---

Sue thumbed through the pages of an old, dog-eared copy of Foucalt's 'Discipline and Punish'. She must have read this copy at least 5 times in her life, stumbling across it in her father's library as a young girl which sparked a lifetime love of French philosophy - and a further pretentious phase in her adolescent years wherein she forced her brother to watch countless French New Wave movies in exchange for driving him around to meet his friends. Reminiscing back on her brother as she seemed to do more and more recently, she couldn't help but see the irony in his hatred for movies like 'Breathless' when she couldn't picture a movie character more similar to him than the protagonist of that flick.

She allowed herself a smile for a moment, deep in thought, before her fiance interrupted her thinking over the noise of his furious keystrokes against the keyboard of the computer terminal.

"I can't believe you still read that stuff, Sue. Give me a copy of Popper or Von Neumann any day over those French quacks" He let out a quick chuckle. Sue rolled her eyes, it was time for this conversation again it seemed.

"Science without philosophy is blind, darling. Plus-" She continued, wagging the book towards him as she spoke. "-There's a lot in this old French quack's perspective that you might find relevant to the world we're living in now. If you managed to open up that closed mind of yours."

Reed didn't look away from the terminal, but the corner of his mouth tightened - his version of a smile. "Perspective is all relative. Foucault makes broad claims about systems of power - at least that's what I've gathered from his wikipedia. I prefer mechanisms I can test." He relaxed slightly in his chair, happy in the knowledge that his playful jab would elicit a reaction.

Sue tapped a finger against the cover. "You'd be surprised how close his analysis is to what we're living now. Surveillance states, prisons masquerading as protection, people reduced to numbers in ledgers. He was writing about the panopticon in the eighteenth century, Reed, but he may as well have been describing Lord's checkpoints. You've seen the news about the Raft!"

That caught him; his typing slowed. "You're suggesting philosophy has predictive value."

"I'm suggesting that the Mad Thinker we met isn't just testing our code, he's testing us. Our choices, our ethics. And if you reduce everything to calculations, you're already playing by his rules." She glanced down at the book for a second before adding softly, "That's how systems like this win, Reed. They convince you morality is something that can be debated upon."

For a moment, the only sound in the Annex was the hum of cooling fans and the low hiss of recycled air. Reed's eyes flicked back to the screen, but Sue knew the words had landed. He could dismiss Foucault, but not the question she'd just put between them. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for him he wouldn't need to answer, as if he were listening to them the Mad Thinker's text began to scroll along the screen in front of Reed.

[GOOD MORNING, LAB RATS.]

"Sue get over here." She put down her book and hurried over to him, resting her arm across the back of his chair as they read the text.

[READY FOR ANOTHER TEST?]

The screen was soon filled with different windows opening proxy servers displaying maps, blueprints, schematics, and finally a series of videos showing various human rights violations committed against Metahumans by members of the Lord regime. A data bomb that if unleashed could throw acid in the face of the president and his soldiers at precisely the right time to hamper the grand opening of his Raft.

They both felt an electric current of excitement and anxiety course through them. This was huge, information like this being made public could turn the tide of public opinion at least in some part, let alone what these schematics could do for other resistance fighters. Sue's mind ran with thoughts of impeachment, of civil change - Reed's ran with the thought of reverse engineering the power dampener collars. They both knew this had to come with a catch. If something feels too good to be true it very often is.

The maps and schematics began to flicker, collapsing into cascading lines of code that reorganized themselves into a single pulsing directive. The Annex's lights dimmed as if even the building itself was bracing for what came next.

[HERE IS YOUR CHOICE, LAB RATS.]

Two windows opened. On the left, a launch command tethered to the Agency's drone fleet. Below it a grainy black and white live feed, circling around a group of unknowing civilians in Gotham hundreds of feet below. On the right, a dump of Agency comm logs, prison manifests, and the Raft's intake schedules.

[PUSH THE BUTTON, AND THE WORLD CHANGES. A STRIKE, FROM LORD'S OWN EQUIPMENT. CHAOS WILL FOLLOW. CHAOS HE CAN'T CONTROL.]

Reed's stomach dropped. His mind was already running the probabilities, unwanted calculations filling in like a reflex. If the strike succeeded, Lord's narrative shattered. Detainees freed. Potentially thousands, maybe even more saved. His jaw tightened. Thousands saved, at the cost of dozens - maybe hundreds - of innocents.

Sue's face hardened as she read, her eyes narrowing. "He wants us to burn civilians to save the many." Her hand clenched against the desk, invisible energy sparking faintly across her knuckles. "This isn't a choice. What is his game, why not the data without the other? We can't Reed, we're not murderers."

Reed leaned forward, fingers hovering over the keys. "It's not that simple." He winced as the words left his mouth, knowing how they'd sound. "If the regime collapses, how many families walk free? How many children never see the inside of a detention block?"

Sue turned sharply to face him, her voice cutting. "And how many mothers bury their kids because you thought the numbers added up?"

"How many lose theirs because we let Lord abudct them?"

There was a silence in the room. Neither of them wanted to consider either option. Sue forced herself to steady her breathing. She knew Reed's brain was already sketching out contingencies - how to divert the exploit, how to reroute it, how to find an impossible third option. That was who he was. But she also knew how the Thinker worked. "Every second we waste arguing, he wins. This isn't about which button we push. It's about proving he doesn't control the board."

The green text pulsed again, as if in answer:

[OPTION A: SOIL YOUR HANDS, SAVE THE MANY.
OPTION B: KEEP THEM CLEAN, LET THE MANY SUFFER.]

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, waiting. Reed's fingers hovered just above the keys. He hated the binary. Every fiber of his mind screamed there had to be another way - a hidden subroutine, an overlooked failsafe, a vulnerability the Thinker hadn't considered. If only he had more time.

"I can try to reroute it." he murmured, eyes flicking over the lines of code cascading across the screen. "If I strip out the targeting instructions, maybe we can salvage the data without triggering the strike. Or at least redirect it somewhere safer."

Sue's jaw tightened. "And if it backfires?"

"I'm not sure. We could end up sending the strike without getting the data."

They both paused for a moment. Sue put her hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. "Reed, we cannot risk the deaths of innocents. This is not who we are. It's time to choose the third option, not to play at all."

Reed thought for a moment, brushing a hand across his beard before nodding solemnly. "Better that than blood on our hands." Reed exhaled through his nose, then began to type, not the command the Thinker had offered, but their own act of rebellion against him.

[WE'RE NOT PLAYING YOUR GAME THINKER. WE CHOOSE THE THIRD OPTION.]

Then the entire system seized. The screen flashed white, then black. A hiss of static filled the Annex. One by one, the windows collapsed into nothing. Suddenly text filled the screen once more.

[CLEVER.]

The words lingered on the empty screen, pulsing like a heartbeat. The terminal went dead. Cooling fans spun down into silence. Reed slumped back in his chair, a sigh escaping his mouth. All that data - gone. Thousands of lives that might have been saved, the Raft's secrets, the Agency's schedules - all evaporated.

Sue placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. "We didn't lose, Reed. We didn't play his game."

He looked up at her, guilt flickering across his features. "And the people still locked in cells? The kids still wearing dampeners?"

"They're not free yet." She admitted softly. "But they will be. The right way."

The dark monitor reflected their faces, side by side in the dim Annex light. Behind their tired eyes, the cursor blinked back to life for just an instant.

[TEST COMPLETE.]

And then even that vanished, leaving them in silence. For a moment neither of them said anything, Reed opened up a chat window and shot a message to Elder. Despite the ominous warning from Belo the last time they'd met he had to admit he was thankful he had the mole man to work on tracking the Mad Thinker while they struggled with their decision. They were hot on his trail now, this time they'd be taking the fight to him.

Ororo and had added a jacket with a hood to her attire to try and cover her pure white hair. Discretion was the name of the game here. Nailah on the otherhand was wearing a full tracksuit to cover herself. Her spear folded away and hidden up her sleeve for instant deployment at a moments notice. They walked up Seymour Avenue together fairly unassumingly, nobody really looking too much at either of them. Maybe a few leers from passing guys noticing... Well, the very reason that T'Challa had said to Ororo "I hate to see you leave, but i love watching you walk away" But apart from that, just a pair of nobodies that are just as soon forgotten as seen. Nailah was the first to speak. "How well do you know this Evan?" She asked. Ororo thought back to the times before T'Challa, living with the Morlocks down in the sewers.

"He's my younger cousin. The son of my Father's sister. She was killed by the same people who killed my father trying to get to me. I asked Callisto to take him in and she agreed. Although it was only because Caliban, her lieutenant, sensed his latent Mutant powers." She replied. "My ties to their community have gotten all but cut completely since the war and my eloping to Wakanda, i am hoping he will give me the in i need to get back in contact with them peacefully. The Morlocks are powerful mutants and could prove invaluable allies to Wakanda." They arrived at the unassuming street corner, a few matchbox houses heading north, a small church, nobody really around at this time of day, everyone either off at work or school. Ororo looked around and saw the scrappy teen boy dressed... Well, almost identically to herself. Although his clothes were far more baggy on him. She recognized that blonde flattop he had under his hood anywhere. Approaching him, she threw her arms wide and smiled.

"Auntie Storm!" He yelled, immediately thowing himself into a hug with her. He was about a foot shorter than her, he was only 15 after all. "Been way to long!" He tried to pick her up in a show of strength, but only managed a few inches off the ground, much to Ororo's surprise. Ororo's head immediately snapped around to look at Nailah, who had subtly shifted into an offensive stance, ready to strike back at the one who had lunged surprisingly at her charge, but Storm scowled for her to back down. Nailah quickly did so.

"Auntie?" Nailah mouthed to her. She had said they were cousins. But she quickly went back to overwatch as she scanned around them for surveilance and/or threats.

"Evan, it's good to see you too." She replied and tapped his arm for him to put her down.

"Gotta say, we missed your ass during the Reach invasion, but they missed us too for the most part." He laughed. He then looked at Nailah and rubbed his hands together. "Speaking of asses, Woooo, who is this fine momma you brought with you?" Of all of the things Evan could have said, should have said, of all of the things that could have fallen out of his mouth, this was probably the single least expected.

"Excuse me?" Nailah asked, caught completely offguard.

"EVAN!" Ororo scolded.

"Hey, Auntie Storm, you haven't seen me in 4 years, i've grown, matured and become something of a connoisseur of fine women and fine wines" He said, putting on his most dashing accent.

"Callisto had better not be letting you drink wine!" Ororo growled, her hand snatching his hood down, before reaching for his ear lobe and grabbing it firmly. "This is my friend from work and you will treat her with the same respect you treat me with." She announced. Evan winced in pain as she held him.

"OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKputmedownputmedown!" He replied.

"And we will behave?" She asked him. He turned and smiled at her.

"Oh yeah, behave like a gentleman. Proper, trim and respectful." He gasped in discomfort. Storm let go of his ear.

