Two hours. That's all it took for me to narrow down my list of possible 'Spiderman'—as the media is starting to call him—candidates. It was a lot less work than I had anticipated, but the nearly finished task brought me no comfort.

"ARTI, track down the owners and information of the potential Spiderman's phone numbers." I bite my lip as the names filter across the screen. "Then pull up a reference of the individual cell's activity and home addresses. We need to cross reference it with the data I've already collected on Spiderman's path and confirmed sightings."

"Data configured and displayed."

Every pinpoint displays on my screen in a different variation for each possibility. But my focus immediately goes to name in particular. The letters stare back at me, and I feel my heart drop down to the lobby as my worst fear is confirmed.

It takes me reading it a couple times for the name to finally sink in. Peter Parker is one of the people that might be Spiderman, and I barely have to look at the cross referenced data to know it's true.

"It's a good thing I spoofed the suit tracker earlier, huh?" I question no one in particular as I close out the file and my laptop.

My suit slides on with ease, and I have to take a second to marvel at the perfect fit and the details. Even the thought that Dad put into the mask is amazing. The lenses mimic the ones in my glasses with ARTI's interface and adjusting lighting. I smile beneath the face plate and tug my hood up over my head.

"ARTI, let's go track down Spiderman." I almost jump at the sound of my voice through the mask. "But first, tell me everything Dad put into the suit. Is there a voice alteration on this? Because I swear it sounds like I have an American accent."

"Yes, your father wanted to maintain peak anonymity, which includes the voice alteration system, guards against any sudden flares of light, and electrical containment in case of a minor 'supernova.'"

"He really thought and remembered everything I talked about struggling with." It brings a smile to my face. I guess even when I think he's not looking or listening; he really is. The proof is right here in the suit.

Maybe the least I can do is find out if Peter is ready for what's likely about to happen. It's what I tell myself as I sneak out my window, but even right now, I'm unsure if that logic is entirely sound. After all, I'm going out to potentially find and recruit my best friend for a battle between some of the strongest heroes on the planet.

I try not to think of the negative possibilities as I trace my way through the shadows of the building's alleys. The glowing icon grows closer and closer with each alley, and I feel the worry growing with each step.

Eventually, I decide to make the trip easier by crossing rooftops instead of continuing to navigate alleyways. A smile creeps across my face as I allow my body to fade into a shadow itself. It's still a strange sensation, but doing so makes me plenty strong enough to propel onto the building's ledge and onto the roof in a single, focused jump.

A laugh nearly bubbles from my lips as I relish the feeling of the breeze as I leap from roof to roof with ease. It's only a few jumps before I find the same place that Spiderman—or very likely Peter Parker—is stopped at. I crouch down quietly to study him for a moment.

He's crouched down on the roof's edge, head swiveling as he watches the street below. I feel a pang in my chest as it really hits me that this is actually my best friend right there; his body language makes it perfectly clear. It's the one person I can't help but care about. He's right there in one of his worn out hoodies, sweatpants hanging around his legs, and scuffed sneakers gripping onto the concrete.

I bite back a sigh as I stand to my full height. "So, how are the criminals in this neighborhood? Do they still make snide comments or ridiculous threats that they think will scare us away?"

Spiderman nearly falls off the roof in surprise as he turns around to face me, and I have to bite back a laugh as I see the face of his 'mask.' "What? Who—who are you?"

"Well, hopefully a future friend. I believe people like us should stick together." I take a few steps closer to him and extend my hand—completely unafraid of contact with gloves on. "I'm Phantom, and I already know you're the new REM on the block. Spiderman, right?"

"Yeah, Spiderman." He hums in agreement. "Wait—you're a REM?"

"Mhm." I pull at the shadows around us, making them dance around my arms and fingers. "Now, it's not swinging from webs or stopping buses with my bare hands—which I can manage on a good day, but it's still pretty useful. That's not the point though, I came here to talk about you, not me."

"Okay, but why?"

"Because, like I said, I hope we can become friends. I don't usually work in this neighborhood, but our paths are bound to cross. Plus, it helps to potentially have people in your corner."

"Sorry to interrupt, but your step-father is nearing the apartment. I have a suggest course for you to arrive in ample time before him." ARTI chimes in my ear, and I let out a heavy sigh.

"Unfortunately, that's all the time I've got." I leap on to the edge of the roof and turn back to him with a smile he can't see. "I hope we meet again, bug boy."

"It's Spid—" his voice cuts off with a cry as I step off the roof, and the last thing I see is him leaning over the roof's edge as I let myself become a shadow. It's my favorite trick that I learned from training with Wanda and Vision and perfected in my free time.

The buildings race by, and I let out a laugh as I indulge in the freedom of being completely one with the energy I've known my whole life. Except, it all ends too quickly for my tastes before I'm back in my room. "ARTI," I ask the system as I undo the suit and slip into my normal clothes, "did you get his measurements?"

"Yes, Miss Stark."

"Good. Let's get a 3D model running and keep an eye out if anyone comes snooping. I've got a lot of work to do." I tell the AI as I slip on my hoodie and click the door locked. "Because if I'm gonna let my best friend do this, I might as well make sure he'll be safe while he's out there doing it. Either way, I have to let Dad know."

