Chapter 2
The water from the sink ran warm over Gwen’s hands as she scrubbed the dishes, humming a tune from her band’s last rehearsal. The apartment was small, but it felt big enough when it was just her and her dad. She could hear the distant hum of sirens echoing through the city and someone yelling in the street, but it was white noise by now. Just another night in Earth-42.
The front door creaked open, and Gwen heard the heavy footsteps before the voice.
“Smells like someone didn’t burn dinner for once,” Officer George Stacy teased as he kicked off his boots.
She snorted, not turning from the sink. “That was one time. And the microwave exploded, so technically it wasn’t dinner.”
He chuckled as he stepped into the kitchen, setting his badge and holster on the counter—always in that exact order. “Don’t tell me we’re having leftovers.”
“Nope. Real food.” Gwen turned with mock pride. “Spaghetti. From scratch. Okay, mostly from a box. But the sauce is real.”
George raised a brow. “That’s dangerously close to adulting.”
She beamed and handed him a plate. “Careful, I’m growing.”
They sat down at their tiny dining table, cluttered with paperwork, bills, and a half-done crossword Gwen kept forgetting to finish. But for a moment, none of it mattered. The world outside their windows might have been falling apart, but in this tiny kitchen, everything felt normal.
“Things okay at school?” he asked in between bites.
Gwen shrugged. “Same old. Peter got shoved into a locker again, so I shoved back. That’s our routine.”
George laughed, almost choking on his water. “I swear, you’re the most violent ballerina this city’s ever seen.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
A comfortable silence followed. Just clinking forks and shared smirks.
But then George’s face sobered. “We got a report today. Prowler hit another transport. Same MO. In and out before backup could even respond.”
Gwen paused mid-bite. “Damn.”
“Yeah.” He leaned back. “I’ve been on the force a long time, Gwendy. Seen a lot of masked punks come and go. But this one? He’s smart. Organized. Doesn’t kill, but he leaves chaos wherever he steps. We don’t even know what he’s after.”
She chewed slowly, watching him. “He ever hurt anyone?”
“No. That’s what’s weird. But he’s not just playing games either. He's... precise. Calculated.” George sighed. “Feels like this city’s only getting darker.”
Gwen looked down at her plate, stomach suddenly heavy. “Maybe someone’ll step up. You know—do the right thing.”
George gave her a tired smile. “That’d be nice for once.”
After dinner, Gwen cleared the table while her dad flicked on the news. Another story about gang activity in Brooklyn, another violent robbery near Queens. But in their kitchen, laughter still echoed from bad pasta jokes and quiet love. Earth-42 might be a mess—but this was their normal.
The city was gray today.
Not weather-wise—no, the sky was clear, the sun threatening to shine over the rooftop antennas and smoke-choked buildings. But something about Earth-42 always felt gray. Like it had forgotten how to be colorful. Or kind.
Gwen yanked her hoodie tighter around her as she stepped onto the metro platform, earbuds in, backpack slung low. Her ballet bag knocked against her hip as the train screeched in. She’d considered skipping class today—her legs still sore from last night’s rave—but her teacher would give her hell. And honestly? She kind of liked the hell.
It meant someone still expected something from her.
She glanced around the mostly-empty station. A kid tagging the wall. A couple arguing by the map. A man sleeping with a hood pulled low. Normal stuff. She boarded, claiming her usual corner seat near the door, pressed against the window where she could lose herself in watching the city blur past.
Halfway between stations, as she was pulling out her phone to text Peter some dumb meme, she felt it.
A sharp, clean prick. Like a shot—but smaller. Faster.
“Ah—ow!”
She slapped at her neck, yanking her hoodie down, thinking maybe a mosquito or something snuck in. But when she looked around, nothing was there. Just the slight sting beneath her collarbone and a weird warmth blooming under her skin.
Her brows furrowed. Bee? No… it felt too precise. Too specific. Like it had a purpose.
Gwen leaned over to the cracked window and tried to catch her reflection in the darkened glass, brushing the spot with her fingertips. No blood. Just red. Just heat.
“Gross,” she muttered under her breath, slipping her hoodie back on. The last thing she needed was a weird rash before her recital.
