Monday, 08:45 AM
Horizon Labs
Peter arrived at Horizon looking like he'd been run over by a cement truck. His feet ached from the constant connection to the ground — Manhattan's asphalt was loud, full of subway vibrations and pressurized pipes, but he refused to shut off the tactile sonar.
He was doing this as control training, trying to isolate specific sounds in specific places, but without much success so far. At the moment he could filter very little of the tactile sonar, but it was already much better than before.
"Parker! You look terrible," Grandy said, handing him a tablet. "Max wants the results of the gravitational engine simulation for yesterday. He said that if we don't make progress, the government backer is going to pull the plug."
"I'm on it, Grady. I just need… coffee. Lots of coffee."
While working, Peter couldn't help comparing Horizon's calculations with what he had seen inside the Galvan Board. Earth's science was decades — maybe even centuries — behind that technology.
Peter sat in front of the terminal, but his mind was a battlefield between Max Modell's theoretical physics and the impossible engineering stored in his inventory. He opened Horizon's gravitational engine schematics. It was brilliant, of course, based on superconductors and high-intensity magnetic fields, but compared to the Galvan board's stellar energy core, it looked like a steam engine trying to compete with a fusion reactor.
"If I just changed the field oscillation frequency…" Peter murmured, his fingers itching to type a code sequence he had seen on the board's interface.
He hesitated. If he inserted that formula, Horizon's engine would get a 400% efficiency boost — but how would he explain the origin of mathematics that defied Einstein's relativity? Max Modell was a genius, but he was also a curious scientist. Questions would be asked.
[Ding! Daily Mission Generated!]
[Objective: Optimize a technological project without revealing the source of the information.]
[Reward: 15 GP]
"The system really loves watching me spin plates on a tightrope," Peter grumbled, rubbing his temples.
He started typing, but instead of copying Galvan technology, he used its principles to "fix" the imperfections in the current calculations. He camouflaged the advanced solution inside a series of trial-and-error algorithms, making it look like he'd just had a lucky statistical insight.
Two hours later, Max Modell walked into the room, eyes wide as he stared at Peter's monitor.
"Peter… these stability readings… you eliminated the quantum fluctuation in the core?" Max stepped closer, adjusting his glasses. "How did you arrive at this decay constant?"
"Ah, you know how it is, Max… I was thinking about how seismic waves propagate through different soil densities," Peter improvised, using his recent experience with Earth Domination. "I applied a similar damping function to the gravitational field and… it worked."
Max remained silent for a long moment, processing the information.
"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Parker, you just saved this department. Go home early — you look like you haven't slept since the '90s. I'll handle the report for the Pentagon."
[Ding! Daily Mission Completed!]
[Reward: 15 GP added.]
[Current Total: 165 GP.]
Peter left Horizon feeling the weight of physical exhaustion, but also the satisfaction of a job well done. He glanced at the system screen as he prepared to leave.
"165 points… I'll run a few rolls when I get back to the apartment," his stomach growled, "and have a little snack."
Akari's food was great, but his metabolism demanded much more.
Peter stopped at a corner diner in Queens, devouring two monstrous burgers and a portion of fries before even reaching his building. Spider metabolism running at full power.
Entering his apartment through the bedroom window, he collapsed onto the bed, still wearing his shoes. The silence of the room was a stark contrast to Horizon's bustle. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, letting the tactile sonar fade. The vibrations of the subway three blocks away finally stopped hammering his skull.
"All right, system," he murmured, closing his eyes. "Let's see if Parker luck decides to take a day off. Five Iron Rank rolls."
He felt he was getting a bit predictable with Iron Rank, but the strategy was clear: stockpile utilities and grow the army before trying his luck in Bronze again.
[GP: -50]
[GP Remaining: 115]
[Progress to Level 2: 400/500]
[Lottery Result:
Foot Clan Member x10
Muscle Recovery Supplement x5 (A bluish gel that eliminates lactic acid and heals micro-injuries in minutes. Radioactive mint flavor.)
