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Posted on Monday, 17 June 2002

It is a truth universally acknowledged that with great power comes great responsibility. It is also universally acknowledged that it is the decision of the person whether to accept that responsibility...or not!

Chapter 1

My name is Peter Fitzwilliam Darcy, though I was originally christened just Peter Darcy. My parents died when I was less than a year old and I was officially adopted by my Aunt and Uncle, who gave me the Fitzwilliam.

My Aunt is Sarah Fitzwilliam, forty years older than me and the most caring and kind woman I know. My Uncle is Hester Fitzwilliam, who managed to persuade his school-mates to call him Fitz within the first week of school. My uncle fought his way through school and had more suspensions than anyone I know, but now he will not even squash an ant as he walks along the footpath. Edward Fitzwilliam is my oldest cousin and thirteen years older than me. Edward is an Astrophysicist working in the field of Radio Astronomy. Jane Fitzwilliam is my only female cousin, she is a linguist who teaches English on the other side of town. Jane is twelve years older than me. Howard Fitzwilliam is ten years my senior and he's a policeman. Jamie and Jermyn are twins and were named specially by my Aunt. Jamie is a Structural Engineer and Jermyn is a Doctor out in the wilds. The twins are eight years my senior and were never afraid to let me know it when I was younger. Though now they treat me with great respect, especially Jamie, and they are invaluable to me. Martin Fitzwilliam is currently engaged on his doctorate in Physics and is a mere six years older than me. Martin was always going to be a physicist, and as a result it never occurred to him that there was a world outside of physics, and as a result he never bothered me about anything, except for if he needed a pencil and couldn't find his own.

It was a puzzle to me while I was growing up why I had ever been actually adopted. I had heard of relatives adopting their orphaned relatives because they had no children of their own. I had also heard of relatives taking orphaned relatives into their houses. But officially adopting a small and somewhat sickly orphaned nephew when you already had six children of your own always perplexed me. But the truth I realised was simply that they loved me and preferred having a seventh child to support rather than risk losing me into the welfare system which might decide that my development might be threatened by being a resident with such a large and closely knit family above me.

I was six years younger than my nearest relative, and as a result it was not until I had past my tenth birthday that I became even remotely interesting to my cousins. Edward took a liking to me at eleven because I required very little sleep and was very reliable and useful when it came to his honours thesis which required use of the University's very small and under-manned radio telescope. Howard used me as homework when he came home from the academy, it was not very comfortable, but it helped me learn to run. Jamie and Jermyn completely ignored me until I was fifteen when they discovered that I was interested in photography. My interest in photography introduced me to the twins, and that summer we went touring all over the state photographing everything and developing our films at night in the back of the truck.

George Arthur Wickham was my best friend from my first day of school, until he died a year after we graduated from High School. George Arthur and I were friends more because we were the school misfits rather than because we had anything in common. I was an oddity because I knew anything and everything scientific and wasn't afraid to share it with people. George Arthur was an oddity because he had failed out of every Private School in the state and his father was Arthur Wickham of Wickham Enterprises. Arthur Wickham died just after we graduated from High School...well actually he was murdered, but most people deliberately forget that. There was only one thing George Arthur and I truly had in common, and that was that we were both in love with Elizabeth Bennet.

Elizabeth Bennet lived next door to me and she'd lived there ever since I was six. I'd been in love with Elizabeth since the first day I saw her. George Arthur had been in love with her ever since he first saw her when we were in first grade and she played Cinderella in the grade play. Elizabeth was the most popular girl in the school and she had been dating Clarke West since eighth grade.

Clarke West was on the football team and was really useless at Science. However Clarke had money, and I did not. Actually I did have money, but it was held in trust pending some day which no one could actually explain in such a way that I could understand. Clarke had money right there, and that was a very good way to get a girlfriend at High School...unless you were George Arthur and had too much. Clarke was the sort of boy everyone dreams of being, he was brown-haired, blue-eyed, well tanned and the best athlete in the school. Clarke also had the perfect Girlfriend, but I'll return to Elizabeth in a different way. I don't know what happened to Clarke, I never saw or heard of him after Graduation when I moved to New York.

My life was reasonably normal until near the end of my last year of High School. If anyone said that my story was comic, enjoyable, or even particularly fun after that point he was lying. Like any life my life had its points of fun and its points when I woke up every morning asking the question of why did I bother even breathing any more. In the months after George Arthur's death I faced possibly one of the worst patches of my life for wondering if life was worth the effort. But the truth of the matter is life is always worthwhile, there is always some little hope, some little dream to keep us moving. Yet at the same time my life was so different from anyone else's life that I look back at times and wonder why I didn't give up.

It all started the day of the tour. We were going to the Science School of Charleton University. Charleton was primarily noteworthy because it housed the largest electron microscope on the Eastern Shore. We were to be given a guided tour of the Life Science department, and though I was more interested in Physics and Chemistry it promised to be a very interesting day. I had no idea how interesting that day was going to be when I got up that morning and missed the bus.

