It CAN Get Weirder!

“So you can’t die?” Peter asked.

Wade stuffed another burrito into PB’s microwave, which looked as though it had seen better days, weeks, months, and decades. Peter got the feeling that this was mostly Wade’s fault, judging by the Kraft cheese and chili being rapidly dumped over the frozen delicacies.

“Yeah. Sick, right? I’m the world’s greatest unaliving machine.” Wade stuffed a burrito into his mouth absentmindedly, and then winced as he realized that it was still frigid, and crunchy with frozen beans. He swallowed it anyway.

“Wow, that’s, ah, dandy!” Peter used a string of webbing to yank the spoon Wade had left on the burrito plate out of the microwave just before its door shut. He breathed a sigh of relief, then carefully averted his eyes from his hand. He’d been holding out his pinky finger in a subconscious avoidance of it, so that he felt like he had four fingers--normal. Using his shooters was becoming an issue, though, because that fifth finger was beginning to assert its presence with a sore, throbbing feeling.

“So yeah, Pet-I mean, PB,” Wade grinned to himself at the nickname, “told me about his adventure with you guys, hopping universes and everything. Sounded pretty whacky. Say, can I come along this time?”

“What? No, there’s no adventure.” Peter shook his head. His hair scraped against it. Eurgh. “PB’s been looking at that thing for seven hours now. He’ll find a way to reverse-wire it or some shebang, send me back home in my rightful body, and call it a day. There’s no adventure.”

He wondered if he were reassuring Wade or himself. The mercenary turned back to him with a half-amused half-smile, and leaned against the counter.

“Come on, Porker,” Wade said. “You get thrown across the multiverse in a bootleg Tardis, crash at my best bud’s place in a brand new body, have ME show up, and expect this to be an over-and-done thing? Nooo way. There are gonna be, like, twenty more chapters of this.” Deadpool looked knowingly up at the ceiling and then beamed back at him again.

“Cha--what? No. No, you’re joking. Over and done.” Peter’s voice came more and more quickly, spilling over itself. “PB’s got a degree in chemical engineering!”

“That’s not, like, spaceship engineering, though.” Wade noticed that he’d been leaning against the burner and swore, shaking smoke from his fingers.

“Don’t even think about freaking me out, Deadschool!” Peter yelled, hands shaking and sweating from every pore. “This is going to be fine. There is no big, unsolveable problem.”

The back door creaked open. Wade leaned over to look, and Peter spun to face it as PB stepped in, looking sheepish.

“Hey, Peter. You okay?” PB smiled at him in a gentle, almost fatherly way, hands in his coat pockets. A dark shade of concern weighed heavy behind his eyes. Peter felt himself sink in his chair.

“I want to drop a piano on my own head.” He said. He gave a thumbs up to accompany it, and PB pursed his lips in sympathy and put his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

“Ooooh,” Wade said, biting a lip. “I’m guessing… yeah.”

“Someone please just tell me how to get home,” Peter said. It sounded like a gasp for air. PB sighed and held up a hand.

“There’s no direct route home, Ham.”

The old name was a bitter comfort against the crashing wave of hopelessness. Peter felt the slide whistle of his spirit sinking as he slowly fell forward onto his face on the couch. PB’s dog, who had been introduced to him a few hours earlier as only “Mr. Straydog,” licked his hand and tried to nudge him back up.

“So I’m doomed, then,” Peter said, wishing desperately for a lounge chair that he could have collapsed into instead of this loveseat, which smelled like pizza grease and despair. He turned to face the ceiling and its beige wash of water damage. Wade clicked his tongue behind him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Well…” PB began.

Peter all but leapt to his feet. “Oh, boy, there’s a well! Come on, what do I have to do to get back, and normal, and spry and adorable?”

“Woah, woah, slow down. I’ll explain.” PB said. Wade ran to the microwave and pulled the impenetrable mountain of burritos from within as PB sat across from Pete.

“So that thing is made of a substance that hasn’t yet been identified,” PB said, clearly fascinated but restraining himself for Pete’s sake (heheh, puns). “It’s a long story, but basically, it’s able to change its density by moving matter outside or inside of the capsule, and it can travel through the multiverse by… I think… creating a pod-sized hole in space-time and just dropping through. It pretty much goes to the closest available universe, and from what I can see, it has an itinerary.”

“Alright, travel plans, great! Where are they going?” Peter said. Wade mouthed “adventure” to him. Ham rolled his eyes.

“Well, it’s hard to say for sure, but I think they hop through a few and then end up at… a hub.” PB spread out his hands in an  mysterious flourish.

“Hub?” Peter asked.

“Sounds like a cybercafe,” Wade offered. A burrito went into his mouth and was gone in seconds. Peter snuck one from the plate and fiddled with it, watching as Pete snatched a paper and scribbled something.

“Well, ah, see, multiverses are spread out, but some just happen to be close to a lot of them,” PB said. “There’s one in particular near us that’s kinda… the final destination on this pod’s journey. It links every nearby universe, and allows access back to each. Also, it’s apparently super high tech, so that’s a plus.” He showed the two of them a map, scrawled with coordinates, that appeared to show a ring of universes  centered around a cluster of stars. Simple stuff… however…

“Uhh, PB? What are all of the skulls you’ve drawn around that Hub for?” asked Peter, fidgeting.

