Webs We Weave



Chapter One

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.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ7_UnqtYmw ))

The chain slipped and nearly took my foot with it. Under most circumstances, you can get about two thousand miles out of a single bike chain. Most people don’t ever go that far. They usually ride on the weekends, to the park with the kids, or on something with no chain at all in a gym. You can’t really break the hardened steel, so that isn’t the problem. You’ll bend the gear sprockets before you ever break a chain. It’s the torsion on the whole link system that causes stretching and eventually results in the thing simply falling apart. I was going on about three thousand and five hundred miles on this chain. It had seen better days. The old, cheap Trek wasn’t a fan of the hills any more and struggled on Atlantic most days.

At least the weather was nice — mid-70s and sunny by the afternoon. It rained over the weekend, though. As bad as she was handling, she did worse in the rain. I’ve done everything I can to keep her maintained, but things just break after a while. No engineer had figured out how to make it stop and I didn’t think I'd throw my hand in any time soon.

My phone dinged a notification. Falafel from a nearby spot for Tariq down near the waterfront. Four and a half more miles added to the wear on the chain. My phone sat in one of those plastic cradle things that hook onto the bike itself. The screen was shattered in a way that would suggest a garbage truck ran over it, but I dropped it on a manhole cover about eight months back. At least it still detected my finger moving over it.

Most everything I own was held together with duct tape, bailing twine, and chewed gum. It’s amazing anything works. The back tire alone has been patched so many times it qualifies for disability. The brakes scream for mercy every time I pull the handles. The hubs rattle like they’ve got a couple bearings loose and really wanna check into a home. It takes money to keep things in a certain state of repair. Most days, I can barely afford to pay attention.

Picking up the order, I signaled that I was on my way through the app. Riding toward the river, the Manhattan skyline slowly crept over the horizon. Once upon a time, that used to mean possibilities. I’d look out of my window of the apartment in Crown Heights, see the city lights off in the distance like some kind of dream. Never saw any of the bridges from there, even on the tenth floor. The best I ever got was glimpses of the Empire State Building like some kind of ghost of glass on the other side of the East River before my dad yelled at me to turn the light off and go to bed. A kid from my side of Brooklyn wouldn’t even miss the Twin Towers that got hit when I was ten because we never saw them anyway. A lot had changed since I was a kid. The towers were long gone, the skyline changed, and the facades in my neighborhood were falling apart. The dream was gone, but — for some reason — I still peddled as hard as I could to chase after it.

Back then, I really thought I was gonna make something of myself. I got really good grades in school. Managed a scholarship to one of the most prestigious colleges in the country that only covered one year. Loans picked up the rest. I’ll be in debt the rest of my life. As an engineer, I thought I had nothing to worry about. Before 2008, I’d have been mostly right. For MIT Class of 2014? Every entry level wanted five years of experience and didn’t offer any health insurance. I had to get loans after the first year, so – like anybody else – I was starting off on the wrong foot from Day 1. Nobody cares about Magna Cum Laude, anymore. I was broke as fuck but I can tell you how to fit a square peg into a round hole all day long.

Tariq was very thankful for his falafel. One more delivery down.

That was the routine of the day: get a notification, approve or deny the delivery, pick up the order, bolt through Brooklyn traffic, make the delivery, and move on. Let’s be real: I was definitely accepting every delivery because I couldn’t afford not to. Most of the time, the food was dropped off in front of doors and nobody greeted me face-to-face. Remnant of the pandemic, I guess, but made me feel even more like just another cog in the machine of the city. At least it pays the bills.

When I’m not delivering for a sadistic app developed by the clinical definition of a psychopath, I fix other people’s bicycles and have been known to tinker with HVAC systems. A lot of the fixes have been some of these new e-bikes being brought in by people with far too much money and far too little sense. They’re the ones moving into places like Greenpoint and Dumbo. Here I was, limping along with a bike I paid $400 for about twelve years ago and these people were rolling in with $6,000 batteries on wheels. I made a decent amount of money off them just for spraying some WD-40 on a chain or adjusting brake lines. Really challenging stuff that justified my degree from MIT.

I grabbed a good sandwich at the local deli. Pastrami on rye, obviously. I ain’t Jewish by any means, but I’m a New Yorker to the core. We’d eat that for every meal if bagels and pizza didn’t also exist. Hot dogs are for ball games and I’ve never lived in the Bronx. Being this far to the west, I just found a quiet spot on one of the Brooklyn Bridge Park piers. To the north, I could barely make out the bridge itself. To the south, I could feast my eyes on Governor’s Island and the Port of Brooklyn. Sitting on a bench on Pier 5, though, I got the best view of lower Manhattan I could afford. Its towers of concrete, steel, and glass glistened in the midday sun. The screech of seagulls, horns from the ferries, construction noise, and the occasional siren from emergency vehicles formed the soundtrack. One should never actually smell the East River.

With a sigh, it was time to get back to work. When all you do is gig work, you do get to choose your own hours but the apps do penalize you if you’re on “break” for too long. I would kill for a regular delivery job instead of having to rely on Postmates, Doordash, GrubHub, or Uber Eats to pay the bills, but welcome to the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-five. At the very least, I wasn’t totally at the whim of these apps. The minimum wage for these things hit almost $20 an hour this month. I may actually be able to pay more than my share of the rent next month. Ramen noodles were getting really old.

Spending this much time alone, I passed the time talking to myself. I know what you’re gonna say: “Dude, that’s a sign you’re losin’ it.” You’re right, mostly. I wasn’t technically talking to myself when I did this. I was more so making comments to people who can’t hear me. Cabbie cut me off? He got a quip about just getting his medal or something about his glasses. Pretty girl on the sidewalk? Did my best attempt at a pickup line in some tough guy city accent when I was out of earshot. Horse cop? Oh, that’s a Mister Ed reference waiting to happen. Random things that amused me and made the day suck a little less.

Eh, who am I kidding? I’ve never tried to lower my voice or really leaned hard into my Brooklyn accent to impress/harass a girl. Growing up was awkward because I always wanted to be her rather than date or harass her. Nothing’s changed over the years. I’ve had to bury it deep, though. It’s never been acceptable for a guy in my world to actually wanna be a chick. I’ve battled it my whole life.

A little over an hour after lunch, the weirdest thing happened. I’d just dropped off a bagel and schmear to some guy at a laundry mat. The door he wanted it at was in the alley. That’s not weird. Pretty common actually. What was weird was afterward when I tapped the app to confirm delivery. My phone was acting up. The screen went all weird before the thing just turned off. In the next second, I blacked out and fell over.

There’s no way to know how long I was out. Nobody cares about some dude unconscious in an alleyway. It’s New York. This kind of stuff happens more often than people would really ever admit. I’m just glad that when I finally did come back to the waking world that none of my stuff was missing. I still had my phone, bike, backpack, wallet, and everything else. Slowly coming back to consciousness, I immediately knew I had a headache. Probably caused by falling over so unceremoniously onto my back. The next thing I noticed were the sirens.

Let’s be clear: sirens are not rare in New York City. They’re part of the symphony of the boroughs. So many sirens seemingly coming from all directions was the weird part. My eyes darted up and down the alley. I was still alone. Curious, I pedalled my way to the street on the south end of the alley to survey the surroundings. Traffic lights were acting up. People were stopped in the middle of the road and getting rammed by older vehicles.

A tingle went up my spine and wrapped around my head. It’s like that feeling you get when you’re watching a movie and you just know something is about to happen but amplified a hundred times over. I swear I could even feel the hair on my arms stand on end. My head spun and my eyes darted as a Buick Skylark about as old as me came down the street and smacked into a stationary Toyota Rav 4 without even trying to stop. The collision, thankfully, wasn’t catastrophic but it was bad enough to take a chunk out of the Rav 4. Like anybody else, I did flinch when the two vehicles collided. The drivers of both vehicles jumped out and started a shouting match while the woman in the passenger seat of the Rav 4 called the police. The tingling feeling came again and my head automatically snapped to my left. A second later, a uniformed cop in the typical NYPD blue rushed out of the nearby bodega and started responding to the scene.

Excusing myself from the scene, the headache became my top concern. How hard had I hit my head? Should I get checked out? A lot of questions floated around in my brain. Deciding to walk my bike for a few minutes, I couldn’t help but notice that tingling sensation would overcome my senses just before something would happen. Somebody picked up a brick and smashed in a storefront window. Another car almost hit a stationary vehicle, but managed to veer off just in time. A potted plant nearly domed me on the sidewalk. Quite frankly, it was getting weird. It was almost like a subtle clairvoyance.

Hang back a beat. Now, I’ve always been pretty nerdy and awkward. It’s practically my entire personality. Psychologists would probably say that it’s connected to my dissociation with my peer group because I’ve never truly felt like I belonged. People tend to gravitate toward niche hobbies when they’re more intelligent and maybe don’t like a lot of people all that much. People are fine, but too many in a room and it gets uncomfortable. I’ve never been big on crowds, which is pretty weird coming from a kid who grew up in a crowded borough. Collectible card games, video games, the eponymous Dungeons & Dragons, and comic books were what I gravitated toward. The various characters became my friend group. Sad existence? Maybe a little, but it was safe for me.

That being said, I’m a little more in tune with weird concepts even if I couldn’t quite explain them in the moment. Struck with a dash of curiosity, the decision to test my hypothesis wasn’t a difficult one. With a couple of taps on my phone, I shut down my work day. No more delivery apps for today. Though, given the EMP we’d all witnessed, there was no guarantee any of them would work anyway. The five boroughs of New York City have alleyways everywhere – a testament to the city planning that existed before automobiles. Bike in hand, I excused myself to one of those said alleyways. I made sure to travel about halfway down the block to lessen the chance of interaction with another human being.

Between buildings in the waterfront area of Brooklyn, the situation wasn’t totally like it would be in Manhattan. Row houses and brownstones lined the streets and the backs were three to six stories of windows and fire escapes. The alley itself was crude asphalt designed to drain any moisture to the center where it could enter drains. Most of the smells were associated with dumpsters and a slight scent of urine from men peeing on the walls rather than finding a restroom after getting sloshed at one of the local bars. Back here, it was just me and the rats. I only knew about the six or seven individual rodents because that tingling feeling came to me as I was placing my bike against the back wall of a brownstone. Across from me in a dumpster were the culprits. I knew they were there before I tried approaching to confirm. Sure enough, as soon as I lifted the lid twelve beady little eyes met mine while the last set was too busy digging for lunch. I half expected at least one of them to leap out at me but they were too busy with putting food in their mouths to bother with the curious human. Strange, though…

I’m aware of precognition as a concept. Knowing things before they happen is a common trope in fiction media. Typically, it’s dreams and “deja vu” type of stuff. Knowing a tactical situation before entering into it? That is a very specific skill set not known to occur in the natural world. There are a few people capable of such things: Peter Parker, Cindy Moon, Jessica Drew, Julia Carpenter, Cassandra Cain, Anthony Masters, Lucas Trent, Slade Wilson, Neena Thurman, and Andrew Maguire. Honestly, only real nerds even know half of those names. The kicker: they’re all comic book characters and an even mix between Marvel and DC. Remember when I said that this was all fiction? A person in our world shouldn’t know or have the senses I just tested moments ago. The tingling flickered again, sharper this time, like the world was holding its breath.

Pain that can only be described as a heated knife stabbing through my abdomen. I clenched my arms over my gut and collapsed onto the hard, dry asphalt of the alleyway. At the same time, my headache came to an intense crescendo and my ears started ringing. My voice squeezed out sounds of pain. I didn’t know what to do except to try to crawl back over to my bike where my phone was still in the holder clamped to the handlebars. I only made it a few feet before I just froze in place.

My body slowly began to feel like it was on fire. All the while, there was this overwhelming sense of compression all around me as if there was a high barometric pressure phenomenon focused entirely on some poor thirty-something in Brooklyn, New York. Supporting myself on all fours, I grunted and whimpered as I battled the pain that erupted all over my body. Mercifully, the pain soon subsided but the feeling of heat lingered and a new tingling took over. Like when your foot goes to sleep, I could almost feel the blood pumping to my skin and nerve endings firing all over my body.

The first thing that became apparent was that I was somehow shrinking. All over my body, clothing shifted around as if it were growing loose on its own. I watched the sleeves of my gray hoodie pool at my wrists as my hands themselves seemed to shrink before my very eyes. Over the course of moments, I could feel my shoes and jeans start to loosen enough that they threatened to fall off. Being so close to the ground, vertigo wasn’t really a thing. That much was a relief. All over my body but predominantly in my shoulders and ribs, there were little popping sounds like someone cracking their knuckles a couple dozen times in succession.

The next thing I felt was skeletal. I couldn’t accurately describe it in that moment. Shoulders cinched inward. Scapulae realigned. Vertebrae recalibrated. Ribs adapted. Hands and feet rearranged. Long bones like upper arms and femurs collapsed. Skull compressed. Pelvis expanded? All of this was occurring just under my skin and my clothing responded accordingly. It became more loose in some areas and slightly more tight in others. Oddly enough, none of it was painful.

Finally, the soft tissues. A myriad of sensations erupted all over my body. A pair of somethings eventually came in contact with the fabric of my shirt. My scalp itched like crazy for a few moments. My grunts and groans steadily climbed in pitch until the voice coming out of me was utterly unrecognizable. Eventually, my shoes gave way and fell off my feet. So did my jeans, except they slid off my hips and pooled at my knees.

Almost as soon as they began, all the sensations faded away. No more headache. No more feeling of heat all over my body. The ground only appeared to be a little closer than it did moments ago. For a few moments, I stayed in that all-fours state letting myself simply breathe. Mentally, I took a tally of what could have happened in the last few moments. Long strands of dark ginger hair began to tumble into my vision. My shirt felt like a drafty tent. My pants had fallen off my hips and pooled around my knees. My shoes had fallen off. At the ends of sleeves that pooled at the wrists, two hands that were practically tiny compared to what they had been a short time before were just there for some reason.

Using these practically dainty little hands to assist, I sat back with my butt on my feet. The way my clothes shifted on my body was a very foreign sensation. Ignoring that, I looked at my hands in disbelief. The texture of my skin had changed, my fingers were long and narrow but also shorter, and my nails were oddly shaped. I turned my hands around a few times, alternating between looking at the backs of them and the palms. Moving on from there, my eyes slowly traveled down my arms, observing how much more fabric there was to my hoodie versus how much body it had to cover underneath. Observing how the hoodie threatened to slip off my shoulders, it opened up to the T-shirt underneath. My heart nearly stopped when my eyes fell on my chest and froze there. Slowly, one hand moved and a single finger extended. That finger grasped the neck of the shirt and pulled outward to reveal what was pushing the fabric outward.

Breasts.

My finger quickly released the neck of the shirt and it settled back into place. My eyes darted forward and my gaze fell on the brick wall before me. My heartbeat quickened and my breathing became shallow. As if moving autonomously, my hand slowly moved toward the waistband of my boxers and kept sliding down my body underneath the fabric. The texture of my skin was overall softer and smoother but that’s not what I was feeling for. Eventually, my hand arrived at the target: my crotch. It did not find the male anatomy I had dealt with for thirty-three years. My hand found all the things anyone with a decent grasp of biology would understand to be components of a vulva. In other words: female anatomy.

My hand cupped my vulva and tears began to fall down my cheeks. They were happy tears. For more than eleven thousand nights, I had wished on stars and prayed to whatever deity might be listening to be stripped of the male anatomy I’d been given and bestowed the female anatomy my hand was now cupping. It seemed as if all those prayers had been answered and the wishes had been granted simultaneously. For a moment, my scientific mind pondered the impossibility of such an occurrence but could not ignore the empirical evidence in my hands — one in my crotch, the other on my chest.

Without even thinking, my reaction rolled off my tongue. “Face it, Tiger… You’ve just hit the jackpot.”

The voice that resonated out of my mouth was most certainly not the one I was used to. The vibration frequency was higher, the resonance seemed to have moved to a different place, and what came out was like a well-tuned musical instrument. Though, it sounded younger than I might have anticipated. That threw me. All of a sudden, I felt an intense desire to locate a reflective surface of some variety.

Removing my hands from body parts, I scanned my surroundings once again. On one side of me, there was the brick wall that formed the rear of a row house where I leaned my bike. On the other side, another brick wall with a dumpster against it. Though it had rained recently, there was no little river in the middle of the alley. The pavement was damp, but that was it. There were no windows within reach. Finally, my eyes landed on the phone in its cradle clipped to the handlebars of my bike. Even with its cracked screen, I could still use the phone’s camera to get a look at myself.

Scrambling to my feet to act on my idea proved to be a terrible plan. I almost headbutted the pavement by tripping over the loose jeans and shoes. I corrected my balance much quicker than I thought I should have been able to. There was no time to dwell on that. I shuffled my feet inside the clown shoes that fit my feet moments ago and pulled my far too loose jeans up to my waist, holding them in place. When I got to the bike and grabbed my phone, I let go of the jeans and they fell into a puddle of denim at my ankles. I didn’t dwell on my change of stature or center of gravity, either. I picked up the phone and unlocked it with my code. It wouldn’t recognize my face or my fingerprint, for some reason. Quickly navigating to the camera app, it opened and I switched to the ‘selfie camera’.

My jaw nearly dropped when I saw the visage in the phone’s camera. Even in its slightly distorted close-up glory, the image being streamed to me through the camera was something I’d been dreaming about for years.

The overall structure of the skull caught my attention first. Gone were the elongated and angular features of my skull. In their place was a smaller, softer, rounder, and more compact structure – the kind orthopedists and anthropologists liked to point at when talking about sexual dimorphism.

Next, the eyes drew my attention. They were the same color of jade, but they seemed larger, rounder, and less world-weary. There was a certain luminescence to the white parts that brought more life to the irises than I usually observed. It seemed as if the eyes themselves didn’t know they were supposed to be tired. They were framed by generous curtains of lashes I’d never had or may not have noticed I had. Just above them, I immediately noticed my eyebrows that — without being cultivated in any way — seemed much thinner and curved with a gentle arch like they never had before.

Over the years, I had watched my natural freckles fade a bit. Ever since I was little, there had always been a generous dusting on my nose and across my upper cheeks. A time or two when my hair grew too long for my father’s liking, my mother put braids in my hair and extended them outward. Suddenly, I was a dead-ringer for Pippy Longstocking. At least, that’s what Mom had said. In the phone screen, they were back to their former glory as somewhat prominent features and reminded me of those bygone days.

My cheeks were fuller than they had ever been. They seemed to have plumped up considerably and crept their way higher on my face. There was a distinct “apple” to the cheeks that I’d not seen on my face since before puberty ravaged my form. My jaw was also far less prominent than before. The sides seemed to almost disappear near my ears and there was the slightest point to my chin.

There wasn’t even a single hint of facial hair growth. Anybody who has had to shave their face can attest that even after shaving there is the slightest evidence of a stump of hair in the follicle, causing the darker tint to the skin where it grows. I had actually foregone shaving that morning, so there should be stubble but there wasn’t. On prepubescent children and a majority of women, there is only a thin layer of ‘peach fuzz’. The face in the phone screen had that. The skin itself had a youthful sheen and glow. Not a single year was etched on its surface.

The lips were the final facial feature to catch my attention. They were fuller and more plump with a shape to them that had been described to me as a ‘cupid’s bow’. They didn’t look as if they’d been enhanced in any way with any sort of chemical filler. It was a fullness and plump one usually sees on young faces.

The hair caught my attention last. It was longer than I’d ever worn my hair and framed my face in gentle, loose waves. Its color ranged from chestnut at the roots before evolving into a glistening copper at the ends. My hair always had this tendency to shine and sparkle when the sun hit it. After turning slightly to let the sun really catch the hair in the phone screen, it turned the luminescence up to eleven.

The girl looking back at me from my phone screen looked like some of the younger photos of my mother I’d seen once or twice. There was enough variation to echo my own face — at least the one I had five minutes ago. Testing a hypothesis, I tilted my head to the right and to the left. The girl in the phone screen mirrored my movements.

There was no denying that this was my reflection now… and I couldn’t be more elated. A little happy squeak escaped my lips that punctuated the whole experience.

Placing my phone back in the cradle on the handlebars, I started to realize another issue: there’s no way I was going to continue deliveries today. My shoes were significantly larger than my new feet. My jeans were literally falling off my hips and my boxers were making credible threats to follow suit. My shirt was comically large and on the verge of identifying as a dress. My hoodie was looking like my own little sister had stolen it. On top of all that absurdity, I wasn’t sure I could effectively ride my bike or wear the insulated backpack I needed for my deliveries.

Pondering for a moment, I deduced that I’d need to get back to my place to further make sense of things. Pulling my jeans back up to my hips, I tried swinging my leg over the bike and sitting on the seat. Using the wall for stability, it was quickly apparent I’d lost height and my legs had shortened because I couldn’t reach the pedals or the ground. Hopping off the bike once more, my jeans once again fell off and pooled at my ankles. The joke was getting old. It was easy to lower the seat. With trial and error, I could finally get it to a point where my feet could reach the pedals. After that, I slipped on the backpack and tightened it down on my shoulders.

Awkwardly, I wrestled with my jeans and shoes staying on as I mounted the bike and got my feet on the pedals. I pushed off the wall and wobbled like a Parkinson’s patient down the alleyway. With pants and shoes threatening to fall off, peddling with the balls of my feet, wrestling with a completely different center of gravity, and incredibly distracted by an uncomfortable seat, it’s a miracle I was able to leave the alley and still be upright on the bicycle.

It took a long time to get back to the row house I shared with too many people in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

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.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdSoooAjXec ))

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.

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.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcRcLE4PjLk ))

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.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Four

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: Another terrible week. Hope this brings everybody some solace.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIl_VaWGyGE ))

When I awoke the next morning, the city was alive with noise but not much was actually emanating from inside the building. The sun was already high in the sky and heat radiated off the window panes. Throwing off the comforter revealed a tank top and a pair of panties covering a still unfamiliar but not unwelcome body. It was readily apparent that the previous day hadn’t been a dream after all.

The first order of business was to sneak to the bathroom. That had only been the third time I’d actually had to use the bathroom since the whole change happened and I was slowly learning why having toilet paper is non-negotiable in a house with people who have female anatomy. Not a hard lesson, just an understanding of reality. Heading back to the room that had been assigned to me, I dove back into the bag of clothes Ms. Maven had given me. Black leggings became pants. The tank top came off and a sports bra took its place, then a light blue T-shirt. It was capped off by the hoodie from last night and the tennis shoes.

Hungry again, I made my way through the building and into the cafeteria. It was eerily quiet the whole way through. It was as if the building had been deserted sometime between last night and this morning. The growingly familiar tingling sensation came over me and I turned to be greeted by the sight of Ms. Maven herself. Before I could even open my mouth, the woman almost knew exactly what I was going to say.

“The others aren’t here right now,” she informed me. “It’s a school day. It is a rule of this house that everyone attends school. There are no exceptions. You’re in school, are you?”

That last question felt like an attack. “Uh… no, I’m not. Haven’t been for years. Why?”

She folded her arms and her gaze became authoritative. “How many years, love?”

“Depends on if you mean high school or college.” I wanted desperately to change the subject. That feeling of being a specimen under a microscope wasn’t foreign. It was never comfortable, either. “Is there any way I can grab something for breakfast?”

She pointed at something near the entrance to the kitchen. “There’s cereal and milk on the trolley, there.” Her eyes didn’t move from my form. “Either schooling experience would be comforting to know.”

My body crossed the expanse of the cafeteria as my footsteps echoed off the walls. “About ten years since college and fifteen since high school. Through an accelerated program, I got my Master’s rather than Bachelor’s and it only took an extra year.”

She smiled, following me but keeping her distance. “I’ll need to have a look at your identification, dearie. There’s paperwork to be done as well. Eat your fill, retrieve your documents, and meet me in the office, please?”

Reaching the cart, I grabbed one of the little pre-packaged bowls of cereal, opened the top, poured a little milk into it, grabbed a spoon, then spun around. “Sure. Just… keep an open mind, huh? It really is all my stuff.”

“Certainly, love.” She spun on her heel and the click-clack of her heels echoed off the walls as she disappeared into that entry office space I’d first seen last night.

I sat and ate in relative peace. Remembering to bring my phone and earbuds helped me escape the silence. Instead, there was ample time to actually think. It was becoming relatively obvious that fewer and fewer people were going to believe the person in front of them had any of the education they claimed. The same could be said about my identity. There was a sense deep inside me that this was going to be a recurring theme going forward. I could barely explain what happened in a theoretical sense, let alone have any hope of explaining it to someone else.

Finishing the cereal and drinking the leftover milk, I placed the garbage and silverware in their respective places. Returning to the room I’d been given, I grabbed my wallet and stuffed it in the pocket of the hoodie. It was time to face the inevitable. I descended the stairs one more time. Finally, I arrived at the oak doors and opened them.

Ms. Maven was behind her desk in the corner immediately to the right of the oak doors. It was facing the entrance door. That was probably because she wanted to be the first face anyone saw when they entered the building. That day, she wore her hair down in its halfway between curly and wavy state. She wore a forest green silk blouse, an earthy brown A-line skirt, and the same gold pumps she had worn the day before. Yet again, the gold necklace with the pendant that looked like a skinny pinecone dangled from her neck. She smiled brightly as I entered and beckoned me into a seat.

“We’ve got some paperwork to handle, love,” she stated plainly. “I trust you’ve fetched your documents?”

I nodded, handing over my wallet. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Everything else is back in my room in Bed-Stuy that I can’t get to right now.”

Gently, she took the wallet and began to examine the contents. Inside was my ID, social security card, bank card, and even my MetroCard - fairly meager, even for a man’s wallet. She glanced at my ID and compared it to my social security card, reading aloud. “Preston Gregory Parker…” She glanced in my direction. “Rather ill-fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

All I thought to do was shrug. “Maybe, but that’s the truth.”

She continued reading aloud. “Date of birth: the 10th of August 1991? That would make you—”

“Almost thirty-four years old,” I finished her statement for her. “Probably means I have no place in an establishment like this. From the name, it would seem that you run a youth shelter. Maybe I should grab my things and go?”

“I shan’t suggest anything of the sort.” She huffed. “From where I’m sitting, you appear no older than anybody else who calls this house their home.”

“Maybe, but—”

She held up a finger and made a very loud shushing sound. “I wasn’t finished, young lady.” The finger gently fell to the surface of the desk. “Your appearance suggests that you are not any older than anyone here. You and I will know about your past, but no one else need be privy to that information. I’ve seen many come through these doors without any identifying documents. This could be an opportunity to start over. Perhaps you’ve a past you’d like to keep in the past? Perhaps become something else?”

One of my eyebrows raised on its own. “Are you suggesting we fudge the documentation and I become someone else entirely?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, perhaps yes.” Her face was unreadable. “Would that be something you would like to do?”

My head swam with possibilities as I slumped back in the chair. “Honestly, I don’t know. Why are you even suggesting this in the first place? Isn’t it illegal to suggest something like this?”

Her shrug was subtle but spoke volumes. “The laws of mortals change so quickly that it is difficult to keep track. At times, it might be from parliamentary proceedings. Other times, perhaps judicial review. I’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall in the span of a single breath and complete legal systems last for a shorter time.”

My eyes narrowed on the ginger woman before me. “What are you talking about? ‘Laws of mortals’? Really? Who are you? What are you?”

“I am not so different from you, Preston: a being forged by the power of the stars. I was crafted into something new and given tools to help or hinder my fellow humans however I saw fit. There were others. I do not believe you will be the only one. Others will emerge in time. Whether they are a help or a hindrance remains to be seen. They must choose their own path.” She let out a long breath. “When I was younger, the people of Éire were primitive by your standards. Communities fought wars over cattle, not oil. The more people in the clan, the more mouths to feed. Power was understood differently. Being a good leader meant you provided for your people. The greater the power, the greater the responsibility. You understand?”

My head tilted to the side. “Are you seriously giving me an Uncle Ben speech right now?”

One of her eyebrows raised. “I beg your pardon?”

“The whole ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ thing. It’s a meme, at this point.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”

“It’s ironic as hell because you don’t know what I can do.” I extended my arm, pulled back my sleeve a little, flexed, and shot a small bit of webbing at the wall, all in the span of a half second. Neither of us could blink in the time it took to occur. “I’m pretty sure that’s not all I can do, but that’s the most weird.”

Her eyes darted to the webbing on the wall. “That certainly is something, dearie.” Then, she looked at her hand and a sphere of flame appeared out of nowhere. With a smirk, she started tossing it from one hand to the other. “I know very well what it is to have abilities others don’t understand.”

The sphere of flame got me to lurch back in my chair out of surprise. “Okay, pyrokinesis. That’s cute.”

“Among other things, as you say.” She closed her hand around the sphere of flame and it disappeared. With it went her mysterious, blended accent. It was replaced by something older. “T’ings dat happen te ya, happen te me near five t’ousand years back. I were a man set te become de next clan layder, a’fore dis happen te me. I became… more.”

I blinked rapidly as my mind tried to decipher what she’d just said. “Holy Gangs of New York, Batman! I’m not sure I understood even close to half of that. Are you suggesting that you’re more than five thousand years old?”

“In trot’, I am so.”

“That is absolutely bonkers. Here I was thinking yesterday was weird enough.”

She restored her mysterious blended accent. “I never once believed it could happen again, what took place yesterday. I was going about my business. I spoke with donors. I was to come back here and care for those in my charge. Then, there you were on that train. You were alone, trying to hide from a world that felt larger. Our paths crossed. After enough time, one stops calling that ‘coincidence’.” She let out another heavy breath. “Now you’re here. I’m allowing you to decide how we proceed.”

Feeling a bit on the spot, I shrugged. “I’m still not quite sure. I mean…” My hands motioned to my body. “...all this is not unwelcome. I’m actually glad it happened. That’s not the problem. What I’m trying to wrap my head around is that I think I have the same abilities as Spider-Man. I’m going to have to test the hypothesis, but I know the webbing thing coming out of my wrist is straight out of a movie from 2002.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand your popular culture references. I, frankly, stopped paying attention to cinema when it became less about art and more about making money.”

“When was that, exactly?”

“The 1970s. I believe it started with a young director and a robotic shark.”

My face slumped. “The movie is called Jaws. It’s a classic.”

“No. A ‘classic’ might be Metropolis or The Bride of Frankenstein.”

“Maybe for somebody older than dirt, sure.” I started to laugh, but her glare stopped me. “Sorry. Nerves again.” My head hung in shame.

“Be that as it may, we’ve still the issue of your identity. Do you want I should put you down as ‘Preston Parker’ or would you rather I waited until you’ve sorted yourself out?”

“I…” Hesitation gripped me. On the one hand, I was aware of my legal name and identity. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’d made my peace with it. For a very long time, I’d been entirely uncomfortable with my name, my face, my body, my voice, and my life in general. I could have started a transition after I moved out of my dad’s apartment at my earliest convenience, but not without some kind of health insurance. My psyche had fought with itself for years over the topic. Those battles were usually fought deep in my subconscious and in my dreams.

Ms. Maven rounded her desk and knelt next to me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I can see the turmoil in your mind. I, too, dealt with such things in the beginning. My father was killed in battle and I was to be announced as the next leader of the clan. I was the tallest, strongest, most formidable fighter among my people. I could fight to protect our people and grow the herd. In the span of a single sunrise and sunset, my body melted and I became what you see now. I experienced the same loss of age as you. The elders and mystics debated what to do with me. Some thought what happened was a sign of what was to become our future. Some thought I was touched by the gods. The rest believed I’d been punished by the gods and not fit to lead the clan.”

My eyes met hers and she continued. “In the moons that followed, I learned that I’d been blessed by something. At the time, I called it a gift from the gods. I could summon fire that burned with no wood or oil present. I could use that flame to forge weapons of indisputable strength. People were more creative near me, composing epic poems and songs. If I touched a bowl of water that was then given to someone ill to drink, they were healed. Crops matured more quickly around me and flowers bloomed instantly. The only problem was that I had the shape of woman.”

“I was defending our settlement and threw my fire at someone trying to raid us. The mystics bestowed me a new name: Breo Saighead, meaning ‘fiery arrow’.” She touched her pendant with her free hand. “Later, the whole of Ireland would know me as Brigit. Later still, it would become Brigid.”

My astonishment and curiosity were written all over my wrinkled brow. “Are you… are you telling me this all happened before, it happened to you, and you are literally the most revered deity of the Irish pantheon?”

She lightly blushed. “It is not my will that the people see me in that light. It is theirs. They made the stories which became legend. Over time, I grew to see myself as not the chieftain of any one tribe or clan. It became increasingly necessary to watch over all the people of the island I called home for so long.” She let out a happy sigh. “I acted as I was taught to: with the gifts I had been given, it was my duty to serve. Perhaps it is the same this time?”

Questioned spilled from my mind to my lips. “Why has no one talked about you for about a thousand years? If it was your duty to serve the Irish people, why are you in New York? Why did you leave Ireland?”

Her cheerful expression turned sour and she stood, returning to her chair behind the desk. “The minions of the cross. Those that claimed to follow a carpenter from Palestine. One of theirs built a stone church atop a ceremonial site and lit a flame. They attributed my deeds to her and erased me from the consciousness of the people when she died. They claimed they were a people of compassion, but subjugated the people of Éire. They murdered those that dared challenge their belief. The island was thought to be primitive, not worthy of their compassion. Conquerors came, took our land and cattle, leaving the people with only potatoes to eat. I could not heal the sickness that came.” She started to tear up. “Many lives were lost. Many people were forced to leave home. They were the most in danger. I followed many here to this island between two mighty rivers. I looked after the sick and forgotten. I used the machinations men had created to procure a fortune so that I could do what needed done. All you see around you is the product of two hundred years of toil.”

“Really not a fan of Christians, huh?”

“Nor the English.” She nearly spat when she spoke.

“Right, I’ll avoid touching that third rail. Got it.”

“That is my history. What is yours?”

A sigh escaped my lips. “There’s not much to tell, really. I doubt anyone would remember me like they remember you. I’m a kid born to the descendants of Irish immigrants. I grew up Catholic. My dad is a cop. My mom was a teacher. I grew up in Brooklyn as the nerdy kid too smart for their own good. My mom was really the one who encouraged me to use my brain. She was a science teacher.” Tears formed and I decided to keep the painful parts brief. “Some drunk driver killed her when she was coming home from work. I was nine. Dad never understood the smart stuff. He pulled away after Mom was gone. Any closeness we had before that vanished. He…” I sniffled and stuttered, “h-he was my first bully. Mom used to let me wear my hair long. He didn’t. Mom didn’t care how I walked. He did. Mom didn’t care how I talked. He did. It was so bad for so long, I buried everything deep. I escaped onto the roof of the apartment building just to find some solace.”

Tears flowed freely down my cheeks. “I prayed for so many nights that what happened yesterday would happen to me. I don’t know what to do next. I’m just glad to be here.”

Ms. Maven’s demeanor once again melted and she knelt beside me. “Sadly, I cannot heal that kind of pain. I’ve tried many times. All I can offer is a space to feel safe. Though you might have more than thirty years of experience, you really are more of a child. Your true self has not been expressed and known to others. She is still a child.” She offered a smile at the look I gave her. It was the look from someone feeling seen for the first time. “I am more perceptive than you think. Have you given her a name, love?”

Shrugging, I sniffled. “I always thought ‘Gwen’ was a nice name. Whether it breaks down from Gwendolyn, Gwenyth, or Gwenevier never mattered to me.”

“Or Gwenllian,” she sighed. “The history and meaning of a name should matter. You’re looking at the Welsh word for ‘white’, ‘fair’, or ‘blessed’ with a modern eye. Surely, it looks nice on a page or spoken aloud. What does it mean, then? ‘Fair Bow’, ‘Happiness’, ‘White Phantom’, or ‘Blessed Independence’. What does it mean to you?”

My body slumped. “Nothing, really. It just sounded nice.”

“I’ve a suggestion, if you’ll hear it.”

“Okay… ?”

“It’s a more modern name, but rooted in seeking your own power. The people of Éire started using it when seeking independence from the English in the 1920s. The name is Saoirse.”

“SEER-shuh? Sounds like a spell.”

“Mayhaps, but it’s an Irish word rooted in history. It means ‘freedom’. It’s gone from rallying cry to a name given to daughters. It’s a name your ancestors would be proud of. Trust me. I likely knew a few of them.”

“I’ll… think about it. Okay?”

She nodded slowly. “Of course, love. Choosing a name is like choosing a destiny. It carries much weight.”

“Is it okay if I go?”

“Certainly, love. We’ll get this paperwork done when you’re ready.” She handed me back my wallet. “Perhaps steer clear of the others while you consider things. They’ll ask all manner of questions. It’s best to leave that until you’re ready.”

I took the wallet and stuffed it in the pocket of my hoodie before quickly standing. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Turning for the door, my feet carried me out of the office and toward the stairs. Try as I might, there was no wrapping my mind around what I had just learned. How would anyone reconcile the fact that they’ve been in the presence of a flesh-and-blood goddess? More than that, she was someone who seemed to break through all my barriers. She seemed to be able to see me in a way no one else ever has.

