195. Bloodlines Under Grand Central. (Patreon)

Gwen POV:

It didn’t take long to reach Grand Central while swinging. New York folds itself beneath you when you move like this. The skyline turning into a living thing, steel and glass breathing in rhythm with your momentum.

A thought kept hammering at the back of my mind persistently.

Peter took me flying so many times I lost count. Rockets, repulsors, alien skies, the curve of Earth under us. But swinging?

I never took him swinging.

“Damn,” I muttered into the cold air, webline snapping free as I arced past a clocktower. “Does that make me a bad wife?”

The city didn’t answer. It never does.

I replayed our life together like a highlight reel that only showed the quiet parts. TV marathons fueled by junk food. Falling asleep tangled together. Not falling asleep because we didn’t want to. Cuddling, laughing, fucking during movies, fucking before sleep. Sometimes just holding each other and breathing like the world couldn’t touch us there.

Family dinners. Missions. Space. Multiverses.

Love in stolen hours.

Maybe swinging was just another thing we never got around to or maybe I was overthinking it because that’s what I do when I’m scared of what I’m about to find.

I slipped down into the sewer access near Lexington, the smell hitting me like a wall. My backpack unfolded with soft mechanical clicks and a gas mask snapped into place over my face.

Oh, thank God.

Being Spider-Woman doesn’t mean you have to raw-dog the stench of an entire city’s waste system. Technology exists. Use it.

I followed Promethean vision overlays through dripping tunnels until the schematic lit up red.

SEALED SUBWAY LINE – DECOMMISSIONED

Brickwork that didn’t belong. Too deliberate. Too clean.

I stepped back, planted my feet and punched.

The wall exploded inward like it was made of wet paper. I stared at my fist as dust settled. “…Right. Strength.”

Holding back really does mess with your sense of scale.

Beyond the rubble lay an old platform, frozen in time. Rusted rails, peeling paint and a silence so complete it felt sacred.

Promethean vision flared to life, my Mk. II armor humming softly as it scanned.

And then I saw it.

A intact subway wagon and it was hidden beneath the tracks, impossible geometry folded into old New York stone. At the far end stood a token gate, ancient and unassuming.

My chest tightened.

I pulled one of the subway tokens from my pocket. The same ones that spilled out of Richard Parker’s calculator like secrets that didn’t want to stay buried.

“Here goes nothing.” I whispered, and slid the token in.

For a heartbeat nothing happened.

Then I saw it.

Hidden gears turning. Hydraulic pistons awakening and steel plates shifting with the groan of something old being asked to move again.

The tracks split.

The subway car rose like a ghost dragged back into the world. Dust plumed upward in choking clouds, decades of abandonment shaken loose. Lights flickered… then steadied.

Power.

The doors slid open.

I stepped inside.

My HUD went wild.

Electron microscopes, PCR machines, Blood analyzers, Cryogenic freezers, a fully functional computer system humming quietly, patiently.

The monitor blinked once.

100% DOWNLOADED

I raised my hand. Silver mechandrites slithered out, elegant and terrifying, interfacing with the mainframe in seconds. Data poured into me. Decades of research, safeguards, fail-safes, regrets encoded in lines of code.

Then the screen shifted.

A video file opened.

Timestamped for the day before Peter was dropped off at Ben and May’s. Christmas day.

I pulled my mask off before I even realized I was doing it.

A man appeared on screen. His eyes looked haunted.

“My name is Richard Laurence Parker,” He said, voice steady but eyes betraying him, “and I am the head researcher for Oscorp’s Advanced Genetics Department.”

My eyes teared up.

“A few days ago, I made a breakthrough in cross-species genetics. The result is Araneus Oscorpeus a hybrid spider species incorporating multiple arachnid genomes, with significant human DNA integration to ensure medicinal compatibility.”

He paused.

“But like every coin, my research has two sides. The other… is weaponization.”

Norman Osborn’s name followed like a curse.

Foreign militaries. Bio-weapons. Deals made in shadows.

“I refused,” Richard said. “And because of that, Norman has fabricated evidence of my involvement in corporate espionage to seize my work.”

