in technicolor

These fuckwits had started a podcast.

Brett could just about cry.

Sasha refused to let him have this moment in peace, though, too busy as she was, towering over him, holding her phone out like it was the key piece of evidence in a decades-old serial homicide case.

The tinny voices coming out of her phone tittered on about how they were planning to interview Spiderman about his life and general endeavors in an upcoming episode and how it was ‘not to be missed.’

Brett was 99% sure that Peter was going to break whatever microphone these idiots stuck in his face. And then, when they didn’t learn their lesson, either Hawkeye or Barnes was going to crush it, pull back, and pitch that sorry plastic mass as far out into the heart of Brooklyn as their strength would allow.

Stupid.

It was just. So. Stupid.

“They’re gonna interview you first, Brett,” Sasha said haughtily. “They said that rumor is that there’s a dedicated research community for superpeople and vigilantes, and by ‘research community’ they mean ‘one big dumb jerk in the NYPD.’”

Lies.

Brett, for all his pain and suffering, was largely protected by the folks in the NYPD. He appreciated them all trying to make sure his name didn’t get out there among the teeming masses of humanity. The Captain called it a danger to personnel when the higher ups asked about it. He argued that if people knew who Brett was and what he was doing, he’d become the next target on everyone’s local villains’ hit list.

The higher ups blessedly agreed for once. Which meant that Brett was doing no interviews with anyone outside the department. Period. End of story.

These podcasters were about to hit a wall before their cute little investigation even got underway.

Even still, if they went through with it despite all common sense and available information, the best case scenario was that Wade would stand over them and tell them all his opinions on chili cheese dogs while stomping on their recording equipment. The worst case scenario was that a load of civilians were going to get caught in a fire fight.

Aigh.

He took Sasha’s phone and stood up from the couch.

“I’m calling this in,” he declared over her squawking.

The Captain said that he’d take the interview with whoever came a-knocking—if they came a-knocking. He didn’t anticipate them even getting this far, but just in case, he told Brett and the other detectives, all questions were to go to him. He would do the honors of giving these podcasters the most elaborate run-around of their careers.

Brett kind of looked forward to it.

The podcasters made it into the station. They were two white guys of medium height and build. One of them wore a black blazer with a red Spiderman fan-made shirt underneath it like he was going to rip the blazer off Superman-style.

Brett tried to imagine Peter actually doing this. It was hard. Besides the fact that Brett had seen Steve Rogers himself cackle at the idea of Superman existing and doing anything meaningful in the world, he also knew that not a single one of the night crew (or hell, Rogers himself) was suave enough to pull that move off.

Even JB, who was the second coolest and most collected of them all (behind the Widow, obviously), had, on multiple occasions, gotten clothes stuck on his arms and shoulders trying to drama his way out of a situation.

Peter would probably rip straight through his suit if he tried it.

Brett tried not to snicker at the thought at his desk as he swiveled back to typing.

“Oh, right,” Officer Sara Spruell said at the bullpen entrance. “We’ve been expecting you guys. Yeah, let me just go get the Captain.”

The podcasters got visible excited by this.

Poor fucks.

The Captain came out and towered stiffly over the podcasters at the bullpen entrance. He said nothing for a moment too long and all the detectives schooled the hell out of their faces when they looked over and stopped typing and shuffling papers.

The room went quiet.

The podcasters’ excitement took a turn into anxiety.

“Gentlemen,” the Captain said. “It is my understanding that you are interested in the activities of our local troublemakers.”

“Uh, yes? Sir?” the taller, darker-haired, glass-wearing of the two said. “We were hoping to—”

“I’m afraid that our resident expert is currently on a training course,” the Captain said. “Not to mention that each of these so-called vigilantes is part of an open investigation for disrupting the peace on top of all of their assaults charges. So I’m afraid that we cannot provide you with any information that might compromise those cases.”

Very profession, Captain. Very smooth.

Good job.

“Oh, we aren’t asking for anything like that,” the Spidey-Superman piped up. “We just wanted to know some general stuff—you know, when do these people come out at night. Maybe a couple of tips on personalities. You know, surface-level stuff. We’re a comedy podcast, sir. We’re not looking to rock the boat—or the Kitchen, if you know what I mean?”

He laughed a little. It died off quick when the room remained silent.

