The car doors dented as his back hit them, the entire SUV sliding back an inch as he bounced off it and fell to his knees. His breath had left him, and as he gasped for air he looked up at his opponent—he must have been six feet tall, built like a linebacker, and clad in a suit of matte black armor that hid his entire body save for his mouth and jaw. A pair of eyes glowed green in the helmet, and as he advanced a black, robotic tail snaked up and curved forward from behind him, its eight-inch blade pointed directly at him.

Peter—his "costume" consisting of a hoodie, balaclava, and his goggles to protect his glasses—pulled himself to his feet. His skull was tingling almost painfully, and he took a step back as the Scorpion moved towards him, sneering. His back bumped into the SUV. He felt his heart racing as the ringing in his head swelled and the tail drew back as though winding up, and then—move—he jumped, landing on the roof of the car as the tail stabbed into the door where he had been and pushed it another few feet towards the end of the Queensboro Bridge.

move

He jolted to the right as the Scorpion charged him. The armored fists slammed into the roof of the SUV, and horror stopped his heart for an instant as he heard the screams of terror from within. He skipped off the roof of the car and slammed a fist across the Scorpion's face—and gave a scream of pain; he felt as though he had broken his hand.

The Scorpion, by contrast, barely seemed to register the blow beyond fury that it had been delivered at all. As Peter clutched his hand, gasping in pain and exhaustion, the Scorpion put his foot to the side of the SUV and pushed, yanking the blade of his tail out and rounding on the boy. But, even as his skull blared like a siren and terror flooded him, he stared at the SUV as it teetered at the edge of the bridge.

He jolted forward, weaving around the Scorpion in accordance with the tingling, and caught the edge of the car's bumper right as it overbalanced and began to fall. move, urged his tingling skull, but he planted his feet and yelled as its last tire slipped over the edge and the weight of the car jolted up his arm. An instant later, with a slashing sound, a white-hot line of agony jumped diagonally down one of his thighs.

He collapsed, screaming from both his leg and a second jolt of weight threatening to rip his arm out. Those in the SUV were screaming too, and Peter dug his already-sticking fingers into the bumper desperately as the ringing in his head rose to a shriek. He cracked his eyes open to see as Scorpion stepped over to him and kicked his shoulder to expose his side.

"Wait," Peter gasped as Scorpion's boot rose above his ribs, "PLEASE—" move—

Specs' eyes shot open as a thunderbolt of pain roared across his ribs. He screamed, his entire body trying to curl into it.

He felt the bumper break beneath his fingers, heard the screams as the SUV started to fall—HE COULDN'T BREATHE, his chest was nothing but pain as his arms shoved the boot to the side as it came down for another stomp—he rolled over to see the SUV falling, almost to the river already—MOVE—

Specs tried to roll, he really did, but the ache burst into stinging and he screamed again as the blade of the tail buried itself in his back, dragging him away from the edge. He struggled and kicked and for his efforts felt the blade slip from its wound, but then collapsed where he lay, sobbing—his eyes burned as he tried to push himself up, desperate, terrified—"Specs! SPECS! You're not in danger!"—he managed to roll over, sit up, and was trying to move away when that robotic tail wrapped around his throat and lifted him off his butt, off his feet—he was face to face with those glowing green eyes as the mouth sneered and a fist pulled back—

A pair of hands wrapped around his wrists as he clawed at his own neck, trying to rip the tail away. "PETER!" screamed Scarlet, fighting his straining hands and locking green eyes with Specs' hazel.

Specs froze, but only for a second, staring up at her. His heart was trying to break out of his chest, his ribs still hurt with every breath as he sobbed under her. "Get off," he breathed through his tears, still struggling, "get off…"

Scarlet slowly released Specs' hands, climbing off the bed and sitting at its edge. She never stopped looking at Specs, who gradually pushed himself into a sitting position, still trembling like a leaf. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and stared at nothing. Gradually, he put a hand to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, looking sick.

The door slammed open, and both Lucky and Blue skidded to a stop just inside. Scarlet turned towards them as Specs squinted in their direction, and Blue cleared his throat awkwardly. "We heard someone scream 'Peter,'" he said lamely. "And we heard screaming. Oh, Specs. I'm glad you're awake."

"Yeah," breathed Specs, looking away and squeezing his eyes closed. "Y-yeah, so am I. Aagh." He reached up to his face and, forcing his eyes back open, stuck to and removed a pair of misshapen contact lenses. "Dailies. I'm not supposed to sleep with them in."

