Chapter 2
"YOU DARED TO FORGET!? THEN DOOM SHALL REMIND YOU!" Doctor Victor von Doom, the closest thing Peter still had to a friend in this world besides Greg at the internet café, was ranting madly at the top of his lungs across the street from the Baxter Building. He was exactly where Peter expected to find him, and the self-proclaimed Sorcerer, Scientist, and Sovereign Supreme didn't cut nearly as imposing a figure as he did in his heyday. Armageddon had taken its toll on Peter and Victor both.
'At least the rain stopped.'
The man stood in a ragged green cloak, while his metal armor was rusted, cracked, and occasionally sparking ominously. Portions of Doom's hideously scarred face, long hidden behind his iron mask, were now partially exposed and only reinforced his image of desperate vagrancy.
That and the psychotic ranting.
"THE UNIVERSE NEED ONLY RECALL THE TERROR IT SO DESPERATELY SOUGHT TO FORSAKE! SO SHALL I SCAR MY NAME ONCE AGAIN UPON THE FACE OF HISTORY ITSELF! UPON REALITY ITSELF! DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU PRETENDERS!? DO YOU HEAR ME, RICHARDS!?" Doom certainly retained the charisma, at least. Judging by how many had their phones out, the man's delusional ranting would crack at least five-digit figures on YouTube views.
Peter watched mutely from a rooftop above. He really should stop this, but he wasn't completely certain as to whether Victor would attempt to kill him or not if he dared to intervene.
'Just bide your time, Peter. Watch the show and wait for your cue.'
"DOOM DEFIES YOU!" he cried out again, with Doom's badly damaged armor practically creaking as he pointed a gauntleted finger at the giant number four outside the Baxter Building. And then a burst of flame simply flew from his hands and struck the side of the building for negligible damage, at best. A bit of soot, and Peter knew for a fact that Johnny had managed to do more damage to the place by accident.
But since Doom threw the equivalent of the first punch the doors to the Baxter building swung open, like curtains pulling back, and a handful of security guards shuffled out while staring fixedly at the ground beneath them. They were a decidedly high-tech bunch, dressed up in light-weight ceramics that almost resembled an inferior version of Doom's own gear… albeit in good working order, with little number fours on their lapels. But they looked embarrassed to even come out of the building. It was the opening of a farce.
'That means it's definitely your cue, stupid.'
He simply took a step off the side of the roof and walked down its side at a ninety-degree angle from the ground. Nobody noticed the bizarre sight, because as always Dr. Doom stole the show. His feet were firmly on the ground by the time Peter was close enough to hear. Close enough to intervene.
"Sir. Uh, sir, you really need to leave. You're disturbing the people inside the building, and—"
'That sort of attitude is only going to annoy Doom further.'
Doom's usual tone of voice was not quite like ice, Peter reflected. It was more bombastic and booming, like a glacier cracking. But the tone Victor was adopting now was more dangerous. Like acid, beginning to bubble.
"You will unhand Doom now, lackey," he said, in a voice that left even Peter a bit disquieted.
Peter crouched, still hidden amidst the crowd. He needed Doom as an ally… but he couldn't tolerate an ally starting a massacre, either. That thought of his took him aback. His logic was sound, and sane. But it was awfully cold for the likes of him.
'You're all heart these days, aren't you Peter?'
Peter shook his head, deciding to keep his faith in what remained of Victor von Doom's sanity. Peter had ended up trusting Doom, at least a little, after surviving the end of the world as reluctant allies. He knew that for all of Victor's many faults, he wasn't impulsive. He wouldn't fly into a murderous rage just because his ego was briefly bruised.
But the man could nurse one hell of a grudge for a long, long time.
"Sir, you're going to have to leave, or we'll call the police. We are authorized to use force in a security context—" the security guard said, more for the benefit of the people recording them than the man they were escorting out. He gripped Doom by the arm, only to find out that even in an unpowered suit of armor, the man was immovable.
Dr. Doom's armor began to glow ominously, as runes flickered to life around his gear. "You WILL unhand Doom now, wretch," he warned, only for the glow around his armor to abruptly die, leaving even Doom briefly taken aback.
"Power surge neutralized!" a second guard cried out, holding up a device of his own, which seemed to leech away all the accumulated energies Doom's armor was amassing.
"You dare?" Victor said, his voice sounding genuinely appalled. "YOU DARE!?" he demanded again, and Peter could practically hear the interrobang at the end of the man's sentence. A sure sign that Dr. Doom was about to lose his composure.
Peter rushed into action… or at least, he tried to, as he found himself repelled. It was as if the air itself had hardened around Doom and the security guards, slowing his progress down considerably. A further wrinkle was that the crowd itself was beginning to grow disquieted, easily able to sense the increase in tension as Victor von Doom brought forth the barest smatterings of his sorcery.
"Kneel! KNEEL BEFORE DOOM!" the warlord cried out, and the security guards found themselves forced to their knees as the gravity around them was amplified while the barrier around them all hardened even further. Even Peter felt shocked to find himself pushed back a step.
'Even at his lowest, the guy was always a weight class above yours. Do you really think you can get this narcissist to work with you?'
He was about to cry out to Victor, before the doors of the Baxter building suddenly swung open again.
"Oh fer the love of—" Ben Grimm marched out, a rocky golem who was the color of a rotten orange, wearing his wildly contrasting blue leotard. He appeared to be the same stand-up guy Peter remembered. Brusque, gruff, and introverted. No matter the context or the situation, he always seemed like someone who was too tired to deal with this crap.
Only the bad guys ever felt wholly comfortable with calling him 'The Thing.'
"The Thing!" Doom shouted, half with rage and half with glee. "So, Richards sends a higher tier of thug! Come at me if you dare, Benjamin!"
"That's enough outta you, jackass," Grimm's voice rumbled. Peter could feel Doom attempt to bring his A-game to bear, as purple waves of energy emanated from Doom's gauntlets. A few of the crowd behind him were suddenly thrown off their feet… but Ben Grimm was only weighed down minutely before he gave Doom a single solid punch to the gut. And just like that, it was over, Doom on the ground clutching his abdomen.
---
It was just earlier in the day that the Wizard burnt down the apartment of Johnny Storm's latest little girlfriend, who'd had enough and decided that she was now his ex-girlfriend. The Thing grimaced. Johnny must have had a dozen failed relationships by now, and if the celebrity rags were any indication Mary Jane Watson had about twice as many at that point. But because it was the Wizard and because the other three of the Frightful Four were vowing revenge over yet another petty spat, Ben Grimm had to play security guard for everyone else's sake. Again.
This guy, this Man in the Iron Mask guy, he was just another lunatic in a city full of them. Not even remotely on Ben's radar, someone either completely new to the costumed life or else never amounted to anything more than D-list at best. A hobo, but with a few cheap superpowers besides. It was quite a light show, but it was nothing to write home about. Judging by the state of the man's face beneath the armor, he seemed like yet another poor dumb shmuck who ended up as a lab experiment or yet another janitor who rolled around in toxic waste and lost his goddamn mind.
