Chapter One: "Toasts, Trauma, and the Tiniest Sip of Destiny"
—In which Peter makes a choice, Flash faces a ghost, and fate tightens its web with quiet inevitability.
In the grand, swirling chaos that was the universe, Earth remained as confused as ever. People bustled around like distracted penguins—texting, shopping, binge-watching conspiracy documentaries—completely unaware that, just a few layers of reality away, someone was probably drop-kicking a demigod into a volcano.
Sure, things looked normal on the surface: traffic jams, political rants on TV, a Starbucks on every corner. But if you squinted hard enough—like, really really hard—you might notice that the world was fraying at the seams.
There were shadows slinking where they shouldn't be. Screams in alleyways that nobody remembered hearing. Headlines that briefly mentioned "energy anomalies" or "large-scale infrastructure damage" before being buried under cat videos and influencer scandals.
Humanity, being the gold-medal champion of denial, decided it was probably just global warming. Or pigeons. Or ghosts. Definitely not flying sorcerers or radioactive crocodile people. Because that would be ridiculous. Right?
But behind the veil of boring mortals and aggressively mediocre high school cafeterias, there existed another world. A secret world of heroes, villains, and everything in between. People who could fly, shoot plasma beams, or juggle tanks on a bad day. People with tragic backstories and cool names like "Night Phantom" or "Captain Thunderfist." (Okay, maybe not all of them had good taste in branding.)
These heroes had existed for longer than Instagram or indoor plumbing. Some claimed they popped up in the '80s—alongside mullets and synth pop—but truthfully, they'd always been there. Some were born from unethical experiments (thanks, science), others from heartbreak, vengeance, or radioactive spiders. Don't ask.
And despite the governments' best attempts to babysit these cosmic juggernauts, most of them operated outside the law. Vigilantes with heart. Or ego. Or, in some cases, both. But when push came to world-ending shove, it was usually a hero who stopped the megalomaniac from nuking the moon or turning Iceland into a lava-themed resort.
That didn't mean the system worked. Far from it. Heroes weren't soldiers. They weren't cops. They were complicated, moody, and sometimes had the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel. Still, it was cheaper to fund a flying man in tights than to rebuild five cities after a kaiju attack.
Enter Peter Benjamin Parker. Seventeen years old. Smarter than he had any right to be. Hair that never quite behaved. And currently stuck between algebra homework and an existential crisis.
Peter didn't feel like a hero. Heck, he didn't even feel like a normal teenager half the time. He had questions. Dangerous, annoying questions like:
Why do people with power have to help?
Why do heroes risk everything for strangers who won't remember their names by morning?
Why should I bother when the world won't even look up from their phones to say thanks?
These weren't the kinds of questions you asked out loud in school unless you wanted to be labeled "that one edgy guy" and assigned a therapist by the principal.
But they lingered. Especially after what happened to his uncle. And his father. Both men had said the same thing in different ways:
With great power comes great responsibility.
Which sounded nice. Noble. Almost poetic. Like something you'd slap on a T-shirt and sell at Comic-Con.
Except Peter wasn't buying it. Not fully. Not yet.
He couldn't help but think: What if I didn't want that responsibility? What if I just wanted to be left alone?
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Peter Parker's life could be summed up in three words: books, bruises, and budgeting.
Born in Queens to two of the world's most covert CIA operatives (emphasis on were), Peter had been too young to remember the explosion that ended his parents' lives—or the scandal that followed. According to the news, Richard and Mary Parker were traitors. According to the truth (which Peter didn't know yet), they were assassinated by the Red Skull, a Nazi with the complexion of a cherry-flavored cough drop.
Somewhere out there, Peter also had a sister—a little girl he never knew existed. Her name was Teresa, but Peter couldn't have guessed that if you bribed him with lifetime Wi-Fi access and a limited-edition StarkTech drone.
After the dust of the tragedy settled, Peter found himself under the care of Ben and May Parker—two of the kindest, most stubbornly good-hearted people to ever survive a New York apartment. They weren't rich. They weren't young. But they were his whole world. Ben ran a corner store that specialized in everything from groceries to philosophical life advice, and May worked night shifts as a nurse, patching up people who made worse choices than Peter's school cafeteria sushi.
