Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SWOOSH!

Miles careens through the flock of pigeons, sending feathers flying. He’s angled his landing just right to kick backwards off the gleaming side of the Oscorp Building, tuck, roll, and fall. Why didn’t Peter tell him how much fun this was? It’s better than flying. He watches his reflection fall, laughing, through the mirrored windows, as they plunge halfway down. Then—thwip, pull. He’s flying effortlessly up again in a lazy arc. Doesn’t even need to look before he leaps. He’ll figure it out on the way down.

Miles closes his eyes for a moment at the apex of the swing. This is the moment he loves best: half a second of total weightlessness, of pause, the whole world wrapped around him in sunset light and traffic noise far below. For one moment—perfect. And then he’s pulled downwards into the whistling fall of the downward swing, but he’s not afraid. No, his body is already curling, twisting in midair, his eyes already scanning for his next thwip.

It might a’ took a while, but Miles is hitting his stride. Finding his sea legs. Getting into the rhythm of things! Point being, he’s feeling more and more at ease with being the Spider-Man of this dimension. And the city’s getting used to it as well. There’s even a viral thinkpiece by the editor of Daily Bugle Online, called “I’m Not Racist, But the New Spider-Man’s a Menace.”

Things are finally falling into place.

Miles is so caught up in his web-slinging, he doesn’t even notice the muggers until he hears a cry from the alleyway—the alley he just swung past—and he has to double back. Thwips a line to a street lamp, swing an almost-perfect U-turn and coming in for a graceful landing next to an oversized dumpster.

And he freezes. His heart jumps into his mouth and he ducks behind the dumpster, forgetting that’s already, automatically, turned invisible. Because there’s a monster in the alley.

It’s almost twice Miles’s height. Black, so deep black the light seems to disappear into it, but also somehow reflect? Like a walking oil slick. It’s vaguely human-shaped, in the body, maybe, but its hands are just claws and oh god, it’s face is going to be horrible when it turns around, he just knows it. Miles is sweating.

“Please, man, I-I’m sorry, just lemme go!” the would-be mugger begs.

“YOU WANTED TO HURT US,” says the monster in absolutely the worst, deepest-darkest-bone-chillingest voice Miles has ever imagined. He can practically see the monster’s speech bubbles dripping in horror-movie font. Something long and sinuous flicks over the monster’s shoulder—is that its tongue? “YOU’RE A BAD GUY. AND WE’RE SSSOOOO HUNGRY…”

And just when Miles thinks his eyes can’t get any larger, the monster lifts the mugger up by the neck, half-turning, and Miles can see its jaw unhinge and oh god oh god oh god oh god TEETH! So many teeth, how it possible to have that many— The two-foot-long tongue shoots out the monster’s gaping maw and slithers around the man’s face. Tasting.

“OH YEAH,” the monster purrs. “YOUR BRAIN WILL TASTE EVEN BETTER WITH ALL THAT DELICIOUS FEAR!”

And that’s it, Miles is shaking but he’s got to do something, he can’t let this guy get eaten.

“H-hey!” he yells, stepping out from behind the dumpster. “Hey, you! Hey, uh,” –the monster spins around and Miles sees its face full-on for the first time. “Let, let him go. And put your hands where I can see them!” His voice cracks a little behind the bravado.

The monster snarls and actually snaps at him, tongue lashing. Miles is 99% sure he’s about to get eaten, along with the mugger, but the monster… puts the guy down?

“WHAT?... THAT’S NOT FAIR!” the monster snarls. “OKAY, FINE! WE WON’T EAT HIM. WE’LL JUST STARVE INSTEAD. HAPPY NOW?”

“Uh… kind of?” Miles opens one eye. Did he just win this round?

Apparently not, because the monster flicks its wrist and suddenly Miles is stuck in some kind of black goo. Wait, what?? He struggles against it, heartbeat pounding furiously. He’s trapped in some kind of... black web! By the time he looks back up, the monster is gone. The mugger is on the ground apparently having some kind of nervous breakdown.

“Uh,” Miles says, firmly webbed to the brick wall. “A little help?”

* * * *

The next day, Miles makes a detour to May Parker’s house.

“Well,” she says, dusting off her hands as she stands up from the flowerbeds. “Fancy seeing you here, young man. Tea?”

Miles nods. In the kitchen, he fidgets on the worn stool, as he waits for May to finish putting the kettle on.

“So I’m guessing this isn’t purely a social call,” May begins.

“Yeah. I mean, no! I mean, it’s good to see you, Mrs. Parker. How, uh, how are you doing?”

May laughs.

“Miles, please. I’ve been part of Spider-Man’s life for long enough to know that look. There’s trouble brewing, isn’t there? You don’t have to warm me up with small talk—I’m flattered you came to me.” She takes out two mugs and drops a tea bag into each. “So what’s going on, kiddo?”

“Uh. Weeellll… I was swinging through midtown the other day and, um… did Peter ever fight like, a monster? Like, a, a, a ten-foot fall, black, like, tentacle oil grease monster, with teeth just, everywhere, and, and, it eats people’s heads! Because it kind of looks like him. Peter, I mean. His mask! His mask as Spider-Man.” Miles drops his forehead on the table. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

May laughs.

“Now you really do remind me of him,” she says. “His sentences were always running off with him, too.” She takes a sip of the tea. “I’m sorry, Miles. Whatever this thing is, Peter never faced it.”

Miles groans.

“But did you say—it eats people’s heads?” May asks.

“I mean, it tried to. Not eat my head, but. There was a mugger?”

May relaxes.

“So you didn’t actually see it eat anyone’s…”

“No! No, god no. Not that I would have been scared or anything. Because I wasn’t. Scared, I mean.”

“Mm-hm.” May takes another sip, her eyes watching him shrewdly from over the top of the cup. “Have you called the others yet?”

“The others? I mean,” Miles tries a crooked smile, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, the others, they went back to their own—”

“Young man, let me tell you, you’re a terrible liar. Now, I know and you know that you’ve got the magical walkie-talkie that Gwen left you, so you might as well stop pretending and go ahead and call them. What’s that look?”

“It’s just, it’s only for emergencies.”

May makes a heh sound. “Seems it didn’t stop you from calling Gwen for a visit after Tony Stark put on that ridiculous light show downtown—”

“Hey, she wanted to see what Ironheart looks like as a white guy!”

“—nor did it keep you from calling Disaster Peter when you got yourself stuck on that rocket,” May goes on mercilessly.

“My powers malfunctioned!”

“Mm-hm. My point is, they don’t seem to be terribly busy when you call them. And this whatever it is, this cannibal oil monster,” May stops, and Miles doesn’t miss the worried quirk of her eyebrows. “It sounds pretty serious. And if it looks like Peter’s mask…” she trails off, then shakes her head. “No. Nobody would dare to try and bring him back. But this monster is connected to him. Or to you. To Spider-Man. This is exactly when to call your friends.”

 * * * *

Peter B., Gwen, and Noir are all on the channel at the same time, which is rare. Gwen’s on almost all the time, but Noir is still adjusting to the technology, and Peter is… Peter. He doesn’t always respond, unless it’s to leave a long, rambling message with the important stuff at the end.

“…doesn’t really matter, though,” he’s saying, waving a hand dismissively. “Acid, meteors, electricity, or good old-fashioned gamma rays. He got zapped and now he’s wonky. It’s weird, because you’d expect most zapped wonkies to be weird or dying or whatever, but no, they all either die or, you know, become like him, and—”

“Hey guys,” Miles calls, nodding to their greetings, “Yeah, so I have a question for y’all. So there’s this monster who kind of looks like Spider-Man… uh, he’s black? Not black like me, I mean, he’s like made of oil or something? But with teeth. Spider-Man mask eyes and way too many teeth, and I think he eats people. He tried to and I stopped him. Oh, and he shot black webs at me! Webs, like my webs! Has, uh, anyone fought this guy before?”

