Author's Note: Actually, yes, Jennifer can change back and forth. During Civil War there was a brief period where she was locked as plain human Jennifer Walters (thanks to yet another out-of-character d*** move by one Anthony Stark), but she's been able to change back and forth at will for years now. It was even a plot point in an arc in her own comic a few years back, when she realized working out as Jennifer raised the strength of Jen by a factor of Whoa-Nelly.

Daniel wanted an anime figurine, actually. Like Jericho says, the man has gotten...weird in his afterlife. Also, Kang is smart enough to send Peter back far enough that he won't be able to be a threat - a period that will be forgotten anyway...or so he thinks. Oh, and what Sue says below...no, Reed is smarter. But have you ever met an old married couple who did not enjoy teasing one another?

Lines in "()" are in an unfamiliar language to the current viewpoint character. HTH, HAND!

…

...

Ten Years Ago

Doctor Stephen Strange, former residential on-call surgeon and all-round genius physician of Manhattan General fidgeted uneasily and frowned. How exactly was this supposed to help him with anything? Lotus position he had mastered, if not very comfortably so (something about having longer legs than the average Asian man), and meditation didn't feel nearly as alien now as it once did, but doing both on a bed of nails?

Ow.

Okay, the nails were blunt. Still hurt like a bastard.

Right. Enough of this. He opened one eyes and blinked. Mordo, the arrogant douche who kept insulting Stephen in Tibetan whenever he thought the Ancient One wasn't listening, was standing a few steps away, sneering.

"The master says for you to study in the Hall of Tablets."

Without waiting for a reply, Mordo walked off, his back stiff and his face cold. Probably infuriated for having to go give the dirty white man foreigner a simple message like a common servant. The man simply could not catch a clue. He got these jobs because he found them demeaning, not because the master wanted to demean him. The moment Mordo stopped complaining and found pleasure in the simple tasks he would be given different tasks. Much like himself, who had gone from building and dismantling brick walls to studying the chakras and basic warding spells, which he found far more frustrating than hauling bricks.

Stephen got up off the nails, wincing as he did. Right. The Hall of Tablets, to read a bunch of dull cuneiform warehouse reports or some Sanskrit sacred text yammering on and on and on about how some minor deity kicked the asses of a thousand demons, each demon getting a single verse and description...sure, he learned the ancient languages, but egad was it dull.

Right, where was he...post-Atlantean clay tablet in a kind of crude hieroglyphic hybrid alphabet. And to think a few years ago he had been one of those who thought ancient Atlantis was a myth (unlike the rumored modern nation out in the Atlantic Ocean). But sure enough, Plato had been not only entirely correct, he'd been off by a few tens of thousands of years.

Okay...something about oceans, yada, yada, yada, great sorcerer...oh, hey, this looked interesting! A great sorcerer, cheater of death, his powers beyond compare, what's up Doc...

He blinked.

Rubbed his eyes.

The last line of the tablet was written in clear English, quoting the very familiar cartoon rabbit of Stephen's childhood.

What's up, Doc?

He put the tablet down, carefully. There was a small insignia on it, an unfamiliar one. A circle with stylized webbing and a pair of large, tilted shapes. It sort of resembled a face, or a mask.

Finally, he made a decision. He picked the piece of ancient clay tablet up, cradling it gently in his arms, and went to seek out his master. Maybe the Ancient One would know...

…

…

Today

Storm and Walters were arguing quietly, or debating, and Jericho idly wondered if they should perhaps leave the premises. He felt a bit intrusive here. True, he had watched the apartment through his astral sight, but that was on business. Now he just felt much like he was rifling through the man's bathroom cupboards.

Naturally, Danny had done that first thing. He'd reported an overabundance of gauze and antiseptic and sterile wound patch packages. But according to Walters and the Latino woman who had given them all suspicious looks when they asked for the key earlier, this..Parker...was a photographer who often took pictures of superhuman battles.

Ex-photographer.

Wasn't there something in the paper about that? Never mind.

"Are we done here, ladies?" They turned to glare but were interrupted when the doorbell rang.

Danny poked his head through (literally) the opposite door. "Wow. Literally saved by the bell, there. Did you know this woman actually owns a thong? Really! I think this Parker has excellent taste in room mates."

