Mick was late. Mick was never late.

It made Anja anxious more than anything, sitting at that coffee shop, bandana keeping her hair from her sweaty neck and sunglasses covering her face. It was hot and the A.C wasn't cooling her down and she hated the heat and maybe that was making it worse but all she could think about was Mick caught up in some sticky white web while he ran his mouth, spelling out Vaselevsky twice just to make sure his captor got it right. She could only hope he would spell it wrong.

Angry churning knots in her stomach were fueled by the frequent sips of black iced coffee. Anja was jittery, entire body slightly shaking and her heart pounding in the base of her throat. Her toes tapped against the floor, offbeat and randomly switching rhythm.

She couldn't stand being in public places like this. University students laughing and whispering and stressing in huddled groups, loud thoughts and pounding hearts. An emotional cacophony bounced around in her skull. It was too much to block out; too many overwhelming and painfully significant emotions running high and wild, leaking out of hunched shoulders and compressing Anja's chest. It always got worse with time, wearing her down and wearing her out. She twitched, unfamiliar thoughts echoing around her ears like they were hers. There was nothing to focus on. Nothing to force her concentration into and nothing to drown out the laments and the cheers and the groans, all overlapping into one indistinguishable static.

She was going to kill Mick. She was gonna kill him.

"Anja, hey!" her head snapped up at the sound of his voice and her eyes focused, heartbeat slowing and all of the sudden the dial just turned down. She took a sip of her coffee. "I'm sorry I'm late! I know you hate coming out here and you hate it when I'm late," he rambled, his hands gripping onto the top of the chair across from her. She focused hard on his words, letting the meaning of each one sink into her head; she almost didn't notice the fidgeting figure that stood behind Mick. "I erm, well, I ran into one of my friends from high school."

With her heartbeat calmed, Anja gave him a dry smirk. "You had friends in high school?"

Mick gave her a tight smile and through gritted teeth said, "Please don't do this right now, alright? Let's be pleasant." He stepped to the side, letting go of the chair and revealing the figure standing behind him. Anja eyed him, mouth pressed into a thin line and taking in his slacked posture, shaking and unsure smile and the way he shifted his legs around. His brown eyes were on her, but they would flick away and then come back to her like he was afraid of looking for too long. Her mouth felt dry. She liked the slight curl in his hair and she couldn't explain away the flutter in her gut. "This is Peter Parker; we were in the robotics club together and he makes a mean robot," Mick introduced with a smile. "Peter, this is Anja Vaselevsky, she's mean and unlikeable and makes me cry in bed at night, but she helps me take care of my mom."

With pursed lips and an unsure wave, Anja said, "Hey," in a shaky voice that sounded higher than her own.

He flashed her a brilliant smile, just for a second, and extended a hand out towards the girl. "Hi, I'm uh, I'm Peter. Peter Parker."

She didn't take it. "Yeah, Mick just said that."

"Ha, yeah, right that's, yeah," Peter let out a breathy laugh, stumbling over his words and dropping his hand to his jeans, rubbing the sweat off on the side of his leg, "um….stupid." He flushed. Anja felt electricity hum in her chest

Mick frowned, eyes narrowed as he looked between the two frazzled and uncomfortable people between him. Peter rubbed the back of his neck. Anja tapped her fingers against the side of her thighs. "Right, well," he said with a sigh, eyes wide with exasperation, "actually I wanted to introduce you guys because Peter actually works for the Avengers."

Anja snapped her head up, eyes fixed hard on Peter. "Do you now?" she questioned, desperate to maintain a tone of casuality, the vague interest of a stranger with no ulterior motive.

"Well, pff, no not really. No," he started, and then frowned, rubbing his hands together. "Well, kind of, I mean. I have an internship with Mr. Stark that I do in between classes. I've had it since high school so, y'know I've met them a couple, a couple of times," Peter stumbled, arms crossed and his voice wavering in pitch.

"Have you met Spider-Man?" Mick asked with a grin, and Anja pictured very vivid ways she could hurt him when they were out of the public eye.

"Mick-" she warned, rubbing the space in between her eyebrows.

"Because-because Anja really likes Spider-Man!" Mick exclaimed, and then turned to Anja with a bright grin. "Don't you?"

Anja pursed her lips and shook her head. "Nope."

Mick leaned towards Peter and gently hit his shoulder with the back of his head. "She's just embarrassed," he explained away, and Anja's reddening face helped his argument. "Anja's obsessed. She talks about him all the time."

Peter raised an eyebrow, an unsure and lopsided smirk growing on his face. "Do you?" he asked of Anja.

This was Mick's last night alive. She was gonna kill him. She was gonna fucking kill him. "Hmm, nope. That is just factually incorrect," her tone was cutting now, warning. She couldn't keep up with the niceties when she was picturing Mick nursing a broken nose.

