Webs We Weave



Chapter Seventeen

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: Happy Mother's Day 2026, everyone. All the best to you and yours.

There wasn’t a lot that came out of my mouth between the school and the shelter. Everybody but me wanted to talk about the Promposal. My mind was in complete chaos. There was the little voice that kept trying to convince me what I’d just done was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Another little voice was merely acknowledging that the thing actually did happen. Yet another was asking a hundred questions related to the idea of Prom. There was still one more voice squealing with glee over actually being asked to Prom well over a week before the event was set to occur. Altogether, they blended into noise inside my mind. I’m almost certain someone tried to talk to me but I absolutely did not have the bandwidth to respond.

Once back at the shelter, I went straight up to my room. Matcha, Peach, and Jefa already had their phones out and cued up the video they’d captured to show Maven. I could hear the echoes of it as I began the stair climb. Once inside, my backpack got plopped right into the chair next to the desk and my body got plopped haphazardly on the bed. After grabbing a pillow, the muffled screams into it ran through more emotions than the Infinity Saga.

The polite knock on my door did not reach my ears as my head was buried in the pillow. The door opening and softly closing again also escaped my notice. The pillow screaming ceased once the weight of another human joined me on the bed. My head lifted off the pillow just enough so that my ears could receive the sounds around me.

“Are you alright, then, love?” Maven softly questioned.

“Jury deliberations are ongoing.” I managed to articulate from the pillow.

She chuckled. “He seems like a lovely young man. The effort and theatricality were rather thought out and quite well planned. It must’ve taken him a fortnight to piece it all together.”

“Yes, he’s nice…” I began before rolling onto my side and curling up a little. “...for a boy half my age.”

Maven rolled her eyes. “Saoirse, we’ve discussed this.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not still messing me up.”

I could almost feel her head tilting to the side. “If you’ve such reservations, why did you not hesitate to accept the invitation of the young man?”

No part of me had any idea how to respond. For a long moment, I hesitated. Her eyes almost seemed to be boring into me. “I… don’t know. I got swept up in the moment, I guess.”

Her head turned toward the door as her eyes fixed on some point across the room. “You’ve no idea why you accepted… other than being in the moment.” There was a short pause as she got wrapped up in thought. “Given what you’ve informed me of about your past, I’ve a question: did you attend this event before? Back when you lived in Brooklyn?”

“No…” was my quick response, breathy and defeated in its delivery. Memories flooded into my mind of promposals, a decorated gymnasium, tuxes, dresses, corsages, boutonnieres, and ticket prices.

“Per chance, why not?”

I exhaled a heavy breath. “The reasoning is multifaceted. First, there weren’t a whole lot of prospects for the super nerdy white kid in a mostly black and Hispanic community. Second, I never had much confidence talking to girls. Third, I didn’t want to ask them to the dance. I wanted to be the one that got asked. Fourth, if I couldn’t get a date or go as myself, what was the point?”

Maven nodded slowly. “Adolescence can be confusing enough without all the extra weight. Do you recall me telling you that perhaps this might be the forces of the universe telling you that you’ve been awarded a second chance?”

“Vaguely.”

“Whether you admit it or not, you’re treating it as such.” She turned to me with a warm smile. “Today, a boy asked a girl to the Prom in a most effortlessly sweet manner… and she said ‘Yes’. You’ve committed yourself to a rite of passage. Go with it. If nothing else, perhaps you will enjoy yourself.”

Man, I hated it when she was right. “I feel like I need to hit something.” My mind was stabbed by an idea. “Maven… ?”

She waved me off. “If you’re going to request that I take you shopping for a dress, you know the answer is ‘yes’. Though, before you ask that, perhaps consult the other girls and see if they plan to attend as well. It could be a bonding experience.”

“I actually wasn’t, but that’s all good to know. I was going to ask if you remember much of your combat training.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked rapidly. “What the devil for?”

Lifting my body into a sitting position, I let out a weighted breath. “It’s another part of what Aegis had suggested: combat training. More often than not, I’m running into situations where I have to fight. I don’t really have the first clue what I’m doing. Not knowing the limits of my strength, I could seriously hurt someone and not mean to. You said you were a warrior and leader of your people way back when. It’s been quite a long time since then, so I was just wondering if you’ve forgotten all that or not.”

She narrowed her eyes on me and the Transatlantic faded from her voice. “The warriors of Éire never forget. If ye be askin’ how the clans were after wagin’ battle, are ye aware of what ye ask?”