His voice cracked for just a moment.

“He doesn’t know the human DNA injected into the spiders is mine. My blood, my lineage. Without it, the research is useless.”

I covered my mouth.

“I’ve destroyed as many specimens as I could,” he continued. “But time ran out. My wife and I… we have to disappear.”

His eyes softened.

“I will leave our son, Peter, in my brother Ben’s care.” Then a moment of silence. “Some may call me a monster. Including my son.”

My chest felt like it was collapsing.

“And they’d be right. But I have a duty. A duty to protect Peter and all mankind and to keep the world safe from my mistakes.”

He leaned closer to the camera.

“Peter… if you’re watching this… it’s okay to hate us. But whether in life or death, we will always love you.”

The video ended as a child’s voice echoed faintly in the background.

“Dad?”

My hands flew to my mouth as the sob tore out of me.

I fell down against the cold metal floor, grief crashing through me like a wave.

“Why,” I whispered, tears streaking down my face, “is your life always so damn sad?”

I thought I knew my husband. But now I understood him.

His obsession with power, with control, with protection. Even from me. Especially for me.

Peter Parker isn’t running toward destiny.

He’s fighting it with his bare hands.

And God help me, I’m proud to stand beside him.

Peter POV:

Walker’s Bar was loud in the way only small-town pubs get. Beer-soaked laughter, Christmas decorations hanging slightly crooked, a jukebox playing something nostalgic and off-key.

“Okay,” Tony said, scanning the room. “One grieving mother. Should be subtle.”

“The first snow hasn’t even settled on her son’s grave,” I replied quietly. “She’ll stand out.”

And she did.

Mrs. Davis sat alone, hands wrapped around a pint she wasn’t drinking. Her eyes were unfocused, staring through the world instead of at it.

I nodded toward her.

“May we?” I asked politely.

“Free country,” she muttered.

Tony opened his mouth. “Mrs. Davis, we...”

She slammed a binder onto the table so hard the glasses rattled.

“I’ve got your damn file,” She snapped. “Just leave me alone.”

I laughed.

I couldn’t help it.

It started as a chuckle and turned into full-blown laughter. I wiped a tear from my eye.

“Do I look like Ellen Brandt to you?”

That’s when the handcuff snapped shut.

“No,” a female voice said coolly. “But you’re under arrest.”

I sighed, tone dropping into something dark and cold.

“Release me, Killian’s bitch. Or I’ll kill you here and now.”

“Make me.”

I did.

I ripped her arm off and roundhouse-kicked her across the bar. Her neck bent wrong and the patrons screamed at the sudden violence.

The sheriff drew his gun.

Tony and I armored up in unison.

“Evacuate!” The sheriff barked, clearly recognizing who we are.

“Smart man.” Tony muttered.

“Find the others,” I growled. “I’ll handle her.”

As Tony lifted off, he glanced back at Mrs. Davis. “Your son didn’t blow himself up. He’s innocent.”

Then Ellen Brandt stood up.

Burning. Regenerating. Smiling.

We collided like hurricanes.

I used gravity to pull her into my fists, every punch precise, brutal, efficient. John Wick would’ve approved. She came at me with fireI answered with bone-breaking strikes, joint locks, throws that shattered tables and walls.

By the end, she was screaming, limbless.

“Time to try New Genesis.” I declared.

One thought.

Extremis unraveled.

No fire. No regeneration.

Silence.

I ended it with a single thought.

Outside, Tony landed beside me as the ashen car rolled up.

“Let me guess,” He said. “Manufacturer sloppy?”

I shrugged, climbing in.

Harley ran up, panic and determination fighting on his face. I pressed a stun gun into his hand.

“Biometrically locked,” I told him. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Too late.” Tony said.

As we drove off, I asked, “Why did we come here?”

Tony didn’t hesitate. “Because we’re the good guys.”

I raised my fist.

“To Chad Davis.”

“To Chad Davis.” Tony echoed.

And somewhere beneath Grand Central, my wife was crying for me and loving me harder than ever. Clanker sends me reports.