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All right, I'm calling it. Almost three weeks with no new posts, over a month since anyone applied. This game's dead. I still like the idea, I still want to tell the story I had in mind with Pete and Venom, but running it the same time the Absolute Comics game started was a mistake. I eventually want to come back and give this concept the proper treatment it deserves, but this iteration is done for.
(Wrong thread)
Now that the holidays are past, I'm hoping everyone's still going to be ready and eager to post some more. I'm going to complete my Venom arc, come hell or high water, even if the game is just me solo-playing for an audience of one.

She's falling.

Everything I've ever feared is happening all at once. I'm bleeding from a hundred different places, fiery pain overwhelming my senses as broken bones scrape against each other. I can hear his laughter, mocking me as I dive after her towards the pitch black depths below.

She's falling.

Her eyes, those perfect hypnotically blue eyes, are wide and bloodshot with terror, tears glittering in the moonlight as they hang suspended in split-seconds that feel like hours. Her mouth is wide open, but she's still too shocked to scream. Her hand reaches out, vainly clawing at the air in the hopes that my hand will grab hers like it has so many times before.

I'm too slow.

She's too far.

I'm not going to make it.

God, please, don't let this happen.

As the water rushes up to meet her, I throw out a last, desperate lifeline. The shock and horror in her eyes melts away, giving way to relief and trust, and her lips begin to pull upward into a smile.

I've got her.

I've saved her.

Everything's going to be--





........I wake up, jolting out of bed in a cold sweat. My heart is pounding like a machine gun, and I'm breathing in ragged gasps like I've been running a marathon. My eyes dart back and forth across the room until I realize where I am, before I flop back down onto the bed with a groan.

I've been having this same nightmare for a year now. Or rather, I've been living it. Every night, I'm back on that bridge, trying again and again to save her. And every time I wake up, I'm reminded that I failed.

Growing up, I didn't have many friends-- being the smart kid in class didn't exactly come with the honors and prestige one might hope for. There was Harry, of course, but we were never really equals-- in grade school I was practically his tutor, then he spent junior high in some boarding school in England, and when he came back he was virtually a different person, a slick alpha-male happy to take his old pal Pete under his wing for a change. And there was Eddie, but there was always an under-current of resentment there, and we always found ourselves competing over the same things: the spot in the science fair, the photographer gig at the school paper, the girl we both liked-- hell, he even took my old job at the Daily Bugle after I quit last year.

And then there was Gwen.

Gwen Stacy was always brilliant, and not just in her intelligence (which, incidentally, often made me look dim by comparison). She was the most kind-hearted person I've ever met, the only one in our little nerd-herd who had the spine to stand up to the Flash Thompsons and Sally Avrils of the world, and had worked her butt off to get scholarship offers that would give her a better future than anyone I knew whose parents weren't already billionaires. She was there for me when Uncle Ben died. She figured out what I'd been doing all those times I'd run off and suddenly Spider-Man would show up and clobber some bad guy, and she helped keep my secret. She always knew how to lift up my spirits when things were getting tough, whether it was in my failing social life or my double-life as a neighborhood superhero. For as long as I can remember, she'd been my best friend.

It wasn't until the end of our junior year that she blindsided me with our first kiss. It was another week before I worked up the nerve to return the favor. Both of us were kind of stunned, not just by the fact that we'd had feelings for each other, but by realizing how long we'd had them and how deeply they ran. The next year was bliss, even as school life got harder and the villains got more dangerous-- I knew no matter how tough things got, she'd be there to give me the strength to keep going. I loved her more than anything else in the world.

And that's exactly why she's gone now.

"Pete? You up?"

I blink a few times, realizing I've been pacing listlessly around my room for nearly a solid minute. Shaking my head to bring me back to the real world for a bit, I answer.

"Yeah, I'm up."

"Cool," says Harry from the main room. "I'm heading down to Katz's for lunch, meeting up with MJ. You wanna come with?"

Mary Jane Watson transferred to Midtown halfway through our sophomore year, and because her aunt and my aunt were old friends, they conspired to hook us up on a blind date. I spent the whole night positive I was walking into some kind of trap-- I mean, this fiery, free-spirited, drop-dead gorgeous girl was going to the homecoming dance with me? It was too good to be true. But the punchline never came-- MJ really did go out of her way to make sure we had a great time that night, and while we left it at that one date, she stayed friends with our weird little clique for reasons that are beyond me, because frankly she was far too cool for any of us.

