Lewis Pullman as Calvin Evans & Drew
Starkey as Zach MacLaren in LESSONS
IN CHEMISTRY (2023) & THE OTHER
ZOEY (2023), respectively

#03 The Grants

‼️ TW / CW: ‼️
reference to / implication of CSA.
no graphic depiction.
CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.

Scout had been led to believe that the moving-in process would be extensive, and exhausting. Imagine her surprise when she discovered that it took less than half her (and Gargan's) day.

Maybe that had something to do with the fact that she had almost nothing to her name, material or otherwise; maybe she should've known better. All she had to pack up—and subsequently move—was her clothes, her cello, and her weapons. If she were to create an itemised list of her belongings, of the three aforementioned categories "weapons" won by a landslide. She had more knives than she had socks.

More ways to kill than worldly possessions.

Scout carried in one of the two boxes containing her clothing; she set it down and tucked it just beside the front door, then straightened up to survey her new home. She had never been to the Greenwich apartment before—from what she understood, her mother had lived here during her time on Broadway. This was hearsay curried from Gargan, of course, because looking at the penthouse now, there was nothing to suggest Shiori had ever lived here, that anyone had ever lived here. The apartment was spacious, split-level with white walls and oak hardwood floors. It was also completely empty.

"We'll have to go furniture shopping, huh?" Gargan came in a few paces after Scout, shouldering open the door with two more moving boxes stacked in his arms—WEAPONS scribbled comically-large on the side in black permanent marker. "Where's the closest Ikea?"

"Do I look like I would know?" Scout laughed, shaking her head. "I've never stepped foot inside an Ikea."

"Me neither, girlie." Pause. "Heard good things about the meatballs, though."

Scout could only give him A Look. She rolled her shoulders back. "Bedroom's upstairs, then?"

"Bedrooms plural. This apartment has three, and a study, which I guess could be a fourth. You won't be entertaining anyone, so does it really matter?"

"I thought we could—I could, I don't know—make up a room for Spencer."

"Spencer?" Gargan put the weapons boxes down on the first step of the stairs. They were the same honey-warm wood as the floors. "Dunno about that one."

"What do you mean? She'll be back in New York eventually. Right?"

"Right, but you're not here to decorate."

"I think I'll be decorating regardless, considering there's like, nothing here." On her right, a staircase led up to an open loft-like room that Scout presumed in turn led to the three bedrooms. Right in front of her was the step down into the open living room space. Around the corner was, presumably, the kitchen. It was big, a lot bigger than she'd expected it to be. Scout walked through the living room space and into the "kitchen", which was a kitchen and a dining room, all lined by large, floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the street. "At least we have a refrigerator."

"Good," Gargan called from the foyer. "'M not charging the company card for that. Your dad'll think I'm embezzling."

"Aren't ya?"

"Not right now, no."

Scout turned in a full circle, inspecting her surroundings. Way bigger. Despite the space, her heart felt heavy—her throat, right. She was still on a leash, just an invisible one; she was still in a cage, just one with a few more square feet of breathing room.

"Hey, Mac?"

"Mm?"

"Will you be living here too?"

Gargan laughed, so loud Scout could hear it from the kitchen. "What? You got everything you could possibly want right now, and —"

"—not everything I want—"

"—now you want a roommate too?" Gargan materialised beside her, side-stepping to open the fridge door, stick his head inside and take a peek. It was, of course, empty, but sent a wave of cool air through the kitchen. "Nah, I'll be at my place in Chelsea."

"I figured I'd be watched 24/7."

"Oh, you will be. There's cameras honed in on every entry, every exit—at every angle."

"Any inside?"

Gargan pulled back from the fridge, watching Scout with a quirked brow. The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile. "Should there be?"

Scout looked away. "No. I'm just asking, Mac."

"Uh-huh." Pause. "No, there aren't any cameras inside. That I know of."

"And the ones outside?"

"They're on a live feed, streamed direct to yours truly."

"Not to my dad, then."

"No, Scarlett, not to your dad. But if he asks to see the footage, I can't say no."

Scout nodded, biting her lip. "Okay."

"I'm sorry." Gargan took a step forward then, and Scout had to stop herself from flinching; to cover for herself, her rare moment of weakness, she forced a laugh. What, exactly, had he intended to do? Comfort her? Alright, then—but how? Hold her hand, hug her? The thought of it made Scout laugh, for real. The only person on this planet less affectionate than Gargan was Scout herself.

