I'M sitting at the kitchen table, fingers drumming out a rhythm I don't even recognize anymore. It's been three weeks since Aunt May left, but honestly, it feels like forever.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and reminds you just how alone you really are. Not even the sound of passing cars can break it.
I keep staring at the clock, as if it's counting down to something.
Maybe to when she finally walks through that door, or maybe to when I lose it and swing out of here just to feel like I'm not suffocating. Either way, it's ticking too slow for my taste.
In the background, the TV is going. I keep forgetting to turn it off—May usually reminds me to do that.
The news anchors are yammering on, something, but the words barely register until I hear the name "Harry Osborn."and class of Mid-Town students getting caught in a hostage situation yesterday afternoon. I grab the remote turning up the volume.
"... the standoff ended around 2:34 PM when 44-year-old Adrian Toomes was apprehended. Harry Osborn, son of billionaire CEO Norman Osborn, was among those held during the incident."
My stomach twists. Adrian Toomes. The Vulture.
I listen attentively, thankful they don't feel the need to mention the boy who'd pissed himself. Although I still don't understand the connection between this Adrian guy, and Dr. Octavius...and for that matter Norman Osborn himself.
Everything seemed to be connected, and everything I saw in that room proves it.
That includes me and my powers, and I'm stuck in the middle of it all, barely keeping my head above water.
It makes me think, though. Who would I have been without all of this?
Without Aunt May and Uncle Ben? What if I didn't have them to ground me? Would I be like these guys—twisted by power, lost in revenge? The thought hits harder than it should, and I shake it off, trying to focus.
The doorbell rings, snapping me out of my head. I jump a little. Not very Spider-Man-like, but whatever.
I hit the mute button and head over to the door. The second I crack it open, it swings wide, and I'm pulled into a hug so tight I feel all the aches in my body tense up.
"Peter," she says, her voice shaky, and I can feel her hands gripping the back of my shirt like she's scared I might disappear. "Oh, Peter. I'm so sorry. I should've been here. I should've never let anything else come before you."
I blink, trying to process the fact that she's actually here, right in front of me. Aunt May pulls back just enough to cup my face in her hands, her thumbs brushing my cheeks as she looks at me. The worry in her eyes is clear as day, and for a second, I almost want to tell her everything. Every fight, every bruise, every time I've felt like I was two seconds away from not coming home.
But then I stop myself. I look into her eyes, and I realize why I can't. Why I'll never be able to.
She's been through enough, and telling her the truth would just make things worse.
How do you tell someone like Aunt May that the person she raised is risking his life every night, and that every one night...he may not come home at all.
Instead, I do the only thing I can think of. I pull her into another hug, tighter this time, burying my face in her shoulder like I'm five years old again. "I missed you," I say, the words catching in my throat.
She freezes for a second, like she wasn't expecting that, then hugs me back, even tighter than before. "Oh, kiddo. Me too," she says softly.
We just stand there, wrapped up in this little bubble of calm. For once, it feels like the world isn't crashing down around me. It's just me and May, like it used to be, before everything got so...complicated.
But even as I hold her, I can't shake this feeling. Guilt, maybe. Because I know I'll have to put the mask back on soon. I'll have to go out there again, fight, bleed, and lie to her about it when I get back.
For now, though, I just want this moment to last a little longer. Just for tonight. Just for now.
The city can wait.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maxwell Dillon had never been lucky.
Yesterday, he locked his keys in the car—again. No money for a locksmith, so he had to shatter the window with a rock. Now, it was taped up like some kind of sad bandage on a wound that wouldn't heal.
Later that same day, he dropped his wallet down a sewer grate. Two hours of stomping around in filthy water, cursing under his breath, just to find it again, only for some guy with a knife to steal it right out of his hands. No wallet, no cash. Just his luck.
When he got home, there was an eviction notice on the door. Two weeks to come up with money he didn't have or he and his sickly mother would be out on the streets.
"You're a fool," Martha Dillon rasped as he helped her into bed, her frail body almost weightless in his arms. "Your sister wouldn't have let this happen. She knew how to take care of things."
Maxwell forced a smile, gently pulling the blanket over her. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm gonna make it right, I swear. I won't let us lose the house. I promise."