'Brother, I can relate,' Grimm thought, as he readied another punch, this time to the guy's head. It was a love tap, practically, but the poor bastard could end up with a concussion if the Thing wasn't careful.
'Then again, it's been a real shitty week, and his armor looks solid enough.'
Ben lifted him up by the scruff of the man's tattered green cloak and readied a hammer blow before suddenly finding that something had stopped his fist mid-air.
Well, okay.
Maybe this was more dangerous than he first assumed.
Yet while someone with super-strength had managed to halt his blow mid-air, the man didn't follow up with another punch. "Hey!" a smaller guy called out, more as a hello than as a reproach. He was a skinny fellow in a tattered red mask, but the muscles in his arms were the real deal, as Ben had yet to break his grip even after getting a bit more serious. And like the other guy Ben was grabbing, he smelled like he hadn't had a bath in weeks.
"He's down, man. You don't need to hit someone who's already down," the guy admonished gently. Ben grunted, before relaxing his fist and gently letting it fall to his side. It honestly sounded like something he would say to Johnny. Whatever this was, this wasn't an ambush.
"There's a trade union for a bunch of superpowered hobos now?" said Ben Grimm, raising an eyebrow. Well, not a literal eyebrow per se, but one thing to say for his ugly mug is that it was surprisingly expressive and good at disarming people.
He thought he could see the cheekbones adjust beneath the tattered mask. A bit of a smile. But just a bit. "The two of us, we aren't friends… but we've been through a lot."
Ben's eyes narrowed as he recalled a few rumors. "Did Wilson Fisk do this to you?"
The man's reaction was surprised. But was it surprise that Ben picked up on it quickly, or was he just shocked that Ben suspected Fisk's involvement in the first place? There were always rumors about Fisk, with the biggest and most open secret in New York being that he was the city's Kingpin. But other, more sinister rumors trailed along behind the fat man too. Illegal mob experiments, using synthetic drugs with Mutant Growth Hormone…
"Why do you think Fisk did something to me?" the man's voice was low. A little angry, but Ben could hardly tell from what place that was coming from.
"Heard rumors about the homeless getting snatched by his guys off the streets. Listen," Ben said, reaching into a pocket in his leotard for a card, "whoever's science experiment you and him are, whether it's Kingpin or HYDRA or freakin' Oscorp, you just give us a ring if you need help, okay? Whoever it was must've fried your buddy's brains really bad," he says, motioning to the more belligerent one in green.
"No, he was… he was always like that," the red masked guy said, sounding very tired.
"Sounds like he's been through a lot of crap too," Ben said, his voice rumbling sympathetically. The armored guy had a face that well, only someone like Ben could love. "We ain't exactly a shelter but uh, there's a few places. FEAST is good."
"FEAST is good…" red mask agreed, as he gingerly picked up the green cloak. "Thanks man."
Ben tried not to roll his eyes. Everyone seemed so surprised whenever he tried to be nice, even before he got turned into a whatever-the-hell-he-was now. "Fer the record, keep your buddy away from us, fer his own good. If the hothead were here—"
"Speak of the devil?" came a somewhat playful voice from right behind Ben.
Now Ben rolled his eyes.
---
Doom was only half conscious when Peter picked him up off the ground. Peter had no idea whether Victor would be happy or angry to see him, once he came back to himself. In their time together Peter knew that there was never any telling with him, which never failed to exasperate.
'Speaking of the exasperating…' Peter thought, perhaps uncharitably, as he saw the Human Torch descend, going from a blindingly iridescent fireball to a nearly as blindingly iridescent blonde.
"Everything all right, Bennie? Is this a serious thing, or just something like a Yancy Street thing?" Johnny had, for better or worse, also not changed in the slightest. He was all smiles, in a way that most would think was condescending, but Peter realized long ago was merely a friendly sort of obliviousness.
"Yancy Street hobos that have superpowers," Ben grumbled.
Johnny blinked. "So, does that mean this is a big thing or a small thing?"
"A small thing! Hopefully even after you showed up!" Ben groused.
"Hey, no biggie then. All right Ben, keep up the good work!" Johnny then proceeded to do finger-guns at Ben Grimm.
Peter found himself glaring at the Human Torch from underneath his mask. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. This was Johnny Storm, one of his oldest friends, seemingly back from the dead. So why was he-
It took a moment before Peter remembered that Johnny was dating Mary Jane and had burnt her apartment down.
By accident.
Supposedly.
"Hey, Lucha Libre! Kid Ricochet! You all right in there?" Johnny noticed Peter was staring at him, and in response Johnny was waving his goddamned hands right in front of Peter's face.
Peter briefly imagined himself sucker-punching Johnny before engaging in his own Doom-like rant. 'You DARE date the BRIDE of SPIDER-MAN, you insipid CANDLE-FLAME???' he thought.
The thought itself was enough to ease the anger, and make Peter realize he was being stupid. He never existed in this new timeline, Mary Jane was bound to find someone else, and—
And he didn't want to shatter himself all over again just by watching her die alongside their children. Peter Parker was gone now, and everyone else was better off without him adding to their problems.
For all that he mulled over the years of one day giving up on being Spider-Man to be Peter Parker, or else giving up on being Peter Parker to be Spider-Man, the moment was bittersweet.
"Take care of yourself, Johnny," Peter said gently to the Torch, before leaving with Doom over his shoulder. He was once again grateful for the mask, and simply didn't look back again as he departed with Doom.
'No more looking back, Peter.'
---
With a show over, the crowd shuffled away and the security guards collected themselves. The Thing and the Human Torch shuffled into the Baxter Building. "Was that a threat or something?" Johnny whispered to Ben, still his usual clueless self. Ben gave him a dumbfounded look.
"Generally, Johnny, people don't sound like they've just had their dog shot when delivering a threat! No, I think that was sincere advice. He a friend of yours?" Ben asked.
"No, I uh, don't recall. Just, he seemed really mad at me before all that," Johnny said, defensively.
"Everyone's really mad at you most of the time, Johnny. That don't mean they still don't love you," Ben mused.
Johnny smiled. "Aww, you're great too, Ben. Maybe he was a fan, then?"
Ben chuckled. "How does someone as self-centered as you get so many girls, kid?"
Johnny's face grew uncharacteristically serious. "By having just as many breakups," he said, in a wooden, somewhat bitter tone of voice.
The Thing sighed. "You and MJ both knew it wasn't a serious thing. It was a career fling. You get seen, you get some buzz on social media, and then you get a messy breakup. I know this because you told me this a month ago, in those words!"
"A month is a lifetime ago, Ben." Johnny said ruefully… but the playful undercurrent was returning. Good, Ben thought. A depressed Johnny Storm would get everyone down.
"You're just mad she broke up with you first," Ben ribbed, only for Johnny to shake his head in a defensive gesture.
"Not mad! I'm not mad. It was just… you know, weird. She hardly cared about the superhero thing when we were just trying things out. But suddenly, Whately of all people storms into her place—"
"And her apartment was collateral damage—" Ben added, only for Johnny to wave his hands aside.
