The neon-lit slums of Earth-731, 2030, flickered like a broken holo-screen, casting jagged shadows over New York's underdistrict. Rain pelted Peter Parker, Mad Spider, as he swung through the chaos, his blood-red costume in tatters, spider-powers—strength, agility, regeneration—stretched to their limit after the Spider-Verse war. Gwen Stacy clung to his side, webbed tightly, her blonde hair matted, blue eyes fierce despite exhaustion. The pain from Oscorp's electroshock torture burned through Peter's nerves, a relentless pulse fueling his Joker-like madness. He laughed, a wild, unhinged cackle, dodging a collapsing billboard that screamed their bounty: Wanted: Mad Spider, Gwen Stacy, Enemies of Order. "Home sweet chaos, Gwenny!" he quipped, his Deadpool-sharp humor a thin veil over despair. Gwen's tablet, cracked and dark, hung uselessly at her hip. "They hate us more now," she said, her voice steady but raw. "We're outcasts."
Flashback: At 16, Peter and Gwen crouched in a Queens alley, her hand steadying his trembling frame after a bully's beating. "We're enough," she whispered, her smile a lifeline. That promise anchored them now, but Earth-731's scorn cut deeper than any blade.
They landed in a derelict lot, rusted shipping crates looming like tombstones. Peter's pain surged, a white-hot spike that dropped him to his knees, his laughter turning to a broken gasp. Gwen knelt, her ritual beginning—her hands pressed to his temples, soothing the burning nerves, their bond an obsessive tether. "You're still you, Peter," she murmured, tears mixing with rain. His eyes, wild with madness, softened. "Am I? They call me a monster, Gwenny. Maybe they're right." Regeneration knit his wounds, but the city's rejection festered—screens flashed their faces, crowds jeered, and drones buzzed in the distance. Oscorp's fall hadn't freed them; it had branded them villains.
A shadow loomed, massive and limping, cutting through the neon haze. Wilson Fisk, Kingpin, his scarred face etched with pain, his suit pristine despite a cane's support. "You're not alone," he rumbled, voice like gravel but warm. Peter's spider-senses buzzed, wary but curious. "Big guy, what's the catch?" he grinned, webbing taut. Fisk's eyes, heavy with a lifetime's weight, met his. "I know outcasts. I've been one." Gwen's fingers tightened on her tablet, her voice sharp. "Why us, Fisk?" He smiled, broken but genuine. "Because I see myself in you—cast aside, yet fighting."
Fisk gestured to a sleek transport, its lights cutting the rain. "I offer shelter, resources—a life. Come with me." Peter's laughter echoed, chaotic but intrigued. Gwen hesitated, her love for Peter warring with caution. The city's drones hummed closer, their lasers glinting. Fisk's cane tapped, resolute. "Decide now, or this world will crush you."
They followed, the neon slums fading behind. Peter's grin was sharp, his pain a dull roar. A new ally, a new fight—maybe a new home. But as they boarded the transport, a question gnawed: Why did Fisk care?
Cliffhanger: The transport hums to life, but a gang's drones lock onto them, red lights piercing the rain. "Trouble already?" Peter laughs, webs snapping, ready for chaos.