Spider-Man: Claws and Webs

Thwip. Thwip. Twhip.

The high winds of New York City rushed across Peter Parker’s body as web lines fired from his wrists, propelling him through Manhattan at speeds the average New Yorker envied. Peter was late for Dr. Connors’ research announcement. Or he would be late if he didn’t make it to the Empire State University campus in the next five minutes. It was a trip that would have been impossible for any other New Yorker, whether by vehicle or on foot, but for Spider-Man there was a chance, albeit a small chance, that he’d arrive on time.

A small group of pigeons fluttered away from their perch on a nearby building as Peter rocketed overhead, having affixed two webs to two different surfaces up ahead and then using his enhanced strength to thrust himself forward like a slingshot. “Sorry guys!” he called to the terrified flock of birds, “didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting!”

In the past 8 years that Peter had assumed the mantle of Spider-Man, this type of day had become all too routine. He was running ahead of schedule, or so he thought, only for the neighborhood to be disturbed by a car jacking, a drug deal gone awry, or at worst, a supervillain determined to cause mayhem. Whoever or whatever had occupied Peter’s time suddenly found him gone, and moments later, Spider-Man leapt into the fray to deal with the issue. The city was the better for it, but it made Peter Parker’s life, and commitments, much more difficult.

Today it had been a bank robbery on 42nd Street. Four armed men had entered the bank around 10:15 AM, and Peter had swung into action just as they were making their getaway. The situation took fifteen minutes to resolve, a personal best for stopping a bank robbery, but as always, those were fifteen minutes Peter couldn’t afford to lose.

“C’mon, pick up the pace,” he muttered to himself, firing another web and swinging in a wide arc around a glass-paneled skyscraper. His red and blue suit clung to him like a second skin as he twisted his body to avoid a flagpole jutting out from the side of a building.

The ESU campus came into view, its stone buildings a stark contrast to the modern architecture surrounding it. Peter spotted the science building’s distinctive clocktower and aimed his next web directly at it. With a final burst of momentum, he landed on the roof with practiced ease, quickly changing into the clothes he’d stashed in his hidden backpack. The familiar weight of his camera settled against his hip as he slung the bag over his shoulder. His dark brown hair was a windblown mess, but that was nothing new.

“Parker!” Dr. Connors’ voice boomed across the lecture hall as Peter slipped through the door, trying to be inconspicuous. “Just in time.”

Peter gave an apologetic smile as he tried his best to comb his hair more neatly with his hand. “Sorry Dr. Connors,” he said sheepishly, “there was…”

“Some sort of disturbance I’m sure,” Dr. Connors interrupted him. “I’ve come to expect that from you Peter. You’ve never been punctual, but you are brilliant, and I need a TA and research assistant, so if you keep to cutting it close vice actually being late, I’m willing to overlook it. For now at least.”

Peter chuckled softly. “Thank you Doc,” he said, moving to take his seat at the front of the lecture hall while Dr. Connors took the podium.

ESU lecture halls were usually a bit rambunctious, but today’s gathering wasn’t a typical undergraduate or even graduate class. Instead, only the most promising grad students, staff members, and visiting professors had gathered to listen to Dr. Connors explain his latest neogenic research in an effort to compete for a substantial research grant on behalf of the university. Despite the fact that his missing right arm always immediately drew attention, Dr. Connors had a gift for public speaking and making the audience forget his disability entirely within the first few minutes of his speech.

Dr. Connors cleared his throat and tapped the microphone once, his left hand gripping the podium with quiet confidence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today. As many of you know, the Hardy Foundation has graciously offered to fund a significant research initiative here at Empire State University.”

Peter settled into his seat, notebook open but momentarily forgotten as he scanned the audience. The usual suspects were there—department heads, ambitious post-docs, and... his eyes stopped at a familiar figure seated near the back. Otto Octavius, with his professional haircut and round glasses, was furiously scribbling notes. Peter hadn’t seen Dr. Octavius for more than 12 years, having partaken in one of the Doctor’s summer science camps after sixth grade. Even so, Peter had followed the scientist’s career and read just about every research paper he’d ever published. Although in the past few years Octavius seemed to have faded within the scientific community.