Brett stretched himself back as the other detectives did so that they could all level a collective, lightly-offended eyebrow at the interlopers.

The Captain pretended that he was unaware of the group intimidation tactics going on around him. He folded his hands behind his back.

“We at this station take great pride in serving the community of Hell’s Kitchen, Mr.?”

“Gaul.”

“Mr. Gaul and Mr.?”

“Broadhurst,” the taller guy said, staring straight at Brett, Maynard, and Ellen’s desk cluster.

“—and Mr. Broadhurst,” the Captain continued. “It is not only our duty, but our honor to serve the people on these streets and to most importantly protect them and yourselves. I must say, gentlemen, that while I’m sure that your program is entertaining, the likelihood of injury to yourselves in pursuit of these…characters…is high. These are dangerous people, Mr. Gaul, Mr. Broadhurst. Far more dangerous than you can understand.”

Gaul was lapping that shit up. Broadhurst, however, was having second thoughts. Brett could tell from his increasingly shiny forehead.

“Thanks so much for the heads up,” Gaul said, “And we will totally be sure to tell our audience that you warned us, but really. We know what we’re up against. So while your expert is away, do you think we could maybe have their email so that we can talk to them off the record? Or if you guys wanted to prepare a statement for our readers, that would be great! You can talk about how the police are working diligently to catch these folks, but in the meantime are cooperating because of…” he trailed off.

“Because of,” he started again and stumbled. He sheepishly looked up at the Captain.

“Why are you guys cooperating with these people anyways?” he asked.

The Captain lifted his nose a tenth of a degree higher and cleared his throat. The whole bullpen shifted back into motion.

“Our expert will be back in two days,” the Captain said. “His name is Jan Novak and his email is [email protected]. You may ask him what you will, but I cannot guarantee his response, nor can I condone it.”

Gaul lit up and started in with the gratitude. Broadhurst hadn’t taken his eyes off of Brett’s now-busy table. Brett was careful to catch his eye and narrow his own.

Broadhurst looked away first.

They left, with Spidey-superman bubbling away and Broadhurst checking over his shoulders.

Ah, Jan Novak.

He got an email that very afternoon, Jan did. It sent the IT staff into wailing, crying, sobbing laughter.

Jan’s emails always did.

He was just that kind of guy.

And by ‘guy,’ Brett meant crash-test dummy.

Well, he’d started as a crash-test dummy. And a target. And a training weight.

But now, he had a name and a thousand social media accounts.

Essentially, Jan was the IT department’s answer to everyone complaining that they needed to check on, get close to, or read the media of so-and-so on such-and-such website without wanting to log onto that site using their own account.

He was the product of those complaints and the IT department’s unrelenting and impenetrable sense of humor.

They’d made Jan a LinkedIn account purely to send him to clown school. His listed skills were:

Hostage negotiation

Public speaking

Community organizing

The flower (you know the one)

Balloon animals

The shoes (you know which)

Maintaining weapon safety

Evidence collection

And now, vigilante analysis and coordination.

He was a talented guy, Jan. He had a badge with his name on it, an Instagram account, a uniform, a Facebook, a Youtube channel (of his balloon-making, of course), and a myriad of dating app accounts which all indicated different levels of horniness.

The email the IT department received was so earnest and serious that the staff came scurrying out of their bunker to come plead with the Captain to be allowed to answer it. Usually, they weren’t. That would be leading people on, and sometimes, certain members of the community who emailed that account needed welfare checks and for their information to be passed on to other social services. Sometimes, that email was given to people who were undercover and who needed to pass on information without being linked to any particular person.

So as a rule, Jan was an email-eater. Not an email-sender.

The Captain predictably said ‘no’ but allowed the department to send an ‘automatic’ notification that Jan was at a two-day training course and would try to get back to the sender as soon as possible.

The whole team bustled off, all claiming the right to be the one to write this email and pick the font.

And that was that.

“Brett.”

He did not look up from his phone. Amos was cuddled up next to him, explaining that he wanted a Spiderman cup like his friends at pre-school, but he didn’t want the one that they had. He wanted the blue one.

“Brett,” Sasha repeated irritably.

He looked up this time and handed his phone off to Amos to scroll through.

“Dearest cousin?” he said.

