Hey there dear readers.
I wanna clarify that I have no clear path for the story, yet.
Just a very, very general idea of what I want to happen, and that sometimes collide with other ideas I want to implement. Which sucks.
I don't even know If I'll add the Fantastic 4, Blade, Ghost Rider, Deadpool, etc.
But what I have in mind, for now, is Wade's hero archetypes I want to use:
- Martial Artist (Batman, Daredevil, Iron Fist, etc).
- Gadgeteer (Spiderman, Batman, Green Arrow, etc).
- Weaponmaster (Deathstroke, Taskmaster, Batman, etc).
Again, very general idea
I might even just make him a hulk if it feels like I'll help the plot. Just an example.
Also, no romantic partners for now. Most of the important female characters in marvel are either too young or too old for Wade right now.
Mental age and all that. But they can be friends.
So that'll have to wait.
Also this chapter is more or less filler, it's just a few things i thought were important to write about. So don't feel ashamed to criticize me.
With that said, I say goodbye.
Sincerely, the Author.
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Can't believe I'm saying this…
But I missed going to school.
Yeah. School. That prison full of angst, sweat, hormones and pop quizzes.
Turns out, when you've got nothing but your own thoughts gnawing at you all day, even homework is a vacation.
I woke up earlier than the clock out of pure anxiety.
Didn't even need the stupid alarm—my brain had it covered.
Today wasn't gonna be normal.
Nothing's gonna be normal for a long time.
I just laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling.
Listening to the dead silence of the house.
The only thing breaking it—me.
Breathing.
Each inhale, each exhale, sounding way too loud in the emptiness of my room, my house.
I sat up on the edge of the bed, staring at my own reflection in the mirror across the room.
Hair a mess. Eyes hollow. Skin pale under the dim morning light.
I didn't have a nightmare last night.
But it was close enough.
It's the kind of sleep where you wake up with your heart pounding and your hands shaking, even if you don't remember why.
I ran a hand down my face, exhaling slowly.
Plans.
So much to do.
So little knowledge.
I don't even know where to find Cletus…
He's probably out there right now, setting another fire, burning down another life.
Maybe trying to catch my attention.
Maybe just doing it for the sick fun of it.
I should stay away from Peter.
From everyone, really.
As long as Cletus is loose, anyone near me is a walking target.
He's a pyromaniac.
I'm just a scarred guy.
Fire's his playground.
For me? It's just another way to die.
I need something—anything—that'll give me a fighting chance.
Something smarter than a damn bucket of water.
It's selfish. I know that.
Dragging Peter into my mess, into this.
Peter Parker—the nerd, the genius.
But if anyone can pull a miracle out of thin air. Cook up something to keep me from burning alive again, it's him.
And after that?
I'm gone.
Out of his hair. Out of his life.
Before the flames catch him, too.
Because as long as Cletus is still breathing, still setting the world on fire…
I'm a walking invitation for calamity.
A matchstick he can use as he pleases...
I can't have that. Can't let him burn me more.
---
On my way to school, my mind kept drifting.
Spider-Man. Oscorp. Peter. The spider.
I used to fantasize about this moment—being close to it, maybe even stealing the spotlight.
But now, walking with real scars, I'm starting to wonder...
Should I really let Peter get bitten?
Sure, he becomes Spider-Man.
Sure, he saves people. Becomes a symbol. A hero.
But he suffers.
God, does he suffer.
If I stop it, if I save him from that nightmare...
how many people would pay the price instead?
How many wouldn't get saved?
But... does his suffering not matter?
How many ungrateful fucks humiliated him for it?
Spit on him. Laughed at him. Betrayed him.
What kind of friend would I be if I just let that happen?
What kind of human being would I be if I let a kid suffer like that?
Fuck, I don't know.
It's the trolley problem all over again.
Save one, doom many.
Or save many... and sacrifice one.
Except the one is someone who actually matters.
Someone good.
Someone who deserves better.
I rubbed my face, dragging my hands down until they hung limp at my sides.
No answer came. Just the same gnawing guilt, chewing me up from the inside.
And if it doesn't work?
What if it's Ruins all over again?
What if the spider bite gives him super cancer?
What if the spider bite turns him into a zombie?
HOOOONK!
"FUCK!"
I stumbled back onto the sidewalk, heart slamming against my ribs like a caged animal.
Some guy in a shitty rusted-out sedan screamed something about "fucking teenagers" and sped off.
Yeah, okay, buddy. Sorry I was busy having an existential crisis about superheroes.
I pressed a hand against my chest, feeling my heart trying to punch its way out.
God. Focus, Wade. Focus.
Cletus is still out there. Worry about that.
---
So here I am.
One street away from school.
And I feel like a complete fucking stranger.
Like I don't even belong here anymore.
Like I'm just some ghost wearing a Warren Wade skin suit. Again.
What will they think when they see me?
What will they say?
Will they be blatant about it?