I sigh and stare at the contact for a long moment. This is real. Peter Parker has been hiding the same secret as me. He's putting himself in danger to protect other people—normal people, which is probably the most Peter thing he could possibly do.

Except, that's not what's bothering me most. I can't help but feel disappointed in myself. Because Peter has had his abilities for much less time than me, yet he's done so much good in that short period. He decided to go out and help everyday people instead of sitting on his hands or doing nothing as an 'honorary Avenger' like I've been.

Nope, he's a better person that I am. Peter Parker is good, kind, and caring. He's born to be a true hero.

I press the call button and bite down the growing nausea as his phone rings. "Hey, bug. Any progress yet?"

"Yeah, I found him." I say and gnaw on my teeth. "Even started on basic suit designs in case you decide to actually go through with this."

"Do you have it in the usual program? 'Cause that way I can work on it while I head back."

"You're coming home? When are you getting in? Does that mean I can come back to the tower?" I question eagerly. "Please, say yes. You don't know how weird it is here."

"I'm not sure just yet." He sighs, and I can just see him rubbing the bridge of his nose like always. "I'll be home by tomorrow afternoon, but it hopefully won't be long before you can go back to the tower. Maybe just find a project to distract yourself until then."

"Like designing the new recruit's suit since you finished mine?" I half-heartedly tease.

"Hey, I never made any guarantees. So let me handle it for now." He jokes, but both of us are still too distracted for much humor. "But maybe we can work on it together after I meet him. Until then, just focus on your studies or something."

"Okay. I'll talk to you later. Call me when you're heading back?" He quickly agrees and spouts a hurried 'love you' before getting called off. "I love you too." I barely manage before he has to hang up.

I tap my phone against my thigh as I try to think of something to distract myself from the fact that my best friend is also a superhero vigilante. A part of me wants to keep working on a suit, despite the orders from my dad, or to call Peter and hang out. It's almost instinct to call him now, but that's probably not the best idea in the current situation.

So, with my school work finished and upcoming projects already done, I leave my room in search of further distractions. One thing comes to mind as I creep through the apartment in the hopes that Jim won't hear me. Especially after a week of avoiding him, I'd rather not break the streak with another round of awkward tension.

I nearly squeal in happiness when I find his office empty and the sitting room TV playing one of Jim's documentaries. It leaves me with ample opportunity to find something to distract me. I slip inside and look over the boxes with their chicken scratch labels that Mum wrote.

"Jim, Claire, Jim, Jim." I mumble to myself and shift the stacks around until I finally find a couple with 'Amelia' written across them. "Finally. Let's see if we can't find something interesting."

The cardboard lids slid off with ease, and I settle down with crossed legs on the floor as I sift through the contents. Pictures of me throughout my childhood are scattered throughout the boxes, and I put each one aside with the sole intention of being able to show Dad later on.

A few weeks ago, he had made the comment that he wished he could have seen or known me in those early years. I suppose this is the best I can manage without a time machine. Although, I wish I did. That way I could have had my dad for all those years instead of the past few.

The thought of what could have been sends an ache through my chest that I quickly push aside and continue to sort through the each of the box's contents. All that's inside a few of them are notebooks, clipped papers, and a couple folders with 'REM Trials' perfectly printed across the label, which usually mean it's one of Jim's. He's always so meticulous when it comes to his files, which makes me wonder why this one was labeled with my name, but I'm assume mum must have made a mistake while packing.

Out of curiosity, I flip open one of the folders and try to make sense of its contents. "Project 0925 — REM Trials. Case no. 074 — Origin Identification," is written across the top of nearly every page, but I continue down farther as curiosity gets the better of me. Each folder has different numbers on them, which I assume is for each subject.

The first page is diagrams that make even my head spin trying to understand it, and I flip to the notes in the hopes of finding something there. "No. 074's DNA is consistent with a natural-born REM. Initial testing shows that the subject's abilities affect vision and brain activity in unidentifiable ways, but abilities to manipulate energy could be proven beneficial if replicable."

My heart pounds in my chest as I read the last sentence repeatedly—'abilities to manipulate energy.' The rest of the notes seem to be dictations or scrawled notes after rounds of testing and trials of 'the subject's abilities.' Except, the more I read, the more my head starts to throb and spin.

Because I have a growing suspicion that REM Trial Subject 074 is me. I remember Mum was taking me to a clinical trial for my eyes when I was little. But—could it really have been this? If it is though, it means something worse than I could have imagined. It would mean that Jim is—or at least was—a part of a human testing trial, and that he was running some of these tests on me.

It also means that the conversation we had the night of the crash wasn't the first time he had wanted to have me be a part of a trial like that. I feel my stomach churn as I wonder how long he's been doing this—testing people, quite possibly some without their consent judging by some of the notes in other files.

I shove the photos inside, slip the lid back on the box, and balance it on my hip as I take it back to my room. My thoughts race and tumble over each other as I try to make sense of all this and what to do. There's only one thing I can think to do—hide the files until I can get to the truth and find out what the REM Trials are, and if it's necessary, I'll stop them at all costs.