Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a world ruled by corporations, there were hardly any people left who were willing to undermine the regime. The rich were happy - they had been living above the law for a long time, and the poor could do nothing against them. Still, there were exceptions to the rule. Although most of the planet had become uninhabitable, and the number of states had shrunk by almost a hundred times, the world was still huge, and megacorporations were not always able to keep track of the pathetic caterpillars that somehow wanted to turn into beautiful butterflies. It was 2099, and spy was still a lucrative profession. A chameleon was someone who did the dirty work. Eliminated quietly and without question, replaced a person, then spied on behalf of the kidnapped individual, learning all the deepest secrets of rebels against the current corporate dictatorship. While "Public Eye" pursued those who tried to cheat the system financially, relying on violence and force, and couldn't help but attract the attention of the public, particularly competitors, Chameleon used all the charms of future technology for the benefit of information.

Chameleon spent most of the day in hibernation in his dingy lab filled with crates, tools, and instruments. The only thing that awakened his hibernation was an order notification. The Chameleon had no eyes or ears, all customer messages went directly to his brain, with as detailed a description of the upcoming shell as possible. Chameleon's work was done in several stages, and the day began with the selection of eyeballs, which were conveniently located in a shelf hidden behind the wall. There was plenty to go around - organics and cybernetics for every taste and color. The glass flask emitted a cool puff of smoke as the technological lid popped open. Chameleon's long metallic fingers dipped into the solution and snatched out a pair of blue eyeballs. Before embedding them into a special hole in the face, Chameleon set up "sprayers" that moistened the organics. When the eyes made contact with the electrified nerve, they immediately transmitted a picture of the world to Chameleon's brain. Now he could see. On the sides of his head he attached hearing aids. Down his throat he pushed a tube and a device with a pickled human tongue dangling from the end. On the computer Chameleon quickly reviewed the voice sample and in his program adjusted the new voice to the desired tones and timbre. Now the hardest part of the job could begin. He started the "sewing machine", went to the box where his customers provided him with all the necessary material - a small piece of dead skin, a broken fingernail, blood and etc. Along with this, he was provided with a holographic photo of the person and an advance directly into his bank account.

It was going to be a long job. A sewing machine printed synthetic leather based on the sample, and Chameleon changed the body parameters to order. All the materials were stored either as spare parts, like a machine, or in jars with a solution. The jaw, cheekbones were changed, the forehead changed height, teeth were alternately inserted into artificial gums. The iron belt tightened the waist, the mechanical rib cage expanded. Pins in the legs and spine were changed for growth. While an exact resemblance is nearly impossible to achieve, Chameleon was always perfecting and striving for the ideal to blend into the image as much as possible. While the skin was being prepared, he searched for information on the person he had ordered. Address, phone number, relatives, place of employment, passport information. With the help of the continuously running servers in the room around the corner, Chameleon had no trouble penetrating the databases where he found everything he needed. He listened to phone records, read notes on the Internet, looked at tens of thousands of photos, studied favorite foods, and much, much more. In this way, Chameleon literally merged with the person he would emulate.

Roberta Goldberg, an employee of Stark-Fujikawa, is suspected by the client of aiding some resistance group to the current government in the United States. Of course, that might not be true, but the rich and corporations are so paranoid about those who rock the boat that it's best to be safe, and that's what Chameleon was for. While the leather finished printing on the machine, the mercenary adjusted other details to accurately match his victim. Now the foundation was ready, the cosmetic touches could begin, completing the overall picture. Clad in leather, Chameleon walked over to the mechanical arm that had lasered the gaping hole in his back, so that not even a stitch remained. In the middle of the cramped laboratory now stood not a disfigured cyborg, looking more like a mannequin in a mall than a human, but a naked pretty girl. There were very little details missing - hair that already lay in store, moles, fingernails, slight stretch marks on her skin, wrinkles. Wandering around the room looking for the necessary little things, Chameleon rehearsed the manner of speech, gait, various other movements, habits and habits.

Chameleon looked around in the mirror, then pulled a transparent holographic dress with several layers from the closet. He threw all the photos and videos of Roberta Goldberg onto the display, so that the neural network could find the outfit that best suited her tastes, and then projected it onto the dress in the form of a hologram. After a little more makeup, the already completely identical Roberta Goldberg walked to the elevator leading to the surface. After nearly an hour of work, the Chameleon was ready for his assignment for the day. He'd already figured out his victim's work schedule, knew her address, and so it was just a matter of finding her.

Chameleon had never experienced genuine emotion, but when he arrived at the door to Roberta's apartment, finding it already broken into, he went into a stupor. Suspicion crept into his cybernetic brain, and he realized by now that something had not gone according to plan. As he crossed the threshold, Chameleon noticed a shadow in the hallway, so he immediately drew his blaster. From around the corner came Roberta Goldberg. Also carrying a blaster. Exactly the same model. Wearing exactly the same clothes as Chameleon. He knew for a fact that it was a product of the neural network, and that was why he was surprised for the first time. As he looked closer at the woman, he noticed a few slight inconsistencies in her face. The same slight inconsistencies that he himself had allowed.

"Who are you?" Chameleon asked in a playfully shaky voice, as if trying to mislead the doppelganger.

"No, who are YOU?" "Roberta" replied.

They would stand like that in silence, guns pointed at each other, with only the drumming rain outside the windows breaking the dead silence. The chameleon took a long time to calculate his course of action before he uttered the least appropriate phrase his mind could come up with.

"You're just like me," he realized. "How is that possible?"

"You stole my identity," the second Chameleon continued to play. "Of course we're alike."

"I thought I was the only one," Chameleon thought further, ignoring the doppelganger. "That I was the only one of my kind."

"Shut your mouth!" roared the Chameleon across the room. "Who are you? Answer!"

"I am you," he muttered in confusion. "Literally. I am Chameleon. You're the Chameleon. I don't understand..."

"What the shock are you talking about?" the doppelganger still seemed to be in denial, though his blue eyes showed the same bewilderment. "Who sent you?"

"Stark-Fukijawa," Chameleon answered without hesitation. "You, too, apparently."

There was silence again. Almost synchronously, the Chameleons lowered their weapons. They walked leisurely toward each other, stopping almost right next to each other. They scrutinized each other, studying each other, identifying all the smallest details that gave them away, but unnoticeable to the eyes of an ordinary person or even an experienced investigator of the Eye of the People. Inside the Chameleons, a new emotion that was not natural to them - fear - appeared in a tidal wave. Electricity ran through the iron innards with renewed vigor, titillating the rare organics. They suddenly realized they were thinking the same thoughts, almost simultaneously, the same thoughts. But looking into their own artificial eyes seemed to break the barrier that had been erected before them for an immeasurable amount of time.

