The coffee was cold now. Peter traced a fingertip along the rim of the mug, watching the milky surface ripple slightly. Three sugar packets lay torn open beside it—he didn't even remember adding them. Somewhere behind the counter, an espresso machine hissed like a wounded animal.
The bell above the door jingled. Peter didn't look up, but his shoulders tightened just enough to be imperceptible—old habits. Boots scuffed against linoleum, heavy with the weight of someone who'd been on their feet too long.
"Jimbo!" the barista called, wiping his hands on a stained apron. "Still doing graveyards?"
The man—Jimbo, apparently—let out a raspy chuckle as he slid onto the stool next to Peter. "Nah, just felt like taking a midnight stroll in full gear," he deadpanned, knocking his knuckles against the reinforced leather of his jacket. "Gimme something that'll keep me awake through the next shitstorm. And make it quick—break's over in seven."
Peter kept his gaze fixed on his coffee, but his peripheral vision registered everything—the grease under Jimbo's nails, the way his right knee bounced restlessly, the faint smell of motor oil clinging to his sleeves. A dock worker, maybe. Or warehouse. Someone used to moving heavy things in the dark. the heavy leather jacket on the old man contrasted just as much as Peter's Vietnam one.
Jimbo's fingers drummed against the counter, then he jerked his chin toward Peter's direction noticing the spiderman suit under the faded Vietnam jacket. "Nice Spidey costume" voice rough as gravel under a boot. "Would look better without the grandpa coat."
He didn't glance up from stirring his cold coffee. "And your biker cosplay would look better with an actual bike," Peter muttered.
The old man chuckled. "Oh, I got one. '78 Harley Shovelhead, cherry red with chrome so polished you could shave in it." Jimbo tapped his fingers against the counter—Peter noted the way his pinky twitched like he was missing the weight of a wrench.
Peter arched an eyebrow without looking up from his coffee. "Funny. Didn't hear you roll up."
"Stored at my place," Jimbo admitted, accepting the steaming mug the barista slid toward him. "Two blocks over."
while swirling his spoon in lazy circles Peter snorts. "Biker schtick works better when you actually ride the bike, Jimbo."
Jimbo's shoulders tensed—just for a second—before he took a slow sip. "Don't ride to work anymore. Gonna sell it, actually."
The former biker exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around his mug. "Important things got in the way," he murmured, the words landing like stones in still water. The coffee shop's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, catching the silver in his stubble as he stared into his coffee.
Peter watched the man's thumb trace a chip in the ceramic—a nervous tic, the kind people develop when they're used to holding onto things too tightly. He tilted his head, studying the way Jimbo's shoulders rounded slightly, like the weight of whatever "important things" meant was pressing down on him.
After a beat, Peter chuckled, spinning his spoon between his fingers. "You know, I always wanted a bike when I was a kid." He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "Now, I'm responsible enough to irresponsibly buy myself one." He smirked, nudging Jimbo's elbow with his own. "Got any pictures of this cherry-red death trap?"
The former biker hesitated, then snorted, shaking his head as he reached for his wallet. "Yeah, yeah—here." He pulled out a worn photo, edges softened from time, and slid it across the counter.
Jimbo's calloused fingers unfolded the worn photograph carefully, like he was handling something sacred. The edges were softened from years of handling, but the image was clear—a broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket grinning ear-to-ear, one arm wrapped protectively around a gap-toothed girl perched on the cherry-red Harley. Behind them, the neon sign of a diner buzzed cheerfully in the twilight: PARKER'S, the cursive letters glowing pink against the dusk.
Peter's lips twitched. "If the bike comes with the kid, I'll have to decline," he deadpanned, hitting his coffee cup with his spoon idly. "Not ready for that kind of commitment."
The old biker's laugh rumbled through the coffee shop like a motorcycle engine warming up. "Nah, that's my Jenny," he said, thumb brushing the girl's image with unconscious tenderness. "Only thing she loves more'n that damn diner is when I let her sit on the bike while it's running." His voice softened. "Her mama used to—" He cut himself off, clearing his throat before tapping the photo. "Every Sunday after little league, we hit that diner. Kid puts away pancakes like a damn lumberjack."
