Chapter Text
A job such as investigation requires a mental capacity to withstand and tolerate anything that can be thrown your way.
Anything.
This includes murder, cannibals, lots of rich, cheating husbands, and a thousand other things that Cellbit has dealt with in his many years doing this job.
He runs his business in a beat-up office just down the block from the police—perhaps he did it on purpose, what with his unfortunately close relationship with law enforcement (i.e. doing all the dirty work when they’re either too stupid or too lazy to investigate properly).
There are constant leaks in the ceiling, his tap water runs black somedays, he’s a fifteen minute commute from his apartment, and he may or may not have three different security systems on his door. And two separate alarm systems.
Regardless of his paranoia, Cellbit is good at his job. The condition of his office might not scream “successful private investigator”, but it’s good to stay under the radar when the feds could come knocking on his door at any moment.
More often than not, he’s either approached by rich socialites who suspect their husbands of cheating, on their last desperate attempt to catch their sneaky husbands in the act, or he’s given cases from the police. It’s incredibly rare to receive something outside those realms—not impossible, but rare.
Cellbit hasn’t had a case in a little over four days, and he’s starting to go stir-crazy. Sitting around in his office and drawing sigils doesn’t exactly pay the bills, and either there hasn’t been much crime recently, or the police are actually growing a brain cell.
Most likely the former, if the new masked vigilante roaming the streets has anything to do with this sudden drop in crime.
The media have taken to calling him Spiderman, what with his strange superpowers of shooting webs, super strength, and probably a multitude of other freaky things. As much as Cellbit appreciates the drop in crime, and a crime-fighter who refuses to be caught by the police, he’d also like a job.
It’s been about two months since the debut of Spiderman, meaning that Cellbit has had to rely solely on petty, boring cases that breach other people’s privacy.
Currently, he is not in his office, as his coffee machine decided to explode in his face this morning, spewing coffee all over his wrinkled work clothes and his hair, leaving a sticky mess. Irritated beyond belief at his lack of luck recently, he’s resorted to making his way to the overpriced coffee shop a block away from his office.
Coffee should not, under any circumstances, cost over five dollars, even if it’s something fancy like a honey-soaked lavender soap cappuccino or something ridiculous like that. It’s a rule Cellbit has lived by, preferring to hand-brew his own special coffees to make the perfect morning drink.
Some might call it meticulous, but it’s part of his morning routine that brings him pleasure, so why should he stop?
The door lets out a tiny little chime as Cellbit enters, and he scowls at the loudness of his presence, even amongst the whirs and chitters of the machines. He doesn’t like the atmosphere—it’s too gray and minimalistic, zero comfort to be found in a place that should be welcoming and enticing to its customers.
“Ay,” A sharp, curt voice slices through Cellbit’s concentration, successfully disgruntling him in the worst way possible, “Are you going to order? Or just stand there like an idiot?”
The barista’s callous attitude instantly causes the investigator to bristle, and he walks up to the counter with gritted teeth. The barista looks bored, like he’s on autopilot, thinking about anything in the world except his job.
Which, fair enough—if Cellbit had a job as boring as this, he’d probably lose his mind and turn to mundane coping mechanisms as well—but it’s still rude of him to address someone like that.
“Just a dark roast—black, please,” He orders, trying to keep some semblance of politeness in his terrible day so far.
The barista wrinkles his nose. “A black coffee? You can make that yourself, no?”
His voice is chock-full of snark, but he complies anyway, punching in the order into the cash register and reading out the obscenely high price tag.
With a mental sob at trading away precious money for something like this, Cellbit forks over a meager handful of cash and stations himself at the end of the counter. In the meantime, while the barista works on someone else’s order, he decides to do what he does best and analyze this stranger.
Brown hair, dark eyes, an overall handsome face and figure. Young, too, most likely in his early twenties—either about to graduate from university or unsure what to do in his life. Probably the latter, considering most students would have classes at this time of day, unless he has a screwed up schedule.
It’s entirely possible that he has one, though, Cellbit muses to himself as he examines the heavy bags under the man’s eyes. He’s tired but hides it under a shield of boredom. The way he stands implies tranquility and confidence, with relaxed shoulders and eyes focused solely on his task.