She held up her phone and popped out the audio jack.

“—really got us good, I’ve gotta say,” Gaul’s tinny voice said from the speaker. “Hook, line, and sinker. Who knew cops had a sense of humor?”

“We searched the guy who they gave us the email of,” Broadhurst sighed to Gaul’s hoarse cackling. “And his Instagram is balloon animals and Ferris wheels, guys. Someone at the department spent government funds making balloon animals just to fuck the likes of us up. I feel had.”

Ah, man. Classic Jan, that was.

“Brett,” Sasha said.

Yes, darling cousin?

“You’re all dicks,” she declared.

Brett listened to the full podcast on his way home. Why not? He was in the mood to hear more about Jan and his zany life choices and he wanted to know if the podcasters had found his twitter account and all its train-spotting glory yet.

They had not.

Too bad.

“—we shouldn’t have gotten our hopes up really,” Broadhurst said in Brett’s ear as he walked the few blocks to his apartment. “Obviously, we knew the police would want to keep mum on this. I mean, think of the layers of moral dubiousness that goes into cooperating with someone like Spiderman. Or even better, Daredevil?”

“Yeah, well. We had to try, didn’t we?” Gaul said. “Just to tick the box if nothing else. And yeah, maybe we got played by the cops—have to hand it to them, that was pretty good. They were all in on it too, they dead-eyed the fuck out of us the whole time. Rob nearly shat himself.”

Broadhurst took a moment to clarify that he had not shat himself. He’d been reasonably intimidated. Then he moved onto talking about plan B.

“—so we’re just gonna walk up to Spiderman and be like, oh hey, Spidey. Tell us about your life goals and greatest fears?” he demanded of Gaul.

“Yeah, why not?” Gaul asked.

There was a pause.

“This, ladies and gents, is what I am up against,” Broadhurst said seriously.

“We’re just gonna walk up and say, ‘Hey Spidey. Just punch me in the face,’” Gaul said in the background.

“Alright, well I guess that’s us for now. Thanks to FreezeFrame for letting us use their song ‘weekend whispers’ as the outro of our show. We’ll be back next week, maybe even with a nose between us,” Broadhurst sighed.

Ahaha.

Oh, no.

Brett didn’t really know if he should warn Peter or any of the others on the night crew about the pending nonsense headed their way. On the one hand, it wasn’t his problem. These guys had already received their word of warning. But on the other hand, he really didn’t want JB or Wade or someone to get paranoid, uncomfortable, and violent.

These fucks didn’t know how information worked among these people. If they had the sense to bring a bribe, it was most certainly gonna be something that wasn’t half as specific and strange enough to appease the selected beast.

That said, the result of any interaction there was more likely to be boring, if anything.

No bribe meant no chatting.

No chatting meant ignoring, evasion, or intimidation.

Brett decided that the likelihood of things going wrong leaned farther in that direction, and so, until he heard otherwise, he was staying out of this one.

Anyways, it was nice to not be the one chasing the likes of Matt and Barton for once. Really gave him some perspective into just how batshit his current assignment really was.

It was another whole week, but the podcasters managed to find Peter.

Brett had to admit that he was impressed when he saw that the new episode on Spotify was simply labeled “WE GOT HIM.”

Everyone at the station was shocked. Foggy was less surprised than they were when Brett stopped by after work to ask him if he’d listened to it yet.

“Have you met Peter?” Foggy asked, inspecting the neon pink soda he’d collected from the corner store. Brett was now trying it with him on the off-chance one of them was allergic to something in it and the other needed to call an ambulance.

“Pete’s one and half hairs on this side of feral,” Brett pointed out.

“Oh, but he loves attention, doesn’t he?” Foggy countered. He handed Brett a foamy glass of so-called prickly pear soda.

“Cheers,” he said.

Cheers.

No one died. They listened to the podcast.

The amount of panting recorded at the start of the interview was very familiar to Brett. As was the exasperated explanation Broadhurst and Gaul gave of their many and exhausting attempts to spot and chase Peter.

“He was pretty chill when we caught up to him, though,” Gaul said brightly. “And way short. I’d seen pictures of him next to some of the other big hitters, so we knew from the start that he was gonna be little, but we’re talkin’ like, barely up to Rob’s shoulder.”