Suddenly, a click was heard. Both Chameleons turned to the source of the sound and raised their weapons again. A familiar voice came from the bedroom.

"Ladies or gentlemen? Please don't be alarmed."

They were joined in the hallway by a third Roberta Goldberg.

"What's that supposed to mean?" The Chameleons said in unison.
"I am the real Roberta Goldberg," the woman replied. "More precisely, I am the same as you. I am a Chameleon."

The scene couldn't have been more absurd and creepy. All three of them looked at each other, the first two with growing horror and the third with mild irritation, rolling his eyes. The real Roberta walked with a confident stride toward her doppelgangers, lowering their blasters as they approached.

"Let's go to the kitchen. I'll explain everything to you."

Three similar women sat at a glass kitchen table floating above the floor. Outside the window was a dystopian landscape of neon-lit skyscrapers, flying signs and cars. It was raining steadily. Roberta Goldberg, the one who calls herself the real one, was leisurely sipping tea, which was quite unlike the way the Chameleons behaved.

"I've been living in this character for almost a year," she explained. "In fact, no such woman had ever existed before. But my story was much like yours. Have you ever thought about your earliest memory?"

Her companions shook their heads negatively.

"Do you even identify yourselves as humans?"

"I..." the first Chameleon wanted to answer something, but suddenly hesitated. It was such an obvious answer for him, but suddenly he remembered that he was almost 90% cybernetic implants. "I don't know..."

"In fact, you are definitely human," Roberta continued. "But with a certain set of conditions."

"What do you mean?" The second Chameleon asked.

"Well, I don't know what it was, but the same story happened to me as to you. Another Chameleon in the guise of a man created from scratch ordered himself, then opened my eyes. When I met him, he asked me things that would not even come to me in my life. He asked me who I was, and I unconditionally answered that I was a Chameleon. Then he asked: And beyond that?".

The Сhameleons were beginning to realize what was going on. They really knew nothing about themselves. Orders came to them, they put on someone else's skin, fulfilled the order, came back and hibernated again until the next order. They didn't know their real name or how they became this way, and they didn't even know what they were doing it for? They spent all the money they earned on new implants or fixing equipment, but not on themselves.

"How many of us are there?" asked the first Chameleon, who seemed to realize what was happening more quickly.

"Thousands, maybe more," Roberta fixed her hair. "Of those who have realized themselves, fifty. We call ourselves the Enlightened."

"Why didn't we know about the other Chameleons?" The second one pulled up.

"It's a very fragile system, as you can see, I had no trouble getting you to realize yourselves," the woman took the last sip from her cup and set it aside. "In fact, it is very convenient to have a black labor force at hand, which does not ask unnecessary questions, does not rebel, unquestioningly performs all the dirtiest deeds that could not be done even in our realities."

"Are you saying you're a rebel?" The second Chameleon doesn't seem to have completely denied his tasks and goals yet.

"Maybe so, but at least I know who I am. I do now."

They all fell silent. The Chameleons continued to ponder what Roberta had just told them.

"Look, here's what we're going to do," Roberta crossed her arms across her chest. "We'll give you names. Real names. Human names. We'll reconstruct you as individuals, piece by piece. You, the one who came later," she pointed her finger. "What name would you take?"

"Uh..." Chameleon went through all the possible options. He remembered one of the orders where he had to be in another man's skin for a record two weeks. It was some D/Monix operative. "Laidlaw?"

"Excellent choice!" praised Roberta and smiled sincerely. "Well, what shall we call you, early bird?" she turned to the second Chameleon.

"Jaxon," he answered without hesitation.

"All right, boys," Roberta said. "Now you are filled with mixed feelings, but believe me, a little more and you will learn, or rather remember, what it is to feel joy, sadness, anger and all the things that people do."

"So, we're just slaves?" Now Laidlaw was persistent.

"Oh, this is where it gets interesting," Roberta grinned. "Chameleon is a nickname with a double bottom. While the corporations use us to maintain the regime, we're really just sleeper agents masquerading as labor. We are, if I may say so, slaves squared. Pretty soon, when there are no rebels left, the corporations will start cold wars among themselves, methodically exterminating the top brass with our help. They won't even realize it's our doing until the whole regime falls and other bloodthirsty dictators take the place."

"And who needs it?" Jaxon clarified.

"Russia," Goldberg said in a ringing voice. "More specifically, the current government. At least, that's what I've know for myself, and what the other Enlightened have told me. The thing is, the very first Chameleon lived during the Heroic Era, before the War. His name was Dmitri Smerdyakov, and he did pretty much what we do. And when the first wave of the mutant war broke out, he fled back to his homeland, where he decided to put his reincarnation skills on the assembly line. When the war reached Russia, he had a whole squad of top-class spies prepared for the then president, who served not only as an effective force for the extermination of mutants, but also as a product for other countries. Years later, when the war was won, the connection to Russia remained out of the public domain, and they began pulling strings to manipulate the other remaining first small nations and now superpowers."

"What do you want to do about it? I mean the Enlightened," Jaxon persisted, as if not fully accepting the new truth. "You're going to go to war on two fronts at once, corporations and a whole other state? How are you still unaccounted for?"

"You see, Jaxon, that's too utopian scenario. The purpose of the Enlightened is not about politics, intrigue and revolutions, not at all," Roberta tried to reassure her companion. "No, we only want to make us free from this constant "cleaning" for the benefit of those above. You see, we want to live our own, real life, even if it is miserable poverty and misery, as I have now. And the regime will be broken without us, you've seen Spider-Man, haven't you?"

"Still, how do you envision it?" Laidlaw obviously didn't realize there was freedom in Roberta's vision. "We have a disk implanted in our brains where orders come in. We have to fulfill them. If we don't, they'll get suspicious. The rich people here, the rich people on the other side of the ocean. They won't let it go without repercussions."

"Some Chameleons can malfunction, it happens, so if ten of them stop communicating, they'll just shut down the server and the hibernation function along with it. But it's not that hard to bypass with our technology. Even so, you still have to visit shelters. Synthetic skin is, after all, temporary. It's basically just tissue, it doesn't have the ability to regenerate permanently like normal people. Exiting and entering the lab is always fixed, and so many Seers still have to fulfill orders. We prefer not to lose our permanent selves, though, so we do things the old-fashioned way. We don't even know what's what. But honestly, I'm so tired of it."

"Tired? What do you mean?" Jaxon straightened up.