As he tossed them in the general direction of a garbage can-shaped blur, Scarlet crossed to the nightstand, picked up the pair of glasses lying in front of the alarm clock, and offered them to him. He took them gratefully, unfolding them and slipping them on with both hands.

"Red," said Lucky quietly, taking his girlfriend's hand, "I kinda want to talk with Specs and Blue. Just the Peter Parkers, without anyone else."

"I getcha," Scarlet said. She started for the door. "I'll get out of your way."

"Thanks," Lucky called after her as the door slowly closed. "Love you!"

"Love you too," she called back, but the door clicked shut midway through the sentence.

The two Peter Parkers turned to the third, who was still sitting on the bed without looking at either of them. He took a deep breath through his nose and said, still looking away, "What time is it?"

"About 10:30," Blue said, sitting down in the desk chair.

"I finished fixing those web machines of yours," Lucky added. He plucked one of the web-shooters off the dresser and sat next to Specs, fiddling with it. "I was kinda surprised when I realized they were mostly analog. The only battery-powered piece is that light that turns on when you're low. Why is that?"

"The Electros can both absorb electricity," Specs said dully, staring at the web-shooter in Lucky's fingers. "This way, if I run into them, I'm not screwed."

"There's a way around that," Blue piped up. "You just have to design the shell right. Do you have cerebanium here?"

"No," said Specs, at the same time as Lucky said, "I've never heard of it."

"Oh. Then never mind. Yeah, analog is probably the way to go."

"Yep," grunted Specs, his chin on his knees. The silence filled the room, threatening to suffocate all three of them. Lucky and Blue glanced at each other, each inviting the other to speak. Slowly, Lucky set the web-shooter on the nightstand next to him.

Specs slid forward, moving as though to stand up. "I think I owe Scarlet an apology for yesterday—"

"I've got a rebuttal for you," Lucky interrupted bluntly, his hand reaching for Specs' shoulder from behind. Without looking, Specs froze an instant before it connected, but when it did Lucky pulled him back to sit. "You...insinuated that we don't really care about the people we try to protect, just because we accept we can't save everyone."

"I know. And I'm sorry, it was rude. I just—"

"You're not stupid, Specs," Lucky said. "You synthesized spider silk when you were fifteen. Clearly you're a genius. You must knowthat you can't save everyone. It's impossible. You know that." He hesitated, weighing his words, before deciding that the blunt approach was best. "But when you refuse to accept that…is it because you care that much about them?" His grip tightened on the teen's shoulder. "Or are you trying to die?"

"Morning, Scarlet. How was your shift?" Honeybee asked.

Scarlet groaned without giving her more than a glance. "Lemme get my coffee first," she said, "then I'll tell you." She trudged to the half-full coffeepot, which sat not on its heater but on the island counter that the group at large sat at. Teresa had swapped her costume for a white shirt and dark blue and brown jeans, and Drake had apparently raided Specs' dresser, for he wore a pair of jeans that ended an inch above his ankles and a slightly-too-tight black T-shirt. Ollie still wore her jumpsuit.

"Not a morning person, huh?" Ollie said, concealing a smile as Scarlet grabbed a mug out of a cabinet and filled it. A grunt was the only reply as Scarlet put the cup to her lips and began to drain it.

When she finally set it down, she glanced around the island, noticing that each of the others save Honeybee had a few sheets of paper in front of them. "Specs had a nightmare. Maybe a flashback, I don't know…he seems like he's still in a bad place right now, though. The other Peters wanted to talk to him alone, so…What're you guys doing?" she asked.

Ollie, who had by far the largest stack of paper before her as well as the tablet, sat up a little straighter with an air of importance. "I'm teaching them how to play Dungeons and Dragons," she said brightly. She folded her hands behind a homemade DM's screen made of two sheets of paper stapled together. "They'd never played it before, so I figured, why not? so we're in the middle of character creation. Lucky's Mage was shaping up to kick ass! Wanna join us?"

Scarlet, who had started laughing at the statement on Lucky's character, waved a hand as she got her chuckling under control. "I'm good," she said at last. "Thanks for asking, but I'm fine. Honeybee's not playing, either?"