She tucked her chin back into her hoodie and tried to forget it. Probably nothing. Hopefully not a bug from the trash zone outside the station. She did not have time for mutant wasp bites or whatever her imagination was cooking up.
The train jolted and kept rolling. Gwen sighed.
She had ballet in twenty minutes and still needed to stop for a drink or she’d pass out mid-leap. The thought alone had her rolling her shoulders, shaking off the tension that had started to build in her back. Something about that bite—it left her skin crawling.
It wasn’t the pain that lingered.
It was the feeling that something had changed.
She almost didn’t make it through the door of the studio.
“Gwen? You good?” Fiona's voice called from inside as the girls warmed up, limbs stretching in practiced rhythm. The sharp sound of pointe shoes brushing across wooden floors echoed around the mirrored space.
Gwen nodded, though it was more instinct than confidence. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Her voice was dry. She sounded like she hadn’t slept in a week. She definitely hadn’t danced in heels on a subway train, but her legs shook like she had.
She slung her bag down and tried to change, but even that felt weird. Her hoodie clung to her like it didn’t want to come off, like her whole body was running too hot. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—pale, eyes ringed dark, strands of blonde hair sticking to her temple.
“You sure you’re okay?” Fiona asked, coming up beside her. “You look kinda…”
“Like I fought the train and lost?” Gwen tried to joke, but it fell flat.
She forced herself through stretches, every movement stiff. Her balance was off. Her feet slipped, like her muscles forgot what pliés were. She could barely see straight, the lights overhead smearing into shapes like watercolors.
The weird warmth from earlier was worse now. It wasn’t localized anymore—her whole body buzzed. Not pain exactly, but something wrong.
“I gotta go,” she said suddenly, standing mid-routine and making a beeline for her bag.
“Wait, Gwen—what the hell?” Julia called after her, but she barely heard it.
She stumbled outside, the cold slap of air hitting her like a wall. The world tilted. Her knees buckled, catching herself against a rusted pole as a sharp, needle-like sensation shot up her arms.
The subway ride home blurred.
She barely remembered getting inside. She said something quick to her dad—“Not feeling great, going to my room!”—before slipping into her room, slamming the door behind her.
She didn’t even make it to her bed.
She dropped her bag, reached to unzip her hoodie—and fwip.
Something shot from her wrist. Thin. Shiny. It hit the ceiling and stuck.
Her brain froze. Her breath hitched.
“What…?”
She yanked her hand back. Another fwip.
White strands now clung to her wall. Webbing. Sticky. Stretchy.
Her mouth dropped open as panic started to spike in her throat. “No, no no—what is this?”
She rushed to the mirror. Her reflection didn’t look right. Her skin was flushed, veins faintly glowing beneath the surface like lightning bugs trapped under glass.
Gwen backed up. Her hand touched her closet—and stuck.
She yelped, trying to pull away, but her palm wouldn’t move. Not until she ripped herself loose, stumbling across the floor.
She didn’t feel sick anymore.
She felt… different.
Her breath came out shallow. Her heart thundered like it was trying to break out of her ribs. Gwen fell onto her bed, arms shaking, eyes wide.
Something was happening to her.
And she had no idea if it was ever going to stop.
Gwen stared at the ceiling all night.
Sleep didn’t come. Her limbs twitched like her muscles were still learning where they belonged. Her body didn’t feel like her own anymore—her senses were too sharp, her hearing dialed up to eleven. She could hear the radiator two floors down clunking. Someone sneezing outside.
By morning, the web strands were still clinging to her closet door. She’d tried to clean them, but they were stubborn, like melted sugar hardened into steel.
She pulled her hoodie over her head, jaw tight, avoiding her own reflection. Her hands trembled. She tucked them into her sleeves and headed downstairs.
“Morning, kid,” her dad greeted from behind the newspaper at the kitchen table. “You’re up early.”
“Didn’t sleep,” Gwen mumbled, grabbing toast.
He peeked over the paper. “You okay?”
She forced a shrug. “Think I caught something. It’s probably nothing.”
George Stacy raised a brow. “Shouldn’t be dancing or rehearsing if you’re sick.”
“I won’t. I’ll take it easy.” She tried to smile.