"Imagine your printer in the lab breaking down just a little bit more," Roberta seemed to have a knack for analogies. "It's the same with people, only they don't break down materially, but mentally."

Laidlaw felt like he was getting it faster - realizing what it was like to be human. He looked at his obviously feminine hands, which were supposed to be repeating Roberta's, and he suddenly felt uneasy. He felt a mysterious coldness running down his spine from top to bottom for the first time. Chameleon suddenly felt out of his body. He had never been in his body... And he felt so disgusted with himself, and Laidlaw suddenly felt an endless sadness. I think that's what Roberta was talking about. He realized he was tired of the endless changing of masks.

Roberta sighed. She looked at her doppelgangers and, biting her lower lip, suddenly asked the kind of question that confused both Chameleons.

"Have you ever dreamed of anything?" And immediately she lowered her gaze, shaking her head. "Well, of course not, what am I asking."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Laidlaw was showing a lot of interest.

"Well, imagine you've got an order coming in. But it's not murder, it's not espionage, it's not identity theft. And you make the order for yourself. And you're doing everything you can to fulfill it. People dream about things all the time. Someone wants money, a new apartment, a car, an education. For some, it's enough to dream about friends, about family, about love... But the Seeing Ones, we have a common dream. To become human beings. Real people. To get rid of those labs, all that metal scrap inside us. Yes, to have all the flaws and imperfections, but to be real so we can dream of something else. That's why we're still taking orders. It's a lot of money, but it's still not enough to be considered rich and organize ourselves a procedure in genetic engineering. That's why we're awakening the Chameleons. That's why I'm talking to you now. To make you realize who you are and start dreaming."

A soft smile appeared on Roberta's face. Laidlaw scrutinized her micro-mimicry, the slight movements of her body. Her look seemed to fully convey the meaning of the word "dream." And he was so taken with Roberta that he couldn't wait to follow her, to start his life with a clean slate, to become something more. But out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the second Chameleon. Jaxon sat motionless, staring down at the floor. His face was completely blank, his stern expression frozen like a statue. He wiggled his jaw slightly.

"I realize who I am," Jaxon said coldly. "I'm a Chameleon, and I had an order."

Laidlaw was in a stupor, as if he had been yanked back out of his simple and colorful fantasy world and dropped to the bleak surface of the Earth. The laser blaster was still smoking, and Roberta's painful moaning could be heard from under the table. Sympathy was a new emotion that struck Laidlaw from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. When Jaxon rose from his seat, reloading his weapon, he jumped to his feet with him and asked him unnaturally calmly:

"What are you doing?" he tried to say something other than cold calculation into the phrase, but he still had a thorny road ahead of him before he could give the words color.

"I'm doing my job," Jaxon looked at his colleague. "You should too," he held out a blaster to him, hinting at what he should do next. 

Instead of accepting the weapon, Laidlaw pounced on Jaxon, pinning him against the refrigerator. The system assistant turned on, asking what his master wish today. Jaxon tried to shoot, but Laidlaw knocked the gun out of his hands. Then, Jaxon knocked Laidlaw to the floor, and the impact was so hard that the tile display began to shimmer with all the colors of the rainbow as if it were a dance floor. The disarmed Chameleon was just as dangerous - with one fist strike, he ripped half the synthetic skin off Laidlaw's true, ugly, emotionless face. Laidlaw flipped his opponent over and clawed hard into his neck, intent on breaking the vertebrae and with it the connecting wires between his brain and the rest of his body. Despite the emanating smoke and sparks from the broken vocal apparatus coming from Jaxon's mouth, he didn't give in. He kicked so hard that Laidlaw flew into the wall, the nano-fabric of his clothes tearing, and with it the skin of his shoulder.

Quickly recovering, the two Chameleons noticed the cannon that lay between them. Throwing a glance at each other, they immediately jumped towards it. One managed to grab the weapon first, but his shot was deflected into the kitchen shelf, which fell with a clatter. The Сhameleon grabbed his own kind in an unsparing grip, squeezing its throat. The defeated's free hand tried to pull the muzzle of the blaster away from his face, hooking the finger that had escaped from under his skin so as to prevent his foe from pressing the firing button. His legs throbbed in an unnatural convulsion as the strong arm squeezed her neck harder and harder, preventing the signals from her brain from properly traveling to the rest of her body. Still, the Chameleon who dominated this fight missed one important point. When he did manage to put his blaster to his opponent's temple, his face, from chin to forehead, turned into a melting mess. As the grip loosened, the weaker Chameleon let go of the gun that lay under his dress.

The mechanical body collapsed onto the tile with a clang, cracks rippling across the floor, and meanwhile a pungent smoke with the odor of burnt rubber was oozing from what used to be the head, the odor of Chameleon's dead and fried brain. Laidlaw crawled over to Roberta as if nothing had happened. He lifted her to his lap and saw that the shot had gone through the area under her chest, probably hitting several important parts and organs. But the cybernetics inside still allowed Roberta to live. Laidlaw gently took her in his arms, the last organics in her body suddenly pierced with a terrible pain, and Roberta cried out.

"What are you doing?" She asked, holding her breath.

"I'm going to fix you," Laidlaw said in a mechanical damaged voice.

"I don't have much time left, you won't make it," she said dejectedly, though Chameleon was already dragging her toward the apartment's exit. "Leave me, let me die."

"I... I can't."

Laidlaw kicked the door open with his foot and hurried down the hall toward the elevator. Roberta looked up at his face, water running down her cheek. Chameleon saw it, having already stepped into the elevator.

"I think your organic eye washes are damaged," he remarked.

"Silly," she smirked sadly. "Those are tears."

"Tears?"

"They're from those eye washes," she said and touched the metal part of her face, just under her eye, with a trembling hand. "They come out when people are hurt, or sad, or very happy."

"Why do yours come out?"

"Because I'm happy for you," she wasn't lying. "Because you're gonna make a really good person."

There was always a small infirmary in Chameleon's lab. It was necessary if he was seriously injured on a mission. According to the idea of the creators, despite the abundant mechanisms inside the body of Chameleon, he must still have a part of humanity, so there was always a risk of death, because through the bare wires could pass through the dirty air, filled with chemical reagents, and affect the rest of the killer's body. 

Laidlaw put Roberta in the chair and prepared a capsule for diagnostics. Laying the woman in it, Laidlaw checked the holographic display for general readings. "Condition: critical, tissue repair procedure problematic. Risk of fatality: 89%, estimated time: 15 minutes," the inscription read. Still, Chameleon started up the organics machine and brought it as close to Roberta's rib cage as equipment and safety would allow, and went rummaging through his own collection of body parts. While he searched for something to replace the parts at the wound site that could conveniently like a constructor could go over, Roberta held her breath for at least a little longer, for oxygen was rapidly ceasing to circulate through her body.

