Drake was skimming an errant newspaper when he heard somebody come in through a window. "That you, Specs?" he called without turning around.
"No," came the reply through the bedroom door, "it's a pigeon. That's been genetically engineered to talk. Of course it's me."
"Just checking. For all I knew, could've been a pigeon that wasn't genetically engineered to talk. So, what brings you back?"
"Work. I need to head to the Bugle, and that means putting on the old street clothes." The answer was punctuated by a loud rumble. "…And I haven't eaten yet today. So I should probably do that."
"Go ahead. Although while you're here, can I ask you a question?"
The door to Specs' room opened, and he walked out in jeans and an unbuttoned dress shirt, additional clothing draped over one arm. "Fire away."
"What're these 'radical scientists' that keep popping up in the paper?"
Specs bit his lip, buttoning the shirt with one hand as he walked towards Drake. "How do I put this…basically, they're what you guys would probably call mad scientists. There're a lot of them around here, and they're varying degrees of both genius and crazy. I'm one of the…more cautious ones."
"I kind of guessed that already," Drake replied. He turned to look at Specs as he walked into the kitchen, pulling a V-neck sweater on over the dress shirt, and pulled a carton of eggs and a jug of milk out of the fridge. "I mean, most people don't go brewing up chemicals in their own home, and you'd have to be kind of nuts to come up with your little web launching gadgets."
"Yeah, I guess." Specs started cracking eggs into a bowl. After four eggs, he turned halfway to look at Drake. "So how'd you get yours? And what formula do you use for the webbing?"
"Um, I don't know the formula." Drake glanced at his wrist, but there was no web-shooter there—he had taken them off with the gloves when he had rolled up his sleeves. "My friend Wesley made the web-shooters with some parts he lifted from his dad's workplace. He makes the webbing."
"Wesley?" Specs laughed. "What kinda name is that?"
"The name of a kid whose parents are total Star Trek nerds. Think you've got enough eggs there?"
Specs looked down into the bowl, where six egg yolks were pressed against each other. He looked back up at Drake, setting down the eggshells in his hands. "No." He cracked a final egg into the bowl. "Now I've got enough." Plucking a whisk from the drawer beneath him, he poured milk into the bowl for a few seconds as he beat the mixture thoroughly. "Star Trek…isn't that a book series?"
"It's a science fiction TV show. I'm surprised you don't have it."
Specs shrugged. "I would've been surprised if we did." He poured the egg-milk mixture into a pan on the stove and crossed over to the pantry, which he began rummaging through. "Actually, I'm a little surprised all of us share a language. Have you eaten anything yet?"
Drake's stomach, of course, chose that time to growl. "No, not yet. I've only been up like fifteen minutes."
"Well you can't have any of my scrambled eggs." He tossed a bag of off-brand cereal behind him and it landed on the island counter. "There are some bowls in the cupboard over there. You know what cereal is, right?"
"Yeah." Drake pulled a bowl from said cupboard and set it on the island. "I even know how to pour it." He demonstrated, pouring a bowl of cereal while looking Specs dead in the eyes.
"Well done. You clearly come from a civilized iteration. You wanna really impress me, you'll pour the milk, too. Cricket?"
"…What? Cricke—" the last syllable was cut off as Drake got a look at the contents of the bag that Specs was offering him. He recoiled a little, his eyebrows shooting up. "—What the hell?!"
"What?"
"Crickets?!" Drake looked from the bag to the one holding it. "You eat—people here eat crickets? Why?"
"They're cheap, a good source of protein, and far more palatable than mycoprotein or krill." Specs' lips were pinched together, as though he was trying not to smile. "Sure you don't want any?" He shook the bag slightly. "Carmel coated."
"No."
"Nooooo preservatives."
"No."
"Whatever." Specs turned the opening of the bag back towards himself, pulling out a cricket and popping it into his mouth. Drake shuddered, turning away.
"Well, unless you count this thing," Specs continued, pulling out a small packet labelled OXYGEN REMOVER—DO NOT EAT. "You know what's in these? Iron filings. See, the way it works is the pure iron reacts with the oxygen in the bag to form iron oxide—y'know, rust—and thus traps the—"
"Your eggs are burning."
"—Schemckel shlock!" Specs dove towards the pan, snatching a spatula out of a drawer and stirring the egg mixture. As it lumped up, Specs winced at the black specks that became visible and the smell of smoke.
Neither spoke for a few minutes, as Specs finished his now-burnt scrambled eggs and ate the entire batch in under a minute. Setting the pan in the sink, he rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and dress shirt before grabbing a knee-length coat and a satchel from his bedroom. "Drake, can I trust you, Terr—sorry, Teresa, and Ollie to hold down the fort for a little while?"