"Excellent. Now, let us away, i know a nice little cafe near here." She said, beginning to walk down Mace. Nailah followed immeidately after, with Evan starting in the rear, but a quick scowled glance from Ororo made him quickly jog to overtake Nailah, as he jogged past her, he put his thumb and pinkie to his head in the 'Call me sometime' motion. "I do appreciate that you have gotten to that age where certain hormones have taken over, but i do ask that you please try to think clearly." Evan looked down, he could tell the disappointment in her voice.

"Alright, Auntie Storm, total seriousness. Playa face put away. What's the game plan?" He asked. Storm sighed, hoping he was telling the truth.

"I need to get back in touch with the Morlocks, specifically, i need a meeting with Calisto. I have something that might interest her. A plan to help not only the Morlocks, but all Mutants in this country that haven't been gotten by Lord and/or Waller yet." She said. Evan looked a little shocked, before gritting his teeth together and hissing as he breathed in awkwardly.

"Ooooooook, that's gonna be a big one." He sighed. "See, Calisto... I mean, you know i love and respect Aunt Calisto... But the whole Aliens and then Dystopian government thing... Yeah, she's gotten a LITTLE paranoid... And well. I said i'd be prim and gentlemanly, so i'm not gonna repeat the words she used to describe you." Storm growled in frustration. She suspected Calisto had turned on her, but didn't realize it was THIS bad.

"What did i do to her?" She asked, already suspecting the answer she'd receive.

"You mean apart from running off with your African Boytoy a few weeks before aliens decided to invade and suck our brains out, leaving The Alley's security compromised and leaving us open to attacks which got a number of us killed?" He asked matter-of-factly. Ok, he had her there.

"I could not have known that was going to happen. And if you remember, it was not MY decision to leave."

"Oh no, i remember the Skullcap Squad behind us practically dragging you away." He replied, before slipping into a sarcastic tone "To the torturous ordeal of being waited on hand and foot by some despot African King's servants in your ivory palace eating off gold plates with marble knives and forks-" Ororo wanted to step in, but she also realized that he had ever right to be angry at her and were the positions reversed, she'd probably feel exactly the same way. Evan trailed off as he saw the regret in Storms eyes. "Sorry." He replied. "Hey, i understand it's just Jealousy. I'm just mad no African Prince decided to seep me up off my feet. At least, that's what Leech says." He sighed.

"So Leech IS alive. Excellent." Ororo sighed in relief.

"Oh yeah. To be fair, our losses to the Reach and the Government aren't as bad as Calisto's making out. I think she just wants to be madder than she has a right to be. I mean, some of us were always getting caught and hauled away, only difference is that they now know how to hold us. We lost Ash and Missy to the Aliens. MeMe and Irving got got by the Squads... But as i said, 1 or 2 a year's always been about normal... It's just... Look, Calisto's been listening to the radio recently." He stated. "There's some big guy out there, doesn't announce a name on the broadcasts, but says all us Muties-" Ororo gave him a scowl as he said that word.

"Do not sully your tongue with that word!" She growled. Evan threw his hands up in apology.

"Sorry, auntie." He replied "Anyway, this guy is saying we need to unite as in Brotherhood and take the fight to Lord and his cronies. Take this country for ours, wipe out the Normies and take our place as the superior race." He said, before putting a finger up to silence the obvious counter from his cousin. "His words, not mine. Hey, i'm against it, i've got a few good friends up here... Not that they know i'm a..." Storm looked at him.

"Evan?" She asked. "Have you...?" Evan looked around, not seeing anyone or any camera looking at them. He slowly lifted his shirt to Ororo, revealing a bone-plate had grown over his stomach. Ororo clasped her hands across her mouth and gasped, before throwing herself into him for a hug. "CALIBAN WAS RIGHT!" She giggled. "I'm so glad for you. You need to tell me all about it! When did it happen? What is it like? What can you do? Have you been christened yet?" Evan rubbed the back of his head as they continued to walk.

"Happened about a year ago. Was skateboarding, fell off, suddenly, i've got these bone-spikes growing out of my arm to break my fall. Turns out i can grow bones just about anywhere i need to keep myself safe. Armour on the skin, spikes for combat, still experimenting with it. Calisto is a good teacher. And yeah, you're no longer looking at Little Evan, i'm now Spyke." He grinned. "Yup, got my freak club tee-shirt and everything." Ororo scowled at him again.

"We are not freaks." She growled at him. As they finally arrived at the cafe, they sat down. A waiter immediately saw to them. Ororo ordering a Cappuccino, Evan ordering a tall glass of milk. Ororo looked around this place. It was one of the first dates she had been on with T'Challa... Although she quickly decided she may have to disregard this place as she looked at the "Rules of Service: No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service" sign. Which wasn't the problem, it was the hastily written "We reserve the right to refuse service to Muties." note wasn't bellow it that made her decide she no longer wished to visit this establishment. As the drinks came, Ororo graciously offered thanks to the waitress, although she still did so with a sour taste in her mouth. In any case, she didn't want to upset Evan by making a scene. "So... Milk... I thought you hated it." She said, Evan held his nose and began chugging the tall glass.

"Oh yeah." He replied as he put the glass down, his tongue flicking like a cats as he tried to get the taste out of his mouth. "But, gotta keep the Calcium intake up. First few weeks afterwards was hell. Then Calisto made me start drinking and now..." Ororo nodded, it made sense. Growing bones would be hard on his body without enough Calcium.

"So... Calisto... Any chance you could set up a meeting with us in somewhere neutral?" She asked. "My... Associates are delivering letters to her, but she's not answering them. I'm hoping that a face is something she can't ignore.

"Why not get the Smoothhead Squad to kidnap her like they did to you?" He asked. "If they're dropping her letters, just pick her up instead."

"Because, dear cousin, we are trying to start a dialogue, not a war. Calisto is bullheaded and strong, but she's not an unfeeling monster. I'm hoping that if we can just get together and i can explain my plan, that we can get her in on this. And if she's looking for somewhere in the sun, we can provide it for her." She quietly said between sips of her drink.

"Hmmm, tough choices..." Evan said, sarcastically. "Live in a sewer somewhere that the government wants to kill us for breathing, or move to some savannah in Africa where the locals can shun us for being foreign and we can starve to death from the famine." He smiled skeptically at her. "Damn, we win the lottery or something to get choices that brilliant?" Ororo REALLY wanted to tell him the truth about Wakanda, but he was a child still. It was safer to let him keep thinking of it as a dirt farming third world, rather than the technological paradise it really was.

"Can you PLEASE try, though?" She asked. Evan leaned back in the chair.

"Hey, Auntie Storm, when have i EVER let you down?" He asked. To be fair, she had never REALLY trusted him with anything immensely important before. Last time she saw him, he was 11. "How do i contact you after i've delivered the message?" He asked. Ororo reached into her handbag and pulled out an old Nokia 3310 and handed it to him.

"Make no other use of that phone except to message me. It's prepaid. Do not turn it on until you are ready to contact me." Evan took it and pocketted it.

"Damn, we're doing some James Bond shit." He laughed.

"And watch your language, you're not too old for me to wash your mouth out with soap." She growled. Evan grabbed his nose and finished the rest of the glass.

Moments to relax had been few and far between ever since the Guardians had left the Kyln. A combination of misadventures both thrust upon them and of their own making had continued to spiral out of control from one day to the next. A brief delay on a world of grateful locals wouldn’t be such a bad thing.



Peter didn’t particularly want to linger on the statistical chances that another band of Badoon had been in the process of terrorising a peaceful single world society out in the almost uncharted systems they now found themselves ‘just’ as the Milano was flying within comms range. True, the Badoon were widespread and even their independent bands tended to favour the more violent means of acquiring wealth and resources, but it felt a little convenient to run into yet another warband out in the same space, just in time for their intervention.



He pushed the thought from his mind as he wandered out of the rustic tavern-style bar he carried the latest order of drinks from. It had been designed in a style he imagined was nostalgic for the locals, reminding him of faded memories of old science fiction artwork back on Earth. The local inhabitants of the world, Apangea in their tongue, had largely tried to keep to themselves over the years but they were hardly an undeveloped society, they just favoured these small communes over the bustling cities of grander peoples.

It was just a short walk back to their table, past some minor debris from their battle with the Badoon, or perhaps from the limited raiding which had occurred before their arrival. There was much fanfare and celebration around them, the grey-skinned forms of the locals continuing to party and as the remainder of the Guardians sat around their table, taking part in the presented festivities.



“That’s gotta be your fifth plate of those bug things, K.” Rocket laughed in a surprisingly jovial, rather than mocking, tone (at least by his standards) as the Kryptonian munched through the last bite of what amounted to fried snack food on Apangea, before flexing a finely toned bicep at the smaller Guardian.



“What can I say? Throwing a whole transport out of the inner orbits of a solar system works up an appetite. These powers must come with a super-metabolism.” She paused her retort with a flash of a smile to Peter as he set down their next round of drinks on the table. Each of them had an enhanced metabolism in their own varied way, but it still didn’t make the celebration not worth having.



“Yeah, if that’s so how come you’ve got such a huge a-“



“I am Groot.” Came the interrupting rumble from the large arboreal Guardian perched somewhat awkwardly at the end of the table.



“Groot’s right, Rocket, lets not antagonise the lady who might punch you through time and space.” Peter laughed as he slid the drinks around, three rather normal (by the local planet’s standards) drinks for the three of them and what amounted to a mineral watering can for Groot.



“Hey it’s not a bad thing, when I’ve finally worked out our official uniforms it will be more room for adspace.” Rocket continued, raising his voice as Kara moved out of her seat to make room for some of the celebrating locals, flipping him off as she did so, earning a thumb’s up from Peter at having learned the expression. She turned in place, the grin on her features suggesting another round of jovial barbs were about to be traded before suddenly looking up and away, towards a sky that was blazing red with the colours of twin setting suns.



“What is-“ Peter’s question was cut off as a the sight became visible to those not blessed with Kryptonian senses, a sudden bloom of light that pierced through the fading light of day, winking in and out of visibility. A star that was certainly not a star. A moment later the communicator on Peter’s wrist flashed red, a sonorous beep along with it.



“Another distress call.” He mused, pressing the device into silence even as he looked to his companions with concern.



“Chances of that happening twice to us in the same system?” Rocket voiced Peter’s earlier concerns, now with the addition of further evidence.



“About as slim as us still being alive, Kara, get up there and see what we’re dealing with. We’ll catch up.” Peter nodded to the Kryptonian, who only pursed her lips for a moment before providing a mock-salute and rocketing into the sky, the woman swiftly becoming a blur of red, white and blonde. “No rest for the wicked.” He mused quitley, before turning to sprint towards where ever it was Rocket had managed to ‘park’ the Milano.

---

“It’s a ship, not doing well, but whatever it’s made of is doing a good job of letting me see inside.” Kara drifted in the void of space not far from the derelict mountain of metal that was currently hurtling through the system. She still hadn’t gotten used to her ability to not only survive but more or less act freely in this environment of nothing. She doubted even Uncle Zod’s experiments had ever touched on the possibility this is what they could be capable of.