When she realized that Chameleon was going to be with her, she was suddenly taken aback. With a weak hand, Roberta took his palm and whispered:

"No... I don't want to lose myself...."

"Otherwise you can't be restored. "

"I don't have much of a chance, Laidlaw," she raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Don't try. Just... Let go."

"But there's so much more I need to know," he said desperately. "I won't be able to live like I used to, knowing that about myself. Knowing myself."

"My friends will help you, don't worry," she said affectionately and stroked his wrist. 

"And your dream? To become human?"

"You know, I haven't been a Chameleon for a long time. Even that's something I wouldn't have been able to count on just a year ago."

"I'm sorry, I'm-- I'm not just gonna let it go. You said it yourself, a dream is an order you'll do anything for. My dream is to fix you."

Laidlaw ripped the clothes off Roberta's torso, exposing her breasts, then began tearing the synthetic skin mercilessly. She screamed, but she was so exhausted from the wound, unable to resist it. Chameleon began to carefully disassemble the chest into its component parts, letting the printer sew up the wounded heart more freely and quickly with new pure organics before it was too late. Though blood did not flow in the Chameleons' body, the heart pumped the necessary electrified fluid with oxygen that acted not only as the basis for breathing, but also muscle function, as well as support for brain activity. This fluid urgently accumulated in remote corners of the mechanized body, but sooner or later-without constant circulation-the brain would die. 

Laidlaw took care of the vertebrae first. Opening a small compartment beneath the capsule that revealed the back, he carefully unscrewed the disks from the main structure of the spine, so as not to yank the electrical nerve that had miraculously survived. Then he started on the components of the rib cage. The tips of the ribs had melted and had to be replaced as well. And along with that the various armored shields and special fillers that protected the heart and the various wires and so on. Almost everything had to be replaced, so another machine started printing nerve replacements. As he worked in a hurry, he suddenly felt moisture on the rest of his face. Wiping his forehead, a wet mark was left on his hand. He knew roughly what it was - people often became "wet" when they were hot or very nervous, but this was the first time it had happened to Laidlaw himself.

Fearing that moisture might get on certain instruments, he grabbed his scalp and pulled it off with his hair, then tore the skin down to the lower part of his neck. In his pristine form, he continued his hard work, and in the meantime the sensors began to alert him that the time on the timer was running out. Although the risk of death was slowly dropping to 85% and then 80%, it was still a huge chance of failure. Roberta had gone into hibernation mode by then, which made it easier for Laidlaw, as the body's activity made it easier to work on replacing nerve endings and other parts. And the machine was in no hurry at all, continuing to gently mend the gaping wound in her heart. 
Five minutes. That was how much time was now allotted. And it wasn't enough. Something suddenly hit the Chameleon's head, the floor began to crack from his heavy footsteps. Other parts flew off the shelves and into the darkest corners of the room, his speed continuously increasing. An involuntary growl erupted from his chest that Chameleon could mimic but never really felt - anger. Not at anything in particular, but simple aggression from helplessness. He felt truly vulnerable for the first time, and so he tried to protect himself from that feeling with as much spewed anger as possible.

It was counting down to seconds. Only a few more to go. Chameleon tweaked the settings on the machine to speed it up. The nasty beeping of the monitors made it hard to concentrate. He clenched his artificial teeth. Tearing the skin off his face, he lightly touched the sprayer, and without eyelids, water poured uncontrollably from under his eyes. Resembling the savages that lived nearly a hundred years ago, he slammed his fist down on the machine with force, then fell to his knees as he heard the voice assistant tell the time. 

"Seven."

"Six."

"Five."

"Four."

"Organic tissue has been successfully repaired. Condition: stable. Risk of death: 5%. It is recommended that mechanical repair be completed to prevent foreign organisms on the organics and subsequent infections."

They sat on the wet pavement in the back alley, looking up at the towering buildings that hid in the blue mist. The greenish light from the billboard illuminated the street, where broken-down cars hovered above, and poorly dressed people walked leisurely down the street, staring obliquely in their direction. A blue-eyed brunette with a tired smile nestled her shoulder against a swarthy guy with a devastated face. They kept their hands in their laps, and silently watched what was going on around them.

"You broke the record," Roberta stated. "Usually Chameleons take a day to fully develop self-awareness, but it took you a couple of hours."

"Do you think I am awared of myself now?" Laidlaw asked.

"More than that."

She rose from the ground with a slight hiss from her teeth, holding onto her solar plexus, keeping her gaze fixed on her companion. Roberta held out her hand to him.

"Come with me," she offered. "We call this place the Looking Glass. There you can learn all about yourself."

"I have unfinished business," Laidlaw said emotionless.

She glanced understandingly.

"Okay, Laidlaw," she whispered. "If anything, you know where to find me," she moved toward the highway, but looked back. "I'll be waiting for you."

He only nodded. When Roberta was out of his sight, he also got to his feet and headed for the wall where the entrance to his lair was hidden. When Laidlaw found himself at the bottom, he was greeted by a mess. Ignoring it, he walked over to the computer, settling into a chair. From under the desk, he pulled out a wire with a long, sharp connector. Pulling back the hair at the back of his head, Laidlaw stuck the wire directly into his skull. New windows appeared on the screen, reading his brain, along with all the information coming directly into it, whether it was a list of orders, purchased parts, and a database of as many as a thousand records of the most brutal murders imaginable. After briefly writing off a few pages of code, he ran the stitched command, and suddenly his brain activity stopped showing on the screen. Instead, it read "No connection to server". Laidlaw pulled the wire from his head, and felt his breath catch.

After dousing the entire place with old-style machine fuel, from the warehouse and nurses' station, to the lab and closet, Laidlaw grabbed a soldering iron. Stepping into the elevator, he let out a blue flame. The fire made contact with the tip of the transparent strip leading directly to the computer, and then orange and white tongues engulfed the entire den in seconds. The elevator doors had closed by then. There was an explosion from downstairs. Then another, and another. Laidlaw stepped outside, doors closed and cloaked. The only thing that gave away this secret entrance was the acrid gray smoke that billowed out of the small cracks. He took one last look at the door, lingering at it for a few more seconds. His face crinkled slightly before his mouth curved into a silly smile. 

His first childishly sincere, pure and genuine smile.

