Chapter 129 - 129

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….

"Please, do not tell me that in this dimension, the Scorpion is simply a Mexican gentleman who blindly answered a newspaper classified reading 'Supervillain Wanted,'" I mused inwardly.

In truth, it was vastly more tragic than that. According to the encrypted files I had pilfered from the late Peter Parker's computer, this particular Scorpion was indeed of Mexican descent, but a natural-born American citizen and a decorated military veteran. It was during a standard overseas deployment, generously dispensing "democracy" to the locals, that he had been brutally reduced to a limbless torso. By some grotesque miracle of capitalist medicine, he had fallen into the waiting clutches of Alchemax, who systematically butchered him into the towering, cybernetic monstrosity currently blocking the doorway.

"Boys, take the roughhousing outside!" Aunt May commanded, her voice cracking like a whip of pure authority.

Magnificent woman. She didn't merely project the stern aura of a disappointed matriarch; she seamlessly punctuated the command by reaching behind the doorframe and wrapping her weathered hands around the handle of a solid wooden baseball bat.

"We'll just have a quick dance and scatter," the monochromatic Noir Spider grunted, cracking his knuckles.

"No, no, no," I interjected smoothly, raising a single finger. "That simply will not do. We have an established itinerary, and I violently loathe last-minute improvisations."

"And who the hell are you supposed to be?" the ashen-skinned brute sneered, leveling his dual pistols at my chest.

"Ah. Where are my manners?" I offered a radiant, unblemished smile as the mortal clothing melted from my form, instantly replaced by the gleaming, gilded leather and heavy metal of my Asgardian armor. Golden light flared in my palm as the royal spear, Gungnir, materialized in my grip. "Loki. God. Just a god. And, regrettably, farewell."

I leveled the spear horizontally. These were enhanced enforcers, certainly, but they were still bound by the pathetic limitations of mortal reflexes. They didn't even have time to blink.

Two staccato pulses of blinding, divine plasma erupted from the spearhead. The brilliant light completely washed out the foyer. When our retinas adjusted a fraction of a second later, the towering cyborg and the gray-skinned gunslinger were gone. In their place rested two remarkably tidy, smoking piles of ash on Aunt May's hardwood floor.

I released Gungnir, allowing the royal weapon to levitate obediently in the air beside me. A fluid pivot on my heel, a sharp, elegant twist of my wrist, and the Casket of Ancient Winters materialized in my grasp. I unlatched the lid just a fraction.

A howling, hollow cone of primordial Jotun cold erupted across the room. I aimed carefully; Doctor Octavius herself was spared the brunt of the blizzard, caught in the absolute dead zone of the blast, but her four mechanical limbs were instantly flash-frozen to their very atomic core. I snapped the casket shut, abruptly severing the magic, just as the brittle, deeply frozen synthetic tentacles shattered like spun glass under the sudden shift of the woman's weight.

Olivia plummeted to the floor with a highly undignified shriek.

"Mind telling me where you picked up a piece like that?" Noir inquired, tilting his fedora back as he stared at my floating spear.

"The firearm was a complimentary bonus that came with the throne of Asgard. The icy trinket was bundled with the throne of Jotunheim, along with an agonizing mountain of bureaucratic hemorrhaging," I replied breezily. I dismissed the Casket back into my pocket dimension and casually snatched the adamantium-plated spear out of the air.

"You kil... You killed them?!" Gwen gasped, finally recovering her voice.

She perfectly articulated the collective horror radiating from Aunt May, Mary Jane, and the older Peter Parker. Though, to be fair, Peter's face read less like profound moral outrage and more like a deeply startled 'Holy shit!' Peni, interestingly enough, wore an almost identical expression of morbid fascination.

"And what do you mean, thrones?!" Gwen demanded, unable to suppress her own frantic curiosity.

"Did I not mention that?" I asked, feigning absolute innocence. "In my native reality, I am the rightful, absolute sovereign of the Asgardian gods and the Frost Giants of Jotunheim."

"But you told me you worked at a high school!" the blonde accused.

"Also entirely factual! But I am Loki. I immediately dumped the agonizing burden of intergalactic rulership onto Thor and fled the realm to teach mortal children. Ultimately, it is entirely his fault I am here. I never wanted the administrative nightmare of absolute power anyway. It is a dreadfully long story."

"They... they're dead?" young Miles stammered, staring with wide, horrified eyes at the twin piles of smoldering dust.

"Oh, absolutely! Deader than dead! Deep-fried to a glorious, crispy finish! One hundred percent completely liquidated!" the cartoon pig cheered, helpfully ticking off the synonyms on his trotters.

"Urp..." Morales clamped a hand over his mouth. His eyes darted frantically around the kitchen before locking onto the stainless steel sink. He dove for it. "Blarghhhh..."

"Shame. Kid's got a weak stomach," Noir noted, shaking his head in mild disappointment.

Before the profound silence could settle, the kitchen window spectacularly shattered. A new combatant swung gracefully through the falling glass, landing in a crouching, theatrical pose. He was clad in a sleek, intimidating purple-and-black tactical suit, armed with heavy gauntlets and a billowing cape.

I fluidly leveled Gungnir at his chest, prepared to reduce him to a third pile of debris, but... the menacing newcomer froze. His glowing lenses locked onto the sobbing, vomiting teenager hunched over the sink.

"Miles?!" The man bolted upright, whipping his head around the room. "Doc Ock? Where is everyone else?"

"Hmm." I leaned heavily on my spear, surveying the tall, broad-shouldered man with deep, academic scrutiny. The boy clearly recognized this heavily armed misunderstanding. A delightful, deeply theatrical suspicion began to bloom in my chest.