She's been around the apartment a lot for the past couple of months, hanging out with Harry, occasionally knocking on my door to see if I wanted to come out and be sociable. I don't think I'm really ready to be around those two getting cozy with each other.

"Ehh, you go on ahead, man," I say, giving a half-hearted glance at the pile of notebooks on my desk. "I've, erm, I've got some studying to do for Dr. Warren's class on Monday."

"Lemme rephrase it," Harry says, taking a sterner tone. "You're coming to get some lunch with me and hang out with our friend. That is no longer a request, Pete, that's an order. Understood?"

For a moment I tense up, as I recognize the tone and cadence he's using-- it's the sort of thing his father would say to him. I know he means well, but anything that reminds me of Norman Osborn makes my blood boil.

"Besides, it'd be a nice change of pace to see you out in the sunlight," he adds, relaxing a bit. "Everyone's starting to think you're a vampire. I'm gonna start telling everyone you sparkle."

"You wouldn't dare," I say, unable to resist a wisecrack.

"Last chance, Pete," he says. "Then I'm bringing out the big guns. You've got to the count of three to open that door, or I'm calling Aunt May. One....."

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," I say, opening the door and no doubt filling the apartment with a whiff of old laundry and B.O. "Just....lemme take a quick shower or something first, all right?"

The Daily Bugle
Flatiron Building, 175 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan

"Miss Brant?"

"Yes, Mr. Jameson?"

"Why is there an angry teenager in my office staring at me like I owe him something?"

"That's Eddie Brock, sir. Your photographer? The one who--"

"I know who he is, Miss Brant. I'm asking why you let him through when he looks like he's about to start throwing punches."

"How can you even think of running this story?" Eddie Brock demanded, a printed out sheaf of copy crumpled up in his fist. "This is insane!"

"Answered your own question there, didn't you?" J. Jonah Jameson said, staring down the beligerent youth huffing and puffing in front of him. "This sort of thing is what gets people's attention, it's what sells papers, which means it keeps the both of us gainfully employed! You should be thanking me for even considering it!"

"Thanking you?! She was my friend! She was--....and now someone anonymous weirdo sends the Bugle staff some pictures and you're just going to run with it?! We don't even know who this 'Sin-Eater' guy is, or why he's doing this, and now--"

"Look, I get that you're mad about this," Jameson said, barely even trying to take a conciliatory tone. "But a story's a story, even if it's one you don't like. I'm sorry this ruins the image of your friend, but we can't pick and choose which stories to run just because we're attached to the people in them."

"It's not just her," Eddie responded. "It's Pete. If he sees this,'ll crush him, sir. Considering the state he's in, it might kill him."

"Parker?" Jameson asked, a raised eyebrow. He considered Eddie's words for a moment, then sneered. "Parker's a quitter. You oughta know; you got his old job because of it."

"Hey, that's--"

"BUT, that doesn't mean he's not a good kid," Jameson interrupted. "Tell you what. I'll give you twenty-four hours, let you break it to him easy. Then we run the story. Sound fair?"

".....about as fair as I'm gonna get," Eddie said bitterly.

"That's life, kid," Jameson said, not even acknowledging the hateful glare from the young reporter. "You're Parker's friend, you make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. Now if you don't mind, I've got a paper to keep in business."


" 'Yeah,' what?"

"....yes, sir."

"That's better."



The sun has fallen down,
and the billboards are all leering.
And the the flags are all dead
At the tops of their poles.

"Welcome back to the most glorious hour of enlightenment to come into your homes via a television set! I am, as always, your humble host, G. Gordon Godfrey, and I'd like to take a moment to talk about a story that most of the mainstream media has conveniently buried: the murder of NYPD officer Donald Skaggs. A long-serving detective on vice squad investigating a child-trafficking ring, Skaggs was found literally crucified in the streets after having been shot execution-style.

And who was it that took credit for the killing of this man? One of the city's criminal syndicates? A member of the trafficking ring Skaggs had been investigating? A deranged serial killer? No-- the murderer in question left a calling card as one of New York's oldest so-called 'superheroes,' an old vigilante called The Shadow. Do we have a copycat on the loose? A sick prank? Or has one of the first costumed crime-fighters come out of retirement in a murderous craze?

Joining me tonight is a senior reporter from The Daily Bugle, Frederick Foswell. Thank you for joining me, Frederick."

"My pleasure, Godfrey."