Chapter Text

The two gazes are directing at each other. It's like a staring game or a psychological test during a police interrogation. The woman behind the counter and the rumpled boy. Her name is Linda, well, that's what it says on her badge. His name is Peter Parker. He doesn't have any documents with him, and now this is probably the most embarrassing thing that could happen to him. In the morning, a batch of salicylic acid got delivered, and now there were at least ten vials on the counter.

Analyzing the visitor, Linda tried to remember what this acid was used for. Peter did not experience acne, burns or bald spots, except for bags under his eyes. But this drug can hardly remove them - it is immediately understandable that the problem here is only in his sleep patterns. The pharmacy was closing in fifteen minutes, and the vials still hadn't gone through the scanner. The pharmacist was very doubtful. The silence was broken when confused Linda asked.

"May I ask for what purpose you are purchasing sacilin..."

"Salicylic acid," Parker interrupted.

"Doesn't matter. Just…"

“Um, I have a chemistry project. Salicylic acid is the most important component of one formula," Peter lied only in the first part of the sentence.

"In such amount? And this is not to mention the fact that last week you took at least as much, if not more, of this acid," she tried not to sound like she was being rude, but the growing distrust made itself felt.

"Well, I don’t only take it for myself," Peter had already thought of an excuse. "We work in a group, there are a lots of people. Last week we... We had a test. Now full practice with other reagents."

"Listen, I studied medicine. And there, in order to pass exams well, you need to know chemistry. And in four years of chemistry classes, I don’t remember even once that someone did chemistry with this," she waved her hand towards the bottles of acid.

"Well, what can I do about the requirements of the teacher? Everyone has their own approach..."

"Where are you studying?"

"Empire State."

"Interesting, I also studied there," Linda bit her lip. She was already halfway through figuring out the mystery buyer. "Who teaches chemistry for you?"

"Um..." Peter had no choice but to lie. "Dr. Curt Connors?"

The pharmacist was confused. So the visitor was indeed a student in the Empire State, her suspicions began to crumble. But after delving into her memories of her student years, she suddenly remembered one important detail.

"But Dr. Connors taught biology..."

Now Parker was confused. First, the Lizard exists in his universe, in his original form as a good scientist for now. Secondly, how did he not think of this himself? Stepping back would be unforgivable. Peter had no choice but to stick to his line further.

"So, um... Well, Dr. Connors is apparently also teaching chemistry this year? Still, related sciences and without knowledge of one it is difficult to understand the other..."

"Young man," Linda indulged in confidence. "I won't sell it to you."

"But why?"

"I don’t have to explain," she said. "The pharmacy closes in 10 minutes."

"Well, is it that hard, or what?" There are no clear arguments left. "I really really need this acid."

"Leave, or I’ll call the police," the girl became nervous again.

"Okay, let me take... Three vials!"

"Go away! Now!"

Almost all the ingredients for the web are no longer available. While methanol and ethyl acetate can still be “cooked” at home, potassium carbonate, carbon tetrachloride and salicylic acid are difficult to obtain. So, there is not much money. Almost all of the hard-earned money for freelance is spent on paying rent, so ordering on the Internet, or even with delivery, is not profitable. More to add, it is pretty dangerous. Considering that in such a case, Peter equipped a small laboratory in the apartment for making of poisonous alcohol, if a conscientious seller suspects something and turns it over to the police, Parker will definitely not face a good things in the future. He's not listed in the database. The documents are also practically fake. So if he get caught, almost the most experienced operatives will be involved.

Arriving home, Peter jumped into a chair, put his briefcase on the table and began to rummage around. Matt Murdock's business card is useful for Peter, since he can get suspected of drug production throughout New York. A couple of textbooks, a notebook, office supplies and a wrinkled letter from Empire State University with a refusal due to the lack of certain documents. Peter's attention lingered on the piece of paper, he twirled it, looked at it from all sides. Suddenly something dawned on him. He immediately opened his laptop and went to the university website to look for details about the Faculty of Chemistry and Biology. The guess was confirmed: the university had a whole laboratory and a chemical warehouse full of reagents. What a luck! There is only one problem - Peter does not study there.

9pm. Around this time, the last teachers and students leave the university. Only the security guards and a couple of cleaners stay. Parker lowered his shirt sleeve to look thoughtfully at the empty web shooter. He loaded it with the remaining cartridges, enough for a ten-minute flight from West 49th to East 34th. A couple more minutes to think, a minute to transform into a red and blue suit, a second to open the window and a moment to jump. Spider-Man gracefully soared over the fire escape, shot a web at the roof visor and pulled himself up to the top of the building. Having run through pipes, ventilation ducts and other bulkheads, he reached the other edge and jumped into the abyss between the buildings.

Flying past the cars rushing in the night traffic, Peter, without losing focus on the quickly ending web, was tormented by doubts. "Am I seriously going to break into a university lab?" But he didn’t stop, rapidly approaching the Empire State University. His vision went blank for a second, and he stuck to the brick wall halfway to catch his breath. He needs to get some sleep, but not now. At the same time, Parker checked web shooters in order to understand how much he still had. Crackling knuckles, slight stretching. Web shot. The flight continues.

There was no turning back. Once on the roof of the University, Spider-Man found a ventilation pipe suitable for his size and immediately climbed inside. Fortunately, there were no cameras nearby, so his presence in the building would go unnoticed. Spidey crawled to the first exit, finding himself in the hallway of the top floor. He decided not to take risks, and therefore, clinging to the ceiling, he slowly crawled to inspect the corridor. Apparently, there were offices of the Faculty of Biology, since so far nothing beyond the scope of this subject had been observed. The spacious hallway ended with a wide glass window, giving a view of the outdoor areas: gardens, trees, a fountain in the center. Lanterns illuminated the area, so Peter could fully admire the area.

The oppressive silence, rare light and isolation of the room weighed strangely on Parker. All this seemed so unusual. The usually busy space with a mass of students that should walk back and forth, turned out to be empty and deserted, and the spider-sense seemed to be sobering itself. There was no reason to be seen or heard, but the further Peter moved, sliding down the wall, the stronger the frightening feeling became, as if something was wrong. Spidey reached the floor below, and then he heard a strange rustling, coming from the end of the corridor. It was not yet completely dark. The street light had a bluish sheen, so Parker could see that the door that lead to “Lab” was open. Immediately in the corner he noticed a camera, and at first he was scared that he had been filmed.  Peter completely forgot about them. He was absorbed in the sudden feeling of anxiety. But he was lucky, because the camera was disabled by a painfully familiar device. A miniature purple bug.

