Umbra's Web of Fate

by Rev140

Summary:

What if Eddie Brock never got Venom?

What if Peter Parker wasn't the only Spider to get a symbiote?

What if the Heroes of the Marvel Universe had to contend with an arbiter who wasn't afraid to get his hands bloody to preserve the peace?

Meet the Umbra Spider.

SHEILD's most diverse weapon.

And Earth's most dangerous predator.

Chapter 1: Arrival

On top of the SHIELD Helicarrier, New York City seemed small and unreachable.

From this height, the city was nothing more than a sprawling mosaic of lights and shadow, its streets reduced to glowing veins and its towering skyscrapers flattened by distance. It was a place you knew existed, knew was teeming with life, noise, and chaos, but from here it felt detached, almost unreal. A distant location you could acknowledge logically, but could not truly touch or interact with.

That was the perspective most people had when standing atop a floating fortress miles above the ground.

But not him.

To the man perched at the carrier’s edge, the city was not distant at all. It was familiar. Intimate, even. Every flickering light represented movement, potential danger, and opportunity. His head tilted slightly as if he could already hear the muffled sirens, the hum of traffic, and the ever present tension that clung to New York like a second atmosphere. Soon, he would be down there, moving through it, fighting in it, becoming part of its endless churn.

At first glance, you might have mistaken him for a shadow cast by the carrier’s superstructure.

Only upon closer inspection did that illusion fall apart.

He was clad entirely in black, a living void broken only by the deep red spider symbol stretched across his chest and back. The emblem’s legs sprawled outward, the longest curling over his shoulders and down his arms like grasping limbs. White markings circled his wrists, forming the illusion of sleek, compact gauntlets, each finger ending in a subtly clawed tip. A white belt sat snug at his waist, adorned with several fang shaped buckles that caught the carrier’s lights with a faint gleam.

His mask concealed his entire head, seamless and matte, save for the two red lenses fixed where his eyes should have been. They glowed softly as he looked out over the city, unblinking and unreadable.

This was the Umbra Spider, one of SHIELD’s most efficient assets.

And depending on who you asked, its most dangerous.

"Enjoying the view?" a dry voice asked behind him.

The red lenses shifted as Umbra turned his head. Standing several steps back was a man whose presence alone seemed to command the space around him. African American, broad shouldered, dressed in a black suit and long trench coat. An eye patch covered his left eye, while the other fixed Umbra with a look that had commanded soldiers, spies, and gods alike.

Nick Fury.

"Just getting some fresh air," Umbra replied calmly, turning his gaze back to the city below. His voice was deep and steady, though it still carried a trace of youth beneath the practiced composure. "Getting an idea of what I might be running into once I enter the city."

Fury let out a short huff. "Think you and I both know you are in for a welcoming committee. That suit of yours alone is going to cause you problems, not even counting your night job."

The emphasis was deliberate.

Almost immediately, the suit reacted. The black material tightened across Umbra’s shoulders and spine, faint ripples passing through it as short barbed protrusions briefly formed along his back. It was an instinctive response, defensive and hostile, as though the suit itself had taken offense.

'Easy,' Umbra thought, keeping his posture relaxed. 'You know what he means.'

A low, raspy voice answered him from the back of his mind, every syllable thick and guttural, like a predator forcing unfamiliar sounds through human language.

'This is me being merciful,' it hissed. 'Although I despise his accurate assesment, he is fortunate I did not cut his throat for that comment alone. When we were bonded to the first spider, everything he did was blamed on US while he was exonerated without a second thought. Now, when it is the US doing the work, these so called heroes suddenly claim some moral high ground over BOTH of us.'

'We haven't even met all of them yet,' Umbra replied silently. 'Let alone the ones based in New York. Most of the people we have dealt with so far have been wandering nomads at best. Besides, not everyone reacts that way. Laura likes us, and some of the X Men seem chill with us.'

'For now,' the symbiote countered. 'The clawed female is your mate. She will naturally look past preconceived bias. Her father, however, made his position abundantly clear. To him, we were as trustworthy as a time bomb. Can you truly tell me he will be the only one on her team who thinks this way?'

Umbra suppressed a wince.

Embarrassment flared at having his girlfriend so bluntly referred to as his mate, quickly followed by frustration as memories of their first meeting surfaced. Logan had taken one sniff of him, literally, before popping six metal claws and accusing him of trying to eat his kid.