Peter studied the photograph, the way Jenny's sneakers dangled inches above the footpegs, her delighted grin mirrored perfectly in Jimbo's proud expression. The neon sign's reflection gleamed in the Harley's chrome. His chest ached with something sharper than nostalgia—more like recognizing a road he'd never taken.
"No kidding—Parker's?" Peter snorted, shaking his head. "That's my last name too. First I'm hearing about some diner empire, though." He tilted his head, studying the neon sign in the photo. "Family thing I missed out on, or what?"
Jimbo chuckled, rubbing a thumb over the faded photo. "Nah, just coincidence I assume. Parker's was a chain back in the '80s—kinda famous for their mile-high pies and waitresses on roller skates." He tapped the image of the neon sign. "Most of 'em closed down when fast food took over, but a few stubborn ones held on." His smile turned nostalgic. "Jenny's mom worked there when we met. Place gets under your skin."
"Might check it out before I head west," Peter mused. "Assuming I can find it without the neon."
"Leaving? The hell you doing dressed like Spidey if you're skipping town?" Jimbo's eyebrows shot up. his gaze flicked to the Vietnam jacket's frayed edges, the way it barely concealed the red and blue underneath.
Peter snorted into his coffee, swirling the cold dregs with lazy circles of his spoon. "Dress like Spider-Man?" He plucked at the black Spider logo on the suit. "This was for my going-away party. Friends threw a costume bash—knew how much I love Halloween." Peter smiled and pretended to reminisce. "We had a dance-off on a rooftop, played hide-and-seek with a couple vampires... —Even saw ghosts by the end of it. Real touching reunion."
Jimbo chuckled into his coffee, the steam curling around his stubble. "Friends sound like a hell of a bunch," he mused, thumb tracing the rim of his mug. His gaze flicked to Peter's gloved hands—the right one twitching slightly near his thigh, where a concealed holster would sit. "You really okay just... walking away from that?"
Peter stared at the dregs of his cold latte, watching the last bubbles of foam collapse like dying stars. "Gonna miss 'em," he admitted, voice rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "Tried leaving before. Twice." His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the counter. "Got as far as the Lincoln Tunnel last time. Convinced myself shit would get better if I stayed."
the old biker's knuckles whitened around his mug. "And did it?"
The spoon in Peter's hand bent slightly under his grip. "Got worse. Different flavor of worse, but—" He exhaled sharply through his nose. "You ever pour salt in an open wound just to see how much more it can take?"
Jimbo's chuckle was dry as desert bones. "Sounds like woman trouble."
Peter snorted into his coffee, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sneer. "Woman trouble?" He spun the bent spoon between his fingers like a tiny baton. "Nah, Jimbo. I don't have woman trouble—I have trouble women. Plural. Like a goddamn subscription service."
The spoon clattered against the counter as he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "There was this redhead," he began, voice casual but his thumb worrying a chip in the ceramic. "Cute as hell. Smart enough to call me on my bullshit, which—shockingly—is a rare combo." His grin held no warmth. "Thought she might be the one, you know? The kind you picture growing old with, assuming life doesn't decide to skull-fuck your plans first."
Jimbo sipped his coffee, watching Peter over the rim. "Let me guess—life brought a power drill?"
the spoon clinked against the mug's edge. "Worse," Peter murmured. "Life brought Paul." The name came out coated in something bitter, like chewing on aspirin.
Jimbo blinked. "Paul?"
"Fucking Paul," Peter repeated, swirling his coffee like it owed him money. "Vegan, probably. Wore cardigans in July. Had one of those faces you just know smells like patchouli and regret." He mimed punching the countertop softly. "Came with the whole package—gentle voice, recycled tote bags, two adopted kids 'their little miracles' like they were fucking chia pets."
Jimbo's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Peter smirked into his coffee cup, swirling the dregs with deliberate nonchalance.
"The other chick in my life?" Peter chuckled, low and rough. "Well, sometimes she's all over me—purring in my ear about how she's mine, how she'd never let anyone else touch me." His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the counter. "Other times?" He snorted. "Literally hissing like a goddamn feral cat. Knocks over my shit, claws up my clothes. Leaves messes only I get the honor of cleaning up."
"Sounds like my ex." Jimbo snorted and then took another slow sip of his coffee, studying Peter's face in the coffee shop's flickering light. "So these friends of yours," he said, setting the mug down with deliberate care. "They good people?"
