Chapter Text
“Wake up.”
It’s too early. I’m tired. I fall back asleep.
A few minutes later, I hear it again.
“Wake up.”
The low, feminine voice repeats, more adamantly this time. It seems familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Thinking is way too exerting right now. My head feels weird, like a stranger’s hands are poking and prodding at the gyrus on the surface of my brain. Like the notion of waking up is firmly planted behind my eyes.
“Five more minutes”, I say. But it comes out as more of an incoherent grumble.
This time I don’t get a response, but I can feel a deeply disgruntled conscience in the depths of my mind. It’s reminiscent of the time Jean was in my head.
Wait a minute!
“Jean? Jean! I think sluggishly. Are you there?”
I don’t get an answer but I can see her smile in my head, her dimples deepening. It’s warm and full of hope. All her worry is gone. I could curl up into the cozyness and fall into a never-ending slumber.
Then she lets go. I’m left all alone. It feels like when you’re half-asleep still dreaming, then realise you’re kind-of-awake and lose the entire dream. Ugh, so frustrating.
Drowsiness weighs down my eyelids. I try to keep my eyes open, but they just won’t listen to me. They slide shut, then flutter open again. It’s white all around me when I open my eyes.
Whoa. Am I in heaven? Probably not, because at least then my chest wouldn’t be aching so much. My eyes flit up and down, left and right. Or was I? Maybe it was a common misconception that all your pain would cease the moment you died. It felt too good to be true, anyway.
Alright then. Let’s greet God or something. Opening my eyes this time is way easier, now that I have a goal in mind. My eyes regain focus and my vision sharpens. The white around me wasn’t heaven; it was a cocoon. A goddamn cocoon. Again. I could see the individual threads, smooth and silky.
Of course, duh. Silly me thinking it would be something normal for once. Like I dunno, maybe a white room! I shimmy around in the cocoon, making room for my hands to bring them up to my chest. I place my palms on the silk, it’s soft. It gives way, and I tear through it. All the sleepiness is gone by now, replaced with unbridled curiosity.
I’m looking at a medical bed, from a birds-eye view. The sheets are a navy-blue. I tear through more of the webbing to broaden my field of vision. Fatal mistake. I plummet to the bed, landing on my stomach.
“Argh…”
I curl up onto my side, my feet are on the pillow and my head on the end of the bed. It’s cold now that my cocoon isn’t acting like an improvised sleeping bag. It doesn’t help that I'm in my friggin birthday suit. I try to take a deep breath, but I get a pain in my chest. Looking down, my breath hitches.
There’s a scar on my chest, it’s wide and stellate. Jagged rays of scar tissue radiate outward from my solar plexus. They go all the way up to my pecs and taper off a few inches above my belly button. My pectoral muscles had asymmetrical dips in places where shredded tissue had healed unevenly due to my accelerated healing.
If you squint real hard it kind of looked like a Super Star from Mario. Except if a toddler with nonexistent hand-eye coordination had drawn it. And unfortunately it wasn’t golden and shiny. It had more of a purplish pink colour, in some spots it still had scabs.
It was clear from the scar that I would have died if not for my healing factor. Without the rapid cellular repair, sealing blood vessels and knitting ragged lung tissue together I would have died from blood loss alone in a matter of seconds.
The .50 caliber BMG round would have delivered approximately 10,000–14,000 foot-pounds of energy. The kinetic spike would violently purge the blood inside the heart's chambers and major blood vessels. When the bullet hit denser tissue it would tumble and deform. The hydrostatic shockwave from the bullet would expand as it moved through the liquid and tissue of my lungs and ribcage. It would create a temporary cavity inside my thoracic cavity. Before it burst through the front of my torso, pushing skin, muscle and subcutaneous fat outward before they were shredded. Propelling fluids through the expanding exit cavern in a high-velocity spray of blood.
Blood vessels would lose the ability to contain the hydrostatic pressure from the heart beating which would result in arterial pressure dropping to almost zero. The aorta, vena cava and both lungs would be shredded. Then blood would pour out from the cavity in a continuous and steady manner, not unlike dam failure. Total brain ischemia would take 10-15 seconds.
If by some miracle I didn’t bleed out I’d die from asphyxiation (Another big word, I know.) The complete collapse of lung tissue and chest wall structure would prevent any mechanics of breathing.
My muscle fibers and bones were denser than normal humans. That was something I had learned on my own post-spell. It enabled me to lift tens of tons without my bones crumbling. And had kept me alive, negating part of the kinetic energy. Or else the injuries sustained from the round would have been disastrous. My internal organ system would have been pulverized resulting in my entire torso being torn apart.
Long story short, I looked gruesome.
Bye-bye bikinis.
I turn my head around. The entry point of the round was on my back. I run my fingers over the puckered scar. It’s an awkward position. Like when attempting to put sunblock on your back. My shoulders complain.
It’s barely bigger than a coin. What a joke. The entry wound was barely bigger than the bullet, while the exit wound was catastrophic and cavernous. That’s physics for ya.
I drop my arms down by my side. I look up. Man, the cocoon looks mad weird from down here. It looks like an empty carcass. Like some giant spider escaped and started crawling around the hospital grounds. I can only think of the poor nurse that had to bear witness to a human-sized chrysalis.