Her dad set the paper down. “You sure you don’t want me to stay home today? We could watch a movie or something. Old classic?”
“I’m okay, really.” She wasn’t sure if she was convincing him or herself.
He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Alright. But if you feel worse—text me. I’ll be back late. Got some stuff happening uptown.”
“Prowler again?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That kid’s everywhere. Banks, drops, intel swaps—we can’t pin him. It’s like he knows we’re coming before we even plan a raid.”
“Maybe he’s got a guy on the inside?” she suggested.
George frowned. “Wouldn’t surprise me. City’s rotting from the inside out.”
The words sat heavy in her stomach. Gwen swallowed her bite of toast, barely tasting it.
Once he left, she waited a beat—then bolted back upstairs.
She grabbed her phone and hit Peter’s name before she could second-guess herself.
He picked up quick. “Yo?”
“I need you to come over,” she said, barely breathing.
“What’s wrong?”
“I—I don’t know. Just come, Pete. Please.”
A pause. Then a reply. “On my way.”
Ten minutes later, Peter clambered through her window like he always did. “Dude, you look like death.”
“I feel like death.” Gwen paced. “But not like sick. Like… alien.”
Peter blinked. “Huh?”
She raised a shaky hand. “Watch.”
Fwip.
Web shot from her wrist and smacked the corner of her dresser. Peter screamed.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL— Gwen?!”
“Exactly!” she hissed, yanking her hand away. “What is happening to me?! This started yesterday. First I got bit by—something—and now this! Sticky hands! Shooting web goo! My ceiling’s basically Spider-Man’s playhouse!”
Peter stood frozen, mouth agape.
“I thought I was losing it. But I’m not. This is real.”
Peter frowned. “You think it was radioactive?”
“Do I look like I’m glowing?”
He nodded slowly. “Kinda, yeah.”
Gwen groaned, falling back on her bed. “I don’t know what to do.”
Peter sat beside her, cautious. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever this is, you’re not alone.”
She let that sit for a second, the words soothing her like a balm.
Then her hand stuck to her pillow.
Again.
“...I hate this,” she muttered into the fabric.
It took Gwen all afternoon to work up the nerve.
Peter had offered to stay—he always did—but something about his nervous hovering made her more anxious. She needed space. Needed quiet. And most of all, she needed answers that didn’t come from comic books or frantic Google searches.
She stood on the roof of her apartment building, hoodie zipped up, sneakers scuffed from pacing. The city roared around her—horns, sirens, chatter, music echoing off alleyways. Earth-42, in all its gritty chaos.
The wind tugged at her hair.
Her palms itched.
She flexed her fingers. Fwip.
A clean line of web shot toward a nearby antenna. It latched with a crisp snap.
Gwen stared at it.
It looked… easy. Like her body already knew what to do.
She backed up, heart thudding against her ribs. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “If I fall and die, I’m haunting Peter.”
Three steps. A running start. The edge.
She jumped.
For a single, horrifying second, she plummeted. Her stomach dropped. The wind howled. The world blurred.
Then—tighten—the web line caught, and she swung.
Gwen screamed—loud, wild, and giddy—as the wind whipped through her. Her sneakers skimmed a rooftop. Her arms burned as she held on, but it was like flying. Better than flying. Raw. Fast. Free.
She let go, aimed her wrist, and fired again.
Fwip.
The second web stuck perfectly. She yanked herself forward with way too much force and hit a wall, sticking there like a starfish.
“Okay!” she gasped, legs flailing. “Too much power!”
Peeling herself off, she dropped into a crouch and took off running across the rooftop. The city lights flickered below her like stars trapped in smog. Somewhere below, music was blaring—someone revving a bike, a baby crying, a woman yelling in Spanglish about stolen laundry.
This was her city. Loud. Dirty. Real.
She was halfway across another roof when she caught her reflection in an old window.
A blur of motion. Blond hair flying. Hands crackling with potential.
Her.
But… not the same girl.
Gwen slowed, catching her breath.
Everything felt different now. Her limbs felt lighter, her instincts sharper. Her body wasn’t hers anymore—but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was the start of something new.
Still panting, she looked down at her hands.
“I’m gonna need gloves,” she muttered.