There’s a second of silence before they all start talking at once.

“Miles, get out of there if you’re anywhere near—” “DO NOT engage him, I’m on my way—” “—one so young, but innocence is never—”

Then Peter B.’s face fills the screen, and he looks more serious than Miles has ever seen him.

“Miles. Do not go anywhere near Venom. I’m on my way.”

“Venom? So you do know—”

BLIP. Peter’s face disappears. Gwen is next, also looking grim.

“Whoever Venom has this time, we’ve got to save them,” she says. “Hold tight, Miles. You don’t have to face this alone. I’ll call the other two and meet you and Peter at May’s. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Wait, you gotta tell me—”

BLIP. Gwen vanishes too. That leaves Noir, and Miles sighs, because he knows what’s coming.

“Black, jet black,” Noir intones. “The soul of the city is blacker than night, blacker than oil. Blacker than sin. But Venom’s soul… is even darker. The kind of darkness that sucks all the color out of the world. I’m coming to help you, Miles.” He clenches his fist and the camera tilts perilously. “I can only hope I make it in time.”

Chapter Text

Miles doesn’t have to wait long. He’s just settled on the couch when the back door bursts open and May Parker’s living room is full of Spider-people, doing what they do best: panicking and talking fast.

“OkayokayOKAYOKAAAAAY!” Peter B.’s cuts through the mayhem. “Thank you, spider-kids.”

“Hey!” Miles protests.

“Ah. Shhh.” Peter dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Listen, it’s great to see the ol’ team getting back together, solidarity, yadda yadda yadda, but: Venom is not age-appropriate for spider-kids.”

“Which is why we need to work together!” Gwen snaps.

“Which is why Noir and I will be taking care of the sitch. If you’re not old enough to buy beer, or drive, or vote or join the Army, you are sitting this one out.” Peter aims a finger gun at Peni and gestures from her to Gwen, Miles, and stops on Spider-ham. “Also if you’re a Saturday morning cartoon character, cause I’m guessing the content warning on your universe is PG.”

“Oh, ohohohoho, you would, would you?” Spider-Ham is puffing his chest up, lifting off the ground. “Thanks a lot for lumping me in the kiddoes, really makes me feel appreciated. I’ll have you know the Venom in my verse is a lot higher rated than ‘PG.’ (Wait, what’s a higher rating? QP? PH?) A-hem. Venom, AKA Pork Grind, is half pig, half wolf, half sausage factory, and all TEETH! He’s tried to turn me into canned ham more times than I care to count. And when he can’t get Spider-Ham, he’ll go after anyone! ANYONE! Anyone, seriously, he’s got no taste in men.”

“Yeah, that’s not Venom, that’s Wile E. Coyote and a few art style changes to avoid copyright issues,” Peter snaps. “You’re not getting near Venom. Oh! Oh, sorry, what I meant to say was—“ he takes a deep breath and holds up his hands in sarcastic excitement. “I have a SPECIAL MISSION for ALL of you!! You need to stay right here and guard Miles, from the safest place in the city, which coincidentally is this living room, right here, which you will not leave, even if I have to web you here, while Noir and I go deal with a problem that is most definitely out of your age-appropriate challenge rating.”

“Challenge rating?” Miles mutters, but Gwen interrupts him with a scoff.

“Seriously? We’re back the thing where you pretend you’re somehow a grownup because you’re a few years older than us?”

“Yeah! Besides, some of us have fought Venom before and actually won!” Peni chimes in. Everyone stares at her for a moment, and she squares her shoulders. “I’d only teamed up with SP//dr for a few months when I heard about my evil uncle’s secret project: a second mech suit, more advanced and more powerful but using the same biomechanical engineering principles. They called it Ven#m.”

“How is she doing that? I can actually see the hashtag in the name!” says Spider-Ham.

“Unlike the SP//dr suit, it only needed one pilot. And…” Peni’s eyes drop to the floor. “She was a classmate. A friend. I didn’t know it at the time, but she asked for a team-up, for tips on how to control it, and I… I wasn’t there for her. We were fighting a kaiju and, in the middle of the battle, something went wrong. The suit, it started to assimilate her. Her body… her mind. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. My aunt May went in to try to save her, but it was too late.” A single tear slides down Peni’s face. “Addy was too far gone. She’d become part of it. And then Ven#m… it killed my aunt.”

Everyone stills, even Peter. Then he points at Peni.

“That. That. Right there. That is exactly why none of you are getting near Venom. Even in anime schoolgirl land, it deals tragic-backstory levels of damage. And last time I checked, everyone in this room already had a tragic backstory. So we’re not going to tempt fate, we’re going to play this smart and keep Venom far far far away from the Spider-kids, while Noir and I go light it on fire.”

“Wait, that works?” Miles asks. “Fire. Fire hurts it.”

“Fire, loud noises, and sometimes electricity, although the last is kind of inconsistent, no idea why,” Peter responds instantly.

“Yes, we shut Ven#m with fire in the end,” Peni says, at the same time that Spider-Ham says, “Burn baby burn!”

Noir says, “Everything has its equal opposite, its kryptonite, its Achilles heel. But if you can’t find what that is… fire kills almost everything.”

“Wait, so fire isn’t like a super-weakness for your Venom?” Peter asks.

“Venom. There are few names that strike such universal and all-encompassing terror into the hearts of the wicked,” Noir intones.

“Wait, so Venom’s a good guy?” Miles puts in.

Noir laughs bitterly.

“Far from it. Venom is to the common street criminal what a lion is to a gazelle. No matter how far they sink, how strong they think they are, how depraved they—” Noir stops at a warning cough from both Peter B. and May Parker. “My point is, there’s always something worse. Always a bigger fish. And Venom… is the biggest, deep-sea fish, in the sewage-laden scumpond that is… my city.” He pauses. “Strange. Lightning usually strikes in these pauses. A-ahem. They say he was a serial killer once. A man so wicked, so twisted in his ways, not even God could judge him. He killed his victims slowly, horribly, and when they finally died, they became his food. Fish food, for the biggest fish from the darkest trench of the human heart.”

“What?” Gwen mouths.

“He was captured during the secret Nazi invasion of Christmas Eve,” Noir continues. “I… don’t think it happened here. But Nazis dragged him back, cursing and spitting, in an iron net. They took him with them when they left, and for three years, the streets were a little safer, the air a little cleaner, the light burned a little brighter. But then… he returned, to haunt my streets. He was barely human before; now, he’d become something else. Something worse. His bones slither now; his skin drips and oozes; his face is—” Noir stops, quailing under the narrowed gaze of May Parker. “He’s some kind of monster, is what I’m saying. He can melt under doors, or tear them open with claws. Only his appetite remains the same… his appetite for human flesh.”

“Whoa, okay there buddy,” Peter says. “That’s plenty. Annnnd I think you made my point, which is that Venom is—”

“Oh, come on!” interrupts Gwen. “You can’t seriously be warning us away from this Venom because Noir’s version is a literal Nazi cannibal serial killer, can you? Let’s be honest here, guys. Spider-Ham, Peni, Noir—your universes are not as similar as mine, Miles’, and Peter B.’s. They’re just different! Weirder, or, more exciting, whatever you prefer. But you can’t really predict who Venom is going to be here, by who he is in cartoonland, anime world, or Noir’s horror detective whatever city.” She crosses her arms and looks Peter in the face. “I don’t know what you’re so scared of. I’ve met Venom before, and it wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh?” Miles perks up at that, and Peni leans forward, interested.

"You what?" Peter sounds angrier than Miles has ever heard him. "It's not that bad?? Gwen. You tried it already?"

