"So, the itinerary is set: we hit Venice first, charter a boat to Athens, and then fly out to Budapest."
Felicia Hardy was sprawled across the train seat, feigning interest in a travel guide. She glanced up, her voice dripping with boredom. "What a miserable route. Can't we just ditch Athens and go straight to Budapest? I'm here for the scenery, not the layovers."
"Don't look at me," Peter said, not bothering to glance up from his own book. "The school board planned this, not the tour guide."
Jessica Drew, who had been staring blankly at the blur of Italian countryside, suddenly swiveled toward Felicia. "What are you actually looking at?"
"A travel guide. I can't look at a screen or a book while the train is moving—it makes me want to hurl," Felicia said, tossing the booklet aside. She narrowed her eyes at Jessica. "Why the sudden interest?"
"I'm asking you seriously," Jessica said, her tone sharpening. "Based on the logistics—Spider-Man's activity windows, his build, his general movement patterns—he has to be a student. A student in our specific tour group. I'm close to nailing down his height and weight. Once I do that, the rest is just simple elimination."
Felicia felt a migraine forming behind her eyes. Great. She understood exactly why Nick Fury had forced Spider-Man into such a distinct, high-profile costume change—it was supposed to throw everyone off the scent. But apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. logic and high school detectives were two very different beasts.
"How did you reach that conclusion?" Felicia asked, her tone carefully neutral.
Jessica laid out her findings: the activity spikes, the lack of sightings during school hours, the physical stature. Felicia just nodded along, doing her best not to groan. At least the "Europe mission" cover story held water; Spider-Man had conveniently reappeared in New York right on schedule, claiming he'd been on an emergency assignment across the pond. It was a perfect, ironclad excuse.
"He's an Avenger, Jessica," Felicia said, gesturing vaguely at the window. "Finding a double—or a decoy—would be a five-minute favor from Iron Man. You're looking for a ghost. You don't honestly think he's some freshman like Flash Thompson, do you?"
Jessica didn't buy it. She watched Felicia with the cold, predatory focus of a hawk. It was obvious: Felicia knew exactly who Spider-Man was. The only question now was how to pry the name out of her.
Or, Jessica thought, maybe I just find him myself. But is it worth the heat? Wouldn't that just complicate things for him?
She was spiraling, and the effort was making her dizzy. Her mystery illness was worsening by the day. Her father kept promising a cure, but Jessica was a realist; she knew her expiration date was looming. If she ended up paralyzed or worse, digging into Spider-Man's secret would only add a massive, lethal target to his back.
Fine, she decided. Secret investigation only. And I quit the second I can't walk.
Meanwhile, Peter sat alone in a different carriage, staring blankly at his phone.
With Whirlwind and the Molten Man dead, the Elementals had vanished. But the lull felt wrong. Nick Fury had warned him that they'd come hunting, but Peter couldn't shake the unease. Even with two heavy hitters down, the original Human Torch—Jim Hammond—was still out there. And if the Elementals were smart, they'd realize they weren't capturing Peter; they were just getting themselves executed by Viper's magic.
Would they really be stupid enough to try again?
He'd tried to call Strange, but the Sorcerer Supreme was off the grid. All he could do was hope Captain Britain could crack the magical seal behind the Elementals' curse.
"If they really want a rematch," Peter muttered to himself, "Venice is a hell of a place for it. Unlimited water, immortal Elementals... as long as I don't trap their spirits, they're just going to keep popping back up."
He started to run the simulations. Did Hydra really have no backup plan?
Deep within the bowels of a secret facility, Arnim Zola stood over a vat of bubbling, synthetic fluid.
"Perfect, Mr. Bench," Zola chirped.
The entity known as Hydro-Man was being fundamentally altered. It wasn't his spirit body they were touching—it was the very nature of the water he controlled. Zola had synthesized a unique, heavy-water compound designed specifically to bypass the Wild Pack's vibration-based containment technology.
Hydro-Man, still swirling in his liquid form, looked at the vat with skepticism. "That's it? This is supposed to be magical?"
"If you don't believe me, feel free to submerge yourself," Zola retorted.
"That's not what I'm worried about," Hydro-Man sighed, his voice splashing against the walls. "If I go up against Spider-Man, I'm going to need to summon a full-scale tsunami. How is this tiny bit of magic juice supposed to be enough?"
Zola groaned. Dealing with a glorified puddle was exhausting. "Mr. Bench, do you understand how atoms work? If you pour a glass of water into the ocean, eventually, every drop of that ocean becomes infused with the properties of your mixture. You control the water; you just need to accelerate the distribution."
Hydro-Man nodded, though he still looked uneasy. "Fine. But what about the mental end of things? Spider-Man uses magic—he's got the weird spider-sense and the sorcery. How do I stop that?"
"Madame Viper is preparing a specialized mind-control ward for you," Zola said. "Spider-Man won't see it coming the first time. Or the second. By the time he realizes what's happening, you'll have already drowned him."
Right. "Already drowned him." Sure.
Hydro-Man gave a hollow, bubbling laugh. He'd taken this gig for the payday, but he was starting to realize that no amount of money was going to matter if he was dead.
Time to pivot, he thought, glancing at the Sandman's containment tank across the room. If I'm making a break for it, I'm taking Sandman with me. He's the only one who knows how to survive this insanity.