That sent a jolt of electricity through me. My eyes widened and I blinked several times. “Whoa! I mean, less with the swords, shields, blood, guts, and gore, but… yea, kinda. Something more 2025 and less 1025, maybe?”

“Ye may be correct, but the art o’ killin’ ain’t changed in all the centuries I been breathin’.”

My brows furrowed almost instinctively. “What the f… who said anything about killing anyone?! No, just how to fight! I don’t wanna kill anyone! Geezus!” In that moment, I think I discovered what it was actually like to sweat bullets.

She smirked at me. The woman was a menace. She tapped my knee and chuckled, her more recent accent returning. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love. To be frank, the difference between a bout of fisticuffs between two people and two armies charging at one another in a field is merely context. Battle is battle. It’s a dance of offense and defense. What sort of adversaries do you suspect you’ll encounter? If they’re using a knife or, heaven forbid, a firearm, then they’ve escalated to deadly force. You must reckon with that, Saoirse.”

My body was half frozen. “There's a whole iceberg under there that maybe I don't wanna know anything about.” A breath of relief came out quickly. “I’ve already faced someone who had a machete. I shot a web line at it, it attached, and I yanked it out of his hand. I missed a second knife, though. He did cut me, but it healed.”

“Next time, you may not be so lucky.” The warmth faded from her face. There was worry in her eyes.

I nodded softly. “I know. That’s why I asked if you could teach me. I’m stumbling into these fights in an effort to protect people, but even Aegis knew I didn’t know what I was doing just by looking at me. I do need the help.”

Maven nodded firmly. “You do. Luck is a fickle mistress, Saoirse. She’ll dance with you one night beneath the full moon splendor, then leave you for dead in the East River the next.” She seemed to relax a bit. “You’ve got your silk, but you’re treating it as if it were a common parlour trick. Perhaps you may be able to pull a blade from the hand of a common street thug. What happens when a true cathaí—a true fighter—appears? They’ll hold firm.”

She stood, shaking her head. “If your plan is to put yourself twixt the wolves and the sheep, then you must become the thing the wolves are afraid of. You’ve no desire to kill and shan’t have need of it, should you master ‘the dance’. If you merely bumble your way through the steps, someone with enough skill will lead you directly off a cliff. I suspect your silk can do more than simply play ‘fetch’. You lack the discipline to command your body to do the things what need doing. At first light, meet me on the roof and I shall be the dance instructor whose only fee is your cooperation.”

Still in a bit of shock, I blinked several times. “Sure… first thing tomorrow… sparring practice. Got it. We’re still on for weaving the suit, too, right?”

Maven smiled. “Aye, lass. Do your homework and get some rest. There may be no academic school tomorrow in observance of the end of Ramadan, but school with me will be in session. You’ll need all the rest you can obtain.” Her smirk as she turned to leave was a little haunting.

My eyes followed her out the door and remained on the door for a few moments afterward. There are times that woman genuinely frightened me. It took me a few moments to recollect myself before I began my Regents study session. The first of those standardized tests was still a week away, but I had a whole year of instruction to review versus having the whole year to prepare for it. The rest of the evening was filled with studying, dinner, and then I turned in for sleep.

The next morning began with the sensation of being washed away in a flood. That flood happened to be the blankets on the bed with me. My body landed on the floor with a pronounced “thunk” sound. I was immediately awake and trying to figure out what the heck had just happened. The figure standing over me wore durable leather boots, some tight trousers that almost looked like leggings, a long-sleeved tunic with thumb holes, and a durable vest. Her hair was styled in several braids. Until I saw the face, you couldn’t convince me that it was Maven standing over me. That haunting smirk was on her face.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, lass. Get dressed. 'Tis first light. We’ve work to do.” Maven commanded in an almost playful Irish accent.

I rubbed sleep from my eyes. “I don’t suppose asking for five more minutes is going to work?”

“You’re hilarious. Move it.”

She didn’t leave the room as I moved to get dressed. She didn’t keep her eyes on me while I disrobed, but she didn’t leave the room either. I threw on a tank top and pair of leggings before turning to her. She nodded and led me up to the roof. Once there, she took it upon herself to start putting braids in my hair as well.

“One thing we learned from the north men invaders: braiding the hair in combat proved very practical,” Maven began her instruction.

“I… never learned to braid.” I admitted with a twinge of pain in my voice.