“Our research into neogenic recombination has shown promising results,” Dr. Connors continued, clicking to a slide showing complex molecular structures Peter had helped map. “With proper funding, we believe we could revolutionize regenerative medicine as we know it.”

Peter nodded along, familiar with every slide in the presentation. He’d spent countless hours helping Dr. Connors prepare this pitch. His gaze drifted back to Dr. Octavius, whose intense focus reminded Peter of his own obsessive note-taking habits from his undergraduate days. What brought Octavius here after such a long absence from academic circles?

The thoughts distracted Peter from Dr. Connors’ presentation, and he resolved to approach Dr. Octavius when it concluded. It was a longshot that he would remember Peter after all these years, but surely a man as dedicated to science as Octavius would be thrilled to speak to a former student who had grown up and pursued a career in Bio-Physics.

“...and with this breakthrough in limb regeneration, we could change millions of lives,” Dr. Connors concluded, his passion evident as he gestured expressively with his remaining hand. “Thank you for your attention today.”

Polite applause filled the lecture hall, and Peter clapped enthusiastically, pride swelling in his chest at being part of such groundbreaking research.

“I’d like to open the floor for questions,” Dr. Connors announced, and several hands shot up, but before the doctor could answer any of them, an authoritative voice spoke up near the front.

“I have a question, Dr. Connors.”

Peter leaned forward, surprised to see Anastacia Hardy herself rising from her seat. The CEO of the Hardy Foundation rarely made personal appearances at these presentations, usually sending representatives instead, but apparently this one had been worth the visit. Her silver-blonde hair was pulled into an immaculate chignon, her tailored navy suit probably costing more than Peter’s monthly rent.

“Mrs. Hardy,” Dr. Connors nodded respectfully. “I’m honored by your presence today.”

“Your research is quite impressive,” she said, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “However, I’m concerned about the ethical implications of neogenic recombination. What safeguards are in place to prevent misuse of this technology?”

Peter watched as Dr. Connors straightened his posture, clearly prepared for this question.

“A valid concern, Mrs. Hardy. We’ve implemented a multi-tiered oversight system involving both university ethics committees and independent regulatory bodies. All research protocols undergo rigorous review before implementation.”

Anastacia raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “And the potential for military applications?”

“Our funding agreement explicitly prohibits weaponization,” Dr. Connors replied firmly. “This technology is meant to heal, not harm.”

Peter glanced back towards Dr. Octavius only to discover that in the few moments between Mrs. Hardy speaking up and Dr. Connors’ answer, he had now disappeared. “Dr. Octavius is already gone?” Peter said under his breath as he raised an eyebrow.

Unfortunately, Peter didn’t have time to give the matter much thought. More questions started coming in, and he was responsible for taking notes on Dr. Connors’ behalf. It was more than 30 minutes later that the lecture hall finally started to clear out, and by then, Peter could only reason that Dr. Octavius was long gone.

As Peter was helping Dr. Connors gather his presentation materials, Anastacia Hardy approached them with purposeful strides.

“Dr. Connors, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private?” Her tone made it clear this wasn’t really a request.

Dr. Connors glanced at Peter. “Of course, Mrs. Hardy. Peter here is my research assistant. I’d like him to join us, if that’s acceptable.”

Peter felt a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. Anastacia Hardy was one of the most influential people in New York. Her foundation funded half the scientific research in the city.

“That’s fine,” she replied, her gaze lingering on Peter for a moment before returning to Dr. Connors. “Perhaps we could use your office?”

Ten minutes later, they were seated in Dr. Connors’ cluttered office. Peter tried not to fidget as Anastacia Hardy settled into her chair, smoothing her skirt with practiced precision.

“I’ll be direct, Dr. Connors. The Hardy Foundation is prepared to approve your grant request in full.”

Peter nearly dropped the stack of papers he was organizing. Full funding? That was unexpected—most grants came with strings attached, reduced amounts, or probationary periods.

Dr. Connors blinked in surprise. “That’s... wonderful news, Mrs. Hardy. I can’t express how grateful we are for your foundation’s support.”

