So, there I stood in the middle of a filthy alley, completely healed, with ten percent of Phil Coulson in my head, saved by a video game first-aid kit. The situation was somewhere between a comedy and a tragedy.
But even with just ten percent of Coulson inside, I felt entirely different. More confident. More composed. The analytical mind I already possessed now had powerful support in the form of tactical thinking and operative experience. The panic that had been gripping my throat like an icy vice just moments ago retreated, replaced by calm calculation.
First thought: Time. How much did I lose? System activation, the freeze (not counting that, as it literally stopped time), two draws, healing, assimilation… A minute? Two? Maybe all of five? That was enough time for the robber to get far away. Chasing him on foot was useless; he could have turned anywhere. A direct pursuit was a failing strategy.
I needed to act proactively. Think, Smith. Think like Coulson.
Objective: Intercept the robber before he reaches the Parker residence or encounters Benjamin Parker elsewhere.
Subject: Male, about forty, nervous, possibly injured (though I didn't land a hit), scared, clutching the stolen UCW wrestling proceeds. Moving on foot.
Location: Left the Ultimate Championship Wrestling building minutes ago, disappeared into this alley, ran deeper into the residential blocks of Queens.
Likely Route: He won't run along the main streets—too risky with the cash and after a potential chase (he knew I went after him). He'll likely weave through quiet streets, courtyards, and maybe try to cut through Astoria Park if it's on the way to his destination or hideout. He'll try to move fast but will be looking over his shoulder.
My plan: Don't follow his path; cut him off. Get to one of the key streets leading into the residential area where he's likely to emerge and run there as fast as possible. The Intercept. I visualized the map of New York City in my head—thanks to my past life and love for maps, plus an internal spatial systematization from Coulson's experience. If he was running toward the typical residential blocks of Forest Hills where the Parkers lived, he'd have to cross Queens Boulevard or one of the parallel avenues. But it wasn't a certainty... since in some versions of Spider-Man, Benjamin Parker was killed in the middle of the street, in his car.
I was currently further north. If I sprinted south along the nearest wide street and then turned east, I had a chance to reach his assumed route before he did. It was risky—I could be wrong about his path—but it was the only chance to get ahead of him instead of trailing behind.
Decision made. Not a second of delay.
I sprinted out of the alley onto the street. The rain was still pouring, but I barely noticed it. The adrenaline and the strange sense of focus inherited from Coulson drove me forward. I ran.
Immediately, I noticed something strange. I was running faster than usual. Much faster. My lungs worked steadily; my breath didn't falter as quickly as it should have at this pace. My legs moved with light, springy power, devouring meters of wet pavement. My stamina had clearly increased. Was this a side effect of the complete healing from the spray? Or did the System activation provide a passive bonus to physical parameters? Or maybe it was just ten percent of Coulson forcing me to use my body more efficiently, ignoring fatigue signals like trained agents do. "Analyze later, Smith. For now—run," a calm internal voice sounded in my head, suspiciously similar to the one I'd heard from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in the movies.
I raced through the night streets of Queens, weaving between the few pedestrians under umbrellas, jumping over puddles. Streetlights reflected in the wet asphalt, creating blurred spots of light. My brain worked at its limit, calculating the route, noting landmarks, while simultaneously scanning intersections and dark corners for any suspicious activity. It was a strange feeling—my own consciousness and analytical abilities working in tandem with something foreign that had already become part of me: Coulson's experience and composure.
After about five to seven minutes of frantic running along the chosen route—a few blocks straight, then a sharp turn east onto an avenue that should intersect the robber's likely path—I began to approach the target area. This was a typical residential neighborhood, quiet streets with two-to-three-story houses and small shops on the ground floors. And here, at one of the intersections, I saw what I feared most.
Flashing lights. The blue and red strobes of police cars and an ambulance cut through the night darkness. They illuminated a crowd of onlookers huddled on the sidewalk and part of the roadway. People were animatedly discussing something, pointing fingers, their faces showing a mix of shock, curiosity, and fear. Something happened. Something serious.