Zero-Gravity Handcuffs x3 (When closed, they nullify the mass of the restrained object or person, making it easier to transport heavy criminals… or making them float like balloons.)
Skill: Cooking (You now know how to season a chicken and not burn the rice. Your meals now restore 5% more energy.)
Item: Broad-Spectrum Flashlight (A handheld flashlight that reveals heat traces, chemical residues, and fingerprints invisible to the naked eye.)]
"Cooking? Seriously?" Peter let out a tired laugh. "At least Akari will stop looking at me like I'm a Neanderthal every time she sees me opening a can of cold soup."
The ten new ninjas were properly "installed" in his mind. This time the flash of memories was shorter, but just as intense: Master Parker saving them from a mercenary ambush at a foggy port, alongside other ninjas already under his banner. He was starting to accept that his fabricated "past life" was far more eventful than his real one.
He summoned the ten new recruits right there in the room. The space suddenly felt cramped with ten black-clad figures kneeling between his bed and the desk.
Peter sat on the bed, gathering all his recent rewards and handing them to the ninjas.
"Go to the base — it's in Brooklyn, a building with the Shadow-Step Solutions logo. Report to Karai or Kenji. Tell them the company's manpower has just increased," Peter ordered quietly.
In absolute silence, the ten shadows slipped out the window, vanishing into the streets of Queens.
Peter watched the last ninja disappear into the urban haze and sighed, feeling the mattress creak under his weight. The room suddenly felt bigger and emptier. He looked at the GP counter on the floating interface.
[Current GP: 115]
"One hundred and fifteen," he murmured. "You know what? The day was productive at Horizon, and I just gained the ability not to die of botulism from my own cooking. Why stop now?"
There was an itch at the base of his brain — that dangerous optimism that usually preceded Peter Parker's worst decisions. He wanted to hit Level 2.
"System, don't disappoint me. Five more Iron Rank rolls! Let's zero out this level progress!"
[GP: -50]
[GP Remaining: 65]
[Progress to Level 2: 450/500]
The screen erupted into a frenzy of gray and white colors, the boxes spinning so fast they looked like a solid blur.
[Lottery Result:
Foot Clan Member x30
Urban Camouflage Uniform x5: (Outfits that slightly alter their color patterns to blend with concrete, brick, and asphalt. Increases stealth in urban environments by 10%.)
Instant Sleep Pill x5: (A dart or pill that knocks a human target out for 4 hours. No side effects, except a vivid dream about ponies.)
Portable Hacker Tool: (A USB device capable of breaking basic encryptions on security cameras and residential electronic locks.)
200 thousand dollars (money money, baby. The money goes directly into the host's bank account)]
Peter nearly fell off the bed. He stared at the numbers on the interface, blinking repeatedly to make sure it wasn't a hallucination caused by adrenal fatigue.
"Two hundred thousand dollars?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "System… is that… is that real money? Like, money the IRS won't arrest me for having?"
[Ding! Funds have been injected through a series of diversified transactions in high-return micro-investments and anonymously mined crypto-assets. For all legal purposes, the Host obtained this profit through legitimate market trades.]
Peter felt dizzy — and it had nothing to do with exhaustion. He opened his banking app with trembling hands. The balance, which had previously displayed a sad two digits and some cents, now boasted a sequence of numbers that looked like a system error.
$200,084.12.
"I'm… I'm rich?" Peter murmured, his face lit by the screen's glow. "I can buy a car. I can pay off Aunt May's mortgage. I can buy a lifetime supply of web fluid and still have enough left for… for a bronze statue of Uncle Ben!"
He shook his head, trying to push away the euphoria. "Parker luck" was a force of nature, and he knew that if he started spending like a lottery winner, the universe would find a way to balance the scales — probably with a meteor crashing into his bedroom. But for now, the relief was indescribable.