“Surprisingly soft voice, too,” Broadhurst said. “He said he’d listened to the podcast!”

“Pretty surreal,” Gaul said.

“Yeah, until he asked us if we had real jobs,” Broadhurst said.

“He definitely asked us if we had real jobs,” Gaul confirmed. “Like taxes. He thought I was a tax-man.”

“He said he made under 10k a year so to get off his back already,” Broadhurst bemoaned. “I feel seen and it hurts.”

“The point is that we did get to talk to him,” Gaul said.

“But he fucked with us,” Broadhurst said.

“Oh he definitely fucked with us. Here’s just how badly he fucked with us,” Gaul said.

They swapped over to a fuzzier bit of audio.

“Can you just state your name for the record?” Gaul’s panting voice asked.

“My name?” Peter’s higher, muffled voice clarified.

“Yeah.”

“What like ‘Spiderman?’”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Well. People call me ‘Spiderman.’”

“Do you like that?” Broadhurst asked.

There was a thoughtful pause and Foggy gave Brett a wide expression that echoed his own thought that that was actually kind of a good question to ask. He sure had never thought of it. He’d just taken for granted that Peter was Spiderman and Spiderman was Peter and that was the end of that.

“I guess?” Peter said.

“Sounds like you’re not so sure,” Broadhurst pointed out.

“Well, I guess sometimes it doesn’t matter what you think,” Peter said. “You know how like when you’re in middle school and you want everyone to call you ‘Taco’ but everyone just calls you Chelsea? It’s kind of like that. You don’t really get to make a nickname happen on your own.”

“Did you not call yourself Spiderman then?” Broadhurst asked.

“No, I did,” Peter said. “But I didn’t think people would stick with it. The Bugle’s got some better ones, honestly. They called me ‘accessory to murder’ a while back, which was pretty cool.”

There was a pause.

“Just so you know,” Gaul cut in, in much better audio, “He was like this the whole time.”

“The whole time,” Broadhurst agreed.

“Do you want to be an accessory to murder?” Broadhurst’s grainy audio cut back in.

“Depends. Do cops listen to this?” Peter asked.

Foggy choked on his drink.

“Uh? Maybe?” Broadhurst said.

“Then no. I am not an accessory to murder,” Peter said, suddenly much louder and clearer, evidently having confiscated the microphone.

There was another pause.

“What’s this?” Peter asked the guys.

They sounded confused and it was here that Brett could already tell shit was about to take an unexpected turn.

“That’s a microphone,” Gaul said. “Have you not seen one?”

“Not that. This,” Peter’s voice said through a torrent of weird rustling sounds.

“Oh, no, no. Don’t touch that. That’s called a blimp,” Gaul said.

This was followed by Peter clearly disobeying the order.

“I like it,” he decided over the sound of pleas to give it back. “Can I have it?”

Silence.

“The microphone?” Broadhurst clarified.

“The fluff” Peter said, determined and tapping away at the mic through its cover to make a whole lot of big rustling sounds.

“No, you can’t. Sorry.—WAIT WAIT, NO—oh thank god. It’s uh. It blocks the wind and makes the sound quality better,” Broadhurst negotiated.

Peter’s silence felt heavy.

“—he refused to talk to us if we didn’t give it to him,” Gaul’s clearer audio popped in.

“So we just let him hold it,” Broadhurst said.

“—is that good for you?” Broadhurst’s grainy, uneasy voice said next.

Peter made his happy purring sound. It sounded insane with the microphone so close to his chest.

“What’s that?” Gaul asked, alarmed.

The purring intensified.

“Are—are you making that sound?” Gaul asked in horror.

The sound dropped off a little.

“Uh. Spiderman? Spidey? Are you--?”

“Why are you doing this?” Peter asked out of left field.

“Why? Oh. Because we’re interested in you. And what you do. And what people like you do. It’s really admira—”

“I don’t pay taxes.”

“—eugh? No. We don’t do the taxes, remember? We’re the—”

“Do you pay taxes on this?”

“The microphone?”

Peter started purring again, evidently reminded that he was pleased by the mic’s texture. Foggy started cackling.

“Should we leave you two alone?” Gaul asked.

There was no answer.

“Spidey?” Gaul asked once the silence had veered into awkward territory. “Do you think we could ask you another question?”

