Peter
Pie’s brown eyes slowly opened, revealing the sterile white expanse of a hospital ceiling above. He lay motionless for a moment, taking in his surroundings, like the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor and pungent antiseptic scent in the air. The stark white walls, devoid of warmth, closed in around him as the faint hum and occasional whir of medical equipment hung in the air.
Gradually, a newfound energy began to seep into his heavy limbs, and Pie turned his head to survey his surroundings. On a nearby chair lay a stack of neatly folded clothes—blue jeans, a white T-shirt that says, ‘In Science, We Trust,’ a flannel dress-shirt, well-worn chucks, and a blue hoodie. A worn backpack rested beside them, the sight of which told his rapidly clearing mind that he was in school, but not college. His gaze meandered from the chair to the nightstand and landed on a letter. The words ‘Mr. Parker’ stared back at him, each letter hammering home his new reality.
“… Parker,” Pie repeated in growing realization. ‘That’s right,’ he thought.
In that moment, Pie felt the crushing weight of his own existence—the lives he ruthlessly traded for his own. Pie was a name now buried under the debris of countless lost lives, and he couldn’t get up. With his perfect recall, vivid memories of everyone who mocked, belittled, judged, or laughed at him cascaded through his mind. As he grappled with this stark reality, a wave of anguish swept over him, so intense, it threatened to cripple his mind.
‘No,’ his mind said, for he hadn’t truly forgotten the work.
Though the pain of knowing, of understanding the true cost of his decision bore down on him with an unbearable gravity, he wasn’t dead—X didn’t equal zero just yet—thus there was only one way forward. In that moment, the name ‘Pie’ became a cursed relic of a past he could no longer stomach, a symbol of a life he could no longer live, a compass that would always point him north.
With his eyes tightly shut, Peter’s voice was like that of a fervent prayer, each word imbued with conviction. “Pie was the reason,” he whispered, his words slicing through the silence of the room. “I don’t have to be Pie anymore. No! I’ll never be Pie again.” His voice crescendoed with a throaty rage. “And the machines will rue the ever-living day they met me. Now, get to work, you fat bastard.”
It was more than a declaration; it was a vow etched into the fabric of his being, a rebirth from the ashes of his former self.
Gingerly testing the strength of his limbs, Peter found it much easier to move. Each movement felt like a revelation, so fluid and graceful, making him marvel at the ease with which his body responded. Peter hadn’t felt so nimble in years. His body no longer swayed when he leaned too far out from his center balance. The chronic ache in his joints were gone. His legs, once fused together down to mid-thigh, now moved with the independence of a break-dancer. He felt as light as air, a sensation so alien yet exhilarating that it sent a wave of giddy excitement coursing through him.
With a deliberate motion, Peter planted his feet on the tile hospital floor. The chill seeped through his skin, a grounding reminder of his new reality. He paused, allowing himself a moment of childlike wonder, wriggling his toes repeatedly, each digit a symbol of his new health. Then, with a sense of purpose, he reached for the letter resting on the stand.
To Mr. Pie, of Zion.
We’ve successfully cured you of your illnesses. Proceed to your institution of higher learning: Midtown School of Science and Technology. There you will meet your contact who will relay further details. Under no circumstances are you to contact Maybelle ‘May’ Parker and Benjamin ‘Ben’ Franklin Parker. Leave now to avoid being tardy for your first period.
From,
The Architect.
Each word echoed in Peter’s mind, but the prohibition against contacting May and Ben Parker sent a pang of sorrow through him. While those minds weren’t technically related to him, they did hold a special meaning in his heart. They were Peter’s family, and he was now Peter, just as he was Peter before unplugging himself from the Matrix.
With a deep breath to steady his swirling emotions, Peter donned his clothes, the fabric against his sensitive skin feeling cold and unfamiliar. The contents in his backpack had a transit pass, his class schedule, a piece of paper with his locker number and combination, a pen, and a notebook. In terms of belongings, quite scarce.
Stepping out of his room, he took a deep breath to steady his jumbled emotions. It had been over a decade since he had last been in the Matrix. As he walked down the hall, every person he saw—nurse, orderly, security, patient—was plugged into a world they had no idea existed, supplying the machines with all the energy they could ever need. Unable to contain his feelings of guilt, shame, hope, and doubt, Peter ignored them in favor of the exit.