Growing up, Peter quickly realized he was not like other kids. While the average ten-year-old was mastering dodgeball or Fortnite, Peter was building hydrogen fuel cells out of junkyard scraps. He could explain quantum entanglement before he could ride a bike. Naturally, this made him very popular. If by popular you meant a daily target for spitballs, wedgies, and people who thought "Photosynthesis Boy" was a devastating insult.
The ringleader of his teenage torment? Eugene "Flash" Thompson—linebacker, ego-on-legs, and the kind of guy who referred to himself in the third person. Flash had it all: muscles, a girlfriend, a future in sports endorsements, and absolutely zero understanding of mitochondria. Which was awkward, since Peter had to tutor Flash's girlfriend in biology to help pay the bills.
Peter didn't mind being poor—okay, maybe he slightly minded it when his shoes had more duct tape than fabric—but what stung was the fear. Not the physical beatdowns (he had those calculated into his daily schedule), but the powerlessness. The knowing that no matter how smart he was, he couldn't punch his way out of trouble. He couldn't protect himself. Or May. Or anyone. And that made him hate himself just a little.
Still, he had a plan. Study hard. Get into a great university. Land a job that paid more than three digits a week. Buy May a house. Maybe build an AI assistant who could punch bullies in the face.
And it seemed like the plan was working.
At eighteen, Peter finally got into Empire State University on a full science scholarship—proof that endless flashcards and sleepless nights hadn't been for nothing. ESU was the crown jewel of scientific research. The place where geniuses became legends. Where Nobel Prize winners taught freshman chemistry and radioactive specimens were kept in "totally safe" glass cages guarded by interns with clipboards.
Peter thought it would be different.
He thought the bullying would stop. That college would be the place where intellect was celebrated, not shoved into a locker.
He was wrong.
Sure, people weren't as blatant about it—no one was giving him swirlies between lectures—but the social hierarchy still existed. Now the bullies wore polo shirts, used big words like "dichotomy," and condescended to him about outdated science papers. Peter was still an outsider. Still the weirdo with no money, no connections, and a lunchbox held together with hope and tape.
But he didn't give up.
Because Peter Parker was stubborn. Stubborn and brilliant and filled with this ridiculous little ember of hope that maybe—just maybe—things would get better.
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The air was crisp, the sky doing that perfect shade of blue that artists never get quite right, and Peter Parker was this close to solving the bond-energy conundrum that had been tormenting his sleep for three days straight.
Leaves rustled like a polite round of applause as he sat on a park bench nestled into Empire State University's central quad, his backpack beside him and a stack of annotated notes on his lap that looked like they could take out a small animal if dropped.
Peter didn't notice the world. That wasn't unusual.
When he studied, time slowed. People blurred. His senses dimmed, like his brain had installed Do Not Disturb mode while it sprinted toward the next eureka moment.
Which made it all the more painful when someone kicked in the metaphorical door of his concentration.
"Hey, Parker, how's life treating you?"
The sound sliced through his mental cocoon like a rusty blade. His pencil stopped mid-scribble. His spine straightened like a soldier reporting for emotional damage duty.
Only one person said his name like that. With that casually smug tone, like they'd just remembered he existed after finishing a protein shake.
Peter looked up, and yep—there he was.
Flash Thompson.
Surrounded by his usual backup dancers: two linebackers with the combined IQ of a sandwich and Liz Allan, Empire State University's resident queen bee and (tragically) Flash's girlfriend.
Peter forced his expression into something bland and neutral. The poker face of someone who had absolutely no interest in emotional confrontation during his bonding time with thermodynamic equations.
"Hello, Flash," Peter said evenly. "It's going well. How can I help you?"
He'd learned the tone over years. Calm. Polite. Harmless. It was the voice of a waiter being yelled at by a customer who didn't realize their coupon had expired in 2006.
Flash grinned—the kind of grin that would have been charming if it weren't attached to a guy who once shoved Peter into a locker and then blamed him for bending the hinges.
"Haha, that's my Parker. We're gonna need help with our assignments, so don't forget to make time for it."