“I’ll teach you more about being a warrior than the act of combat, then.”

It might have taken a few minutes, but she was incredibly efficient when braiding my hair. Before I knew it, she was finished and stood a few feet in front of me. She held up her arm, stiff and straight, and curled her fingers in a “c’mere” waving gesture. She might have told me that she hadn’t seen a movie since the 1970s, but it looked in that moment that she’d seen The Matrix at least once. Not needing to be asked twice, I went for it.

It was very much unclear how I ended up on my back about ten feet away from her within seconds, but reality nonetheless. It was the first of countless failures. That’s not to say that Maven was utilizing kung fu against me, which would be ironically hilarious, but I would learn that I telegraphed like a giant billboard. She kept inviting me to strike, I would go for it, and I’d be rewarded with more dirt from the roof on my back. Time and time again, she would best me before I’d get too close. I was very thankful for the fact I could heal very efficiently. Otherwise, the teachers would probably have to report all the bruises on my body the next day.

I thought I was fast. I really did. Maven was, as usual, completely correct. Against a run-of-the-mill street thug, I was practically a god. Against someone that actually knew how to fight, the tables were turned. I was flopping around, helpless as a baby. She was using a variety of move sets that moved almost flawlessly from boxing to wrestling to kicking. They were all moves I’d never seen before. Before I knew it, more than an hour had passed and I’d still not gotten past her defenses. I was on the ground again, questioning all my life choices.

“I’ll grant you the mercy of a moment to catch your breath, love.” She announced before taking a seat on one of the HVAC pipes.

“Oh, the mercy of a moment?” I balked. “No mercy for, what, an hour? At least I get a moment.”

Her voice flattened. “Be thankful I left my shillelah downstairs, love. Being on the receiving end of some bataireacht might humble you a bit.”

“What the heck is that?”

“Stick fighting. The bastard English banned the people of Ireland from having weapons for over three hundred years before the famine. We made do with what we had: sticks. Lots of ‘em. You’ve not felt pain ‘til you’ve felt the bite of blackthorn.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

When the moment of rest was over, she switched it up on me. She started to actually teach me what to do instead of drilling it into my head that I had no idea what I was doing. Almost immediately, my mind started making the connection to dance. Each step and each move was a coordinated positioning of the body meant for a specific purpose. In dance, that was trying to artistically convey a message with your body. In combat, it was to harm your opponent as quickly and painfully as possible while keeping yourself from suffering the same fate.

She called boxing “dornálaíocht”. She called wrestling “coraíocht”. She called kicking “speachóireacht”. There was zero chance I was going to remember those names, let alone spell them at all. Some of the moves were familiar. Others weren’t. Blend them all together and it was almost its own style of martial arts, developed by oppressed peasants over hundreds of years. Much of the day was spent learning the moves and having slow-motion, choreographed “fights” with one another. It was readily apparent that it was going to take a while to learn from her. Like almost everything else, it felt like I might be in over my head.

By late afternoon, the bruises from the early morning beat down had healed and vanished. Maven was a bit more collected because I wasn’t messing up every little thing. I was starting to understand what she was teaching me. There was no way I was going to be all that effective against Maven or any other experienced fighter any time soon, but I was learning. She finally smiled and tapped my shoulder.

“That will be enough for today, Saoirse.” Maven began with a smile. “When we began this morning, you were wild and untamed. Your strength is such that I’ve not seen since I last saw Ogma. Your speed would make Caílte mac Rónáin jealous. And your agility? You’ve the light step of a Sidhe-queen dancing on the morning dew. The trouble is, Saoirse, a Sidhe-queen knows why she dances. You? You’re just a frantic cricket jumping because the grass is on fire. You have the foresight of the Morrígan, but the discipline of a startled yearling. Raw power is a gift; poise is an achievement. And right now, you’re still just a clumsy girl with a god’s reflexes.”

My entire body recoiled as she spoke. “Good god, Maven, tell me how you really feel, huh?” I rolled my eyes, feeling like she was tearing me down verbally just as she tore me down physically that very morning.

“You’ve potential, Saoirse. Real potential to be one of the most spoke of people in the world. You won’t be successful until you achieve Samildánach. Your mind, body, and soul must all be equally mastered. Right now, they are bickering warlords fighting over whose daughter should carry the highest bride-price. In time, you will learn to have them laughing together over a pint of Guiness. I will show you the way because I believe in you. I ask that you never forget that.”