She pushed the sad thoughts of her past, of the universe’s future, out of her mind as she added to her report. “But the distress call has to come from someone right? I can’t just push this thing out of the way of collision.” She had less difficulty adjusting to the raw strength she could harness. Throwing things? She was quite good at that.



“The pulse isn’t automated, a deliberate trigger, someone’s still alive in there.” Peter confirmed, his voice chiming from the small device nestled in her ear, the vibrations passing through her own body allowing her to hear in the vacuum of space.



“Going in then.” She replied simply, before she surged towards the ship, what had been a large and bulky shape in her vision rushing to become a vast terrain sprawling before her as she neared.



“Kara, just wait for..” The response was interrupted by her impact with the outer shell of the ship. No shielding, she crashed through scorch marked metal with an impact she hoped was small enough not to alter the ship’s path too much, at this stage. That might risk any environmental pockets still present in the ship. She had hoped that punching through the out wall would allow her to scout out the vessel with her modified vision, but even within, she found its structure frustratingly opaque as she blinked through the visual spectrums, the physical act helping her to focus her powers on each. When she finally let out a sigh, the noise lost in the rush of air passing around her out of the rent she had just made, allowing her eyes to filter back into normal visual light, she tilted her head in curious study, approaching the walls of the corridor she had punched her way into.



“K…Kara, are you,….the,” The signal must have been truly bad for ‘her’ not to have been able to pick out meaning in the static, but she replied none the less, voicing her thoughts more than anything.



“It’s…. biological…I think, like a grown metal?” She reached out to touch the wall before her in the long dark stretch of strange starship she found herself in. The sensation of the metal did much to confirm her suspicions but add only further questions. It felt like solid metal, yet the contours of its shaping were sinuous, like flesh and muscle knit together in lieu of mechanical construction. “Have you encountered anything like that?” She asked through the comm, turning her head slightly to look down the corridor, then up and out of the rent she had punched through the ship.



“Only once, Kara I think you sh-.” The contact fully cutting out was enough to turn Kara’s look of puzzlement into a frown. Not interference then, at least not by accident. It didn’t take a genius to guess what Peter might have been trying to say, but a reminder he wasn’t in charge of her might be in order.



“It’s alright Peter, just because something is creepy doesn’t mean I’m suddenly not invulnerable.” She was fairly sure the audio device wasn’t sensitive enough to pick up the slight swoosh of her hair flick through the vibrations of her body, but she did hope so all the same. As she turned back to the wall her hand was still pressed against, she blinked in surprise. The wall blinked back at her, a large set of chillingly white eyes. “What in Rao’s name,” She managed, before the wall was suddenly not a wall, a living thing rushing forwards, with enough speed it struck her before even her reflexes could react.



They crashed through the ship, deck after deck of this strange, mutated flesh metal as she grappled with the creature. It had pulled itself from the wall, seemingly made of the same material as the ship itself, or vice versa, with enough speed and force to prevent her from adjusting to it. The black sinuous form seemed to both wrestle her and coat her own, although as a great set of jaws lunged to bite down on her, it was suddenly sent reeling in a shriek which battered her ears, but not enough to suppress the smirk on her features. “More than you can chew?” She managed to recover enough to reverse the fall, twisting in the air as they crashed through another level of the ship, before she managed to pull her head free of the tangle of hostile matter. She didn’t speak again to punctuate her point, instead sudden twin pulses of light from her eyes heralded the scorching rays of her vision, powering into the amalgam creature with enough force to blast it clear of her, sending it crashing into the depths of the far larger chamber she now found herself. The follow up howl it released as it fell suggested it enjoyed the impact of her heat vision even less than it did the experience of trying to bite through her skin.



“The blue skinned one did not lie.” The voice seemed to echo through the chamber, all around her, all at once. “She said you would come to save them, that you would make an excellent host, with you, we can be free.”



When she pushed her vision she could see through the dark now. The voice spoke from many mouths, individuals, humanoids, suspended in pods not entirely unlike her own along the walls, but each stained black with the same amalgam material that had infested the ship, and attacked her.



“Let them live and I can think about helping you, what keeps you from being free?” These were not her people, but leaving any number of beings in this state was a fate she didn’t wish to consider. It was the duty of a Scion of El to put an end to things such as this.



“Your will is not required, your form will break our chains and free us from the King In Black, then the Mad Titan may have you, as promised.” The words hissed from many lips, but this time, she could sense the oncoming movement, hear the writhing in the walls.



“I’m going to have to decline.” She was moving before they struck this time, but there were many, many, more of them. Shapeless horrors leaping form corrupted metal to attempt to latch onto her. Her eyes blazed and some of the tide fell away, but it wasn’t enough, even at her speed, there were many, from every direction. They may not have been as fast as her, but they were fast enough, and she wasn’t trying to flee. She rushed towards their captives, fighting as she went. The sudden thrum of firepower behind her heralded the arrival of the Milano, bursting forwards as its weaponry enlarged the gap she had fought through the ship into a space large enough for the vessel to fly.



“I was suspicious, but I didn’t predict ‘alien symbiotes luring us onto a derelict’ sort of suspicious.” Peter’s voice finally crackled back into life on her comms device, shortly followed by a tone she had come to know as concerned. “I am Groot.”



“I’m fine, help me get these people out of here.” Kara hoped that with the benefit of the Milanor’s flood beams that the others could see into the depths of the hold enough to notice the prisoners, but even still, she cut a bold and bright swathe through the grim tide of grim horrors to be able to follow.



“Get back aboard K, if they get a hold of you who knows what these things will do.” Rocket spoke next, a brief pause in his cadence the only clue that he was focusing on the Milano’s weaponry, bright beams of energy sweeping all around the ship to prevent the small number that had diverted from Kara to attempt to board, or bring down, the craft.



“One of them already tried, I think I chipped its teeth.” She spoke back, although that proved a mistake. With the number of aliens swarming around her in diving attacks, an enterprising life for went for what it presumed was a weak point. Kara choked as she fell, crashing from her flight into the hold, scattering crates as she went. The Milano immediately dived after her, and there was no hint of complaint over the comms as it did. For all the Guardians dysfunctionality, none would leave one of their declared own. A second mistake, bringing the agile craft too close to the Symbiotic swarm. The Milano had the firepower and the hull to resist many of them, but not all at once. Countless impacts shuddered through the hold, panels were pressed in then buckled just enough for the near-liquid forms to press through. Engines burst into screams in what limited atmosphere still remained within the derelict hull, then went silent, as the Milano began spiralling down the short trip to the hull plating below.

---

The impact wasn’t hard enough to break the hull open, but the Milano was stricken, and without it’s shielding, easy prey for the primordial alien hunters. Rocket swore as he pulled himself from his jumpseat, whatever dark science had made him gave him a particularly resilient frame when it came to surviving impacts without much in the way of pain and he had enough of his senses to remove his laser cannon from beneath his seat, just as one of the crazed creatures burst through the shattered nose of the Milano towards him.



Bright light cascaded from the weapon, and the shrieking creature was sent sprawling back out of the vessel. Rocket then turned to regard the rest of the cockpit. Peter and Groot were a little slower to recover than the smaller Guardian, but they were still alive, human groans and the creaking of slightly splintering wood heralding their movements as they unbound themselves.



“Well, this is truly farked.” Rocket groaned, as much to himself as the others, although certainly loud enough for them to hear, a murmer of assent from Peter a surprisingly unwelcome, in this circumstance, change from their usual bickering. Any continuation to the conversation was cut short with the loud scream of an unfamiliar alarm from deep within the Milano.



“..I ain’t heard that before, and that’s never a good sign.”

"



"

“Not good…not good.”

---

Kara forced herself up, exhaling with the full force of her breath, rocketing out what remained of the symbiote after she had quite unceremoniously bit through half of it. Whatever vulnerable interior it had hoped to find had proven false. Her eyes went wide in shock however as she beheld the stricken Milano, and only wider still when she heard the scream of the alarm.



She was racing towards them, her new friends, already, but redoubled so. Calling out through the comms system. “Get away from it! It will kill you all!”

“Kara?” Peter’s confused tone replied. “I think your pod is starting to speak.”



She ignored the response for a moment, yelling out in her own tongue.



“Deactivate! Threat response declined!”



“Request denied.”



The sonorous chant of Kryptonian, that had once been a comfort to her, sent her mind reeling.

“You can’t deny me! I am Kara Zor’El, Daughter of the Great House of El, you were made to serve me, deactivate!” She was already in the cockpit as she spoke, landing down with enough forced to scatter any of the remaining consoles that had survived the impact, sending her allies unceremoniously scattering as she did so, staring down the monolith of her Synthship as it floated among the wreckage of the Milano.



“We do not serve, we protect. Purge commencing.”



Kara didn’t have time to swear, to curse or protest. Only to act. She could not whisk her allies away in time, the pod was designed with Kryptonian capabilities in mind, she could not get them far enough to save them from the eradication. Only one power could, the one she’d avoided using ever since discovering it by chance. In the picosecond it took for her mind to reach this conclusion, before any other Guardian could react, Kara Zor’El drew on this ability and punched downwards, not through the skin of the Milano, but through the skin of reality itself, calling on her memory of the string of numbers they had pilfered from the vaults of the Collector.

---

They fell for eternity, or not time at all. Through a infinite tunnel of impossible colours. They saw all of existence but forgot who they were, time ran out into nothing, as their skin was warmed by the light of the first star. The nothing, then …

---

Then they were falling.



Not in the space between reality, but the real thing. Falling. Down. Fast.



The collision was sudden, but surprisingly soft. And cold.



Kara pulled herself from the snowbank among the dense thicket of tree cover as she looked up. A shimmering rent in the sky itself was slowly closing behind them, shimmering light giving way to Winter sky.



“…Where the fark is this.” The crass tone of Rocket resounded from within a shifting mound of powdered snow.



“…I think this is Earth.”

T'Challa slowly walked into the Ambassadors office. Sat behind the desk he would see his father, King T'Chaka, flanked on either side by Hunter and Okoye. "Please, my son..." T'Chaka motioned to the chair across the desk. T'Challa felt rather surrounded, even if it was with family and people who were swore to die at his command, it still felt like an ambush.

"Baba-" He smiled, trying to defuse the tension, but the hand shot up to shush him. He took his seat as told. He didn't appreciate being treated as a 5 year old who stole cookies from the jar, but right now, it seemed to be his lot in life. He stared his father in the eyes.

"Do you know what today was?" T'Chaka asked. T'Challa pursed his lips.

"I am not 10 years ol-"

"DO you know what today was?" T'Chaka asked again more forcefully. T'Challa rolled his eyes, but saw the veritable flaming daggers in his fathers eyes.

"Today was supposed to be my grand unveiling to the world as the new King of Wakanda." He replied, sitting up straight and getting serious now.

