Webs We Weave



Chapter Three

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: Hope everyone had a lovely holiday season. The start of the new year is giving "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?" vibes. Enjoy this instead.

Thousands of questions traveled through my mind. I had seconds to make my decision before the subway doors closed and the train would move on to the next station. Stuffing the card in my pocket, I once again held up my pants with one hand and shuffled out of the train in oversized shoes. I’m still not sure what inspired me to follow the mystery woman, but I knew that I felt safer in her presence.

The station itself was one of the big ones. It was already a significant stop near the New York University campus and being in the heart of Greenwich Village was doing it a massive favor. Shuffling my feet a little faster, I caught up with the taller ginger and kept on her tail until we surfaced. The stairs opened up onto the sidewalk on Waverly Place, right outside the Waverly Diner. Seeing the brutalist, tall, concrete tenement across the street and the early 20th-century brick buildings on our side was peak New York. The city’s always changing, for good or bad. Ms. Maven rounded the corner of the subway exit and headed toward 6th Avenue, sometimes called “The Avenue of the Americas” for some reason. Thankfully, she slowed her pace as I struggled to follow her.

“You got a name, darlin’?” She asked as she came to a stop at the corner to wait for the walk signal.

“Preston?” I answered cautiously. There was some strain because I was almost embarrassed to admit that really was my name.

“What sort of name is that for a girl your age?” She protested, starting to walk when the little white person appeared.

“Weird parents?” Again, I didn’t want to divulge too much.

She kept pace with me as the traffic passed on the northbound one-way road to our left. She spoke a bit louder to compensate. “Don’t you be lyin’ to me, now.” A hint of a harsher accent that sounded old came out of her mouth.

I stumbled a little but caught myself easily. “I’m not. My parents were weird people and my name is Preston. It just feels weird to say it out loud, right now.”

“What do you mean ‘were’?” She asked pointedly.

“My mom died when I was a kid. Dad turned to his job and got all regimental on me after that. He and I don’t really talk much. I don’t like talking about it.”

“Sorry to hear that, love.” She took a breath. “I’ll ask again: what’s a girl your age doin’ with a name like ‘Preston’? Did your dad want a boy and demand your poor mother name you that?”

“Well, would you believe that earlier this morning I was the son he wanted?”

She stopped dead in her tracks and pulled me over against the wall of the church we were passing. Her vocal volume dropped several decibels. “This morning, you say? Something happen while my back was turned?”

Sensing that she wanted to be discreet, I followed her lead. “I’m not totally sure, but given the correlating circumstances, I’d be willing to say the interstellar energy wave that passed through Earth at approximately 1:14 pm had something to do with it.”

She released her grip on me and her eyes widened. “It’s happened again, has it?” Her eyes leveled on me once again. “Tell me everything.”

“I don’t have all the data, so I can’t say anything conclusive. All I have is a hypothesis.” I took a deep breath to try getting out as much as I could. “Based on reports given yesterday, some kind of interstellar particle interaction not unlike a supermassive solar flare with a width roughly half the distance between Earth and Mars passed through our planet today. The scale was planet-wide. There’s not a nanometer of Earth’s surface that wasn’t affected by the event. It initially manifested as a planet-wide electromagnetic disturbance, knocking out electronics and disrupting communications. That only happens when something interacts with the magnetosphere or ionosphere hard enough to ring its bell like a hard right hook.”

My gaze drifted down to my free hand as I held it in front of me and turned it a few times. “Following the initial punch, Earth was impacted by ‘particle rain’ on the tail of the initial event horizon. The only models that would even get in the same vicinity of what happened involve exotic energy particles we haven’t even theorized yet. It would have to be some form of matter or energy that interacts with other matter subatomically at best. It’s almost as if the energy hacked the human genome, inserted some edits, and facilitated a full hardware reconfiguration. Mass stayed consistent, as it always does, but the distribution of that mass changed in various ways. The repercussions cannot be quantified without further study.”

“Something of a scientist, are you?” Ms. Maven smiled.

I shrugged and half-smiled. “Engineer… mechanical, technically… with minors in applied quantum physics, astrophysics, applied mathematics, and biochemistry. I couldn’t decide one hundred percent what I wanted to do, so I took all the classes I thought would be fun.”

