The portal shrieked its last and collapsed behind us, plunging the antechamber back into the sterile, humming silence of the Safe Zone. The silence was a lie. I could still hear the echoes from Earth-7102: the crackle of burning tenements, the wet thud of bone on concrete, the high-pitched pleas that always ended the same way. The air here smelled of clean ozone and antiseptic, a poor mask for the stench of blood and cauterized flesh we carried back on our suits. A lie on top of a lie.
Spider-Man 2099, O'Hara, was already directing the wounded.
They were tended to by a spectral-looking Spider-Woman, her fingers phasing through armor to knit tissue back together. The others gathered in a loose, tense knot. A jury of children in colorful pajamas. Their whispers were sharp, hissing things in the quiet.
"…broke six of his limbs. Six." "…didn't even question him." "…a butcher's work."
I ignored them. Their moral arithmetic was a luxury. In the world I was dragged from, you don't debate the predator. You put it down. You don't ask the cancer for its motivations. You cut it out. They followed a Web. I followed a simple, ugly truth.
O'Hara's voice cut through the tension, booming from the command center. "Everyone to the main chamber. Now. Something's happening."
The main chamber was always cold. It housed the Great Web of Life and Destiny, a construct of shimmering, cosmic light that felt more like a cage than a cradle. Billions of threads, each a life, a choice, a universe. A chandelier of maybes. I stood apart from the others, near the edge of the platform, my journal already in hand. Recording the facts was the only thing that made sense in a place like this.
As the last of the team assembled, a tremor ran through the Web. Not a physical shaking, but a deep, resonant thrum, like a titan plucking a harp string the size of a galaxy. The ambient light of the chamber pulsed, shifting from gold to a deep, anxious crimson.
The cartoon pig, Porker, squeaked, his voice tight with fear. "Gee, fellas, I ain't never seen it do that before."
Then, it happened. A new thread began to materialize from the chaotic heart of the Web. It wasn't born from an existing nexus point; it wove itself out of nothing, a filament of raw potential. It snaked through the other strands, not touching, but commanding the space around it. It glowed with a faint, greasy light, the color of old sodium streetlamps on a wet night.
It coalesced, twisting and solidifying. The whispers started again, but this time they weren't angry. They were filled with a shocked, horrified awe.
"What is that?" "It's… forming a pattern." "The Web… it chose him?" "No… it can't be. He's… he's important?"
The glowing thread settled into its final shape, hanging in the void before us. A shifting, bilious pattern of black and white. The shape of my mask. A gasp rippled through the gathered Totems. The girl from India, Pavitr, and the older Spider-Woman, Jessica Drew, exchanged terrified glances. The Web, their god, their map, their destiny, had just put my face in its pantheon.
I felt their eyes on me. Expecting a reaction. Awe? Fear? Pride? They understood nothing. I kept my back to them, my gaze fixed on the abomination in the Web. My journal was open on the railing in front of me.
I muttered the truth to the only one who would listen. Myself.
"Not destiny. Just filth needing cleaning."
The Web's choice was irrelevant. A system had reacted to a new variable. That's all. It was a weather report, not a coronation. I made no move to acknowledge the thread. It was just another stain on a dirty world.
The silence was broken, predictably, by the girl. She marched toward me, her fists clenched. The others hung back, a gallery of nervous onlookers.
"Do you see what you've done?" Gwen's voice was low, trembling with a fury that went beyond the mission. "You've corrupted it. The Web itself. You don't follow its path. You're a danger to all of us. To every reality."
"The Web is a pattern," I said without turning. "Patterns can be rewritten. Or erased."
"He's effective," Miles' voice cut in, stronger this time. He stood beside Gwen, a conflicted shadow. "We can't deny that. Earth-7102 is stable. The bleeding has stopped. Maybe… maybe we need him, whether we like it or not."
His words were a concession, a crack in their fragile moral armor. I could feel the division spreading through them like a disease. Pavitr and Jessica Drew were murmuring now, debating the ethical precipice we stood on. Was I an ally, a weapon, or just a time bomb wearing a friendly mask? They didn't know the answer. The answer was 'yes'.
I finally turned, slowly, to face them. My mask was a void, reflecting the terrified faces of heroes. My voice was barely a whisper, a scrape of gravel on stone.
"Effectiveness isn't choice. It's survival."
I left them to their debate. It didn't matter. When the monster returns, they will call me. They will hate me for it. And I will do what is necessary.
Back in my designated corner of this sterile prison, I studied my journal. On the page, I hadn't drawn the thread. I had let a single drop of ink fall, and watched it spread, mimicking the inkblot on my face. Beside it, I wrote.
September 9th. The anomaly has acknowledged my presence. A new thread in their Web. Shaped like my face. The others see it as a sign. A choice. They are fools. It is not an endorsement. It is an echo. A system registering a force that operates outside its prescribed morality. It pulses.
I held my wrist, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of my own heart. I looked at the inkblot on the page. In my mind's eye, I could see the glowing thread in the main chamber, and in that moment, I knew. It was pulsing in sync with my heartbeat. A connection. Not destiny. Just… data.
The Web notices me. Doesn't care if I comply. It only registers impact. Not my god. Not my cage. Just a tool. A map of the sickness. Weak threads fray; I do not.
As I wrote, the ink on the page seemed to shift. New, fragmented phrases bled into the margins, faint and spectral, like whispers from a bad connection.
…Predator's mark calls other hunters…Thread grows dark… a feast for those who weave with shadow…
The Web hadn't just acknowledged me. It had marked me. It had painted a target on my back, visible to everything that hunted in the darkness between realities. Good. Let them come. Let them see what happens when vermin crawl out of the walls.
Later, when the others had retreated to their corners to lick their wounds and debate their philosophies, I found myself on an observation balcony overlooking the entirety of the Great Web. From here, the scale of it was obscene. A universe of universes, all connected, all pulsing with life. It was, I had to admit, beautiful. The way a forest fire is beautiful. A chaotic, all-consuming, and ultimately destructive force.
Each thread was a Totem, a choice, a life. They saw it as a network of hope. I saw it for what it was: a cage pretending to be a map. It told them where to go, who to be, what lines not to cross. It was a warden, and they were its willing prisoners.
My hand went to my face, the rough fabric of the mask a comfort. My face. My choice. The Web had given me a new one now, a glowing sigil hanging in the void. Theirs was a brand. Mine was a tool.
Mask is mine. Web's mask is theirs. Neither matters. The only thing that mattered was the job. The filth. The endless, sprawling, suffocating filth.
I stood there for a long time, a lone, stark figure against the cosmic glow. The team was reeling. They now had proof that the universe itself—or at least, their fragile conception of it—had recognized my methods. They were trapped between their revulsion and their need. An anomaly both feared and necessary.
Let them be afraid. Let them feel necessary. It changed nothing.
I turned away from the beautiful, terrible lie of the Web. The whispers in my journal were a promise. The mark was a beacon. The hunt was coming to me now.
I muttered it to the silent, watching void, the only prayer I'd ever known.
"Marked face. Marked hunt. Not finished."