The alarm goes off for 0.5 seconds before Wade's body is in motion.

CRUNCH!

Groggily, Wade lifted his head, eyes traveling up the length of his arm where his fist is nestled in a pile of broken plastic, wires, and an ear-splitting BEEP BEEP BEEP that dies before it can truly live. He didn't feel his arm moving until it had already killed the cheap, Walmart-brand alarm clock, and was still dazed as he withdrew his hand from its corpse, dragging pieces of plastic with him.

This is why he didn't invest in alarm clocks. Why waste money on something designed to make him hate himself in the morning when the bathroom mirror worked just fine? Besides, they were never worth the buck when you had to constantly replace them. His apartment didn't come with an alarm clock, and he didn't carry them with him on jobs. Hope no one was going to miss it.

Oh well. Say la vie.

Shaking his head, he shook his hand to dislodge the pieces and lay back down on his textbook, scratching his stubbly jaw with a yawn.

Note to self, he thinks sleepily, need to shave soon.

...

...

...

Wade's eyes shot open.

Alarm clock?

Textbooks??

Stubble?!

He flung himself off the couch, except he isn't on a couch. He falls forward, on a desk, shoving it against the wall with a loud CRACK, and jamming his hip against the wooden edge. He flails backward and bangs his knee into the desk, making the whole thing jump. A stack of books falls onto the floor, papers go flying, a charging laptop hits the ground, and the chair Wade's trapped in breaks as he stumbles into it.

Instead of falling, he grabs a corner of the dresser shoved between the wall and desk, steadying himself. Immediately, his other hand goes to his hip, reaching for his gun, but all he finds is a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants. He blinks rapidly, eyebrows pinching together. Everything is too sharp. To close, too detailed . The world's resolution has been sharpened to its highest setting and it makes his eyes water. His head whips around the room, eyes straining as they jump between the pizza boxes stacked next to a rickety bed, the pile of dirty dishes in a single basin sink, and the moving boxes scattered haphazardly.

This isn't his pig sty.

"What the fuck?" He says, and his hand flies to his throat, eyes widening. Not even his voice sounds the same. It's not deep or garbled, but smooth in tenor. Not young, but definitely not old.

Wade ran a hand through his hair. HAIR . He definitely didn't have that when he came home last night. He tugs on it, feeling the sting in his scalp, and then stares at his bare, unscarred fingers. He presses them to his shirt, a simple white t-shirt, then back to his sweatpants. His heart is beating faster, pummeling his chest.

"What the fuck? What the fuck ?!"

This isn't his apartment. These aren't his clothes.

Did he die? Like, for realsies? Is this hell?

Above the desk is a corkboard littered with newspaper clippings, sticky notes, and a map of lower Manhattan dotted with push-pins. Like something out of a goddamn detective novel. Did he get reincarnated?

Wade snatched one of the sticky notes off the board. Rent Past Due! Again!! It read. He tears off another one, cringing at the ripping sound it makes. This one has some kind of insect-doohicky sketched on it. He follows a trail down the notes.

Suit stinks! Laundry day!

Rent. RENT. REEENNT.

Pick up Aunt May at 10pm

Call ESU, re:loan extension (again)

Mail JJJ roses from "secret admirer"

There are other doodles. More doohicky designs. Notes and reminders that don't make any sense to Wade. He stumbles away from the board, coming face to face with the cluttered stovetop in just a few steps.

The stove is overrun with takeout boxes and a dirty kettle. On one side is an overflowing sink, on the other is a small counter with a freakish, Frankenstein-looking toaster and more takeout boxes. There's a half-opened door leading to a small closet overflowing with dirty clothes, unpacked moving boxes next to that, and then another door.

Wade lunges for it, yanking on the doorknob only to stumble back when it comes off in his hand.

"Cheap-ass door," he grumbled, trying to wedge the knob back in its hole. "Cheap-ass apartment. Cheap-ass motherfucker. Fuckity, fuck-fuck." He isn't one to typically judge someone else's living arrangement (his own apartment wouldn't pass a sanitation test for a landfill), but by god, this was sad on so many levels. "Come on!" When the knob refused to go back in, he weaseled his hand into the hole and yanked the door open. Only for it to crack and splinter, coming off all hinges but one, and teeter to the side.

He should probably feel bad about that.

He tossed the knob over his shoulder and peered into the hallway. It's empty, sans garbage that litters the ground and wood flooring in desperate need of a mop. There are a handful of other doors lining the walls, but Wade focuses on the one at the end of the hall with a handwritten "BATHROOM" sign crookedly taped on it.

Stepping out of the apartment is like stepping out of a bubble. The rock music he's been hearing ever since waking up is louder now, assaulting his ears with shrill notes and thrumming beats. A man and a woman are arguing about rent in the room next to him, and farther down the hall is a news report that's climbing higher and higher to combat the music. The noises bombard him all at once and Wade takes a step back, wincing.