He kept pushing her, though. "C'mon, Anja don't be ridiculous. I think she has kind of a crush on the guy. She's always talking about him and she has his pictures on her wall and she's always wondering who he is and if- ow!"

Anja adjusted in her seat, pulling her leg back and looking at Peter with a forced smile. "He's stupid. Don't listen to him." She turned to the other boy and said, "Mick, buddy, I think you have me confused with someone else."

"No, I definitely don't. Anja, it's okay. You don't have to pretend. So, have you met the guy?"

Peter looked like he was fighting the grin off his lips and losing. "Um, yeah, yeah! He's pretty cool, I think. Nice guy, and all."

Mick tossed Anja a pointed look. "See, Anja, he's a nice guy."

"Oh, great. That's, that's great news."

"Um, well, I've gotta, I got-I got class," Peter stumbled, still grinning and voice a little steadier. He rushed through and stumbled over his words and his drawn-out vowels, with a pink tinge in his cheeks. "Mick it was, yeah nice seeing you dude. And hopefully I'll uh, see you around Anja," he finished, with a small wave in the girl's direction. She responded with a subtle nod, eyes on the ground.

Mick grinned and threw up a hand as he retreated. "Bye, Peter," he called plopping down in the seat across from Anja.

Anja waited until Peter had disappeared, out of the coffee shop and down the street before she turned her attention on Mick and said, "You are the stupidest fucking person I have ever met in my entire life."

He scoffed. "What? C'mon, I'm a genius."

"No, you're a fucking moron," she hissed, leaning across the table like she was going to lunge at him, "and the only thing holding me back from throttling you right now is the amount of witnesses."

"Anja, you're not seeing the bigger picture," he explained, curling his fingers and waving his hands. "He works for Iron Man! He could be our man on the inside!"

"Mick, he's a fucking intern. He is not on the inside! He's probably not even getting paid!"

Mick tilted his head. "Interns don't get paid?"

"And you know what you just did?" Anja continued.

"What did I just do, Anja?"

"You gave my real name to a guy who works for Iron Man and has fucking met Spider-Man, you fucking idiot."

His face fell. "Oh."

"Yeah!"

"Yeah, that could, uh," he coughed, fist to his mouth, "potentially be not good."

"Oh my god," Anja panted, tangling her fingers in the roots of her hair. "You're gonna get me killed. You're literally going to have me murdered. Is that what you're trying to do? Is this how you're planning on getting rid of me?"

"Anja, I'm not trying to get rid of you. I can't survive without the extra income you bring me and my mom would freak out and also I'd probably go to jail too-"

"No, you would definitely also end up in jail, Mick," Anja interrupted. "Do you realize that? I don't think you know that. Chrystus. How did you get into this school? Odjebało ci? Pieprzony idioto."

Mick just simply rolled his eyes, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a black notebook. "Whatever, Anja. It's not like he knows or he's gonna go snitch or something. You're overreacting."

With a harsh glare, Anja yanked the notebook away from Mick and stuffed it in her bag. "There better not be any mistakes in here. I'm seriously considering replacing you."

"You'll never find someone with my same street cred that's as decent as I am."

Anja snickered. "Decent isn't exactly the word I'd use to describe you, dupek."

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "It only gets worse from here, Vaselevsky."

"Whatever." Anja crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair and letting out a deep breath. "I'll be by your place Sunday. How are the fake setups going?"

Mick sucked in air and blew it out, cheeks big. "Nothing so far. I've set up a few here and there but so far I haven't been able to see if there's been any activity."

Anja nodded. "Call me if anything happens on that front." She stood, stretching out her limbs. She couldn't wait to get out of there. "And please," she continued, leaning down to glare at Mick, "don't do anything else stupid."

He gulped.

Anja liked to show off with the knife; she was quick with her dicing and held in carefully between her fingers. Mr. Rywin scoffed at the way she chopped up the onions, his own hands carefully shaping and molding the potatoes between his thumbs. Anja smiled. "If you chop your thumb off, mały, I'm not taking you to the hospital. You will have to deal with that yourself."

"Mr. Rywin, I think I can handle a minor flesh wound like that," she bragged. "Like I don't know how to give myself stitches."

"Have you ever done that before?"

Anja shrugged. "Once or twice. It's a useful skill."

The old man shook his head. "You are a strange one. That I know for sure."

"Resourceful, is the word I would've chosen," she grinned. "Hey, y'know Stavros offered me a job? He wants me to coach the level nines."

Mr. Rywin paused, and looked up at Anja with wide eyes and a knowing smile. "Ahhh, there you go mały, a nice job with a paycheck. Now that's something you could use."

"I didn't take it," Anja corrected, frowning. She didn't like talking about money. She didn't like the tone in the old man's voice. "I can't teach a bunch of kids. They can't do what I do."