Peter took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. The bank balance glowed on his phone like a supernova. For a moment, he imagined J. Jonah Jameson's face if he walked into the Daily Bugle and bought the entire building just to fire him personally.
That wasn't possible with just 200 thousand dollars, obviously — but dreaming wasn't a crime.
He then remembered the other drop from the roll. Thirty ninjas.
"Heavens, thirty at once?" Peter looked at the cramped space of the room. He couldn't summon them there. The neighboring building would probably call SWAT if they saw thirty ninjas sprouting from a one-bedroom apartment in Queens.
He stood up, put on the Spider suit, and left through the window. The day was humid, and the smell of impending rain hung in the air. He swung toward Brooklyn, landing on the roof of the "Web" fifteen minutes later.
Karai was there, training with a bokken (wooden sword) against three ninjas at once. She moved like lightning, disarming the first and using the momentum to take down the other two before Peter could finish landing.
Noticing his presence, she stopped and straightened up, crossing her arms.
"Peter? Shouldn't you be at Horizon?"
"I got released early," he shrugged. "And I brought company."
He closed his eyes and focused on the mental command. 'Summon 30 Foot Clan Members.'
The effect was immediate and hypnotic. As if the very shadows of the warehouse gained mass and form, thirty figures materialized in a perfect circle around Peter and Karai. The sound of thirty knees hitting the ground in unison echoed off the brick walls like a muffled thunderclap.
"Master!" the voices rang out in disciplined harmony.
Peter looked at Karai, expecting shock or confusion — the same reaction he'd had. Instead, she merely raised an eyebrow, a spark of recognition and satisfaction crossing her eyes. She walked among the new recruits, inspecting one's posture, adjusting another's mask.
"Hiroshi. Kaito. Ren," she murmured names, identifying faces Peter now also "remembered." "I see the rest of the elite battalion has finally emerged from the shadows. It was about time."
"You're not surprised?" Peter asked, dumbfounded.
"Surprised? Peter, I led these men for years. They are my family-in-arms," she said, stopping in front of a particularly tall ninja. "They were just… scattered, waiting for your signal. I knew that under your command, they would eventually find their way home."
Peter scratched the back of his neck under the mask. "Yeah… the signal. I'm great with signals."
He then remembered the other items. "And there's more. I got some new equipment."
He pulled the five Urban Camouflage Uniforms, the Sleep Pills, and the Hacker Tool from the inventory. Karai picked up one of the uniforms, examining the fiber that seemed to change tone as the warehouse light hit it.
"Photonic diffraction technology," she analyzed, impressed. "This will make our infiltrations of City Hall and Fisk's warehouses much safer. And the hacker tool… Akari is going to love this. She was complaining that the Police Department's firewalls were 'irritatingly bureaucratic.'"
Peter looked at her with a half-smile beneath the mask. Karai was giving this her all — and loving every moment of it, judging by the small, genuine smiles she showed throughout the day.
He was proud of her. She had found a purpose — or at least, was in the process of finding one. She had become warmer — in her own way — more friendly, more patient, more responsible.
Compared to the cold, cruel, and angry Karai from before, it was like seeing two completely different people.
Peter liked knowing he'd influenced that.
"…Karai, with everything we need — both for Shadow-Step and for everyone involved — how much would we need to spend?"
Karai stopped examining the uniform and looked up at the ceiling, running mental calculations at data-processor speed. The warehouse fell completely silent; the thirty new ninjas remained motionless, as if even the oxygen they consumed was under strict orders.
"Considering the upkeep of eighty people," she began, "the operational cost of the 'Web,' front salaries for those embedded, and transport logistics… we're talking about roughly forty thousand dollars per month to operate at minimum. To expand, buy decent lab equipment for you, and armor this place against possible attacks from the Maggia and other mafias? I'd say we need at least half a million dollars in liquid assets."
Peter felt a chill in his stomach, but this time it wasn't anxiety. He pulled out the phone he'd brought under the suit and felt for it.
"Karai, what if I told you that 'Parker luck' finally decided to give me a break?" He pulled out the device and turned the screen toward her, showing the bank balance.
