FULL NAME & ALIAS: Peter B. Parker, though he prefers, “Spider-Man" when it comes to anything relating to the time spent under the mask.
CURRENT TEAM(S): None currently, none previously.
PREVIOUS ALIASES: None, he started with Spider-Man, and he’ll go to the grave as such.
AGE: 40s (He prefers people to take their own shot, and just nods along to whatever they give.)
Species: Human Mutate; cursed with his powers by the supernatural entity he refers to as the, “Spider-God.”
MULTIVERSAL ORIGIN: Earth-90214
GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender Male (He/Him)
SEXUALITY: Straight, although from the time he comes from anything else wasn’t exactly legal or spoken, so he could find himself potentially changing that answer as he goes along.
ETHNICITY: Ashkenazi Jewish
FACE CLAIM: Cillian Murphy
SPECIAL / RECOGNIZABLE FEATURES: Facial hair constantly on his face, raging from a Five o’ Clock shadow from a recent shave no one seems to ever catch brand new, or a full beard covering his face that is… Pretty strange, when compared to other peters.
HAIR COLOR: Extremely dark brown, almost entirely black without light.
EYE COLOR: The exact same as his hair.
ACCENT: New York, except with a bassier tone and grizzled edges, almost like listening to the pops and crackles of old films with the exact same voice always found within.
CURRENT COSTUME: This multilayered, moon-lit version from Spider Man Noir (2020) #2’s cover.
CURRENT HOME: New York City, Present Day, currently sleeping on rooftops and alleys with the fellow homeless; trying to get a job, but finding it difficult with his current situation.
PAST OCCUPATION: Private Detective and Vigilante, New York City, 1950s.
CURRENT OCCUPATION: Vigilante, although it doesn’t pay well.
SNAP STATUS: “The Snap? Well, I’ve been one to swing by a Jazz club now and then, I’ve got the groove to follow a good rhythm and get someone’s attention. Why’d ya ask?”
SIBLING(S): None that he’s aware of.
PARTNER(S): He had some relationships with the Felicia Hardy of his world, but those didn’t last for the trouble that constantly encircles him, so he’s currently ridin’ solo.
PARENT(S): Uncle Ben and Aunt May were the ones that raised him, but Mary and Richard Parker, his parents, died long enough ago that he can barely remember their faces.
-Peter B. Parker of Earth-90214, is not a Scientist, unlike the other versions of himself. If you handed the man anything relating from calculus, to geometry, to even the simplest version of the periodic table; he would just hand it back to you, and explain that it isn’t anything he gets. Now, whether you’d like to believe that it was because he was never exposed to it growing up, that the time he lived through just meant a lot of the wildly taught information of the 20th century hadn’t even been discovered yet, or the fact that a poor kid who didn’t have a single friend on the Lower East Side wanted nothing to do with the high-intensity social hierarchy that is school at any learning level.
Now, with that in mind, there’s something else important to note. That being, his relationship, thoughts, and views on the entity he refers to as, the “Spider-God.” So, while he’s never been a scientist, beyond a few cultural aspects of his upbringing, he was never religious either. He knew that people around him prayed to all sorts of Gods, that it brought them comfort, a way to see a path down the road to something brighter, family in the others that viewed the same way or agreed that all ways of seeing the light to a better world was right, it was… It wasn’t for him, though. There was always a nagging feeling in the back of his head, even from a young age, that seeing something was the only thing to get him to believe in it. He could see that people felt they had been met with a powerful force, but it never got to the coldness of his reality for him to join in their beliefs. But, he did see that there were problems in the world. He saw that putting your trust in people, people putting their trust in you, going along with things without questioning it; it got you hurt. Without facts, without evidence he could touch, see, smell, hear, hell- Taste, it wasn’t for him.
Then, he watched as someone opened something, unearthed a force that should’ve been unearthed again. Revealed to the night sky after what should’ve been an eternity, was instead only a couple of centuries. Peter had proof that day that things unnatural did exist. He could accept that. Then, the thousand legged, blacker than an lightless expanse, suffocating force of a little bug… Bit another man. At the time, he didn’t know fully what that man had done in his life to deserve the piercing screams that howled from his lungs, the foam that ripped his mouth into separate halves as it poured from his throat, and sent him falling to the ground; but, Peter guessed it was enough.