"Promises," she coughed, her voice harsh and broken. "Your promises are as worthless as you are. Now get me some water."
With a nod, he shuffled to the kitchen, obedient as always.
On the TV, the news played another clip of Spider-Man battling Rhino in the streets of New York. Another day, another disaster, and somehow, Spider-Man always comes out on top.
Maxwell stood there, glass in hand, watching the footage. The chaos, the destruction, the pain, all wrapped up in a tidy little narrative where the hero always wins.
"Of course, he won," Maxwell muttered to himself, his fingers tightening around the glass. "He's a superhero."
"Max!"
His mother's voice cut through the moment like a blade. He sighed and brought her the water, setting it on her nightstand. She was already half-asleep, mumbling something about his sister again.
It didn't matter. He knew what she was thinking. She always made it clear—Max wasn't enough. Not for her. Not for anyone.
Back in his room, Maxwell stared at the half-finished drawing of Spider-Man on his desk. He'd been working on it for a week now, sketching out every detail of the web-slinger's suit, the way he swung through the city like nothing could touch him. He envied Spider-Man.
Maxwell smiled at the drawing, reaching for his camera to snap a photo. But in his clumsy rush, he knocked over the coffee cup sitting on the edge of the desk.
The dark liquid spread like a stain over the paper, swallowing the lines of his hard work.
Max's heart sank.
Just like that, it was ruined.
He slumped into his chair, staring at the mess. It wasn't just the drawing. It was the last of their coffee, too. They couldn't even afford more.
Bad luck. It was always bad luck.
**
Time passes, Maxwell wakes in the morning to the buzzing of an alarm. Today was going to be different. He'd landed a new job one that he was told he was specifically requested for, and one that was going to save him and his mother from eviction. Finally, things were looking up.
"Just finish the repairs tonight," his boss, Mr. Warren, barked. "Mr. Osborn's people need those pipes working by morning. You screw this up, Dillon, and you'll never work again. Got it?"
Maxwell nodded eagerly. "Got it, boss. I'll take care of everything. You won't be disappointed."
He descended into the dark, abandoned chamber beneath the old Oscorp warehouse, his flashlight barely cutting through the shadows. The place was a mess, but Max was good with pipes. It was one of the few things in his life he was actually good at.
As he worked, he couldn't help but feel a small flicker of hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this time, he'd finally catch a break.
He could picture it—his mother, smiling for once, thanking him for keeping them in their home. Maybe she'd stop comparing him to his sister.
A loud clank echoed from above. The hatch slammed shut, the way back sealed off.
"Hey!" Maxwell shouted, scrambling up the ladder, banging on the metal. "Hey! Mr. Warren! I'm still down here!"
No answer.
His heart began to race.
Maxwell climbed back down, his flashlight flickering. The chamber felt smaller now, colder.
Then the first pipe burst.
Water sprayed from the ceiling, a high-pressure stream that splattered against the floor. Another pipe burst, and another. The room was filling up fast.
Max tried to seal them, but the water kept coming, rising quickly. It soaked his boots, then his ankles, then his knees. Panic set in as he waded through the rising flood, desperate to stop it, but nothing was working.
By the time the water reached his waist, he was back at the ladder, pounding on the hatch again.
"Please! Help me! I'm trapped down here!"
Still nothing.
The water was up to his chest now, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. It wasn't just the water—it was the feeling that life had finally beaten him.
That no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted things to get better, fate always had other plans.
Maybe this was where his bad luck had been leading him all along.
Then he saw it—a faint glow beneath the water, growing brighter as it swirled around his legs. At first, it was just one light, then another, until there were dozens, swimming just beneath the surface.
Maxwell's heart pounded in his chest. He tried to climb the ladder, but the water was too high, his grip slipping.
The glow got closer.
"Please!" he shouted, but the only answer was the sound of rushing water.
The water reached his neck, and then, in a final surge, it swallowed him whole.
The glow drew closer until he could finally take in what it was that he was looking at, eels, dozens of them.