"Frederick, why do you think so many news outlets are hesitant to report on this story?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't know if there's much of a story at all. I mean, yes, the killing of a police officer is tragic and the killer should be brought to justice of course, but come on....The Shadow? Who even remembers the Shadow these days? Even if this is the real deal, and he's somehow up and about at over a hundred years old, he's old news- the guy was a big deal when my grandfather was in grade school. He was out of style before Captain America got his first injection of serum."

"Certainly a blast from the past, I'll give you that. Nevertheless, the Shadow set the example for the countless vigilantes and crime-fighters who subvert due process by taking the law into their own hands. Everyone from Batman to the Punisher has borrowed from his playbook at one point or another. And now someone claiming to be the Shadow is killing cops? What's going to happen if the other caped interlopers start following that example, too?"

"Well, Godfrey, you know that I've always agreed with you on the dangers that these lawless individuals pose to our society-- my chief editor's made no secret of his own similar views in the past. However, I think the current crop of 'super-heroes' is a lot more image-conscious than the ones who were busting skulls through the Depression. Again, if this really is legitimate and not some nut reciting old catchphrases, don't be surprised if some of the other capes start going after him for giving them a bad reputation. I think the Shadow being on the loose could be the beginning of the superhero community starting to eat their own."

"Interesting. Let's go to the phones, shall we? First, we've got Natalie from Boston."

"Hi, Godfrey! Long time viewer, first time caller. It's like you've always said- these super-types don't answer to anyone. What's to stop them from just bumping off anyone they don't like? And where does it stop?"

"Thank you, Natalie, and I'll tell you exactly where it will stop. It will stop at the moment the American people wake up and demand their leaders hold these tights-wearing lunatics accountable for the destruction they cause! They're not forces of nature, everyone, they're people-- well, some of them are people, unless you count all the aliens and robots and mutant freaks to be 'people' like you and me-- who actively decide to lead violent lives and hide behind masks to avoid responsibility! It all started with this Shadow madman, and now it looks as if it's starting again! Next, we've got David from Long Island."

"Hey, yeah, what about this thumb drive they're sayin' was found at the murder site? They're sayin' it had pictures an' stuff on it, that proved Donnie Skaggs was actually in on the kiddie-porn ring he was supposed to be busting. What if the Shadow's just--"

"Are you referring to the thumb drive allegedly discovered by Officer Troy Vincent, an ex-partner of Donald Skaggs? The one that was 'anonymously' leaked online and reported by known conspiracy theorist Glen Woodburn? Because so far, that's been discredited by both high-ranking officials in the NYPD and the FBI."

"I won't have you coming onto my show and smearing the name of an officer of the law, especially with baseless tin-foil-hat nonsense! Now, next caller!"


"......erm, hello? Are you there, caller?"


"O-kayyy, sounds like we've got one of the crazies on the line. Next--"

"Crazy? Hardly. I am one of the few sane people left in this rotting society, one of a dying breed who has the eyes to see evil for what it is and the means to destroy it. I see the truth of things before men like you twist and mold it to fit whatever narrative suits your depraved needs. I find those who sow the seeds of corruption, who nurture the weeds of crime and let them grow....and I choke them on their bitter fruit."

"...I'm sorry, are you--"

"I have seen the truth of you, Frederick Foswell. I know your sins, the nature of the monster that hides in the shape of an unassuming journalist. You use your position to decide what stories the people hear and which remain hidden.....and I have such stories to tell about you......"

"Now you listen here! I don't care who you claim to be, if you think you can threaten a guest and personal friend of G. Gordon Godfrey, you--"

"G. Gordon Godfrey, yes, have spent so many years acting as the shield and sword for evil men, protecting scum because they line your pockets, and striking at those who would bring them to justice. And even as the predators and perverts flock to you for protection, even they would flee from you in revulsion if they knew even the smallest part of what you truly are."

"I will not stand for--"

"You love to be seen and heard, G. Gordon Godfrey. You love the camera on your face, the microphone carrying your voice across the air. Trust me, it will not be long before the whole world sees your true face. And hears your dying screams."


"You have kept your evil hidden in plain sight for too long, confident no one could ever know the sinister urges you indulge in when you believe no one to be looking. But the Shadow knows what you are. The Shadow knows what you've done. Every. Last. One of you. The Shadow Knows."



".....cut to commercial. CUT TO COMMERCIAL, DAMMIT, RIGHT NO--"

The Death of the Supermen

Part Two

Kent Farm, Hamilton County
30 Miles west of Metropolis

"And you're sure everything's okay there? Nothing out of the ordinary?" I ask into the phone, pacing back and forth in the old barn behind the house, deliberately avoiding the mass covered by a tarp laid out on an old table.