It wasn’t everyday your patient encased themselves in their own organic webbing. Although it wasn’t everyday your patient was Spider-Man, either.
Thank god Frank had checked me in as Spider-man. Even if it was pretty embarrassing when he was bridal-carrying me like a big baby. Those few moments were blurry. I was half-way to La-la land, getting my blood all over Frank.
One second I was sitting in the bed of my childhood room with Jean. Having a heart to heart conversation. I’d been wrong, so, so wrong. About Jean and Metzger, about Sarah. Then my ears were ringing, something was up, my spidey-sense was telling me. Before I knew it I was throwing myself in front of Jean, shielding her with my body.
Frank had picked the absolute worst time to shoot.
The force of the bullet had thrown Jean off so much that the force-field that confined half of Manhattan had dissipated. She had this horror-stricken expression on her face. Her eyes grew wide and she started rambling. And Jean was like one of those villains with their inner monologues about their master plans and all that jazz (except she wasn’t one, she was just a kid), so seeing her all worried and not-at-all like her usual self really struck a chord in me.
My blood was pooling around us, I felt the wet slickness soaking my suit. I was certain that it was the end for Spider-Man. For Peter Parker. I was ready for it too, y’know. Kicking the bucket after saving one last person wasn’t so bad.
But here I was, fine and dandy. In a private room. That I definitely can’t afford. (not in this economy no sirree). With white walls (heh..). The room is bright, not from fluorescent hospital lights, but natural sunlight that is pouring in through the blinds on the right hand side of the room.
A heart monitor is mounted above the head of the bed. A built-in call button is on the pillow. The wires leading up to the EKG are hanging limply. Same goes for the half a dozen drips split between both sides of the bed. They’re all empty too. A discarded ventilator lay by the left side of the headboard. There’s a table up against the wall beside it with a bunch of drawings, gift cards and balloons all Spider-Man-themed, as well as a vase full of wilting flowers. Which was weird because it takes at least 7 days for flowers to wilt, and I had never been out that long post-bite. The math wasn’t mathing.
There’s one drawing on the table in particular that catches my attention. It depicts me and Ned building a spaceship out of legos. MJ had drawn it. That meant that they’d been visiting me! I paused for a second, thinking through it. Or no. They probably handed the memorabilia to the receptionist, or something. If every Spider-Man fan got to visit there would be a cue from my door all the way to the hospital entrance.
A utility cart is on the ground by the foot end of the bed. Open packs of Q-tips, rolls of bandages and syringes litter the floor by it. Another empty utility cart is blocking the stainless steel white hospital doors.
I turn my head around. Two wooden chairs are on the opposite side of the bed by the window. Who would have sat there visiting me? Maybe Frank, but not MJ or Ned. They weren’t allowed.
A few years ago back when MJ and Ned still remembered me things would have happened differently.
The sequence of events would be as follows:
Ned and MJ would walk into the hospital, hearts galloping, cold sweat running down the nape of their necks. They’d probably seen the news and came running. God knows they’re too kind for their own good.
They would run up to the hospital reception, all wide eyed, and ask the overworked receptionist standing behind the desk for a “Peter Parker”. The nurse would look through the patient directory. Her eyebrows would furrow in concentration, then they’d crease in confusion. Because there was no Peter Parker in her system, but there was a John Doe.
The receptionist's eyes would widen in dismay. “No it couldn’t be, was it?”. She’d quickly school her features. Offer an apology, “I’m sorry, we don’t currently accept visitors at this time” something simple, sympathetic.
Ned and MJ wouldn’t leave without at least causing a ruckus. Not without having to be dragged out of the hospital by the orderly staff. I chuckled lightly at the image, it irritates my chest. Today, they would probably leave in a calm and orderly manner. If a bit dejected.
But the seedling had been planted. The receptionist would connect the dots quicker than Thanos could snap his fingers. Then the press (The Daily *ahem* *ahem* Bugle) would of course swarm the hospital where Spider-Man was admitted to get the freshest scoop.
J. Jonah Jackass would find a way to get insider information like he always did. He’d bribe the hospital for information. Most of them wouldn’t succumb to the temptation of money, the doctors had oaths after all. But what was an exhausted receptionist just trying to survive her life as a citizen in the big apple to do? With the priceless information in her hands she would with my Parker LuckTM definitely tattle to the press.
Triple-J would then go on to film the juiciest broadcast ever, since the whole Mysterio-debacle. (Which he probably has no recollection of). He’d out my identity before I was even discharged.
Chills ran down my spine at the thought of it. This time I’d have to get through it all alone without Aunt May, Ned and MJ by my side. Except, I had Frank and possibly Jean now. I wasn’t going to isolate myself anymore. I wasn’t going to do it alone anymore. Both Spider-Man and Peter Parker would get their way.
I crawl to the head of the medical bed and lay down. I press the built-in call button in the pillow.
While I’m waiting for the nurse to come I notice my nudeness. Sheepishly I pull the rumpled hospital blanket over my body. The blanket is coarse on my skin, it’s one of the cheap low thread-count ones. The bedsheets at my flat were high thread-count ones out of egyptian silk. Even if I was pretty broke, bedsheets were something I didn’t play about. Especially when a good night's sleep dictated how well my healing factor worked.
