The Godpinner
ABOUT ONE HOUR AND THIRTEEN MINUTES AGO, NEW YORK , 1934:
The pod had crashed in an empty alleyway.
From the screeches outside, Peter could tell only that they’d scared a couple of alley cats, maybe made a small crater. No real damage, other than to PB’s pride.
Said hobo-father-figure was plastered to the wall beside him, looking dazed enough to put a malleted Doc Ock to shame. Wade, on the other hand, had recovered admirably, and was eating the only surviving burrito from the stash he’d shoved into the pockets of the vaguely-30’s suits PB had insisted that they wear.
“You really understated how funky this funky space-time rupturing device was going to get, Ham,” said PB, who rolled a crick out of his neck and made a sound like a distressed schnauzer dog.
“Be glad it didn’t make your atomic structure the wrong way.” Peter had no time for whining. They had a PI to find, and a--yes, an adventure to go on.
“Well, anyway, uhh,” PB scratched the back of his neck and pushed open the pod door. “Sorry the suit Wade found for you was too big--”
“And also stolen from the donation bin of a Goodwill,” Wade said.
PB’s head jerked around. “Hey, you didn’t mention that!”
“It’s for a good cause!” Wade protested. Wade’s own (almost certainly purloined) suit was covered in queso, and thus absolutely useless as a Good NineteenThirties Disguise™. Or, at least, useless to do anything but sit in a gutter blackout drunk and be laughed at by late-night partygoers or depression-era apple salesmen.
“Fine, Dreadman, we’ll just return it when we get back” Peter said, holding up a hand to placate PB. Spider-Man frowned and folded his arms. Wade gave Ham a thumbs up.
“Great. Dandy. Do they say dandy in 1934?” Wade asked.
“I don’t know,” PB said, pushing out of the pod and into the street. He whistled. Peter peeked over his shoulder.
Wade slunk over to stand behind them. “Wow, that’s a hell of a storm.”
PB stumbled back into the car and shook the rain from his hair. New York’s weather had made up its mind to be even drearier than usual, and the bricks of the alleyway outside seemed to bubble and burst with flowing water. Had it not been for a slight raise on the threshold of the MurderCoffin, the water would have already flooded the compartment, dark as ink and shiny as molten silver.
“Alright, should’ve maybe brought an umbrella,” PB said. He put a hand to his chin to think. Peter frowned and began tapping his foot.
“Are we really going to let a little rain--” a massive thunderclap of pure white lightning turned the sky outside white for just a moment, before the world was cast in pewter gray again “--stop us from finding this guy?”
“We literally have all of New York to search for this guy, Ham,” said PB, looking antsy.
“Nah, I agree with the ex-pig. I’ve been shot by a tommy gun, but never in the rain.” Wade looked contemplative. “It might feel better, actually. Less blood to congeal.”
“Not my point, but you’re on my side, so I’ll take it!” Peter said. He turned to PB.
“Look, I’ll double check the street sign outside or around this alley so I know where we are. But I’m going out now, because we need a guy smart and sneaky enough to figure out where we can find someone with a supply of an undiscovered element is, and I gotta say, I trust this Dick Tracy knockoff for the job. So I’m gonna find him.” Peter said, leaning against the pod to look cool and stubborn. He missed the wall, and stumbled backward for a moment before regaining his balance.
PB paused for a moment, then gave a long, exasperated sigh.
“Fine,” he said, “okay. Okay. We’ll split up for now. Let’s meet back here in two hours, or about then, unless something goes wrong. Search the weird spots in town, or maybe ask about a PI named Peter Parker.” PB said.
“Yeah, yeah, great!” Pete said, relieved. He stepped out into the rain and kept smiling even as it beat his hair into a fibrous, wet mess.
“I’ll search the bars thoroughly, toots. No pub will be safe. Adios!” Wade said, doing an absolutely abysmal impression of a noir character. He pushed past PB and ran out into the night. PB sputtered and looked back and forth from the inside to Wade’s exuberant retreat.