Karai narrowed her eyes, stepping closer to read the digits. She stayed silent for a full three seconds — a record for someone who always had a response ready.
"Two hundred thousand dollars?" She looked at Peter, then at the phone, then back at Peter. "Did you rob one of Tony Stark's casinos? Or did you finally sell the patent for that web of yours to the army?"
"Neither. Let's just say a… investment fund I follow had an astronomical and unexpected return today," Peter deflected, pocketing the phone. "It's enough to cover operating costs for a few months and still leave room for the infrastructure you mentioned. I want you to manage it. Pay what's necessary, legalize what you can, and make sure no one goes hungry or has to live in alleys."
Karai took the phone from Peter's hand, her fingers sliding across the screen with calculated agility. She didn't seem dazzled by the amount itself — for someone who had once managed the Foot Clan's bank accounts in Tokyo, two hundred thousand was coffee money — but the fact that this money had appeared in the hands of Peter Parker, the man she'd seen counting coins for a hot dog the week before, was what intrigued her.
"This changes the timeline," she stated, handing the device back. "With this capital, we don't have to just react to local gang movements anymore. We can be proactive. I'll acquire three discreet cargo vans under Shadow-Step's name, buy the building, and install an independent power generator."
"And Peter," she added, her eyes shining with an intensity he knew well, "this also means we can start investing in 'protective equipment' that doesn't look like it was stolen from a junkyard. Akari and Kenji need suits that can withstand real ballistic impacts if we're going to face Tombstone's enforcers."
Peter nodded, even as part of him was still processing how quickly his life as a lone hero was turning into a corporate-clandestine empire.
"Do what's necessary, Karai. Just… try to keep the receipts. I still have nightmares about income tax."
Karai let out a short laugh, a sound tinged with genuine amusement. "Receipts? Shadow-Step will be so legitimate that even Captain America would hire us to provide security for a charity event."
Spider laughed back, imagining the scene.
"By the way, Peter," Karai called, interrupting his technological daydream. "The thirty new recruits, along with the rest of us here, are waiting for orders. I suggest you give the official welcome. They need to hear the master's voice to solidify the hierarchy."
Peter looked at the sea of black masks before him. He still felt a bit like an impostor — a guy in a costume from Queens pretending to be some kind of Shogun — but he knew that to those people, he was the only anchor in a world that had discarded them.
He walked to the edge of the second-floor metal platform, looking down.
"Listen," Peter began, his voice gaining a resonance that surprised even himself — perhaps a side effect of his growing confidence and Persuasion skill. "You are no longer the Foot Clan. You are not tools of a master who flees when the flames rise. Here, at Shadow-Step, we take care of each other. We protect this city because it is our home, and we will not let monsters destroy it."
He paused, feeling the connection to the ground through his boots, the 'Web' building vibrating in harmony with his words.
"Welcome to the family. Karai will handle your training and assignments. Work hard, stay in the shadows, and above all… don't die. That is an order."
"YES, MASTER!" the unified shout made the warehouse beams tremble.
POV Daredevil
The fine New York rain fell like icy needles against my mask, running down the horns and dripping onto my collar. I was crouched on the ledge of an abandoned church at the border between Hell's Kitchen and Brooklyn, listening to the city breathe. It wasn't a calm breath. It was ragged, irregular, filled with racing heartbeats in dark alleys and the distant creak of doors being forced open.
In recent days, something had changed in the rhythm of the night.
I felt it first at the Red Hook docks. Those men — they weren't common mercenaries, nor Maggia or Tombstone thugs. Their hearts beat too slowly, as if they had been trained to ignore fear. Silent, precise movements, without the wasted energy I see in almost every criminal or vigilante who crosses my path. They didn't kill. They didn't torture. They simply neutralized, tied up, and left a card.
Shadow-Step Solutions.