"YOU WERE GIVEN ONE DUTY!!!" T'Chaka smashed his fist on the table, everyone in the room seemed to flinch a little, even Hunter. Nobody was quite expecting that. "AND YOU COULDN'T EVEN DO THAT WHEN YOU WERE TOLD TO!!!" He was visibly shaking with anger.

"Baba-"

"DO NOT BABA ME!!!" He pointed at his son.

"I am trying to be serious, Baba, are you alright?" He asked. "That's not a natural reaction for just a simple-"

"NO! DO NOT TRY TO TURN THIS AROUND!!! YOU DISRESPECTED ME, YOU DISRESPECTED YOUR COUNTRY AND YOU DISRESPECTED EVERYTHING THAT BAST STANDS FOR!!!" The vein on his fathers forehead bulged.

"Baba, you're going to give yourself a heart attack-" Hunter actually stepped in here, putting his hand on his fathers shoulder. T'Chaka looked up at his adoptive son, hyperventilating slightly. His breathing slowed, before he patted Hunters hand.

"You..." He began. "You were supposed to be there to answer questions and to become the face of Wakanda in these trying times. You couldn't even do that for me. What, what, what have i done to earn such contempt?" He asked.

"Father, i feel many things for you, contempt has NEVER been one of them." T'Challa replied.

"Then why do you just ignore everything i ask you to do?" He asked. T'Challa rolled over his thoughts.

"Technically, i was performing one of my other duties." He smiled. T'Chaka looked at the Dora Milaje that had brought T'Challa in. One subtly nodded to him.

"You need to remember, my son, that until the ceremony is completed and you are wed, then any children would be ineligible for that throne." He then laughed a little, remembering his own wife. The lovely N'Yami. He saw the way his son looked at the Mutant and he knew the eyes very well. And although he had remarried after her death and he loved Ramonda very much... His heart still ached for T'Challa's biological mother. He rubbed his brow. "My son... I love you. I love you more than life itself and i would move heaven and earth itself to give you what you wanted, but i also need you to do the bare minimum for me and for your people." He groaned. T'Challa got up and walked around the desk, before throwing his arms around his father.

"Baba... I am sorry." He said. "Alright. Name anything i can do to make it up to you. Anything at all. Name it." He stood back up and went to sit down. T'Chaka watched his sons display of affection and decided to give him the chance he wanted. He motioned to the others to leave the room. They bowed and did so, even Hunter, who eyed T'Challa with trepidation. As the room was emptied. T'Chaka went into a hushed tone.

"There are 2 things you can do to regain my trust." He began. "First and foremost, i have a mission for The Black Panther. I have given Hunter the details. You will take him with you and you will not tell anyone else what you are doing, not even your betrothed." He ordered. T'Challa nodded.

"I am... Not entirely comfortable about that, but you are my king and the Black Panther does what is best for his King and his Country. It will be done, no questions asked." He nodded. T'Chaka smiled.

"The second, demand..." He smiled, before reaching into the desk and pulling a letter out, before sliding it across the desk to T'Challa. He picked it up and read it.
T'Challa laughed as he read it. "A piece of his heart will forever remain in Wakanda. Funny, funny stuff." He threw the paper on the desk.

"I don't care if Stane resurrected Harold Lloyd himself to write it. He wants us to attend the event." He sighed. "I believe that this would be the perfect event to unveil you to to the world, alongside your beautiful Princess Consort. You will attend, there will be no arguments or skipping out of it to make some more Heirs. Is that understood." He eyed T'Challa. The prince threw his head back and exhaled.

"The things i do for my people." He sighed. He got up and waved for his father to join him. T'Chaka got up and walked around the desk to hug again. The kissed each other on the cheek.

"Now, my son... Let us forget about this awful nonsense." He pressed a button under the desk for everyone to file back in. The Dora Milaje taking point. "While we are in New York, i wish to go and see that Rogers: The Musical that so many people have been talking about." He laughed. Meanwhile, T'Challa approached Hunter.

"It has been too long since we worked together." He smiled, shaking his hand.

"Indeed." He replied. "Meet me tonight at 2am atop the building at the corner of 5th and 23rd" He said. T'Challa nodded.

---

Sue was happily finishing packing the Argo as Reed tinkered with the underside of the hovering transport, unafraid of any eventuality in which the car would fall on him. It's not like he had any bones to break, in that instance he'd just flatten entirely and slide out from beneath it's weight. The two hadn't used the Argo in quite a while, and Reed was keen to upgrade it as much as he could before they left on their journey. Sue was just happy she got to drive the thing again, they rarely got the opportunity to use it.

She stopped for a moment, the excitment of the situation subsiding towards more long-term fears. "Reed, are you sure about this? What about Moleman, what about the Thinker?"

Reed didn't stop his improvements, stretching out an impossibly long arm and grabbing a wrench from the other room. "I'm sure. My readings picked up energy we've not seen since The Reach. If there's any chance of them coming back we need to be ready, I won't let what happened last time happen now."

Sue slid the last case into the Argo's storage compartment and rested her arms on its edge, watching Reed's shape ripple unnaturally as his arm retracted back to him. She found it creepy when he first started doing this all those years ago, now she found it endearing. "So it's definitely not just one of Lord's patrols? Some Agency black-site project leaking into the atmosphere? What if it's an ambush?"

Reed finally rolled out from beneath the craft, his form snapping back into a semblance of normal. He wiped his hands on a rag, thinking for a moment before continuing. "No. This isn't their handiwork. It's far too complex for anything Lord could do. The signature is messy. Layered in ways our dimension doesn't normally tolerate. It's almost as though reality tried to patch itself around the intrusion." He paused again for a second. "To tell you the truth, Sue, I haven't seen energy like this since our space mission."

Sue's arms dropped from the compartment, her brow furrowing. Memories of that mission still haunted her; the blinding light, the silence of space swallowing them whole, the transformation that followed. "So whatever fell through, it's carrying the same fingerprint?"

Reed gave a small nod, folding the rag neatly before setting it aside. "Not identical. Way more distorted. As if it's been stretched across an impossible distance and only just snapped back into place." His expression was resolute, no flicker of concern glanced across his brow. "It shouldn't be here. And yet it is."

Sue glanced at the Argo as its systems purred awake. She forced herself to match his resolve. "Then let's not wait around to see if Lord gets there first. If something that powerful's out there, he'll want it, and he'll want to twist it to suit him."

Reed let out a small laugh. "If Lord could find this as fast as I did he'd have to have hired some pretty smart people over the past month."

Sue slipped into the pilot's seat, running her fingers across familiar controls and grinning back at Reed's cockiness. The Argo stirred eagerly beneath her touch, thrumming with life. Reed climbed in beside her, already pulling up a holographic projection of the energy spikes - a fractured, glowing trail stretching northward.

Sue took a steadying breath and gripped the controls. "Canada, then." she said. "Into the woods. Just what I always dreamed of."

A faint smile tugged at Reed's lips. "You've had worse camping trips."

"You better just remember I want our honeymoon somewhere hot and with a beach. Northern Canada is very low on that list."

The Argo glided forward, its engines humming low as it slipped from the Baxter Building's concealed garage onto the street. For a moment it looked like some eccentric prototype car rolling out into late-night Manhattan traffic. Then its hull shimmered and vanished from sight. With a deep thrumming pulse it rose straight up, clearing the rooftops, the city lights shrinking to a carpet of stars below as it accelerated into the night sky.

---

Hours later, the invisible craft hovered over the dense expanse of northern Canadian forest. Reed hunched over the console, the holographic display before him flickering with fractured bursts of light, the unstable energy signature dancing like static. He'd spent the whole journey analysing and updating his energy readings, and they only got more confusing and intriguing the more he delved into them.

Sue eased the Argo down toward a clearing, the treetops brushing the craft's underside before it settled soundlessly above the ground. "Readings are climbing again." she said, glancing toward Reed. "Whatever it is, it's moving southeast."

Reed tapped the scanner on his wrist, its pulse echoing the hologram. "The signature's still chaotic, but it's coalescing. The fact it's moving though is very strange."

Sue unbuckled her harness, standing as the Argo settled down onto the snow. "Reed have you considered that this reading might not be a 'what' but a 'who'?"

Reed followed her out of the transport. "I had not."

The cold Canadian air bit instantly at Sue’s cheeks as her boots crunched against the snow. She pulled her coat tighter, scanning the tree line. The forest seemed impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that created more anxiety than comfort. "Just makes it all the more important we get to it before Lord then."

Reed nodded. The scanner's glow lit his features in pale blue as he led the way, Sue close at his side. Together they pushed into the dark woods, following the fractured trail toward whatever awaited them in the Canadian wilderness.

C’mon, Pete, you got this!

Peter was getting nervous all of a sudden, as his crimson boots shakily made their way into a spacious Madison Square Garden arena. The excited roar of the crowd, the vibrant signs, the blinding lights highlighting his slightly athletic build, they overwhelmed him in ways he’d never felt ever before. This still felt surreal, he thought. Just months ago, he was still a scrawny nerd who could barely lift a feather even with his two hands, but now? To think that he was booked to compete for a world title against one of the strongest, most indestructible world champions in the business today? He thought he must’ve been having a wet dream right now. If it wasn’t for that one happy accident that gave him the proportionate strength and agility of a spider, surely, all of this wouldn’t have been possible.

Through the friendly, expressive lenses, Peter scanned the sold-out arena, trying as best as he could to maintain a confident facade. Thankfully, his face was entirely veiled by a crimson mask, so nobody could really tell the kind of facial expression he’d been making as he inched closer and closer towards the ring. There, at the heart of the ring, stood a scrawny elder man with his iconic gray moustache and fancy pair of shades. He looked quite energetic for a man his age. With mic in one hand, he addressed the masked youngster’s arrival, the upbeat urban track playing in the background barely hindering his perky voice.

“Greetings, true believers! The following contest is for the UCWF World Heavyweight Championship!” the elderly announcer initiated, still keeping the mic close to his wrinkled lips. “Please welcome the challenger! From Parts Unknown, weighing 161 pounds… He is the Amazing, the Spectacular, the Marvelous Spider-Man!!”

Peter always thought it was odd that the announcer kept calling him ‘Spider-Man’ when he’d told the promoter multiple times that he went by the ring name ‘Human Spider.’ Nevertheless, it didn’t quite bother him, anyway, as long as he didn’t just spill his actual identity by accident. Neither his colleagues nor the fans knew about it, of course, but he just couldn’t imagine the embarrassment he would’ve felt if he did go by his real name and ended up losing a match since it might as well give the bullies in his campus another reason to make fun of him. Thankfully, he was yet to lose a match in the promotion he was working for, though it didn’t make him slightly more optimistic about the title match ahead of him.