All in all, besides being more handsome than the average man, the barista seems normal, albeit rude and crass. No ring on either hand implies he’s unmarried, and his attitude signals that he probably doesn’t have any kids.
“Black coffee for the smelly stained man!”
The harsh bluntness of the barista’s voice snaps Cellbit out of his analytic stupor, and he takes his coffee with a scowl. The barista, whose nametag reads “Roier” in messy handwriting, grins and raises his hands in the air.
“Hey, man, don’t get mad because you can’t make your own coffee!” He teases.
Cellbit considers strangling the barista. “If you had any critical thinking skills,” he hisses, shooting Roier a withering glare, “You would know that my coffee machine broke.”
“How would I kno—”
“The stains in my clothes and hair, the smell, my hesitant and irritated demeanor as I walked into the shop,” he swiftly interrupts the barista, who he now files under the moron category in his mind.
Roier raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “What are you, some type of spy?” his voice tiptoes on the line between admiration and teasing.
“Private investigator,” Cellbit corrects him, taking a sip of the coffee to prove a point. It’s disgusting, he realizes, acidic and bitter with the only undertones being that of burned rubber and garbage cans.
“So… a spy.” Roier is wearing a shit-eating grin now, pleased to bits at the idea of messing around with one of his customers.
Annoyance flares up in his stomach. “I’m not—”
Cellbit remembers that he is a distinguished private investigator who does not get riled up this easily by annoying bartenders, and he quickly shuts down any emotion. “Thank you for the coffee,” he says, and he turns around to leave.
Just as his hand touches the door to leave, he hears Roier say, presumably to a coworker, “he’s cute when he’s mad, no?”.
Heat rushes to his cheeks as he stumbles out the door. Cute? What the—what sort of reaction is that? His clothes are stained brown with coffee and his hair is greasy with coffee and product, he’s had to wear the same pair of socks two days in a row, and he gets called cute?
Who does this barista think he is?
Cellbit grits his teeth and speedwalks down the street. Nobody calls him cute. He’s had plenty of people flirt with him before, with pickup line after pickup line (it never ends well anymore, he’s long since given up any attempt at a relationship), but “cute” was never a word they used.
His office is just as hideous as usual, except this time, when he unlocks it, there is a little boy sitting on the floor with a sketchbook in his lap.
In most scenarios, Cellbit would be beyond frightened at the idea of someone breaking into his house without his knowledge, but he knows for a fact that two of his son’s other dads just dropped him off, and they’re probably the only people in the world who could break through his security systems without detection.
“Hi, Richarlyson,” he softens his voice on instinct, “How was staying with Pac and Mike?”
Richarlyson is a lot of things. He’s an artist, a son, the light of Cellbit’s life, shared with four other people, and quite possibly the best-behaved child on the entire planet.
Said child breaks out into a sunny smile when he sees his dad, his cow hat stained with various paints.
“Pai!” Richarlyson scrambles up to hug his dad, wrapping his arms around Cellbit’s waist. “It was so much fun. Pac went on a date and me and Mike hid in the bushes to spy on him!”
Pac and Mike are such wonderful fathers to Richarlyson, it’s clear as day how much they dote on him and spoil him, but it’s so rare that he gets to spend more than a day with them per—
Wait.
“What?”
All thoughts grind to a halt as Cellbit situates himself on the floor across from his son. Pac went on a date? That seems almost impossible, really, what with him working in the laboratory day and night. It’s rare to get Pac to sleep, much less…
“Mike hired a cleaner a few weeks ago to keep stuff from blowing up, and he’s really nice, and apparently he became good friends with them, and one night Pac asked him to go have dinner, and Mike said that means it’s a date, so he made me a pair of binoculars and we spied on them!”
Richarlyson’s chest is puffed, clearly proud of his detective work. Cellbit’s chest pangs for multiple reasons—not knowing Pac went on a date, immediately becoming suspicious of said cleaner, staying away from his son for this long—but he just smiles.
“That’s great, Richas,” he ruffles the cow hat, “Go pick out some music to play while we work, alright?”
Richarlyson beams, dashing over to the record player in the corner and shuffling through the large pile of records. He digs through the stack, casting the occasional glance at his art supplies before he plucks one from deep down.
