Webs We Weave



Chapter Two

DISCLAIMER :: This tale blends together aspects of Peter Parker/Spider-Man and Gwen Stacy/Ghost Spider/Spider-Gwen from Marvel Comics, Marvel Television, and Marvel Studios. Fanfiction? Sort of. The world and characters are mine, but they may seem familiar.
Author's note: Posting this chapter to give the readers a treat before the holidays. Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas, Glaðligr Jól to all of you.

On any other day, riding my bike from Brooklyn Heights to Bedford-Stuyvesant where I lived would be a simple half-hour ride. Weaving in and out of traffic, I could usually keep a pace of roughly twenty-five to thirty miles an hour. That had been with a body I’d known for thirty-plus years and clothes that fit. Trying to navigate with an entirely altered center of gravity made it so I wobbled like someone that barely started riding a bike without training wheels last week. To make matters worse, my clothes were mostly threatening to fall off. The seat I’d grown accustomed to was incredibly uncomfortable and was hitting pressure points that hadn’t even been present an hour ago. The entire structure of the machine was designed for someone much taller than it seemed I now was. I was barely hanging onto my shoes as I pedaled with the balls of my feet because the frame was just a bit too large for me. It was a complete hot mess.

The physics of gyroscopic precession are supposed to keep the bike mostly aloft with a constant feed of kinetic energy from the act of pedaling. With all the variables in the picture, I was failing that physics test. The mass and friction quotients were incongruent, which threw me a bit because mass isn’t lost or gained when weight fluctuates – they’re two different concepts. Objects are not supposed to lose mass. Ever. Adversely, humans don’t shrink or change phenotypical sex in the span of minutes. There is the observable phenomenon of height loss due to osteoporosis at an advanced age, but that’s only a couple inches. Phenotypical sex modification generally takes several years of medical interventions and even then is not a one-to-one comparison with subjects that experienced those changes during pubescent adolescence.

The entire situation felt impossible. Honestly, throwing shade at physics is kind of the bread and butter of engineers. In that moment of time, I was trying to think about anything other than the frustration of trying to strong arm a machine not built for its current purpose into serving the purpose anyway. What should have taken a short amount of time ended up lasting a couple of hours. I made my way down Fulton, then made the turn onto DeKalb and followed it all the way toward the house.

At that time, I lived in a row house built out of brick that probably housed the entire family of one of my ancestors back in the day. Now, I basically rented a bedroom, shared a bathroom, and had to write my name in Sharpie on my food to prove I’d bought it. Five other people were crammed into the place besides me. It was like one of those old boarding houses but owned by a slumlord. We were all struggling young people. The oldest of us was only a year older than me and the youngest just graduated college. Struggling while you’re young is almost a rite of passage in New York, unless you grew up in a building with a doorman or Scarsdale or something. We always knew the real New York: full of neglected century-old buildings that haven’t worked right in forty years with superintendents that never did any actual work but are somehow fit for human habitation. The rent would always increase every year because… insert reason here. Probably “taxes”.

When I reached the house, the sun was getting low in the sky. I grabbed my phone from the cradle, threw down the infernal machine, and wiggled the backpack off my body. Frustration permeated my entire being after having to wrestle to keep my shoes on, my pants above the waist, and hoodie on my shoulders. I was done with all of it. Shuffling in my clown shoes and holding the jeans up was the most annoying. I pulled my keys out of my pocket, put the house key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped into the house.

The animated atmosphere and activity immediately halted when I did so. There were three guys that usually hung out together to watch sports or a testosterone-infused thrill ride some people call a movie. I was always the odd man out because I didn’t have the “alpha bro” energy they seemed to cultivate amongst themselves. The de facto leader of the crew, a muscular graduate program reject named Caleb, stood from the couch and joined everyone in looking at me like an intruder.

“Who da fawk ah you an’ why you gotta key to dis house?” He riffed in his terrible Brooklyn accent. The guy was from southern Michigan, for crying out loud.

My eye roll was almost automatic. “I don’t have time for this or your appropriation of my culture.” The idea was to avoid the moron and retreat to my room.

My senses alerted me to an issue and I knew what he was going to do before he did it. He had leapt over the back of the couch, crossed to the entrance, grabbed the back of my hoodie after I’d climbed four steps, pulled me back, and set me in front of himself. I played along.

“What the hell, Caleb?!” I objected.

His head tilted and his face telegraphed his intense confusion. “How does a little girl like you know my name? I’m not the kind of guy to hang around high schools cruisin’ for chicks, so I ain’t ever met you.”

“Sure about that, big guy? Seems to me like you’re just the type.”

The guys on the couch chorused their approval of the burn with an “Oh!” exclamation in melodic form.