The name sounds like a Manhattan consulting firm, not a team that takes down seven armed men in under thirty seconds without a single shot being fired. I heard their leader speak — steady voice, no identifiable accent, but with a cadence that felt ancient. He said they were "private security." A partial lie. Private security doesn't move like ninjas. It doesn't smell of tempered steel and discipline forged by years of being molded to kill.
And now, today, with the sun still in the sky, I feel them again.
Not one or two. Dozens.
They're spread across Brooklyn like an invisible web. Some on rooftops, motionless like gargoyles. Others embedded in commercial buildings, their heartbeats so controlled they almost vanish into the city's background noise. There's a central point — a renovated old gym, smelling of fresh paint and new servers. The place pulses with organized activity. Low voices, orders whispered. Someone speaking with authority… A man, no more than thirty. Familiar somehow, yet distant, like an echo I can't place. And another voice — a woman, judging by the tone, barely out of adolescence, yet carrying undeniable authority.
I drop from the ledge, my billy club cable carrying me silently to the roof of a warehouse near the "Web." The company name is on the new sign — discreet, professional. But underneath, I feel the weight of something larger. Weapons being cleaned. Electronic equipment being calibrated. And training happening underground — the muffled sound of wood striking wood, controlled breathing, feet sliding across tatami.
Whoever is in command is building an army.
It's not the Hand — I know their stench. Cheap incense, black magic, ancient hatred. These ones smell like… purpose. New. Clean, almost. But armies, even the "good" ones, have a way of becoming problems when they grow too large.
I've seen it before. Vigilantes who start wanting to clean up the streets and end up becoming what they fought. Or worse: tools for someone with their own agenda.
The man's voice speaks again, echoing through the building. I can't make out the exact words through the reinforced walls, but the tone is… inspiring. Not a criminal's speech. It's someone who believes what he's saying. Someone talking about "family." About protecting the city.
And the response — eighty voices, no, a hundred — shouting in unison.
"Yes, Master!"
My blood runs cold.
Master.
This isn't a security company.
It's a cult.
Or a clan.
I grip my baton tighter, feeling my knuckles protest. New York already has its demons. Kingpin, Maggia, the Hand. It doesn't need a new player with an army of shadows loyal to a "Master."
I'll keep watching. I'll listen.
And if this Shadow-Step crosses the line — if a single civilian is hurt because of their ambition, or if I smell corruption growing in that building — I'll step in.
POV Normal
Peter felt the weight of the speech still echoing in his chest as he climbed the skylight of the Web. The new recruits were already being dispersed by Karai, with orders to integrate into existing teams — some for night surveillance, others to infiltrate civilian jobs as cover. The building hummed with an efficiency that made him both proud and slightly uneasy. He had built this. Or the system had. Either way, it was his now.
He waved goodbye to Karai. "I'm going to do a quick patrol before heading back to the apartment. Keep everything under control here."
"As if I needed instructions for that," she replied with a sideways smile, already turning to organize the new equipment stock. "Don't forget to eat something decent. Akari was complaining about your diet again today."
Peter shook his head, amused, and leapt off the roof. The sun had already set — he and Karai had spent a long time discussing future plans — and New York was alive with artificial lights that turned the city into a labyrinth of neon and shadows. He fired a web and launched himself into the air, the cold wind slicing through his suit like a blade. Patrol was an old routine, but with Earth Domination's tactile sonar running on low, he felt the city in a new way. Subtle vibrations — hurried footsteps in alleys, engines idling at dark corners — painted a mental map that complemented his Spider-Sense.
The first mugging came quickly, three blocks away. He felt the tremor of a struggle in an alley behind a bodega: two racing heartbeats, one terrified, the other aggressive. Peter landed silently atop a dumpster, seeing a hooded thief pressing a knife against a delivery man's neck.
"Hey, buddy," Peter called, his voice carrying the light tone he used to defuse situations. "You know knives are bad for digestion, right? Let the guy go and let's solve this without an ambulance delivery."