Definitely a memorable way to meet your girlfriend’s parents.

How had it all come to this?

Simply put, Umbra was bonded to an alien life form. The Venom symbiote.

Well, formerly Venom. That distinction mattered, though the story behind how that happened is for another time.

The real problem was that he had not been the first host. That honor belonged to the original web slinger himself. From what Umbra had learned, it had started out as a pretty good deal. Enhanced strength, speed, and healing. A partnership.

Then came the unforeseen issues.

The symbiote’s reputation had been cemented during its time with Spider Man. Violent impulses. Nighttime possession. Emotional instability. T make matters even worst, when it was seperated it found itself bound to Mac Gargan, the former Scorption, who indulged in its more...carnivourous habits.

Needless to say, it hadn't exactly left a stellar impression on the hero community. Things only worsened when the symbiote was forcibly separated from Gargan before vanishisng from containment for eight months with no explanation.

When it resurfaced bonded to someone new they had no experience or info on, panic followed.

A few people knew of Umbra’s existence and had agreed to stay quiet. But every one of those promises came with strings attached, all hinging on the same unspoken condition.

If you go feral, we come for you.

No trial. No discussion. Just containment or termination.

Needless to say, his very existence was controversial on any given day.

Umbra exhaled slowly. "Look, I think we are walking into this with a bad hand no matter what. But isn't it better to get ahead of it? Before someone decides I was hiding something and spins the narrative however they want?"

Fury was silent for a long moment. "I would rather you not go at all," he admitted. "But the others who agreed to stay quiet aren't gonna do it much longer. They want confirmation. Of who and WHAT you are. And they want it soon."

A low growl echoed through Umbra’s mind.

'That is not information they should need to form a decision. They have already made their minds up, now they just want an excuse.' the symbiote muttered.

Before either man could say more, a distant explosion thundered through the night.

Both of them sprinted towards the edge of the deck. Heat rolled across the carrier’s deck even from this distance, the shockwave chasing the sound a second later and rattling metal beneath their feet. The orange glow pulsed unevenly against the clouds, bright enough to paint the undersides in firelight as plumes of smoke twisted upward like reaching hands. Fury could see the destruction only in broad strokes, fire, smoke, and the growing panic spreading through the city. Umbra, however, saw far more. Men and women in yellow suits moved through the chaos with unsettling coordination, some lifting off the ground and cutting through the air while others advanced through the streets below. Bursts of energy tore through buildings and obstacles alike, anything in their path reduced to debris as if resistance was an inconvenience rather than a threat. The technology they wielded looked almost alien in its sophistication, weapons and propulsion systems far beyond anything the law enforcment had encountered before.

'A.I.M.' He thought to himself, his own experience with the science cult coming to his mind. 

Umbra glanced at Fury. The commander’s jaw tightened as he stared at the destruction. When he spoke, it was only one word spoken with the weight of a man about to unveil a secret.

"Go."

Umbra nodded, diving off the platform. The Helicarrier vanished above him as gravity took hold, the city surging upward in a rush of lights and shadow. Wind screamed past his ears, clawing at his suit as the free fall accelerated, pressing the breath from his lungs. Buildings stretched and sharpened beneath him, their outlines resolving into glass and steel as altitude vanished in seconds. Every sense flared, heart hammering as the ground raced closer and closer.

At the last possible moment, Umbra twisted his body and snapped his wrist forward. A strand of black webbing erupted from the suit with a sharp crack, slicing through the air before latching onto the side of a skyscraper. The sudden pull wrenched him sideways, momentum ripping him out of the fall and hurling him into a wide arc. The force bit deep into his shoulders as the web went taut, but the suit absorbed the strain, tightening instinctively to brace him.

The city rushed in around him, sound and motion blending into a single rushing roar as he swung forward, boots skimming past glowing windows and steel beams by inches. With a practiced motion, Umbra released the line and fired another, chaining his movement seamlessly as New York swallowed him whole.

'Well,' he thought as the lights of New York surged past him, the symbiote letting out a low growl of excitement for the fight to come.

'Guess it's time to make our public debut.'

Notes:

Hey everyone. This is a story I've had in my head for a while and thought I would try to get written down somewhere. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 2: A Fantastic First Impression

New York was on fire.