Or Spencer. But her little sister was the last person Scout wanted to, was able to, think about right now.

"Don't apologise." Scout returned to the foyer. In one fluid movement she picked her boxes back up and began to climb the stairs. She passed through another empty living space, then two similarly-bare bedrooms. Stopping at the last door, Scout flicked the light on with her shoulder and set her boxes down once more. To no-one's surprise, this room too was empty. She couldn't even begin to picture what it might've looked like a decade ago, or two. She couldn't even begin to picture her mom back then, either, but that wasn't new.

The master bedroom was the only one with a walk-in wardrobe. Scout rolled up the blinds and opened the windows, letting the warm morning sun bathe the room in light, then went to explore the wardrobe. Here, she finally found proof of her mother's time here—or, rather, proof of her mother to begin with.

Leaning against the walls were framed posters from her mother's The Phantom of the Opera run. They were old, faded, their protective layers of glass obscured by years and years of dust. Scrunching her nose, Scout ignored them and instead inspected the built-in drawers and shelving. All empty, too, untouched save for the spiders that had woven their webs corner-to-corner between white-painted wood and wall. Even they were gone. Scout searched every drawer, every nook and cranny, and found not a single spider.

Only a printed photograph, still glossy after all this time. This was one memory of her mother Scout could actually recall: one of Spencer's first real ballet recitals, if not the first. She was eight, and in the photo she looked even younger, swathed in soft, fairy-floss pink dancewear. Beaming, clutching a small bouquet of white roses. Beside her, Scout—her hair dark and natural, back then, braided tightly as it always had been in her youth—and behind them both, their parents. Shiori smiling that thin, tight-lipped smile of hers, and Dexter's expression completely blank. He had one arm around Shiori, but even in the photo, even in the past, Scout could sense his wife pulling away from him.

Fuck, she could see it.

Scout turned the photo over in her hands. On the back, in her mom's handwriting, familiar in the way only a dream is: Spencer's first performance. She's just like her mother.

Spencer, just like her mother. Scout, just like her father.

She scrunched her nose again, uneasy. In the photo, Dexter had one arm around Shiori, yes; his other hand was closed tight around Scout's shoulder. His touch was the same then as it is now: immediate, and paralysing.

Scout hated it—being forced to be still. Being forced to be anything at all.

In a few minutes, Gargan will come upstairs to check on Scout, slightly concerned at her lack of sarcastic comments he has become so accustomed to over the past few years: he will find her unpacking her things unharmed, of course, and uncharacteristically quiet. Pinned to the wall he will see the photograph of her and her family: herself, and her sister. Their parents torn away, crumpled up, and tossed into the bin. Good and well gone. As far as Scout was concerned, as much as she was able to pretend, they do not exist. It was just her, and Spencer, and Spencer smiling, and flowers, forever.

🕸️

Eleven hours and two round trips to the Ikea in Brooklyn later, Gargan is in the living space, wrangling a sage-green IDÅSEN cabinet—a steal! at $439.99, like Scout or Gargan or even Dexter for that matter knew how much a cabinet should cost. Beside Gargan, still in its box, was the brand-new 86-inch TV. He'd already put together two couches, four bookcases, four dining chairs, one dining table, and an armchair. The TV was a reward for the rest of the furniture, the Swedish names of which Scout couldn't say three-times fast. She was in the kitchen, letting the Ikea meatballs simmer—HUVUDROLL, she could remember that one—while watching videos of Spider-Man on her phone. On mute, so she wouldn't miss any of Gargan's titillating conversation while he worked.

'Cause she just couldn't live without it.

Meals for the Gargan-DeWitt household's foreseeable future were Ikea packaged and purchased—functionally, essentially, Ikea-endorsed. They were going to eat, sleep, breathe and shit Sweden:

          •  HUVUDROLL (meatballs)
          •  ALLEMANSRÄTTEN (mashed potatoes, frozen)
          •  ALLEMANSRÄTTEN (again) (cream sauce mix)
          •  SYLT LYNGON (lingonberry jam)
          •  PANNAKOR (pancakes)
          •  KAFFEREP (cinnamon buns)
          •  CHOKLAD DJUS (chocolate tablets)
          •  VINTERSAGA (mulled fruit drink)
          •  LÅNGLUR (fruit and vegetable smoothie)
          •  HJÄLTEROLL (muesli)
          •  LÖRDAGSGODIS (sour foam candy)
          •  FESTLIGT (potato crisps)
          •  BÄSTISAR (moose-shaped pasta)

and—

          •  BELÖNING (milk chocolate moose).