As I climbed the multiple stairwells, my mind kept racing. In all honesty, I hadn’t really considered the topic of a name for myself. There was always something else to worry about. Poverty is very expensive and I was always losing that battle. Trying to keep a roof over my own head had always been a struggle. I could never get too comfortable anywhere. Paying bills was a massive headache. Proper nutrition was something only rich people could afford. Keeping my phone on with active service wasn’t the worst thing I had to deal with, but it also wasn’t easy. That was all part of what we millennials call “adulting”.

Even as a kid, I don’t think I ever thought about a name. I never got the chance to ask my mom what she would have named me if I had been assigned female at birth, though I’ve always known that “Preston” was Dad’s idea—that and his name as my middle name. It seemed that not even the name of his child could escape my father’s total control. After my mom’s death, both he and I retreated into ourselves. I had an emo phase as a kid, like a lot of people in my generation, but never went so far as to contest most gender norms. I painted my nails black but never had any eyeliner.

The name “Gwen” had come from this girl I knew through school, starting in middle school. I had the biggest crush on her for the longest time. Of course, she was way out of my league and nothing ever came of the crush. I was the science, computer, and builder geek. Meanwhile, she was a theater kid. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but she could rival Idina Menzel’s rendition of “Defying Gravity” from the original cast of Wicked. I started to appreciate theater by watching her from afar. Periodically, I wonder whatever became of her. Regardless, I always thought her name was pretty.

Reaching the roof, I strode over to the ledge and took my seat as I had done the night before. The city was a little louder during the day, but still had the same rhythm. Closing my eyes, I started to think a bit more. Ms. Maven had been correct that I shouldn’t just grab a name from a cloud and use it. I guess I never thought of it like that because “Preston” truly didn’t mean anything to me. It was the name I’d been given after being assigned male at birth and I’d never been consulted on the matter. I looked it up once for an English class assignment. It was Old English and meant “a town of priests”. What’s interesting is that most people with European ancestry never consider what their own name means, yet they’ll ask somebody with an indigenous name or East Asian name what their name means at the drop of a hat. Not a great look.

Saoirse. Freedom. Independence. Now that was something worth considering. You couldn’t have asked me to spell it at that time, but it sounded nice. It had a really cool history behind it, too. Like most, I’d also forgotten that the Republic of Ireland was only 75 years old after winning a war and spending almost thirty years as part of the British Commonwealth. It’s not a name that would have been considered when I was born in the United States. It’s only started popping up after the girl from Lady Bird got popular. Looking it up on Google revealed that it’s been popular in Ireland since the War of Independence.

As my mind continued to wander, I stood on the ledge and absently started walking it like a tightrope. I’ve done something similar with the curbs on sidewalks since I was little. It didn’t really compute that I was three stories above the unforgiving concrete and asphalt below. What was different was the fact that I didn’t even have to put my arms out to maintain balance. I walked the ledge like it was some kind of Sunday stroll. It took a few laps back and forth along the roofline before I actually realized what I was even doing. When I did, hypotheses began rolling through my mind like a high-speed locomotive. Experimentations began.

Starting with balance, I began to throw one leg out over the ledge and balance on the remaining foot every third step. I could hop and spin on the ledge with one foot always seated. Before my rationale could keep up, intrusive thoughts of zipping up and securing the hoodie then performing a backward handspring won over. To my amazement, I was performing these feats like a seasoned balance beam gymnast. I finished the final backward handspring with a handstand. With one hand, I was supporting my body and balancing on the building’s ledge with very little effort. It was reminiscent of what I’d done instead of tripping and falling down the subway stairs the night before.

Unexplained and almost superhuman agility. Check.

Extending my other arm toward an exhaust pipe on the roof, I shot a line of web toward it and pulled myself away from the ledge. Landing on my feet was child’s play.

Strong, flexible, and organic webbing originating from spinnerets in my wrists. Check.

The next test was going to be a tough one. My eyes wandered to the two buildings on either side of Maven’s little complex. One was a white stone apartment building with some windows looking down on the roof I was standing on. The other was also an apartment building, but had a sheer brick wall facing me. Summoning some courage and mentally calculating a trajectory, I bent down from the knees and jumped. The average human can only leap roughly thirty to fifty centimeters. Trained athletes can leap up to eighty centimeters. The truly exceptional can leap a full meter. My vertical leap turned out to be about twenty meters. At the apex, I was a little scared of landing on the roof. I thrust both arms forward, attached a web line to the red brick building, and yanked. The action resulted in me being pulled toward the wall at a rapid pace. For half a second, I closed my eyes with my hands and feet out. It felt as if I had tripped and stopped myself against the ground with my hands and feet. After a moment, I reopened my eyes to find I was attached to the brick surface.

Superhuman strength. Check. Directional control through trajectory manipulation via webbing. Check. Adhering to a sheer surface without any aid whatsoever. Check. Durability because my hands should have many microabrasions from impacting an uneven brick surface at a high rate of speed. Check.

After a few moments, I learned how to let go and fell about twenty meters to the roof of Maven’s complex. My body seemed to absorb the impact with no trouble.

Ability to fall from heights that should severely injure me. Check.

Once again, I turned and had my eyes on the sheer brick wall of the building. There was something I’d seen in the newer animated movies and the latest video games that I felt like I had to try. Stepping back a few steps, I got into position and ran directly toward the wall. Once the wall was in reach, I simply put my foot on the surface and continued running. I could, in fact, run up the wall — not because I was running at any record-breaking pace, though. Soon, I reached the top of the building and leapt into the air while performing a backflip. My arms extended and, once again, I put those spinnerets to work producing a couple of lines I could grab and pull myself with. My body snapped toward the direction of force and I landed on top of the building in a skid.

Durability, double check. Webs, double check. Agility, double check. Surface adhesion whether impeded by clothing or not, check.

I closed my eyes and basked in the late morning sunshine with the biggest smile I’ve worn in a very long time on my face.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Five

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: Sorry it's a day late, but I got it posted as soon as I could.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGR65RWwzg8 ))

For the next couple of days, I kept a low profile. Getting breakfast and lunch was fine. Nobody but Ms. Maven and I were in the building. Dinner was a little tricky. All the shelter kids were usually in the building for dinner. I could hear the echoes of their conversations up in my room. Maven decided to accommodate me by delivering a dinner plate to my room. It helped avoid awkward situations. The first thing a person surrenders when greeting others is their name. I hadn’t decided on one, yet.

In my solitude, I’d ask myself why I had never really thought that much about a name. Almost immediately afterward, I would answer that. My mom had always been more permissive than my dad. After she was gone, everything started to get buried. Little by little, I stored things away about myself that were discouraged. It was always the little things like how I walked, how I said a word, how I moved my hands when I spoke, or how my speech tended to bounce around like a song. Everything that was deemed unacceptable for a “Parker Man” was locked away through scrutiny. I was never allowed to just act naturally. That was unacceptable. Everything was corrected. Before long, all the natural aspects of myself were so deeply stored that it was difficult to access.

I thought if I did well in school or did well in life that it would be enough. It never was.

Personal connections were the first casualties. I didn’t really have friends growing up or in college. Operating in the world of men was foreign territory. If being the smart kid in class wasn’t enough to socially ostracize me, then being someone who didn’t know how to relate to people made it that much worse. I tried to learn, but it was a skillset I just wasn’t built for. I always seemed to come off as awkward and disjointed.

After school, I just kept my head down and tried to make life work. That had been enough to keep my mind occupied. There’s no better way to get your head in a game than your life depending on it. If I wanted to eat, have clothes, and a roof over my head, I had to have money. I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve been told I’m “overqualified” for a position I was just trying to procure so I could eat and pay rent. It was pretty difficult until the pandemic hit. Then, gig work really took off and I didn’t have to worry about some hiring manager or HR rep telling me I was “overqualified” for anything. I never really had much time to focus on myself. My thoughts were dominated by survival.

Now, I had nothing but time. It was a little frightening, honestly.

Much of the time was spent trying to figure out what I was going to do with myself and what my name should be. To the former, I had no ideas. Technically, I had my phone, which meant I could feasibly get paid through the apps for doing deliveries. I just needed a bicycle, at the very least. The latter was like trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe. My mind was in overclock mode running through family names, names of my peers, and what resonated with my preferences. I envied perspective parents who had nine months to figure out what they were going to name their child. My window for consideration was much shorter. Most likely, I’d only have days. I was still coming up empty.

When Friday night rolled around, Maven brought me dinner and set the tray on the desk against the window. Instead of leaving immediately, she sat herself on the bed with me. I had my earbuds in, so I didn’t hear the first thing she tried to say. I hit the pause button on the music I was listening to and pulled out the earbuds. She took the cue and repeated herself.

“How are you holding up, love?” She wondered.

I shrugged meekly. “I don’t know yet.”

“Fair answer, given the state of things.” There was a pregnant pause before she continued. “We do have to get through that paperwork. I’ve a legal duty to process your intake and school enrollment.”

“I don’t know why I have to go to school with a bunch of teenagers when I graduated college a decade ago.”

“Have ya seen the mirror, love?” She chuckled and shook her head. “I might know that what you’re saying is true. The State of New York and the United States Government are a bit tougher to convince without indisputable proof, which we don’t have. Far as they’re concerned, I’ve an unaccompanied minor in my care that isn’t in school.”

“I know. I’ve seen the news on YouTube. Most of the data surrounding the event a couple of days ago is classified. Science takes longer than a few days to reach a consensus on a hypothesis. There’s an astrophysicist and cosmologist from the University of Chicago who’s been doing the rounds in the news. She’s the one who predicted when the thing would hit, but even she’s saying that they don’t know much about it.”

Maven nodded slowly. “Yes, so for a time, some adaptation is needed. I can complete most of the forms, but I need a name. Then, we need to take you in for registration and placement. You’ll need to take some tests so they can determine where to place you.”

“How are they going to be able to do that? I’ve got no paper trail. No transcripts. No immunization records. No identification. I literally just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Doesn’t matter. The McKinney-Vento Homeless Assistance Act stresses immediate placement in school. That’s federal law. We’ll work with the school to get all the documentation you’ll need after you’re in school.”

“So I have no choice?”

“Would you have it that I must close this organization down just to harbor you?”

“No. That would be selfish and unreasonable.”

“Right then. I’ll give you another day. By tomorrow at supper, I’ll need a name to put into the paperwork.”

My lungs released a heavy sigh. “Fine. Thank you.”

She tapped my leg. “Keep a stiff upper lip, love. It’s not the end of the world. Some people would give anything to go back to high school.”

“Those people are called ‘masochists’.”

She genuinely laughed for the first time since I’d met her. Her accent slipped a little to a more archaic New York inflection. “Ain’t dat right!”

My eyes met hers as if pleading. “I need to go into Brooklyn and gather some things. Am I allowed to do that on my own?”

“Of course, dearie. You need anything from me?”

I shook my head. “Thanks, but no. It’s some electronics and such. I’ll bring it back with my DoorDash bag, if it’s still there.”

“Just promise to be safe.”

My eyes rolled almost automatically. “Yea, of course. You’re acting like I didn’t grow up in Brooklyn.”

“Not with that form, you didn’t. Mind how you go, love.”

“I’ll be careful, okay?”

“Sure ya will.” She smirked at me before lifting herself off the bed and moving out of the room. “Be sure to return by eleven,” she added before closing the door behind her.

My mind couldn’t fathom why she thought I’d be in danger in my own hometown. Being honest, Brooklyn’s never really been “safe”. When I was a kid, we generally stuck to our own block when we played. As a teenager, I went to a zoned high school and kept to myself because being the kid of a cop wasn’t something anyone bragged about if they knew what was good for them. Although my high school did have notable alumni like Isaac Asimov and Rita Hayworth, that was in the older buildings on Marcy and Nostrand, respectively. By the time I was in the newer building on Fulton, the legacy was nothing more than a plaque on a wall to remind us of a time when the education system was funded well enough to produce Nobel laureates, lauded authors, and diligent members of Congress. Through it all, I learned some of my dad’s vigilance and kept out of trouble before it started. That’s how I stayed out of danger.

In the peace of my bedroom, I had my dinner. When I finished eating, I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my phone, put the keys in my pocket, and headed out of the building. One or two of the kids might have spotted me, but I was far enough away and moving fast enough to not be approached. Out the front door, it was a three-block walk to the subway. I took the route Maven had used to bring me to the house, but in reverse.

In the evening, there are people everywhere in the city. With everybody getting off work at roughly the same time, the streets, sidewalks, and subway cars were crowded. One of the first things I really noticed was that most of the women around me were about my height. The next thing I noticed was that almost all the men were taller. The world was feeling decidedly different from how it felt a couple of days before. Seven inches of height loss created an entirely new perspective. Swiping my MetroCard was easy enough. Navigating to the C train was a small challenge. I was lucky enough to find a spot to actually sit down and stayed there all the way into Brooklyn.

On the train, I opted to focus on my phone screen rather than the people around me. Most of them were agitated about something anyway. Par for the course, I guess. On my phone screen, I had several browser tabs open. Each one was connected to a name. I was running through the alphabet, letter by letter. There were a few that stood out to me as something that sounded nice and resonated a little bit. However, after slightly more than twenty minutes on the train, I’d barely made it to the B’s. One name kept echoing in my mind, even while browsing the others.

Getting off at the stop near where I called “home” just three days ago, I made note of the “dent” in the handrail as I made my way to the surface. I was still in awe of the things I could do and the indentation where my hand had been a few nights prior reminded me of them. A mental note was made to test the limits of my strength at some point in the future. Well, frankly, I’d have to test the limits of all my powers at some point. Refining would come after that. I had read enough comic books, watched enough television series, and seen enough movies to know that when someone has extraordinary abilities and they don’t know their limits, bad things can happen. I certainly didn’t want that to be the case.

After only taking a few steps, the back of my head started tingling. I took the opportunity while I crossed the street to get a better feel for my surroundings. I scanned my periphery and found a group of three guys near me. For the time being, I kept walking. The sensation of their eyes on me felt as if their eyes were made of high-powered plasma projectors with pinpoint precision. They chatted amongst each other about my body as if I wasn’t even there. The more uncomfortable I felt, the deeper into my pockets my fists tried to go. After they followed me for two blocks, I diverted my course. I knew they had nefarious intent when I entered an alleyway and started walking through it.

The three guys fell for the bait. They closed the distance between them and me when they thought there were fewer prying eyes around. I didn’t have a plan and I didn’t know what I was going to do about the situation. Just in case, I pulled the sleeves of the hoodie up to about three-quarters the length of my arm. Fear bubbled up to the surface.

“Hey, girlie,” one of them shouted at me. “You lost, honey?”

I didn’t acknowledge him. I just kept walking. They may have been trying to make me feel afraid. It was working.

“Hey, little bitch, I asked you a question!” He shouted again.

I made no indication I was going to do anything but keep walking. I was too scared to do anything else. The hell was I thinking, diverting into that alleyway?

Their footsteps grew louder as they got closer. Eventually, one reached out to grab my shoulder. Without thinking, my hand batted away theirs. A second tried to grab me in some kind of bear hug. Just before his arms closed around me, I crouched down and he tumbled overtop of me. The third reached out to grab my hair. I spun around and smacked his hand away. I was then looking into his eyes. The anger and entitlement in his eyes were tangible. It caught me off guard enough that the first guy grabbed me by the upper arm and pulled me toward him.

The guy I was still looking at smirked. “I like feisty redheads. You got some spice to you, little one.”

“You sound like one of the guys they’re protecting by not releasing the Epstein Files. Not a good look, my guy.” I taunted him. “What do you want with me? Why’s it take three dudes to talk to a girl?”

“Who said we’re doin’ any talking?” The ringleader advanced on me with a smile that would send fear into the heart of any of the bravest people in the world. The upturn of one side coupled with the absolute malice in his eyes sold it.

Never before had I felt such all-consuming fear. I’d been taught to feel afraid of my fellow human beings, but not in the way I was feeling in that moment. Being a cop’s kid, some fear had a tendency to rub off. To a certain point, I was always afraid, but not in the ways my dad tried to teach me. I had become afraid to admit the person that I truly was, even to myself. To anyone else, it would have been paralyzing. The fear in me now, brought on by those men in that alley, was a whole new level I was not prepared for.

Somewhere deep inside, something snapped. My eyes narrowed on the ringleader. “Let’s dance.”

I extended my arm, the spinneret popped out, and a glob of webbing smacked the guy in the face. He cried out and started clawing at his face. The guy holding my upper arm tried to grab my other arm. I twirled around and open-hand struck him on the left side of his back. I could hear a couple of bones break and he called out in pain as his body lifted off the ground. He flew a few feet and fell on the pavement like the limp meat sack that he was. The third guy leapt at me again and I bent over like I was in a limbo competition. He kept flying past me and I finished the move into a back handspring. It brought me back up to my feet. I was starting to realize that my agility had been dialed up to eleven.

The ringleader finally pulled the webbing off his face and came at me with renewed ferocity. He threw punch after punch. None of them landed. I was moving so fast that everything else seemed like it was moving in slow motion. The punches weren’t working, so the guy tried a sweeping kick. My body executed a no-touch cartwheel over his leg. He was only getting angrier and angrier.

“Hey, buddy, why don’t you stop trying to hit me and hit me?” I quipped, then immediately chuckled. “Wow, I sound like Morpheus on helium.”

The ringleader lunged at me with a power hook so telegraphed it might as well have been on a teleprompter. Once again, I limboed under it as it moved on slo-mo. It was almost too easy. The back of my neck tingled again and I glanced back to see that the leaping guy was back on his feet. Seeing an opportunity with the ladder of a fire escape, I flipped over a few times, doing back handsprings until I reached it. I leapt up, grabbed the ladder, pulled it down, and shot some web strings at the guy. Well, I tried to. A bunch of goopy webbing shot at him before I finally got a line attached to him. Line attached, I pulled him to me at the latter and did whatever I could with the webs to tie him to it.

“Dance card’s full, my friend. You may not cut in.” I told him.

With one guy writhing on the ground in pain and another tied to the ladder, it was down to just me and the ringleader. He looked at me with a confused expression.

“Are you supposed to be some kind of spider girl or somethin’? Am I in dreamland, right now?”

“Not yet, twinkle toes. Do you wanna be?”

He stood there for a minute. His eyes darted between his friends and me. “I ain’t never seen nobody move like that, except in the movies.” Those eyes finally landed on me. “Who the fuck are you?”

I advanced on him, the malice now in my eyes. “Sorry, honey. It’s a masquerade. No names.” It was his turn to be afraid. The more I advanced, the more he recoiled. “What you’re going to do is call the cops and an ambulance. After that, you never hurt anyone in this neighborhood again. Understand?! I’ll be watching.”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay… you win, Spider-Girl. Whatever you say, alright?”

“I’m not Spider-Girl or Spider-anything, got it? You tried to hurt the wrong person. Leave it at that. Call the cops.”

He fumbled for his phone. Once he had it in hand, he showed me that he dialed 9-1-1. The dispatcher picked up immediately.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the voice that sounded like a bad impression of Fran Drescher requested over the speakers. Flushing really goes hard on their accent, I tell ya.

“My buddies and I got beat up by this weird girl. You ain’t gonna believe what she can do.” The ringleader spoke into the phone.

“I’m sorry, sir?” The dispatch operator almost sounded like she was joking.

“Three grown men decided to follow a Brooklyn girl into an alley and got themselves hurt,” I yelled toward the phone. “We’re near the Potomac Playground. You’ll find three guys here. Can’t miss it.”

“And who are you, Miss?” The operator asked.

I didn’t answer. I simply walked away. The ringleader and the dispatch operator continued their conversation as I did so. Three blocks later, the adrenaline caught up with me and I was shaking like a leaf hanging on for dear life during a windstorm. Even though I was the ostracized smart kid, I’d never actually been in a fight before. That night was technically my first one. Going over the series of events in my head as I walked along, I noted places where I could have done something different. It also solidified that I needed to practice some things more. I cracked a couple of ribs on some guy, which wasn’t optimal. Healthcare is expensive, after all.

The performance hit me next. I didn’t even know I could do any of that. I was hopping around like Simone Biles without even thinking about what I was doing. How would a pulse or wave of energy suddenly turn someone into an Olympic-level gymnast overnight? A lot of things didn’t make sense. There again, all of this originating from the bite of a radioactive spider made even less sense. Comic books make very little sense. Reality is less consistent, especially when you add dark matter to the equation.

Thankfully, there were no more surprises as I made my way to the old row house. Standing on the sidewalk in front of it, I considered a plan of attack. As had been made apparent, I couldn’t go through the front door as if nothing happened. My idiot roommates who couldn’t reason their way out of a paper bag would just call the cops and I would be in the system as “Jane Doe”. There was no guarantee NYPD would agree to simply deliver me to Tír na nÓg upon request or place me in some nightmare of a group home. I would have to be discreet and unseen. My eyes wandered over the brick façade. There were four floors and my bedroom was on the second floor. The window on the front of the building was the bathroom. I’d have to sneak around back in order to crawl through my own bedroom window. A thought crossed my mind: ‘Can I even jump that high?’

My eyes darted back to the ground as I contemplated jumping onto the roof from the sidewalk. Sure enough, my DoorDash bag was still there on top of a bicycle that had been moved a little. In the past couple of days, someone had actually tried to steal something off the bike but the parts were worthless, so they left it alone. Grabbing my DoorDash bag and slipping it on, I prepared myself for something crazy. Feeling a little nervous, I stepped back a few steps into the street. Taking a few quick breaths to psyche myself up, I stepped twice and jumped from the sidewalk.

My eyes watered a bit from all the air rushing past them. The speed at which my body was thrust skyward was mind-boggling. At the apoapsis of the jump, I could finally see. I was above the whole neighborhood. Looking down as I started to fall again was a mistake. I learned that not only could I jump a 4-story building, but I could jump twice that, easily. I had never been that high in my life. Never even flew on a plane. The blood-curdling scream that erupted from my mouth was as genuine as they get. I closed my eyes and braced for impact. There was a sudden stop at the end, but not the one I had anticipated. It took a few seconds, but I finally opened my eyes to discover I’d landed in a pose I’d seen in comics and movies for years. It was confirmed to me that a classic Spider-Man landing was actually plausible and effective.

“Huh,” I aspirated. The experience was frightening and the end left more questions than answers, but I was at least alive.

I remained in that position for a few moments. The sounds of confused and concerned neighbors reached my ears. They all seemed to be investigating who the scream queen was and if she was okay. When I heard the voices of some of my roommates, it signaled that I had an opportunity. I had inadvertently created my own distraction. Carefully and quietly, I made my way to the ledge and took a quick breath. There was still some trepidation in me that the Van der Waals force wouldn’t work and I’d fall to the ground below. Cautiously, I started trying to crawl down the wall to the rear window of my room. To my relief, the physics held up and I slowly made my way down the back of the house to the second-story window.

Upon arrival, I managed to get the window to open and I slipped inside. The place was a mess and smelled unpleasant. It’s a wonder I never noticed the smell before. Shrugging off the embarrassment from the state of the room, I began cataloguing what I’d need. Obviously, all the chargers and cables went into the bag first. No point in electronics you couldn’t provide an adequate power source for. Stepping up, I grabbed my laptop that was only a few years old, my gaming console with all its peripherals, the monitor I used as a television, and my alarm clock. As I stepped up to the framed Master’s degree from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, I let out a heavy sigh. It was really the only thing to signify that I’d accomplished anything meaningful in my life, so far. Carefully placing it in the bag with everything else, I glanced around. The last thing to get stuffed into the bag were my pillows along with my Battlestar Galactica and Star Wars bedspreads. That was it. That was all the bag would accommodate and the only things in my life worth grabbing.

With one last solemn look at the remnants of my former life, I exited the same way I came in and shut the window. It really seemed like that chapter of my life was over.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Six

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: Ready as it's gonna be for now. Hope it's up to snuff.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdYWuo9OFAw ))

Standing on a hill with some of the best views of Manhattan in the five boroughs, my eyes fell on a simple, rectangular headstone. The inscription read: Maxine Elizabeth Parker; (née Stacey); February 6, 1967 - September 29, 2000; Beloved Wife, Mother, Sister, and Teacher. Tears flooded my eyes and threatened to burst free from the confines of my eyelids.

“Hey, Mom,” I managed to say through a huge frog in my throat. “Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve come to see you.”

My weak knees buckled and I kneeled before the headstone. On impulse, I brushed away all debris obscuring the stone and inscription. The last time I had visited was her birthday in 2020, right before the pandemic consumed the world. Technically, I was now the same age she was when she died, though I didn’t look it anymore.

My mom was a high school science teacher. She worked at the same place I graduated from. There was a lot of commotion around a superintendent of a neighboring district who was being investigated for financial mismanagement. I had made it home and was the only person in the apartment for the longest time. My dad was held up by some idiot who decided to slam into the police station that night. My mom had been held up by a staff meeting. Dad insisted on getting her a car because of all the animosity towards the NYPD at the time. She only managed to make it to Utica, where a drunk driver ran a red light at high speed and T-boned her car. Dad was excused by his lieutenant from the idiot thing after they learned about Mom. He came back home and brought me to Interfaith. Everything happened within six blocks. Mom was pronounced “DOA” at the hospital.

She was buried here at The Evergreens Cemetery a little over a week later.

Before the pandemic, I would visit a few times a year. I was here for her birthday, Mother’s Day, the anniversary of her death, and other reasons. When I landed in the same high school she taught at, I discussed how weird that was. The faculty all knew her. Having your high school teachers feel sorry for you is another way to get ostracized. I visited when I graduated from high school. Even after enrolling in MIT up in Boston, I would make routine trips down to visit Mom and let her know how things were going. I came straight to her gravesite after getting my Master’s and showed it off. I’ve had so many one-sided conversations with her. I liked to think she heard everything.

“So,” I began with the frog still in my throat, “I know I don’t look or sound the same as I did last time. Something happened to me that I can’t yet explain. So far, I know this: a pulse or wave of energy struck the Earth a couple of days ago. It changed a few things. First, the obvious thing is that I’m female and apparently a teenager again. Second, I’ve got superpowers. I still need to test to determine which ones, precisely, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got everything Spider-Man does, which is crazy.”

I inhaled a deep breath. “Something I’ve never really talked with you about, Mom, is that I’m not even mad that I’m a girl, now. Not even a little bit. It’s weird that I’m a teenager again, though.” I shook my head. “Let’s go back a step. I’ve always felt… different. Maybe you noticed. Maybe you didn’t. I think Dad did. He was an asshole about it. I wish…” Tears built up and the frog got bigger. “I wish you were there to talk to about things. I’ve had to bottle things up for so long. I could always tell you how I was feeling. I don’t think Dad ever understood that.”

“I’m pretty sure I was never your son, Mom. It was always in the back of my mind. I could never express it and, most of the time, I didn’t even know how to define it. Dad and the rest of the world have tried to crush it. I even thought I could overcome it for the longest time. This whole thing that’s happened is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Mom.” Tears rolled down my face. “I’m a girl. I’m your daughter. I’ve got a chance to be that now. I wish you were here because I am so lost. I wish I could be in your arms as you held me and told me everything was gonna be okay… even if it’s not.”

“There’s been a lot of times, even if I didn’t bring it up, that I’ve thought about a name. They’ve been few and far between. The past couple of days, I’ve been wondering what you would have named me. Would it have been something popular like Ashley or Jessica? Would it have been more Irish, like Aileen or Patricia? Maybe you would have named me after you, with Maxine or Elizabeth. I can’t really know for sure… unless I ask Dad, but I’m not ready to talk to him. I wish I could ask you instead of him.”

In all the years since I lost her, I don’t think I’ve ever missed my mom more. The silence around me was deafening. The symphony of the city seemed so far away. It had been almost twenty-five years since she was killed and it felt like it had just happened yesterday. I needed her, but instead I had to talk to a headstone that would never respond.

When I pulled out my phone, the screen flickered and the browser with the tabs with names was the open application. I sat there for a while, continuing to flip through names. I liked a few, so I opened those as separate tabs. There were fourteen open tabs that featured baby girl names and their meanings. I had only made it to the E’s before I gave up.

“You know what’s funny, Mom?” I began my soliloquy once more. “I don’t really feel like my degree from MIT is all that big of an achievement. Sure, it was a big thing, but where has it gotten me? By the time you were my age, you had a job you loved going to every day. You had a career. Dad’s been with the NYPD since he graduated high school. You guys weren’t rich, but you were at least happy. I haven’t been happy in a long time.”

I turned around and lay down right on top of my mother’s grave and looked up at the stars. There weren’t many visible because of the light pollution from the city, but there were five prominent points of light in the sky: Jupiter, Arcturus, Vega, Capella, and Mars. To the casual observer, they’d always be points of light randomly scattered on the black velvet sky. To my mother and me, they had meaning.

“This is a great view,” I stated softly. “There’s the largest planet in our solar system, the brightest star in the northern hemisphere, the star featured in Contact that you always complained they pronounced wrong, something we see as one star but is actually four in a double binary system, and the planet covered in iron oxide. There’s a star between Arcturus and Vega that is supposed to be visible as a supernova soon. You would probably have invited me to a rooftop viewing as soon as it was visible.”

My thoughts were all over the place. I let out another long breath. “Truth is… I finally have a chance to be happy, Mom. I’m gonna take it. I’m sure some day they’ll be able to explain what the hell happened a couple of days ago. Maybe I’ll be able to join the research team. For now, though, I’m just going to be content to be me. No more hiding. No more scurrying around when Dad’s not looking. No more pretending to be something I’m not.” A sigh escaped my lips as the whisper of a name that had been echoing in my mind most of the night came to a crescendo. “I know what name I’m gonna use, I think. Worked it out in my head.”

I stood up and grabbed my backpack, then slid it over my shoulders. Slipping my phone into my pocket once more, I glanced down at the headstone. “Good talk, Mom. I’ll see you again soon. Mother’s Day is coming up. I’ll bring some flowers. Maybe I’ll even wear a dress. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve gotta get back to The Village.”

With that said, I waved and made my way out of the cemetery. It was a fairly long walk from my mother’s gravesite to the entrance. There was plenty of time to think. My phone never left my pocket. I had worked things out in my head while speaking at my mother’s headstone. Once I left the cemetery, though, the phone did come out but it was to play some music. From the entrance, it was a short walk to the Broadway Junction station where I lost myself in the crowd once again, pulled out my MetroCard, and got to the platform to ride the A train back to Manhattan. It was getting late, so the express seemed to be the best option.

My thoughts wandered back to the events earlier in the evening. Specifically, the confrontation with those guys. I’ve never seen that kind of malice in someone’s eyes. I’ve never seen a coordinated effort to victimize someone before. I’ve never felt that kind of fear or vulnerability before. Sure, the streets are dangerous because they’re dangerous in any big city where there’s high poverty concentration. That event was different somehow. I couldn’t help but remember Ms. Maven’s words before I left: “Not in that form, you didn’t. Mind how you go, love.” The difference was that I had the body and face of a sixteen-year-old girl. Questions started popping up in my mind.

To answer them, I pulled out my phone again and started scanning crime statistics. I probably shouldn’t have done that. About 77% of women under 40 had been followed like I had that night. Somewhere around 62% of those happened between 5 pm and 9 pm, roughly the time I had the run-in with those guys. More than 54% of women had experienced some form of physical altercation along with cat-calling nonsense. According to the statistics, the city might be getting safer on paper, but not for women and girls. These sorts of incidents were actually on the rise. It’s the sort of thing you should hear on the evening news, but never do.

That’s when some words of wisdom echoed in my brain. I had proved that night I can do some pretty amazing things. I would have to practice them and get better, which had been made obvious to me. However, the words that echoed in my mind were: “When you can do the things that I can… but you don’t… and then the bad things happen… they happen because of you.” The words were from a movie and I’d watched a lot of movies. In that moment, I knew what I had to do. Naturally, I had no idea how to pull it off, but you bet your ass I was going to follow the example of Mark Watney and science the shit out of it.

Impatience was the name of the game from that moment forward. All of a sudden, the express train just wasn’t traveling fast enough. The only thing I wanted to do was get back to the community house and spend some time in my room with my re-acquired laptop. The minutes seemed to crawl by and the stops seemingly lasted longer every time. When we finally arrived at 4th Ave & Washington Square, I nearly leapt out of the seat and out the doors. A few people gave me odd looks, but I didn’t care.

It must have looked hilarious to watch some little ginger girl rush through the station and practically run through the streets. The bag on my back wasn’t heavy at all to me. It probably should have been with all the electronics inside, but it was more awkward to carry than anything. Thankfully, I didn’t have very far to go. Soon, I found myself on the tree-lined Jones Street and climbing the steps of number twenty-six. The moment I opened the door, the excitement ceased. Maven stood leaning against her desk with her arms folded. Her eyes communicated something I was already feeling: I was in trouble.

“Where the devil have you been, girl?” She snapped at me. “I instructed you to return at eleven. You’re nearly twenty minutes late.”

I threw my hands up in surrender. “Whoa, no need to read me the riot act. I actually rushed back from the subway.”

“Are your effects in that blindingly red sack?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Where were you? I’ve been worried for you.”

“It took some doing to get my things from my place in Bed-Stuy. Last time I was there, my roommates threatened to call the cops on me, remember?”

“You weren’t so forthcoming about that.”

“We haven’t actually discussed much about what happened that night.”

“Fair enough. That can’t be the only thing that kept you. Where were you?”

“I…” My brain stalled and my body slumped. “I stopped to visit my mom… ’s grave. I needed to process some things.”

Her disappointment and indignation turned to concern. “You all right then, love? Did she pass suddenly?”

“Yes. In the year 2000. When I was nine.”

“Been a long time, then. Seeking the wisdom of your ancestors, were you?”

“Something like that.”

She took in a breath. I couldn’t decipher the meaning. “The hour’s late. Off to bed with you. Don’t forget we need a name for you by tomorrow at supper.”

“I’ve got the name. I’ll tell you in the morning. Okay?”

“Certainly, love. Now, up the wooden hill with you.”

Ms. Maven’s little colloquials were sometimes hard to make sense of. Nodding in her direction, I made my way through the oak doors and up the stairs. There was a quiet conversation happening on the second floor that hushed as I passed, then resumed as I continued upward. I had yet to see whether or not the other two rooms on the third floor with me were occupied or not. At that time, I didn’t pay much attention. My singular goal was getting back to my room. Thankfully, that was achieved fairly easily.

Once inside, the bag began to be unpacked. The bedspreads were just piled onto the bed for the time being. The TV found a home atop the dresser. The gaming console, an older one, found a home on the desk in the corner so that it was close to the TV. The chargers and various cables found a home on the desk for the time being. Once all that was done, I put the bedspreads back into the bag. Finally, I sat on the bed I’d been given with my laptop and started putting thoughts down.

Those thoughts were relatively simple. They included things like ‘Am I seriously contemplating the idea of becoming a superhero?’, ‘What would being a superhero in 2025 mean?’, ‘Is this gonna piss off the cops?’, ‘I really need to figure out the limits of these powers.’, ‘Is building a suit a dumb idea?’, and ‘How would I even build a suit in the first place?’. Simple to ask. Complicated to answer. My resolve was generally focused on the idea that I didn’t want what could have happened to me earlier in the evening to happen to anyone if I had the power to stop it.

Setting my laptop aside, I flopped backward onto the bed and sighed. “Comic book logic is broken,” I told myself aloud. “How would anyone make this happen in the real world? I’m seriously nuts for even thinking this is a thing.”

I fell asleep in the clothes I’d been wearing, too tired to change out of them.

The next morning was Saturday. No school. I had two choices: face the music or hide in my room all weekend. The former was an idea that scared me the most. Mingling with a bunch of teenagers and maybe trying to convince them I was one of them was a frightening idea. I was thirty-three, old by their standards. I also didn’t speak the language. Even in the “oughts”, we had our own lingo independent of the ‘90s kids. The latter idea wasn’t great, either. I was already hungry and wanted some coffee. I did have my laptop and gaming system to occupy myself with, but biological imperatives couldn’t be avoided. Physiologically, I could feasibly go without food all weekend. The human body can do that without too many consequences. I could get water from the shared bathroom, but I didn’t have a cup.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I got out of bed and changed clothes. Covered in a T-shirt and jeans, I opted to leave the room. Regardless of being consumed by trepidation, I made my way down the stairs. Having not checked the time on my way out of the room, I could only judge what time it was by the angle of light pouring into the building from the windows. It was still somewhat early morning. Several voices had been echoing from the cafeteria the whole time. I took a deep breath before I rounded the corner.

Where chaos was expected, I found a relatively calm environment. There were a couple of lively conversations occurring between a few people, but nothing to write home about. My eyes wandered from face to face. They were all just kids, but there was something in their eyes that connected them all. I couldn’t put my finger on it in that moment, but it would come to me in time.

I had to get through the awkward silence that took over when I entered the room. My heart skipped a little. I had never been a fan of being the center of attention. My eyes darted to the floor and I made my way over to the food and coffee. The breakfast was waffles. I grabbed a couple with some butter and syrup, then prepared a cup of coffee with some bland creamer. It wasn’t my favorite, but it was something I didn’t have to pay for.

I settled at an empty table. I kept my head down and minded my own business. The awkward silence ended and conversations sprang up again. It was my hope that I could just eat my meal and have my coffee undisturbed. The kids had other ideas. One of them approached me. He was a tall, lanky black kid that moved in a manner almost like a girl. I tried not to make assumptions, but his movements and wardrobe told me he might be gay. He sat at my table with a beaming smile on his face.

“Wussup, New Girl!” he greeted. “You just get in?”