With an achingly familiar scratch, the record begins playing a soft tune, mellowed by static, and Richarlyson lays down on his stomach to draw in his sketchbook. Chet Baker, Cellbit thinks with a wry smile as he brings a notebook and pencil to the creaky wood floor, very old school, Richas.
It’s a tradition of sorts, working on the floor with Richarlyson. It makes his son feel useful, and it makes Cellbit not feel like a complete asshole for working during the limited time he has with him. Due to his lack of any recent work, he decides to go somewhere he really isn’t in the best mindset for.
The black leather notebook has a name barbarically carved on it in all capital letters (FELPS, it reads), and it’s filled with pages and pages of notes that lead nowhere, dragging him in circles like he’s some sort of circus dog.
Logically, Cellbit knows the Federation is behind the disappearance of Richarlyson’s fifth father. The police readily filed a missing persons report (too readily, he knows this, because nobody cared when he went missing), blocking off Felps’ apartment the moment it occurred.
Every time Cellbit tries to go into his friend’s apartment, he finds the complex crawling with police officers and Feds, skin crawling as their eyes follow him even when he simply walks by.
It’s painfully obvious, really, but he doesn’t understand why. Why would they take him away for this long? Why not kidnap someone like Pac or Mike?
On the very rare occasion, he almost gets desperate enough to kiss the asses of the police and beg for any sort of update, but he knows what they’re going to say. They’ll say the case has gone cold, or the information is classified, and he’ll gnash his teeth and try not to wring their necks because he’s the one who makes them look good.
He solves all the difficult murders and mysteries, he makes them look like the shiny, happy figureheads they are, like little piggy finger puppets dancing around a stage from the Federation’s shadowy hands.
There are answers in Felps’ apartment. He knows something is there, something the Federation is hiding from him, but even with his skillset, he can’t get in undetected.
Pac and Mike could, probably, they could think of some insane plan. What’s worse is that they’d do it if Cellbit asked, they wouldn’t ask any questions, but he can’t have anyone else in their family getting hurt, he just can’t—the thought of Richarlyson losing another dad makes him want to vomit.
“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, carding shaky fingers through his greasy hair. This isn’t going anywhere. It’s making him spiral, just like Forever said it would, that stupid, smug bastard.
He should try to move on.
He needs to move on.
He can’t.
A knock on the door startles him out of his dangerous stupor, and he instantly bristles. The knock is quieter than Forever’s, and it’s only one hand, so it can’t be any of Richarlyson’s other fathers. This instantly puts him on edge, and he scowls.
Upon glancing through the peephole, he sees a woman standing outside in a nice business suit, loafers shining in the late afternoon sun. Her hair is a bright teal color, but brown roots peek out, and dark eyes look at her watch.
A client, Cellbit realizes, and he grits his teeth to prepare for an onslaught of complaints about her filthy, cheating husband, and the probably overflowing amount of money in her fancy briefcase.
He opens the door with a polite smile. “Good afternoon,” he says, “Have you scheduled an appointment with me yet?”
The woman tilts her head, expression guarded but not necessarily unfriendly.
Confident, but not completely unapologetic yet. Strong moral compass but easily gives into peer pressure—presumably in her twenties. The fabric of her suit gives the impression that she’s well-off, but not dependent on a partner for money.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pristine white badge, the words “we hope you enjoy your time” engraved into the sides in the typical Federation font.
Scratch the “strong moral compass part”.
Cellbit’s lip curls, and he’s about to slam the door in this stupid Federation worker’s face for approaching him so boldly, but she quickly holds up her hands.
“Wait!” she cries out, wringing her hands together. “Can you just hear me out? Please?”
“You have thirty seconds.”
The woman swears under her breath and runs a hand through her hair. “Look, my name is Jaiden, I’m one of the lawyers of the Federation. We’ve noticed your exceptional investigation skills and—”
“Twenty seconds.”
“We would like to hire you for a very important, secretive job. If you fail to complete the job, you won’t be punished, and—
“Ten seconds!”
“If you don’t let me in your office right now, I cannot guarantee the safety of your son in the future.”
It looks like it physically hurts for her to say those words, but they clearly do the trick, and Cellbit can’t help the way his eyes widen and his heart stops for a moment.
Shellshocked, he doesn’t fight back when the woman—Jaiden—gently pushes her way into the office. “Close the door behind you,” she requests.