It sounded good to Scout; it loosely satisfied the five main groups, and it also ticked the invisible box of moose-shaped foodstuffs. There's a moose-shaped hole in my heart that needs to be filled probably wouldn't go down well with her father if he called asking about the charges on his American Express, but Scout kept meticulous receipts, which had to count for something. What was the saying? Ask for forgiveness, not permission?

Besides, who didn't want a milk chocolate moose?

"And 've done it!"

Scout looks up from her meatballs, arching a dark brow. "You've done what?"

"I've made this IDÅSEN cabinet my bitch."

"Good pronunciation."

"Even better workmanship. Where do you want it?"

"By the door, please." Scout stepped away from the stove. She folded her arms over her chest. "You were right, the green's nice."

"I'm always right, Little Red." Ever obedient, Gargan moved the cabinet with nothing more than a soft grunt slewed through pressed lips.

Scout kissed her teeth. "Not sure about that one."

Gargan made another noncommittal noise. "Dinner smells good."

"That's HUVUDROLL for you."

"HUVUD-what-now?"

"Hey, don't say that. HUVUD-what-now is a very rude word in Swedish."

"What is it?"

"Meatballs."

"Ah."

"Yum, you mean."

"Yum," Gargan said pointedly. Pleased with the placement of the cabinet, he'd moved on to setting up the TV. "Did walking around Ikea activate the Swedish sleeper agent in you?"

"I don't think so."

"That's exactly what a Swedish sleeper agent caught blue-and-yellow-handed would say."

Scout rolled her eyes and returned to the stove. "Does Sweden even have a secret service?"

"Every country has a secret service."

"Even Sweden."

"Yes, even Sweden. It's called the Säkerhetspolisen, SÄPO for short."

Scout made a face to herself—in response to both Gargan's immense... Gargan-ness, as well as the footage of Spider-Man on her phone. This particular clip had been filmed by a spectator in Washington Square Park way back in 2018 during the attack commentators retroactively called the "Attack on Greenwich Village". Scout had seen the official newscast in 2018; it'd been playing on the TV in the apartment when she and Spencer Blipped. Back then, she'd paid little attention to the attack, let alone Spider-Man's involvement.

"You know what the Swedish secret service is, you know that the Swedish secret service even exists—I'd say out of the two of us, Mac, you're the sleeper agent."

"Nuh-uh."

"You're blond, too."

"The fuck does that mean?"

"I dunno. Two of four ABBA members were blond."

"No they were not."

"Yes, they were."

"Only one."

"No, two."

"Who?"

"I don't know their names!" Scout scoffed, turning off the heat and removing the skillet from the stove. "I don't follow ABBA."

"I think it was just the one blonde lady."

"You would know, wouldn't you?"

"You were the one who brought 'em up—"

"—Shut up, stop talking about ABBA. Dinner's ready."

"Scarlett—"

"—Shut up, Mac."

"I—"

"No, I'm serious, shut up. Someone's at the door."

At the sharp sound of knocking, Gargan fell silent, putting down the TV power cord. He reached behind his back to remove his handgun from where it was always tucked into his cargo pants; soundlessly, he approached the door. Scout moved with him, switching off all the kitchen appliances and selecting from her brand-new knife block a boning knife. The blade caught the fading afternoon light, glinting.

With his back pressed against the IDÅSEN cabinet, Gargan cocked his head in the direction of the door. Scout nodded, rising onto her tiptoes to peer through the peephole.

Another knock.

Scout sighed and put the boning knife down on top of the cabinet—following her lead, Gargan lowered his gun. Then, making another face, Scout unlatched for the security chain, undid the lock, and opened the door.

"Hi," said a boy—a guy? He looked Scout up and down, eyes sweeping her swift and easy, then smiled. "Welcome to the building."

Beside him was another boy: definitely a boy this time. He looked about Spencer's age, maybe a little younger. Definitely no older than sixteen. He was pale, dark-haired, with a nose Scout could not describe in any way other than "pretty", and grey-blue eyes. In his hands was a potted plant; a succulent he held very, very awkwardly. Scout looked back at the first one, the older one.