It was a tip I’d gotten from a fleeting encounter with Daredevil. You know, from one vigilante with enhanced senses to another. It wasn’t often that I stumbled into Hell’s Kitchen, but whenever I would, Daredevil would find me. The ears on that guy, I was certain he had eyes in the back of his head.
Looking forward I spot a supply closet pushed against the wall opposite of the bed.
Weirdly enough I wasn’t all that hungry. I was usually absolutely famished by the time I woke up. Being in a cocoon must have put my body in some sort of diapause. Lowering my metabolic rate drastically to save vital energy to survive. I lay in bed twiddling my thumbs.
I was thirsty. Incredibly so, actually. My tongue feels like the Sahara desert. I try to clear my throat. It’s painful and I’m really hoarse. As soon as the nurse comes, I’d ask for a glass of water. Speaking of, where were all the nurses anyway? It’s been a while since I pressed the call button, I thought somebody would have come running in by now.
Now that I think about it the hospital is quiet. Completely silent. So silent you could hear a pin drop. And that’s unusual, very, very unusual. I heard no shuffling shoe-clad feet, no patient coughing in the room next door and no electronic-hums. I don’t think it’d ever been so quiet post-enhancements, especially after my second mutation.
I let out a groan at the memory.
That day on the rooftop had been a nightmare. Really, it was kind of a homage to today.
I’d woken up in a cocoon, then had to grab some rando’s clothes. Making the trip up to the attic in a pair of Juicy Couture sweatpants and a black tank top a few sizes too small was not something I ever wanted to do again.
When I entered my flat it looked like some haunted house with cobwebs everywhere. Then, the moment I stepped outside as Spider-Man my senses had been bombarded by all the sounds that make up New York City.
I could hear a drop of water falling from a spigot like it was right by my ear. An empty bag of chips being carried by the wind sounded like a huge ass monster. A bevy flying overhead was so loud I even flinched. Then out of nowhere It was as if I could hear all of Manhattan. The police-car sirens, tires swerving, mindless chatter, cars honking. Everything came at me, all at once. My senses were taking in too much input, they were being overloaded. It felt like my hearing was dialed up to 100, not eleven.
I didn’t know what was worse. Not hearing anything or hearing everything.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. I was done sitting on my ass, waiting. And frankly, not hearing anything was disturbing after hearing everything for the last six years.
“Hello?” I called out. I hear my own voice, if a bit raspy, nice and clear. I let out a sigh. Good to know I haven’t mysteriously gone deaf. But that meant that I was possibly the only person currently inside the hospital. And that's just straight-up eerie.
I hop down and take a steady step toward the double-doors. My legs shake and my knees buckle. I promptly fall to the ground like a newborn fawn. Ouch.
I sit up on the ground, it’s cold against my bum. Way to go Parker!
I look down at my body. I look pretty normal. Two arms, two legs, pretty muscular (not tryna brag or anything..). How long had I been in that cocoon for my muscles to get so weak? I hadn’t experienced any muscular atrophy which would be noticeable after a month-ish. So I had probably been in the hospital for a week or so at most. Yeah, that sounded absolutely plausible.
Being completely still in a coma for a week would make any ordinary person weaker. Spider-Man included. I was just unprepared. I was used to slinging my body weight around on a thin web like a glorified slinky. Moving was super-duper easy.
It just took me by surprise when all of a sudden my knees couldn’t even bear my own weight.
That’s all!
I shuffle around on the floor. Getting into a kneeling position I stand up with all my might. I start swaying around like when Ant-Man got super ginormous and fell in that air-port in Berlin. Except I’m normal-person sized, and instead of falling to my doom I grab onto the medical bed to steady myself.
I take my first step. I’m kinda scared of letting go of the bed. Taking a deep breath, I let go. I take another step. Q-tips, and rolls of bandages are scattered around my feet. Who made this avant garde obstacle course, I wonder. I do my best to be light on my feet, tip-toeing around the bandages. Really, it wasn’t anything bad. Worst case scenario I’d fall on my ass like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel.
Cautiously I’m inching my way to the double-doors. Slow and steady wins the race.
Thankfully it’s a small room.
It’s a bit too long for my liking before I’m standing in front of the doors. Y’know being Spider-Man and all, I tend to set the bar pretty high. Even if it's detrimental to my well-being sometimes.
I peek out of the vision panel on the door. The hallway lights are flickering and it’s deserted. I go to grasp the doorhandle but am unable to. Huh.. I look down and a utility cart is jammed under the doorhandles. I blink dumbly. Goddamnit. I pinch my nose bridge, closing my eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh.
I move the cart out of the way. This time when I try to open the door, it still stays firmly shut. It’s locked. I drop my head in exasperation.
When I open my eyes again I’m looking at the floor. On the linoleum floor lay a key-ring obscured in my shadow. It looks like someone slid the keys in under the door from outside the room. I kneel down and pick it up.
Turning it over my hands, I pick a random key to open the door. But before I do it I pause. I should probably get dressed first. Before I look like a madman wandering around the hallways butt-naked.