Honeybee shook her head, sipping the off-brand cola she had found in the fridge. When she set it down, her mouth was subtly downturned. "Um…Scarlet," she began, "I was actually wondering if you wanted to talk. You know, Mary-Jane to Mary-Jane. Like what Lucky and Blue and Specs are doing."

Scarlet shrugged as she poured another half a mug of coffee. "Alright," she said. "Let's sit by the window. I like watching people go by." She stepped towards the windows as Honeybee slipped off her stool and after her. They found themselves sitting on the armrests of the chair up against the window; Honeybee cleared her throat awkwardly as Scarlet stared down at the traffic and bystanders of the street below.

"…You have any family?" Honeybee asked.

Scarlet's features hardened, but only for an instant. "Gonna lead with that, huh? Immediate family is my mom and little sister Gayle. Aunt Anna's dead. Dad's been out of the picture since I was about twelve, and good riddance to that rat-faced bastard if you'll pardon my French."

"How bad was he?" Honeybee asked.

She tensed again, and this time the tension remained. "He drank, gambled, and womanized in Atlantic City a lot of the time. Let's just say Mom's side of the family kept us afloat." She noisily sipped her coffee, as though to signal the end of that answer.

"Oh." Honeybee squirmed into a more comfortable position. A bee alighted on her soda can, drinking from a drop near the rim. "Mine just drank. And…hit mom." She didn't notice Scarlet's head swiveling to stare at her, eyes wide. "Occasionally he hit me, too, but only when, y'know, really drunk—"

"That's not an excuse!" Scarlet's voice had gone shrill. "Mary-Jane—Honeybee—you have told someone about this, haven't you?! Someone in your iteration, someone who can actually do something about it. You can't justify abuse by saying he was drunk. You can't justify it at all. Promise me that you'll tell someone, do something when you get back to your iteration."

"But—" said Honeybee.

"Promise me."

Honeybee gradually nodded. "…I promise."

Blue sat up sharply. He looked about to reprimand Lucky, but hesitated as he saw Specs lean forward, saying nothing. The silence seemed to drag on; Blue looked increasingly worried as Specs' hands wrung and he looked straight down. Specs' mouth opened, but not a word came out. He shut it again. During the first aid of last night the remnants of his costume's shirt had been removed, and now the others could see, with disturbing clarity, the scars that dotted his body. Two or three bullet wounds in his back along with distorted pockmarks of shrapnel and a few lines of pale, misshapen flesh. His chest and stomach were hidden by his posture and several bandages, but they could see the edges of similar scars as he slowly lowered his hands.

"The first one," he breathed, still looking down and his voice stilted. "I think. I'm not trying to die, I just…" He stopped, his jaw clenched. Blue and Lucky glanced at each other, concerned, as Specs shifted away from both of them slightly.

When he started speaking again, his voice was on the edge of cracking. "…I-I mean, it's gonna happen, y'know? No point in dancing around it, I'm gonna die wearing that costume. A-and I've gotten so many people killed…maybe I deserve it? I dunno." As Blue stared at him with an expression of utter horror, he looked up, although he stared at nothing. "No, that's a bad way to put it. Maybe…I owe them that much? I mean—dammit—I tell myself I'd give my life to save someone, but obviously I haven't actually done it...God knows how many times I should've by now…" He paused, rubbing at his face with the back of a hand, his shoulders just barely shaking. "So, it's gotta happen eventually, b-but I shouldn't stop—trying to h-help just…because…I'm selfish and s-scared…"

His voice trailed off into silence as he lowered his head, his trembling fists to his temples as his chest shuddered and he hid his face. Lucky, pale as bone, hesitantly reached a hand towards him again, but Specs shuddered as the hand came close and Lucky withdrew it.

"You're being pretty pessimistic, aren't you?" Blue said, his eyes wide as he stared at Specs. "T-that's a pretty out-there prediction, yeah?"

"Not really," Specs replied, finally looking at him. His face was pale and his eyes wet behind the glasses, and an expression of surprise seemed to spread across his face in slow motion. "…Why? You mean you don't…" he looked over at Lucky, his eyes wide and distressed. "…Neither of you…?"

Lucky shook his head slightly. "I don't think any of us," he breathed.

Specs' eyes flickered downwards as this sank in. "Oh, God," he whispered, and now his voice did crack. He sat where he was as though frozen for a second, then he stood up sharply and almost stumbled towards the door.