"Well, not now they can't," he suggested, resuming his work with the potatoes. "That's why they need you to coach them. To mold them into better athletes, better gymnasts."

Anja shrugged. "I don't even know how I can do what I do," she lied, eyes down on the onions as she chopped slower. Anja knew all too well, but that wasn't something she could pass down, not knowledge she could ever share. "They don't have the strength that I do. They never will. I have no technique, just talent. I can't coach those kids."

Mr. Rywin waved a wrinkled finger on her. "Just cause you don't use technique doesn't mean you can't spot it, can't tell when someone else needs it. You've been in the sport how long? You can coach a bunch of little brats, mały , you know what it's like to be one," he teased, giving her a wry smile and a throaty laugh.

She smiled, despite herself, and tossed a floppy string of onion in the old man's direction.

It might've been someone pathetic of Anja to spend her Friday nights with the old man, cooking dinners for his family visits, sneaking bites and filling tupperware containers up to bring back up to her apartment. There was a slight pang in her chest, when she thought about it; the bars and the parties and all the places that Anja could never hope to step foot in. The thought of it, it made her stomach churn. She didn't know what she was missing but she missed it anyways.

And it wasn't that there was anything wrong with her evenings with Mr. Rywin. It was certainly a refreshing change of pace from the way she usually spent her nights; with her hands drenched in blood and her mind plagued with memories she never wished she discovered in the first place. But at least when she was drawing blood and crushing bones, there was this rush that she just couldn't get from making kopytka.

The older man cursed lightly under his breath, and Anja looked up from her cutting board to see him rustling through the items in his cupboard. "Mały," he started, "would it be terribly inconvenient for you to run down to Vinny's and pick up some vegetable oil? It seems I'm all out."

Anja gave him a gentle smile. "Sure, Mr. Rywin. No problem."

"Alright," he said in his aged and croaky voice, reaching for his wallet. "Please be careful out there."

"Always am," she told him with a grin, and pocketed his crisp ten dollar bill.

Anja shook her head. "That's not right. The change isn't right."

The cashier leaned in towards Anja, eyes narrowed. "You gave me ten, it was thirty-seventy nine. You end up with six-eleven."

"No," she argued, shaking her head, "I get six-twenty-one back. You're doing the math wrong. You got a calculator right there, why don't you use it?"

"It's ten cents, you're gonna hassle me over ten cents?"

"I'm out here shopping for a little old man and you're tryna graft him. Yeah, I'm gonna hassle you over the ten cents."

"It's six-eleven."

"It's not. Get your calculator out, I swear to god."

The man behind the counter groaned. He was mid-forties and tired and he had had enough of this kid already. Anja stared up at him with a locked jaw. She didn't ever have to deal with people like this back home. "I'm not getting the calculator out over ten cents."

"No, you're not getting the calculator out because you know I'm right and you don't wanna be proven wrong."

"Alright, you know what? Fine." He opened up the cash register and tossed a dime at Anja. She caught it in her left hand. "All that for ten cents. Hope that old man needed it."

Anja gave him a sour smile before grabbing her vegetable oil off the counter and walking out the door.

The New York streets were quiet, more quiet than they usually were and it sent a chill down Anja's spine. It was a chill summer night and her sweatshirt fell halfway down her thighs, worn-out Converse scraping against the pavement. She liked the night; when people were shoving each other in crowded bars or holed up in their homes and Anja would walk through the streets without the static in her head. She could stretch out her limbs, enjoy the air on her skin, inhale the polluted air and let it corrupt her lungs.

Anja didn't get a lot of opportunities like this, to just walk and clear her head. She appreciated the silence, the chill and the breeze and the emptiness. Her apartment was just a few blocks away but she circled around, vegetable oil bouncing around in her sweatshirt pocket, dragging the fabric down. It was rare that she could enjoy hearing only her thoughts, feeling only her emotions.

There was a time, when she was a child, when that was all she could feel. She didn't know how long, maybe her first eight years, when her dad just had her training and fighting and running and flipping. It wasn't that she was happy, but she was simple. A little girl with a pushy father who wanted her to be better than she was. But her dad pushed too far; electrified and envigored. When she got to walk the streets like that, quiet and empty, she liked to think of the times before. When things were always quiet.

It couldn't last forever, though, it never did.

Some people had louder thoughts than others. Thoughts that she didn't have to reach for, ones that jumped out at her, like being shouting at. They hit her at the same time her spine arched inward, tingling and aware. All alone. All on her own. Do we have time? God what a whore. Is there anyone else around? Is she even fucking wearing pants. What do I have on me? Fuck, holy fuck the legs. Fuck, fuck. Don't scream.

