INSOMNIAC GAMES,
MARVEL'S SPIDER-MAN (2018)

✶

VI.
STAGECRAFT

"WOULD YOU PASS THE SUGAR?"

A year in the past, Juliet sits opposite Anthony Masters in the only honest-to-goodness café they could find this side of Williamsburg. When she signed up for his criminal training academy, she had expected more than impromptu coffee runs and... Brooklyn. When Anthony—aka Taskmaster, aka Tony—had signed up for impromptu coffee runs and Brooklyn, he had expected more than crowds of gentrification-complicit New Yorkers and caffeinated beverages that cost upwards of six dollars.

Needless to say, both parties were disappointed.

"Juliet. Would you please pass the sugar?"

Juliet blinks and turns her gaze from the street—busy, bustling—back to Tony. Her eyes meet dark sunglasses; in the lenses she can see her own reflection, a distraction from the complete and total impassiveness of Tony's own face.

          Tips with Taskmaster: Most people only care about themselves. Let them project onto you. This is how you learn them, innately and acutely. This is how you find their weakness.

Unfortunately Juliet was selfish, not self-centred (yes, there was a difference) so Tony's tricks didn't work on her. She cleared her throat and passed the sugar.

"Thank you," Tony says, tearing open the little sachet with an unnecessarily expert—and unnecessarily efficient—motion. He drank flat whites with two raw sugars, on oat milk if it was available, no worries if not. Juliet knew this before he even opened his mouth to place his order. She also knew that the barista behind the counter had forgotten to add the sugars.

Not because of her telepathy, but because it was a busy Saturday morning and on Tony's cup the barista had neglected to write anything other than FW, flat white; O, oat milk. Juliet stared at these letters on the side of Tony's paper cup—or what she could see of them between long, slender fingers. She followed them to the back of his hand, then from there used his veins as a roadmap up his arms, past the fabric of his t-shirt to his neck, jaw, and finally, his face.

The obstruction that were his sunglasses aside, Tony had one of the handsomest faces Juliet had ever seen; he also had one of the most boring. His beauty was entirely conventional, all straight lines and symmetry, fair skin and Eurocentrism. He had bright blue eyes and dark, curly hair; a boyish smile that was rare in its frequency and even rarer in its sincerity, perpetually smothered by an expression that was almost always blank. He was good-looking, but exactly nothing about him implored you to look for long. He left no impression. He demanded no reaction, no feeling, no permanence. He could have been anyone. He could have been no-one.

The thing was, he was both. Everything and nothing at once, both the outlier and the overlap. It served him well and sitting here in the oblique mid-morning light, at an outside table where they could people-watch all the strangers of the city as they passed them by, Juliet realised this was his principle gift. In mercenary circles, he was known for his ability to copy, mimic, imitate—his body had lived a thousand lives, his brain had stolen them. This, Juliet understood, was priceless in its way. But there was more to it underneath; layers, shadows lurking beneath the surface of the water, skilfully concealed in the reflection of the one who looked upon it. To become someone else was to become invisible. Juliet did not want to be invisible, no, but she did not want to be herself, either.

Although Tony did not deign himself to reach across their table to get himself his sachet of sugar, he seemed perfectly capable of grabbing a disposable stirrer. He took the small wooden thing between his fingers and mixed his drink, solely focused on his task. When he was satisfied, he looked up at Juliet and smiled, that boyish grin flashed bright without mirth or meaning. "What are we going to do about you?"

Juliet traced a shape in the condensation that had beaded on her iced latte: an irregular polygon, perhaps, or a constellation created in the image of a hero who had been greatly (but honourably) disfigured in battle. She refused to meet Tony's eye. "That's a great question," she said. Then, "I was hoping you could tell me. I didn't realise coffee dates were part of the curriculum."

"They're not." Tony took a sip of his drink. Displeased, he stirred it again. "But you're not like the rest of my students."

"Aren't I?"

"No. I think we both know what you are."

Juliet's mouth went dry. "And that would be...?"

"Different," he said, simply. Then, as he slid his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and into his hair, he added: "One of a kind."

She looked up at him. "One of a kind?"

"One of a kind," he confirmed. "Which isn't good for me, by the way. My entire business model is based on being able to replicate anyone and everyone. You, however—" Tony made a face, "—are the exception."

"Sorry."

"Yes, you should be."

"I am."

