THE DAY PASSED IN A BLUR, her schedule took her on a tour of the surrounding area from her hotel, and she was thankful to finally collapse at the foot of her bed.
She rummaged through her day bag, kicking off the heels on her feet.
The dark coloured slim object rested itself on the centre of her palm. Without a second thought, she drew the curtains shut, locked the door, and turned all lights off in her room. She pressed the centre of the object, and a hologram lit up before her.
"Report."

"No unusual activities." She replied, and the light flicked off.

She opened the curtains once more, and frowned as the same red and blue suited hero tapped on her window, asking to come inside.
She slid open the window, allowing the boy passage, "Sorry for stopping by." He said.

She stared, silent as the masked boy walked through her room.
She followed him, tucking the slim device into her skirt's pocket. It did not make sense to her that he just invited himself into her hotel room. Who was he? Why did he call himself Spider-Man?
She coughed, watching as he sat himself down on a barstool by the small kitchen that the hotel provided, "Why are you here?"

"Why are we all here?"

Her frowned deepened, and she pulled out a glass, filling it with water. She slammed it down before him, "Why are you here?"

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, "You look familiar, but I don't know how."

"If that's it you can go back to whatever you were doing."

He shrugged, sliding off his seat, "I was just wondering how my nurse was going. It's not every night a masked stranger crashes through your window."

She grit her teeth, shutting her eyes for a moment as voices ran through her mind. Familiar, so familiar, they sounded.
Bronwen, you're acting funny, what's wrong?

Honey, come here.

You've got to snap out of this, please. Bronwen—

"Hey, you okay?"

Her eyes snapped open, flinching as his hand came to rest on her shoulder. She hissed, stepping back, "Get out."

Spider-Man nodded, leaving her alone without another word. The wind whipped her hair as she returned to the window, sliding it shut.
If she told Father about her voices, then he'd order her to come right back. He'd wait until another was ready, another that would be assessed as more capable. There would be nothing for her to say for Father to change his mind. Once he made a decision, he was set on the one path. He never wavered.
Running a hand through her dyed hair, she locked herself in the bathroom. She never got the chance to look at herself in the mirror, never needed to. Whenever she looked down at the puddle around her feet while showering, she'd see a rippled version of a hollow girl.
She pulled at her red strands, frowning. She removed her contacts, tied up her hair, and rubbed off any and all makeup.
She was Emily no more.
Running her hand along the wall, feeling for the panel hidden in the room. She knew the place, but she was stalling.

Deep in her bones, she couldn't understand the feeling that lied there. It was foreign, but it caused her to hesitate. She didn't want to put her suit on straight away, and she couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was the boy, who crashed through her window. Had he infected her? Was being away from the compound changing her?
Truth be told, she was frightened. Her mind shut down the thoughts of her rebelling against Father. She couldn't, she wouldn't, yet there was something that compelled her to do so. The boy had triggered something deep in her mind, and something— or even someone — was unleashed.
After all the training she'd done, after all the compound gave her, she couldn't revert back to whoever she was before. That girl was gone, dead to the world, removed from her memory. She was 024, the first success, and she'd take that name to her grave, one way or another.

∆ ∆ ∆

Peter didn't know what dragged him back to the strange girl's hotel room that evening. He'd swung by, scouting the city, and before he knew it he'd knocked on the window, waiting for her to let him in.
He didn't expect her frosty response to his arrival, most would fawn over him if he came near as Spider-Man, but her, it was like she'd never heard of him before. It was possible, but not realistic. After what happened with the Avengers and the Sokovia Accords, there were a lot more people who recognised him and his suit. Yet, the girl had stilled, her eyes glazed over, and his heart skipped a beat as she whispered a name; Peter.