The eels wrapped around his body, their glowing eyes staring into his. A jolt of electricity shot through him, more painful than anything he'd ever felt. They coiled tighter, their power searing into his skin, his muscles spasming uncontrollably.
In that moment, as the pain overtook him, Maxwell's last thought wasn't of survival. It wasn't of his mother or the house.
He wonders if anyone would even bother to give him a proper burial.
And that, like everything else in his life, felt like just another stroke of bad luck
**
"The subject appears to have completely normal vital signs," the woman said, her voice steady despite the bizarre reality before her. She studied the monitors, unable to believe the numbers they displayed. "It shouldn't be possible, but your calculations were correct, Mr. Osborn. It's almost as if his body has become pure, living energy."
Norman Osborn stared down at Dillon, his eyes narrowing in disappointment. He had expected more—a breakthrough, something spectacular. But this?
"Why does he look like this?" Norman asked, his voice low and cold. "Is there no way to reverse it?"
The woman adjusted her glasses and clutched the clipboard tightly, her knuckles turning white. "Part of the transformation process," she began, choosing her words carefully, "whatever was human about him has been completely overtaken by the sheer amount of energy forced into his body. His appearance—his old form—it's gone. He will never regain it."
Norman's face twisted in frustration, his expectations crumbling. "Another failure, then." His tone was dismissive, as if Maxwell Dillon was nothing more than a broken piece of equipment.
The woman hesitated, glancing over Dillon's electrified form. "Should we... dispose of him as well?"
Norman paused, his gaze fixed on Maxwell. There was a brief flicker of something—perhaps curiosity, perhaps something darker.
Maxwell Dillon had been easy to manipulate, a man who nobody cared about, a man whose disappearance would raise no alarms.
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Norman had orchestrated the entire event, ensuring Dillon would be down in that chamber, vulnerable, just waiting for the experiment to go wrong. He had pulled the strings, all for this... result.
A result he wasn't sure had any use.
"Dispose of him?" Norman mused, his eyes narrowing. "No."
The woman's eyes widened slightly, unsure of what he meant. "But sir, we don't know what kind of danger he could pose—"
Norman silenced her with a single raised finger. "You make sure none of this ties back to Oscorp," he said firmly. "And more importantly, to me. But do not dispose of him. Give him clothes, and send him back out onto the streets."
The woman blinked, startled by the order. "Sir, that could be incredibly risky. If he—"
"I want to see what becomes of this man," Norman interrupted, his tone final. He cast one last look at Maxwell Dillon, who lay still, a strange, almost ethereal energy radiating from his skin.
Then, without another word, Norman Osborn turned and left the room, leaving Maxwell to his new fate—a fate unknown, but deeply tied to the machinations of a man who saw nothing but potential, even in his failures.
**
Opening his eyes, Maxwell Dillon felt a hollow ache inside him, a kind of numbness that was worse than any pain he had ever known.
It wasn't just that he felt nothing—it was that he wasn't even sure he existed. He blinked, trying to focus, but the world around him blurred like a dream, one that felt both too real and too far away.
He was in an alley, the kind he'd walked through a thousand times before, but now it felt foreign, as if he didn't belong there—or anywhere.
He tried to remember how he got there, why he was sprawled on the cold, hard ground, but everything was a fog.
Then, like a cruel punch to the gut, it hit him all at once: the water, the suffocating darkness, the eels thrashing around him, the electricity that seared through his skin.
He remembered dying.
But he wasn't dead.
Max looked down at his hands and screamed. It wasn't his skin—his hands were no longer flesh, no longer his own. They glowed, crackling with energy, flickering like broken neon lights. "No... no, no, no!" His voice trembled, his heart hammering in his chest. "What is this? What happened to me?!"
He stumbled backward, panic twisting in his chest. His body felt foreign—like something he didn't own, like something that wasn't his.
He wanted to cry, to scream, to claw his way out of his own skin, but the moment a tear pricked at his eye, pain surged through him, fierce and blinding. Just that one tear set off a wave of electricity that shot through his veins, making his body jerk and spasm violently. The agony was unbearable.
I can't even cry, he thought bitterly, his eyes burning with unshed tears.
Max sat there for what felt like hours, crumpled in a heap, clutching his knees to his chest, afraid to move, afraid to feel.