“Okay, guess I’m on Wade duty!” PB said, throwing his arms in the air. He looked guiltily at Peter, and put his hands in his pockets.
“So, ah… you gonna be okay?” He asked it with a casual inflection, but concern pinched his brow. He didn’t just mean physically okay.
“Yep! Go after him. I’ll check around Brooklyn, do some detective work of my own, eh?” Peter said, smiling with enough force to make his distinctly human lips ache.
PB hesitated, then gave a tight nod. “Two hours,” he said.
Then he was gone, and Peter was swinging up to the nearest rooftop.
---
D@&%, Noir’s coat was warm.
The detective had ushered him to the back entrance of the bar in a rush, mask-eyes wide and steps faster than his tongue.
“Alright, Porker, start talking railroad-fast, and I mean be quick about it!” Noir said, hands flying up in an agitated flurry of gray and black.
“Okay, so, err, talking cat--”
Noir gave a pained sigh and sunk down to a crouch to listen.
Under the silvery-wet awning, Peter gave him the best rundown he could under the circumstances, cutting out some of the more embarrassing bits and skimming over Wade as best he could. Noir looked jumpy, and more than once had to ask what a Hub was and adjust his hat.
After Peter finished, Noir stood, walked away, turned around and came back. He tapped his fingers against the side of his mask.
“Boy’s batches, this is why I don’t keep friends,” he finally said.
Peter put a hand to his hips. “Hey! What’s that supposedta mean?”
“Every single guy and doll needs something from me! A lead, a bruiser, a quick one-night you-know, and now I gotta go help you get your moxie back? Hopscotch,” Noir said, gesticulating.
“I barely understood that, but I get that you’re thinking of bailing on me, buster!” Peter scowled. “Come on! We came across the multiverse to find a PI who can help us find a guy with an unknown element, and you’re the only guy I can trust for the job! Are you just gonna ditch me, your friend, in my hour of need?”
Peter was looking mostly at the ground, too tired and furious to stop fuming for a moment. When he finally did look up, he found Noir standing with his back to him. The taller man was muttering to himself, and pulling his hat down over his ears.
“No. No, no, big no. You’ve got a dame with a body like a Hollywood sellout and a quick brain, and you aren’t going to ditch that.” Noir said, all to himself. He kicked the ground multiple times and buried his fists in his pant pockets before spinning back around, in a pained, stilted way.
“Alright, fine, thanks for making me ditch that lady.” Noir muttered.
Peter smiled a smile with a sharp backbone of pure smugness lining it. “I knew it! You wouldn’t ditch a friend, you goth &@$%@%#.”
“Alright, what the hell is that?” Noir asked, pointing at Peter’s mouth. “Do you ‘ave something that doesn’t let you swear? Cause it damn sure sounds like you want to.”
“Gotta keep it kid friendly, Detective!” Peter grinned, puffing out his chest. He liked being tall enough to look Noir in the eye (at least, while tilting back, and looking up at a pretty steep angle). But he obviously would rather be a pig, normal. He sagged. “But yeah, I really want to say £*#% right about now, and loudly.”
“I have no idea which word you meant just now,” Noir said. He took a step away. “Come on. We might’ve attracted some attention, catting like that.”
“Yeah, dandy!” Peter wanted to punch himself in his human nose. Did people say dandy? Did he sound like an idiot? He shook his head and tried to look casual. “Hey, uh, Noir? Thanks for the coat.”
Noir stiffened for a second, then relaxed.
“... Don’t mention it. It’s nothing.” Noir said, flicking a web from his shooters.
Peter scratched the back of his neck, feeling blood in his face. The feeling was very human, and somewhat unpleasant. He pulled his mask over his face and flicked out his own shooter--only to be left in the dust when no fluid came out. Oh, cr@p.
“Wait!” He called. The shout seemed lost to the rain, but only for a moment.
“What?” Came the reply. The Detective had spun on his tether and hung, looking gothic and windblown and pushed to the edge.
“I’m out of fluid! Do you have any spare?”
