With great power, comes great responsibility.

I’m in New York, so I know I’m dreaming. It’s a nice dream by my standards. I’m being chased through Central Park by one of those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He’s grousing at me for eating all the pizza. It’s a nice break from shutting my eyes and seeing Norman stare back at me.

So what’s with all the buzzing?

I start awake, sucking in a sharp breath as I press my hands over my head — which is killing me. In my flailing, I fall off the couch, dragging the blanket along with me. I grab onto the coffee table to pull myself up, but it splinters in my hand.

”Whu—?”

I stare blearily at my hands, realization slow to dawn.

Not buzzing. Tingling.

BAMF!

I roll away from the purple cloud of smoke just as a familiar body drops into the space I occupied only a second ago. My nose crinkles at the smell of sulphur.

“…morning!”

I’m still riding the adrenaline rush from a training session with Cap as I make my way back home. My t-shirt’s bunched into a ball in my hand, and I tip my face up to meet the sun through the trees. I wouldn’t say no to some rain to cool off, but the sky above me is clear.

Figures. When you want it to rain, there’s not a drop to be found.

I stop on the spot, taking in a deep breath — smelling the flowers, so to speak. When I look back ahead and see who’s coming down the boardwalk, my stomach flips, then drops out. There’s no room for a hasty exit, so I stand my ground, holding my empty hand palm out in a mocking gesture of surrender.

“I swear I’m not following you,” I tell one Selina Kyle. “It’s a free boardwalk.”

There’s all of one reason I ever find myself on the beach, and that reason is Martha. I’m not a natural pet owner by any stretch of the imagination, but at some point, me and Martha fell into a kind of routine. She’s still dribbling water from an hour spent retrieving her favorite toy from the ocean, and I’m praying she’ll at least be somewhat dry by the time we get home. I’m trying to remember if I left the towels out in the living room when a sunbather catches my eye.

Except, as I realize when I get closer, she’s not just any sunbather. Even with the sunglasses hiding her eyes, I know that face.

“You!”

I was always taught it was rude to point, but I can’t help myself. Plus, I mean, in the grand scheme of things, I figure it’s probably ruder to rob a man blind — even if all his money is fake and he, let’s face it, kind of maybe deserved it.

The fact of the matter remains that Irena the Robbin’ Russian is apparently a real, living person and not some designer island trick.

“You!” I say again, stuck on that one word. I snap my fingers and drop my arm. “Why, I oughta—“

Oughta what, Parker? Report her? For a crime you can’t even prove, because everything disappeared? For getting the best of Tony Stark for one night? (Which, come on, you maybe got a kick out of. Just a little.)

I let out a breath, feeling my shoulders sag. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, then wave off my accusation with a deflated gesture.

“Ah, forget it.”

So there's this crazy underwater city that's been, like, actively homicidal lately. And you think to yourself: you'd have to be well and truly insane to go down there without any superpowers or offensive weapons, and expect to come out unscathed.

Which is why I didn't expect to come out unscathed. Sure, I took precautions: webbing, the Vespa suit worn under my street clothes to preserve what's left of my secret identity, the RETs I've been field-testing… But precaution's only gonna get you so far, and while the Vespa suit's designed to take a beating, it's not Splicer-proof.

So I'm tired. I'm smelly. I ache all over and I've got a gash on my shoulder that just keeps bleeding. I manage a quick change of clothes when I get home, but my attempts at stitches don't get very far before I come to the conclusion that I really ought to see a doctor. Cleaning the area as much as I can, I wad up a shirt and use it to put pressure on the wound before I head out towards the Clinic, a little lightheaded by the time I get inside.

"Wonderful Wanda!" I greet, glad to see someone I know as I plant myself on a bed. "Have I got a patient for you."