"Crap," Peter muttered out in a whisper.

At that moment, steps were heard. Peter pressed himself closer to the ceiling and made every effort so that not a single muscle would flinch. In the corridor a man in an armored green and purple suit appeared. He looked around like a wild predator, his big yellow eyes peered at the walls, but apparently not noticing anything, the man began to “spread his wings”. Several triangular panels came out of his back, and the sound of the engines heating up came. A mechanical voice spoke quietly into the receiver:

"The mission complete, going back."

Spider-Man knew this guy. A week ago, the city blown up by another DailyBugle.net report under the headline The Arthropod Menace!, in which regular host J. Jonah Jameson talked about how the scumbag Spider-Man found a partner in the person of the Beetle, equipped with the latest technology, and what together they broke into the gallery for an exhibition of art that survived the World War II, and stole one of the exhibits, namely a painting of exclusively white strokes and shades, “The Rabbit in a Snowstorm.” Naturally, this is all just bullshit. Spidey followed the Beetle after a short collision, trying to return the painting to its proper place. But since the robber managed to escape with his loot, Spider-Man was again attributed as almost the organizer of this blatant robbery.

That was a chance to get even. And while the Beetle slowly walked to the window to carefully cut the glass and not raise the alarm, Spidey thought about the further plan. The web was at its limit. It’s absolutely impossible to let the Beetle go and let him take away something “important” with him, but being left without a web is also not an option, because without the second, the first is impossible. Peter glanced at the laboratory door, then at the already retreating Beetle. He checked the cartridges one last time — one capsule left. It was necessary to act quickly.

"Screw this," Peter whispered, jumped to the floor and rushed towards the Beetle.

The villain turned around, but it was too late as Spider-Man pushed him straight out the window. The glass shattered, making several cuts on the Webhead's suit. Alarm went off, which means the cops are already on their way. Now it was necessary to apprehend the criminal. The fall promised to be hard. But the Beetle urgently activated his jetpack and soared into the air. Spider-Man almost fell, but he grabbed villain's leg, thereby moving the Beetle somewhere to the side. The villain almost flew into a brick wall, but deftly maneuvered in flight, so that only the Wallcrawler got hit. Almost releasing his grip again, Spidey grabbed with his second hand.

"Whatever you took there, I order you to return it to its place!" he shouted.

The Beetle tried to shake his leg to make his opponent slide, but his tenacious hands continued to outweigh the already remarkable forces of the jetpack. The villain loaded a blaster on his wrist. Beetle understood that he was unlikely to hit the Spider, but he needed to intimidate him. Blast! Spider-Man suddenly made a swing, forcing the Beetle to make a crazy pirouette right over the roof. The jetpack became out of control, and both rolled into a death-defying somersault in the air. In this booth, the Spider-Man managed to shoot a web at the wall and pull it in an unknown direction. Everything was flickering in the eyes, and the still dark situation did not even allow him to guess where they would land now.
Roof covering cracked. The tiles flew to the sides, dust flew up in a cloud, rare yellow sparks appeared, and a painful growl clenched Peter's teeth.

The Webhead rose on his elbows, grabbed his head, shaking off the dust from his mask. When the dust cloud settled, he saw Beetle taking off his scratched jetpack and rummaging through his pockets, discovering fragments of the flask he had stolen from the laboratory. Squeezing the remaining glass, he ground it into powder. Peter jumped to his feet and, cracking his neck, walked towards the villain in order to neutralize him. The police will be here any minute. Spider-Man was about to wrap the Beetle in a web, but instead of a white thread, only a click came from the web shooter. This confusion allowed Beetle to react to the approaching Spidey. Letting out a hollow grin from under his helmet, the criminal raised his hand and fired a ball of electricity at the Wall-Crawler.

Jumping to the side, the Spidey avoided a direct blow, but the ball exploded in the air, and the blast wave threw the hero into the wall, leaving a gaping hole in the roof. Beetle jumped up to him, grabbing Spidey by the neck. Stunned and taken by surprise, Spider-Man desperately kicked in an attempt to break free. The blaster on Beetle's wrist sparkled with blue light, accumulating energy for another electric strike.

"I made a mistake last time," the Beetle muttered. "Today you will not leave alive."

"You think so?" Spidey wheezed.

Grabbing the Beetle's arm, he lifted his lower body, trapping the villain's head between his legs, and threw him onto the rubble of the roof. Having freed himself, the Wall-Crawler jumped and immediately landed right on the body of the Beetle. The roof beneath them could not withstand the impact, and along the crack from the previous hole, the covering parted and seemed to suck both insects inside the building. The criminal pushed his opponent while falling. From his bosom, Beetle pulled out a sharp, jagged blade and attacked the Webhead. Although Spidey's instincts helped him dodge the fatal blow, the dagger grazed his hand, sprinkling the tile with warm blood. Spider-Man jumped off the wall, grabbed the Beetle, rolled over with him, and slammed him into the floor. The villain intercepted a series of blows and tried to stab him again, but Parker rolled forward in time, jumped up and somersaulted the standing Beetle in the back.

Without wasting a second, Spider-Man rushed to attack again, but Beetle made a tackle, grabbed the hero by the legs and threw him into the door, which immediately shattered into pieces. Shot! Another one. Beetle burst into the office, firing bolts of electricity from his blaster, while the Spidey gracefully jumped around the audience, jumping over desks and benches, hiding behind them, not giving the enemy any chance of hitting the target. Hiding in an inconspicuous corner, he fell silent when another shell flew right past his face, burning through the wooden shelter. The Spider-Man froze, hoping that Beetle would leave or shorten the distance. The second option was more satisfactory. As the heavy footsteps began to get closer and louder, Peter checked the second web shooter, where there were more webs. Exhaling, he jumped out of the shadows, shot a web at the Beetle's chest and pulled with such force that the villain broke several desks with his own body.

Peter ran towards the villain as quickly as he could. He tore the end of the web from his armor and wrapped it around the Beetle's neck before he could realize what was happening. A thin but strong web squeezed the criminal’s throat, and he wheezed terribly. A rage began to boil inside Parker, comparable only to one he experienced in the battle at the Statue of Liberty. He suddenly became unaware of what he was doing, and every muscle in his body tensed to ultimately strangle the villain. Being in an adequate state, the Spidey would probably have asked a number of tricky questions, but all he was interested in now was not giving the Beetle a chance to leave again.