"Tried it?" Gwen frowns. "What are you talking about it? It's an alien. That's all it is." She levels a gaze at Miles. "Look, in my world, an asteroid landed in the San Francisco Bay, and a bunch of shady scientists confiscated it before the US government could get a look. Turns out, the asteroid had an alien on it, some kind of gooey blob thing. I was looking for something else entirely in Dr. Brock's lab, but I saw it get out. And... jumped into me, I guess?"

Peter snorts bitterly, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up! I don't... it was weird, being possessed. Anyway, it's like a puppetmaster alien, and it was looking for--" Gwen uses air finger quotes "'its perfect host.' Basically used me as temporary transport until it could jump into a guard, and then walked him away before I could recover. I've been tracking it since then. But..." she shifts uncomfortably. "I'm not sure it's actually evil? At least, when it controlling me, it wasn't... I mean, it didn't want to kill or eat anyone, not like Noir's guy. It was more like, she was trying to survive and willing to do whatever it took."

"Yeah, you are definitely benched," Peter butts in. "Also, Gwen: stay away from Venom. It can and will ruin your life. Trust me, I've been down the road you're thinking about."

"What road?" Miles asks, getting a little antsy. "What it is? What are we dealing with?"

"Long story short, cut to the chase: she's right about it being an alien," Peter says. "Symbiote, actually. They can't survive in Earth's atmosphere-- thank GOD-- so they need hosts. Puppets. Human meatsuits. But thing is, most humans won't let themselves be turned into puppets, so they're a bunch of lying, scheming, little bastards who pretend to be... Yeah, mine looked like a suit. A suit from space, which is objectively cool, and it gave me super-powers, which was even cooler. Plus, I look good in black. Everyone looks good in black! Side note for later, why are we letting villains take the most badass (and slimming) color? Well, anyway, I'll spare you the details, but the Avengers eventually showed up on my doorstep and told me it was an evil alien symbiote and basically eating me from the inside. Yeah, gross. So I did the right thing and got rid of it that night."

"Really." Gwen asks suspiciously.

"Yeah, and... it rotted my insides, and it was, as I said, super gross," Peter says, folding his arms. "We're not doing that again. But I know how to take it down, so leave that to me."

"Oh, come on! You got to show me how to fight. You know? Spidey and Spidey, side by side, you teaching me how to take down the bad guys? I thought I was like, your surrogate son or something!"

"More like the plastic dolls they give highschoolers they know'll end up as teen parents," Peter grumbled. "You're my practice baby." Miles' puppy dog eyes do not falter. "Yeah, sorry, that's not going to work this time, because it just fuels my resolve to keep you away from Venom. Miles, Gwen, you're both benched."

"What?" they both shriek, simultaneously.

"Don't we get to vote on this?" Gwen asks.

"Yeah, who died and made you team boss?" Miles adds.

"Uh, that would be this dimension's first Spider-Man, who, if he were here, would tell you both to listen to me, because I am old and full of wisdom," Peter says. "Peni, Spider-Ham, you get to guard them."

Peni nods, a quick determined little nod, and strikes a pose.

"No evildoer shall enter this house!"

"Oh, fine. That too. I meant 'keep Miles and Gwen from following me like I'm sure they're planning to,' but, sure. Guard the house from evildoers." Peter shrugs. "Oh, and Peni and Spider-Ham: consider my favors cashed in."

Spider-Ham's jaw drops to the floor.

"You wouldn't!"

"Oh yes I would. You said you owed me for that crossover team-up, so I'm cashing in. Don't let them follow us." Peter pauses in the doorway. "Oh yeah-- Miles, where did you say you saw Venom in the city?"

"This is so unfair! Take me with me, and I- I'll show you!"

"How about no. Doesn't matter, I'll find him."

"Oh yeah? How?" Gwen demands. "You need us, we can cover more ground--"

"Don't need you, I can do it myself," Peter says bluntly. "I know what he does for his day job. If I can't find Venom the giant goo monster, I'll just look for Eddie Brock."

Chapter Text

CRASH!

Eddie groans a little as V cannonballs through their last—their last—completely intact window. He feels his knee twist unnaturally and a precious tendon snap, as they land in V’s new favorite “big damn alien” pose, which Eddie strongly suspects comes from one of the terrible, terrible animes Venom watches while he sleeps.

“Ah, Jesus, do you have to do that every time?” he cries. Venom guiltily re-knits the tendon.“But it hurts! And… and…” Eddie gestures to the kaleidoscope of scattered glass around them. “V, our stuff.”

“STUFF IS OVERRATED,” Venom grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. Eddie can feel his regret and embarrassment through the bond, and pats his shoulder—his own shoulder—in silent reassurance. We’ll get more stuff.

Venom retracts almost entirely, leaving Eddie’s face free like he likes it, and manifests a half-dozen black tendrils to whip the largest glass pieces into the trash. Eddie reaches for the broom. By the time he’s done sweeping, Venom’s holding the dustpan steady. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a long black tentacle pulling a blue tarp towards the open window.

“It’s so much faster when you help,” he says.

“WE WILL GET ANOTHER WINDOW,” Venom promises. He brushes Eddie’s forehead, ruffling his hair with a long tendril. “TOMORROW. ANOTHER WINDOW.”

“That’s a, a real nice offer,” Eddie says, and the but hangs there, loudly unspoken. In unison, their eyes travel to the card table Eddie’s using as a desk, and the shitty duct-taped laptop, and the warped leather wallet. Eddie sighs.

“WE WILL FIND YOU WORK!” Venom says hopefully, as Eddie pushes through the cramped living room/bedroom space into the even more cramped kitchenette. It smells faintly of mildew, their neighbor’s weed smoke, and old bacon grease. And… other food residues. Venom returns the broom to its place with a flourish and, anticipating Eddie’s destination, opens the minifridge for him. “WE SAW A YOUTUBE ADVERTISEMENT FOR SOMETHING CALLED LINKEDIN. MAYBE TONIGHT—”

“No,” Eddie says. He squats in front of the minifridge and rummages. “Sorry, V. Too risky. I know LinkedIn—I know about the Internet, okay? Give a man some credit here, I was a bona fide YouTube star for a few weeks. Anyway, LinkedIn, ZipRecruiter, Indeed, all those sites, they’re not for us. I’m not having my personal information sold to Norman Osborne cause I applied to copywrite dishwasher instructional manuals and used my real DOB.”

“YOU COULD USE A FAKE DOB? A FAKE IDENTITY!!”

“A nice idea, but, uh,” Eddie takes a swig of orange Fanta and stands back up, “until very recently I was, let’s be honest here, a shock jock with aspirations of investigative journalism, and you were—”

“A LOSER WITH NO PURPOSE. AND NO JOB.”

“Eh, you said it, not me. My point: forgery isn’t in either of our wheelhouses. Digital forgery and identity fabrication? Even harder.” Eddie walks back to the living room and sinks into the hairy old recliner. A black tendril shoots out and graciously pulls up the cardboard box they use as a footrest. Eddie glances at the blue tarp covering their window, shakes his head, and reaches for the laptop. “But you’re right, we need a job. Preferably a dead-end, short-term gig cause we’re skipping town soon, off the books even if it’s shit pay, no benefits so no personal information required, and no job security or labor regulations poking around…” He snaps his fingers. “Freelance! That’s what I’m describing. Let’s do some freelance writing in the Big Apple.”

Venom settles with him, draping a long, heavy tendril across his shoulders and raising a small external head from Eddie’s left bicep. Eddie smiles absent-mindedly and bends his head towards Venom’s. For a few hours, they hold each other in companionable silence, all four eyes fixed on the scrolling lines of the harsh-lit screen.

"So," Eddie says, still focused on the laptop, "Spider-Man's a kid. How do you think that whole... situation... went?" 

"I STOPPED SCARING HIM RIGHT AWAY! YOU CAN'T BE MAD ABOUT THAT ANYMORE!" 

