Chapter 3: Peter Parker (Part 1)

I’m in Queens right now.

Queens.
That’s the eastern borough of New York.
A fairly large district with a dense population.
Naturally, it’s bustling with life.

Also, in this world—

『Reveal yourself, Spider-Menace! Bring down the hammer on this lawless vigilante!』

A giant digital billboard mounted on the side of a building displayed a white-haired older man.
That’s J. Jonah Jameson, the head of the Daily Bugle.

As always, he’s energetically tearing into Spider-Man with yet another attack piece.
Seriously, props to the man for the consistency.

J. Jonah Jameson is one of the most prominent characters in the Spider-Man universe.
He lost his family to a masked robber, and since then, he’s harbored a personal vendetta against masked heroes like Spider-Man.

…Not that I dislike him.
If anything, I kind of like the guy.
He’s got conviction—stands by his beliefs, doesn’t bow to power, pressure, or public opinion.

…Unlike me.

I’m a domesticated tool of an organization, clinging to my own life above all else while taking others’ lives without accountability.

I shake off the creeping gloom forming in my mind.

Queens.
One of New York City’s administrative divisions.

And when you think Queens, you think Spider-Man.
Spider-Man’s true identity—Peter Parker—was born here.
Maybe that’s why this world’s Spider-Man also operates mainly out of Queens.
Though of course, he shows up wherever villains appear in the city.
Just the other day, he was in Brooklyn fighting some villain who looked like an exotic animal hunter.

Anyway—

Why am I here in Queens, so far from Manhattan where Hell’s Kitchen is?

Because someone blew up my base of operations in Hell’s Kitchen.

Yeah, the bombing itself is a problem, sure, but the bigger issue is that someone discovered it and ambushed me.

Rather than chalking it up to coincidence, I’m pretty sure someone’s actively tracking me down.

So, by order of my organization, Ancilicourt, I’ve relocated to Queens.

…Well, still within New York City, at least.
Too far out and it’d start interfering with work.

"Alright."

I crack open the window and take a deep breath.

Mmmmmmgh—ugh. Exhaust fumes.
Yep, still a city.

I’m currently staying in a rundown apartment on the edge of Queens.
The kind of place usually rented by students or single office workers.
Rent’s cheap.

It’s not that the organization can’t afford better.
But for someone like me—working in the shadows—it’s better to stay in a dim, unpopular apartment than some high-tech, high-security luxury suite.

Same reason I picked a dump when I lived in Hell’s Kitchen.

Didn’t bring much with me in the move.

Why?

Because it got blown up.

They even took out my homemade scrapbook…

Ugh. Now I’m getting mad just thinking about it.

I pull a piece of candy from the bag on my desk and pop it into my mouth.
Crunching down hard to vent some stress.

Sugar is my tranquilizer.
Helps me settle down.

I pull out the new mobile device I received from the organization.
It looks like a regular smartphone, but it runs on an encrypted network used by Fisk’s underlings.

On top of regular smartphone functions, it works as a receiver on a secure channel.

Man, villainous rich guys really operate on a different scale.

No new messages. I tuck it into my chest pocket.

Looks like a standard-issue phone, so even if someone saw it, they wouldn’t suspect a thing.

I glance at the full-length mirror in my room.

Jeans on the bottom, sweater on top.
Skirts still feel drafty and weird, and I just can’t get used to them.
I only wear pants.

…Well, I do wear girls’ underwear, at least.

My hair’s still semi-long.
I did try cutting it short once, but it grew back in three days.
Pretty sure it’s the healing factor messing with me.

Still, even today, I’m looking like a proper cute girl.

I grin.
And the cute girl in the mirror smiles back.

That’s the power of being a cute girl.
Everything you do looks adorable.

Cute is justice.
…Even if I’m a villain.

I pull on a beige coat, toss my wallet into a shoulder bag, and sling it over my shoulder.

There’s a decent amount of cash in my wallet.
The organization doesn’t make me work for free.
In fact, I probably get paid dozens of times more than the average citizen.

There’s nothing for lunch at home, so I’ve decided to eat out.

…Actually, it’s not just lunch. I don’t have anything for dinner either.
Come to think of it, this apartment doesn’t even have a kitchen.
At least it has a toilet.

…I'm firmly in the no-cooking camp.
I eat out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I’ll probably be living alone for the rest of my life, so it’s not a problem.
This body may be female, but in my previous life—and in my mind—I’m still a man.
Besides, I work for a bad organization doing bad things… no way I’m building a peaceful little home.

Anyway, I head out into the city and look for somewhere to grab a light bite.
Dinner’s one thing, but lunch should be on the modest side.

—

Wandering around aimlessly, a signboard with a drawing of a sandwich catches my eye.

Guess I’ll eat here today.

I reach for the door and step inside.
There’s a bell attached, and it gives off a pleasant chime.

Inside is a shop that’s clearly been around a while.
Behind the counter is a middle-aged man, the owner, yawning.

The counter’s a decent size, with about five stools lined up.
Looks like they do dine-in, not just takeout.

As I’m thinking that, the owner calls out to me.

"What’ll it be?"

He hands me a menu, and I scan down the list.

『Ham & Lettuce』
『Mayonnaise Bacon』
『Scrambled Egg』
『Chicken』
『Bacon Lettuce Tomato』
『Lobster』

Quite the selection.

Then my eyes land on:

『Shortcake』

…No, hold on. There’s no way that’s lunch.
I mean, I’m curious, sure.
Is it a sandwich with cream and strawberries?
Still, no matter how much I like sweets, lunch isn’t supposed to be dessert.

"Shortcake."

"You got it."

—

Next thing I knew, I was seated at a table with a shortcake sandwich in front of me.