"Good." Tony got himself another sugar without Juliet's assistance. "Get the apologies out of the way now because we need to have a real conversation about this. You're... ah. I'm trying to find another word that isn't too complimentary, doesn't make it sound like I'm coming onto you—and I want to say it how it is, stay matter-of-fact. Special is uncomfortable, infantilising. Unique has a certain condescension to it. And exceptional—"

"—is a word you've basically already used." Juliet finished with a smile. To this, Tony nodded.

"Yes. I hate to be repetitive, hate even more to be redundant." Finally satisfied with his coffee, he took a long, slow sip. "And to be sappy. God, I hate theatrics."

"So do I."

"Is that so? I think they'd serve you."

"Really?" Juliet arched a brow. "How?"

Tony didn't answer immediately. He instead looked towards the street, the people and their pulsing lives. He might not have felt it but Juliet did, blurry, endless, the thoughts and dreams and heads and hearts of a dozen passing strangers. It was easy to get distracted—to get lost—but Juliet stayed focused, her eyes on Tony's and Tony's alone. When he finally spoke again, there was a measuredness to his tone, a care. "You're sure about this criminal thing?"

"If you can find a nicer word to describe me than just mutant then we can probably find a nicer word than criminal."

"No. Say it how it is." Tony scoffed gently. "You seem like a good kid. What happened to you?"

That was a loaded question. Juliet's turn to scoff; she did so, turning decidedly away. "Do I have to answer that?"

"It would be helpful if you did."

"What if I don't have an answer?"

"What if I know for a fact that you do?"

Juliet smiled small. "I tried to be good, first. It didn't work out."

"No?"

"No. I copied, like you. I knew that you can't just be a good person, it's an ongoing act—a continuous effort. I understood that part. But I tried and I tried and it just didn't stick. Because—"

"—you were copying."

"Yes. It wasn't me." She paused. "It still isn't."

"You could just, I don't know. Get a job."

Juliet laughed at that—the first time she'd laughed in months. "So could you. You'd be killer in an office, I'm sure."

"Oh, definitely." Tony sat back in his chair, head shaking as he tried to suppress his smile. "Unfortunately, I don't think normalcy is in the cards for people like us."

"If it is, I'm taking it out. I don't want to be normal."

"Exceptional," Tony offered.

"Exceptional," Juliet agreed.

✶

Ezra's voice, though intermittently muffled by the sound of his obnoxiously loud eating, was a comfort in Juliet's ear. He bit into what Juliet thought might be a baby carrot—crunch!—and adjusted something on his end, sending a staticky sound coursing through the comms. Juliet winced, then winced again when he finished swallowing and spoke: "I think you should start wearing a top hat."

Juliet snorted. "I think you should kill yourself."

"Oh, well, maybe now I will."

"Will you, though?"

"Uh-huh. And I'm going to cite you in the suicide note, so everyone knows it was your fault."

"Seriously?"

"Yes?" Crunch!

"Could you at least put my Instagram user in the note?"

"What?"

"So I can get some clout. Because I'm sure so many people will be reading your suicide note. And so many people will care about said suicide. Because you are famously well-known and, in that vein, well-loved."

Silence, then— "You are such an asshole."

"Aren't I?" Juliet laughed. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I don't think I want to talk to you anymore, actually."

"C'mon, Ezra."

"Nope."

"Ezra. Ezzie. Ez. Ez-man. Ez. Ez! Eazy-Bake Oven."

Crunch. Maybe he was eating celery? "What the fuck?"

"Hm?"

"Eazy-Bake Oven?"

"Eazy as in, Ezra-plus-Easy. Thus, Eazy-Bake Oven."

"I got that part, stupid. What's an Easy-Bake Oven?"

"You don't know what an Easy-Bake Oven is?"

"If I knew what an Easy-Bake Oven is, would I be asking you what an Easy-Bake Oven is?"

"Maybe. For clarification purposes."

"That's what asking anything is. That's what a question is for: clarification purposes."

Juliet laughed, a gloved hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Ezra Savage, everybody. Your local genius."

"Stop making fun of me or I'll actually do it."

"Do what?"

"Kill myself? Hello?"

Snickering, Juliet shook her head, even though the only way he'd be able to see it was dark and blurry through the closest CCTV camera. "Okay, Eazy-Bake. What were we talking about again? For the record, I say this for the second time."

"Um..."