Peter's fingers tightened around his spoon for half a second before he forced them to relax. "Like I said—good bunch." The words tasted like old pennies in his mouth. "Just... not exactly winning any empathy awards." He chuckled, but it came out hollow, like a gunshot echoing in an empty warehouse.
The coffee in his mug had gone cold enough to see his reflection in the dark surface—distorted, fragmented. Peter watched it warp as he stirred absently. "Had this... thing happen a while back. One of the worst experiences of my life." His thumb rubbed at a stain on the counter. "When I came out the other side? Got a pat on the back and a 'good job, champ.'" His voice cracked on the last word, just enough to make the other man glance up sharply.
Peter shuddered involuntarily, the memory of Otto's consciousness pressing against his own like a wet blanket soaked in motor oil. He could still feel phantom limbs twitching at the edge of his awareness sometimes—eight of them, moving without his permission. But that wasn't something you dumped on a stranger in a coffee shop at midnight.
Jimbo's fingers tapped a slow rhythm against his mug—three taps, then two. "Sounds like they don't know how bad it was," he observed Peter quietly.
He snorted into his coffee, the sound wet and humorless. "Oh, they know, Jimbo. They sure do." His fingers tightened around the mug. "They're just too busy hanging off Miles's dick to care."
"Miles?"
Peter froze for half a second—just long enough for the steam from Jimbo's coffee to curl between them like a question mark. Then he waved a hand dismissively, the motion too casual to be convincing. "Coworker. Good guy, really." He lowered his face, avoiding Jimbo's gaze. "Basically does everything I do, but better."
watching Peter over the rim of his mug, Jimbo took a sip and then asked. "Work ethic thing?"
His laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. "Nope. Dude clocks out at five on the dot, while I do the overtime. Life just handed him a deck full of ACES while I'm over here playing Go Fish with half a fucking crayon." Peter spun his spoon between his fingers. "And the worst part? Can't even hate the guy. Miles is... genuine. Like one of those golden retriever types who would bring soup to his enemies."
The silence stretched between them, thick as the grease hanging in the air.
"Last night," he started, then stopped. The words felt like broken glass in his throat. He swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake off the memory. "Something happened. Something bad."
Jimbo waited, his coffee mug paused halfway to his lips. fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting Peter's face in harsh relief—the shadows under his eyes looked like bruises.
Peter laughed then, a dry, humorless sound. "Not that it'd matter if I told anyone. Couple pats on the back, maybe a 'you'll get 'em next time,' and then right back to business as usual." His fingers tightened around his mug. "Except it's not fucking business as usual."
The admission hung between them, raw and jagged. Peter could feel it like a wound reopening—the way everything had unraveled stitch by stitch until there was nothing left to hold him together.
He laughed humorlessly, the sound scraping against the coffee shop's walls like sandpaper on rusted metal. "See, Jimbo, that's the thing—before, I could've gone back." His fingers drummed against the counter, each tap landing like a hammer strike. "Walked right back into that shitshow, watched Paul live my goddamn dream life with my dream woman in my dream apartment" He mimed stirring coffee with exaggerated cheer. "Oh, look—he even makes her laugh at his dumb vegan jokes! How wholesome."
Peter's grin turned feral. "And the other one? The one who hisses? Yeah, she'd use me like a fucking scratching post, then vanish before sunrise—leaving me to clean up whatever mess she couldn't outrun." His thumb rubbed at the stain on the counter, grinding it deeper into the laminate. "But you know what? I let her. Every damn time."
A neon sign outside flickered, casting Peter's face in alternating washes of pink and blue. For a second, he looked like two different people superimposed—one exhausted, one enraged.
"Because here's the kicker," he continued, voice dropping to something jagged and raw. "I believed it. Like some dumbass kid waiting for Santa. That if I just endured enough—took enough punches, swallowed enough shit—one day I'd wake up and..." His hand flexed, tendons standing out like piano wires. "Boom. Fairy tale ending. MJ would realize Paul fucking sucks or perhaps maybe Felicia would grow the fuck up.... Maybe Miles would stop being the golden retriever everyone prefers over —Me— the old junkyard mutt."
Peter sighed—not the quick exhale of fatigue, but the slow, deliberate release of a man who'd been holding his breath for years. The sound filled the Coffee shop's air like exhaust fumes from a stalled engine. "Shit here isn't getting any better," he muttered, fingers tapping a hollow rhythm against the countertop. "I know that for a fact. And you know what? I don't want it to get better anymore."