“Dis ain’t funny, girlie! Who… da fawk… ah you?!” Caleb asked again in a Brooklyn accent that’s right up there on the “Hall of Shame” wall right next to Dick Van Dyke’s Cockney debacle.

“You really think you can intimidate a Brooklyn native with garbage like that? Pathetic.” I shook my head.

Upstairs, one of the girls poked her head out of her room. “What’s going on down there?!”

“This girl walks into the house like she owns the place looking like some hobo. Caleb’s trying to intimidate her with his bad accent.” One of the guys from the couch yelled back.

This prompted her to investigate. She looked at Caleb and I for half a second. “Hey, slab of Mad Cow beef, let go of the girl.” She was the brunette that was the youngest of all of us in the house. She technically graduated college back in January, but they wouldn’t be holding her commencement until June.

Caleb released his grip on my hoodie. “I’m dealin’ with an intruder. Do ya mind?”

“Caleb, drop the act. Even Preston has told you how much that accent sucks. He grew up here. He should know.” She turned her attention from Caleb to me. “You okay, hon? Our resident silverback didn’t hurt you, did he?”

I shook my head. “Guy’s built like those body builders: big muscles, very little actual strength.”

She descended the stairwell and looked me over. “Wanna tell me who you are and why you look like you stole all your big brother’s clothes?”

“I’m Preston and I would really like to just go to my room, if you guys are done blocking me.”

The guys in the living room laughed. “Oh, that’s rich! Good one, kid!” One of them shouted.

Caleb rolled his eyes. “Last I checked, Preston was an annoying ginger that stands about five-eleven. Oh, and, y’know, a penis packer. You’re none of those things.”

“Caleb, don’t be vulgar.” The girl scolded. “Look, hon, you’re gonna have to leave. You should probably get back to your parents and clothes that probably fit.”

“Excuse me? I live here. Why do I need to leave?”

“Not from where I’m standing, pipsqueak. None of us have ever seen you before.” Caleb scoffed.

The pitch of my voice climbed up a bit. “Are you kidding me? You’re gonna tell me you don’t recognize me at all?”

One of the guys on the couch shrugged and spoke nonchalantly. His name escaped my recollection. “I mean, you kinda look like Preston but not really. Are you related? Like a cousin or something? Is he playing some kind of joke on us for the ice in the shower prank a few days ago?”

I reached into one of the pockets in the jeans. “If I’m not Preston, why do I have all his stuff? How come I’m wearing the exact outfit he left the house this morning wearing?”

“None of us pay any attention to Preston. He’s like a ghost most of the time.” The girl on the stairs admitted.

“I’m poor as fuck and I have no friends. Yay me.” My chest heaved out a sigh.

“Don’t care, little missy. You can’t stay here. We’re not gonna be responsible for some runaway or delinquent kid. Got it? You need to get the fuck out.” Caleb insisted.

“Yea, don’t bring any police trouble here. We’ve got enough problems.” Couch guy echoed before turning back to the TV.

The girl on the stairs looked a little sheepish. “Well, I mean, we might have to get the cops involved. Imagine if we were harboring a runaway, guys. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I ain’t goin’ to jail for nobody.” Caleb objected. His glare turned back to me. “You got three seconds to get your skinny ass out of our house or we hold you for the cops. What’s it gonna be, little girl?”

Every fiber of my being wanted to cold clock his smug face. He was a bully and I’d known that for a while. The problem was the fact that I’ve tried to stand up to bullies in the past and it didn’t turn out all that well. One such incident landed me in the hospital for a week. My dad was pissed and tried to get the guy’s name out of me, but I’d never talk. The truth was that they had me backed into a corner. There were more of them than me. That’s before calculating that any semblance of maneuverability that I might have was hindered by the comically oversized clothes I wanted desperately to discard. I didn’t think I would win the battle to just escape to my room to figure out my next move.

“Fine.” I breathed out in annoyance. “I’ll go. I hate this place, anyway.”

They didn’t stop me from leaving. I just turned and exited out the way I came. Getting out of the house, I stood on the sidewalk and simply glanced at my neighborhood. My eyes traveled from one end of the road to the other. They caught sight of my bike leaned against the little fence in front of the house. There was no way in hell I was getting back on that thing. It was awkward and painfully uncomfortable.

My body turned and I simply started walking… leaving my entire life behind, save for my phone and whatever I had in my wallet. When I reached the end of the block, I looked southward. Though I couldn’t see it, the shadow of my early life in Crown Heights loomed over me. I couldn’t see the Albany Towers that I grew up in but I knew they were there. Over the course of my life, all I’d managed to do was move one neighborhood to the north. And now, I’d lost even that.