His opponent—the current champion, Crusher Hogan—looked simply menacing. He was a brawny, middle-aged bald man sporting violet tights and bandages around his enormous hands. The cartoonish horseshoe moustache was probably his least intimidating feature, but even that couldn’t compensate for his brutish appearance. As Peter leaped past the ropes, he stood and tried as best as he could to size up the champion, his quiet strides sheepishly extending the distance between them. Crusher was just so tall that Peter had to lift his gaze to get a better view of his face. Just the thought of wrestling with this ruthless giant of a man sent shivers down his spine, but regardless, he had to. He’d been booked to challenge the guy, and most importantly, he needed that $3000 prize money more than anything to make his Uncle Ben, Aunt May, and Gwen proud.

Crusher, sensing the nervousness in his challenger, forcefully seized the mic out of the announcer’s grip, threatening the poor elderly man to leave the ring with a swinging elbow. Peter’s entrance music faded, paving the way for the scheduled promo exchange to take place.

“Well, well, look who’s here... If it ain’t the lil’ masked marvel tryin’ to get ’em hands on this big ol’ gold of mine,” the champion scoffed, mic inches from coarse lips, as his free hand patted the golden belt around his hips. “Who would’ve thought some skinny indie wrestler’s gonna have the nerves to challenge a guy with 15 inch pythons like me, eh? Y’know what, spider dude, I think I do start to see the appeal in you, yeah... That goofy mask, those cute lil’ quips, the flashy moves, they sure have somethin’ goin’ for ’em. But y’know somethin’ that I also notice? Oh, I can see the fear in your eyes, brother, and it’s been so obvious to me that you’ve been sweatin’ an’ actin’ all nervous in front of me, like you thought you’re gonna screw this $#!@ up so badly. But don’tcha worry, lil’ brother, ’cause lemme tell you somethin’. Whatcha gonna do when the Crusher and all those lil’ Crushamaniacs back there tell you to—”

“Nuh–uh! Hold it right there,” Peter interrupted with an extending free hand, palm facing his opponent’s face. He tightened his clasp on his own mic, his sheepish voice partly muffled by the crimson fabric of his mask. “O– Okay, listen, I hear your yapping, but… counterpoint! Let’s start with the obvious, okay? First of all, you stole somebody’s catchphrases. And second of all, it’s ‘Spider-Man,’ duh, not ‘spider dude’! Where’s my hyphen, anyway?” The attendants were quick to burst out laughing, while some let out an astonished ‘ooohhh..!!’ in unison. The New York crowd must’ve been easy to entertain because he thought his joke was about as dry as his elderly uncle’s was. Brow drawing up, he shrugged and struck his arms out, free palm up and open before gesturing towards the wrestler before him. His lips parted, muffled words spilling out of his tongue with a bit more confidence.

“Y’see, Crusher, if you can’t understand why I’m so over, just take a look around you. These fans, man, they’re all behind me. They cheer on me, they chant my name, and they sing my song. They’re dying to see the Marvelous Spider-Man in action every week. Most importantly, the same fans chose me to get that belt off your waist last week when I competed for the number one contender’s match. Not much can be said about you, though. Your shtick’s been so boring, so passé that it starts to age like milk. Oh, and don’t get me started with what most guys in the locker room have in common with you. Well, at least, those big, sweaty types in the back, anyway. Sometimes, I wonder how God could make y’all so strong, yet forget to give y’all this tiny little feature we all have that we called ‘brain.’”

With the tip of his index finger, Peter patted his crimson temple, emphasizing what he referred to as ‘this tiny little feature.’ The roar and the laughter exploded, as the crowd loudly voiced their support for their wall-crawling, web-slinging hero. Though, this was done at the expense of Crusher, as most of the crowd began to boo him, calling him all sorts of belittling insults from ‘boring’ to ‘Crusher sucks.’ The view didn’t sit right with him, seeing that he was supposed to be UCWF’s golden goose. He looked around him one last time before glaring at his younger, smaller opponent, his teeth clenching and crackling.

“Grr… Why, you…” the enormous wrestler retorted, his heavy boots striding closely.

Crusher was pissed, and Peter could tell it. He had to admit he took a bit of creative liberties with his own promo, though he wasn’t expecting the grand-slam champion to be infuriated by anything that’d come out of his mouth, given that the latter had probably heard worse back in his younger years. He swallowed hard, then took a deep, composed breath, still going ahead with his promo, anyway.

“Uh–oh! Looks like somebody’s about to throw a hissy fit. Buddy, y’know you can’t just toss me out of this ring just yet. I’m not even done making fun of you,” Peter quipped, then shrugged, forcing a wide smile under his mask. “It’s all true what I said, isn’t it? I mean, c’mon, you take your gimmick way too seriously, don’t you think? Just look at you, man! You look ridiculous with that stupid moustache. I bet everybody in this arena knows that wrestling is scripted. You’ve got a world title in stupid if you think you can beat me for real. But hey, I guess there’s no cure for dummies, isn’t there? You’re so dumb I bet you thought Superman’s last name was ‘Man.’”

“Urgh! ’Nuff talkin’!” Crusher retorted with a loud angry voice, shoulders hunching as he closely glared at Peter. The web-slinger swallowed again, expressive lenses going wide in fright the moment they exchanged glances. His retort had been so intense and raw that drops of saliva managed their way out of his parting mouth. “I don’t got much time for you, bug boy! We only got three minutes. Three minutes of playtime…” He retracted three of his fingers right between his face and Peter’s masked one, reminding him of the initial plan. “And I sure as hell will never let some lil’ wimp take this precious gold away from me. That ain’t how it works in this business, brother! Now, here’s the deal, let’s turn this no holds barred match into a title versus mask contest, ain’t we? If you got to lift me up with a body slam and win in under three minutes, then this belt right here…” He loosened the belt around his waist, then pulled it by its black strap, raising it above his head for both Peter and the thousands in attendance to see. “Y’see? This belt right here, it’s gonna be yours.” Then, he slung the belt over his shoulder, his free hand clasping its golden plate. “But if I win…” He snorted, the noise carrying a hint of mockery. He further closed the distance between their glaring faces, lowering his voice dramatically. “...You’ll hafta show your face for the whole world to see…” Smirking, he took a step back, then offered the smaller challenger a hand. “How’s that for a deal, webhead?”

Peter could feel sweat rolling down his forehead from behind the mask, the intensity of Crusher’s voice leaving him startled. He’d agreed to challenge the giant of a man beforehand, and here he was, already standing just across him. The web-slinger couldn’t just back down, could he? This was his chance, his moment. He’d worked so hard to become the number one contender for Crusher’s title, and he’d hate to see his admirers disappointed. After all, with all these gifts that he’d taken for granted, what could possibly go wrong?

“I’ll gladly accept your challenge,” Peter declared, shaking hands with Crusher. Then, with a playful grin and narrowing glance, he added: “‘Joseph.’”

Crusher widened his eyes, not expecting Peter to call him by his actual first name in front of the attendants. Frowning, he tightened his grip around the web-slinger’s hand, hoping to crush it with a squeeze. Oddly, though, no matter how hard he tried to squeeze his hand, it didn’t seem to affect Peter at all. He ended up hurting his own hand in the process, and before they could further shake hands, he quickly retracted his, swinging it upside down to relieve the slightest hints of ache.

“Dude, I hafta admit you got a strong grip. Sounds like there’s more to you than your look,” he halfheartedly admitted, his prior hand gripping and dragging the belt out of his shoulder. “But don’t think just yet that you got what it takes to be a main eventer, let alone thinkin’ of winnin’ our match tonight. Stan!”

The announcer, from nearby the commentary table outside, returned the call with a glance, only to be greeted by the mic and the belt that Crusher had hurled from inside of the ring. Thankfully, despite his physical limitations, he still managed to catch each of them with both hands, understanding his task.

“Alright, step up, sucker!” Crusher challenged, hands opened and ready stance assumed, as he shifted in his opponent’s direction. “I’ll squash you like a bug that you are…”

Peter, however, rolled his eye-like lenses and shook his head at the earlier sight. He thought there were a lot of possible ways Crusher could take to ask for help, and what he did to the announcer wasn’t one of them. Without asking for someone’s hand, the web-slinger did the same and hurled his mic past his shoulder, letting it fly past the upper rope then drop flat across the outside floor. He assumed a much exaggerated stance, shoulders hunching, hands striking out, and index fingers protruding.

“Haha, alright! It’s showtime!”

DING!

DING!

The bell rang, a timer displayed on the titantron beyond the ring. After the cue was given, the two competing wrestlers circled one another, trying to find the right opening to strike. The crowd was barely split with the majority loudly sounding their support for Peter. Although hesitating, it didn’t take a while until the two locked hands in a test of strength, trying to determine which one of them was stronger than the other. Peter tried to maintain his upright form, but to no avail. Crusher’s incredible strength was too much for him to bear, as he continued to shove him down, bringing the web-slinging wrestler to his knees. Little did anyone know, this was only a ruse played by Peter to give Crusher a false sense of security. Right before the champion could push the challenger away…

THUD!

Peter sprung back up with ease, surprising Crusher by sending him colliding with the turnbuckle behind. His enormous frame bounced forth, his back absorbing the direct impact of said collision. While the seasoned wrestler still wobbled in pain…

“CROUCH!!”

Peter wasted no chance. He hopped onto Crusher’s broad shoulders, then wrapped his lower limbs around his head, flipping and bringing him down across the canvas. The champion landed face first atop its flat surface, then shifted on his back, squirming around with both bandaged hands covering his nose.

“And… gotcha!” Peter quipped, then flipped back up, assuming his own stance once again. “And you thought I was just one of those performance center trainees, didn’t you? Dummy…”

Crusher stood up, his enormous frame a little unsteady, not exactly expecting the web-slinger to stand his ground in a test of strength. There hadn’t been a single man in the locker room who could overcome him in a test of strength in recent years, and to think that a smaller, less muscular competitor managed to overcome the ever-bearing pressure he gave him was simply humiliating. The champion grunted, teeth gnashing, though the deep, visceral noise barely pushed through the exploding boos.

“Grr… Son of a—”

Like a starving beast, he roared and pounced in the spider’s direction, open hands spreading forth. He thought he would’ve caught Peter right there and then, considering their proximity, but then, in just a blink of an eye…

“Nope!”

…Peter had leaped past his ramming form, legs striking out and crimson hands clasping Crusher’s leathery shoulders. Crusher instantly halted, just mere inches from the ropes. Furious, he turned to face the crouching Peter, then began mindlessly ramming him again with extending hands, heavy strides quickening. Unfortunately for the champion, he was met with a similar anticipation.

“And nope!”

The challenger was quick to lower down, avoiding the catching hands and clipping his opponent’s calves between his own. His ramming form faltered, and in just a split second, Crusher stumbled, face kissing a different turnbuckle just right across them.

THUD!

Crusher immediately threw his head back, hands covering his face as he spun around and wobbled unsteadily. But just before he was fully recovered, he could feel that his monster-sized frame had been lifted, raised way above the canvas. He moved his hands away from his face, and much to his surprise, he soon discovered that Peter—the same upstart youngster he underestimated during their promo battle—had brought his humongous figure over his shoulder, the wondrous view leaving the entire stadium jaw-dropped. A new record was set, a history being made.

