Archive of Our Own

It was a typical day in New York City. Everyone was going about their usual routines of working, running errands, learning new lessons in school or shopping. Actually it's the last routine, shopping, that plays something of a key role in our story. Why? Because shopping is how the story within this story begins. That probably sounds confusing as hell so I'll stop talking in riddles and get to the point. And the point starts at NY-Comics Emporium, owned and run by everyone's favorite local comic maker and well known grandfather figure Mr. Stan. Recently he published a new Spiderman comic set in an alternate Noir style universe with a dynamic plot and an array of characters based off certain heroes given new twists to their normal selves. This new version of the wall crawler also happens to have mutated into a grey colored wolf spider, much to the original wall crawler's surprise. He wrote a personal note in his “man journal” to watch out for the seemingly mild-mannered comic book maker.

Now what makes Stan's new Spiderman comic so special that a bunch of teens, and even some adults, are spilling out of his small store isn't so much the new twists as it is the side plot. And the side plot involves this edgy new Spiderman falling in love with someone who happens to be male and based off another certain hero. So when the ninety percent of Stan's comic fans who also happen to be slash fans heard about this you can imagine the hype. Which brings us to the moment in question, as Stan tended to the last costumer after nearly two long hours of seeing his new comics fly out the store...

“Oh thank you so much, Mr. Stan! I'll treasure this forever!” Said a raven haired young woman with a bright smile on her face as she held the comic book close to her chest.

“Of course, Jubilation. I always appreciate your business. And give your teachers and classmates my regards.” Stan said.

“If you make more comics like this, maybe even a sequel of it, you can always count on my business. I'll be sure to tell everyone else at my school you said hi, too. So long, Mr. Stan.” Jubilation said with a smile and walked out of the store.

“Whew. What a day this has been. Next time I'll call in one of my volunteers to help.” Stan said tiredly as he took his handkerchief to his brow and wiped off the sweat.

“That's the price for success, when you make what may very well be your coolest comic yet.” Said a voice that made the mature man look up and see Peter standing in the door.

“Peter! Long time no see. I thought you were going to have your comic shipped again.” Stan said with a smile.

“Yeah, but I figured it's been way too long since I've come here. So I thought I'd pay a visit.” Peter replied in a happy tone as he walked inside.

“Great seeing ya again, kid. Seems like you picked up a new look since I last saw you. Scarves and sunglasses aren't the highlighting fashion nowadays but you make it work.” Stan said.

“Let's just say I've gotten a little bite from the fashion bug.” Peter said, playing at the one of the ends of his scarf.

“I guess it happens to all of us at some point. Anyway, I'm glad you came to get your copy because I was a little worried to leave it here after I close. I didn't think folks would go so crazy over this new comic! And a few ones looked crazy enough to try and steal your copy after closing even though I told them it's been reserved.” Stan said as he bent down behind the counter.

“Well shouldn't that be expected? After all you set the comic in one of the most popular universes ever, gave the famous web-head a whole new look and him up with a hot co-star. A bunch of folks would flip for that, especially the ladies.” Peter said.

“Actually when I gave a comic to a customer he did a whole black flip. And it was a fat guy.” Stan spoke from behind the counter, then came back up. “Ah, here we are! The first in what I hope to be a line of many – Spiderman Noir Issue #01!”

Peter smiled behind his cashmere scarf and took the comic book the older man held out to him.

“Looks like this will be a great read, Stan. I'm totally going to read it when I head home and then tell you what I think tomorrow.” Peter said.

“Thanks a lot, Peter. Get home safe and tell your Aunt May I said hi.” Stan said.

“I sure will! Take care old man!” Peter called back as he exited the store.

After taking the short walk from the comic store to the brownstone where he and Aunt May lived, Peter entered the house and went upstairs. Aunt May informed him that she wouldn't be home until later since she had gone for a day at the spa with her friends. So for the next few hours that left Peter alone to read Stan's new comic in his room. However, as he got to the door and was about to grab the door handle, his Spider Sense rang like a nuclear alarm throughout his mind. Then it shouted three words at him.

Intruder!

Predator!

Threat!

With that message clear Peter immediately unwrapped his scarf and took off his glasses then slipped on his Spiderman mask. He then burst into the room and began to fight someone who had their back turned to him, the collar of their black coat turned up and a matching hat on their head. Apparently the person expected him or something because they dodged Peter's fist and proceeded to fight back. The two combatants either kicked or punched one another, but because they were both being as defensive as they were being offensive no one landed a good enough hit. The fight eventually came to a head as Peter raised a leg to kick the person but they held up one arm to block the attack and used another to hold his leg in place. Before the arachnid anthro could interrogate who the person was, they spoke first.

“Your fighting has substantially improved since last time. You're learning to mix attack and defense styles alike.” Said a very familiar voice.

The eyes of Peter's mask, and his six other eyes underneath, all blinked in shock when he heard that voice. Then once he took a good look at the strange figure he saw past the turned up collar and hat. And it turned out to be the King of Wakanda himself.

“T'Challa?!” Peter asked in shock and the man grinned.

“You were expecting, perhaps, Wolverine?” T'Challa asked jokingly and let go of Peter's leg.

“Jeeze, I'm sorry for flying off the handle like that. But why didn't you tell me it was you?” Peter asked as he settled down on both feet and took off his mask.

“At first I considered announcing myself, but I wanted to test and see if you are keeping up with training your body as well as your mind.” T'Challa said.

“And you couldn't do that by asking me to spar instead of making my Spider Sense give me a heart attack, like in a normal kind of way?” Peter asked with a startled expression.

“It must be the panther in me and the desire to play with my prey. And we're not entirely normal either, Peter.” T'Challa said with grin.

“Heh, touché. But how did you get in here?” Peter asked.

“Your dear aunt expressed her happiness in her nephew finding such a, I believe she said, 'handsome and charming gentleman over those dumb college boys' and gave me a key to enter and visit you. Or 'whisk you away for a romantic rendezvous', as she also said.” The werecat king explained with an even wider grin and Peter's brown fur on his cheeks turned dusty rose while his pincers curled in embarrassment.

“God, she makes it sound like we're actors from some gay soap opera...Anyway, what brings you here? I mean I'm happy to see you of course. I just thought you had to be in Wakanda to check on the progress of your project.” Peter said.

“I was, but the progress is going at a far slower rate than I had thought it would. So I decided to visit New York for a while. And to see you, most importantly.” T'Challa explained.

“Well you couldn't have chosen a better time to visit. I just came from Stan's comic store and got a very special comic.” Peter said with a smile.

“Would this comic store happen to be called NY-Comics Emporium?” T'Challa asked.

“Yeah, why?” Peter asked back.

“Because prior to coming here I found myself caught in a mob of people surrounding the street and trying to pack themselves into the small establishment. They were all shouting about a wonderful new comic Mr. Stan had made. Though it takes barely six minutes to get here it took me over ten minutes to get through that mob.” T'Challa said making Peter chuckle.

“Well Stan is something of a local celebrity here. Lot's of folks go crazy about his work and this is one of his best. He writes the scripts and creates the artwork for comic books about real heroes in either their original context or in alternate universes. And he really likes to make comics about Spiderman. In this one he put the web slinger in the 1930's and calls him Noir Spiderman.” Peter explained.

“That's very interesting. I'm sure that it will prove to be a great testament to Mr. Stan's work as you said and also to your heroic self.” T'Challa said.

“Yes but it's not only about my heroic self. Stan added a co-star, too.” Peter said, a cheeky smile growing on his fuzzy face that made T'Challa raise an eyebrow of curiosity.

“Oh? And who might that be?” T'Challa asked.

“It's you!” The arachnid anthro exclaimed happily and thrust the comic into T'Challa's face.

The older man blinked in surprise at the announcement and took the comic, then pulled it back a ways to get a better look. The cover had a classic theatrical style similar to what is typical for Noir mystery and or suspense/thriller films. The background was a foggy New York City with a head shot of Spiderman Noir on the left half of the comic and a head shot of what looked to be an anthropomorphic panther version of the Black Panther on the other half with both of them back to back. Between the characters was a dark blue statuette of a cat with onyx gemstone eyes and six large emeralds around it's neck like collar. And right below the head shots and statuette was the comic's name in Broadway style print, spelling out “Spiderman & The Wakandan Panther”.

“My, this is certainly very interesting.” T'Challa said with a look of intrigue.

“There is also something else interesting about this comic. In it, Stan paired Noir Spiderman together with Black Panther.” Peter said.

“In a romantic sense, you mean? It would seem that Mr. Stan is more perceptive than one would give him credit for.” T'Challa said with a grin.

“Yeah. Don't ask me how he thought of it but I thought it would be nice to read. And now that you're here we could read it together. If you want to anyway.” Peter said.

“I would be most delighted, my arachnid.” T'Challa replied with a smile.

“Alright! Just let me get some snacks for us. I hope you don't mind grilled cheese and turkey breast sandwiches with chips and tropical punch.” Peter said.

“Not at all. After years of having gourmet dishes made insincerely, a more simple meal made with love would be very nice. Especially if it's made from you.” T'Challa said.

“Wow, you're sure turning on the charm today. I get that you want to court me and all, T'Challa, but you really don't have to compliment me at every turn. I'm nothing special.” Peter said.

“On the contrary, you are worth a great deal more than you can imagine. And I will always be happy to compliment you.” The older man said and took Peter's gloved hand to give it a tender kiss. The gesture made the younger man's fuzzy cheeks turn bright red and bristle with embarrassed flattery.

“Er...yeah well, thanks. I really appreciate that. But anyway! Let me get those snacks!” Peter exclaimed a bit louder than needed as he briskly ran down the stairs to the kitchen to start making the grub and also to cool down his heated face.

“Heh. His innocent reactions to simple affectionate gestures are certainly a breath of fresh air.” T'Challa said to himself with a grin.

After fifteen minutes Peter returned to his room with a tray of six grilled cheese and turkey breast sandwiches, sour cream and onion chips and a pitcher of tropical punch with two glasses. As he entered he found T'Challa making himself very comfortable on his bed, all stretched out like a cat. In fact the tail from T'Challa's werecat side was out and the tip was lazily moving up and down.