My heart sank. Too late. I was too late. This was it. The tragedy had occurred. The crowd gathered here because the robber had reached Benjamin Parker. Killed him. Right here on the street? Or at the house? It didn't matter. The bottom line—I didn't make it.
A cold wave of despair and guilt for failing to prevent it began to rise, threatening to swamp the remnants of my self-control. The image of kind, smiling Uncle Ben appeared before my eyes. The man who replaced Peter's father. The man whose death would become an unhealing wound for my friend and the starting point for Spider-Man. And I… I could have changed it, but I failed.
But then Coulson intervened. Or rather, that part of him now within me. "Get it together, agent. Panic is the enemy. Analyze. What do you see? What do you hear? Do not draw conclusions based on emotions." The voice of reason, cold and clear, broke through the veil of despair.
I forced myself to take a deep breath, pushing back the panic. I needed to get closer and assess the situation. I slowed my pace, trying not to draw attention, and began to carefully thread through the crowd of onlookers, listening to the conversations.
"...jumped right under the wheels! I saw it myself!" one man said to another.
"They say the driver was dead drunk..." a woman chimed in.
"He was running like a madman, didn't even look both ways... holding something under his jacket..."
"How horrible! Was he killed instantly?"
"Not a chance... that car was flying, and with the rain... no hope."
I approached the police cordons. On the wet asphalt, under the flashing lights, lay a body covered with a white sheet. Nearby stood a wrecked car with a crumpled hood. Police were questioning witnesses; paramedics from the ambulance were pronouncing the death. Apparently, an accident. A pedestrian hit by a car.
But who was the pedestrian? I scanned the crowd, looking for Peter's familiar face. He wasn't there. Aunt May… she wasn't visible either. This was strange. If something had happened to Ben, they would have been here by now.
I strained my hearing, trying to make out what the officers were saying. One of them was dictating something into a radio: "...unidentified male, appears to be about forty years old, multiple non-survivable injuries... no identification on him... a large amount of cash found, origin being investigated... driver detained, severe alcohol intoxication..."
Wait. A man. About forty. Large amount of cash. Ran into the road... something under his jacket...
It was him. The robber.
The man who was supposed to kill Ben Parker lay dead on the asphalt, hit by a drunk driver.
I stood like a statue in the middle of the crowd, trying to process what had happened. My brain feverishly processed the information. The robber is dead. Uncle Ben… is alive? How is that possible?
And then it hit me. That minute. That moment I lost in the alley getting a knife in my side. The time the robber spent ensuring I wasn't following him, or the fact that he ran slightly slower because of the scuffle with me. That delay. It shifted his schedule. He ended up at this intersection a minute later or earlier than he was "canonically" supposed to. And at that exact moment, the drunk driver happened to be right here. The Butterfly Effect. My intervention—a minute—was the flap of a butterfly's wing that led to a completely unexpected result. Fate, canon, or whatever it's called, had glitched.
I didn't know whether to laugh or be horrified. It was… absurd. Tragically absurd. The man whose action was meant to be the turning point in the life of one of the world's greatest heroes had died such a mundane, stupid death. Not at the hand of a masked vigilante, not in a shootout with police, but under the wheels of a drunken idiot.
"Well, fate, it seems you're clearly off your game today," I thought with grim irony. "Or you have a very specific sense of humor. Apparently, canon here isn't such an unshakable thing. Let's just hope this butterfly doesn't mess up anything else."
The relief that Uncle Ben was likely safe mixed with a strange feeling of… wrongness. I had changed a key event. What would the consequences be? Would Peter become Spider-Man without this personal tragedy? Or would he, but differently? And what about the Green Goblin? The Lizard? My intervention could trigger a chain reaction with unpredictable results. The Coulson part of me was already calculating options and risks, but my core self just felt uneasy. I had intruded upon the course of history, and who knows where it would lead.
The police finished their initial inspection, the robber's body was packed into a black bag and loaded into the ambulance. The wrecked car was being prepared for towing. The crowd of onlookers began to disperse. I looked around carefully once more—none of the Parkers were nearby. That meant they definitely had nothing to do with this incident.
The adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a strange emptiness and fatigue. Despite the complete healing, the day had been exhausting. I rubbed my face with my palms. I needed to go home. More accurately, first to Peter's house. Just to be one hundred percent sure everything was okay. That Uncle Ben was home, alive and well, perhaps reading a newspaper or fixing something in the kitchen.
I walked slowly down the street toward the Parker house, which wasn't far now. The rain had almost stopped; only a fine mist hung in the air, reflecting the dim light of the streetlamps. The city breathed a sigh of relief after the short downpour, and the nightlife of Queens was slowly returning to its rhythm. And I… I walked and tried to digest what had happened.
There it was, the Parker house. Small, cozy, typical for the area. Warm light glowed in the windows on the first floor. A sign that inside, everything was... normal?
Part of me just wanted to knock on the door, see Ben and May, be sure everything was fine, and leave. But the other part, the one now bearing Coulson's imprint, demanded confirmation without detection. Why bother them in the middle of the night with a strange visit? I needed to gather information.
I slowed my pace, slipping into the shadow of a large tree on the opposite side of the street. From here, there was a good view of the living room. I applied what I had managed to absorb from the template assimilation. It wasn't much—not super-agent gadgets, but basic surveillance principles. Move smoothly, use shadows, avoid looking directly into windows, catch reflections in the glass of neighboring houses or parked cars. I noted the absence of suspicious vehicles on the street or unusual activity. May's silhouette flickered in the window; she was setting something on the table. Then Ben appeared; he sat in a chair with a newspaper. An ordinary evening. No signs of tragedy, panic, or police presence. They were fine.
I exhaled with a relief that nearly knocked me off my feet. It worked. I had actually changed the future. Uncle Ben is alive.
And then a new question arose, far more complex. Now what? What happens to Peter? Without that terrible night, without the guilt that drove him onto the path of a hero, will he become Spider-Man? Or will his incredible abilities find another use? His intellect… he is a genius, not inferior to Reed Richards or Tony Stark. Maybe without the need to avenge his uncle and catch every street robber, he can direct his mind to science? Create a cure for cancer? Solve the energy crisis? Save millions of lives not with fists and webbing, but with the power of thought? Wouldn't that be… a better option? For him? For the world?
I didn't have the answer. I only felt the weight of responsibility for turning the river of fate into a new channel. And I understood that I was now obligated to at least try to guide Peter, to advise him, to help him deal with this new power and responsibility that had fallen on him so suddenly and without the usual tragic catalyst.
As I reflected on this, standing in the shadows, a familiar figure appeared around the corner. Peter. He was walking fast, almost running, head down, clearly in a hurry to get home. He looked tired and somewhat… lost. Apparently, the small interrogation at the UCW office and the subsequent events had exhausted him.
He had almost reached the porch when he noticed me standing in the shadow of the tree. He stopped abruptly, fear flickering in his eyes, replaced by surprise.
"John? What… what are you doing here? So late?"
He came closer, peering into my face. I stepped out of the shadows. The moment had come. Hiding and beating around the bush was pointless. The composure of a veteran agent helped me gather my thoughts and choose my words.
"Waiting for you, Pete," I said steadily, looking him right in the eye. "I needed to be sure you were okay. And… to talk."
"To talk? About what?" He looked bewildered. "Did something happen? You look… strange."
"I'm fine. Mostly," I allowed myself a small smirk, remembering recent events. "But you… you put on quite a show today. The undefeated champion, they say? The Amazing Spider-Man?"
Peter's eyes widened in shock. He paled and recoiled.
"W-what? What Spider-Man? I don't understand… what are you talking about? I… I was just at the wrestling..."
"Drop it, Peter," my voice remained calm but firm. "The red mask, the gray hoodie… your movements, superpowers appearing out of nowhere… let me guess, a spider from the Oscorp lab, right? I saw you Friday; I saw you today. I know it was you. Don't try to deny it."
