"No, Best Jeanist takes it ten out of ten. Hey, can you get that?"

"Sure thing," Kanamori says, heaving the sheaf of rebar over his shoulder the same way he'd done a hundred times before. It's yet another day of toiling away on a yet roofless building, many uniformed men scattered about the site and working their share with varying degrees of enthusiasm. To break the monotony, Kanamori and Tsuchida fruitlessly try to make the clock run seconds faster by prattling on about something asinine. Now, in what is likely the thousandth instance in a long, storied history of asinine prattling, they have arrived at the topic of versus battles.

"But honestly bro, you're tooootally overpowering Jeanist here," Kanamori adds, setting the rebar against a wall and gently tugging on the wire wrapping the bundle to ensure it goes taut.

"Overestimating," corrects Tsuchida, half-focused on plastering the wall, sweat beading on his furrowed brow. The mid-morning sun beating down on both men did not much help with productivity. Plus, he was probably going to get a funny tan. "But no, I'm totally not. Best Jeanist's combat awareness and the feats he's performed with his quirk make him more than a match for Hawks. It's a landslide victory."

"Whatever man. Stay mad in fourth place, denim-head."

Tsuchida scoffs, still smoothing over the last layer of wet cement. "You're just a fan because you think he's hot."

"Well, duh. But he's also number three for a reason."

"Because people think he's hot."

"And they're allowed to be right. Hold on a minute—think they need extra framing." With a grunt, Kanamori heaves up a stack of two-by-fours and trots off to another section of the site.

Tsuchida looks over his shoulder, watching Kanamori's steadily retreating form. Thoughtlessly, his eyes drift upward towards the crane that hung overhead all day; a sight that's grown more familiar the higher up the structure they've gotten. You can always see it dangle heavy steel beams above the site, easing them down one by one into place for them to build on and around them.

Time seems to slow to a crawl when he sees a carabiner give out on one end, but Tsuchida can't move any faster. As he starts to yell, the second carabiner snaps. He tries to tell himself it's not going to hurt anyone, that this sort of thing never happens, but it's around then he sees Kanamori standing right beneath it, oblivious to his impending doom.

The shadow above Kanamori grows larger, darker, and the man only notices it when it's too late. Kanamori's eyes widen and he can barely let out a scream in those last few seconds before impact.

But then, before their very eyes, something—or rather, someone—impossibly fast appears atop the falling beam. Moments after, the small figure obscured by sunlight shoots a white, wet-looking string of something far stronger than the concrete they were using. It stretches out taut, and the beam stops just a few feet above the still frozen Kanamori.

Broken from their stupor, the surrounding construction workers including Tsuchida gather around the man and ensure he's unharmed. Above them, the beam hangs, and it's only then that Tsuchida notices the hero that had saved them wasn't a hero at all. At least, not in the way he expected. It was a boy, no older than perhaps thirteen, with shaggy shoulder-length brown hair and in completely unremarkable attire; no colorful costume to be found on him.

And only after noticing that, does, Tsuchida see that the boy who saved his best friend's life wasn't even gripping the beam with his hands. Both hands were wrapped around the end of the string that seemed to come from a pair of metal contraptions on his wrists, and the only parts of his body even touching the steel were the bottoms of his shoes.

The men were picking up the stunned, wide-eyed Kanamori, all too distracted with him to pay attention to the boy. With his friend's safety ensured, Tsuchida stares up at the stranger; the kid looked thoughtful but otherwise indifferent to what he had just done. As though his mind were elsewhere, and saving Tsuchida's life was little more than a desultory gesture, done out of impulse.

"Uh, kid?" Tsuchida breathlessly said, trying to get the kid's attention. "Kid?" he repeats, and finally the brown-haired lad realizes it's him who's being addressed. The boy stops and stares at him for a moment with a bemused look on his face before shifting to one of understanding, even nodding his head as though to affirm he just heard right.

Then, the kid smiles, putting a finger to his lips. The universal sign for shush. Tsuchida isn't all too sure of what he means by that but only nods in response as he watches the stranger pull the string down and attach it to the beam. Somehow, Tsuchida doesn't worry if it'll hold.

The boy turns, facing East, and raises his hand. He fires another one of those strings from the device on his wrist, presumably attaching it to some far-off structure, and launches himself into the metropolitan tableau of Musutafu.