His mind spun, trying to make sense of this nightmare, but all he could think about was how he wasn't human anymore. He didn't even feel real.
Then, like a lifeline in the darkness, one word rose through the chaos in his mind. Mom.
His mother. Martha. She'll help me. She'll make it okay.
That thin thread of hope was enough to drag Max to his feet, though his legs wobbled under him.
He yanked the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, trying to hide the glowing energy that flickered beneath, and stumbled through the city streets, his feet dragging like lead as he made his way home.
When he finally reached the door to their small, crumbling apartment, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob. For a moment, he didn't want to open it. He was afraid—afraid of what he would see, of how his mother would react. But he had nowhere else to go. No one else. He opened the door.
"Mom?" His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. "Mom, I'm home."
The apartment was still, the air heavy with the smell of dust and old furniture. For a moment, Max thought maybe she wasn't there. Maybe she was asleep.
But then, slowly, his mother appeared in the doorway, her frail frame hunched, her skin pale and papery.
She looked up at him, and for the briefest second, he allowed himself to believe that everything would be okay.
But then her eyes narrowed. "Maxwell?" Her voice was sharp, filled with irritation. "Where have you been? I needed you here! There's no food. I needed you to go to the store!"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Mom. I—something happened to me. I don't know what—" His voice faltered as her gaze drifted over him, her expression turning from frustration to confusion, and then to fear. She was seeing the glow, the crackling energy just beneath the surface of his skin.
Her face twisted in horror. "What... what happened to you? What's wrong with your face?"
Max's heart shattered. "Mom, please. I don't know what's happening. But it's me, it's still me!" He pulled down his hood, hoping she'd see him, her son, beneath it all.
Instead, she recoiled, her hands trembling. "No! No, get away from me!" Her voice was shrill, laced with terror.
"Please, don't be scared," Max begged, reaching out for her. He just needed to feel her hand, needed her to tell him it was okay. But she backed away, her eyes wide with disgust.
She grabbed her phone with shaking hands and began dialing. "911? Yes..."
Max froze. "Mom, no. No, please. Don't do this. Don't call the cops on me. It's me—it's Max!"
She shook her head, refusing to look at him. "He's here now," she said into the phone, her voice cold. "He's... he's some kind of monster. Please, you need to come. Hurry."
Max felt as if the ground beneath him was crumbling. His own mother—his last anchor to the world—was casting him away, calling him a monster.
The pain was so sharp, it almost didn't feel real. Almost.
"Mom..." His voice was small, barely audible. He felt like a little boy again, lost, terrified, clinging to the one person he could call family. But the look in her eyes—there was no love. Only contempt.
She stared at him, her lip curling in disgust. "Don't call me that," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "You're not my son." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "It should've...it should've been you, Max," His mother says, and his heart plummets as he knows what she's referring too. "That day...with Melavive..it should've been you.."
Max staggered backward, her words cutting deeper than any wound. His mother, the person he had lived for, the person he had tried so hard to protect—she didn't want him. She didn't want anything to do with him.
Without another word, Max turned and bolted out of the apartment, pulling his hood back over his head.
He ran, fast and hard, not caring where he was going. He just needed to get away—away from the words, from the house that no longer felt like home, from the life that had fallen apart in front of him.
He had nothing left. Not even the one person who was supposed to love him unconditionally.
Max had always been unlucky.
Always the guy who had the wrong things happen to him, the one who was overlooked, who couldn't catch a break. But now it was worse. Now, he wasn't just unlucky—he was cursed.
He ran faster, his glowing skin hidden beneath the hood, his heart shattering inside him.
No matter how hard he tried, how much he gave, life had never been kind to him. And now, it seemed, life had finally taken everything.
Max Dillon had no one left, and as he ran through the dark streets, he realized, with a gut-wrenching clarity, that maybe that was the worst luck of all.
**
Max sat on the edge of the curb, his hood pulled low over his face. The night was cold, the streets nearly empty, and he felt the isolation settle in his bones.
He'd been sitting there for hours, staring at the pavement, wondering how his life had come to this. His hands—glowing faintly beneath his sleeves—were a constant reminder of what he had become.