“You’re older than you appear.”

“I guess so. What did you mean when you said ‘it happened again’?”

“It happened once before. It was so long ago that only the Egyptians, Sumerians, and Elamites were even writing things down.” She beckoned to me to start walking once more. “Most people disregarded the truth. Instead, they used myth and legend to explain what they could not understand. Stories were told long enough to feel safer than the facts.”

“You’re basically explaining why the field of archaeology exists. Mind elaborating?”

She shook her head and kept walking. We crossed another side street, continuing down 6th. Smelling the restaurants on this block made my stomach growl for attention. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and now the sun was dipping below the horizon. Ms. Maven noticed and slightly turned her head toward me.

“We’ll be there shortly, love. It’s not far from the subway.”

I kept quiet. It’s not like she was going to answer any of my pointed questions, anyway. Two blocks down from the subway, she turned right and I followed. As if the universe were taunting me, there were more restaurants along this street — West 4th Street — than there had been previously. I kept my head down and dutifully followed. Finally, we crossed the street and made a left. The signs said ‘Jones Street’. The place looked like Sesame Street, but with trees on both sides. Thankfully, there were fewer restaurants. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was apparently walking down the street featured on Bob Dylan’s Freewheelin’ album cover. We walked nearly the entire length of the street before we arrived at our destination.

We finally came upon a collection of three classic red brick buildings that were three stories tall with a small basement floor underneath. On the outside, they looked like standard row houses built in the early 20th century. The façades had been meticulously maintained. There was even a small plaque near the door to 26 Jones Street. Ms. Maven turned to me, beaming a smile.

“Welcome to Tír na nÓg, darlin’.” Ms. Maven presented the building like I had won some kind of prize. She started ascending the stairs to #26. “All the buildings are connected as one, now. This first one is intake and temporary beds. Number 28, there, is more permanent rooms, the kitchen, and dining area. Number 30 on the end is community space for classes, meetings, and the like. The whole bottom area has been turned into a recreation space to do whatever strikes your fancy.”

Quietly, I followed behind her up the stairs. “Looks nice.”

She opened the door and stepped inside. Right away, it looked less like an office with trendy exposed brick and duct work and more like a cozy living room with a desk. “We’ll get you started with some proper clothes and some place private to change. After that, we’ll see about settling that grumbling stomach of yours.”

My eyes wandered the surroundings. Ms. Maven’s office was closer to the front of the building that seemed to extend back a bit more. Near the front door, there was a chill sitting space that was decorated by someone rather eccentric, taste wise. It felt like a “Boho Revival” kind of space.

“Wow… the 2000s called. They’d like their decor back.” slipped out before I could stop it.

Ms. Maven roughly grumbled. “Please, I don’t do copycats. Those are 1966 originals.”

I spun to meet her eyes again and recoiled. “Okay… sorry… I do that when I’m nervous.” I let out a sigh as if I was a walking pressure cooker. “I can’t help but feel like this is all some kind of Deus Ex Machina. I mean, I randomly met you on the C Train and here we are.”

She scoffed and gave me a smirk that only made what she said feel more cryptic, “The ‘work of God’, huh? Quaint. I meet people all the time, love. I find many of the kids that live here in the most random of spaces. I met one trying to camp in Christopher Park outside Stonewall just before the NYPD was about to ‘send them downtown’. I met one on the Staten Island Ferry while just trying to catch a glimpse at Lady Liberty. This eve, I met you on the subway. It may feel random, but who’s to say it wasn’t destined?” She took one look at her desk and slumped. “I don’t suppose you’re much in the mood for paperwork. Let’s get you settled.”

She beckoned me to follow her as she opened the door between the office area and the rest of the building. I did as requested and followed her through the oak divider. There was more nuance to the area. The decor was chaotic at best. With one look, anyone could tell a bunch of children lived here — that or one thirty-year-old incel. Ms. Maven darted into a side room that contained a multitude of plastic totes filled with clothing and began sifting through the contents. She glanced at me once or twice, then returned to the task at hand. Eventually, she had to resort to grabbing one of those reusable grocery bags and stuffing clothes inside. She grabbed a single pair of tennis shoes off some shelves with several pairs of shoes. Finally, she grabbed a package of underwear and three sports bras on a hanger. She exited the room and beckoned me to follow once more.

