Chapter 66 – Reunions and Recoveries
[Spider-Man's POV]
*pwish*
*crash*
*Boom*
Hey, you might be wondering what's happening in your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man's life. Well, currently, we're being attacked by a very angry group of venom-infected civilians. And by angry, I mean like Hulk-on-a-constipated-day angry.
"Left flank's getting loose — Spidey, try to focus!" White Tiger shouted, vaulting over a parked car as three black-veined civilians tried to break formation.
"On it!" I fired a web line, trying to cocoon all three together, but one of them tore straight through the webbing and started using my own webs against me.
"Hey, hey, that's a copyright violation! Someone get me a lawyer!" I added, getting dragged a solid ten feet across the pavement.
Power Man showed up and caught me in a princess carry. "Don't worry, miss, we're gonna sue the hell out of them. And here—" he grabbed me like a javelin and hurled me directly at three of them, "—is your court date order."
I slammed into all three of them at once. "Please show up at court on time," I groaned, peeling myself off the asphalt.
White Tiger pulled something out of her belt. "Is that—"
"S.H.I.E.L.D. prototype," she said. "Sonic disruptor. Should separate the symbiote without killing the host."
"*Should.* I love that word in sentences involving civilians' organs."
She fired it anyway. The device let out a pulse I couldn't actually hear, but I definitely *felt* — like my fillings vibrated for a second. The black veins on the nearest host rippled, then peeled away in a wave, the symbiote sloughing off like it had personally been insulted.
The host collapsed, gasping, suddenly just a regular, very confused guy lying on a sidewalk.
"Eh, I definitely felt that through my bones," I said, as White Tiger moved to help him up.
"Don't stand still," she said, already heading for the next one.
Power Man caught the detached symbiote mass mid-air — actual mid-air, the thing was trying to *leap* to its next host — and shoved it into a sealed containment unit that looked like it belonged in a much scarier lab than the one I'm pretty sure it came from.
"That's a no from me," he said, sealing the lid.
We worked through the rest of the block the same way. Corral, disrupt, contain, repeat. By the time we finished, we had eleven former hosts laid out on the sidewalk in various states of confusion and nausea, and a containment unit making a noise I did not like.
Iron Fist crouched beside the first guy we'd treated, checking his pulse, his breathing, the works.
"Vitals are stable," Danny said. "Disoriented, but stable. All of them."
"Send them to the special wing," White Tiger said. "S.H.I.E.L.D. medical's expecting them."
The transport vans rolled up a few minutes later — the unmarked kind that somehow look more suspicious *because* they're unmarked. We loaded everyone in, Danny doing the gentle "you're going to be okay" reassurance thing he's weirdly good at, and watched them pull away.
"So that's nearly every rogue symbiote contained," Nova said, dropping down beside me, hands still smoking faintly at the edges. "Eleven down. Sweep says no more active hosts in the area."
"Remove that nearly" I said, "because I am not dealing with another one of these today."
"Speaking of containment—" Nova grinned, "—your boy Harry's out of S.H.I.E.L.D. care, right?"
"Yeah. Cleared last week."
"He doing okay?"
"He's having a party," I said. "Recovery party. Apparently that's a thing rich kids do now."
"A party."
"To which I was invited too" I said. "So, no more work for me today, baby. "
---
*[Temugin's POV]*
Man, I finally understand what people with three jobs feel like. Killing that bastard was easier than managing his empire.
How does a man like Zhang end up running *legitimate* businesses? You'd think someone like him would be neck-deep in drug routes or loan sharking, but no — his hands were in real companies. Construction. Mining. If this had been an illegal empire, I could've just taken it by force. But it's legitimate, which means I have no actual standing there. I can't walk in as Mandarin and start giving orders.
Only a handful of employees even know the connection between Mandarin and Zhang exists. Those connections are the only reason I have any control at all right now. Eventually I'll need to stage an accident — Zhang dies, properly, on paper — so I can take over without complications.