It was not the first time Peter had missed the bus, and it was probably not going to be the last time.

"Stop the Bus!" Peter pounded the side of the bus as he ran beside it. Peter's camera bounced painfully against his chest and his heavy bag dragged on his shoulders. "Stop the Bus!" He could see people in the bus and they were laughing like they always laughed. "Stop the Bus!" Peter banged the side of the bus one last time before finally slowing, and at the same time the bus slowed. The bus did not always slow and Peter dashed forward and scrambled into the bus. "Thanks." Peter nodded to the driver and started up the aisle in search of a seat.

"Forget it!" It had happened the same way all the time and Peter had grown used to it, though he was always hopeful it would change. Kids shoved their bags onto any seat next to them to prevent him from sitting down.

"No way." Art moved across to sit in his aisle seat to prevent Peter from sitting down.

"Forget it!" The words had hardly been spoken as Peter crashed to the floor of the bus, his spectacles spinning away. Peter had been focussing on Elizabeth Bennet, not on where his feet were, or what was in their way. Once again his downfall had been brought about by a distinctly large foot and Peter sighed and scrambled uncertainly around in search of his glasses and bag while his school mates either laughed or ignored him.

George Arthur Wickham sighed as he glanced through the window of his father's Mercedes and eyed the milling students. Most of the kids at this school considered themselves lucky if their parents had more than one car within three models of the latest.

"Don't even think about it George." Arthur Wickham frowned briefly at his son, recognising the expression which flickered across the expressive face.

"But it's so unnecessary." George hunched down in his seat.

"Never be ashamed of who you are George Arthur Wickham. If I have a lot of money, you can take my promise that I worked hard to earn it."

"It's not that Dad." George pushed the door open and climbed out. "But...Well it's rather ostentatious. Can't I just get a job and earn myself a car?"

"George, you've failed out of nearly every school in the state. Do you really think someone's going to offer you a job?"

"Sorry Dad, see you tonight." George hunched his shoulders and headed for the school doors, before abruptly angling off when he saw Peter tiredly straightening his spectacles and worriedly digging through his bag.

"Hey George, can you find that Chaos book I had yesterday?" Peter proffered his bag for inspection.

"Missed the bus did you?" George glanced in the bag briefly and pulled out the book in question.

"Thanks, and yes." Peter returned the book to his bag and finished re-arranging his spectacles.

"Wish I had a bus to miss." George hunched his shoulders once more before flushing darkly as his father came up holding his school bag.

"You might need this."

"Thanks." George grabbed his schoolbag. "Father, meet Peter. Peter, my father Arthur Wickham. Dad, Peter's guaranteed to take out the Science Prize since he can out science all the science teachers without any effort at all."

"Sounds like an impressive effort. Come to Wickham Enterprises sometime, you might find it interesting."

"Oh I've already been." Peter rearranged his schoolbag on his back. "But I was surprised to see you not using even half of the nanotechnology you've even written about."

"Most of that is off in our restricted department since there are many ethical issues it brings up...as well as just a desire to keep the newest from our competitors." Arthur gave a slow nod, this kid would be a good one to keep an eye on, he had brains and knew how to use them.

"Could I be taken through the restricted section?" The flash of interest was undeniable.

"How about we wait until summer and then I'll see what I can stir up in the way of tours of our restricted technology."

"Thank you." Peter was pulling George towards the stairs. "Goodbye sir or we'll be late."

The technician who was guiding them around kept a steady flow of information which Peter paid little attention to. She had yet to even make a passing reference to information Peter didn't know. They were currently in the Life Sciences Buildings in a room solely devoted to spiders, though Peter was more interested in the electron microscope which he knew for a fact was the best in the world. Peter made the observation about the microscope to George and earned himself a strange look. It was not the first strange look George had given him since they had entered the room, spiders had been a point of interest to Peter some years ago and he had a good-sized library of information stored away. Peter had been taking photographs of most of the displays, and unfortunately more than one photograph had been ruined because someone thought it funny to jostle him while he attempted to take photographs.

"...and here we have fifteen genetically modified spiders." Like elastic Peter's attention snapped and refocussed on what was clearly going to be some new information. "We have been experimenting in combining the attributes of various spiders...."

"Excuse me, but there are only fourteen spiders." It was Elizabeth who spoke and the gasp rippled through the small group.

"Oh." The woman inspected the glass cases. "I suppose one of the Doctors has taken it for experimenting." The woman shrugged and moved on.

"Elizabeth." Peter jerked forward as the others started to move off.

"Yes?" Elizabeth looked at him, a slightly blank look, she wasn't really seeing him, just seeing a classmate.

"I...uh...I wanted to...would you mind posing for a moment?" Peter indicated his camera which he had been using all day. "School Book."

"But why?" Elizabeth looked surprised.

"Human interest." Peter breathed cautiously, desperately hoping she'd accept.