“Your research is promising,” she said, her tone businesslike yet warm. “And I’ve always believed in investing in potential. The regenerative applications could be revolutionary.”

Peter watched as Dr. Connors’ face lit up with barely contained excitement. This grant would fund their lab for the next three years at minimum.

“We’ll have the paperwork sent over by the end of the week,” she continued, reaching into her elegant leather briefcase to retrieve a business card. “My legal team will be in touch to finalize the details.”

Dr. Connors accepted the card with a grateful nod. “This is truly incredible news, Mrs. Hardy. The impact this research could have…”

“Yes, well,” she interrupted with a slight wave of her hand, “I believe in supporting science that can make a real difference.” She paused, her eyes drifting to Peter. “And speaking of support, I understand you’re one of Dr. Connors’ top graduate students, Mr...?”

“Parker,” Peter supplied quickly. “Peter Parker.”

“Ah, yes. Dr. Connors has mentioned your aptitude for physics in our initial calls.” Anastacia’s perfectly manicured fingers tapped thoughtfully against her knee. “As it happens, my daughter Felicia is in one of Dr. Connors’ undergraduate courses this semester and is struggling somewhat. Perhaps you could provide some tutoring?” Anastacia suggested, fixing Peter with a direct gaze that made him feel like he was being evaluated. “I would make it worth your while, financially speaking.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Another commitment? Between his graduate studies, TA duties, photography work, and web-slinging, he barely had time to sleep.

“Mrs. Hardy, while I appreciate the offer…” he began, but Dr. Connors cut in.

“Peter would be perfect for this,” his mentor said enthusiastically, clearly eager to please their new benefactor. “He has a remarkable way of breaking down complex concepts.”

Peter shot Dr. Connors a look that he hoped conveyed his reluctance without seeming disrespectful. The last thing he needed was another obligation eating into his already non-existent free time.

“Well…my schedule is quite full already,” Peter began, but as he spoke he immediately recognized the implications of this conversation. Mrs. Hardy had just offered Dr. Connors a very generous grant, and was now leveraging it to help her daughter. If Peter were to decline, it would come across as a slap in the face, given what she’d just offered. He could see from the way Dr. Connors looked at him now that he couldn’t possibly refuse. “But I’m sure I can find the time to help her. It would be my honor,” he finished, seeing Dr. Connors breathe a sigh of relief.

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “Glad to hear it Mr. Parker.” She then turned her attention back to Dr. Connors. “I look forward to hearing regular reports about the progress of your research, and of course my daughter’s performance in your class.” Saying nothing more, she shook both their hands and then departed.

Peter rubbed his temples. “Gees Doc. I know I couldn’t refuse but…the last thing I need right now is an additional responsibility.”

Dr. Connors gave Peter a sympathetic look. “I understand your concern, Peter. But Mrs. Hardy’s support is crucial for our research. This funding could help us make breakthroughs that change lives—maybe even help people like me.” He gestured to his empty sleeve.

Peter sighed, unable to argue with that. Dr. Connors had been trying to crack limb regeneration for as long as he’d known him. “I know, Doc. It’s just... I barely have time to breathe these days.”

“You’ll manage. You always do.” Dr. Connors gathered his papers. “Besides, how bad could tutoring one undergraduate be? Just a few hours a week.”

“Right,” Peter muttered, unconvinced. Rich kids who needed tutoring usually fell into two categories: genuinely struggling students who worked hard, or entitled brats who expected him to do their work for them. He didn’t like the idea of tutoring either, but there was no getting out of it now. “Just a few hours a week,” he repeated.

Peter finally glanced at his watch. “On that note Dr. Connors, I’m due at the Bugle. God willing I’ll be able to finally close the door on that gig within a few weeks, but until then I’d like to have at least a few extra month’s rent saved up.”

Dr. Connors nodded, understanding Peter’s financial situation all too well. “Of course. We’ll set up the tutoring schedule after you’ve had a chance to meet with Felicia. I’ll reach out to her this afternoon and find a time that works.”

“Great,” Peter said, trying to inject enthusiasm he didn’t feel into his voice. “I look forward to it.”