Walters hesitated only briefly before cautiously opening the door, and to their surprise...a short, blithely smiling Asian man in green silks, holding a large brown box under one arm.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My master sent me with a delivery for you. Something he has held onto for many years..."

…

Jennifer Walters looked down at the petrified clay tablet on the table. It had been broken, once, and glued together with exquisite care, but the message it held was very much familiar. That...well, she didn't know Peter's handwriting, but who else's could it be? Especially with the Spidey-insignia next to it. She smiled in spite of herself. Trust him to crack wise through over...

"...wait, how long ago?"

"Oh, it is unknown. Somewhere between thirty and forty thousand years ago. Possibly less. After the first Atlantis, definitely. There is a second tablet, but it is not for your eyes, only those of my master and young master Drumm over there."

Doctor Voodoo looked surprised. "Me?"

"Certainly. You are the new Sorcerer Supreme. It is your duty to know these things. What I can tell the lovely miss Walters right this moment, however, is that things must happen as they happened, or many things will not happen as they must happen."

She stared at him. "Come again?"

Wong smiled again, that infuriating little mysterious smirk. "I am saying that interfering now could be catastrophic for any number of timelines. Including this one. Trust your friend, miss Walters. He is most resourceful."

Something was bugging Susan. "Okay, I get that you don't want us to try and...rescue him, though we may have differing opinions on that, but just exactly when is he?"

…

…

Hyborian Era, Somewhere In Southern Zamora

Peter Parker had felt very self-conscious as he walked down a dusty dirt road toward a city that felt taken straight out of a Thousand and One Nights. He was wearing a white t-shirt, a pair of worn cut-off jeans shorts and a pair of sneakers (the Spidey suit was in a his old gym bag at his side along with whatever he wanted to keep from the remains of what had been part of his bedroom), and so far nobody he had seen wore anything resembling modern clothing.

The local language sounded sort of like a cross between Russian and Arabic (and thank you New York City for providing a man with the skill to recognize both languages by ear) though not exactly, and the most baffling thing was that most men carried weapons. Knives, everyone. A few had short, elaborately curved bows (oh, he knew this one from history, horse-bows, made to be used on horseback) and quivers, some wore chain shirts dangling to their knees, and most of those had long, curved swords at their hips or on their backs.

Yeah, definitely not in the New York area. Possibly he was in Jersey. No, wait, the swarthy guys looked naturally dark, no weird spray-on tans there. Better hair, too.

It was...like some sort of smelly, damp, suffocatingly hot version of the sets from the Lord of the Rings movies, only even more realistic and not as pretty. Right here by the city walls (granite painted with greasy-looking chalk paint) were crap-looking squat buildings rarely above two storeys tall, the occasional inn or tavern with a sign showing some elaborate picture (usually dragons or horses) and no words, which suggested most normal people here probably couldn't read.

His stomach growled, reminding him that it was at least (judging by his watch, at least) twelve hours since last he ate. Unfortunately he had no cash and very probably no local currency even if he did have any money. He'd have to either beg or steal. Or...

…

The people of Vertanapol were used to traveling minstrels and jesters, especially on market day. Since the city was a thriving trader's outpost located on a road-nexus from which highways to such distant places as Stygia and the Black Kingdoms or more culturally familiar nations such as the Hyrkanian steppes or even Nordheim could be found, it was fairly difficult to impress the locals even if one had exquisite skill.

...however, so far no jester had dangled upside down by one toe from one of the poles used to haul foodstuffs to storage lofts, while at the same time juggling five colorful river-smooth rocks and singing a strange song (badly) in an unfamiliar language.

"(...I'm Henry the eighth I am I am, I'm Henry the eighth I am...)"

On the ground beneath him, a strange cloth hat consisting of a cap with a wide forward-aimed brim lay upside down. It didn't take long for the amused, gawking observers to start putting little coins in it, mostly coppers, but a few lone silver coins as well. After a while the jester changed his tune, while at the same time standing himself on the wall itself as if the earth did not pull at him, bending at the knees so his torso aimed upwards while his calves were horizontal. And now it was six colorful stones whirling in circles and figure-eights.