Or rather, what he wasn't anymore.
He wasn't Max Dillon, the guy who worked a dead-end job to keep his mom afloat.
He wasn't even someone who could blend into a crowd. No, now he was something else entirely.
A freak. A walking accident.
But before he could sink deeper into that dark hole, movement caught his eye. A woman, hurried steps, fear etched into her face. Behind her, three men.
They weren't hiding their intentions. Max's pulse quickened.
He glanced around for a phone, something to get the police, but when he found a booth and tried dialing, the lights inside flickered—matching the sparks dancing around his fingers.
He froze, staring at his own hands. They weren't his anymore. They were...something else. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
Max dropped the receiver, swallowing the rising panic. He looked back at the woman, and his mind flashed to something—someone—he admired.
A figure swinging between skyscrapers, always saving people in the nick of time. He wasn't that person. He'd never be that person.
But no one else was around.
He stood, heart pounding, and crossed the street, weaving through honking cars until he was just a few feet away from the men. "H-Hey!" His voice cracked, but it was enough to make them turn.
The woman looked at him, eyes wide with a mixture of hope and confusion.
One of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, grinned, his grip still firm on the woman's arm. "Can we help you?"
Max hesitated. He'd never fought anyone before. Hell, he wasn't even sure what he could do now. But something told him—if he didn't step up, no one would. "L-let her go," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Let her go. Or... or I'll stop you!"
The men burst into laughter, the sound bouncing off the alley walls. "You serious?" one of them asks, stepping forward. "Get lost, before you get hurt, freak."
Max's chest tightened, but he didn't move. "I said stop!" The lights above flickered violently, casting long, jagged shadows over the street. Max winced, surprised by the reaction, but the men stumbled back, eyes wide.
"What the hell?" one of them muttered, now seeing the faint glow seeping through Max's hoodie.
Max swallowed, feeling a strange surge of power as the lights continued to flicker.
He lowered his hood, revealing the strange, crackling energy that pulsed beneath his skin. "I'm not a freak," he said quietly, though even he wasn't sure he believed it. "I'm... Electricity-Man."
He raised his hands, ready to strike.
The men recoiled, clearly unnerved by his glowing appearance. But as Max prepared to unleash something, anything—nothing happened.
He stared at his hands, shaking them desperately. "Take this!" he shouted, trying again. "Take this!"
Nothing.
The leader of the group, no longer impressed, snorted and stepped forward again. "You gotta be kidding me. That's it? All that flash, no bang?"
Max's heart sank as the man raised his fist. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the blow, when something whizzed past his ear. The man's fist never connected. Max opened his eyes to see the guy frozen mid-swing, his arm wrapped in thick, sticky webs.
As Max stood there, still trying to process what had just happened, a voice rang out from above, light and playful, as if this were just another day in the life.
"Hey guys, I think you dropped this," came the voice.
Before Max could even register what was going on, a figure swooped down from above, the red and blue of his suit catching the dim streetlight.
It was him—Spider-Man.
The real deal. The web-slinger landed lightly on his feet, already pulling two of the thugs off their feet with effortless ease.
Max could only stare, wide-eyed, as Spider-Man moved like it was second nature.
He swung a web line to one of the men still holding the girl, yanking him backward. "You know," Spider-Man quipped as he bound the thug's arms together, "you should really try online dating instead of... whatever this is." He webbed the guy's mouth shut with a quick flick, then darted toward the other two, flipping in midair to avoid a punch.
With a flurry of kicks, punches, and webs, Spider-Man made quick work of the three men, tying them all up in a neat little bundle like he'd been doing it his whole life.
He strung them up from a streetlight, leaving them dangling there like a bad decoration.
Max could hardly breathe. The way Spider-Man moved—it was like he wasn't even human, like some larger-than-life figure come straight out of a comic book.
But there he was, in the flesh. The way he cracked jokes, the ease with which he handled these guys, it was the complete opposite of everything Max had just gone through.
He'd panicked, fumbled, and failed. And yet, here was Spider-Man, swooping in, saving the day without breaking a sweat.