“Well I guess I'll be taking the floor then.” Peter joked with a grin.

“My apologizes. I suppose even in my human form, my feline nature compels me to stretch to my full body length.” T'Challa said as he swung his legs over the bed to sit up.

“That's cool. Even when I was human my spider nature compelled me to suck blood from poor little flies. At least now that I'm an anthro it's not as wrong. Or gross.” Peter said as he sat the tray on the table then sat beside his suitor.

“So, are you ready?”

“I am.” T'Challa said with a single nod and smile.

“Then as with all great stories, let's start with page one...” And with that, Peter opened up the comic book and started to read from the first page.

+++++Opening Scene+++++

Another night, another palooka to pop in the leg for his crimes. Or shoot so much web in his hair that he has to shave his head. Either or is fine with me so long as I bring justice to this lawless town. And it doesn't get anymore lawless than New York City. Even the nicer parts like Madison Square Garden or Queens aren't immune to the infectious disease of crime. And even someone who's already got everything they could ever want can be swayed by the temptation of easy money, easier dames, nose-candy and the exciting fast lane life that comes with it all. But the truth is that the whole thing is a lie and by the time they realize the truth it's too late for them to back out and they're unwilling players in a dangerous game until their busted or killed. And the reason why folks get so morally bankrupt varies from person to person. Sometimes it's because they were exposed to the wrong environment for too long until they got twisted into something bad. Other times, they want something so much that they're willing to knock off anyone and everyone to get it. That's actually the reason of this case I'm working on right now. If you got time to spare, I'd be happy to tell you the story. Yeah? Alright, this is how it starts. But first let me give you a little prelude about the something that someone wants so bad that they're willing to kill for it.

Far off from New York City, far off from the world you could say, is a small but powerful nation in the Dark Continent of Africa. It's called Wakanda, and the nation was once ruled by their firm but just king T'Chaka. What made Wakanda so unique besides the influence it held despite being so small is that it's the only land that holds a supply of vibranium. It's supposed to be a new metal that is very strong and even more valuable. There are even rumors that scientists have made it into a flexible suit of armor. Of course I never put much stock in rumors. Anyway, King T'Chaka had a son who was to be crowned king when he got older after his father stepped down. But then something tragic happened that would change the course of everything. The young prince lost his father to an assassination done by a mysterious killer. As expected everyone in Wakanda was greatly heartbroken over the loss of their beloved king. And no one took the death of T'Chaka harder than his poor, young son T'Challa. It seemed like things couldn't get any worse until, not a day after the assassination of their king, the nation learned something just as shocking. The killer had escaped with a sacred statuette from the palace known as the Wakandan Panther, which was made from the rare metal vibranium and embedded with onyx and emerald gemstones. Infuriated knowing that the mysterious person not only assassinated his father but dared to steal a treasure sacred to his people the young prince left his nation to search for the killer and retrieve the Wakandan Panther. That was twenty years ago.

Now a tragedy and an elusive treasure hunt from two decades ago moves from a nation not many people even know about to my turf here in the Big Rotten Apple. Even though I'll try my hardest to keep out of trouble I've been at this too long to know trouble will find me. And also try to kill me. Boy am I lucky...

Anyway, now that we have the prelude covered, let's get on with the story itself. It was October 28th, 1933. It was chilly and foggy night in New York and I was doing what I usually do on such nights; web swinging from one lamppost to another as I patrolled the city. And when crime is divided among corrupted elite, the lost souls and the typical bunch among a population of over ten million I have a lot of ground to cover. Along with that I had to keep an even sharper eye out than usual. With Halloween coming so close around the corner the weirdos are coming out of the woodwork. Usually weirdos are harmless, if not annoying, people who you can just brush off. But for some reason holidays make all of the weirdos change from harmless and annoying to dangerous and unpredictable. They get like that especially during Halloween which has to be a criminal's favorite holiday of the year. After all with everyone wearing colorful masks and costumes you're a needle in a haystack from police. And I'll admit, it does make the job a little harder for me too. Of course my Spider Sense gives me more of an edge to bust the tricks among the treats.

I finally came to the end of my patrols for Brooklyn and decided to take a break. Aside from the five purse snatchers and two John's pushing slapping around some working girls I caught earlier it's been a pretty slow night. But the evening is still young and there's still plenty time for someone to cause trouble before dawn comes. Regardless I'm going to use this rare free moment to take a breather. So I swung up to a water tower on a rooftop and sat down.

“Whew, jeeze Louise. I'm gonna have to get splints for my arms, I web sling so much.” I said to myself as I massaged my aching wrists. If anyone asked me what's the hardest part of being the “badass neighborhood Spiderman” I would reply that it was definitely my wrists. Web slinging too much and not taking a break can definitely make them strain a muscle.

Of course aching wrists weren't the only hardest thing about being who I am. In fact I would say they're only the second hardest thing about being Spiderman. What's the first hardest thing, you ask? Well it's just me looking like me. And let me tell ya, I don't look pretty. In the beginning I looked like any normal person. Skin, hair, dimples and what not. Even after I got my bugged out powers, no pun intended, I was normal looking. But one day, just last year in fact, all of that changed big time. I began to turn into something else. Something that wasn't human. My body seemed to contort, break and reassemble itself into a whole new shape. And after the most agonizing half hour of my life it finally stopped. By that time I was so exhausted from the metamorphosis that I just passed out into a long sleep.

Another half hour or so passed when I finally came to. I saw my Aunt May sitting beside me, reading a book and humming that little lullaby she knows I like even though I'm all grown up. When she saw that I was awake she looked so relieved to see me awake. I could only guess that I was out for so long that it seemed like I was dead. It then came to my mind that I had experienced a great change prior to blacking out, and I asked Aunt May what happened to me. She looked at me hesitantly, the kind of look I give when I don't want to tell someone that their relative or friend was one of the people who got killed in a drive by shooting I investigated for my paper. Then I asked again, carefully, and she told me not to freak out when she showed me and to know that she loves me no matter what. And then she lifted the small mirror I kept on my desk and put it in front of my face...Or at least, what was my new face.

My entire head was covered in grey fur, I had spider pincers along my jowls and I had six extra eyes which made a total of eight eyes. I was so stunned that I didn't react at first. But then after five minutes passed I screamed, tossed things in the room and finally I broke down and cried. Aunt May, strong woman that she is, took my rage fit in stride and actually hugged me when I began to cry. It took a few days before I stopped feeling sorry for myself and found a way to disguise my new look after catching The Invisible Man on TV, and got the idea to use glasses to cover my eyes and wrap a scarf around my mouth to hide my pincers. I was also a bit freaked out for a while when I saw that my ten little toes became four big toes, but I was relieved that I still had ten fingers and no extra arms either. So two out of three ain't so bad. Besides I'm stronger, have more heightened senses and can produce my own natural web which makes my night job all the more easier. So in total I think I've adapted to my new self pretty well and got over the obstacles that came in the beginning. Now I'm thriving and better than ever.

Sighing out, as if the nostalgia of the memory would ease out just like my breath, I looked around to see if anyone was out and about before I moved on. Seeing no one I decided that now was a good time to pack up and move on to the next part of town before I turn in for the night. After stretching out a bit I shot a web to another lamppost near me and went about web slinging further down the street. But I didn't get in four swings down the street before I heard my song playing around the opposite corner and it wasn't Frank Sinatra.

Bang, bang and bang again. And with those bangs my Spider Sense sounded off the alarm in my head.

Shots!

Killer!

Rescue!

That was all the incentive I needed to web-swing around to the corner where I heard the shots. This corner led to the fancier neighborhood near Madison Square Garden. At least it's fancy compared to some of the other neighborhoods since they city actually cleans it up once in a while. That being said this is the last place you'd expect to hear a single gunshot led alone three. What could people in this neck of the woods have to shoot about? Well, it seems like I'll find out soon enough. I finally made towards the middle of the street where I heard the shot, and as expected I found some poor person laying with their back on the ground and another person standing over the body with a gun pointed at it. Whoever the person was had their back to me and a heavy looking coat so I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. But they could tell I was there, however, when they turned their head and saw a glimpse of me. The person whipped around and began to shoot at me. I dodged every bullet that came flying at me before taking out my own trusty Magnum and shoot at the bastard myself. Even in the dark I could see I hit my mark and got in a shot at the person's shoulder and the shout that followed further confirmed this. While the person was distracted by the pain I shot a web to snatch their gun away. Then I made a large leap and tackled the gunsel to the ground, pinning them by the bullet wound in their left shoulder which ensured that they'd lose all drive to make an escape attempt.

“Alright, friend, who's that person you just shot and what's this all about?” I asked.

The person said nothing at first, and under the white and black stripped scarf and tinted sunglasses covering their face I still couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. Then after a moment they spoke in a muffled tone. But I could hear them clearly.

“You should be less concerned about who I shot, Spiderman, and more concerned about yourself.” Said the person cryptically.

I was about to ask what they meant until the area around us suddenly became brighter. I looked up and saw that the source of the brightness was from the headlights of a car. Immediately I flipped away just as the car turned to make me into a pancake. It then skidded to a stop and the drive hustled out, grabbed the gunsel I had pinned and loaded the person inside the car. The driver then got back into the driver's seat and the tires screeched as they turned to drive down the street. I didn't bother trying to shoot at the tires because they already had a head start. So I focused on memorizing the license plate of BPM177 and got every number and letter burned into my mind. Once I did I let out the second sigh of the night, this time out of frustration that the killer got away. I then walked over to the body of the person who was shot. I knelt down before the person and saw that it was a man in his mid thirties give or take a few years with very nice looking clothes, showing that he was obviously someone who came from money. There were also three bloody bullet holes on his stomach where he had been shot by the killer. But what really stood out to me were two things. The first was that, among his brunette hair that was starting to bald, I noticed some kind of sailor's tattoo on the side of his head with claw marks drawn over it. The second thing was the slight smell of sea salt. Could he have come from the docks on a boat ride? Before I could examine the body further the guy suddenly gave a loud gasp and his eyes blew wide open.