My body released a heavy sigh. “You just had to mention the Guiness, didn’t you.”

Maven giggled. “I saw you salivating for it on Monday. Poor wee lamb.” She shook her head, still giggling. “Go get something to eat and do your studies. A shower wouldn’t kill you, either. We’ll continue tomorrow after school.”

I wanted to punch her, but she’d probably lay me out again. Instead, I gave her a nod and made my way toward the door into the building. Back inside, the first thing I did was take a shower and change clothes. I may not have gotten fatigued like I used to, but I’d still spent all day sweating. One quick change into sweats later, I had dinner with a couple of the others. There wasn’t really talk about Prom from them, so I let that thread hang in the air. After eating, I went back up to my room.

After one look at the pair of textbooks I’d brought home, I didn’t feel like studying anymore. Instead, I looked at a fashion design website I’d found. It was one of those that certain people would take a bit too seriously and dream of their stuff getting on the runway at Fashion Week. It had a learning curve, but I was figuring it out by the time the street lights came on. It was helping to have some kind of computerized aid because I couldn’t draw to save my life. By the time I was ready to head to bed, I had something that almost looked like a body-contouring flight suit with a hood, gloves, and boots. The finer details would have to wait because I was nodding off in front of the computer.

Donning my usual tanktop and panties, I crawled under the covers and fell asleep fairly quickly. Visions of swinging through midtown danced in my dreams.

The next morning, school was back in session. Two days off in a single week had messed up the schedule a bit. I ran a brush through my hair and secured a bun atop the crown of my head. The next step was to douse it in product so it stayed in place. Cotton underwear and a sports bra were next. Then, I climbed into my tights and leotard. It was A-Day. Dance class.

After slipping into the warmups, grabbing my dance bag, and throwing tennis shoes on my feet, I was out the door fairly quickly. That particular class had come with a steep learning curve and I’d discovered it was a bad idea to have breakfast before learning or executing any pirouettes. My technique was still progressing, so it was still making me dizzy. The other shelter kids joined me on the way to school, as was our routine. They knew not to throw any jokes at me on dance days. I was already full of anxiety and completely on edge.

Arriving at school, it was the same routine as always: tap ID at the door, enter, get scanned by security, then move on to class. I waved to the other shelter kids as I disappeared in the corridor amongst the sea of teenagers. The fact that I was shorter than most of the guys and only about a third of the girls was still something that disoriented me. The long climb up to the sixth floor would have been physically arduous a month ago. At that point, the anxiety of sharing a classroom with the perfectionist monster in the shape of Evelyn Thompson is what made the trip mentally arduous. My insane endurance made it physically more like a slow stroll in a park.

When I finally entered the ready room, more than half the class was already inside. I quickly took a seat on the bench along the wall. The tennis shoes came off and jazz shoes went on. Shoes and warmups went into the bag. Across the room, Madame Queen Bee was chatting with a couple of her friends like they were the only people in the room.

“Can you believe it?” Evelyn almost shrieked as she practically threw her bag onto a spot on the bench. “Mark Watson already has a date to Prom! It’s all over YikYak!”

Her closest confidante, Lexi, rolled her eyes. “Girl, I know. It’s on Tea, too. Nobody knows who and he’s not talking.”

Evelyn started angrily pulling off her warmups. “Everybody knows I’ve been trying to get with him since last year! I’ve been making moves for months! Is that boy blind?!”

Jessica, her other confidante, rolled her eyes. “You know those drama club boys: head in the clouds like they never jump out of that Fortnite bus.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes in return. “Oh, c’mon, he’s not gay, you guys!” She nearly snarled when she plopped down to take off the warmup pants. “Every girl in this school knows to steer clear of him! When I find out who…”

It’s that moment I chose to stand. Evelyn had been a thorn in my side since I arrived. She always thought she could manipulate people and get her way, no matter what. The fact that she was already thinking like she owned access to another person absolutely set me off. My sudden change of stature didn’t even register to most people in the room. My eyes fixed on Evelyn.

“It was me.” I forced out in what seemed to be a hushed tone.

Evelyn felt my eyes on her. Her eyes met mine. She didn’t bother standing. “What’d you say to me, ginger piss?”

Suddenly, my diaphragm decided to cooperate and my voice grew louder. “It was me! Mark asked me to Prom!” Surprise registered on the three faces before me. “And I said yes!”

I spun on a heel and headed into the class space to begin my warm-up exercises.