First Blood
It was hard to think, lately. Peter found it hard to drop his thoughts into different places in his head, now that he was a human and taller and under quite a lot of stress. Thoughts tended to spill out at the seams, running over each other like mice loosed from a laboratory bent on giving them Boneitis or whatever new disease doctors were trying to beat into submission these days.
Yeesh, that was dark. It’s a little easy to be an absolute drag--and a basketcase--when you have a gun to your head.
Peter tried to shift his weight forward, only for the barrel to press closer to the side of his head. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t playing nice. A small snarl escaped the ham-radio (hehe! Ham! Wait, no, he was about to be shot, no jokes, buster!) distortion of the gunman’s mask.
“Slow down, now, no need to hurt my friend here,” Noir said, hand flicking almost imperceptibly to his waist. Peter could feel the barrel of the gun--”Caroline”--leaving an impression on his face.
D@&n, what he wouldn’t do for another anvil.
“Let’s talk. Your boss knows who I am, right? He can find me. He’s a smart guy,” Noir said, eyes flicking from Peter to the enemy, who sounded a hell of a lot like Prowler. He probably was, knowing how weird these universe thingies got. Oh, joy!
“He still doesn’t know.” There was an edge of something like disgust in the Prowler’s voice. “He told me to track you down, Spider-Man. And I don’t stop until I’ve won.”
Prowler’s hold on Peter’s shoulder tightened, sharp gloves digging into the flesh hard enough to cut through the fabric. Prowler seemed to look at him for the first time.
“Who’s this?” the question was asked in a bored, idle way, like your mother asking about a girlfriend she didn’t particularly like. Prowler tugged a bit at the mask Peter still wore and hmmm-ed.
“A fan?”
“Partner,” Noir said. Prowler’s grip on the gun had slackened just slightly, and Noir had noticed: he was reaching to his back, slowly easing a pistol from behind his back.
“Partner? Didn’t think you were a gaycat,” Prowler’s voice finally twisted into something less formal, less rigid, and more purely malicious.
“Wh--no! He, ah, helps me on the job.” Noir’s hand faltered for only a moment before he was drawing the gun forward, smooth as the shadows themselves behind him. If he could lift it quickly, fire off a shot, then maybe Peter could twist free--
A glimmer of hope in Peter’s chest faded as the pistol caught the light and reflected it just south of the Prowler’s face. The Prowler whipped forward, and the gun safety flipped off and on like a rattlesnake’s dry warning.
“Don’t try any monkeysocks, Dick!” Prowler spat. “I’ll blip off your friend here if you don’t drop that pistol and come with me, right now, nice and quiet!”
Noir froze and jerked back, the gun tight in his hands. His face seemed twisted under the mask, in absolute indecision. Peter felt his own heart rate slow at the thought. He saw one of Noir’s fingers detach from the gun, hesitant, and then another, and then--
“Heya, uhh, Prowler? How’s life?” Peter called.
It came out with the confidence of Bugs himself, shocking even Peter. Prowler leaned back for a moment, then laughed.
“We’re past that.” The amusement was gone from his voice as quickly as it arrived. “No distractions.”
“Hey, that’s fine, but I have a better deal,” Peter said, looking to Noir. “How’d you like to hear it?”
Prowler paused, then readjusted the pistol and looked down.
Peter swallowed hard. This could end poorly.
“So, say, howsabout we make a deal. YOU drop the gun and let us leave unharmed and just dan-fine. WE walk away and never cross paths with you again. Kapiche?”
“No.” Prowler said. “Here’s the deal, actually. I take you both back to Kingpin, and after that I never have to see you again.” Malice lined the final words like molding velvet.
“No thanks. I say you drop the gun.” Peter said. Noir looked on in silent panic.
“You’re coming with me.” Prowler began to pull him back toward the window. Peter dug his heels in, heart beating faster, eyes growing more dilated as the space between him and Noir grew.
“I say drop the gun!” Peter’s voice was higher pitched, “Please!”
“You’re coming with me!” Prowler jerked his head, beckoning Noir to follow. His time was clearly growing shorter. Kingpin made deadlines.
“Drop the gun!” Peter caught one foot on a discarded Spare Hat™ and managed to slow his travel for a few inches.