"(...hello mudda...hello fadda...)"

…

About half an hour later he wore clothes that were somewhat more suitable (though he had the shorts and shirt underneath the burnoose, just in case) for the area, and he was just about to decide which inn to go to when the flimsy window shutters to one especially disreputable-looking establishment shattered and a big, bulky man flew out, head first.

Huh. So, not that place.

But then he heard an angry shout from inside that inn in a very familiar voice in a very familiar gobbledygook, and he finally realized where he was. Or rather, when.

"Oh, no..."

"(If there's another man in this piss-hole of an inn who thinks he can grab my behind and get away with it, let him step forth now and I'll send him to the hells of Stygia in a heartbeat!)"

He knew this voice. True, he had no idea what it was saying (it sounded really angry, though), but he did know who it belonged to. And every time he met her, bad things happened.

Blinking in shock, seeing her in the flesh for the first time (since the other two had been cases of possession)...

...she really did look exactly like Mary-Jane. With muscles. And a tan.

In a chain-mail bikini.

Red Sonja turned around, a snarl on her stunning features. "(You! What be you staring at, fool?)"

He realized she was looking at him. "Oh, crap."

…

…

Modern Era, New York

"Absolutely not. Sue, the man is an insufferable prig, a lecher, a complete ass and..."

"And he's smarter than you."

The holographic image of Reed in lab clothes flickered slightly as he frowned at her. "...I wouldn't say that. More familiar with advanced technology than I am, but definitely not smarter."

Sue kept a smile down. "It's all right, Reed. He's not human, so you can still claim to be the smartest man on Earth..."

"This is not about pride or vanity. I don't trust him. He's Kree, and I never trust them when it comes to human affairs. Much as I wouldn't trust Victor to do what's best for America or Namor to do what's best for the surface-dwellers."

Jen butted in. "Well, you did say it yourself, he's not our kind of Kree. Alternate universe or something. Right?"

"...yes. But not alternate enough. Remember that the Kree Empire he's from is one that has conquered not only their own universe, but several neighboring ones as well. To him, our universe is a province-to-be, and he was originally here to conquer the pEarth As far as I've been able to tell the only reason he helps us protect the planet is because of a patronizing Blue Man's Burden-complex."

"But he does help. Doesn't he?" She loved it when she could use his own logic against him. He could be so blind to the empathy side of things, but use logic to quantify emotions and he crumbled like a deck of cards.

"...fine. I'll send his current address to the Fantasticar's GPS. Just...just don't expect too much from him."

"I can be very persuasive, Reed. And if that doesn't work, Jen can be moreso."

Jen grinned and cracked her knuckles.

…

"My, you're a big one." Noh-Varr of the Kree Omni-Empire looked appraisingly at Jennifer. "But green. Unappetizing color. Blue or pink is much more attractive in a humanoid. Now, you were saying something about a time machine? Because last time I tried helping the Avengers with that, it nearly ended badly for everyone. As I told them that when they first came knocking."

Jen blinked. Okay...while the man was handsome in a somewhat feral, untamed sort of way he was definitely not friendly. Or maybe this was his idea of polite. God, she hoped not. "...right. We're here because we're fairly sure a friend of ours is caught in the past. Way, way back in the past. Not the future. The past. And so far back that it doesn't really affect modern day. I think."

The Kree raised a perfect white eyebrow, a faint smirk on his lips. "Everything changes everything. It's one of the laws of interdimensional travel. Change the past, however little, and something changes in the present. Change the present, and the future changes. It's hardly a complicated concept, even for barely evolved apes. But if a modern day human is traipsing around in your past that could be bad, so I will help, in any way I am able. Can't be any worse than when that Stark person asked me. We'll see what I can do."

…

Stephen Strange stared at the book of spells. Back to basics. True, he had metaphorically gone from learning to crawl to learning to fly so many years ago. It had sort of been forced on him when Mordo betrayed the Ancient One and he had had to jump right ahead. Clea had always chided him on not doing the basics enough, and it seemed as if she had been correct.

