I was awoken at 10:00 the next morning, not by an alarm clock, not by the suns rays, and definitely not by my mother. A cockroach awaked me. This discovery was accompanied by many screams on my part, that I'm sure woke many others in the hotel. Once I calmed down however, I realized the reason I was in such a mediocre dump in the first place. I had nowhere else to go.

          Throwing back my covers, I crossed the room to put all my strength into opening the half-rotted paint-chipped window . . . and almost had a heart attack, tumbling backward onto the yellowing (which had probably been white at some point) carpet.

          "You make it seem like you're not happy to see me!"

          Spider-Man, or Peter Parker, whichever you prefer, was hanging upside-down from the outside top of my window, in full costume.

          "No, that's not the case at all, what ever gave you that completely correct impression?" I remarked sardonically. He grabbed the inside of my window, swung his legs in and twisted his waist so that he landed facing me. He then turned around and offered me his hand. I snorted and jumped up on my own. Shrugging, Peter walked over and sat on my bed. (This made me feel a lot better, since I was a lot shorter than him.)

          "So, you gonna tell me how you know who I am?"

          "Dude, I'm still trying to figure out whether or not I'm goin' crazy."

          "Care to . . . elaborate?"

          "Ever had one o' those dreams where you're not sure if you're awake or sleeping?"

          "Yeah, but what has that got to do with this whole situation?"

          "That's how I feel. My mind is telling me that you don't exist."

          "Brain tumor?"

          I sighed, shaking my head. I truly did not have the energy to deal with Peter's humor at the moment.

          "What exactly do you want me to tell you?"

          "How you know, where you came from, and why you were in that alley."

          "Well settle down, Web-Head, cause it ain't no short story."

He stood up, made a web hammock that hung from the ceiling, lay in it so he was facing me and said,

          "I'm ready."

          I rolled my eyes, lay back on my bed, and started my account.

~*~

          Twenty minutes later, there was nothing but silence as Pete took in my story and anything else remotely related to my sudden appearance in the web swinger's world. A couple of more minutes passed. Then,

          "Whoa."

          I rolled my eyes.

          "Great, when he's in battle, about to die a horrifically gory death, he can come up with the corniest jokes known to the human race, but when he's in a dilapidated decaying hotel, free from any danger in the company of a potentially psychotic female, the famous web-swinger is speechless," I muttered under my breath.

          "I heard that."

          "Good."

          "You're serious about all of this?"

          "No, I just like messing with peoples' heads and stalking them so I can pretend their life is a comic/cartoon/movie. I do it on every possible occasion. Great way to pass the time."

          "I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

          "Take it however the hell you want to take it, I'm still tellin' the truth."

          "Whatever you say . . . what was your name again?"

          "Daxa. Daxa Hoffkan."

          Silence.

          "Yeah, it sucks, but hey, my parents were probably stoned when they named me anyway."

          More silence.

          "You gonna say something, or just sit there all . . . day?"  The last part was a question, because as I sat up, all that remained of 'Spider-Man' was an empty hammock swinging back and forth slightly. Nevertheless, as I looked closer, I saw that there was a small scrap of paper in it, no bigger than my palm. I probably wouldn't have noticed it if I wasn't looking for a clue to why Peter left so quickly.

          Pushing myself off the bed with one hand, I picked the floppy off-white paper up and turned it over. It read:

          Times Square. Twelve-thirty. I'll find you. Don't try to run.

          I snorted, thinking, Making demands already? I should be the one doing that. After all, I do know his identity. Oh well, got nothing to lose, and besides, I only have $200 left.  Who says I can't do a little sight seeing first? I smirked and went to sign out of the hotel, knowing that the webbing in my room would disintegrate before the maids came in to clean.  Two hours later, I was finding that two-hundred buckaroos didn't get you far, if anywhere, in NYC.

~*~

          "Shit!" I exclaimed after being kicked out of a history museum for spitting flem. I did it in the trashcan, what more do they want? I stopped a light-haired business man on the street who didn't look too busy and asked him what time it was. Finding out that I only had ten minutes to get to Times Square, I scrambled onto a bus heading that way, paying with the rest of my two hundred dollars. (Fifty cents.) People in New York seemed to up the price on things the more trivial they were. I had spent most of my money on buses like the one I was currently on. The other part I had wasted trying to get something decent to eat. In the end, all I got to eat was an almost rotten apple and one liter of bottled water that cost me more than gas would have.

          Running into the middle of the square, panting, I realized that it was useless to try to look for Peter, since there were obviously way too many people. Besides, his note said that he would find me. I slipped into a side alleyway, glancing out every now and then, sometimes glaring at gangster-looking wannabes that came too close. As people passed by, I snuck subtle glances at their watches and concluded that Peter was late.

          "When is he ever on time?" I muttered to myself, glimpsing Times Square once more before sticking my hands in my pockets and sighing, muttering to myself.

          "Apparently, 'he' is on time enough to hear that 'his' acquaintance appears to enjoy talking to herself," came an amused voice from behind, startling me. I whipped around to see Peter 'walking' upside-down on the bottom side of a building ledge, out of costume, observing my reaction. Scowling at the genetically advanced young man, I walked further into the alley so as not to let people see him . . . well . . . hanging there.

          "How long have you been there?"

          "Long enough to know that you don't trust me. I had to make sure that you were actually here and not somewhere else, standing me up."

          "And how exactly did you do that?" I asked, feeling smug that I had stumped him; that he was lying about being so observant.