"I just want out. I'm done."
Jimbo watched him over the rim of his mug, steam curling around his stubble like morning fog over asphalt. "Done done? Or just 'need a vacation' done?"
"Got a Mossberg, a shotgun" Peter revealed casually, as if discussing the weather. "Know how to use it too." he grinned. "If after I leave, I see anyone from this shithole tailing me?" The spoon clattered against the counter. "Buckshot to the face, no questions asked."
The old biker raised an eyebrow but didn't flinch—just took another slow sip of coffee, watching Peter over the rim like a cop assessing a suspect's tells.
after he exhaled through his nose, Peter's shoulders dropped half an inch. "Nah, I don't hate 'em," he admitted. "Gonna miss the good moments, believe it or not." His thumb rubbed at the same stain again, spreading it wider. "Just... there weren't enough of 'em, you know? Not enough to make up for all the goddamn weight." He mimed pressing down on his sternum with the heel of his hand. "Like carrying a fridge on your back every fucking day."
He spun his spoon in lazy circles, watching the dregs of his coffee swirl like sediment in a riverbed. "I wish 'em the best, honest," he muttered, thumb rubbing at a chip in the mug's handle. "Hope Miles steps up to the plate—kid's got the chops for it." His lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile.
Jimbo watched him quietly, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his mug—three beats, then two. Like counting down. "Where to then?"
Peter shrugged, spinning his coffee cup idly on the counter. The ceramic scraped against laminate like a record needle catching on vinyl. "Not sure," he admitted, watching the dregs swirl into meaningless patterns. "But I guess some waffles from that Parker's place would be a good start." His thumb rubbed at a chip in the mug's handle—three quick presses, like testing a bruise.
The neon buzz outside faded into a dull hum as they sat in silence—Peter tracing the lip of his mug, Jimbo staring at the photo of his daughter like it held answers to questions he hadn't asked yet. The coffee shop's clock ticked three times before Peter finally broke the quiet with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"So," he said, spinning his spoon between his fingers, "what's the damage on that cherry-red deathtrap of yours?"
The biker's fingers paused mid-tap against his mug. He studied Peter's face—the tightness around his eyes, the way his thumb kept testing that chip in the ceramic like a loose tooth. "Eight grand," he said finally, sliding the photo back toward Peter. "But she's worth ten."
He pretended to think for a moment, tapping his fingers against the countertop—left hand moving in precise, measured taps while his right thumb kept worrying that same chip in the ceramic. "Yeah," Peter said finally. "I'll take it." he slid back the picture.
Jimbo gave him a look that could've peeled paint off the coffee shop's walls. "People usually haggle a bit before jumping into things," he said slowly, fingers tightening around his mug. "At least pretend to give a shit about the price."
Peter shrugged, the motion deliberately loose, deliberately casual. "Looks like a cool bike," he said, spinning his spoon between his fingers. "And money's not exactly a problem right now."
Jimbo's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "You rob a bank or something?"
Peter laughed—a sharp, barking sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nah," he said, grinning like a shark spotting blood in the water. "Inherited some money from my dear old Uncle Octavius. Guy spent his whole life calling himself Superior while coughing his lungs out in a lab coat." The spoon spun between his fingers, flashing under the coffee shop's lights. "Weirdly enough? Made peace with the bastard at the end."
"Had I known you were swimming in cash," Jimbo muttered, tapping the photo of his Harley with grease-stained fingers, he snorted into his coffee, shaking his head. "I would've asked for fifteen."
Peter's fingers stilled mid-spin. He studied Jimbo's face—the tightness around his eyes, the way his thumb kept brushing Jenny's image in the photo like a rosary bead. "You hurting for cash or something?" he asked, voice softer than intended.
The biker's fingers tightened around his mug so hard the ceramic creaked. For a long moment, the only sound was the coffee shop's clock ticking three times—slow, deliberate, like a countdown. "Jenny's got leukemia. Special treatment's running us dry." His thumb brushed the photo again, tracing the curve of his daughter's gap-toothed smile. "Insurance covers fuck-all."