Tsuchida exhales, not realizing he had been holding his breath for that long and turns to tend to his very best friend. He also makes a mental note to tell Kanamori that Best Jeanist saved him once he calmed down and that Hawks could definitely not have done that.


Parker, you're gonna make it.

Skimming across the sun-baked rooftops of mammoth Musutafu, the often anxious Peter Parker is positively joyful. His movements have an energy to them—that characteristic flamboyance he hadn't found himself displaying in a very long time. Yes, the situation is dire. He's been in this world for little more than six weeks, has made little to no real progress in getting home, and really needs a haircut. But now the future has started to seem brighter—the storm clouds in his head are starting to fade, and the rain's little more than a drizzle.

The last of all the clerical work had gotten done, all with the help of that lovely cat-man that Peter had to stop himself from making jokes about whenever they spoke. The city or government or whoever was making these decisions had set him up with a modest apartment all to himself, stocked with food and water and all the things he had been missing so very much about a modern household. His name's in a system somewhere, and he's basically a member of society again.

The evaluations—academic, psychological, and physical—were a cause for concern, but they haven't brought up any questions and he wasn't going to broach the topic. But aside from all that, he was in a significantly better state than he was before his altercation with the Cube King.

'Course I am poking the bear by being out here, Peter thinks, dismounting from a water tower and landing atop a billboard, but I just can't help myself. I'm way too jazzed to be sitting still right now!

Swinging was familiar, something he could get himself lost in instead of his head. He just needed to be a little quieter about it—turn on tighter corners, stay in the shadows of the taller buildings. The only truly inconvenient part is how often people tend to look up compared to how glued to the ground most New Yorkers' eyes were; everyone's trying to catch a glimpse of a superhero soaring overhead on this world. Though if Peter's being honest, he can't blame them—he's quite impressed with himself, too.

That is until he tries to fire from his left web-shooter and is greeted with what he calls the 'Dead Bug's Click.' Which can only mean one thing: the contraption had spun its last web.

Oy vey, Peter thinks, tumbling onto another rooftop among many. He extracts the empty cartridge, heaving an exasperated sigh before stuffing it in his pocket. Last one on my left. Think I've got about one and a half on my right. I wish they gave me more money—or like, a chem set. But honestly, it's lucky enough these didn't break. He loads the half-empty cartridge into the web-shooter, guesstimating he must have at least a few hours worth of swinging unless he has to do anything heavy-duty.

Could ration it out better traveling on foot, but it's way too much harder to get a good idea of where I am. Jogging across the roof, he cranes his neck to peer over the stretch of yet unfamiliar city he still hadn't gotten quite the hang of traveling in. Before, when he was schlepping around like a vagrant, he had cut for himself sections of the city he didn't stray too far from, drawn paths in his head between them. But as a whole, compared to the way he knew Manhattan and Queens—and regrettably Brooklyn—it was difficult to parse.

Distinctions of the socioeconomic variety were easy enough to make; what areas were poorer, more crowded with tumbledown structures, and less gaudy storefronts. Residential areas were a bit less obvious, strictly demarcated by a system Peter had yet to understand, one similar to the sort he's used to but different enough that he wouldn't be able to find his way around. The most confusing thing of all, however, was the sheer frequency of petty crime often treated as and dealt with acts of supervillainy, something he supposes is a consequence of the fact that such an alarming amount of people have powers.

I mean, seriously, eighty percent. Out of nowhere. Bounding off another rooftop, Peter spies a familiar landmark: a food stand that hadn't moved since he first saw it. That meant his old hut was nearby, that being his current destination. Like, that couldn't be natural, right? Someone had to have done something to—to, I dunno, spark it. Flip the genetic switch or whatever.

He had requested a few books from Tamakawa, mostly ones that made it less obvious he was trying to piece together the history of the world, and more that he was bored and a bit of a nerd. A few travel guides, a farmer's almanac, subject textbooks—nothing too specific, but anything that he could read to get a sense of just how different things were. When Tamakawa provided a modern Japanese history book, serendipitously picked at random and translated to English, Peter was elated, even if it didn't cover very much of what was salient to him while thumbing through it.

They called their powers quirks here, a fact that Peter believes he will never not find just a little bit funny. There'd been a superhuman baby boom, a dark and hazy period of tumult that the textbook largely glosses over, and now they were at the height of an age of commercial superheroics. He can only wonder how the American military-industrial complex has adjusted.