"Well....alright." Elizabeth nodded and made her expression suitably interested as she gazed at the boxes. Peter almost ran himself out of film in the next couple of minutes while he shot photograph after photograph of Elizabeth.

"Move along you two." It was their Science Teacher who finally interrupted things and while Elizabeth hastily caught up with the rest of the class Peter struggled to clear his mind of the memory of how wonderful Elizabeth looked through a camera.

It was a sharp and flaring pain which eventually brought Peter back to earth and he looked in bemused surprise as the black spider dropped from his hand and dodged under a nearby bit of machinery. Peter stowed his camera and looked in perplexity at his hand. The bite with its clear mark had already begun swelling up. Peter glanced back at the machine the spider had hidden under, then glanced over his head at the small web which decorated the pole he stood next to. There was no question where the spider came from, but there was a lot of question about what type of spider it was. Peter would have sworn that morning that there was nearly no spider in the world he couldn't identify at a single glance. Peter however had no idea as to the identity of the spider, and being so far behind his class the query which would normally have plagued him for hours slid away and was buried by the need to catch up with his class before it moved on to another room.

Chapter 2

"Is Peter sick?" Edward Fitzwilliam was frowning darkly as he let himself into the house his parents lived in.

"Is something the matter?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam looked up from her baking in puzzlement, with Mr. Fitzwilliam out of work and Peter still at school an income was needed for they would not live off their children.

"We were going to meet and go to the telescope for the weekend, but he didn't show after school." Edward helped himself to a biscuit before digging through his pocket for the two dollar price of the biscuit he was sampling.

"Oh yes." The perplexity cleared and Mrs. Fitzwilliam pushed the money back towards her son. "No, Peter came home after school and barely said anything except that he wasn't feeling very well and he had to crash."

"That's rotten." Edward wrinkled his nose in concern. "Well let him know when he's decided he's a bit better that the offer's still open for the next half millenium."

"The grant came through did it?" Interest lit Mrs. Fitzwilliam's eyes.

"Not only the grant, but a grant almost twice as big as expected. We'll be able to do some desperately needed upgrades as well as the research with this grant."

"I'll let Peter know then if he doesn't come down sometime tonight. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Well let's just say that I didn't leave coming here so late without having an ulterior motive." Edward gave a grin before taking a nearby seat.

"Peter!" The call woke Peter with a jerk and in astonishment he realised that he was lying on his bedroom floor with a blanket pulled over him and it was morning. But which morning? How long had it been since the visit to the University? Peter had only the vaguest of memories of even coming home, he just remembered feeling terribly unwell and just wishing to sleep.

"Peter!" The loud call was repeated and Peter automatically reached for his spectacles and put them on before even bothering to note anything other than that sunlight was coming through his curtains. A thick, opaque gauze seemed to blanket the world as Peter tried to look around and he hastily pulled his spectacles off, surely his eyesight hadn't deteriorated that much!

"Peter! You'll be late!"

"Uhh." Peter made an indeterminate noise while gazing around his room in bewilderment. The room was clear, like he had his spectacles on. Yet when he put his spectacles on the room was blanketed in an opaque fog. Peter hurried to his window and looked out, everything was still clear, it was like he had his spectacles on. But when he put his spectacles it was like it used to be when he didn't have his spectacles on. Peter shook his head in perplexity and hurriedly pushed his spectacles into their case so if he did abruptly reacquire the need for them he'd have them. Peter pushed the last couple of books into his bag and headed for the door, only to skid to a halt and frown, his bag didn't feel heavy enough. Peter dropped his bag and hastily poked through it in search of what he had forgotten. He had forgotten nothing. Peter frowned in perplexity and hefted his bag, reluctantly confirming what his mind already told him, the bag was as heavy as usual, but for some reason it was easier to lift.

"Peter!"

"I'm coming." Peter turned, discarding the puzzle, then skidded to a halt for the second time as he reached his door, he had forgotten to put a shirt on. Peter discarded his bag onto his bed and reached for a shirt, before stopping to frown at the mirror. His mirror had to be bent because he was looking half decent this morning. In fact it looked like he had doubled in muscle bulk. For the first time Peter looked in the mirror and saw distinct and clear muscles. Peter shook his head, blinked, then looked in the mirror anew. Nothing had changed. It had to be a dream.

"Peter, are you alright?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam's voice came from the stairs.

"Uhh, fine." Peter looked down and jabbed himself in the stomach, muscles contracted defensively and visibly.

"Has there been a change?"

"Yes...yes quite a change." Peter blinked once more before hastily pulling his shirt on and grabbing his bag. If this was a dream he was going to enjoy it.

"You are full of beans this morning." Edward looked up from the cup of tea his mother had just given him and blinked. Peter had come down the stairs in one immense jump before flipping over the stair rail.

"Well I am sorry I missed you last night but I have to fly or I'll miss the bus." Peter grabbed his notebook which he somehow managed to leave downstairs and headed for the door.

"Peter you haven't had breakfast!" Mrs. Fitzwilliam came out of the kitchen.