The woman, now free, stood shaking as Spider-Man approached her. "You okay, ma'am?" he asked, his tone softer, more reassuring. "These guys won't be bothering you anymore. You're safe."
She nodded, her face pale but grateful. "Thank you... thank you so much," she stammered, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Hey, no problem," Spider-Man said, giving her a casual salute. "It's all in a day's work for your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man." He gently patted her shoulder before gesturing toward a nearby street, "There's a diner over there if you need somewhere to sit down. Cops will be here soon to take care of these goons."
The woman nodded again, offering one more heartfelt "Thank you," before hurrying away, relief clear in her steps.
Max stood frozen in place, his heart pounding. He hadn't even realized he was holding his breath until Spider-Man turned toward him, completely unfazed by Max's glowing appearance.
"Hey, so," Spider-Man said, crossing his arms and tilting his head. "I gotta ask... Is that a look you're going for, or are you just glowing with excitement?" His tone was light, even teasing, but there wasn't an ounce of fear or judgment in his voice.
He wasn't afraid of Max, wasn't treating him like a freak.
Max opened his mouth, trying to come up with something to say, but nothing came out. He couldn't believe it.
Spider-Man was talking to him. Actually talking to him.
"And I mean, not to be that guy," Spider-Man continued, rubbing the back of his head, "but whatever's going on with you? Kinda cool, honestly. Like, if you're ever thinking of rebranding, 'Electricity-Man' isn't half bad." He gave Max a thumbs up.
Max blinked, stunned. Cool? Did Spider-Man just call him cool?
No one had ever called him cool in his life. It was like all the fear, confusion, and self-doubt from earlier just melted away under that one simple compliment.
For the first time since his transformation, Max didn't feel like a complete disaster.
Spider-Man had looked at him—really looked at him—and saw something good. Something worth noticing.
Max finally found his voice. "I... uh... I'm not really sure what I am," he stammered, his hands twitching as electricity flickered faintly at his fingertips. "I mean, I'm just trying to... figure it all out."
Spider-Man nodded, completely serious now. "Hey, no rush. Trust me, I've been there. New powers, new life—it's a lot to deal with. But you'll get the hang of it." He gestured toward the tangled mess of thugs strung up behind him. "And if you're ever up for saving people, I think you're off to a good start."
Max's heart swelled at those words, a feeling of hope flickering to life inside him.
For once, he wasn't just the unlucky guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to change. And for the first time in a long time, he dared to believe that maybe his luck wasn't all bad after all.
***
Spider-Man took another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as he looked out at the city.
The quiet between them was oddly comforting, like two people who'd seen the same side of life that others couldn't possibly understand.
Max felt the warmth of it, even though he was still lost in the cold sea of his thoughts.
"Look, man," Spider-Man finally said, still chewing a little, "you're not a monster. Trust me, I've seen monsters. They don't save people. They don't care about anyone but themselves. You? You stepped in when no one else would. You didn't have to, but you did."
Max shook his head slowly, his fingers buzzing slightly as they fidgeted in his lap. "I didn't even know what I was doing... I just—" He stopped, unsure how to explain the mess of fear and confusion that had driven him to act.
Spider-Man waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. You still did it. That's what counts." He paused, glancing at Max before continuing, "Look, powers or not, people are gonna react to what they don't understand. Trust me, I've been called everything from menace to a freak show." He chuckled, but there was a depth to it, an edge that told Max this wasn't just some joke.
Max sat there, his thoughts swirling. His mother's words, the look on her face—it was hard to shake.
He'd never seen someone so afraid of him, especially someone who was supposed to love him. And maybe that was what hurt the most.
The part that felt like it would never heal.
"But what if my mother's right?" Max whispered, more to himself than to Spider-Man. "What if I really am... wrong now? What if I am a monster?"
Spider-Man pulled his mask back down, completely covering his face again, but Max could feel the intensity of his gaze. "Dude," Spider-Man said, leaning forward, "I don't know what's gonna happen from here. But I know one thing—you get to decide what you are. No one else. I was once told by someone amazing that with great power, there must come great responsibility. That's what having these powers means to me. So that's who I choose to be."
Max looked at him, trying to understand how someone like Spider-Man, who made saving the day look so easy, could even begin to get it.