My eyes wandered as we started ascending the seemingly ancient staircase. I could hear juvenile giggles hush as we passed the second floor and continued to the third. There was a single hallway with four rooms. She led me to the one on the left side of the corridor at the front of the building. She unlocked the door and ushered me inside. Inside, it looked like a college dorm room at the start of the term. A single twin bed was pushed against the far wall. There was a bedside table with a small lamp next to it. Next to the door was a standard chest of drawers. Near the window facing the street was a nice desk. In the far corner was a wardrobe cabinet with two shelves on the wall. Ms. Maven set the clothes on the bed and fiddled with her keychain for a moment.

“This will be your space for as long as you need it.” She informed me, handing me a copper-colored key. “You’re welcome to lock it and enjoy some privacy.” She pointed to the clothes. “I picked out some things that might fit you. Try them on. Bring what doesn’t fit to me, please.”

Holding out my hand for her to deposit the key, my eyes were like those of a deer in the headlights as they took in the space. “Sure. Okay.”

“Chop-chop, young one. We’ve still got to sort out that empty stomach.”

She left me alone in the room and closed the door. Finally, some privacy.

Releasing my grip, the jeans I’d put on that morning fell to my ankles like they had done since earlier this afternoon. I stepped out of the shoes that didn’t fit anyway. My shoulders dropped and the hoodie slipped off. Moving over to the bed, I found the package of underwear and opened it. It was just a standard package of bikini briefs. A couple of the sports bras actually matched the colors. Curiosity took over and I glanced around the room. On the back of the door, I found a tall mirror.

Flipping the light switch next to the door, I was greeted to the full reflection of the girl I’d seen in my cellphone camera. As I stood back, so did she. She stood there in what looked like her older brother’s T-shirt and boxer shorts. Nervously, I played with the waistband of the oversized boxers and they easily fell off my hips. Grasping the hem, I lifted the T-shirt over my head and finally saw what was beneath all those layers. Initially, it felt like I was some weirdo looking at a teenager like a frequent visitor to Epstein Island. I turned my head quickly.

Taking a quick breath, I grabbed a pair of underwear and sports bra then slipped them on. The underwear settled onto my hips as if they were made for me. The bra took some doing. Wiggling around and nearly falling over twice, I got it secured in place and returned to the mirror. It didn’t feel as awkward to look upon the girl in the mirror, this time. Staring back at me was the visage of a young, ginger girl with freckles in all the places gingers usually had them. Her soft blue eyes conveyed a sense of wonder. Her fair skin almost seemed to glow in the low light. Her hair had a slight wave to it and reached down to the bottom of her scapula. Her build looked like someone’s who had been into dance or gymnastics much of their life.

Her face looked a lot like my mom’s. Staring back at me was the face and body I’d prayed for every night for as long as I could remember.

The amount of time I spent sitting on the bed crying is lost to me. All I knew is the city had finally been enveloped in the darkness of night.

When the tears dried, I searched through the clothes. There was quite a variety, even if I wasn’t sure it was my style. I grabbed a loose pair of pants with a drawstring and a standard V-neck T-shirt. Socks from the pile and the sole pair of tennis shoes went on my feet. I checked the mirror and nearly started crying again before my stomach growled. Grabbing a white hoodie with lavender lining, I slipped it on and exited the room. My benefactor hadn’t left the floor. She was waiting for me by the stairs.

“Much more comfortable?” She wondered.

I nodded meekly. “Yea. Thanks.”

“Somethin’ the matter, darlin’?”

“Not really. Just hungry.”

She didn’t press me on my lie. Thoughts swam in my head as she led me down the stairs to the first floor and through an archway into the next building. All the while, my mind made note of the differences between this morning and now. A lot had changed. I was considerably shorter. Fat stores had been moved to completely different locations. My center of gravity was completely different. My whole body seemed to move differently with each step. Clothes felt entirely different. None of these things were deal breakers, simply observations. My mind’s eye flashed back to the reflection in the mirror. Part of me was starting to entertain the idea that this was all a dream. I’d go to sleep soon and wake up in the cramped room with six housemates that don’t acknowledge my existence.