Of course, a foreign girl couldn't know his secret, there was no possible way. Like he said, she didn't even know of Spider-Man.
But as he swung from her window, out into the darkening night, his mind was spinning. He dropped onto a roof, pulled off his mask, and held his head in his hands. The way she said his name, it was so familiar, and it was killing him. With the disappearance of Bronwen, and now this girl that he couldn't put a finger on... Peter shook his head, running a hand through his flat hair. The stress was getting to him, his mind was making things up, making connections that didn't exist.
Bronwen was gone, and he couldn't stop blaming himself for what happened. If he hadn't pushed her away, hadn't asked Liz to homecoming, hadn't put his own mind before his...
He growled, tossing his mask across the roof. There were so many ways he couldn't prevented this, so many possibilities. He was too focused on himself, and now she was gone.
Peter jumped as the blaring tone of his phone ringing cut into the busy night. With fumbling hands, he pulled it out from a hidden pocket, setting himself down and answering it.
"Hey, May." He mumbled, recognising the number, their home phone line.

"Peter, I think you should come home."

"May I know you think this isn't a good idea but—"

Her voice was sharp as she cut him off, "It's not that..." she sighed, "You need to see this."

"All right, I'll be over soon." And with that, he slipped on his mask, and swung back to the apartment, sliding open his window.

May stood expectantly in his room as he entered, her lips a thin line as she lead him to their lounge. With a click of a button she hit play on the recording.

"It has been months since the last known sighting of Bronwen Deirdre, and since then, family and friends have been scrambling for any evidence. We are thankful to one of our viewers who have sent this photo to us, the police are working closely..."

"How come we haven't seen this yet?" Peter growled over the tv.

May bit her lip, "Peter..."

"What, you knew? You kept this from me?" He snatched the remote from her hands, pressing pause, and pointed to the red-head displayed on screen, "If there was anything about Bronwen found, why didn't you tell me?"

"We agreed it was for the best, Peter."

"What, that I find this out just as the rest of the world does? She's been missing for months and—" he collapsed onto the couch, head in his hands.

"I know, I know. Losing someone you love is the worst, Peter, you know that." May held his hand, easing herself onto the couch beside him, "But I promise we'll find her. This news, it may not even be her. Look at the picture, Peter. This girl doesn't even look remotely like her, and I'm sorry for not telling you, I just didn't want to keep your hopes up."

Peter nodded, staring at the girl, "I met her, crashed through her window. She patched me up." He averted his gaze, to the floor, "I... I don't know why but whenever I went near her, she'd feel so..."

"So what, Peter?"

"She said my name." He looked up, "Not Spider-Man, but Peter. She went blank and suddenly, she sounded like Bronwen. I...I...she didn't even know who Spider-Man was, May. She sounded so closed off and—"

"What was her name?"

"Emily."

May nodded, squeezing her nephew's hand once, "Well, maybe this Emily is related to her."

Peter gave her a weak smile, "Maybe."

∆ ∆ ∆

The night was perfect.
She grinned under her mask, there was no moon to create her shadows, no stars as the pollution covered those. There couldn't be a better time for her to scout the sectioned off city.
What happened in New York so many years ago created enough damage to take more than eight years to clear it up. She'd watched the news reports at the compound, of the aliens and the masked vigilantes fighting back the villain. She couldn't help but laugh, as these hero's had no idea what was coming for them.
Father had made a deal with this man, and in return, they'd receive training and weapons like nothing on Earth. As long as they pledged their undying allegiance. The man's plan was full proof, Father had said, and the man had promised their safety from anything the man had in store for Earth.
With a glance down the deserted road, she teleported to the other side, the only sign of her existence a purple shimmer that she wanted nothing more than to shake it off. Her mind was focused on the task, plan, scout, retrieve. Three simple steps for a simple task, and she'd become Father's favourite.
Not that she wasn't already.
She brushed off the thoughts, eyes narrowing as she searched through the building. She'd do six tonight, than another six the next, and soon, she'd find the object.
Plan, scout, retrieve. There wasn't anything simpler.
Her feet were silent as she stepped over the rubble, discarded memories of the past littering the floor. Rats scurried in the distance, looking for their next meal. She did not pity them, they were condemned to their own fate, as she was her own. She'd do Father's bidding until she was old and grey, and then, she'd be given the grandest send off she could imagine. Her stories would be told through the speakers, and she'd be remembered by generations of those like her. It was a fantasy, but you couldn't stop a girl from dreaming, could you?
She wanted to be hung up to the success of the Winter Soldier. With his stories having lasted decades, and were still whispered in her ear that very day. There was nothing more honourable than having yourself in their walls of fame. Nothing.