"Haven't time and I'm not hungry." Peter slammed the door behind him, leaving very perplexed relatives behind him. Peter sprinted down the road for the bus was already at the corner.

"Stop the bus!" Peter pounded his fist against the bus as he tried desperately to get it to stop. "Stop the bus!" Peter gave one last pound using the flat of his palm before slowing down, and realising two abnormalities. The first was that half the sign off the side of the bus still stuck to his hand. The second was that his breathing was not even slightly accelerated and he wasn't feeling at all tired.

Peter shook the sign from his hand and frowned after the bus before glancing back over his shoulder. It was a quarter of a mile back to the house, and the school was two miles ahead. Peter hesitated only a moment longer before resettling his pack, it was time to find out if he could run the whole way to school without losing his breath and still beat the bus. Eight minutes later Peter found that he could run two miles without losing his breath and beat the bus.

The morning passed normally enough for Peter, except for the fact that he kept sticking to things. He had started by sticking to his locker and only getting free just in time to sprint wildly to class. Then Peter had found himself sticking to his pens and pencils, his desk, his books, his handouts. In fact he was sticking to practically everything he came into contact with, and it was not always an easy task to 'unstick' himself. With recess Peter had time for a close inspection of his hand. The close inspection had revealed absolutely nothing. A chemical inspection in the lab had only resulted in a badly burned hand. Inspection under a microscope had finally revealed a multitude of microscopic claws. These claws could, and would, engage anything his flattened palm came into contact with. Peter spent the last fifteen minutes of recess investigating the uses and irritations of this abnormality. It was not for the first time that day that Peter's attention strayed to the spider's bite on his right hand. He had somehow forgotten about it earlier, but he was very aware of it now and not a little perplexed. The bite was no longer swollen, but it was still clear and pronounced.

Lunch came at its usually leisurely pace and Peter had spent his English class teasing George with his 'sticky' fingers. George was yet again on detention so Peter had made his solitary way to the cafeteria where he had acquired a plate of indeterminate sludge the school opted to list under the vague classification of food. Pencil and notebook in his right hand, tray in his left, Peter kicked a chair out from under the table and settled into it. With his tray safely settled on the table and his notebook next to it, Peter spun the pencil between his fingers and frowned at the blank page which frowned back at him.

Jumped - one flight of stairs into a somersault over stair railing.
Run - 2 miles in approximately 8 minutes (Olympic time???).
Stuck - to flattened palm - everything.
Not lost - Breath, while running 2 miles in 8 minutes.

Calory consumption -

Peter paused and frowned what he had written, it was impossible. Peter inspected his memory of the day once more, then abruptly realised he had a spoon, a bun and half of his salad stuck to his hand. Peter hastily returned the lot to his plate and returned his attention to his notes. The very mind which was recalling his completion of all this was also telling him that it was utterly impossible. Peter turned away from his notebook once more and took a reluctant bite of his roll, before snapping his attention back to his notebook and slamming the back of his hand down on it just before it slid off the table and onto the floor. Peter's pencil spun across onto the neighbouring table, but Peter was not watching his pencil. The strand was thick, whitish and stretching from where his watchband usual sat across almost three metres to a plate near the wall. Peter twitched his wrist but the cord neither broke, nor detached from the plate its end had sort of spread over. Peter shot a nervous glance around but no one else seemed to have yet noticed the string. Peter inspected his wrist where it came from, but even tugging failed to detach the string. Peter glanced across to the other end of the string, glanced around the room and drew a deep breath before yanking on the string with all his might. The contents of the plate, the plate, and the tray soared straight at Peter and he ducked convulsively. It was with a sick feeling in his stomach that Peter glanced over his shoulder before he abruptly leapt to his feet and headed for the door. The entire contents of the tray had hit Clarke West, and Clarke West was the last man who might possibly forgive getting an entire serving of coleslaw plastered on his back.

For Elizabeth Bennet it had been a very strange day. It had started with her mother having a screaming fit for no apparent reason what-so-ever. Jane, her elder sister, had escaped by seven. Mary had been her usual self and remained completely divorced from the world while reading her book. Lydia had joined in the harangue and as a result Elizabeth had listened to two screaming lectures, the point of which was never reached, before she had finally escaped to catch the bus.

Carly had then arrived with her father's car, which meant Elizabeth hadn't had to catch the bus at all. The ride to school almost made up for the two lectures that morning. Elizabeth had been almost happy when she settled into her seat for the first class, but her concentration had been destroyed by the arrival of Peter Darcy at a very fast run just after the teacher arrived. As far as Peter Darcy's actual person went, Elizabeth actually had no opinion. He succeeded in wrecking her concentration on the class by the simple act of doing something that seemed weird...even for Peter Darcy. Peter had skidded into the room and seemingly pulled the door closed behind him with a flattened palm. The door had slammed hard and everyone had jumped, while a red-faced Peter had slid into his seat and promptly dropped everything on the floor.