But the longer he stared at that mask, the more he realized that maybe Spider-Man wasn't so different.
Maybe he'd gone through something just as confusing, just as painful. And yet, he'd come out on the other side of it—strong, sure of himself.
A hero.
"Besides," Spider-Man added, grinning beneath the mask, "weird origin stories are kinda our thing. Electric eels? Not the strangest thing I've heard."
Max actually laughed a little, surprising himself with the sound. For the first time in what felt like forever, it didn't feel so hopeless.
It was still terrifying, still confusing, but maybe... maybe there was something more to this than just bad luck.
Spider-Man stood, brushing crumbs off his suit. "Alright, Sparky," he said, reaching out a hand to Max, "you ready to figure out how to make this hero thing work?"
Max blinked, looking up at the extended hand. Slowly, almost cautiously, he reached out and took it. Spider-Man pulled him up to his feet with ease, a smile in his voice as he said, "Not so hard when you have a friend in the weirdness department."
Max glanced at the glowing light of his own hands, still unsure, but feeling a bit more steady than before.
Maybe he wasn't quite a hero yet. But if Spider-Man thought he could be... maybe that was enough.
**
Spider-Man and Max stood on the rooftop of an old building, the city sprawled out below them like a maze of flickering lights. Max was fidgeting, staring at his hands, which sparked erratically with small jolts of electricity.
"So, uh, how exactly do I do this?" Max asked nervously, looking up at Spider-Man, who was casually hanging upside down from a web he'd shot onto a nearby antenna.
Spider-Man grinned beneath his mask. "Alright, Sparky, first rule of using superpowers—don't think too much. Trust your instincts." He let go of the web and landed on his feet, dusting off his suit like he'd just done something totally ordinary. "It's like... when you're learning to ride a bike. Except, you know, instead of balancing, you're not trying to electrocute yourself."
Max nodded shaking his hands in anticipation. "Yeah, okay. Okay."
"Okay, okay, watch this," Spider-Man said, hopping over to a metal trash can lid. He picked it up and handed it to Max like it was a Frisbee. "Now, see that billboard over there? I want you to aim for it. Just give it a little jolt. Don't overthink it."
Max hesitated, gripping the trash can lid awkwardly. "And... if I fry it?"
Spider-Man shrugged. "It's New York. People will just think it's another blackout. Besides, you've got me. Worst-case scenario, I web it before things get too crispy."
Max nodded, his nerves only slightly eased. He squinted at the billboard in the distance, focused, and then thrust his hand forward with a grunt.
A tiny bolt of electricity shot out, launching the trash can lid towards the billboard, using so much force it crashed straight through it.
"Holy...I...I did that?" Max said, looking down at his hands.
Spider-Man chuckled. "Okay, okay, I know I said not to overthink it, but maybe think a little next time."
Max frowned but couldn't help a small smile creeping onto his face. "Okay, yeah. Sorry."
Spider-Man wiped an imaginary tear from his mask. "Alright, let's try something else. How about we start with baby steps? Aim for something that isn't metal and doesn't conduct electricity."
He pointed to a stack of empty cardboard boxes nearby. "Zap those."
Max stepped up, raising his hands carefully. This time, a smaller, more controlled burst of electricity flickered out of his fingers and hit the boxes with a soft crackle, making them shake but not explode.
Spider-Man clapped dramatically. "Now we're cooking. Next stop, superhero training montage."
Max shook his head, a small laugh escaping him. "I think we'll need a lot more than a montage."
Spider-Man leaned in, elbowing him lightly. "Nah, you've got this. You're already shocking the competition." He winked, and Max gave a small smile.
**
Hours passed as Spider-Man guided Max in harnessing his powers. Though he still struggled to control the electric surges within him, he felt an unexpected calm wash over him.
In those moments with Spider-Man, the weight of his chaotic past seemed to lift, allowing him a glimpse of what his life could be—a stark contrast to the darkness he had known.
For the first time, Max felt hope flicker to life, like a dim light cutting through the shadows that had engulfed him for so long.
Perhaps all the misfortunes he had endured—the loneliness, the betrayal, the pain—had finally reached their peak.