He was taller and yes, older—old enough to be a guy, not a boy. He was blond, the exact shade of his hair in-exactly settling somewhere between Gargan's straw and her father's platinum. If she were more like a typical teenage girl, she would've called the colour sunshine. If she were more like a typical teenage girl, she would've called the guy cute.

He was definitely good-looking, in the conventional way the men in romantic comedy films were. Plain, she supposed, but easy on the eyes. Agreeable. Even though his expression was neutral, she could see the soft mark of his dimples in his cheeks. Scout gave him the once-over, but a single glance wasn't enough. She wanted to look again, and again. And again.

Perhaps she had been too quick to pass judgement.

"Hi..." Scout said, brows furrowing as she remembered herself. "Can I help you?"

"Welcome to the building," the guy said again. He smiled, dimples creasing. "I'm Graham. Grant. this is my younger brother, Luke. We saw the moving van earlier this morning, thought we'd come up and say hi."

"Hi," Luke said. He stuck out the potted plant and Scout took it, blinking. Her gaze flicked between them, to Graham and Luke and then to Gargan, who merely quirked a brow. Gun out of sight, thank God. "Um... welcome."

"Thank you."

"What's your name?" Graham asked, still smiling.

"How did you know we were moving into this apartment?" Gargan asked before Scout could answer, moving to stand behind her.

"Uh," Graham looked at his brother, then again at Scout—apparently unwilling to look at Gargan which, knowing Gargan, Scout figured was fair enough. "We kinda just guessed. We knew no-one lived up here, at least until you guys. Apartment's been empty for years, it takes up the whole floor, and no-one ever uses the elevator to go this high."

"I see," Gargan said. "S'very kind of you guys to come say hi."

Maybe-awkward silence, for a moment. Gargan touched Scout's shoulder, so gently she almost missed it. Almost. She cleared her throat and managed a smile, albeit an overly-polite one. "We're not going to be very social neighbours, unfortunately."

"That's okay. You don't need any help unpacking or... putting stuff together?" Graham nodded in the general direction of the living area, where all the boxes for the flat packed Ikea furniture were strewn on the floor. "I'm pretty good with building Ikea furniture."

"Isn't everyone?" Gargan said coolly.

"It's very kind of you to offer, Graham," Scout said, "but me and—" she didn't know what to call Gargan, so she didn't call him anything, going quiet for a second in lieu of an appropriate label, "have everything sorted."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." Scout held up the succulent. "And this is a very sweet gift. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Graham said. Luke said nothing. He was staring down, directly at the floor.

Another moment of silence, definitely awkward this time. "I'm Scarlett," Scout said abruptly, sticking out her free hand to shake. Graham took it almost immediately, smiling again. He really did have a nice smile.

"It's nice to meet you Scarlett," he said. Then, still holding Scout's hand, he smiled at Gargan behind her. "And—?"

"—that's Mac, my boyfriend."

Gargan made a choking sound, while Scout kept on smiling. Graham blinked, dropping her hand. "Oh, wow." Luke didn't look up, but Scout could see his face flush pink. Grant the Elder went pink too; twin blue eyes, twin blushes.

Scout reached over to put the succulent on top of the IDÅSEN cabinet, beside her boning knife. "It was really nice meeting you guys. We have to have dinner now, but thanks so much for dropping by." She moved to close the door.

"We're in 1A if you need us—"

"—we won't," Gargan cut Graham off, beating Scout to the door. He locked it then re-did the latch and, arms crossed, leaned back against it, narrowing his eyes. "Real classy, Scout."

Scout waited for the sound of footsteps shuffling to subside, her eyes on the Grants' shadows in the gap between the front door and the floor. When they disappeared back down the hallway, she looked up at Gargan with a shrug. "What? It was funny."

"I'm Scarlett," Gargan said, affecting an impersonation of her voice that was 1) insulting, 2) infantilising and 3) inaccurate. "You got a crush, girlie?"

"I do not." Scout walked away from him and the door, back into the kitchen. She began serving their Swedish dinner, giving Gargan the larger portion. Sixteen meatballs in comparison to her meagre five. "I was just being nice."

"Nice means sloppy, now?"

