194. Shadows, Scars and Hidden Lines. (Patreon)

Tony POV:

Peter and I looked like nobodies.

And I don’t mean that in the existential, we’re all stardust kind of way. I mean flannel, jeans, worn boots, jackets that smelled faintly of old laundry detergent and regret. Two average joes in a town so average it barely registered as a blip on the map.

Rose Hill, Tennessee.

Population: 1,366.

Notable feature: five dead, one year ago, courtesy of the so-called Chad Davis bombing.

We stood in front of the memorial wall. A brick wall scorched black, five shadows permanently burned into its surface like a grotesque family photo.

“Do you know why there are five shadows instead of six?” Harley Keener asked, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Peter didn’t even hesitate. “Because Chad Davis was at the epicenter of the explosion henceforth leaving behind no burn imprint.”

“I was gonna say,” Harley added thoughtfully, “that he blew people up and didn’t get into heaven, so he didn’t get a shadow.”

I blinked. “Well, that escalated directly into theological arson.”

Peter glanced sideways at the kid. “You get bullied?”

Harley’s shoulders dipped. “Yeah. A lot.”

Peter nodded like he’d just confirmed a hypothesis. “Let me guess. Top of the class in science. Physics is your strong suit. Still above average in everything else. Quiet. Keeps his head down and some overweight future state football champion calls you names and fires spitballs with his posse of protein-powder enthusiasts.”

Harley stopped walking. “Physics and chemistry, actually. And… yeah. That’s disturbingly accurate. How did you know?”

Peter smiled. It was a expression filled with familiarity.

“I was you once, kid. Bullied. Two friends in the whole world. Even the nerds called me the nerdiest nerd to ever nerd.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “But look at me now.”

I sighed loudly. “Here we go.”

“A successful trillionaire,” Peter continued, “remodeled global energy and transport infrastructure, happily married to the love of my life who's also the girl of my dreams and the jocks who bullied me? Living deeply unfulfilling lives involving beer bellies and nostalgia.”

I cleared my throat. “You’re forgetting a few minor footnotes.”

Peter frowned. “Am I?”

“Oh, just that you control 93.21 percent of the planet’s digital infrastructure, sixty-seven point eight nine percent of the legal global arms trade, most large-scale construction in America and Europe, chunks of China and let’s not forget you’re also the world’s largest recycling company.”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t like to toot my own horn.”

“That wasn’t a toot,” I said. “That was a brass band.”

We kept walking. Then thud.

I bumped into someone.

“Sorry,” I muttered automatically, bending down to grab what she’d dropped.

A badge.

Homeland Security.

I glanced up. Brunette. Sharp eyes. Left side of her face marred by burn scars. Classic IED pattern. The kind you didn’t forget once you’d seen enough of them.

“Nice hair.” I said, because when in doubt, flirt awkwardly.

“Thanks.” She replied flatly, already moving past us.

As she walked away, my HUD flickered briefly in my peripheral vision.

Facial recognition confirmed.

Ellen Brandt.

Extremis procedure survivor.

Peter and I both turned to follow her path.

Straight into the only lively building on the street. A pub decked out in aggressive Christmas cheer.

Tinsel, lights, Christmas wreaths and alcohol fueled bad decisions.

“Huh,” I said. “Ten bucks says Mrs. Davis is in there.”

Peter snorted. “That’s the only place to buy booze in town. That’s not a bet. That’s a census.”

I turned to Harley. “Okay, kid. Things are about to get spicy and not the fun cinnamon kind. Skedaddle.”

Harley nodded a little too eagerly and immediately… walked straight into the pub.

Peter and I stared.

“I feel like we failed as temporary guardians,” I said.

Gwen POV:

“Well, Harry,” I said with exhaustion in my voice, “I can’t exactly process a corporate execution at three in the morning. So why don’t you two crash here?”

Harry looked like I’d asked him to sleep on a bed of knives.

“I don’t want to impose,” He said, eyes flicking around the penthouse like it might judge him.

I sighed and stood, walking toward the balcony. The glass doors reflected the New York skyline, lights glittering like stars trapped in concrete. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie.

“Harry,” I said softly, “Peter gave you his trust and he still trusts you.”

I paused, then added, “Honestly? I don’t.”

He stiffened.

“Everyone knows Peter and Spider-Woman saved the multiverse,” I continued. “What they don’t know is that Peter stole an obscene amount of data on Spider-people across realities.”

I turned to face him.

“Almost every Spider has an Osborn. Green Goblin. Hobgoblin. Some version of you.”

My voice softened but the words didn’t. “So no. I don’t trust you. But I’ll put my faith in you because Peter does.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged.

“You’re right,” He said hoarsely. “I don’t deserve his trust or yours. But… please. Give me a chance. I will be different. I can be different.”

I studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Guest room’s down the hall.”

After they settled in, I went back to our bedroom.

The closet smelled faintly of clean fabric and home. I reached for a night dress because screw it, I felt fancy. Then my eyes caught something tucked away behind old jackets.

A worn leather briefcase.

Initials embossed in faded stitching: RP.

My fingers brushed the leather.

The beginning of everything.

Peter found the decay rate algorithm in that case. Two characters wrong. Two tiny mistakes that changed our lives forever.

I opened it.

Inside: an old calculator, an ancient cellphone, pens, glasses, Richard Parker’s Oscorp ID… and subway tokens.

Lots of them.

I picked up the calculator and to no one's surprise it slipped out of my hand and hit the floor and split open.

More tokens spilled out.

Inside, etched faintly:

D-Line / Track 61

My brows furrowed. “Clanker,” I said softly, “pull up New York City subway. D-line or Track 61.”

The hologram bloomed to life. One section glowed red.

“I believe you are referring to the hidden Roosevelt Station,” Clanker said, “an abandoned platform beneath Grand Central Terminal.”

I swallowed.

Peter didn’t care much about his parents but I did.

Curious Spider-wife that I was.

I slipped into my spandex, slung the Mk. II in school-bag form over my shoulder and swung out into the night. Toward Grand Central and whatever secrets waited beneath it. Fuck, sleeping.