But first, I need full control over the Ten Rings. Not Mandarin's borrowed authority — *mine.* Even though these people are useless idiots who can't even find one girl. Still, useless idiots have their uses.
The research data — the locator schematics, the serum work, all of it — had been stolen by Black Cat. That part I'd confirmed weeks ago. Kingpin had wanted Tinkerer's super-soldier research, hired her for a single job, and Black Cat had done what professionals do: completed the contract and disappeared.
When my men reached out to Kingpin directly, his answer was simple. "She severed all contact after the job. It was a one-time arrangement. I don't have a way to reach her, and even if I did, I wouldn't."
Useless. Predictably useless.
So I did what I always do when the direct approach fails — I researched. There'd been a Black Cat before this one. No records of what happened to him after he vanished. Two years of nothing. Then a new Black Cat emerged, and the rumor mill quietly assumed they were connected — successor, student, something.
I had photos. Grainy, useless photos. Every time I sent men after her, she was gone before they arrived. Like she knew.
I was three espresso shots deep into hating my life when the call came in.
Norman Osborn. Inviting Zhang to his son's recovery party.
I answered as Zhang's secretary would. "Oh, it's Mr. Osborn's son's recovery party — but sadly, Mr. Khan won't be able to attend personally. He'll be sending his son, Temugin, in his place."
Which was, conveniently, the thing he needed. Because harry was actually temugin friend.
When I'd been stationed in England years ago, hunting down the second ring, I'd spent six months undercover near Harry's boarding school. I was supposed to guard him while posing as a friend, all while searching for the ring. But Harry had this irritating quality of being likable even when you were actively trying not to like him, and somewhere in those six months, it stopped being an act.
So when I heard he'd nearly died bonded to a symbiote and somehow pulled through — I was, against every professional instinct I have, genuinely glad.
---
The party was exactly what you'd expect from Osborn money. Too much catering, a band nobody requested, and Harry standing in the middle of it looking thinner than I remembered but smiling like he meant it.
"Temugin!" He actually hugged me, which I wasn't prepared for. "Man, it's been forever."
"You look better than I thought you would," I said.
"And what did you think I'd look like?"
"African American."
"That's racist, you bastard," he said, grinning. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone."
Peter Parker. MJ. Ned Leeds. Gwen Stacy. All of them friendly in the specific, slightly overwhelming way that teenagers are when they've decided you're allowed in the group.
I was good at this. Small talk, charm, the right amount of self-deprecating humor. Years of training to read a room and exploit it — turns out that skill set also works for making friends, which felt almost insulting.
Then I saw her.
Platinum blonde hair. The kind of posture that looks relaxed until you notice every muscle is actually positioned for movement. I'd seen that exact build in surveillance photos a dozen times.
Harry caught me staring and leaned in. "That's Felicia Hardy. Her mother's my father's lawyer. She's transferring to our school."
"Hardy," I repeated, filing it away.
"You want me to introduce you?" He grinned wider. "I dare you to go talk to her."
"That's not a real dare."
"It is if you're too scared."
I wasn't scared. I was calculating. Which, to be fair, looks identical from the outside.
---
I crossed the room and introduced myself with the easy confidence of someone who definitely wasn't running facial measurements against three-month-old surveillance photos in his head.
"Felicia, right?" I said. "Temugin. Harry's old friend, apparently being dared to talk to you."
She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Bold of him to announce that part."
"He's not subtle."
"No, he's really not." She studied me for a second. "So what's your excuse for actually following through on the dare?"
"Pride," I said. "Mostly pride."
We talked. Light stuff — school, the party, how absurd the band's setlist was. I flirted a little, nothing serious, mostly to see how she'd react. She gave it right back, sharp and quick, the kind of banter that comes from someone used to thinking three steps ahead in every conversation.
Same as Black Cat. Exactly the same rhythm.
Seventy percent, I decided. Maybe higher.