I turn around, eyeing the hospital-issue closet. I take a few noticeably steadier steps and open it with both hands. There's not much in it. Blood pressure monitors, a box of gloves, a myriad of dressings, wraps and tapes and at the very bottom a bundle of cyan medical scrubs and non-descript white sneakers.
I slip on the clothes and lace up the sneakers. The shoes fit well but the scrubs are a size or two too big. They’ve also got a papery feel to them. Walking back to the double-doors, I can feel the pricking of goosebumps on my skin. The clothes are itchy. I pull at the fabric in discomfort. God, who thought being a vigilante with super-human senses came with hypersensitivity.
I fish up the key-ring from my pocket, unlocking the door on my first try. I grab the door handle and open the door. With one foot outside the room, I look back. With a sweeping glance I look at the empty chairs, ruffled sheets and the get-well-soon cards and drawings for Spider-Man. It felt good to know that I had people that believed in me, looked up to me even. With a warm feeling in my chest I leave the room.
The door shutting behind me echoes through the empty hallway.
The smell of disinfectant and antiseptics waft through the air; the tell-tale smell of hospital. The smell is acrid and overpowering. I hold back the urge to hold my nose. The flickering fluorescents combined with the putrid stank was giving me a scent-induced migraine. Great.
A gurney is tipped over a few metres ahead of me. Wheelchairs are left deserted and bundles of paper are strewn all over the floor. The light flickers in intervals, intermittently illuminating the exit sign at the end of the corridor situated above a pair of double-doors. One of the doors is open.
I make my way to the exit sign. All the walking seemed to irritate my chest further. I lean forward to alleviate some of the pain. Wrapping my arms around my midsection. It helps a little. The awkward posture makes me limp.
There were numerous rooms along the hallway. All the doors were wide open, except mine. I peek inside one of them, it's vacant. I continue my voyage.
I pass the tipped-over gurney on my way to the exit. Whoever had been here, had left in a rush.
When I reach the double-doors I take a breather. I lean with one arm against the doorframe. I gasp for air. My chest moves up and down quickly. I close my eyes for a second. I was winded after only a few steps. I snigger self-deprecatingly, shaking my head. What a hoax. Spider-man out of breath? You’d believe it was impossible. Apparently not.
When I open my eyes again I’m facing an interior atrium balcony. It's big and spacious. I shuffle toward the head of the stairs, with one hand on the railing I look around the open space. The walls are white all around, but even from up here I see how messy it is.
Descending the stairs is hard. I should’ve taken the elevator. I mentally reprimand myself. Why didn’t I think of that? With an iron grip on the railing I move downward.
I must have rushed when tying my shoes, because at one point the bunny ears came undone. I stumble unceremoniously on my shoelaces, just barely catching myself on the railing. In my sheer panic I grab onto it with nearly all my strength.
When I let go of it there's a hand-shaped dent marring the shiny metal. Dude, my wallet is flatter than a pancake. I did not have the funds to pay the hospital for damages. I discreetly glance around the hospital for witnesses that may have caught me in the incriminating act.
Then I remember that there's no one around. No heartbeats, no signs of life whatsoever. I continue going down the stairs. Hospitals were supposed to be bustling with life. It’s literally a place where you save people. But here it was empty, desolate.
I shamble off of the last step. When I reach the foot of the staircase I just stand still for a moment.
“Jean?” I call out. I get no answer.
There’s a built-in hospital cafe to my left. Cupboards are open, bottles are knocked over and chairs are on the ground. There's even a goddamn toaster on the floor! The espresso machine hums slightly and it smells strongly of coffee.
“Ughh” I groan. Even from multiple metres away the smell still permeates the air. This was the reason I stayed far, far away from coffee. For one, it’s disgustingly bitter. The cloying flavour sticks to your tastebuds long after you’ve finished drinking it. Tainting everything else you eat with the aftertaste of bitingly harsh coffee.
But I might be a tad bit biased. After the bite, I was incredibly sensitive to textures, flavours and smells. It made me implement some changes in my diet, like sticking to foods with less flavour. Call me a boring white guy, but rinsing your mouth with like, a bottle of mouthwash was not fun. Especially when that was how you learned that you were allergic to mint.
Also in nature bitterness was associated with toxicity. So in a way, your tastebuds are a defense mechanism. Whenever I ate or drank something bitter my spidey-sense would start screaming at me like my house was on fire, when in reality nothing was wrong. The same thing goes for spice. Don’t even get me started on spicy food.
I turn my head. In front of me lay a hallway. Mounted on the wall above it is an exit sign. Along the wall on my right side are a few payphones. I didn’t even know that those were still in production. They were from like the middle ages. I walk towards the payphones.
I pick one of the handsets up, it’s black. I put it up to my ear and press a few buttons. Nothing happens. When I let go of the handset it hangs limply from the cord, dangling and swinging side-to-side. I repeat the same process with all the payphones. They’re all silent.
It’s not long before they’re all unanimously swinging into one another, like a Newton's cradle.
I head to the hallway. All the exercise made me thirsty. I could probably drink a horse right now.