A part of Peter wondered if this was a glimpse into the future of his world. It wouldn't be surprising given the trajectory of things last he remembered being there, but time would tell as it always does.

Just as the passage of time always arrives at an answer, Peter finally arrives at his destination. The steel hut by the tree at the deepest, most secluded part of the park he had sojourned in all those weeks ago. The tarp was still over it, just as dirty as he remembered, and the corrugated steel walls he had spent hours staring at were more or less unchanged as well. A part of him hoped it would have been dismantled already, but he felt bad not doing it himself. May had always told him not to be a litterbug.

"Glad to see Casa de Spidey's holding up. Figured someone would've tried to steal my garbage again… Maybe I left some of that spicy stuff," Peter leans down, pats the roof of the old reliable thing, and wonders just how he was going to pack it all up. There were a few panels just leaned up against each other like a reinforced house of cards, and he supposed they could be stacked and slung over his shoulders. Perhaps wrapped in the tarp, but he's sure the thing would tear if he tried to use it as a bag, and he didn't want to use any more webbing than he had to.

The tarp itself is draped over the entrance to his hovel, mostly to block out whatever sunlight crept in those mornings. Peter blindly reaches a hand past the makeshift blinds, moving to pull out the ratty old pillow he'd regrettably slept on. Then, to his surprise, something in there alerts his Spider-Sense, which urges him to quickly retract his hand before whatever it was could hurt him.

And then he hears a whimper. It's pitifully quiet enough that it takes Peter a moment to register that it came from an animal. He pulls back the fabric, tilts his head to peek into the pile of wrappers and old cloth, and finds a gangly brown terrier puppy drawing back into the furthest corner and trying to make itself smaller. It's looking at him with scared little black eyes and its head held low, not even bothering to look intimidating.

Peter is wracked with guilt. After all, seeing a giant hand come down on you is indescribably terrifying—he's fought people bigger than him enough times to know it. He can sympathize.

Again, he reaches a hand inside—slower this time, low and careful so as to not set the puppy off. It doesn't work, unfortunately; as soon as the little dog notices he's approaching again, it erupts into an almost agitating siren of squeals and whimpers. This only makes Peter feel worse.

"Hey, hey, shush," Peter coos, "it's alright little guy. It's just, uh, me. I mean you no harm. Well, unless you're a supervillain pretending to be a puppy, in which case…" He trails off, realizing then that he was trying to make funny at an animal that didn't understand a thing he was saying. Not that hyper-intelligent stray puppies would be out of place in this world, but he was fairly certain this particular pup was otherwise completely normal.

Which, if he knew anything about puppies, would be a good thing. Truth be told, Peter had always wanted a dog, but Ben had always said he wasn't ready for it yet. After Ben's passing, May was well on the verge of getting one to help fill the quiet left by his absence, and she certainly would have had she not caught wind of her nephew's slipping grades and scatterbrained behavior, all thanks to his time dedicated to Spider-Man. Or, more specifically, an event that Peter will recall forever as one of the worst nights of his life.

The memory's clear as day: she caught him scurrying through the midnight dark of their new apartment just four months into his career as a crime fighter. It was after a particularly protracted altercation with Electro; the one that ended with Peter scrambling to save both his own and the villain's lives with empty web-shooters and a thousand-foot drop. He was battered, bruised, and burnt head to toe. It was the verbal dressing down of a lifetime, more severe than he thought she was even capable of expressing.

When pressed on the state of his hair—smelling faintly of ozone and frizzier than it was the morning prior—Peter could only tell her he clumsily stepped on a live wire, if just as a feeble attempt to gain sympathy. Then asked why he didn't call her as soon as he was safe, Peter chose to remain silent, because not saying anything means he can't say anything stupid.

Inevitably, it backfired. About fifteen minutes into her harangue, a neighbor came from next door to make sure everything was okay. And to ask that she quiet it down just a tad.

So no, Peter Parker did not have very much experience with dogs.

But even still, the desire to have any kind of pet remained. Not that May seemed to blame him at all, he was a fifteen-year-old boy. Half of fifteen-year-old boys' personalities are based in part on what animal companion they keep.