"Hey, hey, hey, I'm not. I'm not! I'm just saying, we gotta be more careful. More finesse. And... uh... let's say no head-biting unless we're sure everyone around is a bad guy."

"AH, BUT THERE WILL BE MORE HEAD-BITING." 

"Well, yeah," Eddie says. "We gotta keep you fed and handsome, don't we?" He sighs and taps the screen. "And me too, we gotta keep me fed too. I'd say handsome, but we both know that train left the station a while ago." 

"LIES!" the symbiote protests. He pulls the tendril a little closer around Eddie's shoulders. "LIES AND FAIRYTALES! YOU ARE VERY HANDSOME, EDDIE. AND I WILL HELP TO KEEP YOU FED, EVEN IF IT MEANS... HEAD-BITING WITH FINESSE." 

“I’m sorry, can you explain it one more time?” Noir asks. Peter B. Parker sighs heavily and drops his head on the table. “Hey, cut me slack, you know technology in my world works differently than yours!”

“You mean you’re stuck in the 1940s so I am literally teaching my grandpa to use the Internet. Uh, well me if I ever lived long enough to be a grandpa. A really, really weird version of… you know, I think this metaphor is out of control, let me show you one more time what we’re doing.” Peter swipes the iPhone from Noir and flicks the touchscreen, spinning the listings madly. “These are articles written by The Daily Bugle. And yes, articles can fit on this screen, it’s still the same newspaper with the same huge jerk at the helm. Oh, speaking of that, J. Jonah Jameson. You have him in your verse, right?”

“Unfortunately yes,” Noir says gloomily. “He’s got a mouth like a machine gun, never stops spitting.”

“Right?? And he’s constantly saying—”

“Spider-Man is a menace!” they both finish together.

“Right. Right. Hate him. Anyway, he’s in charge of this verse’s Daily Bugle same as everywhere else. And in my verse, and Spider-Ham’s, Eddie Brock works for the Bugle.”

“As an enforcer?”

“What? No! God no. What—how do you newspapers in your verse—never mind. My point is, Brock’s an award-winning investigative journalist. Three Pulitzer nominations, published a decent expose on Doc Ock, and if he hadn’t gone off the rails over the whole Sin-Eater thing his career would have— right, sorry. We’re looking for his activity in this universe. Columns. Bylines. Even a blog.”

“What if he’s not a journalist?”

“Then our one and only lead is up in smoke. Keep looking. Oh, here, use the search function for the archives—” Peter leans forward and taps, but Noir suddenly tries to angle the phone away. Peter grabs it.

“Search function? Peni showed me a better way—”

“Hey, no, give that back, don’t navigate away—”

“It’s simple, just give me the communicator, just—”

“No, no, you don’t know what you’re doing! Oof!” Peter gasps and folds over as Noir elbows him in the soft gut. “My abs! Ah!”

“You’re making this too complicated,” Noir grumbles. “If you want to find your Pulitzer journalist, just do this.” He presses the home button and, in a voice that brooks no disagreement, orders: “Siri! Find Eddie Brock!”

Peter facepalms, again.

“Okay,” Siri replies serenely. “Here are matches for ‘Eddie Brock.’”

“You see,” Noir says smugly, “he’s no journalist. This is crime scene footage of…”

Both Noir and Peter lean in for a closer look as the clip starts playing. Peter squints in disbelief.

“Wait… Is that a lobster tank?”

Chapter Text

“Is that a lobster tank?” Gwen says, incredulous. She leans in for a better view.

“Aw, man, no!” Miles squinches his eyes shut and holds the phone away from him. “That’s nasty!”

“Well, that’s Pork Grind for you,” Spider-Ham puts in. “He ain’t what you’d call a picky eater.”

“Dis-gusting!” Peni says, holding her nose in disgust and rapidly fanning her face.

“Wait, what’s he saying?” Gwen asks. “When the woman walks up next to him. What’s he saying? Turn on captions.”

Miles does so.

“Uh… ‘He’s killing people,’” he reads dutifully. “‘Kanye.’ ‘I have proof.’ I dunno, he seems pretty insane.”

“It’s not Kanye,” Gwen insists. “Roll it back. Turn up the volume. Here… give me that.” She grabs the phone from Miles, jams her ear buds into the audio jack, and half-turns from the others. “It’s… shhh! Let me hear! ‘Carlton Drake!’”

“Who’s that?” Spider-Ham wonders. Peni shrugs.

“Hang on,” Miles says. He swipes the phone back and types furiously. “Is that Carlton with a C or a K? Oh, a C I guess. There’s news results. He’s… He’s, uh… he’s dead.”

“What? Let me see!” Gwen leans forward, eyes darting back and forth as she reads the results aloud. “‘Five Years Since the Tragic Death of Carlton Drake, San Francisco Still Has Questions.’ ‘Carlton Drake’s Legacy Lives on with New STEM Internships by the LIFE Foundation.’ ‘Sketchy Science: How Carlton Drake and the LIFE Foundation Changed California’s Patent Law Forever.’ Huh. So he was some kind of… tech genius?”

“And Venom killed him, right?” Miles says. “I mean, that’s definitely what I’m getting from this. He’s dead, nobody knows why, Venom killed him. Right?”

Spider-Ham nods, Peni shrugs, and Gwen frowns and narrows her eyes.

“Maybe,” she says. “We need to do more research. What’s this about sketchy science at the LIFE Foundation? This looks... familiar, actually.”

“You know what this situation calls for?” Peni says brightly. “A RESEARCH MONTAGE! Split-screen multitasking, activate!”

Miles makes eye contact with Gwen, mouthing What was she, as Gwen shrugs back, telegraphing I have no freaking clue, it’s Peni. But Peni’s enthusiasm proves contagious—probably aided by the high-energy burst of K-Pop montage music that erupts from SP//DR—and Miles tosses his phone to Gwen. She snags it mid-air, spins it and catches it again, and starts searching. Miles tugs his school laptop free from his overflowing backpack and snaps it open. He narrows his eyes just over the sticker-covered back and starts typing furiously. Peni and SP//DR are really grooving to some kind of tech, as SP//DR’s display whirs and flashes frequently and Peni purses her lips thoughtfully, listening to the data stream in her earbud. Spider-Ham, meanwhile, produces an oversized phone book from… somewhere… and starts flipping through the pages frantically.

Driven by Peni’s K-pop, the four researchers frantically scroll through web pages, read text, sigh in exasperation, scribble notes, and… finally…

“Carlton Drake was experimenting on people with… with goo aliens!” Miles exclaims. At the same moment, Gwen says, “So that’s how Eddie Brock got possessed,” and Peni chimes in, “Eddie Brock is not a good writer.”

Spider-Ham just raises an eyebrow.

“A good writer? On this show? Gimme a break!” The other four turn to look at him, and he quickly straightens himself. “I also found Eddie Brock’s home address and phone number. Want me to call him?”

“What?” the others say, almost in unison.

“You tell me! It’s a phonebook!” Spider-Man holds the phone book up vertically and fans the pages until a clunky phone receiver falls out, connected by loopy wire. “Get it?”

Miles still looks incredulous, but Gwen takes control.

“Heh. Great joke. Can you really call him? What? Ok… ok, that’s actually great. But we need the profile first. What’d we find? Peni, start with you.”

“Edward Charles Allan Brock was born in San Francisco on September 18, 1981. It seems as if both his parents are dead—how tragic!—and he has one older sister. He graduated from City College Community College in 2003 but wasn’t at the top of his class. Employment records indicate several low-ranking jobs in crime journalism, and then in 2005 he began creating his own individual reporting called the Brock Report. But everything came crashing down around him five years ago, when he was professionally humiliated and his fiancée Anne Weying left him for another man.”