"Top hats?"

"That sounds about right."

"Why were we talking about top hats?"

"Give me a second."

Juliet did.

"Got it." Crunch. "Your costume. You should wear a top hat with your costume."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because? The Illusionist?"

"What of her?" Juliet laughed again at this; the self-distancing. Perched on a rooftop somewhere in Midtown, one might imagine her in a Batman-like stance, overlooking the city atop a conveniently placed and totally-structurally-sound gargoyle. Having missed the memo, Juliet was instead looking back upon the rooftop itself; it was less a rooftop than the top floor of an unfinished high-rise, all open walls and scaffolding. Fisk Construction was printed on nearly every surface, on all the building's supplies; the high-rise was, naturally, a front for Kingpin's illicit activities. Before her, Fisk's men, deceivingly decked out in occupation-appropriate attire, were working hard. Or hardly working, depending on your definition of employment. Juliet's mother, who had been left soundly in the dark re: her daughter's recreational activities, thought she might do better in life if she got a good job somewhere, a nice 9-to-5. Or something in management.

Okay, Ji-Ae. Whatever you say.

"You could do a whole magician thing. I think it would be cool."

"Oh, yeah, top hats, the very definition of cool."

"Zatanna has a top hat."

"Zatanna, the fictional character?"

"... Yeah." Ezra went shamefully silent, to which Juliet snickered. "I like Zatanna."

"You don't say."

"I love her, even."

"Mhm." For her own point of reference, Juliet pulled out her phone and typed Zatanna straight into Google. She was met instantly by bare skin and black latex, smirking and fishnets. And, of course, cleavage. She cough-laughed (the sound something like suffocation) and put her phone away. "Well, I can see why."

"Shut up."

"I thought your favourite was Green Lantern."

"I can like more than one fictional character at any given time."

"I mean, yeah, but you like Green Lantern and Zatanna for different reasons, I imagine."

"Reasons such as?"

"Do you really want me to say it aloud?" A pause, Juliet faux-yawned. "What we really should examine, though, is why you want me to look more like her."

The groan of all groans sounded from Ezra's end of the line. "Yeah, I did this to myself."

"You did. Is it like, a psychosexual thing?"

"Nothing is ever a psychosexual thing with me."

"That's definitely not how that works."

"It most certainly is. I'm too dumb for psychosexual. It's like explaining astrophysics to a baby."

"Um," Juliet said, "is it, though?"

"Uh duh." Ezra adjusted something back at the apartment and the static, which Juliet thought she had escaped, returned for a brief but grating moment. "How do you expect a baby to comprehend something like that? It can't even talk."

"It can't even talk," Juliet repeated. What she was really saying was, do you hear yourself right now?

"Just said that."

"Do you not like me the way I am?"

"No." Ezra said, far too quickly. "I mean, no! I do not not like you the way you are. I like you the way you are."

"You sound very confident about that."

"'Cause I am. Love you..." Ezra dragged out the you: youuuuuuu.

"Gross. But hey, I'm always open to constructive criticism."

"While we're at it—"

"Yes?"

"Shouldn't you be doing the job Kingpin is paying you for?"

Juliet scoffed, but Eazy-Bake Oven had a point. "Shouldn't you be doing the job I pay you for?"

"You don't pay me."

"Oh, right. I totally forgot."

"But we could open that discussion if you'd like."

"I wouldn't like."

"I think it's high time I—"

Juliet felt a shift. Something in the city, something in the air. Her back straightened, almost involuntarily. "—Shut up."

"Hello?"

"Ezra, I'm serious. Be quiet."

His side of the line went silent. Juliet rose, the space between her brows creasing as she drew them together. There were maybe twenty men here tonight, give or take: let's say twenty-two. Juliet imagined a building, then twenty-two windows for twenty-two rooms, twenty-two lights that bled bright through the glass into the night. Juliet, as always, watched from the outside-in, standing on the street and staring up at the building's façade from way, way below.

If you're following the metaphor, then you understand these lights to be people. Twenty-two of them, going about their totally-legal business at this totally-legal Midtown Fisk Construction site. Juliet closed her eyes, picturing the building's face. Twenty-two men, twenty-two minds, twenty-two lights.

One by one, they flickered, then switched off.