The class, mathematics, had ended with the usual rush for the door and during a temporary jam in the traffic flow Elizabeth found herself wedged against Peter.

"You've got contacts!" It was with surprise that Elizabeth noted that Peter was not wearing the spectacles he seemed to have worn since the day he was born.

"Uh, yeah." The crush had then moved once more and Elizabeth managed to escape to her next class. Recess had come and gone, holding a discussion about boots, and watching Clarke briefly pummel some obstreperous frosh into submission. English had passed as English always passed for Elizabeth, way too quickly. And then lunch had arrived. Lunch in itself had seemed normal enough, until about ten minutes after they had sat down, when Clarke had shuddered as if he had been struck an immense blow from behind. Elizabeth had glanced briefly at the mess on the back of Clarke's shirt and then around the Cafeteria, whoever had just thrown his plate was obviously spoiling for a fight. But the entire cafeteria seemed to have entered a state of shock, except for Peter Darcy who was making tracks out the door at maximum speed and clearly unaware of the incriminating tray which was connect to him and trailing a couple of metres behind him.

"That lout." Clarke had snarled savagely while shaking the salad and hamburger off his shirt. The tray, which was attempting to follow Peter through the now closed door, jumped and shived for a moment before abruptly falling away from the door.

"Clarke!" Elizabeth tried to calm Clarke down, but with no success and as with one mind the entire contents of the cafeteria rose and followed Clarke out the door. This wasn't going to be a pounding, it was going to be a massacre.

Peter was pushing his locker shut when abruptly a chime seemed to ring through his head and he instinctively ducked. Clarke's fist, which would have probably spelt a month in hospital had it actually connected with Peter's head, plowed instead into Peter's locker door. The door bent and warped, a door which would no longer close properly.

"I don't want to fight you Clarke." Peter shifted sideways, a move which stopped Clarke from throwing the punch he was winding into.

"Well I'm terribly sorry, but I'm going to hit you whether you want to be hit or not." Clarke swung and another locker was irreparably dented as once more Peter dodged the blow.

"I didn't mean to do it." Peter dodged another blow and moved away from the lockers before Clarke destroyed the entire row.

"Tough, kid." Clarke re-aimed his punches and started to focus on Peter's torso, but he had as little luck there as he had on Peter's head. It didn't matter what sort of preparation Clarke put into the blow, Peter had invariably moved before it struck and watched as blow after blow just missed him. A blow which should have taken Peter in the midriff with sickening force, missed completely as Peter bent over backwards, his hair almost touching the floor.

Peter straightened and automatically dodged the next blow which was already coming. Peter shot a glance around his schoolmates and realised the fight had to end soon if he didn't want to make a complete pariah of himself. As the next blow whistled past Peter continued to turn slightly, angling up and delivering a stunning blow to that point on the mandible, just below the second bicuspid, where the foramen gives exit to the mental branch of the fifth nerve. Clarke West went sprawling, rolling, and sliding down the hall until his inanimate carcass slammed into the ankles of the Science Teacher. Simpson had been watching the situation with a gape, and now dropped his heavily sauced burger in an effort to remain on his feet. Simpson's effort was commendable, and appropriately paid off, for he remained in the vertical position. However no one wished to be around when Clarke West returned to the conscious world, he had a heavily sauced burger in his face, with a generous serving of sauce on his shirt. Peter took one guilty look around himself, and then fled.

Chapter 3

Peter tore through the streets, blind to the world around him until he stumbled and fell with numbing force. The ground was rough and cobbled. The walls seemed to reach to the heavens and a rusty old fire escape ladder curled precariously up one wall. Peter wiped his face and inspected his surroundings in puzzlement, he had run clean across town. Peter hunched down and wrapped his arms around his knees while he studied the cobbles between his feet. Sixteen years old, and now a freak...a real freak, not just a freak as his schoolmates had always called him. With complete disrespect for Peter's wishes his mind continued to coldly calculate, remember and analyse. His mind and his will were now completely divorced with no contact between them.

Peter shivered as his mind recalled over and over again the way Clarke's head had snapped back and he had gone skidding down the hall. That hadn't just been a punch. There was two hundred pounds of Clarke West, and he, Peter, had sent that two hundred pounds sliding almost ten metres. The force involved in the punch made Peter cringe. Even throwing something that far was a formidble task, but when one considered friction from the floor and the necessary accellerations it became impossible. Clarke had not stopped at the ten metre distance, he had been brought to a stop by a much superior force.

Peter shivered once more and stared at his hands. Long, sensitive fingers trembled, his knuckles gleaming whitely in the dim surroundings. No bruise marred his knuckles, they didn't even feel like they might start to bruise. No grazes or abrasions marked his hands, though he had stumbled heavily and they had scuffed the ground.