Sirens screamed through the streets below, their wails swallowed by explosions and collapsing steel. Glass rained from shattered windows, glittering as it fell, while plumes of smoke clawed skyward between towering buildings. The city’s usual rhythm, traffic, voices, life, had been violently replaced by panic and chaos.

A.I.M. forces moved through the streets in disciplined clusters, yellow armored soldiers advancing with unsettling coordination. Their weapons spat concentrated bursts of energy that chewed through concrete and storefronts alike, turning cover into shrapnel. Jet-assisted troopers lifted off the ground in controlled arcs, raining fire from above while ground units pressed forward without hesitation.

A streak of fire tore through the smoke-choked air above the avenue, carving a blazing path between buildings. Heat washed over the street below as the Human Torch rocketed past, wreathed head to toe in living flame. His presence turned night into day, shadows fleeing from him as he twisted midair, arms outstretched.

Johnny Storm cut through the smoke like a living comet, his lean, athletic frame wreathed entirely in flame. Fire clung to him as naturally as skin, outlining sharp features and a confident grin that never quite faded, even in the middle of chaos. His hair burned upward in a flickering crown of fire, eyes glowing white-hot as he banked and twisted through the air with effortless precision. Every movement left heat rippling in his wake, the night sky bending around him as if the city itself recoiled from his presence.

“Okay, guys,” Johnny's voice called into the fight, light and irritated all at once. “I don’t know who designed your jet packs, but I’m guessing they didn’t account for this.”

He snapped his wrist.

A wide arc of fire burst outward, not an explosion, but a controlled, searing wave that washed over a cluster of airborne A.I.M. troopers. Their propulsion units sparked violently, systems overloading as the intense heat flooded their armor. One by one, they dropped from the sky, crashing into abandoned cars and pavement below in a rain of smoking yellow.

Johnny grinned, banking sharply to avoid return fire.

“Grounded,” he smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Below him, the street twisted unnaturally.

Reed Richards stood at the center of the battlefield like an anchor point, tall and slender even before his body stretched beyond human limits. His dark hair was already threaded with gray at the temples, his sharp eyes constantly moving as they cataloged threats, trajectories, and technology all at once. His blue and black uniform distorted as his limbs elongated unnaturally, arms thinning and flattening into impossible shapes that wrapped around debris and enemies alike. His body elongated and spread across multiple points of cover at once. One arm snaked upward, fingers flattening against the side of a hovering drone, while another stretched toward a discarded weapon on the ground.

His eyes weren’t on the enemy.

They were on the technology.

“Interesting,” Reed murmured, fingers delicately prying open the casing of an A.I.M. rifle even as it fired wildly in protest. “The energy modulation is unlike anything they’ve fielded before. There’s a harmonic feedback loop here that suggests—”

“Reed.”

Susan Storm hovered nearby, her blonde hair pulled back but still whipping around her face in the turbulence of explosions and displaced air, blue eyes sharp with focus as invisible force shimmered faintly around her. The sleek lines of her uniform caught the firelight as she moved, calm and controlled even as chaos raged below. A translucent shield snapped into existence just in time to stop a barrage of energy fire, the impact rippling across its surface like water struck by rain. She barely flinched, jaw set, posture steady, every movement precise, practiced, the quiet confidence of someone who had stood between danger and others more times than she could count.

“Now is not the time,” she said sharply. “You can analyze their toys after they stop shooting at us.”

Reed blinked, momentarily pulled back into the moment.

“Yes. Right. Of course.” His stretched form recoiled, snapping back toward her as another limb lashed out, yanking an A.I.M. soldier off his feet and slamming him into the pavement hard enough to crack concrete.

Susan raised another shield, this one broader, corralling civilians behind her with a calm authority that cut through the panic.

Then the sky broke.

Something massive came down between two buildings like a meteor.

The impact was deafening.

Concrete shattered outward in a violent ring as the street buckled, a shockwave tearing through the A.I.M. formation. Soldiers were lifted off their feet and hurled backward like toys, armor clanging uselessly as bodies slammed into walls, vehicles, and each other before dropping into unmoving heaps.

Dust and debris billowed upward.

From the center of the crater, a massive orange fist slammed into the ground, followed by another.

Ben Grimm stood up.