“Mm.”

“Is that—are you making that sound?”

“Mm.”

“What—what is it?”

“I joined a cult.”

Aaaaaand here we go.

“WHAT.”

“Red’s the one who scouted me. He told me to bring along my greatest fear, but all I could find was a pigeon, so I brought that and he told me to get my life together.”

“Who—who’s Red?” Gaul asked in horror.

“Hm?”

“Red. Who’s Red?”

“Oh. DD.”

“As in, Daredevil?” Broadhurst asked.

“Mm.”

The purring intensified for a second, then dropped away entirely.

“I don’t want this anymore,” Peter declared.

“Daredevil brought you into a cult?” Gaul asked. “Did he—how old are you?”

“He said it would only hurt for like, a week,” Peter said. “But it always hurts.”

There was quiet again.

“What always hurts?” Broadhurst asked nervously.

“It’s ‘cause I brought a spider the next time,” Peter said sadly.

“Are-are you okay?” Gaul asked.

“I don’t want this anymore,” Peter said again, apparently holding the microphone back. “I’ve got things to do.”

“Wait, wait. Just a few more questions.”

“No, I’m busy,” Peter said.

“Just a couple more,” Broadhurst pleaded, flipping through what sounded like paper. “Like, uh. Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being Spiderman.”

“Because I’m a spider. That’s why I went with Red. I just told you this.”

“Ahaha. Right. Um.”

“Also because someone murdered my dad and I want revenge.”

“UM.”

“Was it you?”

“N-No?”

“Was it you?”

Gaul choked out a negative.

Peter made a put-out sound.

“Why do I even bother then? You’re wasting my time,” he said. The scrabbling sound of a microphone being shoved into someone’s arms sounded out again. “Peace, tax-people,” he said. “I hope your overlord doesn’t fire you.”

“—and that was it,” Gaul said.

“That was actually it,” Broadhurst confirmed. “So tune in next time for—”

“—he can’t be part of a cult, right?” Gaul demanded.

Foggy hit the pause button on his phone.

“So that went well,” he said.

Why yes. Yes it did. Just swimmingly.

Foggy smirked.

Matt was just as much of a fuckhead as Peter when he wasn’t busy slamming other people’s heads into pavement. It was why the two of them got on so well. Little did the podcasters know that Peter’s reference to his name in his ‘statement’ was not just that.

It was a declaration. And an invitation.

A non-negotiable one between the two of them.

“—people call me Daredevil,” Matt’s grainy, rumbling voice told the podcasters who were absolutely shitting themselves in his presence the following week.

“You’ve got a lot of names, actually,” Gaul stammered. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The man in the mask. DD. Double D. Do you have a favorite? A preference maybe?”

Matt’s silence loomed large. It wasn’t like Peter’s awkward ones. It filled the space in rooms and make anyone listening shiver.

“No,” Matt finally said.

“Cool,” Gaul squeaked.

“We’ve got just some questions that people have been asking us to ask you from twitter,” Broadhurst said shakily. “Do you mind answering some of them?”

Matt stretched out another silence for nearly five whole seconds.

“Fine,” he said.

“O-kay!” Broadhurst said hurriedly, “So uh. Sunny_babe87 asks: “DD, where did you get your helmet? I’ve checked all the stores and places online—is it a custom job?”

“Yes,” Matt said. He made no further indication of following that up.

Foggy started laughing so hard, he spilled his newly attainted violently green drink all over his thigh.

“Cool. Uh. DDfan_666 asks, “Daredevil, what’s your actual deal? Why devil? You could have been anything and yet you picked the horns. What’s up with that?”

Matt leaned into his silence.

“They were given to me,” he said darkly.

“By who, if I might ask?” Broadhurst nudged.

“Your cult?” Gaul cut in.

Matt said nothing.

“Spidey said that you invited him to a cult,” Gaul said. “We think he’s just fuckin’ with us but—”

Matt made a tiny, curt little huff like a laugh.

That shut the podcasters up instantly.

“My family is deeply religious,” Matt said. He left it at that.

“Are you religious?” Gaul asked quietly.

Matt said nothing.

“Good talk,” Broadhurst decided. “Minnie from Kansas asks: DD, if you could fight anyone in the world, who would it be and why?—P.S. What’s your leg routine? I want an ass like yours but the squats aren’t getting me even close.’”