The thief spun around, startled, and tried to attack. Peter didn't even need to fire a web. He planted his foot firmly on the ground, sending a subtle vibration that made the asphalt tremble beneath the criminal's feet. The man stumbled, and Peter webbed him up before he could recover. The delivery man blinked, wide-eyed, murmuring a "Thanks, Spider!" as Peter helped him retrieve his wallet.
"No problem. Watch the alleys, okay? And order extra sauce next time."
He continued the patrol, stopping two more crimes in quick succession. One was a group of teens trying to break into a car — he scared them off with a web that glued them to the windshield, leaving a note: "Study, guys. Crime doesn't pay bills." The other was more serious: a woman being assaulted by a man wielding an iron bar. Peter used Earth Domination to raise a gravel barrier from the ground, blocking the strike, before taking the attacker down with a precise punch. He felt his Chi drain a bit, but control was improving. Proficiency rose with every use.
[Earth Domination Proficiency: Novice (45%)]
But the night wouldn't be just routine. As he swung over Flatbush Avenue, Spider-Sense screamed like a fire alarm. At the same time, tactile sonar picked up heavy vibrations — shockwaves pulsing through the concrete like a localized earthquake. Peter twisted midair and saw the chaos: Shocker, his yellow gauntlets humming with sonic energy, was tearing apart a bank façade. Shockwaves blasted ATMs, and civilians ran in panic.
"Oh, Herman! Still using the same old gloves? You know sonic fashion went out in the '90s, right?" Peter shouted, landing on a lamppost and firing a web to throw the villain off balance.
Shocker turned, his gauntlets buzzing with a sound that made teeth grind. "Spider! I was hoping you'd show up. Let's see if you can handle a full symphony!"
He fired a sonic blast — a compressed air wave that cracked the asphalt and blew open a fire hydrant. Peter leapt aside, feeling the vibration in the air before he even saw it. He countered with webs, but Shocker dissipated them with another shockwave. The villain laughed, advancing confidently. "You can't touch me without getting pulverized!"
Peter planted his feet, assuming the Earth Domination stance. He waited for the right moment, feeling the vibrations from Shocker's gauntlets propagate through the ground. When the villain fired again, Peter punched the asphalt. A column of earth and concrete rose like a shield, absorbing the sonic wave. Shocker blinked, stunned.
"What? How did you—"
Before he could react, Peter lunged forward, using tactile sonar to predict the next blast. He twisted and stomped, creating a sinkhole of shifting sand beneath Shocker's feet. The villain sank to his knees, gauntlets vibrating uselessly as he struggled. Peter webbed his face, silencing him, then wrapped him completely in reinforced webbing.
"Next time, try a quieter instrument. Like a flute," Peter joked.
[Earth Domination Proficiency: Novice (48%)]
The fight left him exhausted but satisfied. He returned to the apartment, entering through the window and shedding the suit. The room was dark except for his phone's glow. Peter collapsed onto the bed, body aching, mind clear.
"65 GP left," he murmured. "Time to zero this out and see what Level 2 brings."
He focused on the system. "System, five more Iron Rank rolls. Let's go."
Peter felt extra excitement — the compensation mechanism. In the last roll he'd gotten Foot Clan members; he wondered who would come this time.
[GP: -50]
[GP Remaining: 15]
[Progress to Level 2: 500/500 — LEVEL ACHIEVED!]
[Unlocked Functions:
Category Filter: You may now choose between "Characters," "Items," or "Skills" before performing a roll. (Increases GP cost by 20% per filtered roll.)
Basic Item Shop: Allows direct purchase of previously obtained Iron Rank consumables (Nutrition Pills, Smoke Bombs, etc.) using GP.]
[Level-Up Reward: 1x Free Draw Ticket (Bronze Rank)!]
The light boxes spun across Peter's mental screen like a deranged slot machine, glowing in rusty iron and polished silver hues. He felt a tingle at the back of his neck — not Spider-Sense, but almost childlike anticipation. Level 2. Finally.