The Thing straightened to his full height, stone plates grinding together as he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. His massive frame was a jagged silhouette of living rock, broad and heavy, each orange plate layered over the next like uneven armor forged by brute force rather than design. Thick arms hung at his sides, hands the size of sledgehammers flexing as gravel dust fell from between his fingers. Despite the exterior, his face still carried unmistakably human features, heavy brow, flattened nose, and a mouth set in a familiar scowl, made more striking by the clear blue eyes that swept over the unconscious soldiers scattered around him.

“You guys have no idea how much you were pissin’ me off,” Ben growled, planting his down and curling them into fists. “I’m missin’ the fourth quarter for this. And it better be worth it.”

He glanced up toward the sky where Johnny still blazed between buildings.

Johnny laughed. “Aw, c’mon, Ben. Think of it as quality family time.”

Ben grumbled something under his breath and turned toward the remaining A.I.M. forces already scrambling to regroup.

“Alright,” he muttered, fists clenching as he stepped forward, cracking the pavement with every move. “Who’s next?”

The fight surged forward again.

A.I.M. forces scrambled to recover from the crater Ben had left behind, squads reforming with mechanical precision even as dust still hung in the air. Energy weapons snapped up in unison, bright lances of light tearing through the smoke toward the Fantastic Four’s positions.

Susan reacted instantly.

A wide force field flared into existence between the team and the incoming fire, its invisible surface rippling violently as multiple blasts struck at once. The impacts boomed like thunderclaps, the air itself shuddering as she braced, teeth clenched, focus razor sharp.

“Ben, left flank,” she called.

“On it,” he rumbled, already charging.

Then one of the blasts changed.

The energy bolt passed through the edge of her shield as if the field weren’t there at all, striking Susan square in the torso. She gasped as the force threw her backward, boots skidding across broken asphalt before Reed’s stretched arm snapped around her waist and yanked her out of the line of fire.

“Susan!” Johnny shouted.

She hit the ground hard, breath knocked from her lungs. For a heartbeat, everything went silent except for the ringing in her ears. Panic flared as she instinctively reached for her powers.

Nothing answered.

Susan’s eyes widened.

She pushed herself upright, hands trembling. “Reed,” she said, voice tight, “I—”

Another blast screamed toward her.

Reed moved without thinking, his body snapping outward, forming a living wall as the shot struck him instead. He absorbed the impact and grimaced, eyes already scanning her, mind racing.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

“No,” Susan said quickly. “But my fields… I can’t feel them.”

Reed froze.

“That’s not possible,” he said, the words tumbling out sharper than intended. “Your force fields aren’t external constructs, they’re psionically generated. There’s nothing to short circuit.”

“I’m telling you what I’m feeling,” she snapped back, fear bleeding through her composure. “Or what I’m not feeling.”

Ben turned, seeing her exposed.

“What do ya mean you can’t—”

Johnny didn’t let him finish.

Flame roared outward as Johnny surged higher into the air, his fire intensifying until the heat distorted the space around him. His usual grin was gone, replaced by a sharp, furious focus.

“Oh, no,” he growled. “You do not get to do that.”

He dove.

A spiraling torrent of fire ripped through the street, engulfing another cluster of A.I.M. soldiers before they could react. Armor warped and melted, weapons detonating in their hands as Johnny tore through them with reckless abandon.

“Johnny, pull back!” Reed shouted. “They want a reaction—”

“Yeah? They're gettin one!” Johnny yelled back, unleashing another blast.

High above the street, on a rooftop overlooking the chaos, one A.I.M. trooper adjusted his stance.

Unlike the others, his armor was bulkier, reinforced around the shoulders and forearms. A specialized weapon unfolded from his gauntlet, its surface glowing with the same unstable energy signature Reed had noticed earlier.

He aimed skyward.

Directly at Johnny.

Susan saw it.

Her breath caught as she followed the line of the weapon, dread spiking as she recognized the same telltale shimmer that had bypassed her shield.

“Johnny!” she screamed. “Move!”

The soldier fired.

The shot never reached him.

Something hit the A.I.M. trooper from the side with bone-shattering force, the rooftop exploding from the impact.

The soldier was torn from his footing, hurled across the gap between buildings like a ragdoll. He struck the street below with a sickening crunch, armor collapsing inward as his body skidded to a stop amid shattered concrete.

Silence followed, the Fantastic Four turning as one.