"You should know, you went over the house twice before even asking me to come out here," Conner says from the other end of the line. "Ma says you're panicking. I'm saying that too, Clark."

"I'm just trying to make sure we're covering all bases," I say, trying to convince myself of that as much as I'm trying to convince Conner.

I was attacked by the Atomic Skull....or at least, someone wanted me to think I was being attacked by the Atomic Skull. After putting the irradiated criminal down, I discovered it was actually a robotic duplicate. A decoy, perhaps, or a distraction. After the fight, I came home to the farmhouse and discovered a corpse on our front doorstep.

My corpse. That is, the corpse of a version of me-- my experience with alternate timelines and parallel universes isn't as vast as others', but I've run into other Supermen from time to time, so I'm not discounting anything just yet.

"You've told the League about this, right?" Conner asks. "I mean, this seems like the sort of thing to bring in some detective-types to figure out."

"Of course," I say.

He knows I'm lying-- I haven't told anyone except Ma, Kara, and Conner. He doesn't press the issue.

Whoever did this wants me panicking, wants me scared. And most of all, wants me taking this personally. Whoever it is, they're going to regret getting what they want.

"Okay, well, I'm gonna unpack my stuff," Conner says. "I'll keep an eye on Ma, like you asked. Family's family, and all that."

Conner wasn't thrilled about being asked to take time away from the Teen Titans to watch Ma back in Smallville, but he understands the severity of the situation. While I was tight-lipped about the details, I've tapped other friends to be on the lookout as well-- John Henry Irons is keeping tabs on Lana, Krypto has been quietly following Jimmy, and I'm entrusting Kara with safeguarding Metropolis in the event that I'm indisposed.

Bringing in the League might be useful, but like Conner said, family is family. And until I understand what's going on here, I can't trust anyone outside the family with this situation.

"You let me know at the very first sign of trouble, okay?" I ask.

"Heh, you've got better senses than me; you'll probably see trouble before I do," he says with a nervous laugh. "I mean, ummm.....yeah. I'll make sure Ma's safe. No matter what."

"Thanks; I appreciate it," I say. "And in case anything happens....I'm proud of you."

"....yeah, but I mean, nothing's going to happen, right?"

"I'm going to make sure of that," I answer.

There's a knock on the barn door.

"Dad?" Jon says from outside. "Can I come in? It's important."

"I have to go, Conner," I say as I head to the barn door. "Thanks again for doing this. Tell Ma I love her, don't eat all the snacks in the pantry, make--"

"--sure all my homework assignments are done, and punch the bad guys away from town if a fight breaks out. Got it. I'll talk to you later."

Hanging up the phone, I open the door and see Jon, a confused look on his face.

"What's wrong, son?" I ask, kneeling to look him in the eye.

"You said not to tell anyone about the--....the you-know-what that appeared on the front porch, right?"

"Not until we know more about what's going on, that's right."

"And Mom hasn't told anyone either...."

"I don't think she has, no...."

"....and you've only told Kara and Conner, right?"


" why is Batman here?"

I pause for a second, raising an eyebrow. Bruce is an incredible detective, maybe the best there is, but I haven't told him anything about this. Not to mention I've told him, in no uncertain terms, if he's going to come by the farm or near Lois or Jon, he needs to tell me first, especially if it's business.

"Jon," I say, slowly and deliberately so I don't lose my temper, "Where did you see Batman?"

"On top of the silo," he answers. "I saw him for just a second, but then he disappeared. You said he's good at sneaking, right?"

"...right," I say, slowly rising to my feet, my right hand already clenched in a fist. "Go find your Mom, Jon. I'm going to go talk to Batman and see what he wants."

Stepping out of the barn, I round the corner and look out at the grain silo, standing tall on the far end of the field. Sure enough, for a fleeting moment I see the silhouette, black against the deep blue sky. Perched like a gargoyle, horn-like ears and flowing scalloped cloak creating an unmistakable profile, if only for a few fractions of a second before it vanishes.

Blinking, I take a moment to focus my senses. Lois and Jon are my anchors, the two pulses I have in my ears at all times to center me through the endless cacophony being made by the billions of people on this world, but there are a few others that I can pick up at a moment's notice. My mother, of course, my cousin and clone, a few of my more dangerous enemies....and of course, my old friend in Gotham.

Meanwhile, I begin focusing my vision through various wavelengths along the electromagnetic spectrum. Eventually, I find the silhouette again, but again it fades, like a radio station just at the edge of its range each time I get a trace of it.

