MCU: Spider-Man: Rise of Saint

Franklin fiddled with his badge while the class moved into the testing lab. This room had more computers than glass cases. Screens showed data from spider tests.

"Here we analyze the modified proteins," Dr. Hansen said.

Franklin felt something on his hand. Probably the loose badge catching on his sleeve. He shook his hand, still trying to fix the ID card.

Sharp pain shot through his right hand. Franklin looked down. A red and blue spider dropped from his hand to the floor.

He stepped on it before anyone could see. His hand stung where it bit him.

"These readings show remarkable healing properties," Dr. Hansen continued.

Mary Jane raised her hand to ask a question. Franklin used the distraction to check his hand. Two small marks on his skin, already turning red.

"You okay?" Keith whispered. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," Franklin said, but sweat broke out on his forehead.

The tour continued. More labs. More explanations. Franklin's hand throbbed, his head hurt.

Dr. Hansen led them to the final area.

"This is where we test practical applications of our research."

Franklin barely heard her. His stomach turned. The room started spinning.

"I need the bathroom," he told Mr. Thompson.

"Make it quick. Security escort only."

A guard took Franklin to the restroom. He splashed cold water on his face. The bite marks looked worse - swollen and red.

Back in the lab, the class prepared to leave. Mary Jane gave him a worried look.

"You don't look good," she said.

The elevator ride down made Franklin dizzy. He leaned against the wall, trying not to throw up.

In the lobby, Jerome worked the security desk. He frowned when he saw Franklin.

"You're not looking good."

"Just tired."

On the bus, Franklin sat alone. Every bump made his stomach lurch, his muscles ached.

The bus dropped them at school and Franklin had basketball practice.

"Tell Coach I'm sick," he told Keith.

Franklin walked home instead of taking the bus. His vision blurred. He stumbled twice.

At home, he went straight to his room. Gloria worked late on Thursdays. Jerome had the night shift until morning.

Franklin lay on his bed. The ceiling spun. Chills ran through his body despite the sweat soaking his clothes.

His phone rang. Jerome.

"Gloria's staying late. You eat dinner?"

"Not hungry." Franklin's voice came out weak.

"You still sick?"

"Yeah. Going to sleep."

"Call if you need anything. I'm here all night."

Franklin hung up. He pulled the blankets over his head, shivering.

The room got dark. Franklin drifted off, his whole body burning with fever.

The next day, Franklin woke up to his alarm. The fever was gone. He sat up, feeling fine.

The spider bite mark on his hand had disappeared.

He walked to the bathroom. When he turned the sink handle, it snapped off in his hand.

Water sprayed everywhere. Franklin stared at the broken handle.

The bathroom door opened. Gloria stood there in her work clothes.

"You okay? Heard a noise."

"Yeah, just..." Franklin pointed at the spraying water. "Handle broke."

"Great. Another thing to fix. You look better though. Jerome said you were sick."

"I feel fine now."

"Good. Breakfast is ready when you want it."

Gloria closed the door. Franklin grabbed a towel to stop the water. The towel rack came off the wall with it.

He reached for the doorknob to leave. It crushed in his grip.

Everything okay in there?" Gloria called.

"Fine. Just getting ready."

He touched the sink. His fingers left dents in the porcelain.

The toothbrush snapped. The soap dispenser crumpled.

His phone screen cracked when he checked the time.

A knock made him jump. His feet left the ground. He grabbed the wall, but his fingers stuck to the tile.

"Franklin?" Gloria again. "You're going to be late."

"Coming."

He had to peel each finger off the wall.

Franklin looked at the damage. Broken handle. Broken doorknob. Broken towel rack. Cracked sink.

The spider bite. It had to be from that.

"Franklin!" Gloria's voice came through the door. "Bus leaves in twenty minutes."

"Taking a shower!" he called back. "I'll walk to school."

"You sure? Jerome said you were pretty sick last night."

"I'm fine now."

Franklin heard Gloria's footsteps leave. The doorknob turned as she tried to open it.

"Door's stuck," she said.

"I know. I'll tell Jerome when he gets home."

"Okay. Don't be late for school."

Franklin waited until she left for work. He turned the doorknob carefully this time.