"She's A-list, she's got two more just like it. They're like extra pairs of shoes for her, she ignores them aside from the lease and getting them cleaned once a month. Anyway, my point is that she was her usual bubbly self-right up until I suggested we make this a regular thing instead of just an on again and off again thing. The moment I sounded like I wanted to get serious, that's when she got cold, man. She's got problems."
Ben could only vaguely wonder why Johnny was giving him a play-by-play on his relationship drama, before shrugging. "I always liked her better than that agent of hers."
Johnny winced. "God, yeah. Did you know that she had me sign a contract before I started dating MJ? She's got more issues than the both of us, and probably you too."
"Her nickname for me was Igor, and I'm never letting that one go," Ben said sourly. He got sensitive whenever the insults were novel.
"Anyways," said Johnny, clearly desperate to change the subject away from Mary Jane's psychotic agent, "what was the deal with the two super-hobos?"
Ben grunted. "There's been rumors that the Kingpin's been playing Mengele on the homeless. I think they're true. And I think they're part of the fallout."
"So, you just let them go?" Johnny said, eyes bulging.
Ben waved him away. "Why not? I'm not gonna shove them into OUR lab and say, 'trust us, it's fer yer own good this time!' Poor bastards. Nah, this sort of thing needs to be cut off at the source."
"Easy for you to say. 'Take out the Kingpin and you'll just let in someone worse,' is the sermon we keep getting, isn't it? That and 'he's the devil we know,'" Johnny said, doing his best impression of Daredevil's voice.
"It's what we tell ourselves to sleep at night, kid. Just saying, if we can get to the bottom of this and out Fisk for running honest-to-god unsanctioned superpower experiments? On freakin' US soil in the middle of New York? He'll go from super-criminal to domestic terrorist overnight as far as SHIELD is concerned. He'll be on a one-way trip to the Negative Zone no matter how much his fancy lawyers bitch and moan." Ben was getting into this.
Everyone and their mother were well and truly sick of Wilson Fisk.
"All I'm saying is, whatever we did to make budget Iron Man back there mad, I doubt he'll let it go. And once we deal with that, we need to make sure his friendlier little pal, Kid Ricochet or whoever, helps us get to the bottom of what Fisk is up to," Ben Grimm said, his face now firmly set and stoic.
"Pretty sure the thing at Fisk's bottom is his fat ass," Johnny said with a smarmy grin. Ben chuckled, despite himself.
---
They were standing on yet another nondescript New York rooftop. It didn't take long for Dr. Doom to regain consciousness. And it didn't take long for Dr. Doom to surprise Peter yet again, for that matter. The literal tinpot dictator of Latveria simply extended his hand towards Spider-Man, as if he insisted that Peter take it.
"Comrades once more then, Peter?" said Doom, chuckling. Despite the expressionless death mask that Doom never removed, the man's grim visage somehow still seemed amused.
'I've got to ask him how he does that, someday,' Peter thought, before affirming yet another ill-thought Faustian bargain and taking Doom's hand.
"Comrades again," Peter affirmed. Though Peter's grip was hard, and this time Doom's failing armor couldn't project nearly as much strength for this handshake. In the end it was Doom who gave a little cough before Peter relaxed his grip.
"It is good that you survived as well, Arachnid. Have you taken stock? What are we to make of all this?" Almost all of Doom's questions were rhetorical. He just wanted to judge Peter's comprehension of the situation and 'correct' any misconceptions that might have developed. It was one tiresome trait out of many for Victor von Doom, but Peter had been so starved for allies at this point that he had long since gotten used to accommodating Doom's massive ego.
But things were different now. Before, there wasn't any point in being Doom's enemy. There was simply nothing left for the likes of Doom to ruin, and all grand ambitions and ideology gave way to what was simply termed their Science of Survival. But now? Now there was something worth saving, and Doom's stunt with the Fantastic Four proved that even if Peter was willing to make a clean break with his past, Doom had not nearly made as much progress with his issues.
'But don't burn bridges yet. The fact that he knows what you know is invaluable. The fact that he wants to survive what's coming, and wants his grand ambitions to survive it, is invaluable too.'
He couldn't forsake this Faustian bargain, just yet.
"To summarize: we don't exist anymore. During that… lengthy… window of time between when the world ended then and when it was remade just now, we didn't die. Whatever cycle this process was a part of, we've somehow cut ourselves out of it. For all practical purposes we've seemingly been transported to an alternate timeline where neither of us ever existed, but that isn't quite the case. We're exactly as we were, it's everything else that changed abruptly," Peter said, with stern finality.
"Very good. This was a revelation that Doom found… difficult to process, at first," von Doom said diplomatically. Peter coughed. "But nevertheless, it seems that my Latveria is gone. My past is gone. It is all gone. Worse, what Doom had desperately hoped to reclaim, or at least rebuild, now never was."
Peter shook his head. "Any dashed optimism was on us and our flawed expectations. We're still in a much better position than we were just a little while ago. Resources are far more plentiful and thus far easier to obtain. The world is… still mostly as we knew it. Compared to that hellscape, we've now got a world that's worth saving."
"Your logic remains sound, if stark and bleak," Doom conceded. "We are seemingly at a far earlier point in time compared to when the end of the world began in our original cycle, giving us hope that if such an event were to again recur, we would now be in a position to prevent it. And the soul of Cynthia von Doom, she who would have been mother to Victor von Doom, yet unfairly languishes in Hell. Yes, we do have goals in mind. And scores to settle."
Peter pulled off his mask, exposing his scarred and ragged face, his hard and cold eyes, to better glare at his only remaining friend. "Leave your grudge with the Fantastic Four behind, Doom."
Doom didn't balk, even with that display. "Against the Fantastic Four? Certainly. But my animosity towards Richards will last beyond worlds, Peter. Beyond lifetimes. That I cannot forsake, even for the sake of peace between us."
"Then just let it wait!" Peter said, his voice scornful, before softening. "We've got all the time in the world to settle scores. We can last a bit longer before we're all enemies again."
"So be it," Doom said, enunciating every syllable. "Though let it be known that you now bear responsibility for any innocents victimized by the madness of Reed Richards, Peter. In the end you will realize that you have only heaped more guilt upon your ragged conscience."
It was rapidly becoming clear to Peter that Doom was hopelessly insane, especially where Reed was concerned. Peter was coming to realize that the seeming revival of their Earth only made Doom harder to deal with, not easier. Reed and the rest of the Fantastic Four had the bad luck of dying early on when everything ended, leaving Doom seemingly directionless… and far more open to considering changes in direction.
'Now he's back at square one. You've got to placate him, Peter. Somehow.'
"We're still comrades, Victor. I'll help you get your mother's soul out of Mephisto's realm, however I can," Peter vowed.
Doom nodded magnanimously, only somewhat mollified. But he was, nevertheless, satisfied with Peter's response. "So, what is our next step? What does your Science of Survival dictate, Arachnid?"
"Food and shelter, then followed by sufficient resources to go on offensive while we consider our approach to the problem," Peter decided.
"Resources, yes… as you can see, Doom is not as he was. Even in the deplorable state of affairs we were in just before, Doom's sorcery was not so diminished. It appears that things have changed, Peter, not merely spatially but also temporally. Not since his childhood has Doom's magic ever been so… flaccid," Doom muttered from beneath his mask.