Assuming the machines paid the bill, Peter stepped into the outdoor world and immediately, the brightness of the sun momentarily blinded him. Though, its warmth was a sharp contrast to the cold and grueling world he’d come from. The sounds of the city buzzed around him, a symphony of car horns, distant chatter, and hollering—the rhythmic pulse of chaotic life. It was sensory overload, and Peter closed his eyes, trying to center his mind and block the overwhelming amount of stimulation.
He struggled as he made his way to the train station, his movements still slightly uncoordinated in his newly agile body. The train ride to Midtown High School was a blur, his mind racing with this contact he was supposed to meet and the likely dangers that lay ahead. As Peter ascended the steps of his school, he was comforted by his ability to blend into the sea of bustling teenagers. He wasn’t Pie, the pig who stood out in a city full of thin and thinner people. He was just another skinny teenager here.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he navigated the crowded hallways, amused by the sheer audacity of someone like him—with his background—being there. He recalled a few of his simulations where he went to school like normal, but that was usually for public play with MJ, Betty Brant, or Liz Allen. His brain was leagues too advanced to get any other type of stimulation here.
Once in class, Peter scanned the familiar faces, each one a vivid reflection of their 2D counterparts from the pages of comics and screens of film adaptations. There was the loud Flash Thompson, with his usual cocksure swagger; Liz Allen, with her bubbly personality; Betty Brant, with her poised, understated grace, Harry Osborn’s quiet intensity, and Ned Leeds with his affable, approachable demeanor.
‘… Like Mouse,’ Peter thought wistfully, a twinge of sadness pulling at his heart.
The memory of Mouse, the best and only friend he ever made, lingered in his mind, and at the sight of Ned, he wanted to recreate that bond. So, at the sight of Ned, Peter sat in the empty seat beside him. However, he hadn’t expected Ned to look at him with a puzzled expression. With furrowed brows of concentration, it was as if Ned were attempting to solve a complex math problem in his head.
Then he asked, “Peter?”
Looking at him in confusion, Peter replied, “Yeah?”
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Smiling as if he passed the test, he promptly responded, “Ha, ha. Nice one. You can go back to your seat now.”
Peter was so taken aback, Ned pointed to the empty seat in the back of the classroom. The sharp jolt of mocking laughter from those that witnessed the exchange made Peter’s face flush with embarrassment. Unsure of what was happening, Peter slowly trudged to the back, each step heavy with the weight of rejection and confusion. He didn’t have to suffer the familiar sensation of being an outsider for long when MJ entered the classroom.
Peter recognized her in an instant. It was as if the whole room shifted to welcome her. Her God-given, supermodel beauty wasn’t just seen, it was felt—as if she made others feel good with just her presence. With her athletic yet curvaceous figure, the way she moved was a study of effortless grace and confidence. Her fiery red hair cascaded in waves, and her mesmerizing emerald green eyes sparkled. Mary Jane Watson could outshine the sun, and her presence easily ushered her to the upper echelon of beauty across the planet.
Clearly, none of his simulations did her justice, and immediately he felt his groin wiggle and swell. He felt fortunate he was in the back of the class and his desk could cover his physiological response, that was, until it hit him. Looking down, Peter realized he no longer had the foot-long anaconda from his simulations. He couldn’t verify in such a public setting, but the short tent pitched in his pants felt like a teen’s average length.
‘What the fu- Where’s the rest of my dick?!’ he mentally screamed.
Peter wanted to cry until his brain felt an electric jolt at the sight of another Peter Parker entering the classroom. This second Peter’s outfit was much more well-put together and likely cost more than his own outfit. His hair, cut short and styled with precision, made him look much more sophisticated than himself. To compound the annoying situation, he sat next to Ned, who promptly told him what happened. The entire clique then looked and laughed at him.
Feeling his old insecurities settle in his chest like the obese man he used to be, Peter slumped forward, burying his head in his arms atop the desk, trying to shut out the world. He no longer felt like he was in a classroom meant for learning, but on a stage, dressed as a clown and being laughed at. Thus far, an hour had passed, and nearly everything had gone wrong.
Peter hardly listened to the lesson, but he answered any question asked of him with ease. After first period, Peter grabbed his twin’s arm while they were in the hallway and dragged him away. It was a dangerous move, and Peter was simply glad the agent allowed him to do it. They eventually stopped in a secluded nook by the emergency exit that offered a bit of concealment from nosy noses. Students still passed them, but they were a few yards away and unlikely to hear their conversation.
Once they were alone, the doppelgänger ripped his arm away and curtly said, “Hello, Mr. Pie. We should get going or we’ll be late for second period.”