It doesn't take long for me to pick up on the pulse. He's back in Gotham, no doubt working on a case of his own.

That's not Bruce.

I rush towards the silo, covering the two acres of farmland in microseconds, the world blurring as I charge the ghost-like 'Batman' who's spying on my family.

In those few microseconds, however, the figure vanishes completely. As if he'd never been there to begin with.

The house has already been visited by the body of a dead Superman. Now we seem to be haunted by the ghost of a Batman.

"What in the hell is going on?"


"I've scouted out the premises, but I'm afraid my cover was nearly compromised. We underestimated how quickly the new Superboy's powers are manifesting."

"I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing-- more hands in the fight if it comes down to it, yes?"

"I know you don't operate by the same rules as me, but I'm not going to condone the recruitment of children into this mission."

"The boy is in danger, regardless of whether he's 'recruited.' It may come down to this entire universe getting drafted."

"Still, were you able to determine anything about the target?"

"It's like we suspected-- a prime, like the others. Not quite as squeaky-clean as some that we've encountered, but runs a very low risk of joining the other camp. From the information I've gathered, this is an experienced prime as well, including limited encounters with parallel incarnations."

"That's good-- the less we have to explain, the sooner we can get him ready for--"


"....what the--"

"This prime is ours, 'Mister President.' Leave now, while you still can...."
Sorry about the lack of activity- real-life craziness has been eating into my free time. Should have new Supes up tomorrow.
's cool; I'm just busting your chops. (And reminding everyone who's signed up to get to posting)

The former site of Gianino's Imports
Corner of Court and Bryant St, Red Hook District, Brooklyn
03:05 AM

"Jesus," said Detective Jean DeWolff as she ducked under the police tape, flashing her badge to the approaching officers to let her pass. "What have got here?"

The area was still a cacophony of sound and heat, the flashing strobes of lights from police cruisers, fire trucks, and ambulances assaulting her eyes, to say nothing of the towering inferno where Gianino's Imports used to be. Bright yellow flames gave way to thick black smoke which poured into the night sky, filling the air with an acrid smell. Jets of water arced through the air and into the blaze as crews of firefighters desperately tried to contain it. Given the reports of the fire being started by an explosion, no one was too eager to get any closer than was absolutely necessary.

"A real shit-show, that's what we've got," called out Sergeant Francis Tork, hands in the pockets of his old olive-drab army jacket as he approached DeWolff. "Reports of gunfire, possibly an armed robbery, then boom, the whole goddamn place goes up like it was hit by a howitzer."

"Witnesses?" DeWolff asked.

"Not at this hour," Tork shook his head.

"Any survivors?"

"Ehh, if you can call them that," he shrugged. "Five guys, all completely FUBAR. Broken bones, severe burns all over, all total vegetables; it's all the EMTs can do to keep them alive. An' if they're not moved to the hospital soon, they're not gonna make it."

"Damn it," Jean cursed, staring at the inferno. "Any IDs on them?"

"Nothing official," Tork said, "but one of them's Sal Minelli, one of Hammerhead's enforcers. His face looks like a good salsa right now, but I'd recognize that fatass any day. Chances are the rest of them are Hammherhead boys, too."

"Think it was a rival gang, then?"

Tork shrugged again. "Could've been a hundred different things. We won't know for sure until either they get that fire out, or one of the roasted vegetables starts talking."

Jean gave him a slight scowl for his rudeness, which Tork didn't acknowledge.

"Who got them out? One of ours, or FDNY?"

"Well, that's the interesting thing," Tork said. "Nobody got them out. By the time we were on the scene, they'd already been dragged about a hundred yards clear."

Jean's brow furrowed, and she turned to Tork with a look of confusion.

"Who could've done that in time?" she asked. "Someone gets the drop on these guys, beats them within an inch of their lives, and leaves them for dead.....then, what, some good Samaritan pulls them out at the last second?"

"Might've been a cape," Tork suggested. "I mean, I know they're not really welcome in the city now, but that doesn't stop 'em."

"Maybe," Jean said, unconvinced. "This used to be an old Silvermane front, right?"

Tork nodded.

"And Silvermane was pushed out of Brooklyn by the Goblin...."

"What're you thinkin', DeWolff?" Tork asked, an eyebrow raised.

Both of them flinched as a small explosion punched through the air, sending debris flying and firefighters scrambling to regain control of the situation.

"I'm thinking I want that goddamn fire out so I can get a better look at the crime scene...."