"Oh, no you don't!" Blue snapped, shooting out of his chair after him. The ringing in Specs' head rose sharply and he whirled towards Blue, almost falling backwards but catching himself on the edge of the dresser. He gave a small cry as Blue grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back towards the bed. "You have already run away from one of these conversations," Lucky said through gritted teeth. "And you are not escaping another! Sit down!"

"I wish I had my handbooks with me," Ollie muttered as she scrolled down a document on the tablet. "The rules seem a little different here, but—agh. Free PDFs do a horrible job of detailing this stuff."

Teresa looked over the character sheet Ollie had printed out for her, tapping at it with a pencil. "What's the difference between intelligence and wisdom again?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

Without looking up, Ollie said, "Intelligence is knowing a tomato's a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad. Okay, y'know what?" She pushed the tablet to the side. "I'm gonna go from memory here. The rules basically boil down to 'roll a d20 and add the relevant modifier'. That's these numbers; that's why we rolled stats earlier."

"I see," said Drake. He raised an eyebrow at his own character sheet, looking at the back. "And all this other stuff is…? Why is there a spot for religion on here? And what the hell is initiative?"

Ollie sighed. "Stuff like, like religion and skills help flesh out your character. It's a role-playing game, after all. Initiative is for—"

"I'm not gonna get this," Teresa muttered as she stared down at her sheet. "I am not having fun here."

"Yeah, character creation can be boring sometimes," Ollie allowed, "but it gets—"

"Fuck it." Teresa pushed the paper aside, leaning on the counter as Ollie groaned and facepalmed with both hands. "Let's do something else. Let's talk about home. Drake, did you say your brother was taking care of you? No parents?"

Drake shrugged. "No dad, anyway. Mom was too busy being a raging alcoholic to do much parenting. She had this boyfriend—less said about him, the better—but we recently moved over to my aunt Felicia and Uncle Charlie's. They're good people. I really like them. And you, Terry? You said your mom died, are you living with your dad then?"

Teresa had given up correcting any of them; she sighed as she looked down at her folded arms. "No," she said. "I'm living with my sister. I never knew my dad, thank God. Mom left him before I was born."

"Ah. That much of a dick, huh?"

"…Yeah. Yeah, let's call it that. Do you think Specs is doing alright? It's been a bit since we heard him scream."

Specs all but collapsed back onto the edge of the bed. Blue hovered over him briefly, as though making sure he wasn't about to bolt again, before he sat back in the chair and rolled it a few feet closer to Lucky and Specs. Specs put a fist to his mouth, as though worried he was about to puke, as Lucky slid forward to sit beside him.

"…What happened?" Lucky said at last. He leaned on his knees, leaning forward to try and meet Specs' eyes. "In the beginning. Why do you keep going with that in your head?" He took a chance. "…Who hurt you?"

Specs took a deep breath. Pushing his glasses up to his forehead and rubbing his eyes, he swallowed once and muttered, "I did." He felt Lucky tense next to him and held up a hand to stop him. "I…I let a thief go. I saw him running out of a corner store after I got my powers, the owner yelled at me to stop him, but I just stood back and ignored it." He looked down and slid a foot across the ground. "And then—"

"He killed Uncle Ben," Blue interrupted.

"…Yeah."

Blue nodded, slouching in his seat and folding his arms. "I know. It happened to me too. I…had just had a fight with my Ben. He brought up Dad—my parents died in a plane crash when I was four," he quickly added as an aside to Specs. "And I was…so angry about that, that when I saw a thief running out of a store, I was just like…fuck 'em."

A single, bitter laugh escaped Specs. "At least you've got that as an excuse," he croaked. "At least you can chalk it up to being an angry teenager! I was on Cloud Nine when it happened! I-I had just come out of a fight club in the Bronx—lower Bronx, not the Narrows—and I had beaten everyone, I felt awesome. When I saw Carradine, and the store owner needing h-help—" and here his voice choked for an instant "—I thought it was beneath me. It wasn't anger, it was hubris—I-I just didn't care. I wasn't a moody teen, I was an arrogant piece of shit."

Lucky looked from Lucky to Blue and back, studying the body language of each. Blue still sat slumped in the desk's chair with his arms folded, avoiding his eyes, and Specs rested his elbows on his knees, looking straight down with his glasses in his hands. He seemed to have grown even smaller. "You couldn't have known," Lucky said. "Neither of you."