“H– Hey! The hell you doin’? This ain’t part of the script!” Crusher shouted, though his deep, loud voice was—once again—overwhelmed by the crowd’s hysterical cheers. He squirmed, boots kicking and clenched hands flailing the air. “P– Put me down, ya hear me!? I said put me down!”

Holy crap! I– I– I can’t believe it… It works! Peter mused, his widened lenses marveling at the sight. Even he couldn’t believe what he just pulled out. He wasn’t even trembling at all by the time he carried the gigantic wrestler past his shoulder, his upright form remained immaculately still. “Told y’all, right? I have the speed, the agility, and the very strength of a giant friggin’ spider!”

SLAM!

And with that, Peter dropped his opponent on his back, causing a trembling quake that was close to tearing the entire ring down. The vibration faltered his steadiness, but he was quick to readjust his position since the shaky sensation didn’t last that long. The web-slinger took a flipping leap backwards, crouching atop the turnbuckle right across the Crusher’s laying form.

“How’s that, Joseph?” Peter asked, a hint of playfulness evident. “You like my body slam?”

Crusher grunted, a forearm over his back, as he began to stand out of his reclining position. “Urgh… Dammit! T– That can’t be possible!” he grumbled, still in denial. “Y– You ain’t human! Ain’t nobody can do whatcha do. W– What the hell are ya??”

Peter rolled his lenses, stifling a smirk from under his mask. “Well, duh! Go figure!” he quipped, then shrugged, open palms facing the ceilings. “What kinda human does what a spider can?”

Crusher frowned, teeth shaking and gnashing. “Damn you lil’ #$@&!%...” he mumbled angrily, then darted his glaring gaze towards the prior elderly announcer sitting near the commentary table outside. He gestured at him with a waving hand, palm up and fingers retracting. “Hey, Stan, gimme! Gimme that chair!” When the champion pointed a finger at the steel chair he was sitting at, the wry announcer hesitantly stood up, then folded the chair, gingerly gliding it into the ring. Crusher picked the chair almost reflexively, then darted his attention back towards Peter, running boots drumming closely towards his position.

“RRAAAHHH–!!!”

Oh, man… Spider-sense!

There was a tingling sensation emerging from the back of his head, as if reminding him that trouble was nearby. It wasn’t just the heavy thumping of his strides that alarmed Peter. Moreover, it was the barbaric scream that came straight out of the champion’s mouth.

The steel chair was raised, and with that, Crusher was ready to smash his cranium into smithereens. Fast as the speed of sound, though, Peter flipped out of the top turnbuckle, vaulting in his direction. Their distance was closed, and a flying kick to the face was executed, forcing the champion to release his grip around the chair’s legs.

SMACK!

CLANK!

THWIP!

“Get ready! You’re on for a ride!”

The next thing that Crusher knew, his standing form had been entangled by a lengthy string of web attached to the turnbuckle Peter used to perch at. Panicking, he attempted to shred the silky string limiting his movements, but to no avail. The string was a lot more arduous than it seemed. With much precision, Peter landed on top of a different turnbuckle across the other, assuming another crouching stance.

“C’mon, just stay put, will you?”

Swifter than the champion’s eyes could catch, Peter had vaulted in his direction again, continuing his series of attacks with a clean flail to the cheek.

POW!

THWIP!

Another string of web was blasted and attached to the second turnbuckle, trapping Crusher further. Both of the strings were faintly loose, thankfully, so there was still a room for him to break out of the messy tangle. Using Crusher’s webbed shoulders to prop himself up, Peter pivoted towards the third turnbuckle with a leaping flip, his boots managing to stick to its narrow peak. He wasn’t done yet, of course.

“Having fun yet? Told you, you gotta stay put, man. It’s only gonna sting a—”

“Aw, shut the—”

THWIP!

“Nuh–uh… How about you shut up and see how it’s done!?”

WHAM!

Spreading his arms, Peter leaped and struck Crusher with a flying front boot, just moments after sealing his mouth with a shot of web. He blasted the third string of web in a smooth thwip, tightening the trap further as the champion continued to squirm and grumble uncontrollably. He managed his way to the fourth—and the last—turnbuckle across the third one, but before long…

“Almost there…”

…He leaped out of the top turnbuckle, his knuckles giving Crusher one final blow. Then, the last trapping string was released, nimbly launching out of the web-shooter attached to Peter’s wrist.

BAM!

THWIP!

Again, he used his opponent’s webbed frame to launch himself skywards, his hands holding out to the ceilings. With his index and middle fingers, the web-slinger held the sensory buttons atop of both of his palms, firing a pair of web strings out of his wrists.

THWIP!

“Alright, here goes…”

Once glued to the ceilings, Peter clasped the strings with both of his hands, then slightly sprung up before propelling himself downwards, aiming to ambush the trapped Crusher with a pair of stomping boots.

KA–POW!

“MAXIMUM SPIDER!!!”

The boots connected with his torso, instantaneously forcing him down across the canvas. The force from both boots strained the trapping strings that’d been holding the champion in his spot, subsequently snapping and tearing.

POP!

POP!

POP!

SNAP!

Crusher had finally broken free, though his relief didn’t last long. As he toppled on his back, Peter quickly seized the moment and went for a cover, holding his opponent’s shoulders and raising one of his lower limbs. The referee, who’d been staying by the side of the ring for the most part, slid into the scene, initiating the count and slapping the canvas rapidly. Together, Peter counted alongside the crowd, his raised, free hand gesturing a finger count.

“One… Two… Three!!”

DING!

DING!

The match concluded, the upbeat music from early on playing in the background. Even after the count ended, Crusher hadn’t made an attempt to kick out. He’d been weakened, too humiliated to continue after a smaller wrestler slammed him with such ease. The timer displayed by the titantron halted at one minute and 59 seconds, making it an unexpected squash match for a wrestler as illustrious as one Crusher Hogan. Then, an announcement was made, the winner of the contest decided.

“And here’s your winner and the newww…. UCWF World Heavyweight Champion… Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm round of applause for the Amazing, the Spectacular, the Marvelous Spider-Man!!”

As Peter stood, the referee handed him the sizable belt that once belonged to his ferocious opponent, letting him pick and examine the fruit of his hard work. He still couldn’t believe his eyes, even after what happened. The title that he could’ve only dreamed of attaining when he was only a small boy attending wrestling events with his uncle was now in his hands, its golden plate glimmering triumphantly.

As Peter raised the belt in his grip, so did the referee raise his free, clenching hand, the confetti showering the celebrating web-slinger from every angle. He could hear the crowd rejoicing, his keen ears catching up on the satisfaction voiced from the front row.

“Man… what a match! What a main event!”

“Best. PLE. Ever!”

“I knew it! I knew that spider-boy’s gonna win this one! I’m so tired of seeing that crusty old dude on my television every week!”

“Congrats for the push, Spidey! We love you!”

“My God, dude, what the hell?? This is peak wrestling! Literally the greatest act I’ve ever seen!”

“Sensational! Fantastic! And that mask gimmick gives him just the right touch of mystery. What a terrific talent he was!”

“Say that again?”

It seemed that things were looking bright for Peter for the future ahead. His mid-carder days were finally over. Starting tonight, he was the man, the world champion, and the real deal. Or so, he believed?




“I’m sorry, kid, but I can only pay you a hundred bucks.”

“A hundred bucks?? What do you mean a hundred bucks? I thought you promised me $3000 when I won that title match.”

Peter widened his lenses, close to frowning. Even after managing to win the belt, he still wasn’t given the raise he deserved, even though the promoter had promised to pay him thousands of dollars starting tonight. A hundred bucks were barely above the amount of money he’d earned since he was employed for the promotion. Considering his popularity among fans and the number of merchandise he’d sold, it should’ve been no-brainer that he should be receiving the same amount of treatment that Crusher and other top wrestlers received, especially since he’d been working so hard to secure that spot. Frankly, this wasn’t to mention that he was never paid for all the merchandise being sold using his likeness.

“Yes, I did,” the promoter affirmed, nodding, “but consider this part of the consequences for what you did.”

“For what I did?” Peter repeated, then gestured at himself, his face quizzical. “But… What did I do wrong?”

The promoter cleared his throat, snatching out the cigar clipped between his lips. He used it to gesture at Peter. “Y’see, Spidey, the thing about this business is to keep the illusion alive—what we called ‘kayfabe’ in case you still need a lecture on a bunch of wrestling lingos,” he elaborated, treating his employee as though he’d only worked a match once in his life. “And as y’know, I’m always against a wrestler breaking kayfabe, especially when it involves pointing out that wrestling is ‘scripted’ in front of live audiences. Now, I don’t give a damn if your character—as you described me—can break the fourth wall because as long as you say that as my employee, that’s a big no. We can’t let that go unpunished.”

“B– But, sir,” Peter objected, his face flushing under the friendly mask, “I thought you told me this is semi-real.”

“I did say that,” the promoter agreed, “but it doesn’t change the fact that everything’s predetermined. You can improvise and throw real punches all you like, but you also have to follow the script. And from what Crusher told me, you seemed to be straying out of the script I gave you.”

Peter’s eye-like lenses turned rounder and wider at the revelation, though he didn’t want to be surprised. He’d heard stories about Crusher’s dirty backstage antics, of how he’d secured his status as a main eventer for decades through lobbying and burying younger talents. It couldn’t help when the promoter trusted him so much he acted almost like a pawn for him to control. And when things didn’t go his way, he’d whined about them, either feigning injuries or talking the promoter out of pushing other talents more deserving than him.

“But I did everything that you asked for, didn’t I?” Peter questioned, open hands spreading. “I beat Crusher in three minutes, tried to body slam him, and heck, I thought you and the boys asked me to freestyle my own promo. I thought I’d let everybody know about it, so what’s the problem?”

“Spidey, the boys had a problem with it. Crusher, too, had a problem with it. I told you, first and foremost, you broke kayfabe. And second of all, you made my golden boy look like a #&@$% jobber!” the promoter yelled, his raising voice prompting Peter to throw his head back in surprise. He clicked his tongue, glaring at the masked web-slinger. “Didn’t I tell you to make him look strong!? Jesus Christ, I swear to God, youngsters these days… If it wasn’t for the fans, I wouldn’t have pushed some skinny freak with spider powers to win that championship.”

“Oh, I’m sorry? Me? A freak?” Peter asked, then narrowed his lenses, his crimson hand gesturing at himself. “Oh, excuse me, mister, but if it wasn’t for yours truly, you would’ve never ever drawn new fans into watching your crappy wrestling shows! It looks to me that you don’t care about them, either, do you? Now, let’s be honest here, do you seriously think that a one-trick pony like Crusher can still put butts in the seats?”