I’m half-way through the hallway when a sugary-sweet aroma barrages my nose. I quicken my pace. I can feel a sheen of sweat covering my forehead. I’m out of breath and my chest is heaving. But the effort is not in vain. Soon, the light at the end of the tunnel makes itself clear.
The hallway opens out into a lobby.
The receptionist desk is situated on the left-hand side. The rest of the room is filled with waiting room chairs. The facade is made out of floor-to-ceiling glass paneling with a pair of double-doors in the middle. Here and there single chairs are tipped over. Like whoever was sitting got up in a rush and quickly darted out through the exit.
But what catches my attention is the busted vending machine along the wall on the right side of the lobby. A pool of saccharine soda has leaked out and several crumpled aluminum cans lay about. It must've dried a while ago, because what's left is only a sticky artificially-coloured stain on the linoleum floor.
It’s like a mirage in the middle of a scorching desert.
I all but throw myself at the vending machine, but control myself so as to not hurt my chest. I punch through the glass. But really, I barely use any of my strength. The glass breaks and falls down in shambles like canoeing through a lake full of candle ice. Not that I’ve ever been canoeing, or even been in a region that's cold enough the natural phenomenon to occur. It was already busted, I only finished the job.
I grab a Pepsi, then another. That's enough. I turn around, about to find somewhere to sit down. Pause. Then turn back around and grab a couple more Pepsis for good measure. I nod in pleasure at the sight of my arms stacked full of Pepsis.
The hospital wouldn’t miss a couple cans of soda, right?
I crouch down on the floor. I sit with one leg folded in under myself and the other drawn up. I’ve put all the Pepsis in front of me. Like those Hawaiian hula girl figurines Happy had on his dashboard in a neat row.
Man, I miss Happy. You’d think he was more of a side character in the grand scheme of it all. But still, he was always there for me. After the whole thing with Mysterio and Spider-Man's identity being revealed, he took me and Aunt May in. Happy didn’t care about the fact that he and Aunt May had just stopped dating. He wanted to make sure that we were safe. And that he did.
Even now I'd sometimes see him when I’m visiting Aunt May's grave. He only ever had good things to say about her. He only wanted to spread her kindness. And that's exactly what Aunt May would have wanted.
I pop open the can and take a sip. I gulp it down without a break, the heavenly soda trickles down my chin as I bite off more than I can chew.
I know I should probably slow down. I haven’t eaten for a week, and the first thing I’m consuming is sugary-sweet soda. My blood sugar's probably throwing a temper tantrum right now. But the heart doesn’t always listen to the brain, and that's called being human.
I crack open another can.
Satisfied, I lean back on my hands and sit with both my knees drawn up. I look over to the side, a plastic bag filled with miscellaneous items is left forgotten beside the vending machine. I empty out the contents and instead put my Pepsis in there.
I get up, plastic bag in hand. The sugar did wonders. Although I still wrap my empty-hand around my midsection, my gait has definitely straightened out.
I walk through the knocked over chairs, and go to the exit.
I leave without dwelling. Any longer and night would fall. And when that happened I wasn’t too sure that Ikea employees wouldn’t storm the building and start beating the shit out of me. Like in SCP 3008. (Thank you, Ned. For giving me nightmares about Ikeas) Like yeah, I knew that I was in a hospital but at one point they all melded together. After all, both hospitals and Ikeas were both non-places.
* * *
I gaze at the Avengers tower, or should I say the Watchtower? Everybody still calls it the Avengers tower. It looks the same.
The sun is glinting off of the A, for avengers
* * *
I gaze at Times Square.
It’s not somewhere I usually frequent. Don’t get me wrong, swinging around Times Square and Broadway is amazing. Feeling the wind against my body as I sling myself through the air so fast that the many colours of the billboards become a blur, is unmatched. That high up, the sounds coming from the hundreds of people below are muted. The never-ending chattering and the loud music can’t reach you. The all-encompassing ambient noise wasn’t distracting.
For those few moments, I was invincible.
But I just had to be sure. They say that denial is the first stage of grief. And I’m pretty sure that I’m feeling it right now. You know, standing smack-dab in the middle of Times Square, one of the places in NYC you never, and I mean never, see without people, was gobsmacking.
I felt chills run down my spine. To think that I was asleep all this time, on my impromptu trip to dreamland. While the rest of the city had to fend for themselves.
Normally walking through Times Square would be a dreadful endeavor, almost like climbing atop mount Everest. Without the suit, without the mask with the dark lenses directing my focus on the task at hand, I felt stripped bare. Vulnerable, exposed. Trying to traverse the clammy crowd felt like I was stuck in the middle of a school of fish, except I was some invasive species that didn’t have a place in it. I felt awkward, out of place.
The heat emanating from dozens upon dozens of bodies around me was just plain awful. With my non-existent thermoregulation my body would hang onto the heat. My inability to sweat would lead to heat accumulating in my core because my body lacked tools to regulate my temperature. Then if it got really bad, I’d suffer from heat exhaustion or even heat stroke.
But the smells, oh dear god. I could smell everything. The guy bumping into me had a greasy, chicken shawarma with extra garlic sauce for lunch. The woman in front of me had a hair-style so extravagant, the heaping amount of hair-spray she used must’ve caused a nation-wide shortage. The Minnie Mouse cosplayer beside me hadn’t washed that suit in a long, long time.