"My powers are working just fine," Peter said, contemplatively. He was stronger than he was when he was younger, and more experienced besides. He'd lost quite a bit of muscle due to malnutrition, but before everything went to hell he was at his best. A training regimen put together by Shang-Chi and Iron Fist proved that he had far more untapped potential than just what the radioactive spider bite gave him. Mary Jane had seemed thrilled by the improvement as well.
He shook off the memories, growing a little frustrated with how much they kept on dogging him. How much they kept on haunting him. That sort of sentimentality was useless to him when he now had to be better than he ever was before.
'A Superior Spider-Man?' Peter thought to himself… before shuddering inwardly and brushing off a few more painful memories as he tried to pay attention to Doom.
"Your powers are… an intrinsic matter, Arachnid. Much of Doom's abilities were either wrested from others or negotiated for. The pacts and bargains that Doom had struck with the universe's higher and lower powers are apparently not valid as of this new universe. Even as the world changed to an approximation of its original state, Doom's strength was wrested away from him." There was anger, buried underneath Doom's laconic drawl. The universe would be paying for that, apparently.
Peter crossed his arms. "So, you're hardly Sorcerer Supreme right now."
"The consequences of being a self-made man, rather than a pawn of destiny," Doom said evenly. "And without the resources of Latveria to call upon, Doom's scientific genius remains purely within the realm of the theoretical."
Peter asserted himself then. "If you're not much of a magician or a scientist now, what good are you to me? Why don't I just figure out how to go to Dr. Strange or even Mr. Fantastic for help?" If he said something like that to any other person, it would have been cruel, or even petty. But even more than having his pride pandered to, Peter understood that Doom appreciated blunt, remorseless, and sensible logic.
'At least, the kind of logic that someone as bizarre as Doom would consider sensible.'
And as predicted, Doom gave a slight bow, as if he were acknowledging a fencer who struck a good blow. "Doom is willing to curb his… tendencies for the sake of partnership, Arachnid. You have proven capable and trustworthy. Consider, Peter, that as I am the closest thing you have to a friend, you are also now the closest thing Doom has to a peer. You alone, in the entirety of this new world, are the only one who can come close to comprehending Doom and the depths of his grief. For Victor von Doom has lost a nation and a people, and Peter Parker has lost a world and a family." Doom let his words trail into a meaningful, ponderous silence.
Doom gave Peter only a moment to contemplate the man's words, before Doom hung his head low. It was a surprising display of vulnerability. "No man is an island, Peter. If you were to be lost, so too would I lose the only being that remains who yet comprehends Victor von Doom."
What was more poignant was what Doom left unsaid, and what Peter picked up on. 'And the same goes for you too, doesn't it, Peter? He's the only one in the world right now besides you who remembers Mayday, and Annie, and Benjy… and your Mary Jane, the real Mary Jane, not whatever ghost is filling your dead wife's shoes now.'
It wasn't petty narcissism on Doom's part this time, Peter realized. It was something more intrinsic, more desperately needed by the two of them. A simple desire to be understood by someone, and to have them know that you're still sane.
God damn it. He was finding Doom far too relatable these days. Victor wasn't a monster, or a sociopath. Just utterly and completely insane.
'But you don't have room to talk, do you?' asked a dark voice. His own voice.
"Like I said. We're comrades again," Peter affirmed. That was, apparently, all he needed to say.
"Do you still have Hercules's—" Doom began, before Peter cut him off.
'And yet Doom accepted being cut off. You're probably the only person in the world who could get away with something like that right now too.' Peter didn't finish the thought, his mouth moving faster than his brain again.
"—It doesn't work. Hercules was on the wrong track, before the end." Peter finished.
"If you are certain…" Doom said civilly… but also somewhat skeptically.
"Let's not dwell on my past failures, please," Peter pleaded. Hercules's last moments were just one more sore subject out of thousands, but it was much more recent, and the wound there was just a bit more fresh. His last proclamation to Peter, and the final bequeathment of his bracers, was an even more bitter thing besides. "Is it just you and me? Who else made it out of there?"
"There was one of us whose survival was virtually guaranteed, Arachnid. Think on it," Doom said, defaulting to quizzing Peter on conclusions that he had already made.
Peter tried not to feel annoyed, and just took confidence in the fact that he was sharp enough to grasp whatever Doom was getting at quickly. The person who was guaranteed to not die… was a person who couldn't die… which could only mean…
'Oh no.'
Peter sighed. "We're going to have to find the Hulk and somehow get him on board."
Doom chuckled. "Yes. My armor's functions are limited, but it can still pick up a characteristic signal when scanning for gamma radiation. He's not trying to hide away as Banner, and we are enshrouded in the depths of night. That means one of his… darker personalities are in play. I hope you have a strong stomach Peter, for whatever horror we have in store."
In silent anticipation, and tense dread… the two reluctant allies by circumstance stalked off into the night, ready for just about anything.
Chapter 3
Nothing could have prepared them for this.
"SING US A SONG, YOU'RE THE PIANO MAN!" sang a brightly grinning Joe Fixit, the Gray Hulk, as he played Piano Man on a comically too-small-for-his-size player piano. And he did it with far, far less solemnity than Billy Joel would have done it, while a bunch of bar patrons raucously sang along with him.
"Ah," Dr. Doom simply said, clearly just as taken aback as Peter.
"He's handling this better than either of us are," Peter admitted. Which was, frankly, a surprise considering what he'd learned about the Hulk over the years.
The truth was that Doctor Robert Bruce Banner's problems had started long, long before a gamma bomb test went horribly wrong. Banner had been wrestling with a lot of inner demons for years and, prior to getting slammed with a lethal dose of gamma radiation, he had been on the verge of developing a full-on dissociative identity disorder.
Peter had read research papers on gamma radiation and its intricacies. While he could at least comprehend the basics of the more mundane kinds of nuclear physics, as gamma research advanced over the years it became an increasingly unintelligible and insular field of study. It was a field that was beginning to grow increasingly eerie in its implications and was as much a realm for philosophers now as it was for physicists. When Banner's bomb went off, with himself caught in the blast, the gamma radiation had outright killed him. And then the same radiation brought him back, somehow.
It appeared that this was the straw that broke the camel's back, and Bruce Banner's mind gave way under the strain. His psyche split into a handful of discrete and distinct personalities, one of which was Banner himself… and all those other personalities each became their own kind of Hulk.
The Surly Green Giant that everyone was most familiar with was just one facet of Dr. Banner's psyche. There were more besides, all of them fighting for their turn to be at the wheel driving Bruce's body out in the real world. But then the world ended, and much like Peter and Doom, the various Hulks inside Banner's head began an uneasy sort of cooperation. And they kept their own counsel with the rest of Bruce Banner, far out of the sight of either Peter Parker or Victor von Doom.
Apparently, Banner's mental collective were content with letting the Gray Hulk, a wannabe wise guy who called himself Joe Fixit, be the face of their franchise.