Maybe, just maybe, he could turn that all around and discover a new path for himself.
He could even be a hero.
"Oh man," Spider-Man said, checking his phone. "I gotta, uh..." He paused, glancing at Max, whose brow furrowed in confusion.
"Everything okay?" Max asked, his heart sinking at the thought of losing this newfound ally.
Spider-Man tucked his phone away. "Yeah, just some stuff I need to take care of." He hesitated, reluctant to admit he had to be home by curfew, now that Aunt May was back in his life. "Don't worry though, we'll pick up where we left off tomorrow."
Max's heart deflated. "You're leaving? But... what am I supposed to do?"
Spider-Man searched for the right words, aware of the vulnerability in Max's voice. "Just hang tight. I'll be back, and we can continue your training."
Max nodded slowly, a part of him still uncertain. "Yeah, okay."
Spider-Man's grin returned, momentarily brightening the mood. "Alright then. I'll see you later, Max. And tomorrow, we can figure out a place for you to stay." He felt guilty about leaving Max alone, but he couldn't take him home to Aunt May, and he didn't have the funds for a hotel room.
"Yes, sir," Max replied, watching as Spider-Man leapt off the rooftop, swinging into the night like a beacon of hope in a city full of shadows.
Standing alone, Max gazed out at the sprawling city, its heartbeat resonating through the streets, each pulse echoing with both life and despair.
Closing his eyes, he felt the electric energy coursing through the city, a reminder of his own chaotic existence. Though he had lost everything familiar, he ironically felt more alive than he ever had.
But the moment of tranquility shattered as he heard screams pierce the night. His heart raced as he looked down the street to see a man storm into a diner, weapon drawn, chaos erupting in his wake.
The police would take too long; he had to act. Max looked at his hands, and in response, the lights flickered violently around him, the energy inside him surging.
"I'm a hero now," he whispered, resolve flooding his veins. "I can do this. Just like Spider-Man."
In that instant, he recognized the darkness of his past—a life riddled with fear and helplessness—and realized he had the power to confront it, to become more than the victim of his own story.
With each flicker of light, he felt the weight of his old life receding, making way for something new, something bright.
He sprinted toward the diner, ready to embrace his fate, determined to reshape his story into one worth telling.
**
"Just stay on the fucking ground! I promise I won't hurt anyone." The robber's voice cut through the tense air, sharp as the weapon he waved. "Unless one of you tries to do something stupid."
Fear rippled through the diner. Patrons huddled together, eyes wide, breath caught in their throats, praying for this nightmare to end.
The man cleared the register, scooping up cash like it was nothing, pausing to take a bite of a nearby burger. "Thanks for all your participation. I promise this money'll be put to great use."
Then the bell above the door jingled, and Max stepped inside, his hood pulled low. He felt the hum of energy around him, the flickering lights seeming to respond to his presence. "That's enough! You villain!" he shouted, his voice trembling yet fierce.
The robber turned, eyes narrowing, taking in Max's radiant form. "What the... fuck?" he spat, pointing the gun directly at him. Max's heart raced, panic clawing at him.
"D-Don't hurt anyone! Or... I'll be forced to stop you!" The words stumbled out, shaky but defiant. He raised his arm, palm outstretched, desperately hoping to channel his powers. "I don't wanna have to do this."
But a darker urge flickered within him, whispering promises of control and revenge. He wanted to make this man feel helpless, just as he had felt for so long. "Watch closely, folks. This is what happens when you try to be the hero," the robber taunted, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Max's thoughts spun, and in that split second, everything rushed back—the lessons from Spider-Man, the weight of his past, and the specter of his mother's disappointment. No! He shouted in his mind. That wasn't him anymore.
He wasn't just bad luck Max.
He was a superhero, like Spider-Man.
With a roar, he tapped into his powers, feeling the surge of electricity course through him. Lights flickered violently, chaos erupting as he unleashed a wave of energy.
The diner trembled. Patrons gasped, and the robber's face twisted in horror as the building shuddered.
Max let out a primal cry, releasing the energy that had built up inside him.
The walls exploded outward, and the room burst into dust and debris.