All that reminiscing pulls something out from deep within Peter that he doesn't very much like. A certain melancholy that's become frighteningly familiar, almost comfortable. He frowns and everything feels a bit heavier than before.

The dog notices. If the dog could speak it couldn't quite describe why or how—after all, it's a dog. A puppy no less. But seeing this woebegone human with his hand so close and his voice so soft tells the dog he doesn't mean any harm at all. The dog stops, sniffs at his fingertips, and stretches its neck to lick his palm as if to say, 'Are ya' alright there, friend?'

The lost boy smiles at the little homeless mutt, scratches behind its ear, and watches its eyes widen, then soften. Peter, uninformed and unsure as he is, decides that the dog has chosen him. So much as a dog can choose, at least.

The pup fits snugly into his shirt and the trip back home's quick enough. It takes a bit of detouring, landmark spotting, and the occasional perching atop somewhere high enough that he might spot the grey apartment complex they let him squat in. He does make it home, surreptitiously crawls in through the window when he's sure no one is looking—not that he needs to, it's just a force of habit at this point. Sure not to let the dog fall out of his clothes, he keeps one arm against his chest and lets it nestle into the crook of that arm, occasionally shifting with it when it felt like it could discover a more comfortable position.

Hopping off the windowsill, Peter and the yet unnamed puppy are greeted with the sterile emptiness of a scarcely furnished apartment. No, it's not exactly home, but it's better than that hovel. The hovel that, given new priorities, Peter has decided is someone else's problem.

As for his problem…

Pulling the dog out of his shirt, holding it in his hand like some kind of trophy, its limbs hanging down and awkwardly trying to gain purchase on air, Peter is at a loss for what to do next. They didn't give him dog food, obviously, and he's not sure what he's meant to be feeding the little thing.

Peter decides it best to let it roam while he thinks. He carefully plops the dog onto the wood floor, watching it sniff the polished linoleum in the direction of the bathroom, stumbling a bit on shaky little legs. The dog's a curious thing, that much he can gather.

I've probably got to give him water, Peter thinks, briefly taking his attention off the puppy, and keep him warm. I mean, it's not too cold out, but he looks too small. I think… You'd think I'd know more about dogs, but somehow that all went over my head. I guess geochemistry's just a lot more engaging than hairy little… What's that smell?

Instinctively, Peter turns his head to peer into the ajar bathroom door. The yet-unnamed puppy stumbles out of it, briefly stopping to wiggle its hind leg, before moving on towards the kitchen.

Given how bizarre things have been so far, he wouldn't be surprised if the little guy flushed before stepping out. It would at least be polite.


The last thing Sansa expected to smell upon stepping in front of the door to the Parker boy's apartment was dog.

Well, maybe not the last, but it certainly wasn't high on the list. Sansa's sure that's dog he's smelling and not anything else unless it was someone with a dog quirk which presented a whole other list of suspicions worth considering. While he could stand in front of the door and make guesses all day, he opted to knock and get them himself.

"Hold on!" he heard the boy say from behind the door, sounding curiously frazzled. "One… One second—hey! Dude! You can't chew on—that isn't a toy!"

A few footsteps. Some fabric tearing. What sounds like a bucket of water falling over and splashing all over the floor.

"Parker, is everything alright?" Sansa asks. The answer he receives is the apartment door flying open, the boy in question stood before him with a large wet stain on his shirt.

"Do you know how to bathe?" asks Peter in return. A beat. Peter shakes his head and clarifies, "Like, a dog. Do you know how to bathe a dog?"

"Why do you—"

"Please tell me you know anything about dogs."

The cat-cop stares at the haggard boy for a moment that feels too long. Peter's out of breath, eyes crazed, and there's a steadily growing puddle creeping behind him, all joined by the quiet sound of something slurping. It's only noon.

Sansa sighs and says, "I know a few things."

About an hour later and things are a little more orderly. Sansa, as Peter learns, used to intern at an animal shelter when he was in high school. There's a certain grace to the way he handles the puppy; a practiced level of care and precision while cleaning the little guy up. And, almost unsettlingly, he's completely silent for most of it; Peter's thanks and praises are responded to only with quiet hums and clipped replies.

"There's a shelter by Dagobah Municipal," Sansa finally speaks, grabbing Peter's attention, "they will take care of him if you want to drop him off. I can provide directions, and I understand you've been familiarizing yourself with the lay of the land."