He missed her, he really did. No-one could tell him he was being an ass better than she. Sometimes he wondered if the whole Illuminati affair could have been avoided if he had not driven her away in that Defenders mess, back to the Dark Dimensions.

The door opened, and Wong slipped in, silently as always. "Well?"

He could sense the disappointment of his mentor/apprentice that he had once again failed to be stealthy enough (some day he would have to teach him the simple warding that allowed you to sense individuals you knew long before they came near, just to see his reaction to the simplicity of it) to sneak up on him. "I gave them the tablet. I warned them explicitly against attempting to intervene."

Stephen nodded. "And?"

"Oh, they fully intend to intervene. Last I could hear with the eaves-dropping cantrip was that they were going to visit the Kree warrior."

"...Noh-Varr? Oh dear. He'll help, but I wonder if Jennifer can refrain from strangling him. he is...abrasive. But it's good to know that reverse psychology still works with some people." He glanced down at the second tablet, lying on the floor beside him. "After all, things must happen as they did, when they did. Continue watching over them, then give them the second tablet at the proper moment."

Wong smiled, bowed, picked up the recently repaired clay tablet and vanished into a nearby shadow to carry out his task. Stephen waited for a few moments, then went back to the spell book. Right, where was he...ah yes, Windle Poons Basic Aura Repellent...

…

…

Hyborian Era, The Drunken Warthog Inn, Zamora

"(And then, and then, and then, he has the nerve to call me a, a, a, a...where was I?)"

Peter gave the red-haired woman leaning on him with a huge tankard of foul-smelling ale in her hand (the other slowly starting to meander around parts of him he did not entirely approve of) a deer-in-headlights look. God, he wished he knew the local language. Something, anything, a tourist parlance book, just so he could say 'yes', 'no', 'where are the restrooms' and 'please stop groping me, you smell like booze and badly roasted pork'.

"(...right, he called me a...y'know, you're kind of pretty. Pretty, pretty, pretty.)"

Oh no, now she was smiling again. Smiling was usually followed by leering, and groping.

"(Good teeth, too. A-)" she hiccuped, followed by a loud belch that would impress a college fraternity member, then continued. "(-shame I can't, can't just, not supposed to unless...say, you any good at fi-high-high...fighting? 'Cause if you can beat me, I have a room upstairs...)"

Right, there came the leer. He silently counted backwards from ten.

At three, a pair of long fingers pinched his left buttock. "Ow! Stop that!"

Red Sonja chortled, and tried unsuccessfully to plant a smelly wet one on him again. At the very last moment he managed to pull back. "(Gobble gobble. Always the gobble gobble. Where you from, pretty one?)"

Okay.

So.

She was hot.

But she smelled like a brewery (and old sweat and...blood, and bad pork...) and kept groping and pinching him, and generally being unpleasantly touchy-gropy. She kind of reminded him of Flash Thompson, to be honest.

She pressed herself closer, the lightly freckled cleavage barely contained by the bikini top made of little metal discs pushing up against him. "(What do you say, we have a little duel, I 'lose', we break the bed? Or just have a go in the alley, I'm not picky-)"

It was was at this point that four huge, armed and armored men burst into the inn from outside, looked around only briefly, and pointed right at the overbearing red-head. "(There she is! Grab her!)"

Peter smiled in earnest relief. "Oh, thank you God!"

…

The ruler of Vertanapol and one day the world (as it once had been and as was proper) gazed out from his window on the city below.

Such a miserable little hovel of a village. He who had stood next to Atlantean kings, he who had ruled entire empires from the shadows, forced to eke out an existence here. But soon he would reclaim his rightful rule, soon the nations would...

"Yes?" The irritation in his voice wasn't entirely voluntary.

One of his guards, a brute of an alchemical hybrid much like all his foot soldiers, entered, his gaze cast downwards and fist on chest in salute. "Lord, we have located the red-haired warrior female. She was in an inn in the merchant quarters, quite drunken."

"Ah. She is in the dungeons?"

"...she will be, soon. I sent fifteen of our best to apprehend her."