Every time someone elbowed their way through the crowd and every time someone accidentally touched and bumped into me, I felt a shiver run down my spine. It made me feel dirty, like the grime of the streets had been etched onto my skin.
The billboards were dazzling. And really, from West 41st Street to West 49th Street all you could see was billboard after billboard. Like some maximalist collage showcasing the effects of consumerism in the 21st century. There were neon lights, strobe lights and even flashing lights. If you looked too close, you’d sear your retinas.
But today, not a single soul was in sight.
It was bizarre. Times Square was completely barren. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a tumbleweed started rolling about. Everything was monochromatic. The concrete ground normally obscured by hundreds of pedestrians was left bare. And the vivid neons of the billboards were gone, leaving only the dark-grey colour of the screens behind.
What in the Alice in Borderland was this?
It was as if I’d been trapped in a brutalistic prison. Really, my cyan scrubs were the only speck of colour around me.
I take that back.
Littering the ground were dozens of miniature Empire State and Statue of Liberty figurines. Some of them were chipped in a few places, as if the tourists holding them had dropped them in surprise.
* * *
I make my way to the Rockafeller center.
I gaze at St. Patrick's Cathedral. Someone has crudely painted “REPENT, THE END IS EXTREMELY FUCKING NIGH”, on the side of the building. The smell of coagulated blood taints the air.
Something had happened while I was asleep. Something really, really bad.
I gaze at Nelson & Murdock. That guy always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Even though he was blind, he had this piercing stare that invaded your soul. But you had to give it to him, Mr. Murdock was a “really good lawyer”. Pun intended.
I walk past Alias Investigations.
I walk around Central Park.
The tall trees and verdant vegetation remain all the same. It’s comforting to hear the birds sing. It also means that I was wrong, I'm not in some mirror dimension where people must partake in twisted games to survive.
It’s really just me and the birds here.
* * *
I walk past Fisk Tower. Eugh, fuck that guy.
I gaze at the Chrysler building. That was Peter 2's favorite spot. I chuckle to myself. They would have long forgotten me by now. In a way it was almost poetic. All Spider-Men were alone, and were always going to remain alone.
I gaze at Empire State, Peter 3’s favorite. From down here I can’t even see the outermost top, only the sun reflecting off of the glass-panes. No heartbeats, no one holding up their phone filming for clout, no stupid Jonahs.
I place my palm on the base of the building, it sticks (like duhh, I’m friggin’ Spider-Man). I inhale, then exhale. I jump up, my feet sticking to the wall. I take a few shaky steps before I find my bearings.
Then I start scaling Empire State, and it feels just like the first time all over again.
* * *
I look at the Queensboro bridge.
Not.
I walk past Grand Central.
A.
I gaze at Madison Square Garden.
Single.
I walk the High line.
Person.
I gaze at the Daily Bugle building. I’d be happy to see even J. Jonah Jameson.
In.
I walk around Gramercy park.
Sight.
I’m all alone, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
* * *
I head to Union Square. I twirl around. Trees. Concrete. No people.
“Jean!” I yell out, my chest heaving with exertion. It hurts. “C’mon, Jean, just show yourself already!
I cup my hands around my mouth. “DeWolff! Frank!”
God, this is so frustrating. “Where are you guys? It’s not funny anymore!” My voice cracks in desperation.
I’m exhausted. I sit on the stone steps. I set my bag down beside me. My back hits the ground. My chest aches, feet hurt, spinnerets itch, everything sucks.
The silence is deafening.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’d do anything to hear another voice. Man, I sound so cliche right now. But it was the truth. It felt as if my hearing was restricted. But in reality there was nothing to hear.
I used my hearing to my advantage, detecting enemies, following along police sirens, saving people in distress. Like yeah, it came with drawbacks like sensory overload and laying awake all night because someone was watching TV three blocks over and had turned up the volume a tad too much. But all in all it was worth it. If I could save even one person from having an untimely end, that was all that mattered.
With one sense not working I didn’t feel whole. I felt backed into a corner. I couldn’t experience the world in its multi-faceted glory. I trade this, for sitting alone on the concrete floor of my apartment wishing, hoping, begging for even a moment of silence, any second of the day.
I let out a heavy sigh, digging the heel of my hands into my eyes. This day could not get any worse.
* * *
I walk around Washington Square park. The sun is on its way down. I sit on a bench, cracking open a cold one. (It’s warm by now). I cross one leg over the other and lean back. This day would go down in history, Spider-Man’s first day off. I almost wanted to call out to officer DeWolff and ask if she was happy now.
A newspaper lay forgotten beside me. I sip my Pepsi before I set the can down. I whistle some tune while I leaf through the paper. The big bold letters on one page catch my attention. I go back to that page and start reading. My eyes widen in dismay.
Martial law. Emergency evacuation. Words you see on television, words you don't associate
with civilian life. Right in front of me, right in my face. My breath hitches, my breathing quickens. What happened to Ned and MJ? Were they safe? Did they get out of the city? Blood rushes to my head. I’m out of breath, almost hyperventilating.
