Through the Looking Glass (Spider-Gwen/Spider-Man Noir Crossover)

Chapter 1: Down the Rabbit Hole

January 5 1934, Bedlam House.

It reeked of Formaldehyde.

Spider-man grimaced under the rough-hewn mask, the stench almost suffocating despite the covering. He'd been to Octavius' old slaughter house twice before, but he never got used to the stench: Overpowering and clingy, like the big galoot that Crime Master ordered around like a trained monkey. "The Sandman...he comes at night to steal your eyes...and he smells like Formaldehyde..." He mumbled, dropping from the window to the wet floor with a muted smack. The damn rhyme was going to be stuck in his head till the day he died.

The things he'd seen in Octavius' lab...he thought he'd seen the worst of humanity with Osborn and his freak shows, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what went on in that madhouse: Negroes rounded up like animals, knives cutting at their brains still they were little more than drooling morons to be used for menial labor. It made him sick.

He should have killed him then and there. Aunt May had defended Vulture's worthless hide, claimed she didn't want to live in a world where people killed one another, but he knew it was an impossibility. Uncle Ben had fought in The Great War, and even he'd made it clear he was never proud of his actions. 'People killing one another for reasons they don't really understand', that was what he said.

Maybe they were right, but these men... they didn't play by the rules of the civilized. He'd let De Wolfe talk him into sparing Octavius' life and all he got for it was being deported to the country he loved to continue his experiments in peace. The Nazis would use his research to continue their depravities all in exchange for information that he didn't even know was worth it.

At least that's what he'd thought. A tip from Felicia Hardy and whispers from the thugs trying to cash in made it clear that the 'Good Doctor' was back in town and up to the same tricks again. It was strange; he hadn't heard of any more Negroes taken of the streets. And why would Octavius come back here after everything that had happened? Was it pride or a twisted sense of accomplishment?

Either way it didn't matter. Maybe it was pride, maybe he got his jollies hiding under the people who stopped him, but De Wolfe wouldn't be able to save him this time. If it was the last thing he did, Octavius wasn't going to make it out of this madhouse alive.

Still, his choice locale had definitely fallen, "How the mighty have fallen, Doc..." He stepped over the moist floor, gun at the ready. His spider-sense hadn't blared at all in the time since he'd gotten here, but he wasn't one to ever drop his guard. The asylum had been abandoned for a few months now, a result of a lack of funding and money being pumped into 'more important' projects.

Of course that left the question of where the crazies were supposed to go, but in the end it was lost in a sea of mob-related robberies, arsons and other dirty laundry the city was airing out. Jonah had sent him day in and day out trying to find the biggest scoop; and while he respected the man's grit he thought his focus was a bit off at times. The people already knew what was going on, but he wanted to believe he could 'wake them up' and make them actually give a damn.

A nice goal, one he hoped could actually happen despite his doubts.

Spider-sense tingling, he jumped into the nearby pillar and hid himself in the shadows. Two brunos with chicago typewrites, suits stained and obviously seeing better days, 'Cheap goons...' He jumped to another pillar and waited. Searching the entire asylum for Octavius was going to be tedious and he was already behind the grind. He didn't want to explain to Aunt May and Mary Jane why he was out all night again.

"Damn Kraut, hell is going on down there?" The leftmost goon muttered, pulling out a wrapped sandwich from his loose pockets.

"Beats me, but hey work is work." Righty shrugged, scratching his messy stubble, "You wanna be out there in the streets? Everyone's fighting for turf ever since Spider-man took out Crime mMaster." He slung the gun over his shoulder and spat, "Damn geek. Heard he came out of the Freakshow..."

"Yeah? I heard he's some kind of demon to 'judge us for our sins'" He laughed and took a bite of his sandwich, "You don't think he's actually real, do you? He's a fake, a boogeyman. Bosses are using some spider freak to avoid getting pinned, I tell ya. Shit, you think one guy could take Goblin and his crew? Not a chance. Must have been Francis or Maroni, I'd buy that more than I buy some freakshow geek taking em all out."

