[Previously on Spider-Man's miserable life,] Venom's dark, oily voice echoed dramatically against the inside of Peter's skull.
[Max Dillon, a walking spark-plug, raided Oscorp, stole a tank of genetically modified eels, and is likely heading to Genosha to let Nathaniel Essex turn him into a human battery. Meanwhile, my host is actively fleeing the country to avoid the terrifying romantic crossfire between Gwen Stacy and Cindy Moon. Now, Magneto wants him to go on a highly publicized playdate with his teenage daughter to prove Genosha isn't a terrorist state. Good luck, buddy!]
"Thank you so much for the recap, V. Super helpful," Peter muttered under his breath, adjusting his web-shooters.
[You're welcome. I thought the narration added some necessary dramatic tension.]
Wanda Maximoff stood near the towering marble columns of the palace entrance, watching her father and Wolverine disappear down the grand corridor. The heavy steel doors clamped shut. Wanda let out a long breath and awkwardly scratched the back of her head, displacing a lock of auburn hair.
Peter, standing a few feet away, subconsciously reached up and scratched the back of his masked head in the exact same nervous rhythm.
Wanda paused. She looked at him, her tense shoulders dropping an inch. She had spent the entire morning assuming the Avengers were a rigid, intimidating paramilitary unit composed of hardened soldiers. But seeing Spider-Man fidget like an uncomfortable teenager instantly shattered that illusion. He just seemed like a normal person.
Then again, she remembered watching news broadcasts of this exact same guy physically wrestling a giant, alien symbiote dragon over the New York skyline, so she wasn't entirely sure what to believe.
"I am sorry my father didn't give you much of a choice in this, Spider-Man," Wanda said softly, breaking the silence. She clasped her hands in front of her red jacket. "He always denies it, but I can tell he is incredibly exhausted. He has practically taken the survival of our entire species onto his own shoulders. He was just so excited when he learned an official Avenger was coming, so..."
"Hey, it's fine. I get it," Peter said, waving a hand dismissively.
Do I ever get it, Peter thought, a dark chill running down his spine. He had already met a Magneto who had slaughtered his own daughter for the 'future of mutants,' and another Magneto who had accidentally unleashed a zombie apocalypse for the exact same reason. The guy needs to take a vacation before he 'saves' everyone to death.
"As long as we can ensure the safety of Essex's gene-editing device and catch Dillon, I think a little sightseeing is fine," Peter said, looking out at the bustling, metallic streets of Port Hammer. "Maybe we'll even spot our target just wandering around the city."
Wanda looked Peter up and down. She raised an eyebrow. "So... you're going to search the city dressed exactly like that?"
Peter paused, looking down at his sleek, red-and-blue symbiote suit. "What's wrong with it?"
"If you are here to conduct a covert investigation, wearing your uniform is basically holding up a neon sign telling everyone that Spider-Man is in Genosha," Wanda explained reasonably. "I understand you wear the mask to conceal your identity and protect your family back home. But here? Nobody on this island knows who is behind that mask. If you just walk down the street in civilian clothes, absolutely no one will look twice at you."
Peter froze. He didn't say anything for a long moment. He just scratched his head again.
[She's completely right,] Venom said. [Nobody here knows Peter Parker. We could literally just walk into a coffee shop.]
It was a staggering realization. In New York, taking off the mask in public was a cardinal sin. But here, in a sovereign mutant nation surrounded by an ocean? Peter Parker was just a random kid with brown hair.
"Can I trust you?" Peter asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Aside from Logan, who could already identify Peter by his scent, Wanda would be the only person on the island to know who he really is. He knew from his multiverse travels that Wanda Maximoff was fundamentally a good person, but he still needed to ask. He waited a beat. His Spider-Sense remained perfectly, blissfully quiet.
"It is difficult for me to convince you of my character when we have only just met," Wanda said gently, holding his gaze. "But I promise, your secret is safe with me."
Peter took a step backward, retreating into the deep shadows cast by the palace's brutalist architecture. He made sure the perimeter was clear of any patrolling guards.
He gave the mental command. The red and blue symbiote suit shivered. It rippled like water, rapidly receding from his face and pulling back from his limbs, sinking seamlessly into the pores of his skin.
Peter stepped back into the sunlight. He was wearing a faded gray t-shirt, a pair of worn-out denim jeans, and scuffed sneakers. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, inhaling the salty ocean breeze.