Matt hummed, lighter this time, like he was actually thinking about answering the question properly.

“I don’t wish to fight people,” he decided. “If I want to fight someone, I just do. If they come into Hell’s Kitchen, then I have to. There’s no wanting involved.”  

“You don’t have to,” Broadhurst pointed out. “No one’s making you.”

Matt laughed. It was a horrible, loud, slashing sound on the podcast, even though Brett knew he was more of a barker in person.

“No one’s making me,” Matt repeated, as though that was the funny part. “No one’s making me? Listen to yourselves.”

It was the podcasters’ turn to be quiet.

“Is someone making you?” Gaul whispered.

Matt’s snickering tapered off.

“Maybe,” he said, suddenly full of heartache. “Maybe they are. I wonder—” he cut himself off. “There’s work.”

“Work?”

“The Spiderkid says you have something he wants.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Gaul asked.

“He describes it as soft. Give it here.”

“The blimp? No man. Sorry, it’s part of the microphone. We can’t just—”

“Give. It. Here.”

“Okay,” Gaul squeaked. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

There was an obnoxious rustle and, sure enough, the sound quality got scratchier.

“Is that—is that better?” Broadhurst asked.

Matt hummed in approval.

Then, after a moment, said softly, “It will do. What is your fear?”

“My?—oh. No, no. We don’t—we don’t want in. To your cult that is. We’re totally good being normal,” Gaul said.

“I asked you a question,” Matt snarled, suddenly unbearable loud. Like a rottweiler. Like he was right in your ear. A drill sergeant with horns.

“Oh my god. It’s you now, man,” Gaul squeaked.

Matt settled down.

He sniffed.

“Fine,” he said. “Join us on the roof. Saturday at dusk. Don’t be late.”

“—I don’t know if we’re actually doing this, guys,” Broadhurst’s clear audio cut in. “We are veering out of comedy and into horror and I dunno about you, but I’m genre-shy.”

“Oh, no. We’re definitely doing it. I’m about to become a superhero, Rob. Don’t ruin this for me,” Gaul said.

There was a tap at the window and Brett looked over Foggy’s quaking body to wave at Matt on the other side of the glass. He did not look devilish at all. He looked sweaty. He’d probably stopped by after the gym to use Foggy’s shower.

“’Sup?” Brett asked him once he’d cracked the window to let Matt shimmy it the rest of the way up.

Matt cocked his head at him, then turned his attention Foggy’s silent wailing/coughing on the couch. He tipped his face quizzically back to Brett.

“Podcast,” he said.

“Ah.”

“You gotta be nice, Matt,” Brett told him. “They’re just a couple of nerds.”

“We’re just a couple of nerds,” Matt told him. “And anyways, Wade’s the one who’s set this up. I’m just following his lead.”

Brett wasn’t surprised. This sounded exactly like the kind of thing Wade would orchestrate behind the scenes.

“What are y’all gonna do to ‘em?” he asked as Matt patted fondly at Foggy and asked if he could use the shower.

“No idea,” Matt said.

Wade took the podcasters hostage on Saturday.

Wade made these people beg for their lives.

Then he took their microphones and wandered along, interviewing every vigilante, superhero, and scum-resident he could get his hands on.

“Captain America, sir. Tell us about your pecs. What size are them titties?”

“I haven’t checked.”

“Do you want to? I can help?”

A pause.

“Wade, this is sexual harassment.”

“WILSON. HANDS. OFF.”

“Oh. Perfect. Ex-Sergeant, Ex-Winter, Ex-Soldier, what size are your boyfriend’s—”

“Barton.”

“Wilson. Hey what’s that? Woah. Yo. You got a l’il somethin’-somethin’ on your head there, pal.”

“I’m doing ASMR now. Bring me your pizza dog.”

“Oh, word. Wait, what’s ASMR?”

“Devil-child. Beloved favorite of mine. Dashing, charming, eloquent, clever man that you are.”

“You have my attention.”

“I need a favor.”

“Go on.”

“I need your teeth.”

Silence.

“What’s the matter with them?”

“I’m doing ASMR. Come here, I need you to bite this thing.”

“Is it a dick?”