"Huh...maybe you're right-"

"Guess again, bozos."

Their screams of surprise were mercifully brief. The pair of triggermen fumbled for their guns before he jumped, webbing one to the floor with a flick of his wrist and pinning the other to the ground with a heavy thud, "Weird place to be at, fellas." He quipped, taking a moment to look around briefly. His spider-sense hadn't rung at all, but one could never be too careful around these parts.

The webbed thug struggled, trying to escape his binds, "Y-You're-"

"Spider-man, but you knew that already." He webbed his mouth shut, "Keep quiet. I'm talking to your friend."

"I-I ain't telling you nothing, freak!" The pinned palooka yelled, hands fumbling either for his dropped gun or the fallen sandwich; he didn't know which.

"Oh yeah?" He picked him up and slammed him against the wall, "Well, lets try this again." He leaned in closer, enough that he could smell the thug's putrid breath, "All those things you heard about me? All true. Osborn, Kraven, Crime Master: All dead cause a me. You really think I won't snap your neck and toss your body in the river?" He growled, "And that's if I'm feeling merciful. I can drag it out for days if I get angry."

"Y-You wouldn't!"

His fist smashed against the wall, his hand bursting through the brick with disturbing ease, "Next one goes through your head! Where's Octavius!?"

"I-In the basement! I-I-I swear!" He could see tears spilling from the thug's eyes. It was always the same; hired muscle, used to beating on kids and the elderly like trained mutts. He doubted the dingbat had even gotten into an actual fight before, "H-He puts the people in the cells downstairs and...and..."

"What people!?" He tightened his grip on the man's neck, "You leave anything out there won't be enough pieces for the coppers to piece back together!"

"I-I don't know, alright!? The Kraut hires us to take people off the streets, guys and dames people wouldn't miss! I don't know what the hell he does with em, and I never ask! I just take my money and keep my head down!"

That was all he was going to get from him. Cursing under his breath, Spider-man let him fall to the floor before webbing him up like his compatriot, "Coppers will be here to pick you and your buddy up eventually. You hide anything from em and you're gonna deal with me, understand?"

He left the goomba nodding like a rabid dog and made his way to the basement. The thugs words had done little to assuage his nerves: Octavius was back to his old tricks again, and just a few months after his last foray into science. He dreaded to imagine what he would see down there again: More innocents turned to braindead simpletons? Or would he just find them cut up into pieces for the sake of 'biology'?

Still, there was something that he missed. He said they were taking people that 'wouldn't be missed'? His first thought would have been citizens of the colored community, but he'd already been to the Negro World and they didn't take note of any missing persons cases. He doubted they would miss swathes of the community going missing after the last debacle and Robbie getting his brain drilled.

"Robbie..." His grip on his revolver tightened. Him and Felicia...mistakes he wasn't able to erase. Every time he saw her on her room's balcony or Robbie sitting at home he was reminded of how badly he'd done. Maybe if he went to Octavius' island first, if he didn't visit Felicia and have her harbor him, they would have been okay. She wouldn't be forced to hide behind a mask and he wouldn't be better off dead.

But now wasn't the time for self-pity. 'You make your bed and you lie in it', as Urich had told him once - Words that seemed almost prophetic given what happened to the sullen reporter. There was nothing he could do to change the past, he just needed to do better in the future.

The sight was just as depraved as he expected, albeit for different reasons than he expected.

The basement had been converted to a makeshift laboratory, the stench of blood and rotting meat hanging in the air, 'Just like a slaughterhouse...' He winced, covering his nose and mouth to avoid gagging. He could see the walls crudely broken apart to make way for tables and carts full of tools, brick and stone littering the floor in clumps. Obviously an amateur job; he must have grabbed whatever thugs he could hire to do this.

Either that or his Nazi buddies were losing traction. He preferred the latter.