I finished chewing a bite and prepared the next one. “Yea.”

He smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Matcha, your welcome wagon.” I noted that his accent sounded close to mine. “Well, I’m everybody’s welcome wagon, actually. I make it a point to do it and be a friendly face for the newbies. You want the tea, you come see Matcha. You got beef, you come to me. I don’t tolerate no drama llamas, understand?”

“Got it,” I plainly stated, then readied another bite to shove in my mouth after asking my question. “Your sound is familiar. Where you from?”

“Originally, Bed-Stuy. The Village is my home, now. You sound familiar, too.”

I finished chewing before responding, “Crown Heights. Born and raised.”

“No shit? Small world!”

“You go to ‘The High’?”

“Nah. My parents wanted me to become a CEO or something, so I had to go to Bedford Academy. Hated every second. What about you?”

“That’s probably why I don’t know you. I had to go to ‘The High’.”

“Pretty white girl like you? Really? I’m sorry?”

I shrugged and popped some more waffle in my mouth. After chewing and swallowing, I met his eyes. “It was no biggie. Kept to myself.”

“How’d you end up here, then? Most of us are queer, by the way. Plenty of disaffected youth up in this bitch. I got kicked out ‘cause I had the nerve to tell my pastor dad that I was fruity as a cocktail. He wanted straight up beer, no chaser.” He rolled his eyes.

“Sounds like my dad. He’s a cop.”

He nearly jumped out of his chair as he recoiled dramatically. “The kid of a cop went to ‘The High’?! How are you not dead?!”

“Keeping to myself.” I took another bite and started chewing.

His eyes widened. “You’ve got more balls than most guys. I don’t think I’ll ever have those kinds of stones. Wow.”

I shrugged again. “Not really. Mind your business and nobody messes with you.”

“Droppin’ truth bombs, girlie. You ain’t answered my question, though: how’d you end up here?”

I let out a sigh, giving myself the opportunity to think for a moment. Looking down, I poked my waffle with my fork. My thoughts moved quickly and there was really only one way to answer without giving away too much, “I wasn’t who they thought I was, so I got kicked out. Ms. Maven found me on the C train.”

“Nobody here calls her that. It’s either just ‘Maven’ or ‘Aunt Mae’. She’s good and genuine people, so we get pretty close to her. Don’t cross her, though. She gets mad and yells at you in Irish that only sounds more scary ‘cause you got no idea what she’s saying.”

I finished chewing another bite. “Noted.”

“So, what’s your name?”

For half a second, I froze. That was the moment I was worried about for the last few days. The name I’d finally decided on bubbled into my surface thoughts. I offered a short smile. “I’m Saoirse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Government name? No street name?”

I shook my head. “No. Haven’t been out here that long.”

He offered a small shrug. “All right, then. Good to meet you, Saoirse.”

Webs We Weave



Chapter Seven

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: Getting back to writing has been great. Had to do a bit of research here for authenticity's sake, but I think it created a deeper narrative. Hope this one was worth the wait for you guys.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_S9VvJM1PI ))

Contrary to presumptions, the weekend passed by quickly and without any hitches. Mingling with the shelter kids wasn’t as frightening as I’d originally envisioned. So long as I generally kept my mouth shut and let them talk, I was fine. Matcha did most of the talking. Nobody seemed to use their “government names”, as Matcha had phrased it. There was “Jefa” who had run away from her controlling parents who didn’t approve of her “lifestyle”, “Chispa” who was the quiet and non-binary one who liked to tinker, “Salty” who had been kicked out of his house by an abusive stepfather who found out he kissed another boy under the bleachers, “Lowkey” who tended to chill in the background until it was time to deescalate conflict, and “Peach” who everybody but him knew was probably a femboy in hiding. The connective tissue I’d seen in their eyes became obvious: they were all queer kids from “traditional” homes that had been punished for being themselves, then society forgot about them.

Before I knew it, Maven was waking me up with a backpack dangling from her finger. Monday morning would be the beginning of the day of reckoning. Upon accepting the backpack that seemed a bit heavy, I requested privacy while I dressed for the day. Fresh underwear was clawed on after a quick shower. Jeans and a t-shirt were next. After the socks and shoes, I grabbed the now-familiar white hoodie with the lavender lining and slipped the backpack over my shoulders. It was mostly a blur as I was barely paying attention to the choices made. It was also a far earlier time in the morning than I can remember being awake for in years. I was only half awake and entirely in need of coffee. Grabbing a cup with a lid and a few bites of waffle, I was ushered out the door while being told we were going to be late.

Maven kept her swift pace as she led me through the streets. It was rather difficult to keep up with her while also fiddling with the shoulder straps of the backpack. Once I was actually wearing the darn thing, I was better able to keep pace.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I finally asked after sipping coffee.

“School. There’s much we’ve got to do before you’re sitting in a chemistry lab, bored out of your mind.” She informed me.

“Oh. Part of me hoped you were joking about that.”

She gave me a side glance of disapproval while waiting at a corner for the light to change. “You mistake me for a comedienne. I gave an honest effort some time ago. I’m afraid I’m not very good at jokes.” The expression on her face encouraged me to stop being an idiot. “Now, we’ve need of getting our tale correct. What’s your date of birth, love?”

“August 10th, 1991.”

“Ah, yes… the old story of a thirty-year-old who looks like a teenager. That’ll pass muster.” She glared at me again. Her comedy may not have been great, but her sarcasm was on point.

“I dunno… 2009?”

“So you’re fifteen, then? Wanna do this for a further two years, do ya?”

“2008?”

“You’ll be turnin’ seventeen this summer, just in time for your senior year? Lovely.” The ‘walk’ signal lit up and we crossed. “Now, what the devil is a girl like you doin’ alone? Where are your parents?”

That one took me a few moments to think about. “So… you’re prodding me for believable answers so I can recite this if I’m asked through this whole process?”

“When you’re asked, Saoirse. When.”

The purpose finally clicked in my mind. I did need to get my backstory straight or the whole house of cards would crumble. “Right… um… my parents are… both dead? Died when I was younger?”

“Sorry to hear it, love. Who’s been takin’ care of you ‘til now?”

“Shit. Um… my aunt?”

“And where’s she now? Why aren’t you living with her?”

Taken aback, I had to think a little harder. “Um… well… she died a couple weeks ago? I’ve been on my own since then?”

“Sorry for your loss, love. Did you and she live in New York?”

“Yea?”

“Wrong. You say that you were in the New York City Department of Education system, they’ll go lookin’ for ya. What do you think they’ll do when they find no record of Saoirse Parker in the system?”

My body slumped. “Call me a liar and a fraud. Maybe report me to the Department of Corrections… or worse?”

“Good. Also, keep slouching. It’s a body tell that you’re not so sure of yourself. Past that, there’s plenty of towns in Jersey to be from.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t wanna be from Jersey.”

“You’ve a better idea, then?” In response to her, I shook my head. She continued. “You’re from South Amboy. She was a singer. Died in a plane crash. That still happens. A real pity.”

“My aunt was Violet Sanford, now?”

“I don’t care what her name was so long as the story is sorted. So, your dear auntie passed, leaving you all alone, until I showed up. Lovely, let’s begin again.”

We reviewed the backstory several times before arriving at the New York City Department of Education’s local Family Welcome Center. Apparently, we’re situated in District 2. Our brisk morning walk took us through many neighborhoods and the buildings progressively got taller as we walked down 7th Avenue. The building we arrived at looked like it might have been a tenement building for workers back when the whole area was “the Garment District”. It was pretty big, had a lot of floors, and had a facade like a lot of buildings from the late 1800s. We entered the shiny metal and glass main entrance marked “333” and crossed the lobby for the elevators. So long as we didn’t trip the metal detectors—which we didn’t—security didn’t even give us a second glance. The building appeared to be a bunch of offices, judging by the directories scattered around the lobby.

Arriving at the floor we needed, I quickly tossed the empty coffee cup into a trash bin before we entered the office we needed. The whole environment was as sterile as any social services office. The walls were white. The floors were white. The ceilings were white. The fluorescent light pierced through to your very soul. There were some windows with personnel behind them that may or may not have existed as a result of precautions during the pandemic. All the while, Maven guided me through the office. Our first stop was reception, where a thirty-something woman with a fake smile asked us to grab a number and have a seat. Maven, knowing how the system worked, demanded we speak with someone in enrollment pursuant to the McKinney-Vento Act because I was a student in temporary housing.

After producing some paperwork from the folder she’d been carrying with her, we were ushered over to a person behind a computer screen in the Enrollment area. The woman with random gray streaks in her hair took one look at Maven and rolled her eyes. It seemed as if my escort might have been well known in the office.

“Good morning, Eliza,” the woman greeted, confirming my suspicions. “What’s the student’s name, this time?”

Maven offered the woman a professional grin. “Good morning, Beatrice. Her name is Saoirse Maxine Parker. You’ll not find her in the system, but I know you have to look anyway.”

I didn’t recall declaring a middle name to Maven. I opened my mouth to say something, but Maven’s hand gently lifted to cover my mouth while the woman did her work on the computer.

Beatrice frowned before asking, “Mind spelling that for me?” Maven did as requested while the woman typed on the keyboard. The frown stayed as she viewed the screen. “She’s not in the system. Date of birth?”

“The tenth of August, two thousand and eight,” Maven announced without hesitation.

With a heavy sigh, the woman began inputting the information and beginning the paperwork. “Have a seat, you two. I have to create identification from scratch, so this will take me a minute. You’ll need to speak with a placement councillor once I get this entered.”

“I am aware, Beatrice. Thank you.”

We sat together in a pair of chairs about ten feet from the window where Beatrice was busy at work. There was quite a bit of hustle and bustle going on around us. Enough noise was reverberating off the walls that I felt it was safe enough to actually whisper to my escort.

“I never gave you a middle name.” I objected in a strong whisper.

“There was no need,” Maven responded with the same whisper volume. “I investigated your history, as I do with all those in my care. Your father is Captain Gregory Parker of the New York Police Department’s 77th Precinct. Your mother was Maxine Parker, a teacher in the New York City Department of Education’s Sixteenth District at the time of her death. It’s Irish tradition to bestow the name of a deceased loved one upon a new child in the family. Your mother’s name seemed like a fitting tribute. Was I wrong in assuming that?”

“Not entirely, but I was still considering possibilities for a middle name. I haven't decided on one yet.”

“You were instructed to have a name prepared by Saturday at supper, were you not?”

“Yes, but–”

“You only decided on a given name. There are some that move through the world with no middle name, but they are rare outliers. Often, they are teased by their peers. I suspect you’ll have a hard enough go at identifying with your peers that you needn’t have another reason to be ostracized.”

“I would have liked to have been consulted about the middle name. However, I kind of like it, so we’ll keep it.”

“You’ve no choice now. You’re in the system.”

Within moments, we were called back into some cubicles by a guy who appeared about the same age as I used to be. He identified himself as my placement counselor, though he mostly spoke with Maven. It had been a long time since I was completely overlooked and barely spoken to by other adults in the room. It was pretty weird to be considered window dressing rather than someone responsible for paperwork and decision-making. Maven provided the NYC Housing Questionnaire and Affidavit of Person in Parental Relation upon request. She had made a few copies, just in case. When prompted, she requested my placement at a place called Midtown High School because of its relative proximity to the shelter and the fact that all the other kids attended there. She stressed that having a familiar peer group was essential to integration.

Within moments, the guy turned to me from behind the two monitors on his desk. “I appreciate that you’ve got all the paperwork in order, Ms. Maven. However, I need to speak with Saoirse for a few moments.”

“Of course,” Maven nodded to the man. “I’ll not interfere.” She nudged me to get my attention.

I didn’t even notice that I’d been slouching and immediately straightened up in my chair. “Huh? Did I miss something?”

The guy chuckled at me, but maintained a kind demeanor. “Not much. I’d first like to welcome you to New York City, Miss Parker. Since you’re new to the city—well, new to the school system at the least—I’m generating your Office of Student Information System number. It’s a nine-digit code that’s given to all students in the New York City school system from pre-K through college. There’s also a ten-digit code that will be generated by the state shortly, but we don’t use that one in our system.”

I nodded along to his explanation. I knew all about the OSIS number. I’d been given one when I was in school before, but it was always something in the background. It seemed to be mostly for bureaucratic purposes in those days. I never even knew what my OSIS number was before. “Okay. That’s cool, I guess.”

“You’re going to want to memorize this number. You’ll use it for everything: your TeachHub login, your grades, and even to access the wi-fi in the building. It’ll start with a ‘25’ since you’re a new 2025 enrollment.” His fingers danced over the keyboard and he manipulated the mouse a bit. “I’m also going to log your McKinney-Vento status here. Your school will issue any MetroCards or OMNY cards necessary for your transportation needs. With a student status, you can use them four times per day absolutely free. That includes weekends and holidays, too. You’ll also be entered into the free meal program, where you can get breakfast and lunch with no cost every school day.”

“Thanks?”

He nodded once again and seemed to read off a prompt. “The New York City Department of Education is an equal-opportunity educational environment that embraces the diversity that has made our city everything that it is over the course of the past four hundred years.” He turned to actually look at me. “Is there a preferred name or gender marker that you identify with that may not be expressed on your legal documentation? The DOE system allows us to update that at a moment’s notice based on student preference, independent of legal documentation.”

My seat was feeling a bit warm in that moment. “Uh… no, Saoirse is fine. I’m a girl, so… yea.” I was sounding like a teenager without even trying as a result of the information overload coming at me.

His face remained neutral and his weird smile returned. “Okay, then.” He returned to his screens. After a few more minutes of silence, other than the sound of his typing and something being printed, he glanced in our direction once more. He handed a couple of pieces of paper to Maven. “These are two copies of the Placement Letter for Saoirse. One is to be presented to the Students in Temporary Housing Liaison at the school. The other is for your records, Ms. Maven. You can scan the QR code for an orientation video.” His eyes fell on me once again. “Welcome to New York City public schools. Have a good day.”

We quickly thanked him and made our way out of the sea of cubicles, back into the main office area, and toward the elevator. Maven handed me one of the pieces of paper once the doors closed.

“You’ll need to review that.” She requested.

My eyes scanned the paper. At the top was the stylized “NYC” logo with the green, orange, and light blue colors of the old Dutch flag for the city, as well as an unfulfilled environmental promise. Below that was “Public Schools” in a darker blue. There were addresses and phone numbers for the various points of contact along the header. Below that, it started listing the student information. It was weird seeing “Saoirse Maxine Parker” typed out with official font and formatting. Immediately below that was my OSIS number, followed by the date of birth that Maven and I had fabricated: August 10, 2008. Below all of that were my placement details. It listed the school—Midtown High School—the school’s DBN, the address, and phone number. The next thing to be listed was the grade level—marked as “11” to denote a Junior-level student—and the effective date of May 5, 2025.

“What’s there to really review? We went over all the details already. Everything checks out.” I commented, handing the paper back to her.

Maven glanced at me just as the elevator doors opened. She said nothing while we maneuvered through the lobby. It wasn’t until we were back on the sidewalks of the city and being ignored by everyone around us that she spoke. She knew where she was going and I was only following along.

“Something else we need to emphasize, love: dumb it down.” She instructed me.

“Dumb what down?”

“You can be interested in STEM all you like. What you must remember is your average high school junior hasn’t yet learned the amount of delta-V required or the maneuvers necessary to achieve orbit around one of Jupiter’s moons.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “They might if they’ve played Kerbal Space Program.” She looked confused, which caused me to scoff and roll my eyes. “It’s a PC game with the most comprehensive orbital mechanics and relativistic physics on the market. The characters are literally little green men. It’s hilarious and educational.”

“I repeat: dumb it down. The events that affected you and I have happened five thousand years apart. When it happened to me, my people were still largely nomadic. Losing the status of a clan leader was an enormous scandal in my time. Beyond our clan, no one was the wiser. They took me for what I appeared to be: a young woman and member of another clan. We weren’t as centralized as it is now. I’ve no idea how your paranoid government will treat this phenomenon. Until I know more, do your best to blend in. It’s the only way we can protect you. Understand?”

“Back off the advanced robotics and act like I don’t yet understand calculus. Got it.”

“They will likely test you when we arrive. Be prepared for it. They’ll likely also ask you many questions. Repeat the performance from the Family Welcome Center just now and you should be fine.”

“I wasn’t really acting. I was almost blinded by the fluorescent lighting, trying desperately to ignore the voices echoing off the walls, and trying not to smell anything.”

“A bit overwhelmed, are we?”

“More than a little.”

“Keep that energy going, love. You’ll make it through this morning yet.”

The response she got from me was a very juvenile groan. There was a lot of unanticipated walking that morning. There’s a chance that Maven was using the time between destinations to drive certain points home. The current presidential administration wasn’t known for level-headed thinking in the face of a crisis. The energy wave and subsequent particle rain had caused quite the stir. While I was dealing with my own issues, the internet was ablaze with sensationalistic interpretations of what happened and what it meant for society as a whole. News stations wouldn’t stop talking about things they had zero evidence of. Speculation was running amok. People had little evidence and even fewer answers.

As much as I might not enjoy the consequences, Maven was correct in trying to insulate me from distrust and speculation. She was really doing me a solid with the idea of going to school. I hadn’t yet learned about anyone else affected by what had happened, so I had nothing to compare my experience to. Before last week, no one would have entertained the idea of putting me back in high school for any reason whatsoever. Now, it seemed like a viable cover, given what had happened to the world.

Before long, we finally arrived at the front steps of the school. The building wasn’t as old as some others around the city. Back in the 19th Century, schools weren’t really given names. They had numbers. The building before us was an imposing eight-story structure with a design language that communicated with the other 19th-century buildings. It had a design flair indicative of the period with large windows and a stone/brick facade. There was no number over the front entrance, so it was built after some of the other schools. However, “Midtown High School” was chiselled into the stonework above the door. Interestingly, nobody would really refer to its location as a midtown spot. It was on 15th Street, just off 6th Avenue. Nobody would consider anything south of 34th Street to be “midtown”.

Shrugging off the odd designation, I entered the building right behind Maven. The student entrance was dominated by metal detectors. A few words from Maven about getting to the office with a new student got the security guards to usher us through without complaint. The interior was a mixture of old charm and contemporary technology. It had obviously been renovated a couple of times. Before I knew it, Maven was passing the Placement Letter on the counter to be reviewed. I stayed quiet and patiently awaited my fate. My eyes wandered while Maven did much of the bureaucratic heavy lifting.

Until that moment, I hadn’t really taken in the architecture of the building. The main lobby corridor was a well-preserved relic of the Gilded Age. The dark wood accents contrasted against the marble-looking floors blew me away. Lining the corridor were what appeared to be antique display cases with various awards displayed. I wandered a little to glance at them. There were trophies of every stripe inside the cases. The older section began in the 1930s and featured mostly sporting accolades. That continued into the 1980s before more academic and artistic accolades began to replace them. By the time the dates on the trophies reached the second decade of the 21st Century, there was about a 60-40 split between artistic, debate, and intellectual accolades alongside sporting trophies. In the very center of the corridor, there was a circular symbol made entirely of aged brass. Along the outer edge of the circle was printed “Midtown High” and “Wildcats”. The center was an image of the mascot of the school: a wild feline that looked like any number of small predators in the genus—bobcat, lynx, or ocelot.

My focus was broken by Maven gently taking hold of my arm and leading me away from the entrance foyer. A lot of the Gilded Age styling was kept in the corridors and sharply contrasted with the more modern styling of the administration offices. Maven led me to a door that we swiftly entered. The room seemed to be a more modern office with a bit more blue than many of the other spaces I’d been in thus far. Inside was a younger woman who appeared to be about the same age Maven appeared to be, which was late 20s. She wore a sensible blouse with a cardigan and an A-line skirt with modest pumps. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and plastic-framed glasses sat on her nose quite comfortably. Her smile caught me off guard — nobody smiles that big in New York.

“Hello, Saoirse!” She greeted in a bubbly, high voice. “So good to have you here at Midtown High. I’m Ms. Warren, your Students in Temporary Housing Liaison.” She held out a hand for me.

I accepted the handshake, but the positivity was a little overwhelming. “Nice to meet you.”

“Why don’t you and Ms. Maven have a seat and we’ll get you settled.” She requested and we obliged. “I’m your penultimate stop before getting you into a classroom and learning your little heart out.”

Mirroring the Jews around Brooklyn, I thought, ‘Oi, vey…’

Ms. Warren handed Maven a blue piece of paper. “That is the emergency contact form. All you need to do is sign it, Ms. Maven.” Then, she turned to me. “I’m merely here to help give you a leg up, Saoirse. There are roughly sixty-five thousand kids in a similar situation to yours in New York City, so you are most certainly not alone in your experiences. I’m sure you’ve already met a few of them inside Ms. Maven’s facility. I’m not here to ask questions about that. I’m here to make sure you have the things you need to be successful in this school. Do you need clothing, school supplies, toiletries, or a school-issued laptop?”

My face probably resembled a deer in headlights. “Um… all of the above? I mean, Tír na nÓg Community House has a lot of donations that come in, but it’s still my first week and there’s not a lot of things that work for me.”

Ms. Warren nodded quickly. “Alrighty then. I’ll get right on that. I’ll have some things for you throughout the week. You got your student email from the Family Welcome Center?”

“It’s right here in the paperwork.” Ms. Maven answered for me. “Yes, she has one.”

Ms. Warren gave a quick side-eye to Maven before continuing with me. “I’ll send you notices to that email so that we can keep it discreet, okay?”

All I could do was shrug. “Sure. Sounds great.”

Once again, the toxically positive smile returned to Ms. Warren’s face as she handed me a MetroCard. “Alrighty. All that’s left is for you to speak with the guidance counselor, unless you have any questions for me?”

“No. I’m okay.” It was likely evident in my voice that I was very much done with all the bureaucracy of the day.

Maven and Ms. Warren worked out some particulars while I wanted to pull my hood over my head and crawl inside. It was almost as if the inevitable was being delayed excruciatingly. Within moments, Maven was ushering me out of Ms. Warren’s office and leading me toward another. Every part of me wanted to be done with offices for the day. The office we arrived in struck me as more of a living room than a traditional office. There were more comfy couches than institutional seating. We were greeted by a guy in his mid-thirties with well-groomed brown hair and an actually stylish mustache. He wore glasses on his face, a button-up shirt with his sleeves rolled up, a sweater vest, some nice slacks, and oxfords. His smile was genuine.

He stood and walked around his desk to greet us. “Good morning, ladies. I’m Andrew Davis, one of the guidance counselors for Midtown High.” His gaze fell on me. “You must be Saoirse, then?”

Both Maven and I shook his hand before I said anything. “Yes, I am.”

He tilted his head to the side and offered an understanding grin. “Looks like you’re already feeling like it’s been a long morning. Why don’t you pull up a cushion on one of the couches and we’ll start in a minute.” His gaze turned to Maven. “Ms. Maven, if you’d like to grab some coffee in the office and join us in a few minutes, Saoirse and I can get started on what the next two months are going to look like for her.”

Maven took a seat next to his desk. “I’m quite all right, thank you. I shall be but drapes in the corner.”

Mr. Davis picked up a tablet from his desk and joined me on the couch. I had already slipped off the backpack and sat ‘criss-cross-applesauce’ on one of the couches. He powered up the device and shot a smile in my direction.

“Okay, then,” He began. “New York City Public Schools has placed you in the eleventh grade. That feel about right to you?”

Again, I shrugged. I was doing a lot of that today. “Sure.” I stole a glance in Maven’s direction before returning to Mr. Davis’ face. “My aunt was homeschooling me since my parents passed away.”

His face bore genuine sympathy. “I’m so sorry you’ve gone through that. How long has it been?”

My mind dug for anything I could work with. After a moment, there was only one answer that seemed plausible enough. “I was nine.”

He tapped a few buttons on the screen of the tablet. “So it’s been about seven years, then? Was it structured well enough? Did you feel like the education was fulfilling?”

Out of the corner of my eye, Maven was shaking her head. She was trying to help me with subtle body language. I answered after a moment of contorting my face in a way that attempted to convey that I wasn’t trying to be rude. “I mean… my aunt meant well, but I don’t think she knew what she was getting into with me.”

“In what way?”

“Well, she’s more average intelligence and I’m smarter.” I tried to feign a blush, hoping it worked well enough.

“Ah. It wasn’t challenging enough, eh?”

“She was good with books. Like, fiction books. I like reading well enough—”

“But it’s not your primary focus, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Right. What gets you excited about learning, Saoirse? What do you want to get with your education here at Midtown High School?”

“I really like math and science. I wanna end up in some experimental laboratory, or the Hayden Planetarium, or at JPL someday.”

Mr. Davis chuckled. “Some pretty lofty ambitions there, Miss Parker. We love to see that kind of interest in STEM fields, especially from young ladies such as yourself.” He tapped a few things on his tablet. “We’ll get an assessment and see where your aptitude is. I’ll schedule you in Trigonometry for the moment, but test you in a day or so to really get a sense of where your math comprehension is. Sound fair?”

“Yeah, that’s okay, I guess.”

“As far as the sciences, we can slot you into a chemistry lab, a physics class, and our robotics lab if that strikes your fancy?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “That sounds great!”

He tapped a few things on his tablet. “English, History, and Civics courses are required for Juniors at this school. You may have to make up some of the coursework over the summer. We’ll do one of those assessments this week to see if that’s required. Have you thought about electives?”

Somebody on my train of thought pulled the emergency brake. “Uh… as in…?”

“We have pretty extensive programs for sports, music, painting, sculpture, and theatrical arts at this school. Any of those sound fun?”

My shoulders performed one of the largest shrugs I think I’ve ever pulled off. I’ve never really done electives, let alone anything artistic. “I… don’t… know?”

“I’ll pick out a couple and apply them to your schedule. If anything doesn’t feel right, you come back to me and we’ll work on your schedule. Sound good?”

With a whole lot of trepidation, I answered, “Sure.”

He chuckled again. “It doesn’t have to be scary. Think of it as another experiment.” He once again tapped a few things on his tablet before his eyes returned to me. “Hopefully, we’ll get a well-rounded schedule solidified for you in the next couple of days. It’s going to be crazy enough trying to acclimate to the social scene with just about two months left in the school year. I want you to know that I’ll be here for you to support you along the way. You can come to me with anything, alright?”

“Thanks, Mr. Davis.”

The printer in the corner beeped as he smiled. “Not a problem, Saoirse. Welcome to Midtown High. We’ll make a Wildcat out of you, yet.” He stood, turned, and headed for the printer. He grabbed a second sheet of paper from his desk. When he returned, he was armed with a schedule and a map. “The room numbers should be easy enough to find. Classrooms start on the second floor, so they’re numbered in the 200s. The numbers go all the way up to 700, even though the building has eight floors. There are no classes on the top floor. Easy enough to understand?”

My eyes scanned both pieces of paper as he handed them to me. “Not really, but maybe it’ll make more sense in a couple of days.”

“That’s the spirit!” He grinned. “Follow the map and schedule. In a few minutes, Second Period begins. What room are you looking for, Saoirse?”

My eyes darted to the sheet of paper. “Uh… Mr. Harrington’s World History course in room three-thirty-one?”

“Third floor. East end of the building. Why don’t you get a head start while Ms. Maven and I have a chat?”

My glance bounced between the two of them for a couple of seconds. “O… kay…”

“Have a good day, Saoirse,” Maven bid me with a smile.

In the next moment, I slipped on the backpack I’d been given that morning and was finally let loose. Once out of the office, my nose was in the schedule and the map I’d been given. Each individual floor of the building was quite small as it had to fit on the same sheet of paper. Thankfully, I found the stairs and began climbing to the third floor. At the top, I couldn’t quite make out which direction was East. My eyes darted up and down the corridor.

In the next instant, a bell rang out through the halls and teenagers flooded the corridors like a liquid deluge in any disaster movie in the past twenty years.

My eyes shot wide open and only one thought crossed my mind: ‘Oh, shit…’

Webs We Weave



Chapter Eight

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: This was so much fun to write thanks to the soundtrack idea I got from comments on the last chapter! Posting this in the middle of the night because I couldn't sleep and the night owls will get a kick out of the "early access".

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5G5BnlBuozU ))

The deluge threatened to overtake me as a number of teenagers made their way toward the stairs. I quickly moved to the side and plastered myself against the wall. The current of bodies passed me. Their eyes, however, lingered on me longer than would usually be comfortable. Their expressions read as confused and suspicious. One glance at the pieces of paper in my hands told them the information they were looking for. They seemed to instantly know that one was my schedule and the other was a map of the school. Their eyes rolled and each one seemed to individually tag me as “the new girl”. Once that classification was applied, the confusion left their faces but the suspicion lingered.

‘High school sucks! Why the hell am I doing this again?’ was all my brain could conjure up.

Choosing not to be the animal on display, I collected myself and began looking for the strategies I had used long ago to survive the class-to-class chaos. It wasn’t returning to me, even after the third backpack to the face. When I began to factor in that I had been on the planet twice as long as these people, it didn’t help summon the muscle memory in the slightest. The volume of chatter was at a constant high level as if nobody cared about the effect they might be having on anyone else. Pairing that with the overuse of Axe body spray or Bath & Body Works perfumes only made things worse. The sneaker squeaks on the linoleum and the sounds of lockers being opened or slammed shut provided the soundtrack. If the streets of New York City were a symphony, any high school in the five boroughs would be a punk rock concert—complete with a mosh pit.

Slowly, I navigated the flood of bodies while glancing at the room numbers next to the classroom doors. They were positioned at an ADA-compliant level with corresponding braille for the visually impaired. Glancing at them through the sea of bodies added a degree of difficulty I wasn’t expecting. I cross-referenced the room numbers with the schedule a couple of times. Dead giveaway that I was new. I should have committed it to memory and worked from there. I overheard a few people proclaim at full volume that I didn’t really belong. Social suicide committed in the first five minutes. That’s got to be a new record.

Mercifully, I finally arrived at the designated classroom and made my way inside. It appeared to be like any other classroom I’d been in before. Linoleum flooring, fluorescent overhead lighting, some cupboards in the back, plastic and metal desks arranged in rows and columns, subject-specific decor around the perimeter, and a single wooden desk positioned in the front to convey authority. The differences began with the 19th-century windows on the far wall then moved to the electronic projector hanging from the ceiling, the white marker boards at the front, and the flat screen in the corner. It was a 21st-century classroom with 19th-century DNA.

The teacher stood from behind the wooden desk at the front and strode in my direction. He looked to be about the age I used to be. His brown hair was neat and combed nicely. His beard was groomed in a professional manner. He wore a white button-up that hung on him a tad loosely with the sleeves rolled up. His tan slacks were a more relaxed fit. He wore tennis shoes rather than oxfords. The brown eyes behind his wire-framed glasses bore a flicker of kindness. My eyes darted between him and the collection of desks that seemed halfway filled up with students.

“Are you lost, young lady?” He asked quietly as he approached.

I lightly shook my head. “No, I’m sure this is the room I’m supposed to be in.”

“I know my students and you are not one of them. You sure you didn’t hop in here to momentarily avoid the crowd outside?”

“Positive,” I stated firmly. Turning the schedule toward him, I held it up as evidence. “Frankly, I’m kind of amazed I wasn’t late.”

He took a moment to examine the schedule in front of him, then offered an apologetic smile. “It would seem that I’m mistaken. We don’t usually get new students this late in the year.” He spun around to his desk, where he seemed to have a seating chart prepared. “Let’s set you… second row, fourth column.” He pointed at a seat nearer to the far wall and close to the door. “We had a student transfer out after the Christmas break. You’ll be fine there for the next couple of months. What’s your name again?”

“Parker. Saoirse Parker.” I responded while keeping focus on the spot that would make it impossible for me to hide in the back and avoid the social situation I was now facing.

"Well, Miss Parker, I'm Mr. Harrington and this is History of the United States. We're closing out the year discussing the Indian Removal Act, the Trail of Tears, and President Jackson's defiance of the Supreme Court. It's not exactly on our greatest hits album. You'll hate it. Most people do." He dryly chuckled to himself as if he'd given that trigger warning before.

My body moved in the direction of my assigned seat to avoid the awkwardness. “Splendid.”

Sliding into the seat I had been assigned, I pulled the hood over my head in an effort to hide as much as possible. Every single part of me wanted to not be a spectacle. I kept my head lowered as more students trickled in from the hallway and took their seats. My backpack was set next to my seat on the ground. Unzipping the main compartment, I found a hardbound 3-ring binder with some paper inside as well as a decent enough mechanical pencil. Without a textbook, it would be difficult to make it seem like I was paying attention, but I could at least try. The charade had begun.

There were sporadic whispers throughout the class, but I couldn’t decipher the subject matter. Maybe my senses were calibrated too high and nobody really cared? I did take some notes, but doubted I’d have to use them. I’d always had a talent for reading through the material and retaining the knowledge contained within. I could simply ask the teacher for a copy of the textbook, read through it in a few nights, and probably pass the final. The skill got me through MIT, so high school was going to be a breeze.

As Mr. Harrington was giving his closing remarks, I checked my schedule. After this class, I’d have to navigate up two more floors and find the cafeteria because it was lunch period. It couldn’t have come at a better time because I was incredibly hungry. The couple of bites of a waffle earlier that morning had not had any staying power. I stuffed the binder and pencil into the backpack Maven had given me that morning at the exact moment the dismissal bell rang out. It was a mad scramble for the door. It was deluge conditions once again. I was purposefully one of the last people out the door because I wasn’t going to get squeezed out the door like some kind of grape.

Into the hallway once more, the schedule and map were individually folded small enough to fit into the waist pockets of the hoodie I was wearing. My hands loosely gripped the straps of the backpack as I walked along. Finding the stairs was easy enough. Once I climbed the two floors, my eyes darted up and down the corridor. There seemed to be a large room at one end that the current of bodies was moving toward. I simply followed the flow. These kids knew what they were doing, so… “when in Rome”.

About halfway down the hallway, the skin on the back of my neck and up toward the crown of my head started tingling. The hairs on my neck and arms seemed to stand on end. Out of my peripheral vision, I could barely make out the river of teenage humans parting. In the next second, something collided with me and I was knocked off balance. I didn’t fall, thankfully. My eyes darted in the direction of travel to catch sight of a girl spinning around. She looked like Alexandria Ocasio Cortez might have a decade and a half ago. Her sleek black hair was up in a high ponytail. The white, hooded, cropped sweatshirt along with black leggings and white shoes probably worth more than my uncle’s house draped over her frame looked more like an Instagram or TikTok star than a high school student.

Once spun around to me and walking backwards, she simply stated in a high-pitched voice, “Oops.” She then proceeded to smirk in an unsettling manner before turning around and walking forward down the hall, flanked by her equally well-dressed entourage of two other girls roughly the same age.

Oh, what fun. The “Queen Bee” trope was somewhat overused in Hollywood, but it wouldn’t exist in the first place if it weren’t based on something real. I had just failed to yield the hallway for Regina George and the Plastics. Yay me.

After she and her friends were gone, the hallway refilled once again and we all continued toward the cafeteria. I started to smell all the options on offer and it caused me to salivate. The moment the crowd reached the cafeteria, everybody fanned out to wherever they were going as if the river had deposited into a lake. My eyes darted around to figure out what I was supposed to do from there. I glanced over the many tables arranged in the giant room. One visual inspection and anyone can have a surface understanding of the sociological situation in any high school in the country. All the usual cliques gathered together. The differences lay in how the “outcasts” were arranged. When I was at The High in the ‘00s, there was the emo table, the Magic: The Gathering table, and the science nerd table. While the jocks, cheerleaders, theater kids, and band nerds were predictable, the social outcasts were an ever-changing variable with one exception: the influencers. There was a whole table dedicated to pretty people in expensive, up-to-date fashion and their overly decorated smartphones were either held up for a selfie or not far away. A couple of people were even doing a TikTok dance while a third held up the recording phone.

Upon spotting the line at the entrance to the area with all the food, I moved through the cafeteria with my hands still gripping the shoulder straps of the backpack. The guy in front of me likely stopped off at his locker between classes and applied a fresh spritz of too much Axe body spray. It was overwhelming. Instead of focusing on that, my ears wandered to peripheral sounds. The volume of conversation in the cafeteria was a bit louder than it had been in the hallway. That was overwhelming, too. My mind asked itself how I had survived high school the first time around. No answers were given.

Slowly but surely, the line moved along and I was able to grab a tray. Deciphering the signage all around me was another new stimulant. Eventually, I was able to decipher everything. One entree, one side, one fruit, one vegetable, and a small dessert with a pint of milk to wash it all down were the requirements. I made my way to the cashier with a square piece of pizza, some peaches, the saddest attempt at a salad I’d ever seen, and a small square of brownie. At the cashier, I noticed a flaw in the system: I absolutely needed to get my student ID card from the office if I wanted anything to work right. The school’s doors wouldn’t open for me in the morning and the system didn’t recognize that I’m a free lunch student automatically. The cashier was able to punch in my OSIS number and fix everything, but the process was arduous enough to annoy my fellow students.

I quickly got out of the way once the situation was resolved. No part of me wanted to hold up the line any more than I already had. A few feet from the cashier, my eyes once again scanned the tables before me. Once again, I recognized all the cliques sitting together as before. I wasn’t looking for that. When my eyes landed on an empty table, my feet carried me straight to it. Setting my tray down and having a seat, I resolved to have my lunch in solitude at one of the only tables without a metaphorical flag planted on it. I gladly deleted the bit of my brain that paid any attention to high school politics fifteen years ago. Zero fucks given.