The construction site was lined by long, steel beams that acted as a perimeter for Juliet to patrol. She'd spent all night pacing back and forth, bored, but now she was anything but, sprinting, gaze scanning the site as she moved. Every step she took a switch flicked off and another mind went dark, disappearing into the night; not dead, no, she'd feel the absence, but asleep. Unconscious.

She stopped at the corner furtherest from her original vantage point and swore: "Fuck!"

Before her, a scaffolding set up for electrical work. Stuck to this scaffolding, three of Fisk's men, wrapped tightly in thin, shiny webbing, glittering something precious with the reflection of New York's endless city lights after dark.

"What is it?" Ezra said into her ear, serious for once—not an ounce of levity in his voice. "What's wrong?"

"It's Spider-Man," was all Juliet could say. "It's fucking Spider-Man."

"What?"

"I gotta go, Ez," Juliet said, muting her comms. She'd had a good few weeks free of any spider-interference, but she wasn't stupid: it was obvious that Kingpin and co. had recruited someone new, brought some private contractor into the fold. It wouldn't be long until New York City's very own webslinger caught on, then caught up.

Juliet sent a quick text message to Wesley, just like she was told to when Spider-Man made his inevitable first appearance: SM on-site. Send reinforcements NOW. Then, she climbed down from the steel beam, cracking her knuckles.

Every breath she took a light went out—dark, dark, dark. She could hear it now, hear him, the sound of a fist finding a home, a body slamming into a wall, rushed footsteps and cries. The slick thwip of his webs, the clatter of a firearm drawn just a second too slow thrown to the ground.

Fifteen down, seven left to go. Juliet could feel his mind too now, separate of the others, moving a hundred miles a minute, faster than she could comprehend: point A to B to C to D to Z to P then back to C. She took a step and four more lights went out: she heard the bodies fall.

Another step, another two men gone. Wesley's response: Coming.

The last Fisk muscle came flying through the drywall, a groaning mess of pale plaster dust and snapped wooden studs. The building in Juliet's mind went dark and, standing upon both it and the one in real life, was Spider-Man.

"Fuck me," Juliet muttered under her breath.

"That's a new one." Brushing the plaster dust off his suit, Spider-Man's voice was bright and chipper. Too bright for the circumstances and too chipper for Juliet full stop. "Hi, I'm Spider-Man. I don't think we've officially met."

He offered his hand to shake. Juliet just stared at it, looking between his open palm—wrapped with white bandages that covered his forearms—and his masked face.

She had to bite. "Officially?"

"Yes, officially. I assume you're the girl who's been leaving thugs all over the city crying." A pause. "Well, I didn't assume you were a girl, but I didn't assume you were a man either. Okay, maybe a little bit, but in general I'm trying to take a non-biased, non-gendered view to—"

Juliet blinked.

"—my crimefighting practices. In my head you were a gender-neutral criminal entity. Which, by the way, interesting gimmick you've got going on here. Crime-wise. When I say the guys I've been finding have been crying, I mean like, literally crying. And without a single broken bone. How do you do it? I gotta know."

"Yeah?" Juliet found her words, and Spider-Man finally retracted his hand. "Do you want to find out firsthand?"

"Ah... I don't know, man. From what I've seen, probably not."

"Then I suggest you turn around and leave."

"But we only just met! And I'm dying to get to know you better."

Juliet's eyes narrowed. "Poor choice of words."

Spider-Man faux-gasped. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, but I would."

He scoffed, now. "I know that's not your heart."

"You don't know anything about me."

"But I want to." His voice was calm, warm, but Juliet could sense the tension growing in his shoulders, his jaw; minuscule, but true. "What have they got on you? Your family, your partner? Someone else you care about?"

"Stop talking, Spider, or you're going to regret it."

"Debt?"

"I said stop."

"Whatever it is, if you tell me, I can help you. I promise. You don't have to do this."

Juliet had heard enough. She moved to hit him, a perfect, disorienting move she had practiced a thousand times over, taught to her with precision by Tony, Taskmaster himself. It happened in an instant, swift and shocking—Spider-Man flicked his wrist and before Juliet could register the thwip of his webs, her hand was bound, trapped and covered, completely, in silk.

"Don't do that. Just talk to me."

"Look at me, idiot! Do I look like I don't want to be here?"

"Well—"

"You think someone trapped in this life, in this situation, wears a goddamn costume and a mask?"