"Excellent." The Hyrkanian woman would no longer be a hindrance to his designs. Time and again she had stopped him, her and that lumbering brute of a Cimmerian, but not this time. His scryings had told him that the Cimmerian was busy doing mercenary work in Aquilonia, and with luck the woman would be dead before the end of the lunar cycle. True, he was going to torture her a bit first, but one had to indulge in the little things every now and then.

He frowned.

Something felt off.

He waved away the guard and walked swiftly to his work desk. It was just an oaken table with his laboratory set up on it, but it was what he could afford and wield at this time, in this gods-forsaken place. Here he created potions, elixirs, amulets and unguents, here he worked his scrying bowl and foresaw what lay ahead, what threatened his path.

A spider had fallen into the scrying bowl.

The lord of Vertanapol frowned, and reached down with long, gnarled fingers brown with age and scarred with the many experiments they had undertaken. The scrying bowl was delicately enchanted, even the slightest change could render it useless until re-ensorcelled and this...insect...might be enough. It had already begun to hiss as the king's water in the bowl corroded its exoskeleton and the tiny hairs covering its body, but the acids would do nothing to fingers which could grasp burning hot metal without a flinch.

To his shock and dismay the little beast suddenly came to life, sank long fangs into his thumb and as he cursed and drew his hand away quickly the creature followed, only to fall to the floor.

He raised a foot to stamp it to mush, only to find himself staring at an empty floor. His thumb held no puncture wounds, and the insect could not have crawled away so quickly.

...a spider. A vile omen indeed. He had scryed his far future many a time, and every single time the same totem appeared across his fate, every single attempt to see a future in which he ruled...the shadow of a spider lay heavily across it.

It was not conclusive. Scryings were vague, notoriously so, unlike prophecies which were annoyingly clear in hindsight. But he was not prone to prophecy, as no god dared touch him with that gift. But no matter what it meant, the spider totem would cross his path many a times.

So. An omen, then.

Kulan Gath, last scion of Atlantis, snarled in cold distaste and threw the scrying bowl out the window.

…

Oh, everything had been going so well, at first. The big, ugly dudes in armor had yelled in that weird language at the red-head (um...Sonja, right? He remembered that much from the meetings they'd had. Would have. Time travel sucked. Right), she had been yelling right back, and for a moment there it had seemed like the town guard were gonna carry her off for public drunkenness.

Well, that was until one of them turned, stared at Peter and jabbed a big sword-bladed spear-thing at him.

He had smiled blankly back, refusing to rise to the bait. This, however, was the wrong response since the guard yelled again, angrier now, the tip of the blade grazing against Peter's newly purchased clothes. Still, Peter did nothing.

Which was when Sonja picked up a chair and brained the man.

Unlike in the movies, sturdy oak chairs did not break like balsa wood into tiny, cardboard-like splinters. No, they held up quite well to the second guard who received it in his face, and the third who got two chair-legs in the gut while the other two struck leather-kilt-covered thighs.

It wasn't until the fourth guard rushed forward to stab either Peter or Sonja that the chair actually broke, much like the poor brute she used it on.

And then the other eleven guards rushed in.

At this point, diplomacy was not an option. So when the drunken warrior woman drew her sword and started laying into the nearest guards, Peter kicked the whole table into them, leapt high to avoid an ax that bisected the chair he'd sat on, then placing a hand on the head of the guard now trying to pull the weapon out of the floor in order to spread out and give a boot to the head to guards number whatever and umpteen, after which he flipped over both and put a knee in the armored chest of one more.

By the time he landed gracefully on his feet, only two guards remained, and none of them were looking at the drunken red-head who was currently picking a fight with a nearby load-bearing pillar. At some point she had knocked out her own opponent and had staggered along in the wrong direction.

He blinked at the remaining duo, then stood up, casually picking up one of the swords and easily bending it into the shape of a pretzel. He grinned at them.

The two stared, looked at each other, then ran out the door screaming.

He was feeling immensely self-satisfied right up until the point where Sonja placed one hand on his arm, one hand on his behind, and her chin on his shoulder, her breath reeking of bad ale and poor oral hygiene. "(Well, well. Seems like the offer for a duel was unnecessary. Come on, pretty one, let's move on before more uglies arrive.)"

Not for the first time he wished he could understand what she was saying.

…

…

To Be Continued...