Just as I thought—cream and strawberries. A dessert-style sandwich.
The bread’s slightly brown, probably made with rye flour.

I pick up the shortcake sandwich from the plate and take a bite.

…Delicious.
For a sandwich shop, the cream is surprisingly legit.
Not sticky, not overly sweet.
And the strong flavor of the rye really brings out the sweetness of the cream…

Chirin, the bell rang.

I hurriedly licked the cream off my fingers and wiped them with a napkin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a boy standing at the register.
He looked about fifteen.
Baby-faced, but—how should I put it? A cute, pretty-boy type.
Definitely the herbivore sort.

"Hey, old man—my usual, number five. Smash it good, yeah?"

"Sure thing."

The owner disappeared into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, the boy fidgeted a little as he took out his wallet…
Then suddenly looked over at me and spoke.

"Uh… something wrong?"

Huh?
Ah, I must’ve been staring too much.

"…Nothing."

"Ah, okay…"

The boy scratched his head and looked away, a little embarrassed.

What’s his deal?
Weird kid.

I took another bite of my shortcake sandwich.

"Um, is that any good?"

He spoke to me again.
A dollop of cream dropped onto the plate with a plop.

"...Why?"

"Well, I’ve just never had it before..."

"You seemed pretty close with the shop owner."

"Yeah, I mean, I come here a lot, but... I’ve never tried the shortcake sandwich. I always get number five."

"Number five?"

"BLT. Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato. The menu’s got numbers, see? Oh, and the shortcake’s number seven."

And just like that, we were having a completely trivial conversation.

Why is this boy even talking to me?
It’s our first time meeting, and he’s already way too comfortable.
Maybe he’s just naturally chatty?

In this life, I’m not great with words. Not much of a talker.
I’d rather people didn’t strike up conversations with me.

"Oh, hey—old man!"

The shop owner returned, holding a slightly flattened BLT sandwich.

Ah, so that’s number five.

"Here ya go, Peter—four bucks."

The boy—Peter—handed over the money.

"Thanks, old man."

He said with a smile, and then turned to leave the shop—

"Wait."

I called out without thinking.

He turned back, surprised.

"Huh? ...What is it?"

"Your name’s Peter?"

Because that name...

"Yeah? That’s right... Peter Parker. That’s my name. Why?"

Peter Parker.
That’s Spider-Man’s name.

---

Alright, let's do this one last time....

My name is Peter Parker.

Two years ago, I was bitten by a radioactive spider—and ever since then, I’ve been protecting this city as the one and only “Spider-Man.”

I’ve lost people I cared about... but I’ve saved even more.

I’ve saved this city.

Over and over and over again.

Sometimes, I’ve even teamed up with Mr. Stark to fight off threats from outer space.

Ah—Mr. Stark is Tony Stark, by the way.
He’s the CEO who builds and wears high-tech armor... and fights in it.
People call him Iron Man.

That’s me.
Right now, I’m sixteen.
I’m a junior at Midtown High School.

I live alone, by the way.
My Aunt May is still my legal guardian, but... right now, I live alone in an apartment in Queens.
It’s close to school, and Aunt May figured it would be a good experience for me, so she sends me money for living expenses.
I owe her more than I could ever repay.

Still, I do have a part-time job.
I send photos to a newspaper and get paid for them.
I can get shots from angles no normal person could manage.

Because, you know—I’m Spider-Man.

Hardly anyone knows my secret.
Not even Cap.
Cap as in Captain America... but I guess that needs no introduction.

Mr. Stark knows, though.

—

Anyway, today I’m heading out to take some good shots for the paper.

But it’s lunchtime, so... I figure I’ll stop by my usual sandwich shop and grab something.

It’s cheap and delicious.

The owner’s a little gruff, though.

—

It’s about a five-minute walk from the crummy apartment I live in.
That distance is part of the reason I keep going there.
Sometimes I even stop by before school.

It’s not a very popular place, but I love it.

Why isn’t it popular?
Well, it’s tucked away from the main street, and there’s a major sandwich chain store right behind it.
This one’s old, kind of rundown, and small.
And the owner isn’t exactly friendly.

—

As always, I reached for the door and stepped inside.
Chirin—the bell chimed, and the smell of bread hit my nose.

"Hey old man—my usual, number five. Squash it good, yeah?"

Just like always, I ordered my usual from the gruff shop owner.

Number five is a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.
Simple, classic—and insanely good.
It’s my favorite.

After placing my order, I happened to notice someone else was in the shop.

That’s rare.
It’s not often someone else is here, and eating in, no less—not just taking out.

As I thought something mildly rude about the shop, I looked over at the other customer—

"Whoa."

I let out a sound without meaning to.

There sat a platinum blonde girl—probably my age. A beauty—no, a stunner.

Wait, is she a model? An actress?

Honestly, I was kind of blown away.

Her platinum hair and blue eyes immediately caught my gaze.

She was holding a shortcake sandwich.
…That might be the first time I’ve seen someone actually eat that.

And then she casually licked some cream off her finger.

Yeah, probably not the most polite thing to do—but... I don’t know.

It looked really cute.

Guess beautiful girls really do make everything look good.

…Huh?

Wait a second—is that girl… glancing at me?

Maybe I’m just imagining things, but… it kinda feels that way.

She’s probably trying to be subtle about it…

I steeled myself and decided to say something.

No, it’s not like I don’t want to talk to a cute girl.
If I said I had zero ulterior motives… yeah, that’d be a lie.

"Uh… something wrong?"

I had no idea that decision—right then and there—would lead to something that would change me forever.

But even so, I don’t regret that choice.

Even if… it ended in that.