Peter stared at Jimbo's hands— the grease still embedded in the cuticles, the way they trembled slightly around the mug. The Vietnam jacket suddenly felt heavier on his shoulders. "Shit," he muttered, rubbing his sternum absently. "How old is she?"
"Twelve," Jimbo said, his voice rough as sandpaper, fingers tightening around the photograph like he was afraid it might dissolve.
Peter exhaled through his nose.
"Listen," he said finally, tapping the photo with his spoon. "As much as I wanna peel out of this shithole tonight… There's still someone I gotta talk to first. My aunt." The spoon clinked against the mug's edge. "It's two in the goddamn morning though. She's probably asleep."
Jimbo watched him silently.
Peter drummed his fingers against the countertop. "Here's the deal," he said, spinning the spoon between his fingers. "You get the paperwork and that cherry-red deathtrap here by eleven AM. —Full tank, ready to roll." He tilted his head, studying Jimbo's face the way he'd study a suspect's tells. "Do that, and I'll give you the fifteen."
The old biker blinked, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. Steam curled around his stubble like mist over asphalt. "Just like that?" he asked, voice sounding somehow even rougher than before.
Peter kept spinning his spoon between his fingers—three rotations clockwise, two counter. "Just like that," he said, watching the neon sign outside flicker through the coffee shop's dust-smeared window. light pooled in the hollows of his cheeks, making the shadows under his eyes look like fresh bruises.
Jimbo grinned—the kind of smile that cracked his weathered face open like a desert splitting under heat. "Deal, then." He glanced at the coffee shop's clock above the fryer, its hands frozen at 2:30 AM except for the second hand twitching like a dying insect. "Shit." The stool creaked as he stood, knees popping like gunshots. "Overbreak by twenty." He tossed a five on the counter, the bill fluttering onto a coffee stain shaped like New Jersey.
His boots scuffed against the floor as he paused at the door, the neon "OPEN" sign buzzing overhead like a trapped fly. He turned halfway, his silhouette framed by the streetlight glow bleeding through the glass. "Realized I never got your full name," Jimbo said, voice rougher than a motorcycle's idle.
The Coffee's neon light flickered across Peter's face. "Parker," he said, letting the name hang in the air between them. "Peter Benjamin Parker." he grinned up at Jimbo, with genuine warmth. "But the 'Benjamin' part's negotiable depending on who's asking."
Jimbo nodded, the motion making his shadow stretch long across the checkered floor. "Jim Buchanan," he offered back, knuckles tapping the doorframe twice—a habit Peter recognized from soldiers checking breaching points. "But my friends call me Jimbo." and with that he turned and left.
Peter pondered for a moment and then decided that it was time he left too. He was looking forward for a needed change of clothes.
He tossed a twenty on the counter—enough for the coffee, an stale beagle he had earlier, and a generous tip that wouldn't make the night shift barista hate humanity for five blessed minutes. He was halfway to the door when the place's TV crackled to life with the shrill urgency of breaking news.
"—live footage from the Avengers compound where what appears to be an unprecedented clash between mutant and human forces—"
The barista gasped, clutching his apron. "Oh my God, are those—?"
Peter's fingers twitched toward the shotgun hidden under his jacket as the TV screen erupted in optic-blast red. For exactly three seconds—the time it took Cyclops to level half the Avengers compound—his spine locked into combat stance.
Then he snorted, rolling his shoulders with deliberate nonchalance. "Not my circus," he muttered, turning toward the door. The shotgun's weight shifted against his ribs like a disgruntled pet as he adjusted his stride. "Not my fucking monkeys."
The TV screen flickered with distorted images—Carol Danvers mid-flight, her photon blasts making explosion that made the coffee shop's windows vibrate. Peter watched for exactly 4.3 seconds—long enough to count seven distinct combatants, assess three potential sniper perches in the background. Then he turned away, letting the door's bell jingle behind him like a punchline.
Rain had started falling somewhere between his coffee and his chat with Jimbo—not the dramatic, cinematic downpour he'd expect from a day this fucked, but a persistent mist that clung to his jacket like static. His feet hit the pavement with deliberate casualness, each step measured to avoid triggering the subconscious rhythm he used when tailing someone. The shotgun's weight beneath his jacket shifted with his gait.