"I guess you could say that," Peter replies.

The cat-man lets out an inscrutable grunt, gently and evenly drying the puppy with a towel. "Whatever the case, it's good that you found him. There's been a recent uptick in feral dogs and strays in Musutafu, better that this young citizen does not add to that." He finishes, tapping his index finger on the curious dog's nose and setting it off the kitchen counter to the floor.

Peter, sat at the small dining table they provided him, eyes the officer up as he washes his hands and sets aside the apron Peter had no idea was in one of the drawers.

"So, any…"

"Yours has been a special case," Sansa begins, figuring where the teen was going with that, "one that has gone through more bureaucracy than I, quite frankly, believe necessary. But it has been largely agreed upon that a debt is owed to you for taking action when you have."

"I'm not really looking to get paid."

"And we cannot necessarily pay you. Given what you've told us of your history, we also cannot outright ignore you in good conscience, or at least without concern among those that have taken an interest in you."

"So what then?" Peter leans back into his chair, strangely affronted, but trying not to show it. "I'm being kept here because… People like me?"

"Yes. Or more precisely, they appreciate your services and considerable capacity to dispatch criminals. You did fine work."

"I guess."

"I am being earnest. We have tried to keep it quiet for your benefit, but the word of your actions has spread. Aspirant heroes your age aren't typically so newsworthy. Given the nature of your situation, it's natural some might want to capitalize on it and make you an offer." Sansa takes a seat at the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and—yes, he has a human body. No fur on his arms, just a cat head. Peter isn't sure how to feel about that. "You are a young man with no connections, combat skills, and from what we could glean from your academic evaluations, quite the mind."

Peter has some idea of where this is going but allows Sansa to continue. "We received a message from U.A. High School. If you are not aware, it is the current number one school in heroics pedagogy and the most esteemed hero academy in the nation. They caught wind of your situation and wish to extend an offer to you, Parker, of an opportunity."

A few things went through Peter's mind upon hearing this. The first was utter surprise at the fact that heroes were so thoroughly ingrained into society that they had schools for them, of all things. The second, all the things that could come with accepting this offer, pros and cons and all. Which would be much easier if he knew exactly what the offer was. To remedy that, he asks, "And that opportunity is…?"

"Enrollment. Three years free of charge alongside language tutoring and opportunities to find work and establish yourself here if you so wish to stay." Sansa finishes drying himself off, briefly grimacing at the state of his clothes, damp from the dog's splashing about. He takes out a notepad, scribbles something down, and tears the slip out to leave it on the kitchen counter. "You spoke of not having anything nor anyone to come back to, and our searches have come up with nothing to bring you back to. If you truly wish to start anew here, this would provide you the means to do so."

Peter opens his mouth to speak but is promptly cut off by Tamakawa, "The only conditions are that you score well on an entrance exam and maintain an acceptable academic standing. Given the circumstances, you will be scrutinized more carefully than most prospective students, but I am sure you would have figured that."

Peter is silent, pensive, curious about a great many things. Even though Sansa's already gone and explained it to him, he still struggles to understand why the supposed top school for heroes has taken such a vested interest in him that they'd make such a hefty offer. Seemingly with a very little caveat attached. Not that Peter doesn't want to ask; every paranoid impulse in him tells him this is some sort of trick, but he's been wrong before, and it wasn't like Spider-Sense was going off. There's no reason for him not to trust these people, and yet—

"Alright," Peter says, "what's the alternative?"

"Deportation."

Sansa delivers the word so simple, so incisively, that Peter is almost certain it could take on the physical form of a knife.

More of an ultimatum, then. Either get sent off to the States where no one knows him and likely won't give him the inch he needs, or go to a superhero high school and try to find the sort of person he needs through there. However long that would take. But considering how long it had already been, it wasn't like things could get too much worse.

"I'll take the offer." Peter stands, stifling a sigh and pushing the chair back under the table. "So, uh, what now?"

"I will relay the message to the school so they can get you started with the enrollment process." The man makes his way towards the door, briefly kneeling down by the excited puppy and scratching behind its ear, before continuing out. "You will be hearing back from them within the week. Be ready and rested." He opens the door, takes one step out, stops, and closes the door behind him with the same mechanical grace he always seemed to carry himself with.