"They were harmless, Gargan," Scout said, raising her voice so he could still hear it. "Come eat."

"Boys aren't harmless."

"What are you, my dad?"

"Better your dad than your boyfriend." He materialised at the dining table, standing, pacing, refusing to sit.

"It was funny! Look at us—it totally threw them." Scout joined him, and put down his plate. "Sit, Gargan."

"You're real fucked up, Scout."

Scout said nothing to that remark, returning to the kitchen to retrieve her plate and utensils for them both. She placed her plate opposite his, then reached over the table to give him his knife and fork. "Enjoy the flavours of Sweden."

Gargan shook his head. "That boy, Graham—he likes you."

"Does not," Scout said, childishly. She was tempted to stick out her tongue. "He was just being nice."

"Like you were just being nice."

"Is there a problem?"

Mac made a disgruntled noise; he made a lot of noises, loudly and frequently, often in place of actual words. He ran his hand over his face and finally sat, leaning back into his chair. "You're still on a leash, girl, just a longer one. Just because Dexter isn't here doesn't mean you get to fuck around."

"Fuck around?" Scout said innocently. She didn't yet sit. "I don't follow."

"I think—look. If we ignored your assignment, if we pretended your dad didn't exist—I think boys like Graham would be good for you. People like Graham, people like... people."

"Verbose as always, Gargan."

"Shut up, you know what 'm trying to say. In a perfect world, I'd want you to have friends, meet people, meet boys, like that."

"Oh, so you're matchmaking now."

"No, 'm not." Gargan took his fork and turned it over in his hand. Once, then twice, then three times. "I just—Dexter didn't think this through. And I don't know if you did, either."

"It's not like he asked me. It's not like I had a choice."

Like she's ever had a choice.

"You do now that you're away from him. You gotta be responsible, Scout."

Scout scoffed. "Responsible? Just because some guy gave me a pot plant—just because his kid brother gave me a pot plant—doesn't mean I'm going to jump him, Gargan. What do you mean, responsible? Practice safe sex, you mean? Use condoms? Jesus Christ—"

"—no, that is not what I'm saying."

"Then what the fuck are you saying?"

"I'm saying—I know you haven't been around boys your age, people your age, people in general, ever. I... I want you to have these experiences. I want you to want 'em. But you have to be careful."

I want you to want them. Scout swallowed. When was the last time someone her age had showed any interest in her? Sure, Graham had only smiled at her, but she wasn't stupid—she saw the way he looked at her, too. He wanted her; at the very least, he found her attractive. Of course he did. Who didn't?

But did she want him? Or was he just good-looking, sweet-talking, age-appropriate? Characteristics, bullet points on a list that became broader and broader the further she followed it down. Bare minimum. She knew very few boys like Graham, because Graham was indeed a boy, the same way Scout was a girl; instead, she knew men like Gargan, like her father. Older, rougher. Less coy about what they wanted. Less reluctant in just taking it.

She bit her lip, forced a smile. "Don't get jealous now, Gargan."

"I'm not jealous, Scout—oh, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" In an instant, she was across the table, across the room. Settled in his lap like she belonged there. "You don't like it?"

Gargan groaned, hands moving up into the air and away from her. "Scout, come on."

"You don't want me?" Scout buried her face in the dark crook of his neck, eyes closing. "You don't think I'm beautiful?"

She heard him inhale, exhale, sharp as a knife. Sighing softly, Scout turned her face into his skin, lips parting against the damp spot of his throat where she could feel his carotid artery throb gently, alive, alive, alive—

Two hands cup her face and wrench it up into the fading light. "Scarlett, stop."

She lets herself be moved, guided, but she doesn't look at Gargan, doesn't dare. She shrinks: she tears off her limbs, she cuts them into smaller pieces, she stuffs the pieces down her throat and swallows, recoiling so deep into herself, so dark, she disappears. It's so familiar, this feeling. This moment. Scout can walk herself through it like telling a story. Reading a child a fairytale, cover-to-cover, end-to-end. The grisly one, the grim fable that warns against straying from the path, that makes the lights that lead the way burn just a little brighter; bright enough to guide you home. Away from the wolf, Little Red, and away from the teeth.

Turn yourself inside out. Make yourself a shelter in your ribcage, in the rotting remains of your organs, your life. Keep yourself warm with your blood, hot, heavy, thick. Like want—

—or shame.