For a few minutes, everything was fine. I had my hood over my head as if it were an invisibility cloak. The expected teenage chaos occurred all around me as I poked at my depressed salad and shoveled lettuce into my mouth. My mom had instilled in me that one should consume the vegetables first before moving on to the fun stuff. It was a lesson that remained a habit. Opening the pint of milk remained the exercise in aggravation as it had always been. My eyes remained downward so that the only thing in my field of vision was the empty table around me.

A body appeared to my left. My senses tingled before the shadow appeared on the surface of the table. My body froze and my chewing slowed as I anticipated the worst-case scenario.

“Is this seat taken?” asked a sweet, high-pitched voice.

My head raised and my eyes lifted to the form. The face associated with the voice knocked the wind out of me. She was more than conventionally attractive. She was the kind of attractive people paid a lot of money to achieve. Her almost angelic face was framed by wavy, almost curly hair that hung to about shoulder level. The color of it seemed brown at first, but turned almost blood red in the right lighting. Her bright green eyes were the most striking about her. They commanded attention. She seemed about average height, which wasn’t saying much, but everything about her form screamed “top model material”. I couldn’t see her shoes but her jeans looked like they’d been pulled out of a donation bin and washed ten times. She had a gray t-shirt with a Nirvana smiley face on it and an oversized flannel shirt over it. She had an ear with an earbud and one without. The tray in her hands had about the same level of sadness as mine.

When I finally caught my breath, I shook my head. “No. It’s just me.”

She smiled as she set her tray down. “I kinda figured that. You’re new.”

My eyes rolled all on their own. “Is it that obvious?”

She giggled. “It kinda is, yeah. I mean, nobody’s ever seen you before and you don’t even have a student ID to pay for your lunch. It’s a bit of a dead giveaway.”

My body slumped. “Geez, just cut right in there. Are you stalking me or something?”

“No. You’re not that cute and I’m unfortunately very straight.” She smirked, perhaps hoping to get a rise out of me.

“Bully for you?”

She snorted a little into her giggle. “I’m Hailey, by the way.”

“Saoirse,” I responded and returned to poking the sad salad.

“Oof. That one feels like an oldie. Your grandma give that one to you?”

“No. My aunt. It came out of the 1920s, but it’s pretty contemporary. Ever seen Lady Bird?”

“Oh yea! I thought it was pronounced ‘soar-shuh’ because that’s how she pronounces it. Yours is ‘seer-shuh’?”

“It’s the more traditional Irish pronunciation. It’s huge over there. Not so much here.”

She struggled with her own pint of milk while speaking. “So, what brings you to Midtown High just in time for testing that puts the fear of God into your heart and, y’know, Prom… or something…”

After chewing some lettuce and swallowing, I shrugged. It was time to adhere to the cover story. “Required by law. My aunt was homeschooling me for a few years down in Jersey. She died and now… now I’m in the city.”

She visibly slumped and her entire demeanor changed to concern. “Oh, look, I don’t mean to be a jerk and pry too much. I’m sorry if I’m overstepping.”

“You’re not. I’m still processing. It’s been a long day.”

“Somebody put you through a ringer, huh?”

“Yea. A lot of paperwork.”

“Ouch. I wouldn’t even know the first thing about what a newer student might go through. I’ve been at Midtown since freshman year. It’s got its ups and downs, but it doesn’t completely suck.”

“I had to find my second period class. That’s when the bell rang.”

“You said you were homeschooled? Have you ever been to a public school this big?” I simply shook my head at her. The concern returned to her face. “Oh… my… god… that’s a big yikes! It’s almost like making a toddler try to swim like an Olympian in the deep end. Are they crazy?!”

I gently shrugged. “I’ve already committed about thirty acts of social suicide. What’s one more?”

Laughter erupted from the previously empty, unclaimed table. Full, unadulterated, belly laughter. If she had tried to drink anything before I spoke, it would probably be coming out of her nose by now. Was I really that funny? I had no idea because I’d mostly only said these types of things to myself in my own head. To my chagrin, the people in our immediate vicinity stopped talking. A quarter of the cafeteria was suddenly quiet. A bit of panic began to engulf me. It’s never a good sign when teenagers get quiet and intentionally begin to pay attention to something or someone. Catching her breath, Hailey noticed as well. She turned to see that my pupils were likely dilated, there was a little sweat on my face, and my lips were pressed together.

She turned and gave the people around us a quick glance. When she turned back to me, she was shaking her head. “It’s almost like they’ve never heard anyone genuinely laugh before.”

I was practically frozen in place. My eyes darted from one face to another. Every part of me wanted them to stop looking. To stop noticing. When my eyes fell on the girl from the hall earlier glancing over with an eyebrow raised, my lungs quickly sucked in breath. “Oh, god, not her…”

“Who?” Hailey turned around once more to figure out who I might be referring to. She followed my line of sight, which fell on a table between the jocks and influencers. She almost instantly recognized to whom I might be referring. “Oh. ‘Flashdance’? She’s generally harmless unless you catch her attention. Then, she’s kind of a bitch.”

Wait a minute. “Flashdance? Seriously?”

“Yea. She showed up to ‘80s Spirit Day dressed like that girl from the movie last year when she was a sophomore. She owned the look and the attitude, so she got the nickname. That’s Evelyn Thompson. She’s one of the Fifth Avenue kids that thinks she’s the queen of everything. Money doesn’t mean importance, but you can’t get that through the heads of people like her.”

My head slowly turned to Hailey. “I failed to yield.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She ran into me in the hallway because I failed to yield. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Usually, it’s just a clever blocking trick movie directors use to showcase main characters. Like… I dunno… Regina George and the Plastics.”

“You have seen way too many movies.” Hailey giggled. “Evelyn’s bad news, but she’s not that evil. Not that I’ve seen, anyway.”

“How should I know? I haven’t…” I had to stop myself. My brain automatically wanted to blurt out that I hadn’t been in high school for about as long as Hailey had been alive. I pulled the emergency brake on that train of thought. “...ever been to a school like this.”

“It’s not as scary as the movies make it seem. Sometimes, it’s worse.” She smirked with her tongue out at me.

“Har… har…”

“Oh, girl, you are not going to pass the vibe check with that ‘tude. It’s giving blood in the water inviting sharks.”

My brain swirled into a double-take. I hadn't anticipated having to learn an entirely new language as of yet. I could work out the basics of what she was saying. "So what do you suggest I do? That look on her face creeps me out and I'd rather just fade into the background."

She tilted her head like the answer was obvious. "Okay, so the hoodie stays, I get it, it's your whole thing. But you're sitting like you're waiting for a deposition. Shoulders down, fork in hand, eyes on your food. Unbothered energy. You're not hiding if you look like you don't care that you're hiding."

“You lost me about five miles back.”

She laughed, picked up her fork, and demonstrated with her own body — shoulders visibly dropping, posture loosening, eyes falling casually to her tray like nothing in the room was worth the energy. “Like this. You’re a main character who doesn’t know she’s the main character yet. Act like you’d be fine if somebody just kept swiping up.”

It hit me: she was referencing short-form social media videos. If the viewer wasn’t interested in the content, they just swiped upward on the screen with their thumb. It was starting to make some sense. “Right. Be boring, not the victim.”

“That’s it! Now you’re more like me: someone who doesn’t really care what anyone thinks. I’m not chasing clout online, a ball on a field, or a shot at a Tony Award. I’m just me. I float from clique to clique because I was raised around some of these people and they all chose a lane. I refuse.”

There was something pretty admirable about this girl. “I can respect that. I’m more comfortable around a math book or a chemistry set than running out the battery watching videos on my phone.”

She threw a chunk of sad salad in her mouth and chewed as she considered my statement. Her head bobbed for a few moments before she swallowed. “Okay, a STEM girlie. That’s genuine and pretty fire, actually. So, you’re like the girl I’d have desperately face-timed at 2 am when I was failing pre-calc?”

Finished with the salad, I had moved on to the peaches. “I mean, I guess so? I can’t guarantee I’d have answered at 2 am, though.”

She offered a sideways smile in my direction. “Setting boundaries already? Respect. Most people would have said ‘yes’ just to sound nice. Not you, though. I appreciate keeping it real.”

“What am I gonna do? Lie and keep you in suspense? I think not. I’d offer to help you prepare for a test or show you how to do your homework right, though. Y’know, like a tutor.”

Her head lowered slightly. “Wait, are you actually offering to tutor me right now? We literally just met. You’re either one of the most kind people in this school or you’re running a long con and pre-calc is your opening move.”

“I’m just me… and I’m better at chess than that. You don’t open with f3. It’s suicide.”

She dropped her fork. “Excuse me, what?!”

It was my turn to laugh. “It’s a chess thing. It’s really not important otherwise. Expose the king equals bad. Make sense?”

“Not even a little bit. It shows that I wouldn’t be able to tell if you were playing the long con, you chess wiz.”

Both of us shared a laugh as we dug into our pizza squares that were a far cry from restaurant quality. Mediocre cafeteria food suddenly tasted a little better after a pleasant interaction with a new acquaintance. I had a feeling that Hailey and I might actually get along pretty well. We shared a little bit more banter as we finished eating. Just before I finished my pizza, something caught my eye.

About halfway across the room, some guy stood up. The world seemed to slow as my heartbeat quickened. His height was almost intimidating before I remembered being about as tall a week ago. His fluffy brown hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and looked great. His green eyes lit up as he smiled down at whomever was talking to him. He wore a graphic tee with some pop art of William Shakespeare on it. His blue and red letterman jacket was overtop of that. His loose fit jeans sat well on his hips. The room started to feel a little bit warmer. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Hailey waved her hand in front of my face without a reaction from me. “What are you… ?” She began to ask but followed my line of sight and answered her own question. “Oh. You’re crushing on ‘Em-Jay’.”

The trance was broken. “Who-dee what-now?”

She grinned at me like she had a secret. “Oh, he’s called ‘MJ’. That’s Mark Watson. He did this killer Michael Jackson routine at a pep rally in middle school. The nickname remains. It helps that his middle name is Jacob, though. Really nice guy, too. I can see why you’re crushing on him so hard.”

My cheeks burned. “I’m not… he’s just… shut up, Hailey.”

She laughed so hard she fell off her seat.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Nine

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: Finally starting to see a little movement. I'm looking forward to this. How about you?
To those who don't speak Spanish, Google Translate is free. To those who do and believe I messed up somewhere, I apologize. Google Translate is free.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFRL0eNR_d0 ))

A few minutes after Hailey and I finished eating and dumped our trays, the bell rang to signal the beginning of the next mad rush to class. Sounds of disappointment rang out in the cafeteria. My new acquaintance and I examined my schedule and discovered we had a biology course called “Living Environment”and P.E. together the following day. Our schedules were organized into “A Block” and “B Block”. Each class lasted ninety minutes and the lunch period was forty-five minutes. We bid farewell to one another and I tried navigating the sea of overstimulation to my Spanish class.

Upon reading that Mr. Davis had placed me in a foreign language elective that I was practically fluent in through osmosis, I laughed. All the classes were going to be a breeze, but that one in particular — given the date — was funny enough for me to laugh in the hallway. I ignored the awkward glances and found the classroom.

Upon entering the room, almost all the seats were filled with students. My eyes recognized Jefa and Lowkey almost immediately and I flashed a smile at them. The teacher at the front of class stopped momentarily to glance at me. She was an older woman, likely closer to forty than thirty, with a couple strips of gray hair among her black locks. She had a decent tan complexion. She wore a loose blouse and slacks with flats on her feet. Her brown eyes fixed on me like I’d done something wrong.

“¿Y quién eres tú, jovencita? ¿Se supone que debes estar en esta clase?” She asked me with authority.

The class was labeled like a second-year Spanish course. It’s only natural that the instructor would communicate entirely in the language she was teaching. I answered almost effortlessly, “Soy Saoirse Parker. Sí, esta es mi clase. Me inscribí esta mañana.”

Blinking quickly, it was as if she couldn’t believe I could actually communicate with her. Then, she shook her head and continued. “Encantador. Tome asiento, Señorita Parker. Parece que ya ha estudiado español antes.”

“Podría decirse que sí.” Smiling, I crossed to the desks and took a seat near Jefa and Lowkey who both looked at me in disbelief.

Lowkey nodded upward at me. “Yo, I had no idea you knew Spanish, chica.”

Jefa agreed. “I know, right? We could’ve been trying to talk in code and you’re up in here spittin’ it back at us.” She giggled.

“¡Alumnos! ¡En español! ¡Ahora mismo!” The teacher, Señora Silva, according to my schedule, glared down the column at the three of us. “¡Señorita Cortez Santiago! ¡Señor Álvarez! ¡No se lo voy a repetir!”

Both Lowkey and Jefa jumped a little and turned forward quickly, apologizing in Spanish. I hadn’t actually heard their ‘government names’ up to that point. It was strange hearing them spoken aloud. Thankfully, the rest of class was fairly uneventful. The teacher taught us the actual origin of Cinco de Mayo in Spanish. In all my years, I never knew it was originally a celebration in a small town after actually defeating a French army in a decisive victory. The people of Puebla were apparently pretty badass.

The final class that day should have been against the Geneva Conventions. It was absolute torture. Because I didn’t have any transcripts to prove I’d earned the mandatory credits the State of New York imposed on students, I was placed in a classroom with a bunch of computers and had to prove my aptitude. It was a small room with a couple rows of computers on one side and a couple of tables on the other. The adult in the room introduced himself as Dr. Hopwell. It seemed a little demeaning to have someone with a doctorate in an environment like that, but I was being judgmental. Interestingly enough, Salty was in the room with me. We didn’t get to talk much, though. He had some testing to go over and I had a date with the most mind-numbing computer programs I had ever seen.

The system had me start with the requirements of a freshman and move my way up. There were a couple of things I couldn’t fulfill in this manner, such as any arts or lab work. I started with the math requirements. After that, I planned to tackle the social studies. I resolved to save the sciences for last so I could actually enjoy the completion of this exercise. It would take a while, though. The “Common Core” method in the math slipped me up more than once. I could arrive at the correct answer, but the method of showing how I got there was frustrating me. Not even the advanced calculus at MIT was that confusing. The dismissal bell felt like a release on a pressure valve that had been building throughout the close to ninety minutes I had spent in front of the monitor. Salty and I shared a sigh of relief as we moved toward the door.

“Not so fast, Miss Parker. Can I speak with you a minute?” Dr. Hopwell stopped me within feet of freedom.

My entire body communicated my disappointment as it fell into a slouch. “Sure, I guess.”

Salty spun around quickly and gave a sympathetic glance. “We’ll meet you out front, Saoirse. We usually head home together. Safety in numbers, y’know?”

I nodded to him as I turned to see what the good doctor wanted to talk about. “I’m listening, Dr. Hopwell.”

The man was the walking embodiment of Milton Waddams from Office Space. I’m sure he meant well. He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose while glancing at a sheet of paper before he spoke. “I can see very clearly that you’re not taking well to the remedial requirements to make up your credits for graduation. It’s hard being a new high school student after so many years of homeschooling, isn’t it?”

“It’s my first day, Doctor. Everything is hard.” My answer was brutally honest.

He turned to the whiteboard on the front wall of the room and wrote out an equation. When he was finished, all it took was a single glance for me to know it was a basic indefinite integral. He pointed to the equation while handing me his marker. “Solve it.”

Taking the marker, I solved it in three steps. Handing him his marker, I rolled my eyes. “Basic indefinite integral. Apply the power rule, then add the constant of integration. Literally solved it in my head.”

Dr. Hopwell smiled. “Mr. Davis indicated that you might be gifted. Now you’ve proven it.” He let out a sigh. “Miss Parker, this class period will improve. It will feel barbaric and brutal at first as you make your way through what might feel like toddler math for you. Please keep going. I’ll help you prepare for the Regents next month to ensure you get placed in the AP courses next year. You have my word.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Half my body motioned to the door. “Can I go now?”

“I’ve been notified that you need to stop by the front office. Miss Warren is waiting for you. She’s going to arrange for you to get a photo and your student ID. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. I’d head down there if you want access to the building in the morning.”

I wanted to complain to every department in the bureaucracy the moment he mentioned the toxically positive STH liaison. My disdain was likely telegraphed. “Okay. I’ll head down there.”

He smiled at me. “Wonderful. See you in two days, Miss Parker.”

Without another word, I darted out the door as if I were running from the law. Every part of my being just wanted the day to end. Whatever the cost, nothing would please me more than getting out of that building. I forgot how quickly I actually moved through the corridors. The LTC was on the fourth floor. When I got to the stairwell, I managed to take them two flights at a time. I leapt over the railing and landed on the flight of stairs below. My ankle rolled funny and I slipped on one, but I kept moving. I wasn’t hurt, thankfully. It’s possible I only shaved about twenty seconds off my travel time, but it was worth it.

Finally, I arrived at the front office and just told the person behind the counter my name. She pointed me in the right direction. In moments, I was sitting on a short bar stool with a sheet of blue fabric behind me. My default expression conveyed that I was tired and very much over the events of such a long day. Ms. Warren told a mildly funny joke to get me to smile. It worked and they snapped the picture. Three minutes later, I had a hard plastic card in my hand with the goofy smile picture, my name, the name of the school, and my grade level printed on the surface. It’s only then that I noticed the school’s colors were red and blue. My previous high school had three: red, black, and white. Midtown had a dark blue and a deep red color.

For the time being, I shrugged off that tidbit of information. I quickly wormed my way out of the room and ultimately out of the building. As soon as I opened the doors, the symphony of New York City played once more. The air smelled like asphalt and moisture. There was a light drizzle coming down. Overall, it was warm and a little damp. Freedom felt good.

“Gyat-dam! You look like you been locked up for a month, girl,” Matcha noted.

Jefa let out a quick breath. “We’ve all been there, Matcha. She just survived her first day after all that paperwork an’ shit.”

I threw up my arms and welcomed the water droplets. “Freedom is glorious.”

Everybody had a chuckle. Salty added his two cents, “No cap. Let’s get moving. Aunt Mae’s gonna be on our asses about homework soon.”

“Don’t be delulu. You never do your homework, anyway.” Jefa chuckled.

“Let’s just get back to the house. Maybe we do a movie night just to blow off some steam?” Lowkey suggested.

“So long as it ain’t one o’ them Tarantino flicks. They mid as hell.” Matcha commented.

“Anybody up for a good adventure movie or, I dunno, one of those superhero movies?” I suggested.

They all stopped for a moment and considered.

“Bet. Pretty sure we can pirate Uncharted or somethin’. That one sounds fire, dawg!” Salty broke the silence.

Jefa sucked in some air and made a ‘tsk’ sound. “Boy, you simp hard for Tom Holland, don’t you?”

We all continued walking. I was positioned a step or two behind the rest of the group. They knew each other better than me. I was the new variable. “Don’t you guys have streaming or something?”

“Do we look boujee enough fo’ dat shit?” Matcha spoke up.

Thankfully, I was starting to understand the lingo. “None of us are.”

“An’ dat’s the tea, girl. Broke bitches gotta get entertained somehow. Chispa can get anything we wanna watch with theater quality. Girl’s got skills.” He turned to the rest of the group. “We’ll do a poll. Y’all suggest somethin’ for later and we vote. Bet?”

Everybody except me responded. “Bet.” I just shrugged and kept walking with them.

As a group, we navigated the streets until we hit 6th Avenue. Without any words, everybody decided to hop on the subway and ride a single stop before getting off again and heading to Tír na nÓg. We walked the entire length of the platform and came up on the southern end where all we had to do was cross 6th into Greenwich Village. It was a different path than I had seen Maven take. Watching the different navigation styles was interesting.

Arriving at our place of residence, it was well known among us that there was no hiding from Maven. There might be three doors on the exterior of the block of red brick buildings, but only one was a true entrance. That led directly into Maven’s welcome area and her office. Opening the door, we all filed into the building. Maven was at her desk, going over some paperwork on top of it. Her glance rose to us the moment she heard our footsteps.

“Welcome home, children.” She greeted us. “Makai, Marisol, Noah, Federico, and Seung-ri, please proceed. Julia is in the cafeteria completing her homework, as you all should do. Saoirse, I’d like a word.”

It was telling that everyone visibly shrank into themselves. That was the first time I’d ever heard the names their parents actually bestowed on them. It seemed to be a cultural thing among street kids to give each other pseudonyms to allow people to retain their anonymity. They all filtered out of the room and the last to exit closed the door behind them, leaving Maven and me alone in the room.

“Am I in trouble or something?” My voice broke the silence.

“No, love, you’re not. I merely wanted to know how you got on for your first day. Did it go well?”

For the hundredth time that day, I shrugged. “It went fine. It was boring as hell. I already know President Andrew Jackson was a 19th-century asshole. I already speak Spanish, but oddly didn’t know the origins of Cinco de Mayo. Their remedial computer lab is the worst joke ever. Beyond that, I may have made a friend and committed social suicide by daring to be in the path of the Queen Bee. Satisfied?”

Maven huffed. Oh boy. “Saoirse, I need you to listen closely when I say this, girl…” Her eyes met mine. “I know it’ll be difficult, perhaps even torturous at times, but it’s worth it. Going through this kind of schooling twice ain’t for the faint of heart. It’s for safety, love. Nothin’ worth doin’ has ever been easy, girl. Remember that.”

I hung my head. She had a point. “Yea…”

I could almost feel Maven smile as she crossed to me. She gripped my chin in her hand and lifted my eyes to hers. “Chin up, love. You made a friend. That’s not nothing.”

“Also found out I’m attracted to guys, so there’s that.”

“Isn’t that the case for most girls your age? I’d have thought you’d have figured that out long before now.”

“I wasn’t sixteen and female a week ago. I was so far in the closet that the skeletons and I were great pals. We were gonna have a barbecue this weekend.”

“Doesn’t matter. What happened was a gift, love. It’s a chance to start over and find out who ya really are. Cherish it.”

“Speaking of… I’m gonna start doing some testing on the roof. I think I need to get a real sense of what I can do.”

“So long as you’re not seen, it shouldn’t matter.” She cleared her throat. “Have you got any homework, love?”

“Thankfully, no.”

“Then off with ya. You’ve got some testing coming up this week. Best enjoy yourself while you can.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

The way my legs carried me, it was like I almost bolted out of her office and into the building proper. While the others gathered in the cafeteria space and began their homework, I was tasting freedom for the first time that day. Climbing the stairs to the upper floors, I skipped a couple of steps here and there. Finally up in the privacy of the room I’d been given, the backpack was dropped unceremoniously onto the bed. For a moment, I thought about what I might need to do some proper testing. The jeans I was wearing were the first thing to be replaced. I found a pair of black leggings and slipped them on. In an instant, my range of movement was enhanced. Nothing else seemed important, so I grabbed my phone and earbuds before making my way to the roof.

The door to the roof swung open and freaked out a few pigeons. My eyes scanned the surroundings. The immediate neighborhood between 6th Avenue and 7th Avenue, as well as between 4th Street and Bleecker Street, would serve as a suitable enough testing ground. The varied heights of the buildings would be handy. So long as I didn’t get too close to Christopher Street to the north or Father Demo Square to the south, it was entirely possible I wouldn’t be seen at all. Only tourists look up in New York City and I was nowhere near Times Square.

Pulling out my phone, I queued up a playlist. Generally, it had been used as octane to fuel the journeys I had to take for deliveries. It was comprised of all my favorite rock, punk, and emo hits from my teen years — from 2000 to roughly 2011. It was all the songs that kept me going. I hit play as the first song was queued up and leveled my eyes at the rooftops across the street. Given earlier results, the jump should be easy. The drummer hit the kick in the song and I started running. I came up to the ledge and launched myself into the air. The lateral jump was just over fifteen meters and I landed on the other side with room to spare. Endorphins hit my brain and a huge smile appeared on my face. I suddenly understood what Tobey Maguire was trying to convey on the screen.

Without stopping, the music propelled me through the most intensive parkour exercise I’ve ever witnessed. I was leaping to different building heights. I was bouncing off walls or running along wall surfaces like it was nothing. Occasionally, I’d insert twists or little flips just for flair. The thrill of executing feats I had never considered being able to do throughout my life was intoxicating. Sporadically, an exuberant “woohoo!” would come out of my mouth. I’m human.

During one of my “laps” of parkour around the neighborhood, I decided to throw out a web line. Leaping off the side of one of the buildings over a road surface, my arm extended and my hand formed into the shape that would activate the spinneret. It activated and a line of gossamer ejected. Coming in contact with the brick facade, it amazingly attached to the surface. Grabbing the line, I was carried in a semi-circular arc around the building, the attachment point acting as the center. Like a weight on the end of a string, I swung around the building in a daring display. However, there were some miscalculations. Even as I gripped the line, the spinneret in my wrist kept producing that line. The radius of the circle was extended more than I wanted it to be. I had swung 180 degrees and there was a shorter roof beneath me. My one thought was ‘Uh oh’ before the line finally released and I fell toward the roof. I tried several times to produce a rescue line, but all that came out were globs of webbing. I came down and crashed with about as much grace as a drunk seagull.

Taking a moment to simply lie in my failure, I noted that it didn’t seem like I was hurt. Everything moved normally. After a few moments of self-deprecation, I stood and continued my exercises. Engineers working for Edison discovered more than ten thousand different ways to not make an incandescent lightbulb before they actually made one. It might take more than a few attempts before I’m swinging through Tribeca like a champion.

The exercises continued for a couple more hours as the sun dipped below the skyline. I ate some rather large slices of humble pie more than a few times. Sometimes, I miscalculated a jump and faceplanted onto a roof. Other times, the swing attempts worked poorly in spectacularly hilarious fashion. What was working was the fact that I could run faster than I’d ever been able to, I was more than decent at parkour, and I wasn’t getting hurt like I probably should have been after falling two or three stories. The inconsistent gossamer production wasn’t helping much. Sometimes, I would get a beautiful line that would support my weight and momentum. Other times, all I’d be able to produce would be a glob and a trip back down to terra firma. Almost everything would need further cataloguing and studying.

My landing back at the building that housed Tír na nÓg felt like it was piloted by the penguins from Madagascar 2. I flopped around end over end after another failed swinging attempt. My body landed, rolled, and came to a skidding stop on the roof while I groaned in response. Somehow, I thought I’d be more graceful and be able to catch myself before landing in a heap. Turns out, that was going to need practice as well. It might be a while before I’d be able to achieve landings worthy of a movie poster. Yet again, I let myself lie in failure while I calculated what went wrong.

“That must feel embarrassing. That looked like one of the videos I’ve seen of puffins,” A voice not far away broke the silence and my solitude. “The things will faceplant coming in for a landing next to their nests. It’s genuinely hilarious.”

Turning my head toward the sound, my eyes beheld a Hispanic teenager roughly the same age as I appeared to be. Her black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. Glasses sat atop her nose obscuring her brown eyes a bit. Her clothing was an oversized t-shirt and baggy jeans. She leaned against an HVAC pipe with something under an old blanket behind her on top of the pipe. She had a single eyebrow raised as if there was a question lingering in her mind.

“How long have you been standing there?” I wondered.

“Long enough,” she answered simply. “How long have you had powers?”

Numbers ran through my head for a moment. “About a week.”

“Since ‘the event’, huh? Curious.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can come up with something better than ‘the event’. It sounds ominous and vague.”

“How about… an energy flux with an electromagnetic event horizon followed by an exotic particle tail that has affected the human race in ways not currently quantifiable?”

“That sums it up pretty well, but it might be a little breathy for the layman.”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

I grunted as I began to lift myself off the ground. “I get that a lot. We haven’t been able to talk much, Chispa. It’s nice to get an opportunity.”

“I was hoping to be up here alone, actually.”

“Introvert?”

“Not particularly. I just don’t have much in common with the others. It’s difficult to relate when I can’t debate quantum entanglement or something as simple as the Theory of Relativity.”

Finally standing, I stretched my limbs. Yet again, the only thing harmed by the stunt was my pride. “It can be like that some times. I get where you’re coming from.”

“Are the others aware that you have powers?”

“Nope! No reason to tell them, either. I’d like to keep it that way, if you please.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I shall keep your secret.”

“I appreciate that.” With a finger, I pointed at whatever was under the blanket. “What have you got there, if I’m allowed to ask?”

“I’ve been measuring CMBR and how it differentiates from the energies experienced during ‘the event’.”

“Not easy to do from a rooftop this low to the ground, I guess.”

“We must make do with the tools at hand.” She huffed.

“Inconclusive results, huh?”

She folded her arms. “Yes. It’s hard to do real science without much in the way of resources.”

“Graduate programs at universities. That’s where they send all the good money.”

“How old are you?”

I nearly gulped, feeling like I’d been caught or something. “Sixteen?”

She smirked in a way that suggested to me that she didn’t buy it. “Yea, okay. You still don’t have a street name, do you? That Irish name of yours is hard to get my tongue to cooperate with.”

“I don’t have a street name. How hard can it be to say Saoirse?”

“I think about the spelling and my tongue gets confused.” She narrowed her eyes at me once again. “We can call you Seda.”

“That’s Spanish for ‘silk’.”

“¿Crees que no lo sé? It’s elementary: gossamer equals silk.”

“Oh… because the webbing thing… You’re not wrong. It’s a bit like a dad joke, but it works.”

“Consider that I’m called ‘Chispa’ and I tinker with electronics a lot.”

“Fair point.” I bobbed my head for a moment, considering the proposal. “Sounds like it could work, I guess. Would you be so kind as to show me your device? I’m incredibly curious how you’re measuring CMBR from a terrestrial position with all the atmospheric distortion.”

She smiled and nodded, taking hold of the blanket. I think I made another friend.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Ten

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: If you're enjoying this, refer a friend. Hit the kudos and leave a comment.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DAUV41K52o ))

The alarm on my phone woke me up the next morning. After helping Chispa calibrate her sensors and sitting through Tom Holland playing Nathan Drake, I was pretty exhausted the night before. I was fortunate enough to not have to wake up as early that morning as the one before. There wouldn’t be any paperwork or bureaucracy. Everything had been handled the day before. Today, there was nothing but a full day of high school.

Fuck me.

The dread of another day navigating the halls amidst a sea of teenagers hit me as I threw off my comforter. My mind searched for anything else to ponder. The weather. Traffic congestion in lower Manhattan. Thermal dynamics. String Theory. Anything at all. Sitting up, I caught sight of the building across the street outside the window and remembered my testing last night. So long as my feet were mostly on the ground, it seemed to go well. I was a little faster than an average human and my agility seemed to be right up there with seasoned parkour athletes and gymnasts. Consciously manipulating Van der Waals forces so I could climb, walk, or run along a sheer vertical surface felt like second nature. The webbing was a problem. Lowering my eyes to my wrists, I began to ponder why the webbing was so catastrophically unreliable.

Generally speaking, it’s not the spinneret on the abdomen that creates a web. It weaves together the filament that can be manipulated to construct the thing, but it cannot do so by itself. On its face, I was dealing with two self-contained, multi-stage chemical reactors and bio-extrusion plants. However, without having a way of pulling the thread, the process is relatively unreliable. Arachnids utilize their rear legs to pull the thread and use it as they need it. That had to be the reason I was popping out amorphous globs of bio-crystalline polymer: there was no true extrusion force. In conclusion: Tobey Maguire should have had “web shooters” and I’ll have to make my own. I’d just have to deduce the “how”.

Plan of the day in place, I slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Showering was still a new experience. The body I’d been given still felt alien. Affirming as hell, but still alien. My brain wasn’t connecting a few dots. After washing every inch and my hair, I wrapped my body in one towel and my hair in another before returning to my room. While I gathered clothes and decided what to wear for the day, Maven came knocking. Still wrapped in towels, I opened the door enough that we could see each other.

“Wonderful. You’re awake and preparing for the day,” she noted. “I’ve reviewed your schedule for today. You have P.E. Have you made certain to pack your cotton knickers and a sports bra?”

My eyes widened and I recoiled at her brashness. “I… hadn’t thought about that.”

“Luckily, I’m here to remind you. Get dressed and be sure to brush your hair, love. Have a good day at school, then.”

She spun on a heel and disappeared down the hallway. I closed the door and turned to face into my room with an expression of whiplash written all over my face.

Recovering from the thought train derailment, I put on a fresh set of undergarments, some loose jeans, a slightly baggy t-shirt, and a gray hoodie. I fished my schedule and the map of the school from the pockets of the hoodie I wore the previous day. Remembering Maven’s advice, a pair of cotton underwear and a sports bra were packed into the backpack she’d given me. Toweling my hair dry, I was out the door before quickly running a brush through it. Looking a bit like a tomboy, I descended the stairwell.

There are times when I would rather have an exit in the building that didn’t pass through Maven’s office.

“Just a moment, Saoirse,” she halted me mere feet from freedom. I spun to look at her as she stood from behind her desk and handed me a white rectangle. “This is for you. I considered the state of your previous device and the practicality of maintaining a cellular phone plan when you’ve no income. I took the liberty of adding you to the organization’s plan.”

My eyes fell on the device as she placed it in my outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

“It’s not the fanciest with all the latest technology or styling that some of your peers might have, but it will allow you to interact with your peers. There’s a notepad application where I’ve transcribed your number.”

“You didn’t have to get me a brand new phone.”

“I’m aware, love. Teenagers in this age view their devices as a lifeline to each other. It’s a necessity anymore.” Her eyes darted to the door. “Run along, now. You’ll miss breakfast if you don’t arrive soon.”

My brain was lost for words as I turned and moved toward the exit and began my walk to school. I couldn’t decipher why she felt it necessary to get me a new phone. My phone worked fine… most of the time.

I didn’t see any of the others until I got to the subway station. They were already waiting for the train that would take us one stop before we disembarked and headed to school. Only Matcha was talkative at that time in the morning. Everybody else was hungry and not thrilled about going to school that early in the morning. I shared their sentiment. The new phone dominated my attention during the short ride. There was a lock code to program for security purposes and a phone number to memorize.

My eyes and fingers stopped manipulating the screen when I saw my own phone number. Seeing “(212) 555-2368” on the screen, it’s entirely possible someone could have knocked me over with a feather. There was a lot of history and significance on that digital screen. A couple of the others asked me what caused me to look like that, but I couldn’t answer.

Soon enough, the train arrived at our stop and I stuffed the phone back in my pocket. The walk to school was quick enough that I didn’t have much time to think over the events of the morning. I waved my student ID over the electronic lock and confirmed it functioned as designed. All of us Tír na nÓg “kids” ascended the stairs and headed straight to the cafeteria. While we dug into the pancakes and sausages, someone from Ms. Warren’s office dropped off some textbooks. I didn’t want to have to look at my schedule to discover where my locker was at breakfast, but I pretty much never get what I want.

Thankfully, my locker was on the third floor and my first class of the day, English, was on the second. Easy progression. The teacher, Mrs. Vintergrime, was a tall woman with blonde hair that was graying a little. She had a rather skinny but very Scandinavian build. Her blue floral dress was quaint and rather pretty. Thankfully, she didn’t have an assigned seating chart, so I could sit wherever I pleased. My eyes scanned the students already seated. I gave a nod to Lowkey and Peach. They were seated in the back of the class. It was exactly where I wanted to be.

There was a hitch. Mark was in the class. From his seat in almost the exact middle of class, his eyes followed me into the room and to the seat I’d chosen. My heart rate quickened and the room felt a bit warmer. I fumbled a little as I took my seat. Concentration was difficult.

Once class got going, Mrs. Vintergrime was much more focused on the deeper meanings intended by a work of science fiction created by a seventeen-year-old girl in 1816, finished by 1817, and published anonymously in 1818. That particular work of fiction was one of my favorites because it stresses the consequences inherent in scientific discovery. I knew it through and through. My mind began to wander back to my dilemma: the web problem. Making it look like I was taking notes, I began to formulate exactly how I was going to engineer the problem. There were even rudimentary schematics drawn up by the time the dismissal bell rang. The homework we were given was to comb through the book and start thinking about an essay we would start writing the following week. I’d read the thing about a hundred times.

Once again, I waited for most of the rushers to bolt out of class and the bottleneck to occur before I stood. I was aware of how small I was now. No part of me wanted to be squished in with all that. The problem was that Mark had roughly the same idea. I was standing behind him and confirmed he was roughly as tall as I used to be. Thankfully, Lowkey and Peach flanked me. It gave me a little more confidence than I would have otherwise.

After a quick trip to my locker to exchange textbooks, I was off to what was probably going to be the second most boring class in my schedule: Algebra II/Trigonometry. It may as well have been addition and subtraction. Arriving at the classroom, I had to stop as I observed the desks in a semi-circle and I think my brain malfunctioned. The bell rang and the teacher, Mr. Bell, smiled at me. He was a rather tall black man with an athletic build. His head was shaved and he had a goatee that gave off a very Shemar Moore vibe. He wore a blue polo shirt with the school’s logo in red, paired with relaxed slacks and very nice sneakers. Unlike other teachers, he was sitting on the front of his desk rather than behind it in a chair.

“Technically, you’re not late,” he chuckled at me. “You were standing there before the bell rang. You are assigned to my class, right?”

“As of yesterday, I am.” I nodded at him.

He stood, rounded his desk and rifled through some paperwork. “What’s your name?”