Ms. Maven sat me down at a table while she disappeared into the kitchen. The main dining area felt almost like an art deco school cafeteria. It had the columns and sconces and everything. The push-open double doors to the kitchen had circular windows. From where I was sitting, it appeared to have all the stainless steel and white walls of an industrial kitchen. The sound of plates being moved around, doors being opened then closed, utensils being gathered, and preparations made reached my ears. After a few minutes, she brought me a plate of spaghetti and meatballs that looked like it had been prepared in a restaurant. Next to the plate, she placed a cup filled with some kind of clear soda.

“Enjoy, love. Eat and make yourself at home. I’m fetchin’ you some bedding.” She instructed me.

One thing was bugging me. “Am I the only one here? Where is everybody?”

“They’re engaged in an enrichment program downstairs. You’ll meet everyone tomorrow, I suspect. For now, use the time to get yourself oriented.”

I grabbed the provided fork and smiled up at her. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, love.” She exited stage left and practically disappeared.

The silence while I ate was somewhat disturbing. It reminded me of the awkward silences between my dad and I when I was younger. Part of me wished I had remembered to grab my phone and earbuds so I could watch YouTube, listen to music, or have anything in my ears besides silence. The needs of my stomach overrode the thoughts in my head. The spaghetti didn’t have a chance. It was delicious and devoured. The soda helped everything go down smoothly. I placed the bowl, fork, and cup in a little window labeled “dirty dishes” before heading back upstairs.

My route brought me into the room I’d been assigned with a bundle of bedding sitting on the mattress. I bypassed all of it. Taking my phone and earbuds in hand, I remembered seeing another staircase up, even though I was on the top floor. My feet carried me up that stairwell and out onto the roof. My thumb whipped over the broken phone screen, found some music, and cued it up. Before long, punk/emo beats were assaulting my eardrums like it was 2006. Interestingly enough, the ledge was wide enough that I could sit on it. I scooted myself onto that ledge and sat staring at the city while listening to my music and hugging my knees.

I used to do the same thing as a kid: climb onto a roof I wasn’t supposed to be on and let the symphony of the city overtake me. Anybody who has been in the city for an extended period of time knows the place has this rhythm that can’t be described. It has to be felt. The flow of people. The flow of traffic. The emergency vehicles. The construction crews. The aircraft. The sights. The sounds. The vibration. It’s all part and parcel of the Big Apple. Tourists generally feel it as chaos. Not locals. It’s better than any symphony you’ll hear in Carnegie Hall or The Met.

For me, it was always a sense of grounding. Whenever things felt unreal or out of control, sitting and closing my eyes to feel the rhythm has allowed me to silence the things I didn’t need to focus on or think about. It’s given me the chance to think about what I needed to more times than I can count.

Something huge happened to me that day. The reflections in my phone screen and the mirror confirmed it. Questions about how exactly it was possible that I’d gone from a sad, thirty-three year old version of myself to a teenage female version of myself lingered in the periphery of my conscious mind. It was connected to the pulse or energy wave that passed through the planet earlier in the day. That much was obvious. The exact nature of it eluded me. There were other things that happened. I should have been taken in an ambulance to Woodhull after crashing hard on the subway stairs, but I didn’t fall. My grip had manipulated cast iron like it was warm aluminium. Add to that the senses going off and I had a puzzle on my hands.

Wait a minute. My eyes darted to my hands. I pulled the sleeves down to get a look at my wrists. That’s where I found the difference. There was a small impression just below the bones of my wrist and between the radius and ulna of my forearm. For all the world, it looked like the blowhole valve on a whale or dolphin. One hypothesis dominated my psyche. I extended my arm and formed my hand like I had seen in the movies.

Sure enough, that blowhole thing popped out of my wrist and some kind of spindly, white fiber shot out in front of me. Releasing my hand a little cut off the fiber and its momentum carried it forward. The little blowhole thing retracted into my skin once more. The trajectory of the line of what can only be described as organic silk got itself caught on a streetlamp across the street and dangled helplessly.

“Ho… ly… shit…” I vocalized in awe.