The table's contents, however, were what drew his attention: Bodies barely covered with bloody swaths of cloth, the exposed flesh clammy and veiny. Spider-man drew closer and placed a hand against the neck of the closest one, "...Dead." He shook his head and closed the man's blank, open eyes. Given the body's condition he could assume that they'd been killed recently, maybe a day or two ago. The Rigor Mortis hadn't passed yet, at the very least.

He pulled away the blanket and nearly recoiled at the sight, "My God...what the hell were you doing, Otto?" He shook his head. Their brains had been left intact this time, but that would have almost been a mercy compared to what he saw now - Limbs mutated and fitted with technology far beyond what he could understand, their features perverted and grotesque. Arms that were far too small, legs that were far too long...like misshapen dolls.

"Looks like a prosthetic..." He lifted the metallic limb and examined it carefully. It wasn't the metal that baffled him, but more the lines of light lining the surface. It was odd: Despite the body long since growing cold the metal was warm to the touch, easily pushing even through the thick gloves he wore.

He'd seen the madman's experiments before, even approved of his methods. Attaching electrodes to the brains of a monkey? He had justified it easily enough when he first saw it, even ignoring Robbie's lambasting on the way back home. The suffering of an animal could be excused so long as the benefits to mankind were substantial enough. Progress demanded compromise, much as might have been unpleasant.

Except Octavius had a different definition of animal.

Apparently he had changed once more if his victims were any indication, "Germans...?" His brows furrowed. Their features were distinct enough to stand out, those that hadn't been mangled beyond recognition at least. All the men were handsome and well-built while the women still managed to retain a certain sense of beauty despite their conditions. He'd heard about the Nazi ideology before, their belief in the true race and their superiority over others. He knew of Otto's belief in it, but now...

Now it looked like Octavius was doing his damnedest to pervert it.

'Did the Nazis order him to experiment on their own people?' He wondered. He wasn't privy to the workings of what went on in the German government, nor did he have any inkling on what went on in the mind in the Chancellor of Germany. He wouldn't discount anything; if Octavius was desperate enough to hire thugs and kidnap people off the streets he wouldn't doubt this.

'Speaking of brunos.' He ducked into a corner of the broken wall, bathing himself in shadow. Four more thugs, each as disheveled and haggard looking as the last pair, "Man, this gig sucks..." The middle one muttered, "We gotta look for Germans and what do we get? Chump change!" He spat, "Knew I should have signed onto Gambinos; bet they don't make ya look for kaisers to turn to frankensteins."

"Yeah, the doc ain't paying much." Another kicked a loose stone with a grunt, "Lets split this join when we get paid. This place reeks."

"You said it, and ain't just cause of the stiffs."

Incapacitating them had proven easy enough. He left them on the roof, making sure to web their mouths to stop the conscious ones from yelling. Once the coppers found them they would spill, likely blame it all on Octavius. If they were lucky they'd get 15 years, and that's if they somehow managed to convince the boys in blue that they had no idea what the 'good doctor' was doing to his victims.

Stepping through the closest door, he was greeted by the sounds of multiple figures yelling all at once.

"Save us!"

"Let us out!"

"You have no right to do this!"

"You can't do this! It's inhumane!"

Cells lined the sides of the hall, the doors thick and the slots barely large enough for the occupants to get a look to the outside. This was where they put the crazies who couldn't be treated...he had to get them out of here.

"Wh-Who are you?" The occupant of the cell, a young teenage girl, asked. Given her accent it was easy to tell she was German as well, though she and the rest were in far better conditions than the rest. At the very least they had no visible injuries, which was a small blessing compared to what came before, "A-Are you here to-"

"I'm here to save you. Just be quiet, I'll get you out of there," He reassured, 'Octavius has a new type.' He sneered and smashed the lock, letting the girl out of her cell. He had no idea what caused the change in focus but at this point he didn't care. Octavius would never operate on anyone again, and this time De Wolfe wouldn't be here to stay his hand.

Freeing the rest had been easy enough. He guided them to the exit, letting their 'thank you' and 'you saved my life' proclamations pass with a polite nod. He saw a few crying at the sight of the grotesque bodies on the tables. Family or friends? It didn't matter in the end. The pain would stick with them, there was nothing he could do to change that, but he would make sure Octavius paid for it.