“Shit!” I cursed, truly startled by the sudden movement. Was he playing opossum the whole time? I shook off the shock and helped lean him upward. “Hey guy, don't worry. I'll take you to a hospital.”

“N-no...It's....already...t-too late...for me.” The man whispered out in a pained, dying voice. It was sad to hear someone say that about their own life. But I decided to accept it and ask him about who the shooter was so that I can at least get him some payback.

“Who was the person who shot you? What happened?” I asked, and after a while the wheezed out an answer.

“S-Someone...very...d-dangerous. You must...be...c-careful. Please...t-take...this with you.” The man struggled to say and reached into the inside pocket of his coat and slowly pulled out something then handed it to me. I took it and saw that it was a key with a folded piece of paper tied to it.

“What is this?” I asked. “It...i-is what opens...the locker. Guard...that key...a-and paper...with your l-life. Trust no one...” The man paused as he took in a breath, probably what will be the last breath he'll have, before saying his final words. “...only trust...the p-panther.”

And with that the man died in my arms. I frowned beneath my mask and laid the body back on the ground gently, putting his hat over his face to give him a little dignity before I call the cops to take him away. Then I looked back at the key with the piece of paper tied to it. The key that opens the locker, he says. And don't trust anyone but the panther. What, or who, was the panther I wonder? Well I'm not going to find out from just standing around here. So I shot a web and swung back down the street to head on my way straight home. Something tells me I'll need to get myself ready for a big case.

Only I wouldn't know how big, until two days later...

+++++End of Opening Scene+++++

“Wow, that's some opening! Stan really outdid himself here.” Peter said with a smile.

“Indeed. I have always enjoyed mystery novels, and I find this to be quite entertaining. It captures every element essential for a gripping story. I wonder how this will progress, and when my character will appear.” T'Challa said eagerly.

“Well let's read on and see. I think you'll appear pretty soon.” Peter said and turned to the next page to read the next part.

+++++Act 1+++++

It was October 29th, 1933. The weather was fair in New York and the sun was just starting to dip down to make way for the early evening. I just wrapped up a round of patrolling, which I did earlier than usual because I wanted to spend the night focusing on the Case of The Mystery Key. When I went home that night I untied the paper from the key and unfolded it to see what it said. To my surprise it was written in a whole other language, which was all Greek to me. And though I couldn't read it I knew someone who might just be able to help me – Captain Logan James Howlett. He owns and pilots the shipping vessel called the S.S. Wolverine. He's also one of the biggest over sea smugglers in town. Cops and the feds have tried to bust him dozens of times but Logan is a lot smarter than his rough, simple looks make him appear to be. You heard of being three steps ahead of your opponent in chess? Well that's how he is when it comes to folks trying to bust his operation. And to this day no one has been able to prove nothin'. I for one don't waste my time trying to bust Howlett myself. One reason is because compared to the other smugglers who bring in drugs and weapons Logan just brings in foods and clothes that he gives to folks who can't afford to buy any of their own. And the second reason is because the only big things he smuggles are classic cars to sell off here or in other countries, which is hardly a concern of mine unless they cut me off when I'm driving. Anyway Logan is my best bet to turn to if I want a translator for this slip of paper. Believe it or not his rust bucket actually travels all around the world to ship all sorts of goods. And like I said he's smarter than he looks and is fluent in several languages. So hopefully he can read this paper.

I web swung all the way to the docks until I made it to Pier 77, which is where Logan usually docks the S.S. Wolverine. Sure enough I saw the grey, slightly worn looking boat that had those distinctive claw marks painted on both sides. I searched around to see if Logan was doing his rounds on the deck and after a while I saw him up in the ship's bird's nest, looking out over the view. Shooting another web I swung all the way over and landed on the edge of the barrel-like perch.

"Do you always gotta make a dramatic entrance like that, kid?” Logan asked, not turning to look at me.

I'm not surprised he knew it was me. The fact of the matter is that the old sea dog is a mutant with hyper senses and a strange power where he forms bone claws from his knuckles. Guys who are stupid enough to try and steal from his ship or sabotage it get impaled with those tough bones. That's actually a bonus reason as to why I don't mess with him. I want to live without being able to play tic tack toe on my stomach.

“Everybody needs a gimmick, old man. Mine is dramatic entrances.” I replied.

“Well, what brings you here? Need me to move some merchandise for ya? Never thought I'd see the day the boy scout in black started smuggling.” Logan said as he turned to look at me with a grin.

“Maybe next year, when I'm tired of my day job. Actually I wanted to call in that solid you owed me for helping you with those goons who tried to steal your shipment last month. Do you think you can translate something for me? You're the only one I know who can read more than one language.” I explained.

“That so? Well let me take a look at it.” Logan said and held out his hand to receive the piece of paper, which I gave to him. The old sea dog looked over the strange words etched in black for a moment before letting out a hum. “I think I may have seen these words somewhere before. In a book a former crew mate gave me as a memento before he retired.”

“Do you have the book still?” I asked him.

“Kid, I still got the rope I made my first square knot in when I was a deckhand. Come on down to my quarters so's I can find it.” Logan said and untied the rope that kept the barrel-like perch up and began to lower us down.

“Sure thing.” I said and leaped out of the perch then followed after Logan.

The captain led me to his quarters, which was just a few steps below the captain's bridge, and we both walked inside. Logan was a practical guy so all he had was a desk to study his maps and take notes, a bed and a safe which contained what I can only assume to be money and other important things. He went over to his desk and perused through the small bookshelf to find the book he mentioned. Then after a while he seemed to have found it for he let out an 'ah-ha'.

“Here we go...” Logan said and opened the book, skimmed through a few pages and nodded a little with each page he read. “Yeah, this is the one alright. Now I know where I've seen this language before.”

“What country is it from?” I asked.

“It's the native language of a small country called Wakanda. This is actually an encyclopedia about the country my cold crew mate picked up while he was there. That's how I remember it.” Logan said and handed me the book.

I took the thick, hundred some page book and read the cover first. On it in bold golden letters was the title “Wakanda – Inside the Mysterious Nation”. I opened the book and began to skim through the pages just as Logan had, looking from the slip of paper to some words in the book that were shown as examples and had translations as to what they meant. And it confirmed that this language was exactly the kind written on the paper.

“Yeah, this is it. I don't suppose this book contains a full Wakandan to English dictionary?” I asked hopefully.

“I'm afraid not, kid. But a better question is how you got your hand on some Wakandan writing in the first place.” Logan said.

“Well I got it from some poor guy who got shot three times by some loon who had a little helper take him or her away. And actually, there were two things about him that also made me come to you.” I explained.

“Yeah? What were they?” Logan asked.

“One was that the guy smelled like salt water, which made me think that he must have come from the docks and it's only ten to twenty minutes from the street where he died to here.” I said.

“Hm, lots-a guys come and go here on the docks. And while I can remember most folks I meet, mostly from their scent, I can't say I remember every face I see.” Logan replied.

“Well tell me if you would remember the thing that made this guy stand out especially – he head a sailor tattoo with claw marks over it on the side of his head.” I stated.

And that seemed to ring off a loud bell in Logan's head, because his once deadpan and slightly bored looking expression flipped over into something else. Now he looked shocked with a dash of, from what I could tell, concerned. In two great big stride the captain was right up in my face, looking down into the lenses of my goggles.

“A sailor tattoo? Was it an anchor with a hangman's noose around it?” Logan asked, almost sounding desperate to know.

“Yeah, it was. And it hard red claw marks over it.” I answered.

When I said that Logan seemed to settle down. His expression held a somber type of calm. The kind of calm that you feel once you're told you just lost someone important.

“Damn it...” Logan groaned out.

“Did you know the guy?” I asked carefully.

“Yes, I did. He was the former crew mate who gave me that book you're holding. His name was Jerald Bertrand but we called him Hangman because no matter how hard I tried to teach him he tied off the ropes on the ship with a hangman's noose instead of a square knot. Then he had the claw marks added to it, joking about how that was what I'd do with my bone claws to his nooses.” Logan explained, laughing a bit to himself at the memory.

“I'm really sorry, Logan. I guess you guys were close.” I said in a sympathetic tone.

“Yeah...Closest thing I ever had to a brother. You know, since my real one keeps tryin' ta kill me.” Logan said.

“I understand. But even though I can't bring Hangman back, I can nail the bastard who did it. Actually that's already in the works. I managed to nick the killer in the shoulder but his flunky helped him get away. I'm going to ask some of the back alley doctors around town and see if they had any patients who had a slug taken out of their shoulder." I explained.

“Well, I hope for their sake you find them before I do kid. Cause I don't tend to leave enough parts for folks to get buried.” Logan said, clenching his fists which unsheathed the marrow claws from his knuckles.

“I'll be praying for them then. Anything you can tell me for a lead? Like why someone would want to kill Hangman?” I asked.

“Sorry but no. I mean Hangman wasn't a perfect guy but he didn't go around with a chip of wood on his shoulder looking for trouble either. I don't know why someone would shoot 'em.” Logan told me, then paused as he stroked the stubble on his chin in thought. “Unless...”

“Unless what?” I urged him to say.

“Well, I actually do remember something that happened after we shook hands and he retired to some seaside villa in Spain. Just as I was getting ready ta leave port I saw this big guy come up to him. They started arguing before Hangman shoved him and stormed off.” Logan explained.

“Do you know what they were arguing about? It could be very important.” I said.

“I didn't catch a whole lot of it, but I did hear a few words. They were 'statuette', 'locker', 'payment' and 'cat'.” Logan explained, counting off each word with his fingers.

At the words locker and cat, a little strike of lightning hit a part of my brain. Hangman handed me a key along with that scrap of paper with the Wakandan writing. And just before he died he mentioned panther. Could those be connected somehow? And if they are I wonder what they mean. But standing here won't help me figure it out any quicker. I have to get out there and get to work.

“I see. Thanks a lot for your help, Howlett. And I promise, I will take down Hangman's killer and see to it that he gets his justice.” I stated.

