Chapter 3: Threads of Routine
2032 Words
The alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but I was already awake at 6:30 AM.
It was the second week since my arrival. My body—or rather, Alex Miller’s body—had already established a new circadian rhythm. Pale blue morning light filtered through the attic skylight. I stared at the wooden rafters for a few seconds, confirming I wasn’t dreaming.
Still here. Still 2002. Still the world with Peter Parker and a potentially radioactive spider.
I sat up and stretched. The sixteen-year-old joints gave a soft pop. Over the past week and a half, I had absorbed everything about "myself" like a sponge: preferred breakfast (bacon crispy, eggs over easy), locker combination (16-24-8, Aunt May’s birthday), even how to make this body seem less clumsy in gym class.
"Alex! Lily! Time to get up!" Aunt May’s voice came from downstairs, accompanied by the sizzle of a frying pan.
I changed into jeans and a T-shirt with a faded band logo—Guns N’ Roses? No, Nirvana. The fashion of 2002. Walking downstairs, the smell of coffee and bacon wafting from the kitchen gave me an unfamiliar warmth.
"Morning," I said, taking my seat at the table.
Aunt May turned around, spatula in hand, wearing that motherly expression mixed with concern and mild annoyance. "Were you up late again last night? Your dark circles are practically down to your chin."
"Just reading," I said truthfully. Over the past week, I had flipped through almost every book on New York history in the local library, trying to verify whether the details of this world matched my memories.
Uncle Ben looked up from behind his newspaper, glasses sliding down his nose. "Teenagers need sleep, kiddo. You’re not saving the world just yet."
His words made my heart skip a beat. "Of course, Uncle Ben."
Lily stumbled into the kitchen, her hair a bird’s nest, grabbing the orange juice and taking a big gulp. "The history paper is going to kill us," she mumbled. "Why do we care about 19th-century tariff policies?"
"Because those policies shaped the world today," Uncle Ben said calmly, turning a page, "just like your choices today will shape tomorrow."
Classic Ben Parker wisdom. No, Ben Miller. I corrected myself. In this universe, he was my uncle, not Peter’s famously wise uncle. But his manner of speaking, that gentle yet firm wisdom, was strikingly similar.
After breakfast, Lily and I walked to school together. A cool, pleasant May morning in New York, the streets already bustling.
"You and Peter Parker are friends now?" Lily suddenly asked, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk ahead.
I hesitated. "Well... study partners. We prepared for the chemistry test together at the library."
"He’s kind of weird," Lily said. "Always alone, except for Mary Jane and that nerd Ned."
"Maybe he’s just focused on his own things," I defended him, though I wasn’t sure why.
Lily shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just... don’t get into trouble because of him. You know Flash Thompson has his eye on him."
I knew far more than that. I knew Flash would one day become a Venom host, would become Peter’s enemy due to jealousy and misunderstanding, would almost ruin Peter’s life at some point. But for now, he was just an ordinary school bully, and Peter Parker was still just that skinny kid with glasses.
Entering the school, the hallway noise swallowed me whole. I skillfully headed to my locker, spun the combination lock—16-24-8. The metal door popped open. Inside were a few photos: one of a younger "me" with my parents, smiling so happily; another from last summer at Coney Island with Uncle Ben, Aunt May, and Lily.
Alex Miller’s life. The original owner of this body. Where had he gone? Was he overwritten by my consciousness, or did he go to my world when we swapped places, waking up in my body to face a car crash and a shattered crush?
The thought made me shiver. I closed the locker door, forcing myself to focus on the present.
In chemistry class, I chose a seat behind Peter. He looked tired today, with dark circles under his eyes.
"Up late?" I whispered as Mr. Rodriguez wrote formulas on the board.
Peter jumped, turning around. "What? Oh, yeah. Couldn’t... sleep much."
"Preparing for the Oscorp lecture?"
He nodded, pushing his glasses up. "And other things." He didn’t elaborate, but my Spider-Man knowledge radar buzzed. Insomnia? Could it be the adjustment period after just gaining powers? Or did he go "patrolling" last night?
"The lecture is this Friday, right?" I asked. "Do I need to read up on any background?"
Peter’s face lit up. "Actually, I did some research. Oscorp recently made a breakthrough in gene splicing, but the ethics committee has reservations. There are also rumors about unauthorized bioweapon research, though that’s probably just conspiracy theories."
Bioweapons. The Goblin Serum. My stomach tightened again.
"Sounds like they need more oversight," I said.
"My uncle says the same thing," Peter lowered his voice. "He says any power strong enough to change the world needs equal responsibility to balance it."
With great power comes great responsibility.
The phrase surfaced again, albeit in a slightly different form. In this universe, it seemed to be a mantra of Uncle Ben—Ben Miller. Perhaps every universe’s Uncle Ben would utter this phrase in some way, like some sort of universal constant.
Class continued. When the teacher discussed radioactive decay, I noticed Peter listening with particular intensity, even drawing detailed diagrams in his notebook. He was studying radioactivity. Preparing for a spider bite? Or had he already been bitten and was trying to understand what happened to him?
Between classes, we ran into Flash and his crew in the hallway.
"Look who it is," Flash drawled. "Parker and his bodyguard."
I was about to speak when Peter gently touched my arm. "Ignore him."
But Flash wouldn’t let it go. "Heard you two are going to that nerd lecture together? Need me to bring you some coffee? Extra sugar?"
"Actually, I take mine black," I said, my calm tone surprising even myself. "But thanks for your concern, Thompson."