“Oh shit,” Miles breaks in. “That’s the same time that, uh, Carlton Drake and the LIFE Foundation started doing weird experiments on homeless people. I found a couple of weird activist blogs. Looks like Drake was trying to make humans capable of… space travel? I’m hazy on that point. But Brock got involved, and, uh, possessed? Bonded? The footage was super unclear.”

“Unclear but suggestive enough,” Gwen says. “Brock got possessed and got into a fight with someone else, also possessed. They had a battle royale on the LIFE Foundation’s rocket, which they exploded. Huh. Do we think they were trying to leave Earth? Maybe Venom wanted them to stay and invade?”

“Maybe, but why haven’t they?” Peni asks.

“Yeah, and what’s Brock been doing since then?” Miles asks. “It’s like… nothing. A couple of interviews where he says he’s got, like, schizophrenia, and then nothing.”

“Hmm,” Gwen says, putting a hand on her chin. “So obviously Venom is still possessing Brock. Maybe the schizophrenia was a cover for the alien talking to him. It’s uh… pretty loud.”

The others stare at her for a moment, and Gwen tucks her hair behind her ear uncomfortably.

“I’m just saying, that was my experience. Peter’s was obviously different.” There’s a pause as everyone looks at each other—but nobody wants to start that conversation. “I’m running with the hypothesis that this Venom is more like my world’s than Peter’s, Noir’s, or Peni’s. It’s a bodysnatcher alien with a host. Landed in San Fran, jumped into Brock, who's an alternative journalist and not a scientist in this 'verse, and it's been on the run since then.”

“And it eats people,” Miles adds in a low voice.

“Right. Yeah. So it’s been lying low for five years. Doing what?”

“Plotting? Raising an army? Running recon missions on our planet?” Peni suggests.

“And eating people in San Francisco, if the Tar Monster rumors are Venom,” Gwen says. “But yeah, I don’t trust the five-year gap for a second. We need to be super careful. And why is he in New York? Why now?”

“Maybe San Francisco ran out of guys to eat?” Miles says lamely.

“Hah! Doubt it!” Spider-Ham puts in. “Wanna call him and ask him directly?”

Miles reaches for the phone, but Gwen shakes her head and pulls him back.

“And say what? We need some kind of cover story. Something that will make him tell us where he is…”

HONNNK!

Venom coils deep inside Eddie’s shoulder, radiating grumpiness at the noise as the taxi swerves violently and passes them.

RUDE!

“I know, love,” Eddie says absent-mindedly. Catching a strange look from a passerby, he winces. There’s a newsstand a few yards away, and he rifles through the pockets of his Interview Suit. Two dollars. That’s enough for a weekday edition of the Daily Bugle. Eddie opens the centerfold, raises it to cover his mouth, and heads toward the bus stop. A man reading a newspaper while walking might be odd, but less odd than a man talking to himself.

“You ready for the interview?” he mumbles quietly.

YES. WE WILL STAY HIDDEN AND QUIET.

“And silent. No noise, and no talking to me! No distractions!”

HMM. WHAT IF YOU NEED HELP ON A QUESTION.

“This is a shit job for low pay,” Eddie says tiredly. “The only question they’ll ask is if we’re ok with the pay and hours. Just stay quiet. Please.”

FINE. BUT YOU’LL REGRET—

Venom is cut off by Eddie’s cell phone ringing. Eddie frowns and pulls it out. Unknown Caller. Who has his number, already, in New York? He taps his thumb on the red button and dismisses the call.

“I’ll regret nothing, V, if I get paid in cash,” he mutters.

The phone rings again. He checks again. Unknown Caller. Eddie hesitates, scans the street. Venom stretches over his back, anxiously, as they step off the sidewalk and take the call.

“Who’s this?” Eddie asks.

“Hello, Edward Brock,” says a young, female voice. “Is this a bad time? I’m calling from San Francisco Electricity & Power regarding the status of your account for the apartment at—”

“Whoa, whoa, what? What status? I’m all paid up!” Eddie protests.

“You were all paid up until the last billing cycle updated,” the voice says. “I think there—uh—there might be a mistake somewhere in the system, but I’ll need additional information to confirm it. Can you help me with that?”

“What? Ugh,” Eddie glances up at the street. Specifically, the bus stop. “This isn’t a good time, really. I have to catch a bus. Can you call back in, say, two hours?”

“Um—no—sorry, that’s impossible. We need to know your current address now.”

Eddie stops. Takes the phone from his ear. Frowns at it. A dim suspicion is taking form.

“Um—yeah, sorry about that, just a little connection issue—who did you say was calling?”

“Uh—this is—uh, May,” the voice says. “Yes, this is May from San Francisco Electricity & Power—”

And there it is.

“It’s PG&E, dickheads, do your homework,” Eddie says curtly, and hangs up.

WHO WAS THAT? BAD GUYS?

“Probably,” Eddie says grimly. “Change of plans, V. We’re taking the subway. And keep an eye out- someone's looking for us, and we sure as hell don't want to be found." 

Chapter Text

“So, to recap,” Peter B. says, pushing open the diner door and neatly sidestepping a pedestrian. “In this ‘verse, Eddie Brock is... a loser. A nobody, really, a has-been who was never that big to begin with—hey, that’s where my restaurant used to be!”

Noir gives him a side-eye and Peter coughs, re-calibrates.

“And even weirder, he’s not even from New York. He’s a West Coast weirdo with a failed career and failed marriage. Uh. Failed engagement. So he hits rock bottom and volunteers, or “volunteers,” for crazy alien experiments. He ends up hooked on Venom.” Peter scratches the side of neck and shakes his head. “I’d feel sorry for him but my Eddie Brock is kind of killing it—metaphorically, you know—so the schadenfreude’s nice. But, on the downside, he’s not killing it over here. Just killing lowlifes in dark alleys.”

“So?” Noir asks.

A teenager with long pink-and-black hair swept into their face pauses, gives Noir the once-over, and flips him the thumbs-up. “Nice costume, man.” Noir gives a bemused thumbs-up in return.

 “So he doesn’t really leave an easy paper trail. But!” Peter says, pivoting and heading for the corner hot dog stand, “that’s where you come in. You’re the detective.” He stops talking—finally—and buys an extremely greasy hot-dog slathered with mustard. Noir pinches the bridge of his nose as Peter takes a huge bite. “I narrowesh down—gulp—I narrowed down your suspect list, and you’re welcome for that, but the lead went nowhere. It’s your time to shine, Sherlock. What you got?”

“Got? I—I—” Noir opens and shuts his mouth. “This isn’t my world, Peter. I mean that literally and metaphorically. My New York, I know like the back of my glove. I know what it means when the street-lamps flicker just a bit lower than they should be. I know whose door to kick in when my office gets tossed. I know what it looks when a dame’s in over her head, or when she’s just pretending to drown so she can drag some poor sucker down with her. I know my city. But this? This ain’t her.”

“Sure, right, good point, ninety percent of knowledge is contextual. But you gotta know something about where to start, right? Like some little detail that won’t let you sleep at night like a blinking neon sign in the dark, or something?”

Noir sighs.

“Don’t ever try to switch from photography to writing copy.” Peter gives him a wounded look, and he caves a little. “Okay, fine. There is something bugging me. It’s about the timing. Go back to the profile you were putting together just now. Brock hits rock bottom, gets infected with Venom. And then what? He hangs out in San Francisco eating homeless bums for five years?”

“He’s probably hunting them,” Peter suggests. “He craves the thrill of the hunt.”

“Sure. But why come here? Why now? What’s changed? A bottom feeder like him doesn’t change his patterns unless they’re chasing a big score, or being chased by something even bigger. If we can figure out what brought Brock to New York, we can predict where he’ll be, what kind of choices he’s making.”