Perched at the edge of the rooftop now stood a figure draped in black, unmoving against the glow of burning streets. The suit he wore seemed to swallow the light, matte and seamless, broken only by a deep red spider emblem stretched across his chest. Its legs curled outward, reaching over his shoulders and down his arms like grasping limbs.

Red lenses glowed softly where his eyes should have been.

He crouched there, perfectly balanced, cloakless yet somehow blending with the shadows themselves. Black webbing in one hand, still swaying from the force of the strike he had just delivered.

Ben squinted up at him. “Uh,” he muttered, “anybody else seein’ the creepy spider guy, or is that just me? What's up with webs?”

Johnny hovered in place, flames flickering uncertainly.

For a heartbeat, he remained crouched at the rooftop’s edge, still as stone. The firelight painted the red emblem across his chest in flickering shadows, his glowing lenses fixed on the chaos below as if committing every movement to memory.

Then he was gone.

Not a leap.

Not a swing.

One moment he was there—

—and the next, the rooftop was empty.

A shock of displaced air rippled outward as he reappeared in the street below, dropping into the midst of the A.I.M. formation like a falling blade. Asphalt cracked beneath him as he landed, already moving before gravity had fully released him.

What followed was not a brawl.

It was a purge.

The man moved through the soldiers with brutal efficiency, his body cutting a precise path through the chaos as black and red blurred together in relentless motion. He never stopped moving for more than a heartbeat, weaving between energy blasts that screamed through the air just inches from his head, his timing so exact it felt less like reflex and more like prediction. Every step, every turn, was calculated—he slipped past burning fire and collapsing debris as if the battlefield itself were moving slower than he was. A twist of his torso sent one shot harmlessly past his shoulder; a sharp pivot carried him beneath another as heat washed over his back. To the soldiers firing at him, it must have looked impossible, like he was phasing through danger rather than avoiding it. To anyone watching closely, it was control. Absolute, practiced control, executed with the calm certainty of someone who had survived this kind of fight far too many times before.

Every strike was placed.

A knee shattered armor plating.

An elbow crushed a helmet inward.

A web line snapped tight, yanking one soldier directly into the path of another’s blast.

From above, the Fantastic Four watched in stunned silence.

“That’s… not random,” Reed muttered, eyes tracking every movement. “He’s reading them. Anticipating firing patterns.”

Ben crossed his arms, frowning. “Looks like he’s done this kinda dance before.”

Johnny hovered lower now, flames dimming slightly as he watched the black figure carve through the street. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “A lot before.”

The figure twisted mid-step, narrowly avoiding a point-blank shot. Another soldier lunged from behind, rifle raised.

Too slow.

The spider spun, one hand snapping out in a tight, claw-like arc. There was a sharp, metallic shriek. The rifle split cleanly in half, the cut so precise it looked surgical. The force of the strike sent the soldier flying backward, armor denting as he crashed into a wrecked car hard enough to cave in the hood.

The Fantastic Four stared as the new comer straightened, the tips of his fingers caught the light ,each ended in a subtle, curved claw.

Johnny’s eyes widened as he hovered in place, flames flickering lower as his usual swagger faltered under the weight of what he was watching. He’d seen Spider-Man pull off insane stunts before, impossible saves, clever takedowns, fights that danced on the edge of disaster. But this was different. There was no quip, no hesitation, no visible concern for pulling punches. Just precision. Lethal, efficient precision. His gaze tracked the black-suited figure as another A.I.M. soldier went down in a blur of motion, and a chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the night air. “Since when did Web-Head get that hardcore?” he muttered, the question carrying an edge of disbelief and unease he didn’t bother trying to hide.

Reed didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze narrowed, focusing not on the claws, but on the way Umbra moved. The posture. The weight distribution. The complete lack of hesitation when lethal force was an option.

The powerset and ability was earily reminiscent of Spider-Man's play style.

And yet…

“That’s not Spider-Man,” Reed said quietly.