"Call the police when you can." He instructed, turning and running back to the asylum before hearing their reply.

Retracing his steps, he rushed through the basement and past the almost labyrinthine hallways of the madhouse. There weren't any more thugs, at least not as far as he could see. Octavius must have been desperate getting such a small number of triggermen for hired help.

He found himself faced with a door that stuck out like a sore thumb: The wood appeared to be new, the nameplate - a gold tinted 'Dr. Otto Octavius' - a clearly recent addition, 'Couldn't let it go, huh, doc?' He ripped it away with a small crack. Even when he was experimenting in a decrepit asylum and kidnapping people off the streets he still held onto his pride...he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised.

Opening the door as quietly as he could, he was met with a room far wider than he expected. The chamber was large, easily able to fit dozens of people at once. The dirt walls made it easy enough to assume that this was a recent addition. Despite its large size, however, it was almost barren. There were no basic comforts, nothing save a few scattered books and more of the prosthesis scattered across the floor.

...And the blood-soaked figure looking away from him at the room's end.

Octavius didn't turn at his entrance, continuing to mumble to himself. In front of him stood...he didn't know how to describe it: It was obviously machinery of some kind, but in all his studies he could never recall any kind of machine that created glowing blue portals. Stepping over the discarded artificial limbs, he drew closer to the crippled butcher. He could have shot him then and there, ended his life without him knowing...

No. He needed to see, to know.

"What is it I'm doing wrong!?" The doctor smashed his hands against the wheelchair's arms, the arms around the seat waving erratically in response. He saw him mutter to himself once more, one hand reaching towards the portal before drawing back with a muffled curse, "I'm so close! Just...Just a few more steps, and I can leave this forsaken place." He shook his head, "Perhaps...Perhaps another test would-"

"Not happening, you pasty faced fink."

He had to admit, seeing the half portion turn even paler was gratifying. Turning himself around, he found himself face-to-face with the bastard that ruined the lives of his friend and so many others. He looked the same as ever, save the bags under his eyes and the gaunt look he sported; as if he hadn't slept in days. It might have been pitiable if he wasn't covered in blood and sitting on a chair full of knives.

"Y-You-"

That was all he managed before Spider-man grabbed him by his neck and threw him bodily across the chamber, separating from the only 'weapon' he could use. Looking at the twisted wheelchair in distaste, grabbed the arms and tore them from the hinges. No mistakes this time, he wasn't going to escape.

"Wh-What are you doing here!?" Octavius sputtered, trying to crawl away from the enraged vigilante.

Spider-man tossed him again, throwing him into a pile of discarded prosthesis. Off to the side he could see the portal pulsing, seemingly blinking in and out of existence, but he ignored it. His spider-sense hadn't gone off the entire time he'd been in this room and he could glean from his comments that whatever the hell it was it wasn't working anyway. Whatever he was working on could wait till later.

"Up to your old tricks again, Octavius?" He picked him up and slammed him against the wall. This took him back...months ago he had the gall to smile at him, treat him like a friend after killing Crime Master; as if he'd done him a favor rather than just saving his own skin. He was ready to strangle him then, make him pay for everything he'd done, until De Wolfe convinced him otherwise.

Well, there were no second chances now.

"H-How did you-"

"You're not as quiet as you think!" He snarled, "You couldn't help yourself, could you? Just had to come back after you got caught the first time?" He punched his side, earning a scream of pain from the mad doctor, "And now you're doing it again, to your own countrymen! Any depths you won't sink to, you sick bastard!?"

"They rejected me!" He yelled, glaring down at him defiantly, "They...They called me a cripple! Unfit for the master race because of my congenital defects! My research and achievements could have revolutionized them, changed everything! But they rejected me and now they're fit to be nothing more than my test subjects! Surely those of superior breeding would make for the best animals-"

His rant was cut off as Peter wrapped both arms around his neck to strangle him. The monster's eyes widened, mouth parting to choke out more curses or to plead for mercy; either way he didn't care. The butcher was beyond redemption, beyond any reasonable hope that he could change. Even when he was rejected by those whose ideology he followed he just turned his madness on them instead.