By the time the song wrapped up, along with the applause of the delighted patrons, Joe's gigantic hands signaled for a time-out as he stepped off the chair. "Take five, people! Have a good time. Boys!" he said, suddenly turning to Peter and Doom with a smile that somehow seemed radiant even though his features were just as rough and blunt as any other Hulk, "How the hell are you two?! Hahaha! Don't tell me the two of you are also unkillable?" He gripped their shoulders, merely in a casually menacing way rather than a genuinely terrifying one. But the two men barely reacted, aside from Peter letting Joe swing a single vast arm around his much smaller shoulders. They'd all been together long enough to know that Joe was making a genuine and serious effort to be friendly, rather than trying to subtly intimidate them.
All Hulks came off as dangerous and menacing regardless of their intentions. Even Bruce Banner, at times, came off as dangerous and menacing regardless of his intentions. And Joe Fixit was only subtle as far as the other Hulks went.
But it was always very clear when Joe Fixit really wanted to frighten someone.
"I thought they'd never let you go Gray unless you had a pinstripe suit handy," Peter said, motioning to Joe's rags and pulling his mask off to expose a grinning face. Joe Fixit grinned back, making an expression that couldn't help but appear awkward given that it was delivered via a Hulk's facial features. But Joe's smile was sincere, Peter could tell. Joe's lips curled upward, but there were no teeth exposed.
Because Joe Fixit always bared his teeth when he really wanted to frighten someone.
"Heh. It turns out even puny Banner needs a break right now. Plus, him and the rest of us voices in his head wanted to try something out. Look around, Pete. What do you see?" Joe Fixit asked, motioning to the cheap but clean-looking bar they'd found themselves in.
"Ten dollars is way too much for just some hot wings," Peter said bluntly. Joe Fixit's smile deepened as he hunched over and let out a sound like a punctured bag, a wheeze that was always the best any Hulk could do when they tried to laugh.
But it was also genuine laughter.
"They're smilin' at me," Joe Fixit confided. "Nobody screaming. Everybody's having a good time. No police sirens or helicopters in the background." His voice dipped briefly into an affected falsetto. "No-one shouting help, help, the Hulk!" He chuckled. "I'm nothin' but a huge gray-ass mutie who smiles and sings some songs."
"Joe, we can't use the m-word," Peter half-chided. "Not our word."
Joe rolled his eyes, a deliberately dramatic and affected gesture. "If you get called it enough times, it's your word too. God knows you had enough people claiming you were a mutant too, back in the day. And those days are apparently here again, so brace yourself m'boy."
Peter raised his hands up in a gesture of peace. "Well, it wasn't quite enough to get me into the X-Men on the first go around."
That was one bullet that he somehow dodged entirely by accident.
"Ahem. Gentlemen," said Doom, testily trying to get Joe's attention.
"Stick in the mud," Joe grumbled back to Doom. His voice was low, and ominous. But again, none of this was an intentional attempt to frighten someone.
Because Joe Fixit's voice would make the whole room rumble when he really wanted to frighten someone.
"You seem to be dancing on our graves rather eagerly, Dr. Banner," said Doom, crossing his arms.
Joe gave a sour smile. There was a flash of his teeth, in there. Bright white. "Hey, buddy, I'm in that grave with you too! It's the Hulk's grave specifically that we've all decided to tap-dance on. Being dead or just never being born, well, it really suits everyone in this skull of ours!" Joe's smile became a little less fake, and a little warmer as he took a seat on a far too small-for-his-size-chair and leaned on a circular table. "Like I said, Vic. You're a stick in the mud. Some of us have been desperate for a clean break. Ain't that right, Peter?"
Both Dr. Doom and the Hulk were staring at Peter now.
'I had nightmares like this before.'
Peter scratched his head, his hair now graying, long, and ragged in his hands due to a combination of both stress and neglect. It reinforced his image as just another desperate homeless man in New York. "It's eerie, Joe. Wonderful and frightening. Almost everyone I mourned and buried is alive again."
"Yeah. You get what I'm talking about," Joe said with a satisfied smirk. "Mr. 'Great Responsibility.' Now you're free as a bird. No skin in this game and nothing to blame yourself over."
"…What about Betty, Joe?" was what Peter asked. His real question, he left unsaid.
'…What about Mary Jane, Joe?'
Joe Fixit was remorseless and didn't even flinch. "Betty's better off without me, buddy. Rick Jones, Don Berengetti, whoever. I'm the worst thing that never happened to those people. Gamma research is decades behind where it used to be, and Doc Banner is in the back of our head breathing out a sigh of relief because unlike Oppenheimer, someone managed to wish his own genie back in its goddamn bottle. And check this out," said Joe, pulling out a newspaper before slapping it against the table.
"Trade talks continue for the Mets…" Peter mumbled.
Joe's face scrunched up. He was trying not to laugh. "Halfway down, second column," he wheezed.
"Thaddeus Ross dead at 63, due to complications from burst brain aneurysm," Peter mumbled again. "Joe, I really despised my own father-in-law but…"
"Think about it. Everyone who had a problem with a Hulk, and every problem the Hulk had, came out of Bruce Banner's research into gamma radiation. Because he was the only one smart enough and crazy enough to make heads or tails out of that mess. No more gamma-mutates, now. No more Leader. No more Abomination. Carl Creel's strictly Thor's problem." Joe sighed, as he looked down. "I know it's rotten to say, after we got the crap kicked out of us so long. After we lost everybody, everybody we gave a damn about, but then only some of them came back and they don't know who we are anymore. But for me, I wanna see the upside here."
He chuckled, giving an ugly, heartfelt smile. "It's like I'm back in Vegas again. A fresh start."
"And the rest of you?" Doom said, finally pulling up a chair of his own. Peter mirrored him.
"We're all on the same page. Banner wanted to disappear, the Kid wanted people to stop chasing him, and the Devil doesn't give a shit about anything so long as the rest of us are getting by okay. Any other personalities we accumulated over the years are dormant and don't get a say," Joe said with a shrug.
"Then, I presume we cannot count you as a partner in our endeavor?" Doom said, coldly. Victor's eyes were visible beneath his damaged mask, but they might as well have been made from metal too, for all they revealed.
Joe made a sour, bitter face. But not an angry face. "Asshole. Who said I'm not on board, jackass? I'm just seeing the bright side. Far as I'm concerned, web-head here did right by me, so I'll do right by him. Maybe give this superhero gig a real try now that the government of the US of A isn't trying to put me under the knife. What'sa matter with you, Doc? I thought we decided we were buddies. It was real ride or die for a while there."
It was Doom's turn to let his feelings loose, as his voice trembled. "It is this talk that bothers me. This defeatism. You are one of the most brilliant minds I know." Joe Fixit gave a bemused look and a shrug, before Doom sighed. "Yes, you, Joe Fixit. Because unlike your more famous and rage-filled persona, you still have access to Banner's accumulated scientific knowledge, coupled with a capacity for lateral thinking that is entirely unique to the Gray Hulk."
Peter felt the point was salient. Joe Fixit was the most rational and clear-headed Hulk. He was also the most dangerous Hulk.
