I'm Peter Parker—yes, that Peter Parker. Spider-Man by night, awkward "web researcher" by day. At the moment, I was hunched over a keyboard in the back corner of Stark Industries' Biological Research Lab, wearing my old black-rimmed glasses and pretending my sleeves weren't hiding a custom-built web shooter.
But even a guy with spider reflexes can't dodge workplace politics forever.
After sending an email with the kind of phrasing that would make HR sweat, the lab went silent. Like, horror movie silent. You could hear a pipette drop. I sat there staring at the screen, tapping my fingers nervously against the hidden launcher on my wrist. Just for fun, I mentally calculated the webbing arc needed to snag Lydia's donut from her hand across the room. No. Focus, Peter. You're here for marine genomics, not snack-based vengeance.
The next morning, I walked into the lab wearing something new: my Jefoo Aviator Ice Blue Sunglasses. A little bold for indoors, sure—but after yesterday's drama, I needed a shield. Not the vibranium kind. The kind that said: Yes, I do marine bio and fight supervillains. Deal with it.
Heads turned.
Lydia looked up mid-donut-drop, her hand freezing midair. "Uh… morning, Dr. Spider," she said, blinking behind her own glasses like I'd stepped out of a spy movie. I gave her a polite nod, the Ice Blue lenses catching the overhead lights and scattering them like glacier sparks.
At my workstation, a gift box sat waiting—wrapped like Stark himself had hired a professional. The tag read:
"From all of us at Stark Industries Biological Division."
Inside? A state-of-the-art holographic marine data projector. Flick it on, and suddenly blue whales and bio-luminescent squid were floating above my desk like something out of an oceanic dream. On the side was a laser-etched apology:
"To the real genius among us. Sorry for being idiots."
I lowered my sunglasses, just enough to blink. Huh. Maybe miracles do happen outside the Avengers Tower.
Later, Victoria cornered me with coffee and a shaky peace offering.
"I know the sunglasses were a choice," she said, half-smiling. "But you kinda pulled it off. Like some marine biology Maverick."
"Spider-Maverick," I said. "Just without the volleyball scene."
We laughed, awkwardly. And then she got serious. "We really are sorry, Peter. We didn't know how to handle someone like you… young, brilliant, already outshining all of us. So we acted like jerks."
That was the first honest moment we'd had in years.
Things got better. Slowly. Lydia brought me coffee. The team helped me debug my crusty spectrometer. Victoria even asked me to co-lead a new deep-sea mapping project. Said we'd make a "super-powered dream team."
Weeks later, we were out on a research vessel watching whales breach the surface. I stood at the edge of the boat, my Jefoo Aviators catching the sharp sunlight. Lydia tapped me on the shoulder with a grin and held up a camera.
"Come on, Dr. Spider Web," she said. "Let's get one for the team board. Sunglasses and all."
I smiled, adjusted the shades, and joined the group. Behind us, a giant oarfish twisted through the waves like a mythical sea serpent, its silver scales flashing like underwater lightning.
No jokes this time. Just wide eyes, quiet wonder—and a new kind of respect.
Back at the lab, the holographic projector glowed quietly next to my sunglasses. One was a symbol of science. The other? Of confidence—cool, mirrored, unapologetic confidence. And maybe next time someone doubts me, I won't need an email to make my point.
I'll just put on my shades.