And even then he felt a tinge of hesitation. The Nazis weren't protecting him now, no one would vouch for him if he let De Wolfe and the rest of the coppers arrest him...

No, not again. He trusted De Wolfe once, he wasn't going to take any chances now.

Just when the doctor's struggles began to weaken his stranglehold loosened at the sudden, painful blaring of his spider-sense, "Ahhh!" He let go of Octavius and pressed both hands against his head. It felt like his skull was getting split open with a hammer. Just barely he could see the portal pulsing, its length widening to engulf the entirety of the room in the overwhelming blue light.

"Wh-What's happening!?"

"You...Your presence here...that was the final step in the equation!" Octavius laughed in-between strangled breaths, "All those test subjects, all those experiments...and all I needed to bring it all to fruition was bring you here! The irony is palatable, is it not!"

"Make sense!"

"No...no more words. I'm ready to greet a world that will accept my genius for what it truly deserves!"

The light had nearly reached them now. Forcing himself up on his feet, he charged at Octavius and wrapped his hands around his neck again. Whether that portal killed them or did nothing didn't matter; he was going to take Octavius with him to the grave if it was the last thing he did.

The final thing he saw before the light engulfed them was Octavius' demented grin, and then everything went black.

---

"Urghhh..."

For the second time in his burgeoning career Spider-man found himself on the floor with a splitting headache, "This seems familiar..." He grunted, pushing himself up with a groan, 'Head's pounding, but at least my face isn't smashed in.' He thought. Silver linings, he learned to take them when they came. Resisting the urge to give another groan of pain he leaned against the nearby wall, snow crunching under his boots-

Wait, snow?

Vision clearing, he finally got a good look at his surroundings - A narrow alley, a road covered in thick blanket of snow. Only now did he feel the chill pushing through his longcoat, the icy wind blowing through in a freezing gale. At the end of the alley he could see blurry cars pass through the snowbound roads, music he couldn't recognize filtering in through the opening.

'Alright...think, Parker, think! You went to a madhouse, got those Germans out and went back for Octavius. Fink was in front of some kind science experiment, you were going to kill him then that damn lightshow lit up worse than 4th of July.

And then he was here.

"Damn it..." He pulled up his mask and vomited, the sour taste lingering on his tongue. He wasn't injured, he could feel no wounds on his body, but there was a definite feeling of something being wrong with him. Whatever's Octavius' mad science experiment had done to him it felt as if Sandman had used him as a punching bag again, "Definitely tastes better going in than out."

And Octavius was gone. Again. He pulled down the mask and took deep, gulping breaths. His throat burned and his head was pounding like a drum, but the only thing on his mind was if he snapped his neck before...whatever the hell that was happened.

Hah...if Aunt May and Mary Jane knew what went on in his head...well, better he didn't think about it. Sometimes the system didn't work, much as they - and he - wished it. Sometimes you needed to get your hands dirty if you wanted results.

Well, whether Octavius was with the choir invisible or slunk into a sewer like the rat he was could wait. First he needed to get home before Aunt May started asking questions; judging by the sunlight poring through alley he must have been out for hours. He'd always excused his nighttime excursions with Jonah putting him on another 'hard hitting' case of hungry orphans or husbands who committed suicide to escape debt, but that alibi was growing thinner with every use.

"Come on, you can do this." He groped the wall to steady himself and put one shaky leg in front of the other. The bizarre tunes did little to assuage the pulsing in his head, and neither did the telltale New York signs of bleating horns and cussing from irate drivers.

Despite it all it brought a smile to his face; his living conditions didn't leave much room for nationalism or pride in his country, but it was the only home he knew and - he suspected - the only one he would ever know. Maybe it was stupid of him to think so, but a part of him never stopped hoping that if he put enough mobsters and criminals in jail things would change for the better somehow. All his actions had to have an end, right?