“Knew I could count on you! Okay, okay, okay. Assuming it’s something in New York…” Peter takes a deep breath starts listing possibilities on his fingers: “supervillain team-up, crash a science exposition to boost his powers (or whatever), steal something here, get revenge on somebody, and… yup, that’s all I got.”

“On the other hand,” Noir says, not missing a beat, “if he’s running from something, it could be a supervillain throwdown, return of the scientist who created him, new hero in his home city, or something in his personal life.”

“So we check both to be sure,” Peter says, just as Noir intones,

“To be sure, we should research all the possibilities.”

They hold eye contact for a moment, then reach for an awkward fist-bump in tandem.  

“You’re all right, kid,” Noir says.

“You don’t suck at this,” Peter agrees. “We should team up more often.”

“Agreed.”

“So, we got a good rhythm going. Divide and conquer. I’ll check for local attractions. You know, cursed mummy exhibits, fabulous diamonds, science expos…”

“Good call. I’ll do some more research, look for an address, place some calls. I’ll put together a list of his known associates.”

“See? Hey, look at us go!”

Noir coughs slightly. “You know… in the interests of time… are you sure you don’t want to bring the others—”

“No,” Peter says instantly. “Absolutely not. You saw Miles’ face. We ask him to do some research, he’s gonna show up sooner or later to face Venom. And that’s a no-go.”

“Mm. You’re probably right,” Noir reluctantly agrees. “It’s a pity we can’t leverage local connections. Normally, I’d set up a police dragnet and ask my criminal colleagues to check in on Mr. Brock. But… it seems we’re hunting the devil with one hand tied behind our backs.”

“Yeah.” Peter fidgets uncomfortably. “It sucks. But them’s the breaks. We should get started, on account of the whole glitching time limit thing. Plus, I assume Venom’s making plans of his own. We gotta figure out what he’s after and head him off, quick.”  

I THOUGHT YOU WANTED A WRITING JOB.

“I—oof—wanted a paying job,” Eddie mutters, trying to keep his voice low.

The job, it turned out, involves transporting heavy boxes of high-end medical equipment that may or may not have been misplaced in the city’s inventory system. Eddie carefully hadn’t asked about that, and the guy leading his work crew didn’t volunteer information. It’s a fairly well-organized operation: crew leaders show up at dawn to collect workers at meet points all around the city, take them to the day’s work site, and stay with their men all day. There are even hard hats and safety gloves, and gruff instructions on how to coordinate lifts and not destroy your back. Eddie can respect that. He’s had far worse gigs.

He can’t help noticing most of the other temp workers are down on their luck, but not quite down and out. Two of the guys on his team sleep at the same shelter. One walks like an ex-soldier; the other has a weird Asian neck tattoo with a big burn mark through it. What they don’t have is track marks on their arms or recent black eyes or that stale sweat smell of someone sleeping rough. He wonders what they think about him, what it means about his own status—

WE ARE NOT BUMS! WE CAN DO WHATEVER WE WANT!

“I—I know,” Eddie mutters, trying to keep his voice down and go unnoticed. “Just don’t try to make me look crazy, all right?”

HA! AS IF I HAD TO TRY!

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious,” Eddie mumbles. His crew leader—a buff, middle-aged man with a buzz cut and a faded tattoo sleeve— shoots him a strange look. “Uh, sorry. I talk—to myself, sometime. Just helps me focus on the work. I’m not crazy.”

“Sure, buddy,” the man says drily. But he doesn’t step away; he jerks his head at the next box, indicating that Eddie should help him. Eddie does so. It’s been a while since he did manual labor with other people, and he watches the other man’s movements carefully, copying them subtly. The last thing they need is for Eddie to instinctively use Venom’s strength and give the game away.

“You—oof!—you work here long?” Eddie asks.

“Long enough,” the man says. “Here. Two steps back, to your right. Try to keep it level on the pallet. Don’t slide it.” For a moment, neither of them says anything as they position the box on the loading pallet. With a small grunt, they let it go. The man steps forward and extends a hand. “I’m Hal. You’re new here.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, wincing a little at the firm handshake. “I’m, uh, I’m new in town. Eddie Black.” The other quirks an eyebrow, as if he can tell it’s a fake name, but doesn’t call him out.

“So, Eddie Black,” Hal says, “you gonna be in town a while?”

“I’m, I’m not really sure yet.”

SMOOTH.

 “Hmm.” Hal gestures him back to the stack of boxes waiting to be loaded. “So why are you asking about the job?”

“Just curious, I guess,” Eddie says. “I—huh!—I see you run a tight ship.”

Hal just looks at him. Eddie can feel the sweat forming on the back of his neck.

WHAT IS HE DOING. IS HE SIZING YOU UP. ARE WE GOING TO FIGHT. IS HE CHECKING OUT YOUR ASS? CAN I EAT HIM?

“No! What? No!” Eddie tries to whisper without moving his lips. Hal’s stare turns skeptical, and at last, he turns away, shaking his head. “Damn it, Venom! Don’t distract me!”

WHAT, I’M NOT ALLOWED TO ASK QUESTIONS? UNFAIR!

“Pay. Check. Pay. Check,” Eddie hisses through gritted teeth. He turns back to the stack of boxes and grabs one, lifting it easily onto the pallet. From the corner of his eye, he can see Hal watching him. Great.

He really isn’t surprised when he’s pulled aside at the end of the shift. Hal leads him into the foreman’s office, shuts the door, and there’s a hulking, dead-eyed goon with a gun leaning over the desk. Eddie’s disappointed, because there was a slim chance the job wasn’t totally criminal and he really needs the money… but he’s not surprised.

He is a little surprised when the goon looks up and the light hits his face.

WHY IS HE WHITE?

“No, you can’t actually say— don’t— I’ll explain—” Eddie whisper-fumbles for a few seconds before he shuts p, because the very pale gunman—albino, actually—is giving him a serious thousand-yard stare.  

“Hey boss,” Hal cuts in. “This is Eddie Black, one of new hires. He’s been casing the place and asking questions. Talking to himself too. Maybe he has a wire.”

The gunman’s eyes flick from Eddie to Hal and back again. Oh shit.

“And,” Hal continues remorselessly, “he’s lifting above his weight class. He kept up with me all day.” There’s a little inflection on with me that makes Eddie unconsciously step away from Hal.

“So you worked here before,” the gunman says. His voice is like gravel.  

“Uh…” the question throws Eddie off balance. “No? No, sir, I haven’t worked here. I’m from out of town. Look, I don’t want any trouble. I was just—”

“I’ve seen this guy,” the gunman says in his horrible chainsmoker’s half-whisper. Eddie shuts up while he takes out a smartphone. He has a bad feeling about this, and it only gets worse when the tinny strains of the Brock Report ring out. The gunman holds up the phone with one hand, showing it to Eddie and Hal. “This guy. He’s a reporter. Imagine that.”

“Was!” Eddie says. “Was a reporter. Check the date, that’s like five years ago.” He’s sweating desperately, he can feel Venom moving restlessly. “I’m had some, uh, personal issues since then.”

“You said he was keeping pace with you?” the gunman says, ignoring Eddie completely.

Hal nods.

“You got an explanation?” the gunman says.

“Uh…” Eddie’s mind races. “I take… a lot of… vitamin supplements?”

“Uh-huh. Must be some vitamins.” The gunman looks at his phone, back at Eddie, and seems to come to a decision. “Okay, Hal, you did good. I’ll put in a word with the boss. Mr. Brock, take off your shirt please.”

WHAT? NO!

“Uh…” Eddie’s nonplussed, but he obeys. “No wires, see. I’m not working for anyone. And obviously I won’t tell—”

“You can put it back on,” the gunman says. “Then come with me. I think the boss will want a word with you.” He pauses for a moment. “Don’t worry. He’s reasonable. Most of the time.”

Chapter Text

THESE ARE BAD GUYS, EDDIE. WE CAN EAT THEM.