My eyes darted to the students sitting in the semi-circle of desks. Son of a bitch. Mark was in my math class, too? Suddenly, I stammered. “S-Saoirse P-Parker.”

Mr. Bell chuckled. “Welcome, Miss Parker.” He motioned to the desk. “Please, join us by picking a point on my degenerate lune.”

Okay, that was kinda funny. I smirked as I lowered my head, picked an empty desk and sat down. Unfortunately, there probably wouldn’t be many opportunities to work out a prototype. I would be too visible. The possibility of this being a boring class diminished as soon as Mr. Bell opened his mouth and started teaching. The guy was good and really engaging. I already knew everything he was teaching. I had learned it from teachers that all seemed to do Ben Stein impressions. I don’t think anyone tried Jack Black as Dewey Finn until I walked into that class. The dismissal bell was only welcome because I was hungry.

The river of bodies heading into the cafeteria wasn’t as treacherous as it had been the day before. Navigating the current was easy enough and there was no sign of The Plastics in the hallway. Lunch that day was “nachos”. They used to call them “macho nachos” back in the ‘00s because they had so many options like a salad bar. Now, it was just the chips, meat, cheese, some onions, a few olives, and bits of tomato. They were tasty enough. Once again, I headed for a table that didn’t seem to be claimed by anyone else. Within moments, Hailey was joining me.

Digging into my pocket, I dug out the white rectangular electronic device and presented it to her. “The director of the shelter I’m in – we call her Maven – got me a new phone.”

Hailey examined it a bit before responding. “Oh, cool. The latest A-series. They’re pretty decent mid-tier phones. Not as fancy or as much of a status symbol as the S-series, but not bad phones by comparison. Let me get your number!”

Turning my wrist, I unlocked the phone and navigated to the notepad for her before turning it back around. “There it is.”

Her eyes shot wide open when she saw the screen. “How did you get the OG area code?! Do you know how much people would pay for a 212 number?! There are high-powered legal firms that can’t get one of those!”

Those facts surprised me. I was born a few years after it stopped being used across all five boroughs and was limited to Manhattan and the Bronx. I memorized our 718 number as a kid. My dad still had that phone number with a single corded phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The broken phone I used for gig work was a 917 number. I’d never considered the history before that moment.

My shrug at Hailey was rather large. “I… dunno. I was just handed the phone this morning.” A smirk grew on my lips. “It’s a pretty cool number, though. Can you guess why?”

Her brows scrunched together as she looked at the number again. It took her a few moments to answer. She took a few bites of her nachos as she considered my question. “I’m coming up empty. It’s not 867-5309, so I don’t have a clue.”

I laughed at that one before leveling at her, still wearing the smirk. “I’ve got six words for you: Who are you going to call?”

She faced the wall and her eyes darted about for a second. The moment the realization hit her, she turned to me with her eyes wide. “No cap? You’re not messing with me, are you?”

“Google it.”

She set my phone down and grabbed her own, following my prompt. When the results came up, she started laughing. “You have got to be kidding me!”

“Don’t feel so bad. I had to Google it to confirm. It’s pretty funny, though.” I was lying. My memory was a really good reference for relatively useless trivia like that.

“Fucking Ghostbusters coming in clutch!” She continued to giggle. “You know that firehouse is just down 7th Avenue if you ever wanna go one day. That lady that Sigourney Weaver plays? Her apartment building is on 5th Avenue in Central Park West. We should do a nerd tour of Manhattan sometime, just to be the weird kids.”

“Sounds fun!” That was not a lie.

Hailey fired off a text as she spoke. My phone alerted me to the reception a moment later. “You should use that theme song as your ringtone, just for shits and giggles. The OG, not whatever Fall Out Boy was trying to do when we were six.”

My head nodded as I picked up the phone and began putting her number into my contacts list. “I prefer the Fall Out Boy from the ‘oughts’ versus most of their 2010s stuff. Their cover of ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’ was pretty lit, though.”

She turned to me with a strange expression. Little did I know, I had just missed some linguistic shift. “Have you been hanging out with too many millennials?”

A little panic set in. “Uh… I’ve been with my aunt since my parents died? She was born in…” I did a little quick math in my head. “...1990?”

She nodded quickly, accepting the cover. “That tracks. We’ve gotta get you on TikTok and Instagram, my friend. We call a good, catchy song a ‘banger’ these days.” Again, she giggled.

“Oh…” The linguistic barrier would become more obvious if I didn’t do a little research. I mentally noted that I should listen to the shelter kids talk more often. “That song is a banger, then.”

Hailey smiled approvingly. “Atta girl.”

We finished our lunch without any more awkward situations, thankfully. Hailey was really growing on me as a person. I could tell she was smarter than she would let on. Her sense of humor was on par with mine. She was a bit on the nerdy-slash-movie-junkie side as well, which aligned with me. Her empathy and compassion were definitely in line with mine. I don’t think I’ve ever clicked with someone like two cogs in a machine in that way before. We were developing into a regular Woz-Jobs duo.

When the bell rang, Hailey and I navigated the halls as a team. We’d have the next two class periods together. She issued a disclaimer: don’t get on the teacher’s bad side. According to her, Mr. Caldwell was the oldest teacher in the building and was far less than kind. He’d teach us everything we needed to know for the Regents exams, but kindness wasn’t in his bones at all. Like a lot of men his age and from his generation, his life was close to the end and he was bitter about it. The moment we entered the classroom, I could see what she was talking about.

The room itself was arranged like one might assume a biology lab to be. The “desks” were more like kitchen islands arranged into rows and columns. It was apparent from observation that having a lab partner was part of this class as well as assigned seating. The man at the whiteboard was exactly what I expected. He was a shorter, bald man in his sixties with almost white hair around the lower parts of his head. He wore a mustache that was also nearly white. His physique was what one might assume for men his age: he had a gut that wouldn’t be tamed and all his limbs seemed skinny by comparison. He wore a blue polo shirt with a red school logo that was tucked into his tan slacks that were held onto his body by a black leather belt. His feet were covered by brown leather boat shoes.

He didn’t speak to me much. He took one look at my schedule and placed me at the back of the class without an assigned lab partner. I was the one that tilted the student count into the odd numbers, so I’d have to fend for myself. When I took my seat, Hailey turned to me and shrugged with a sort of awkwardly apologetic expression. Frankly, I was perfectly fine to be in the very back of the room without a lab partner. As the teacher droned on with his attempt at a lesson and I tried taking notes, my mind wandered. My eyes darted around the room and started doing an inventory of available resources.

The other students were continuing some kind of experiment that began long before I arrived in the class. The lab benches we were situated at had a few things available for these experiments. There was a sink and a gas nozzle on each bench. There were also several drawers with a Bunsen burner, petri dishes, microscope slides, a compound light microscope, graduated cylinders, beakers, test tubes, and all the other basic experimentation supplies inside. I even found some iodine solution, Biuret reagent, Benedict’s solution, and some pH indicators. The supplies were rudimentary at best, but my mind started to drift off imagining the number of tests necessary to unlock the secrets of the webbing my body was now producing. It would be nice to run some spectrum analysis and tensile examinations, but that would be impossible unless I snuck into a lab at one of the local universities. That kind of equipment would be beyond a standard high school budget, much to my chagrin. It was comforting to know that Mr. Caldwell didn’t really pay that much attention to what his students were doing. My mind began to plan out a few experiments.

The dismissal bell rang out and derailed my train of thought. I’d written down a few things I’d be able to do insofar as testing what the webbing was and possible comparison to spiders that I may be able to capture and study. Stuffing my materials into the backpack, I met up with Hailey and we began walking to the small gymnasium on the ground level. It and the swimming pool had both been built by the Works Progress Administration sometime in the 1930s. Both were built as extensions onto the rear of the building and it showed a bit. The darker red brick from the original 1881 structure nestled right next to the lighter 1930s brick was kind of a dead giveaway. Hailey and I entered the gymnasium that hit our eyes like the movie set for a historical piece. I was pleased to see Jefa in the class and my eyes scanned the other faces for anyone else I might recognize.

That’s the moment it hit me: this was a class specifically for junior girls. I was in a girls’ P.E. class. ‘Weren’t sex-segregated physical education courses ruled unconstitutional some time ago?’ my mind wondered.

Before I had an answer, a rather frumpy-looking woman in her late 30s entered the room with a clipboard in her hand. She had a short haircut and it seemed like she was only an inch or so taller than me. She wore a blue and red sweatsuit with a whistle around her neck. Her general physique was a bit on the curvy side. She very much looked like the stereotype of older lesbian P.E. teacher. Even her voice sounded like she fought against her brothers for everything she had for roughly half her life.

“Okay, ladies! The boys won’t be joining us today,” she announced, which informed me this was actually co-ed class regularly. “They’re going to be in the pool next door. We’re gonna take it a little easier and play a little dodgeball.” There were a few cheers. She looked at her clipboard. “Where is… say-oyer-zee?”

My eyes narrowed in annoyance at her terrible phonetic pronunciation. “It’s SEER-shuh. My name is Saoirse.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t really care, Miss Parker. I’ve got gym clothes for you. Come see me in my office in the locker room when we go in.”

‘Excuse me, what?!’ my brain screamed. My mind turned into rush hour traffic with all the thought trains running through it. “The… locker… room?”

“Yes, Parker, the locker room.” Her arm extended and she pointed at a doorway toward the wall shared between the original building and this extension. “It’s right over there if you can’t read the signs.”

Time to play dumb. “Why do we… need to go in the locker room?”

“To change out of your street clothes and into your gym clothes. It’s not rocket science, young lady.”

“I’ve never… been in… a locker room.” That was a half lie. I had dressed down for gym before, but never in this particular context.

“I don’t have time to debate with you, Parker. None of you girls will be seeing anything you haven’t seen before.” She blew her whistle. “Get moving, ladies!”

Feminine groans filled the room as everyone around us started moving toward the locker room. In my mind’s eye, there was a dolly zoom focused on my mortified face. No part of me wanted to go anywhere near such a private space. On the one hand, I was twice the age of all of these people. On the other hand, I was male until a week ago. Everything inside was screaming, “Don’t do it!” Thus, I stood there like a terrified deer in LED high beams.

“You okay, Seersh?” Hailey asked quietly. I couldn’t move.

“She’s been homeschooled since before gym class would have been a thing.” Jefa jumped in. “Her aunt just died not too long ago. Everything’s kinda new and overwhelming. We’ve been used to this since middle school. This is her first time.”

“Oh,” Hailey responded in a sympathetic tone. “Sorry. I didn’t know.” She turned to Jefa. “Who are you?”

Jefa extended a hand. “I’m Marisol, but people call me ‘La Jefa Fuerte’ or just ‘Jefa’ for short.” Her finger bounced between me and herself. “We’re both living in the same place.”

“I don’t wanna go in there.” I quietly vocalized. “I shouldn’t go in there.”

“We gotta, though. None of us enjoy it. There’s some girls that are apparently built perfectly that are fine being seen in their underwear or less, but most of us would rather not. Some girls change in the bathroom stalls.” Jefa informed me.

“I hide behind the locker doors, most of the time. I don’t know why adults think it’s okay to shove a bunch of puberty-stricken girls into a sensitive situation like a locker room. It’s weird.” Hailey added.

“We’ll get your clothes from Coach Vic and get you set up in a bathroom stall.” Jefa offered.

My mute streak continued.

Both Hailey and Jefa grunted as they started guiding me toward the locker room. My wide eyes remained on the door as it grew larger. When the door opened, I closed my eyes. I had two guides, after all. They walked me through the room and we stopped. The teacher’s voice hit my ears again.

“What the heck are you two doing? Parker, why are your eyes closed?” Coach Vic asked gruffly.

“Respecting the privacy of others,” was my answer.

The teacher scoffed and ruffled through a couple things. Then, she approached and shoved something into my chest. My arms closed around a bundle of clothing. “I don’t have time for this. What are you? Some kind of lesbian or something? Get your butt dressed and get back out there with the rest of them!”

There were no words. Jefa and Hailey guided me to the bathroom area and showed me to a stall.

“There you go, chica. You should be okay in here. I gotta get dressed.”

“We’ll come get you in a couple of minutes,” Hailey added.

The stall door closed behind me and they seemed to disappear. When my eyes opened once again, they confirmed I was indeed in a stall. The green plastic walls, the toilet, the toilet paper dispenser, and the little rectangle whose purpose eluded me drove the point home. Stripping off the street clothes and putting on the red shirt and blue shorts took a little doing in the confined space, but I managed. Just as I was putting my shoes back on, my helpers returned. By that time, there were only a couple of people in the room shoving things into lockers, so I didn’t have to force my eyes closed. Jefa found me a spare locker to shove my things into before we all exited the accursed room.

Back in the gym, Coach Vic had us count off into ones and twos. Odds went to one side of the gym and evens congregated on the other. There were five rubber balls with a distinctive textured surface. Before the reconfiguration I experienced a week ago, I could swear there were still marks on my skin in the shape of the textured surface of the very balls set and evenly spaced on the mid-court line. There are horror stories told about the sound those things would make on impact. If you know, you know.

The teacher blew her whistle. “Okay, ladies, listen up! These are the old school balls used for this particular activity! None of you will be aiming for the face! You get hit, you’re out! You catch the ball, you can rescue a team member and bring them back into play! I catch any bullying behavior, you’re gonna feel like you just joined the military when you’re doing pushups and running laps for the rest of the class period! Do I make myself clear?!”

“Yes, Coach!” about half the class shouted in unison.

“Good! Next whistle, you’re going to run for the balls in the middle and the game begins! Ready?!”

She blew her whistle and there was a stampede for the middle of the court. Balls were acquired and started flying seconds later. The distinctive “ping” sound began echoing off the walls, mixed with cheers and jeers from nearly twenty teenage girls.

My tingling sensation was in overdrive. My reflexes reacted as one might expect. Sometimes, I’d catch the ball before it struck me in the face. Other times, I’d catch it far to the side of me with one hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I started noticing some girls looking at me in a particular way that communicated that I shouldn’t be able to do the things I was doing. Initially, I was having fun and not really paying attention. After the looks, I started paying attention to what I was doing. The dodges, catches, and scores I was accomplishing shouldn’t be achieved by someone who didn’t play this sport professionally. I was reminded that abilities like these were weird and should be kept close to the chest. I started scaling back and purposefully handicapping myself.

In my mind, I started repeating a reminder to myself, “You’re an average, nerdy teenage girl. Don’t play like an Olympian.”

Could I have obliterated the opposition and been the last girl standing? Yes, but I was reminded to stop worrying so much about whether or not I could and begin to analyze whether or not I should. Thank you, Madame Shelley and Dr. Malcolm.

After ninety minutes of combat, there were some casualties. A couple of girls got hit in the face and had those lovely red marks. One or two had legitimately acted like bullies and got called out for it. I let myself get hit and taken out of play more than a few times. At the end of the day, the odds ended up with the last girl standing. No, it wasn’t me. Coach Vic blew her whistle a final time and excused us to the locker room. Only a couple of girls even bothered getting dressed back into their street clothes. Most, including me, grabbed our things from the locker and left. It was the final period of the day. I don’t think anyone bothered showering.

Jefa, Hailey, and I had a spirited post-game chat as we made our way to the front of the building. Hailey headed off to wherever she lived. Jefa and I joined the others before heading back to Tír na nÓg. All said and done, the day was generally a success.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Eleven

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: Sad to say, but part of this chapter could not have existed without Dance Moms. My wife got me into it. Blame her/them.


From Saoirse: "Happy Pi Day!"

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XleOkGsYgO8 ))

For the fourth time in a row, I had to dodge something Chispa threw out of her way. She was dangling into a dumpster while using her pelvis as a fulcrum. Thank goodness for my senses because her behind was practically in my face and I was not looking. Her upper body was dangling over the lip of the thing and not visible from where I was standing. Neither of us had any homework, so she invited me to join her dumpster diving excursion. She’d shown me some hauls from her recent exploits and it seemed to be a winning strategy. How else were a couple of poor kids supposed to work with complex electronics that were usually insanely overpriced?

“Jackpot!” Her voice echoed from the confines of the giant metal box. She grunted a few times and then exhaled heavily. “Seda, I could use a little help. The mechanical affinity of my body as a lever is insufficient.”

“What’d you find?” was my curious retort.

“Computer tower. Recent. Can’t tell most of the components but there’s two read-writeable Blu-Ray drives in it. Who uses disc drives anymore?”

I started climbing the side and maneuvered myself around her. “Rich people with way too much money and way too little sense?”

She started to giggle, then protested. “I can’t laugh bent over like this! Halp!”

“Keep your overalls on!” I chuckled as I hopped into the surprisingly clean rubbish receptacle. “I didn’t expect it to actually be clean in here.”

“Welcome to Tribeca. The dumpsters do have food gunk in them, but this one usually just has clothes and last year’s electronics. I try not to ask too many questions when there’s a gold mine like this so close to the house.”

“Heck of a find.” I nodded while acknowledging the rectangle of metal and tempered glass that she found. “That’s a heck of a tower. It’ll be fun to figure out what kind of hardware it’s got inside.”

It really didn’t take much effort at all to lift the large machine out of the dumpster and help Chispa right herself once again. I had lifted paperweights that had more heft to them. Even Chispa noticed how effortlessly I was lifting the computer tower.

“How does that feel in your hands?” She tilted her head to the side while brushing whatever was on the side of the dumpster off her bib overalls.

“Like an oversized pencil, if that,” was my response as I handed it to her before climbing out of the dumpster.

She grunted rather dramatically. “¡Mierda! This thing is heavy!”

I took the tower out of her hands and didn’t so much as flinch. “Not to me.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Must be nice having the proportional strength of a spider with the theoretical capability of lifting a friggin’ tank over your head.”

“That is an unsubstantiated claim. I haven’t been able to really test that yet.”

“Think about it, Seda: if you’ve got the abilities like everybody’s favorite red-and-blue-clad webslinger, then it’s safe to say we can catalogue what you might be able to do. Is it not?”

“Given what you’ve seen and I’ve experienced, it’s feasible the hypothesis is sound.”

“Good. We can do some math, work out some numbers, and test the hypothesis.”

“You’re gonna expect me to lift a tank?”

“Don’t be silly. Where are we gonna find one of those in New York City?”

We shared a laugh. “That’s not the problem I’m currently working on, though.”

She picked up a sack of different things we’d salvaged and we began walking toward Greenwich Village. “Oh? What’s itching at your brain?”

A sigh escaped my lips. “This is gonna sound gross…”

“Seda, we just went head-first into several dumpsters without considering that they’ve probably not been washed in a few years. I’m fine with ‘gross’.”

“Remember when I landed less than gracefully yesterday?”

“Like a puffin returning to the nest? I still laugh when that image pops up in my brain.”

“Have you noticed the little divots in my arms that look almost like tiny blowholes?”

“I don’t pay that much attention to your arms, Seda. Are you saying that’s where the web stuff comes from?”

“Yes, it’s exactly where it comes from. It’s these little spinnerets that pop out and produce the webs. There’s just one problem: without a mechanism to guide them correctly, I just get globs of goo most of the time. The protein polymer requires something to pull at the strands so the web is deployed like it’s supposed to be. Spiders have their back legs. I don’t have anything.”

She nodded slowly as we walked. “Ah, so you need some sort of delivery device that can produce consistent results? Are we talking about legit web shooters?”

With another heavy sigh, I nodded. “Yep. Pretty much. I’ve been cataloguing different components that might be needed. I need to get things into CAD and try formulating a device that encompasses the different components. After that, time to prototype.”

“I could probably help with that. I’ve got a whole kit back at the house. We’ll have to fabricate some of the parts with a dremel, but I’ve at least got a soldering iron and magnifying glass.”

“We have to keep it a bit on the down-low, though. I don’t think everybody needs to know about all this. It’s bad enough you and Maven know.”

“Wait… how does Aunt Mae know?”

My heart nearly stopped. My mind searched for a believable excuse. “Uh… she caught me on the roof before you did.”

“Yea. Okay.” She narrowed her eyes on me. “Once you’re done with designs in CAD, we’ll go over these schematics you’ve devised and see what we can come up with salvage-wise. I don’t necessarily have anything I wanna make out of this stuff yet. Two heads are better than one, right?”

“Usually. I don’t mind another set of eyes going over the designs. Let me know if the math is over your head.”

“Not likely. We’re the same age and I’m in AP Calculus.”

‘Very likely,’ my mind responded before self-correcting. “Well, that’s true.” Lying was starting to affect me a little. It was never my natural state of being.

However, honesty with Chispa had a ceiling. Under it, we covered a lot of ground on the walk back to Tír na nÓg as two scientific minds cataloguing the parameters of my abilities. It was less of a conversation and more of a checklist. That part, at the very least, didn’t require any lies at all.

Our exchange became akin to a comparative essay featuring myself versus Stan Lee’s favorite creation and Marvel’s most successful trademark. Every nerd worth their salt was well aware of the abilities of the cordial area male arachnid. Chispa would refer to the checklist when she asked me questions. Thus far, I had demonstrated an almost unnatural level of agility, enough durability to faceplant rooftops as much as I had without so much as a small bruise or scratch, a jump height that would make professional basketball players jealous, and the ability to produce my own webbing from my body. She asked about the danger sense and I couldn’t accurately quantify it. She said she’d formulate some testing parameters and I was noncommittal. Neither of us knew of a way to test the limits of my strength safely.

Once back at the community house, Chispa led me downstairs. After renovations, Maven had knocked out walls dividing the basement levels of each building she had purchased. In houses like these, the lowest level was generally constructed into an apartment just like the upper floors above the ground. It was obvious that whomever had done the demolition considered the load-bearing capacity of each basement wall and compensated with large columns along the outer concrete walls. What had been created was minimally-invasive sections that could be utilized as either a single space or cordoned off into smaller pieces. The first area we encountered when descending the stairs in #30 was an art and music space with all sorts of supplies and a few instruments. The second space, under #28, had been converted into a sort of theater area with some seats, but bean bag seating dominated the area in front of the projector screen. The last space, under #26, had been turned into a sort of metallurgy and electronics space. It was where Chispa spent most of her time, according to her. To me, it was the perfect spot to fabricate some prototypes and do a little testing.

Dropping off the many pieces of discarded yet fully functional electronics, I asked Chispa if she’d save me some pieces for after I had finished the designs I was working on. She told me she had some intuition about what might be needed and that she’d save me as much as she could—namely the Blu-ray drives out of the tower because she had no use for them. She made it clear the tower we’d brought in with what looked to be an Nvidia 4000 series GPU and 32 GB of RAM was spoken for. Part of me wanted to fight her over the shiny new computer, but she did find the dumpster in the first place. Finders keepers.

Taking my leave, I decided against any parkour that evening. I wanted to expand into the neighboring blocks, but the puzzle of the web shooters had my brain occupied enough. Through classes too boring for me, I’d been making a checklist of what might be needed. Pulling out my laptop and those notes, I began to formulate a design for modular, wrist-mounted bio-crystalline launchers. Working through the evening into the night, I scrapped more designs than I cared to count. I fell asleep with my laptop still open in my lap.

When I heard the alarm coming from my busted-up old phone, I nearly scrambled off the bed. Thankfully, the powered-down, battery-depleted laptop didn’t go clattering to the floor. Instead, it smacked the wall and bounced on the bed. The alarm sounding was the Star Trek “Red Alert” sound from the Voyager days. It was my last chance alarm, which meant if I didn’t get moving I would be late for the first class of the day.

Checking the time resulted in an almost screamed expletive before I began tearing off the clothes from the day before and scrambling for clean clothes for the day ahead. Once dressed in whatever was available and clean, a brush went through my hair, a backpack slipped over my shoulders, and shoes were tied onto my feet. I was out the door in record time. My feet thundered on the steps while I descended to the ground floor. I practically ran out the front door, barely hearing Maven’s morning salutation. Thankfully, I can run faster than before and categorically faster than the average human athlete. A nagging thought in the back of my mind scolded me for using powers so liberally, but it was quickly silenced by the thought of what could happen if I were late for school. I already wasn’t getting breakfast.

It was becoming expected that the other shelter kids and I would move as a unit to and from school. Safety in numbers. I wasn’t that lucky that day. I reached the 4th & Washington Square station, swiped my MetroCard, and boarded the train alone. Getting off on 14th Street, it was a dash for the school building. Several morning commuters objected as I rushed past. I entered the building with a swipe of my student ID and got through the metal detectors with six minutes to spare. One thing I noted: even after all that, I wasn’t even winded. No sweat or labored breathing. That was a good sign at least.

Immediately, my hands reached into the backpack to pull out the schedule and my eyes began to scan it. The only class left that I hadn’t yet attended was called “Performance Dance Ensemble”. It hadn’t even registered in my mind until that very moment. For the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on why I was in a dance class. I’d never done any dance in my life that didn’t include awkward undulating or slow circles at school dances. Why was I in a dance class? My brain couldn’t produce any other answer than it was up on the sixth floor, so I’d better start climbing the stairs.

My ascent of the stairs was a bit slower than it normally might have been because I was still trying to work out why I was placed in a dance class. By the time I reached the fourth floor, the first bell of the day sounded. I was a slower-moving molecule among the rushing molecules that was the student body going to class. On the sixth floor, I double-checked the room number and cross-referenced it with the numbers in front of my eyes. By that point, I’d figured out the numbers began on the east side of the building and increased as classroom doors continued westward.

Finally, I arrived at the door to class. I opened it and stepped inside. The first thing I noticed was the floor. It was matte black and seemed to be a little more forgiving under my feet than every other surface in the school. The next thing was the mirrors. There were a lot of them on three walls. On the wall that didn’t have the mirrors was the next thing I noticed: two long, wooden rods running parallel to each other and secured to the wall. The final thing to catch my attention were the various students in the room. Three-quarters of them were girls wearing what looked like a black one-piece swimsuit and little pink slippers on their feet. The boys wore a tight tank top and even tighter shorts with little blue slippers on their feet. The only person not wearing something akin to a uniform was a young woman in her late twenties who started yelling at me the moment I entered the room.

“Shoes off! You’ll ruin the marley floors!” She barked. “Who are you? What’re you doing in my class?!”

My body immediately recoiled as she advanced. “I’m sorry! I’m supposed to be here, I think.” My feet scrambled to get the tennis shoes off.

She stopped a couple of feet in front of me and folded her arms. “You must be the STH kid I was told about. Parker?”

My head meekly nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Saoirse.”

She turned to the others in the room. “Finish your warm-ups and run through your choreography. Evelyn, apply corrections if they’re needed.”

My heart nearly stopped when I spotted none other than “Flashdance” nod her head firmly. “Got it, Miss Kyle.”

I felt a hand wrap around my upper arm. “You, grab your shoes. You’re coming with me.”

Obviously, I didn’t argue. My shoes were picked up and I was led out of the main room. I noticed this woman was only a couple of inches taller than me. Her dark brown hair was tied up in the most secure bun I had ever seen. Her physique seemed a bit on the smaller side but even her grip was unexpectedly powerful. She was covered in an ensemble I’d heard cheerleaders refer to as “warm-ups” back when I was in high school the first time. Her bare feet clapped on the linoleum of the hallway floors.

She opened a door and led me inside. It was a smaller room almost like a locker room with benches built into the perimeter walls and six different ottomans arranged into a table or collective sitting location in the middle of the room. There were shelves and little hooks around the room which had various jackets hanging from them. The benches were littered with several duffel bags. There was a door on the far wall that led I knew not where. She crossed the room and picked up what appeared to be a brand new duffel bag of some variety.

“The first thing I want to ask,” she began as she crossed the room back to me, “is whether or not you have any dance experience at all. Have you ever danced before?”

My eyes shot wide as dinner plates. “Uh… no?”

She rolled her eyes and thrust the duffel bag into my chest. “Why did you sign up for this class, then? You realize that you’re going to be incredibly confused and irritating to my seasoned dancers, don’t you?”

My arms wrapped around the bag. “Technically, I didn’t sign up for the class. It was probably the guidance counselor who made the decision.”

“Which one did you speak to?”

“Uh… Mr. Davis?”

She scoffed and dramatically rolled her eyes at me. “Of course… brand new female junior shows up with a certain body type and he slates them into my class simply for the arts credit.” She sat on one of the ottomans and pinched her nose. “Okay, look, I understand it’s probably not your fault but both of us may just have to deal with it for the time being. That bag is your dance bag. It’s got a pair of pink canvas ballet shoes, a pair of black canvas jazz shoes, three sets of tights, and three leotards. We’ll go over the other odds and ends when the time comes. I need you to pull out a set of tights and one leotard. You’re going to completely strip down before you put on the tights first, then the leotard. Understand?”

“Not even a little bit. S-strip?”

“Yes, down to your birthday suit. The tights have a gusset to protect your nether region and maintain your modesty. The leotard has a whole other degree of support for everything. If the tights and leotard are too tight or loose enough that they don’t fit you like a second layer of your own skin, we’ll have to adjust the sizing. Now, get those street clothes off.”

“You’re not gonna watch are you?”

She laughed. “Oh, honey, in performing arts, you’re gonna have to lose that body shyness. Eventually, you’ll have to worry about costume changes and we don’t have any time for people to be shy about their bodies around here.” She let out a sigh. “But for the time being, I’ll excuse myself on your behalf. Remember: tights FIRST, then the leotard.” She spun and crossed to the mystery door, which apparently led into the main studio area.

I set the duffel bag onto one of the ottomans and opened it to examine the contents. There were several compartments inside. The clothing pieces were all rolled up and organized. The shoes had their own separate compartment on the sides of the bag. The first things to stick out as secondary were a white towel and a large, reusable water bottle. There were other odds and ends I wasn’t going to explore yet. I felt encouraged to accomplish my assigned task quickly.

I pulled out a single pair of nude-colored, high-waisted dance tights with a hole in the foot that was apparently supposed to be there. With a heavy breath, I sat on one of the ottomans and began taking off all the clothes I’d thrown on that morning. As more of me was exposed, my anxiety climbed. Depositing the clothes into the duffel bag, I held up the tights. I had seen enough examples of people putting similar articles of clothing on themselves that I worked out how to put them on. It was harder than it looked. It felt like a sausage casing had been wrapped on me from my toes to my ribs.

Next, I pulled out one of the black one-piece swimsuit things. I would have to remind myself that the thing is called a “leotard” from now on. Upon inspection, it appeared that I would have to step through the leg holes and pull the garment up over my body. After execution, I slipped my arms through the respective holes and noted the garment didn’t feel quite right. A second later, the young teacher came through the door and zeroed in on my form with her intense green eyes.

“Tights need a size up and leotard needs a size down.” She stated almost clinically. She disappeared into a small room I hadn’t noticed before and emerged with more clothes that she set on the ottomans near the bag she’d given me. “Take the old ones out of the bag and put the new ones in it. Save a set of tights and a leotard because you’re going to change out of the ones you’re wearing. Hurry up, please. We don’t have all day.”

Without another word, she was out the door again. Once again, I had to remove everything covering my body, which caused the anxiety to return. It was attempt number two with the tights. They went on a bit easier the second time around. Putting on the leotard, it was immediately apparent the size was smaller. With both articles of clothing in place, I felt a little confined but not in an uncomfortable manner. On instinct, my hands roamed over the body I’d been given a little over a week ago. I could feel all the curves, indents, and angles caused by the musculature, fat distribution, and skeletal structure. It was mind-blowing how thorough the process had been… and how euphoric I felt about it.

A sharp, tingling sensation shot up my spine and through my skull. My eyes darted toward the door to the studio. In the next half-second, the teacher swung it open and gave another once-over.

“Looks like we found just the right fit. Put on the ballet shoes and join the class, will you?” She instructed me.

I hadn’t noticed, but I had been holding in a breath. It was released when the door clicked shut. It took a second for the instructions to register before I turned to the bag and found the pink shoes. They looked tiny and weren’t all that comfortable when I put them on. Apparently, they’re supposed to fit like that. They break-in over time, but they also subtly reshape your feet. With trepidation, I crossed the room and opened the door.

Besides the teacher, there were seventeen bodies in the room. Evelyn was running them through some choreography and the teacher came at me again. This time, she attacked my hair. With a few swipes of her hand, a bit of twisting, and application of some sort of elastic band, my hair was pulled tight against my scalp and there was a little tuft of it atop the crown of my skull.

“This is how you need to be every morning when you have class here. You’re to have your tights on, leotard on, and hair up in a bun. You will wear your tights rolled on your calves when you have street shoes on. There is a set of warmups in that duffel bag. Wear those to school. You roll your tights down and put on your dance shoes only in that ready room we were just in. If you get the idea you need makeup, I will correct that impulse and wash it off myself. Is that clear, Miss Parker?”

“Yes, it’s clear.” I nodded. “What was your name again?”

From halfway across the room, Evelyn interjected. “You’re speaking to Jakobi Kyle, three-time Tony Award-winning dancer and choreographer. Show a little respect, Parker.”

The teacher sneered and turned to the interruption. “No need to be rude, Miss Thompson.” She turned to me. “A simple ‘Miss Kyle’ is fine. Do you know what’s involved in the stretches and warm-up exercises?”

My head hung low. “No, Miss Kyle. I really don’t.”

She let out a huff. “Thompson! You’re going to pair up with the new girl and show her the ropes. Get her stretched and warmed up. If there’s time, run her through some choreography.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and I almost heard her growl. “Yes, Miss Kyle.” She started moving toward us as if we’d insulted her ancestors.

In moments, she reached us and kept walking. Awkwardly, I followed behind and offered a meek smile to Matcha as I passed. At least there would be someone in the class that could look at me and not hate everything about me. Evelyn led me to another studio room with less square footage. She got to the center of the room and grunted like she wanted to let out a scream. She turned to me with the glare of a thousand daggers.

“I don’t know why the hell I’m doing this or why you’re even in this class. You appeared out of nowhere on Monday. Do you even have any dance experience?” She growled.

“N-no… I d-don’t…” The girl was terrifying me.

Her hands flew to the sides of her head. “Oh my fucking god… you’re completely green?!” There was fire in her eyes when she looked at me. “Little Ginger, I’ve been dancing since I was four years old! I’ve done Joffrey twice! I’ll be damned if some know-nothing poor kid is going to roll in off the streets and make the last twelve years of my life look like a mockery! If Miss Kyle wants me to get you up to speed, you’re going to work harder than you’ve ever worked in your sorry little existence! You will not complain! You will not talk back! You will not disrespect me! Got it?!”

There was no way to tell where the defiance came from, but it bubbled to the surface nonetheless. My brow furrowed and my stance stiffened. “Look, I get it: you’re the queen of this school! You’ve got all the money in the world and you flaunt it like it’s some kind of badge of honor! Everybody bows down to you and the crowd parts like it does in every teen movie ever released! We’re all supposed to get out of your way and do what we’re told, right?!” My breath heaved out and back in quickly. “I didn’t ask to be put in this class! I’m just trying to make shit work, okay?! It’s only my third day in an incredibly confusing, hectic environment! I didn’t ask for my whole world to be upended and land me here! I’m not trying to step on your toes! I’m just trying to learn the steps and do the best I can, all right?!”

She almost charged me and got in my face before speaking at low volume with a growl lingering in her throat. “What if you can’t hack it, Parker? What if you never learn the steps?”

I didn’t back down. “Then I’ll just have to fucking work harder, won’t I?”

We remained in the stalemate.

“You don’t even know what a plié, grand jeté, or an arabesque is, do you?”

“Nope. Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“You’re going to wish you kept that smart mouth shut. Let’s get started.”

Webs We Weave



Chapter Twelve

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: There is a depiction of domestic violence in this chapter. Though brief, I understand that can be triggering.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLv1Zh8NbUk ))

That morning sucked. I cannot accurately relay how many times I was scolded. My knees were knobs. My arms were noodles. My feet were sickles. Whenever I dared look in the mirror, I looked like a toddler attempting the choreography of Swan Lake. Though my body would stretch and contort into whatever shape Evelyn was showing me, the execution was more of a hot mess than another Krakatoa eruption. There was no give from my tutor. She was barking in a manner that I assume a Marine Corps drill instructor might. She and I were in that separate studio for the entire class period. She spent ninety minutes yelling at me. She made me feel small and pathetic. I think nothing would have given her more joy than me throwing in the towel and completely giving up.

My internal mantra was from one of my favorite sci-fi movies: “Never give up. Never surrender.”

When the dismissal bell rang, my body carried me out of that studio faster than I have walked in a very long time. Arriving in the ready room, someone showed me how to use the hole in the foot of the tights to roll them up to my calves. Once that was accomplished, I threw on the blue and red school-themed warmups along with my socks and tennis shoes before rushing out the door. No part of me wanted to be in there any longer. My ears picked up Matcha calling after me, but it didn’t register.

My mind didn’t even bring up the fact I should stop at my locker to pick up the textbook for Mr. Harrington’s class. I skipped it entirely. The noise of the students in the hall felt like white noise blasting from the speakers inside my head. When I arrived at my history classroom, I nearly fell into my desk and put my head down. My eyes felt hot and damp. It took a few minutes to recover. Mercifully, Mr. Harrington didn’t bother me about it. A couple of the other students whispered about my warmups and my hair, but it wasn’t to be evil so I ignored it.