Peter whispered a tired curse at himself as his fingers caught his trousers. He was a freak, a real freak, and through no fault of his own. He had forgotten about the bite, because the spider had not looked at all dangerous and he had been far behind. Now it was too late, what had happened had happened, and it was irreversible. Now if it got out he would become a medical marvel. They would experiment on him, testing his abilities, testing the extremes of his transformation. They would write long documents trying to discribe what had happened. He would be a marvel, a five-minute wonder whom all would befriend until the marvel of the man slowly got lost in the pile of old gossip, then he would be a pariah. He would remain a medical mystery, to be prodded and pried at and talked about for years. Peter whispered another curse and stared at his hands. The cursed faded and Peter glanced thoughtfully between his hand and the wall. If the Medical Professional could poke and pry and try to determine his abilities, why could he not determine his own abilities and the wheres and whyfors? Within a minute Peter had made his mind up, and with the pure intention of finding out if it were possible Peter planted one hand on the wall as high as he could reach and then pulled. Within moments Peter was feet above the ground and rapidly increasing the distance. As he neared the top of the building Peter glanced thoughtfully at the building on the other side of the alley which was slightly taller. Without pausing for further consideration Peter disengaged one hand, turned and lunged towards the other building. Peter thumped against the wall, his flattened palms immediately engaging with the wall while he fought to recover his breath. It should have occured to him that it would not take all his strength to cross the narrow alley.

Breath recovered Peter resumed his climb and within moments he had negotiated his way around the gutter and was on top of the roof. Peter looked around himself, the potentials of this situation were awesome. He could run two miles in eight minutes without losing his breath. He could climb a wall and feel no weariness in his arms. He could become a football star...afterall there was an even chance that if he even wished to he couldn't drop the ball. He could become the most popular guy at school. He could get a girlfriend...possibly even a REAL girlfriend...Maybe even Elizabeth Bennet. He could quit flunking gym and earning Mr Harrison's scorn. With a yell Peter took off running and when he hit the edge of the house he simply bent his legs and jumped, letting his momentum carry him across the gap. The jump took him flying to halfway across the roof of the next building. Having scrambled to his feet Peter resumed running until he had to jump again. With each jump Peter's control became more precise as his mind, trained for analysis, coldly broke everything down and stored away the relevent data where it would be put to most use.

By the time Peter's running and jumping had come under sufficient control that he no longer even stumbled when he landed a jump, Peter had reached a main road and was well aware that he'd never successfully jump it. Peter glanced back over his shoulder at the way he had come. Just roofs. To either side roofs were in abundance, he could jump to his heart's content. Peter looked forward once more, his mind pondering the options. If he wished to loudly announce his strangeness he could just climb down the wall and likely by the time he reached the bottom there would be half a hundred cops waiting to drag him off and hand him over to the medical types. He could also jump...but suicide aided nobody and his carcase would probably still end up in the hands of the medics, though possibly they wouldn't look too closely at him and his abnormalities would escape detection. He could also... Peter's thought process came to a crashing halt. The thoughts crunched into each other, piling up like an accordianed train which the television liked to show as the main form of transport in India. One thought remained spinning in the blank void of his mind. It was white, a thickish strand which spanned about three metres and was very firmly stuck to the plate. It couldn't possibly have been an accident, a once off event. But how did it work? It would be rather difficult to keep his secret if he kept sprout lengths of white rope. It would also be a useless trait if he was unable to control the matter. But the matter still remained of how it worked and how did he control it.

It took Peter fifteen minutes to find how it worked. Had Peter even bothered to think about the matter he would have realised that he looked like a complete idiot. As it was the only audience he had was a pigeon, which left when he finally managed to reproduce the action which caused the 'stuff' to come. Peter had tried words, until he remembered that he had not said anything while in the cafeteria. Having realised that it must be an action Peter had settled to the task of finding out what it was. The idle thought floated through his mind of little spiders shrieking 'Banzai' in spiderese as they built each string of a web. His first couple of lengths merely shot out like an uncontrolled cloud towards the crane he had selected as his target. By the third attempt control was his and the result was a thick, whitish strand about the thickness of a rope which connected him to the crane on the otherside of the road.

"Well this is it." Peter didn't even let himself think about the possible consequences as he wrapped his fingers around the strand for better grip and leapt from the building. The wind tugged and pulled at Peter's hair, and with growing concern Peter viewed his knowledge of Physics and ruefully acknowledged that his flight would not end as he reached the top of his target building. Rue became concern as Peter noticed the immense building on the otherside of his target. He was not going to make it more than half-way up that building before impact occured. Peter dug his heels into the roof of his target building in an attempt to reduce the impact, but he might as well have used mosquitoes to stop an aeroplane and blackness engulfed him as he connected with the large, smiling sign. Clearly he had quite a lot to learn about this new talent of his, perhaps a little web-spinning needed to occur in his bedroom.