Johnny turned toward him. “What? C’mon, Reed, black suit, spider logo, wall-crawly thing—”

“No,” Reed interrupted, certainty locking into place as his gaze sharpened, tracking the black-suited figure with renewed intensity. Years of observation, data, and first-hand experience clicked together in his mind with unsettling clarity. “Spider-Man doesn’t move like that. He pulls his punches. He improvises.” His eyes flicked back to the battlefield as another squad of A.I.M. soldiers fell in seconds, movements unfolding with ruthless efficiency. What he was seeing wasn’t instinctive agility or last-second cleverness, it was discipline. Weight distribution optimized for impact. Angles chosen to disable, not distract. Every action suggested formal training layered atop powers disturbingly similar to Spider-Man’s, and that realization sent a quiet chill through him.

“This isn’t improvisation,” Reed continued. “It’s training.”

Susan watched in silence, unease settling deep in her chest as her eyes followed the black-suited figure’s movements through the battlefield. It wasn’t just the violence, or even the impossible strength on display that troubled her. It was the control. Every motion was deliberate, measured, as if he were constantly holding something back rather than losing himself to the fight.

A thunderous bang echoed through the street as something massive tore free from the chaos behind the A.I.M. lines. Twisted metal screamed in protest as a city bus burst into view, hurtling end over end through the air like a discarded toy.

“Heads up!” Johnny shouted.

He reacted on instinct, unleashing a focused blast of flame that struck the bus mid-flight. The fire slowed it, altered its trajectory—

—but not enough.

The bus veered sharply, spinning toward a cluster of civilians frozen in terror at the edge of the street.

“Ben!” Susan yelled.

“I got it!” Ben roared, launching himself forward—

Only to stop short.

Because something else got there first.

A black blur streaked beneath the falling vehicle, hitting the ground with a solid boom that cracked the pavement outward. The figure caught the bus midair, fingers digging into warped steel as momentum drove him down onto one knee.

He didn’t buckle.

With a low grunt, he straightened.

The bus rose with him.

Steel groaned as he lifted it fully overhead, arms locked, stance wide and unshakable. Dust and debris slid off the underside as the weight settled entirely on his shoulders.

For a brief, stunned moment—

No one moved.

The masked figure turned his head toward the civilians, red lenses burning through the smoke.

“Go,” he said calmly.

They didn’t hesitate.

As the last of them scattered, he lowered the bus with controlled force, setting it down intact behind him before straightening once more.

The Fantastic Four stared.

Johnny’s flames flickered uncertainly.
Ben’s jaw hung open.
Reed’s thoughts raced through calculations that refused to resolve.

“That bus weighs—” Reed started.

“Don’t,” Johnny said quietly. “Just… don’t.”

The figure was already turning away.

The street shuddered.

Metal unfolded with a grinding, hydraulic roar as something massive rose from behind the A.I.M. lines. Armor plates slid and locked into place, forming a towering humanoid shape of gleaming alloy and adaptive circuitry.

The Super-Adaptoid stood to its full height.

Its body was sleek and modular, surfaces subtly shifting as internal systems recalibrated. Energy conduits glowed faintly beneath its armor as it scanned the battlefield, optics flaring as they settled on the black-suited figure without ceremony.

It moved.

The Adaptoid launched forward, arms elongating as metal flowed and reshaped. One ignited in flame, heat blooming outward in a near-perfect replication of Johnny Storm’s power. The other flattened and stretched, mimicking Reed Richards’ elastic strike.

The figure ducked beneath the burning arm, heat washing over his back, then drove forward, planting his foot and striking upward. His fist plunged straight through the Adaptoid’s torso, passing into its semi-liquid interior as though the machine were molten rather than solid.

The Adaptoid staggered. Then a voice cut in over its external speakers. “Impressive,” the voice said. “That unit was engineered to engage any enhanced individual currently operating in the city.”

The figure tore his hand free and leapt backward, landing in a low crouch as his suit rippled subtly across his arms. The red lenses narrowed, focus sharpening into something predatory.

“Unfortunately for your sake, you will not be an exception.”

The Adaptoid straightened, its arms reformed, metal flowing once more, this time into long, blade-like constructs that gleamed with sharpened edges. It advanced a single step, servos humming with restrained power.

“Strength is a common variable,” the voice continued. “Skill is not. Tell me—how confident are you in a contest that isn’t decided by raw force?”

The figure remained silent. Then black liquid surged from his forearms, flowing upward against gravity itself. The substance twisted and thickened, solidifying as it rose, shaping itself into two long, double-edged blades, one forming in each hand.

They gleamed dully, edges impossibly sharp.