“It’s not a dick.”

“I feel like it’s gonna be a dick.”

“It’s not a dick.”

“What’s ASMR?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“SMALL HUMAN.”

“TALL HUMAN.”

“Come here, child. I’ve brought you a gift.”

“Is it a bomb?”

“No bomb. Come, come.”

“Is it a—WADE.”

“Shhhhh. Shh. Too loud.”

“Baby. Hi, baby. What’s your name, kitty?”

“Shhhhh—indoor voice. No, no. Don’t neither of you start yet. I gotta—hold this. There you go. Nice.”

“Fucking Deadpool,” Gaul said into his microphone seriously, “Stole our mic to make ASMR recordings. He stole it. He lured us in with this bogus cult bullshit. To make ASMR videos.”

“I mean, we did get some cool audio from it,” Broadhurst pointed out. “And he did give it all back.”

“He stole our mic, Rob,” Gaul reminded his buddy.

“Yeah, but we actually have a semi-explicit candid recording of Captain America now. Who else can say they’ve got one of those, huh?”

“Our MIC. How did he know about this? Did he know from the start? How could he have known we were going to interview Spidey??”

“Well,” Broadhurst said reasonably, “We did say that we were going to interview Spidey in our podcast, Brian. You know. The one we air publicly? The one we advertise? That podcast?”

“Ah. Right.”

Brett was dying. Foggy didn’t even make any sound while he laughed anymore. He didn’t even wheeze.

“But how did he find us?” Gaul demanded. “Like, how could he have known who we were? We don’t—don’t get us wrong guys, most of y’all are chill, but a couple of you have no boundaries, so none of our personal info is up online—which makes me just even more confused.”

“He’s Deadpool, man,” Broadhurst said. “He’s the best in the business. If he wants to find you, he’ll just find you.”

“Exactly, he’s the best in the business. He could just buy his own mic and camera. He can just go murder some politician and buy way fancier shit than we could ever afford, and yet. And yet???”

Oh, blessed souls.

They had no idea how Deadpool’s brain worked.

Nobody had any clue how Deadpool’s brain worked.

But this one time, Brett thought he had an inkling as to what was up here and it was nothing short of absolutely delightful.

Foggy thought so, at least.

So one of Wade’s favorite pastimes was Jan.

Yeah. Uh-huh. That Jan.

Wade loved him. He loved everything about him.

Wade stalked Jan, fully aware of his true identity.

Knowing who Jan really was did not dissuade Wade in the least bit. If anything, it only encouraged him.

This had been going on for the last six months, ever since the Captain had tried to get Brett to get a read on Wade, who evidently didn’t appreciate the gesture.

When painting massive cocks on police property lost its intrigue for him, he’d decided he’d get back at the Captain by spending a good chunk of his free time writing Jan love messages on every platform he existed on. They were elaborate. Some of them were graphic. Others were just reviews of Jan himself, with Wade reviewing this version of him and scoring him on out of ten points on his ‘would fuck’ scale.

He kept hacking Jan’s many, varied accounts and emails in escalating efforts to make the Captain uncomfortable and to secure a promise from the man to stay in his lane.

The Captain refused to be intimidated in his own house.

And so Wade carried on making his life difficult in as many tiny, aggravating ways as possible and had become the IT department’s external nemesis.

He must have seen the podcaster’s email and decided to capitalize on the endeavor, as was his way.

He must have caught Peter and told him to take the interview and get these idiots interested.

Sasha was not amused when Brett explained this to his mom later. Mom thought it was very clever of Wade to have gone through all those hoops. Brett explained to her that it was indeed clever, but also, to anyone in the know, a very obvious intimidation tactic.

By leading these two podcasters on, then stealing and returning their equipment, Wade was saying to the police ‘look how much fun I could have if I choose to hack your cute little system.’ To others, especially challenging assassins, he was saying ‘This is what I will do to you if you try to fuck with me, you little shits.’ And to the public, he was saying ‘I am an unpredictable force of nature, so watch yourselves.’

It was funny. Up until it wasn’t.

That was Wade all over.

“You should have helped them, Brett,” Sasha said.

Ah, girl.

It wasn’t his job to save people from their own lack of common sense. Sometimes, people just had to learn shit the hard way. And that wasn’t always the worst thing.