"Well—"

"Whatever sucker you have up your sleeve to use as an example, an excuse, is not like me. I didn't accidentally fall into some sand pit that happened to be the testing ground for a super-collider. I didn't lose my family, I didn't drown in debt, I didn't make a mistake that led me to this moment—that led me here." Juliet held up her free hand, pulling from thin air a psionic blade: bright blue, bleeding light. She took it to the webs and, in one, fluid motion, sliced herself free. "I chose to be here. And I'm letting you choose. Leave."

"Telling me to leave isn't letting me choose. Ironic—" Spider-Man said. Moments ago his demeanour had been relaxed, convivial; now, Juliet watched him shift into a defensive position, fingers closing into fists. "—considering."

"Not ironic," Juliet said, stretching her own fingers now that they were free. The light of her psionic construct cast them both pale, ghostly. "Merciful."

"No-one should ever be at the mercy of anyone else." Spider-Man's eye-lenses, overlarge and expressive, white like his silk, narrowed. She watched his jaw tighten. "I had hopes for you."

"You shouldn't have."

"It's just my way."

"Unfortunate. Can I assume, then, that you do know who I am?"

Spider-Man nodded curtly. "The Illusionist."

"Yes." Juliet smiled, smug. "What took you so long?"

"I like to be sure."

"So do I, spider."

"Don't make me hurt you."

Juliet's voice was sweet—sickly so, syrupy. "It's a choice. And you already hurt my men, so..."

"Your men? Fisk's men."

"Contractually, sweetheart, Fisk and I are one and the same."

"It doesn't have to be that way—"

"What was that thing you said to me before? While you were rambling?" Juliet pretended to think as she tugged at the edge of her psionic blade, drawing it longer, sharper. "Gender-neutral criminal entity. God, that's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. It's a shame, because when you're not playing dumb you actually have quite the lovely voice on you. Audiobook-worthy."

"You think so? We don't have to fight, y'know. We can talk this out, instead, like grown-ups—I'm down."

"Oh, I'm sure. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to decline."

"That your final answer?"

"It is."

"Fine. We'll do this the hard way, then."

During her time at Tony's criminal academy, Juliet had been the titular Taskmaster's undisputed personal favourite. She'd always been a teacher's pet, but this was a whole other calibre of preferential treatment: while he trained all his students fairly, and while most would agree his course of study was all-around comprehensive, he didn't prepare his would-be criminals for certain, New York City-specific situations.

Such as Spider-Man which, yes, was a situation in itself.

(Himself?)

TONY: First of all, girl, you sure you don't want to make another city your staging ground?

          JULIET: I'm sure.

          TONY: I could see you on the West Coast. Give San Francisco a run for its money.

          JULIET: No, sir. It's New York or nowhere.

          TONY: (begrudgingly) Fair enough. Onto the next dot-point, then.

          TONY: You're not going to be stronger than him. If you think you are, you're wrong. He's holding back, and though I doubt you're ever going to do something to warrant him letting go like that, you don't want to chance it.

          TONY: You're also not going to be smarter. Kid talks fast, talks snarky, but he's sharper than he seems. You've seen how many heroes have tried to make it in this city; there's almost as many criminals. He's outlasted them both, and it's not because he's always got a stupid comeback for everything. He's not just clever, he's creative—if he doesn't know something from the get-go, he'll find it out, or work it out, it doesn't matter which one because both should scare you.

          TONY: You have "smart" guys left and right, but smack-bang in the centre is Spider-Man: someone who's intelligent, and knows how to interrogate intelligence. Besides; half of him is his technology. I can only assume his webs are his own proprietary compound, as well as the devices he uses to shoot them. Those were not designed overnight—there is a dedication there that I do not doubt can be applied to any other... problems he might encounter.

          JULIET: Such as myself.

          JULIET: Hypothetically.

          TONY: Hypothetically.

          TONY: Point is, you've got something he doesn't and fingers-crossed will never have: those powers of yours.

          JULIET: What are you saying?

          TONY: I'm saying, your powers—use them. And don't ever hesitate to do so.

It happened in a matter of moments—and it was so, so predictable.

          TONY: If you're on even ground, he's going to try and get you up in the air.

And he did. Juliet blinked and she was up in the air, a lasso of silk pulling taut around her waist. She'd seen this one before, one of Spider-Man's many catalogued "moves" in Tony's hours and hours of surveillance. What her opponent planned to do—what he'd done many times before, practice makes perfect—was throw her up into the air then slam her back down, knock her out cold. Cold, nice, and quick.