“Look, fellas,” Eddie says, trying to pitch it like he’s talking to the gunman sitting opposite him in the black sedan. “I get this looks bad, but I’m new in town and really, really not looking to stir anything up. You don’t have to escalate anything. We can just walk away, as if nothing ever happened.”

The gunman just stares at him. On the other side of Eddie, Hal chuckles and shakes his head.

“You talk a lot,” he says.

IF WE EAT THEM, WE CAN TAKE AS MUCH MONEY AS WE NEED. THINK ABOUT IT EDDIE. WORK SMARTER NOT HARDER.

“I will stop talking now,” Eddie announces, “and quietly sit here and practice my meditation.”

He catches a metaphorical earful from Venom for the duration of the ride. Venom spends half the time arguing they should bite the heads off the driver, Hal, and the gunman, and take the money that he’s sure exists somewhere in this car. He spends the other half proposing bloodier and bloodier revenge fantasies. Eddie closes his eyes and tries to keep his face neutral while he argues back. He’s not good at this, this whatever it is, alien telepathy nonsense, so he mostly throws images at Venom: headless bodies, mob enforcers chasing them guns a-blazing, sirens and police helicopters, the Avengers, sterile white labs, separation. They can’t risk it.  

It’s almost dusk by the time the car pulls up to a deserted warehouse on the waterfront. Eddie internally groans. Nothing good ever happens at night in empty warehouses.

NOT TRUE. MANY GOOD THINGS CAN HAPPEN HERE! MANY TASTY THINGS.

This time, Eddie doesn’t bother to hold in his groan.

“Quiet,” Hal says sternly, and puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

The sky is a blurred fuzz of indigo-grey; the water ripples bright as silver satin, reflecting all the city light. Eddie takes note of two external doors facing the docks, no guard in sight, as they march him into the warehouse. Turning his head, he spots two security cameras swiveling in his direction. Great. So he needs to keep Venom out of sight when they make their escape.

He’s pretty sure he’s walking into a mob warehouse. He’s ready for a dimly-lit interior, stone-faced Italian men in silk shirts, and the usual spiel about finding an intruder snooping around. But instead, the warehouse looks like… like… he suddenly remembers when the Brock Report covered a classic car expo. The restoration tent was completely taped off with heavy, semi-opaque plastic sheeting. The inside of the warehouse is similarly taped off. Behind the plastic sheeting, bright cold lights shine at strange angles. 

Eddie has a bad feeling about this.

They walk him through a hallway, sort of, into a central… area. Plastic cubicle? There’s a cheap folding table, and a neatly-dressed man seated at it playing solitaire. Behind him stand the scowling goons Eddie expected.

“Mr. Lincoln,” the man says, without looking up from his game. “An unexpected visit. Care to explain?”

“There’s a situation at the L’Ouverture work site,” the gunman—Mr. Lincoln— says. “New hire came in. Non-local. Augmented, but not one of ours.”

The man at the desk looks up. He’s middle-aged, with half-moon glasses and a bad combover. He looks at Eddie the way an accountant looks at a miscalculated expense column.

“No? Are you sure? The effects can linger.”

“He’s not on the books,” Mr. Lincoln says. “Eddie Brock. He’s a journalist—was a journalist.”

The man at the desk sighs.

“So he’s a loose end. I see why you brought him to me.” He sets the cards down casually, reaches into his breast pocket for an orange canister of pills, and swallows on. When he looks up, his irises have shifted from brown to a poisonous, phosphorent purple.

WHOA! THAT LOOKS COOL. WE SHOULD SAVE THOSE EYES FOR LAST. OR MAYBE I CAN COPY THEM FOR YOU. IT WOULD BE A GOOD LOOK!

“No!” Eddie says. “No. Look, Mr., uh, I didn’t get your name, but I’m not a loose end. I’m just looking for work. This is all a big misunderstanding.”

“There’s plenty of work in New York,” the man says primly, as if his eyes weren’t glowing like a rave stick. “Our organization’s… arrangement… is very specific, and attracts an equally specific category of applicants.” He gives Eddie an apprising look. “You don’t look like a journalist.”

“I’m not!”

“So what’s your line of work? Are you augmented? Powered,” he clarifies.

WHO’S ASKING?

“I…” Eddie casts a futile glance around the angular maze of lighted plastic sheeting. “I mean, if you want to get technical about it… Yeah, I’m augmented. And I pick up work wherever I can find it. What” he gestures at his own face, “what’s going on with your eyes?”

“Hmm.” The man drums his fingers on the table. A look passes between him and Mr. Lincoln, but Eddie can’t parse it. “How did you find us? Are you working for anyone? Newspaper, cops, any so-called heroes.”

YES, YOU’RE WORKING FOR ME AND I AM A HERO.

Eddie snorts at that, but turns it into a nervous sniffle.

“You want the full story, fine,” he says. “I had a rough go of interviews and some guy behind a vet’s office gave me the tip. I’m not working for anyone, and whatever you’re doing, I won’t tell anyone…” he pauses. “It’s… it’s not too bad, is it?” he says weakly. “Like, we’re talking, fencing stolen goods, embezzling from greedy corporations bad, not human trafficking and drug war bad… right?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” the man says.

AHA! THEY ARE BAD GUYS, EDDIE! LET’S GOOOO!

Eddie tenses up, preparing for violence, but the man behind the desk looks at Mr. Lincoln again—Eddie clocks Lincoln giving a small nod—and answers:

“No, we don’t dabble in anything so crude. Our mutual employer’s aspirations far exceed street work.” He waves his hand over the faded card faces. “Well, Mr. Lincoln, he hasn’t lied so far. Should I press him further?”

STOP IGNORING ME! THEY ARE BAD GUYS. WE EAT BAD GUYS. FUEL IN THE TANK!

“Ask him who he was talking to in the car,” Mr. Lincoln rasps.

SHOW HIM, EDDIE! NO MORE TALKING!

“Oh, I was… myself,” Eddie says lamely. “I was just talking to myself.”

“Not a lie, but he’s holding something back,” the man at the desk says.

Hal shakes Eddie’s shoulder in a not-so-friendly way.

THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG. WE SHOULD EAT THEM FIRST AND ASK QUESTIONS LATER!! 

“Okay, just stop, let me think,” Eddie snaps—without thinking. “Just let me focus for once! I’m…” he sighs, and does what he does best: gives up. “I’m guessing those pills turn your guy into a kind of human lie detector? Yeah. So why aren’t you taking them?” he turns on Lincoln. “I mean, you’re obviously in charge here. So why is he taking the experimental glowing pills and you’re standing back safe? I just, I just have to know what you’re doing, pal, because I’ve kind of had my fill of fly-by-night operations run by billionaires, just, just snatching up the homeless because they can and shooting them up with stuff that kills them or worse.”

YES! TELL THEM, EDDIE!

“You know, maybe I don’t need this job after all,” Eddie says. “Maybe we—”

“Calm down,” Mr. Lincoln says, from behind him. The words slide right past Eddie’s—and Venom’s—thinking brains where language and plans and images live, and settle in the emotional hindbrain. Eddie’s anger goes out like a snuffed candle.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.  

“Who are you talking to?” Mr. Lincoln almost sounds patient. Eddie knows that he should be afraid, that this is bad bad, but the fear isn’t coming. He breathes and tries to choose his words carefully.

“I’m talking to my partner,” he says, and he sees both goons reach for their guns. “He’s… he didn’t die after all. He’s still here, with me.” He touches a finger to his temple. “Protecting me. Giving me advice. Bad advice.”

WE DO NOT! I SHOULD COME OUT NOW, AND SHOW THEM—

“No!” Eddie hisses. “You should be quiet and let me talk!”