"Scarlett, look at me." Holding her face with one hand now, Gargan touches her hair with the other. For a moment, she waits—for the pressure and the inevitable pain, her hair wound like a rope and pulled taut like a noose. Instead: tenderness. Gargan's fingers, calloused, thread through, push the stray strands out of her face and behind her ears. "Scout."

"What?"

"Look at me."

She does. The city's alive now, in the windows behind him, the world around them both. Backlit, Gargan looks old; much older than his thirty-three years, and tired. Steel-grey eyes shine, creasing at the corners. Dark brows furrow, the divot between them deep with concern.

"There's gonna be none of that. You hear me?" His grip around her hair tightened. Scout tensed. "None of it. You won't talk to me like that, won't look at me like that, alright? I'm old. It's not right. It's not right."

He stared at Scout like he wanted her to nod. So she did, slow at first then all at once. The rest of her didn't move. Couldn't, like she was caught in a trap—steel jaw closing around her rabbit's ankle, teeth digging into her white, snow-like softness.

"I'm not for you. And 'm not—I'm not like him."

Scout was quick to nod this time. So quick it hurt.

"You're going to do this job, you're going to do it well. I know you got what it takes. I know you can do it." Gargan was nodding too, and the hand that held her face shook. "And once you do, things will change, I know it. You can rest. You can just be. Alright, Little Red?"

"Alright." Scout blinked, long, dark lashes blurry with tears. She hadn't even realised she was crying. She leaned back against the dining table, pulling away from Gargan to wipe her face. He watched her, his own hands still suspended midair—twitching, for a moment, as if he might comfort her, brush her tears away himself. But he didn't.

"I'm sorry, Mac. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"I know, Scout. It's okay. I know you—" he opened his mouth, as if to go on, then closed it. Stopped himself.

"You don't have to say anything."

He was quiet for another moment, head down, eyes closed. When he finally looked up, it was right past her, to the kitchen backsplash, or perhaps the stove. "Things are gonna be different now. I won't hurt you. I won't—" Again, that wanting. To say something, to say what Scout didn't want to hear, or remember. Or return to. "I won't. Okay?"

Scout nodded, one last time. Then she got up, sweeping her hair behind her ears, and went back to her side of the table.

"If you want to see that boy, if you want to see anyone—you can. I won't stop you, I won't rat you out. But if you get caught... s'like the live camera feed. If he asks me, directly, I can't say no."

"I know." Oh, she knew.

"Good." Gargan cleared his throat, tracing the light stubble on his chin as if to soothe himself. Only after staring for a moment did Scout realise his face was wet, too. Her tears, she figured. Scout could not imagine—and for that matter, did not want to imagine—Gargan crying for any reason, let alone for her. "What have we got here?"

Scout sniffled. "Meatballs, mashed potatoes, peas and lingonberry jam."

"Lingonberry jam? That's a new one."

"You sure, SÄPO?"

That earned a scoff from Gargan, which elicited a smile from Scout. Watching her, Gargan smiled back, a little sideways grin, then shook his head. "Shut up and eat."

"You're welcome for dinner, by the way."

"I said, shut."

It seemed like, again, he might say something more. But he didn't, so she didn't, and they ate together in silence.

🕸️

After dinner, and KAFFEREP for desert—cinnamon buns, in case you forgot—and dishes, Scout returned to her Spider-Man studying. This time, on the TV. Bugboy in high definition, 4K red and blue. Floor-level, though, because she'd forgotten to buy a TV cabinet.

Scout lounged on the couch while Gargan sat on the floor, piecing together a bed frame (TUJFORD, black, king-size; $829.99.) They pressed pause and play, forward and rewind, over and over and over again—YouTube videos, news clips, security footage from Web strongholds as well as CCTV obtained from cameras around the city. Web technicians and analysts had put together a Spider-Man showreel for their personal, strategic perusal.

"See that?" Scout stopped the current video, sitting up straight. Gargan mimics her, putting down one of the supporting slats to move closer to the TV.

"Play it back."

She does, then gets up to point. "You see it?"

"Yeah. That's fucked."

"He has some kind of superhuman ability, premonition, heightened sense—look at how he moves, how he predicts his opponents' move even when they're not telegraphed. There's no way I'll get the jump on him. He'll see me coming."

Gargan's expression contorted. "What's your play, then?"

