Chapter Text
Ext. New York-Morning
23-year-old Peter Parker stood on the edge of a rooftop, the Spider-Man suit clinging tightly to his body while the mask rested in his hand. The city lights blurred in the distance below.
“My name is Peter Parker,” he said quietly.
“But everyone calls me by my hero name… Spider-Man.”
He pulled the mask over his face, pressed the button on his web-shooter, and swung off into the night, leaping from building to building with practiced ease.
“I’m known as a hero in this city. I protect everyone from danger.”
He spotted a car skidding dangerously toward the edge of a bridge and fired a web-line, catching it mid-air and pulling it back to safety.
“Everyone in the city loves me.”
Suddenly, J. Jonah Jameson’s voice blasted from a giant billboard screen nearby.
“Spider-Man is the biggest menace of all!”
Peter landed on another rooftop, his shoulders slumping.
“Not everyone,” he muttered. “I loved my life… until that day.”
Ext. Cemetery-Night
The scene shifted to a rainy cemetery. Peter stood over Aunt May’s fresh grave, flowers in his hands. He slowly placed them on the wet soil. A loud thunder strike cracked across the sky. When the lightning flashed, he noticed Uncle Ben’s grave right beside hers.
“That day… I had to bury Aunt May next to Uncle Ben,” Peter said, his voice breaking. “And everyone around me left. Mr. Stark and the Avengers cut all connection with me. MJ broke up with me so she could start a family with a man named Paul. They have children together now. Gwen Stacy was my girlfriend for a while, but she cheated on me with Norman Osborn… my friend’s father. She even got pregnant with his children. Everybody… everyone I ever knew… left me.”
Ext. Rooftop-Night
Back on the rooftop, Peter stood at the edge, looking down at the crowd gathering below. A police officer shouted up at him through a megaphone.
“Sir! Sir, please come down! If you’re sad, we can help you!”
Peter stared at the people below, rain pouring down his masked face.
“No… nobody can help me.”
He stepped off the roof and fell.
He crashed hard into the concrete. To everyone’s shock, he stood up completely unharmed. There wasn’t a single scratch on him.
A woman in the crowd gasped.
“I can’t believe he’s still alive…”
Peter glanced at her and replied dryly, “I can’t believe you wore that out of the house.”
The police quickly swarmed him. They grabbed Peter, slammed him to the ground, handcuffed his wrists, and shoved him into the back of a patrol car. He never noticed MJ and Gwen watching him from a nearby building, their faces filled with shock.
Int. Jail-Morning
Peter spent a week in jail and an entire month in rehab. But the worst was yet to come.
While he was still locked up, the door to his cell opened. Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin, stepped inside, his massive body nearly filling the doorway.
“Wilson Fisk,” Peter said under his breath. “Aka Kingpin.”
Kingpin grinned. “Peter Parker… or should I just call you Spider-Man?” He chuckled deeply.
Peter stayed silent.
Kingpin continued, “Listen here, kid. I saw you on the news yesterday. You tried to off yourself. Don’t do it. Because if you’re gonna die, I’m gonna be the one to do it. I might shank you in the shower, at breakfast, lunch, or dinner… or I might just do it right now.”
He stepped closer.
“I run this prison like I run New York. After all… great power comes with great responsibility.”
Peter’s eyes widened.
Kingpin smirked. “What? Was it something I said? Did I touch a—”
In a flash, Peter grabbed Kingpin by the neck and lifted the huge man off the ground.
“Hey!” Kingpin choked out.
Prisoners rushed toward the cell. Hours later, every inmate — including Kingpin — lay beaten and groaning on the floor. Peter sat alone in his cell, breathing heavily.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” he whispered. “But what good is that responsibility if great power only gives me great pain? Why does great power always demand great sacrifices? Why does everything I do… everything I try… everything I want… always fail?”
J. Jonah Jameson’s voice suddenly blared from the TV in the common area.
“Spider-Man is nothing but a menace to all! He should be locked up like the rest of those criminals. He should hang up the suit and leave town—”
Peter grabbed a metal table and hurled it at the screen, smashing it to pieces.
“He was right,” Peter said coldly. “I did need to hang up the suit. More than that… I needed to hang up everything. Peter Parker can’t die… but Spider-Man can.”
Int. Peter's Apartment-Afternoon
Peter returned to his old apartment and grabbed the Spider-Man suit.
“It might take some time,” he muttered, “but I have to get this right.”
He spent hours building a silicone dummy of himself. He jammed an IV into his own arm and drew enough blood to make the dummy look convincing. Once it was finished, he dressed the dummy in the old suit and placed the mask on its face.
His house phone suddenly played an old voicemail.
“Hey Peter, it’s MJ,” the voice said. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I saw what happened… I’m glad you’re okay. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but I was hoping we could meet up sometime soon. Please call me if you’re home.”
Another voicemail played.
“Hey Peter Parker— ugh, why did I say it like that? It’s Gwen. It’s been some time. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. If you’re going through something, you can always talk to me. Call me if you get this.”
Then came the last one.
“Hey kid, it’s Mr. Stark. Remember when I said you weren’t up to the level of the Avengers and that you’re still just a kid? Yeah… I may have been too harsh. I was wondering if you’re free. I wanted to show you something to lift your spirits. Call me if you get this, Peter.”
Peter reached his hand toward the phone, but stopped when his eyes landed on the dummy.
“No… it’s too late.”
Ext. New York-Night
He carried the dummy to a tall building and webbed it high above the street, a noose tight around its neck.
Ext. New York-Morning
The next morning, the whole city saw Spider-Man hanging from the building.
When the police finally brought the dummy down and removed the mask, they revealed Peter Parker’s face underneath.
“Both are dead,” Peter said quietly as he watched from the shadows. “And that’s how it has to be.”
Ext. Alley-Night
Weeks later, Peter walked through a dark alley in the pouring night rain.
“Since I’m no longer Peter Parker or Spider-Man, I have to make a living.”
He knocked on a heavy metal door. When it opened, he stepped into an illegal underground cage fighting ring. Peter fought every wrestler and fighter they put against him and won easily. As he walked out with his winnings, a group of thugs surrounded him.
“Give us the money,” one of them growled, “and we’ll let you keep your teeth.”
Peter looked at them with cold eyes.
“Look at these fools. They think just because Spider-Man is gone, they can do whatever they want.”
He beat every single one of them down. When the last man pulled a knife on him, Peter lifted him off the ground by his throat.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Peter said, his voice filled with rage. “I always believed there were good people in New York, but I was lied to. I was a hero. A great hero. But I always had to make sacrifices. If this is what being a hero means every single day—”
Peter’s grip tightened.
“I’m done with it.”
He snapped the man’s neck and dropped the body onto the wet ground.
“I’m done being a hero. I’m done being a savior. I’m done getting no respect. I’m done being weak. I’m done being lied to… and I’m done being nice.”
Int. Peter's Hideout-Night
In his new hideout, under dim lights, Peter began working on something new.
“Spider-Man is dead.”
He reinforced the new suit with strong, nearly indestructible materials. He created a utility belt and filled it with new gadgets: smoke bombs, flashbangs, sticky bombs, webslingers, a combat knife, guns, and a sniper rifle.
“A new name.”
Peter loaded six Glock 17 pistols and several spare magazines.
“A new meaning.”
“A new way in life.”
When the suit was complete, Peter stood in front of the mirror and slowly pulled on the new black mask with silver accents.
“My name is Peter Parker,” he said, staring at his reflection. “Spider-Man is dead. Call me… Dark Tarantula.”
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