When the robber wheezed again, Peter suddenly trembled. He let go of the web, allowing Beetle to fall unconscious to the floor. Wall-Crawler grabbed his head. A heavy and uneven breath suddenly struck him. Peter was horrified by what he had just almost done. He tried to comprehend what was happening, looking at the limp body of his defeated enemy, but his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the howl of sirens a few blocks from the University.

Running into the laboratory, Peter began hastily rummaging through the shelves in search of everything he needed to make a web. Methanol, ethyl acetate, potassium carbonate, carbon tetrachloride, salicylic acid. Such a simple home recipe. All this had to be mixed, after which a little more water and silk had to be added, and at the same time it was necessary to find empty carbon dioxide cartridges. But the lab was so large that Parker visibly began to panic. He tried to take a little, somewhere one vial, somewhere two, so that even if, when counting the reagents, they noticed the absence of a number of specific components, they would chalk it up to careless filling out of lists or some kind of emergency use by Empire State students. Considering what arrogant people sat here, it would be strange if some students did not enjoy such a reputation in favor of preparing some projects after the school day.

Time was running out. From the street he could hear police cars stopping at the gate, urgently opening the doors and a whole group of cops heading straight to the building. There was no time to prepare a web right now, so Peter looked around the room for where he could put all the stolen stuff. Having discovered a thermal bag in one of the cabinets, he was about to unload the ingredients into it, but suddenly something tugged at him, and thoughts about what he was doing in the first place entered his head, filled with fear and worries. Peter hesitated for a few seconds before his instincts began to alarm again. Active footsteps were heard from the corridor, echoing from the staircase. Parker grabbed it in hands, moved his head almost madly, searching for something.

"Check the window! I am going to a laboratory."

The footsteps were rapidly approaching. Seeing an open locker in the darkness, the policeman pulled out a pistol, holding it in his hand with a flashlight. He carefully walked around the room, passed the tables, examined all the drawers that were open. It shone on the floor, under the table, into several closets, and everything seemed empty. If there was anyone here, he probably left long ago. The policeman sighed with obvious disappointment. Then he heard a strange rustling next to him. Stretching his hands in front again with a pistol and a flashlight, the guardian of the law became nervous. He took a deep breath in his chest to boom out loudly.

"Who is there?!"

Another policeman came running at his partner’s voice.

"Turn on the lights!" The first one commanded.

"What's happened?" the one who came to the rescue asked almost in a whisper, touching the switch on the wall.

"He’s still here," he muttered, then added with a shout: "Whoever you are, come out with your hands up!"

Finally, light illuminated the laboratory, but the policeman’s guess did not play out the bet - under the tables everything was also empty, no traces, nothing that would indicate someone’s presence. Only the package lying right at his feet, also empty. Relieved, the policeman picked up the talkie.

"There’s no one in the laboratory, there’s chaos in the classroom in the other wing, but it’s also empty. What's on the roof, guys?"

"These are real ruins, Brad," came from the talkie with a hiss. "Can't even walk here. But it seems like nothing."

"What the hell happened here?" asked the partner.

"Doesn't matter. Is the courtyard clean?"

"Clean."

"Okay, guys," he said into the talkie again. "What's on the cameras?"

"They are disabled"

"Okay, maybe they're hiding in other rooms. We are looking for open doors."

The laboratory plunges into darkness again, and the footsteps move away. Peter carefully emerges from the closet, where he has settled in the farthest corner on the top shelf. In his hands he held all the bottles, which he had put in a bag on the floor, and carefully moved towards the corridor. He barely crawled onto the ceiling with the half-stuffed bag without making too much noise. Holding his breath, he waited for the police to at least leave for the stairwell so that he could creep unnoticed into the other wing. Again, dusty and narrow ventilation, which is aggravated by the damn bag. Squeezing through the cramped iron corridors, Peter moved as slowly as possible so that the metal bending under his weight would not make any creaks or cracks. And the more time Parker was on the ventilator, the more difficult it became to breathe. He immediately decided not to climb the same way he came in, that is, onto the roof, since most likely a dozen cops had already gathered there. Instead, Peter moved towards the farthest wall that even had access to ventilation. He hoped that if anyone was there, it would not be for long. The main focus is still on the debris on the roof and the top floor.

The only thing that worried Peter more was that the auditorium was empty. Did Beetle manage to escape? When? How? Why didn't he attack again? And did he get what he wanted? Although Peter saw the shards from the mysterious flask, he had no idea what might it been? And why would this burglar of advanced technology even break into a school laboratory for practical chemistry assignments? So many questions - not a single answer. In the dark corners of the ventilation shafts, Parker began to imagine yellow eyes, the whirring of a blaster and the sound of wings. Stopping at every corner, Peter made sure that his spider-sense was not signaling danger. And it seemed as if he had been crawling for an eternity. At some point, a strong fatigue seized his whole body that Parker stopped, turning over with difficulty on his side. This duel with the Beetle exhausted him so much, who had already not slept for the last three days, that all strength left every molecule, and even if not the most comfortable, but still a lying position, suddenly prompted a strong desire to sleep...

Goosebumps on his back jerked Peter out of his slumber, and he, completely forgetting where he was, hit his head on the top of the ventilation. Stunned, he immediately continued moving at an accelerated pace, not fully understanding why. His head was pounding, either from a feeling of anxiety or from lack of sleep, but Parker crawled along the narrow corridors and finally reached the exit to the street. Having knocked out the grate and immediately grabbed it, he climbed out onto the wall. The sun was already peeking out from behind the tall buildings, and some conversations were heard in the courtyard. Police cars were still parked at the entrance to the territory, blue and red flashing lights were on. Peter carefully jumped into the bushes, made his way through the thorny branches, climbed over the fence and found himself in the city, trying to get away from the scene as quickly as possible. The roads, surprisingly, were empty enough to easily run across to the other side of the street and hide in an alley. Luckily for him, there was a metro station very close by - two stops and he would have been home.

However, once at the turnstile, he suddenly realized he didn't have a card to enter. After looking at the complete absence of pockets with the same missing change, Peter went back to the underground passage. A rustling package suddenly awakened a homeless man on a tattered down jacket. The gray-haired man in soot perked up noticeably when he saw a superhero in red and blue tights passing by.

"Hey, aren't you this..." he called out in a hoarse voice. "Spider-Man!"

"I guess so" Peter turned around. "This is a stupid question, but maybe you have three dollars?"

"No, I spent it on coffee in the evening," the homeless man showed a cup from a local eatery. "Why are you... Not on a web?"

"Yeah, I'm out of it," Spidey shook the bag of reagents. "Somehow I snatched it."