He’s getting a piercing, analytic gaze from those glowing purple eyes, and he can feel Mr. Lincoln’s breath on the back of his neck. He holds up his hands, palms open, and waits. The man at the desk eventually shrugs, nods at Mr. Lincoln. He must nod back, because the goons relax and re-holster their weapons. Eddie breathes again.

“So they experimented on you, and you ended up different,” Mr. Lincoln says. His voice is back to that horrible unvoiced rasp. “Tough. But don’t make assumptions about me. I don’t ask my men to take risks I wouldn’t take myself.”

He steps around to face Eddie, reaches into his own breast pocket, and pulls out a similar orange canister. He shakes it, and the tablets inside rattle and clatter. And oh, how did Eddie miss the weird metallic sheen on the albino man’s skin? The uncanny sense of menace he projects, but only when he makes eye contact? That makes three of them with powers, and the two goons. And whoever, or whatever, might be behind the thick plastic sheeting. 

WE CAN TAKE THEM. FIVE AGAINST TWO ISN’T BAD.  

“Hal,” Mr. Lincoln abruptly says. “You worked with him all day. Did his ‘friend’ get in the way?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Did he complete his work?”

“No complaints, boss.”

Mr. Lincoln’s gaze slowly travels back to Eddie.

“I don’t know you from Adam,” he wheezes. “But we’re down a man at the Hell’s Kitchen site. If I offered you a job—loading, unloading, and loss prevention—would you accept?” The corner of his mouth rises in an ironic smile. “Be honest. Arnie’s listening.”

“I…” Eddie holds up a finger, turns around, and crouches down. “So what do you think?” he whispers.

YES! Venom says instantly. LET’S DO IT!

“What? I thought you wanted to…” Eddie lets the sentence trail off. “Why?”

THEY ARE OBVIOUS BAD GUYS! WE WILL EAT THEM LATER! BUT WE SHOULD FIGURE OUT WHAT THEY ARE DOING FIRST, AND STOP THEM FROM DOING IT.

“That makes a surprising amount of sense.”

PLUS YOU NEED THE CASH. YOUR PLACE IS A SHITHOLE.

“I know, asshole!” Eddie whispers. He slowly gets to his feet and turns to face the group. “Okay. I’ll take the job.”

“Should we at least leave a note?” Gwen asks. Behind her, in the neon-lit darkness of the Spider-Lair, Peni and Spider-Ham are doing a final weapon selection. She carefully unfurls the sonic disruptor webshooter, letting it dangle in the air for a moment before draping it around her left wrist.

“Do you really want to?” Miles says. “They’re gonna be mad either way. And if we’re quick, maybe we’ll catch Venom before they get back.”

“Uh-huh,” Gwen says. “Oh, you should take one of those.” She gestures at the Lair’s chemistry lab. Miles squints, trying to remember the names of the different glassware. With a quick flick of her wrist, Gwen webs a wide-mouthed glass cylinder with a white cap, and yanks it across the room. Miles jumps to catch it. “Lab bottle with an airtight seal. For when we separate them.”

“Uh, right.” Miles tries not to think about the nightmare voice, the prehensile tongue, oh God, the teeth— “How long will that take?”

“Depends how long the fight takes,” Gwen says shortly. “Assuming Peni’s background noise analysis worked and he’s actually at the bus stop on L’Ouverture and 52^nd, and assuming he’s working alone, and assuming we hit him with the sonic disruptors and flamethrower before he can react to much… thirty seconds, tops.” She shivers a little. “It’s gonna suck for him, though.”

“Are you… do you feel bad for him? I mean, are we supposed to be saving him, or fighting him?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen says, a touch more quietly. “I guess it depends on which version of Venom we’re fighting, and what kind of person is… stuck in there.”

“Not stuck for long!” Spider-Ham says triumphantly. He whirls his hammer over his shoulder a few times for effect. Over his shoulder, SP//dr’s visual display changes to “angry face” as a half-dozen flamethrower extensions pop from its torso. “Between the four of us—well, five if you count this magnificent marvel of machinery—we’ve got this in the bag!”

“Just stick to the plan,” Gwen says. She pulls her mask over her face and checks the sonic webs. “Start at the edge of the perimeter, work your way inwards, and as soon as you see Venom, call the rest of us for backup. Then we hit him hard and fast.”

“Do not worry, Miles!” Peni chirps. “I’ve already devised three backup plans to contain Venom with minimal collateral damage!”

“Who said anything about worry?” Miles mutters. But he puts the wide-mouthed lab jar under his arm, and pulls up his hood before following the others out.

Thwip, pull. Thwip, pull. Thwip—pull.

Miles leans into steady rhythm and the push-pull of air, fall-slide-swoosh, center and find the target and thwip, and pull back up. He can do this. Not so long ago, the flow was flowing and he was finding his way. He can get back to that place, easy.

But this… thing… is different. Different level, different kind of thing. You sure you’re up to it?

He swallows and focuses on twisting in mid-air, turning to check on Gwen, Spider-Ham, Peni, and SP//dr. He has friends. They’ve done this before. They can do it again.

They can stop Venom.

As the squad slowly veers away from each other to set up the perimeter, as dusk falls across the city and the shadows lengthen, he can almost believe his own bullshit.

Miles’ chosen start point is the abandoned Corn Kits factory building near the waterfront. A towering, muddy-brick building from way back, it leans over the waterfront: the perfect vantage point to watch the water. Perched on the old factory clock face, he scans the sea of warehouses below, watching for movement. There. Four blocks east, a flutter of movement in the deep shadow of an empty warehouse. Miles leaps, twisting in mid-air, and swings towards it.

For the first two hours, he takes that strategy: pause, watch, find motion, chase it. But for an abandoned factory district, it’s still pretty populated. It’s dark, and getting chilly, and he keeps thinking about that shiny black monster and shivering into his hoodie.

He gets lucky at the beginning of the third hour. He’s swinging back towards the Corn Kits factory when he spots a long, sleek black sedan turning left. A very nice sedan. He switches directions, following it away from the waterfront towards another huge warehouse. Carefully staying out of side, Miles lands on one side of the building—a whole right angle away from the street where the sedan is parking—and spider-climbs his way downwards.

The car door slams shut. Low voices murmur below. He picks out a low, unvoiced rasp—Tombstone! The Kingpin’s terrifying enforcer! Inching closer to the building’s corner, Miles risks a peek.

Ten feet below, Tombstone is shaking hands with Eddie Brock.

There’s another guy with them, a blonde construction-worker type, and Miles can see a fourth silhouette in the driver’s seat. He quickly pulls his head back and reaches for his cell phone. With shaking hands, he taps Gwen’s contact.

And then… before the call completes… his head buzzes with urgency, the world slowing down as he leaps, without thinking, and arches his back in midair. His eyes widen as he sees two bullets streaking past him, burying themselves in the brick wall. He hears the gun’s muffled POP! from ten stories below. He feels his fingertips catch the wall, his body nerve-twitch, spider-quick repositioning itself on the warehouse.

Breathing heavily, he flattens his hands on the wall for extra grip. Lightning-fast, he leaps left. Leaps right! How did Tombstone see him? How did he get around the corner that fast? Below Miles, the grey-skinned enforcer is kneeling behind a conveniently-placed trash can, unloading both handguns in his direction.

Screw this! Miles focuses, channels the adrenaline, and pops out of visibility. Tombstone is yelling and motioning to the others; Miles scrambles back to the rooftop where he can complete the—

Thirty feet below him, the light glints off the fragments of his broken cell phone.

Miles is shaking as he reaches into his backpack for the sonic disruptor and the glass bottle. He can still do this. He just needs to stay invisible. He can sneak past Tombstone, avoid blonde mystery guy, save Eddie Brock, and cage Venom. No problemo. No… no problemo…

He breathes in. Breathes out. And creeps silently to the edge of the rooftop.