“You’re coming with me!” The Prowler was growing really angry. Sheesh. Most villains in Peter’s universe only got mildly frustrated if Peter was this annoying.
“Drop the gun!” This one came out as a wheeze as he neared the windowsill. He reached a hand out toward Noir, but was too far.
“You’re coming with me!” Prowler had begun repeating it as a reflex. Peter could hear the blind anger in his words.
He inhaled, and called, “You’re coming with me!”
“Drop the gun!” Prowler replied, his hold on the pistol slackening substantially before he realized his mistake.
Noir’s hand was up in a flash, and the blast was enough to make Peter hit the floor with his hands over his ears. Only, he miscalculated his ear placement, being a human and all, and ended up hearing the whole of the shot just above his head. He screamed and shoved himself away as the Prowler crashed into the alleyway below, metal claws scraping the wall outside for just a moment before he went slack.
The gun was still smoking when Peter looked up, and Noir’s breathing made the sides of his shirt jerk up and down in staccato beats. It would have been funny if there weren’t flecks of blood on Peter’s face.
Prowler’s blood.
Guns. Rhymed with fun. Definitely were not. Had he ever really seen one work before, outside of his universe? He’d heard they were far more fatal in other worlds, but he couldn’t hear Prowler moving in the alleyway. Peter almost said something, then stopped.
No. Noir looked scattered, too, and he’d had to do it. Peter ripped off his own mask and wheezed, cold air heavy in his lungs, and stood as Noir lowered the pistol and stared at the window.
“That… was close.” Peter said.
“Closer than a bruno’s bracelets,” Noir said. Peter snorted through his nose, adrenaline still bursting through him. That was funny. Unlike guns.
Noir took a step forward and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Are you a--aaahh, you got somethin’ there.” He wiped the few blood flecks from Peter’s face and stepped ahead to lean down into the alley.
Peter watched him examine the alley for a moment, leaning over the edge with the grace of a cat. From this distance, he looked like an ordinary, lonely man looking into the night. It almost made Peter’s heart ache. How many people had Noir done that to? Ten? Fifty? Had they all been like Prowler, falling quietly? Had any of them--
Peter shook off the thoughts and shuddered. Not kid appropriate.
Noir was tense, now, at the window, and any illusion of his ordinary nature was gone. His muscles were tight.
“No sign of ‘im. Best case is that he slunk off to lick his wounds. Worst case says he’s waitin’ for me.” Noir stood at the edge of the windowsill and flicked a web to the far side of the wall, then released it without swinging.
“Whassat?” Peter asked.
“Bait. For a Prowler trap.”
The web was ignored, and nothing appeared to leap for the window. Noir hung back for a moment more, then nodded.
“Coast’s probably clear. I see your ‘verse-room on the ground a few feet away, on the flip side. We were close, I toldja.”
“Be careful,” Peter said, as Noir prepared to jump into the alley.
Noir started and then turned back. Was he smiling beneath his mask?
“I’m always careful, except when it suits me.” Noir saluted, half-joking, and jumped into the alley.
Peter heard a low whistle and followed.
He landed next to Noir with a thwip and saw it: a trail of blood, leading out of the alleyway. It petered out near the exit; perhaps Prowler had been able to staunch his bleeding long enough to get home. Peter felt ill. The fluid was black in this universe, viscous as Hitchcock special effects and just as bad-smelling.
“Stay sharp. Can’t be caught topdown.” Noir strode toward the pod. His eyebrow cocked as it hummed in the air slightly the machinery inside sensing a new presence.
“Metal kimono,” Noir said, as though he’d made a very amusing joke. He turned to Peter for a smile and Peter gave it, despite having no idea what weird Noir-ian reference the detective was making.
“Damn right it is.” Peter said.
Noir stopped dead in his tracks at the exact same moment Peter did.
“Sorry?” Noir asked. “Thoughcha couldn’t swear. Looney Tunes and all that.”
“Me too!” Peter said, half panicked, half pleased. Was he becoming too human? Or was this just Noir’s universe’s influence on him.
“Okay, let me--” Peter inhaled. “@#$. %$#@&. +^&*##. Not working.”
“Maybe it was a fluke,” Noir shrugged.
“FUCK!” Peter shouted Noir jumped back, looking frightened, then saw Peter standing proudly, wearing his coat, having just said “that word” with no censors for the first time in his life, and laughed.