And there it was. The royal decree. Flash the Magnificent, assigning homework like a benevolent dictator. Peter's hands curled into fists under the table, his knuckles going white beneath the pages of complex carbon-chain diagrams.
"Sure," he said through a smile so tight it could've cracked glass.
Flash patted him on the shoulder. Not friendly. Not violent. Just enough pressure to remind Peter who could bench press a small elephant.
Peter watched, his insides folding in on themselves like cheap origami. Because what could he do? Flash wasn't breaking the law. Not anymore. He wasn't even insulting Peter outright. He was just... there. A phantom limb of Peter's past that refused to get amputated.
And worse, Flash had changed. Sort of.
See, the old Flash would've shoved him, maybe poured something on his notes for laughs. The new Flash? He was different. Bigger. Quieter. Still mean, but not the same flavor of cruelty. Like a wildfire reduced to smoldering embers. No longer destructive—but still hot enough to burn if you got too close.
Because something had happened.
That summer.
The one Peter never asked about. The one Flash never spoke of.
But the rumor mill at ESU—oh, it ran on premium gossip.
Word was, Flash's home life had gone nuclear.
His father—a cop with fists instead of words—had finally gone too far. And this time, Flash didn't take it lying down. He walked in on something horrific. His little sister, terrified. His father, a monster. And Flash?
Flash grabbed the nearest vase and shattered the cycle.
The aftermath was ugly. Quiet. Not legal enough. His dad got suspended, not arrested. His mom fled with the girl, finally escaping the house she'd been ghosting through for years. And Flash?
He stayed. For Liz. For football. For a future that didn't involve slamming his fists into anyone weaker than him.
It changed him. But not completely.
Because Peter Parker? He was still the safe target. The familiar one. The one who never fought back.
To Flash, Peter wasn't an enemy. He wasn't a friend either. He was... a test. A mirror. Something to poke, prod, or push—because maybe if Peter stood up to him, Flash could believe he was no longer the monster he used to be.
But Peter didn't push back.
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Peter Parker's brain had one very clear message at the moment:
Abort mission. Abort all missions. This is not a drill.
He could feel his heart slamming against his chest like it was trying to escape through his ribs, waving a tiny white flag of surrender. His body had gone into full survival mode, and unfortunately, survival mode looked a lot like… compliance.
Flash's grip was firm—too familiar. He pulled Peter up with one big hand like they were old pals instead of long-time reluctant tutor and occasionally assaulted lab partner. And Peter—betrayed by muscle memory and social anxiety—went along with it.
"Flash, I can only make some time. Is that okay? You know I'm really busy now," he said, voice just shy of cracking like a brittle piece of lab glass.
It wasn't defiance. It was more like politely poking a sleeping dragon and hoping it was in the mood for small talk instead of barbecue.
Flash blinked. For a half-second, he actually looked... amused. Parker negotiating? What was next, Peter winning a push-up contest?
"I don't have a problem with that," Flash said, and wham—there went a backslap that nearly sent Peter into orbit.
"Internal bruising," Peter thought. "Totally fine. I'm just hemorrhaging confidence."
"But I want my work finished."
"Yes," Peter said way too fast, like a Pavlovian dog who had heard the dinner bell of disappointment.
And then... it happened.
Flash's eyes lit up, and Peter instantly regretted not faking a seizure or pretending he had an urgent calculus emergency.
"Wanna join us for a drink? You know, first week of university, new life, new beginnings."
There it was: the offer that wasn't an offer. The classic Flash Trap™. Say no, and you're a buzzkill. Say yes, and next thing you know, you're at a dive bar trying not to get peer-pressured into karaoke or arm wrestling with someone named Moose.
"Thank you, but I don't like to drink."
A reasonable, adult response. One that any normal person would respect.
Flash? He just snorted. Not mean, not hostile—just dismissive, like Peter had confessed to being mildly allergic to fun.
"Parker, let's go."
And just like that, Peter's spine turned to paper mâché.
That tone—that cursed, commanding, casual dominance—had haunted his high school days. It was the voice that said, You're coming with us, even if you have a better idea, because I already made the decision for you.