The last time I could remember feeling like that had been the final argument with my father after I came home from MIT and couldn’t get a job. There I was, back in the Albany Towers of Crown Heights in Brooklyn with a Master of Science and a perfect 5.0 GPA with nothing to show for it. I couldn’t even get a job at Boston Dynamics. He screamed at me like he wasted his own money sending me off to Boston, but I had a scholarship then student loans I had taken out myself. He didn’t pay for any part of my education. It didn’t matter to him. The child who had been into science and not all that fond of sports would always be a disappointment to him. I hadn’t spoken to him since.

The aftermath of the Trail of Tears and the political situation leading up to the Civil War were the last things I was worried about. There was a plan to work on further notes for the schematics of the web shooters I was concepting, but I couldn’t even touch that. My mind was still back in that damn studio being made to feel next to worthless. That was my first time in the class. My mind could not wrap around the reason Evelyn would have been so cold and cruel about everything.

The dismissal bell for lunch couldn’t come fast enough. Unlike the previous days, I didn’t wait for the crowd to filter out the choke point. I rushed through the crowd before it really had a chance to form. Again, the noise of the halls was white noise. I moved through the sea of bodies like an icebreaker. There were a few objections to my tactics as I moved through, but I paid them no heed. I was in no mood.

Smelling the cafeteria food from the corridor reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. Conflicting sensations of being famished and also having lost my appetite dominated my conscious mind for a moment. I would eat, but not much. The meal that day was country fried steak, so I wasn’t missing anything. Once again, I picked the lonely, unclaimed table and sat to barely eat my food. I was alone for a few minutes before Hailey found me and was immediately concerned about the expression on my face.

She breathed heavily as she set her tray down on the table. “Geezus, Saoirse, you look worse than you did yesterday when confronted with the idea of going into the locker room.” She gave my look a once-over. “What’s with the outfit and your hair?”

My eyes felt hot again. They didn’t meet hers. I simply stared forward and poked at what was passing for food that day. “Dance class.”

“Huh…” she exhaled. “You’re not the kind of girl I’d peg for a dancer.”

“I’m not.”

“Why are you in dance class, then?”

“Mr. Davis.”

She spoke low and breathy. “No he didn’t…”

Another tray was set on the table as Matcha appeared out of nowhere. “Seda, you good, girl?”

Hailey turned to him with her voice low and protective. “Uh… who are you and who is this Seda person?”

Matcha sucked in a ‘tsk’ toward her. “Mind your business.” He returned his attention to me. He reached out and laid a hand on my arm. “Seriously, Seda, you good?”

My eyes stayed on my tray. “Nope.”

Matcha settled in the seat next to me, opposite Hailey. She was facing her own confusion. “Somebody gonna get me up to speed, here? I’m genuinely confused.”

Matcha kept his hand on my arm while he spoke to her. “I’m Matcha, okay? You probably heard of me. I’ve got all the tea.” He pointed at me. “This is Seda, our soft and delicate newbie. She’s stronger than she knows, sometimes.” He finally turned to me. “Did Flashdance go full Abby Lee Miller on you or somethin’?”

My focus was rattled and I turned to glance at him. Hailey and I chorused, “Who?!”

Matcha’s eyes darted between us. “Abby Lee Miller. The psycho fat bitch from Pittsburgh that practically tortured a bunch of really talented little girls on national TV for money? Dance Moms?”

“I don’t do reality TV. I have no idea who that is.” Hailey admitted. “When was it on TV? Is it still on the air?”

Matcha shook his head. “It was a 2011 to 2019 thing. I think they’re trying to bring it back, but most people are over the reality TV thing by now. Besides, all the girls grew up and are doing their own thing now. Good for them, too.”

“Okay, cool story, bro, but what’s that got to do with Saoirse and whatever happened this morning?”

Matcha slumped to the side and chuckled to himself. “A’ight, look, a lot of it was played for the cameras, but the show wouldn’t have happened if Abby wasn’t the kind of dance teacher that she was. It was played like she was real concerned about technique, but she would make everyone but her favorite student feel like they was gutter trash. She was all about hammerin’ on the negative reinforcement and almost never said anything positive. At least, that’s what the cameras showed. It was pure brainrot. Those girls that weren’t the twinkle in Abby’s eyes was cooked from the start. One of ‘em even sued Abby over the abuse that happened on the show, prompted by the producers, probably.”

Returning to poking at my food and randomly shoving small morsels in my face, I didn’t see Hailey’s facial reaction but the disgusted tone in her voice told me everything. “That’s horrible! People actually watch that shit?”

“A show about a deranged dance studio owner and mid choreographer having verbal throw-downs with white, middle class moms and taking it out on their kids? Yea, that shit was on fire when we was in kindergarten. Bored housewives gotta have somethin’ to distract them from their borin’ ass lives.”

“Adults are fucking stupid.” Hailey scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Preach.” Matcha finally turned to me. “So, was that what happened to you this mornin’, Seda?”

Once again, I poked the food on my plate. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“So, dat a big ‘yes’ and a big yikes. That ain’t cool, Seda. What she done to you in that room this mornin’ ain’t cool. I’m gonna have some words with Miss Kyle and—”

My hand dropped the fork, reached over, and grabbed his forearm. “Don’t.”

He squirmed under my grip. “Uh… ow? No need to grip like that, damn.” He breathed out a sigh as I loosened my grip. “A’ight, I won’t talk to Miss Kyle about it. I’m sure Maven’s got somethin’ fo’ the floors that we can practice with. We can work on shit at the house. I been part of the class since freshman year. I didn’t have any dance experience at the start, either. I wanna be a damn good drag queen and dance’ll do that for me. Maybe it can help you work out some shit.”

“Fine.” Standing, I grabbed my tray that had some barely-touched food on it and moved toward the garbage receptacles.

The rest of the day was much of the same. The interaction with Evelyn clouded my mind the entire time. Her harsh tone echoed in my ears and forceful corrections felt burned onto my skin. The day before, I was starting to believe that I might be able to manage the whole idea of returning to high school and that I could possibly enjoy the things I’d missed out on the first time around. After that morning, I wasn’t so sure.

My numbness through Spanish alerted Jefa and Lowkey as well. Señora Silva’s stern enforcement of our behavior in class was a saving grace to me. The last thing I wanted to do was discuss what was going through my head. My potential fluency in the language suffered that day. I couldn’t be bothered to care, though. It didn’t get any better by the time I got to the LTC, either. Everything inside me was counting down the minutes until the final dismissal bell of the day. That only made it happen much slower.

Once the bell did ring, I left Salty in the dust while rushing out the door. Once again, the crowd was white noise as I made my way out of the building. I hadn’t made a single trip to my locker or even changed clothes since that morning. I wasn’t about to start. My feet carried me in some kind of rushed speed walk from the school building to the subway. I made no effort to meet with the others. I didn’t want the questions I didn’t want to answer and I didn’t want to feel the heat of my eyes tearing up again. My earbuds were slipped into my ears and the noise of the world disappeared. It was replaced by the voices of Gerard Way, Hayley Williams, Tyson Ritter, Jenna McDougall, Pierre Bouvier, Ariel Bloomer, and Ronnie Winter while backed by their respective bands.

After getting off at 4th & Washington Square, it was a quick trip back to Tír na nÓg. With my earbuds in and music streaming from my old phone via Bluetooth, I didn’t hear anything Maven said when I came in the door. I moved through the building straight up to my room, depositing the dance bag and my backpack. Without skipping a beat, I spun around and headed for the roof. Through the door and onto the roof, I jumped toward the sheer brick surface of the neighboring building and climbed a little ways to the top. The afternoon sun hit me from behind and I closed my eyes, breathing in my zen.

For a few minutes, I allowed myself to stand still and simply breathe. The morning with Evelyn had really rattled me in ways I had not anticipated. It shook my very foundations. I’d spent years building defenses against people like Evelyn. Bullies had been a part of my life since I was in elementary school and that carried on through the first round of high school. It started because of the wavy ginger hair that my mom allowed me to wear a little long when I was younger. It carried through when I had to wear glasses until the healthcare at MIT allowed me to get lasik. Once people found out my dad was a cop, it just got worse. Why did a sixteen-year-old rich girl yelling at me about my lack of technique in a dance class and intermittently calling me “Siri” rattle me so much?

Even a mind that could handle advanced calculus equations couldn’t produce a solution. Instead, it decided to engage in an activity that brought joy. Returning to my room for only a moment to deposit the earbuds and my phone, I returned to the roof and began my exercises. It had been proven that vigorous exercise can contribute to dopamine release in the brain, improving mood. My case might be an isolated variable, but I would argue that engaging in such exercise while also possessing super powers increases that dopamine release by a factor of ten. After a single leap across Jones Street, the parkour exercises began.

That evening, I decided to expand my area of operation. There weren’t any surprises in my usual area anymore, so I expanded to the rooftops between Christopher Street to the north, Hudson Street to the west, W Houston Street to the south, and 6th Avenue to the east. Looking on a map, one might see the area as the closest quadrangle to a square one could manage with the crazy grid that was the West Village. So long as I stayed out of the sightlines from the parks, I would be fine. The range of building heights came in handy and the varied architecture was always fascinating. With all the running, jumping, leaping, turning, and general experimentation, three hours passed before I even realized it. The sun's position was nearly approaching “Golden Hour” where the whole city seemed to sparkle.

A tingling sensation shot up my spine and spread around my skull.

“STOP! PLEASE!” echoed around the nearby buildings. It sounded like a crying and pleading sort of scream from the lungs of a woman.

My brain went into overdrive. Multiple calculations of wind speed, barometric pressure, building materials, the speed at which sound travels, the azimuth of the sound waves, and the decibel of the sound were locked in to determine which building and approximately what floor the sound originated from. Once located, I moved without hesitation. As I got closer, sounds of a struggle echoed from the fourth floor of a 6-story tenement. The small, open kitchen window allowed the sound to travel unhindered. What I saw through that window would haunt me for a long time: a grown man grabbing a younger woman by her hair and slamming her against whatever he could reach in the kitchen.

My eyes located a point on a nearby building that I could feasibly swing from to propel myself through the open window. The dimensions of the window, even from a couple buildings away, would be sufficient to get my body through. The swing angle and potential energy to get me into that kitchen would work. The math was mathing. My chest filled with hope that my web would cooperate. I hadn’t used it as of yet, so it should have been fine. Taking in a deep breath and praying to whatever deity would listen, I pulled up my sleeves a little and launched myself toward the building.

Reaching the apoapsis of the jump, I bit my lower lip and extended my arm. THWIP. Someone listened. The line attached and my hand gripped said line. My body had become a pendulum. There was a slight, expected stretch of the line as I came to the base of the swing. The line was taut with potential energy waiting to be turned into kinetic energy. My eyes were watering from the amount of air I was quickly displacing. For a moment, I doubted I’d even make the window. Letting go of the line, I pointed my feet and crossed my arms across my chest. My body slipped through like a blood cell in a capillary. I landed against the opposite wall with feet flat, legs bent, one hand against the wall, and one hand extended outward. Tom Holland could never.

The two occupants of the apartment seemed frozen in time with astonished and confused expressions on their faces. My head slowly lifted, my brows crumpled together, and my eyes narrowed on the man. He appeared to be a balding, overweight, unkempt man in his mid-thirties. His fingers were still dug into the woman’s hair with his hand balled into a fist. The woman appeared to be about ten years younger and much more slender. Her hands were on either side of his fist trying to get him to let her go. She was wearing a simple t-shirt and loungewear shorts. She had a few bruises I could see on the exposed skin of her arms and legs. There were more on her face and blood trickled from a split in her lower lip. My anger was immeasurable.

“Let. Her. Go.” I attempted to growl. It might not have come off as intimidating as I had intended with the increase in the vocal range.

He didn’t comply. His voice came out almost comically stereotypical of a New York accent. “Who da fuck are you and what da fuck you doin’ in my house?!”

My eyes fell on the woman. When he spoke, the fear, pain, and a hint of relief played across her face. “Are you okay?”

“Hey! I’m talkin’ ta you! Who da fuck—” He shouted louder.

Releasing myself from the wall, I moved my hand ever so slightly and shot a glob at his face. It smacked into his lips, gumming them up for a minute. He released her hair to deal with the situation. “Zip it. The adults are talking.” My attention returned to the woman. “He did this to you?”

She nodded and tears flowed down her cheeks. She was petrified. I encouraged her to approach me, which prompted her to do so. I placed myself between the two of them, standing guard over the woman. In a moment, the man was done pulling the glob off his face and gritted his teeth at me.

“Get a kick out of beating women, do you? Why don’t you try that with me, tough guy?” I taunted him. “I’ll warn you, though: I hit back.”

He grinned. “I don’t care.” He coiled his fist and pulled his arm back, textbook telegraphing. I didn’t need my spine and cranium tingling to tell me he wanted to hit me. “What’s some little girl gonna do to me, anyway?”

I let him hit me. Yes, it fucking hurt. His fist hit me right in the jaw near my mouth. He even followed through in an effort to hurt me more. I bent backward and he stumbled into me.

“My turn.”

Placing my hands on his ribs, I righted myself and pushed him back. He flew across the room and impacted the wall. The drywall buckled under the stress, leaving a hole in the wall the size of his body. He angrily scurried to his feet and came at me again. I dodged his punch to the side and kicked him with the full length of my leg in the abdomen. He stumbled back and I clocked him in the jaw. He was almost a full head taller than me, so it didn’t exactly land as I had planned. His head snapped toward the ceiling before he fell over with a loud thud. He didn’t seem to be conscious. Part of me was disappointed and wanted to hit him again.

“Jesus Christ, you knocked him out!” The woman protested behind me.

I spun around and gave her a look of disbelief. “Well… yea, I did. I told him I was gonna hit him back.”

“You didn’t have to hit him that hard.” She lifted herself to her feet using a chair.

My eyes widened even further. “Really?! He was bouncing your head off the cupboards and the refrigerator like it was the worst game of pinball I’ve ever seen!”

She started to cry. “He gets angry when he drinks.”

“Don’t make excuses for behavior like that!” Tears started forming in my eyes. “No one deserves that kind of treatment!” My inhaled breath wavered like a sob. “He went to town on your face! It could have been a lot worse!”

“What do you know? You’re just some high school kid.”

That got me. “How do you know I’m in high school?”

“The back of your jacket. It’s got ‘MHS’ on it. For a second, I saw you do that landing thing while wearing the blue and red. I thought you were Spider-Man’s little sister or something.”

I had forgotten about the warmups. The school’s navy and crimson color scheme with “MHS” screenprinted on the back was a dead giveaway. “Shit. Forgot about that.”

“You didn’t even think before you came in here?”

“Not enough, I guess. I heard your scream, saw what he was doing, and couldn’t just stand by and watch it happen.”

“You’re either dumb as a box of rocks or…” She turned her teary eyes to me with a small smile. “...braver than any kid your age or my good-for-nothing neighbors.”

My mind was starting to work again. “You need to call the cops. Please don’t mention me. Say you knocked him out with a rolling pin. You know and I know that he needs to go to jail for what he’s done to you.”

“He might think twice knowing some little girl in dancewear came through the window and knocked him out cold.”

“Or… he’ll get worse and you’ll be dead. I’m not kidding. Call the cops. Forget you even saw me. Let the cops think he’s crazy for insisting a five-foot-four ginger with a bun beat his ass.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

The tingle ran through me. Danger. “No names. I wasn’t even here, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. You keep your secret. You should probably get a mask if you’re gonna do this kind of thing, though.”

I moved toward the window I’d come through moments before. “I mean it: call the cops.” My eyes detected a cellphone on the table. “Pick up that phone and call.”

“I will.”

“I’m not leaving until you do. Please call.”

She sighed, turned, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. They picked up in seconds and she started telling them what had transpired. Thankfully, she left out the details about me coming through the window and knocking her husband out in a single punch. Letting her speak to them, I climbed out the window and up the wall. Upon reaching the roof, I rubbed the area of my jaw that had been punched. It was still sore. I couldn’t tell if it would bruise or not.

She wasn’t wrong about my need for a mask, though. I made my way back to the house while sirens approached the building.

The sleep was easy and restful that night. Of course, I had to change out of the dancewear and into some pajamas, first, but I made it into bed rather early that evening. I had finally landed on a suitable enough design for my web shooters. I dreamt that night of high-pitched jubilant calls echoing off the buildings of Manhattan.

The next morning, I checked the mirror. My jaw wasn’t sore and there was no bruising. It was safe to assume that I had some sort of regenerative healing factor working in the background. That tracked with the hypothesis of having all the powers of the cordial area male arachnid. My shower and dressing routine went well as I jammed out to my “happy times” playlist. I might have to check in on the woman from time to time, but I felt like I’d done a good thing for her the previous evening.

That day at school came and went like it hadn’t really happened. Before I knew it, the dismissal bell echoed through the gym after the co-ed gym class had run laps for half the class period. There was a shared hypothesis that Coach Vic might be training us for a mile run at the end of the year. The idea didn’t spark joy.

On the walk home with the others, it was noted that I was in a better mood than I had been the day prior. I passed it off as if I’d slept really well and had a good dream. It wasn’t too far off the truth to be a lie. On the train, Chispa and I whispered back and forth about the designs I’d completed in CAD the night before. We would have to utilize the space she usually claimed for herself to do the fabrication, but I’m glad she welcomed me into the space. Salty told this really good joke on the way from the subway station and all of us ended up in a line with our arms linked doing can-can kicks while singing “I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts” down Jones Street.

Maven called us all goofballs before excusing us to either do homework or work on personal projects. Chispa and I didn’t have any homework, yet again, so we told the others we’d help if they needed some tutoring. All the while, we headed down to the basement. Our feet carried us to what was usually Chispa’s space, exclusively. She showed me all the different machines she had squirreled away over the two years she had been living at Tír na nÓg. Maven had donated a couple, but Chispa had custom made a few as well. The girl was nothing if not resourceful.

With a quick stop upstairs to grab my laptop and find some bib overalls, Chispa and I reviewed the schematics. Like me, the math came easily to her. She offered a little insight and helped make a few adjustments before we began the fabrication process. We put on some eye and ear protection before we began. Safety first. Over time, each piece was designated and either fabricated or salvaged from existing pieces Chispa had already gathered. There were a lot of quite small moving parts, so the process was relatively arduous. Little by little, the devices that would make my webbing more dependable were coming together. Chispa even put on some music while we worked. Her zen music was a bit different from mine, but I was starting to appreciate Bad Bunny, Karol G, Olivia Rodrigo, and Billie Eilish. The Paramore surprised me, but made me smile.

We were in the midst of work when Maven seemed to appear out of nowhere. There was a tingle that ascended my spine when she came down the stairs, but I mostly ignored it and kept working. It was Chispa that stopped first. The room fell silent beyond the sound of the dremel I was working with. Feeling awkward, I stopped as well. Maven had been silent while all this took place.

“There’s been a development. Saoirse, come with me, please,” she spoke almost monotonally.

“Am I in trouble or something?” I earnestly wanted to know.

She shook her head. “No. Not particularly. Why do you ask? Did something happen at school I should be made aware of?”

I set down the dremel, then removed the eye shields and ear protection. “Not particularly.”

Maven motioned with her hand for me to follow her. Glancing back to Chispa, she simply shrugged. We made our way out of the basement and through to Maven’s office. She had me sit in the chill space in the corner. With the press of a button on a remote, a television sprang to life and a well-dressed news anchor appeared on the screen.

“Our top story tonight is breaking news out of Chicago: the Superman is real and he is American. SkyCam footage that went viral on social media shows a blur that moves across the screen at amazing speed. Experts have confirmed the footage is real and confirm the figure is human, but unidentifiable. Take a look.” The footage began and ended quickly. It was there and gone in under five frames. What struck me wasn’t the footage but the fact that downtown Chicago wasn’t a mess of glass blown out of skyscrapers and a lot of pissed off car alarms. “If we go frame by frame, you can see this object streak across the sky at incredible speed. It’s a mess of blue, red, and yellow color with this white cone around it. Based on the size of that cone, experts have been able to determine the object is the size of a human traveling at incredible speed. It’s that color scheme and speed that has people talking. Is this a publicity stunt orchestrated by DC Studios in anticipation of the release of James Gunn’s Superman this summer? We’ll keep on this and let you know.”

Meanwhile, my brain was experiencing a Blue Screen of Death. Based on the rough angle of the Prandtl-Glauert singularity and length of the laminar flow anomaly on the screen, I could roughly work out the object was moving at roughly six hundred meters per second or Mach 1.74. Anything traveling at that velocity through a fluid should be displacing that fluid at an incredible rate. There should be a trail of devastation in the wake of the object and there was not. The tidal displacement in the lake should be as high as the highest rogue wave ever recorded but there was nothing beyond the wake a small watercraft might leave. The math was not mathing. What the hell was I seeing?

There was only one answer that surfaced and it should have been theoretically impossible. Though, given the evidence of my own abilities and existence, it was indeed possible. The newscaster was correct: only Superman could do something like that.

There was something bugging me. I requested the remote from Maven. “This is a recording, yes? I can actually rewind this?”

“Yes, it’s a video you can rewind.”

Remote in hand, I got back to the point where they showed the video and paused it. There was a lot of information in a single frame and I was analyzing all of it. From a single frame with the reference of the size of skyscraper windows, I was able to deduce the size of the object was approximately five feet and ten inches tall. From a pixel analysis of the lighter and darker pixels in the frame as well as where the cone appeared on the body, I was able to determine the person flying through downtown Chicago wasn’t a man at all.

“They’re wrong,” I finally vocalized.

“Pardon?” Maven wondered.

“What we’re seeing on the screen is a human female approximately 1.78 meters tall and traveling at 600 meters per second. What I can’t figure out is why downtown Chicago isn’t a wasteland as a result of the concussive force from the pressure wave that should be following behind her. The newscaster was right to call out Superman because the only beings capable of that have been Kryptonians, but they’re fictional. Aren’t they?”

“If you’re inquiring about the existence of extraterrestrial beings, I know as much as you do. I have seen beings fly before, but I do not believe any of them could do what we just saw.”

“You’ve seen beings fly?! Have you seen them defy physics like what we just saw?!”

“I do not possess the same knowledge of the sciences that you do. It was not something I was interested in. As for seeing beings fly, I have seen it many times. I have known a northman who calls himself Týr since his people invaded the coast and Dublin was built shortly afterward.”

My brain broke again. “You know a Norse god. Personally. This day keeps getting weirder.”

“I did inform you that there would likely be more of you after the event last week, did I not? You were not prepared to know what I could tell you at the time. There were many that surfaced after the event that made me what I am. It is safe to assume you weren’t an isolated incident.”

“Good god… I’m not the only one.”

Webs We Weave



Chapter Thirteen

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: I apologize for the tardiness of this submission. It's something of a tradition that I read the chapter aloud to my spouse before I post the chapter. Their feedback is vital to me. We hadn't had a chance to sit down and do the reading, so I postponed the posting. Sorry guys.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPOrNGF0YZs ))

The next couple of weeks felt like a temporal displacement. There were school days, homework afternoons, and movie nights that seemed to pass without much notice. Thankfully, I didn’t have any more one-on-one moments with Evelyn but that doesn’t mean dance class was easy. My technique was still being criticized and corrected almost constantly. Matcha and I found a few strips of the flooring material stored at Tír na nÓg that we could roll out and practice on. If I was given homework, I breezed through it quickly so Chispa and I could complete our fabrication and prototyping. Weekday nights were spent on rooftops in The Village while weekend nights were for whatever movie somebody pirated that week.

On that first weekend, Maven asked me to accompany her ‘on the town’, as she put it. The moment we entered the first shop and she had me measured for a fitting, I knew she had ulterior motives. She was well aware that all we had at the shelter was donations that don’t encourage self-expression much. The underwear stop was the most embarrassing. It was a little difficult for me to do a shopping trip because I’d never truly been able to express myself before. Given permission to do so, I cracked under the pressure. I grabbed a bunch of things that reminded me of my first time in adolescence combined with things I’d been seeing around school. The one thing I did ask for help with was locating a good summer dress. The weather was getting warmer and I had a promise to keep.

Maven made it a point to take me to a dancewear shop. Ever observant, she had seen Matcha and me practicing. Worse, she had seen me struggling. She offered to arrange some private sessions with someone reputable in the city to bring my skills up to speed. In the meantime, I’d need a lot more clothing for my dance bag. The flurry of activity in the shop of spotting things, trying them on, and purchasing the things I liked as well as what fit was dizzying. Just before we moved to the checkout counter, I spotted something. It was a jacket and leggings combo. The jacket had a hood and those little thumb holes. The set was in an interesting design with purple as the main color and black as secondary. It fit quite well and was slated in with the purchases.

That first Sunday was Mother’s Day. I took the day for myself. The dress we found was like one of the ‘peasant tops’ that were popular in the ‘00s turned into a dress whose hem was at my knees. It was a powder blue with yellow floral pattern. Maven selected some cream-colored flats to pair with it. Seeing myself in the mirror made me happy cry. Every piece of clothing was mine. The body was mine. The reflection was mine. I could hardly believe it, but one can’t argue with observable, empirical evidence like that.

Using my new phone, I found a florist nearby to get a bouquet of flowers. I hadn’t given my mother flowers in a long time, so it was overdue. The subway ride was fine and the purse Maven had gotten me was helping me juggle everything. Having linked my earbuds to the new phone, the hour-long ride on the A-train had its own soundtrack. Giggles were exchanged in a text conversation between Hailey and me. Before long, the train arrived at Broadway Junction and I began walking toward The Evergreens Cemetery.

The weather cooperated wonderfully. It was in the low 70s and there was not a cloud in the sky. The pleasant sun shone through the trees as I walked the paths. There were a few people around with flower bouquets of their own. I had never assumed I’d be in the cemetery by myself that day. It was Mother’s Day, after all. A lot of people had the same idea as I had for as long as I could remember. That would be the first time it would be different for me.

Arriving at the plot, I once again cleared debris from the headstone and gently laid the bouquet in the small provided vase off to the side. My labor done, I stood and stepped back a bit to do my best at giving my mom a ‘good look’.

“Hey, Mom,” I started my soliloquy, “I’m back, as promised.” As if on instinct, I did a little spin in place. “What do you think? I picked it up the other day with this really great woman I’ve met recently. You’d like her, but maybe not the reason why I met her.” My eyes started to tear up. “I know it’s probably not what you would have expected, but I really feel comfortable. It’s a pretty dress and I like how it makes me feel. It’s—”

“Lizzie?” came a familiar voice echoing off the surroundings.

My body froze in place. For the life of me, I couldn’t deduce why the tingling sensation hadn’t activated and alerted me. I knew that voice. I hadn’t heard it in a little over ten years, but I knew it all the same.

“Am I seeing things?” the voice asked again.

My head moved incredibly slowly toward the voice. Coming toward the plot was a middle-aged man wearing a dark blue uniform. Unlike others in his profession, he kept up a fit physique and hadn’t had to alter his uniform in however many years. His appearance had always reminded me of Thomas Jane. His soft brown hair had a couple of “widow’s peaks” on either side of his forehead, but he wasn’t bald. His blue-hazel eyes showed a bit of worry and confusion. The NYPD badge on his chest and the shield on his shoulders completed the look. My father was approaching.

When he was close enough, he shook his head as I remained standing there like a deer blinded by headlights. “Are you real or am I going crazy?”

Something compelled me to respond. “I’m… I’m real… I’m pretty sure.”

“It’s weird,” he began, finally stopping next to me in front of my mother’s grave. His eyes moved toward the headstone. “I could have sworn for a minute that you were a ghost.” He nudged his arm slightly toward the grave. “Her ghost.”

“I’m alive, last I checked.” My voice was wavering a little. I was more than taken aback by his appearance. I never knew that he visited.

He awkwardly chuckled. “You look a lot like her. She was my wife. She might have been a little taller than you, but not by much. You’ve got the same hair, the same skin, and even the same green eyes with a little bit of blue in the middle.”

“That is weird.” Honest, yet nervous, answer from me.

“How do you know her, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Now the tingling came to life. Delayed reaction. I had to think of something fast. “I… I don’t… really.” It wasn’t a total lie. A thought train finally arrived at the station. “I’m here for a project. We go around putting flowers on the graves of mothers who were killed by drunk drivers.”

He slowly nodded. “That’s good. Very kind of you. She’d have appreciated it.” I could see tears start to glisten in his eyes. “She loved being a mother. We only had one kid: Preston. She enjoyed every little noise he made as a baby—didn’t matter if he was laughing, crying, or anything else. As he grew, she knew he was smart. She tried to tell me a hundred times how to handle him. I wasn’t the smart one. She was. They were both big on science.” He sniffled. My eyes felt hot again and tears soon rolled down my cheeks. “All I knew was football, basketball, and being a cop.”

Neither of us spoke for about a minute. Then, he continued. “If you’re gonna tell her story for your project, you should know who she was. Her name was Maxine. She didn’t like being called ‘Max’. Those that loved her called her ‘Lizzie’ from her middle name or ‘Mom’. She loved the stars. She could tell you more about a single star or comet than I can about the New York Penal Code. She taught at the Boys and Girls High School just over in Bed-Stuy. She loved that job.” He sniffled again. “Her laugh could fill a room and brighten everyone’s day. She was the most kind, compassionate woman you’d ever meet.” He choked back a sob. “Now I gotta tell her that her son is gone.”

In my mind, a subway train smacked a brick wall at ninety miles an hour. Cover story engaged. “He passed?”

“We don’t know. He’s been missing since the 29th.” His tears returned. “I had to tell him the night his mom died that she was gone. Now I gotta tell her that I don’t know where her beloved son is.”

I couldn’t hold back the sob. “I’m… I’m so sorry… I’ll leave you be…”

Before I could leave, he turned to me. “What’s your name, miss?”

“I’m… I’m Saoirse.”

“Captain Greg Parker, NYPD. Thanks for listening.”

“You’re welcome.” I don’t know why I hesitated. “I’m… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Go home and hug your mom. You never know, y’know?”

My heart sank down to my knees. “Wish I could. She’s gone.”

His body seemed to wince while he nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” I spun around and took my leave.

There were so many things that could have gone very wrong in that conversation. I thought I was the only one that came out to visit my mom. As it turns out, my dad occasionally does as well. He poured his heart out to some girl he’d never met before that moment. That girl was me… the child he didn’t know he had. I was of two minds about the situation: the man that tried to raise me didn’t recognize his only child, and that man was torn apart by the fact a missing persons case had come across his desk with his child’s name on it. My mind could not accurately decipher how to feel about either situation.

The encounter haunted my thoughts on the subway ride back to Manhattan. At some point, I would probably have to reveal who I was to my dad. The very idea of it frightened me in a way that can’t accurately be described.

The expression on my face worried Maven when I got back to the shelter. I wasn’t ready to talk about it, so I took my leave. Instead, I checked in with Chispa—she complimented my dress. The web shooter prototypes were ready for practical testing. We’d done all the lab work we could. It was time to see if they held up under pressure. I accepted the devices and scurried away to my room.

In that space, I changed quickly. Off came the dress and on went the purple-and-black leggings and jacket. While Maven was distracted, I’d managed to independently procure a balaclava and gloves in the same purple as the rest of the outfit. The instructions from Matcha about how to tie my hair in a low bun had come in handy when I slipped on the balaclava. The hood of the jacket further helped to hide any identifying markers from my head. In the mirror, I became just some chick in purple and black.

Making my way to the roof, I knew the lower building heights of the West Village wouldn’t do for an adequate test. Thus, I followed the rooftops down 6th Avenue until I hit the taller buildings of Soho. That neighborhood wouldn’t have the giant skyscrapers of the Financial District or Midtown, but they’d be tall enough for testing. If I happened to end up in Tribeca, that would be fine, too. I had to divert a little to where 7th Avenue becomes Varick Street because of the jumble where 6th Avenue meets W Houston and about six other streets.

My first test happened at W Houston. It was on top of a building before the crossing. The road is pretty wide and I wasn’t sure if I could jump it. There was no better time to test the attachment of the webbing as well as the elasticity. Doing the math in my head, I positioned my hands and shot the webs. The internal triggers of the device initiated exactly as designed. They also cut off the web line production precisely when I wanted to. With the lines attached, I stepped back a little. The lines flexed and stretched on command until I achieved the amount of tension I was looking for. With a quick release of breath, I did a little hop and let physics do the rest.

I miscalculated. The elasticity was storing more potential energy than I had anticipated. My body was thrown two and a half blocks. It was the most exhilarating and terrifying thing I’d done up to that point. The scream coming out of me reflected that. At first, I was practically flying over the buildings on Varick before the wind resistance and gravity began bringing me closer to the ground. The buildings along Varick were tall enough. With the asphalt of the street below me looming, it was now or never. I shot a line to my right and held on for dear life. It was a short swing and I was flung skyward again. The jubilant screams from my dream were brought to life. I shot another line as I was falling back toward the ground. I wasn’t flung as high after releasing the second line, but that was to be expected. The physics of pendula were at play.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see a moment of the swings. The air moving was causing my eyes to water. Immediately, I knew I’d have to pick up some goggles. I was letting that tingling sensation guide my actions, for the most part. It came in pretty handy. I would still need to be able to see for the best placement of the web lines, but the web shooters were working exactly as anticipated. All the testing Chispa and I had done would get the credit for that. Using different angles to change direction, I propelled myself toward a good landing spot. Not being able to burn off the kinetic energy, I knew the landing might be a little rough.

The moment my feet hit the gravel on the building’s roof, I tried to skid to a stop. It wasn’t enough. An air conditioning unit was too close. After a small hop, my body was propelled on top of it and performed a side aerial, then several back handsprings before I could finally land firmly on my feet. At the end of the successful landing, my heart was pounding in my chest and my breathing was labored. It hadn’t been the result of physical exertion so much as all the excitement and screaming I’d been doing. Unseen beneath the balaclava, my smile was gigantic.

When I arrived back at the shelter, the first thing I did was report that the modular bio-crystalline launchers were functioning as intended to Chispa. Our next task would be a set of goggles with actuated shutters for focus and eye protection. Otherwise, it had been much better than I anticipated. It was incredibly exhilarating to swing from my own webbing down Varick Street at an accelerated velocity.

Once again, the temporal displacement. I was falling into something of a rhythm. If it was A-day, I dressed and did my hair for dance class while packing street clothes in the dance bag. If it was B-day, I made sure to bring clean gym clothes for the end of the day. I walked to and from school with the other shelter kids. In a short amount of time, they’d really made me feel like one of them. At lunch, Hailey was my constant companion. We were moving into ‘joined at the hip’ territory.

There had been a rumor or two about what happened on Sunday. A couple of people had videos, but everybody dismissed it as AI. That made me feel better because the last thing I really wanted was to go viral for a short test down Varick Street. However, I was emerging like a mind-numbed zombie from the LTC only to come face-to-face with Hailey and all the shelter kids. Everybody was excited and shoving phones in my face. The one I took to actually view the video was Peach’s. I nearly dropped it afterward.

“Careful, you ginger clutz!” Peach playfully scolded me.

“Mind-blowing, isn’t it?! A girl our age with powers like freakin’ Superman just over in Chicago! This is crazy in all the best ways!” Hailey screeched.

My mind had already done the comparative calculations. With references like the height of individual floors of shopping malls, I was able to deduce the height of the girl in the video: 1.78 meters. Then, when she jumped and zipped away in a blur, it was obvious she was the same person from the video from exactly one week ago. “She’s the blur. I was right.”

“What do you mean you were right?” Lowkey wondered, his head tilted a little to the side.

“I did the calculations on the video from last week. I analyzed the shape of the blur, light and dark patches, and the placement and angle of the Prandtl-Glauert singularity to determine the object was a human female roughly 1.78 meters tall.”

Everyone looked at me funny. If there was ever a time I needed Chispa around, that was it.

“Wanna break that down in English, maybe?” Salty scratched his head.

We all started moving down the hallway, making our way to the stairs, as I spoke. “Well, everybody’s seen the footage from last week, right? That object was there and gone before you could blink, right?” Everyone nodded, listening intently. “Use a little math when you go frame-by-frame, use the building windows as scale reference, and you can work it all out.”

“Seda, nobody but you and Chispa can do that kind of math.” Salty shook his head.

“I’m barely making it through pre-calc.” Hailey admitted.

A sigh escaped my lips. “Okay, the standard size of a large section of window on a skyscraper is 1.5 meters. Using that, you can determine the length of the ‘blur’, otherwise known as a laminar flow anomaly, which is 21.85 meters in a single frame. That, tied with the length and placement of the Prandtl-Glauert singularity, is how you find the height and sex of the person you’re seeing. The singularity forms on the lower third of any object it appears on at supersonic speeds. The angle of it tells you how fast the object is traveling, which is about 600 meters per second or Mach 1.74.”

“Seda, we asked for an answer in English.” Jefa rolled her eyes.

I pointed at the person whose face was obscured in the video. “That girl is the same height and bone structure as the thing caught on SkyCam last week. I knew she had a wider hip to shoulder ratio because of the placement of the vapor cone—hence, female. The shutter speed and constant measurement of the windows told me her height: 1.78 meters.” I still got a lot of blank stares. “She’s five-ten. She was also traveling faster than the highest operational speed recorded for the F-35 Lightning II.”

Everyone breathed in a breath of astonishment as we descended the stairs. I could smell their brains exploding.

“Yo, y’know what this means?” Matcha began. “We ain’t got no Superman… we got a Superwoman on the loose in Chicago!”