"Be ready and rested," Peter repeats, now leaning against the counter where Sansa had stood moments ago. "Man, I guess cats would act a lot like vulcans if they could talk. Right?" He angles his head down to look directly at the puppy, who looks back up at him with head tilted and ears floppy.

Peter blinks. The dog blinks. Both party's stomachs rumble. Peter sighs and declares, "I should give you a name." And he likes to think the dog agrees. So much as a dog can agree, at least.


The dog's name ends up being 'Sandwich' because that was all Peter had the means to make with the meager groceries he'd gotten himself. Plus, they shared one together, and Peter supposes that's something special.

A day passes and he takes the little guy over to the shelter Sansa had left him the directions to, stumbles over his Japanese and ends up leaving with the dog still in his hands, an old used collar and leash, a bag full of pet supplies and directions to a veterinary clinic that offers free first visits.

So what if he ended up keeping the dog for now? The apartment was much too empty anyways—having company was good for him. With any luck, he'll find little Sandwich a home well before he's done finding a way out of this dimension. Which, given who he is and how the last year or so of his life's gone, might be too much to ask for.

"Someone's gonna want you, little guy," Peter coos, scratching under the dog's chin and feeling a little warmer inside when its eyes shut in satisfaction. He's only a little anxious about leaving the dog in the apartment alone, but the floor is lined with puppy pads; Sandwich ate and was already looking much healthier than the day before, and there's very little for the dog to get himself hurt on in the apartment. "But I've gotta get some fresh air. And snacks."

Peter places one foot on the windowsill, getting a bit of leverage to carefully pull it open and stare out into the increasingly familiar late afternoon cityscape. He takes a deep breath, and prepares to take a leap…

But then, a knock at the door. With a small irate groan, he turns back around and stomps on over to it, pulling it open a little forcefully. He had expected it to be someone trying to sell him something—again—because for some reason those pamphlet-wielding smiley scuzzballs who never let you watch television in peace existed in all manner of universe, but he was instead greeted with… Well, he doesn't really know what.

"HhhHHeLL-O—! Young Mr. Parker!" says a booming, high-pitched, jovial voice in perfect English.

Out in the hallway is a man, roughly a foot taller than Peter, wearing orange-tinted shades, an all-black suit, a funny radio-looking contraption around his neck and slick blond hair that adds yet another foot to his height. On the bend of his left arm, a suitcase dangled by a leather strap. And he was posing. Or was he dancing? The way his hips jerked side to side and he held his hands palms-forward, fingers outstretched shaking them around fervently, implied this was meant to be some sort of dance.

Were this any other situation, Peter would've shut the door and called the building superintendent about a likely dangerous trespasser. However, this is unfortunately what Peter seems to have been waiting for. A little nonplus at the speed with which the school got back to him, he quietly asks, "Are you with U.A.?"

"That's right little fella! Aren't YOU per-cep-tive!" The taller man strides into the apartment uninvited, raising his eyebrows at the sight of all the protective padding. Peter grimaces at being called little, but pays it no mind otherwise. "You having toilet troubles?! Happens to my buddy Shota all the time—don't tell him I told you so!"

"I… What? No! I got a dog. I'm trying to train him to, y'know, pee on the pads. Like dogs do."

"Hm! Right, Tamakawa diiiid mention a dog. My bad!" The strange man unstraps the case from his arm, holding it in both hands. "Guess we should get started, but first—! Incase YOU haven't heard of ME, I'm the one and only—as far as copyright goes—Present Mic!" He stops as though waiting for an invisible crowd to cheer.

Peter's just worried the neighbors might send in a noise complaint, so he finally shuts the door behind the older man. Never has he encountered such a profoundly loud human being; this Present Mic character makes high school lunchrooms seem like libraries.

"Heard you accepted our offer to enroll at our swanky school, and let me tell you—being that I am contractually obligated to—you will NOT regret it!" He turns and holds the suitcase out in front of Peter, and only then does the boy notice a stylized insignia, likely the symbol of the school, emblazoned on the exterior. "In here's a whooole bunch of boring paperwork you've gotta fill out before we get to the parts all you kids totally enjoy." Then, Present Mic thoughtlessly drops the case, letting out an 'oop' before Peter swoops down and effortlessly catches it, quick as a wink.

