The tiki bar was empty now.
Tourists had vanished. Lights dimmed. The bartender wiped down the last glass, unaware of the tiny, glistening shadow writhing on the floor behind the counter—left behind when Eddie Brock and Venom were yanked back into their universe. A slick, pulsing glob no larger than a raindrop, quivering like it was breathing. Thinking.
Abandoned but not aimless.
It moved slowly at first, inching behind a row of rum bottles. Lights flickered as it slithered, unseen, its form elongating. It paused beneath a dusty TV. Static crackled on the screen. Then, a familiar face appeared—caught in the frame of a local news report rebroadcasting chaos in New York.
Not from this Earth. But from another. From many. The voices—the fragments of the Klyntar collective echoing across realities—murmured to it, whispering a single truth: Peter Parker. Host. Symbiosis. Power. Loss. Pain. Potential.
It knew what it had to do.
The beach in Mexico was empty the next morning, except for one straggler—a backpacker named Luis. Hungover, aimless, and nursing a bottle of water, he wandered past the bar and felt something cold slip across his foot.
Something dark… something alive… crept up his leg, faster than he could scream.
Luis’s body was weak. Unstable. But it was enough for transit.
Enough to get it where it needed to go.
By that afternoon, a cheap bus ticket took Luis—now twitchy, pale, with black veins creeping up his neck—across the border. Whispers echoed in his head. Dreams that weren’t his. Visions of a boy in red and blue. Of a fall. Of regret. Of great power.
Cold. Unforgiving. A constant hum of noise and motion.
Luis stumbled off the bus and collapsed in an alley off 34th street. He coughed violently, dropping to his knees. His chest heaved. Black fluid leaked from his eyes and mouth.
The symbiote peeled away from his unconscious body. It didn’t need him anymore.
It climbed. Up brick and metal, slinking through shadows and neon reflections. Through Times Square. Across the skyline. Over the apartment complex Aunt May once called home. Through alleyways that still smelled faintly of blood and ozone and regret.
Alone. Quiet. Sitting on the edge, masked but still. His shoulders hunched. His breathing slow. A bag of groceries beside him. Watching the city like it owed him something.
The symbiote approached slowly, blending into the shadows. It didn’t leap. Didn’t rush. This wasn’t the time for force. It had learned through the hive: Parker rejects what he doesn’t trust. He pushes things away. People. Power. Pain.
It slid across the ledge behind him. Watched him for hours.
Not with words. Not yet. But with feeling.
He felt something. A cold tingle. A prickling at the back of his neck, not quite his Spider-Sense. Something older. Deeper.
But the air felt heavier.
And in the shadows, the spawn waited.
The next night, Peter came back to the rooftop.
Something pulled him there. Something he couldn’t explain.
He’d been more alone than ever. No Ned. No MJ. Not even Strange. He wasn’t even in the school records. He barely existed.
When he dreamed, he saw it. Black, swirling shapes. Teeth and tongues. Power. But not like before. Not the raw hatred of the symbiote that fought against Toby’s Spider-Man. This was… different.
It didn’t want to take. It wanted to offer.
He stood up suddenly. “Who’s there?” he asked into the wind.
Black. Viscous. It fell from a ledge and landed on his hand.
Peter looked down, startled.
Slid gently up his wrist, not forcefully—like it was asking for permission.
“Who said that?” he whispered.
Just a gentle, insistent presence.
Not pushing. Just waiting.
Peter backed away, eyes wide. But he didn’t run.
The tendril around Peter's wrist remained still, as if testing the waters. Its surface rippled with faint pulses of energy—alive, but restrained.
Peter stepped back. “What… are you?”
The black liquid slid up his forearm slowly, brushing past the torn edge of his Spider-Man suit, curling under the fabric like smoke. It was cold—slick, smooth, and wrong—but not painful.
He clenched his jaw and tried to pull it off—but it clung tighter, like it knew he’d do that.
The voice came again—deep, distorted, but not aggressive. Echoing inside his skull. Like a second thought overlapping his own.
“Okay… Not creepy at all,” he muttered, trying to shake the tendril loose again. “You’re talking. Inside my head. Is this some alien parasite thing?”
“Not parasite. Symbiote. We offer strength. Healing. Memory. Purpose.”
Peter scowled. “Yeah? Funny, because you sound like a parasite.”
The symbiote surged—faster this time—crawling across his shoulder, down his back, under his chest. His breath caught as the substance flowed over his ribcage and spine like a living net.
Then it paused, hovering just at his neck.
“We come from the hive. Across worlds. We remember you.”
“…Wait. What do you mean ‘remember me’?”
Then, from the shadows behind his eyes, images flickered.
A different Earth. A different Spider-Man—older, broader. A dark double with gleaming white eyes. A snarling mouth. A name.
“Multiverse,” he muttered, blinking. “You’re from another universe… like them. Like Strange’s spell pulled you in…”
The symbiote responded with a warm ripple across his chest.
“Yes. A spawn left behind. Drawn to you. You are known. You are needed.”
Before Peter could reply, the symbiote moved. It surged up his neck, over his jaw, wrapping around the back of his head like liquid fire.
The black mass slid over his mouth, then his cheeks, rising past his eyes like inky flames. It touched his scalp—flowing through his hair—and sealed shut.
Peter stumbled back, bracing himself on the rooftop ledge. His vision flickered—dark, then clear. His senses sharpened. His skin felt compressed under a second skin that flexed like muscle but moved like silk.
The transformation completed.
A white spider insignia bloomed across his chest and back—angular, jagged, sharp.
His arms thickened—his biceps straining against the living muscle that wrapped him. His fingers ended in sharp, curved claws—non-retractable and slick with sheen. Two white squares formed symmetrically on the backs of each hand—shimmering web-launch points.
Peter felt it—something building in his mouth, behind his teeth.
His lips and tongue split—not painfully, but unnaturally—replaced by a black, toothy maw full of slick, razor-sharp fangs. His tongue extended and flexed unnaturally long, dripping with warm saliva that burned faintly as it hissed on the concrete below.
And over it all—his eyes stretched wide and white. Jagged, liquid-shaped, reflective like polished bone.
Peter staggered toward the broken window of a nearby building and caught his reflection.
“Wha—what the hell—” his voice was warped, layered—his and another’s. Deep, guttural.
The reflection stared back. A creature.
He reached up, touching his face—his claws clicked against the sharp edge of his own fangs. His long tongue flicked out, dragging across his palm involuntarily.
“Is this—me?” he whispered.
“It is us,” the voice replied from within. “Together. You are stronger. Faster. Not alone. We adapt… for you.”
Peter reeled. “This is too fast—too weird. What do you want from me?”
The symbiote didn’t flinch. Didn’t press. It simply spoke, low and even.
“To bond. To survive. To protect. You are not like the others. You resist… but you hurt. We know pain. We heal pain.”
Peter’s breath was ragged. He looked down at his now-massive arms—thicker than ever, but still agile, still his. The suit flexed when he moved. It felt like muscle.
He still felt like himself.
“I… I don’t know what you are,” Peter said softly. “But you’re not just a suit. You’re alive.”
Peter looked back at the city lights.
Then down at his clawed fingers.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Then let’s take this slow.”
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