"Yeah, sure. We'll try not to throw a party while you're out."
"Do or do not. There is no try."
"So you don't have Star Trek, but you have Star Wars?"
"The hell is Star Wars? I was quoting The Physician's Apprentice. Fantastic movie, I'll show you when I get back." The last word was almost cut off by the door clicking shut as he left.
Drake scratched his neck. He looked down at himself briefly, adjusting his costume's shirt, before glancing around the kitchen. By chance and quite unfortunately, his eyes landed on the open bag of crickets on the counter, and he squinted at it, considering.
He picked up the bag. Staring into it for a few seconds, he weighed the decision in his mind, and eventually decided if he didn't he'd wonder for the rest of his life. Carefully, one hand reached into the bag, and when it came back out a single cricket was pinched between thumb and forefinger. He hesitated, then popped it into his mouth.
It crunched between his teeth. He chewed on it, rolling it back and forth on his tongue before swallowing. Considering for a second, he finally made a thoughtful "Hm."
The door opened sharply behind him, and thinly-padded footsteps made a beeline towards Specs' room. "You forgot your shoes," Drake said without turning around.
"I forgot my shoes," Specs' voice confirmed without breaking stride. They lingered in his room for a second before striding back towards the door, each footfall far louder. The door slammed.
"So, you want to go get something to eat?" Honeybee asked as she and Blue entered the seawall's observation area.
No response.
"Blue? Hello? Anybody home?"
Just then, a trio of punks that had just been standing there approached the duo.
"Hey, bud." one them said, his voice carrying a smarmy, almost sleazy tone.
"What do you want?" Blue snapped.
"Just a little donation for the sick orphans' fund. C'mon, don't be shy. Fork over the dough."
"We didn't bring any cash—"
Blue walked up to the punk.
"You want know something?" he hissed.
"Enlighten us, comrade." the punk sneered.
At that moment, Blue threw a haymaker punch at the ne'er-do-well and sent him flying backwards.
"Ebat!" one of the other punks exclaimed.
Honeybee gulped as several pairs of eyes focused on her and Blue.
"Anybody else want to try something?" the latter asked.
There was a cowed silence from the crowd.
"Thought not."
Sweat dripped into her eye as she ran. Blinking hard at the burning sensation, she wiped at her brow for an instant. Her feet pounded on the treadmill beneath her, her lungs expanded in slow, even breaths, and above it all:
"From the depths of Hell in silence/ Cast their spells, explosive violence/ Russian nighttime, flight perfected/ Flawless vision, undetected!"
Felicia Hardy smiled as the main part of the song began.
"PUSHING ON AND ON, THE PLANES ARE GOING STRONG—AIR FORCE'S NUMBER ONE! SOMEWHERE DOWN BELOW, THEY'RE LOOKING FOR THEIR FOE—BOMBERS ON THE RUN. YOU CAN'T HIDE, CAN'T MOVE, CAN'T—"
Just then, she heard a buzzing sound.
"Damn it, Deacon!" she snarled into the intercom, stepping off the treadmill. "What have I told you about interrupting me in the middle of a workout?!"
"Well, excuuuuuse me, Miss Hardy! Maybe next time the silent alarm on the skylight over your room goes off, we'll just assume it's a little lost pigeon, or a seagull, or some exotic bird that escaped a Black Lotus shipment!"
Felicia sighed, checking her pulse with two fingers. "You said it was on the skylight over my room?"
"You deaf, boss?"
"Deacon, just shut up. We've got guests."
"Looks like someone's got a subscription to Architectural Digest." Scarlet snarked.
"MJ, calm down. Remember this isn't the Black Cat we know and loathe. I mean, can you see ours settling down and opening up a club?"
Scarlet returned to scanning Black Cat's bedroom. Beneath the duo's feet was a hardwood floor, probably walnut. The main items of furniture were a four-poster bed, a set of antique armchairs, a bureau, and a nightstand.
"Well, it doesn't look like anyone's home right now. Guess Specs was wr—"
The doors swung open.
"I'm home." a woman's voice crooned.
"F-F-Felicia Hardy, I presume?" Lucky stammered.
Scarlet eyed this alternate Felicia. She had a similar figure to the one back home, albeit slightly less toned and with some small scars on her face. The main difference was the hair— instead of the platinum blonde locks of the one back home, this Felicia had black hair going down to her shoulders.
"This is she. Now, who are you two?'
Lucky gulped.
"Spider-Man."
Felicia cracked a smile.
"Nice try. Come back when you're about four inches shorter."
"I'm being serious here. I am Spider-Man. One from another universe—"
The smile vanished.
"Ooookay. I think this has gone long enough. If I were you, I'd be going shortly."
"I can explain this! It won't make any sense, but I can explain!"
Felicia grabbed a walkie-talkie.