Will they stare? Whisper?
Or worse—pretend like everything's normal?
Would they be shy to approach me?
Would they try to be friendly with me to gain popularity, to use me as some sort of social ticket?
Most probably.
Whatever. I've got worse things to worry about than social anxiety and kids' desperate need for attention.
I adjusted my backpack, tightening the straps as I walked. Every step felt like I was walking into a firing squad, just waiting for the first awkward question, the first pity-filled "How are you holding up?"
One more corner.
Almost there.
And then... I stepped into the school's courtyard.
The bell rang in the distance.
I took a deep breath, shaking the feeling of being a stranger off as best as I could. Just another day. Just another fucking day.
I stepped into the courtyard, the noise of students chatting and laughing surrounding me like a buzz. More and more turned their heads as I passed, their eyes lingering, like I was some kind of freak show exhibit.
"wA—cough—Wade. Hey." A voice called from across the yard. It was Flash. He didn't sound like he was gearing up for another fight, which honestly, was a surprise. He looked... awkward?
He almost seemed... relieved that I was back?
I stopped, brows furrowing in confusion, and turned to face him. "What?"
Flash hesitated, standing a few feet away like he wasn't sure how close he should or could get. He shifted his weight, looked down at his shoes, looked up at the school windows, and then shrugged. "Uh... you good, man?"
I blinked. That was a weird question coming from him. Was I? I mean, I wasn't on fire, so... "Yeah, I'm good..." I said, the words feeling odd coming out of my mouth. Was I convincing him or myself? "You?"
He gave a weird little half-smile, like we were both trying to act like everything was normal again. Like the last few weeks hadn't happened. Like we didn't 'fight' before it all went to hell. "Yeah, yeah, uh... All cool" he said, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't sure how to keep this going. Like there was something else he wanted to say but couldn't quite get it out.
The silence stretched on for a beat, both of us standing there, not knowing what to do with it. It wasn't that I expected a deep conversation, but this felt more awkward that when I apologized to Peter somehow.
"Okay, uh..." he added, looking almost relieved to end the conversation. He took a step back, then another. "I'll see you around, man."
I nodded, but the words "See ya" got stuck in my throat. Flash wasn't exactly the type to check in on anyone, let alone me. But there he was. After a few moments, I watched him turn and walk off, looking like he was already back to his normal self.
I turned back around, trying not to feel the weight of their eyes on me as I walked toward the entrance.
As I passed a group of freshmen, one of them—some kid I barely knew—stammered out "Hey, uh... glad you're okay, Wade."
I nodded but didn't stop walking. "Thanks" I muttered, my voice flat, just wanting to get past them.
The rest of the group didn't say anything, but I could feel their eyes on me, like they were waiting for something—maybe expecting me to pull the suit out of nowhere?
This kept happening all day. People tried to talk to me—some genuinely, some more out of curiosity—but I was kind enough not to brush them off. I didn't linger, though. I wasn't here to start up a whole conversation about whatever happened back there.
Some girls definitely kept watching me. A lot. I could feel it, their eyes following me. It wasn't even flattering. It was just... creepy. They were kids. Dumb, hormonal kids. They didn't know what they were looking at.
Still, it made my blood freeze.
---
Ah, good old cafeteria. Finally.
The class? Well, they were... awkward.
It felt like every pair of eyes in the room was trained on me, and I swear, it made me feel naked. I couldn't help but fidget under their gazes, like I was some kind of sideshow attraction.
Even the professor—who, by the way, had zero chill—looked at me like he'd just witnessed the bigfoot walk pass him. It wasn't even the usual awkward silence you get when someone new walks into a room. No. It was more like they were all still processing the fact that I was the one who ran into that fire.
It was like I had just shattered their view of the world and they couldn't figure out how to put the pieces back together.
Beyond that, the class went as usual. The professor ran through a quick summary of the material I'd missed, but it was pretty dull. Peter had already tortured me with homework and explained everything whenever he came to visit, so I wasn't exactly a troglodyte. Besides, it wasn't like it was my first time studying this stuff.
Still, sitting through it was almost as exhausting as the physical therapy, just without the pain.
Anyway, back to the cafeteria.
When I sat down with Peter, it felt like a damn crowd magnet. Everyone—and I mean everyone—tried to sit with us. Some were polite about it, asking first, while others just plopped down like they'd always belonged there.
It was weird, to say the least. Like I'd gone from being the guy people avoided to the guy everyone suddenly wanted to be around.
Some even asked to see the scars, which—by the way—in a rude way. But I complied. Only showed them the ones on my arms, though.
Some of them didn't even try to hide their disgust, while others apologized like they were the ones who set me on fire. It was... a mess of pity and crudeness, and I hated every second of it.
I couldn't even bring myself to ask Peter to help with the whole fire thing. I'd have to figure that out after school.
I have to figure out a lot of stuff after school.
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Word count: 1.796