“Much appreciated, kid. And you remember what I promise; either you put him behind bars or I make him wish he was.” Logan said.

“Got it.” I said and turned to leave but then stopped and turned back. " Eh, just one more thing Logan. Before he retired, did you give Hangman any yards or c's of kale? Like a severance pay or something.”

“No, and he never asked for any either. I actually thought it was hinky since Spain is very expensive to live in, especially if you're living out by the sea. Those villas ain't cheap. But I guess he found some kinda way to get by.” Logan said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Yeah...I guess he did. Well thanks again for your help, old man. See ya around.” And with that said I shot a web and zipped off the ship, then proceeded to web swing away from the docks.

As I made my way back into the city, my thoughts were racing as I mentally analyzed the case. So far I have a dead former sailor, Hangman, who had apparently retired in Spain but somehow got back to America. On it's own that wouldn't sound so strange. Maybe he got a homesick. But it is suspicious that someone who's been retired for twenty years suddenly pops up in New York City of all places. How could he even afford to live there and get such glad rags if Logan never gave him any money? Also, who was the big guy Hangman was arguing with and what were they arguing about that had to do with a statuette, a locker, a payment and a cat?

While there were a lot of questions that needed answering, first thing's first – trace the license plate of BPM177. And there was only one cop in all of the Big Rotten Apple I could rely on. His name is Martin Soap, one of NY's finest in charge of the “Special Tasks and Analytical Force” or STAF for short. That means he deals with the bad guys who go beyond simple robbery or kidnapping, which are the bad guys I deal with. He also happens to be close friends with Frank Castlelione, also known as the Punisher, who helps sweep up the grime in the Big Rotten Apple just as I do. We've worked together on a few cases and told me that if I needed police assistance then Martin was the guy to talk to, since he's the only one we vigilantes can trust. His exemplary service has made people call Soap “New York's answer to Elliot Ness”, the famous detective and leader of the Untouchables in Chicago. Because of his strong sense of justice and added ability to see beyond the simple black and white he sees the bigger picture like us vigilantes do and lends a hand, and likewise we help him out when he can't go beyond the badge.

It didn't take me long to get from the docks to the police station, as they were pretty close by. I zipped over to the window that I knew went into Soap's office. Even though it was a time when more than half of cops go home Soap was hard at work typing up a report on his mill. He had a work ethic you just have to appreciate. I knocked on the window and Martin turned away from the paper to see me on the windowsill. Even through the grainy glass I could see him roll his eyes but he got up and opened the window anyway.

“I know that you and Frank like windows, but regular humans use thumbs. And I can see you got two.” Martin said sarcastically as he backed away so I could get in.

“Well as you can see I'm hardly regular.” I replied with a grin under my mask. I'm not exactly human either but since Martin didn't know that I know he wasn't trying to be snide about it.

“That's true. Still, you got thumbs all the same and they're meant for doorknobs. But anyway, what brings the badass neighborhood Spiderman to my office tonight?” Martin asked.

“I had a little run in with someone who tried to run me down. Remember that John Doe that got popped in the Madison Square Garden neighborhood that I tipped you off about yesterday?” I asked.

“Yeah, I remember. Poor fella got a triple does of lead poisoning in the stomach, and in nice clothes too. That's some way to go.” Martin said, shaking his head sadly.

“Well, I have a name for the poor fella. I talked to Captain Howlett of the S.S. Wolverine and he recognized the guy when I described the tattoo on the side of his head. Said he was a former crew mate named Jerald Bertrand that they all called Hangman.” I explained.

“I see. That sure helps narrow it down.” Martin said, then his face scrunched up in thought as he looked at me. “Wait, did you say Jerald Bertrand?”

“I did. That name mean anything?” I asked.

“It might. I think I heard it from some of our connections with the feds. Let me check the files.” Martin said and walked over to his well kept, metal file cabinet and opened a drawer to look through them.

The feds? How does the name of a retired old sailor get dropped in a conversation between agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Logan told me that while Hangman wasn't perfect he didn't go looking for trouble either. Finally Martin seemed to have found the file he was looking for, blew off the dust that collected on it and handed it to me.

“What's this?” I asked.

“A file on Jerald Bertrand. I knew he sounded familiar when you said it. The feds told me about a guy who they suspect of being a bag-man for a bunch of different major time smugglers.” Martin said.

That instantly made the eyebrows above my two main, larger eyes reach for my forehead in shock. Hangman was a smuggler? Not only that but he did it for more than one person, apparently. Logan was right about his guess it seemed. His old crew mate did find a way to get by in his retirement – thanks to a nest egg he most likely built up from smuggling. I wonder if he knew about it at all? When did it start and when did it end? Deciding to figure out I picked up the file and began to speed read through it. According to the evidence gathered up Hangman allegedly started his smuggling career some three or five years after becoming a member of Logan's crew. He wouldn't carry the hot stuff onto their own ship though. Instead he would load the items into the false bottom of a create, put in packing peanuts along with some innocent looking piece of merchandise like clothes or food, mark the crate with a legitimate address to be shipped to and then load it onto another ship that was going to the destination on the address. Afterwards a contact in that location would pick up the red herring package and get the real delivery in the false bottom. I gotta admit that's a pretty smart way to go about smuggling. That way if the cargo ever get's intercepted or busted it falls on the other ship and it's crew. As I continued to read over the reports of Hangman's activity of smuggling I began to notice something. There were several accounts of Hangman taking a lot of personal vacations in the nation of Wakanda, which would explain how he got that book he gave Logan as a memento. Then during his last visit there King T'Chaka was murdered and the killer was never found. And with that entry it marked the last bit of activity from Hangman. Not because he was inactive or anything, but because that was literally the last page on the guy. It was strange that the feds would be on him like a cheap suit then stop monitoring him for twenty years. Hm, twenty years...Isn't that how long ago Logan said Hangman retired?

“That's interesting...” I muttered to myself.

“What's that, Spiderman?” Martin asked to me.

“Nothing, Soap. Just thinking out loud. Anyway thanks for showing me this. It'll certainly help out on my end. Before I go though I was wondering if you could trace this license plate number for me.” I said and handed Martin a piece of paper with the plate number on it.

“Sure, no problem. I'll get right on it when I come in tomorrow. Where should I call you at this time?” Martin asked.

“The Black Cat Club. There's only one lady in the city who can answer my next question. See ya.” And with that I exited through the open window and web swung back home to get a rest up for the day to come.

However, I was so focused on my next step in the case that I didn't notice the eyes following me. And I wouldn't notice them until they were looming above me, and the owner of those eyes had me at their complete mercy...

+++++End of Act 1+++++

“Gosh, this is so cool! I think your character is about to come up, too, T'Challa.” Peter said, smiling at his suitor.

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing Mr. Stan's portrayal of me. If you don't mind, my arachnid, could I please narrate this part?” T'Challa asked.

“Sure. My throat could use a break anyway.” Peter said and handed the comic to T'Challa.

“Now then, let us continue onward.” The werecat king said and turned the page.

+++++Act 2+++++

It was October 30th, the night before Hallow's Eve. It was cold in New York and leaves were starting to turn from green to red, brown or yellow and fall off the trees. I was on my way to the Black Cat Club, owned and run by the lady known as Felicia Hardy. She used to be Ben Ulrich's main squeeze before he was killed by Chameleon. It really tore her up and she wanted nothing short of revenge, taking up the name Black Cat to hunt down and ace the guy. It took some time but she got her payback although it cost her some bad slash marks on the face courtesy of the late Crime Master. Now she puts a white mask on whenever she's out and about to conceal her scars. Personally I don't think the marks look too bad because in comparison to me it doesn't get any uglier looking than my fuzzy, eight eyed face. However it had more to do with self preservation than vanity as to why Felicia wears that mask. She knows that if anyone saw the slash marks on her face people would put two and two together and figure out that she is Black Cat and was responsible for Crime Master's capture by the FBI which later resulted in his death at the hands of my old enemy Dr. Octopus. So I can understand why she uses the mask to maintain her anonymity. And it's not like it really hurts her business practice or anything. It actually seems to have made her an even more popular hostess cause now people want to see the masked lady.

It took longer to get to the Black Cat Club because it was on the far end of town where the high rollers live, but it was worth it. Landing on top of the skylight I saw the place was packed from wall to wall as per usual. But among the sea of black tuxedos and colorful gowns of the patrons one white dress stood out. Felicia was talking to one of her waitresses, possibly giving them directions, and moving all over the main floor to work the room and make sure her costumers were pleased. I decided I would wait for her in her office while she was busy and climbed down from the skylight and made my way to the back. There I found the window into Felicia's office which she always kept open because no one is jingle-brained enough to actually try and rob from this club. Felicia's got personal friends with the NYPD and if she's robbed the guy can expect at least five years in stir.

I leaned against the mahogany wood desk, waiting for Felicia to come upstairs. About ten minutes passed when I heard the soft clicks of expensive high heels coming up. Soon the door jiggled as it was being unlocked and in stepped the lady herself with every bit of grace that only a real lady like her has. When Felicia turned on the lights and looked up at me she only seemed mildly shocked before giving an amused scoff.

“Don't you ever get tired of going through windows and just want to use a regular door?” Felicia asked as she closed the door behind her, locking it.

“Soap asked me the same thing. Says I got thumbs and should put them to use on knobs. But like I told him, I'm not regular.” I said with a grin.

“Of course. But then again I'm not all that regular either. How many girls do you know look like a cutting board?” Felicia asked, taking off her white mask to show the many scars on her face. Even though they healed physically I knew that they still gave her a great inner pain.

“Hardy, you can look like the leftover slop at the local hash house. You're still the prettiest woman by far.” I said sincerely, then proceeded to take off my own mask. It always made Felicia more comfortable about her own skin and my fur needed the air anyway. “Besides, I'd rather look like a cutting board than a live fur shawl.”

“Well if it makes you feel better you're a cute live fur shawl.” Felicia said with a smile. “So, what brings you all the way here? Don't tell me you want a bottle of our best and a booth seat.”

“Afraid not. This is actually a business visit. What can you tell me about a smuggler called Jerald Bertrand?” I asked.