Anja was used to being a woman, used to the implications and used to the threats and used to the consequences. And it made her tired, bone-aching, head-pounding tired. The two coinciding set of thoughts made her drag her feet, dreading the upcoming conflict and dreading what she would have to deal with. Still, she'd rather it was her. Better her than someone who couldn't see it coming. Better her than someone who couldn't do what she did.

Eyes closed, she ran through her options. Different scenarios, different outcomes. Anja could've turned around right then, snapped their necks and been done with it. That ended with a blood curdling scream that didn't belong to her. She could've screamed, called for witnesses and scare them off. But that ended with more blood and more risk. Baiting them was all she was left with; to keep walking like she didn't know they were there at all, turning down an alley and then a little subconscious manipulation and some broken ribs and she'd be on her way.

She continued walking, ignoring the echoing thoughts about the back of her legs and the whispers between the two of them that bounced off empty sidewalks and buildings. Worst of all, she could feel their excitement; their nerves and the anticipation building up with each step they took and Anja thought it was going to make her throw up. She wished she could've just ended it there. But she careened her head around, looking behind her with wide and surprised eyes and then ducked off into an alley, making sure the gasp that fell from her lips was loud enough to make them follow.

As she ventured further into the darkness, she closed her eyes. A knife, just one, about three inches on the guy on the right, a few bruises on her cheek and dried blood on her calf. Eyes opened, she came to a fence, turned around, and saw them there.

"Hey pretty girl, where you going?" the one with the knife in his pocket called to her, like he was reading off the script in her head. "Dead end down here, you know?"

Anja let the nerves creep into her throat. They weren't close enough. "Just tryna get home," she answered earnestly, looking back and forth between them and the fence. They just needed to take a couple steps forward before she could make clear eye contact and lunge.

"Ah, honey, we can help you find your way to a bed tonight."

Gross, gross, gross, Anja thought repeatedly, fighting off every instinct to wrap her hands around his throat. She just wanted to get out of this with the least amount of blood spilled possible. She swallowed thickly. "I don't think that's necessary."

The one on the right let the knife fall to his hand, silver blade bright in the dark alley. "I don't think you have much of a choice," he chuckled darkly.

Anja lowered her eyes, ready. And then-

"That's really no way to get people to like you."

The voice made her cold, shot upright and frozen with her back against the chain link fence. The first one was at the knife, knocking it out of his hand and then pinning his wrist to the brick wall behind him. The second one hit him in the mouth, muting his yells and muffling his complaints.

Anja could do nothing but stare, paralyzed as that stupid red fucking jump suit bounced into view and landed a swift kick to the second man's jaw. "You should try being yourself, you know?" he quipped from behind the mask, dodging a left hook. "Or maybe someone else in your case." Another web, directly to the man's chest, and he was flung in the opposite wall, forehead crashing against the brick where his accomplice was stuck. He collapsed to the ground motionless.

Stunned, Anja held her breath. Don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Fuck.

Spider-Man took a step towards her, hand outreached. She didn't move, staring at him.

All she could think was that he knew. There was no way he didn't know. And she was standing there, mask gone and identity clear, thinking that it was it. That he got her. It was the end of her days as the Harpy; the end of her days protecting the women of the streets. Her heart was thumping in her ears. He took another step towards her. "What's your name?"

Do I tell him my name? I can't tell him my fucking name. He'll know it's me. Does he know it's me? Will he recognize my voice. Fuck. Fuck!

Anja inhaled, and in one breath, let out, "Nie wiem, co się dzieje! Nie wiem, kim jesteś i nie wiem, co mówisz, a ci faceci pojawili się znikąd! Chcę tylko iść do domu! "

He titled his head. Anja didn't like the way the eyes on his mask moved like they were human, squinting and shifting and staring her down. "Alright," he said slowly, "I don't know what you said, but I know you speak English. I heard you speak English." He took another step towards her. "I just need to know you're okay."

Oh. I'm a victim. "Umm, yeah, I'm fine," she said, nodding her head. "Fine just a little, y'know, freaked." That part wasn't a lie. She felt dizzy with nerves.

He let out a small chuckle that rung around in Anja's head. "Who wouldn't be? If creeps like that were following me around I'd be freaked too." Anja forced herself to laugh, a hollow, breathy laugh. "Let me make sure you get home safe."

Anja jolted, legs working and pushing past the masked man. "No, no, that's okay. Really, I'm fine. You don't have to do that for me."

She was walking backwards through the alley, towards the street, and he matched her pace. "Are you sure? It's really late and you're alone. I mean, we could swing, if you want?"

"No, I uh, I got a thing about heights," she lied. "You, uh, you go make sure that aliens aren't robbing a bank or something and I'll get home fine on my own."

He pause and Anja stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," she confirmed with a nod. "Thanks for uh, thanks for stepping in."

"Anytime, Anja."

Anja shook her head as she walked away. She fucking hated that guy.