Before Peter even processed what was happening, he was on his feet. Not because he wanted to go. Not because he had nothing better to do. But because the instinct to avoid conflict had hijacked his limbs.
"Okay, guys," Flash said, wrapping one large arm around Peter's shoulders like a golden retriever claiming its chew toy. "Let's enjoy our time and drink to our futures!"
Peter forced a laugh that sounded like it had been stolen from a hostage video.
His legs moved, but his brain screamed objections with every step.
He didn't drink. He didn't do loud. He didn't like crowds or people who shouted into his face to be heard over cheap bass.
And these people? They weren't his friends. They were the same people who once turned his locker into a trash can and called it performance art.
But what was he supposed to do? Flash was in a good mood. And Peter knew that when Flash was in a good mood, saying no was like poking a bear after it had just gotten a massage and was debating whether to hibernate or maul you.
So, he followed.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he was afraid of what might happen if he didn't.
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Flash Thompson had never liked alcohol.
Most people assumed it was because of football regulations, or maybe because he was trying to maintain his perfect, sculpted athlete image. But the truth ran far deeper—darker.
Alcohol was his father's perfume. It was the sour stench that clung to broken furniture and bruises, that filled their small living room like poison gas every time the man stumbled in after his shift. A bottle in his hand. Violence in his eyes.
Flash had watched his mother flinch at every raised voice. Had learned how to cover bruises for his sister. And for a long time, he believed drinking would make him that man. That one sip would be the beginning of the end—of kindness, of control, of everything he had fought to protect.
But tonight?
Tonight wasn't about that.
He wasn't running from pain anymore. He wasn't terrified of inheriting his father's rage. Because he'd already broken that chain. That vase hadn't just shattered on his father's head—it had shattered the fear.
So tonight, Flash would raise a glass.
Not to forget.
But to remember that he had survived.
The bar was pulsing with youthful chaos—first-week college energy in full swing. Laughter spilled from every corner, someone was already singing badly off-key in a corner booth, and a guy in a lab coat was trying to chat up a girl using quantum physics as a pickup line. Bold.
Peter Parker, meanwhile, looked like someone had shoved him into the middle of a fraternity hazing and told him to solve a Rubik's Cube with live squirrels.
He stood stiffly by the edge of their booth, one hand still halfway gripping his backpack like it was a shield. His eyes darted nervously around the room, like he expected a rogue textbook to leap out and quiz him.
He was younger than the rest—barely eighteen. Smaller, too. Not that anyone was saying it out loud, but standing next to Flash, Mark, and Jason was like watching a housecat try to blend into a herd of buffalo.
Liz Allan, ever the queen of casual cruelty and clever commentary, sipped her drink with a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Didn't think you were the partying type, Parker."
Peter blinked. She was talking to him?
He cleared his throat.
"I'm not."
"So why are you here?"
A good question. An impossible answer.
He couldn't exactly say because my trauma reflexes kicked in or because saying no to Flash still feels like inviting fate to kneecap me.
So he stayed quiet.
And then Flash, timing it with uncanny precision, slapped a drink into his hand like it was a gift from the gods.
"Come on, Parker. One toast. Just one. Even you can handle that."
Peter stared at the glass like it was filled with radioactive sludge. Technically, it might've been—this place didn't exactly scream "certified mixology."
But in that moment, something shifted.
He was tired.
Tired of flinching.
Tired of shrinking.
This wasn't high school anymore. He wasn't a punching bag with glasses. He was Peter Parker, freshman at Empire State University. Top of his class. Genius-in-the-making. He didn't have to be afraid.
He took a deep breath. The weight of the glass suddenly felt symbolic—like he was holding not a drink, but a decision.
"To the future," he said quietly, lifting the glass.
Flash grinned, clinking his glass against Peter's.
"To the future."
Peter drank.
It wasn't much. Just a sip.
Bitter. Sharp. It burned slightly going down. He coughed once and made a face that made Mark laugh and Liz raise an eyebrow, but Peter didn't care.
He had done it.
Not for Flash.
Not for anyone else.
For himself.
But fate—oh, fate was already watching.
Because sometimes the smallest choices have the biggest echoes.