Doom continued. "Yet you are content with this living death. Worse, you approve. I had thought that perhaps you were grateful for whatever—" Joe raised a gigantic hand.
"Lemme stop you right there. It's my world too, and my ass on the line. Accepting how things are right now doesn't mean I'm gonna lie down and accept how things are gonna be. I like having indoor plumbing and electricity and getting to hang out in a place that might as well be the bar from Cheers as far as I'm concerned. I'll save this goddamn world, sure. Then we'll figure out what we wanna do with ourselves," Joe said with a shrug.
The portions of Doom's ghastly visage visible under his cracked mask, and the way his eyes squinted, told Peter that the man was smiling. "Acceptable."
Then Doom and Joe Fixit stared at Peter again.
Peter wondered absently why that didn't make his Spider-Sense go off.
Peter coughed. "Don't look at me, I can't cover your tabs."
Doom inclined his head. "New York is your backyard, Arachnid. We are gathered. Now we are starved for direction."
Joe agreed. "If it were Vegas, I'd be taking the lead, but it's going to be a pain in the ass getting there on whatever money the nice drunk people here put inside my hat."
"What is this place called, anyways?" Peter asked.
Joe pursed his lips. "I'm pretty sure it's one of those bars that don't have names," he muttered absently.
Peter's eyes widened, and he looked again at the patrons with a much more careful eye.
"Nah, none of them are costumes. Strictly mafia types, I think. Different crowd, not the types who mix with mutates." Joe gave a smirk. "My charming self being excepted, of course. But being a big funny gray guy who plays a bit of piano might let me hear things…"
Peter pointed a finger at Joe. Like it was a loaded gun. "First off, if the two of you are deferring to me, we're strictly a white hat operation for now, you got it? We're not Clint Eastwood and taking mob money before we gun down the bad guys. We're doing things the John Wayne way, okay?"
Joe grinned, before pointing a finger back at Peter. "Explain that again, but this time using film noir metaphors instead of cowboys."
"Don't get wrapped up in being a heavy for the mob again, Joe. I don't care how likable Berengetti was. I liked Berengetti too, he was a lesser evil compared to the New York mob. We are now chatting about this in a bar run by that very same New York mob, I should add," Peter said bluntly.
Joe shrugged. "I ain't about to roll over and be the Kingpin's dog, m'boy. I still remember the hit Fat Willie put on Don Berengetti back in the day. And if I find out that Fisk followed through on that hit and Don Berengetti died sooner than he ought to have when he left me… well, I'm gonna follow through on a grudge that transcends lifetimes."
"It's going to be a nightmare trying to unpack whatever insanity Osborn or Doc Ock got up to because I wasn't around," Peter said, his voice only just suppressing the dread that he was anticipating.
Doom too, inclined his head. "To say nothing of the horrors the loathsome Reed Richards had wrought in Doom's absence."
Both Peter and Joe just stared at Doom, too appalled to even comment. Doom, for his part, either didn't notice or simply didn't care.
"Hey, come on!" came a voice from a table further away. "Encore, encore!" came a voice that was pleading to Joe Fixit. Joe grinned and was about to get up, but halted and raised an eyebrow to Peter.
'I'm team leader now?' Nevermind the Hulk, Peter was flummoxed as to how an egomaniac like Doom decided to defer to him, even if only temporarily.
"Yeah, go ahead," Peter said, waving the Hulk away, who soon stood up and gave a dramatic bow before gingerly descending on the piano.
Leaving Peter and Doom at their table.
"So. I never expected any version of the Hulk to be serenading us with Biz Markie," Peter said airily.
Doom ignored his comment and simply cut to the heart of where Peter's concerns were. "Simply put, Arachnid, the Hulk will not follow Doom's direction. And Doom is in no condition to… impose any sort of authority upon Dr. Banner in this current state. You, however, have his trust. And you have the trust of the rest of his personae."
"You're a smart and resourceful man, Victor. If that was the only issue, you have other plays you could make…" Peter muttered, looking Doom dead in the eyes.
Doom's tone of voice was soft, and akin to a professor lecturing a class. "Perhaps I could influence your mind, thereby influencing the Hulk's. Or insist on imposing my will, and hope that you would be cowed into at least pretending at subservience for the sake of my ego. Or perhaps, influence the other personalities of Dr. Banner's mind and set them against each other. All possible."
Doom shrugged. "All of them are possible, but they are also wastes of time. Your leadership has always been competent, and you have good tactical insight. You do not inherently desire a leadership role and are willing to defer to us when you are at a loss. You have an admirable degree of humility and know that you have no authority over Doom that he does not first concede."
Peter blinked. "And that's it? You just concede?"
"Yes. It is an entirely logical play." Doom smiled again beneath the mask. "In our time together, you have taken great care in showing Doom sufficient respect. While it was clearly always insincere pandering born of condescension and a concern for Doom's supposed psychosis…" Doom flagged over a server and motioned for two drinks. He stayed silent as two shots of whiskey were poured between the two of them, before he continued, "…it has been, nonetheless, appreciated. But consider that I must also be willing to pander to your issues as well, Arachnid. Or at least your morals, for the sake of a smooth partnership in our endeavor."
Peter picked up the shot glass. He didn't drink as a matter of course, too afraid of letting his control slip even slightly to indulge in anything that could alter his inhibitions.
These days, his self-control had survived much worse blows than a single shot of whiskey. "To a smooth partnership," Peter toasted, before clinking glasses with Dr. Doom.
"Mark me, Peter," Doom rasped, before downing the shot-glass in a single go. "I will reclaim it all. My Latveria. My people. My family."
Peter just shook his head as he nursed his own glass, unwilling to give voice to the thoughts that Dr. Doom no doubt knew were already roiling in his head. Doom was only playing at Sisyphus, trying to reclaim something that never was. It was beyond either of them to restore what they had lost.
Peter's family could not be returned to him. Only replaced.
"YOU GOT WHAT I NEED! BUT YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND! AND YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND!" Joe sang loudly in the background.
Joe had it all figured out, Peter decided. The worst thing that could happen is that the world ended again.
There was nothing left to lose.
---
The local FEAST center was more rundown than what Peter remembered. But that may have just been his nostalgia talking. Food, emergency aid, shelter, and training, or FEAST. The problem of homelessness in America had reached a crisis in the wake of alien invasions, demonic incursions, and most devastating of all, recurring recessions. The philosophy of these proposed solutions in the country's major cities generally revolved around one simple, brutal concept.
'Out of sight, and out of mind.'
FEAST represented a change in approach, where a previous patchwork of nonprofits and city-owned safety nets were consolidated, organized, and expanded to form what was basically meant to be New York's one-stop-shop for people to get off the streets and back into the workforce, if nothing else. It was effective, humane, and did more than NYPD and all of New York's costumed eccentrics combined to reduce crime in the city.
Which meant it was too good to be true.
When FEAST was founded by a Chinese immigrant with a seemingly bottomless fortune, the city's government didn't look twice. Regardless of who was in office, every politician was eager for a quick and easy solution that polled well. Martin Li rolled in with FEAST, and that had solved the problem. End of discussion.
'Too bad Li had to get that money from somewhere.'