The screen froze, and the rewards materialized one by one.
[Lottery Result:
Rook Blonko: (A male of the Revonnahgandero species. Rook was number one in his class at the Plumbers Academy, but he still has much to learn about being a hero.)
Foot Clan Member x15
Advanced First Aid Kit (Suture Nanobots): (A spray that seals deep wounds in seconds. Does not replace a hospital, but prevents bleeding out on the way.)
Frying Pan: (A frying pan)
Silverware Set: (Use in case you have guests)]
Peter sat up abruptly, sleep forgotten. "Rook who?"
Unlike the ninjas, who appeared as fluid shadows, the manifestation of this new ally was solid and almost technological. In the center of the small room, a vortex of bluish light formed, revealing an impressive humanoid figure. He had skin in shades of light blue and white, with facial markings resembling tribal paint or natural biological patterns. He wore blue-and-black tactical armor of futuristic design and carried a strange device mounted on his back that looked like a hybrid between a staff and a precision rifle.
The individual opened his eyes — intelligent yellow pupils — and scanned Peter's room in less than a second. He then fixed his gaze on Peter, who was still in pajamas with messy hair.
The stranger bowed in a rigid, military salute.
"Greetings, Mr. Parker. I am First-Class Recruit Rook Blonko, of the Plumbers Division. I have been assigned to assist you in maintaining order and protecting this planetary sector."
Peter blinked, stunned. "Plumbers? You… you here to fix my sink? Because, look, Mr. Ditkovich is kind of strict about outside renovations, and—"
Rook tilted his head, mild confusion crossing his feline features. "Sink? I believe there is a linguistic dissonance. In my sector, 'Plumbers' is the designation for an intergalactic peacekeeping task force. I do not possess specialized training in residential hydraulic repairs, although my Proto-Weapon could technically weld leaks if configured for low-intensity heat."
"Intergalactic?" Peter rubbed his face. "Right. Sure. Why not? I've got ninjas in Brooklyn and now a space cop in my bedroom."
[Ding! Shared Memories Synchronized!]
A torrent of images flooded Peter's mind. Unlike the collective memories of the Foot Clan, these were focused and vivid. He saw himself — or a version of himself — in a gleaming space facility, handing Rook an insignia and shaking his hand. He remembered Rook as his best field strategist, a prodigy cadet Peter had "rescued" from interstellar bureaucracy to serve as his right-hand man on Earth.
"Rook," Peter said, his voice firmer now as the false memories settled. "Good to see you again, partner. Sorry about the reception… I had a long day."
"Understandable, Sir," Rook replied, straightening. "My records indicate that this planet, Earth, has a pollutant-saturated atmosphere and an unnecessarily chaotic social structure. I am ready to initiate optimization protocols for your organization."
Peter stood up, feeling the aura of competence Rook radiated. He wasn't number one for nothing.
"Great, because I have exactly the place for you. I've got a team in Brooklyn — Shadow-Step. They're good, but they lack… well, an advanced technical and tactical perspective. Karai handles discipline, but you… you'll handle efficiency."
"A logical assignment," Rook stated, adjusting a panel on his wrist. "May I suggest we review your subordinates' armaments? The use of carbon-steel blades is picturesque, but energetically inefficient against modern armored targets."
Peter laughed, feeling his luck truly turning around. With Rook alongside Karai, Shadow-Step was going to soar.
"Rook, I need you to go to Brooklyn. I'll send you the coordinates. Use this camouflage suit if you can. We don't want the neighbors thinking Area 51 is having a clearance sale."
"Understood, Mr. Parker. I will integrate into the shadows, as your stealth operation protocols dictate."
Rook tapped his device — the Proto-Weapon — which emitted a satisfying mechanical click, transforming into a compact staff. With agility rivaling Spider-Man himself, he leapt through the window, disappearing into the Queens night without making a sound.
Peter lay back down, this time with a genuine smile on his face.
The "Parker Curse" seemed to finally be in quarantine.