So there's this fridge in this cave, and if you think real hard at it, it gives you what you want to eat. It didn't exist when I first got here -- or if it did, nobody knew about it -- but of all the changes that've happened in the past four years, it's easily my favorite. I mean, c'mon, it's an adventure and a free meal all in one -- what's not to like? It's pretty much the only good difference I can think of, the rest not worth dwelling on.

Of the group of us who arrived, it's only me and Wolverine who're left, the others having disappeared long ago. Mary Jane's hurt the most, and she'll have already been gone two years come the end of the month. It's strange, how time passes here, quickly and slowly all at once. Celebrating today seems morbid in a way I can't put a finger on, but for all I've been craving my own company lately, I know I don't want to be alone. It's just too damn depressing.

In the same breath, I know if I show up at Wolverine's cabin in the middle o' nowhere empty-handed, it'll be a short-lived visit at best, and that's just too far of a trek to get kicked out the second I get there. So I go to that fridge I was talking about, and I think real hard of Canada and lumberjacks and maple syrup, and after a few tries, it spits out a platter of poutine, a six-pack of Molson, and a box of something that looks like donut holes.

I insulate my bag with webbing to keep the hot stuff hot, the cold stuff cold, and the dry stuff dry, and make the by-no-means familiar walk to the murder cabin. The webbing's more or less dissolved by the time I get there, and sucking in a breath, I knock on the door.

Man, I hope he's home. I should've really called ahead.

"I got a special delivery for a Mr. Wolv E. Rine?"

"Yoo-hoo, anybody home?"

I knock on some piece of machinery with a stick I picked up on the way over -- just enough to make thing rattle. I haven't stopped by the scrapyard in weeks, too wrapped up in my own grief to care about someone else's, and it's guilt that I could be so callous that brings me out here today.

Whatever hell I'm going through, Tony's right there with me. We've both suffered a loss. And maybe it'd just be easier to let that tear our friendship apart, but at the moment, he's the closest thing to family I've got on this island, and I'll be damned if I lose someone who's still here just because I can't bring myself to make the walk over. We've been through too much already for that.

"Tony?" I poke my head around the corner, lifting up my messenger bag with my free hand. "I brought snacks."

I'm good at remembering birthdays. Not my own, maybe -- ah, who'm I trying to kid? Never my own -- but when it comes to the people I love, it's about the one normal thing I've proven myself somewhat reliable for, when I'm not detained by forces outside my control. It's been a busy week for those around me -- the Council's tied up in that new tunnel that Pepper discovered, Tony and Cap nearly died at the hand of a crazy ex-sidekick, the Island's been thrown into the confusion of widespread amnesia -- but it's no excuse to overlook Mary Jane's birthday, even if it is the deciding factor against throwing her a surprise party.

(One of them, at least. The other is that maybe I'm just itching for a little alone time. As far as I'm concerned, I've got three years' worth to make up for, and the last month's been kinda hectic.)

But just because I'm skimping out on the number of guests doesn't make me a cheapskate in other areas. Oh, no -- I've spent the past month squirreling away all her favorite movies from the shelf, which I left for her to find on the coffee table at home, the whole stack of 'em wrapped in a big red bow. In place of a card, I left her a detailed map of where to find me and when -- a copse of trees far away from prying eyes near one of the more quiet stretches of beach at sunset.

I'm waiting for her here right now, dressed sharply in a tailored blue suit, clean-shaven and freshly combed. There's a picnic supper sitting in the expansive web I spun high in the trees over my head, and I hold in my hands another bouquet, courtesy of the local florist. Butterflies flap around in my stomach as I wait for her to make her appearance, and even though there's no one here yet to see me, it's hard to wipe the smile from my face every time my thoughts turn her way. When I finally hear footsteps approaching, I straighten, instinctively smoothing a hand back over my head in a gesture that musses more than fixes.

"Good evening, madame-wow-zell," I say in a phony French accent, bowing deeply when I lay eyes on her. "I hear eet eez your birthday."

Captain America is on the ground and I oughta be happier.