Duality obsessed to the point of insanity, or at least to the point of being a Batman character, Martin Li had two faces. They called that other face Mr. Negative, an informal cognomen in the city's underworld which, like many stupid names, was embraced wholeheartedly by the Daily Bugle and then afterwards the rest of the city.
But Martin Li always preferred to call himself the Demon. Li's limitless checkbook, which seemed to solve all New York's headaches, was kept flush via drug smuggling, human trafficking, and outright terrorism. He was still less repugnant than Fisk, in that his duality obsession meant that his crimes were always fuel for his philanthropy.
…As well as yet more crimes. Still, Martin Li getting outed and then jailed was bad for FEAST, and therefore bad for the city. It limped along after that, kept afloat by various wealthy philanthropists who, like Martin Li, didn't have bottomless pockets. Still, for the brief time that Peter had found himself as a billionaire, he pumped a few millions of dollars into FEAST. It was a shame that corporate life never agreed with him though. Or at least, the board and the shareholders never did.
'But you were still always my vote for the city's Kingpin, Martin. In terms of entrenched crime bosses who self-servingly painted themselves as lesser evils, you were only awful about half the time.' But time would only tell how much this new Martin Li differed from his memories.
"Doom would not say that these accommodations are unsuitable," Victor muttered. "But compared to what we resorted to in the past, it is tragically mundane."
Peter shrugged. "We're basically all John Does right now. No identification, no social security numbers, and no US citizenship."
Doom scoffed, and Peter sighed. "You know what I mean, Victor. No passports or diplomatic immunity this time either, so play nice."
"An issue that Doom intends to correct in due time," Doom said evenly. "For now, Doom shall avail himself of charity. Though your country's social programs are in a deplorable state. Weren't these shelters once privately funded by a supervillain, Arachnid?"
"I'm pretty sure they now still are," Peter said coolly. "I overheard some rumors while I was out and about. Somebody has been running experiments on the city's homeless." Peter made very sure to neglect mentioning that he'd heard it from Ben Grimm after the Thing had laid out Doom with a solid punch to the gut.
"Ah, was that when Benjamin had incapacitated me with a blow to the abdomen earlier? I was quite conscious at the time, Peter," Doom chided.
"…Right. Anyways, we'll kill two birds with one stone. Food, shelter, and something to keep us occupied. If there's another mob-run science lab out in New York somewhere, we can put it to better use and work on getting Doom's armor up to snuff again," to which Doom only gave a curt nod of acknowledgement.
The increasing prevalence of superpowers meant that the mob had to escalate considerably to stay competitive. Street level criminals with deep pockets would put together black-site science labs, usually staffed by washouts from AIM or some other mad-scientist community college. The end results were typically always something overfunded and unstable, but the shoddy science would occasionally result in things that would be the stuff of Peter's worst nightmares.
'But that sort of tech would be invaluable to me, Doom, and Banner.'
Joe Fixit smiled, nudging Peter in the ribs. "You're not fooling anyone, you old softy. You just want to play superhero again and toss a bone to the local hobos." Doom crossed his arms, only for Joe to grumble, "What? He can't enjoy his work?"
"It does not do to undermine his reasoning. There is more to his logic than cheap thrills, Dr. Banner," Doom said plainly. Joe's eyes narrowed, as Banner was always a sore topic for any Hulk.
Peter had to somehow break this up before it started. "Guys, guys! However many birds I'm looking to kill with this particular rock, all we need to worry about right now is one thing. We eat, we get clean, and we get some sleep."
The last few weeks were exhausting for them all, if not on a physical level for the Hulk, then at least on an emotional one. The three of them nodded. It was the dead of night, with only a few hours left before dawn now. But FEAST's doors were always open.
Peter took the lead, opening the door wide, his face unmasked again. Food, water, and hopefully enough permethrin to definitively murder all the lice that was growing in his hair. Things were already looking up, if he didn't keep himself awake at night wondering what Martin Li did to keep this center supplied.
'One problem at a time.'
Victor and Joe stood behind him on his left and right sides respectively, apparently trusting Peter to make a good impression. There was a little grey-haired old lady at the desk, even at this hour, who immediately perked up and tried not to look tired as she saw Peter's smile and gave one of her own in response.
It reminded him of May. He thought it was a welcome sight, before he got a better look at her, and recognized her in the dim light. His heart sank briefly. It seemed that he was in for another unwanted reunion.
'Unwanted, but not unwelcome, Peter,' he chided himself.
"Anna Watson?" Peter asked. The woman gave a start. So did Doom and the Hulk, clearly not expecting Peter to find an acquaintance too.
"Have we met, dear?" Anna asked gently. She looked healthy. There was no question now that Peter was at a point in time much earlier than the end of this world.
Because Anna had passed away a good while before everything else had ended.
His wife's aunt, and May Parker's best friend, was looking at him quizzically. Did she know him? Peter couldn't even begin to answer that.
"I used to live near you when I was younger," was what Peter settled for, a half-truth always flowing more smoothly and more easily than an outright lie. "I remember you… and the Parkers."
"Oh!" Her smile brightened. "I'm sorry, I don't think I ever made your acquaintance. I think I would have remembered such a handsome young man. And these two gentlemen are—" she said, struggling to process the gigantic form of Joe Fixit, as well as the horrifically scarred visage of Victor von Doom, hidden beneath a green hooded cloak and a cracked metal mask.
Now it was Joe's turn to be reassuring. And nothing was more reassuring than having a jolly gray giant act with not-at-all Hulk-like charm and finesse. "Just call me Joe, ma'am. Sorry if I bump into the ceiling," Joe joked. "I promise you the other guy is even less trouble than me. He got hit bad in the Balkans way back when, and he don't talk much."
"Poor man," Anna said sympathetically.
For once, Doom thought better of speaking. Not wanting to undo Joe Fixit's introduction, he merely inclined his head. "Your kindness is appreciated, madam."
"I…" Anna was taken aback, "well, we've gotten a lot of colorful people here before, but you all seem like very pleasant young men regardless," Anna Watson finally decided. "We've just got some forms to fill out first, I can help with those…" she said, struggling for her reading glasses and shuffling through her desk.
"You know this bird?" Joe whispered to Peter, out of Anna's earshot.
"She was my wife's aunt. Back then." Peter struggled to find any suitable term for his former life beyond 'back then.'
"Use that," Joe mumbled. "See if she knows what's anything about these kidnappings and these lab experiments."
"Yes Joe, that was obvious to me already," Peter snapped back. Joe shook his head.
"I know you might not want to talk much with her. But it's gonna be quick, and it's gonna be easy. I'm guessing the local hobos are gonna be less friendly to us than she is. And I know that… talking to her when you have all this baggage can be tough," Joe Fixit simply said.
Joe was always personable and sympathetic. At least compared to the other Hulks. Or even Bruce Banner, for that matter.
Peter's tone softened. "Thanks, Joe. I'll be fine."
What was one more ghost?
---
Joe and Victor were left to their own devices. That was an ominous sentence at the best of times, but Peter hardly had any choice. If they couldn't manage themselves, then this partnership would be truly unworkable.