They were safe. Like upstanding citizens they would've left immediately. I contemplate running over (not swinging) to their flat, just to be safe.
And there were a bunch of people that could protect the city. Like Frank, Daredevil, those two in China town, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage. Hell, maybe even the New Avengers if they weren’t on some off-shore mission.
I continue reading, the paper doesn't give me any more information about what actually warranted the emergency evacuation. This is killing me, what the hell happened here? Had Thanos come back and dusted everybody but me? Maybe that void thing happened again and swallowed the whole of NYC? But how was I still here then? Nothing made any sense.
This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. This was some messed up dream-thing Jean made me see.
I let out a sigh. Who am I kidding? I had to check. Ned and MJ might not have made it out. I have to at least look.
I run past Ground Zero. But something catches my attention. I walk over to the monument. The granite walls of the memorial are covered in papers. Children's drawings depicting blood and violence, humans attacking humans. Things children should never see. Pictures of people of all ages taped on the wall. Like missing posters, but there’s just so many. I search frantically. There’s no picture of Ned or MJ. I let out a sight of relief. There’s no picture of me either. One drawing is dog-eared. I pull it back, more notes lay under it.
I run to Ned and MJ’s apartment. A double decker lay tipped over on the empty streets, the windows shattered. The red vehicle felt like a stark contrast against the concrete-jungle that is the city. What was supposed to be an “iconic” landmark for tourists, felt more like “oh no, summer vacay that went awry”. It felt eerily reminiscent of the summer I had spent in Europe.
* * *
I’m standing on the porch of Ned and MJ’s apartment building. I’m winded. My chest is heaving and my cheeks are probably rosy. I’m not tired, frankly I’m more awake than I was before. I feel refreshed and energized, even if I feel a sharp twinge in my chest whenever I take breaths that are just a little too deep.
The steps are old and grass sprouts in between the cracks. In the evening silence I can only hear my own quick and shallow breaths. This is stupid, I won’t find anyone. I run my hands through my hair, it's greasy and slightly matted.
Really, finding someone is worse, because that means that they weren’t evacuated. Rubbing my fingers together I can feel the oily residue from my scalp. It’s disgusting and doesn’t go away even after wiping my hands on the papery material of my pants.
But, what if? What if Ned and MJ were left behind. What if I could save them? Wasn’t that what Spider-Man stood for? When everybody else thought someone was done for, I was the one that persevered and never lost hope. Because, with great power comes great responsibility.
I take a deep breath and steel myself before I open the door. I take the stairs up to Ned and MJ's flat. I still remembered what floor and what number and all that jazz. It’s anticlimactic really, I mean, nothing happens.
I set my bag of Pepsis down by the side of the front door. I knock and wait for a solid minute, I’m convinced that crickets would start chirping any second now. I run out of patience and start banging on the door a bit louder. No response.
“Ned!” I yell out.
It’s quiet, I feel nauseous. “MJ?”
A door slams shut from down the hall. The sound catches me off-guard and I jump a good foot up into the air like some skittish cat.
A few doors down I see the silhouette of a person. They’re standing with their arms by their side, like, okay, that’s kinda ominous but who am I to judge. The lights flicker intermittently behind them. Dude, why was this set up like some indie horror movie?
“Hey, you good?” I say cautiously.
God, that was the dumbest thing I could’ve said. My stupidity surprises me sometimes. Of course they wouldn’t be alright. They were in an evacuated city, for God's sake.
They take a step towards me. They kinda look like an extra in Micheal Jackson's Thriller music video. God, I love that song, the rhythm, the beat. Oh, so catchy!
The light flickers again. It’s a guy. His eyes are bloodshot and his clothes are disheveled. His hair is greasy and he kinda slouches forward, dragging his feet behind him.
“Dude, do you need any-”
My spidey sense screams at me right the second his lazy gait turns into a full on tackle. He throws himself onto me. We fall to the ground making a thudding sound. The force sends a shocking pain through my chest. I gasp in agony.
The concrete floor is cold beneath me and digs into my shoulder blades from where this guy has me pinned.
He’s close enough that I can see his face, and it’s not a pretty sight. His pupils are crimson and his sclera is bloodshot. Blood coats his mouth like some toddler that just decimated a juicebox.
“At least take me to dinner first, man.” I wheezed.
His mouth is wide open, yellowing teeth right up in my face. His breath is absolutely horrid. He lurches at me. If not for my spidey-sense he would have ripped my throat out. I move my head to the other side in a split-second. The clacking sound his teeth make when he bites down on nothing but air sends a ripple of adrenaline through my body.
I close my eyes, when I open them again a sense of calm washes over me. My heart beat slows down. I’m confident and self-assured. I know that this is but a ripple in the web of life. Strength surges within my muscles and I feel as if I can do anything.
In that moment, I felt more arachnid than human. But like the time in DODC, I’m both Spider-Man and Peter Parker. I’m still conscious and in control.
I let out a low growl as I brace my forearm against his throat and push him off of me. But I’m out of practice and not quite used to my new-found power, so I miscalculate my strength. He flies a few feet away and hits the wall. Another thud. He convulses on the floor, mouth wide open like some fish on dry land.