Cellbit does as he’s told (not because he does what he’s told, but because he was going to do it anyway) and sits down at his desk.
Jaiden sits down in the chair across from his desk and adjusts her posture, sitting up straight and folding her hands in her lap. “I apologize for my words earlier, I needed—”
“You threatened the safety of my son,” Cellbit snarls, slamming his fist on the desk with a loud thwack and huffing out a furious breath.
“I had to get your attention somehow,” Jaiden says, “The Federation has an offer for you.”
Cellbit doesn’t trust this one bit.
“No, thanks,” he immediately declines, hoping Jaiden can detect the venom oozing off his tongue.
Jaiden raises her eyebrows. “It’s mutually beneficial.”
“Nothing the Federation ever does is mutually beneficial,” Cellbit spits, crossing his arms and clenching his jaw.
The door to the bathroom opens slowly, and Cellbit mentally curses every single divine being out there when he sees Richarlyson poke his head out.
His son isn’t stupid, he senses the tension in the room instantly and shuts himself back in the bathroom. Cellbit quickly vows to take his son to dinner wherever he wants after this, for remembering the rules of his paranoid father so well.
“I trust you’ve noticed the masked vigilante swinging around recently, correct?” Jaiden unfolds a piece of paper and hands it to Cellbit.
Of all the things she could have possibly mentioned, Spiderman was certainly not on the list, and Cellbit frowns as he looks at the image. It’s good quality but reveals nothing about Spiderman besides maybe height and possible gender.
“What does this have to do with me?” he asks.
Jaiden shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “We want to hire you to find out Spiderman’s civilian identity,” she says.
The Federation doesn’t know who Spiderman is? Cellbit sucks in a breath and glances at the image again. Is he their enemy? Why would they come to me for help?
“Why would I help you?” he asks.
“We have someone you want,” Jaiden answers nonchalantly, folding her hands together, “Like I said, this would be mutually beneficial.”
Someone.
Someone.
Not something, someone.
“There’s a catch,” he hisses, voice dangerously low.
Jaiden shakes her head. “No catch. You have three months to find out Spiderman’s identity. All we need is a first and last name and some sort of hard evidence.”
“You’re underestimating my abilities,” Cellbit says with a scoff, and my desperation to get Felps back.
“And you’re underestimating Spiderman,” Jaiden replies.
This locks them into a silence that’s both awkward and tense at the same time, potential energy brimming underneath both of their frames, but neither of them willing to break first.
Cellbit can’t refuse. She’s offering to give Felps back, and even if it means snitching on someone who is an enemy of the Federation, he doesn’t really care, because it’s Felps.
“If you refuse the deal,” Jaiden’s voice is curt but not rude, never rude, “I won’t press you about it again.”
Her hand sits halfway across the desk, outstretched and waiting, like she knows he’s going to accept. It’s infuriating to no end, both because she’s right and because he wishes he could refuse.
“Fine, I accept.”
Cellbit shakes her hand with a tight grip, although he’s never been that strong. Maybe if he was stronger he could have broken one of her fingers.
Jaiden doesn’t react to the tight grip, she just shakes his hand and takes a tape recorder out of her pocket, where she clicks it off. Fuck you, he thinks, hoping she’ll telepathically receive his thoughts if he gets angry enough about it.
Jaiden then hands him a contact card with an email and a phone number on it, presumably her own. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me,” she says.
“I won’t need anything,” Cellbit snaps, “Now get out of my office.”
She’s quick to comply, although her demeanor is certainly more tense than it was earlier. He walks her to the door, although he can’t say it’s out of politeness.
Just as he thinks she’ll be gone for good, she turns around, and there’s something in her eyes, something that isn’t any emotion he’s seen out of her, or any Federation employee.
“I’m not your enemy, Cellbit,” she tells him, and her voice is raw, trying to convey something that he will never accept, because she is part of the Federation, and anyone who associates with such a corporation will never gain his sympathy.
He responds by slamming the door in her face.
“Shit,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair and sinking to the ground.
His hands are trembling.
How could he have possibly stooped this low? Accepting a job from the Federation—working for them? He’s just as bad as any other bootlicking shmuck in this city.
It’s for Felps, he reminds himself with a deep breath, you’re doing this for Felps.
“Shit!”