He knew that even a little bug could kill a man in an instant. A fact, now that he had seen it… Then, it bit him… After that, when he pulled himself from inky black webs he had been encased in during a brief moment of unconsciousness, he accepted that supernatural forces had to be real. He met one. It was shaped like a Spider that was larger than a tank, thousands of teeth each bigger than his entire body, eyes the size of his head that devoured every inch of his form until he was left with nothing else, a voice that could shake cities until they crumbled down; and, it said it’d curse him with great power for not being of evil intent. Sure, it could’ve been a hallucination. But, when those same webs can expel themselves from his wrist, and it crawls back to him in his dreams every night to remind him of a deal he never shook on? Gods are real. Maybe not the ones everyone has been saying were, but a few had to be.
-A slightly more fun fact, still related to the last, is that his body makes his webs! Unlike most other spider people, his webs come out of his arm in an inky black, similarly sticky, yet slimy texture. He also, still setting himself from the other Peters, doesn’t often swing on his webs. Originally, he never even tried, letting the ends slide through his grasp to wrap his opponents up while traveling the city on foot in his own version of web-crawling parkour. However, realizing that there were better ways to use everything he had, he learned how to instinctively grab the ends when he wanted to and sling himself across the city.
-Noir, a name that (will be) given to him by the various people in the new world he’s ended up in, sounds extremely similar to Humphrey Bogart! And, while this is a secret he keeps to himself, he actually did use that man’s films to practice for the voice he put on during the night- While, also, generally trying to match his bass in his day-to-day life! While then, it was a bit silly, it does set himself apart quite strangely from the way people talk in the current day and age of the 2020s.
-HE IS FROM THE 1930s-1950s. HE WAS NOT AROUND FOR A LOT. He knows nothing about Civil Rights, the fact being gay is no longer explicitly illegal, what LGBTQIA+ stands for beyond that a couple are vowels, and several, several, several other things. (He does implicitly support everything already listed, he just… Does not know it happened, or exists.) Although, he also missed out on a lot of technological improvements. The fact man went to the moon, computers in general, portable phones, the internet, OSHA guidelines and regulations- Hell, while he ran into some people that might be considered mutants on this Earth, that word didn’t exist where he came from! He got his powers from a “God”, and (something he knows nothing about) the only two other people with actual powers seem to be Daredevil and Black Cat. So, he is… BEHIND.
Also, he has begun to learn how to use a computer, abusing the one at the local library with random people often coming up to him thinking he’s an old man in distress… He is, but they think he’s either a lot older, or a bit more fucked up than he is.
-He smokes. I refuse the idea of a world where a man who lived through what he has wouldn’t pick up a horribly unhealthy habit in the climate of how cigarettes were spoken of during the time he lived. No. He smokes cigarettes, he drinks whiskey, neat, and makes horrible decisions for his body; although, due to the aforementioned curse from what he lovingly refers to as a god, it doesn’t do much but whittle down his psyche no matter how much good Peter claims it does. He also drinks a horrible amount of coffee to stay awake late into the night on dire investigations. Managing those three addictive substances would be impossible for most men, and utterly unfeasible for him as well. Although, due to the blind commitment and forgetfulness to remember his own body while seeking the newest justice for the people he has put everything on the line for, he often can still go numerous nights without the buffeting smoke of cigarettes, the drowning cascades of alcohol, or the wirey edge of caffeine strangling the sensible part of his brain begging for sleep; before noticing it’s been that long without it, and pulling another flask or pack from his jacket. This was also before he was pulled into the modern day, and should not be offered or referred to energy drinks of any kind. He won’t die, if bullets or the other things hurdling him to an early grave wouldn’t do him in either, but it won’t be a pretty sight. He might find another God, unrelated to the one he’s already entangled in the web of, and challenge it to a fist fight. Possibly winning.
-He has killed one man, the Vulture, for killing Uncle Ben and attempting to do the same to Aunt May. He has shot several, and carries around both Uncle Ben’s gun on him at all times, and two m1911s. While the m1911s sit comfortably in two hip holsters, rarely needing more than the one on his right, the pistol he stole from the chest of Uncle Ben’s war memorabilia sits tightly behind his vest. Noir doesn’t aim to kill often, agreeing with most that not everyone should die, but has found himself… Struggling, at times, to keep it leveled where it’d hurt.
-Along with everything said above, and what might be futurely said below (hi future!) there is something I would like you to watch, if you have the time and you've made it this fair! This video, the original inspiration for what got to me to write Spider-Man Noir with Nicolas Cage doing the heavy lifting after, I feel like is an incredibly real, albeit extremely ruthless, representation of what his fighting style would progress into in his later years after literal decades of practice. I also just think the video is fun, interesting, and should be viewed by more people so they hopefully make more and work on bigger projects!