PB tapped a finger to them. “That’s the bad part. Those readings were hard to understand at first, but basically? They’re massive danger zones that are almost impossible to cross.”

“Wow, you got all of that from that Matrix-looking-ass screen?” Wade said, eyes wide with wonder. “Are you sure you didn’t get a degree in actual engineering, you little genius?”

PB’s ears turned pink. “Uh, well, I did make my web-shooters. I have experience. And hey,” the bashful look disappeared, replaced by an indignant one, “chemical engineering IS real engineering.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Hey, hey, focus, people! So how will we get in there?” Peter asked, nerves fraying and stitching back together in a dizzying pattern of stress.

“Well, uh, you’d need to go to someone with the skills to make a cloaking device strong enough to completely hide a pod from what-or-who-ever is guarding that Hub,” PB said. “And you’d need someone dealing in more of whatever THAT is made out of--” he jerked his head backward, toward the pod, “--to do it. Also probably some other people to help, in case we encounter… you know.”

“Baaaaaddiiiies.” Wade wiggled his fingers menacingly.

“So, a detective, and a tech whiz,” Peter said, “plus some scrappy young warriors, and a fearless leader (me) to guide them all. I have to hand it to Deadpool…”

“Yep, you do. Adventure!” Wade said.

“... this is definitely some YA Fiction b#!!$?^%.”

“Woah, do you have actual censors? That’s goddamn adorable.” Wade said.

“Well, whatever you need… you’re in luck. Doc Ock’s itinerary was weird, but based on it?”

PB quickly scribbled a few faces next to the universes on the path. Peter laughed out loud.

“Holy Hamhocks, we’re getting the whole team back together!”

___

    New York City. Midnight. 1934.

A lone figure sat in a dive bar down in the less-savory than less-savory part of Brooklyn. It was a lousy night, streaked with grime and dirty looks. The kind of night no person with a clean conscience would be out on.

But the Big Apple was short on clean consciences, and high on every crime imaginable.

She was watching him, he could tell: his next dame, the kind of looker with a smile like a chopper through the chest. She’d done something dark. Hadn’t everyone? When you were in his business, you learned that everyone and everything had a dark underspot.

She sauntered up to the bar like a cat down an alley: proud, predatory, and careful to make no sound. He could see the curve of her leg underneath the fabric of a dress too short for the weather.

“What’s with the mask, flatfoot?” she said, barely glancing toward him.

Said mask hid any surprise in his eyes at being found out. He tipped his hat to her and ran a finger over the wood of the bar. “So you know I’m a Private Eye? Guess word gets around.” He took a sip of his egg cream. He wished it looked a little more like whiskey. She looked like the kind of doll who liked whiskey.

He was proven correct when she ordered a glass and sat down across from him. Her hair and eyes were dark, gray and gentle, like most women’s eyes. A flash of that color he’d seen the year before burst in his thoughts, and his mind strayed back to the cube sitting on his bedside table. He shook his head. Old memories.

“I’m not looking to bum drinks off you,” she said, eyes darting to the bartender. He was old, and good at pretending to not be listening. She leaned in.

“The truth is, Mister… I’m getting a little desperate for help.”

The way she said desperate was almost like a prayer. He’d heard a hundred women say it the same way. He turned and appraised her, one hand on the rim of his glass. A hundred monochrome women. He’d never wanted to know what their eye colors were before, but now he did. But they were gray. All gray, pale or dark or bright or dim.

“I don’t do things for free, even for dames,” he said. “It’ll have to be a good offer. Cash.”

“Good,” she said. “So my husband--”

The door to the bar exploded open. The woman next to him yelped, sultriness draining off of her like a cup full of milk tipping into a kitchen sink.

Spider-Man Noir whipped around and had to grab the counter to keep from falling off his barstool.

There was a man standing there. In full color.

He was a little on the husky side, and short, with a rain-slicked mess of blackish hair and a half-grin. His skin was pinkish-peach. And his eyes--damn, those were deep brown. He looked like an angel for just a moment, haloed by the dim light of the bar. The bartender, a graying man with a thick mustache, continued whistling to himself, unphased by the technicolor maybe-alien in what looks like a suit two sizes too large. There was a silence as rain gushed outside and the woman to his right gaped, wide-eyed.

“What-who are you?” It was half a shout, and half a breath. “You some kinda dream, boxcutter?”

The man panted for a moment, and coughed, loudly. The illusion of divinity was over, but damn if he wasn’t still colorful, and wild, and a welcome change of pace. Noir leapt off the barstool and pulled off his overcoat, throwing it to the man. It fell over him in one smooth wave, sending droplets scattering at the man’s feet.

“Hardly!” the man wheezed. He turned up toward Noir with a shaky smile. “PB and Wade will be reeeally glad I found you, Thin Man.”

The confusion on Noir’s face settled as he recognized the voice, and then redoubled as he RECOGNIZED the voice.

“Hold on,” Noir said, putting two fingers on the bridge of his nose, “wait a queen’s dime. You’re not… you can’t be…”

“Yep!” the man said, waving his hands like one of the floor alligators who danced at Rickaby’s every night.

“It’s me! Peter Porker!”

Noir felt as though he were glitching again.