The back room of DeNucci's Gym
Lexington and 96th, Italian Harlem

"It's three in the morning," came the voice of Silvio Manfredi, impatient and angry, over the phone.

"Yeah, I know boss," Hammerhead stammered, the usually cold and confident gangster uneasy when speaking to his superior. "It's just....the job at Gianino's, went ta hell, boss."

There was a long pause over the line before Manfredi spoke again.

"How much were you able to recover?"

"Ah, well.....none of it," Hammerhead admitted. "Whole place got blown ta shit, with five a my guys in it."

"Who did we lose?"

"Tataglia, Minelli....Laguna, Zambrano, and, erm....Campaea?" He answered, two fingers rubbing his forehead as he tried to remember who he'd sent on the job.


"Don't know. My guy on the inside says they was beaten ta hell an' burned, might not make it through the night."

".....and you're sure it's all gone?"

"The bombs, the money, the serum, anything Goblin had in that place, it's gone."

There was another long pause as Manfredi collected his thoughts. Hammerhead felt sheets of sweat pouring down his face as the silence bore down on him.

"I want him dead," Silvermane decreed. "Whoever did this, I want him dead by the end of the week, and his head mounted on my wall. No excuses, no bullshit, you find this guy and you put him down, or I'll find someone who will. Capisce?"

"....yeah, boss," Hammerhead muttered.

"Good. Don't ever call me at this hour again," Manfredi said, before hanging up.

Somewhere in upper Manhattan

"How was tonight's performance, gentlemen?"

"Very illuminating, sir. The subject entered an active state in record time, with far less resistance from the host than any previous outings. We believe the symbiosis is nearing ideal levels."

"Excellent. I'm seeing from the news that it's not just taking our boy out for joyrides anymore. They're actively hunting together."

"Yes, sir, and I'm concerned about the level of autonomy the subject is allowed. If the bond continues to grow in strength, we may need to act and place controlling agents on it before--"

"I'm noticing none of the reports of the explosion are including any fatalities."

"Erm, yes, sir. While the subject is engaging in combat with overwhelming force, it seems to stop short of lethal actions. We're trying to determine if this is inherent in the subject organism, or if the host is somehow overriding its instincts."

"So....he's still in there. Interesting."

"If I may, sir....if the host is maintaining a presence while under the influence of the subject organism, there is a chance that their hunting instincts may turn towards us at some point. I suggest activating the Slayer Protocols before--"

"I'll take that under advisement, thank you very much. I've made sure the host will be in no mental state to take control, even if the symbiosis fails. And I've been observing him more closely than anyone. Trust me, he has no idea what we're doing, or what's happening to him."

"Even so, sir, may I--"

"That will be all tonight, thank you very much."

".....yes, sir."

Muggins Apartment Complex
410 Chelsea St., Brooklyn

She's falling.

In the distance, lights flashed and sirens still wailed around the pillar of smoke that rose above the city skyline. Police, firefighters, paramedics, and SHIELD agents swarmed about the chaos. Here, though, things were quiet and still. No lights were on in the old, four-story brownstone walk-up when a figure in black landed on the roof without so much as making a sound.

Keeping to the shadows, the black figure crept across the rooftop, nearly flat against the concrete as it crawled between television antennae and air conditioning units. Reaching the edge, it paused for a moment to let a lone car pass by in the night, then as the headlights passed and darkness draped across the old building once again, crept over the edge and crawled along the brickwork before slipping inside of a window.

Careful not to make any noise, the black figure crept along the ceiling, clinging to it with ease as if it were crawling on the floor. Once it was certain it had not been detected, the figure extended rope-like black tendrils up into the ceiling and lowered itself down gently into the lumpy, stained, unmade twin-sized bed inside an equally filthy and squalid bedroom.

The floor was covered in ancient mouldy carpet, and on that carpet sat mounds of sour, unwashed clothes. The walls were plastered with posters, some from cheesy science fiction movies, some portraits of Einstein and Tesla and Howard Stark, some from bands that played loud and obnoxious music. The desk across from the bed was littered with scribbled notes, half-finished homework, a leatherbound journal the only thing that looked like any care had been taken in keeping it.

She's falling.

The figure settled into this mess, and slowly the oily black shadow that covered it melted away. Creeping into the dark crevices of the wasteland that was its host's home, the black mass left the young man to his nightmares.

Tossing and turning until dawn, Peter Parker dreamed of pain, of fire, of people screaming....

She's falling.

....and that he was helpless to do anything about it.
*Side-eyes HenryJonesJr and wonders if they have the same definition of the word 'tomorrow'*
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