          TONY: If he gets you up into the air, get down. And do not give him the chance to find higher ground.

The silk loosened for a split second—twisting, Juliet sliced herself free. Pulling from the night a psionic shield, she landed back on the concrete, panting. "Play fair."

"No," Spider-Man said.

Well, a girl could try. Grinning, Juliet slipped into his mind—nowhere too deep, only the surface, only what he could see. It was easy to reconstruct the world around them; fix the drywall, redo the plaster. Lay brick after brick after brick until the pair were closed in, the sky above disappearing into illusion, the walls concrete and unmoving as far as anyone, especially Spider-Man, was concerned.

          TONY: You want to corner him.

          TONY: No escape.

"No escape," Juliet said. The site's large, industrial lamps shattered, the only light in the darkness was her: her power, her mind.

Spider-Man did not check for the quality of the Illusionist's construction. He did not even move. He just stood, and stared.

"Play fair."

"No." She took her psionic knife and pulled on it like a thread, until it was thin, fine, malleable in her hands. Like string—like silk. "I think I'll take a page out of your book."

"That's derivative."

"Perhaps." In their corner of the world, in their battleground, Juliet circled him, twisting her psionic silk between her fingers. "I might surprise you."

"It'd be a nice change of pace." A quiet grunt, Spider-Man turned every time she disappeared from his line of vision, careful to keep her in sight. "You're different from the others."

"You have no idea, sweetheart." Juliet, the vulture, stopped circling. Spider-Man ceased too, watching her. "Maybe you have a point."

His eye-lenses moved, as if he were raising an eyebrow. "About?"

"Maybe I do have a choice."

"You always have a choice."

The psionic thread faded, disappearing into the dark. When Juliet spoke, her voice was soft; desperate. "They threatened my family. They're immigrants, Spider-Man, they don't know anyone who can help them, they don't have any money."

"I'm sorry."

"And my partner—Fisk threatened to kill him, make it look like a drug overdose. Oh," a sob, "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"We can figure it out."

"We can? You can help me?"

"I can try." Spider-Man reached for her hand—

          TONY: Six years in and he'll still fall for a sob story. Just make it a good one.

If Juliet had been looking at her phone, she would've seen the message Wesley sent her: You almost had me.

Instead, a flash of light and the warped crackle of fried electronics. Juliet slashed at Spider-Man's right wrist, then his left: his webshooters hissed, shooting silk in every direction. She dodged the streams, ducking to swing low, kick him in the knees.

"Shit—"

"And here I was, thinking Spider-Man didn't swear." She was on top of him, straddling his chest—knees pinning his arms to the concrete, psionic thread drawn thick as rope now wrapped tight around his throat. Incandescent, it glowed pale blue against the red of his suit, pulsing as if a vein, as if alive. "Don't fight it."

To his credit, he didn't. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Where could you possibly know me from?"

"I—"

Spider-Man was cut off by a series of beeps in Juliet's ear—.... . -.--, hey in Morse code. Ezra's signal for his manual mute override. "Shush, Saviour Complex." With her hand, Juliet covered where she supposed Spider-Man's mouth might be. "What's up?"

Muffled noises from underneath her palm.

"I said, shush—I'm not speaking to you, Spider-Man."

Ezra: "Are you finished flirting yet?"

Juliet's nostrils flared. "I'm not flirting."

"You so are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Jealous, much?" Juliet looked back down at Spider-Man, smiling something mischievous. "If that counted as flirting, maybe I should do it more often. Seems to get shit done."

A noise Juliet couldn't quite make out from Ezra's end. Then, "Wesley wants to talk to you, I'm gonna patch him in."

"Yes, sir."

"What did I say about—" Ezra's line clicked dead. A second passed, and the silence was replaced by Wesley's tone, low and much less familiar.

"Juliet?"

"Sir?"

He didn't question the honorific the same way Ezra did. Why would he? "You've got Spider-Man there?"

"I do indeed, sir. What do you want me to do with him?"

"Hm. Well, under any other circumstance I'd say: kill him."

Juliet furrowed her brows, smile fading. "But?"

"Spider-Man tried to ruin Wilson Fisk; I say it's our turn to ruin him. Take off the mask."

