is this Spider-Man?"

Peter sighed through a half-laugh.

"A kid with web-shooters and bad luck."

Gwen nudged him.

"Nah. You're the spark. Whether you want to be or not."

Below, through the open hangar, Rebels was coordinating evac routes with others

Ganke patched a power relay with Quin's help.

And above them all, projected on the wall in bold light, was a crude symbol:

A white spider.

Peter stared at it.

Then, softly—

"…Let's give them something to believe in."

…

Meanwhile, at the Rebel Base – Underground War Room

The hum of old generators and flickering monitors filled the room as Nick Fury stepped in, a thin layer of dust on his coat from the field. He threw a black duffel onto the metal table—it hit with a dull, heavy thud.

Frank Castle looked up from loading his shotgun.

"You're late."

"Had to make a detour," Fury said, unzipping the bag.

Inside: several small slabs of glowing vibranium—each sealed in containment gel, humming faintly.

Frank raised an eyebrow.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Fury nodded. "Some vibranium. Just lying there. In one of Octavius' abandoned labs. Guess the doc got sloppy."

Frank leaned closer, inspecting the metal.

"Weird he didn't take it. That bastard hoarded everything. Tech, weapons, power cells—but not this?"

Fury narrowed his one eye, thinking.

"Either he didn't want it… or he already has more."

Frank exhaled slowly.

"What the hell was he building?"

Fury zipped the bag shut. "Something big. And bad. But we just got a piece of the puzzle."

He tapped the vibranium slab.

"This? This changes everything."

Frank crossed his arms, eyes locked on the faint glow of vibranium.

"You thinking weapons?"

Fury looked up at him, dead serious.

"A motherfucking weapon."

A beat passed—then Frank smirked.

"Heh. Seems about right."

Fury glanced at the projection of the spider symbol glowing on the wall.

"If they're calling him hope... we're gonna turn him into the goddamn sword that cuts through fear."

Frank cracked his knuckles.

"Then we better start building. Hope needs teeth."

..

Meanwhile…

In the charred streets of what was once Midtown, red-and-blue police drones hovered, scanning the wreckage.

Inside a parked armored cruiser, tension simmered.

Captain Edgar slammed his fist against the dashboard. His voice was sharp, cruel.

"Where is he… that damn vigilante. Spider-Man."

Rookie Edward Wilson stood stiff beside him, blond hair slightly tousled from his helmet, blue eyes unreadable.

"No sign, sir," he said crisply.

Captain Edgar snarled, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers.

"He thinks he can just waltz in, break the rules, make people believe again? He's not a hero. He's a threat. And threats get put down."

Edward didn't answer.

He just stared out the window, watching the children wave at a nearby wall, a crude

drawing of Spider-Man's mask spray-painted on the side.

Below it, the words in shaky white paint:

"Hope lives."

(This bastard…) Edward thought, fists clenched behind his back. (Trying to hunt him down like he's the enemy… I won't let you. I won't let any of you.)

Sirens flared again. The hunt was on.

But inside, Edward had already made his choice.

He wasn't just a rookie anymore.

He was a believer.

To be continue