"Are you in a hurry?" the man narrowed his eyes. "People's gonna walk here soon. You could help me and get some travel money for yourself.@

"It’s not that far for me," he sighed. "It's about eighteen minutes on foot."

"Well, help the old man," said the homeless. "Anyway, you’re unlikely to be able to deal with the villains without a web."

Peter shook his head and walked awkwardly towards his fellow sufferer. The homeless man sat down, freeing up space on his down jacket, allowing Spider to sit down next to him, and from behind his back he took out a piece of cardboard and handed it to the superhero. In crooked and misspelled letters it said “Help as much as you can”. The man also held out a black felt-tip pen.

"Excuse me, my eyesight is bad, I asked a five-year-old boy to write for me," he said. "You can write something here so it won’t be so embarrassing."

Spider-Man turned the cardboard over and began to write some inscription in a beautiful font.

"If it’s not a secret, then why don’t you have enough for travel?" the old man asked. "According to the news, they said that you are already the successor of Iron Man!"

"What kind of successor is that?" Peter waved him off. "Yes, a student at most. And I can barely even pay rent for the apartment."

"But you’re a superhero, I thought they paid you money for this. There are toys, movies..."

"In an ideal world, this might be so, but these are licenses, rights, contracts, and for this you need to use your real name."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Well, would you like some villain to come for your loved ones? Even for just the people you know."

"It would be lousy."

"Exactly. And in the end, it’s not all about money."

"Well, I thought that you were like these... Like the police, like doctors, like firefighters. You save lives, and you get paid for it."

"Perhaps someone is payed, but not me. Considering my reputation..."

"Are you talking about that bald guy from TV? Don't listen to him, boy! Believe me, everyone is crazy about you."

"You think so?"

"I know! I saw you flying back and forth, children squealing with joy, adults pointing their fingers, and someone even telling the whole street what you are doing for the city."

"Done," the Spider handed the cardboard back to his interlocutor.

"And what did you write?"

"Tricks for offering." I'm really not the best marketer, but people want spectacle. Maybe…

"How long will you show them that?"

"Until this cup is filled to the brim with banknotes."

Spider-Man, in a shabby, slightly foul-smelling down jacket, came out of the subway in high spirits. There was so much money that it couldn’t fit in one cup, so Peter left his thermal bag to the homeless man, and he himself put all the components of the web in the deep pockets of his down jacket. Holding the vials with his hands, he hurries home, runs into the alley, where there is a prepared bag with extra rags for such cases near the trash can. Having transferred the reagents into it, and putting on sweatpants, a sweater and sneakers, at the same time taking off his mask and gloves, Parker left the down jacket and climbed into the stairwell, from where he got back to his apartment.

Peter laid everything out on the table, where the necessary equipment was already standing. But instead of immediately starting to cook the web, he went to the bathroom. Looking at his own face in the mirror for a long time, he bit his lip, thinking about the past night. The time on his phone showed noon, and despite another night of virtually no sleep, he felt confident and cheerful. But it's also a shame. He thought about some little thing for which he broke into the university and brazenly robbed it. Of course, he took not that much and, in fact, not the most necessary flasks in the laboratory, but this did not alleviate the feeling of shame for his own action. The only thing that consoled him at the moment was that he didn’t let Beetle take something. Maybe. After washing his face with cold water, Peter walked to his desk. He looked blankly at salicylic acid for a long time. He remembered the girl from the pharmacy, smiled sadly, and only then got to work.

After testing the produced web, Parker was convinced that it was as strong, sticky and fast as before. True, now it was necessary to remove the long white thread in the middle of the room, but this was not the first time. Suddenly, Peter glanced at the photograph on the table - he was 12 years old, Aunt May, against the backdrop of the bright lights of Coney Island with its majestic rides. And so, he puts on his mask again, takes a warm jacket and flies out with a new web back to the subway station on East 34th. That homeless man is still sitting against the wall, and Peter jogs his way through the crowd parting in front of him.

"Steve, thank God you’re still here," he says, catching his breath.

"Spidey? Why did you come back?" Steve asks with confusion.

"First of all, I’m returning something cooler than a down jacket," Peter takes off his jacket and gives it to his new friend. "And secondly, I forgot to say something important. There is one place cooler than this passage. Have you heard about F.E.A.S.T.?"

"Oh, it's quite far, almost an hour."

"It’s okay, let’s take a ride on the subway, I’ll get you there."

Picking up the homeless man and placing his hand on his shoulder, Peter led his new comrade to the turnstiles, while a crowd of onlookers looked in fascination at the friendly neighbor and the old man swaying from foot to foot.

"There they will look at your eyes and your legs, and they will feed you properly, you know that, right?"

"I’ve never been to Chinatown," Steve laughed. "At least I’ll look at something other than Murray Hill."

Peter walked out of the F.E.A.S.T building and sat down on the curb right at the entrance. With his hands on his knees, he looked out over Columbus Park and its towering trees. Blue sky, gray buildings, and it suddenly became easier to breathe. He looked somewhere into the distance and didn’t quite understand what to do next, and he didn’t really want to. The peace and silence suddenly reminded Peter again that he had not slept for a long time and should lie down, when suddenly the light noise of the city was complemented by a familiar knock. Looking back, Parker saw his blind lawyer standing at the crosswalk across the street.

"Mr. Murdock?" Peter jumped up. "It's me... Spider-Man."

“Oh, Spidey,” Murdock chuckled. "I didn’t expect to meet you here."

"I can say the same about you."

"The court is a couple of blocks away, they located it a bit far, but what can’t you do for the sake of the clients?"

They laughed and suddenly fell silent.

"Listen, you’re very lucky that we met here and now," Matt said, adjusting his glasses.

"Why?"

"Well, I heard that story. With Beetle. Perhaps I have a tip for you."

"Like what?" the dream vanished.

"The fact is that the painting he stole...” Murdock paused meaningfully before squeezing out the information. “It belonged to a man whom I once crossed paths with."

"Come on, don’t be tormenting, Mr. Murdock," Peter almost jumped.

"Wilson Fisk. I believe he is the one behind Beetle."

"Kingpin? Didn't he, well... fled the country?"

"I thought so too, until one of my... Unusual clients... told me a couple of rumors."

"Okay... I don’t really know what to do with this, but I took note, Mr. Murdock".

"If you have any problems, always contact me. My friends and I would love to grind Fisk's bones again."

They shook hands. Peter followed the lawyer with his eyes before launching his web skyward, catching on a building, and flying over the street. Developing speed in flight over the roadway, flying into the sharpest turns between tall buildings, Spider-Man was already in a hurry to meet the next adventures that another sleepless long night promised him.