For the first time, the Adaptoid hesitated, its head tilting, optics adjusting as if its operator were taking a closer look.

“That’s new,” the voice remarked. “You’re not one of the usual spiders that nest in New York.”

A brief pause.

“So what kind exactly are you supposed to be?”

The figure straightened speaking for the first time since his arrival. His broad shoulders rolling back as he let swords rest downwards for a moment. “I’m the kind,” he said evenly, blades humming softly at his sides, “that isn’t afraid to bite first.”

The Super-Adaptoid attacked, surging forward with explosive force, blades flashing as it closed the distance in a heartbeat. The ground cracked beneath its charge, servos screaming as it drove a spear-thrust straight for the black-suited figure’s center mass.

He vanished upward.

The thrust passed through empty air as he launched himself skyward, twisting mid-flight before gravity reclaimed him. Coming back down, colliding in a shriek of blade on blade.

The clash rang out across the street, moving too fast for untrained eyes, weapons striking and sliding in rapid succession as sparks and fragments of liquid metal sprayed outward with every impact. The figure fought with ruthless precision, movements tight and surigcal, while the Adaptoid adapted on the fly—angles shifting, reach changing, techniques evolving mid-exchange.

For a moment they seemed as though they were evenly matched.

Then the Adaptoid pressed in harder, its blades reconfigured mid-swing, forcing the figure back as it unleashed a rapid series of strikes meant to overwhelm through sheer volume. One blade slipped past his guard, grazing his shoulder and sending him skidding across the pavement.

The Adaptoid advanced, the controller confident and assured of his victory.

Then something moved behind the figure.

The black surface of his suit rippled violently across his spine before seemingly splitting open as a thick, whip-like tendril burst free. It lashed forward with explosive speed, slamming into the Adaptoid’s faceplate with a wet, concussive crack.

The machine reeled.

Its head snapped to the side as optics flared wildly, balance disrupted for the briefest instant.

That was all he needed.

The figure surged forward, blades flashing once more as he re-engaged, forcing the Adaptoid back step by step. From above, the Fantastic Four watched in stunned silence.

“That thing just—” Johnny started.

"I know," Reed commented, his eyes fixed on the figure as more pieces of the puzzle fell into place in front of him. "I saw it too." That's when Reed bgain to notice the Adaptoid's slowing speed. Its attacks seeming less coordinated. He frowned, unsure as to why the super-machine seemingly begain to wain in its effort. The answer hit the genius as he watched the fighter re-engage the android.

He didn’t aim for the torso.

Didn’t target the head.

Didn’t press for overwhelming force.

Instead, his blades cut toward joints. Shoulders, elbows, knees, keck seams.

Fast.

Deep.

Each incision was deliberate.

The Adaptoid retaliated, limbs reshaping as it tried to compensate, metal flowing to reinforce damaged areas. Then it hesitated for just a fraction.

Reed’s breath caught.

“It’s not healing,” he said slowly.

Susan turned to him. “What?”

“The nanomachines,” Reed continued, tracking the wounds. “They should be reconnecting. Reconstituting damaged sections almost instantly.”

Another strike landed. Another cut.

The damage remained. Thin lines of light pulsed faintly within the cuts, a muted purple glow threading through the torn metal like veins beneath translucent skin. It wasn’t heat, and it wasn’t residual energy from the strike itself. It lingered, radiating softly along the edges of the wounds as if the material had been cauterized by something deeper than force alone. The same dim violet sheen clung to the Adaptoid’s blade edges where they had clashed, flickering unevenly before fading, leaving behind metal that refused to flow back into place. Whatever had done this hadn’t just cut the machine. It had disrupted it, severed something fundamental, leaving the nanomachines unable to recognize the damaged sections as something that could be repaired.

“They’re being severed,” Reed realized. “At the cellular level. Whatever energy he’s generating—it’s disrupting their ability to rebind.”

The Adaptoid faltered again.

Barely perceptible.

But real.

The human voice returned over the speakers, no longer amused.

“Curious,” it said. “Your attacks are inefficient. And yet—”

The machine lunged, blade elongating into a spear as it drove forward with a desperate thrust aimed straight for the figure’s chest.

He ducked dropping low to slide beneath the strike. One blade flashed upward.

