Chapter Text
Our story begins where it ought to, in a lab towering far above the bustling city of New York (which a woman called Britta Perry once lived in, if you by chance didn't know).
Of course, the spider living within this lab had no concept of any of the sciences, or of laboratories, or cities, or even the fact that it was a spider, really. As far as it was concerned, it was alive and fed, and that was what mattered. It had no knowledge of anything beyond the transparent barriers containing it. The only view to be had was of sterile white walls and white coats working in front of white tabletops. A void. Day and night, as far as it had ever seen, was incessant harsh light, and then a sudden click into darkness. Perhaps if the enclosure walls were more reflective the creature could have been able to glimpse the company logo and serial number stamped onto its carapace. Though, unfortunately, this would have been redundant, as the concept of company ownership is even more complicated than any of the other information flying well beyond its arachnid noggin.
Life in the lab was usually peaceful, looming figures taking measured paces and discussing their findings in calm quiet tones. Today, that would be disturbed.
Thirty odd hurried trampling feet and loud chatting burst into the room, the bodies attached to them shorter, ganglier and spottier than any two legged beast seen before. They bring an influx of vibration, noise, and smell. More than enough to rouse the creature from its afternoon doze (there was little else to do between meals). The teenagers are upon them. The horror.
The ambient chaos is immediately overwhelming compared to the quiet and measured atmosphere that had always been present before. It cowers, a trill of distress vibrating through its pincers from a corner with no other cover. One of the larger juveniles shoves the runt in the direction of the tank. The victim sports thicker rimmed glasses and a neatly buttoned shirt. Easy pickings.
"Look, Parker! This spider is a pussy like you! Go make friends!"
The runt’s arm flies astray with the momentum, knocking the arachnid’s enclosure from its usual shelf.
The lid is knocked loose by a lower shelf, and suddenly the invisible walls that have restrained it all its life are gone, the sterile air of the lab brushing through its fur. It is free. Currently plummeting towards possible death, but free. The runt human’s arm rapidly approaches beneath it, so the spider bares its fangs in preparation to strike, compelled by an instinct beyond itself. By fate.
In most universes, this is THE moment. The inciting incident.
But at the last moment the young man raises his arm to shield himself against a barrage of threat and mockery. The big one takes the opportunity to jeer.
"Nice job, Pete! Look what you've done now!".
I am sorry to say that, in this world, the young Peter Parker has to endure this treatment for many more years. No escape in late night swings, and no secret potential for retaliation in super strength. He will be blamed for this incident, forced to make amends for the loss of priceless research. The principal simply cannot allow golden boy Thomson to shoulder the punishment. He has a big important game in a few days, after all. One so important that it will be forgotten only a few days after that in preference of the next.
But things will improve for Mr. Parker. He is still smart and persistent. Those were not traits mutated by a bite. As he ages, the amount of power-hungry meatheads about him lessen, replaced by peers of a similar mindset in whatever apprenticeship or higher education he lands. Perhaps the odd academic or workplace rival, but playing on a field where Peter has a stake and some power. He’ll succeed, endear himself to a reluctant boss in a journalism job, make some scientific breakthroughs, maybe even catch the eye of a loved one without having to worry that juggling another life will endanger them. He will, eventually, be happy.
In the present the spider lands on the hard tiled floor instead of a fleshy arm. It finds itself in a jumbled heap of many limbs which immediately scramble to right themselves. It's a matter of survival, a mad dash to escape the rampantly trampling feet and the panicked screams. If it had been chaos before, now it was mayhem.
Desks and tables make for temporary cover, but only for a matter of seconds. There are just as many looking to crush the perceived threat for their own peace of mind as those who want to run and perch on an elevated surface. Stools are immediately shifted, shoes and broom handles are swung about wildly under the tables. It had spent all its life enclosed and safe. It needs to be that again, somewhere the towering fleshy beasts and their tools cannot follow. A cool breeze brushes over its fur, beckoning it. The vents are its saviour.
Inside the vents, the commotion sounds distant and echoey. Further along, further down, and the sound has disappeared entirely, replaced by a steady whirr. Further still, and it emerges into a space of rough grey and black, rather than the smooth glossy white of before. The space is filled with large hollow metal structures perched on black circles, the incomprehensible figure of the car. The open area is illuminated by dull orange, contrasted by the neon green of a hanging sign announcing in letters it couldn't read that this was the Ozcorp loading bay (no staff or visitor parking, see other entrance).
For a moment, the spider is still. Where is there to go in an area so large and cold and empty? There was no room for life in a place like this. Instead, there is the compulsion for the warm and dark. A cranny. It experiments, testing out the gap underneath one of these towering metal giants. Too similar to the underneath of the tables, which didn't work well at all. The side then? It cautiously climbs upwards, peering into the dark square gap it had found, filled with towers of cardboard boxes. The engine revs, a large bestial roar from the metal machine, and startled, the spider scuttles inside and hunkers down in one of the slots between towers. Two voices approach, chattering inanely in a bassy register. A muscled limb reaches up in the middle of a sentence to pull down the truck hatch. Then- pitch black. Peace. A shudder of movement that causes it to curl up and shiver, but slowly the consistency of the vibration allows for it to adjust, to unfurl.
This continues for hours, for miles, the spider completely oblivious to both concepts. It snoozes, recovering from the stress. Every now and then it is awoken by the sudden ceasing of the shuddering, and the metallic scraping sounds of the opening hatch. It recoils back further from the light and the eyes of humankind as boxes are either subtracted or added. Vibration comes to mean safety rather quickly. Slowly the creature is pushed further back until it is against the back wall with only a few boxes left. One of the burly humans reaches forwards to grab and lift when it spies movement in the dark, unexpected life. He shrieks, uncannily high for his usual deep tone. The spider flees.
The new outside is a residential street, exposed to the damp and cold of an early October eve. It approaches a wall, somewhere with less foot traffic, and at the side of a tall brick building is a pipe. Lucky not a drainage pipe, the spider we follow is not the Itsy Bitsy of nursery rhyme fame. Instead, there is another flow of air, much like the one that had saved it from danger before. The fan on the inside is broken, the neglect of a landlord for once saving a life. Up it climbs to a level point, and then again until it has reached the third floor. By then it has had enough. It is tired of running, it has done so more today than it had ever before. It begins the process of spinning a web, though a nearby fan, this one functional, churns just enough to wreck its efforts. It tries again, to the same effect. If the spider had a grasp of psychology, it might have been aware that it was in danger of falling into the sunk cost fallacy, but it didn't, due to its nature as a spider, and so it did. Again and again with foolish abandon until its silken threads caused the fan to grind to a halt.
It had won, and finally the spider had a home.