Instead, Peter was nursing a cup of coffee while talking with Anna at the reception. "There was no one else living with the Parkers?"
"It was just Benjamin and Maybelle. Though, Ben did have a younger brother who passed away… Richard, I think. He'd come by with his wife sometimes, Mary. But then the accident happened, and there weren't any other next of kin."
"What about a daughter? Wasn't there a daughter? Teresa, or…?" Peter tried to pretend at a hazy recall, letting Anna feed him all the information he needed.
"No, dear. Richard and Mary didn't have any children. And May's family, the Reillys, well, they weren't any good at all," Anna confided, with more than a little bitterness.
"I must have been confusing them with someone else on the block then," Peter said absently, while his mind worked. Either his sister, Teresa, had never been born… or would she still have been born while his parents were in deep cover in another country, and relegated to foster care again? And would she have ended up with SHIELD, or was she somewhere else entirely?
What did it matter, really? He wasn't her brother in this timeline.
'Hi Teresa. I know you were my long-lost sister, but I've decided to outdo you, and gotten myself much more lost in the process.'
But speaking of people who were lost… "You know, I heard some rumors… about people getting abducted from the shelters?"
Anna chewed her lip for a moment, before finally nodding her head. "Well, it doesn't happen IN the shelters; I promise you that. But I've heard a story about men in demon masks trying to snatch people just a few blocks away. They almost grabbed poor Annie too, and…" Anna halted, suddenly remembered something.
"Annie!" Ms. Watson suddenly cried out. Peter's heart stopped beating, if only for half a second, as he heard his dead daughter's name. "Annie, would you please get off the phone?"
He gave a start as he noticed, for the first time, that there was a black-haired girl in a hoodie in the corner of the room, who was studiously ignoring everything around her aside from her smartphone. The girl, who fortunately looked absolutely nothing like Peter's dead daughter, gave a sullen look to Anna. "It's three in the morning…" she grumbled.
"Yes, Annie, that's what's going to happen on night shift. Now, could you help Peter here get oriented?" The girl's frown deepened, but she continued to ignore Anna.
Peter gave an uneasy smile to Anna, "It's fi—" before Ms. Watson raised her hand.
"Annie, you have three hundred hours of community service left to go. And I'm not signing any forms until I see you put in the effort," Anna said brusquely.
The girl scowled and finally put away her phone. "Shit. Okay."
The girl muttered something, a low curse that only Anna caught, which deepened the old woman's frown. "If she gives you any trouble…" Anna confided to Peter, only for him to raise his hands and shake his head.
He'd dealt with worse.
The girl's face was still set in a frown as she escorted Peter inside the shelter. "Pretty sure you could find your own goddamn way. Your two pals did. Giant Bogard and the Phantom of the Opera back there," she grumbled.
"I know it's late, kid," Peter said gently.
"Great-aunt Anna just likes to give me a hard time," she responded sourly.
'Great-aunt Anna? Oh no.'
"You uh, you're MJ Watson's kid or something?" Peter said, dreading even to ask.
She glared at him. "I fucking wish. I'd be a rich idiot in a mansion instead of a poor idiot on court ordered community service, at least. I'm her niece. My mother was strictly the single-mom trailer trash type, unfortunately."
"You're Gayle's kid… you're Annie Byrnes." Peter said, his eyes widening. He remembered Mary Jane's deeply estranged sister Gayle Byrnes, nee Watson. The woman who wanted no part with her sister or her family, to the point where Peter didn't even know the names of her kids, even after all these years. Aside from the money that Peter would pass on to Anna, which she would then pass on to Gayle and her children, he never had much of any association with Gayle.
'Beyond MJ breaking down into tears a couple of times…' Peter thought to himself bitterly.
"You better not be my momma's baby-daddy, dude," she said, suddenly scrutinizing Peter carefully.
"Not in a million years, kid," Peter said bluntly. "…I used to know your mom and your dad," he said.
"Looks like they didn't do you much good either, hobo Pete," she spat.
The girl was definitely spiteful enough to be Gayle's daughter. "How is Gayle, anyways?"
"My mom's dead," Annie simply said. Her waspish, spiteful tone was gone. This was something that she was still trying to process.
So was Peter. Gayle hadn't predeceased Anna, back then.
"I'm guessing your dad wasn't much help…" That was likely an understatement. Timothy Byrnes was a deeply worthless individual, Peter thought bitterly.
"He never came to the funeral," she said numbly.
"If it helps, I always hated your dad," Peter said flatly.
She looked up at him, looking much more exhausted than any teenager had a right to be. Even at three in the morning.
Peter gazed down at her. His voice was gentle. "Listen, I'm going through a lot of troubles of my own. But if there's anything I can do to help you or Anna… at the very least, I promise neither me or the guys I came in with are going to be a pain in the ass for either of you."
"…Okay," she said, looking down. Unable to meet his gaze. Unsure of why the strange homeless man was trying to be kind. And unqualified to understand why she deserved any kind of kindness.
And that was fine. She was terrible, Peter conceded, but that was also fine. He wouldn't have been any different if it weren't for May and Ben.
"I need to cut all this hair now," he said, motioning to the lice-ridden mop atop his head, which was gradually somehow transforming itself into some sort of mullet. "And I need a bottle of permethrin and some scissors. Please. For the love of God," Peter pleaded.
Annie only nodded, mutely.
Peter thought for a second. "Hey, could I see what else you guys have? Cleaning stuff, bleach, shampoos, rubbing alcohol…"
"Are you trying to get high?" Annie was glaring at Peter all over again.
Peter was appalled. "No! I've promised not to be a pain in the ass, remember? But I think I can show you something cool once I've cleaned up."
---
He wasn't much without webbing.
Well, that wasn't entirely true, he was getting by just fine with enhanced strength, agility, stealth, and the ability to adhere to any surface he pleased but…
But it was true that he hadn't been using his webbing for much before the end of the world abruptly decided to reverse itself, beyond a way to quickly incapacitate an opponent. Of which there were many but…
Now that there were skyscrapers, dense urban environments, and suspects that he needed to quickly take down again, webbing was a must. Especially now that he'd dealt with the more pressing matter of a shave, haircut, and a thorough wash. He looked almost presentable, now.
He still looked very homeless, however.
"What is this stuff?" Annie said, looking at the pot Peter was brewing.
"A failed get rich quick scheme," Peter chuckled, once again sticking firmly to half-truths. "I had an idea for an elastic building material that could hold up several tons of weight, while being as thin as a thread. Best part is that you could make it out of household chemicals. Only problem is that once it hardens, it breaks down and dissolves just a few hours later. Never really got the formula working."
That last part was an outright lie. He'd solved the dissolution issue years ago… but it was, on more sober reflection, a deeply stupid idea to put the formula for his webbing out on the open market when so many maniacs were out there trying to kill him and the rest of his family. Not only would he be letting them examine his formula for weaknesses, but he'd also have given them a means to trace him through the patent.
"So, why make it now?" Annie asked, tilting her head.
"What was your aunt saying back there about masked guys who tried to kidnap you?" The smile never left Peter's face, but his voice was low and tense.