At the very least, it was just barely under eighty degrees that night. It wasn’t a cold night, but a shiver still ran through me. My feet shuffled in shoes that were several sizes too large and one hand was always on my jeans to keep them on my hips. What I needed was somewhere to sit and think. There needed to be a plan of some kind.

Walking along on auto-pilot, the tingling sensation struck me again. My eyes darted directly toward the source. A police SUV had just turned onto the block I was walking down. For some reason, something I usually regarded as a non-issue was suddenly an issue. I disregarded the police most of the time because I had no reason to fear them. My senses were telling me that I needed to avoid that cruiser. I had identification but there’s no way they’d believe the person standing in front of them was the same as the one listed on my New York driver’s license. That could be a whole mess of trouble I really did not want to deal with at that point in time.

Averting from the cruiser, my eyes fell on the subway entrance a few feet in front of me. In my haste, the shoes that had been hanging onto my feet by sheer force of will decided now was the time to give way on the top step. My body naturally began to fall forward, threatening to get battered by the thirty-odd steps to the platform below.

That’s not what happened. I’m not sure exactly what happened. My body started to fall forward, but then I seemed to grapple the cast iron handrail and cement wall. From there, my feet seemed to tap the railing and the wall. I bounded between the two and rolled head over heels a few times before coming to a stop. That stop was the kicker. I was down about twelve steps and over the midway landing spot where the steps evened out before continuing again. My hand was on the railing, but my body was suspended in the air. The stop was a one-handed headstand supported by my one hand on the railing. My bare feet were straight up in the air. My second hand was out to my side for counterbalance. My jeans were staying on. My shirt, however, pooled at my chest and my hoodie dangled behind my head like the worst cape ever. Blood was rushing to my head but I was far more astonished than afraid.

The shoes that had betrayed me kept their momentum and tumbled down the stairs like a couple of rocks that had been set loose on the side of a mountain.

I have never been in gymnastics. I should not be able to pull off a one-handed headstand while grasping a cast iron subway handrail. Yet, it was happening. There were two questions on my mind: How is this even possible? and How do I get down?

Diverting my balance, my feet moved toward the side with the cement landing below. I spun around and let go of the railing. Somehow, I was standing on my feet. Gravity assured me it was still a theory in physics and asserted itself again. My jeans followed the law because I didn’t grab and hold the waistband like I should have.

My eyes would not divert their focus from the railing. There was an imprint of my hand grabbing the rail to hold myself upright. The sight was beyond weird. It should not be possible for a human hand to indent cast iron like that. Aluminium, yes. Iron, no. It’s not that malleable.

There was no time to think. The tingling sensation was back again. I could hear radio chatter. Time to move once more. Yanking my jeans back over my hips, I ran down the stairs with my bare feet slapping the concrete. At the bottom of the stairs, I found my shoes and stuffed my feet back into them. I was once again hindered by how oversized they were. Ignoring that, I pulled my MetroCard out of my wallet and approached the turnstile. One swipe and I was through. A few more steps later, I was on the platform.

I took whatever train happened to show up in the next few moments. Once through the doors, I found a couple of seats in a corner I could basically hide in and be relatively safe. The fifty-year-old stainless steel carriage was covered in ads and graffiti. It smelled of rubber, body odor, urine, and beer. It shouldn’t be a safe space, but it was in that moment. The doors closed and the train lurched into motion. I wasn’t quite sure where I was going, but the train would provide me a place to sit and think. Getting my jeans fully on my body in a way they wouldn’t do weird things and adjusting my hoodie around myself, I was trying to hide in plain sight.

The pitch black of the tunnels juxtaposed against the nearly blinding fluorescent lights of the train car was jarring. I tried to look out the window, but it was hurting my eyes. I focused on the floor. At my feet, there was dirt in the corners where the sheet metal had been bolted down to create the floor. A wax-lined paper cup from a fast food restaurant lay scrunched up from being stepped on and left haphazardly. It wasn’t exactly a feast for the eyes.

My mind began to process what had only occurred moments ago. My roommates — aka the only people I’d shared a living space with for the last few years — did not recognize me. Worse, their opinions of me were laid bare without the filter most people put in place when they’re trying to be charitable to your face. At one time, I might have considered them at least somewhat friendly. Well, most of them sans Caleb. Instead, they were about as charitable as the city itself. My whole body slumped. It hadn’t really been much different living with my dad growing up. He worked so much that we were basically two ships passing in the night. He only existed to bully me for being “too girly”.

I’m not all together certain how much time passed while I sat there staring at the floor. My head only lifted when that tingling sensation came again. Strangely, it didn’t feel like it was indicating danger.