In his room, he got his spare backpack. He left his textbooks - too risky to handle them.

His cereal bowl shattered in the kitchen. He left the pieces in the sink.

Outside, Franklin started walking. A car horn made him jump. His feet left the ground again.

He landed on the sidewalk. No one seemed to notice.

He kept walking, hands in his pockets.

Franklin got to school early. The halls were empty except for a few teachers.

His locker took three tries to open - kept pulling too hard. When he finally got it right, the door squeaked open.

"There you are." Keith walked up. "Feeling better?"

"Better than ever."

"Coach wants to see you before practice. Probably about missing yesterday."

The first bell rang. Franklin walked to class, keeping his hands away from everything. His desk creaked when he sat down.

"Pop quiz," Mr. Thompson said, passing out papers.

Franklin picked up his pencil. It snapped between his fingers.

"Need a pencil?" Mary Jane asked from the desk next to his.

She held one out. Franklin took it carefully. The wood felt fragile in his grip.

He made it through first period without breaking anything else. In the hallway, he saw the basketball trophy case. State championships from years ago. Team photos, retired jerseys.

The second class was gym. They played basketball.

"Saint, you're captain," the teacher said.

Franklin picked teams like normal. When the game started, he held back, afraid to touch the ball.

Then Steve Martinez tried stealing from him. Franklin moved without thinking. The ball stayed in his hands as he got past Steve.

He jumped for the shot - just a normal jump shot, but it felt effortless. Perfect form. Nothing but net.

"Look who decided to play today," Steve said.

But Franklin knew it wasn't just playing. He could feel the difference.

The rest of the game, Franklin played without trying. He still scored thirty points. Still grabbed every rebound. Still moved faster than anyone could guard.

In the locker room after, he caught bits of conversation.

"Yo, Saint's got moves now."

"Summer practice paying off, huh?"

"About time we got someone who can score."

Franklin changed clothes, thinking about varsity. About scouts, about scholarships, about how these powers can help him become the best at basketball.

At lunch, he sat with the basketball team. Mike was talking about the season.

"Yo, if you play like that in games, we might actually do something this year."

"Just got my shot back," Franklin said.

"Keep it up. Coach is gonna love this."

Franklin ate his lunch, already planning. He'd have to be careful. Make it look natural.

After lunch, he had chemistry. The teacher talked about molecular bonds while Franklin watched the clock. Practice was next.

The bell rang. Franklin walked to the gym, his mind on basketball. On what he could do now. On how far he could go.

Coach Peterson waited in his office.

"Heard you were sick yesterday."

"All better now."

"Good. Get changed. We're running plays today."

In the gym, Franklin laced up his shoes. The team ran layup drills first.

This time, Franklin didn't hold back. He moved like he did in gym class. Fast, smooth, perfect shots every time.

"Saint!" Coach called. "When did you learn to move like that?"

Franklin shrugged. "Been practicing."

They scrimmaged next. Franklin's team won by thirty. He scored at will, grabbed every rebound, blocked shots without jumping.

After practice, Coach pulled him aside.

"Whatever you did over the summer, keep doing it. I'm starting you next game."

In the locker room, guys patted his back. Called him their ticket to state.

Franklin walked home. A car horn made him jump again. He landed on the sidewalk, checking if anyone saw.

1 Week Later

Franklin checked the scoreboard - ten minutes until game time. The gym filled with students and parents. First home game of the season.

Coach Peterson gathered the team. "Saint, you're starting."

A week of practice helped him figure out the plays. Franklin had gotten better at controlling his new strength during drills.

"You ready?" Keith asked while they warmed up.

"Yeah."

Mary Jane sat in the bleachers with her sketchbook. She'd been drawing the team during practice all week.

The referee blew his whistle. Teams lined up for tip-off.

Franklin took his position. The other team's center stood half a foot taller than him.

The ball went up. Franklin got the tip.

First quarter went fast. Franklin scored twelve points. The crowd got into it with each basket.

Second quarter, the other team double-teamed him. Franklin passed more, found open teammates.

The score stayed close.

At halftime, Coach drew up new plays.

"They can't guard you one-on-one," Coach said. "Keep attacking."