He heard a long sigh, even through the rain, and then:
“No, I’ve just got enough for me. And you won’t keep up by walkin’.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do, then?” Peter asked, just before he realized how much Noir probably wanted to throw him into a puddle. The detective dropped to the ground and stalked back, arms hanging at his sides, and gave Peter an appraising look.
“What?” Pete asked.
“You weigh how much?” Noir asked.
“Don’t know, ‘tective. Haven’t exactly stepped on a scale lately. Why is that relevant--”
“Ah, hell,” Noir said. He lost a wrestling match behind his eyes, and Peter had barely blinked before he was pushed into Noir’s chest like a damsel in distress and held with one arm.
“Alright, so you said the pod’s on the alley next to 8th and 31st?” Noir asked, clearing his throat. He tried to avoid direct eye contact. “We can get there in a split hair, but since it’s on the way, we can stop by one of my stashes for web fluid for ya.”
“Yeeeah? Wait, hold on, bucko, you aren’t planning on full-on Mary Janeing me, are you?” Peter said. G*%, this was embarrassing. “Really, pal, I think I can just wa--”
And then the wind was whipping across his skin, and he was clutching the dark leather of Noir’s coat with every one of his ten fingers, and muttering censored swear words to himself all the way.
——
Noir had carried a lot of women like this.
He cleared his throat and tried to be angry, brooding. He thought of that doll in that bar, clever and beautiful, but she seemed to wash away with the rain. His eyes kept darting to Pete, who was still staring ahead with his mouth in a little o, a blur of color against the darkness of the city, a dribble of light. Noir just had to make sure he’d be alright.
Well, he really didn’t. Not at all. The ex-pig had been the one who hadn’t brought enough web fluid. He was having to pay for Pete’s mistakes and slip-ups.
Noir looked down with a biting word on his lips as he spun around the corner, hefting the man with one arm, and stopped.
Peter was smiling. He was nervous, and still clutching the fabric of the suit with all his might, but he was excited, eyes bright as the cats who dance at Mitzi’s Playhouse every evening. He looked jazzed just to be swinging through the air. And his eyes were brown. They were a shade of brown in the bark of the tall-topper trees Noir saw at central park when he landed in Miles’ world. And—wait, where the shoeshine sam was he going with this?
He cleared his throat to try to seem casual, then realized that he’d gotten Peter’s attention.
“Yeah?” The colorful man asked.
“You, uh, seemed excited. Anyway, we gotta move railwise” he quickly dropped the subject and tried to avoid Peter’s eyes, “we’re here.”
Peter watched him for another second when Noir swung into the balcony of a seedy hotel room, “closed for maintenance.”
“Put your mask on and roll in. Fluid’s on the dresser. I’m grabbin’ the rest of my rods and we’re burnin’ rubber out of here.” Noir said.
“Hey, woah, you’re grabbing your r-what nows?” Peter jumped where he stood.
Noir gave him a deadpan look from beneath his mask. “Guns.”
Peter looked embarrassed. “Oh, sorry—wait, what do you need guns for, Detective?! Not very Spider-Man of you!”
“I need these guns in my business. To protect me from the dark underbelly of this city, the mooks, the crooks, the angels with broken wings and haloes shiny as a gutter penny.” He tossed the web fluid containers to Peter and grabbed several of his favorite pistols.
“Okaaay, that’s a, uh, definitely a reason! Carry on.” Peter strapped the shooters to his arms and hefted them. “Say, these are good.”
“Oh, yeah. Top of the line.” Noir tried to keep the edge of pride out of his voice. He continued looking for his last gun, Caroline, which was seemingly misplaced.
“Hey, you seen a gun around here? Pistol? Real shiny?”
The sound of a safety being removed behind him answered him. He rolled his eyes.
“Pete, a yes would be just daaaaan—“
He trailed off as he turned. Peter was standing stock-still, stiff as a board, as someone melted out of the shadows behind him.
“Hello, Detective Parker,” the Prowler growled, his mask garbling his words as though they were coming from the radio in the back of the room. “My boss’d like a word.”
“I found your gun!” Pete squeaked, as Prowler pressed the barrel into his temple.