A cab slowed beside him, the driver's hopeful eyebrow raise visible through streaks of rain on the window. Peter shook his head, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Leg day," he lied smoothly, patting his thigh where the hidden holster pressed against muscle. The cab sped off, tires hissing against wet asphalt.
then he felt it.
A pull like a fishhook through his sternum—not his spider-sense, but something deeper, older. The tug came from two directions at once: the crisp static of astral energy and the oil-slick swirl of chaos magic. His breath hitched as fragmented memories surged—another Peter's life flashing behind his eyelids. A mutant variant with feral reflexes, who'd once shared this exact connection with Wanda.
Who'd loved her.
Had twins with her.
Watched them burn.
Peter's knees nearly buckled as the psychic echo kept hitting him. He pressed a hand against the brick wall of a building, fingertips digging into mortar as fragmented memories surged through his synapses like shrapnel. Another Peter's life flashed behind his eyelids: claws scraping concrete, feral reflexes twitching with chaotic energy, Wanda's laughter ringing in his ears as their twins—*their goddamn twins*—chased fireflies in a backyard that never existed. The shotgun under his jacket suddenly felt absurd, a child's toy compared to the raw power thrumming through his veins for those three paralyzing seconds.
"Fuck," he hissed, blinking sweat from his eyes. The rain sizzled against his overheated skin. This wasn't just residual temporal psychosis—this was active, *hungry* connection. His fingers twitched at his sides, phantom claws flexing. The mutant variant's instincts overlapped with his own muscle memory: a predator's gait, the way his tongue darted out to taste pheromones on the air. Peter shuddered.
He'd *been* that feral thing in another life.
Had loved her.
Had bred with her.
His fingers dug into the wet brick as the memory hit—not a hallucination this time, but a *recollection*, sharp as the scent of ozone before lightning strikes. That other universe. The way Wanda's chaos magic had coiled around his own spider-strength like twin serpents, their madness burning so bright it scorched reality itself. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth as they stood back-to-back against the entire goddamn world, her laughter wild and unhinged as blasts attacks lit up the sky around them.
His knees hit the pavement hard enough to crack concrete, he didn't even realized when he moved into the road. Rainwater seeped through the pants of his spider suit as phantom pain lanced through his sternum—the *impact*, that fucking moment when he'd seen the cosmic-energy harpoon heading for Wanda's heart mid-battle. How he'd moved without thinking, pushing her out of the way and taking the hit square in the chest. The way his ribs had *shattered*, molten metal searing through his lungs as Wanda's scream tore the air open.
A cab's horn blared as it swerved around him. Peter barely noticed, too busy remembering the way Wanda had cradled his broken body, her tears falling against his skin like rain. The exact shade of scarlet her magic had turned when she *snapped*—when every hero attacking them suddenly *folded*, bones crumpling like paper dolls in a toddler's fist. He'd died with her name on his lips and the taste of copper in his mouth, watching the world burn through dimming vision.
The shotgun's weight under his jacket felt absurd now. Child's play. Peter walked back to the coffe shop and pressed his forehead against the rain-slick wall, breathing through the aftershocks. That wasn't him. Couldn't be him. And yet—his fingers twitched at his sides, itching for the crackle of chaos magic that had once danced at his fingertips in that other life.
Across the street, a newsstand's TV blared updates about the mutant conflict. Cyclops' voice crackled through static: *"—release the mutant—"* Peter's spine straightened instinctively, combat awareness flaring as he clocked three potential sniper nests and two escape routes in under a second. Old habits.
The growl started low in his throat before he even realized it was happening—a feral vibration that felt foreign and familiar all at once. Peter's fingers curled into the wet pavement, nails scraping concrete as another memory surged forward: the feral variant's last moments as Wanda screamed his name into the smoke-choked air. *His* name. *Their* name.
"Peter!"
This time the scream wasn't memory—it ripped through the psychic tether like a live wire, raw and hysterical. He clapped hands over his ears on instinct, but the sound came from *inside*, vibrating his molars. Rain sizzled against his overheated skin as the growl deepened, his canines pressing sharp against his tongue. The feral variant's instincts were *merging* with his own, synapses firing in patterns he'd never learned but somehow remembered—how to track by pheromones, how to calculate kill radius by scent alone.
Across the street, the newsstand's TV flickered with static as energy blast sent debris flipping through the air. Peter's head snapped toward it, nostrils flaring as he caught the ozone-tang of chaos magic even through the rain.