“Crazy to think about, ain’t it?” Jefa postulated. “I kinda thought that stuff from last week was AI or somethin’. Maybe that shit from Sunday was real, after all?”

My heart nearly stopped.

“Nah, I’m still flaggin’ that as AI. The lighting and colors were off to me.” Lowkey noted.

“It’s weird to think of people having powers, right?” Peach started thinking out loud. “I mean, it should be impossible, right?”

“Statistically and biologically impossible, yes.” I added.

“But now there’s video of somebody with the powers of Superman taking on someone with the powers of the Human Torch,” Matcha argued.

“I’m confused enough by math. This is breaking my brain.” Hailey butted in.

“Girl, dat’s all of us. Ain’t none of this make sense.” Matcha admitted.

“What does it mean for the world, y’know? Like… big picture kinda stuff.” Lowkey wondered.

“Only time can tell, guys. We’ve gotta survive Regents, first.” I interjected.

Everybody started laughing. All of us moved together to the bottom of the stairwell. A tingle ran up my spine and encompassed my skull. Four steps short of the bottom, we all immediately stopped. Someone was standing in our way.

He pointed at me. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

My heart fully stopped and my eyes grew to the circumference of dinner plates. “M-Me?” It was Mark.

He nodded, then his eyes drifted to each person in the group. “If that’s okay with you guys?”

Peach and Lowkey chorused a typically lyrical “Ooo” noise one might hear when a particular romantic situation was about to occur on a sitcom. Jefa smacked them both.

“C’mon, guys. Don’t be cringe.” She commanded before leading everyone off down the hallway a bit.

Mark seemed to chuckle and perhaps blush a little bit.

Hailey gently squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “I want details when you’re done.” She joined the others further down the hallway.

Mark watched them walk down the hall. When he felt they were a sufficient distance away, he looked back up at me, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that awkward.”

My entire body wanted to vibrate. Instead, my palms started sweating a little. The whole area felt a little warmer. “It… happens… I guess.”

“Yea… I guess.” He nervously laughed. “Look… um… I’ve seen you catching glances sometimes. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was doing the same thing. I wanted to formally introduce myself: I’m Mark. Mark Watson.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say ‘I know’ but my internal voice said that was a bad idea. “I’m… Saoirse. Saoirse Parker.”

“I know.” He lowered his head and wordlessly scolded himself. “That came out weird like I’m some kind of stalker. Sorry.”

He got me to smirk. Good job. “It’s… okay.”

“Yea… I know we’ve got English and Math together, so… maybe… I dunno… we could walk to class together… sometimes? Maybe get to know each other… and be less awkward?” He shrugged. “I… think you’re cute and… kinda fascinating. I wanna learn more about you. Sound like a plan?”

Words were failing me at the concept stage. “S-sure… sounds cool… I guess.”

He nodded quickly. “Cool… uh… guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

I mirrored the head motion. “Yea. Cool.”

He started to move away, walking backwards a little. “Nice meeting you, Saoirse.”

“You too,” was all that would come out until he disappeared around the corner.

My breathing returned to normal once he was gone. Multiple subway trains rammed brick walls inside my head at ninety miles an hour simultaneously. All the thoughts erupted at once. ‘That boy is half your age!’ screamed one. ‘The hell is wrong with you?!’ screamed another. ‘I am not okay!’ screamed a third. More thought trains hit walls. More screams echoed in my prefrontal cortex.

The “pulse” or “wave” or “event” or whatever people wanted to call it had done a hell of a thing. Eighteen days earlier, I had been a broke, thirty-something, outwardly male trying to make ends meet. I was so far in the closet that Mr. Tumnus and I were neighbors. A freak astronomical phenomenon that clearly gave physics the middle finger struck Earth. In a single afternoon, I became everything I’ve ever wanted… except becoming a teenager again. And then, there I was standing on the fourth step of a concrete flight of stairs reeling after an awkward conversation with a boy I was clearly attracted to.

Given events of the past couple of weeks, a case could be made that my entire being was regressed to that of a sixteen-year-old, my brain included. It’s feasible to say I was walking around with a brain that wasn’t fully developed like any other teenager. However, I still had the memories of someone who had lived thirty-three, nearly thirty-four, distinct revolutions around the star at the center of our planetary system.

Math is easy. Emotions are hard.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Fourteen

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: Look... this particular stage in the Heroine's Journey can sometimes be difficult to write, especially when you're doing trauma work. Thankfully, I've had a session or two with my therapist to get through this brick wall. Sorry it took so long.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmCj7k2ZHuo ))

The next week and half passed like I was standing still. Before I knew it, the penultimate Saturday of May was upon me. School had become a blur of routine just like it had the first time around. Time at the shelter with the others had its bright spots. Mark was serious about the invitation and we had five minutes between two classes to continue having awkward conversations. I had started with the private dance tutor that Maven hired in the Garment District. She was helpful. I was practicing my abilities and had a few swings down random streets around town. The needed goggles were picked up, but I found out I’d have to engineer some actuating shutters for the things for better focus and protection from light bouncing off building glass.

On the outside, everything seemed to be going fine. That and most of my existence was a bold-face lie. Everything was weird and nothing felt right. The main reason I was going out to practice so much was the fact that it was my only real escape. I didn’t have to perform for anyone but myself. The feelings while exercising my abilities were the only way I could truly express myself.

It wasn’t just practice, either. I had legitimately started going out to do “patrols”. With my earbuds in, I could use an app that functioned as a police scanner. Not having my own money to go and pick up the real thing, I had to make do with what I had. After about three or four “patrols”, the entire idea of a scanner seemed like a wasted effort. The entire idea of a would-be superhero sitting in front of a police scanner and responding at a moment’s notice to something big was the dumbest premise Hollywood ever cooked up. I always seem to learn lessons the hard way. All that ever seemed to come up were improper parking issues, traffic tickets, and the occasional report of a missing pet. Not knowing the police code speak didn’t help, either. I had to do a little research.

On that particular Saturday, I was returning to the shelter after having given a tourist some directions in Tribeca and finding someone’s lost dog in Chelsea. I was glad to be of help, but there was an overwhelming sense that I should be doing something bigger. An indescribable frustration bubbled to the surface because I really wanted to make some kind of tangible difference, but I was just stagnating. The whole idea of the suit and web shooters was because I wanted to do the most good. Nothing else in my life felt like it was hitting any of those notes.

The all-too-familiar tingling sensation ran up my spine and around my head moments after landing. I was facing Jones Street, not the door to the stairs back into the shelter. I quickly lowered my hood, pulled off the balaclava, and fidgeted with the goggles until they came off before I turned to see… Maven. Her arms were folded across her chest and the look on her face was too neutral to not be unsettling.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” was the first thing out of my mouth.

“Oh, I’m quite certain it is exactly what it appears to be.” She came back almost immediately. “Do you believe that I would disapprove and encourage you to cease?”

“...yes?”

She let out a sigh and approached. “No. I shan’t be doing that. You seem to have taken my words to heart. I approve of the fact you’ve done your best to maintain your anonymity. How’s it going, thus far?”

The elephant that was sitting on my shoulders decided to stand and walk away. “Um… well… not so great, as it turns out.” I presented my wrists to her to show her the devices. “I made these with Chispa’s help.”

“Julia has contributed? Is she aware of your… talents?”

“Yea. She caught me up here a couple of weeks ago. She was trying to independently study the phenomenon that made all this possible. She was disappointed she couldn’t engineer the right equipment from salvaged electronics.”

“That would be disappointing. You should be more careful, however.” She warned. “Now, what do these lovelies do?”

“They work like the hind legs of a spider and allow me to utilize my webbing in a controlled, consistent manner. I don’t get lines consistently without them. All that comes out are useless globs.”

“It would seem you’ve solved that issue. The one you haven’t is why you continue to escape up here and out into the world with that mask. I’m not blind, Saoirse. I can spot an escapism from miles afield. I’ve seen you go out for weeks to ‘exercise’. Mind telling me what your ailment is?”

Her directness floored me. “You really don’t mince words, do you?”

“You’re stalling.” Maven smirked at me.

My brain seemed to short circuit. All at once, I was being told that the one secret I thought I could hold onto wasn’t as secret as I thought and being asked in the most flowery language if I was okay. A puff of air was propelled from my lungs. “No. I’m not okay.”

“I’m aware. That is why I’ve come. I’m aware that we’ve scarcely interacted since you arrived and began school. For that, I apologize, but I’ve been a bit labored by creating you out of thin air.”

That got me. My brow furrowed and my gaze diverted from hers. “Did you ever even ask me if I wanted to be created out of thin air? You forced me to adopt a first name, then dropped my mom’s name in as a middle name without consulting me. It seems like ever since I arrived, you and others have been making decisions for me without my consent.”

“It’s pragmatic. You’re a teenager.”

“No, I’m not, Eliza! I’m thirty-three fucking years old! I’ve had a life, thank you very much! It wasn’t a great one, but I had a job! It was a shitty spot, but I had a place to lay my head that I paid for!”

She actually rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, yes… the lovely job of riding a bicycle all over Brooklyn at the behest of an application that the worst sort of human developed in California. It bought you a single bedroom in a rundown flat amongst people who would give nary a care if you were revealed as deceased. Meanwhile, you could be changing the world with your degree and intelligence, but you chose to deliver takeout for a living?”

Her words cut deep. A single tear rolled down my cheek. “At least that was honest. Now, it’s nothing but lies.”

“More to the point: half truths. They are such for your protection, love.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Perhaps not, but are you aware that we have had unmarked vehicles from the Department of Homeland Security’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement watching the building from time to time? No doubt they’re performing a stakeout to choose a moment to strike.”

Yet another subway train smacked a brick wall at ninety miles an hour in my mind. “Excuse me? ICE has been outside the building? There are Hispanic people here! When were you going to tell us about this?”

“I just informed you.” A heavy breath expelled from her lungs. “I keep secrets from those in my charge because sometimes one has to. I don’t delight in it, but it is better that I worry over things while you all get to be teenagers and think the world is fine. You’re all young and a bit naive. You should be allowed such for as long as possible.”

My hands waved over my body. “I’m not this young! I’m not naive, either! When are you going to acknowledge that?!”

She strode to the ledge of the building and leaned on it. “Saoirse, I’m more than five thousand years old. From my perspective, you’re all young and naive. You could be eighty and facing your deathbed and I would feel the same. It’s a curse as much as it is a blessing. This conversation isn’t meant to be aimed at me. What’s troubling you, love? What are you hiding from?”

I leaned on the ledge, as well. Both of us used our folded arms to hold us up. “Where do I even start?”

“The beginning, generally.” She chuckled.

My eyes danced over the skyline of Manhattan. “I used to dream about what it would be like on this island. Sitting on the roof of the Albany Towers or looking out from my window on the tenth floor, I’d see the glistening facades of the taller buildings. I wanted to be here engineering the technology that would make the next Empire State Building possible. I wanted to make technology work for people… especially poor kids like me.” My eyes lowered to the mortar of the ledge. “Those dreams died with my mom. After that, I didn’t really have goals other than diving headfirst into the sciences to escape from everything else. It didn’t matter how miserable I was, so long as the equations kept coming and I was home as little as possible. I knew I was different from very young. I didn’t have the words to even tell my mom what was going on. Without her, Dad got worse with his corrections and I buried who I truly was for years. At MIT, I found the LGBT groups and learned the word for me was something called ‘transgender’.”

“At the time, though, there wasn’t much I could really do. I’d have to sit with a therapist for half a year before I’d even get permission to see an endocrinologist and get my medications. That’s of course dependent on whether or not I could even find a therapist competent enough to work with. With my workload, it wasn’t possible. They didn’t even cover surgery until a couple of months before I graduated. With my dad back home and no guarantee of a job in my field, I couldn’t commit to the financials of it all. I was already drowning in debt from the graduate program.” Tears started flowing. “It became another dream I couldn’t achieve.”

Sobs began occasionally interrupting my speech. “When I got back, I was genuinely proud to have a Master’s from such a prestigious school like MIT. I thought it would open doors. Instead, I was once again the cop’s kid in Albany Towers with no prospects for getting out. My dad made it my fault. He thought something was broken about me and always had been. We had a huge fight and I moved out that day. I had some money from a job at a pizza parlor I’d been working at, hit Craig’s List, and took the first apartment available. I’ve been on the move and haven’t spoken to my father since… until Mother’s Day.”

Maven spoke softly. “You were so excited when you left. You came back so detached and dejected. I wondered what had occurred. I s’pose you encountered your father?”

I nodded quickly, wiping my eyes before continuing. “Yes, but you’re skipping ahead. I bought a bike for that pizza delivery job. It turned into my way to do delivery apps, thinking they’d be side-hustles not my whole job. Rent got more expensive. Food got more expensive. Phones got more expensive. My student loans were in the background mocking me. There wasn’t extra for anything, least of all keeping the bike in good repair so I could keep going. I had no friends, no family, no hope, no money, and the future felt more expensive than promising.”

“Then… April 29th changed everything. Simultaneously, I had everything I ever wanted and nothing at all. I lost the ability to do my job because the bike was too big. I lost the place I’d been living because no one recognized me. Suddenly, I’m dodging cops and hiding on the subway. Then, you come along and it’s been lies ever since. I’ve never been good at lying because it might work in the moment, but it eats me from the inside out like every caustic substance in existence.”

Maven sighed and her eyes scanned the skyline. “The price of true happiness is often too high a cost for many to pay. The ignorant try to purchase it with currency, only to find themselves more impoverished than they were before. I’m not attempting to diminish your struggle, Saoirse. I can see as plainly as the nose on my face that it’s been difficult for you since I found you on that train. Things have had to occur the way they have to keep you safe.”

My eyes followed hers to the skyline. “Meanwhile, I don’t even know who this ‘Saoirse’ even is anymore than I knew who ‘Preston’ was. It’s been cover story after cover story after cover story. Who even am I underneath all these lies? I have no clue. I can’t be honest about anything with anyone. I’m suffering through high school, but this time trying to catch up academically because I didn’t exist a month ago. I can’t have any real friends because that would require unmitigated authenticity. I’m awkward and disgusted with the idea of being attracted to a boy half my fucking age. The icing on the cake: my own father saw me in a dress at my mother’s gravesite and thought I was her fucking ghost. My dad acknowledged I look like my mom and also looked right through me as if I were just a stranger. The fuck am I supposed to do with all that?!”

Maven hummed a chuckle. “To quote the children these days: you are not wrong.” She shook her head. “To attempt a jest was insensitive. I apologize.”

“Don’t. Humor’s probably one of the best forms of coping. Why do you think I use it all the time?” I gently nudged her with an elbow.

“I admit that I have likely lost some perspective with how difficult it can be to be poor. It’s been over a century since I experienced poverty personally. I may be the executive director of a homeless youth shelter, but that’s the extent of my involvement in your lives. I cannot attend school for you. I cannot choose your friends. I do not have your lack of resources. It’s why I try to provide them to the best of my ability. I’ve tried to do such for you, but it seems I’ve lost sight of the mission.” She let out a sigh. “Hearing that you are in such despair hurts in one of the ways that I can’t heal.”

She turned to face me, turned me towards her, and lifted my chin with a gentle hand. “Saoirse, I need you to know that I care a great deal about all those in my charge. You are all surrogates for the children I could never have, for one reason or another. I know that things are weighing on you. I put a lot in your cup without asking what you preferred. Time was of the essence and I did not check with you through the process.” She took a moment to breathe and brush a bit of my hair behind my ear. “Allow me a few inquiries?”

My eyes rolled on their own, a slight grumble escaped, and a sigh came out. “Okay, fine.”

“What do you believe about the people you’ve met here and at school? Do you truly believe you’ve made no friends at all?”

“I’m getting closer to the others—Chispa most of all. We’re sort of kindred spirits, as it were. There’s this girl at school, Hailey, that sort of inserted herself into my life. She feels like the Jobs to my Wozniak.”

“Thus, do you feel like that attachment is inauthentic?”

All I could do was shrug. “I guess not, but the lying about my past is eating at me.”

“Perhaps you can be a little more honest with them without sacrificing your safety in the future? I do not believe that the current moment is appropriate, but I cannot make that decision for you. Next question: who is this boy you spoke of?”

My head lowered a little and my cheeks felt warm. “His name is Mark. I’m pretty sure he’s a drama geek.”

“Ah… you’ve come to admire a thespian, have you?”

“A what?”

“Thespian. It’s based on the first acknowledged western actor, Thespis. He supposedly leapt onto the back of a cart and began reciting lines of poetry in character. He was also a singer of some report. You’ve come to admire someone that carries on this legacy?”

“He had a letterman jacket with the two mask faces on it and wore a t-shirt with William Shakespeare on it. I did the sociological math and figured it out.”

“And does this thespian reciprocate your admiration?”

“I don’t know. He did ask to walk to classes together, though… to get to know each other better.” My hands flew to my mouth. “Holy shit, he’s flirting with me!”

Maven chuckled and smiled. “You might have thirty-three years of memories, but I would argue your brain has roughly the equivalent development of your peers—the same as your body. Given that, I would say you’re merely an ‘old soul’. Have you truly been living those years or merely trying to make it to the next one to forget the last?”

There was a miniature of my body in my mind’s eye. It was flung into the stratosphere with the force of an ordinary feather. That’s how hard a simple question hit me. At first, I wasn’t sure how to respond. That body was denied low orbit by the forces of gravity and came back down to impact with the force of a small meteorite.

My voice came out soft and low. “No. I was just trying to survive. I don’t think I’ve truly lived a day since my mom died.”

“Perhaps it is time that you did. Next question: when was the last time you had spoken to your father before your interaction on Mother’s Day?”

“Ten years, give or take.”

“A decade. That’s a while, isn’t it? Did he mention the disappearance of Preston? You said you were evicted by your flatmates and avoided the police the night I found you. The night after ‘the pulse’.”

Thinking back to the conversation, I nodded and still spoke softly. “He did. He seemed pretty broken up about it… like he was ashamed to admit to my mom that he’d personally failed because his son was gone.”

“And yet, his own child was standing before him. He’s still not ready to see you, Saoirse. Not as the person you are. On the bright side, he confused you for your mother. That tells me that you appear to resemble her more than you acknowledge. That’s not nothing, love.”

“I guess I’ve got more thinking to do.”

“This house will be here for you when you return. I would encourage you to face these things rather than distract yourself from them. They are important things or they wouldn’t be affecting you so profoundly.” She gently placed a hand on my shoulder. “Be safe, love.”

She dropped those truth bombs on my head, then turned and walked to the door back down to the shelter like she was the Enola Gay. The devastation to my psyche was something I would not recover from for a while. Having a great deal to think about, everything that would conceal my identity went back on before I leapt to the building across the street, deciding to continue the patrol. My brain was moving faster than my body with all the thoughts swirling around in a maelstrom.

While my thoughts were chaotic, my movements were even more so. They carried me beyond my usual boundaries. The swinging opportunities were better in Chelsea and Soho, anyway. I just… needed to feel good about something. Every other part of my life was about lies and numbness. It felt like I was a pre-programmed machine just going through the motions.

“Hey! What’re you doin’?! You’re s’posed to bring those to the door!” An older woman shouted from a window.

At the end of a swing, I let go and “landed” on the brick of the building across the street and listened as the delivery guy shouted up from the sidewalk, “Ain’t my problem I can’t get through the door! You’re gonna have to come get the bags!”

“The super’s s’posed to fix the door buzzer! I’m eighty-three years old! I can’t make it up the stairs with all that!” The woman yelled back.

“I got other deliveries, lady! Figure it out!” He shouted again before slipping into his Tesla and leaving the scene.

Letting out a disappointed sigh at the delivery guy, my eyes darted from the sidewalk to the woman’s apartment. She was on the sixth floor. The delivery was a bunch of groceries in four paper bags, two big cases of nutritional drinks, and a package of toilet paper. It was time to test some of the other capabilities of the webbing. Zipping a line to the top of the woman’s building, I started a swing over.

“I got you, ma’am.” I shouted on the way over toward the ground.

She watched me swing to the ground and start to assess the problem. It would take a couple of trips, but I could leave her things on the fire escape right outside her window with no problem. Unless I could figure out some kind of satchel, there was no way I’d get the paper bags full of stuff up to her in one go. Thus began the transfer. Carrying two bags at a time, I leapt up to her fire escape and set them down right outside the window. She watched me do it with awe written all over her face. Once the nutritional drinks and toilet paper were delivered, I was about to leave when she stopped me.

“Ain’t it a little early for Halloween? Who you s’posed to be, anyhow? Spider-Man’s little sister?” She wondered.

“No, ma’am. No relation whatsoever.” was my slightly uncomfortable reply.

“You talk a little muffled with the mask. Might wanna fix that. Thanks for the help. You got a name or somethin’? Should I just call you ‘Spider-Girl’ or whatever?”

“I think Disney would get a little litigious if I let people call me that and it got into the press.”

“Yea, maybe so. The purple and black is a good look, though. How’d you do the jump thing, though? How’s that web thing work?”

“Not real sure how the powers thing works. You seen the videos about that one girl in Chicago?”

“Yea. About time the world got some real superheroes. It’s been goin’ ta hell in a handbasket for more than fifty years now. Is that what you’re doin’? Usin’ whatever powers you got to be some kinda superhero or somethin’?”

My shoulders shrugged all on their own. “I’m just tryin’ ta be a good neighbor, y’know? Especially in this city, people need a reminder to be good to one another every now and then.”

“New Yorkers bein’ nice to each other?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Fugetaboutit. Just don’t be a complete asshole and we’re good.” She offered a smile. “Ya wanna cookie, hon? Got some fresh baked just sittin’ there.”

She couldn’t see it, but I smiled. “I could go for a cookie.”

Turning around and bringing a bag into her apartment, she came back with a decently sized chocolate chip circle. “Here ya go. I’m sure you got other things to worry about than an old hag with a rent-controlled apartment in Chelsea she’s lived in for forty years. I’ll watch for ya on the news. Work on that name thing, huh?”

“Will do, ma’am. I’ll grab some tools and see what I can’t do about the door buzzer up front.”

“That’d be nice. Our good-for-nothin’ super ain’t fixed nothing in five years. Maybe you could take his job?”

“I’ve got another job, but thanks. See ya later.”

I stuffed the cookie into a pocket of the jacket and smiled before turning away from her. A line shot out to the building across the street, I leapt off the fire escape balcony, and swung away from the apartment.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Fifteen

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: A little late in the day, but posted on schedule! This chapter has some heavy content about sexual assault, rape, violence, and suicide. If that's a trigger, then maybe skip this one, message me, and I'll elaborate for you without the triggers included.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxGKmHXP8VE )) [RIP Brad]

I ate the cookie. It was pretty good. Whilst sitting atop the arch at the 5th Avenue entrance to Washington Square Park that's basically a miniature Arc de Triomphe, I did wish that I had a little milk, though. It really would have helped me feel right as rain.

After helping the woman with her groceries, there were a couple others that needed a little helping hand. For some reason, somebody’s cat had made it out onto a ledge and was calling frantically. It was apparently not fond of the ground being nine stories below it. I was able to safely scoop up the kitty and walk it down to its owner on the sidewalk. Before finding a perch atop the arch, there was an older tourist couple that didn’t understand the navigation instructions to the Comedy Cellar over on MacDougal Street. They literally only had to walk half a block through the park and down almost two blocks.

Sitting on top of that arch, I could see most of Washington Square Park and the New York University campus that surrounds it. Generally speaking, I’d ended up there entirely by accident. I had swung in from the north and landed nicely on top. It wouldn’t be difficult to simply climb up the side, but swinging was more fun. The goggles were doing the work of keeping the wind from affecting my eyes enough that I couldn’t see without them. I knew I still had to work in the shutters. The light bouncing off some of the buildings was starting to get to me.

My thoughts were instantly interrupted by a blood-curdling scream coming from somewhere near the center of the park and under the trees. I didn’t hesitate. I hopped onto my feet and jumped toward the trees. There were probably a few short swings I could accomplish under the canopies, but it wouldn’t result in sustained momentum.

Once under the tree canopies, I spotted what appeared to be a young woman smacking some guy with her purse and desperately trying to get away from him. For as long as I could, I zipped out short lines and cruised along like a jungle monkey. When that wasn’t viable anymore, I released and started running. The young woman had been forced to the ground and was obviously crying out through tears of panic. That urged me forward.

When I was within a few meters of the man, I rounded off into some handsprings and threw my feet into him at the end of the series. He went flying from the impact while I positioned myself over her body in a crouching ready pose. What I hadn’t noticed was some guy toward the street who was battling two other guys in an outfit that looked like a dime-store Captain America, shield and all. That was interesting, but my main concern was the guy that I had kicked. A moment later, he got on his feet and looked at me with malice. He pulled a machete from behind his back.

“You should’a minded your own fuckin’ business!” He shouted at me as he advanced.

My eyes narrowed on him even though he couldn’t see it. “And you should’a known that ‘no’ means ‘no’.” With a flick of my wrist, a line shot out and actually latched onto the machete. One more flick and the weapon was dislodged from his hand, whipped past me, and stuck into the ground behind me. “You also learned the wrong lesson from Crocodile Dundee.”

“Who da fuck are you s’posed to be?” He tried taunting me.

“Right now, your worst nightmare: a girl that’s about to kick your ass.” Quickly, I turned to the terrified face of the girl beneath me locked in a phantom scream. “Stay here. They’ve got dangerous weapons. I’ll keep you safe.”

With a small nod from the college girl, my focus returned to the guy that attacked her. I leapt into the air and terribly choreographed a punch. Those things work in the movies. In the real world, he grabbed me midair and literally threw me to the side. Thanks to my senses, I was able to physically recover. He got me when he tried to charge me. It almost succeeded, but my powers locked in. Avoiding him was easy and so was kicking him in the chin as he rolled by. He fell face-first into the grass. Making use of a good opportunity, I moved over to him and flipped him over. He didn’t look conscious.

“If you know what’s good for you, stay down.” I growled in a not-so-intimidating manner.

With sounds of a struggle still in the background, I crossed back to the young woman and offered to help her stand. “You okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

She was only a couple of inches taller than me. Shaking like a leaf, she shook her head. “No, but he really wanted to. I’ll have bruises, but I think I’ll be okay. Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yea. I’ll be fine. Why?” She pointed at my waist. When I looked, there was a small gash. He must have had another knife on him when I jumped at him. “Oh. Well, that sucks.” My eyes met her again. “I heal pretty quickly. I’ll be fine. Get out of here and call the cops.”

She nodded and spun around, not needing to be asked twice. Once she was out of hearing range, I inhaled a hiss because the gash stung a little bit. Unexpected wounds always seemed to hurt after you’ve noticed them. Life is weird. I knew the cut would heal faster than wounds have ever healed on my body, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. The fact that I didn’t even see the second knife worried me. I had no idea it was even there and then I got a cut near my waist. It went right through the dance gear. My mind was already formulating how to solve that particular problem.

My eyes drifted back to the other two assailants. The guy fighting them looked to be somebody of lesser means. He was wearing a hazmat suit he’d dyed midnight blue. There were a few black armor bits on various parts of his body. The hazmat hood was up and his face was covered by what looked like a paintball mask with colored lenses. Strapped to his arm, he wielded a hand-crafted circular shield that almost looked older than I now appeared to be. He used it for defense and offense. He looked as competent with the thing as Chris Evans’ stunt double without the improvised frisbee moves.

He was fighting two guys, though, and looked a little tired. Before jumping in to help, I checked on the fleeing young woman and the third guy. The girl was far enough away to be safe and the guy was still napping. Satisfied, I rushed in and did a little hop. My feet rushed toward each assailant while performing a midair split. Both kicks hit and the two were knocked off balance.

“Need a hand?” I asked the guy in the hazmat suit with a shield.

His gruff, older voice scoffed. “Looks like you brought two feet.”

“Did you just ‘Dad Joke’ in the middle of the fight?” I smirked, though he couldn’t see it.

He swung his shield into the face of one of the assailants with a grunt. “Less talking, more fighting, please.”

Rolling my eyes, I let out a groan. “Fine. You’re no fun.”

Grabbing the guy that didn’t get the shield to the face, I attached a web line and spun him around a few times. It took a little doing, but he was detained pretty well afterward. I let him fall to the ground and struggle against his binding in an exercise in futility. In the next few moments, I did the same to the other guy battling with Dime-Store Cap. Once he was secure, I repeated the process with the guy I’d knocked unconscious. I came away from the situation with a grin on my face. Dime-store Cap advanced on me.

“Are you special or just stupid?” He growled.

“Whoa!” I objected. “No need to be ableist, my guy!”

“I’m not. It takes a special kind of person to leap into a situation with no intel. You came in blind as a bat and could have gotten someone seriously hurt.” He scolded me.

My arm extended and a finger pointed at the girl off in the distance, hysterical as she talked to the 9-1-1 operator. “I saved her, didn’t I?”

He pointed at my waist. “Without paying attention and protecting yourself, too. You haven’t been at this long, have you?”

I hung my head. “Not really, no.”

“Kid, I’ve been at this since 2009. There are ways to do it right, ways to do it poorly, and ways to get yourself killed. Right now, you’re leaning toward those last two.”

“I’m not a kid… for the record.”

He laughed sardonically. “Yea, okay. Sure.” He rolled his eyes. “Honey, I’ve got two girls and a wife. I know the difference between a teenage girl’s voice and a mature woman’s. You’re a teenager and that makes you a kid.” He took a deep breath. “Which is why you should go home and hang up that ski mask. One: I can barely understand you through it. Two: you’re being a stupid fucking kid. There’s a reason the RLSH community discourages anyone under 18 from doing this work. You’re stupid and impulsive.”

“RLSH?”

He groaned. “Real Life SuperHero. It’s been a whole movement since the 1970s. There was a documentary in 2011. You’ve really never heard of us?”

“Nope. All I know is you look like a figurine of Captain America from Dollar General.”

His body slumped. “Ouch.” He started walking toward the middle of the park. “Seventeen years of work for no fucking reason.”

My heart sank in my chest as I followed him. “It’s probably not for nothing. Just because I haven’t heard of you—whatever your name is—doesn’t mean nobody has.”

“The name’s Aegis. I’ve been out here longer than you’ve probably been alive.” He let out a sigh as he seemed to keep a casual pace. “I thought the whole powers thing was a joke. Here you come out of nowhere throwing actual webs and jumping around like a floor routine at the Olympics.” Behind the mask, his eyes seemed to focus on something in the distance. “Maybe it’s a sign I gotta spend more time at home with my kids. I’m getting too old for this shit, anyway.”

His pace was such that I trailed behind him a little. “Wait, what do you mean ‘the whole powers thing’? I thought it was just me and that girl in Chicago?”

He scoffed. “Yea, no. It’s all over the internet. People are showing encrypted videos and such. Maybe they’re not as captivating for the press as the possibility of Superman with tits, but they exist.” He glanced back at me. “You were the one they caught swinging down Varick, weren’t you? It’s funny how many are really convinced that’s AI video.”

“I’m fine with people thinking the video is fake. I’m not doing this for the fame.”

He abruptly halted. “Let’s be clear: you shouldn’t be doing it at all. Today, it was a scratch in your side. A graze, really. Tomorrow, it could be a bullet between your eyes. You have no idea what you’re getting into, little girl. You need to go home and hang up the mask until you’re eighteen, at least.”

My blood was coming up to boiling temperature. “Let’s get one thing settled between the two of us: I’m not a child.” I hung my head a little and looked at my hands. “These powers came with a cost. In reality, you’re only one to five years older than me—depending on if you started at eighteen or as old as twenty-five. I’m old enough to remember the release of the Nintendo 64 because I was a kid. The Power Rangers were my jam. I remember the Towers. I remember sitting down on the couch, watching Spongebob when it first came out, and laughing like an idiot. I remember Hannah Montana because Miley was only a year younger than me. I wasn’t even a teenager when Tobey Maguire put on a red and blue suit and took the world by storm. I lived a life before this happened.”

He let out a heavy breath, but he didn’t say anything for a long minute. “I’m thirty-seven.” He said plainly before taking a moment to choose his words carefully. “Let’s entertain the idea. I’ve seen the webs and the crazy acrobatics. Have you got the senses, the ability to climb sheer surfaces, and crazy strength, too?”

I tilted my head a little, curious where he was going with the question. “According to my experiments, yes.”

He shook his head. “I saw somebody who could fly and shoot lightning from her hands online the other day. With special effects being what they are, is any of it real? How did any of this even happen?”

“I can’t speak to the validity of anyone else online. I can only talk about my own experience.” I crouched down and launched myself into the air about thirty meters. It wasn’t as frightening as it had been the first time because I’d been able to practice. I landed in a certain pose that allowed my body to absorb the energy of the fall, then stood up. “I’m real. When’s the last time you saw someone free jump the height of a rowhouse in Brooklyn?”

He simply nodded, trying to process the whole thing, no doubt. “How did this even happen? One minute, superpowers are stuff you see in the movies. The next, some kid’s climbing the side of a skyscraper and another’s flying through Chicago.”

“Best guess is that pulse thing from April 29th. That’s when everything changed for me. I’m pretty sure that’s when it happened to the others, too. An unclassified astronomical phenomenon filled with energy signatures and exotic particles that science can’t yet explain passed through the planet and changed our world.” At the unasked questions written on his face, I shrugged. “I’m a mechanical engineer that dabbled in astrophysics in college.”

“Smart kid.”

I groaned. “We’ve established that I’m not technically a kid.”

He turned and started walking again. “Whatever. So, you’re basically Spider-Man’s little sister—”

“I’m not that, either,” I interrupted while following him.

“Whatever you say doesn’t really matter. Unless you claim a name, everybody’s going to call you that. It’s an easy association.”

“A cease and desist from Sony and Disney is really the last thing I need.”

“Right. Might as well nip that in the bud.” He held up his shield. “I’m Aegis. It’s because of this shield and my promise. My mission is to be the protector of women, like the one tonight, from being attacked or assaulted. I did my research. I looked at crime statistics and maps to determine where I would patrol. I learned that from D3V1L. It’s why I’m here near the college because it’s a hot spot. I also learned about New York Penal Law 35.15 from him. It says you can use force if it’s in the defense of another person. If you’re curious, read the whole law. There’s a lot there. I use it to defend women, specifically, from people who want to hurt them like I did tonight. I’m the protector, never the one that incites the violence. My weapon is a defense because I don’t actually want to hurt anyone, but I can if I need to.”

“All that makes a great deal of sense. ‘Aegis’. It’s not just your name but your creed. It’s kinda poetic, if you think about it.”

“So, what do you want to be called? What’s your mission?”

The questions made me stop and think for a few moments. “Well… there’s people that call me Seda, for a start.”

He chuckled. “Silk. In Spanish. Cute. With the webs, it works.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not so much. That name by itself is taken. Marvel Comics.”

“Fine. Workshop it. You didn’t answer my second question: what’s your mission?”

The question recalibrated my mind. We were walking past an area with aluminum barricades. I hopped up on one and started walking the line like a tightrope. It was aiding the thought process and gave me a break from feeling like the shortest person in the room again.

“I experienced something like what that girl was going through tonight,” I admitted in a low tone. “I know the fear that was running through her. The difference is that I have these powers, so I could fight the guys myself. I feel like…” I let out a heavy sigh. “...like if bad things happen it’s kind of my fault because I have these powers and I could do something about it. I wanna help people. I wanna protect them.”

Aegis chuckled from the firm sidewalk a little below me. “Great power… great responsibility… sounds like a movie thing. It’s the kind of quote everyone would expect from someone with your powers.”

“Yea, it does. I still feel it, though.” I smirked. “They really don’t sell the thrill of swinging through Manhattan enough. It’s such a rush.”

“I thought Andrew Garfield did a pretty decent job at it.” He shrugged. “Regardless, you want to be a helpful protector, right? That’s your whole mission?”

“I mean, yea. I want to protect the people of New York, specifically women. You should see the crime statistics against women and girls in the five boroughs. It’s more than a little frightening.”

“I have seen those stats.” He diverted his gaze toward something off in the distance in front of us. “It’s one of the reasons I decided to do this. I had a really good friend who went to college here at NYU. She was so excited about being right here in the middle of the buzz of Manhattan.” He got a little choked up. “She was attacked in this very park. The guy who raped her got off scot-free. It destroyed her. She was never the same. She… she jumped off the George Washington Bridge in 2008. I made a promise to honor her legacy and make sure it never happened to someone else on my watch.”

The story took me back several steps in my mind. “Wow. That turned into a genuine disaster.” My voice dropped a few decibels. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

He turned to face me. Neither one of us noticed we’d stopped walking. He was on the concrete of the sidewalk while I was up on the metal barricade. “I turned a tragedy into a mission statement. While I’m out here, that won’t happen. I’m just one guy, though.”

I nodded softly. “I see what you’re saying. The mission is a promise to yourself as well as the people who might never hear you state it.” My head turned so that my eyes met his, even though his were behind yellow mirrored lenses and mine were behind the goggles. “They’ll never see your face and they’ll never know your name. Putting yourself behind the mask says that anyone could do these things with enough conviction. You don’t need fame or recognition. Just to know people are safe. How am I doing?”

He chuckled. “I put on the mask because people might file false reports if they get upset that I beat them up for acting like an asshole. In recent years, it’s because of facial recognition software. I use the superhero name that’s easy to say and it keeps my family safe from retaliation. The mission still drives my actions, but some things are just practical.”