---
Across the room, Harry had abandoned us to find Peter, MJ, and Gwen.
"Where's Ned?" he asked, scanning the crowd.
"Getting food, probably," Gwen said.
"He needs to see this," Harry said, grinning, nodding toward Temugin and Felicia.
Ned arrived a moment later, plate piled with appetizers, chewing happily. "See what?"
Harry pointed. The four of them watched, Ned narrating quietly through a mouthful of food like it was live television.
Then Peter went very still.
"Something's wrong," he murmured, already stepping sideways, pulling Ned with him by the sleeve.
"What—"
"*Move.*"
---
The man came through the crowd like he'd forgotten how doors worked — shoving past caterers, ignoring the murmurs, heading straight for Norman.
"You have to help me," he said, voice cracking, desperate. "Please. I don't — I can't control it—"
Norman, never one for patience, immediately reached for the nearest staff member. "Security! Get this man out of—"
The man's face twisted — pain, fury, both at once — and his arm whipped out, flinging a banquet table clean across the room.
It sailed straight toward Temugin and Felicia.
I moved on instinct, reaching for her — but she was already gone, a blur of motion that had her three feet clear before the table even arrived. Whatever training that was, it wasn't normal-civilian training.
*Noted.*
I jumped the other way, table crashing where we'd been standing seconds earlier.
The man lunged for Norman next, and that's when a streak of red and blue dropped from the ceiling rafters and put a boot directly into his chest.
"Hey, buddy," Spider-Man said, webbing the guy's wrist before he could swing again. "Let's not redecorate without the host's permission, yeah?"
---
The man fought like he was barely steering his own body — strength that came in surges, movements that stuttered between human and *something else.* Black veins crept up his neck as the fight went on, spreading visibly, like the symbiote was feeding off the adrenaline.
Spider-Man dodged a wild swing, flipped backward onto a chandelier, and fired a web that yanked the man's legs out from under him.
"Okay, Venom again? You guys should find something new, it's already been six months," Spidey said, watching the black creep further across the guy's collarbone. "You're not just having a bad day, are you?"
The man roared — barely words anymore — and the symbiote surged, doubling his size for a heartbeat, claws extending where fingers used to be.
Spider-Man rolled clear of a swipe that took out a side table, webbed the man's exposed shoulder, and yanked hard enough to spin him off balance.
"I'm gonna take a wild guess," Spidey said, landing a kick to the back of the man's knee, "and say you didn't *ask* for the goo upgrade."
The man's response was a guttural snarl and another lunge.
Spider-Man danced around it — literally danced, this whole fight had the energy of someone improvising choreography — webbed both wrists together mid-swing, and yanked the man face-first into the floor.
The symbiote convulsed across his back, like it was panicking too.
"Hold still," Spidey said, crouching down, voice suddenly gentler. "I think I can actually help you. Just — stop trying to kill people for like, ten seconds."
The man, pinned, breathing hard, finally stopped fighting.
"It won't — let go," he gasped. "I didn't want this — please—"
"I know," Spidey said. "I've got a friend who went through the exact same thing. Let's get you somewhere that isn't a fancy party with breakable furniture."
---
By the time S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived to take the man into custody — gently, with the same containment process from earlier that afternoon — the party was, by any reasonable definition, ruined. Tables overturned, a chandelier dangling at a concerning angle, half the guests already filing toward the exits with the specific energy of people who'd be telling this story for years.
Harry sighed, looking at the wreckage. "Well. At least nobody died."
"Low bar," Gwen said. "Parties at your house sure get chaotic."
"Guilty," Harry said.
I found myself near the doorway as people filtered out, scanning the crowd until I found her — Felicia, unbothered, already halfway to the door like none of this had rattled her at all.
She caught my eye briefly. Gave a small, knowing smile, like she could tell I was still running calculations.
She had no idea how right she was.
*Found her,* I thought, watching her disappear into the night.
---
End of Chapter 66