The stairs did not creak as she ascended, gloved fingers shuffling through old photographs, long forgotten novels, and piles of belongings that the owners were not allowed to retrieve until the block was deemed safe by Damage Control.
She teleported to the next room, her eyes never missing a detail as she searched through cabinets, behind doors, inside cupboards. There would be no cup unturned, no curtain drawn back.
A metal object fell to the ground, the sound echoing.
She froze.
Teleporting into the next building, she watched silently through the window. A figure darted into the room she had vacated, their head swiveling. She couldn't believe that she was stupid enough to allow someone to follow her. How had they known? Who were they? She shook her head, blinking, and the figure disappeared. She'd done enough searching for tonight.
Just as she was about to teleport away, a hand wrapped around her wrist. She growled, flipping the figure onto their back, pinning them down. She could not see their face in the darkness, nor feel the material of their suit under her gloved fingers.
"Woa, woa, woa, woa."

Her eyes narrowed, the voice, it belonged to none other than the masked buffoon that fell through her window. She couldn't believe her chances, meeting the boy twice in the one night.
As she blinked, she teleported to her feet, kicking him once before disappearing into the night, a cloud of purple all that was left.

∆ ∆ ∆

Peter heard the figure before he saw them.
He'd snuck out, May believing that he collapsed in his room. He'd locked the door, and swung out into the streets. Peter hardly went past the outskirts of Queens, but there was a feeling that tugged him to the cut off zone of the city. He landed with a thump on the roof, and slowly creeped through the broken window into the building. He didn't know why he brought himself to a place stuck in time, and he stilled when he heard the creak of a floorboard.
Sure, it could've been the wind, but his senses told him otherwise. Peter investigated, crawling along the ceiling to stay out of sight. The figure was barely an outline, more of a shadow that was as silent as a grave. He could not make out their face under their hood, nor could he tell what they were doing. They moved like the wind, unseen, unheard. He wondered why someone would bother sneaking into the Damage Control zone, what was here that they wanted to badly? His first thought was that they wanted to retrieve a sentimental item, for their family or to sell, but as he followed the figure, his suspicion turned to something else.
The figure did not turn his way until he kicked a pan off its shelf, the sound ringing through his ears as it clattered to the floor. He pressed himself against the roof, wide-eyed, as he waited for them to move once more. Peter counted to ten before easing himself to the floor, eyes scanning his surroundings for any sign of a threat. He ran a hand along the wall, peering through the window.
His mouth dropped as he spotted the person through the window into the next building, their hands running through hair he could not see. It was peculiar, that they were able to be in one spot and reappear in another.
Within a second he was in the same building as the figure, slipping into the same room. They did not sense him until he wrapped his hand around their wrist, and in the blink of an eye, he was flipped onto his back. In the faint light, he could see wide brown eyes stare at him for too long of a moment. They teleported, and he swore.
He knew those eyes, he knew the purple dust that was left behind.

They belonged to Bronwen.

He scurried home, not caring about the consequences he'd face from May. Peter only had a one track mind at that moment. He slipped through his window and burst into the lounge, a half asleep May resting on the couch before a blaring tv.
Peter ripped his mask off, unable to control his emotions as he wrapped his arms around his Aunt, who stood the moment she laid eyes on him. He told her everything he saw, the buildings, the figure, the purple light. He swore he didn't make it up, he would never.

It was that night when Peter's heart swelled with hope for the first time in weeks.