"I shouldn't have needed to!" Specs said abruptly, a sudden surge of anger seeming to possess him. It abated quickly; his shoulders slumped again as he slid his glasses on. "A—and I can't let it happen again, can I? Never again. T-that's how it started, anyway. I think it's more than that now. Because if it was just that, then the only face burned into my brain would be Ben Parker, right? But it's like, I see people in danger, I hear a scream for help, and I—I have to get involved. B-because the only alternative is not getting involved, and I—no. Just no."

"With great power," Blue said, "comes great responsibility." Lucky nodded in approval.

Specs snorted. "Don't call what we do responsible," he chuckled, but his smile was fading fast even as he spoke. "Kinda, though. People need me, so I need to try. And I do save a lot of people—I know that. But at the same time…I'm failing to save so many others…"

His head, already humming from the presence of the other two Spider-Men, buzzed slightly as Lucky's hand found his back. Lucky took a deep breath before bluntly saying, "Well first of all, you really need therapy."

Specs nodded, still not looking at him, and then chuckled again. "Hello, Dr. Such-and-such," he said, "I wanted to talk to you about my PTSD and probably depression. 'How have your symptoms manifested?' Well, I hate myself whenever I let somebody die as Spider-Man. Oops, but don't tell anyone that part."

Lucky fought back a laugh. "They're sworn to confidentiality," he said. "Seriously, though, stop saying you're letting them die. Because you aren't."

"I am, though! If I could—"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember what you said last night."

"I don't!" Blue interjected. "He was basically a vegetable during my shift! What'd he say?"

"He basically said that if managed to survive all his battles, he ought to be able to save everyone else, as well. I've been thinking that theory over, Specs, and, well, it's crap in my experience. Take it from the guy who's gone up against a cyborg mobster, a bona fide ninja, paramilitary guys with a thing for snake motifs, giant alien robots, and an immortal psychotic gargoyle with an axe to grind with the whole human race when he says that it's so much easier to keep yourself alive than it is to keep everyone alive."

"But then I should—"

"Then you should focus on saving who you can save. And no, that doesn't mean everyone. I know it sucks, but it's not your fault if you try and fail to save lives." Lucky's voice softened, and he leaned forward to look Specs more fully in the face. "You can't save everyone, and you need to accept that. If you don't…well, maybe nobody gets saved."

"It feels like giving up." Specs's voice was low and quiet, but there was an edge to it.

"Maybe it does," Lucky allowed. "But from where I stand, it looks like a life preserver for a kid who—like it or not—knows he's in over his head."

"With great power comes great responsibility," Blue repeated. He slid the chair closer. "I'm gonna keep saying that, Specs. But your responsibility isn't greater than your power. You shouldn't consider what you can't do your failure. Otherwise…well, you'll be right." When both Specs and Lucky looked up at him confusedly, he clarified: "You'll die. And you will never owe them that."

It was starting to rain. A few drops of water were streaked across the outside of the window as Scarlet and Honeybee stared down at the street. A few people were starting to pull hoods up, and someone had stepped out of the apartment across the street with a tarp, which they were now laying over a car parked on the curb. Scarlet watched them work curiously.

"You know, I've been thinking—" Honeybee began.

"Thought I smelled smoke." Scarlet joked, a small grin on her face as she looked towards her counterpart. The empty coffee mug in her hands was still warm; she twirled it between her fingers as Honeybee went on.

"Didn't Specs mention he had a version of us?" she asked, slouching lower in the seat.

Scarlet nodded. "Come to think of it…yeah, he did. Why do you ask?"

"I'm wondering what she's like—you know, how she's different from you or I."

Scarlet hummed, looking back down at the street. The rain was coming faster now; a slight steam hissed off the clothes of the people who hurried down the sidewalk. "He said that those speakers in his room were hers. And there was this electric guitar next to his bed—not really his style. Could be hers."

Honeybee looked up thoughtfully. She smiled at the thought. "That'd be cool," she said eventually. "A version of me—of us, I mean—who plays guitar? Maybe she's a rock star! Wouldn't that be awesome?!"

Scarlet snorted. "You're reading too much into things. If she's Specs's age, she's more likely just in her high school band." Still with a smile, she watched the steam rise from the street below until the rain smudged her view too much to see through. "…But yes, that would be awesome."

A small commotion behind them brought their attention back towards the others. Teresa was sliding off her seat sharply as Drake and Ollie looked at her. "I said I don't wanna talk about it," she was irritably saying.