"Geezus," he hissed, jamming his fingers in his ears to drown out the noise. "What kind of mutated, alien speakers do kids buy these days?" If he wanted to burst his eardrums, he'd throw himself on a concussion grenade. Or ask the Hulk to box his ears. It'd certainly be less painful than this. Jaw clenched, Wade surged into the hallway, making a beeline for the bathroom.

This door breaks too. Is it just him or were doors so poorly made these days? Gone are the times that he has to break his ankles trying to kick them down. Kids these days have it too easy. He pries the sticky knob off his hand and tosses it aside too.

The bathroom is small, meant for one occupant at a time, and graciously empty. Wade's jaw drops when he sees himself in the mirror.

No scars. No milky yellow eyes. No pus, blood, sockets, or sores. He's...healed? Wade grasps the sink, air leaving his lungs and making him feel light-headed. He drinks in his appearance and slowly his awe, his amazement , dwindles away piece by piece. He rubbed his eyes, hard, the clarity of the bathroom, of his reflection, is overwhelming, but he can't keep himself from the mirror for more than a few seconds.

T his...isn't me , he thinks, staring into his eyes - this stranger's eyes. I...I don't look like this.

Cautiously, he ran a hand over his unmarred skin, catching on the prickly stubble growing along his jaw and chin. His hair, dark brown and in need of conditioner, is sticking all over the place. That's not right. He was blonde. Before Weapon X—before cancer—he had blonde hair. And his eyes, where once were blue, were now a deep brown.

There's nothing particularly special about this face. Cute. Pretty, even. In a boy-next-door- kind of way. But his olive skin tone is clammy, the stubble unkept, and dark circles hung under his eyes. Rumpled. Disheveled. Tired . Mid to late twenties if he had to guess.

This isn't Wade. This isn't who he used to be.

"So who the fuck is it?" Wade wondered aloud.

Someone behind him makes an affronted sound and Wade turned. A middle-aged woman glared at him, covering the ears of her young son. Her glare turned to the door hanging off its hinges, then back at Wade, deepening.

Wade held up his hands. "It was like that when I got here, lady. I'm just as pissed as you. Really. Now I gotta pee with an audience, and I don't think anyone wants that." He glanced at himself in the mirror, and his lips quirk up. "Well, maybe a few people. But I charge upfront. You don't get a show for free."

"Y-you-why would you-" the woman's lips curled in disgust and she grabbed her son's hand, dragging him away, shooting Wade sputtering glares over her shoulder.

Wade waved after her and went back to his reflection, running his hand through his hair a few times, snickering and feeling delirious. It's been years since he could run his hands through his hair. To feel the tug, the sting, on its roots. He can't help but pull on it a few times, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, and grinned like a lunatic.

Down the hall, the arguing couple was starting to calm down. Wade heard the jangle of keys and the muffled sound of shoes being pulled onto feet, and begrudgingly pulled himself from his reflection and returned to his apartment. The apartment. The shoebox he woke up in.

He attempts to fix the door and make it look like it's still attached to the frame, at least. He has marginal success and walks backward, plopping on the bed. It caves inward, the joints breaking, and he toppled backward with a yelp.

"SON OF A HIT MONKEY'S ASS!" He shouted, shoving the blanket away but it sticks to his palm. Growling, Wade aggressively shook his hand, and when that didn't work, grabbed it with his free hand and yanked. The blanket RIPPPPPED as easy as toilet paper, but even those pieces stick to his fingers in defiance.

"This is getting really old." He snapped.

As he pulled at the blanket with his teeth, something red and partially hidden catches his eye. Cocking his head, Wade nudged it out with his socked feet. It's a mask. An inside-out mask with wires and circuits glued to the inside.

"Hmm..." Wade squinted, and carefully, minding the pieces of blanket still glued to his fingers, picked it up and turned it inside right.

And then dropped it, pulling his hand to his chest like he'd been burned. Only the mask clings to his fingers too, staring up at him with mocking clarity. A flare of anger ignites inside of him, a bitter twist in his gut that is only dampened by his confusion. His heart beats rapidly against his chest and the world outside got louder, sharper, closer, as the revelation settles over his shoulders, sinking deep into his bones.

There's no mistaking those lenses. That shade of crimson red. The black web-like pattern that every child and their grandmother would recognize. Spider-Man's mask stared at him, cool and impassive. Insulting and cruel. Fusing to his skin like a nagging child with sticky fingers.

No, Wade realized with wide eyes. I'm sticking to IT. His eyes whipped between the blanket, the billboard, the sticky notes, and back to the mask. He sucked in a breath.

"Oh my god."