"Do you see those two quaint little piles of ash upon the floorboards?" I asked conversationally. "The one on the left used to be a gray behemoth. The one on the right was a heavily armed cyborg."

"Unless you're looking at it from the other direction," the seasoned Peter Parker mumbled thoughtfully.

"It's all about perspective, pal," Spider-Ham agreed with a solemn nod.

"Regardless," I continued, flashing the newcomer a blinding, welcoming smile. "I strongly advise you to discard those charming little combat gloves and remove your mask, my good man. Otherwise, this foyer is about to accommodate a third pile of dust."

The man slowly raised his hands and complied. The mechanical mask hissed open, retracting to reveal his face.

Miles slowly lifted his head from the sink, a line of spittle hanging from his chin. His eyes went wide. "Uncle Aaron?!"

"And what did I tell you?" I crooned, wiggling my eyebrows playfully at Gwen.

Simultaneously, I discreetly wove a complex illusion around the exterior of the house, ensuring the shattered windows and the brief flash of divine plasma remained entirely cloaked from the prying eyes of the mortal neighborhood. No need to invite the local authorities to our little family reunion.

"Okay, fine, so he's not dealing crack," Gwen muttered, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "But yeah... you were right."

"Naturally. Now, let us proceed!"

With a lazy flick of my wrist, I conjured dense, unbreakable magical bindings, firmly securing both the stunned uncle and the furious, tentacle-less scientist to the floor. I stepped forward, looming over them with the full, suffocating weight of my divine presence.

"Now then... where is the detonator?!" I bellowed, my voice dropping into an impossibly deep, gravelly register.

"W-what detonator?" Olivia stammered, frantically looking between the tied-up mercenary and myself in sheer, unadulterated panic.

"Ah. My apologies. Wrong cinematic universe," I coughed, instantly reverting to my normal, elegant cadence. "Where is Wilson Fisk, woman?"

"Why on earth would I tell you anything?" she sneered, recovering a fraction of her bravado.

"Because if you do not, I shall be forced to employ the thermorectal crypto-miner!" I threatened darkly. "And believe me, my dear... neither of us will enjoy that process!"

"Folks, what language is he even speaking right now?" Spider-Ham whispered loudly.

"I could be wrong, but I think I've heard a variation of that phrase before," the monochromatic Noir mused thoughtfully, adjusting his collar. "From Nick Fury. Right before he shoved a soldering iron up a Hydra agent's ass."

Hic!

It was impossible to determine exactly who produced the terrified, high-pitched squeak of fear. There were, quite frankly, several viable candidates in the room.

"Hold on a moment. Wasn't Hydra dismantled in the nineteen-forties?" I asked, genuinely curious, casually pressing the razor-sharp tip of Gungnir against Olivia's collarbone to ensure she remained perfectly still.

"In my world, those Nazi bootlickers infiltrated everywhere. You practically have to shoot them on sight just to keep the numbers down," the black-and-white detective explained smoothly, tipping his hat.

"Ah, yes. Alternate realities. I keep forgetting." I pivoted back to my captive audience, pasting a wide, genuinely psychopathic Joker-esque grin across my face. "Now then! Which finger shall we sever first?"

"Fisk is sitting in an armored SUV half a block down the street," the Black mercenary blurted out, eagerly answering on the scientist's behalf.

"Oh! Splendid! Someone is finally cooperating with the investigation!" I cheered, clapping my hands together. "What inspired this sudden burst of civic duty?"

"I'm a mercenary," Miles' uncle replied, shrugging against his magical bindings as best he could. "I work for a paycheck, not an ideology. I have absolutely zero desire to be introduced to a 'thermorectal crypto-miner'... nor do I wish to watch you introduce it to anyone else. Also, my nephew is standing right there."

"You are an absolute wellspring of pragmatic wisdom," I praised him. "Morales! Observe! This is precisely the sort of man you should be modeling yourself after."

"Are you seriously advocating for the Black kid to join the ranks of supervillainy?" Gwen demanded, leveling a flat, judgmental stare at me. I could tell the sudden, brutal execution of the two enforcers had deeply rattled her, and this sarcastic banter was her desperate attempt to bleed off the adrenaline.

"Please, do not speak of it as if it were a horrific plague! I am a villain myself, thank you very much," I sniffed indignantly. "Well, in the majority of timelines, anyway. Besides, look at the potential! If the boy hits the gym, dons a stylish, dramatically billowing leather trench coat, and perhaps arms himself with a katana..."

With a flourish of my hand, I manifested a shimmering illusion of an older, heavily stylized Miles. He looked remarkably like a local variant of Blade, complete with mirrored sunglasses and a scowl that promised violence.

"Look at that!" I declared proudly. "What a deeply brutal, emotionally unavailable, mysterious antihero! Women absolutely swoon for the emotionally damaged bad boy!"

"Hmm..." every single female occupant in the room hummed simultaneously, staring at the illusion with deep, highly contemplative appreciation.

"You see? The raw charisma of the aesthetic is already working!" I crowed, thoroughly vindicated.

"Perhaps," Miss Stacy offered, her cheeks flushed with the faintest hint of pink as she desperately steered the conversation away from the allure of tragic bad boys, "we should go after Fisk?"

"Oh, that is already handled," I replied dismissively.

Right on cue, the muffled, concussive thump of an explosion echoed down the street, followed instantly by the chaotic, wailing chorus of a dozen triggered car alarms.

"What do you mean, already handled?!" the collective Spiders demanded in unison.

…

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