“Who cares? Those fans are fickle! They don’t know what the hell they wanted,” the promoter argued. “And believe what I say, in less than a month, they’ll turn on you, just like any of the scrawny, work-rate punks I’d pushed in the past. Can’t you understand? You’re just a toy ready to be shelved once they get bored of you! And frankly speaking, I don’t think you have what it takes to be a main eventer. I mean, just look at you, kid! You’re too small and short for a wrestler. Even worse when you sound like a teenage boy every time you cut a promo. Where’s the aggression? Where’s the attitude? I don’t see any of those in you. You either grow a pair or stay the hell out of this business, kid, that’s what it is!”

And Peter took offense at what the promoter told him. Despite his efforts and amazing powers, it seemed that his value was no bigger than your average jobber, never mind the fact that he was on the verge of becoming the promotion’s next huge draw according to the fans on social media. It seemed like looks held a greater value than one’s actual talents in this industry, after all. And so, a nod was given, his facial expression wry. He understood.

“Ah, I see… Well, then. If you don’t think I have what it takes, then…” Peter placed the belt that he’d just won atop the promoter’s table, gingerly smoothing it with both of his hands. “...I’m done.”

The promoter’s eyes went wide, the cigar between his clipping fingers nearly toppling. “Wait, wait, wait… What do you mean you’re done? Y– You’re my money-making machine, son!”

“Don’t you get it?” Peter asked, slightly shifting away. “I’m leaving this company. I’m sick and tired of having to keep up with your BS and what goes on in the locker room. It looks like you’ll never appreciate me, no matter what I do. I don’t put my body on the line every night just to be disrespected and yelled at. And besides, I have powers. I’ll just find some place that’ll appreciate me better.”

Even Peter couldn’t believe that he could act so boldly. It took him courage to actually stand for his employer after months of horrible bookings and last-minute decisions that made his victories look shallow in comparison to the other rising stars his age. Albeit his initial hesitation, Peter strengthened his resolve and began approaching the door, leaving both his prize money and the sizable belt behind.

“Just take the money and the belt with you,” Peter reminded, not even bothering to look back. “I bet Crusher will be happy to reclaim that title after trying to screw everybody’s career up.”

The promoter, startled, craned his head in Peter’s direction from the office desk behind, attempting to talk him out of quitting. “B– But… What about the contract?” he asked. “You still have—”

“I don’t care!”

SLAM!

It wasn’t his intention to slam the door behind him harshly once he was out of the office. Instead of closing, the door bounced back and forth before skidding out of its hinges, toppling on its front in a heavy thump! The promoter was shocked, eyes broadening and mouth gasping. It sounds like somebody was struggling to contain his power.

After changing into his casual getup, Peter left the locker room, heading out of the now empty stadium. He released his title just as swiftly as he earned it, and perhaps, his future in the UCWF wasn’t as bright as he made it out to be. Thankfully, though, he still had other options. With his wits and spider-esque abilities combined, he knew he could either work for rival promotions or even perform at Haly’s Circus if they were still operating after, well, the incident that happened a while ago. The possibilities were endless, though even imagining all the wonders he could create with his newfound gifts still hadn’t managed to ease his tension.

As much as he tried to hide it, Peter still couldn’t shake away the anger that’d been building within his heart. With every stride he made, his blood continued to boil. He knew he shouldn’t have applied for the gig if it meant being treated unjustly. All he cared for was really to impress and help his old men pay for their sizable debts, but with the stagnating salary he was given, would that even be enough to settle them? While he continued to stroll back to his apartment, suddenly…

BZZ!

…His phone vibrated, forcing him to break out of his reverie. Somebody must’ve been calling, but who could it be? He pulled his phone out of his pocket, then brought the light back to the screen with just a tap on the power button, only to be greeted by a notification from his uncle.

Hey… Petey… It’s been a while… I’ll be coming to your apartment tonight… And guess what…? Your Aunt May just made you your favorite wheatcakes... She told me she said hi….

Yeah, it sure has been a while, Uncle Ben…

Even though Peter continued to secretly afford both of his uncle and aunt, they’d been distant since the moment he moved from their house at Forest Hill to go to college. Both his college demands and former occupation truly took a toll on his relationship with his old men, as the tight schedule hindered him from communicating with them. He’d always wanted to reciprocate all the messages they’d been sending him for months, yet he barely had time for it. Even if he did, the answers were left to be desired, as he only gave them either a simple ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ or ‘ok.’

For a moment, as he strolled, his thumb absently scrolled the illuminating screen just across his face, scanning every heartwarming message sent by his uncle. It made Peter feel even horrible that he seldom reciprocated them. Uncle Ben had already felt more like his biological father in a way, as he’d always been present for him through thick and thin. Maybe this was the right moment for him to explain everything to his uncle, especially now that he’d quit his job.

Yeah, we totally need to talk about it. No more secrets.

Strides halting, Peter leaned his back against the nearby lamppost, his slender thumbs hammering the buttons of the keyboard just below the chat log. The ‘send’ button was subsequently tapped, the opening message deliberately typed in lowercase.

Hey… Petey… It’s been a while… I’ll be coming to your apartment tonight… And guess what…? Your Aunt May just made you your favorite wheatcakes... She told me she said hi….

sure thing

He wasn’t done yet, of course. He still had another message in mind. Again, his thumbs hammered the lower half of the screen, the tapped buttons flickering upon contact. He repeated what he’d been typing inwardly.

I’m sorry if I haven’t been catching up with you nor Aunt May lately. I was busy. I could explain to you later, but can we—

Before Peter could type further, suddenly…

BAM!

A man with a flat cap bumped across him, forcing his phone to leave his hands. It fell atop the concrete pavement in a harsh thud, its screen faintly fracturing upon impact.

“Hey!” Peter exclaimed furiously, though the man ignored him, continuing to run away with his hands carrying a bag of stolen goodies and a knife. Then, from behind Peter came a loud plea for help.

“Stop! Somebody stop him!” the voice shouted, coming from a chubby staff working for the convenience store just a couple of feet from Peter’s position. He’d been chasing the burglar down, wanting to seize the stolen items back, but to no avail. The burglar was way ahead of him, his strides vastly quicker. “Don’t let him get away with it!”

Peter, puzzled, darted his keen eyes between the panting staff and the distant form of the fleeing burglar ahead of him. For a moment, he was hesitating. While part of him believed it wasn’t his responsibility, he also thought that it might not hurt to give the staff a helping hand since that was what his Uncle Ben would’ve done, too. After picking and stowing the partly fractured phone into his pocket, he tipped one of his toes, readying himself to catch up with the ever-distancing burglar. However, before he could really go ahead with it…

“Yo, #%@$! You saw that, did you? Don’t just stand there and watch like an idiot! Get him!” the staff rudely commanded, pointing at where the burglar was heading towards. “What’s the matter, punk? Can’t hear what I’m saying!?”

His rude words were enough to convince Peter to revoke his kind intention. This guy didn’t deserve to be helped, he thought. He might as well deserve what was coming after him. Exasperated, Peter decided to withdraw his tipping toe, pretending as though he never made an attempt to catch up with the burglar. He playfully strode past the lamppost, hands stowed under his pockets, a taunting glance shot past his shoulder.

“Own it! That’s not my business, pal,” Peter refused, then looked away. “Just call the cops, not me.”

Having turned down the staff’s favor gave him a sense of satisfaction. From ‘weirdo’ to ‘coward,’ Peter had had enough being called all kinds of derogatory terms his entire life. He’d dealt with an abundance of them in both his campus and former workplace, so he believed it was appropriate to start retaliating. His moment of triumph didn’t last long, however, when the tingling sense in his head resurfaced.

Argh–!! God… It’s my spider-sense again! B– But… my head… Why does it hurt all a sudden?

The young Peter flinched, eyes closing and teeth crackling in agony. His hands glided out of his pockets, clasping both of his brown temples as though it would’ve helped him soothe the headache. While he’d endured dozens of tingling senses since the moment he was bitten by that strange-looking spider, none had been as intense as the one he was experiencing right now. This one, though, felt like it was trying to tell him something. Like it wanted to guide Peter to… a destination, perhaps? At this point, it functioned more like an invisible radar than it was a stinging precognition.

God… What’s wrong with me!?

Eyes narrowly opening, Peter began limping, still keeping a hand over his aching head. He could feel his vision blurring tremendously, shoulders swaying side by side. His weak strides absently drummed forth, as if following a direction provided to him by the flickering signal that was the spider-sense. Finally, after moments of aimless wandering, the spider-sense guided him back to his apartment. His vision had been cleared, but much to his surprise…

Uh–oh…

A row of police officers and civilians had gathered outside of the building, sirens blaring wildly. He could hear a few of them chattering about what they saw at the time, claiming that an assault had taken place. The urgency of the situation made his eyes go wide. What was really happening, he thought. It couldn’t be related to the burglary that took place moments ago, could it?

Well, this looks bad. What’s going on here?

All of a sudden, his head stopped aching, his energy recharged. It wasn’t his responsibility, sure, but he still needed to investigate the matter, regardless. In a dash, Peter combed through the sea of people in front of him, gingerly pushing some of the fellow civilians aside.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” he pardoned, his voice almost begging. He could feel his heartbeat quickening, his mind racing with possibilities—both good and bad. It was either the burglar using his apartment building as a hideout or that he’d already been incapacitated by one of the officers at the scene. He wished it was the latter. He truly did. But as it turns out, it was a sight far worse and heart-wretching than what he’d presumed. His heartbeat dropped.

“Uncle Ben??”

Both of his hazel eyes broadened, a gasp leaving his parting lips. He could only guess how long his dearest uncle had been laying weakly atop the paved ground. The poor elderly man had been soaking in blood, his fragile hand suppressing what appeared to be a stabbing wound close to where his heart was beating. There was a paper bag scattered near his free hand, spilling out a small box of wheatcakes made just for his nephew by his wife. Shocked and concerned, Peter rushed into the crime scene, his strides drumming aloud.

“UNCLE BEN!!” he exclaimed, dropped on his knees, then grabbed his uncle by his shoulders, his own face uneasy.

Uncle Ben faintly opened his eyes, a smile weakly curled. “P– Peter…”

Oddly, despite the injury, there was barely a single flinch struck by his wrinkled face. He either held the sensation quite well or, worse, could this be a sign that he’d accepted his fate? That he was ready to… go? Surely, the young Peter wouldn’t like the sound of that. The elderly man returned his nephew’s gesture, his blood-stained hand cupping his cheek.

“W– What’s going on, Uncle Ben?” Peter asked, his voice stuttering and his widened eyes barely leaving the sight of his uncle’s bleeding injury. “W– Who did this to you??”

Uncle Ben weakly shook his head, caressing his nephew’s cheek. “I– It’s okay, Pete. It’s not important,” he reassured, his voice devoid of the strength it once had. “What matters now is that I get to see your face again. I’ve been missing you, Pete. So dearly. But look, I don’t think I have much time left. I just want you to know that you’re a good boy, Pete—like a son I never had. I knew about the whole ‘spider bite’ accident, about the powers that came from it, and how you’ve been helping your aunt and I settle our debts through those wrestling matches. You truly are amazing, Pete. Awespiring, even. And I couldn’t be prouder.”