As Peter left ESU’s campus, his camera bouncing against his hip, he couldn’t help but wonder about Dr. Octavius’ sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance. The man had been a scientific hero of his growing up, and now he’d vanished before Peter could even say hello.

The afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders as he navigated through the crowded sidewalks toward the Daily Bugle’s offices. His spider-sense tingled faintly—not danger, just the constant low-level awareness of being in a crowd where anything could happen. But his mind was elsewhere, dwelling on the weight of his responsibilities.

Peter approached the gleaming tower of the Daily Bugle, its bold logo visible for blocks. Six years of rushing into this building with photos of himself as Spider-Man, six years of Jameson’s bellowing criticisms, and six years of barely making rent. The revolving door spun as he pushed through it, the familiar scent of printer ink and coffee hitting him.

“One day,” he muttered to himself as he stepped into the elevator, “I’ll be Dr. Parker, working in a real lab, not selling photos of myself to a man who hates my alter-ego.”

The grant from the Hardy Foundation could change everything. With his name attached to Dr. Connors’ breakthrough research, doors would open. No more scraping by on TA stipends and freelance photography. No more listening to Jameson rant about Spider-Man when he could be spending that energy on his research.

The elevator dinged, and Peter stepped onto the chaotic floor of the Daily Bugle. Reporters hurried between desks, phones rang incessantly, and the steady clack of keyboards filled the air. Betty Brant gave him a quick wave from her desk as he passed.

“He’s waiting for you,” she warned. “And he’s not in a good mood.”

“When is he ever?” Peter replied with a grimace.

As if on cue, J. Jonah Jameson’s voice boomed from his office. “PARKER! Get in here!”

Peter took a deep breath and pushed through the glass door into Jameson’s office. The editor-in-chief sat behind his desk, cigar clenched between his teeth despite the building’s no-smoking policy, his flat-top haircut as rigid as his personality. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows cast his perpetual scowl in sharp relief.

“About time you showed up,” Jameson growled, tapping ash from his cigar into a tray. “Where are my Spider-Man photos? That wall-crawling menace was spotted at First National this morning stopping a robbery. Tell me you got something I can use.”

Peter unclipped his camera from his belt and handed it over. “I got a few shots, Mr. Jameson. I was in the area when it happened.”

Jameson snatched the camera, scrolling through the images with a critical eye. Peter had set up the camera on auto-timer, capturing himself in mid-swing as he subdued the bank robbers. The photos were clear, dynamic—some of his best work, actually.

“Hmph,” Jameson grunted, which Peter had come to learn was just about as close to him saying he was impressed as Peter could ever hope for. “It’ll do for now. We’ll run it on page three,” Jameson declared, sliding the camera back across the desk. “Robbie!” he shouted toward the door. “Get in here and look at these shots!”

Robbie Robertson appeared in the doorway, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Jameson’s perpetual state of agitation. “What have you got, Jonah?”

“Spider-Man foiling another robbery. Same old story. The menace probably staged the whole thing for publicity.”

Peter bit his tongue. After eight years, two just as Spider-Man and six as Spider-Man and a Bugle photographer, he’d learned that arguing with Jameson about Spider-Man was pointless.

Robbie glanced at the photos and gave Peter an appreciative nod. “These are good, Parker. Clean composition, great action shots.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” Peter said, grateful for the rare praise in this office.

“Don’t encourage him,” Jameson huffed. “With the scourge of independent internet journalists trying to crowd out real news, covering Spider-Man won’t save your career forever Parker. Get me photos that come with exclusive stories. That sell subscriptions.”

Peter did his best not to roll his eyes. “Of course Mr. Jameson. Though I have to suggest, isn’t it a good thing that the city hasn’t been ravaged by any super powered villains in weeks now? Maybe that exclusive story should be something more positive, that focuses on a safer, healthier New York?”

“I pay you for photos and headlines Parker, not suggestions. Now get out of my office.”

Peter didn’t have to be told twice. He was eager to leave, though he stopped at Betty’s desk to ensure he received a direct deposit for his photos. It didn’t pay much, but it did mean he’d make this month’s rent. Small victories.

As the elevator doors slid open, he nearly collided with a woman stepping out. A familiar floral scent hit him before he even registered her face.

“Peter?”