"Deacon, come up to my room. I've got some unwelcome guests that need escorting."
"Gimme ten to fifteen minutes to tend to Mister Gooseman and his gal pal down here on the fourth floor."
Felicia turned off the walkie-talkie.
"Well, guess I'm going to have to do this myself." she grumbled.
Just then, her cellphone went off.
"Hello?"
"Hey there, Cat. How's everything going?"
Felicia smiled at the familiar voice, but her smile shrank almost immediately. "I've got two people dressed up like you in my boudoir. How do you think everything's going?"
"Oh, wow, that was fast. I was trying to call ahead. Okay, listen. The guy in the red and blue? He's me. Well, an alternate iteration of me."
"And the girl?"
"She's his girlfriend. Call 'em Lucky and Scarlet, respectively. Now I've got to go. See you around next time I'm in the neighborhood."
"And when will that be?"
The voice on the other end of the line hesitated at her tone. "…I don't know, next time I do a Narrows run? Listen, I'm headed to work. I'd love to awkwardly ignore five solid minutes of your flirting, but I really gotta go."
Felicia sighed. "Alright. Go enjoy your stupid desk job or whatever it is you do. Cheerio, my deario."
A quiet chuckle. "See ya around, Mehitabel." The line went dead.
Felicia sighed again and then grabbed her walkie-talkie.
"Never mind, Deacon. I've got everything under control."
"Good to know. Ciao."
Felicia set her walkie-talkie down again.
"Sorry about that. How can I make it up to you two?"
"Info would be nice." Lucky replied.
"You just want info? I can give you both a good time—"
"We're an item, Cat." Scarlet hissed.
Felicia leaned back, raising her hands but with narrowed eyes.
"Sorry. Scarlet here really hates the Black Cat of our universe."
Felicia's expression eased up.
"Apology accepted. Now, you said you wanted info."
Lucky nodded.
"I assume you want some info on the Narrows."
"Specs—"
"Who's 'Specs'?"
"The Spider-Man of this universe. Anyways, he said the place was crawling with gangsters, thugs, and genetically mutated freaks. Care to elaborate?"
Felicia walked over to a wet bar on the other side of the room and returned with a glass of marllienschnaps.
"Let's start with the gangs. The big players are the Corsairs, the Black Lotus, the Eisensterne, and the Goblins. You want to hear more?"
"What do you think?"
"Very well. Let's start with the Corsairs. They're primarily smugglers and pirates. And by pirates, they're what you'd get if you mixed classic movie pirates with Prohibition rumrunners, your garden-variety gangbanger, and actual historical pirates. Their biggest rival is the Black Lotus."
"Who're they?" Scarlet asked.
"They're a bunch of ex-Yakuza and Triads who decided to form their own syndicate. They're bad hombres— they do gambling, extortion, drugs, human trafficking, prostitution, and gunrunning. Right now, they're at war with the Corsairs. Or as they call them, the 'Jolly Rogers'. Any other questions?"
"Who're the Goblins?" Lucky asked.
Felicia nearly choked on her drink.
"They're a thrill gang made out of the Green Goblin's old goons. They don't give a damn if they live or die—hell, at the rate things are going, they'll be lucky if they still exist by the end of the month thanks to their little war with the Corsairs and the Black Lotus. They're vicious, sadistic, and just plain sick."
"And the Eisensterne?"
"They're a go-gang with a hard-on for Germany. And I don't mean they're neo-Nazis. If anything, they're in love with the Kaiserreich and earlier. I mean, they call their foot soldiers 'Landsknechts' for crying out loud. As for major activities, they do street racing and some arms dealing on the side. Any other questions?"
Lucky shook his head.
"Let's go take these guys on." Scarlet growled.
"Which ones?" Lucky asked.
"The Goblins."
Oooo, that's not gonna end well.
Notes from Courier:
-The "Mr. Gooseman and his gal pal" that get mentioned by Deacon are a nod to Shane Gooseman and Niko from Adventures of the Galaxy Rangers. It's sort of a tribute to Red Witch, who's one of the most prolific writers in that fandom.
Notes from Brackets:
-The Physician's Apprentice doesn't actually exist that I know of. In-universe, it's this black and white movie taking place in 1330s Germany, about a plague doctor and his assistant.
-The song Felicia's listening to is "Night Witches" by Sabaton. The 588th Night Bomber Regiment was an all-female Soviet bomber regiment, which is one of the most awesome things I've ever learned through song. In Earth-61610, they dropped one of the seven nuclear bombs used in WW2.
-"Cheerio, my deario" is a reference to Mehitabel, the cat from Don Marquis' free-verse poetry. This is almost certainly not the first time Felicia's quoted the character, hence Specs having taken the time to look up the reference.