“I can tell you plenty. He's the husband of one of my girls here. Adrian is her name and she's real nice kid. Jerald met her in Spain and they lived there for about ten years before he decided to come back to New York. And they've been here for about ten years themselves now, if I remember right.” Felicia said.

Hm, that was interesting. So Hangman only stayed in Spain for the first decade of his retirement before coming to spend the final decade in New York. Why? And if he didn't just arrive from the docks why did he smell like salt water? Too many questions with fewer answers.

“I see. Well I'm sorry to say that I have some bad news. Have you heard about a John Doe shot in the Madison Square Garden neighborhood?” I asked.

“Yes I heard, but what does that have to do with...” Felicia's question stopped short when she saw the sorrowful expression I gave. “No. Oh God Peter don't tell me that was Jerald.”

“I'm sorry Felicia but it was. I got a positive I.D straight from Logan and even the police.” I said.

“Oh no. Adrian is going to be so upset.” Felicia said, looking down in sadness.

“I'm sorry to bring this up like this. Look, I have to ask her a few questions. Nothing major but it could help me find out who killed Jerald and why.” I said.

“I understand. But Peter...will you please let me tell her what happened first? It's going to be real hard the first few moments.” Felicia said.

“Sure. I'll wait outside.” I said and put my mask back on then crawled out of the window and attached myself to the wall outside while Felicia went to get her employee.

I waited for five minutes until I heard the door open and close again. Then I waited I as heard muffled talk between Felicia and Adrian, which went on for eight minutes. And finally I steeled myself to drown out eleven minutes of heartbroken sobbing. Hardy was right about how this would be hard for the first few moments. I honestly felt bad that Adrian had to know that she'll only be making dinners for one from now on. This probably had to be one of the most difficult things to do in the life I live – telling someone that a loved one isn't coming back. It's like when Martin Soap came to the brownstone I live in with Aunt May and told me that Uncle Ben was killed. But just like I avenged him I plan to help Adrian avenge Jerald. After another eight minutes passed Felicia peeked her head out of the window and looked at me.

“She wants to talk now. Please try to make it easy.” The white haired woman said.

“Of course.” I said and leaped back into the room to find a young, tan skinned young with eye shadow running all down her face in wet streaks of black from her tears. I slowly walked over to her and knelt down in front of her where she sat in the chair. “Hey Adrian.” The girl made a few sniffles before looking at me.

“You...You're the man that Madame Hardy said is trying to solve Jerald's death, yes?” Adrian asked me in a weak, sad voice.

“That's right, I am. I'm Spiderman in case you didn't know.” I said.

“Oh yes, I know. I have read about you in the paper. I admire how you bring criminals to justice. And I always wanted to meet you...But I never thought it would be because you found...my husband...dead.” Adrian struggled to say in between little cries.

“Neither did I, Mrs. Bertrand. I wish we could have met differently. But I swear I'll find out who killed your husband. First though I need you to answer some questions.” I said.

“Y-yes, I know. Ask me whatever y-you need to ask.” Adrian said as she worked to regain her composure.

“First of all, and I'm not trying to be rude, did you know that your husband was a smuggler?” I asked.

“Yes. He told me during the course of our courtship phase. But he told me that he had walked away from that life and was striving to be a better man. I believed him and it never stopped me from loving him.” Adrian said.

“Alright. Madame Hardy told me that you and Jerald spent tens years together in Spain but then he wanted to come back to New York. Do you remember asking him why?” I asked.

“Yes. I um, I did ask him once. He said that there was someone stalking him and always harassing him. Even when he would go out to the market place. It worried me a great deal so I had no trouble moving.” Adrian explained.

“Did Jerald ever tell you what this guy looked like in case something happened?” I asked.

“Actually I did see him once. I remember coming home from walking our dog when I saw Jerald arguing with the man in the backyard. He kept asking him about a key and a locker. He was very large in size and had black slacks, a matching colored shirt and a dark blue suede jacket. And there was a triangle on his face.” Adrian explained.

“A triangle?” I repeated in surprise.

“Yes. It was not a tattoo but rather three moles that, when you look at them closely, made the shape of a triangle. That was the first and last time I saw him personally. But Jerald never told me his name.” Adrian explained.

“Alright then. Was there anything else that Jerald told you?” I asked.

“No, I don't think...No wait. Yes there was something. It was something that he told me just last week. He said that on October 31st he hoped to make right a wrong that he felt responsible for.” Adrian explained.

“What was the wrong that he felt responsible for?” I asked again.

“I asked but it seemed too hurtful a memory for him to think about lead alone say outright. All he told me was that twenty years ago, during his final smuggling job in Wakanda, a man died when he shouldn't have which left his son an orphan. What hurt the most about it, he said, was that it was all over something that he should have known was bad luck.” Adrian explained.

There's that twenty years again. And once again a bolt of lightning struck twice in the same part of my mind. Twenty years and a man who died. There was a note in Hangman's file saying that during his last visit in Wakanda the king named T'Chaka had been killed in an assassination. Then after that Hangman stops smuggling for twenty years. What if the reason why he retired was because his last job ended up with the death of a nation's king? And then as if to seek some sort of penance he stopped smuggling and retired to live a life in peace. But obviously it didn't work and his past eventually caught up to him in a big way. Thinking back I recalled that the shooter had a more athletic figure so that wasn't the big buy with the moles that formed a triangle. However I do remember the driver who tried to make me into a hood ornament was very large. Maybe that was him? I'll figure it out later. But right now I have one more question to ask.

“Adrian, this is a very important question I have to ask and then I'll be on my way.” I said.

“Alright.” The tan skinned woman said, nodding in agreement.

“Did Jerald ever mention what was inside the locker?” I asked.

“Actually yes. He said that inside the locker was the thing stolen from Wakanda that he said he should have known was bad luck, on account of the fact that it was a statuette of a black cat.” Adrian said.

“I see. Thanks a lot, Adrian. You've been more help than you can ever imagine. I'll keep you posted.” I said and just then the phone in Felicia's office rang and she answered it.

“Hello? Oh hey, Soap...Yeah, he's here.” Felicia said and handed me the phone.

“Hiya, Soap. Any word on that license plate?...Uh huh...The car is registered to who? And the owner is from where?...Hm, I think that may actually help put all the pieces of the puzzle together. Well thank you for the help, Martin. And don't worry, I'll explain tomorrow.” I said and hung up the phone.

“And what was that line of code?” Felicia asked.

“Nothing to worry your pretty head of snow over, Felicia. I better get going and prepare. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be heavy. My condolences, Mrs. Bertrand. I promise the person who did this won't get away with it.” I said.

“Thank you very much, Spiderman. I know that you will keep your promise.” Adrian said with a smile.

With a salute to both ladies I web swung out of there and made it back home. The identity of the registered owner of the car that Martin told me was definitely not one that I expected to hear, however when he told me where the car's owner came from it all made sense. A lot of the pieces are now falling into place enough for me to form half of a whole picture. Jerald “Hangman” Bertrand used to be a smuggler and worked for a bunch of other smugglers as a one man importer. He took frequent vacations to Wakanda, more than likely to meet one of his contacts or a smuggler he worked for, and did a job there that resulted in the murder of King T'Chaka. No deaths were mentioned in Hangman's file as a result of his smuggling so this could have served as a heavy reality check. From there he proceeded to walk away from the lifestyle but not without keeping what was stolen back in Wakanda which was a statuette of a black cat. This was his fatal mistake and it resulted in his own death twenty years later.

But even though that helped clear up a lot of things there were two major questions left unanswered. One, why did Hangman keep the statuette instead of returning it to the nation of Wakanda if he wanted a clean conscience so much? And two, where does this panther I'm supposed to trust according to Hangman's dying words fit in? As much as these two final questions bothered me I would have to figure out the answers later. Right now I need to prepare for tomorrow and get ready for whatever trouble comes. Adrian said that Hangman wanted to make the wrong, which was obviously the death of Wakanda's king, right again on October 31st which was just hours away. And since weirdos come out of the woodwork I need to get all of my gear together because I don't know what I'll be dealing with. Eventually I made it to the brownstone in Queens and quietly entered in through the window of my bedroom, making sure not to wake up Aunt May. But as soon as I got both boots down on the carpet floor my Spider Sense rang loud alarm bells in my head.

Predator!

Danger!

Fight!

I looked up and saw the faint but clearly there outline of a large, muscular form in the middle of my room. The questions of who this form belonged to, how they got into my room and why they were here ran through my mind real fast. But right now the only thing at the forefront of my brain was the plan to give this bastard the Broderick treatment. Wasting no time I charged right at them with my leg raised high in a kick. But to my surprise the figure not only blocked my hit but flipped me over. I managed to slink out of their grip and trip kicked them which resulted in them landing on their back. I immediately got on my feet and tried to kick the person in the head but they rolled to the side and before I could even process it they blindsided me with a hard punch. So hard in fact that it blew me back until the back of my legs hit my bed and made me fall back onto my mattress. I started to get up but once again the figure blindsided me, this time by pinning me down.

“Get the hell out off me, you bastard!” I shouted as I tried to struggle free.

“Please, becalm yourself Anansi! I mean you no harm!” Stated the voice, male and smooth with a thick African accent.

“Oh sure, because people who break into my room and fight me don't mean harm. Go climb up your thumb! Why the hell should I believe that?” I asked angrily.

“Because, I am the panther that you must trust.” Said the voice in a smooth husk of a voice that actually sent shivers up my spine.

Wait, did he say panther? After I calmed down a bit I looked at the guy's face. He wore a cloak with a hood and the shadow hid his face, making it hard to see what he looked like. However I could see two clear golden eyes. I blinked a few times in confusion before I found it in myself to ask a question.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“As I said, I am the panther. But of course that is only part of my second name. And I would be more than happy to tell you both of my names if you would be willing to calm down and listen.” The person said.

“How do I know this isn't some sort of trick to lower my guard and kill me?” I asked suspiciously.

“I have you pinned down, Anansi. If I truly wished to kill you I would have already. I swear I speak the truth.” The person said and he sounded sincere.