Peter’s heart did a familiar stutter-step. Mary Jane Watson stood before him, looking as stunning as ever. Her vibrant red hair was pulled back in a professional ponytail, and she wore a crisp blazer over a green blouse that made her eyes pop. A press badge dangled from her neck – the Daily Bugle’s newest hire.

“MJ,” he managed, suddenly aware of how disheveled he must look after his morning of web-slinging and academic obligations. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

She smiled, “I probably wouldn’t have been, but I’ve been chasing a lead on a story about a missing Oscorp scientist, and Jameson wanted an update.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How’ve you been, Tiger? It’s been what, three months since we last talked?”

Peter felt a familiar twist in his chest at the old nickname. “Yeah, about that. I’ve been... you know. The usual juggling act.” He shifted his weight, acutely aware of the people bustling around them in the lobby. “Grad school’s keeping me busy. Dr. Connors just got a major research grant today.”

“That’s fantastic!” MJ’s genuine enthusiasm made him smile. “Your work on genetic engineering finally getting the recognition it deserves?”

“Something like that,” Peter replied, touched that she remembered the details of what he’d been helping Dr. Connors with. “Actually, the grant came from the Hardy Foundation. I just found out I’ll be expected to tutor the boss’s daughter as part of the deal.”

“Ah,” Mary Jane’s knowing smile made him feel like she could see right through him. “Let me guess—you’re not thrilled about adding another commitment to your already impossible schedule?”

“Is it that obvious?” Peter ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Between classes, lab work, photography... and other responsibilities.” He gave her a meaningful look, knowing she understood his reference to Spider-Man’s duties. MJ was one of the few people who knew his secret.

“Some things never change,” she said with a gentle laugh. “You’ve always taken on more than any human should be able to handle.”

The elevator doors closed behind them, forcing other Bugle employees to press the call button again. Peter realized they were blocking the way and guided MJ toward a quieter corner of the lobby.

“So, this missing scientist,” he said, curiosity now rising in him as to what exactly MJ was looking into. “Anything unusual?”

“That’s just the thing. It didn’t seem unusual at first,” Mary Jane answered him. “He was an extremely well known physicist and long time associate of Norman Osborn. That being said, they were known to be having disagreements starting a year or two ago. Only a handful of people at Oscorp were even aware of what exactly he was working on, and my source told me that when he first disappeared, everyone thought it was just because he and Norman finally had a falling out.”

There were a few moments of silence. “I’m assuming there’s a ‘but’ coming?” Peter asked.

“Indeed,” MJ answered. “But…my source told me that subsequently, a lot of the equipment that the scientist had been working on went missing from his former laboratory. Oscorp is trying to keep in under wraps, but he’s afraid. That’s why he reached out to the Bugle. There’s not technically enough for a police report, but he’s worried none the less.”

Peter got an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He knew that Mary Jane was smart and certainly not helpless, but whatever she was looking into sounded like it might be dangerous. That being said, their relationship had come to an end because MJ had felt that Peter was trying too hard to keep her away from the dangerous aspects of his life as Spider-Man. She wouldn’t likely take kindly to any suggestion that she be careful or consider dropping the case. At least not from Peter.

“What’s the scientist’s name?” Peter finally asked, as he gathered his thoughts.

“Dr. Otto Octavius.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he heard Mary Jane’s answer. Otto Octavius was missing? But he’d just seen him at Dr. Connors’ presentation earlier that day? Then again, he’d disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.

MJ tilted her head to the side. “Are you okay Peter? Don’t tell me you know something about Dr. Octavius?”

Peter gulped. “I do actually. He was a teacher of mine years ago, and I actually just…”

“Miss Watson!” Jameson’s voice suddenly shouted from across the room. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Or course Mr. Jameson! I’ll be right there!” she shouted to him. Turning her attention back to Peter, she took a deep breath. “Look Peter, if you know something about Dr. Octavius, I could really use your help. Can we talk later?”

“Sure,” Peter answered, though Mary Jane was already walking away. “Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow morning. The Coffee Bean?” He said, suggesting a cafe on the ESU campus where they’d frequently met while they were still dating.