"Nice reflexes, kiddo," Mic says with a curiously chuffed smile. He wipes his hands together, standing idly by as Peter unzips the case and glimpses the contents inside.

Papers. So very many papers bound with staples and rings, blessedly all coming in English alongside a complimentary pen wrapped in plastic and painted in glitter-gold. Retrieving the whole stack, the boy imagines that it would be quite hefty if he didn't have his spider-strength.

"I'd stick around and help ya' through it, but I've got other responsibilities. Pro Hero work never fails to keep busy! So!" Present Mic clasps his hands together, flourishing yet again for a crowd that isn't there. "Later this week you'll be meeting one of your future possible upperclassmen to help get you all right and ready for the entrance exams and to see if you've got any questions about the school, the city, or just about moi."

"O-kay. So, uh, where do I meet them?"

"Why, at any place of your choosing! Speaking of, I alllllllmost forgot!" Mic swings his hand around, reaching into his back pocket and retrieving what looks to be a small black phone. He holds it out to Peter, who gingerly takes it in his free hand for further examination. "That's for you. He's already got your number and his is your first, and only, contact on there. No worries about the phone plan, school's covering that for you."

Any part of Peter that regretted taking the offer quieted down the second the device's screen lit up. A phone! Not exactly a multidimensional transporter, but it was certainly more high-tech than his web-shooters and a rice cooker! And more useful in the way of getting him back home in the long run, at least.

"Try not to get too caught up in that thing. I know how you kids are! So glued to those screens when you should be—" Just then, both hear a low buzzing noise, emanating straight from the older party's pocket. Present Mic retrieves his own phone, stares intently into it the shifting screen reflected in his sunglasses, mumbles something Peter can't translate from Japanese and gets to typing. This continues for two full minutes, punctuated by the odd noise of annoyance or vague hums of contentedness. And so much tapping.

Peter, unsure if he was being rude in doing so, clears his throat. Mic looks up from his phone, blinks, and quickly shoves it back into his pocket.

"Well, I better get going! Best you get to finishing that paperwork A-S-A-P! Good luck, try not ta' leave coffee rings on the paper, some people in faculty haaate that! Nice meeting you, Mr. Parker!" The Pro Hero saunters back out of the apartment, briefly wiggling his foot to loosen some of the padding stuck to his heel, and lets himself out.

A dull ring in Peter's ears lingers with Present Mic's exit. The vigilante fears this may not be the last time they meet.

Huffing, he walks over to the dining table and sets down the case and stack of sheets. It occurs to him before he sits that he hadn't heard from Sandwich the entire time Mic was there. Turning over to the kitchen, he spots the little dog laying on the floor like a loaf, ears covering his eyes, displeased at all the ruckus.

"Sorry bud." Peter winces, then lets out a small chuckle. At least he's certain he and Sandwich agree that such noisy people were a pain to put up with. If the man's voice was so grating for Peter, he couldn't begin to imagine how it affected the keen senses of a dog.

The small smile shifts into a frown, the weight of the papers becoming far more apparent as they sit on the table. Not that it was a particularly daunting task; paperwork wasn't new to him, and neither was hunching over a desk with a pen and his patience wearing thin. But it was that inescapable feeling of time being wasted as he slaves over forms that sat on his chest and didn't quite let him breathe well enough. It's annoying to be sure, but he would be making more progress here than he would gallivanting around outside.

So he sits down, unwraps the pen, clicks the tip out and gets to it.

"The faculty of U.A. is honored that you would consider our prestigious school to further your education and pave your path to becoming one of this country's finest heroes," he reads aloud, eyelids getting heavier with each syllable. "To continue with your enrollment process, attached is a series of forms to be filled out and returned to the U.A.'s office of admissions…"

A soundless clock ticks by in the anxious mind of solemn, solitary Spider-Man. It syncs with the beating of his heart and marches indifferently into an uncertain future. But for now, in this quite certain moment, Peter arrives at page two.

End.


A/N: This one's a great deal slower than I'd like things to be going forward, but it's the early stretch I guess. Sorry this took so long, school's been unavoidably a thing! Wasn't that big a slog to write, but I really hope it's not too much of a slog to read. Things'll ramp up, pinky promise.

Feel free to leave a review to tell us whatcha hate or love about it, etc etc. Good talk.

Cheers.