For a while I weighed the pros and cons until I decided that I would believe him. I nodded in agreement and the figure then got up off me. He held out his hand, which I noticed was covered by the overly long sleeve of his cloak, and I accepted it. Once I was helped up to my feet I looked at the with a curious face.

“Alright then, I'm calm and I'm listening. Say your piece.” I told the figure.

“Very well. First allow me to apologize for entering your domicile without permission. I had not taken anything or caused any harm to your relative, so you needn't worry about that. I was only waiting for you.” The figure explained.

“Good, that's a relief to know.” I said.

“Second I shall properly introduce myself. Once long ago I was known as Prince T'Challa. But ever since my father died I left my nation in order to find his killer and avenge his death.” The figure, apparently T'Challa, explained.

“Father's death...” I started to ask but my question was stopped when realization hit me like a Louisville slugger to the back of my noodle.

For the third time in as many days lightning struck in the exact same spot it struck the other two times. Adrian said that her husband's last job resulted in a death that made a boy an orphan. And if he's a prince, then that would only mean one thing. And it seemed like even though my face is covered with a mask my hooded acquaintance could tell that I finally figured it out. 

“I see that you've figured out the rest, in terms of my heritage.” T'Challa spoke.

“...You're the son of Wakanda's late king. You're T'Chaka's son.” I said.

“Yes. And I am also known as the Black Panther!” And with that T'Challa practically tore off his cloak and revealed his true form.

From the shine of the moonlight peering into my room I could see all of T'Challa's body. He wore Egyptian style clothes and jewels that made me think of those cat looking deities you see in text books. But just the look of him stunned me to silence. He was...just like me. Well he wasn't a spider person like me but he was a human-like creature. Looking at him closely I could see that he resembled a cat. A big, black cat. Just like a panther. It now became clear that this was the panther Hangman said I should trust. And now that I knew he was King T'Chaka's son, I think I had an idea as to why he was here.

“Well, it's nice to meet you Black Panther. As you must have probably guessed I'm Spiderman. But I'm sure you also know what my real name is.” I said.

“Yes, I was able to deduce it. But rest assured, Peter Parker, no one will know of your identity from me.” T'Challa assured.

“That's great to hear. And since you showed me your real face it's only fair that I show you mine.” I said and took off my mask to reveal my fuzzy self.

“My, when I called you an Anansi I didn't think you actually were one.” The panther man said.

“What does that mean? Anansi that is.” I said.

“It is the name of a man who is an important character in the folklore of not only my people, but people from West Africa and the Caribbean. Anansi is described as a man with the ability to shapeshift into a spider and is the spirit of all knowledge of stories.” T'Challa explained.

“Hm, that's actually pretty cool. To think that there is another Spiderman in the world besides me.” I said with a grin.

“True, but I think you are more attractive than the original. Especially now that I have seen your true face.” T'Challa said with a seductive grin on his face.

This made me do a double take and my eight eyes blinked in shock. It took a moment to process that the guy was making a pass at me. And when the process hit my brain I felt the grey fur of my cheeks turn red. I managed to steel myself enough to keep from stuttering as I gave a proper response.

“That's flattering of you to say, but I'm nothing special to look at. Plus this isn't what my true face used to be.” I replied.

“I beg to differ. There is an old Polish proverb that says a tiger cannot judge how a zebra wears his or her stripes.” T'Challa said.

“Heh, that's a new one. And I think I can actually understand it.” I said.

“An old man I had met in Poland during my travels told me the saying. And besides, you are not the only one who's face does not resemble how they look. Do you think I was born as a werecat, my face resembling the beast that has been a symbol of my family for generations?” T'Challa asked.

“Touché on that, but I'm still surprised. I never thought someone else was like me out there. At least to an extent. I got my powers from some arachnid deity after a spider from a hoard inside a statue bit me. Then just last year I turned into...well this.” I explained.

“An interesting story, but my transformation was brought on by a more tragic occurrence. If a person of Wakandan royal blood leaves their homeland before ascending to the role as new ruler then they will be cursed to turn into, and forever stay, a werecat.” T'Challa explained.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Your Highness. But if you're here in New York who is ruling your nation?” I asked.

“Please, I am no longer a prince under the crown of Wakanda. I am no highness. And you needn't worry of the condition of my homeland. Fortunately my father stated in his last will and testament that should any harm befall me before I could succeed him then Aneka, who is our captain of the Dora Milaje guard, would serve as the regent and rule over Wakanda.” T'Challa explained.

“I see. She must be doing a good job then.” I said.

“She is. Though I am but a humble man in a beast's body now we still correspond, sending letters often. She is a great leader to the people of Wakanda. Father left our nation in good hands.” T'Challa said, smiling a small smile.

“That's great. At least you have one less thing to concern yourself with. So, now that we have that all settled, we should discuss the matter of a stolen item and the dead smuggler involved.” I said, my voice and face turning serious.

“Yes. We should discuss that matter indeed.” T'Challa said, his own voice and face expression flat.

“To start let's talk about what was taken from your country. I understand that it's some kind of statuette of a black cat but what is it exactly?” I asked.

“It is the most sacred treasure of my people – the Wakandan Panther. It is made of pure vibranium, a rare metal of which my nation boasts the largest depository of. And adorning the statuette are two onyx gemstones for eyes and six large emeralds that surround it's neck like a collar.” T'Challa explained and I gave a whistle.

“That sounds like it's in the million category if it's worth a lead cent.” I said.

“The monetary value of the statuette nearly exceeds seven figures, yes. But the material value is insignificant compared to the emotional value it has. And while I am not the prince any longer it is my duty as the Black Panther, guardian and living symbol of Wakanda, to retrieve the statuette and return it.” T'Challa explained.

“Well that clears that up. Now onto Hangman. I talked to his wife and she said that he intended to right a wrong tomorrow. Would you know anything about that?” I asked.

“Yes. After several years of searching I finally found Jerald Bertrand, or Hangman if you prefer, less than one month ago. For all of those twenty years I thought he was the one who had killed my father and stole the Wakandan Panther. But just as I was about to kill him he told me the truth of what happened that day.” T'Challa said.

“So what really did happen?” I asked.

“Twenty years ago Hangman did not intend to steal the statuette himself. He was commissioned by someone to aid them in stealing it. Hangman told me that from the beginning he had misgivings about stealing the statuette. And when the person who paid Hangman for his services said that they planned to kill my father after the theft he wanted nothing to do with it any longer. He tried to go and warn my father but it was too late. He was already killed, but the Wakandan Panther wasn't taken yet. So he took it in order to save it from the killer. One of the servants had remembered seeing Hangman flee from the chamber where the statuette was kept and told me. That is why I assumed he was the killer as well.” The once prince explained.

“But in reality, his only crime was taking the wrong job and trusting the wrong person.” I said.

“Yes. After he told me this he said that he took the Wakandan Panther in order to keep it out of the murderer's grasp. He went on to say that he always intended to return the statuette to me but a man who works as the enforcer of the person who had paid him to aid in the theft kept harassing him during his retirement in Spain, impeding his process.” T'Challa explained.

“That explains the big guy he was seen arguing with just as he started retirement and the man who his wife said caused Hangman and her to move to New York. What else did he say?” I asked.

“I asked him where he kept the Wakandan Panther but he feared someone listening to our conversation. And so we agreed that on October 31st he would give me the key for the locker it was kept in along with a piece of paper containing the location of where the locker was and the name of my father's real killer.” T'Challa explained.

“Aha. That's what he meant by righting a wrong. But why was he strolling down Madison Square Garden three days early?” I asked.

“I wondered that myself, and after searching through his workshop at the docks where he repaired ship parts I found a note that was apparently written to him by me to arrive early. Of course I wrote no such note.” T'Challa explained. Aha, a workshop at the docks was probably why Hangman smelled like salt water. Now I can check that little mystery off.

“It was a trap to try and make him give up the key and the paper. But when he wouldn't do it the shooter made him pay the price. And five gets you ten that it was the same person who killed your dad.” I said.

“I agree. And now I'm sure you're wondering how I came to be in your room.” T'Challa said.

“Actually yeah, I was wondering about that.” I said.

“Well, after Hangman was killed I began to investigate into his murder. However I would notice that you were following onto the same clues I had discovered along the way. And so I decided I would stand aside and wait for the right moment to speak with you. I had actually followed you to this address after you spoke with Martin Soap and I watched as you unmasked yourself and heard your aunt call your name.” T'Challa explained.

“Damn, I can't believe you slipped past my Spider Sense. I must be losing my touch.” I said, scratching the back of my head in irritation with a bit of embarrassment.

“Do not fault yourself, Anansi. When I was a young boy I was taught to conceal my presence from others. I am not easily detected.” T'Challa said.

“I guess that makes me feel better. Now that we've gotten to know each other and brought each other up to speed, I think it's time I show you the paper I got from Hangman. It's written in your native Wakandan so you should be able to read it just fine.” I said and pulled the slip of paper I kept in my trench coat then handed it to T'Challa.

“Thank you, Spiderman.” T'Challa said and accepted the paper, then read it over. And once he finished reading his face took on a astonished expression. “Dear God...I don't believe it.”

“What does it say?” I asked. When the once prince told me the name on the paper, I gasped. “That's the same name of the person who owns the heap that tried to run me over!”

“Never would I have suspected him to be the killer, yet it all makes sense. But now that I know the truth I shall avenge my father's death.” T'Challa swore, flexing a large hand and unsheathing his claws.

“And I'll be there to help. But now we just have to go to the location Hangman wrote on the paper, use the locker key and get the Wakandan Panther back.” I said.

“I'm afraid it won't be that easy, Spiderman.” T'Challa said.

“How come?” I asked in surprise.

“Because while I can read the Wakandan text that Hangman wrote the message in, I cannot make sense of the riddle he used to describe the location.” T'Challa said.

“What's the riddle say?” I asked again.

“It says, 'You don't have to search wide and roam, just think of where a big black cat would call home'.” T'Challa spoke as he read from the paper.