“Sounds good. Text you later!” Mary Jane said, and then she disappeared into Jameson’s office.

As Peter walked out of the Daily Bugle his mind was already running through different possible scenarios. Dr. Octavius had been working for Norman Osborn, only to have a falling out with him and disappear? Then equipment from his lab goes missing, and within a short period of time, he shows up at Dr. Connors’ presentation acting somewhat incognito and leaving before Anastacia Hardy was done asking the first question? Apparently it was concerning enough to an Oscorp employee that he actually reached out to the press because he didn’t have enough for a police report.

There was no doubt that the whole situation was odd, but it wasn’t exactly enough to constitute suspicion that anything illegal or dangerous was occurring. Though it had been years since Peter had seen Dr. Octavius, he’d seemed a very kind and docile man who’s greatest goal in life was to use science to make the world a better place.

Peter’s thoughts were interrupted by sirens heading down the street, and before long, Spider-Man was following them from above. By the time the evening came, he’d stopped a shootout between two rival gangs, saved an elderly woman from a runaway taxi, and stopped a petty theft from a pizzeria, for which the owner had rewarded him with a free stuffed crust pepperoni pizza.

Free pizza was a welcome thank you as Peter slipped into the window of his tiny apartment in Queens. The pizza box landed on his coffee table with a soft thud as Peter collapsed onto his worn couch, the springs groaning in protest beneath him as he peeled off his mask. The scent of melted cheese and pepperoni filled his tiny apartment, making his stomach growl in anticipation.

“Dinner of champions,” he muttered to himself as he flipped open the box and peeled a slice away. The cheese stretched in long, gooey strands before finally breaking. Peter took a large bite, closing his eyes as the flavors hit his tongue. For a moment, all the complications of his day—the grant, Anastacia Hardy’s request, Mary Jane, and the mysterious reappearance and disappearance of Dr. Octavius—faded into the background.

Three slices later, Peter leaned back against the couch cushions, feeling the tension slowly drain from his body. As he checked his phone, he saw a message from Dr. Connors. “Felicia Hardy will be at my office at 10 AM tomorrow morning. Can you be here to meet her and work out a tutoring schedule?”

Peter tapped out a quick reply, “I’ll be there. 10 AM sharp.” He sent the message and tossed his phone onto the coffee table next to the half-empty pizza box.

The apartment felt too quiet suddenly. Too empty. He glanced around at the cramped space he called home—the stack of scientific journals piled on his desk, the laundry he hadn’t had time to fold, the bills waiting to be paid. Another commitment. Another responsibility. His life was already bursting at the seams, and now he had to find time to tutor some rich girl who probably didn’t even want his help.

Peter’s gaze drifted to the small bookshelf in the corner, where a framed photograph stood among his textbooks. He rose from the couch, his muscles aching from the day’s exertions, and picked up the frame. Uncle Ben smiled back at him, his arm draped around a teenage Peter’s shoulders, both grinning at the camera after Peter’s high school science fair win. The familiar pang of grief and guilt hit him as it always did.

“With great power comes great responsibility,” Peter whispered, running his thumb over the edge of the frame. The words had become a mantra over the years, something to hold onto when everything felt like too much.

He remembered that night all too clearly. The burglar he could have stopped but didn’t, the gunshot that changed everything, holding Uncle Ben as his life slipped away on a rain-soaked sidewalk. The weight of that choice had shaped everything that followed.

Peter set the photo down with gentle reverence. Yes, his life was complicated. Yes, he was constantly exhausted, constantly running late, constantly disappointing people in one aspect of his life to fulfill obligations in another. But when he thought about the lives he’d saved, the crimes he’d stopped, the people walking safely home tonight because Spider-Man had been there, it was worth it.

He sank back onto the couch, his eyelids growing heavy. Tomorrow would bring new challenges. The meeting with Felicia Hardy, coffee with MJ to discuss Dr. Octavius, lab work with Dr. Connors, and whatever crises Spider-Man would inevitably be called to handle. But for tonight, at least, he could rest.

Peter’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing slowing as exhaustion claimed him. The last thought that flickered through his mind before sleep took hold was of Dr. Octavius’ intense gaze during the presentation, and the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.