His thoughts stilled as he finally escaped the confines of the alley and saw the sights ahead of him.

Buildings far taller than he was used to towered all around him, strange signs jutting out of the walls. He was used to skyscrapers and neon, but this...there was something different about the way they looked that he couldn't quite place. On the wall next to him he could see a smattering of posters, all promoting things he was damn sure he'd never seen before in his life

'What in the hell is a 'smartphone'?' He thought, staring incredulously at the poster of depicting a young woman with...some lump of metal in her hands and a big, plastic grin on her face. It was almost creepy how lifelike it appeared.

But for all the bizarre structures it was nothing compared to what he could see around him - People sandwiched together like sardines, lined up in front of what he could only assume to be a corner store. Cars sped through the roads, looking far different from any vehicles he could ever recall seeing in New York. The clothing they wore was...unique: Similar to what he was used to for some of them, but almost alien for many others.

The last time he'd seen dames with so much leg showing was in a speakeasy, and he'd never seen them strut around like that in public. The guys weren't any better; old men dressed in wife beaters and shorts without a care in the world and some of them weren't wearing shirts altogether, walking around bare and exposing tattoos. Those that didn't were still dressed like clowns, looking like something out of a comedy he'd see in Broadway. The few he could rationalize he could practically count with one hand.

"...Something tells me I'm not where I'm supposed to be."

People continued to walk past him, some pausing in their stride to look at him as if he was the one dressed like a clown: He could see at least a couple with green and blue hair in the crowd, and he was damn sure he'd never seen a dye company make them in that color. Mercifully his head had finally stopped pounding, but it was replaced with the sinking feeling of uncertainty.

"Dude, the fuck are you wearing?"

He turned to the source of the voice. A twist wearing glasses, some kind of rectangular machine in her hands. She was more covered up than some of the others, she still wasn't any type of dame he'd recognize.

"Uh...earth to masked man, you there?" She snapped her free hand, but her eyes were already drifting back to the machine in her hands. Just barely he could see a collage of pictures - handbags by the looks of it - before she swiped the screen, replacing it with another set showing shoes.

Well...that was new.

"What...?"

"I asked what you were wearing," She said, not looking up from the device, "That some kind of ultra retro hipster look or something? Cause if it is then you definitely got Steve beat hands down. That guy thinks a trenchcoat is all he needs."

Retro hipster? What the hell did that mean? Shaking his head, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Alright, now wasn't the time to panic. His spider-sense hadn't blared ever since he woke up in the alley, so he was safe...then again it hadn't blared when he first saw the lightshow so who the hell knew. Still, oddly dressed with weird cars or not he didn't seem to be in any danger here for the time being.

"...What is this place?" He asked.

"Uh...read the sign, man." She gestured to the sign, a caricature of a hotdog with sausage legs (definitely something to have nightmares about later), "Dolllar dog, dude. The new place to be seen. Figured you knew that considering you're dressed like Darkman and all."

"Right..." Just keep quiet and nod, he knew from experience it was an easy out for odd situations. That no one looked at him as nothing more than a cheap geek only added to his sinking feeling - He tried to minimize his contact with non-criminals during his outings, but the few times he'd been seen most people knew by sight who he was. Perhaps he had gotten lucky and no one made the connection - God knew he wasn't the only one dressed like a freak here - but his gut told him otherwise.

"Oh, here comes Bodega Bandit."

His new acquaintance finally looked up from the rectangle and pointed to what he could only describe as a wannabe-Zorro; dressed in striped green with a mask that barely covered half his face, reddish blonde hair sticking out from under his cap. Definitely young by the looks of him, which wasn't helped by messy stubble and the hamster chewing on a nut that sat on his shoulder. Considering he looked stupider than everyone else here he found it surprising that he strutted around like he owned the place.

Despite his confident stride, however, the people in the crowd rolled their eyes or even laughed at his entrance, though none made to stand in his way as he strode into the corner.

"...What was that about?"