“Where a big black cat would call home...” I whispered to myself and then snapped my fingers. “I think I know the answer to the riddle. But first we have to set up a little surprise.”

“What sort of surprise?” T'Challa asked, cocking his head in a feline show of curiosity.

“One that will bring the killer straight to us with little effort.” I said with a grin.

+++++End of Act 2+++++

“This is proving to be quite a thrilling story.” T'Challa said, the tail from his werecat side out and swishing in excitement.

“I know! And I think we're getting to the ending. I wonder what the ending will be like.” Peter said as his four toes curled in their own excitement.

“We will soon find out.” T'Challa said and began to read the final part of the comic.

+++++Act 3+++++

It was October 31st, and it was especially chilly on this night here in New York. The mystery, murder, clues and running around have all come to this final point in the case. Right now the Black Panther and I were heading over to the location where we would finally find the Wakandan Panther. The riddle mentioned a place where a big black cat would call home. And there only place you'll find a big black cat, like a panther, is the New York City Zoo. Before we left I made sure that my Magnum was in good condition and that I had enough ammunition because I had a feeling that I'll need every bullet tonight. Hangman told me that his shooter was a dangerous person and to be careful. While I didn't have to be told so I wasn't about to take any chances in this case. I may come home to Aunt May looking like a bloody mess but I will come home alive. After what felt like three hours when it was barely half an hour both T'Challa and I made it to the zoo. Of course they were closed by now but all we had to do was leap over the gate to get inside. Once we landed on our feet Black Panther and I shared a look before nodding to one another and walking into the zoo. Many of the animals were already asleep and those who were nocturnal just looked at us with casual or bored expressions as we walked by. We walked deeper and deeper into the zoo until we got to the part where the wild cats lived. They all watched as we made our way through until we reached the office for big c. And, of course, the door was locked.

“Seems like I'll have to pick the lock open.” I said.

“That won't be necessary, Spiderman. I am well equipped at dealing with this obstacle myself.” Black Panther stated and unsheathed a claw on his index finger and slid it into the key hole. After twisting his wrist a little door gave a distinctive click as the tumblers unlatched and the once prince opened the door, then gave a courteous bow. “After you.”

“Such a gentleman.” I said with a smile and walked inside, followed by Black Panther.

“Hangman said that the key would open a locker. So it stands to reason that, here at the zoo, it would be the locker of an employee.” Black Panther said.

“Exactly. The number on the key said 789, so let's see if any lockers match the number.” I said and took out my flashlight and shinned it on the long row of lockers. After swaying the light for a while I finally found a locker with the number 789 and set it on that locker. And after looking closer at the name of the person who the locker all of my eyes blinked in surprise. “Jerald Bertrand? This was his locker?”

"Underneath the name it says that he was a supervisor for the wild cats division of the zoo. It's actually quite genius in it's simplicity, hiding a statuette of a panther in the locker of a zoo handler.” Black Panther stated.

“Almost like hiding it in plain sight. Well, time for the moment of truth.” I said and took out the key.

Slowly I stretched out my arm with key in hand, then inserted it into the slot. I gave it a quick jerk which unlocked the small door. Even under the layers my leather gloves and fur I could feel the skin grow clammy with nervousness. I looked at Black Panther and he nodded, silently telling me to open it. And so I turned back to the locker and opened it. However when I did...I saw nothing inside.

“What!? But that's impossible! There's no way that anyone else could have gotten to the statuette before us!” Black Panther exclaimed in panic, tail puffing up and ears turned back in distress.

“Calm down, Black Panther. I don't think anyone took it. Like you said, it's impossible. We're the only ones with the key that opens the locker.” I said.

"But then how is the Wakandan Panther not there?” Black Panther asked.

“Wait a minute. I remember something I read on Hangman in his file about his method for smuggling. Instead of putting them in the actual crate he'd stash the nicked goods in a false bottom. Maybe...” I muttered to myself and reached into the locker with both hands, feeling for any gaps to slip my fingers into. Eventually I did and after a little tugging managed to take out the false back of the locker. “Aha! Now let's take another look.”

I turned my flashlight back on and shined it into the locker. As soon as I did the light caught onto the bottom part of something that looked like a shiny, metal paw. Slowly I moved the light up and backed away so the light could catch the whole dingus in it's shine. And when I did that I was greeted to the full, thirteen inch tall figure of the Wakandan Panther statuette. Just like T'Challa had described it the entire body was made out of metal, vibranium he called it, and it had two large onyx gems for eyes and six big emeralds around it's neck like a collar. I let out a soft 'wow' as I looked at the thing. Never in my life have I ever seen such a treasure before. And beside me Black Panther was just as astounded.

“I can't believe it...After twenty years, the Wakandan Panther is finally found.” Black Panther muttered, then turned to me with such a big smile that I thought his jaw would break. And then he grabbed me and held me close in a surprisingly tender hug. “Thank you, Anansi. Thank you so much for all that you have done.”

“S-Sure. No problem.” I said with a little stutter and wrapped my arms around his neck to return the hug.

“Now I can return the statuette to my homeland and finally rest in peace.” Black Panther said.

“Oh you will rest in peace, but the statuette comes with me.” Said a new voice that made my blood run cold and my heart stop in it's tracks.

The lights in the office suddenly switched on and the sound of three to seven gun safeties coming off filled the air. I looked up and saw seven button men with their Tommy guns aimed right at us. And at the front was that same figure with the coat, hat and white scarf with black stripes that I shot in the shoulder. Even though the numbers were stacked against us I still kept up a brave front, easing myself out of Black Panther's arms to take on a casual stance while keeping my fists ready to sock someone.

“Well, well, seems like we meet at last o mysterious killer. But then again killing is what you and your group are known for. Isn't it...Death Tiger?” I asked.

The man up front said nothing, before he made a low chuckle. Then his chuckle became a slightly louder chortle. And finally it became one big laugh. After a while the man calmed down and turned his face towards me.

“It seems that I won't have any need to introduce myself to you Spiderman. And you are correct. Killing is what I and my group are known for. One might say that I, as you Americans put it, wrote the book on death.” And with that the man removed his scarf, coat and hat to reveal a black man wearing a one piece suit that was white all over and black stripes along the legs, arms and his sides with some kind of animal fur on his wrists and ankles. Looking at the guy Black Panther growled and took an angry step forward.

“Books are texts of knowledge or whimsical entertainment. You write the misery and torment of others etched in their own blood!” Black Panther stated angrily and the Tommy guns were then aimed squarely at him.

“What was that? Did I just hear the tone of moral self-righteousness?” Death Tiger asked, feigning a look of confused surprise as he put a hand up to his ear to hear better. Then his expression changed into a deadpan look as he turned to Black Panther. “Then it can only be the spawn of the royal Wakandan family. Even though you're not technically the prince anymore you still have that high and mighty air that you give off whenever you nag.”

“And you still have the stench of death that comes from your despicable and blasphemous Death Cult, a stench that only get's worse with every time I see you.” Black Panther said with a glare.

“Yes, yes, I am a horrendous monster. I've heard it before. But I am more interested in how this Anansi came to figure out who I was and that I was behind everything.” Death Tiger said and turned to look at me with a stare that made me sick to my stomach. And unlike the way I felt flattered when T'Challa called me Anansi I felt disgusted when he said it. Still I replied not because I had to but to give me some time to make my move.

“It was mostly little things. Little coincidences that didn't add up until I got the final piece, your name. The first time I heard it was as the owner of the car your little helper tried to use to make me into paste. The name on the registration was Zuberi. Then I heard your name a second time from Black Panther when he read from the paper that Jerald Bertrand wrote on naming both where the Wakandan Panther was hidden and who the real killer was. And since Jerald took frequent vacations in Wakanda I realized that they weren't vacations at all. They were business trips to meet up with you. And you were the one who hired Jerald to help you steal the Wakandan Panther. Or more specifically you hired him to take the fall for it and the death of the king.” I stated.

“Correct on all accounts, Anansi. Under the alias of Zuberi I would meet with Jerald Bertrand in Wakanda to give him treasures that I had taken from the palace to sell off in other countries where I knew they would fetch a high price. I needed the funding for the Death Cult to prosper. But with that damned king beginning to tighten things on our activities we realized that soon we would be wiped out. Unless something drastic happened. Like, oh say, the king getting murdered in the middle of the theft of Wakanda's most sacred treasure. A treasure that would be returned by a brave and selfless warrior who could then ascend the throne.” Death Tiger explained with a malicious grin.

“And you would ravage the resources of my people, namely our vibranium depository.” Black Panther stated rather than ask.

“Then you got Jerald to be your patsy, thinking he would be too stupid to figure out your plan. But you underestimated his sixth sense as he had a bad feeling right from the start. Then when you told him you were going to kill King T'Chaka he lammed off on you.” I said.

“Again you are correct. I didn't think that fool would be able to piece my plot together so quickly. I decided I would just kill him later and went to deal with T'Chaka. To my surprise that old cat put up more of a fight than I was expecting. You should know, T'Challa, that it took every bit of strength I had before I could finally rend his throat.” Death Tiger said with a cruel smile which made Black Panther growl. “And after I accomplished my side goal, I went to the chamber to steal the Wakandan Panther. However I underestimated Jerald once again and he not only got to the statuette before me but he was able to leave the palace before the Dora Milaje locked it down and hide among the crowd. By the time I was able to escape myself he disappeared. I later learned that he had retired from his sailor occupation.”

“And since you knew about his smuggling you probably knew that the feds had their eyes on him. Then they stopped watching him for twenty years. Did you persuade them to look into other directions?” I asked.

“More or less. I knew most of the people that Jerald dealt with and gave their names to the FBI. After that he became an insignificant person and they stopped monitoring him all together, which allowed me to do some monitoring of my own.” Death Tiger replied.

“Then you had your enforcer with the triangle moles track him down after he retired. He stayed on his case for the first ten years he stayed in Spain before he and his wife left for New York. But why did you leave him alone for those other ten years? You could have taken the key and found the panther way earlier.” I said.