Wanda was there.
Alone.
In distress.
While fighting himself and this new found feral instincts, he ended up into an alley. The growl turned into a snarl. His vision tunneled, edges tinged red as the feral variant's consciousness *pushed* against his own—not replacing, but *layering*, like a second skin. That other Peter hadn't needed weapons. Had torn through adamantium with claws that gleamed like obsidian.
Peter slammed into the alley wall with enough force to crack brick, his fingers scrabbling at his own face like he could physically claw the feral consciousness out. "Stop—goddammit, *stop*," he snarled through gritted teeth, his canines pressing sharp against his tongue. Rainwater dripped from his hair into his eyes, blurring the world into red-tinged smears. The growl vibrating in his chest wasn't his own—it was *Fangs'*, the name he'd mentally slapped onto the other Peter's rabid, possessive instincts.
"Listen you overgrown *Tarantula*," Peter hissed, pressing his forehead against the cold brick as phantom claws flexed under his skin. "That's not *your* Wanda out there. Your twins are *ashes*. Your timeline's *gone*." His own voice sounded strange—too low, too guttural, syllables dragging like claws on concrete. Fangs snarled back, flooding his synapses with scent-memory: Wanda's sweat-salt skin, the milky warmth of infants curled against his chest, the copper-tang of blood as he'd licked her wounds clean after battles.
Peter recoiled like he'd been gut-punched. "Jesus *Christ*," he choked out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The alley spun around him, garbage stink and wet asphalt overlaying Fangs' sensory ghost-images of pine forests and a farmhouse porch. He fumbled for the shotgun under his jacket—not to use it, but to *ground* himself in the weight of something real, something *his*. The cold metal seared his palm like a brand.
Fangs recoiled at the touch, hissing like a cat doused with water. *"Clumsy. Slow,"* the growls slithered through his skull, dripping with contempt. *"You let them take her. Let them—"*
"Yeah? Well *you* let your kids get cooked alive, so maybe shut the *fuck* up!" Peter barked into the empty alley, his voice bouncing off dumpsters. A stray cat bolted, its eyes flashing green in the dark. He pressed the shotgun barrel against his own thigh—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to hurt. The pain cleared his head for three blessed seconds.
Peter exhaled through his nose—three seconds in, four out. The shotgun's grip grew slick under his palm as Fangs writhed beneath his skin, a caged beast testing bars. He could *feel* the obsidian claws straining to erupt from his wrists, the phantom weight of skeletal spider legs twitching against his shoulder blades.
*"Pathetic,"* Fangs hissed, the voice like broken glass dragged along his spine. *"She* hurts *while you—"*
"Breathe, you Peter" He muttered to himself, pressing his forehead harder against the brick. The alley stench of wet garbage grounded him—real, tangible, *now*. His fingers flexed against the shotgun's pump. "In. Out. Like a goddamn adult."
Fangs recoiled, the psychic equivalent of a snarl twisting into something wounded. Then—unexpectedly—a whine. High-pitched, desperate. The sound a dog makes when its pack leaves it behind.
*"Listen,"* Fangs implored, the growl bleeding into something tremulous. *"Listen how she cries."*
Peter's breath hitched as the psychic whine sharpened into a scream—Wanda's voice, raw and ragged, vibrating through his molars like a struck tuning fork. Fangs surged forward in his skull, flooding his senses with the scorched-sugar scent of her chaos magic burning out of control. *"Listen!"* the feral consciousness snarled, pressing the sound against his eardrums like a blade. *"Listen how they hurt our mate!"*
Rainwater dripped from Peter's hair into his eyes as he pressed his forehead harder against the alley wall. He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to *feel* the way her power sputtered like a dying star through the tether between them. But denial shattered when another scream ripped through the connection—this time laced with something worse than pain. despair.
Wanda Maximoff was broadcasting her despair live to him.
Fangs howled in his skull, a sound that made Peter's vision bleed red at the edges. Obsidian claws erupted from his wrists with a sickening *pop*, gleaming wetly under the streetlight. He stared at them, breathing ragged. "Goddammit," he muttered, flexing fingers that weren't entirely his own anymore. The claws clicked together like scissor blades.