The Adaptoid’s arm separated cleanly at the shoulder joint, liquid metal splashing outward as the limb hit the ground, twitching uselessly. Before it could recover, the figure pivoted, carving through the knee joint in a brutal, precise arc. The Adaptoid collapsed forward, its massive frame slamming into the pavement.

It tried to rise.

Failed.

The figure stepped in.

No hesitation.

He drove his hand straight through the center of its chest.

The machine shuddered violently as its internal structure destabilized, armor liquefying as its form lost cohesion. The Adaptoid slumped, melting inward, collapsing into a spreading puddle of inert metal at his feet.

The voice crackled one last time.

“Impressive,” it said calmly. “This encounter has yielded valuable data.”

A pause.

“I look forward to acquiring more.”

The connection cut.

Silence swallowed the street.

The black-suited figure straightened, the tendril retracting back into his suit as if it had never existed. His blades dissolved into shadow as he turned slowly, surveying the battlefield. Around him, A.I.M. soldiers dropped their weapons one by one. Rifles clattered against asphalt as they stared at the remains of their ace in the hole, now reduced to a lifeless pool of metal.

Ben let out a low whistle as Johnny descended slowly, flames dim. Susan exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Reed stared at the figure in black. Not with fear, but with concern and wariness.

Because whatever he was—

He had just dismantled something designed to kill them.

The street was quiet, emptied of immediate threat. Smoke drifted low across the pavement, curling around shattered armor and abandoned weapons. Somewhere in the distance, sirens still wailed, but here, in the wake of the fight, the sound felt muted. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

The black-suited figure stood near the center of it all, back turned slightly as he surveyed the aftermath. The strange blades had already flowed back into his arms, leaving no trace of where they had been. No blood. No scorch marks.

Just absence.

Reed took a cautious step forward. “You fight with a hybridized skill set,” he said, voice measured, eyes never leaving the figure. “Spider-like mobility, yes, but layered with formal combat training Spider-Man doesn't have. Your strength output exceeds baseline enhanced parameters, yet your movement suggests constant restraint.”

Johnny snorted. “Translation: you’re like Spider-Man if he went full edgy cousin and stopped cracking jokes.”

Susan shot him a look. “Johnny.”

“What?” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying. Black suit, spider thing, scary quiet—”

“That’s enough,” she cut in, exhasperated holding her head in exhaustion with her brother's antics.

Behind them, Ben leaned against a half-collapsed storefront, massive arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t say anything. Just watched. His eyes followed every shift of the figure’s weight, every subtle adjustment in stance.

Reed continued, undeterred.

“Your reaction timing suggests predictive processing,” he said. “Either extreme combat experience or an external augmentation assisting your threat assessment. Possibly both.”

Still no response.

“You disrupted adaptive nanomachines at a cellular level,” Reed went on, curiosity bleeding into concern. “That implies an energy interaction we don’t currently have a model for. And yet you used it with remarkable precision.”

The figure finally turned.

The red lenses regarded them without expression.

Johnny leaned forward slightly. “Okay, see, that’s the part that freaks me out. You take down a thing built to kill us, and you’re just… standing there.”

Silence stretched, the figure tilting its head just a few degrees to the side, the movement slow and deliberate, as if it were studying them rather than listening—an almost predatory gesture that made the glowing lenses feel less like eyes and more like something assessing prey.

Then the figure spoke.

“I have something I need to take care of,” he said evenly.

Reed blinked. “Wait—there are still unanswered questions. We should—”

“We can talk later.”

The words were calm, final.

Before anyone could respond, black webbing snapped outward, anchoring to a building above. The figure launched himself skyward in a smooth, powerful arc, disappearing into the smoke and shadows before Johnny could even finish opening his mouth.

“Hey—!” Johnny started, then stopped, flames flaring irritably around his shoulders. “Great. Awesome. Fantastic. How exactly were we supposed to follow that? We don't even got a name for the guy!”

Susan exhaled slowly, eyes still on the empty skyline.

“No,” she said quietly. “But somehow I don’t think this was the last time we’ll see him.”

Behind them, Ben shifted his weight and grunted.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guys like that don’t just drop in once.”

The night sky of the city answered with distant sirens.

And somewhere above it all, something moved through the dark.

Notes:

Hope you all enjoyed this. Umbra's first meeting with some of the heroes of New York but definitely not the last. Feel free to comment and leave reviews!