"Take off the mask?" Juliet echoed Wesley's words. Underneath her, she felt Spider-Man finally tense. Felt him push back against his binds, which only tightened, glowing brighter. You're still in control, Juliet.

"Yes. Kingpin will be pleased to learn the identity of the man who's put him in jail. You've done your job well, Juliet. Good girl."

This time, it's not Tony's voice that surfaces in her mind's eye. It's Dominik's.

          DOM: Good girl.

Juliet locks her jaw, loosening the psionic binds just to touch Spider-Man's neck—run her fingertips along the webbed suit that protects him, hides him, find the seam that separates the body of his suit from the head. Her thumb catches at the seam, just as Spider-Man yanks one of his hands free.

She flinches, expecting violence: to be thrown across the room, to catch his left hook right in her face. But he doesn't hurt her. Instead, bandage-wound fingers close around her wrist. "Don't," he says, still quiet under her palm.

          DOM: Don't.

She's twelve months gone and fifteen blocks uptown in the Soros family penthouse. She's pinned down, just like this—just like a spider, dead and framed on a scientist's wall. Dominik's breath is hot in her ear, his hands are hot on her skin, his voice is dark, like night, like tar. Tar that she's stuck in again, suffocating and deep, deep, deep. She can't get out. And she can't stop hearing it, them, all his favourite words. Don't. Stop. Good.

Yes.

Her favourite: no.

Not that it matters. Not that it ever did.

But it could now.

"No," Juliet said.

"No?" Wesley scoffed. "What's the point of you? Get inside his head, then, find out who the fuck he is!"

It would be so easy—too easy. Who are you, Spider-Man? Tell me. Who was she kidding? She wouldn't even have to ask. But who else never had to ask? Juliet closed her eyes, trying to pull herself out of that penthouse.

          DOM: It's what you want.

          JULIET: It's what I want.

But wanting something does not give you the right to have it.

Again, Juliet says: "No."

Under her, Spider-Man leaned his head back on the concrete. Fingers slackening, his eye-lenses squeezed shut. He sighed into her palm.

"You want to know who Spider-Man is, Wesley? You can come here and find out for yourself." Juliet muted her comms again, pulling her hand from Spider-Man's mouth. He inhaled sharply.

"I just want to say—"

"Shut up." And he did, reluctantly. "I don't know if you were going easy on me tonight, if you were just warming up, if this is just some kind of game to you. But it's not, alright? This is my job—my life."

"I—"

"I said, shut up. You stay away from me, and Fisk, and his territory, do you understand? You think my powers start and finish with—" Juliet floundered for a second, "shit, psychic bondage?" She gestured wildly, frustrated, and the psionic ties disappeared, setting him free. "You cross me again and I will kill you."

"No, you won't." He didn't make any attempt to move from underneath her, and his hand still clung to her wrist. "I know what you are."

          DOM: What are you, Juliet?

"Weak, that's what I am. Weak." And sentimental. "I won't be next time. If there is a next time. No second chances." Juliet rose, shaking her head. She felt slow, stupid. "Do you understand?"

"I understand." Spider-Man got up, slowly, massaging his throat. "You know it doesn't end here, right? There is going to be a next time."

"Be better, then."

Spider-Man felt for an invisible wall at the edge of the rooftop. The illusion gone, he grasped nothing, and with his back to Juliet looked at her over his shoulder.

"You first."

Then, he was gone.

✶

AUTHOR'S NOTE

nooooo it definitely hasn't been over a year since the last NYSM update... no, of course not! i don't have much else to say here other than, i'm sorry guys 😭 this one's been in the draft for literally ten months now and it's finally here. this 2024-2025 summer i'm genuinely going to try and be more consistent with my updates. if not for NYSM, then for UNSPUN... jump ship if you please.

this chapter, however belated it might be, is extremely important because of course it's the first interaction between the illusionist and spider-man (as it says on the tin, ha.) let's be honest, jules probably wouldn't have actually killed peter here, but her decision not to unmask him or use her powers to forcibly learn his identity is pretty much the thesis for her character. with great power comes great responsibility... or whatever.

if there are any NYSM readers left in the void... please vote, and comment. if you do i swear on ezra's life i will update in a timely fashion!

just kidding. thank you for your support, invisible or otherwise 🙂‍↕️🫂🙏🤍 i love you guys. sorry for the wait.

🪞 GRAPHIC by SOULOFSTAARS 🪞