Across the psychic tether, Wanda's chaos magic flared—a distress beacon only Fang could parse. Peter recoiled as the feral variant's memories flooded him. The images came with *texture*—the coppery taste of her blood, the way her fingers scrabbled against concrete as their twins' names died on her lips.
Peter exhaled through clenched teeth as the obsidian claws retracted with a sickening *schluck*, vanishing back into his wrists like tape measures snapping into place. The shotgun's grip was slick with sweat under his fingers—real, solid, *his*. He pressed the barrel against his thigh again, letting the cold metal ground him.
"Listen" he muttered, wiping rain from his eyes. "We'll help her. But we do it *my* way." His knuckles whitened around the shotgun's pump. "Last thing this shithole timeline needs is a chaos-powered spider-beast and a hysterical witch tag-teaming for revenge over kids that didn't even *exist* here."
Fangs snarled in his skull. Peter grimaced as phantom claws flexed beneath his skin, pressing against the inside of his wrists like caged animals testing bars. He rolled his shoulders—a deliberate, controlled motion—and focused on the coffee shop's neon sign flickering through the rain. The buzz of faulty wiring. The stench of wet asphalt. *Real* things. *Now* things.
"*My* way," he repeated, louder this time, as much for himself as the feral presence thrashing in his subconscious. The shotgun's weight shifted as he adjusted his grip, fingers settling into familiar grooves. "No claws. No legs. And *definitely* no merging with her chaos magic like some fucked-up power couple." A shudder ran down his spine at the memory—Wanda's raw energy intertwining with his own, their combined madness scorching reality like a wildfire. He'd *seen* what happened when they burned too bright.
Across the street, the newsstand's TV crackled with another explosion. Cyclops' voice cut through static: *"—forward! That's an order—"* Peter's head snapped up, combat awareness flaring as he clocked the tactical reshuffle—Storm taking high ground, Wolverine's silhouette cutting through smoke.
Peter's fingers tapped against the shotgun's stock—three quick, two slow—as he mentally inventoried his arsenal. The Beretta tucked into his waistband, its grip worn smooth from years of use. The combat knife strapped to his thigh, its edge still faintly gleaming with Deimos dried blood. And the shotgun itself, its barrel still warm from the dimensional glyphs he'd burned into the shells.
Fang snarled in the back of his skull, a sound like grinding obsidian. "Useless," the feral consciousness hissed, flooding Peter's senses with the memory of claws shearing through adamantium like tissue paper. "Let me out. I'll peel them open like fruit*."*
Peter exhaled through his nose, watching his breath fog in the rain-chilled air. "Not happening" His knuckles whitened around the shotgun's pump. Even now, he could feel the mutant abilities simmering under his skin—the way his cells thrummed with potential energy, how his bones ached with the pressure of skeletal legs waiting to erupt. All it would take was one slip, one moment of weakness, and Fang would come pouring out like a burst pipe.
He shook his head, rainwater dripping from his hair. No mutant abilities. No chaos magic. Just good old-fashioned Parker luck and enough firepower to make a SWAT team blush.
The thought crystallized into a plan as sharp as Fang's phantom claws. He needed to hit the old SHIELD safehouse—. There was gear there. The good kind. The kind that didn't require mutant DNA or mystical hocus-pocus to turn a man inside out.
Unnatural black clouds started to form in the sky followed by loud thunder. The wind started to blow incredibly strong. The one thing on Peter's mind —Other than the astral pleads from Wanda and Fang's growls— as he peeked out of the alley was: "This was definitely..." the TVs broadcasting the news got fried after a lightning hit a nearby electric post.
"...not on the forecast"
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Done
next chapter wont take long,
To write I'm jumping from Word(on Cellphone) and then to LiberOffice Writer(on my PC)
-things to address-
-Miles OP?
Most of the times when somebody complains about Miles they get labeled as racists, and sometimes that is true, they are racists.
some other times tho... they just read the list of abilities that Miles has, and realize that he is getting his meat deepthroated by Marvel writers— like holy shit dude!
he doesn't even take it out to piss!
That being said, since Peter will be out of NYC and the hero business, Miles will be the main Spiderman now in this story.
In my opinion Miles should have been made the main Spiderman on his own universe, like in the movies.
Two heroes sharing the same name is stupid(in my opinion), especially when they also live in the same city.
-just to be clear, I'm not going to bash Miles-
Peter's rant, was just that. a rant.
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