-Due to the poverty and low income life he lived his childhood in, most of his time was spent helping his Aunt at the community center she ran serving and making soup for the people in their area who did similarly or worse than them. He also spent similar, or even moreso, time helping his Uncle with almost anything he needed. From running errands for his Aunt with him in a beat up old truck that barely ran, to fixing the truck, to plumping, remodeling, and construction jobs around various apartments in the area for little cash or donations to their center to keep it running, and sometimes just playing with the other kids on their street; Peter had very little moments of ingesting music. There were snippets he can barely remember in his early years of catching a radio (Although, he preferred crime dramas) with something on, or seeing some men play instruments on the street for change, never entire bands. However, when he got older, either during vigilante work or the very little amount of high-end places he got in as a photographer or detective for a specific case, he did run into many Big Bands! Jazz Musicians, the collection of either multiple groups or just one that came like that, stuffed on a single stage in a cacophonous harmony of ear catching rhythm! And, while he was always on a mission or found them shutting off quickly upon his arrival, he did tap his feet while trying horrendously to dance on a blue moon. But, the day he got a TV and his own radio, he… Mostly kept them off, because he was busy.
-You’d assume that the man, decked in head to toe in blacks, whites, all manners of gray, and the various shades of brown upon all of his clothes from the years of toiling in the exact same ones from day to night with rare washings would grow a fondness of those colors over others… And, you’d be right. His childhood was spent in clothes that often went an entire week or more being recycled without even touching any water apart from the droplets of rain or a puddle splashed on him by a passing car, his adulthood was spent in the shadows hugging dank walls until the moment to strike, and the sun rarely found him in the latter years as well; hard to be fond of the sun’s yellow gaze, when you never see it in your days.
-Anything you need a “refined” and “rich” pallet to enjoy. He’s not looking to waste his cash on something that he has to stomach through, since everyone else says it's great. He’s fine eating burgers, eggs and ketchup, coffee, and egg creams until he dies. If you put a snail on his plate, he’ll look at you like you’re mad, and ask you why the hell you spent your money on it.
-The Rich. No, that’s the end of the thought, you’re not missing anything. Even if it wasn’t because he was raised on socialist ideals and strongly believes in them himself, a man with the sense like his can tell when a system is broke, and he sees that it is. They’re taxed the same as the working class, some of them never working a day in their life, can ignore the problems that they speak to want to fix because they never have to live in it, they funnel any money that is put to be spent wisely back into their own pockets with ease and without stoppage- They could kill a man dead in the streets, drag his corpse in their hand for a mile, and if they happen to have enough in their wallets not a damn thing will happen about it! If the system that is currently in place has easy fixes for rich people to piss away money they frankly don’t need, to pay less taxes that goes to the entire country for- What’s supposed to be good fucking use but doesn’t seem like it is- THEN THE SYSTEM IS BROKE!
It isn’t me, I swear, it's Peter that’s the socialist.
-Being ineffective. He doesn’t fear death, pain, suffering, ending up on a hospital bed for the rest of his life, or finding that his leg will never heal and he needs to lose it; none of that scares him. Peter fears the idea of living to see every avenue he’s pursued, every man he’s tried to stop, every way he’s tried to protect people, fail and gets worse while his body slowly decays. He stays awake at night thinking about the idea of him, in his bed, lying still, old age slowly dragging him into whatever lies next; and, being unable to stop it, yet still able to watch the city he only wanted to protect burn around him in the devilish fires of greed.
-None that are alive, or have enough self-awareness to be counted as such anymore.
-Peter doesn’t have a worse enemy, because he’s killed all the ones who could count. The Vulture, the man that killed his Uncle Ben, was shot dead while he was trying to rip and tear his teeth into Aunt May. The Goblin was pulled away into a sewer tunnel by the body of Kraven piloted by dozens of spiders to, what Peter only guesses, to be his doom. Everyone else? Either in jail, unable to fight him anymore, or done with trying.
-Thanksgiving. The community center his Aunt runs always gets the most donations around that time of the year, and sets up a giant feast for even more than the regulars to come in. It's… Nice. The one time of year he doesn’t have to worry as much, since everyone he cares about is around him. He just gets to breathe, smile, eat, and slowly realize that people who were there last time aren’t this year.
-Well, at this point, if he doesn't say Spiders or Cats someone is going to get mad at him.
-August 27th, 1914. If he never was ripped from his own reality into the year of the Earth he is currently on and, instead, lived all of those years; he'd be 112.
