It began with a spider.
Not Peter.
Not Miles.
Not Gwen.
An older one. Ancient. Crawling between stories. Its legs clicked like typewriter keys.
It whispered names as it moved: stories long dead, ideas never written, heroes erased before their first panel.
And at the center of its web… sat the Weaver.
No mask. No body. Just a silhouette made of unfinished origin stories, glowing red with editorial fury.
It watched Peter Parker through the fabric of canon.
And smiled.
Queens. 3:02 a.m.
Peter Parker woke up in a cold sweat.
Not from a dream — from a story beat.
The kind that wraps around your chest like bad foreshadowing.
He looked outside.
Fog. Too thick. Not weather — something worse.
A ripple through narrative physics.
Peter stood. Threw on the suit.
His phone vibrated.
Deadpool.
🕸 "We got a problem. A spider-shaped one."
Peter tapped back.
"Define spider-shaped."
Deadpool responded instantly.
"Like eight-legged metaphor for existential rewrite. With a hobby for chess."
Peter sighed. "Where?"
"Brooklyn. And bring goat snacks."
Brooklyn.
Deadpool stood in the middle of a glowing symbol carved into the street. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Billy the Goat paced behind him, snorting nervously.
Wade was holding a comic book. Not printed — woven. Threads instead of pages.
"The Weaver sent this," Wade said. "It showed up in my fridge. Next to my breakfast chimichanga. Rude."
Peter took the book. It had no title. Only a symbol:
A web, unraveling into a spiral.
Peter opened it.
The pages were blank… except one.
"If you are reading this, you have already lost."
Lightning split the sky.
A rift opened above them.
And from it descended The Originals.
The Originals were not heroes.
They were first drafts. Raw story.
Prototypes the multiverse never finished — but never deleted.
A Hulk made entirely of unresolved trauma.
A Thor who only speaks in Shakespearean grammar loops.
A Tony Stark who never stopped being a weapons dealer.
And in the center: a Spider-Man who never lost Uncle Ben.
He landed in front of Peter.
Same face.
Same voice.
But no guilt. No humility.
Just pure, uncut ego.
Peter instinctively stepped back. "Who are you?"
The Original Peter tilted his head. "I'm who you'd be if the writers never punished you."
Deadpool blinked. "Well that's chilling."
The Originals moved like bad ideas come to life — powerful, unedited, unstable.
"We're here to clean the slate," said Original Thor. "The Weaver wills it."
Billy snorted angrily.
Peter braced. "You can't just erase everyone else."
Original Peter sneered. "We're not erasing. We're overwriting."
The Battle Begins.
Peter swings first, webbing Ego-Peter into a light pole — but the Original slices through it with sheer plot armor. This version doesn't doubt himself, and that makes him fast.
Deadpool grabs Billy. "Plan?"
Peter: "Distract them. I'll look for the real threat."
Deadpool: "Got it. Time for interpretive violence."
Wade barrels into Original Hulk using two plungers and a wedding cake stolen from a B-plot.
Peter zips toward a nearby building, scanning the rift. He sees it — not the Originals, but the threads connecting them.
Invisible storylines.
And at the center — the Weaver.
Not watching.
Writing.
Peter whispers, "This isn't a battle. It's a draft."
Suddenly, the world blinks.
For a fraction of a second — reality resets.
Peter's suit is different. Deadpool is a cowboy. The buildings are made of LEGO bricks.
Then: blink — normal again.
Then: blink — Peter is Miles. Then Gwen. Then Ben Reilly.
All versions of Spider-Man.
Flickering.
Fighting.
The Weaver is testing outcomes.
Drafting endings.
Peter punches Original Peter again, but it's like punching fan service.
"I don't want to be perfect," Peter shouts. "I want to be real."
Billy leaps onto the Originals' Loom-thread — biting it.
With a blinding surge, it unravels.
The Originals vanish in mid-attack, collapsing like corrupted save files.
Deadpool stares. "Note to self: goat bites break canon."
But the rift is still open.
The Weaver speaks for the first time.
A thousand voices in one:
"I OFFER YOU CLEAN SLATE. PERFECT STORY. NO PAIN. NO LOSS."
Peter steps forward.
"No truth. No growth."
"THEN YOU WILL BE ERASED."
Peter grips the thread Billy left behind. Feels the weight of every mistake, every bad day, every loss.
And he smiles.
"You can't erase what was never written to be clean."
He pulls the thread.
The Weaver screams.
The rift closes.
Silence.
Deadpool brushes ash off his shoulder. "That went well."
Peter sits down.
Exhausted. But… okay.
"I don't want to be rewritten," he says quietly.
Deadpool hands him a juice box.
"You won't be. You're too damn persistent."
Billy curls up nearby.
In the distance, the skyline is whole again.
Peter looks up.
But somewhere, faintly, he hears the Weaver whisper.
"To be continued…"