"It's clearly bothering you," Ollie replied, just as irritably. "It's unhealthy to keep that stuff to yourself."

"I've already talked to people about it," Terry snapped. "I'm not gonna tell some people who I've known less than three days!"

Drake held his hands up. "Terry—Teresa—look, you don't have to tell us anything you don't want to—"

"I know I don't! So stop asking!" As Drake lowered his hands and stepped back, Teresa folded her arms and looked away. "You know what?" she said. "I'm gonna check on the Peters. Specs was right, waiting around for something to happen is a terrible strategy."

"Not disagreeing, but are you saying that because you believe we have another option or are you just uncomfortable?"

"Both. Shut up and come with me."

"Will do." Drake replied.

Specs remained staring at him for a minute, then sighed and looked away. His eyes were unfocused, and he rubbed his temple. He glanced down at himself—his posture still blocked a view of his chest, but he could see his own scars and bandages quite clearly. Groaning, he put his hands on his knees and forced himself to stand up. Lucky immediately came up with him, hands outstretched to catch him if needed, but he only stumbled for a second before turning sharply towards the dresser and opening a top drawer.

"You know," he said finally, without turning around, "you're both getting kinda fuzzy. My dad's got an electric razor you could probably borrow."

Lucky ran a hand across his cheeks, feeling the slight stubble that had developed there in the last few days. "Yeah, probably a good idea. Thanks."

"I'm so embarrassed," Specs mumbled, drawing out a shirt. "You two—fuck, all of you—seem to have this part of the job down." He pulled it over his head and struggled into it, gasping in slight pain as he stretched his ribs. "And then there's me, whose internal monologue is like eighty percent internal screaming. Don't ask me what the remaining twenty is."

Lucky snorted and Blue guffawed. "Well," the former said, "I don't think the rest of us have two hundred whatever casualties to remember."

"Two hundred seventy-six."

"He counts?!"

"Yeah, that's true," Specs said, ignoring Blue's interjection. He tugged the shirt down to his waist, then pulled out some sweatpants upon realizing he was wearing nothing but what was left of his costume's pants. "Maybe it's just part of this world, woven into its strand of the Web of Whatever and Nonsense. Being a Marvel does Bad Things to you, capital B, capital T."

Blue's brow furrowed. "What Web? I think I missed something."

"We visited this world's Doctor Strange," Lucky explained. "He told us all these worlds were connected through the Web of…Life and…whatever it was."

"Web of Whatever and Nonsense," Specs said, turning around to face them. Now fully dressed and his hands in his pockets, most of his scars were hidden, save for what marked his forearms and the mercifully few that dotted his face. "I just said. But yeah, maybe it's just a thing that happens to us in this iteration. I mean, let's run down the list." He drew his hands from his pockets and started counting off on his fingers. "Captain America? Isaiah Bradley is widowed, also has PTSD, and I don't think he really knows what to do with himself? Outside of Avenging, I mean.

"Iron Man? Stark's got…I don't know, at least one prosthetic limb by now. He's got that reactor in his chest that not even he totally understands, he's addicted to opiorphin, and that's on top of the alcoholism he already had.

"Thor? I'm…pretty sure Dr. Foster's been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. She and Thor have therapy to make sure neither one of them, y'know, takes over.

"Lessee, um, Spitfire? She retired before I was born. I think all of Professor Swensen's friends are dead because of her SHIELD connections."

He remained staring at this fourth finger for a minute, chewing his lip. "Let's see, who else…well, I don't know what's going on with Banner at this point. Janet van Dyne was just ruined by Pym particles. And then…" His hands dropped. He looked away from them and gave a small sigh.

"And then there's street levels. People like me. Like Matt. Like—like Tyrone and Tandy and…I don't know how Bobby and Pryde and whatshername, Jewel are doing. Probably not well, though. X-Men are lucky, they have at least one telepath to help them out, but even then there's a reason it seems like every single one has issues of some kind." He exhaled through his nose. "Kinda figures, I thought. You go looking for superpowered trouble, you're gonna see some shit. I hear even the Scarlet Pimpernel had issues like this. But I—" he paused, considering. "…Never mind. It's nothing."

"What?"

"It's nothing."

The three sat for a second, each silently thinking. At last Blue looked up at Specs and said, "Who's Matt?"

"What?"

Blue sat up a little more. "I don't know anyone named Matt. Or Tyrone or Tandy, for that matter. But Matt first; who is that?"