“Don’t get too excited, Ham,” he said.
Peter felt a flicker of anxiety in his chest. “I’ll try!” he joked, hands in his pockets.
The door to the MurderCoffin creaked open. Noir put a hand to his waistband and Peter dashed over, half-ready to give PB a high-four--oh, wait--and also half ready to have to fight the Prowler again, only to see Wade peering out into the night with all of the childlike wonder of a kid getting a bicycle for Christmas.
“Hey, man,” Deadpool gave Noir a casual wave, then beamed at Peter. “Pete, my boy, my guy, did you just SCREAM an uncensored swear word?”
“That was Noir!” Peter said, quickly, before Noir gave him a look of utter disappointment.
Wade wasn’t fooled so easily, it seemed. “No, no, it was you. That was a big old f-bomb. A real no-no word. How do you feel? You’re becoming a real man now. This is great.”
“It was just once! I’m still mostly censored, I think it was a glitch. We just had a run-in with the 1930’s Prowler!” Peter changed the subject, throwing his arms in the air.
“Woah, woah, woah. The Prowler?!” PB asked, looking half-exhausted and half-excited.
“It was crazy! He’s not as smart as he thinks he is, but @#&$ if he isn’t scary.” Peter said.
“You got to see the Prowler without me? No faaair.” Wade finally opened the door all the way. Peter pulled Noir inside as the man gave Wade a strange look, and then brightened when he saw PB tapping the screen of the pod.
“Other Pete!” he said, clapping PB on the back. “How’s the missus?”
“Uhh, we’re, hmm, friends,” PB said, a pained smile on his face. “And you can call me PB, if you want. Good for keeping track, with all of the Peters running around.”
“Yeah, you don’t want to smooch the wrong one.” Wade said. There was a silence as each Peter turned to stare, and Wade gave them an exaggerated shrug.
“What? We’re not allowed to share manly, platonic kisses anymore?” Wade said. “Come on, now. I thought we were all braver than this.”
“Did you know that every time you speak I feel as if I’m talking to some long-lost immortal Sumerian trickster god? Because I feel like you should know that, bud,” Peter said.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Wade said, sounding like he meant it.
“So you’re the bruiser with the healing? Slick city,” Noir said, looking him up and down, “you don’t look like you’re healed all the way, yet.”
“Oh, no, my body just looks traumatically burned for funsies!” Wade said. Noir put up a hand, then put it down again.
“It’s just how he looks,” PB said, “it grows on you.”
“I grew on you?” Wade batted his eyelashes.
“Yes. A lot like a weed.” PB said. Wade ignored him and sighed like a princess being wooed.
“Ah. Scotts, I didn’t mean to be--well.” Noir said. It was the closest to an apology he seemed to get. He put his hands in his pockets and looked pretty uncomfortable for someone whose face was completely hidden by a mask.
“It’s cool,” Wade said, picking his teeth with a 3-foot katana, which sounded much more impressive than it looked.
Noir turned back to PB and peered at the screen. “Alright, Porker here explained the rundown-updown to me. Which hotspot are we poppin’ down to next?”
“Something pretty different,” PB said. The machine began to hum more loudly. “Reeeeally wishing I brought more than just suits.”
“Oh, I brought a bunch of stuff!” Wade said. He yanked a previously-unseen trunk out from what appeared to be nowhere--hey, that was a Spider-Ham thing! No fair!--and threw the top up, revealing multiple sets of highly questionable clothing and a pirate costume, because apparently Wade focused all clothes-finding efforts on abandoned Goodwills and Spirit Halloweens.
PB stared for a minute. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.” He said, then kept fiddling with the machine.
“I guess we oughta change, or put something over our costumes like we did with the 30’s suits,” Peter said. “Blend in with whatever crowd we’re in.”
“In that case, grab the most Back-to-the-Future crap you can, preferably stuff with bright colors,” PB said. Noir put a hand on his hip, and squinted at the box.
“We’re visiting a young prodigy robotics engineer, next. In a galaxy far, far away.”
“Oh, Peni! She’s a good kid,” Noir said. He pulled off his mask and grabbed the nearest tri-color shirt, then turned and met Peter’s eyes.
Peter’s brain short-circuited a little bit.