And just like that the bubble bursts.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I gasp. “Oh god, I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m still on the floor. I pick myself up, my legs shake and I’m almost on the verge of tears, (not that I’d ever admit it.)
He gets up on all fours and lunges at me like a cat pouncing at its prey. My Spidey-sense is like a dull itch in the back of my mind. In a split second I pick up the bag with my Pepsis and reflexively whack him across the face with it. He falls to the floor, still reaching for me with trembling fingers.
“Personal space, my guy, personal space.” I say shakely.
I only get a choked gurgle in response. He projectile vomits blood. It paints the wall in an arch of vermillion. His face is contorted in pain, if you squinted it looked like a messed up cheshire grin.
“Holy cow,” I whisper in fear. Now, that's the last goddamn straw.
I web him to the ground. It feels good to use my webs, it eases the ache in my wrists.
I pick up my bag and within seconds I’m outta there. I sprint to the staircase. I can hear the thundering of steps from all over the place. Sluddering sounds echo from the entire building. My heart skips a few beats. Beads of sweat form on the nape of my neck and on my forehead, (And I never sweat from exhausting myself physically.)
I stop myself from running down any further because I can hear that more and more people are running toward the unignorable ruckus I’ve caused. I turn around and start running up instead, but the few steps I take back up lead me right back to where I started.
I look back, more keep pooling in. They trample and step on the guy from earlier. They’re merciless, without a care in the world. Their only goal is to get to me.
I watch as one too many people step on his chest. It caves in and the sounds of his ribcage breaking reaches my ears even though the sound of everything else should’ve covered it. It’s a jarring sound, like a bunch of celery being snapped in half. He only gasps, shards of bone puncturing his lungs and heart making him unable to take a breath and make a single sound to voice his pain.
I watch as the light in his eyes goes out.
I’m surrounded on all sides of the steps. They all have this frantic look on their faces. Eyes wide, unseeing. With rumpled clothes and greasy hair. They’re predators laser-focused on their prey. Unfortunately that seems to be me today.
I stand frozen on the mid landing. It’s almost a paradox. Go up: you get eaten. Go down: you get eaten. I digress, that’s not even a paradox, just instantaneous death. I eye the window in front of me.
From here, the streets feel like a faraway paradise.
They’re only getting closer by the second. I take a few steps back, get a running start and throw myself at the window. With my arms wrapped around my head, shielding it from the potential shards of glass, the window shatters upon impact.
Think out of the box, they say.
I hit the ground hard, rolling to break the fall. Normally I’d do some cool backflip, but today I feel so weak that I can barely land on my own two feet.
I immediately get up and start running again. My spidey-sense is surging, there's a growing danger right behind me, and it’s only getting larger.
“Here!” An unfamiliar voice calls. Normally I’d be all stranger danger, but after the events of today, hearing someone else is comforting. Really, having people around each and every day is something you take for granted.
“Over here!”
I run towards the voice. The wind rustles my hair, and then a flaming bottle sails over my head hitting the people, no, the creatures, running after me. I hear the sound of glass breaking and shrieks of agony.
“Over here!”
There’s two people standing in an alleyway up ahead. One’s shorter than the other but both are still taller than me. The taller one is wearing some Temu Spider-Man mask with black eye-pieces and small white eye-holes, there’s no webbing either. The shorter one is wearing circular glasses with red lenses, it’s a statement for sure. My knights in shining armour. I slow down a bit when I reach them.
“Wha- who were those people-?” I sputter, but I can’t finish my sentence before the shorter of the two grabs my arm and drags me along.
“Theres no time!” he responds.
We start running.
The other one holds a zippo lighter and a glass bottle filled with an amber-coloured liquid with a rag shoved in through the opening. He lights the rag before throwing it at the creature.
I make the mistake of looking back.
A crowd, no, a horde of people are running after us. Deranged and waving their arms around like buffoons. The bottle sails through the air before shattering on the horde. Flames engulf them in seconds. I can feel the residual heat.
The first scream out of the many that come is a woman's. She’s in anguish, but doesn't stop moving. It only makes everything worse. She waves her arms around like she’s at some Ed Sheeran concert, bringing more and more oxygen for the fire to use to grow stronger, brighter. She stumbles around into a gas station. There must've been an oil leakage, because only moments later the building combusts.
It explodes in a burst of vivid reds and oranges. Everything heats up, fast.
Normally, an oil leakage wouldn’t lead to an explosion. But the days NYC was left alone without maintenance must’ve caused vapor from the oil to build up in the gas station. Then when the lady-on-fire wandered in, the gas ignited faster than you could say “Web-head”.
The heat goes from room temperature (22oC), to a staggering 700oC in a matter of seconds. At 190oC the oil would start smoking, that would only make the fire stronger and more volatile. At 300oC windows would burst, at 400oC taking even a couple breaths of the smoke would leave you unconscious.
The rest of the crowd gets caught up in the grease fireball. They don't even get to voice their pain before the makeshift cremation destroyes their bodies. It’s violent and unforgiving.
I turn my gaze forward and keep running. I don’t think about the brown curls framing a familiar face in the crowd.