It was the third time that Peter had inspected the advertisement. What he could do with three thousand dollars! There was that car he had seen in the paper. Closing his eyes Peter could easily imagine Elizabeth's response to such a car, for it was even better than the car Clarke had driven yesterday. Peter smiled at the memory of yesterday, he had spent twenty minutes talking to Elizabeth over the back fence. The memory sat in his mind like a nice, warm little coal which merely needed to be touched to give a little flood of joy. Peter glanced down at the advertisement once more and abruptly made up his mind, much as he disliked wrestling there was no two ways about it, he needed that car. Peter extended a bit of web and retrieved his jotter from the otherside of his bedroom, turning his attention to the task of designing an appropriate outfit.

Peter shivered once more and leant a bit more heavily against the wall. The manager wasn't ready for him yet, and so he had to wait. Exhileration still flooded through his veins in memory of the noise. It had been animal in that pit. Rational thought was most certainly not a part of that world. Peter shivered again and struggled to throw aside his conflicting emotions. The exhileration clashed badly with the gut-twisting sickness which welled up inside him as he remembered the actual fight...Clarke West knew nothing about dirty fighting, though he was frequently accused of it. Peter gently touched the back of his neck and flinched as his fingers found the tender skin. It was the first time since being bitten that he had felt even remotely like getting a bruise, and this one had almost completely vanished as well. Peter winced again, but more from the memory of the sight of the chair which had inflicted the bruise then from actual pain.

"Yokay!" The manager, a beefy lump of man, looked around the door and jerked his head. "Cash is here, I'll pay you."

"Thanks." Peter entered the small office and blinked at the immense stack of money.

"Fifty dollars." One note was peeled from the stack. "One hundred dollars." The two notes were handed over.

"Hey!" Peter objected as the manager nodded him to depart. "The advertisement was for three thousand dollars."

"Look kid, the three thousand dollars was if you spent three minutes fighting. You knocked him out in two minutes...You should consider yourself lucky that I paid you anything at all."

"But I need the money!"

"So?" The manager looked up blandly. "The only thing I've missed is where that's my problem. Now getout before I have you thrown out."

"You think you could?" Peter cast a brief and disgusted look at the manager, but pocketed the hundred dollars anyway and departed, ignoring the man who jostled past him in the corridor. Peter moved to the elevator and pressed the button while fighting the sick feeling which welled up within him. He'd had that fight for a measly one hundred dollars? He'd never get the car at this rate.

"Thanks mate." A burly figure plunged past Peter and dove into the elevator, shutting the door behind himself as he did so. Peter blinked in astonishment and then blinked again in shock as the manager appeared next to him and started swearing at him. It took Peter the better part of a minute to comprehend the point behind the Manager's distress and swearing. But when understanding came Peter felt a bubble of malicious satisfaction and smiled coldly at the man.

"...you could have torn the ____ ____ apart with your _____ bare hands you little _____. Why'd you let the _____ go? That's my _____ money that ____ _____ _____'s making away with."

"The only thing I missed was where that became my problem." Peter turned and took the stairs, he was late to meet his uncle and he had best hurry because he needed to appologise, he's been awfully rude and Uncle Fitz had only been trying to help.

Peter took the corner on the run as he felt fear curl up within him. There were people and policemen everywhere. Peter shivered for he'd felt the chingling chime while he had descended the stairs and there was only one thing Peter knew for certain was that that chime meant trouble. There was a huge crowd in front of the library and without a thought Peter dove into it and plowed his way to the centre where several policemen stood guard over the crumpled, bloodsoaked figure.

"Uncle Fitz!" Peter was next to his uncle in a flash, completely ignoring the hands around him. "Uncle Fitz!"

"Hullo Peter." The words were spoken with difficulty.

"I'm sorry Uncle Fitz, I didn't mean to shout at you. I...I..." The words balled up and jammed in his throat.

"It's alright Pete." A hand lifted painfully and touched him on the arm. "I yelled at my own parents when I was your age."

"But..." Peter choked again.

"Carjackers, we've got some paramedics who should be here any moment." One of the policemen spoke from the otherside.

"It's alright Pete." Hester Fitzwilliam's eyes never for a moment left Peter's face.

"BuT..." The word escalated into a scream as the eyes closed and the head rolled to one side. "UNCLE FITZ!"

"Dammit." The policeman pushed Peter aside and then swore as the paramedics finally pushed through the crowd.

"Lost 'im." The paramedics didn't even bother to unpack their equipment further.

"Chief." A radio crackled briefly and Peter suddenly realised that everyone was moving as if the air were thicker than treacle. "Chief, we've picked him up on 5th heading east can we have an intercept arranged?"

"Intercept on its way." There was a brief pause before the radio crackled a response. Peter reached out and touched the crumpled figure who had been his Uncle and the only father he had ever known even though they'd all agreed years ago he would not call him father. Peter closed his eyes as pain ripped through him and then he turned and plowed blindly back through the crowd.