Peter went silent, looking away. He realized that denial was useless. His shoulders slumped even lower.
"How… how did you find out?" he whispered.
"It wasn't that hard if you know where to look," I replied evasively. "But that's not what's important now. What's important is what you're going to do next with this power?"
He looked back at me, eyes filled with confusion and something else… maybe hope?
"I… I don't know, John. I just… I wanted to earn some money. Help Uncle Ben and Aunt May. I thought it was an easy way… And then that robbery… I almost got blamed… It's all so… complicated. And this power… it scares me. I don't know what to do with it."
Here it was, the moment of truth. The moment when Ben was supposed to tell him those specific words. But Ben wasn't here.
"Peter, listen to me carefully," I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "That power you got… it's an incredible gift. But it's also a massive burden. Your Uncle Ben… he would tell you that with great power comes great responsibility. And he would be a thousand times right."
Peter flinched, hearing the familiar phrase I was sure he had heard from Ben in one context or another.
"But I'll tell you something else, Pete," I continued, putting all my conviction and a touch of Coulson's pragmatism into my voice. "That responsibility… it doesn't start with chasing every small-time thief. It starts here," I nodded toward his house. "With you. With Aunt May. With your friends—Gwen, Harry, MJ... You can't save the whole world if you can't protect those dear to you. You can't risk your life and your future for strangers if it puts your family at risk. First—you and your loved ones. Ensure their safety, make sure you'll be okay. And only then… then you can think about helping others. If you want to. And if you can do it safely."
I looked into his eyes, trying to convey my point. It wasn't the mantra of self-sacrifice usually associated with heroes. It was a more grounded, perhaps more selfish, but—as I saw it—more correct piece of advice for a sixteen-year-old kid who had been hit with inhuman strength. Protect yourself, protect your own. The world can wait.
Peter listened in silence, eyes wide. He clearly didn't expect such words. Was he expecting judgment? Or a call to become a hero? My words made him think.
"And one more thing, Peter," I added, seeing him hesitate. "About the mask. You think it hides you? I, a regular high schooler," I smirked inwardly at that phrasing, "recognized you in an evening. Just by your build, your movements, your voice, even if it was distorted. How long do you think it will take professionals? People from the government, from intelligence agencies like the CIA or the FBI? They have technology, databases, analysts. If you show off so carelessly in public, even in an underground ring, they'll figure you out in a heartbeat. They'll find out who you are. Where you live. Who your loved ones are. And then your power will become a curse instead of a gift. It will put everyone you love in the crosshairs. For example, say you foil the plan of some villain or, say… a criminal. What if they find out who's under the mask? What then, Pete? Think about it. If you decide to use this power, be smarter. Be more careful. Think two steps ahead."
I finished my tirade. I said everything I wanted to. Now the decision was up to Peter. I couldn't force him. I only gave him information, advice, and food for thought. Thanks to the assimilation, my words seemed to sound convincing and logical enough—devoid of unnecessary emotion, but with the right amount of seriousness.
Peter was still silent, looking somewhere past me. He was digesting what he'd heard. His face was tense. He was clearly struggling with himself, with his desires, fears, and newly found responsibility.
"I… I understand, John," he finally said quietly. "Thanks. I… I need to think."
"Of course," I nodded. "Think. Think hard. Now go home. Aunt May is probably worried."
He nodded, still not looking at me, and walked slowly toward the porch. At the door, he turned back.
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for… well… you know. And for being here."
"Anytime, Pete," I tried to smile encouragingly. "That's what friends are for."
He smiled weakly in return and disappeared into the house.
I stood for a few more minutes, looking at the closed door. Did I do the right thing? Did I help him? Or just confuse him more? I didn't know. But I did what I felt was necessary. I gave him a chance to choose his path consciously, not under the pressure of tragedy.
Now I just had to wait and hope that Peter Parker would make the right choice. And as for me… I had to go home and deal with my own life, which had just become immeasurably more complex and dangerous. The Gacha System, Coulson's assimilation, the altered canon…