"Oh, him? BB comes in to rob Bodegas once or twice a week, hence the name. He usually hits Dollar Dog or Burger Palace, but he hasn't hit this place ever since the renovation. Guess he finally got his nerves back."

"A thief? And they just...let him pass? What is he, some high-ranking mafioso?" The so-called thief was arguing with the owner and...pointing a hotdog at him in what he could only assume to be a threatening gesture. He would have dismissed it outright but he knew better than anyone not to judge by appearance. Even the most harmless geeks could turn out to be wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Him? Yeah, and I'm She-Hulk," She scoffed, "Nah, he's harmless. He comes in, steals a few corndogs or cheeseburgers and hightails it outta here. No one really takes him seriously, guess that's why the police don't even bother cuffing him most of the time." She shrugged lazily, "Shit, I think a few of the store-owners actually like him. At least it gives em something to do on slow nights."

"...I'm going to stop him."

He was halfway past the road when the thief charged out of the store, carrying a stack of 'corndogs' in his arms, "The Bodega Bandit and Bandito II strikes again!" He called out, earning a few sympathetic laughs from the crowd. A few steps behind him he could see the owner giving chase, ranting about how he didn't have time for this and that the young man was 'the worst'.

Well, that erased any doubts he might have had.

The clown passed by him without a second glance. He waited for him to reach the sidewalk before flicking his wrist, ejecting a short burst of webbing at his legs and caused him to trip, his 'prize' scattering across the snowy pavement.

Too easy.

"Hey, what the!? You're not-"

"Stay down." He sighed and applied another coating of webbing on his back, pinning him to the sidewalk. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with would-be criminal masterminds. He dealt with enough of that at home.

The owner's response, however, was less ideal than he'd hoped.

"Oh great, another one!" The old Mexican man groaned and placed two hands against his face with a loud smack, "God, it's like you freaks are coming out of the woodwork! First that menace and that overgrown lizard destroy my shop, and now this!?" He gestured to the scattered food, "Now I'm going to get even more squatters staying here cause some pervert with a trenchcoat shot web from his wrists!"

"I was just trying to help-"

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for a hero to come save me!" He spat, gesturing to the crowd around him. Spider-man could see them pointing small and large rectangular machines at him and whispering amongst themselves, "Look! Right now they're going to post this shit on their youwebs and now everyone's gonna think the Dollar Dog is like a fucking beacon for you freaks!"

"I didn't-"

"Mean any harm? Yeah, that's what she said too." He scoffed, "Look, if you wanna reward for this you're barking up the wrong tree. I didn't ask for your help and I would've done better without it."

"Yeah, I'll consider that next time I see a gun pointed at your face." He muttered, though he knew the threat was empty, "Look, if you want me out of your hair so bad at least tell me where the hell I am and how I can get back to New York. I'd gladly leave this madhouse."

The old man looked at him as if he grew a second head, "You an idiot, kid? This is New York, or did you somehow miss the sign when you got off the plane from crazy town?"

"What?" He blinked, trying to process the information as rationally as he could, "...Look, I know you don't like me - and trust me the feeling's mutual - but if you wanna fib then at least make it something believable. This ain't New York."

"And I'm saying it is, you nutcase." He poked him in the chest harshly, "You don't believe me that's fine, but go be delusional somewhere else; preferably as far away from here as you can. I don't want-"

Spider-sense.

Turning away from the old man, he found a sight that easily dwarfed everything he'd seen.

"Alright ya little brats, turn your valuables over and drop em on the ground or the face the wrath of my koala army!"

As was becoming a trend Spider-man found himself at a loss for words. A figure stood in the center of the street, his appearance nondescript save a mask that appeared to be made of glass. All around him were...he was seeing it now, but he still couldn't believe it: Dozens of Koala bears, each growling like trained dogs. He couldn't place the accent; a limey maybe? Then again he hadn't heard of the brits to be particularly attached to koalas. Regardless all around him the gathered people took no notice of his threat, continuing to point their machines at them both in turn. They were expecting a show.

"Yeah...definitely not where I'm supposed to be."