When Kaine opened his eyes, he was prepared for violence.
Muscle memory primed his body before thought caught up—heart steady, breathing controlled, spine ready to twist, hands ready to strike. He expected shouted demands, containment fields, rifles pointed at his chest, or at the very least the unmistakable tension of a hostile environment pressing in on him.
Instead, there was noise.
Not the sharp noise of conflict, but the layered, mundane sound of a living city: overlapping conversations, distant horns, the low rumble of engines, footsteps scuffing pavement. Warmth radiated from bodies packed too closely together. The smell of street food, oil, exhaust, and fabric detergent blended into a familiar urban haze.
Civilian-filled streets.
That alone forced his mind to pause for exactly half a second—long enough to register surprise, not long enough to indulge it.
He was standing upright, already moving, carried along by the flow of people as naturally as if he had always been there. Kaine lowered his chin slightly, eyes half-lidded, and began to scan.
Elderly couples walking arm in arm, their pace slow but deliberate. Men in work jackets with tired shoulders and empty expressions. Mothers gripping their children's hands too tightly, eyes flicking everywhere at once. Teenagers with earbuds in, detached from the world. Students arguing softly about something trivial.
Baseline humanity.
No immediate threat indicators. No elevated heart rates en masse. No panicked body language. No weapons openly displayed. The city moved with the complacent rhythm of people who expected tomorrow to arrive.
Classic America.
Skyscrapers rose overhead, glass and steel catching pale daylight. Modern cars filled the streets—sleek, efficient designs, nothing militarized. Kaine catalogued it all automatically, overlaying probability assessments onto every moving variable.
He noticed the jackets next.
Most people wore them—light coats, hoodies, scarves. The air carried a bite he recognized intellectually, if not physically. Chilly. Late autumn, perhaps edging into early winter. A shame he couldn't actually feel it. Temperature differences barely registered anymore; his body regulated itself too efficiently for discomfort to survive.
Another side effect of excessive physical optimization.
This world doesn't look broken, he thought. At least not on the surface.
The crowd slowed, then stopped, halted by a digital crosswalk signal glowing red. Cars sped past, engines whining. Kaine stopped with them, perfectly in sync, posture loose, unremarkable. He lifted his gaze just enough to continue scanning—and that was when he saw it.
A billboard.
Bright, clean, professionally designed. His eyes locked onto the text instantly.
SEE SOMETHING STRANGE?CALL 111-23—
The rest vanished as the crowd surged forward again, bodies obscuring his line of sight. Kaine frowned faintly.
Sloppy.
It took him more than three seconds to finish reading a single sentence. That annoyed him more than it should have. He filed the number fragment away anyway, reconstructing possibilities. Emergency response? Government task force? Civilian reporting hotline?
Strange, as a category, was broad. Too broad.
He peeled off with a smaller group at the next corner, choosing a side street instinctively. Less density. Better information flow. From there, he navigated toward a subway entrance, descending a short flight of steps before stopping just short of the turnstiles.
"Information," he murmured to himself. His voice was low, nearly swallowed by the ambient noise. "I can't risk swinging."
Public reaction was an unknown variable here. In worlds without Spider-Man—or with a different one—web-slinging could trigger panic, law enforcement response, or worse. He needed context before visibility.
His eyes caught a familiar anachronism near the station entrance: a metal box filled with newspapers. He approached it, fingers brushing the edge as he pulled one free.
He'd often wondered how print media survived in the age of instant data. But then again, outrage aged well. Sensationalism always did. And some names sold papers regardless of the decade.
The front page answered his unspoken question.
John Jonah Jameson.
The haircut was immaculate. The expression is adamant, almost defiant. Jaw set like the world had personally offended him, and he intended to respond in print. Kaine stared at the image longer than necessary.
A rare thing happened.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
It wasn't a smile, not really—more like a micro-expression of recognition. Approval.
Jameson was efficient. Passionately, obsessively efficient. His hatred was focused, disciplined, relentless. He didn't pretend to be impartial. He didn't dilute his message with false balance. Strangely, he had taught Kaine something valuable early on: that conviction, when sharpened properly, could be a weapon.
A teacher, though not a friend.
"I'm glad you were the first familiar face I saw," Kaine muttered.
The moment shattered.
Someone slammed into his shoulder.
The impact was light—negligible—but the intent behind it was panicked. Kaine turned slightly to face the man, already cataloguing his posture: tense, jittery, eyes darting. Elevated heart rate. Fear.
The man's gaze dropped to Kaine's face.
Specifically, to the six black dots beneath his eyes.
The scream was immediate.
"MUTANT!!!"
The word ripped through the air like a match striking dry grass.
Kaine opened his mouth, instinctively prepared to correct the error. Humanoid arachnid, he almost said. Classification mattered. Accuracy mattered.
He never got the chance.
The crowd reacted violently to the label. People recoiled, some shouting, others backing away, expressions twisting from confusion into fear, then hate. Phones were already coming out. Voices overlapped.
"Did you hear him—?"
"I knew it—!"
"Get away from him!"
"Call it in!"
The word mutant carried weight here. Cultural trauma. Political baggage. History soaked into a single syllable. Kaine felt it immediately—the way the atmosphere shifted, the way probability curves spiked upward all at once.
Zero to one hundred.
Law enforcement response imminent. Civilian escalation is likely. Potential for violence is high.
Kaine stood still in the center of it, newspaper crumpled slightly in his grip, red eyes flicking calmly from face to face as he recalculated.
So.
That's what this world looks like beneath the surface.
____________________________________________________________
[Auther: I have to learn just to make sure this story is lore-accurate...please support emotionally.
In case you're wondering, Kaine's appearance is what caused this...he's not exactly the most normal-looking guy.
]