"Sir, there's an issue with Russell's records."
Tony lifted his brows. "What kind of issue, J.A.R.V.I.S.?"
"His identity is fabricated. The forgeries are crude."
"That's it?" Tony sounded unimpressed.
Plenty of people lived under fake IDs—immigrants, mercenaries, spies. So what? He didn't see why Russell mattered. It wasn't as if they'd ever cross paths again.
"Sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. continued, "his emergence is… unusual. Very similar to Miss Stacy's. He appeared as though from nowhere. No past, no traceable record."
Tony snorted. "So do half the agents Fury drags out of the shadows." He waved it off.
"Keep an eye on him. And on Gwen. Nothing more."
Last night, he owed Gwen a favor. Running a background check was just precaution. As long as she wasn't gunning for Stark Industries, he wasn't going to get in her way. In fact, once he confirmed she was just doing vigilante work, he'd made sure to bury her trail for her.
"Understood, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.
---
Meanwhile, in a beat-up sedan crawling through Manhattan traffic, Gwen frowned.
"Russell… didn't we already drive down this street? Don't tell me you're lost."
Russell rolled his eyes. "I'm checking if anyone's following us. After last night, half of New York knows something went down at Stark Industries. I'd rather not lead trouble to our doorstep."
"I was careful," Gwen said, tapping her chin. "I avoided cameras on my way out. So how did Stark find me?"
Russell tilted his head toward the sky. "Private satellites. Dozens of them. Any one of them could've caught you. And Tony Stark has J.A.R.V.I.S.—basically the most advanced AI on the planet. Feed it enough data, cross-reference a few billion records, and finding a person in New York isn't that hard."
Gwen frowned deeper. She knew what big data plus AI could do. But the more she looked around—the buildings, the tech she'd seen these past three weeks—this world didn't seem far ahead of hers. Still, the results spoke for themselves.
Russell pulled the car to a stop. "No tails. Which means only Tony Stark knows who you really are. Could be worse."
He nodded toward a storefront. "Here we are—Smith's Pizza. Don't judge the faded paint. Their pies put most fancy joints to shame."
"Smith's Pizza?!" Gwen's eyes widened.
"You know it?" Russell asked.
She nodded. "When I ran out of money, the Smiths took me in. I worked part-time here for a while."
Russell blinked. "No kidding. When I first came to New York, broke as dirt, they took me in too."
He chuckled softly. The world wasn't small. There just weren't enough good people in it.
"Hey, Gwen!"
The booming voice carried from behind the counter. Mr. Smith was older now, but the broad shoulders and the faint outline of muscle under his shirt hinted at the powerhouse he must have been in his youth.
"You're back! How'd the interview go?"
"Great, Mr. Smith," Russell answered quickly, grinning. "I thought I'd bring Gwen to celebrate. Didn't know you two already knew each other."
Mr. Smith squinted, then laughed. "Russell! And you're Gwen's boss now? A bookstore owner? Kid, you've done well for yourself."
He clapped Russell on the back. "This calls for a celebration. Sit down, both of you. Order whatever you like—it's on me."
"I'll take a Kobe pizza—no spice—and a Coke," Russell said.
Smith shook his head, amused. "This is New York, not Los Angeles. You've been watching too much basketball."
The Kobe pizza, of course, was just pepperoni. But in 2010, Kobe Bryant was at the height of his fame, riding back-to-back championships. New Yorkers had their own way of turning legends into menu items.
"I'll have a fruit pizza, thank you, Grandpa Smith," Gwen added.
Soon enough, Smith brought their orders out himself.
"Russell—Kobe pizza. Gwen—fruit pizza."
"Thanks, Mr. Smith." / "Thank you, Grandpa Smith."
The shop was still quiet—early hours, not many customers yet. Which meant Smith had time to sit with them. He leaned back, curiosity in his eyes.
"So how'd you two meet?"
Russell gave the condensed version—swapping out "vampires" for "gangsters." It was close enough.
Smith's face darkened. "Gwen, you're too reckless. Haven't I told you? A friend of mine—his granddaughter was snatched just the other night, walking home alone. He nearly lost her." His voice caught, his eyes red. "She was dropped off last night by some mysterious stranger. If not for them…"
Gwen ducked her head, voice soft and guilty. "I know. I was wrong, Grandpa Smith."
Russell caught the look in her eyes. So that's why she'd been on the streets last night, "fishing." She'd been hunting the bastard who took Smith's granddaughter.
Friend, huh? More like "friend invented on the spot." But that didn't matter. The real point was: Gwen had gotten the girl back.
Russell's jaw tightened. That bloodsucker had gotten off too easy. He should've been torn apart, not just fried with UV.
Russell put a hand on Smith's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on Gwen. I'll make sure nothing happens to her."
And if danger came, he'd stand in front of her. Always.
He turned to Gwen. "Let's go see the girl."
Her eyes widened. "You can arrange that?"
"…Not exactly. But I've got a friend who can."
Friend was a generous term. But Russell's "friend" was none other than a certain sorcerer-doctor hybrid: the Ancient One, in one of her many guises.
Russell wasn't stupid. He knew his problems weren't cured by simple therapy. After one session with her, after one night's sleep, the storm inside him had vanished. That wasn't medicine. That was magic.
---
Later, in a quiet Manhattan neighborhood, Gwen pulled her hood up and fastened her mask. Beneath her jacket, the sleek white, black, and magenta of her Spider-suit gleamed.
Russell raised a brow. Did she always wear the suit under her clothes?
No matter. He had his own "uniform." He slipped on a Zorro hat, a Guy Fawkes mask, and a cape—his personal toolkit for stirring trouble.
Together, they walked up the steps. Russell pressed the doorbell.
"Hello, open the—" He didn't get to finish. Gwen shoved him aside.
She stepped forward, clear and confident. "Hello. I'm Ghost-Spider—the one who brought Miss Smith home last night. May I come in and check on her?"
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