“True, but at the time T'Challa still didn't know that I was the real killer. He thought that it was Mr. Bertrand and planned to kill him in retribution. I decided that I wouldn't do or say anything to dissuade that plan. Then after he did away with that traitor I would kill him and claim the statuette. But you disappointed me, T'Challa, when you let the man speak.” Death Tiger said, glaring at the werecat beside me.

“You're most welcome.” Black Panther said with a grin.

“So you decided to shift gears and make a new plan. Just steal the panther and return to Wakanda. You sent the fake note from T'Challa to Jerald telling him to meet you in the neighborhood three days early than their original time. But when he wouldn't tell you where the statuette was you popped him.” I said.

“And now, here we are.” Death Tiger said, gesturing to space around us with a dramatic movement of his hands. “I am impressed, Anansi. You've figured everything out.”

“Not quite everything. What happened to the enforcer with the triangle moles?” I asked.

“Oh yes, him. Well you see he failed me the first time being unable to make Jerald Bertrand tell the location of the Wakandan Panther. Then he failed the second time by allowing him to escape to America. And then finally he failed me a third time by allowing you to be able to shoot me instead of coming to my aid as soon as I came under fire. So after I killed my enforcer I relieved him of the trademark you mentioned.” Death Tiger said and took out something from his suit and held it up. Looking at it I realized it was a large cut of human cheek muscle with three moles on it.

“My God...” I muttered, unable to hide my horror and disgust.

“You always did have a thing for taking trophies of your kills, Death Tiger.” Black Panther said disdainfully.

“Indeed. And now I'm going to take both of your heads AND the Wakandan Panther to add to my collection.” The evil man said and took out a mask then pulled it over his head.

“That'll be hard to do, mac, considering you forgot one very important lesson” I said.

“Oh? And what was that, Anansi?” Death Tiger asked.

“The lesson of why you shouldn't corner a spider. And that's because you never know what he'll have up his sleeve!” And with that I shot my webs up into the hard and to cover it up, making the room instantly turn black. I then grabbed the statuette and kicked my way through the palookas in our way and ran out with Black Panther.

“You fools, they're getting away with my statuette! Kill them, damn it!” Death Tiger shouted angrily and bullet were suddenly flying me and Black Panther's way.

Immediately we kicked our running into high gear and cut around a corner to hide behind the gift shop. After checking ourselves for bullet wounds, thankful to find that we had none, Black Panther and I looked at each other to go over the next plan of action.

“Alright, I'll hold onto the statuette and we'll take out the goons first. Then we'll deal with Death Tiger together.” I said as I put the statuette in my inner trench coat's pocket.

“An excellent plan of attack. I like odd numbers, so I'll handle three. Will you be able to take on four by yourself?” Black Panther asked.

“Cool cat, I could take on the whole group. But since this is your party it's only fair that we split the skulls to crack.” I replied with a grin making T'Challa grin back.

“How very kind of you. May Bastet watch over you, Spiderman!” Black Panther exclaimed and darted to the left from behind the gift shop, a flurry of bullets following him as he did so.

I then decided to dart to the right and soon a flurry of bullets came my way. I shot several webs to reel in four guys and tossed all of them to the ground. They got untangled from the sticky binds and all came at me with fists raised. But these four punks didn't scare me, as I've taken on guys ten times their own size. With a few kicks here and a few punches there I soon managed to take them all down. Well three of them were down, but the fourth tried to be tough and shoot me so I shot him first in the arm which made him settle down for good.

“And that's that. Now to find Black Panther and see if he's alright.” I said to myself.

“Again, you should be more concerned of your own self Spiderman.” Said a voice from behind me and while my Spider Sense was able to alert me in time to doge the first two knives that came hurtling towards me I wasn't fast enough to dodge the third knife that got me right in the thigh.

“GAH!” I shouted in pain as I dropped down on my knee and grasped at my aching thigh. I grabbed onto the small blade and despite the agony managed to pry it out and tossed it to the side. “Fuck...” I painfully looked up and saw Death Tiger slowly approach me. Even though his mask covered his lips I could tell he was grinning.

“You know, Anansi, I may feel inclined to spare you if you give me the Wakandan Panther and join my Death Cult. Skill such as yours is always sought after and very much welcomed.” Death Tiger said.

“I only kill in self defense or the defense of others, asshole. And you're only getting this statuette over my dead body.” I stated to which Death Tiger just shrugged.

“Then that is how it will be. Oh well, your skeleton will at least make for a fine decoration.” Death Tiger said and took out two knives then slowly rose them over my head. “Any last words, Spiderman?”

I looked at him with all the hate my eight eyes could muster and was about to tell him off some more and try to fight my way out when my Spider Sense told me there was something behind the evil man. Something really big. And when I looked behind him I had to hold back a gasp. Then I looked back up at him to try and let him know.

“There's something behind you.” I said in an attempt to warn the evil man, but he just scoffed.

“What a waste of final words. Do you really think that I'm so foolish that I would fall...” But before Death Tiger could finish his sentence a roar cut him off.

By the time he turned around it was too late to doge the large paw of the panther that smacked him so hard it made his head twist back in an angle I don't think is natural. Death Tiger was sent flying and rammed right into a cage head first. But even with the double head injury that didn't stop him from getting up and charging at the panther. But the large cat was too fast and easily dodged his knives, smacked him again then tackled him to the ground and firmly pinned him down. The panther roared angrily in his face just as T'Challa came onto the scene.

“Excellent work, my friend. I appreciate your assistance.” The once prince said to the large cat who looked at T'Challa and blinked slowly, like what regular cats do when they show affection, then turned back to glare and growl at Death Tiger.

“Ugh! Get this beast off of me!” Death Tiger shouted in protest.

“Fret not, Tiger. I'm sure that the proper authorities will have my fellow panther get off you once they arrive.” T'Challa said with a grin, then he turned towards me and rushed over to my side. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. It just needs a while to heal.” I said and looked down at my injury and watched as the wound began to stitch itself up until only a slightly red patch of bare skin was left. “There we go. Now let's get out of here before Soap and his guys show up.”

“Agreed. And I must make plans to have the Wakandan Panther returned to where it belongs.” T'Challa said.

“I think my friend Logan would be happy to take care of it since you helped bring down his old crew mate's killer.” I said.

“Wonderful. Let us away then.” T'Challa said and we both immediately left the zoo, neither of us paying attention to the curses Death Tiger shouted which were soon drowned out by the wail of police sirens.

Later that night the first thing I did was call Adrian and let her know that her husband's killer was arrested. She was sobbing in relief and couldn't stop thanking me. Then T'Challa and I went to Logan's ship and explained everything to him. Afterwards T'Challa asked him to take the Wakandan Panther back to it's rightful place he agreed to do it. While Logan didn't know it I knew that the old sea dog was grateful that Hangman finally got some peace along with the late king T'Chaka. Black Panther and I sat on the docks as we watched the S.S. Wolverine sail off for Wakanda. It was quiet for a while before I finally spoke up.

“You know, you could get on the ship and join him to go back home.” I pointed out.

“I know.” T'Challa said simply.

“Why don't you then? Does your curse keep you from going home too?” I asked.

“No, not exactly. I just...want to wait before I can feel ready to return. I have been away from Wakandan for twenty years and while I was born there I will not be the same person I was when I left and would be a stranger coming in. I included a letter in the package telling Aneka that I will return to Wakanda one day. Just not this day.” T'Challa explained.

“I can understand that.” I said with a nod. For a while we continued to stare out to sea and it got quiet again until the werecat spoke up.

“Would you mind if I ask you a question or two?” T'Challa asked.

“Not at all. Lay them on me.” I said.

“First of all, you told me of a trap that would lure Death Tiger to us at the zoo. But what was it exactly that you did?” T'Challa asked.

“Oh that. I just had Hangman's widow Adrian call the number Death Tiger gave at the dealership where he got the car and tell him the location in return for being spared the same fate as her husband. It was a long shot and I didn't think the guy would fall for it at first, but it worked in the end.” I said with a grin.

“That it did. You have a great skill in the art of deceiving your enemy.” T'Challa said.

“Thanks. Now what was your other question?” I asked.

“Well, Spiderman...Actually, would you mind if I called you Peter?” The werecat asked.

“No I wouldn't mind.” I said.

“Good. Peter, while cats are a species that live solitary lives I must say that it is not something I can live by. However because I look the way that I do I can't go out and socialize normally without covering my face.” T'Challa explained.

“Yeah, I know how that goes.” I said in agreement.

“However since having met you I don't feel that I must hide who I am. And for the first time in a long time I feel...normal. As if I don't stand out like before. So my question is...would you be willing to visit where I live in the woods now and again? Perhaps even have dinner or spend a night?” T'Challa asked, ears bent down in a way that looked nervous.

“Are you asking me to be your friend?” I questioned curiously.

“Yes...And perhaps more, but only if you wish it. In return I will be more than happy to aid you and whatever fellow allies you have in protecting New York. So what do you say?” T'Challa asked.

I kept silent for a while then chuckled a bit. Then I removed my mask and leaned in closer to stare into those two gold marbles for eyes with my own bunch of brown eyes.

“I say...Who loves ya, baby?” And with that we shared a kiss. Who leaned in to start it first didn't matter though. All that mattered was that we were doing it together. And from that night onward the Big Apple didn't seem as rotten anymore.

+++++End of Act 3+++++

“That was...Spectacular! This is officially one of my favorite comics from Stan yet!” Peter exclaimed, hugging the picture book to his chest.

“I must say I found Mr. Lee's story to be very spellbinding from start to finish. And his portrayal of me was accurately flawless.” T'Challa said.

“This gives me ideas to make my own Noir suit now. Just think of the stealth qualities it will have! I should get to work on it.” Peter exclaimed and started to get up but was then pulled down onto the bed by T'Challa.

“You can get to work on your new suit later, my arachnid. Right now though I have ideas of my own.” T'Challa said, giving a seductive purr which made Peter giggle.

“Alright then. All work and no play makes a spider dull after all.” Peter said coyly and they passionately made out until the king received a call about his project and had to go home.

Needless to say, Stan's announcement of a sequel for Spiderman Noir was well received.