          "Spider-tracer," he answered nonchalantly. I froze. Damn, forgot about those. Now there's no telling how long he's been following me. Great.

          "Right, a spider-tracer. So, are we gonna talk or what?" I asked, staring up into the sky. He didn't answer, and when I looked back down, he was standing on the ground next to me, glancing out into the square every now and then. I sighed, finding out that, the one thing that comic canon didn't tell you about Spider-Man was that he had an incredibly short attention span. Just as I was going to ask him about talking again, he picked me up and started web swinging to a destination only known to his only slightly tinted mind. I didn't quite trust him not to drop me (on accident or on purpose), so I wrapped my arms around his neck, closed my eyes tightly and prayed that he didn't have a personality change on the way there.

          We dropped onto a gray, bland concrete rooftop of some business building about two miles from Times Square and he set me down. My legs were a little shaky, but other than that, I was no worse for the wear. Peter stared at me with what appeared to be admiration.

          "What?" I inquired, not used to someone looking at me so intensely. He shook his head side to side as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

          "You're the first person that I've taken web-swinging that hasn't . . . well . . . screamed in terror or something like that."

          "Excuse me if I forgot the sound effects, Peter. I'm new to this whole 'hostage' situation."

          "Whoever said you were a hostage?"
          "Okay, the first time you met me, I was tied up, with your webbing, I might add. The next time you saw me, you freaked me out of my mind and made me tell you something. Then you left a note saying meet you and if I didn't, you'd find me. That sounds like how you would treat a hostage. Kapeesh?"

          He winced and shrugged his shoulders.

          "What did you expect me to do? I find someone who knows my identity, my past, and information about almost everyone in my life, past, present and maybe future. Was I supposed to jump around in joy that there was someone I could talk to about Spider-Man? Sorry if I wasn't as enthusiastic as you'd hoped."

          I smiled, but my expression soon became confused.

          "Can you explain to me why we're on a rooftop?"

          He grinned.

          "Simple. Up here, we won't be overheard, I can keep an eye on the city, and the view is fantastic!"

          I rolled my eyes and lay down, staring at the sky, even though I did agree with him about the view. Before I lay all the way down, I could see Peter sitting cross-legged across from me.

          "Talk to me, baby. Why do you want to talk to me, other than the fact that I need to find a way to get home, not that I want to go home you understand. Anyway, I have nothing else to tell you except that I need money. Who knew museums charged a fee?"

          "I did. But that's not the point. I must admit, I didn't believe you at first. That's why I went to the library. They have records on everyone eighteen and over. So, I typed in your name. Which is when the weirdness began. The computer said you came into the city with a valid ID when you were eighteen, three months ago, and nothing else. Zip, zilch, nada, nothing. Not even your origins. Pretty fishy if you ask me."

          "Did I ask you?"

          He laughed.

          "So that's why you wanted to talk to me? To tell me that I have some kind of mystery history? To swing me off to some rooftop somewhere to inform me of my fishy origins?"  I sat up and propped my arms up behind me. "Let me tell you something, 'Spider-Man'. All day today, I've been trying to fit in. I've been trying to act like I don't know anything, like I'm a normal person. Guess what I found out?"

          He shrugged, scooted back; I was starting to get mad. I stood up and threw my arms up in the air, screaming at the sky,

          "NORMAL PEOPLE DON'T GET VISITED BY SPIDER-MAN AT 10:00 IN THE MORNING!"

          Scratch mad, I was pissed; it was a good thing he had picked one of the taller skyscrapers; no one could hear me. Peter cringed, stood up as well, and moved away from me a bit. Okay, more than a bit. More like ten feet.

          "Do you have any bright ideas about how to get me back, Web-Head?!"

          I didn't mean that as a compliment, and I think he knew.

          "Look, Daxa, calm down—"

          "Calm down? Calm down?! How am I supposed to calm down when I'm on a rooftop, conversing with a guy who: a. shoots webbing from his wrists, b. tells worse jokes than a rock and c. swings around in red slash black slash white slash blue SPANDEX?!"

          I don't think Peter was being intimidated at all, since he broke out into peals of laughter, as did I when I realized what I had just said.

          Sitting up after catching my breath, I glanced over at Peter to see that he had closed his eyes and a smile was on his face. I leaned over him extremely carefully, and determined that he was sleeping. I wet my finger and had it about one millimeter from his ear canal when he grabbed my wrist. Damn, not sleeping. Without opening his eyes, he said,

          "Spider sense Daxa, spider sense."

          I smiled.

          "You sure know how to ruin a person's fun, don't you?"

          He sat up and opened his eyes, looking straight in mine, not letting go of my wrist, which somewhat unnerved me, but it's not like I could do anything against superhuman strength.

          "That depends on your definition of fun."

          My eyes widened.

          "Peter, you're not going to—"

          "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am going to. Thank you for asking. Most people just stutter uncontrollably, which is very annoying."

          With that, he put an arm around my waist, hopped up, and we were off. To where, I had no idea.

~*~

(A/N: In case any of you people are wondering about Peter being out of costume and web-swinging at the same time, here's an explanation. First of all, he takes the back streets, but at the same time, picks buildings high enough so that no one on the ground (as if they'd look up anyway) sees who he is. Second of all, Daxa would warn him if he was going to be in view of anyone on the buildings, even though he would notice them before she would. Everyone okay now? Okily dokily.)

Right, I'll try to keep updating this.