Specs stared at him for a minute, his brow gradually wrinkling. "…Matthew?...Murdock?"

Blue glanced at Lucky, who shrugged.

"…Daredevil?"

Blue's eyes lit up and his brow rose. "Oh! Daredevil!" He looked away, his lips thin. "That guy. He…he doesn't like me." He glanced back at Specs. "You know him personally? He's Matt Murdock?!"

"I've heard of Daredevil," Lucky piped up. "He's the Hell's Kitchen guy, isn't he?"

"Yeah, we're tight," Specs smiled. "Well, not tight. But yeah, we know each other. We actually sorta grew into the whole superhero thing at the same time. I met him when he was still dressed like a dollar-store ninja and my costume was still like, hoodie, ski mask, goggles. He's, you know, twelve years older than me, and lawyers are busy, so we don't hang out a ton. Still, cool guy. Worth knowing."

"Mmm," Lucky nodded. "…And you mentioned…your Captain America was Isaiah Bradley? What happened to Steve Rogers?"

"Rogers?" said Specs, baffled. "The Forties and Fifties comic illustrator? He was one of the most outspoken white supporters of the Civil Rights Movement, I think he knew Cap in the Army, but that was it." He leaned back, staring at Lucky. "…You seriously don't have an Isaiah Bradley?"

"I do, actually—from what I've read, he fought in the Pacific as 'Old Glory' back during World War II alongside Eric Koenig and Johnny Arashikage."

"Blue?"

Blue shrugged. "Never heard of him. Never heard of Spitfire either."

"What?! But she was—"

"Ahem."

The three looked towards the door, where Teresa and Drake leaned in awkwardly. They glanced between the three Peters, who stared back expectantly.

"Specs!" Teresa said suddenly, smiling at him. "Good to see you back on your feet."

"Not yet," he replied. "Just wait till you see me try to walk. I'll fall flat on my face, mark my words."

"Well, anyway, we were wondering if you guys are done with your…" Drake waved a hand at the three of them. "What was this, a group therapy session? Peter Parkers Anonymous?"

"If our name's in the name of the thing, I don't think it's anonymous," Lucky laughed. He stood up as he said, "Yeah, we're about done. What do you need?"

"We were actually hoping you guys could come out here so we could talk about what we need to do next," Teresa said. She gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. "Because after yesterday, the idea of just waiting for the bad guys to make a move kinda feels like a non-option."

"Thank you! Finally." Specs took a step towards the door, a hand on the dresser to steady himself, and then looked down. "…Ah…Actually, I think I need a shower first. Like, now." He bent down and grabbed some more clothes. "Can you guys wait just a couple minutes for me?"

Teresa nodded, stepping aside to allow Specs to walk past her. Lucky and Blue followed, but as Specs shut the bathroom door behind him, the older Peters walked into the main room and Lucky muttered, "Did he say this iteration had a Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"What?"

"The Scarlet Pimpernel. In my world it's this novel about a guy who uses a secret identity to save aristocrats during the French Revolution." He glanced back towards the bathroom. "…Did he say that guy actually existed here?"

"I don't know," Blue said. "Would that be, like, the first superhero then?"

"Kinda, I think so." Lucky put a hand to his chin. He blinked at the whiskers that greeted him. "Ah. Let's ask him when he gets out. I'm gonna go find that razor he mentioned."

"Good plan. By the way- who was that Johnny Whatshis—"

"Arashikage? From what I've read, he was some kind of sniper ninja."

"…color me impressed, then."

Lucky took a deep breath.

"Speaking of ninjas, remind me to tell you more about that time Scarlet and I went up against one later."

"So, how'd it go with the Peters?" Honeybee asked as Teresa and Drake returned.

"They'll be here shortly." came the reply.

Scarlet nodded as she settled into a chair before turning around, snaring an errant apple with a webline, and then pulling it in.

"Interesting application." Teresa said.

"Thanks. Quick heads-up, though- it takes a lot of practice to nail this trick. Let's just say hard object plus line of webbing equals impromptu flail and leave it at that."

There were a series of nods, and then a few minutes of silence.

"So, anyone else got anything to say before we get this show on the road, or do we just sit here quietly until the men of honor show up?" Honeybee finally said.

As if on cue, Lucky, Blue, and Specs entered the room.

"So, what's on the agenda?" Specs asked, adjusting his glasses as he did so.