I rolled my eyes. “So, I wax philosophical and you’re basically telling me ‘You know nothing, Jon Snow’. Wonderful.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, kid. I’m going to keep harping on the fact you’re under 18 and shouldn’t be doing this at all. If it’s a goal, then you should learn to fight, first. Then, you’re gonna need a suit of some kind. The dancer lycra is cute and all, but it’s thin as hell. It tears easily and cuts get through. It’s meant to breathe in, not fight. Then, you’re gonna need to learn some math to collate some data and work out patterns. You’ll need to work on some crime maps that inform your patrols.” He chuckled. “Whatever you do, don’t depend on police scanners. That works in the movies. In the real world, the NYPD isn’t going to use the radios for major actions. That’s all coordinated behind the scenes. For spur of the moment stuff like a bank robbery, they use code.”

“Thankfully, I’m really good at math.” My cheeks flushed a little as he mentioned the scanner. “I figured out the scanner was a waste of time. Movies lied to me.”

“Movies are supposed to lie. They’re fiction.” He shook his head.

Another sigh escaped my lips. “Look, the reality is that I don’t have a blueprint for any of this. I can reference comic books, TV shows, and movies all day long. Even in the short time I’ve been trying to do this, it’s readily apparent it’s not always going to be sunshine and rainbows. I’m living my truth the best way I know how because when I go home and take off this mask, everything is lies. This is the true me. I wanna help and use these powers for something that makes a difference.”

His vocal inflection sounded like he was smiling. “It’s a good motivator, but this isn’t like all that pop culture mush in your brain. Do you know what I do when I’m not beating three guys to pulp for trying to harm that girl tonight?”

“Not a clue.”

“I’m out here with hand warmers, socks, first aid supplies, a few bottles of water, and outreach information. There are at least eight homeless people that sleep out here most nights. I do what I can to make their lives suck a little less after they encounter me. That’s about ninety percent of my patrols. That stuff doesn’t make the news. Ever. Those are the small acts of kindness that make life worth a shit. You gotta take care of the community, not just beat up bad guys.”

My shoulders slumped. I’d been classifying those things as the boring parts. “Yea. I guess you’re right about that.”

“I don’t guess. I know. If you wanna be a warden of New York, you gotta look out for the people.”

Electricity sparked in my body at the utterance of a single word. “What’d you just say?”

“A warden of New York? It’s being the protector or the guardian. It goes back—”

“I think that’s it.”

“What is it?”

“My name.” The lenses of my goggles met his. “I’m Silk Warden.”

Webs We Weave



Chapter Sixteen

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: Early posting! Enjoy!

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CUyWJ7UINM ))

When I woke up the next morning, there seemed to be blood everywhere. Sundays were a day that was for sleeping in and not being in school—aka enjoying oneself. That day would instead live in infamy. When my brain caught up with my eyes, I was apparently in the center of a crime scene.

The scream my body produced could be compared to the greatest scream queens of Hollywood.

In moments, Maven burst into the room with dread written all over her face, at first. I felt too paralyzed to move. Once her eyes had swept the room, she started looking me over for any hint of what could be happening. Her eyes found the problem. A hand flew to her mouth. Her shoulders tensed… and then started shaking. Within seconds, the dam had burst and tears streamed down my face.

“Am I dying?! OhmygodamIdying?!” was the incoherence that came out of my mouth.

Maven laughed. “No, Saoirse, you are not dying, love.” She took in a breath, trying to compose herself. “I propose that you venture into the shower and wash yourself. Rinse your clothing in cold water. I’ll attend to the bedding. I shall meet you in the toilet.”

Full hysterics had taken over. “I’m afraid to move. I got cut last night. I thought it healed. Is this from that?”

Maven’s transfer case flipped gears. “Cut? Where were you cut?”

Meekly, I pointed at the site of the gash. It had, in fact, completely healed. There wasn’t even a scar. “Right here. I’m okay, right?”

Maven sighed and shook her head. “There’s nothing there but your skin. I’ve looked you over. There’s only one source of this…” Her shoulders tensed again. “...catastrophe.” She was barely keeping her composure.

“What?! What’s going on?!”

“I believe the kids are saying ‘Aunt Flo has come to call’, these days?”

The color drained from my face. “No…”

“It’s true, I’m afraid. Your uterus is shedding its lining. You’re menstruating.”

My eyes focused on the ceiling. “Son of a bitch…”

“It’s perfectly natural for a functioning female reproductive system, love. I can’t imagine you weren’t expecting something like this to occur.”

My hands gestured toward the crime scene amidst the bedsheets. “I did not have this on my Bingo card.”

“And yet it was called regardless. Shower time. Off with you.” Maven urged.

With her assistance, I rolled off the bed and peeled off the suddenly adhesive bedding. The posture and cadence my body adopted on the way to the bathroom was very similar to some “ew, gross” walks I’d seen in a horror movie or two. Once inside, the tank top and underwear I’d worn to bed were tossed in the sink and I left the cold water running. Stepping into the shower, I made the water as hot as I could stand without being scalded and simply stood beneath it until I felt considerably less gross.

After one of the longest showers I’ve ever taken, I pulled back the curtain and stepped out. I was immediately greeted by Maven standing in the room. The door was closed. In her arms, she bore a towel and underthings. On the counter was a package clearly marked with a brand I knew from life experience to make “feminine hygiene” products. My unsure eyes met hers and she cordially smiled.

“I will instruct you in their use. First, dry off with the top towel and use the second towel to wrap your hair.” Maven began her kind requests.

The process began with toweling off my body. I made the mistake of trying to dry off my crotch before fully dry and instantly regretted it. Once my hair was wrapped, she had me sit on the toilet while she went over the basics. I raised a very unsure eyebrow at the tampons, so she coached me through the proper application of a maxi pad. Initially, it felt weird but that feeling faded after a few minutes. She showed me where the Midol and Pamprin were located in the medicine cabinet in case I felt like I needed them. She was very kind and direct through the entire process, which put me at ease. A small voice in the back of my mind wondered if that would have been how my mother would have handled things if certain paths had diverged in the past. I shed a tear for the loss of that.

On the way back to my room, I had a thought that I vocalized. “Completely unrelated, but: do you have any access to something that could spin spools of thread and a loom for making fabrics?”

Maven stopped her walk and tilted her head at me. “There is a chance I could procure such tools. There is a probability I may even have such things in storage. Why do you ask?”

I nudged my head toward my door and didn’t say anything further until we were both inside. “Last night after we talked, I met this guy that calls himself Aegis. He’s one of those Real Life Superhero types. He suggested I get a better suit. He’s not wrong. Using dance gear is too expensive and, as I discovered last night, too fragile for the purposes I need the suit for. So, I was thinking: what if I made a suit from my own silk? I know from experience that it’s pretty resilient and quite flexible. It could work, right?”

She paced for a moment in the room with me. “As you would say: theoretically, yes. My question is a counter: do you know anything about what creating a bolt of fabric would entail or how to assemble a piece of clothing from raw materials?”

“Not even a little bit. However, I was going to ask for your help. You’ve been around since well before the industrial revolution. You’ve got some of those skills, haven’t you?”

“I’ve not used them in nearly a century, but I’m nearly certain the knowledge would return to me. How soon before you’d like to begin?”

My eyes widened and I shrugged. “Now’s good.”

“You conceptualize a design and I shall perform whatever duties I’ve the ability to.”

“Thanks, Maven.”

“You’re welcome, Saoirse. Now, get dressed. You’ve got to keep up your energy and it’s a glorious day outside. I’ll get started on your breakfast. You’ll need plenty of iron for the days ahead.”

For a minute or two after she left, I was left standing dumbfounded. I’d had a random idea in my mind before falling asleep and now Maven was agreeing to help me construct a suit. Without complaint or rebuttal, I might add. My mind needed something I could actually control in a sea of things completely out of my control. The possibility of the suit had been confirmed. The fun part was going to be engineering the sucker. I had many ideas.

The rest of that day was fairly boring, by comparison. There was conceptualizing, eating, a little gaming, and many maxi pad changes that filled time. Once Golden Hour was upon the city, I suited up and ran a patrol. It was the same as always because I hadn’t yet conducted the research that Aegis had suggested. It was still rather rewarding because I’d begun to see things from the perspective that he taught me. Instead of simply volunteering myself without consulting the people I was trying to help, I’d begun to actually ask them what they needed. Truth told, people were much more receptive to that approach and it was more fulfilling as well.

The following day was Memorial Day. It wasn’t as important to me as it might have been to other people. The bonus for me was that it meant a day off school. Maven had planned this neighborhood barbecue party. Tír na nÓg was a community center and not just a shelter, after all. It was easy to forget that most days. The few people that did arrive from the neighborhood talked about some big festival up in the Catskills that I knew nothing about until they told me. Some visitors had made a little pilgrimage to the Irish Hunger Memorial every year that I wasn’t even aware existed.

The food was great for us shelter residents. It was hard to beat the authentic bangers Maven had gotten from a specialty butcher she knew of. The corned beef sliders were a close second. My major gripe was that I couldn’t enjoy a pint of Guinness because I was now five years underage. There were dancers and bagpipers for entertainment that had come over from a nearby arts program. Until that moment, I had never seen Maven smile so broadly nor shed a tear while doing so. She muttered under her breath several times in what could be only assumed to be Gaelic.

Cleanup after the event was left to those of us that lived in the shelter. Maven assisted, though. She released us that evening to do whatever we thought appropriate. I didn’t go out that night. With Regents looming, I decided to do a little studying instead. Besides, the cramps were affecting me a bit more than maybe I anticipated.

The first day of school I had while actively addressing an angry uterus was fine. For the most part, it wasn’t much of a problem other than having to use the restroom a bit more than normal to change out soiled pads. I found out what that little rectangle box in the women’s restroom is for, at least. Mark seemed fine that I was a bit disconnected during our chat between the two classes we shared. General malaise and cramps did not garner any sympathy from Coach Vic Murch, though. Gym class continued uninterrupted.

Hailey had been acting a little weird all day. We’d actually barely spoken. Most days, you couldn’t separate us or make us stop talking to each other. That day, I was still feeling a little miserable, so I wasn’t feeling all that talkative. Hailey had disappeared during lunch and was giving me funny looks all through gym class. She’d give me a side eye and could barely stifle a giggle. It seemed pertinent to wait until after class to talk to her about it. Gym was the last class of the day, anyway.

“What the hell, Hailey?” I confronted her after changing into the sweatpants and t-shirt I’d worn to school that day. It was the most comfortable configuration I could find, given the circumstances.

She spun around to me like I was a horror movie villain. Her expression softened a little when she noticed it was me. “Jesus fuck, Saoirse!” In her defense, she was about sixty percent done changing out of her gym clothes. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“I’m not that scary. You seem on edge. You okay?”

“What would you have done if I was still only wearing my pretty underwear?” She smirked at me, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Not approach? We talking satin and lace? Why would you even wear that to school?” The level of casualness at which I had been treating undergarments meant for the female form was an incredibly stark contrast to how I had acted a month prior.

“A girl keeps her secrets.” She frowned at me, deflated.

“Look… whatever… I’m gonna head home. I’m still not feeling great and I’m gonna do some studying. Not going to lie, Regents are a little intimidating.”

She quickly pulled a graphic tee onto her torso. “First time?”

“For what? Regents?” I had to suddenly stop myself. The cover story was that I was being homeschooled in New Jersey since I was nine. “Yea. Those aren’t required in Jersey. Not feeling great? Yea, first time.”

“Must be nice to be homeschooled.” She rolled her eyes. “How are you not feeling great? Wanna clue me in?”

“I would have probably filled you in at lunch, but you basically disappeared on me. So, what gives?”

“I’ve been distracted and smooth brained today. Sorry. Seriously, though: what’s going on?”

My entire face slumped. “Woke up to a murder scene on Sunday. It was really gross.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my god! Are you okay? Where were you bleeding?”

“Where do you think I was bleeding?”

“Oh…” It took a minute for everything to finally hit her. “Oh!” Her hands fell from her face and she turned her head to the side. “Wait, aren’t you almost seventeen? Bit of a late start on that period train, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but it’s arrived at the station, nonetheless. I don’t wanna talk about it, really. I’m just tired and grumpy. There’s a rebellion being waged in my lower abdomen. I probably need to change my pad.”

Her face moved in strange ways. It was equal parts condescending, amused, and empathetic. “Aww, poor baby… go change your pad and meet me outside. I’ve got an idea of what will cheer you up.”

“Just… nothing weird, okay? I’m so done with that so far this week.” Not waiting for her response, I spun around and headed back to the bathroom stall I’d changed in.

I was still changing in the bathroom stall because the locker room was still intimidating as hell. The process for changing out the soiled pad and applying a new one was easy enough since I’d done it a few times in the past couple of days. Internally, I was hoping the Uterine Rebellion would be over in a day or so. I was in and out of the stall in less than five minutes.

Meeting with Hailey outside the locker room, she started talking about heating pads, ice cream, and pickles for some reason. She offered to buy me a whole pound of chocolate, which I didn’t see the need for but wasn’t going to quell her excitement. My feet stopped when she started climbing the stairs.

“Why are you going upstairs? The building exit is only about forty meters that way,” I reported and motioned with my hand to the corridor before us.

She whimpered at me. “I forgot a book I need for homework. Come with me, please?”

No part of me wanted more exercise. However, I groaned, rolled my eyes, and began ascending the stairs with her. “Fine. You owe me for this.”

She squealed with glee and we started climbing. We reached the top of the staircase and I trudged along. In the middle of the hallway on the seventh floor was a singular easel. Supported by the easel was a piece of posterboard with “Saoirse” written on it in a shade of purple and a lot of glitter. There was also an arrow pointing further down the hallway toward the auditorium. I was immediately suspicious.

“That’s weird. What’s going on?” I asked Hailey with a single raised eyebrow.

She nibbled her lower lip and grinned like she was hiding something. “Why don’t you follow the arrow and find out?”

Suddenly, I didn’t trust my best friend. Slowly, I began walking down the corridor. Passing her, my eyes wouldn’t leave her face. She was still grinning and nibbling her lip. Once past her, I once again focused forward. Eventually, I arrived at the large, wooden double doors to the “state-of-the-art” auditorium that had been built into the upper-most floor of the school building relatively recently. After a quick breath, I pulled open one of the doors and stepped inside.

The interior of the space to someone who had never seen it before looked to be ripped right out of every 19th Century playhouse and dropped on top of the school. The seats were all modern but the decor was iconically Victorian in style. The proscenium of the stage, itself, was an imposing masterwork of moldings and what looked like small statues around the perimeter. The deep red curtain hid the secrets of the stage behind it. Sitting in the exact middle of the first two rows was Matcha, Jefa, Salty, Lowkey, and Peach. They started clapping the moment I entered the theater. Hailey entered two steps behind me.

As if the clapping were a cue, the house lights dimmed and a single spotlight pointed at the curtain at center stage turned on. The curtains were parted and Mark emerged. He was dressed in a full costume that looked to have been ripped right out of some historical era I wasn’t all that familiar with. It was a doublet with pantaloons, tights, and even period-accurate men’s heels. He stood in the spotlight and began speaking, his voice carrying throughout the theater.

“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!” He recited with fervor. His eyes were fixed on me. “It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear; beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, as yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, and, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, for I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”

I was too frozen to react. I couldn’t really figure out what he was doing.

“Hark! The Lady approaches!” He continued, pointing right at me. I was almost half blinded by the second spotlight activating on me. “Prithee, fair one, grant me this boon: step forth and ascend! The stage feels but a desert until thy presence makes it a paradise. Mistress, I beseech thee: take thy place at my side!” My hand lowered as my eyes adjusted to the light. He could tell I still wasn’t understanding. “Let the groundlings witness! Let the front row testify!” He gestured to the others gathered in the seats. “This be no NPC moment, Saoirse Parker! Ascend the throne!”

I still stood dumbfounded. Hailey nudged me.

“He wants you to join him on stage. Go!” She whispered.

“Oh, you are so dead.” I harshly whispered back.

Feeling a bit of pressure from Hailey and almost all the people that live at Tír na nÓg with me, I began to move. Glancing at the assembled audience as I walked, the cameras of three phones were pointed at me. Lovely, it was all being recorded. Giving all of them looks of indignation, I strode up the ramp to the stage and crossed toward Mark Watson as Romeo Montegue. He dropped to a knee when I was just out of his reach. He reached behind himself and pulled a scroll from somewhere I didn’t see.

“Beyond these walls,” he began and spoke loud enough that Hailey, who was approaching to sit with the others, could still hear him, “the city of Manhattoes rages—the iron horses of the F- and M-trains thunder ‘neath our feet, the merchants of Chelsea cry their wares.” His eyes met mine. “But here, in this sacred place, time stands still. I crave not gold, nor the favor of princes. Mine own heart be a parchment, blank and cold, awaiting thine check of ‘Yes’.”

My heart threatened to beat right out of my chest and my breath was short as he continued. “Fairest Saoirse, jewel of the Hudson, light of the West Village… wouldst thou grace the revelry of the anointed Midsummer Ball with this poor, wandering player? Grant me thine own hand, making that treasured night e’ermore a paradise?”

It was only then that he unfurled the scroll in landscape arrangement. It had the question “Juliet?” on it with two boxes labeled “Yes” and “No”. In his hand at the far end of the scroll was a quill. It was really just a feather with a red ink pen taped to it. The whole thing took me back a few steps. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell whether he was asking me out or whatever else he was doing. My eyes darted from his to the scroll to the crowd and back in random order like a Spotify playlist set to “shuffle”. It was decided that I would inquire further.

“Um…” I asked in a normal voice before the pitch skyrocketed, “...can you…” the rollercoaster came back down, “...break that down in 21st Century English, maybe?” I felt so dumb for asking that all I wanted to do was hide.

Almost his entire body seemed to deflate like a slashed tire. “Do you… wanna go to the Prom with me?” He shrugged.

My face immediately flushed. “Oh! Um… okay… now I get it… um…”

My words basically took a vacation. Nerves high, my hand was shaking as I reached for the “quill”. My eyes scanned the scroll for a moment. All the thoughts and all the feelings flooded my mind at once. I was practically forced to act on instinct. He closed his eyes as I brought pen to paper and made my choice. The pen was returned to his hand and I stood back. He opened his eyes and tipped the scroll just enough for him to see the red “X” in the box. He reinflated, a smile played on his face, and he cheered as he pointed the scroll toward the crowd.

They all started cheering as soon as they saw the red “X” in the “yes” box. Mark joined the cheering. Then, he dropped the scroll and “quill”, rushed over to me, wrapped his arms around my thighs just below my pelvis, and lifted me into the air. The squeak that came out of me was pretty high-pitched and I couldn’t help but giggle. He bounced around for a few seconds with me before gently setting me back down on the stage. Beaming from ear to ear, he met my eyes with his own.

“Thank you, Saoirse. You will not be disappointed.” He reassured me, breathing laboredly.

I couldn’t speak. Meanwhile, my mind was screaming: ‘What the hell did you just do?!’

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.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qV7IhHFnhJc ))

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.

Webs We Weave



Chapter Eighteen

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: So, I called my mom last weekend and she was very confused. She appreciated the call because she always does, but it was not Mother's Day. I thought the rule was it was the first Sunday in May? Apparently, all the rules are being broken in the last couple of years. Once again, Happy Mother's Day 2026, everyone.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Emj1_vmbFD8 ))

Having no interest in entertaining the bombshell I’d dropped in Evelyn’s lap, I hurried into my warmups after class and darted out the door. There was definitely going to be social fallout and I wasn’t going to be anywhere near the affected zone. The catty, entitled rich girl was going to have her outburst no matter who Mark had asked to the dance if it wasn’t her. I lost myself in the crowd as I moved to my next class. At lunch, Hailey found the whole interaction infinitely funny. She and Evelyn may have had a history she wasn’t telling me.

The rest of the day was uncomfortable. In the hallways and classes, there were whispers and random eyes darting in my direction. By the final dismissal bell for the day, everyone knew that Mark Watson was going to Prom with Saoirse Parker. I could take on a handful of street thugs and mostly come out on top. I could spar with the most revered deity of the Tuatha Dé Danann, get laid out on a rooftop, and still get back up. The social battlefield of high school was a final boss I’d probably have to save scum a few times to overcome.

There was one thing that could serve as a release valve for all that anxiety: a good patrol. Having not completed the research and analysis that Aegis had recommended, I was still flying blind. That wasn’t really the point. Swinging from my own web line through the streets of Manhattan was the only thing that instantly made me happy. Stopping a bodega robbery, catching a purse snatcher at the subway exit, protecting a young girl from a classmate that thought “no” was an insult, and getting a homeless woman to the hospital just in time were the things that healed my soul. Being able to help people, even in the smallest of ways, has brought me some of the greatest joy that I’ve ever experienced in my life.

That night, I made a few adjustments to the design and showed the concept to Maven. She mostly understood the pattern that was being presented on the site. She explained that she’d have to “milk” me, then she could weave the suit as one three-dimensional piece. When she mentioned the “milking”, my hands instinctively covered my chest, which almost made her die laughing. The idea was that she would test the thickness of material coming out of my spinnerets, then she would spin the thread into spools. Once finished, she could take the spools to a loom and craft the suit. It wouldn’t take her more than a couple of days to weave the suit together, depending on how much thread she could get from my gossamer. Most of what she said flew over my head, which was fine because an explanation of String Theory would probably have the same effect on her.

Friday morning, I was kind of a mess. Once more into the fray, as it were. Canvas sneakers, leggings, a t-shirt, and my trusty white hoodie with lavender lining were probably terrible armor, but they would have to do. Mark smiled at me the instant I appeared in the doorway of English class. My belly turned into Michoacán in early spring while I moved to my seat. It was a little difficult to focus in class, but I managed. The small talk between Mark and I on the way to math class did mention the previous day’s event. He wasn’t happy that Evelyn had talked about him like a piece of meat, but he laughed when I told him what I said to her in response. He was really looking forward to the following week.

My tray landed on the table Hailey and I usually shared. She was already sitting. I plopped down in the seat and could almost hear all the whispers.

“Hail the conquering hero?” Hailey attempted to cheer me up.

My eyes fell on her and my face bore a deadpan expression that would make Aubrey Plaza proud. “Please don’t. It already feels like I’ve got the eyes of half the school on me because I dared stand up to Flashdance herself.”

Hailey shook her head. “Don’t worry about her. You said she was being all possessive over Mark, which is cringe as all get out. She’s not as powerful or untouchable as she thinks she is. Just another spoiled rich girl.” A mischievous grin grew on her face. “So, you’re going to Prom. Thoughts on the dress?”

I stabbed my salad. “Hadn’t thought about it, much.”

“Cap! I’m calling ‘bullshit’, girl!”

“Hailey… I’ve never been to Prom or anything else related to high school social events. I wasn’t sure how to handle the Promposal! I don’t know the first thing about what to expect!” It almost felt like I was going crazy.

“Whoa! No need to start crashing out! I’ve got you, girl!” Hailey’s hand rested on my shoulder. “It’s generally pretty easy: dress, shoes, jewelry, hair, and makeup. First, we find the dress. Like the solar system, right? The dress is the sun and everything else revolves around it. I can meet you at your place and we’ll make a day of it. We’re in New York City. Finding a Prom dress is not going to be a problem.”

My head was already spinning. “Who has the money for all this?”

Hailey smirked in a similar manner I’d seen on Maven’s face that scared me a little. “Don’t worry. I’ll drop by your place tomorrow. Text me the address.”

Reluctantly, I obeyed her request. We talked about other things. I was thankful to get off the topic of the dance for the time being. After lunch, the whispers continued and were accompanied by glances people thought were clandestine but weren’t. I couldn’t even get through running laps in gym class without whispers going on in the background. The final dismissal bell of the day proved my salvation and the herald of the weekend.

When I met up with the others outside school, they were all carrying on a conversation that halted the moment they spotted me. Their phones were out and I couldn’t decipher what was on the screens. They all looked like their hands had been caught in a cookie jar. Part of me was afraid to even broach the topic of discussion because, usually, people don’t instantly stop when another person enters the orbit.

My arms flopped for a moment and the sound of exasperation escaped my lips. “Oh, guys, what now? What’d I do?”

Matcha smirked. “You’re kinda going viral, girl. YikYak won’t shut up about the girl that got in the face of Flashdance. The whole school knows that you, Seda, are going to Prom with Mark Watson, the hottest actor in the school—but you already knew that last part.”

“I dunno about ‘the hottest’. I mean, he’s cute and all, but—” I started to rebut.

“Oh come off it, chica!” Jefa butted in. “We all know you’re a simp for that guy!”

My cheeks flushed. “I’m really not…”

Peach rolled his eyes. “Yea, right, girly. We’re not here to rag on you about Prom, though. We all wanna know: what’d you say to Flashdance? She is pissed!”

All I could do was shrug. “Nothing, really. I just told her that Mark asked me and I said ‘yes’. I was upset because she was treating him like she already owned him. I dropped the bomb and left the scene. That’s it. She didn’t get a clap back or anything. Just a good view of my ass as I went into the main studio for class.”

Jefa laughed. “Parker comin’ in clutch! That’s my girl! Cool people don’t watch explosions!”

Matcha folded his arms. “And you waited a whole day to tell us this? How come we had to hear it from YikYak, first?”

“I really don’t wanna talk about it, guys.” I admitted. “I don’t need to feed the trolls or the drama llamas.”

“She’s got a point, guys,” Lowkey agreed, stepping in. “You should have told us, but I get why you didn’t. You’ve only been here a month and already caught the eye of one of the hottest guys in school. That’s a W, Seda.”

“If it’s a win, why does it feel like it painted a giant target on my back?” I practically pleaded.

“Because it’s high school.” Matcha stated, getting the group to collectively chuckle. “Real talk, though: if Flashdance wants to start any shit, she’s gonna have to go through us. Trust and believe that we got you, Seda.”

The others nodded and vocalized affirmation. I’d never had people that were willing to stand up for me before. A genuine sense of belonging bubbled up to the surface. That was a very new feeling.

It had been made obvious that I was a bit on edge, so the others dialed their goofball levels up to eleven. From Matcha putting random things on his head like hats to Salty adopting a British accent and terribly singing “Livin’ in the Sunlight, Lovin’ in the Moonlight” in full falsetto, the antics were ridiculous and made my sides hurt from laughing so hard. The awkward side glances from other people on the subway only made us all laugh that much harder. Our full body laughter echoed off the buildings around us all the way back to the shelter.

Everybody sat together for dinner that night. Chispa joined Jefa, Matcha, Salty, Lowkey, Peach, and I at the table before Maven herself joined in. It was reminiscent of the dinners I had once had with my mom and dad when I was a kid. Everything was actually starting to feel like it was approaching something that could be categorized as “normal”. I went to bed that night with a full belly and a smile on my face.

The next morning, I was again awakened by Maven. It was an entirely different reason than before. She was dressed in her usual professional attire that made her look like she bought whatever she was wearing off the models at New York Fashion Week.

“Rise and shine, love.” She shook me gently and spoke sweetly. “You’ve a visitor that’s come to call.”

My eyes refused to fully open and my voice was just as tired as I was. “Who’s here this early in the morning?”

Hailey’s head popped into my room from behind the door. Her hair was in a ponytail. She wore a set of shortalls over a graphic tee and her signature canvas sneakers. There was a teasing smile on her lips. “I came early. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” Her eyes scanned my space like a curious explorer, even though it was practically empty. “Nice room.”

On instinct, I pulled the Battlestar Galactica comforter up to my chest to cover up. “Good lord, I’m not even dressed, yet!”

“Your friend is lovely, Saoirse.” Maven almost hummed a giggle. “Let’s let her be, Hailey. She can be rather grumpy until she’s had her coffee.”

Mercifully, Maven ushered Hailey out the door and I could hear them beginning to use the stairs. Once I was sure they were out of earshot, I darted to the bathroom for my morning pee. After that, I threw on some clothes. There weren’t too many options for summer weather, so I had to go with the same jeans and t-shirt combo that had gotten me this far. Throwing on my own canvas sneakers, I was soon out the door and headed for the coffee.

Everybody was in the cafeteria space already. Most of them were still in pajamas. Maven was chatting with Hailey as I prepared myself a cup of coffee. The others had various breakfast options in front of them. It was kind of an unspoken rule that nobody talked to me until I’d had a few sips of coffee.

“Saoirse,” Maven began shortly after my third sip, “your friend Hailey has been telling me you’ve plans for the day?”

“I guess so. Something about a dress.” My voice was rather gravely as I spoke.

Matcha’s ears perked up. “What about a dress?”

“Saoirse got asked to Prom and she needs a dress.” Jefa rolled her eyes at Matcha. “It’s easy math.”

“Perhaps some of the other girls would like to accompany you?” Maven was suggesting more than asking. “I’m sure all of you would enjoy collectively participating in this rite of passage?”

Salty and Lowkey started laughing. Salty spoke for both of them. “Hard pass, Aunt Mae. We’ll leave the frilly shit to the frilly ones.”

Sitting at a table doing some homework, Chispa shook her head. “I’m a sophomore at a completely different school. We don’t do Prom, yet. You guys have fun.”

My heart broke a little. “Ah, c’mon, Chispa. You could have fun, too.” My eyes practically pleaded with her to join.

Again, she shook her head. “I’ve got AP tests beyond Regents I’ve gotta prepare for and being that social isn’t my thing.”

My body sank a little. “Okay.”

Jefa practically jumped out of her chair. “Oh, bet! I’m so in! Besides, I probably need one, too. There’s a guy I think is gonna ask me next week.”

Maven put her hands over her chest. “Oh, Marisol, that’s wonderful!”

“Yeah, nah. Big pass for me. Drag Momma’s doin’ the Gotham FC party, then we’re going to Killer Queen. Nobody’s gonna ask the black drag queen, anyway.” Matcha admitted.

Peach quietly raised his hand. “I’d kinda like to go. It could be fun.”

“The more, the merrier!” Hailey beamed.

Maven smiled and nodded. “That’s settled, then. You’ve quite the fellowship. Now, finish breakfast and gather in the office, won’t you?”

Hailey, Jefa, Peach, and I exchanged glances before chorusing, “Bet.”

Lowkey started laughing at his own joke while Maven excused herself. “Fellowship of the Dress. That’s a good one!”

The nerds who got it started laughing with him, myself included. The Fellowship joined together at a table, Hailey was introduced to the others, and we started talking strategy. One does not simply walk into a boutique and expect to walk out with the perfect Prom attire, it seemed. Hailey and Jefa knew the terrain the best, so they would be leading us to the relatively low cost establishments while avoiding Canal Street. There were some spots we could hit nearby and others on the Lower East Side. Harlem would be the long shot, figuratively and literally. If we were headed that far north, we might as well hit some spots in The Bronx as well. The path agreed on, we stood and moved to join Maven in her office at the main entrance.

Maven handed Jefa, Peach, and me one of those gift cards we could literally use anywhere. “These are for each of you in the hopes that you find something you would like for this occasion. Each carries a charge of $500. Enjoy yourselves.”

A gentle breeze could have knocked any one of us over. I was somewhat aware that the amount was more than Jefa or Peach had held by themselves for any reason. For me, it was the most I’d been able to spend on myself since I’d gotten my gaming console. A chorus of surprised but excited variations of “thank you” rang out among us before we all headed out the door. The birds of New York greeted us with a happy song as our journey began.

The adventure began in the West Village. We walked everywhere. Throw a stick and you’ll hit a cute little boutique with vintage clothes in The Village. We looked at a few places, but I wasn’t really feeling the vibe. That was the case, until Hailey presented me with a pair of rose gold sandal-style stilettos. The sole was pretty standard with the thin base and heel so thin it could be a weapon. It had straps that wrapped around the feet and tied together at the ankles. She begged me to try them on. With a groan, I complied. They fit perfectly. Seventy-five dollars well spent.

Ironically, Peach was finding more dresses to try on than the rest of us. Even without breasts, the slip dresses were looking amazing on him. There was a small pang of jealousy, but it faded quickly. It was becoming clear that we might have been cracking an egg. The end of the morning was Peach purchasing a downright pretty pink sequined slip dress and white, open-toed heels to pair with it. We shared a pie at the famous John’s of Bleecker Street. They made some of the best pizza in the city and were just down the street from the shelter. It was a wonder we’d not eaten there before.

Making a quick stop at the shelter so Peach could drop off the purchases, we were off to the Lower East Side. The area was grittier and more gentrified, if that’s even possible. We were finding a lot more vintage shops that made Hailey squeal with glee. Navigating the narrower sidewalks with more people around made it a little more difficult to move around as easily as we had in The Village.

Out of nowhere in one of the shops, Hailey came rushing toward the rest of us with her high-pitched squeal in full force. We weren’t really searching the racks, but were attempting to look like we were. That squeal entered the room like an ambulance siren. Hailey had found a mid-calf length dress with spaghetti straps, an empire waist, crushed velvet skirt section in plum, and a tulle bodice with little butterflies on it and teal satin underneath. Anyone seeing it could have pegged it for a dress straight out of the closet of Claire Daines, Alicia Silverstone, or Selma Blair. When she tried it on, she looked spectacular and like she was going to Prom in 1997 or something. The dress was purchased and in a garment bag quicker than anyone could blink.

A few stores later, Jefa came out of the dressing room and made all of our jaws hit the floor. She strode out to meet us like a runway model wearing a gold mermaid gown that mostly looked like satin except there was a glittery effect like a million stars on the dress. It hugged and complimented every curve of her body. On her feet were silver stilettos that were a perfect match for the dress. According to Peach, no one at the shelter had seen her in a dress even once. Yet, she was before us in a dress that could fit in on the red carpet of the Met Gala, let alone some high school Prom. The look in her eyes and smile on her face exuded confidence. The only response our brains could muster was a round of applause. The purchase was a no-brainer.

That only left me. Throughout the day, I had tried a couple of dresses on at the insistence of one of the others. I’d come out of the dressing room somewhat feeling like a fool. The first dress I had ever worn in my life had been the one I’d gotten specifically for Mother’s Day. Even then, I wasn’t one hundred percent confident. In the back of my mind, imposter syndrome lurked like the worst shoulder demon in existence. It was there mocking me every time I glimpsed a dress that might fit for the occasion.

Not finding anything for myself in the Lower East Side, the adventure took a small detour suggested by Hailey. We headed for the Garment District. Somehow, Hailey knew about certain tactics in the district and she was showing us the ropes. We found our way to a building with no sign out front and no business hours on the door. Hailey tapped a button and asked for entry to the showroom of an actual fashion designer. Without a word, we were buzzed in and started climbing steps to the third floor. Once on the floor, we were greeted by a small area lit up like an art gallery with some mannequins styled in something that was way too expensive for our budgets. A woman who looked to be about the same age as Maven but styled like Emily Blunt’s character from The Devil Wears Prada if she wore glasses approached us.

She looked down her nose at all of us. “What is the reason for this intrusion? We’re running a fashion business, not a charity.”

Hailey didn’t skip a beat. “Oh, I’ll be sure to mention to Vivienne that her showroom staff was rude to a long-time client’s daughter.”

“And which long-time client would that be?” Her eyes gave us all the once-over. “Whatever Oscar the Grouch’s trash can vomited?”

“Nicholas Osbourne.”

The woman’s face went pale. I hadn’t yet heard Hailey talk about her family. Apparently, the woman in front of us had. All told, I didn’t even know her last name. The woman dressed to the nines in fashion that could grace the pages of Vogue magazine began to cower before a teenager dressed like she was in a Nirvana video.

Moving past the woman, Hailey made a bee line for some racks in a back corner arranged by color. Her fingers started dancing over the garments and she kept glancing back at me. Jefa and Peach caught on to what she was doing well before I did. The three of them started pulling things off the rack and reserving them for me to try on. Six dresses in various colors landed in my arms and Hailey pointed to some doors in the far wall. Like the rest of the place, there weren’t any signs indicating anything. Following her lead, I found myself in a fitting room.

Stripping down to my underwear, the ritual of trying on the dresses began. The first couple didn’t fit me at all. The first one that did was a magenta dress with a rather puffy skirt. I vetoed that almost immediately. The next one that fit was a forest green slip dress that sparkled a bit, which reminded me of Jefa’s dress. Both of us agreed it wasn’t the right call. The last one was a royal blue number that fit me like a glove. One glance in the fitting room mirror confirmed for me that it might be the one.

Nibbling my lower lip, I stepped out to meet the others. Their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads and their jaws hit the floor. None of them could speak. The woman who had greeted us so poorly actually smirked.

“Inspired choice,” She firmly nodded. “The halter tie is very contemporary and will make it so you can put on your own dress without assistance. The cowl neckline breaks up your chest like you’re hiding a secret. The Basque-waist bodice with corset boning is very new this season and quite a hot commodity. The asymmetrical skirt looks like a wrap but blends the slit expertly. It’s a very formal and fashionable floor-length dress. Vivienne was contemplating putting this into a line but decided against it. Young lady, that is literally a one-of-a-kind dress.” She glanced at Hailey. “You have quite the eye, Miss Osbourne.”

“How do you feel?” Hailey squeaked.

“Like this might be way too expensive.” I admitted.

The staff woman rolled her eyes. “Young lady, that’s a sample. We have no intention of selling it anywhere else. It’s a simple $300. We’re practically giving it away.”

“We’ll take it.” Hailey and I chorused.