Flash narrowed his eyes, clearly unaccustomed to such a polite rebuttal. He snorted and walked away.
Peter looked at me. "You’re really patient."
"Arguing with him is pointless," I said. "It’s like yelling at a wall. The wall won’t change, you’ll just get a sore throat."
Peter laughed, a genuine, relaxed sound that made me realize it was the first time I’d seen him truly unwind all week. "That’s a good analogy. I should tell my uncle. He’d like it."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. In English, we analyzed The Great Gatsby; in gym, I tried not to look completely incompetent on the basketball court (Alex’s body had average coordination); at lunch, I sat with Peter, Mary Jane, and her friends, listening to them discuss the upcoming prom.
"Are you going, Peter?" Mary Jane asked, stirring her juice with a straw.
Peter blushed. "I... might. If I find a date."
"You’ll find one," Mary Jane said with a smile. "You’re a good guy, Peter."
Watching their interaction, that adolescent awkwardness reminded me of my own college days—or rather, my past life. Lin Wei’s face flashed through my mind, but strangely, the pain had lessened. Maybe it was the distance, maybe my new life was filling my thoughts.
After school, Peter had a part-time job. "Darkroom assistant at the Daily Bugle," he explained. "Helping them develop photos. The pay isn’t great, but I’m learning."
The Daily Bugle. J. Jonah Jameson. The future editor who would hound Spider-Man relentlessly. For now, he was just the owner of the newspaper where Peter worked part-time.
"Sounds cool," I said. "Maybe I’ll stop by sometime?"
"Anytime," Peter said, then hesitated. "Oh, the lecture is Friday at 4 PM. Meet at the school gate?"
"Sounds good."
We parted ways. I headed toward the library, planning to continue my research. But halfway there, I changed direction, walking toward a familiar address in Queens—familiar at least in my memory.
Uncle Ben and Aunt May’s house.
Or rather, what should be Peter Parker’s house.
I stood across the street, looking at the neat two-story house. White picket fence, well-kept front yard, wind chimes hanging on the porch. Almost identical to the movies, just more real, more... ordinary.
A middle-aged man came out of the house, holding a watering can, tending to the flowers by the door. He wore glasses, his hair graying, dressed in a simple sweater and khakis. Ben Parker.
My breath caught. He looked so kind, so ordinary. Who would think that, in the not-too-distant future, he would die in a robbery, and that phrase would become the most famous motto in the Marvel Universe?
Just as I was about to leave, the front door opened again. A lanky teenager walked out—Peter, changed out of his school uniform, carrying a camera bag. He said a few words to Uncle Ben, who patted his shoulder with a warm smile.
Peter turned and headed down the street. I quickly hid behind a tree. Watching his retreating figure, I realized I was witnessing history—not the grand superhero battles, but the tiny moments in ordinary daily life, moments that would shape a legend.
"Look who it is," Flash drawled. "Parker and his bodyguard."
I was about to speak when Peter gently touched my arm. "Ignore him."
But Flash wouldn’t let it go. "Heard you two are going to that nerd lecture together? Need me to bring you some coffee? Extra sugar?"
"Actually, I take mine black," I said, my calm tone surprising even myself. "But thanks for your concern, Thompson."
Flash narrowed his eyes, clearly unaccustomed to such a polite rebuttal. He snorted and walked away.
Peter looked at me. "You’re really patient."
"Arguing with him is pointless," I said. "It’s like yelling at a wall. The wall won’t change, you’ll just get a sore throat."
Peter laughed, a genuine, relaxed sound that made me realize it was the first time I’d seen him truly unwind all week. "That’s a good analogy. I should tell my uncle. He’d like it."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. In English, we analyzed The Great Gatsby; in gym, I tried not to look completely incompetent on the basketball court (Alex’s body had average coordination); at lunch, I sat with Peter, Mary Jane, and her friends, listening to them discuss the upcoming prom.
"Are you going, Peter?" Mary Jane asked, stirring her juice with a straw.
Peter blushed. "I... might. If I find a date."
"You’ll find one," Mary Jane said with a smile. "You’re a good guy, Peter."
Watching their interaction, that adolescent awkwardness reminded me of my own college days—or rather, my past life. Lin Wei’s face flashed through my mind, but strangely, the pain had lessened. Maybe it was the distance, maybe my new life was filling my thoughts.
After school, Peter had a part-time job. "Darkroom assistant at the Daily Bugle," he explained. "Helping them develop photos. The pay isn’t great, but I’m learning."
The Daily Bugle. J. Jonah Jameson. The future editor who would hound Spider-Man relentlessly. For now, he was just the owner of the newspaper where Peter worked part-time.
"Sounds cool," I said. "Maybe I’ll stop by sometime?"
"Anytime," Peter said, then hesitated. "Oh, the lecture is Friday at 4 PM. Meet at the school gate?"
"Sounds good."
We parted ways. I headed toward the library, planning to continue my research. But halfway there, I changed direction, walking toward a familiar address in Queens—familiar at least in my memory.
Uncle Ben and Aunt May’s house.
Or rather, what should be Peter Parker’s house.
I stood across the street, looking at the neat two-story house. White picket fence, well-kept front yard, wind chimes hanging on the porch. Almost identical to the movies, just more real, more... ordinary.
A middle-aged man came out of the house, holding a watering can, tending to the flowers by the door. He wore glasses, his hair graying, dressed in a simple sweater and khakis. Ben Parker.
- Writer