Okay, wait -- that sounds awful. Maybe happy isn't the right word -- proud probably works better, or, I dunno, satisfied. (Maybe not satisfied.)

Look, point is, I shouldn't be disappointed. I've been training with the guy for about a year, now, and it's still not too often that I manage to get a good hit in when we're really going at it, tossing the day's lesson aside for a more practical exercise. These sessions usually leave me feeling like I've got a hell of a lot more to learn, especially since I never have my usual bag of tricks to throw into the mix, but then there're those times I get something right, and all the weird bruises and muscle strain are completely and totally worth it.

Today's not one of those times. Breathless and sweaty and in desperate need of a swallow of water, I lean over to give the guy a hand up.

"So I wasn't gonna say anything," I tell him, "but I'm pretty sure my Aunt May could've put up a better showing just now."

Okay: whoever said camping was romantic? Has obviously never gone camping in the Old West.

...So I guess that'd be me, then.

Let's rewind. It'd seemed like a fine idea at the time. With Monument Valley practically within walking distance and a strong desire on my part to start making things up to MJ for being such a gosh-darned spaz since she landed in my kitchen on Valentine's Day, it looked like the perfect getaway. I mean, c'mon: just the two of us and Mother Nature's own skyscrapers, taking in the sights and working in a couple science experiments on the side (yeah, that last part wasn't included in the hypothetical brochure I used to sell MJ on the idea, granted, but still)? I couldn't think of anything better.

Which, in retrospect, meant I probably should've thought a lot harder.

Not wanting to spare us two city kids any comfort, I took a few weeks to get all the gear together -- including a genuine horse that I had a crash-course lesson in learning to handle. The plan was to aim for two travel days from-and-to the settlement, and one overnight under the stars. And on paper, this was a great plan. Hell, even the execution wasn't half-bad. Emphasis on the half. Barring a couple predictable mishaps throughout the day, we had a great afternoon-- not to mention an evening I'm pretty sure we'll be giggling about for weeks.

But the cowboy boot had to drop at some point, didn't it? And for this tragic tale, it's during a middle-of-the-night bathroom break. It's capital-F Freezing when I step out of the tent to relieve myself, which isn't helped by my failing to pull on anything to wear save for a wrinkled pair of jeans and some thin woolen socks that don't do much to keep out the c-c-cold. Eager to get back inside and nestle up next to my personal, MJ-shaped heater, I rush through my business, not paying much mind to my surroundings.

I'm about to pay for that in three... Two...

"Sonuvabiscuit!"

My foot slips over and off the smooth surface of a rock about the size of my head, and in my valiant attempt to course correct, all I end doing is making things worse. Stubbing the opposite toe instead of planting it, my other foot twists underneath me as I fall face-first onto the ground...

...And arm-first onto an unsuspecting rattlesnake. Twin points of pain surge through the underside of my forearm, and I'm too late to bite back a cry. My voice echoes back at me in stereo like something out of a cartoon, waking up the horse, and making me dead sure of one thing and one thing only.

Camping? Is not romantic.

It has to be said: I am not a fan of the clinic and the amount of time I have spent in here, for one reason or another, has done nothing to endear me to the place. Without cause, it's not somewhere I come to often, but unfortunately for me and everyone I know, it's like the only people who have more cause than me to come in here are the actual doctors.

Despite my personal hang ups, though, I've made it a point to visit Pepper at least once every day since she's been up for company. The thought of her alone here doesn't sit right with me, even if my stays tend to vary in length from a few minutes to a couple of hours -- whatever I can spare, given the day.

It's late by the time I stroll into the clinic, just after my last class for the night, and I'm not even sure if she'll be awake. I hope she is. With the news I have to share, I don't want to sit on it any longer. Not that I anticipate this going much better than it did with Tony. She's got bigger things to worry about than what's going on in my life, but...

She was friends with Mary Jane. A different version, granted, and their differences are glaring, but she deserves to know, from me, what's going on.

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

"Pepper?"