Wanda blinked. Her mouth fell open slightly.
"Spider-Man... is my age?"
"Yeah. Bit of a shocker, I know," Peter offered a crooked, relieved smile. The ocean air felt incredible against his bare skin. "You can call me Peter."
"Thank you for your trust," Wanda said, visibly recovering from her surprise. She offered a warm, genuine smile. "I'm Wanda."
"Let me just make one thing perfectly clear before we start this tour," Peter warned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I have terrible luck when it comes to vacations. Every single time I think the mission is over and I can finally rest, a building explodes or a supervillain crashes through a wall. It literally never stops. So, if we accidentally stumble into a firefight while buying souvenirs, please don't blame me."
Wanda laughed, the sound bright and clear. "If that's the case, Peter, I am actually quite looking forward to seeing what happens."
Port Hammer International Airport.
The heavy, rolling sea fog clung to the tarmac. A lone figure moved with practiced, liquid grace through the mist, effortlessly bypassing the automated Genoshan perimeter patrols.
He wore a heavy brown trench coat, the collar popped up against the damp wind. But his most striking feature was his eyes. The sclera was pitch-black, and his irises burned with a luminous, ruby-red light.
"So. This is the ride," the man murmured, his thick Cajun drawl cutting through the fog.
Remy LeBeau—known in the underground circles as Gambit—stepped out of the shadows and approached the sleek, black hull of the X-Men's SR-71 Blackbird. A deck of playing cards danced flawlessly between his knuckles.
He pulled a single card from the deck. A faint, crackling pink kinetic charge enveloped the paper. He slid the charged card directly into the electronic seam of the jet's boarding hatch.
Pop. The biometrics short-circuited instantly. The hydraulic ramp hissed and lowered to the tarmac.
Remy strolled up into the dark cockpit. He pulled a small, silver metallic cube from his trench coat pocket and placed it squarely on the center of the Blackbird's main navigation console.
The cube whirred. A blue holographic projection flared to life, resolving into the arrogant, bespectacled face of Dr. Otto Octavius.
"Excellent, Mr. LeBeau," Otto's hologram stated, adjusting his glasses. "I must admit, I was initially highly skeptical of utilizing the so-called Thieves Guild. It is refreshing to see that you operate at a world-class standard."
"Haha. I always love it when a generous employer talks nice, mon ami," Remy chuckled, shuffling his deck with a sharp, snapping rhythm. "You kept your word on the contract, right? No killing. No widespread vandalism. It's rare I find a client who doesn't mind my eyes, and I really don't want to get kicked out of this mutant paradise just yet."
"Do not concern yourself with the politics, Mr. LeBeau," Otto replied coldly. "Your only task is to establish the data uplink to the Blackbird's mainframe. As I stipulated, I harbor no ill will toward the X-Men. I merely require access to specific, classified files currently stored within Xavier's Academy."
"Well, if you ever need more files lifted, you can always skip the Guild and come straight to me," Remy offered casually, watching the silver cube emit a pulsing green light as it began aggressively downloading the jet's encrypted data.
On the other side of the transmission, Otto chuckled darkly. He fundamentally distrusted mercenaries. There was absolutely no way he was going to tell a hired thief the true, catastrophic nature of the files he was currently stealing from the X-Men's servers.
Fortunately, as a professional, Remy didn't care about the employer's motives. He only cared about the wire transfer clearing his account.
The cube beeped twice, the green light turning solid.
"Alright. Data transfer complete. That's a wrap," Remy said, reaching out to collect the device.
"A final warning," Otto interjected, his holographic eyes narrowing. "Wolverine has an unparalleled sense. He will smell your scent in that cockpit. Do not forget to sanitize your presence."
"Haha. Don't trouble yourself, Doc. Covering our tracks is included in the base rate," Remy smiled, tipping two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. "Like I said. Next time you need a ghost, just call Gambit."
PS:
Did you know that Gambit's iconic, demonic-looking eyes (black sclera with red irises) aren't just a stylistic choice by the artists? They are an active, physical manifestation of his mutant power! The kinetic energy he constantly generates naturally charges his ocular blood vessels. Because of his eyes, Remy was abandoned at birth and later taken in by the New Orleans Thieves Guild, where he learned to become the greatest thief in the Marvel Universe!