Franklin wiped sweat off his face. He'd figured out how to keep his hands from sticking to things.

Third quarter started.

The gym got louder with each play. Franklin drove to the hoop, scored through contact.

The crowd stood up.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Coach yelled.

Fourth quarter, two minutes left, down by one point. Franklin caught the ball at the three-point line.

His defender played too close. Franklin got past him, floated a shot over another defender.

The basket put them ahead. The crowd chanted his name.

Final score: Midtown 72, visitors 69. Franklin finished with thirty points.

In the locker room, guys talked about state playoffs. about possible college scouts, and about championships.

"Party at Mike's tonight," Keith said. "You coming?"

"Can't. Dinner with my aunt and uncle."

Franklin changed clothes. His phone had texts from Jerome saying he'd made it to the game late.

Outside the locker room, Mary Jane waited.

"Nice game, tiger." She showed him her sketchbook. "Mind if I use these for the school paper?"

"Yeah, sure."

Mary Jane smiled. "You've gotten really good lately."

"Just practicing more."

Jerome appeared. "Ready to go?"

In the car, Jerome talked about the game. Something about college opportunities, and my future.

"Earth to Franklin," Jerome said. "You hearing me?"

"Yeah. College. Future. Got it."

"Gloria's making your favorite tonight. Celebrating your first start."

At home, Gloria had questions about the game too. Franklin ate while they talked about scholarships and grades.

"Could get a full ride," Jerome said. "If you keep playing like this."

After dinner, Franklin went to his room. He pulled up basketball highlights on his phone. College games. NBA games.

His phone vibrated. A text from Keith: "Coach says you're staying starter."

The Next Day

Franklin walked into the kitchen after practice. Ms. Chen, his tutor, sat at the table.

"You're an hour late," she said.

"Coach needed me to stay after practice."

"That's what you said Tuesday."

Jerome looked up from his coffee. "I thought practice ended at five."

"Extra shooting," Franklin said, dropping his bag.

"Look, can we skip tonight? I got plays to learn."

"You've missed three sessions this week," Ms. Chen said, packing her books.

"I'll talk to your uncle about rescheduling."

After she left, Jerome turned to Franklin. "Want to explain?"

"Nothing to explain. Basketball's more important right now."

"More important than school?"

"You saw the game yesterday. I don't need calculus to play ball."

Jerome set his coffee down. "Sit."

"I got stuff to do."

"Sit down."

Franklin sat. Jerome stayed quiet for a minute.

"Your grades are slipping again," Jerome said.

"Teachers called."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're throwing away everything else for basketball."

"Because I'm good at it. Really good."

"And that makes you special? Makes you better than everyone else?"

Franklin stood up. "I don't need this."

"Sit your ass back down. I'm not finished."

"What's the point? I don't need school. I don't need tutoring. I'm going pro."

"Pro?" Jerome laughed. "You think being good in high school makes you ready for that?"

"You don't know how good I am."

"I know you're letting it get to your head. Skipping classes. Blowing off tutoring. Acting like you got it all figured out."

"Maybe I do."

Jerome shook his head. "Listen to me. Having talent, having ability - that ain't enough. It comes with responsibility."

"Don't start with that."

"You got something special now. I see that. But special don't mean nothing if you waste it."

"I'm not wasting anything. I'm using it. Getting what I want."

"Getting what you want? That what this is about? Using what you got just for yourself?"

Franklin grabbed his bag. "I'm out of here."

"Your dad worked construction his whole life so you'd have chances he didn't. Your mom-"

"Don't." Franklin turned. "Don't talk about them."

"Then listen to me. You got something special happening to you, Franklin. I see it. Great things are coming your way. But with that comes responsibility. You understand what I'm saying?"

"You're not my dad!" Franklin's fist hit the table. Wood cracked.

Jerome says, "I know, I'm not your father."

 "Than stop pretending to be!," he shouted

Jerome stood. "I'm trying to help you Franklin."

"I don't need your help. I don't need you."

Franklin yanked the door open. The handle crushed in his grip.

"Franklin!"

But he was already gone, out into the night, leaving Jerome standing in the kitchen with his cold coffee and broken door.