My eyes landed on a woman that seemed to be in her late twenties with stunning copper hair tied up in a messy bun. Her emerald eyes darted from the front of the car to the back. She wore a rather pretty, cream-colored sleeveless blouse with a green professional skirt. She had a green coat draped over her arm that matched the skirt. The heels on her feet were interestingly a gold color. She looked like middle management, honestly. If other people with similar style boarded, it would be confirmed in my mind that the train was now in Manhattan. Our eyes actually met and she offered a smile to me. I gave a half-hearted smile in return.

My position was the corner seat of the subway car. They’re situated against the wall and face toward each end of the car. All the other seats are backed against the wall and look across to the other seats. For whatever reason, the mystery woman sat in the seat directly in front of me. As she approached, I noticed the gold necklace with an oddly-shaped pendant I couldn’t recognize. Her gaze fell on the wall opposite her as the doors closed and the train started moving again.

Without looking at me, she began speaking with a slight accent I couldn’t place. “Seen that look a hundred times, love. You all right, then?”

My eyes darted around for a few moments. I wasn’t sure who she was talking to. I poured on my Brooklyn, but it came out like Marissa Tomei had been given Robert DeNiro’s lines. “Uh, you talkin’ ta me?”

“You see anyone else about, darlin’?” She finally turned her head toward me. “You’re the one holding yourself like you expect the floor to disappear, not me.”

“Ah dunno you an’ you dunno me. You got no idea what I’m goin’ tru.”

“Yeah, but I do.” She put a hand in her jacket and fished out a white 3x5 card. I didn’t think people still used those. She handed me the card. “It’s sorta my business to know these things about people like you.”

I read the card carefully. It had black words in a professional font centered on the card in three lines that read: Eliza Maven, Proprietress, Tír na nÓg Community House. Turning the card around, it was blank of course.

Turning back to the front of the card, I thought aloud. “Tír na nÓg… my grandparents talked about it. The land of eternal youth, if I’m right.” Curiosity canceled out my harsh Brooklyn accent and it fell away.

“Nearly. Land of the Young. Youth is a state of being, love; eternity is a long time to be anything.” She quickly smiled. “Keep the card. I’ve plenty.”

My eyes returned to her visage. “What is the place?”

“A place for people to land when the ground’s gone soft under them.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

She smiled and chuckled a little to herself like she had some kind of inside joke going on in her mind. “It’s enough of one for this eve.”

I raised an eyebrow at her after glancing at the card again, trying to figure out what she was telling me. “Seems to be some kind of charitable organization. I didn’t ask for help.”

She shrugged. “No, but you look the sort that needed a place to sit where the world wouldn’t finish chewing you up.” Her eyes scanned me from my oversized shoes, to my too-large jeans, to my oversized shirt and hoodie before landing on my face curtained with wavy, dark-ginger hair. “This seemed as good a moment as any to talk about it.”

I recoiled and wrinkled my nose. “Do you think I’m some kind of runaway?”

She gently shook her head. “No, darlin’. Were that the case, you’d be angrier… and much louder.” She was making far too much sense. “Here’s what I’m figuring is going on: something has happened, don’t yet know what. I don’t know why you’ve seen to wear your big brother’s clothes, but here you are. You’ve got the look of a lost soul, love. Am I getting warmer?”

“Freakishly so.”

“Now, you’re on a subway car trying to hide while you figure what to do next. Maybe you lost the roof over your head. It probably wasn’t your fault. You need a place to land. Am I wrong?”

“How do you know that?”

“Been working with your sort a long time. It’s in your eyes. There’s a little relief, but more fear and confusion. The community house is a shelter for young ones like yourself. It’s a place to land when the ground gets soft under you.”

“So… you go around collecting strays?”

She genuinely laughed. “Gods, no! I’m far too tired for that.”

“Then why approach me?”

The train slowed, the screech of the brakes echoed against the walls of the tunnel. We were pulling into one of many stations I hadn’t noticed until now. The woman began gathering her belongings in the same neat manner she’d been carrying them when she had boarded this train.

“Because you’re sitting there pretending this is all temporary,” She almost whispered. “And it isn’t.” The train finally came to a full stop and the doors opened. Warm air rushed into the car from the platform. She stood up. “If you come with me, you’ll get a hot meal, a shower, a change of clothes, and a warm bed to sleep in. There won’t be any questions you don’t want to answer. No police. No papers.”

“And if I don’t?”

She turned and shrugged at me. “If you don’t, you keep going until the city finishes what it started. Your choice, love.”

She turned once more and moved toward the doors. For the second time that day, the world seemed to hold its breath and wait for me to do something.