It took Peter only seconds to change into his hooded tracksuit in an empty upper room of the Library. A brief scramble and he was on top of the Library roof and then it was a simple matter of run and jump. Within three minutes Peter had reached the 5th and ahead he could see the flashing lights of the Police as they attempted to catch his Uncle's car. Peter didn't give himself a chance to think about what he was doing, for he couldn't run and jump fast enough to pass the cars, but there was another possibility. Peter fired off his first streamer as he jumped off the side of the building he stood on. The wind tugged viciously at him as he swung through the air. As his travel reached the point where gravity and the streamer began to win the battle against his velocity Peter fired off a second streamer to a building on the other side of the street and separated from his initial streamer. In less than a minute Peter had reached the rearmost of the police cars and seconds later he was over his Uncle's cream coloured car. Peter didn't hesitate as he severed his connection mid travel and dropped heavily onto the roof of the car. His hands promptly engaged with the roof and prevented him from sliding off the roof to a guaranteed death.

Peter spent only seconds pondering his situation before he realised that there was a more immediate threat he had to face. The carjacker clearly had an abundance of ammunition for he was firing blindly through the roof of the car. After one bullet only just missed his nose Peter retreated to a position closer to the back of the car. A couple more shots and the realisation that in moments the driver was going to try and scrape him off forced Peter to evacuate the roof of the car to the top of a nearby truck which seemed to be in league with the carjacker since it promptly drove under a low overpass and Peter leapt hard to avoid getting scraped onto the road. Seconds later Peter was back on the roof of the truck, having realised he would land on his launching point just before he fired off a streamer to renew his swinging. Peter hesitated on the roof of the truck a moment longer and then returned to the roof of his Uncle's car. Peter promptly punched his way through the roof only to immediately withdraw his hand as the driver slammed on the brakes. Peter grabbed wildly and only just managed to secure a firm grip as his torso slid off onto the windscreen. It took one look at the man to galvanise Peter into action and he was back onto the roof. The driver wrenched the car away and shot off down a side street. Within seconds they were in the complex network of the slums and then car was skidding to a halt under a low and rusty beam.

Peter leapt for the beam and crouched ready to follow where ever the car went next. But the car went no where, the driver tumbled out and dove into the nearby ruin. Peter dove after him and promptly dodged as the man's gun barked savagely. Peter glanced up and decided the ceiling would best suit his purposes and within minutes he knew it had been the best choice for the carjacker was becoming thoroughly spooked. Peter pursued him for a few more moments, tormenting the man to the point of terror before he finally dropped down from the ceiling and pushed the man halfway through the window.

The man was fairly streaming perspiration and Peter could smell his fear as he babbled, curse and screamed. The man was promising all manner of impossible things, swearing he would do them if only Peter would not drop him. Peter could not help his amazement, this jibbering terror had infact been the last thing he had expected. Then one question struck and sank into his conscious mind for consideration.

"I'll give you anything! Anything you want at all!"

"What I want is my Uncle back...alive!" Peter drew the man in slightly as he hissed the last and as he did so he froze his memory kicking into high gear. Peter stared into that unshaven face and the pale staring eyes and felt horror well up inside him for it was not the face of a stranger.

"Thanks mate." The words echoed through his memory, haunting and taunting.

"The only thing I missed was where that became my problem." Peter's fingers went slack as the horror sank into his being and bit savagely into his psyche. Peter stared down in stunned horror, his mind still unable to comprehend the connections between the wrestling pit and his Uncle's death. There was a part of his mind which just refused to accept the relationship. Below him the carjacker stared blindly up from where he lay, very dead. Peter was still struggling to sort himself out when the blinding spotlight focussed on him and the amplified voice echoed through the area.

"We have the house completely surrounded, put your hands up and come down quietly." Peter's brows shot up and he promptly retreated, he could not afford to be caught.

"Chief." The radio crackled briefly.

"Yes?" There was only resignation in the voice as it responded from the shadows.

"Nothing, our man's gone to earth."

"Is there anything in the place?" There was a pause before the return query came.

"Well there's a corpse below the window where we first saw the man. Only just dead, but very dead all the same, he's carrying nearly three thousand dollars in a small bag..."

"Odd."

"Rather what we thought. He's a familiar face and I would have said he was the carjacker in any other circumstances."

"No trace at all of the man we saw at the window?"

"No trace and no signs of where he might have gone...for all the dust on the floor there's not a footprint to be found."

"What a nuisance. Pack it in, I'll make a call for an ambulance to come pick up the remains." The voice fell silent and muttered a curse before calling for an ambulance and giving a report back to HQ.

Peter hugged his knees more tightly as he stared out across the wash of lights. Beneath him a gargoyle snarled as it had snarled for decades. Peter shivered and once more tightened his grip on his knees. His cheeks had trails of ice where his tears had fallen. Peter was as unconscious of his tears as he was of his precarious perch. He would never save the whole world, it was unlikely he'd ever win adulation for his efforts, but as he sat there, Peter swore that he would never again allow himself to not interfer if he knew a crime was occuring. On his word he would fight until he could fight no more. He swore this on the name given to him in the Wrestling Pit. He swore this on the name of SPIDERMAN!