Scout looked at him, then the screen—Spider-Man, frozen in frame, pinned down just for a second, even if it was in pixels—then back again. "He was recruited by Iron Man when he tried to enforce the Sokovia Accords on Captain America and co.—if Spider-Man wasn't an Avenger then, he was one in 2018 when Thanos first came to Earth."

"If not then, then definitely last year at the Avengers compound upstate."

"Right."

"Right." Gargan flipped to the next page of his TUJFORD instruction booklet. "So, what?"

"So, he sees himself as a hero. He works with other heroes—"

"—What are you saying?"

"— Iron Man, Dr. Strange, Mysterio—"

"—I don't really—"

"—he trusts them." Clutching the TV remote, Scout grinned at Gargan. "Mac, I got it."

"You got what, girlie?"

"I got a plan."

He lifted a brow. "Please, share with the class."

"Spider-Man knows about the Web, about the Huntsman, but we have no reason to believe he knows about Redback—about me. I'll rework my combat suit, I'll overhaul my entire image; I'll become a hero."

Gargan laughed. "A hero, huh?"

Scout nodded. Despite her keeper's amusement, she was completely serious. "A hero. I'll stage a meeting, I'll earn his trust—there'll be no better place to study him from than by his side."

"And then? Should I be taking notes?"

They could laugh, but this mission was everything; it was her sister, her life.

"And then—I'll kill him. He'll be mine."

🕸  wwhaaaaaatt it's definitely not been a year since my last update despite my promise to update this fic more regularly... noooooo... i'm being gaslit!

🕸️  😭😭 it's been a long time guys, i'm really sorry for the wait. i'm also sorry for the heaviness of this chapter; the character development here for scout is somewhat bittersweet, considering. i just think it's important to establish her character and its thesis before we meet the love interest (which is next chapter, and i promise a faster update this time. cross my heart.)

🕸️  i know it may be a difficult read for some and for that i apologise too. scout is one of my comfort ocs, one of my outlets, and if it wasn't obvious by the lack of updates, 2024 hasn't been too kind for me. from here on out both i and scout will be trying to be better...

🕸️  NOT BEFORE TORMENTING SPIDER-MAN.

🕸️  scout and gargan's relationship is so special to me. he's a weird middle ground between a brother and a father to her; even if he never claims either title, he's shown up for scout in ways dexter never has. ik you guys probably don't want me to harp on about them, either in my author's notes here or in the story itself, but mac is a core relationship for scout throughout UNSPUN and needs his screen-time, too (so-to-speak.)

🕸️  so aside from that uncomfortable moment, i hope you guys are invested in their relationship as much as i am. mac's evolution into spider-man's enemy scorpion is an arc i'm really excited to write, especially alongside scout's developing relationship with peter.

🕸️ i mean, graham and luke are important too 😭😭 graham is scout's canon love interest in this fic's spiritual sister story, AMERICAN ANIMALS (which is about spencer). the nature of his relationship with scout in *this* fic is still up in the air, but 😁 yay 😗 blond men 😃

🕸️  for reference, see below for some photos of how i'd imagine scout and mac's apartment (the photos are lowkey of a house and i don't have a source aside from pinterest HAHA):

🕸️  i know we're well into december now, which is crazy. i hope you guys have had a good year; hopefully better than mine. to an UNSPUN 2025! 🥳🎊🍾👯🕷️🕸️

🕸️  yay to a new cover, too!

🕸️  (you might also have seen an MCU!steve rogers fic on my profile called CREATURE FEAR... it is set before UNSPUN, years before actually, but will eventually tie into it... if you care to read...)

🕸️  (these two stories—UNSPUN and CREATURE FEAR—comprise the "silverwood duology". i know steve rogers and peter parker, especially in their MCU portrayals, aren't thematically congruent, but... the women of the web love their clean-cut men. what can i say? STAY TUNED.)

🕸️ (blond men. woooohooo!)

🕸️  i know i am the least trustworthy author of all time considering my fucked up sporadic update schedule, but if you're still here, please vote and comment—let me know what you think. even a single comment will make my entire day. i love you!

🕸️  NO EDITING WE DIE LIKE REAL MEN. IF YOU SEE A TYPO NO YOU DID NOT.

🕸️ till next time!! 🥸🥹😇😗🤍

GRAPHIC BY SOULOFSTAARS 🫂