Eyes wider, Peter arched his eyebrows, surprised and puzzled. He didn’t think he was ready for the revelation, despite having contemplated telling his uncle the truth. “Y– You… knew?” he asked with a shivering voice. “B– But…”

“Of course, I knew, Petey,” Uncle Ben interrupted, weakly snickering. “You’re my boy. I’ve known you since the moment your Aunt May and I took you under our care. The moment I saw Spider-Man on TV—the way he presents himself and cracks jokes—I knew that had to be my nephew under that mask, even when you never wanted to admit it. I understand not wanting to make your old men worry, but, Peter, you have these powers. These amazing gifts. All I ask for you is to use them for the goodness of others. To use them to… defend the weak. To be there for… the little ones.”

Finally, Uncle Ben flinched, failing to hold the pain stemming from the lethal injury much longer. Peter quickly took hold of his wrist, all while trying to attract nearby people to help. But perhaps, they’d been too occupied to listen, while the officers were either busy gathering information or urging the emergency to hurry up and come to the scene immediately.

“P– Peter, God knows how many people out there are in a dire need of a protector, of a… guardian angel. Before I go, promise me that you’ll use your powers wisely, okay?” Uncle Ben asked, his blood-stained hand patting his cheek. “Remember, with great… power… there must… also come… great… responsibility…”

His voice trailed off, his caressing fingers halting. While his eyes were closed, his mouth was still partly opened, as though the elderly man still had a couple of things to address to his nephew that he would’ve never gotten to do. Peter tightened his grip, vigorously shaking Uncle Ben’s wrist as if it would’ve helped him gain his consciousness back. Though, in the end, it was all for nothing. Just when he thought his night couldn’t have gotten any worse, the very man that he cared the most died in his arms, trying to reconnect with him. Tears quickly flowed down his cheeks, washing away the crimson stain on his cheek. He couldn’t contain them anymore.

“No, no, no… This can’t be real!” Peter denied with a raised voice, still shaking his uncle’s motionless form. “C’mon, Uncle Ben, I’m still here. Your nephew’s still here, don’t you see? Uncle Ben? UNCLE BEN!!”

His voice cracked, tears breaking immensely. Sobbing, Peter brought his uncle’s lifeless form closely, his arms wrapping in a hug. He cried and cried on his shoulder, knowing that no matter what he did, nothing would’ve ever brought him back. His fingers tingled, his mouth dry and his eyes burning. This night had truly driven him insane.

WEE–WOO…

WEE–WOO…

WHOOOOP!

The ambulance arrived, at long last, and as the medics left the vehicle, they separated Peter from his uncle, evacuating the latter. About the same time, another police officer had entered the scene, his hurried strides drawing close to the chief officer who’d been busy interrogating several eye witnesses.

“Captain Stacy!” he called from afar. “We’ve found the suspect!”

“Oh, you did?” the chief officer asked with a stern voice. “Where?”

“He’s heading up north.”

Peter’s ears were swift to catch the information. About time. Upon discovering, he stood out of his kneeling position, then ran towards a much secluded spot nearby his apartment building, ditching his casual getup for his wrestling attire. After putting on the expressive mask, he shot a lengthy string of webs towards a taller building across from him, both his index and middle finger holding the sensory button.

THWIP!

The string was attached to the precipice of its rooftop. As swift as he could, the web-slinger launched his way out of the crime scene and into the air, traveling to the northern half of the neighborhood before the police could catch up. He could feel the night’s cold breath whiffling past him, his form a blur of red and blue, as he moved like a pendulum swinging against the city’s concrete titans. He ditched and shot new webbing strings every now and then to keep up with the pace. The farther he swung, the more palpable the sight of the prior burglar became. He headed to a murky alleyway ahead, the knife in his hand now soaked in fresh crimson liquid. Just before he could run further, though…


FWOOSH!

…Peter had launched and caught him from behind, one of his gloved hands still clasping the last line of webs. As harsh as he possibly could, he hurled the burglar towards the alleyway’s dead end, the latter’s flying form traveling in a blur before colliding with a pile of barrels perching in front of a brick wall.

THUMP!

The burglar could feel his hurled frame pacing through the dropping barrels, his back firmly colliding with the wall. He could’ve sworn he heard the sound of crunching bones emitting upon impact, both the bloody knife and the bag of stolen items already leaving his hands.

“Argh… #@$%! What the—”

While the burglar strived to stand, Peter released his grip on the last string, then reeled in mid-air, already standing in front of him just moments later. Instinctively, the burglar drew his pistol out of its holster, then aimed it in the web-slinger’s direction, shakily striding back. He fired the weapon over and over, each bullet aimlessly riding in the cold night air, allowing Peter to flip out of each and every bullet with relative ease.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

WHAM!

Before the burglar could continue shooting, Peter had inched closely in front of him, crimson hands pressing the ground as he brought his boots up to deliver a flipping kick against the hand that held the weapon. The pistol was released, and the burglar was cornered to the wall behind. Peter rode his lower limbs over his arching frame, and as he maintained a crouching stance, he lunged towards the weaponless burglar with a right flail, followed by the left.

POW!

POW!

“That all you got!? Huh!?” Peter angrily exclaimed, eye-like lenses narrowing and brow furrowing. “Think you’re so tough now, aren’t you? You murderous scum!”

The mourning spider continued to pummel and pummel, popping out his teeth and prompting splashes of blood to escape both his mouth and nostrils. He was so close to rearranging the burglar’s face with both of his knuckles. The burglar, puzzled, tried to defend himself, but to no avail. His raw strength was no match to that of his attacker.

“W– What the hell is wrong with you, freak!?” the burglar asked aloud through the series of flails. “Just let me be!”

“You wanna know what’s wrong?” Peter asked back, both his knuckles and mask tainted by sprays of darker red liquid. “You stabbed an old man to his death, you moron, don’t you realize that!?”

“An… old man?” the burglar responded with widening eyes, finally coming to realization. “W– What does it matter to you, anyway?”

“Everything!” Peter exclaimed, his furious knuckles grazing harder against the burglar’s bruised cheek. “He was my uncle, the closest I could get to a father, and you took him away from me!”

KA–POW!

An uppercut was hurled against the burglar’s mandible, his cranium jolting. He could feel his soul parting away from his body, but quickly hindered despite the sheer force of his attacker’s flails. Something was telling him that the masked attacker only acted out of fury—not that he really meant to finish him right there and then.

The impact instantly sent the burglar hurling backwards, prompting him to collide with the stony surface of the prior wall to form a broad fracture. He fell face first, but was immediately brought out of the ground by the angry Peter, the latter’s crimson hand firmly clutching the collar of his shirt.

“Please… Please, stop!” the terrified burglar begged, raising his open hands. “D– Don’t kill me… I—”

“This is for you, Uncle Ben…”

His free hand tightened into a fist, ready to knock the escaping felon out cold in a single flail. However, before he was close to realizing his intention…

“Daddy?”

…A little girl in a pair of brown pigtails emerged from an unkempt apartment building next to them, standing close to its opened back door. She kept one of her hands around the door’s knob, blue, innocent eyes glimmering at the grotesque view of her father’s battered form. She didn’t say a thing. She simply watched and observed, confusion palpable across her face.

“F– Francine?” the burglar asked and shifted his barely rearranged face in her direction, trying to smile through the unforgiving pain. “W– What are you doing here, honey? You have… school tomorrow, don’t you?”

The child’s presence alone was enough to make Peter’s expressive lenses go round and wide, his hand unclenched and his clutch around the collar’s coarse fabric loosened. This was going too far, he thought. He couldn’t bear the notion of continuing the beating with the burglar’s daughter watching by the sidelines. He’d lost his biological parents since the moment he was born, and surely, he wouldn’t like to see any children experience the same kind of misery that he’d gone through as a kid. Once again, Uncle Ben’s wisdom rang true, and he could feel as though his spirit was whispering to his ear from the afterlife, his final words repeated.

Use your powers wisely, Peter. With great power, there must also come great responsibility.

Perhaps, this wasn’t what Uncle Ben wanted, after all, as he’d stated numerous times. He didn’t need Peter to avenge him. He needed him to do what was right with the powers that were given to him. The moments of hesitation were cut short when the blaring sirens of patrol vehicles became more and more evident, flickers of red and blue reflected by his colorless lenses. After giving the sight a glance past his shoulder, Peter decided to push the burglar towards the fractured wall ahead, then blasted a broad, spreading web out of his wrist, trapping him from just below his neck to his toes.

THUD!

THWIP!

With the burglar now glued to the wall, the web-slinger took a high leap, then perched on the wall right across the prior apartment building, his crimson fingers pressing against the solid surface. He began crawling to the top in a motion similar to that of a lithe arachnid, managing to reach the rooftop about the same time the officers entered the alleyway to discover and arrest the webbed burglar. Eventually, he made it just in time to swing his way back to his apartment without anybody noticing.

Upon arriving, Peter perched near the window of his room, gingerly sliding it open and launching feet first through the rectangular gap. His boots flawlessly landed on the floor, a crouching stance maintained momentarily before he rose up. The room was dark, though the cascading moonlight managed to make its way through the partly opened window, highlighting his lean, standing form. He pulled his mask out of his face, then wiggled his ruffled hair left and right, surprised to find the drying crimson stain tainting its front. It appeared that he’d brutalized the burglar more than he intended to, and he wasn’t proud of what he did. He’d been irrational. He’d been reckless. He was in denial, but he knew now that no matter how hard he insisted, the dead will continue to remain dead.

Uncle Ben was right. I wasn’t supposed to avenge him the way I did. A kid would’ve lost a father right there and then because… somebody lost control of his powers. No, not somebody. I lost control of my powers. I should’ve used them more wisely. More… responsibly.

His face softened as he mused, his hazel eyes yet to leave the bloodied mask in his grip. Throughout his brief wrestling stint, that friendly, expressive mask was a symbol of something—an embodiment of goodwill and perseverance. Considering his size, most of his storylines revolved around him overcoming the odds, acting as a David to the heel’s Goliath. Fans looked up to him—both kids and adults—and they claimed to have never seen a babyface so captivating and inspiring in the history of the industry before Spider-Man was introduced, even when he was merely following the script. Perhaps, it was time for him to turn his gimmick into something else—beyond a character to entertain thousands over thousands of wrestling enthusiasts. A hero who brought hope to the real world, instead of pretending to do so on the stage.

I won’t let you down, Uncle Ben. I understand now. Doing good things is not a choice, it’s responsibility. I’ve failed you once, and I won’t fail you anymore. As long as Spider-Man is here, nobody dies. And you can take my word for that.

And so, Spider-Man the hero was born that night, and New York City will never be the same…

FIN.