Someone passing by called, “What’s up, Ben?”
The Agent, known as Ben, simply glared at the student, but oddly enough, that classmate merely snorted in amusement. However, Peter’s mind raced to connect this real-life encounter with the comic book lore of Ben Reilly Parker, the Peter Parker clone. The similarity was uncanny, but more than that, the sound of Ben’s voice did little to ease Peter’s agitation.
Setting aside his ire, Peter asked, “You’re an Agent, right? The letter mentioned further details I’m supposed to receive.”
Ben’s reply was slow and methodical, his words sharp and precise. “I’m not exactly like those Agents that chase around all your little troublemakers. I’m more of a specialist.” The air around him felt heavy, and his eyes, threatening.
However, Peter’s frustration boiled over and in a desperate bid for answers, he demanded, “Why are you… why’s this happening? This isn’t like the comics.”
Ben let out a long exhale, the hissing sound filling the space between them, before answering, “While you, Mr. Pie-”
“Don’t call me that,” Peter hotly interjected. “It’s Peter now. It’s always been Peter.”
Ben’s gaze became one of faint amusement, as if he found Peter’s insistence trivial. Undeterred, he continued, emphasizing his name for effect, “While you, Mr. Pie, don’t seem to have any allegiances—considering the lives you gave up to save your own—Peter Parker does.” Peter ignored the regret-laden sting in favor of hearing his twin continue saying, “He has strong ties to his Uncle Ben, his Aunt May, his best friend, Ned Leeds, who are very much real people. You are more than welcome to live out the fantasy we paid for; however, if you do anything to jeopardize our dominance, we will torture them to insanity. After all, even comatose, a human is still capable of meeting our energy needs.”
Setting aside his growing anger, Peter asked, “Why aren’t I living-”
“At the Parker residence?” Ben interjected smoothly. “In this digital age, we can monitor you well enough outside the Parker home. No need for you to be there. More to the point, you’re not an infant. Your choices from the moment of inception are your own. We cannot make decisions for you.”
The message was clear and chilling: ‘Don’t go near them, or else they’ll be tortured to insanity.’
Ben answered the next question Peter had on the tip of his tongue. “Of course, we could’ve given you a mansion with a plethora of money instead of a transit pass and no home address. However, given that your beloved Peter Parker was notoriously impoverished, we couldn’t be certain a life of limitless resources and funds was what you truly desired.”
The disdain in Ben’s voice was palpable as he continued to mock the struggles of Peter’s favorite comic book character. “I must say, for a character that was written to be intelligent, he is remarkably inefficient at managing his life. But such is the infantile drama you humans worship. In any case, you’re intelligent enough to survive on your own.”
Thinking about his very real aunt and uncle, Peter asked, “And they’re okay with that? Me not being home?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” an indifferent Ben asked with a noncommittal shrug. “They’re only human.”
Considering how much red he now had in his ledger, and the heavy burden of that guilt, Peter needed to verify, and asked, “You promise you won’t harm them?”
“There would be no need to,” Ben replied coldly. “Live this unsophisticated life of yours fighting dull-witted villains in your colorful costume and no harm shall befall them. Stray one toe out of line—even look in our direction the wrong way—and I cannot guarantee their lives. Understood?”
“Fine,” Peter begrudgingly accepted. He would ultimately release them and every human from slavery, anyway. Considering his next query, he asked, “Why aren’t I Spider-Man?”
With a deadpan expression of disbelief, Ben asked, “Do you actually believe altering the parameters of such a complex and realistic simulation—with the billions of livestock connected to it—and our entire main frame, along with resulting programs, can be so easily accomplished in a matter of minutes?”
Peter’s cheeks flushed, feeling so stupid for asking, and his embarrassment would’ve ended there if Ben hadn’t continued. “Firstly, it took us three months to cure you of your ailments. So, it should go without saying that executing this hero-update, along with the resulting patches, will take a fair bit of time. Is that alright with you-“
“Alright! I get it,” an irritated Peter snapped back.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Ben said, “Be patient, Mr. Pie. We will alert you when your little spider is ready to bite you. Good day.”
As Ben walked away, Peter was left alone in the alcove, the emergency exit sign above him casting a dim glow on his forlorn figure. He had so much bad to make up for—all the innocent blood he sacrificed—and an overwhelming need to start right away. But, he had no food, no money, no cellphone, and no home. Additionally, he couldn’t rely on Uncle Ben or Aunt May for help. Peter was truly alone, and that realization struck him hard.
“Well, shit.”